Chapter Text
"Telemachus,"
the bright-eyed goddess Athena reassured him,
"some of the words you’ll find within yourself,
the rest some power will inspire you to say.
You least of all – I know –
were born and reared without the gods’ good will."
– The Odyssey, Book 3
It goes on as it always has. Every night the suitors rip meat from the bones with their teeth and the wine flows as dark and as endless as the sea. Every day the heat bakes the rocks dry and Telemachus wanders by the cliffside aimless, too aware of watching eyes to even swipe at grass with his sword as he did as a child. The burial shroud grows and shrinks in inches as the sun rises and falls, creating nothing, changing nothing. Waking in his chamber each morning Telemachus thinks, today it will happen. Today he will return or today I will lose control. Or they will lose control. And there will be an end, one way or another. And then lying in bed each night, when everything has played out as it always does, he thinks, tomorrow then. And he does not know if the feeling in his chest that grips him is desire or dread.
Then one day, an unremarkable day in a line of others just like it, the work is finished.
The elders were already there when Telemachus learns of it. When he enters the hall there it is, held within the loom still, but unarguably, incontestably complete. He had been running before the servant had even finished telling him the news and as he stands panting in the doorway, sweat chilling on his skin in the cool of the shade, he catches sight of his mother between the hunched backs of the old men. She’s standing, as tall and as rigid as a statue and when she meets his eyes there is no change in her expression.
He holds his tongue while the elders cluck and dither and then when they are finally alone, it explodes out of him.
“Who was it?” he asks. “How was it done? How did this happen?”
Penelope says nothing, sitting by her loom as she always does. Her hands move restlessly in her lap, as if not knowing how to be still.
“Was it one of the serving girls? Melantho? Did she finish it?”
His mother, still staring at the pattern in the cloth as if searching for something there, is silent.
“I know,” he says, trying to calm himself. “How little you have slept with this work. It would have been easy to leave it unguarded.”
Her face is still turned from him but again her hands twitch and he saw for the first time the red rawness to her fingers . Going to her, almost stumbling, he kneels before her and takes her hands in his.
“I’m sorry, “ he says and then, feeling the sting of tears, he presses his forehead against her knee. “I should have been of more help to you. I wish I could protect you better than I have. I could have-“
“You could have done nothing,” she says and then her hand is in his hair, as if he were only a child again. “I did not teach you to weave.”
“Perhaps you should have,” he says, feeling younger than he ever had before. “If I were your daughter and not your son then I would be more use to you. It would be me they would fight over and you would be left alone.”
“I would not wish that for you,” she says and, putting a hand under his chin to draw his face up, she looks down at him, suddenly intent and almost desperate. “Listen to me now: you must trust me. You must. You cannot do anything foolish in the days to come. As your mother and your queen I tell you this. Do you swear to obey me?”
There was a frightening urgency to her voice and for a moment he struggles to speak before finding his voice.
“I swear it.”
“Even if I ask you to choose between obeying me and protecting me?”
He opens his mouth and closes it. The thought passes through his head, what would my father say? So well-worn it feels like breathing.
“Swear it Telemachus!”
If she were his father and not his mother it would be easier to obey. She had been both to him as long as he could remember. But the loyalty she asked for had a different cost. If she were a man he would have been able to follow her into battle. As it was she was asking him to surrender her to the men who waited in her hall.
“Do you trust my judgement?” she asks him.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.
“Then swear.”
“I swear it,” he says, voice breaking. The words were almost a relief.
She smiles at him and the tears that had been gathering in her eyes broke and ran down her face. Squeezing his hands tight, she takes a breath and looks over at the shroud. “Well. It is well done I think, at least. I cannot fault it in the design.”
Telemachus would have burned the thing if he could but he holds his tongue.
“How will you choose?” he asks and then, in a sudden burst of inspiration. “Perhaps if we designed some game or contest…”
“No more games,” Penelope says. “They’ve had enough sport out of us.”
She smiles at him then and for the first time, he sees the deep exhaustion in her eyes.
The screen is drawn back when the suitors enter the hall that night. Penelope sits in a chair watching over the hall as still as the loom by her side. The finished shroud is on full display and the suitors stare stupidly at it as they take their seats. Even as the night goes on and they and eat and talk amongst themselves, their eyes keep stealing back to it, again and again. It is a more subdued hall than it has been for a long time. Cowed by the strangeness of it all and intimidated by Penelope’s presence, the suitors are almost well behaved.
For once, Telemachus is left completely alone in his corner, nursing his dread like it a cup of wine.
It had always felt like betrayal, but over the years, he wasn’t always able to keep himself from considering the question of who would be the least objectionable of all the suitors. He had made it easier to stomach by telling himself he was simply assessing the worst options, those enemies he watched most keenly. Eurymachus who was infamous amongst the serving girls or the brute Ctesippus who Telemechus had once seen kick a cat across the room for sport.
This evening he found himself searching for the few faces that were almost tolerable.
Amphinomus who had on more than one occasion held the others at bay when they came to taunting him. Antenor who was too stupid and wine soaked to be a threat to anyone and finished most nights asleep, drooling onto the table. Leodes who was quiet and sombre and had once, when deep in his cups spoken of a dark end if Odysseus returned.
When Telemachus can’t keep still anymore he stands and begins a solitary patrol of the room, keeping to the shadowed outer walls, weighing up the men in his mind. Who would she pick? Would she listen to his counsel? He knows these men far better than she does. He had grown up with them as he had grown up with the palace walls, amongst them but not of them, a pack of wild dogs baying outside his window, one hundred and eight not-fathers taking the place of one father not here.
If he were a daughter and not a son and they were competing over his hand, who would he pick?
Of course, if that were the case, he would be behind the screen with his mother. He had wished for that at times. When the day came that she told him he was old enough to join the feast (and more than that, that he must) he had nearly bitten off his tongue trying not to let the fear show. Back then there was more of a show at respectability. They had treated him almost kindly, playing up their fondness as a show for his mother. There was always something sour beneath it all however. When they tugged at his hair too roughly, mockery in their voices as they toasted in his name.
It was hard not to think of with shame now. Of who he had turned to for protection in those early years, thought of almost as a friend, someone to look up to, someone who had told him, without any slyness to his voice back then: your father asked me to watch over you.
And fool that he was and against his mother’s warnings, Telemachus had believed it for a while. Had wanted, so badly to believe it.
As if summoned up like a god to silent prayer, Antinous waits for him around the next pillar, leaning back against it half in shadow. Not in the mood, tonight of all nights, Telemachus looks past him coldly and keeps walking but he is stopped with a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not eating,” Antinous says.
“I have no appetite, “ Telemachus says shortly, looking away. He is too restless to be waylaid like this; he feels as if he stops moving then he may choke to death on his useless anger and directionless panic. When will she do it, he thinks, watching his mother where she sits, motionless at the top of the stairs. How long will she drag this out?
“Share my cup,” Antinous says and Telemachus braces himself for whatever this new game is.
“I am not thirsty,” he says, still looking away.
“I insist,” Antinous says, a little too loudly. A few of the suitors glance over at them. Telemachus turns his back to them and turns to Antinous properly for the first time. He has a smug look on his face, as if pleased to have finally caught his attention.
“Generous of you to offer me my own wine in my own house,” Telemachus says, keeping his voice soft.
“If you don’t drink my suspicions will be confirmed.”
“What suspicions are those?”
Antinous smiles wider, eyes very dark here away from the fires. “That you have finally decided to act and poisoned us all. Why else would your mother be gracing us with the rare gift of her presence? I believe you must have planned it together. ”
“You know I would not,” Telemachus says. “As much as you all deserve it.”
“Then drink,” Antinous says and holds out the cup. “Your honour is at stake.”
Telemachus looks at the cup for a moment, at the flames reflected in the black surface of it and then takes it.
“I will drink in the name of my father then, “ he says at last. “To the master of these halls.”
“You may as well drink to me then,” Antinous says in a tone that is strangely free of mockery. “I hear there is to be an announcement this evening.”
Telemachus holds himself very still. There is none of the pinched concern of the other suitors present on Antinous’ face.
“If you have done this thing…” he says but cannot continue.
“Drink up, “ Antinous says and reaching over, he tilts the cup towards Telemachus’ mouth with two fingers. “And look at me as you do. It’s bad luck to look away, remember?”
To keep from choking, Telemachus swallows and the wine, hardly mixed with water, burns as it goes down his throat, acrid and strong.
Antinous is watching so fixedly it feels almost physical, as if Telemachus were being pinned down and skewered with his gaze. He is distantly aware of Penelope rising from her chair and the hall falling silent.
She tells them she has chosen but Telemachus cannot look at her. He does not know if it because he cannot bear to or because Antonious still holds his gaze, an expression on his face that can’t quite be dismissed as gloating.
“Don’t look so worried,” Antinous tells him. “Haven’t I always taken care of you?”
And then he is turning away, striding forward through the hall, golden in lamplight. Telemachus’ knows she must have called out a name, must have called out Antonious’s name , because he is already walking up the steps to her side.
She is looking past him, looking for her son. In a moment he will step out and go to her side. She needs him, he knows that, as much as she needs anyone. For just a moment though he lingers, trying to control his breathing. The blood is rushing in his ears, the pressure in his head a steady drumbeat. So there it is then.
You prayed for this, the Gods must be telling him. He almost hears them whisper it. You prayed for a change. For an ending. Be grateful.
He smooths his face and steps forward into the light, allowing the watching eyes nothing at all.
Penelope tells them she has one request.
“What is it this time?” Telemachus hears a suitor grumble to his neighbour. “Is she weaving a bridal veil?”
The wedding would not take place for ten days.
One day, Penelope says, for each year of the war that claimed the life of my husband.
During that time she will retreat to her chambers and undergo the funerary rites that she had been avoiding for so long. She would also ask, she says, that her husband-to-be use the ten days for a similar purpose, withdrawing to one of the palace chambers for a period of solitary prayer and purification.
The suitors are welcome to stay until the wedding and continue as they were. Only now they would be drinking to the health of the union.
Antinous raises no objections but his eyes narrow slightly at this last.
Some suitors cheer. Many of them watch silently, faces set in dumb resentment. For once it was not Telemachus they glare at but Antinous.
Telemachus is so used to seeing him as a ringleader among the men, he had almost forgotten that the suitors hate and resent each other as much as they hate Odysseus. More so even, for it’s hard to hate a man who exists only as a memory. The suitors have all spent years together by now, putting up with each other’s petty squabble and rude manners. Perhaps many of them knew they would never have a chance. Some, Telemachus knew, were here for the feasting alone. Or here out of habit. Perhaps some of them had been away from home too long in this pursuit. What did they have to come back to?
But the majority of them must have held out some hope at least. Hope that would have been nursed over the years into a feeling of entitlement. As if they had earned it somehow with each night spent at this table. Perhaps some of these men were all too aware of what they had given up in aid of this pursuit.
The same thoughts may have been going through Antinous’ head because he spent surprisingly little time gloating and retires to his new chambers almost immediately.
If Telemachus had been consulted he would have placed him in the tannery hut outside on the hill. As he was not, Antinous is given a large room that looks out over the westward seas. It was the other side of the palace to his mother’s chambers but simply by stepping out onto balcony he could descend but three steps to the western walkway. From there he would be able to make his way along the wall of the palace and be at the side passage doorway to her rooms within moments. It was a private, quiet walk, overhung by flowered vines.
From the first night, Telemachus stands watch.
He does not tell his mother of his intentions. He could not be sure that she would not forbid it. It was, he knew, a pointless endeavour and he did not fool himself into thinking it was for anyone’s benefit but his own. This was the last defence he could offer her, as useless as it was.
As soon as the servant tells him Antinous has retired, Telemachus finds his way to the half hidden door in the western wall of the palace. Letting himself out, he steps out into the night air.
The clouds are thick in the sky tonight and the sea is almost invisible. He can still hear it, the distant sound of waves against the base of the cliffs. To his right he sees the tower that holds his mothers rooms. Only one, small square window lies on the wall that overlooks his walkway. He knows it is too high in the wall for her to look through and see him. A light shines through it, soft and gold.
To his left there is the veranda of Antinous’ rooms. He is standing there, looking out, lit from behind by the lamplight within. For a moment Telemachus’ inhales sharply, drawing back against the wall. The flowers he crushes behind him let out a heady, sweet scent.
But Antinous cannot see him. He is only looking out, not at the distant sea but at the palace itself.
Counting his spoils, Telemachus thinks bitterly. For a long time he watches there in the dark, until at last Antinous goes inside. A while after that, the lamp is extinguished.
Leaning against the wall, Telemachus falls at last into a semi-conscious state, dreaming of a ship that rows its way slowly across the night sky, scattering stars with each heave of the oars. The feel of the rising sun on his skin rouses him in the morning and he stands stiffly, every muscle screaming at him.
When he hears the sounds of the servants preparing for the new day, he goes inside.
These first days pass with a strange peace. His mother keeps the door to her rooms shut and Antinous seems to have take taken his part of the bargain to heart as he does the same. Telemachus sees the servants going back and forth to his rooms and he pulls one of the more trustworthy ones aside to ask for news.
“He hasn’t left,” she tells him. “Or spoken much. He just paces.”
“Has he requested anyone attend on him,” he asks, trying to put it cautiously. “In the evenings.”
“No one,” she says. “Not even-“
She stops herself, eyes going wide but Telemachus just nods and sends her away.
The nightly feasts have taken a sour, mean turn. There are no songs and less laughter but the wine flows more freely than ever. The suitors have divided themselves into groups and sit whispering in their huddles. They hardly seem to notice Telemachus anymore. He overhears one man speak his name, saying “poor bastard, how long has he got now then…” before he’s hushed by one of his companions.
The second night passes much as the first. Telemachus leaves the feast early and waits in darkness. The lights go out. Sometimes Antinous will stand by the veranda and sometimes he will not. The sun rises over an empty sea.
On third night, Antinous is standing there, leaning with his elbows on the stone. There is still a little light in the sky and the sound of the night insects are very loud. It was a hot day and Telemachus is so exhausted he is struggling to keep his eyes open when he hears someone calling his name.
“Come out into the light,” Antinous says. His voice is hushed and gently amused. “Aren’t you tired of skulking down there?”
Telemachus stays where he is.
“You’re a little old now for these games aren’t you?” Antinous says into the dark and then, when there is no reply, he taps his fingers on the stone. “Have you missed my presence that much? I have a little wine and food here if you’re feeling sentimental for the past already.”
Telemachus closes his eyes and breaths in the smell of the flowers.
“Suit yourself then,” Antinous says finally and goes inside. He does not come out again for the rest of the night.
On the fourth night, Telemachus has only just stepped out through the door to the walkway when he is grabbed, spun and pushed with his face to the wall. The door is slammed shut beside him and a body presses in close behind him, smelling of sweat and some kind of perfumed oil. A mouth presses up so close to his ear he can feel the hot breath on the side of his face, saying harshly. “Is this her plan then, to drive me mad with shadows? Is she hoping I’ll throw myself off that balcony you’ve given me?”
“What are you talking about? ” Telemachus asks, trying to free his arm from where it’s pinned behind his back. “What plan?”
“You’re lucky I know you so well,” Antinous hisses. “Or I might have taken you for an assassin. No doubt that’s what she wants me to think.”
“Let go of me,” Telemachus says and then lets out a short muffled cry as his arm twists.
Antinous lets him go almost abruptly, stepping back and breathing hard. When Telemachus turns he sees that his eyes are wild, hair in disarray. All his smug composure from the night before is gone.
“I was sure it was you, from the first night, “ he says, mouth twitching at the corner. “Even yesterday when you wouldn’t answer I was sure. But then I wondered if I was wrong…If perhaps…”
“What are you so afraid of?” Telemachus says, rolling his shoulder and trying to steady his breathing. He can still feel the imprint of Antinous warm body against his back and he wishes, suddenly that he was properly armed. “You know we would not harm you. It would break-“
“Yes, yes, I know it,” Antinous says, waving his hand. He takes a few steps back and sits on the wall behind him. He looks close up, just as tired as Telemachus feels. “I did not think you were planning to kill me in my sleep. You’ve had plenty of chances for that by now.”
“But you think someone else might,” Telemachus says slowly. “Is that it? One of the others.”
Antinous is silent for a long moment but then, abruptly, he stands.
“Come,” he says. “Join me for a while. I don’t like to eat alone.”
“I am not here to eat with you.”
“What are you here for then?” Antinous snaps and for a moment he looks as though he is wanting to say something nasty. Telemachus recognises the look in his eyes before it is tamped down, under control. When he speaks again it is almost pleasant. “If you are here to watch me then it will be much easier to do from the other side of a table.”
Telemachus hesitates, fighting the urge to glance over at the walls of his mother’s rooms. He has no desire to sit and eat with his enemy but Antinous’ fear intrigues him. He can almost smell it rolling off him.
He nods and the tension seemed to leave Antinous. The smug smile is back as he gestures Telemachus ahead of him, graciously, like a true host. They walk in silence across the short distance to the steps that lead to the balcony. From here you could see over the rooftops to the hall, where smoke was rising up and the sounds of banqueting could be still heard, drifting on the warm night air.
Telemachus had been inside these rooms many times; he had once taken his lessons there as a child in fact, but they seemed smaller to him now. Perhaps because Antinous seemed too large a presence there, his cloak strewn over the long bench, his weapons hung on the wall. It was a hot night with little breeze but Antinous ushered him inside, rather than staying out on the veranda. His eyes were constantly moving. To the windows, to the door and always back at Telemachus as if making sure he was still there. A meal had been set out on the small table but it looked untouched. The jug of wine was empty however when Antinous tried to pour a fresh cup and he scowled and went to retrieve a skin from where it lay by the bed.
Telemachus waits until Antinous drank from his own cup before tasting his own. It wasn’t from their own cellars, he realised at first taste and he wondered who had brought it.
Forgoing the chairs, Antinous sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. He laughed when Telemachus sat on a chair halfway across the room.
“You can come closer. I won’t bite,” he said. “Why, we’re practically family now.”
“Even if this wedding takes place we will never be that.”
“If,” Antinous says. “You don’t sound sure.”
“There are still seven days left.”
“You think your long lost daddy will come strolling in at the final hour?” Antinous asks and then his expression darkens. “Or perhaps you think I won’t live that long.”
“Is that what you’re frightened of? That the others will kill you?”
Antinous doesn’t flinch but his hands grip the cup of wine a little more tightly. “They would not break the laws of hospitality.”
“You aren’t their host yet.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Antinous says. “I know these men well.”
“You think they’re men of honour?” Telemachus says mockingly. “I can tell you different.”
“Men of honour, maybe not. But they are not men of cunning or of bravery.”
“You speak as if you are not of their number.”
“I mean no discredit when I say this of them,” Antinous says. “The beaches of Troy are filled with the bones of brave, honourable, clever men.”
He says this last looking at Telemachus directly. It is clear he is referring to Odysseus.
“So why are you so frightened?” Telemachus asks, sitting forward in his seat, feeling strangely powerful when he sees the way Antinous watches the movement. “Aren’t these your friends?”
“Why aren’t you?” Antinous counters. “After your mother marries, you will be the last reminder that Odysseus was once the king of Ithaca. If Penelope bears a child…”
Telemachus looks away, at the fire, feeling a twist of nausea.
“When she bears a child,” Antinous continues. “Don’t you think your continued existence will pose somewhat of a threat?”
“You don’t need to explain this to me. I have been living with the knowledge since I was ten years old and the first of you began to gather around our door like flies around a dish of honey,” Telemachus says hotly. “I am surprised to hear you speak of your intent so brazenly however.”
Antinous looks almost surprised and then he laughs. “You fear that is what I have planned?”
“I know that is what you plan.”
“I am simply being kind enough to warn you of the danger that will come to you if I am found with my throat slit in this bed one morning.”
Telemachus had to laugh at this point. “I see. So you’re my protector.”
“As I have always been,” Antinous says and he says it so smoothly that Telemachus almost smiles at his audacity.
“You think my memory is so short? Or perhaps you think I am as easily led as the serving girls you romance,” Standing, Telemachus is suddenly sick of the stuffy little room with it’s spoiling food and that strange, ever present perfume, the same thing he had smelt before when pressed against the wall. Going to the balcony doorway he says, “You know what I think?”
“What is that,” Antinous asks and he is standing too, coming closer and drawing himself up to his full height. His attempts to look dangerous have no effect on Telemachus finds them almost laughably similar to a cat puffing up his fur. He feels almost drunk despite having had one mouthful of wine.
“I think you have found yourself completely unprepared for a position you have been spent your whole life trying to wheedle your way into,” Telemachus says, looking up at him. He smiles as sweetly as he can, enjoying the rare feeling of control. “And I don’t think I need your protection. I think you need mine.”
He knows, even as he says the words, that they were rash. He thinks for a moment that moment that Antinous might strike him. For a wild moment he wishes he would.
Antinous reaches out his hand and Telemachus braces himself, still smiling, refusing to flinch. Instead, Antinous makes a strange movement, almost as if he was about to ruffle his hair as he had when they were both younger, but something stops him at the last moment and he simply takes a curl at the side of Telemachus’ face and tugs it gently.
“If I am planning to kill you,” Antinous says, almost breathing the words. He has moved closer, somehow without realising it, so close Telemachus can see the beads of sweat where they gather in the hollow of his throat. “Then it’s probably unwise to taunt me. Just a word of advice.”
Telemachus swallows and sees the way Antinous’ eyes dip for just a moment to follow it. His fingertips are still holding onto the curl of hair, so lightly that Telemachus could hardly feel it.
“If you are going to kill me you will have decided to already,” he says. “So I might as well say what I like.”
He takes a step back and turns, stepping out through the door into the relative coolness of the dark. Antinous does not call out after him and even after Telemachus takes up his post on the walkway, he does not look out or come to the veranda.
Half hidden in the flowers, Telemachus wishes he could run down to the sea as he had done as a child and throw himself into the cold of the waves. His body feels almost shivery with heat. He wishes he had taken some of the food when he was offered, or even more wine. There is an emptiness in his stomach that he is suddenly, painfully aware of. A hunger that goes beyond thirst or even the need for sleep.
He manages to crawl into his bed in the small hours of the morning and sleep for a few hours. Even in his dreams he is not rid of Antinous. The room is even hotter in his dream. So warm he cannot breathe and Antinous is pulling at his shirt, telling him ‘let me help you, I only want to help’ in his wheedling voice.
Liar, Telemachus says, and then large hands are in his hair and tugging this time, right on the edge of pain-
He is woken by a servant who seems startled when he sits bolt upright and then immediately embarrassed. She mumbles something about his mother looking for him and then all but runs from the room.
It’s not until she leaves that he takes stock of himself and realises why.
After splashing his face with cold water from a bowl he presses his palms against his eyes until stars start to appear, a meaningless shifting constellation.
He takes time than he would normally going to his mother, washing first and trying to make himself more presentable.
She sees through it immediately of course.
“You’ve not been sleeping,” she says. They are alone in her rooms and, for all that she had talked of secluded prayer, she does not look the part of a mourner. There are no herbs burning by the household shrine and she is dressed no different to any other day, in a green gown with her gold earrings. When Telemachus had come in she had been sitting at her table, eating fruit with one hand and writing with the other.
“I was when you asked for me,” Telemachus says and then winces at his own petulance. “I have been preoccupied.”
“Is that what you call it?” she asks and then puts her stylus down with a soft click. “Last night I sent a servant to your rooms and she reported that you were not there.”
“I was…” he says and then seeing no point in lying, he sighs. “I was on the western walkway.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I see. Are you trying your hand at being a guard?”
“I don’t trust them,” Telemachus says bluntly. “Since the shroud was finished I don’t know which of our servants can be trusted.”
She hums in the back of her throat and nods slowly, leaning back in her seat. “Are you sure this is how your time is best spent? I don’t believe he poses a danger to me.”
“I don’t like him being so close to you,” he admits. “If you were attended all the time…”
“Like you, my trust in those who live in these walls has been somewhat diminished as of late. But listen. I would ask you this: why would he jeopardise the position he has now? When we are to be married so soon?”
She must see the expression on his face because she looks away, blinking fast and mouth twisting. “You think I like it any more than you do?”
“There must be a way,” Telemachus starts but she cuts him off.
“Hear me when I say this,” she tells him, standing and taking his hands in hers. “Sleep tonight. Don’t stand guard. Will you promise me?”
“I will,” he says, ashamed of his own relief. He was not relishing the thought of meeting Antinous again. His dream is still fresh in his mind, so real it was hard not to think of it as memory.
That night he leaves the feast as early as he is able, goes to his chambers and sends the servants away. Lying alone in the dark, he watches the moonlight on the stone floor and listens to the distant call of the seabirds that roost along the cliff’s edge. He wonders if Antinous is standing on the veranda now, looking out for him. He closes his eyes against the thought, and tries to sleep.
It takes a long time to come and when it does, it is thin and broken. His dreams and the room around him leech into each; sometimes it is cabin tossed on a rocking sea and then in another moment, a tomb covered in painted figures of heroes that battle each other across the walls.
A woman stands over his bed looking down at him. Her eyes are as grey as the sea before a storm.
“Your wait is nearly over,” she tells him. “There is not much time left.”
He tries to ask her what she means and then he wakes. Mentor is standing in his doorway.
“Apologies my prince,” he says. “But I thought I should let you know the time-“
“We had practice this morning,” Telemachus says, remembering. The position of the sun on the wall is enough to let him know he has slept in. He rolls his feet out of bed, rubbing his head. He’s still so tired. “I had such strange dreams.”
“Such dreams can be messages from the gods,” Mentor says in his even, steady way. “Or visions of what is to come.”
Telemachus nods but can’t help but grimace. He had little desire to consider portents before at least having something to eat. Mentor huffs a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Grey eyes, Telemachus thinks. The woman in my dream had them too.
Mentor does not take it easy on him when they spar. This is normally what Telemachus likes about him most, but today each time he falls in the dirt he gets up in more foul a mood. It does not help to have Eumaeus laughing at him from where he sits, perched on the cliffside.
The more angry he gets, the sloppier his technique, until at last, a foolish misstep has him catching a blow to the ribs so hard it knocks the wind out of him and whitens his vision with pain.
“You’re fighting like someone who does not believe in death,” Eumaeus tells him.
It takes a moment for Telemachus to be able to speak, hardly able to breathe. “Normally you tell me I am too cautious.”
“Normally you are. Normally you have at least a little skill.”
“I have not been sleeping,” Telemachus says defensively, hands still pressed against his right side. The pain is throbbing out from where the flat of the blade caught him, a red line of pain that goes all the way up into his shoulder.
“You think you will have slept well the night before a battle? Again Mentor!” Eumaeus snaps.
Gritting his teeth, Telemachus lifts his sword.
That night he bathes the dust and sweat from his skin and finds the bruise has already started to darken, stretching almost all the way from hip to shoulder. He is glad he sent the attendant away; he does not want rumours going around of his clumsiness. Lying back in the silky water, he traces the edges of the bruise idly, feeling the strain in his muscles start to loosen. The water feels as cool and refreshing as ever, the large stone bath fed by one of the mountain streams. Another invention of his father. He had carved his mother’s bedpost too, from a living tree and a thousand other things in the palace were of his design.
Telemachus had grown up knowing them all, eager for any and all mention of Odysseus’ exploits. Even from the suitors. Antinous had told him of going hunting by his side and Telemachus had listened keenly, bitterly jealous. In those early days, Antinous had told him a thousand stories. Over the years, as Telemachus grew and as the suitors swelled in their ranks, it had made him feel sick to hear them told to others, over and over, as if Antinous was staking some right of ownership through this association. As if by knowing Odysseus as a child he had some right to Odysseus throne, to Odysseus’s wife, to his son….
His fingers, that had been skating idly over the tender flesh of his side, press into the bruise and he hisses. There is a keen kind of relief in the sensation, cutting through the cloud of his thoughts. He realises suddenly, that under the water he is hard. That he has been for some time.
He lets himself slip down until his head is beneath the surface and stays down there until the lack of air forces him up.
By the time he is dressed his body is almost under control again.
On the way to his rooms, he almost runs into a servant coming the other way down the corridor, carrying a tray and looking flustered. When the servant comes closer, Telemachus sees the tray is covered in shards of broken clay.
He stops the servant with a soft hand on his arm and asks, “Have you come from serving Antinous?”
“Yes, my lord,” the servant, whose name was Promus, says. He was a sensible, quiet man middle aged man who had served in the place for as long as Telemachus was alive. He had a great amount of pride in his work and Telemachus could see that he had a rare look of irritation on his face.
“Was this an accident?” Telemachus asks and then, narrowing his eyes. “Did he throw this at you?”
“No my lord,” Promus says quickly but then, after a brief hesitation. “But there are other broken things. I’m sorry my lord.”
“It’s not your fault,” Telemachus says and lets him go.
He stands there, alone in the corridor with the lamps fluttering slightly in the night breeze.
He had made a promise to his mother.
I shall not break it, he thinks and turns slowly to walk in the direction of his rooms.
Despite this conviction, somehow his feet take him in a different direction and soon he standing by the door to the western walkway, reaching for the key that is hidden in the loose stone by the door.
She asked me not to stand guard all night, he tells himself. And I will not. I will simply tell him to stop breaking my fathers things.
Stepping out into the dark and locking the door behind him, he looks up at the veranda but no one is standing there and it is dark within.
It looks almost empty, Telemachus thinks and then a horrible thought grips him and he is off and running. Almost flying up the stairs, he crosses the balcony and stands, breathing hard in the doorway.
The fire in it’s brazier is so low it is not much more than glowing coals and grey ash. No lamps are lit and in the gloom it takes a moment for him to realise that the room is empty. He looks between the empty bed and the food left on the table. It is disordered but there is no sign of a struggle, no blood…
“Are you looking for me?” Antinous voice says from behind him and Telemachus feels his heart leap into his throat as he turns.
Antinous is sitting on the farthest corner of the balcony, the one that juts out over the sea below. Hidden by the dark leaves of the jasmine that climbs the wall behind him, he is just a shadow among shadows. Had he not spoken, Telemachus would not have seen him at all.
“Are you hiding here?” Telemachus asks, feeling strangely angry.
“No, I am sitting here,” Antinous snaps back. “And you are hardly one to lecture others on skulking in the dark.”
Telemachus can hardly see his face. He glares into the dark for a moment before turning on his heel and going inside the room to light a lamp from the fire.
When he brings it out and hangs it on one of the hooks on the wall, he casts glances at Antinous out of the corner of his eye. With the lamplight, Telemachus can see that the lines of his face look sharper than normal and that dark shadows have appeared beneath his eyes. He is dressed in leather, despite the heat and there is something defensive to the way he sits, his arm resting on the one leg propped up on the wall. He looks like a wolf, cornered with his back up. All the more dangerous for being caught in the trap.
“It’s a long drop from there to the sea,” Telemachus remarks, taking longer to adjust the lamp than was strictly necessary. “You should be careful.”
“Is that a threat?”
Telemachus almost smiles. “From this height you might not die. We used to jump from here as children.”
“That’s an old game. We played at that too.”
Telemachus blinks, caught off guard for a moment. He had forgotten that children of the noblemen and servants alike had been playing in the palace long before he was born.
“You jumped from here?” Telemachus asks. “So you should have no fear of being pushed.”
Antinous is silent and Telemachus lets out a laugh, forgetting the lamp and stepping closer. “Ah. I see. You were afraid.”
“A boy shattered his legs jumping from this place,” Antinous says. “I saw it myself. Your father was one of the men to drag him out. I’m surprised they would let their precious prince risk his royal limbs here as well.”
“They didn’t,” Telemachus says, coming closer and after a moment’s hesitation, sitting down on the edge of the wall a little way down. “I was forbidden.”
Antinous looks at him with a strange expression. “But you still did it I suppose.”
“Once,” Telemachus says, looking down at the waves below, at the crash of them against the rock. “Alone. I had to sneak away and come at night.”
He remembered it now, standing on the edge, staring down into the white surf in the moonlight. He had been eleven years old and they had just received word that the war in Troy was over. He had done it so that when his father arrived home, he could know how brave his son was.
At that time, he had woken each morning expecting to see sails on the horizon.
“A very wise decision indeed,” Antinous says. “No witnesses and no one to save you. They would have never found your body.”
“It would have made things convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” Telemachus says wryly.
Antinous looks away. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it would have seemed suspicious. Why are you here?”
The change is abrupt and Telemachus remembers, all at once, that he is not here to wax nostalgic.
“You’ve been breaking things. And besides, I have right to go where I want. This is still my home.”
“You were not here last night,” Antinous says, almost with anger. “I thought perhaps you had grown tired of this game.”
“It is not a game. I was keeping watch over you. But I’ve been convinced you are no threat.”
These last words were intended to sting and it works even more effectively than Telemachus had intended. Antinous looks up sharply, something almost vicious in his eyes and reaches out, viper-quick to grab Telemachus’ wrist where it rests on the wall and pulls it toward him.
“Oh have you?” Antinous all but snarls. “And what has lead you to this conclusion?”
Off balance, for a moment, Telemachus is all at once very aware of the drop below. He still has both feet planted but if Antinous were just to pull his arm out.
“Even you’re not so stupid,” Telemachus grits out. Antinous’ hand is large and warm and vice-tight. “You’ll be wed in five days.”
“And after that?” Antinous says. His voice is low and rough, pulling him an inch closer. Below them, the waves crash and a bird cries out in the dark.
“Even then. I don’t think you will kill me even after that.”
“What makes you so sure?” His thumb is stroking the inside of Telemachus’ wrist and the feel of it makes him shiver. He wonders if Antinous is even aware of it; all his attention seems fixed on hearing Telemachus’ answer.
“I don’t think you could,” Telemachus says and he’s not trying to bait, only he is suddenly very certain of this being the truth. “I don’t think you’re capable of getting your own hands dirty.”
Antinous’ face is dangerously still.
“You would trust your life in this belief?” he asks and then he half turns, pushing forward at the same time, so Telemachus is hanging backwards over the edge, feeling nothing but wind behind his back. The only thing keeping him from falling is the grip on his wrist.
He almost cries out but manages to hold it back. His other hand scrabbles at the leather that covers Antinous’ chest but finds no purchase. He reaches up and wraps it around the back of Antinous’ neck instead.
“I would,” he says and then, acting purely on instinct, he pulls Antinous down and kisses him.
It is a brief, hot press of mouths and Antinous pulls back with large, shocked eyes. For a moment the grip on his wrist loosens and Telemachus thinks he will be dropped.
He has barely time to register what a stupid mistake he has made before Antinous is yanking him back so hard from the ledge, they both fall, graceless onto the safety of the balcony floor.
Telemachus lets out a laugh of pure adrenaline and tries to sit up before he is suddenly borne down under the weight of Antinous’s body. There are hands on his shoulders, his face and then he is being kissed, hard, pressed with his back to the rough stone wall behind him.
It is desperate and hungry and surprisingly unskilful, for all that Antinous’ reputation as seductor. Telemachus is vaguely aware that he should be stopping this but when he gets his hands on Antinous’ shoulders to push him off, he finds all he can do is pull him closer.
When Antinous pulls back, his pupils are so dilated as to turn his eyes black.
“You actually want this,” he says and it sounds almost like a question. “You came here for this.”
Telemachus looks up at him, breathing hard. He wonders what he must look like. The prince of Ithaca rolling around on his back on the stone floor of a dark balcony.
Perhaps it is a dream, Telemachus thinks. If it is then perhaps this is permitted, for men cannot be held responsible for what they do in dreams.
He wants to pull Antinous down to him. He wants to be kissed again. He wants his teeth on Antinous’ neck.
But Antinous does not move, either closer or away, just stays where he is, his body pressed against him, one hand still closed around Telemachus’ wrist and pressing his hand to the ground. He seemed to be looking for something in Telemachus’ face.
“You want this,” he said again. This time it was less unsure. There was a smug edge to it that made Telemachus want to strike him as much as it made him want to kiss him again.
“Would you prefer me unwilling?” Telemachus says, angry that Antinous seems determined to ruin this by talking. With every passing second he is more away that he should end this.
“No,” Antinous says, “No. I like you just like this. Just like you are now-“
He pushes down against Telemachus with a roll of his hips, an obscene movement that makes it clear just how truthful he is being. Telemachus should be disgusted but instead, he lets out a cy and pushes back up against him.
“Shhh,” Antinous says, voice ragged. “You want your mother to hear you make these noises?”
“Bastard,” Telemachus says but buries his face in Antinous’ neck, licking at the salt there.
Antinous groans and thrusts again, rutting against him like an animal. It is almost more painful than pleasurable, the buckles and sharp edges of his leather jerkin digging into Telemachus’ skin. He had been not worn his own armour, had been on his way to bed in woollen breaches and shirt and now he too soft, too exposed. Antinous finds his waist, fingers skirting under his shirt and then they are moving up his chest, pawing at him roughly. When he reaches Telemechus’ nipples he pinches them hard enough that Telemachus has to smother a yelp.
When Antinous shushes him again, Telemachus bites him, hard.
“You little bitch,” Antinous gasps and then reaches down pushing the fabric down, he takes Telemachus in hand. “Is that what you want? Is this what you came begging for?”
Telemachus cannot talk, just whines and presses his face closer into the warm skin and stubble of Antinous’ neck.
“I’ll give it to you,” Antinous is saying. “I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you anything-“
He is rutting himself in desperate jerking movements against Telemachus’ leg and Telemachus cannot see his face but his voice is so wrecked he sounds almost as if he were weeping.
“I would fuck you right here,” Antinous continues, hand moving faster and faster. “If you wanted that too, I would do it in your banquet hall, on your table, fuck you in front of all of them, front of everyone, in front of your-“
“Stop! Talking!” Telemachus gasps, lifting his head up at last and when he sees the expression on Antinous’ face as he looks down at him, the rising pleasure comes to a head all at once.
He throws back his head so hard he nearly knocks himself out on the flagstone. He is vaguely aware of Antinous putting a hand over his mouth to muffle him, even Antinous makes a final movement against him and shakes out his own conclusion with a long groan.
When it is done, Antinous rolls off him and sits back against the wall, breathing hard.
The first thing Telemachus sees when his vision clears is the lamp, swinging gently in the breeze. He swears an oath under his breath and sits up, making himself decent. Getting up clumsily, he goes to wall and extinguishes it. Trying not to panic, he rubs a hand over his face. The mess on his stomach is already starting to dry and the wind is picking up, chilling his sweat damp clothes.
“I have to go,” he says, looking over at distant tower that contains his mother’s quarters. “She’ll send a servant to my room to see if I am there. “
He isn’t sure why he says it. He certainly wasn’t planning on spending the night here.
Antinous is oddly silent and when Telemachus looks over, he has not moved from where he is sitting. He is looking at Telemachus as if he has never seen him before. His knees are drawn up and one hand is on the ground, as if he has been struck down in a fight and he is gathering his strength to stand.
Telemachus looks down at him for a moment and then turns to leave. He on the second stair down when Antinous whispers his name.
“Telemachus.”
“What?”
Antinous speaks slowly, as if finding his words difficult to come by. “Will you tell her?”
“Tell her what?”
“That I.. that I attacked you.”
“You did not attack me,” Telemachus, just as slowly.
Antinous lets out a ragged breath. “Seduced you then.”
Telemachus actually laughs. There is no answer that would not be ridiculous, so instead he leaves.
He does not look back at the balcony as he goes. If he is being watched there is no way of knowing.