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The suitors arrived in one large wave, their voices loud and grating to Telemachus’ ears. Telemachus hid in his room, peering between the spaces of his bedroom’s balcony railing as man after man ascended the steps to his home. Each of the men was of noble backgrounds; at least, that’s what his mother told him after she gifted him his Xiphos. Which was unmoved from his right thigh.
The boy folded in on himself, a thin, light blue linen blanket wrapped around him, leaning against the doorway to his balcony, and glared down at the noisy, intrusive, and arrogant suitors below. None of them were worthy enough for his mother's hand, let alone a moment of her time. They should just go back to where they came from already.
Argos, laid out on his front, to Telemachus' left side, had been growling, the sound low in his throat, since the strangers began showing up. Telemachus gnawed on his bottom lip as the palace guards moved from their stationed positions around the courtyard towards the entrance to the palace and moved to open the entrance doors to Telemachus's home to the strangers.
Earlier in the day, his mother had shortly summarised what the situation with the suitors was going to be; the suitors would dine in the grand hall while Telemachus and his mother would eat at a separate table at the front of the hall. Telemachus had stormed out and had been hiding in his room since then. He didn't want to be anywhere near those men. He didn't want his mother on the same island as those men, let alone in the same room.
Telemachus did not want these men in his home or anywhere near his mother. The thought of them leering at her made his blood boil. He clenched his fists, the space behind his eyes pulsating in anger as the palace guards allowed the suitors, their hungry and greedy eyes making Telemachus's skin crawl, to enter the grand hall.
His mother had mentioned that, once the suitors had settled from their journey in the grand hall, she would hold a feast. A feast that Telemachus had no desire to attend. He would be led to the grand hall once the food was set out for the suitors and join his mother at their personal table at the front of the hall (the only time the two of them would eat within their reach, his mother swore to him). Telemachus knew he would have to endure the presence of the suitors, their crude behaviour and disrespectful eying, until the feast was over. He braced himself for the evening ahead, determined to stay strong for his mother's sake.
There was a knock at the door—three sharp and short raps—and a sigh escaped from between Telemachus' teeth. He rose from the floor, laying the blanket he had on the end of his bed, and dragged his feet across the room towards the door.
He put his left leg out to stop Argos from scampering out into the hallways. He'd end up biting one of the suitors, and despite Telemachus’ delight at the idea, that would not be good, and the other suitors would put the loyal hound down.
Opening it, he was met with the sight of a familiar face, one of his mother's personal guards, Charis, and the man's lips quirked up at the corners in a knowing smile. Charis was one of the best guards they had, with him being personally picked by Odysseus before he left for war, according to Telemachus’ mother.
"Young Prince, the Queen requested that I escort you to the grand hall," the older man said, his voice gentle but firm.
Telemachus crossed his arms over his chest, not wanting to snap at the older man, and muttered. "I don't want to go."
Charis nodded understandingly, his grey-blue eyes filled with empathy. "I know it's difficult, but your presence is needed, and a growing boy like yourself needs plenty of food to grow," he replied calmly, offering Telemachus a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leading him out of his chambers, closing and locking the door behind them, and towards the grand hall.
The hallways were quiet for the first few seconds, but then the sound of distant chatter, laughter, and music grew louder as they approached the grand hall. Telemachus took a deep breath, steeling himself to be in the same room as his mother's suitors, with his right hand just grazing over his sheathed Xiphos under his chiton. He should ask Charis or one of the other guards if they could teach him how to wield it.
Charis removed his hand from Telemachus’ shoulder, nodding to the two guards on either side of the doors to the grand hall. Telemachus sucked in another breath, glancing back at Charis as the guard took a step back from him; he would be following behind the boy. Telemachus wished Argos was with him.
The two other guards dragged the doors open, the light from the torches inside the grand hall casting a glow onto Telemachus’ face as he moved to enter. Eyes bore into the young prince as he marched through the hall towards the head table where his mother was waiting with her two other guards standing behind her, Sokratis and Markos.
The voices of the suitors rang around the grand hall, mutters, hisses, and sneers that had Telemachus’ heart in his throat. He avoided nearing any of the long tables set up along the hall, the mere thought of the suitors being able to touch him making Telemachus feel queasy. Dutifully, Charis stayed behind Telemachus within arm's reach, his armour shifting with each step, with his sheathed sword hung from his belt, and comforting Telemachus in the oddest way.
“Hello, Mom,” Telemachus whispered in greeting once he, finally, reached the front of the hall, a tense smile on his face as he avoided looking in the direction of any of the suitors. He would lose his appetite if he did. Or throw up bile and whatever was left inside his stomach from lunch.
His mother gave his hands a squeeze and kissed Telemachus on the forehead before ushering him to sit down beside her. Telemachus felt a sense of relief wash over him as he sat next to his mother, her presence calming his nerves. The suitors' gazes lingered on him, but he focused on the warmth of his mother's hand in his own out of sight of the suitors under the table.
Charis joined Markos and Sokratis at the wall behind the mother and son. Telemachus wished to sink into the floor when he looked up from his hand wrapped in his mother's, swallowing dryly as the suitor's eyes bore into him with a mixture of curiosity, hints of disregard, and tension. There was nearly a hundred and fifty men in the hall with them.
The food on the table, his favourites, he dully noted, set out close to him, suddenly seemed like the most unappetising things in the world. Telemachus tried to sit with his back straight—he was going to have an ache in his spine and shoulders by the end of the night from the strain. The weight of his mother's hand in his own was the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment.
The noise of the suitors lulled, the men indulging themselves in the feast and wine offered along with the food. Telemachus wished time would speed up so that he could retreat to his room. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the walls, and his mother's hand left his one. Telemachus closed his eyes briefly, trying to block out the sounds and smells that surrounded him.
His mother's voice broke through the sounds in the hall, easily grabbing the attention of everyone in the room—except Telemachus, who had made the mistake of looking up from his plate and caught the eyes of several suitors sitting near the front of the hall. Their smirks and raised eyebrows made Telemachus uncomfortable, and he quickly averted his gaze back to his plate.
The air in the room thickened, and Telemachus silently cursed himself for missing what his mother had said. She probably told the men where they'd be staying—the guest chambers, which were on the opposite side of the palace from her and his rooms—or how she was not easily swayed and it would take more than flattery and sweet words to win her favour. It was probably the latter if the disgruntled faces of the suitors around the hall were anything to go by.
Maybe Telemachus should ask one of the guards or the palace staff for several locks on his chamber door. He trusted the palace guards, not the suitors, who outnumbered the guards tenfold. It was better to be safe than sorry, especially with so many unwanted guests lurking around the palace.
Then his mother stood from her chair, with Markos, Sokratis, and Charis shifting on their feet behind Telemachus, and the young boy stood as well, forcing his shoulders down from his ears. Markos and Sokratis led his mother out of the grand hall, leaving him with Charis and the hall full of his mother's suitors. Then a thought crossed Telemachus' mind; he had to walk back down through the hall to leave and retreat to his room.
He shot a nervous look over his shoulder at Charis, biting the inside of his cheek as he cautiously stepped around the side of the table and began to make his way through the crowd of suitors, feeling their eyes on him as he passed. Like bugs trying to dig into his skin and feast on his flesh. Telemachus could sense the tension in the room as he made his way through the crowd, his heart pounding with each step, praying that he didn't trip over his own feet in his haste to leave the hall. He could hear Charis' armour following behind him, but even that gave him little comfort.
He reached the doors, the guards already halfway through the motion of opening the heavy doors, and a voice called out behind him, one of the suitors that had been sitting near the front of the hall during the feast. Telemachus turned slightly, looking the man up and down stiffly.
"Leaving so soon, Little Prince? One of us will be your new daddy soon, you know. Are you not interested in what we have to offer your mother?" The suitor smirked, his bronze eyes gleaming with malice and amusement. Telemachus gritted his teeth and resisted his urge to respond sharply.
The young boy didn't trust his voice to speak, so he shook his head, hoping his hatred for every one of these men was clear to see in his steely gaze, and exited the hall with Charis at his heels. Laughter and shouting sounded from the hall as Telemachus hurried back to his chambers, his heart heavy with frustration and anger.
His legs moved faster, and Charis' called out behind him, but Telemachus ignored the older man, fumbled with the lock of his door, and barreled into his room, slamming the door behind him and almost getting tackled back out into the hallway by Argos. He stumbled, ending up on the floor between his vanity chair and the low-burning hearth that must've been lit during the feast. Argos, draped across Telemachus' legs, whined, nosing at the boy's hands in an attempt to comfort him. Telemachus buried his face in Argos' fur, letting out a shaky breath as he tried to calm his racing thoughts and heart.
(He blocked out the burning of his eyes as tears threatened to escape.)