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Telemachus swore his skin was on fire for the days after… dealing with the two suitors.
He saw shadows trying to strike out at him from the corners of his eyes. The lack of sleep probably wasn't helping the situation that much, Telemachus could admit. Night terrors were not fun.
( At least you're aware, little wolf— )
( Does anyone have a favour to call in from Hypnos? I know we aren’t meant to become attached, but— )
The suitors definitely noticed. They whispered amongst themselves, exchanging mocking glances whenever Telemachus passed by with shoulders so tense that a tap would make him shatter like ceramics on the floor. It was clear they were enjoying his discomfort and exhaustion. Snide remarks and smirks would be thrown in his direction, acting as firewood for the flames gathering inside the young prince. He didn't even have Sokartis anymore to help him spar to get rid of the energy building under his skin.
( Get rid of them; it would be so easy. Come on, child, give them a taste of their own medicine— )
( Don't do that; the little prince is a twig; half of those animals are mountains— )
The prince hadn't removed his sheathed Xiphos from his thigh since the morning after he dealt with the two drunkards. For that he was both thankful and ashamed, recalling the goading voice inside his mind that had urged him to use it. To keep himself and his mother alive and safe.
(You know you want to; just pick out the loners, the drunkest lugs, just like Charis taught you. Aim for the weakest links, cut down their numbers, and show them who's in charge . It'll be simple, like throwing out rotten fruit. Do it for your mother, child; be courageous and protect her—)
(Brother, I said stop that! I'll snitch on you to 'Dite!)
Argos also noticed his jumpiness and had taken to sticking by Telemachus like a stubborn flea. He was such a good dog, Telemachus thought, petting the hound as they both sat along the edge of the palace gardens. The hound had grey and white hairs bleeding into his dark fur, his movements slower with his old age. It was hard to think that Argos was the same age, if a few months older, as Telemachus. Eighteen.
The majority of the suitors had left the palace for the day to go hunting, leaving Telemachus with a moment of peace and quiet. He hoped at least one of them impales themself on their own sword or spear.
His mother flat out refused to leave her room since that night , claiming illness whenever the suitors asked after her or that she was busy weaving the mourning tapestry for Odysseus. Telemachus wished he could do the same, the isolation part, not the weaving. He didn't have the attention span to weave. The weight of responsibility weighed heavier on his shoulders with each passing day, and he longed for the return of his father, Odysseus. Sure, the man had been gone eighteen years now, eight years longer than he should've been away, but Telemachus held onto hope that one day he would return.
He just wanted to keep his mother safe, not that he doubted her ability to protect herself; Gods no, she was from Sparta; she'd wipe the floor with anyone that dared raise a blade against her. That didn't change the fact that there was now one hundred and eight suitors versus the two royals and the tiny handful of loyal guards left in the palace.
( Don't sell yourself short, little wolf; assistance comes in many forms. Be patient. )
Wind flowed through the garden, rustling the bushes, grass, and assortments of flowers scattered around in some form of order. He liked the garden. The suitors usually steered clear of it, claiming that they were too ‘manly’ and whatnot to come near such a ‘weak’ and ‘feminine’ space. Telemachus liked to think that the reason why they really avoided it was because they’d start sneezing from the pollen.
( We… need to work on your insults, little prince. Dear sister, you know you're my favourite; could you— )
Argos chuffed beside Telemachus, his tail wagging lazily against the prince's left leg. Telemachus hummed, scratching behind the dog's ears, a small smile tugging at his lips. Today was a nice day, not too warm and not too cold, the sun out but not harsh enough to cause burns on Telemachus' shoulders or the back of his neck. Pleasant.
The palace guard stationed over at the door leading inside the palace cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, eyeing Telemachus and Argos with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Telemachus glanced over at the guard, Alcaeus, giving him a nod of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his faithful companion. Dogs were much better than humans anyway. Whatever Alcaeus needed to tell him could wait.
( … I'm liking the child too much. He likes my sacred animal more than humans. Go down already— )
"Excuse me, my prince?" The guard called, interrupting Telemachus' moment with Argos again. Telemachus sighed, reluctantly tearing himself away from his loyal dog to address the guard's inquiry.
"My apologies, Alcaeus. What is it?" Telemachus asked, trying to hide his annoyance at being pulled away from Argos. Alcaeus cleared his throat before going still for a moment, his eyes shutting and reopening, his grey eyes locked so intently on Telemachus that the prince had the urge to wipe his face. Was there dirt on his face?
"Follow me, my prince." Alcaeus stated, his tone… odd. Maybe he was tired?
Argos whined, sniffing in the direction of the guard and snagging the end of Telemachus' himation with his maw as the prince moved to trail after the guard. Telemachus brushed off the dog's playful antics and quickened his pace to catch up with Alcaeus, who seemed to be walking with a sense of urgency that was unusual for him. His footsteps sounded… off on the stone floor; flat with no echo. As they navigated through the palace corridors, Telemachus narrowed his eyes at the guard in front of him.
Alcaeus was… lax, his muscles limp under his skin, his movements swift but with notable pauses between each movement. It looked unnatural. Wrong. Like his limbs were being jerked by strings. Maybe Telemachus should just… go down this servant passage instead of behind Alcaeus, who was heading to a secluded section of the palace. Yeah, he should mention this to Kosmas when he sees him next.
Trusting his instincts, Telemachus quietly turned down the thin corridor, away from Alcaeus. As he walked further, Argos trotted tensely on his left, his nose twitching and sniffing the air until they reached the main hallway, stepping out from behind one of the tapestries hanging on one of the walls, going past the grand hall's doors.
( You lost him! I told you that was an idiotic idea! He thought you were going to kill him in secret! You're meant to be the smart one— )
( Why didn't you say he went a different direction?! Where is he? Why did Odysseus build this palace with so many hallways — )
( The suitors are back—Where is the little prince? You're both older than me; how do you lose a whole person? It was one job—I left for a second! )
Telemachus hummed under his breath as he shuffled by the grand hall, Argos pausing behind him as the hallway grew loud. The suitors were back, laughter and boasting comments bouncing off the walls. Oh no. That wasn't good; it was so far from good, Telemachus could laugh at himself for loitering anywhere near the grand hall; this was where the suitors normally stayed. Why did he think it wise to come near this hallway? He would've been better off following the potentially murderous guard.
He quickly turned on his heels, aiming to retreat back to his room before anyone noticed him. Argos climbed the stairs two steps at a time, already ahead of the prince. He reached the end of the stairs, left hand already on the banister, when a loud voice called out his name, freezing him in place. Telemachus slowly turned around to see Antinous, the most arrogant of the suitors, smirking at him with a knowing look in his eyes from the front of the group of suitors.
This was, officially, a terrible day.
Antinous always picked on Telemachus, from shoving and pushing to jeers and insults. The prince, miserably, as Antinous and the other suitors came closer, contemplated the chances of him making it back to his bedroom within the next two seconds. The odds were so against him that it was comical.
Argos growled from his spot further up on the stairs, his hackles raised and his ears pinned back against his head. Telemachus couldn't let the hound have a go at any of the suitors; they'd hurt him. Or, or… gods . His mother was upstairs in her room. His mother was upstairs.
( Found him!—Wait, A̶r̶e̶s̶ , look at what your influence did! Someone stop him— )
( That's all his! I haven't done anything— )
( He's going to get himself killed— )
Telemachus inhaled sharply, narrowing his eyes as he stepped down and off the stairs, looking Antinous in the eyes. Lava pooled in his gut, bubbling and trying to claw up his throat like a desperate spider trying to escape the rain, as the older man came closer. He scanned the suitors, noting that their nets from hunting were all empty. "How did your hunting go? Your nets seem… lacking."
The suitors exchanged uneasy glances, a small number of them shifting on their feet as Telemachus continued to stare them down. He was his mother’s son; it seems that the suitors had misplaced that piece of information.
Antinous smirked, his tone mocking as he replied, "Oh, we had a successful hunt. Just not the kind you'd appreciate, young prince. Not yet at least, eh?"
( Someone—that is way too much anger inside a boy—fix him! Fix him! )
Repulsive. These men were vile. Telemachus clenched his fists, a well of lava simmering inside him. They had obviously tormented the women of Ithaca and the maidservants again. Revolting. How dare they? They were his mother's suitors, sleeping under the palace roof, and they continue with this, this barbaric behaviour? Disgusting .
"Has your tramp of a mother chosen a new husband while we were out?" Antinous sneered, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Why don't you let us up to her room to convince her?" He smirked, moving to step around Telemachus to make his way up the stairs.
Telemachus glared, snapping out without a thought, stepping directly into Antinous' path. "Don't you dare call my mother a tramp—"
"Oh, the little boy has a voice? You hear this?" Antinous mocked, glancing back at the other men behind him that had begun to encircle the pair in a standoff at the end of the stairs. Bronze eyes snapped back to Telemachus' face, malice swimming in their depths as he leaned in close. "You're just a boy playin' at bein' a man. What'chu gonna do about it, champ? Hm? Call your Daddy? Oh wait, you can't ."
(Sweet Styx, Brother, stop him!)
(I'm trying!)
(Well, you're not trying hard enough —)
( Holy Tartarus , he's drawn his Xiphos—I can't watch—)
Telemachus lifted his blade and lunged, an enraged snarl on his lips: So much for obeying the hospitality rules.
The suitors were being unpleasant; Telemachus argued that they deserved whatever light scratches he gifted them.
Beginning with Antinous. The prince bever liked the man’s bronze irises, anyway. The man could keep one.