Chapter Text
He dreamed.
First, of green pastures, of strong wine - then of blood, and of war, and the drums of it.
Flags with Roman emblem, a she-wolf, hung over the walls. Billowing, the purple was tainted with red. People—his people—ran in the streets, shrieking and taking refuge in temples. The reek of burnt wood was heavy, and flames flickered outside the boundaries.
He was watching from his balcony. Minerva’s owl cried where it perched on the railing, pecking at his forearm urgently. He didn’t move: didn’t help, just stood there, eyes-wide. He had to be out there, dying and suffering for the sake of Rome’s glory, of his honor: but his feet were heavy, and a resignation crept up to his throat.
Rome was on fire a second later.
Death came too quickly. Ruin came to everyone.
And with the smoke suffocating his lungs, Telemachus knew.
An owlet—little, feathers ruffled and unkempt—hooted from his windowsill.
Gold bled upon the earth, rays of sunlight encroaching his room. Telemachus groaned, flinging his arm over his eyes.
He rolled to his side. “Five minutes more,” his tongue slurred. “Five…”
He heard the bird scuttle, almost skittish, birds flittering. If it had been any more prideful, it could’ve driven Telemachus rolling off his bed if it fluffed itself up and pecked at his face. And pecked, waiting for him to wake up, alert and uneasy. He turned to the other side of the memory, bouncing slightly. It cried again, pitchy. The beak snapped.
Telemachus tugged at the hems of the bedsheets, yanking them over his head.
He drifted - if he closed his eyes, he could see beyond the hills.
But owls, blest by Minerva, they carried messages. They, too, carried her impatience. His cheek still stung and ached from the last time he overslept.
“Minerva,” he grumbled. “Did she - did she send you?”
The owlet screeched. The sound could’ve carried off the woods, rebound from tree to tree, and alert any prey - but instead, it bounced off the walls of his bedroom.
Telemachus stiffened, throwing the linen off him. “Okay, okay. I’m awake!” his ears rang, blood-shot eyes almost twitching at the grating scream. “Sorry?”
The scream only became a faint trill when he sat up, rubbing his eyes. His limbs felt heavy as melted bronze. Excitement of a new saffron morning left him.
Auroral rays shone, sun being drawn out. He tried to catch sight of Rome, squinting at his balcony - far-away, buildings stood tall, and crowds rustled. His kingdom, Rome.
His: the weight, the ugly. Minerva was conscious of it. Maybe the only reason as to why she bestowed upon him the blessing of her being his instructor.
Everything throbbed as he slipped off the edge of his bed. His bones ached - gods, he wouldn’t stand old age. But the sting of it all was a sign of a good day of training. Either that, or a muscle had suffered far too much strain in his eagerness to prove himself.
Glancing at the owl past his shoulder, he found it still gaping at him with big, stygian eyes.
“I ought to change,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed. “Please look away?”
The bird gave a hoot that resounded off the walls, and wings unfurled in a haste, before hiding its eyes.
Muttering a thank you, he walked over to the oaken dressers - barely two footfalls, but his knees shrieked at him to stop. Whenever he bent them, or his heel twisted at a heavy strike of the ground, pain jolted up his legs.
He threw in the first tunic he found, almost wriggling. The hem reached his knees, a stripe of embroidered purple shone: tyrian, bright even when night threw itself upon the world. A cloak—it weighed heavy on his shoulders, but the chilliness of the air lessened.
He had barely slipped in his sandals, leather burning against his skin, when the owlet screamed. Belt on hand, he flinched so violently it was almost hurled across the room.
It was a horrible sound: easier to haunt and hunt. Too loud. A reminder time was brief.
He blinked. “You are merciless,” he hissed, before fastening his belt.
But still he took no more than a step before turning to face the owlet.
The owl’s head tilted, too low for him to be comfortable. Like Minerva, it was unnatural. Dark eyes followed him closely. It stilled, a gleam of a shadow flickering in its ever watching stare. The wings tucked close.
Telemachus took a tentative step back.
The owlet’s neck almost retracted as it shifted. Its head raised slightly, beak falling open.
His eyes widened as it dawned upon him. “Wait! Wait, no, I just woke up and—”
It retched, a lump of black dropping down its tongue. Its small chest heaved, white feathers ruffling. The thing rolled dully against the floor, a thin line of saliva connecting it to the beak. The owlet’s head lowered as it watched the pellet, gaze curious and wide.
Then, its neck rolled, stare flickering back at Telemachus.
He tethered his frustration, running a hand through his hair.
“ —and it’s early…” his eyes followed the pellet, eyebrows knitting together. “Oh, gods. Why do you owls always do this?”
It whined - for him, it sounded like a dog yelping. It broke off in the end, growing higher in pitch.
Telemachus chewed on his bottom lip. “I’ll clean it,” the owl looked pleased, spreading its wings and flapping them. “But don’t tell her I said that.”
Disregarding it, the owl shrieked again.
It made his heart leap. It was almost like a funeral cry, or maybe, a war’s cry - pitched, with a certain pride.
“Main hall?” he gestured at the door.
Black eyes bore into him.
Rubbing his neck, he tried to think where else. “Throne room?” he asked, half-joking.
Nothing could deem such honor, such solemnity for his teacher - not when it came to Telemachus. She’d only cite his father there. Not him, whose posture she still corrected. Never him. Young, princely Telemachus. It stirred a shame inside him, often kept buried, bound with dread. But it also made him want to try harder. It stirred a fervor within. He’d be great one day. Maybe not this dawn or dusk, but someday.
The wings flittered, and he caught sight of the sharp talons sagging. It flew off.
Telemachus paled. He wondered if it had been the throne room. Maybe, the bird had tired from his rambling, or had to report back to his patron.
Abide or die, Minerva once had told him. Those are the rules a Roman must live by.
He had to hurry, find where she was at once. He didn’t like being scolded. Especially over not being on time. It made him feel like a child again.
He walked to his window—his footsteps longer to avoid the pellet—, fingers brushing against the sill. The white blended with the dawn’s white rays. “Goodbye to you too.”
He docked his head as he walked inside the throne room, light-headed.
His stomach growled, eyes stung at the light.
Minerva was facing his father, both cladded in armor - as if war had called, vicious and wild. Her eyes were bright, gleaming with the concentration of a strategist, with a sea of ideas and schemes in her mind.
He yelped when he saw the goddess beckoning him over the middle of the hall, gaze kept fixed—chilly, stern—on his dad.
Telemachus rushed over, stopping beside his father.
He bowed, palm coming to rest on his chest. “Goddess,” he whispered, breathless. It was like a mantra carved to his skull: divinity, glory, death. Rome’s, Athene’s. He raised his eyes timidly. “Father, morning.”
His father looked weary, but his gaze softened. “Hello, son,” a smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “I hope you slept well?”
Telemachus bent lower for Minerva, before rising. His back twinged. “Did you?” he asked, a pang of concern rippling away any peace. His father’s eyes were blood-like, red, and the lines of age appeared more visible.
Odysseus’ forehead creased. He looked back at Minerva, as if seeking permission.
It was as if an endless night fell upon the goddess’ face, stormy eyes glancing back and forth between father and son.
At last, Athene nodded. Slowly, and her chin dipped too close to her chest, lifted too high for a normal neck. Telemachus’ heart leapt to his throat. She waved her free hand, shield fastened to it rattling softly.
“You may, Odysseus. Your cub,” she paused, looking over at Telemachus, as if assessing something he was not privy of. His breath hitching, her attention fled back to his father. “Is not of mighty standing, but has the mind of those I bless. I called for him.”
Not praise, but he wasn’t being hidden things - that was advancement. He was slowly gaining a rank. Telemachus hardly heard or watched his father distress, less knew why.
Belatedly, he nodded. With a pride-addled mind, he almost slipped and asked why.
The goddess must’ve seen his jaw go slack, mouth opening, because she raised a finger to silence him.
His father gave her a reproachful, tight smile, before dropping it as quickly as it came when he turned to Telemachus. He looked disgruntled, hair disheveled. An absence of food and drink was visible, with how rugged and tired he appeared. It was as if planning had flanked all other necessities.
“Conflict, war, really -” Odysseus sighed. “- has risen. Fear has stirred among the senate. Neighbor territory —Albans, wild lot — has accused us Romans of theft. Thus condemning the nation as a whole.”
Telemachus’ eyes widened. Romans, whose honor was above death?
An indignation burned his throat. “What? But -”
“Son,” his father’s tone was sharp, and Telemachus looked away, with a bitterness swelling inside. Almost trembling with rage. “Let me explain.”
Telemachus could almost picture his father just behind Athene, where the throne laid - leaning back against the backrest, presence looming over lines of ambassadors and lazy eyes flickering back to his mother for guidance. Strong, kingly. He’d lead Rome through tempests and wars successfully, Telemachus wasn’t worried about that. Odysseus’ name was renowned - and he was a good king.
But - but as strong as his father could’ve looked in the past, Telemachus had never fathomed war. Quarrels, yes, those were the only small quests he was allowed to go as prince. Heavily guarded, parleying never fared well. Never had conflicts gone beyond that.
Telemachus’ hand brushed against the sword sheathed beside his hips, gripped the hilt, and then dropped to his side. “Sorry.”
The goddess cleared her throat—though it reminded Telemachus too much of the owlet that visited him upon the arrival of the sun - was he to be smited if Athene could read minds? He didn’t want to find out—, face unreadable.
“They demand an apology, or war. Your father initially chose war, then -” she spun her spear, the weapon leaving a trail of mist in the air, before it all swirled and disappeared. Breathtaking, but it made his stomach churn. In awe, in curdled amazement. “- Negotiation.”
Her face twisted in something akin to disgust, and she shook her head. More than deliberate, it was a jerky movement. Like a reaction to nausea. When her eyes opened anew, a kindled fire made her eyes brilliant, brighter. Sharper, leaning to her war persona.
“The Etruscans would have plainly taken advantage of the trail war would have left, cunning, and taken both parties by surprise. Thus your father negotiated the conflict to avoid the decay of the nations.”
Telemachus’ hands balled up the fabric of his tunic clinging to his legs. Wait, he chided himself. Wait and then speak.
He had to earn that right. Even if earning it made his skin prick and rapture fall.
Correct choice, as his father huffed right after Minerva stopped speaking.
“Conquest is Rome’s only, most prudent maiden,” the praise rolled off his father’s tongue weirdly, stiffly. “This way, neither Etruscans or Albans will shed our blood and seize the homeland. The plan was satisfactory.”
Praise - or truth? Truth wouldn’t have you kneel, or bend. His father seemed to be appealing the goddess to understand more than anything, restrained only by the fear reserved to gods.
Minerva didn’t speak for a long time. She must’ve been thinking. As patron of wisdom, arts, and war - he could only be left to wonder. She must’ve had many, many thoughts at once, ever rushing. If Telemachus squinted and strained his eyes, he’d make out that the brightness that shimmered on her gaze was not out of divine light, but an abyss of ideas after ideas.
Telemachus’ breath was soft and light. Shallow. He inhaled, controlling the noise, the movements of his chest.
“You have invited foes bearing years of bitterness to your doors,” at last, she spoke steadily, chin raised. “To mine’s, Odysseus. Rome. For a contest?”
He leaned forward, heart beating ridiculously fast.
Bound to rome, to the duty, to the love of his nation - he had to hear. He had to know more. Were they at threat? A siege to fall? Would his father and mother remain safe?
If war came knocking, he would lay his own life, and Athene would encourage death through battle undoubtedly, but a desperation rose inside him every time he thought of Rome actually at stake. Whenever he thought of his parents under threat. Queen and king they were, of course - stronger than him. Telemachus was a weak, dumb boy and son compared to them.
Telemachus winced when his father groaned. He pulled himself out of his spiraling. He had to focus.
“The contest, Telemachus,” his father’s voice rose in volume, then wavered: like a wave’s unpredictability, its rippling. “Is a simple sacrifice, and oaths have been taken. We’ve agreed on it already. It’s simple: three of Rome’s best men, three of theirs. Fight to death in our arena. Only one victor, whose triumph shall bring – how did the pledge go? — dominion over the vanquished. We stand to risk far less - gain a public victory. Quieten the enemy, all while taming the Etruscans.”
Peace - typically the woman’s interest. A man, eager for war. It was odd to hear his father so cool and yet appalled by conflict.
But in the end, Telemachus assumed those stereotypes were simply attributed to both man and woman for who had more wisdom. Men were often more reckless and savage.
Telemachus cocked his head. “What if they win?”
Odysseus smiled, a glint of wild pride in his eyes.
“They won’t,” his teeth shone as he grinned. “If, per divine insistence, they do, they’d find themselves trapped inside our walls.”
Telemachus pursed his lips, then allowed his head to fall low. His chin hit his chest. What about the oath? If Athene couldn’t guard them from Jove’s eyes, wouldn’t they fall, too?
“Don’t fret, son. I’ll protect you and your mother,” his father promised. “Nothing will ever happen to you two under my sight.”
Something in his stomach twisted. Yes, he loved his family, but there was something that frothed in his blood. He’d thrash and kill and beg if it meant his father was safe, along with his mother. He wouldn’t let his father fight alone. Or worse, three other men of noble blood. Excluding him.
Nevertheless relief hummed against his ear: his mother wasn’t there to witness his fidgeting, wouldn’t witness how restless all of this made him. Skittish like a wounded wolf, but always the one to flee before pouncing. Coward, traitor, bounced off his mind. His stomach writhed, a shame brushing down his spine.
Athene struck her spear against the floor.
He inhaled sharply - catching himself before flinching.
Weakness, and signs of it, Athene hated: it was either abide, endure, or die trying. Fear repelled wisdom. Her.
Telemachus felt the weight of her glare. It burned.
“Your father,” she cut in sharply, as if in loathed disgust. It was chilly, ice-like, and yet burning. “Has a cynical devotion to humankind. Do not take after him, while you’re still young. You ought to kill the Albans, not make peace. Their leadership is unstable and cynical - backstabbing runs in their blood.”
Telemachus shifted in his place, an awkwardness ambushing him. It was an insult to his father—but it held no true damning weight. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here, still offering aid.
Banter between man and goddess—his father and her—, it always felt wrong for him. Too impersonal, and yet crossing a line - strung like a bow’s, made of sinew.
“I’m aware,” he whispered.
Biting his bottom lip, he released a breath of relief when the goddess turned to his father.
His father was looking outside the window, eyes soft. Pointedly, ignoring what Minerva had to say, at least to Telemachus. He couldn’t blame him. She was both patron and guardian of his father, for cunning and stratagems, but she too was harsh and stern. Telemachus had to wonder if that character was a way to strengthen the mortals she favored, to spare them of weakness.
Minerva cleared her throat. Telemachus could see how her fingers tightened around the spear. “Odysseus.”
He caught the way his father stiffened.
Slowly, his gaze flickered to her. “Bright-eyed goddess,” he said with ease. “How may this mortal aid you? I must apologize for my ignorance. I believed my son was the focus of your attention.”
Pursing her lips, the goddess looked almost human. “You heard of what I think, then.”
“Well, indeed,” Odysseus countered her frown with a smile, sharp and bright. “I did not wish to intrude.”
She huffed, judgemental. She tilted her chin to the side, head high. Her spear added to her height. Although already tall, taller than any person Telemachus has ever met, the lady’s weapon towered even her. Telemachus could barely bear the sight of her shield: adorned with the Gorgon's head, frozen mid-shriek and horror.
Without looking at him, the goddess called - “Telemachus, move.”
He raised his foot, taking a step to the right. He shifted his weight, the air stifling. A tightness threatened to throttle him at the little quarrel between the king and patron. He did not dare speak it, but what appeared to tussle against the other at mere sight was pride.
It happened in an instant. A creaking noise, and the amphora that had been before him tilted to the ground. It struck the floor - shards bursted to all directions, shattering at impact.
Telemachus recoiled, stumbling back to avoid the splintered chips.
“That was Penelope’s favorite,” grumbled his father.
The air became thin, strained too long. Telemachus eyed the mess warily, before lifting his gaze to the two figures in front. He’d have to fetch a slave or two to gather all pieces, counting they did not cut their own palms whilst carrying the task.
Minerva raised a brow, face pallid and bitter. “What?”
He looked at his father beseechingly. Evoking the wrath of a goddess made dread strike at his bones, reverberating and heavy. Oh, sheer horror seized him at the mere thought. It sought him, vicious - engulfed him, when he saw the flash of mirth in Odysseus’ eyes.
“I think a favor was done, given its horrid design,” his father tilted his head, eyes crinkling. The wreath did not fall.
A sense of doom clung to him. Pallas’ features twisted: a lapse of warmth, something between offense and cruel amusement.
“I warned your son solely,” if possible, her knuckles whitened around the shining leather of the spear’s haft. “Lest you think I am capable of destroying my own gift of pottery? It was foreordained, small and absurd. Where does your doubt spring from, Odysseus, after all I’ve done throughout the passing of years to keep you stray from harm? Me, your goddess?”
Her eyes became far too clear, with the echo of rage - as if slipping away from that archetype of patroness.
He jerked back, fear clouding every logical thought.
Glancing at his side - for lulling comfort, for assurance, for help - his father did not seem fazed, for whatever reason.
Gods.
In a frenzied attempt to appease her, Telemachus bowed - his back bent as much as he could, hair falling to his eyes. “Thank you, goddess, I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “Thank you. I would’ve been wounded otherwise, I think.”
His father kept quiet, before calling for him. “Telemachus—.”
“Rise.” Minerva’s voice was loud and clear.
He complied, keeping the bile low on his throat.
Stiff, he tried to appear meek, remorseful.
Is this what his father felt? No, surely not. An object used to satisfy divine amusement or to flatter Rome, always ordered and fretted for but never spoken to, never given the reins of a wild horse to. It drove him sick. He didn’t yield, but he bent every day.
He gnawed at his lips, swallowing. “I’m sorry,” he said. Strangely, he felt little, like a scorned, petulant child. “Please, aegis-wielder, the victorious - do not turn against my father. We need your help. Now, more than ever.”
Truthfully, although he held Minerva in a gilded and shining plinth, he felt that tramping upon ice was safer than her moods. He’d withstand whatever storm the goddess brought them under, because in every storm, a glimmer of hope shone through the clouds. But her rage? Oh, Telemachus preferred everything else.
Athene looked at him for a long time, deliberate.
Mild, she flicked her wrist. “Your apology is accepted, prince, but I did not come here to discuss fights and regrets. Odysseus -” his father tensed. “Answer me. Where does this devotion stem from, and most importantly—why are you so stubborn in resolving this conflict as peacefully as possible? You are master of stratagems, not peace.”
“Goddess, my devotion doesn’t extend to all men - in fact, the more I know man’s nature, the less I love. I am not obstinate about peace,” his father rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. “But because of it, I have a beautiful wife, and an exceptional son. I do not want to lose them in mindless conflict. Not now. It’s two enemies against Rome. We’re still expanding. Even if we win over the Albans, we’ll be too wounded to fight back against the Etruscans if they arrive over our rivers.”
“Appalling nonetheless. I honed you for greatness,” eerily, she squinted at him. Telemachus lowered his head - duty, respect, or fear, it all mingled. “Not to keep this child safe. What wars have been offered to me, since his birth? The ruckus of Paris has borne simple resentment, but no brutish conflict. Rome has seen no strife since.”
He had to speak. He had to - defend himself or his father, didn’t matter.
Telemachus flinched, chastised. “I lead campaigns,” he huffed, an urge to defend himself stirring. “Victories are still Rome’s. Just… not wars, but we’re trying.”
Minerva tilted her head, bright eyes narrowing. “Oh?”
An embarrassment ambushed him right there. Gods, why did he have to open his mouth?
He felt like a staggering fawn under her gaze - he winced at her nod, slow and tentative.
“Yes, little mortal,” she sighed—a soft, yet harsh sound, like an owl’s cry—, a gleam of frustration flaring in her voice. “And you, too, keep sparing men when I tell you to take the sword. I haven’t forgotten.”
He lowered his head, locks of his hair falling down enough to cast shadow in his vision. He tried to helm the unfairness of it all. He had tried everything to make her proud, and a single glance was all he received.
“I do not spare,” he said, face contorting with everything shameful. “I, uhm, spread fear people ought to have for Rome.”
She smiled - it was inhuman, calling for defiance. No lines stretched across her face, rather claiming fury. An ugly kind of yearning made itself clear. As if she longed to tell him more, tell him less, to ruin Rome without the liability of greatness.
“Rebellious are you?” She asked. “So was your father. Peace is a vice - for cowards that do not strike a man down.”
Odysseus cleared his throat.
Minerva’s eyes darted to the sound, closing in slits.
“Goddess, I thought I was your disappointment,” his father said dryly. “Don’t burden my child with the title. Neither should you blame my son for his errors, but rather the father who raised him. I’m just a man. How many foes have I spared?”
The goddess looked murderous. She huffed.
“Rome has a need for a king and god,” Athene’s spear struck the ground, “not a man as you speak of. You are not Telemachus. He must learn how to be a righteous man. He is a wholly different case, Odysseus.”
There it was again - he’d never be better or at least a match to his father. A god versus a man, a boy, and take a wild guess at who the goddess betted on.
An urge bubbled up his throat, bright and burning. He couldn’t restrain it. It begged and begged to be let free lest he wanted to die. He was everything Minerva loathed—a man, a man reined by the bounds of the human world and indulgence and foolishness—, nothing she favored: gods, kings.
He’d never be. Fates had already been called, he was confident. He’d always be less for her, but the gods have witnessed how hard he had tried.
“What about me?” Telemachus asked, shuffling in his place. “I have bled. I have fought and I have won. Am I destined to be only a man? Am I not enough to be like my father?”
His father looked surprised - before he schooled his features again. “It is permissible to be fallible, Telemachus, that is the root of wisdom. A warrior that is reckless threatens the very foundation of our nation. A man that does not bear affection towards intelligence is not to be trusted.”
Telemachus looked at Athene, deaf.
“Pallas?”
Her face was cast in a shadow by the helmet, body turned away.
It was her he needed to hear.
“My mission - that is, Rome,” he tilted his head. “I have not indulged in rest, I have torn muscles, I’ve spilled blood and blood again to see it followed. I don’t only spare, not when it’s not avoidable. My father’s fate, yet, you say diverges from mine—.”
“Divine and God are different,” she drawled. “The task of Rome is ensnaring. You are not meant to be a god, thus a proper king, no.”
“Goddess,” Odysseus said slowly, head low in caution. “My son—“
“Your son is soft-hearted,” Minerva spoke louder. “Your son alone is not enough. Not yet. I won’t taint his heart through leadership before having him see evil first.”
Bitterness curdled in his throat.
Yet. That meant, there was still something to do. He was not beyond saving. It was a cue for him. He had to do something to prove his worth, and Athene would finally see him worthy. Athene will finally see all the stages of her mentorship. But what did he have to do?
He didn’t speak - he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d start crying.
If his father or teacher noticed the slight hitch in his breath, or the way his chest dropped and raised too fast, they did not say anything. A little mercy.
“You, Odysseus, are master of the Romans," she spoke louder, with a certain cadence - somewhat hypnotic, enough for Telemachus to straighten his back and ears prick up. “You’ve proven yourself as mighty and deserving. The thrill of war and the gift of guile, all of them you hold. Can your son say the same?”
Speak to me, Telemachus wanted to beg. Speak to me, not him, I can take it.
“Telemachus, he is not one to strike -” his father’s voice was hollow, if not low and menacing. “ - But he still is a prince who has proven himself to the senate in a sundry of ways.”
Telemachus felt a rush of gratitude: but also one of choking shame. His father didn’t have to dirty his hands. Telemachus could prove his worth alone. And why did he need a king to speak for him?
Similarly, the goddess snorted.
“The senate is not I. Telemachus is my concern, Odysseus. What ignoble mortals approve of is cowardice.” Then, as if thoughtful, as if remembering a distant memory, she added - “You promised me a hero once your son was born.”
Telemachus flinched, craning his neck to look at his father. He hoped his eyes wouldn’t shake - but promised? Whatever did that mean?
He gulped. Were there more expectations he wasn’t living up to? Maybe, if he had known, he’d have tried harder. If harder meant bleeding or almost dying, not simple callouses in his hands or tan that faded too fast for a man.
His father’s jaw clenched, pointedly ignoring him. He seemed stiff. “He is young. You can’t expect him to -”
Minerva extended a palm - her palla moved with her, almost unfolding as her arm shied away from her body. The shawl almost looked like an owl’s wing, an extension of her.
“Oh, yes he is,” her eyes flickered back at him with a glint of contempt. “His time is almost over, Odysseus,” then back to his father, fixing on his breast-plate: an owl, a severed gorgon’s head. “Glory, the immortal kind, only comes to the young. He has not exceeded any of my expectations: he has not even set one, although twenty. No razing, only rarely does he spill blood -”
Tears blurried his vision.
“Nineteen,” Telemachus whispered. “I’m nineteen.”
An elbow struck him on the ribs: not strong enough to hurt, yet enough to make him stagger a few steps back.
“Telemachus,” his father’s teeth were gritted, a scowl pulling on his face. A warning to not sow more of his doom, dig his own grave.
But he couldn’t stand it. Not anymore.
Glory - glory was everything for her, for his nation. He had to be someone. Anyone.
Minerva’s owl-like face seemed sunken, the light brought upon Aurora illuminating her face. Telemachus knew her, since a boy, maybe more than his nurses and maybe more than his father. Her expectations of him were not knee high, but rather sent his heart in a freefall every time he was reminded.
This, it seemed, skewered him. His stomach churned, a light-headed feeling fogging his mind.
Curls of wild, blonde hair and tall nose, cheeks high and yet harmonious with her broad shoulders.
She was glaring.
“Utterly abysmal,” her shield dropped to the ground in front of her hem. The sound - hallow and dull. “His purpose is to bring glory. I called him here for a reason. But still, I see nothing laid below me—.”
It all clicked. Her insistence, her calling him to discuss his father’s strategy.
“I want to fight,” he blurted out. “I want to represent Rome, in that - in that competition you mentioned, father. Goddess.”
Silence leaped, then -
His father’s face was ashen. “No.”
At the same time, Minerva hummed softly. It was as if she had predicted the outburst - she looked pleased. As if Telemachus finally caught up.
Whether she was happy at his bravery or amused at his foolishness, Telemachus didn’t figure it out.
“You may die, little prince. You will, in an aspect.” She said, “no blood has ever marred your palms.”
“Then I’ll die, I don’t care, but you said it -” remembering she was a goddess, he swallowed down a lump of nausea. “Minerva, the warrior and triumphant, you said it well. I have to earn my place. You’re right, as eternally you are. Please - let me. You ought not to bless me.”
His knees trembled. He’d beg if he had to, kneel, until his knees ached and bled, until Pallas agreed.
He heard his father’s disagreement before the man opened his mouth. His gasp was enough.
Eyes prickling with unbidden tears, Telemachus lowered his head. “Please,” he whispered. “Father, I have to.”
“Only one victor, Telemachus -” in the corner of his vision, he saw his father reach for him in an aborted gesture, before running the hand through his hair. “Only one, the rest will be murdered. I won’t save you, not with the oath applying to the fight, I cannot protect you—”
A rage carved inside him, carefully and awaiting, cracked.
“I don’t need you to!” his breath came in punched gasps, voice coming out stronger than he’d had planned: almost a scream, desperate. Drawing a shaky breath, he didn’t falter. Couldn’t. “Father, I’m sorry.”
Mistaking it all, his father sighed. Like tension melted away from his muscles. “It’s fine, son. Just don’t offer again.”
Telemachus groaned. “But I will,” he couldn’t back out - he was Roman, for the gods’ sake. “I have to.”
“No, no, no, Telemachus, my joy, love, don’t—”
“Athene—”
“It is Odysseus’ choice.” She cut them both off, vaguely. “Indeed, Rome would look weak and frail if the best of her ranks was deprived of the prince.”
Telemachus pleaded with his gaze. “Dad, please,” he wrung his hands. “I need to. You heard the goddess.”
His father stared at Minerva, glowering.
In the end, he shook his head. Slowly. “I can’t kill you, Telemachus.”
“I’ll have her guidance - the lady of war’s aid! I have trained!” and in a choked whisper, “why do you deem me so weak?”
For once, his father looked baffled. His eyes widened, lips parted - there was hurt in his gaze, Telemachus realized belatedly.
“Telemachus,” his voice was so little, defeated. He made a sound—gurgled, overcome with something painful. “No, no. My baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think -” he inhaled. “I don’t, my pride. You aren’t weak. I just want to protect you, Telemachus. I love you. You’re my treasure.”
His dad tried to cup his face—Telemachus staggered back, shaking his head.
He tried not to sniffle, raise his chin high. “Dad, I need this. I’m not a toddler any longer. You have no need to watch over my steps. Even if you disagree—.”
An anxiety clutched at his heart and refused to go. He didn’t want to die, but his heart pounded against his ribs like a hammer at the thought of not going. He could feel Athene’s hope. He could feel her egging him on, in a way, her presence growing stronger on the back of his mind.
His father looked horrified. “Telemachus, listen—.”
“I’ll go.” He raised the volume of his voice, throat bobbing. “I’m a prince. If I say I’ll go, I’ll go. Lest you formally forbid me, and bring shame to our house.”
Minerva coughed.
Both snapped their heads back at her.
“Answer, Odysseus.” Her eyes narrowed. “Either he dies upon your decision, or -”
His father looked at her. The corners of his mouth twitched. An air of arrogance and cunning so thin, so thick. “Peace has reigned over our land. Rome has not fallen nor has she been tainted. This, as I see it, is a glorious thing to give to him when his mother and I pass. Unless you differ, I wouldn’t send him to the arena, although the competition was ideal. He has a life expecting him. He’s the heir.”
“Pass,” Minerva’s hand clenched on her weapon. “You, Odysseus, are my warrior. You - god, you are a god. You do not rot at the face of death. Not one of my projects do. And him - he ought to prove himself. He’s old enough.”
Rather be dead, than be this, Telemachus though. Rather be tortured than vanquished. Worse, a disappointment.
His father remained tight-lipped.
He blinked. Athena’s stola was stretched longer, aegis fastened in her forearm anew. The spear gained height. She gained height, easily looming over them both.
Minerva huffed. “Or are you defying my will, mortal?”
Plumes stretched—grew—out of her skin, puffing underneath her helmet. They were ruffled and held gray strokes.
His father shook his head, muscles relaxed as he waved a hand. “I would never even fathom, mighty Minerva,” his eyes glistened under the bleeding dawn. “Not for my son’s pride, or rather for mine. Rome is your fierce will.”
“Good. I have designed you, Odysseus, do not forget it. And so I have with your son. Your family belongs to me.”
Odysseus faltered.
His eyes widened slightly, hands closing into fists.
Then, his lashes fell. “Yes, goddess,” he said, although too resigned, although voice was too small and quiet. Telemachus felt a sizzling shame - either from a voyeur nature, or for the unruly yielding.
Athena looked less bitter.
“He will go.” She decided, “he’s old enough. I’ll watch, but this is his passage. I won’t help; by his strength and will alone, he shall prove himself. But if he loses—”
Telemachus dipped his chin to his chest. He should feel thankful, so why did disappointment strike his ribs?
“I won’t.” He mustered strength in his voice, in his pose: upright, like a warrior, like a noble, like a god. “I won’t lose, Minerva. I swear.”
His father’s forehead wrinkled. He looked far older and wearier.
Then, defeated, he sighed. “If that’s your will,” but there was something awful in his voice, like bitter hate - “Telemachus won’t lose, goddess. I’ll prepare him myself.”
With a laurel wreath on top of his hair, auburn and wild just like Telemachus’, he bowed slightly. To her, agreeing to letting Telemachus fight -
With a laurel wreath and gold guards, he nodded, and bent slightly for Athene. With a laurel wreath and as king, he bowed.
As king - Telemachus had made his father come lower to ground than himself.
His hands trembled, still balled in fists stuck to his sides. Thrill coursed in his veins, hot and intoxicating.
Telemachus was king of kings, the best of men, for a second. At least, on the road to Roman honor. His father had agreed. He had bowed. For him.
Fierce pride rippled inside him. He swallowed down the bitter, raging regret. It was branding; his throat constricted in the burn, heart aching.
When he looked at Minerva, expecting pleasure too, expecting a warm and tender fire in her -
She pursed her lips in disgust. Her helmet shifted slightly, as if she was shaking her head disapprovingly at a pouting child. Her gaze wandered back to Odysseus when he stirred beside Telemachus and straightened his back, rolling his neck, as if she couldn't bear the task of seeing her true champion so close to fallen. That she waited and gave him the blessing of looking away because it was so painful. So humiliating to be brought low by lesser things.
So unreal, to see the firm king be weary: so unreal to see him loving and man-like. Willing to fall for someone dear. Just a man, in the end.
Odysseus picked being man-like. Athene was beyond it. Athene had laid it on his path - the immortality of a roman emperor, the spoken glory. But Telemachus was no fool. He had heard his mother and father speak of funerary processions and how they’d be together, had heard them laugh and scold and speak of life. His father chose it for Penelope and him.
Telemachus could only think of one thing. It bounced in his mind.
Athene knows Odysseus did not complete the full procession of being her warrior because of his son. Of waging war, of taking Roman’s honor of being crowned god as king. Because he had a family, a wife to live with, and a son to raise. Telemachus was, mainly, at fault.
Telemachus probably reminded her of the fickle funerary pyres among Rome, the gold in sarcophagus, the fields of death. Telemachus weakened his father by being born from love, and yet won his love without earning it.
He learned one thing from Minerva - earn or die.
Earn and if a thief, strike your breast until dead.
Earn and have pride - or die.
Die, and die, and bleed.
There was no path to hidden victory for Telemachus. Minerva taught him so: only righteousness, through rightness, and treachery made right
Telemachus was a symbol of weakness for her, probably.
“If he loses, if Telemachus is a coward, or he gets himself killed in the arena—.” Her throat bobbed. It wasn’t out of hesitation, never was. A thick venom she yearned to spit out. “You’ve sealed your fate, king. If he falls by your guidance - if Rome doesn’t burn, I shall set it on fire.”
And she was gone.
He didn’t see Athene for a week. Or two, or three. Three, he guessed. Only his father.
“It’ll be next week,” his father had said over a meal. “We’ll play hosts. Please think it through, Telemachus. Your mother and I -”
“I’ll go.”
One day passed - and in a blink, in the rustle of a leaf, nearly a week had passed.
His father had carefully corrected his posture a sundry of times, shown him the best ways to strike - and more than anything, they practiced stealth.
“Whatever for?” he had asked, head cocked. “It’s an arena, with a crowd. I have to be the strongest.”
His father’s eyes had narrowed. Sharp.
“Let them kill each other in the carnage,” as usual, it was as if he had ignored Telemachus, “and strike when they least expect it nearing the end. Don’t be restrained or defined by people, or size. At the end of the day - all of us lie dead somewhere along time. But not all of us get to be destroyed by the enemy. And that won’t be you, son.”
It had just made Telemachus even more confused.
Telemachus poured libations every dawn, every dusk - the strongest of wines, accompanied by tusks and bedecked statuettes. Minerva didn’t answer. Her silence was strung, stiff. It weighed heavy on his heart.
This was all for her, a childish reasoning kept resurfacing in his thoughts. The least she could do was help.
But she’s a goddess, the more reasonable part of his mind countered. He was fortunate for having been blessed by her, once. For being watched over.
Still, he hoped.
She never answered.
People arrived. Only four days remained until the whole competition affair, and Telemachus already felt nauseous. Of course Rome would play as host for a week. To show off wealth, or power - did it even matter?
It was a simple plan: Albans would be guests of his home, and so would the other Romans. Alongside priests and their already abundant staff. When time arrived, the gates of the palace would open for the public—for the peasants, slaves, and any who would like to fill themselves with a good battle. Albans, too, would come with servants and the like.
Telemachus had to formally greet each contestant: honestly, he didn’t want to. But his mother had insisted it be so. She nigh ordered him to learn all the names of those who’d compete alongside him or against - in a whisper, she had added that if he knew his opponent and himself, weaknesses and strengths, he had already won.
At some point, he hurried off when his father stood and began welcoming the guests once they had all gathered. Only one man and contestant was missing; the prince, but he couldn’t quite care enough. If he had been killed during the journey, all the better for him.
He roamed around the palace for what felt like several hours. What probably were.
Gleaming dawn had turned into dusk, and dusk into pitch-dark night.
It didn’t matter where Telemachus went, he could still remember the gleam of sorrow in his mother’s eyes every time she glanced at her son.
He couldn’t shake off the feeling she was in mourning already. Telemachus’ uneasiness only increased. He couldn’t let her down.
On the courtyard, he began practicing his stand, his strikes - he felt foolish, attacking the air, but his father was busy, and there was a fair chance he’d never see Athene again. He doubted anyone with a sense of hospitality would be wandering far into the night, in the enemy’s house. Anyone smart and cunning enough.
With every blow, he tried to picture one of the men he had welcomed - a ragged Roman he knew, an Alban around his age with rage hardened eyes.
Every time, he spun his wrist, and stopped himself at the last moment.
Killing was more intimate than anything. Picturing killing those he had known, if for a second, made him feel feverish. Half of him couldn’t believe what he had thrusted himself into. The other half was incensed at the fact his family had allowed enemies bearing arms to enter their home.
Heavily guarded, yes. An act of power, undoubtedly.
Regardless, it felt wrong. Like his time was slipping, and he was already living among predators impatient to snap their jaws at him. It made him angry - but at the reminder of the blood he had to shed, everything inside him froze. He couldn’t thaw the chillness that gnawed him at that.
He tried to appease his beating heart. He would live. Surely.
As more hours passed, the ache on his lower back had become impossible to bear. Reluctantly, he called it a night.
Telemachus sheathed his sword. He walked to the edges, passing a pillar or two. Soreness seemed to pang everywhere on his body. He pressed himself against a wall, breathing.
He tried to close his eyes, calm himself down, relax—
“Why, if it isn’t the little prince of Rome.”
Telemachus stiffened.
His hand flung itself above the sheathed sword, fingers clenching around the hilt.
“Who is there?” he raised his chin, trying to look across his surroundings. A tremor of dread - he winced at how his voice shook. He gripped the hilt until his fingers ached. “Show yourself!”
His stomach churned at a low chuckle.
He staggered back, chest heaving. Left, none, right, none. There was a knot on his throat, and something wrapped itself around his heart: fear.
“It’s an order,” he tried to snarl, but his voice was too weak. “Of your prince.”
Telemachus scowled when a man stepped out of the dark—same direction as the courtyard he was in—, the silver of Luna draping itself upon him. His mouth was stretched in a wide grin, fangs gleaming under the light. Stronger than him, taller, and older - that was obvious.
Telemachus did not think twice, or once - he swung his sword out of the sheath, two hands clasping the hilt.
A numbing tingle broke under his skin: from his wrists to shoulder. The blade was far too heavy. “Stand back,” he lifted the weapon, barely below his neck. “And forgiveness might shine upon you.”
Telemachus glared when the stranger took another step. More deliberate, slowly, as if enjoying the transgression, the mocking. He did not like how he felt cornered, even with a weapon weighing on his hands.
He didn’t recognize him. All of the guests, and Telemachus had not seen him.
The man brushed the edge of the blade, and tilted it down. Amusement glinted on his eyes. Telemachus’ knuckles were white. They shook with rage.
“Now, don’t bark. You are not anything for me.” He eyed the blade not warily, but with reverence. “Telemachus -”
A memory flashed behind his eyelids, prickling and acrid - one bound to fight in less than a week. The only one missing at the welcoming ceremony. The most important man, ambassador, and contestant all at once missing. Alban, bearing the title of prince. King in the matter of years, or in months.
Defiance reared inside Telemachus. Antinous could be a prince, and bigger, but he was a child of Rome. He was not lesser or weaker.
He cared nothing if his anger bled through his words or not. “Antinous, son of Eupeithes, I know you.”
Antinous’ smile widened, almost wolfish - Telemachus ignored the fear stirring inside him, flaring at every movement of the man in front.
The nerves rattled him.
It is unbefitting, Athene once told him. And beneath you to be scared.
Antinous cocked his head. “Good, you ought to know my name.”
His voice was too much like a purr. Self-satisfied, with an air of power and pride. That arrogance - it seared past Telemachus’ entrails. He shifted on his place, like trying to dig his feet in the stone-paving. Like the soil would help him cling to the little bravery he had left, already in shreds.
Still, Telemachus didn’t allow his gaze to stray: he lowered the sword reluctantly, silence stiff in the night.
“Only for your funeral, Alban,” he growled. “Why are you hounding me? Why were you missing?”
He jerked his head when the man moved beside him, smoothly and quietly: like a snake. His jaw clenched with a burning hate, a vicious and tearing anger when Antinous’ fingers grazed the long line of his neck.
Telemachus gasped, then his eyes widened.
His body flinched. He kept staunch on not moving. “You dare -” he gritted his teeth. “Get your filthy hands off of me.”
Dutifully, the warmth of another touch was torn from him.
“Fine, are you? Had your father been wiser, a spoil of war you would’ve been - exquisite quality, too.” He drawled, raising his hands as he took a step back. He settled himself in front of Telemachus: not too near, but definitely not far. Telemachus had to restrain himself from pouncing and lunging at the man’s throat. “You Romans judge yourselves invincible.”
“You—”
“To answer your question, prince, I didn’t need to be there to assert power. I know all about your family already. Let us see how they scrub the blood from the arena, or dispose of the corpses, hm? Red taints.”
His temper flickered, like a flame dying and cracking - faltered, that coiled disgust inside him abating.
Telemachus’ throat closed. Glancing down, he almost let his sword drop. To prove himself, he had to kill. In cold-blood, in swift strikes, and it had to come naturally. This man in front of him, bathed in the blazes of the moon - he’d drop, too, and lay lifeless in a day. Telemachus didn’t have to kill him. He’d be dead by either his hand or another Roman, it was fated.
In less than a week, he’d be dead. Antinous.
Telemachus stifled and stamped out the little voice wondering that it very well could be himself who would end up standing outside the gates of death. It didn’t matter. In the end, he will have at least killed a man before exiting that arena - through the glory of a victor or by dying.
A ripple of panic, and he forced himself to meet Antinous’ eyes.
The man was already looking at him, eyes crinkled and bright with mirth - like asking is this all you are? Is this how easy you are as prey? It almost sliced through him, sharp.
He wasn’t prey, he had to remind himself. He had trained, years and years.
Telemachus’ eyes narrowed. Still he felt every beat of his heart, far too fast, too tight and then suffocating.
“You can’t kill me outside the competition,” he felt little, too reminded of what he had to do. His own choice, his will, his pride - still, the words were bitter on his tongue. He stood to lose. Another wave of terror, another dig at his heart.
His head pounded. His ribs hurt.
Telemachus swallowed down the terror. “My father will have your head if you do. No honor will be left.”
Furtively, he tried to steal glances of the courtyard - were there more men, had he been followed? How foolish, venturing outside with guests over who had no qualms killing him over his patronage. Why had he thought none would follow? He must’ve been too absorbed by his training to notice, fuck.
Antinous raised an eyebrow.
“Things bear value alive, not dead,” he spoke slowly, as if willing a stupid man to understand. “Afraid,” again, Telemachus felt a hand settle on top of his collar-bones, where it slid down.
None would hear him scream here. Screams were, at last, the prize of war. Conflict in general.
Telemachus tensed, half in fury, half in foggy panic. “You insolent -”
His mouth closed at the stare the man gave him. Almost lifeless, flat. Devoid of emotion, only of a war’s fire, and the strategies of blood-soaked hands.
Every muscle grew taut, burning with an uncharacteristic soreness. Telemachus would not break the conventions of his father. He had to leash every emotion – even that nagging one at the weight of another touch that wasn’t his family’s.
He would not die that night, he decided. But neither would he dishonor his father’s will.
A few more dawns he had to wait to see Antinous dead. Nothing much.
Telemachus’ lips were cracked and dry: he tasted iron when he licked his bottom lip.
Antinous’ eyes wandered down, then flickered back to his face. “And helpless, having not known fear before in their birthright-addled lives.”
“Whomever has laid claim on your mind is not me,” Telemachus growled, throat aching. He wanted to breathe, but it seemed impossible. “Stay away. I’m your host. I’m not a thing.”
Disappointment flickered on the man’s eyes, vivid, like a predator not having any more fun and thus purpose - It looked grim.
Antinous sighed. His hand dropped.
“You aren’t.” He agreed. “But you must know the feeling, prince. Spoils and whores - why, you must have the most beautiful assortment. Rome is gaudy.”
There was something not sincere in his voice, treading the line between honesty and mockery.
Telemachus shivered. Tales of men gaining beautiful men and women to flaunt, to torment: even if called lovers, it’d never be right for him. It was beyond monstrous.
“I don’t,” he said. “I don’t have them. There is nothing to win out of war -” he choked on his own words, flustered. Something burned him from the inside - Minerva’s blessing, he was certain. His patron, goddess of righteous war. “Aside honor and glory.”
He fixed his eyes on the moon, right beside Antinous’ shoulder. Looming, watchful. It made the pillars whiter, even brilliant - but everything else, pitch black. But nothing promised anguish in that dark. It was peaceful. He could count every star, shimmering underneath the mantle of darkness.
It helped calm down the unease that had been stirred inside his gut.
Antinous hummed. “Only thing that you can win, is being a victor. Of the most treacherous crimes, or the most glorious ones.”
Telemachus’ heart shrank, then he heard it against his ear - deafening, skull-aching.
He’d win. This man would die, and this night would be nothing. He’d forget it over the several ones to come.
Viciously, he wished otherwise. Traitor-like. He didn’t want to kill with his own two hands, didn’t want to feel the weight of a dead man, didn’t want to be haunted by groans and shrieks—
“Guests ought not to wander,” he cleared his throat, puffing his chest out. “Go back, or face a Roman’s blade - gold and bronze.”
He moved a hand away from anywhere that could hide his bottom half, showing his hips. The sheath.
Antinous, frustratingly impassive, did not glance down. It shattered any illusion of control Telemachus held in his hands. It slipped away from him.
An unfamiliar bound he did not dare to even approach - it all washed over him. How could he fight, how could he defend himself, when he had already been caught by surprise and cornered?
Antinous was too still. The stillness was too much like a tiger’s, back arched and shoulders tensed, waiting to leap and pounce. Then, tear. Then, eat and kill.
The man stepped back, eyes fixed on him.
Telemachus breathed in relief.
“I’ll win, boy,” he said those words with a calmness that Telemachus almost found himself believing in him, almost leaning forward to nod along. “Or shall I call you as you are? Legacy of Odysseus - Rome. But you aren’t more. You’re bound to lose.”
Telemachus glared, lips tight in a line. He wouldn’t give in to bait like a lesser being. He didn’t speak.
“This is your last night free - enjoy it. Whatever threats come, I don’t know.”
A bluff, Telemachus reasoned, a bluff.
And he disappeared into the night.
Telemachus spun on his heel and ran. Ran for his life, for everything. His heart didn’t stop pounding.
The worst fate wasn't death, he realized that night, with those lingering touches and that hungry gaze that meant to devour him whole.
He was wary of the guests the next day.
So far, he had avoided every Alban. At least, most. Slaves passed him in the hallway. He caught sight of a man or two in the dining hall before turning to walk to the other side. It wasn’t fear, he tried to reason. Just precautions. Distaste.
Antinous didn’t appear again, but Telemachus could swear he felt a keen eye haunting him everywhere he went. He didn’t meet his father to discuss the strategies that day, either. All that afternoon, he remained in his room, staring at the ceiling. The fresco. A hero standing above a gorgon’s head.
His father knocked on his door that night.
“May I come in?”
Telemachus rolled in his cubicularis, the farthest he could without falling. “Yes. You shouldn’t ask.” You already dismissed the guards anyway, didn’t escape him. But a bile still simmered low on his chest.
He heard the creak of a door, and looked away.
“I didn’t see you today,” his father said softly. Behind him, Telemachus heard a dull thud, and the door closing.
He felt his heart beating on his throat. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, though a scowl had already appeared on his face. “I felt sick. Maybe a fever.”
The weight on the bed fluctuated, and he grimaced as he turned to look at his father sitting beside him.
“And you didn’t call Eurycleia?” his father snorted. Clearly not believing him.
A blush crept to his cheeks. He lowered his eyes. It always felt wrong and shameful to lie to his parents. But what could he offer as an excuse - that he was tormented by the choice he had forced his father to accept? Even if his father didn’t believe his words, at least he didn’t know the true reason why.
Telemachus sighed. “Sick,” he repeated.
Odysseus hummed.
Silence lapsed, and Telemachus found himself curling into himself.
He winced as a hand ran through his hair.
“I’m proud of you, my light,” his father said with too much warmth, with a gentleness that took Telemachus by surprise - that pushed him off that brink of desperation. His sight blurred slightly. “Nothing will happen to you as long as I’m here.”
There was a certainty that frightened him in those words. Yes, Telemachus wanted to be legendary - but he doubted his father was absolutely convinced he’d win against five other men resenting the crown. He must’ve had something planned, with that guile of his. For once, Telemachus didn’t want his father to save him.
Minerva had made it clear. It was his life.
Telemachus closed his eyes painfully. “I don’t want your help,” he whispered. “Please, dad.”
He was no longer his father’s boy; whilst Telemachus would never outgrow him, he could at least try. The hands on his hair stilled. The warmth was just a reminder of how much he stood to lose.
Opening his eyes, Telemachus gave him a pleading look. “It’s my fight.”
His father’s smile was forced - no, not quite forced. But there was a distress to him. “You’ve grown so much, haven’t you?” he sounded awed; like watching at what he and his mother had built, a joy. “Time flees from a man’s grasp. My son, had it not been for the goddess—”
Telemachus drew a shallow breath.
His heart ached. He was not sure he could do it on his own, truthfully, but he couldn’t let his parents be burdened by him. Not any longer.
“I know, dad,” said Telemachus. “I know.”
Still, Odysseus pursed his lips.
“She is—-” his father paused, looking conflicted. “She doesn’t understand. She is fond of you.”
At that, Telemachus had to laugh - a hoarse, quiet sound. “I hope so,” what he didn’t say is that he truly did. The goddess that he had known ever since he was a child, Minerva who used to guide him with an awkward gentleness that confused even her. Then, when she turned harsher as he grew taller, stern and enough to make him fear.
“I hope you can forgive us both.”
Dread jolted him
He sat up in a panic. “For what?” he fumbled over his words. Still, his eyes widened. “What do you mean? You’ve given me everything, father, and she is the goddess of—.”
The look his father threw him was enough to silence him.
"The title of a king estranges me from the title of a father more times than not," his voice dropped, and something dark seemed to snuff all the light out of his eyes. "I hardly can call myself a good and present father as the pawn of the gods’ will - as king of Rome and whatnot. I could not defy Minerva’s will then…” he drew a sharp breath, “or yours, my son. Your bravery - I only wish that I had not shielded you, and that this had not been your ultimatum. I’m sorry -”
Without a warning, he pulled Telemachus into an embrace - tight, yet also tender.
Limp, pliant, Telemachus let him. He pushed his face against his father’s chest, feeling too much like a child.
Adamant, he huffed. “We will be fine, father,” but his voice was muffled. He didn’t find it within himself to care as his father’s hand remained on his head, or his chin rested on the crown of his head.
They spent a long time like that. Telemachus almost didn’t want that moment to slip away from him, but everything had an end.
Pushing himself away, his father gave him a last, deft kiss on the forehead. “Please,” voice hoarse, Telemachus couldn’t help but listen. “Keep yourself alive.”
He almost laughed. How could he promise that?
Still, the words fell past his lips before he could think. “Yes, father,” he nodded. He felt his eyes burn, wet - “I promise.”
His father’s eyes crinkled. “I believe in you, Telemachus. If -” he swallowed. “No, when you get out of there, what do you think of going hunting together?”
Telemachus lowered his head, hoping his father wouldn’t see the unbidden tears welling up on the corner of his eyes. “Perfect.”
“Your mother -”
He stiffened, a wave of terror washing over him.
“I don’t want to see her. Please.” He said, rash. Desperate. “Not her. I can’t back out now - If I see her—”
He’d run to her embrace and be like that infant she once cradled, hiding in her bosom and crying and waiting for her to keep him safe. He’d break. She’d fetch him out of this responsibility and he’d never be remembered and Minerva—
Telemachus sniffled when his father cupped his face, raising it slightly.
“I’m sorry for mentioning her,” he hushed. “But she is your mother, and her love is out of bounds.”
Almost petulant, Telemachus agreed. “I guess.”
“I love you.” He patted his cheek, laughing softly when Telemachus frowned. Then, face falling, he glanced at the door. “I have a meeting. But—”
“You can go,” Telemachus pulled himself away, trying too to wrench himself from the grief that was drowning him. “You are our king. Rome has burdens and pains to live; you have to guard her. Go.”
His father looked at him. Not blankly, but Telemachus wasn’t sure what he was feeling. At last, his father rose.
“If you insist, prince,” he said half-jokingly. He reached for Telemachus one last night - then stopped, looking back. “This might be our last conversation until…” quieter, he continued - “know that I’ll be there, and ready for your signal; let her lament if I do.”
The end was more like a groan. Telemachus felt lighter if for a second. He nodded at his father, watching him sigh, eyeing the room, before turning away. Reluctantly, it was clear. A childish urge to tell his father not to go overwhelmed Telemachus. But he had to face this alone.
“I’m sorry,” for being weak. He mumbled, just below a breath - his father didn’t catch it.
And he was out of the room.
A day until the fight. Competition. Carnage. Telemachus sneaked out after midnight, with both a sword and a dagger.
It was early in the starry night. He was practicing with his sword - sweat trickled down his forehead, his back ached with soreness.
It wasn’t enough. Tomorrow would decide everything. Tomorrow would be the feast, would be the fight; either he trained and won, or died.
He wasn’t worried about meeting Antinous any longer; he was armed, and none else would dare to interrupt him during his training as host. Besides, it was well into the night; anybody else must’ve been resting under the kin of Death, Somnus’ eye.
He grunted as he struck the air again. His shoulder-blades panged—
“Telemachus.”
Telemachus flinched at the resounding call - it ricocheted off the walls, loud, clear, divine. His heart began beating faster. A joy flared inside him. A yearning fulfilled. Finally. He had missed her: Athene, his patron, his teacher, his goddess.
He dropped his sword too quickly, turned to look at her too quickly. A smile stretched across his face. He didn’t restrain his giddiness, the eagerness. He had waited. If she decided to grace him with her presence meant he was not forsaken, there was hope for him still. That he was still hers, her warrior.
He bowed - not as naturally as it had once come to him, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear anything aside his heart, couldn’t feel anything aside the happiness that assaulted his every sense. He could cry. With relief, with glee. He was worthy. Maybe. Enough to make the goddess break her vow and visit him.
“Goddess.” Greeted Telemachus, not tethering his grin. “I am fortunate to…” he lifted his eyes hesitantly, back arched stiffly. He sought a kind of gleam in her eye, a reassurance. “Bear witness of your presence.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits: dark and small. The skin below her eyes didn’t crinkle. But she didn’t say anything about bowing, or lectured him.
“You are preparing,” she observed, voice almost tender - warm, and it burned.
But it was everything he wanted. For once, he forgot about tomorrow. The weight. Athene was here, with him, and he was saved.
“Yes,” he said hastily—eager. He gave a shaky breath. “Yes. Have I passed your… test, goddess?”
“Oh, that,” she huffed. A hand waved at the air lazily, gorgon-etched shield shifting. “Is irrelevant. I am not here for the upcoming competition. Partly.”
His heart sank.
Of course. Another scolding. Of course -
“Oh.” He mumbled. He hoped his disappointment didn’t bleed through. But it hurt. It hurt, he had thought she was there for him— “I apologize.”
She laughed softly, but it was eerie.
It wasn’t all taunting - but it wasn’t all innocent.
“You do not apologize to those who have condemned you to hell, Telemachus,” she said. “Because that infernal determination can, and will, arise and stir anew easily. Get to your feet - or I shall remind you of how an enemy can strike your neck like this.”
Trying to school his features, he stood. He didn’t dare to look at the goddess, but at his feet. His heart panged with grim, bleak frustration. His life was half at stake, half gambled - he was training until the strain on his muscles rendered him sick, but it wasn’t enough.
As if reading his mind, Minerva huffed. “Don’t be despondent,” she tossed her spear to the side - it disappeared amidst air, twinkling. Patting her stola, Telemachus realized her aegis was missing; rather, the head of the gorgon was now on her breast-plate. “You have a goddess to behold.”
Telemachus swallowed dryly. “Yes, my goddess -” and in a rush of emotions, he couldn’t help how his voice sounded so gloomy. “Forgive me. Can I offer you anything? Have the offerings not been enough? If so, I—.”
His tongue felt heavy, and he stopped his stammering when he saw that the goddess had sat down. Beside him. With little glamour, he gaped. It was slightly hilarious, the goddess of warfare and twists sitting peacefully under the gaze of the sky. On full armor, tense, with that helmet of hers.
He tensed when she lifted his eyes, studying him.
Before he could think, he had already blurted out - “I’m so sorry.”
Athene shook her head, dropped her eyes, and craned her neck back.
Telemachus followed her sight: the moon.
"Sit with me, Telemachus," Athene ordered - regret swirled in her gaze, but so did fury, and so did wisdom. "I'll tell you a story. A far, yet close story."
Telemachus blinked, then twice. It was scant for the goddess to betray her own oaths—to keep watch and not interfere with Telemachus’ fate basically, he remembered—, thus pride. Even less common for said goddess of weaving and schemes to regard him tenderly, without flaming determination in her voice.
He shuffled on his feet. “I would not,” he paused, inhaling sharply. “I would not wish to be a burden to your peace, wise Pallas.”
Through the helmet, he still could see how her eyes narrowed.
“Silly boy. I told you to sit.”
Her command was sharper, leaving no space for discussion - so, Telemachus obeyed. Sitting beside her, but with enough of a respective distance, he felt an all too familiar sting in his eyes; raw and searing. There was silence, no insects or birds daring to make a sound. The sky was flecked and sharp.
He didn’t dare to make a noise, either. His puffs of breath were shallow and soft.
Telemachus held his knees close to his chest. Like a child. Glancing at Athene, expecting a reprimand that he should act like a man, he started at seeing her smiling, eyes straight ahead.
“You remind me,” without tearing her eyes away, she sighed wistfully. “Of younger, simpler times. I sprung from my celestial father’s head with arms. Rome’s love of warfare is an art - see you, armed at this hour, training. A warrior of the mind.”
His heart leapt at the praise. “All soldiers and warriors alike take after you, my lady,” he whispered.
The goddess hummed, but it was distant. As if her mind was racing and spinning, contemplating something else, something faraway. Like a seafaring sailor, she had that kind of raggedness to her; the tiredness of a genius, the harsh mind.
Telemachus knew he had to wait for her to speak, but the silence was too stiff.
He tried to look at the moon, too. But it was as it always had been. Bright, but dull. Far and steady.
“When you were birthed,” finally, she spoke. It lacked the usual tone she wielded: the one of war and coldness. “I claimed you as my warrior. Your mother -”
Telemachus’ feelings soured near instantly. An eternal maiden would always be appalled at those wedded acts, but cherish life; it was a paradox he didn’t want to hear at that moment. While Minerva held an incredible fondness to his mother—her mind and weaving—, she too held a distaste at weakness. Birth, Telemachus reckoned, was a sign of it. The yells, the pain.
“Horrible scandal, I know, women are—.”
“Brave.”
Telemachus straightened, wary. “Brave?”
“Yes, she was brave.” Minerva turned to look at him; raised a brow, as if daring him to challenge her. Telemachus didn't. Pleased, she continued. “Immortality prompts time to be swifter. Still, do I remember you as an infant - the emblem of Rome was the pattern for your blanket per my request.”
He perked up. “Really?”
Joy overtook him momentarily. Had she expected great things of him, or had she simply chosen him? Anyway, whilst it did not lessen the burden of tomorrow, it made his mind more at ease.
She waved a hand, as if chastising his enthusiasm. “But Odysseus insisted on an olive tree, with your mother.” Her lips twitched. “And so it was.”
Telemachus’ shoulders slumped forward.
He could understand - that was their symbol. Of love, and of peace. It guarded their baby’s innocence from the emblem of war incarnate, too; still, a twinge of frustration ran down his spine.
Staring ahead, he nodded. “I see.”
Neither he or the goddess talked for a long time after that.
When she did, he was already getting drowsy; slumber was too near for his liking. He had to train. Be prepared.
“I tried to burn you then,” Minerva muttered, as if reluctantly. “Scorch you of mortal traces - kill the humanity within you.”
Telemachus wondered if he had fallen asleep. Belatedly, he realized he was indeed awake - his eyes widened, something between terror and disbelief mingling in his heart.
What?
He snapped his head at her, horrified. “Excuse me, goddess?” he hadn’t heard that correctly. His heart beat wildly, closing his throat.
Telemachus could only think of those four dreadful words. Tried to burn you. Whilst she spoke in riddles, it was clear; she had done something that’d had him killed.
Had the goddess hated him so much she tried to erase him, innocent and new to the world? No, she couldn’t have done that. But Athene was honest; far too blunt, shaped by war and wisdom. A desperation stirred. Had he always been tainted, unworthy and unbefitting? But she too had mentioned something along the lines of traces—a fiery pride rippled at being chosen, but so did an aching misery.
His heart split in two. His stomach twisted and churned, and his body felt numb; as if the soil and ground beneath him might crack and engulf him in a second.
Even breathing was a strenuous task. The throbbing on his eyes surged harder - no, no, no.
Telemachus couldn’t cry. Still, he sniffled as the silence stretched wider. Why? resounded and bounced off his mind. Why?
First, he thought - how dare she?
A second passed, and another thought rose - am I that unworthy that you saw me once and decided I’d never be enough?
Whether Athene had heard him or not was left a mystery; Telemachus gawked as she drew a breath, a flurry of emotions writhing inside him. He felt dizzy.
His breath came bitter, in short bursts.
“Your mother - when she was asleep, Odysseus guarded your room when you were but a baby, or paced, ever night-born.” She said, with a calmness that betrayed how panicked Telemachus felt. “But there was one night. They left you to the wet-nurse.”
Pursing his lips, Telemachus’ head pounded. His breath hitched. No, this must be a dream; a beautiful, forlorn one.
He rubbed his eyes until his skin was raw, until it throbbed. Awake he was.
Maybe she felt remorse, reason said like an echo in the back of his mind. Maybe she did witness something worth keeping; Telemachus was alive, after all.
But she was the only person that he had trusted, panic rebounded. She had always been his teacher, his torch. And now—
He felt like a child hearing his father argue with the senate again, huddled in a corner so none would see him, drawing fitful breaths like he was a man asphyxiated.
Mercy, or not, he needed to hear more.
Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t fit in her riddle, her puzzle; awestruck, he just knew.
Her wording had been far too elaborate and delicate just for murder.
“Why?” his voice cracked. It was drawn and pitchy but he didn’t understand and he wanted to and gods, he was about to cry - “Goddess, I…”
His face burned with shame. He had nothing to say.
But Minerva didn’t bat an eye. She continued this story - at least, that’s how she had described it.
“I enchanted her for sleep to befall heavy on her eyes - the maiden dropped,” a pause. “And I took you.”
His eyebrows knitted together. In a gasp, he managed out, “where?”
The goddess huffed as if it were obvious, a chilly mirth shining in her eyes. Her lips curled in a humorless smile, thin and somehow too long, inhuman. It made Telemachus remember how she was a goddess, and he - he was nothing but an ant compared to her.
She looked nostalgic. “To the ever burning hearth.”
Made sense.
“Oh.” He casted his gaze down.
It was like time slowed down. He wanted to laugh, then. In disbelief.
“I made the mistake,” she groaned. Telemachus startled. She never admitted to it; less as an embodiment of intelligence. As if sensing his stare, her shoulders trembled. She made a sound - laughing, he realized. “Yes, but one. Your father and mother were there. Only ever one time has Odysseus dared to lay a finger on me. It was that night. He ran and stole you off my arms. You were but a push away.”
“Goddess, what—.”
She sighed. Again, but it was heavier.
“He cried. He never spilled a tear, not in my presence,” the bronze of her armor shone under the moonlight. “Your mother came after, skirt on her hands. She pushed herself to the floor alongside your father. They thought you dead. When they took your blanket, I remember, you began crying. I remember well their surprise - their gasps, their sounds. And crying you kept, one weak hand trying to grasp the warmth stolen from you.”
Telemachus was close to begging. “Minerva. Please—?”
“I thought,” she craned her neck to face him, a light smile so soft on her lips. “You’d be the one, immortal. Fire purges mortality away.”
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Minerva looked gently at him, eyes almost crinkled. Telemachus shuddered as another urge to cry ambushed him. “I wanted to shed humanity from you, yes; but you’d have been unscathed by the fire yourself. You’d have lived. You’d have been mine, an immortal hero to raise. And to keep. Your father, since, has not borne the same - warmth towards me.”
He didn’t dare to speak. Another shiver, and he could no longer fetter the tears that welled in the corners of his eyes.
Minerva’s eyes flickered as a sob fell past his lips; she looked away, coldness back in her expression.
“I do not crave to see your father be worn by the ruthless years, my Telemachus, but fate escapes none.” She addressed him - not his father, him. Telemachus tried to steady his breathing. It was too much. The fight tomorrow, now this. “These are the laws decreed by the fates. Still I do not comprehend, not fully, mortality. Only the fates know when Odysseus might die. I cannot predict the grey strokes in his hair; still, there they are. I think,” another pause, longer. As if she was contemplating on what to say. “Yes, that is why I chose you. Then. I failed with Odysseus - not me, but life, by offering dreadful death at the end of his path. A type of legacy in Olympus would’ve been reserved for him, you see, a king’s honor and seat as a Roman—that I offered him, years ago. But he refused it. And as a companion—”
Gods, it was all starting to make sense.
“Your companion.”
Athene’s face twisted in something mirthless. Bitter, or at least, the most bitterness she could feel - as a goddess, could she even feel properly?
“Yes, mine,” she said dryly, “even as my companion, he is fated to die. The sword of war and death takes all. I’ll be left alone without him after all these years. And even when I’ve kept offering him this type of immortality reserved only for Romans, your father refuses to join me. Refuses to let go of his humanity even if it means his patron. He is, dearly, Icarus’ daughter’s. I swore I would not fail from then on.”
Her eyes flickered back at him.
He understood, without another word.
Telemachus couldn’t fail tomorrow. He couldn’t die. Above honor and above pride, he was Athene’s warrior. He represented her wishes, her tactics, her everything in the nation now.
“Pallas, I…” he didn’t know what to say, bewildered as he was.
It was too much to take. He couldn’t dwell on what she had just said without breaking.
The goddess hummed.
“You still can be a hero,” she said. “My hero, and Rome’s. Are you strong enough to endure the flames the fight brings?”
He lowered his head. Only one thing was clear. Only determination he could grasp.
“I am.”
She stood up. Telemachus remained seated, absorbed in his own mind.
“And are you wise enough, to not perish?” her voice was rougher, even angry. “To hold on your own?”
He nodded, not trusting his words. He stared at nothing, the lump on his throat growing.
“If you die,” she walked around him, slowly. Like a huntsman eyeing a shining treasure, gauging its worth. “Then I take pride that I never made a weak man immortal.”
Whether it was because something had crumbled inside him, for what he heard, or because death seemed to draw ever nearer and was as real as it could be—
“Thank you, goddess,” he thanked her, light-headed.
Minerva made a noise, owl-like.
“Final chance, Telemachus. I was then too blind, that night. I hope I am not now.”
His eyes fell, and when he opened them again, he no longer felt her presence. Glancing around, he was proven right.
His heart never seemed to weigh heavier, and his resolve had never flamed brighter.
The following morning, Minerva visited him in the cracks of dawn.
He almost screamed - before composing himself at her frown.
“It is today,” Athene stood taller and owl-like, “either you'll be ruined, or win.”
“I will,” muttered Telemachus.
“But which?”
He glanced at his sword.
“I’ll win,” he promised. “I’ll win, dead or alive.“
“Swear.”
Telemachus drew a hefty breath. It didn't feel real, yet. Didn't feel like it was the day of the competition. Perhaps his last hours.
“I swear upon your bright eyes, Pallas Athene. By great Jove, hear me, Jupiter, whip and drag me otherwise.”
“Albans—"
“Alba is ruined - if not, ruin me.”
She laughed. It was a harrowing sound. “You do not bargain death.”
He raised his eyes to see her. "I don't."
Minerva’s eyes glinted with pride, but she shook her head.
“You are too arrogant.” She said. “Rome shall pay in blood for it.”
“Ruin me, banish me: but Roma stands. I lose, I lose. Roma stands.”
“Rome - she has no need for cowards,” her eyes shone brighter, a storm stirring in the sea of grayness. “Her dignity you keep untouched and away from your indecisiveness. See her undone and the wrath of Victoria - and others - will be upon you.”
His throat bobbed. “From the gods?”
“No,” the window rattled with thunder. “Your people.”
Blearily, he glanced at the gleaming sun. Those words were bitter to accept, to hear.
His ears rang. Today...
“And Telemachus,” Minerva called. Her neck craned all the way back, white skin folding and nape twitching. “You will be no warrior of mine - no son of Rome if you lose.”
He bowed his head.
“Remember your roots, little prince,” he could hear how her body cracked and spun, “war is your blood and Rome - your flesh.”
Telemachus swallowed on nothing: on acid, fiery bile.
“Blood,” he repeated, hollow. “Yes.”
He glanced at his armor huddled in a corner of his room. The bronze arm-guard shone under the rosy Aurora. His shield, sturdy. Defense would be of utmost importance, his father had told him: the best strategy was to endure, not only to spill blood. Endure until last.
He took pride in the guard. A gorgon head was rendered on it through sweat, hammering, and fire.
“Do not fight, your father says.”
He felt as if he was dreaming. He probably was.
"I am Rome’s son in the end.”
Son, son, son. Legacy, more like.
Blood of his father and mother, maybe—but the divine leapt alongside it.
He puffed up his chest, raising his chin to meet the goddess’ eyes.
Illuminating and clear, they narrowed. Like an owl’s, blonde eyebrows knitting down: her face contorted to that of a storm’s eye, so inhumane that made dread coil low in his stomach.
“And Rome values victory,” Athene’s spear swung to his throat. The edge pressed against his throat finely—glancing down, he saw himself, pale and sickly in the reflection. Minerva was looking down, too, meeting his eyes. He did not see her irises. “And wisdom.”
Telemachus didn’t blink.
“I’ve been trained by you, goddess. Have you not witnessed my capacity? Have you not sowed and reared me?”
“You fight and Rome will lay in ruins - might. A slip in your step is all.”
He drew a breath. It did not tremble.
“Who, if not me, who, if not the heir?” he tried to sound confident, but his voice quivered.
His throat stung.
“Your opponents are not normal men, fool. They've been chosen with you as target in mind.”
No.
“I kneel for you in gratitude, but neither am I.” Telemachus mumbled, morose. “I fight fair for fair glory, great goddess. Ought you tell me to kiss the soil, I will, to see the end of kings, I will - yet I cannot betray Rome. I cannot abandon her.”
Minerva’s eyes—depthless, bright—bore into him.
She raised her arm, shawl rippling and stretching: and she was gone.
Pallas, untouched as she always was, as she always would keep being - protector of Rome. Friend of Telemachus.
Friend - Telemachus blanched. The dirt with the divine, with the fire-forged. Bathed in immortal glory, so unlike him. But he had tugged at the hem of her stolla since a toddler, had followed her around with a skip on his step, had had his sword tilted by her during sweltering lessons.
Minerva, motherless and father-sprung, vicious and victor of Rome. Minerva, the goddess who held the sky with one hand. Mentor of Telemachus.
He couldn’t disappoint her.
Doomsday came too quick.
Never came quicker - but when had he ever risked losing everything?
The feast had begun. His father and mother gave him their blessing before departing to meet the guests. He didn’t come with them. He stayed on a far corner, observing it all unfold, until he was forced to join the other chosen men on the tricliniums close to where his father and mother sat, surveying the room as king and queen.
Telemachus wore the finest of his tunics, the lighter of golds: they didn’t help his ever growing anxiety.
It was far too joyful. Too loud and bright and colorful. It didn’t help the dread that had settled down in his stomach, twisting and vicious. Every guest, every man, had settled down in the dining hall. Patting each other on the back, slobbering and flattering one another.
If you had asked Telemachus, they all assimilated beasts. They drank and swallowed, gulped down and chewed: tailed after the bard, tailed after every slave with far too much of a gentle face instead of a frugal scowl. Cups were raised without a care.
A cup for the Albans, they drank. A cup for Romans, they drank.
Jittery, the cup had slipped from his hand one time, two times, three - until he had nothing on his hands that wasn’t shards of argilla or warm blood.
He eyed his opponents wary, throat parched, a bitterness so etched on him: many older, many cloaked in the best silk or linen. He did not recognize many faces - the ones he did recognize, he wished he didn’t.
With great effort, he trained his gaze on the ground after seeing a face younger than his. Glory was not kind. It was a life where the cruelty ripped a boy’s ribs open, fangs bloody, or a boy first tore innocence away. Telemachus felt as if he had to be scourged - when had he ever ached so badly as to beg and plead for death, and when had he been a master at any art? Fighting, for instance. War, anything befitting of a man.
Telemachus’ vision swayed. Corners charred.
Death was close.
He blinked, eyes raw. It stung.
An hour, in an hour - pale, he looked at the throne. Without the shame he should have held, he realized he had been breathing with his mouth open.
His father and mother glanced at each other, then at him fitfully.
He tried not to feel faint at the lack of an owl watching over him. Still, thick fear enveloped him. It was cold.
Telemachus flinched when the doors bursted with a loud yell, jolting up: reflexively, his hand laid over his sword. His breath was shallow at best, chest rising and dropping in agitated stupors - were they to be attacked? Maybe, and with spies mingled among them. Fuck, fuck.
He snapped his head to the sides when he heard awed gasps, snickers. Everyone was gaping behind him. His father and mother - both wore their composed masks, but his father’s jaw was clenched, and his mother’s head was tilted to the side in scorn. Telemachus scowled.
With an ugly need to hurt, with fear on his veins, he turned to look.
“All rise, to the glory of Albans!”
Telemachus recoiled at the high and shrill sound of a cornu - that bronze, curved horn, signaling the advent of something great. His mind reeled. This was only reserved for the hosts, a show of power. The welcoming of a king, of a hero. Just a few Albans were missing, but he had not quite cared during his daze. Anger blazed inside him, fiery, bursting and only growing.
Whether he had luck or not, he was uncertain: he was too close to this spectacle, the tricliniums beside the throne - the ones belonging to the future victors. Rather, those whose fate was being overseen by the strings of glory, honor, or forced participation.
He first caught sight of the entourage of guards. They came in behind a few men, arms raised and knees high when walking. They stopped in front of the throne, floor to tread upon free as any other guest was sat down. Plenty to be a small battalion, arms safely guarded and only eyes visible under bronze helmets. Helmets with massive plumes, dyed and breathtakingly tall - in front, a man with a woolen cloak, cornu breadths away from his lips.
Panic dwindled and shrank. Telemachus stared, a frown tugging at his lips. Desperate, he looked at his parents—king and queen of the mighty, great Rome.
His father met his eyes, raised his chin, and that was enough for him to still.
A beautiful boy, draped in translucent and shining fabric stood in front of them all - in deep purple. Golden jewelry adorned every bit of pale skin: from his neck, his ears, his ankle. Like a leash on property.
Telemachus glanced down at the hems of his tunic, a hand coming to brush against his ear. Purple, gold.
At the side of what he assumed had to be a consort - or lesser, he had to blink. Red, then black engulfed him when his eyes fell close. Then, the blur of colors, of people when he opened them anew - he felt the soreness behind them.
A man, half-lidded eyes fixed on the throne, with a crooked smile and a wrinkled tunic, as if only put on hastily. It didn’t cling to his skin, but rather hung off his frame. It slipped off one of his shoulders, baring tan skin and collarbone. The sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing veins and muscles bulging. The hem of the tunic barely covered the thighs.
Telemachus stifled a growl.
There was no mistake. It was Antinous. That triumphant air, those eyes that surveyed everything like he owned it all.
Antinous’ eyes wandered, and landed on him: the man grinned, baring his teeth, and almost broke into a laugh. He had an arm flung around the boy - like showing off a prize, a spoil. Unabashed. If anything, prideful.
Telemachus wrinkled his nose as he took a few wary steps forward, until he stood beside his mother. Antinous reeked of wine. The stench was intense. Sweat, and something far more heady and intense - like the one of sex, brothels.
He didn’t flinch when his father stood, and raised his voice. “Prince Antinous,” his voice was low, measured. “I welcome you to our land and soil, ever fertile Rome. The feast marked its beginning two hours past.”
Antinous was flushed, eyes dazed - tipsy, undoubtedly. “King Odysseus, a great pleasure. I’ve heard of your guileful tales.”
He did not bow. He leaned forward, slightly, but his chin did not dip to his chest, or his head was lowered—he kept his head high.
For a moment, Telemachus was scared his father’s restraint would snap and he’d make a move against the Alban. The corners of his father’s mouth twitched, but otherwise, his features remained schooled. Cold.
“Your father?” his mother asked, sharp.
A silence spread throughout the room, gossip and murmurs quenching.
Antinous face seemed graven at first. Troubled and bitter by the mere mention of heavier power. Like being put in his place, leashed and reined.
He shoved away the person beside, and straightened. “He is ill,” but his smile didn’t falter. “The burden of kingship is lifted by his heir.”
Telemachus’ eyes narrowed when the man turned to look at him, insufferably smug. They shone with a flaming pleasure, wild and untamed. But his mother’s gaze strayed from Antinous in blatant disinterest. When Telemachus craned his neck to glance at her, she simply stared at him, and frowned - it wasn’t worth it, he knew what she meant.
“We recognize the entrance,” his father rasped.
It was not wounding his pride, not at all - but it was something so garish, in their own halls.
Telemachus shut down another wave of mutters among the crowd with a glare.
“Not all men are warranted the eternity of a Roman,” slurred Antinous, careless. “Kingship will soon fall to another, I say in hopes to freshen memory,” he ran his hand through his hair, “I entrust the blessing of the bright-eyed Goddess granted upon your family allowed you to recognize the entrance, yes.”
A slave hurried forth the guards, carrying a cluster of grapes - she stopped beside Antinous and bowed. To Rome, or him, Telemachus found it didn’t matter. She kept her gaze on the floor, bent over.
Telemachus followed the slave with his vision, a nervousness springing from inside him.
She was young. Strands of blonde hair fell over her face when he tried to analyze her closely - definitely not Roman, or Alban.
Whatever power Antinous seemed to have fled from Telemachus that moment. He was a small man, tormenting men and women alike only to feel in control. Still not a king, he had to make these entrances, seeking only the veneer of power and authority. He inhaled sharply.
The air seared his lungs.
He flinched when he raised his eyes and found Antinous in front of his mother, a hand on his chest as he bowed.
He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Queen.”
She raised her chin, hands on her lap tensing.
“Prince.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.
Telemachus seethed, observed every action, every twitch in his face. He closed his fists when he cradled his mother’s hand, extended it slightly, leaned - and kissed it. But he was not kneeling, not lowering his face. His grip on her was far too firm and rigid. Belatedly, Telemachus thought: it must hurt.
Gasps, sniggers: both broke out across the room.
She did not tug it away, but Telemachus recognized the flicker of contempt in her gaze.
“Beautifully graceful as always,” said Antinous, dropping her hand as he straightened.
Telemachus blanched when he heard something strike the floor of the hall - simultaneously, he and Antinous looked over at the king. His father was raised in full height, scowling and knuckles white. If he were about to slaughter Antinous, Telemachus would join, truthfully.
“What are your intentions, son of Eupeithes?” his father’s voice had a tremor to it. It was sharper than a blade’s. “My wife, thus queen, is a taken woman, and above all—”
Again, that awful, victorious grin in Antinous' face: like he had wanted the king to break, to bend, and had received what he wanted. Been offered, like a god. Telemachus staggered forward, a fury only blazing with more might and more hunger inside his heart. Venom scratched his throat viciously. He tethered it, reluctant.
“Oh, no, I’m promised to another,” Antinous had the dignity to sound slightly ashamed, “aside, interests stray. The world does not spin around or heel to Rome solely, I fear.”
His father sat back on the throne, a suspicious glint to his eyes. “To whom?”
Maybe it wasn’t his intention, but his tone was almost mocking—grating, as if having heard a fairytale. To whom would Antinous be promised, anyway? A little tension melted away from his shoulders, dripping down.
Antinous’ eyes wandered back to Telemachus. He stiffened. The wind turned and rolled.
“To a,” the man gave a dry chuckle, “prize.”
The sun shone upon the palace, hard and stern - it was a blend of gold and red. Alight. His skin prickled, burning with a warning Telemachus couldn’t quite place.
Whether his father took notice of it all, he didn’t let on. He leaned back on the seat.
“Rome is no man’s.”
Mild annoyance settled on Antinous’ face - it was washed down, but Telemachus caught sight of it. He felt his mother tug at his arm, touch soft and warm and cleansing.
“Same as thrones belong to men, king.”
Leaning down per his mother’s insistence, she whispered—ordered him—for him to go back on his seat. It was no use to fight, or complain. Before his mother let go, she smiled.
Tender. That was the one thing none but her could give him: tenderness.
“I love you,” but her eyes were pained, voice so quiet. “You have our blessing, my light.”
Time passed slowly. It slipped from him, but it was an askew thing.
Shortly after his own departure, Antinous followed him to the triclinium - the man ruffled his hair before taking a seat beside him, not sparing a glance. Telemachus cared little for his guards, or that whore. He wanted nothing to do with that man.
Telemachus stood up the moment his knees touched Antinous’, feeling all too much like a collared pet.
Curious eyes focused on him: the blush on his face, the quivering of his lips. Rather than curious, hunting. Tailing for any weakness to be exploited out there. All wore a solemn expression, all—except Antinous, who smiled at his anger. Dread. Panic, because the world had been narrowed down, and the downfall of Rome seemed so near.
“Sit with us, prince,” he called, raising a cup for him to take. “Be a good host and indulge.”
His wrist flickered, the red of the wine swirling and shimmering.
Telemachus scowled. “Alcohol slows down the body.”
Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, for Antinous laughed - and others followed his examples, like cowed sheep. Anything not to be killed.
“Have you never yielded to pleasures, boy? Tolerance is the key.”
Telemachus spat on the cup, turned, and didn’t look back when he began walking away.
Drinking. Eating. Screams. Bets.
Telemachus felt his head pound against his skull.
A jolt of dread rattled him badly—and a glimmer of gratefulness fixed it all—when his father ruled quiet and announced the oaths were to take place. He scurried off to his father’s side, only slowing down when near.
He threaded through his hair. No wreath. Nothing to deserve one. It’d change, if he lived, if he drew another breath. It’d change. It had to.
Lifting his chin, he nodded at his father when he arrived. “Father.”
A priest watched him closely, donned with a white toga - with flecks of red, the red of blood. A fillet tucked the wild curls, and if his gaze strayed lower, a knife hung heavy on his hand.
“Is the sacrifice tied?” his father asked the priest.
He placed a hand on Telemachus’ shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. Telemachus almost swayed in his place, the tension from his muscles fleeing if for a merciful second. There was a reluctance to Odysseus' voice - who would send his son to a bloodbath?
Far away, Telemachus heard the call of an owl. It made something inside him flare, pride swell in his heart. He could do it.
The priest simply hung his head low. “Yes, my lord.”
His father’s face was abysmal. “Let us begin, then.”
It was a flurry of colors, emotions, and blood.
The oath - sacred, binding, unable to be betrayed.
The priest handed his father the blade, pig tied down as it fought against the restraints. It twitched pitifully as his father brought the knife down and struck the animal’s neck - and drew the weapon down its stomach, blood and guts spilling down the altar. Telemachus winced, but he didn’t look away.
He gathered bits of what his father said through labored breaths.
“Should mighty treachery be testified, oh, Great Jove, strike them — fierce and bloody, lest all men are faithful and oath-binding.” Blood splattered to his cheek, and thunder rumbled.
When Telemachus raised his eyes, the skies were clear and blue. When he dropped them, the pig’s trotter was twitching. The eyes bulged. That wouldn’t be him, he’d promised a goddess.
He closed his eyes, drawing a breath. It was shaky. His throat remained closed.
Nausea made his stomach churn, a dull dizziness making it hard to think clearly. He had to plan, for when he was out, it was everyone against him - everyone. He doubted other Romans would show him favor when his death meant the potential fall of his house and the rise of theirs. An heir of royal blood meant nothing for power, the heir of Mars meant nothing when power was at stake.
A shiver raked down his spine. Cold, relentless.
The silence was stiff. It spread among both Romans and Albans - as if both were watching on death, spying his secrets and the ways out.
Telemachus recoiled at the sound of another strike: wet, gooey.
Again, thunder, resounding through the skulls of men and soil like a whip - but he didn’t feel rain on him, didn’t notice the shift of a sunny day turning into a gloomy one.
He tried to pray, knees trembling. Hanging his head low, he muttered underneath his breath.
Minerva, bright-eyed Pallas, victorious of Rome - just like you reared my predecessors, bring me victory. He rolled his neck, lips pulling in a tight frown. It wasn’t right. It had a fleck of arrogance, and anyway, victory would mean little if a man broke the oath. Bring my family safety. Creator and weaver of guile, warfare is little to you. Keep them guarded, I beg of you.
Strained, with effort, he opened his eyes.
His father’s chin was tilted up, eyes fixed on the sky, the long line of his neck exposed. Men watched hungrily, dangling off every word.
Why couldn’t Telemachus be like them? Why wasn’t he thrilled, why was he scared?
His father’s voice was loud. It split something inside him, serving as a reminder: from here on, he was alone. He was bound to a divine pledge. The priest dragged his feet as he circled the altar, eyes like a hawk’s. Telemachus heard the last of the vow, resigned. A graven, rugged compliance settled over him.
“Like pigs, bring thunder upon the man that offends the state of things and bids otherwise. Hear me, Jupiter -” the sky did not rumble, but the rays of the sun were almost mattled - red became the red of blood, the orange the gold, and the dark crack of awaiting night shone. It all mixed in a scorching ember. For a second, the rays shone - his eyes watered as he kept watching. Then, everything was back to normal. As normal as it could be. “The rightful gains dominion over the vanquished from here on.”
His father dropped the knife, palm extended and smeared with blood.
Telemachus looked around, head jerking to a side from another: everyone was watching with an avid expression, like hunters with arrows poised. Albans looked prideful, the Romans wore the placid reassurance of victory. Antinous was beside another priest - grinning, the hazy look on his eyes replaced by thirst.
He averted his eyes before the man noticed he was staring.
He shifted to his place. It all rested on his shoulders now.
The burden of winning, the killing.
Another wave of excited murmurs, of bets -
“Silence!” his father rumbled. “An oath is left for the Romans, to bind us to duty. As hosts we are obliged to be put under more strain.”
The priest stepped forward and beckoned a few other contestants: only two, noble sons Telemachus knew. The ones he’d fight beside. The ones he’d inevitably watch die soon, because only one could remain standing.
His father turned to look at Telemachus, the wild glint on his eye fading and dying.
“Son,” his voice dropped to a whisper. Secretive, just between them - mercy, in a way. For him or Telemachus, who knew. “It’s the last chance.”
The grip on his heart tightened.
“I cannot flee my responsibility,” mumbled Telemachus, looking away. “I wanted this. I accept its burden.”
Wanted - he doubted he still actively wanted it. It felt like a war was raging inside him, between life and death.
But there was something child-like that urged him to glance back at his father—his dad—, fiery and seeking for something.
Assurance, he realized too late. He wanted his dad to be proud of him. If it was the last thing he’d see, he wanted pride, he wanted the faith a king would have for the best Roman. If anything mattered in his life, if anything was enough to stir joy in his father in his life, he wanted to see it now.
Odysseus pursed his lips. “Very well,” his voice cracked, and he turned away.
Telemachus gaped. “Father—.”
He winced when his father gripped his arm and beckoned him forward with a tug—for the audience, because it was soft, and no nails dug into his skin—, pallid.
“The priest will see you now,” his father said. Then, looking back at him, he forced a smile. It was tight, trembling, but Telemachus felt an overwhelming rush of relief swell inside his heart. His eyes were auburn, almost burnt black, but he could see the fondness in them. It clawed at him. “I love you, my pride.”
He stifled a whine, and nodded.
A stinging behind his eyes grew, it prickled and insisted - but he wouldn’t cry. It was unbefitting of a Roman.
At least his father loved him. Took pride on him, fiery as it could reach. He’d do with that.
He was led in front of the altar, where the priest waited. Apparently, he had finished with the other two. It was hard not to scowl at the dead pig.
When his father let his arm go - it all sank. He was alone, actually alone now, he had none.
The priest’s smile did nothing to calm his nerves.
“You are aware of the oath?” the man asked, face blank aside the smile.
Telemachus ignored the fear thrumming alongside his veins.
“Yes.”
“Then I demand of you, my lord -” he began, and Telemachus shuddered at the title. On the corners of his vision, he saw the other two contenders for the glory of Rome scowling. Privilege for the prince. For once, it was unwelcomed. It made him prey; a target, even among his kin. “To answer. Will you live to the emblems of Rome and her people, fight to the best of your abilities, and die by this rule if the fates will it so? Never to break the oath - if so, to be struck by the wrath of fierce Olympus?”
He felt dizzy. “I do.”
“Hear, Jupiter. By king’s sanction, you swear you’ll fight for Rome until life is drained from you, or the wreath of victory is crowned on you?”
It all sounded like riddles. His head hurt.
“By Rome and her people, I do,” he didn’t quite feel guilty over the frustration that bled to his tone. He did about the groan, though. “I either live, or die with my sword either on fist or throat. I swear.”
He tried to focus on the nod of the priest, not the snickers that broke through the crowd. He wasn’t even in the arena and was already losing his bearings. Wonderful.
“You are now her sworn champion, Rome’s. Have yourself struck and she turns away from you.”
She turns away - they would all, ignore the dishonor if he fell.
At least they’d be able to keep going.
He swallowed on nothing, and nodded.
The priest clasped his two hands together. “Then it appears we’ve reached the end. A guard will escort you to the arena.”
Telemachus was stuffed in an underground passage with two other men. Antinous, and one Roman - that he recognized, which made it all more insufferable. Telemachus barely could look him in the eye before imagining him dead. Ashen-faced, lips parted in a moan: sword dug deep on his chest, a corpse.
There were many entrances to the arena, all in a circle. Three, to be exact. Three were situated here, maybe two on another one, and one man alone in what Telemachus reckoned was either far-left or far-right.
He kept his eyes trained on the door that was supposed to open right into the arena when the horn was blown - in any second, in any second.
Antinous’ laughter rang and bounced off the walls. “Tell me, Telemachus,” he was amused, Telemachus realized with a flare of anger. “Do you fear?”
He closed his eyes, reining himself in.
He had to steady his breathing. It’d be fine.
He wondered - why did this man believe himself invincible? Like he’d win? Styx’s blessing wasn’t upon him, that was certain. But there was something in that calm—bodering on frightening—bearing that made Telemachus want to shrink, kneel, and beseech mercy. But Telemachus had to win. It was divine favor, and a man who had too much to prove.
A man who had seen more battlefields than he had ever even heard of, who had killed—
“It is prince for you, as long as you breathe. Not Telemachus. War runs in my blood,” he tried to sound brave, stronger - again, he failed, voice wobbling. Still, he continued. “If it spills, war will spring. Fear is for lesser men.”
A snicker.
“War cannot endure everything.” Antinous snarled. “It is finite and a victor always rises, prince. Always. You are not untouchable, no.”
Before he could answer, his ribs were struck with dizzying fear.
He heard the horn. It cut through the silence. Loud. A sentence.
The light of the day was upon him. Red, golden, the bleeding of the sun - it was time.
It was a frenzy. It all happened too quickly.
Telemachus had flinched at the cheering, scant praise and sundry of jeering. He squinted; the sun blinded, but it didn’t burn. He felt empty.
Distance was gradual. He had to get out of Antinous’ sight.
None moved, not for a long time - and when they did, gods, Telemachus’ first instinct wasn’t pride. Or honor, or glory, or Roman victory. He ran.
Light in his step, he almost tripped. His sword swung where it laid sheathed on his hips.
He didn’t look back. He changed his direction every time a wall or man appeared in front of him: before being grabbed by the scruff by another man. Alban, Roman: did it matter? They were all sheep in that arena.
Telemachus would never forget what kind of noises dying men made.
The moaning, the pleading, the cursing: the wet sound of blood, the gurgling, the hoarse rasps of mercy. Death.
And he also learned what kind of noises living men made.
Stay back, fool. That’s your companion! Don’t! Defend him. Attack! No! That cost money!
Telemachus had to stop running eventually. His chest heaved as two men fought in front of him. The wild ruckus of the audience was dull, he was deaf to it - he only heard his heart, his breaths, his gulps. Fitfully he’d hear a groan. So he watched.
A warrior from the Albans laid bleeding, his wrist gashed and short, double-ended sword strewn aside: forgotten and streaked with blood. Another man—Telemachus knew him as another Roman, those firm eyes, the tan skin—stalked close, hands raised and blade propped.
Telemachus barely looked away, neck stiff and hand clenching on his own weapon, before a wet and horrible sound broke through the silent groans.
A gasp, a stifled cry, and another man down.
He stiffened when the Roman snapped his head back, jaw clenching at his sight.
There are no friends, Athene once said, there are no friends in wars. Only tools and dogs and beasts. Only hearts and blood and the humane need to attack. Trust, and be killed.
His cheek was flecked with red. In the corners of his vision, he saw at least two men lying on the ground. Unmoving and still and horrible. The man didn’t move, but stared.
Telemachus’ ears pricked at a sound on his left - he unsheathed his sword, head jerking to the side. A fierceness bubbled inside him. Forget the Roman, this was his life. Kill or die. Prove your worth or die. Worse, be turned away, be an exemplar of mediocrity.
His throat was dry when he saw an Alban glaring at him, maybe four steps away.
“Stay back,” warned Telemachus, raising the sword slightly.
The enemy—was he? Stupid, it was all stupid, what were they even fighting for—was dragging another man. By the hair, like a spoil, like a gorgon’s head; dead. It was a corpse. The eyes were rolled back, cheeks swollen.
His hands gripped the scalp of a Roman - he threw the corpse away, and walked to his direction. “No.”
The Alban’s foot struck the ground. The body hit the ground with a dull pang.
Telemachus tried to dig his feet in the soil, even past the solid floors. A skitterish need to run resurfaced. It screamed and screamed and jolted.
His heart leapt to his throat when the man’s heel bent and he ran. For him. Against him.
Telemachus lunged to the side. The Alban was quicker. But Telemachus had trained for this. He was not meant to flee battle when it was wise to attack. When a victory could be ensured.
He jumped back at a drag of the man’s sword - the clothing on his thigh tore, revealing bits of tanned skin, a drop of red forming in a thin and long line.
A raw, childish begging bubbled on his throat. He didn't want this, he didn’t want to be a murderer, was this what being Minerva’s chosen was like? His ribs hurt at the panging of his heart.
He had ordered executions before, had sent men to their deaths before—but this.
He staggered back, heel almost bending at the weight. He clenched the hilt of his sword, veins bulging up on his arm. Too little guard, too little weaponry, encircled with foes bearing far more experience. This was stupid. Shaking his head, he deflected another punctured blade, coming down his stomach in a sweeping motion.
Men and women alike in the crowd cheered, shrill and thunderous.
Fast, too fast; he gasped, throat dry. He wanted to run. But Rome watched him. Athene. His father.
He flicked his wrist, a sharp burst of bravery overtaking him, urging him: he thrusted the blade against the man in front, heart pounding on his tongue. Dull, loud. Thump.
The sword was knocked off the other’s hand, the man’s fingers instinctively twisting around nothing. Behind the helmet, two eyes wandered back at Telemachus’ face, bright.
Telemachus lunged: kicked the shield on the forearm when the man lowered it, shielding his navel.
Fear stirred inside: honor forgotten, pride decayed. Telemachus’ hand ached from gripping the bone-made handle of his sword. His breath came silently, in panting. If he turned his wrist, he’d see the capulus of the sword, ornate with a wide-eyed owl.
It’d stare at him, those gray eyes. His head ached.
Do it, a drifting, fierce voice whispered against his ear. Now. Prove yourself.
The Alban looked at him imploringly, fiery, and then, defeated, dim.
Telemachus raised his sword, blade curved and shining beneath the bleeding dawn: the sickening slash in the neck rang against his ears. It slid smoothly.
He did not have to force his hand. It came naturally.
Opening his eyes, stinging and burning, a body dropped limp. Bled dry, or in the process.
The neck: red, overflowed with blood. Bright, dull, horrible blood. The worst scene was the eyes. Wide open, so ashful. Empty and savage, filled with helplessness, hatred.
It was too easy, was his first thought.
I could do it again, was his second, with a speck of pride. It wasn’t that bad.
I want to throw up, third.
Disgust claimed him; then, horror.
Telemachus didn’t have time to ponder before another wave of loud cheering, and a staggering pain as a sword struck his shoulder’s guard, the bronze digging and picking at his skin.
He rolled his shoulder, groaning.
“Back off!” he swung his sword in one hand, breathing heavily.
Baleful eyes underneath a helmet meet him - an ugly sneer, and he had to leap back to avoid getting kicked on the chest.
Although with the shadows cast over his face, he saw his enemy’s lips curl. “Don’t you remember me, prince?”
Gravelly, low—Antinous. Telemachus stared.
Someone he knew, at death’s door.
Someone he hated, he tried to reason. A burden to Rome.
His fists clenched, and the sword felt heavy. Too heavy, cursed and full to the brim with bane. He heard his father’s voice rise above the din, hard and commanding. He tried to draw a breath, blinking at another jolt of horrid dread.
Before the man could lift his blade up, he lurched to the side.
Another man—third, the third left—was on Antinous’ chest, strong arms trying to wrestle him down with a growl. Antinous hurled him down with a grunt, driving his foe’s back down. Within a second, the third was on the burning ground.
Although thrashing at the figure looming over him, tossing dirt and the like, Telemachus knew. He watched the knees bent and hamstring tensing, calf twitching as Antinous set above him.
“Please,” he heard the man croak.
Telemachus averted his eyes in mercy, his limbs growing numb and loose: tried to ignore the jeers and grumbles from the crowd. He knew what’d come next.
A sense of danger lured him - he’d be next, fall to the same strength, if he didn’t plan.
Antinous snarled. “Bleed for your people.”
Painfully, Telemachus directed his gaze back to the two men. Antinous seized the third—Roman, Telemachus had deciphered easily, most probably one he knew—by the throat, arms bulging with the strain.
A sneer clung to the Alban’s face. “Die for your pride, Roman,” his fingers, near white with effort, squeezed around the throat. “Filth.”
The words: hollow, cruel. Only serve to mock. Telemachus could not fathom why the cruelty, if the hand was already doing the killing. There was no warmth to blood. It spilled cold and tainted one’s palm. It was horrible.
The whimpers of the man coaxed him to run.
The Roman’s hands were raised, weakly and pallid, scratching and trying to hold Antinous’ still. Off.
Telemachus stared at how a vein or two bulged from the other’s hand, how Antinous leaned forward as if to throttle the man with all his weight.
The grunts came, and then the spasms of a man living in a corpse: Telemachus yearned to run away. He was not entranced or ensnared by death, by the spectacle, not at all. But fear gripped at his heart.
Absent-mindedly, he heard people from the crowd. Move, they urged him. Attack! He’s vulnerable!
A dull, last breath, was all it took.
The Roman’s eyes bulged. His helmet struck the ground, falling off his face as it was tipped up. Dead.
Telemachus was the only one left. He was the last hope, the last ember, and he was trapped with a killer. Not a warrior, warm and faithful, but a murderer, with washed blood on his face and viciousness as a hearth.
Antinous straightened slowly, as if making himself comfortable above a dead man. He raised his chin, chest falling softly with a sigh. A content, gratified sigh.
Then, craned his neck to Telemachus’ direction.
He gulped, throat bobbing.
Mouth widening in a shrewd grin, Antinous beckoned him over. “Left you for last, prince.”
Light-footed, fast, Telemachus spun. Ran, deft, quietly: not defeat, but he had to expand the distance, had to think.
He panted, each breath searing. As his feet struck the ground, he could only hear the pounding of his own heat, the desperation boiling hot on his veins. He jerked away at the sight of a wall standing tall in front, an unrest gnawing at every tatter of his consciousness.
But he was still standing, he was still fighting. His helmet lay crooked and heavy against his head, his chest armor cracked, his tunica slashed and rucked. But still, he stood. Something in him wished he had been killed for something not as wild, not as cruel.
Instilled with a hate so deep, woven with an expectancy: what can he do but raise his sword?
Sword, tainted with blood, in slipping fingers. A current of fear almost drowned him. He pressed himself against the wall, raising his head enough to meet the man in the eye.
He was almost dragged down, kneeling for mercy, at the glare of Antinous. There was frenzy, yes, but also the kind of happiness from a man who loved war, torment, the thrill of a fight.
“Stand down,” the Alban ordered, contempt in his voice. “And your flesh might be spared. Harbour a shred of fight - I trust you know what happened to your comrades here.”
Telemachus glanced up, at his father’s seat, his mother’s - he caught the sight of a white, snow-like owl before feeling something sharp drag itself down his throat.
“I only need Rome to bend and keel - what else if not its pride, little and weak?” the man barked a laugh. But it sounded restrained, bordering on acrid bitterness. Estranged from sympathy.
Telemachus looked at his father again, looked at him, and swallowed.
He promised - avowed, to Minerva, to drive his blade against himself before a man did.
His blade hung heavy on his hand, although lowered at the looming man. So fast - Antinous had cornered him so fast, as if he had been waiting for his prey to tire, waiting to pounce. Soundless, Telemachus hadn’t even taken a single notice.
“Tell your king,” he tried to breathe steadily. “Tell your king that Rome awaits none, but for him, Tartarus does.”
And he drove his sword against his ribs on the side.
At least, tried to—Antinous growled, and almost staggered back to deflect the strike.
“No,” he snarled. “Your fall is mine.”
Telemachus thrashed, muscles sore. “I’ll kill you!” he promised, hitting the man’s shoulder. “For Rome, you will die—.”
With a kick, the man staggered back.
Looking half-surprised, half-loathing, Antinous chuckled darkly.
Telemachus drew his sword in front anew, breath ragged and defeated—but not yet, he couldn’t yield. He walked to the side warily, forearms aching and tensing, waiting to strike.
“I saw your eyes,” he tilted his head, curious eyes trailing over Telemachus’ figure. His hand laid limp, languid, a bored gleam on his eyes. Now, Telemachus thought, now. “How your pupils dilated, how you began to tremble. You couldn’t even end one man, and now—.” He met Telemachus’ sword with his own, grinning madly. “You forecast it’ll be you, my killer?”
Telemachus gritted his teeth, hands shaking as he tried to press the blade harder, closer against the man’s chest.
He trembled, thrusting his chest forward, feet digging to the ground.
“Pathetic,” sneered Antinous. “This royalty of Rome - it’ll crumble, with you beginning. I’ll destroy you, and everything you hold dear.”
His sword - flew from his hands, ringing.
Telemachus recoiled, looking back. “Wait—.”
He was flung to the dirty ground.
The back of his head hit the solid floor, back following shortly: pain, blinding and hot pain embraced him. All he could think was of death. He was on the floor, he was losing, he’ll lose, he’ll die.
A flash of pain, and faces came to him: his mother, sorrow-stricken. His father, raising in a panic. Minerva, stern-faced as always, shaking her head augured disappointment. Since birth, since birth. He was raised by the greatest, to meet his end in the filth.
Endured everything, undone by this.
Couldn’t be, it was too bizarre. To breathe, ached.
The man was much larger, taller, looming over him: sword poised to strike down, to end Rome’s honor, to make something worse than torment befall upon him.
The din grew, grew. Men cried. His vision was blurry, colorful.
His mind reeled.
No, no, no—he scrambled in a panic, gasping for air. “No,” he mumbled, then cried. Two hands came to shield his face. “No, stop!”
Pathetic, pathetic, so weak.
His back on the ground, he flailed: squirmed, and tried to get to his feet. He resorted to crawling for his sword, knees sore and aching, like a dog. The edge of the blade was splattered with blood. Feebly, he reached for it - fingers extended, shaking. The scent of death reeked off it.
It made his nose wrinkle.
If for the spectacle he wasn’t dead yet, then it was a loathsome advantage. Humiliating, but everything, even tides, could be turned. Turned to his favor.
“Maybe you have been conditioned for victory,” Antinous pulled at his ankle and dragged him back. “But all I see is a boy not even worth the prize of a slave.”
He kicked - tried to, writhing. “I’ll kill you,” if he could get his sword, just a breadth away…
He felt his sandal strike something solid, proven by the grip loosening and wrenching itself away from his ankle. Sparing a glance, he saw the man clutching his nose, crimson trickling down his chin.
Dizzy, his knees almost buckled; frenzied, probably looking wild and so unlike the prince of Rome.
Almost, so close, his sword, maybe he won’t die—
It was kicked away.
“The Albans will enjoy your ruin,” snarled the man.
And he was yanked up by his hair, grip burning his scalp. He was dragged almost upright, sword laying forgotten. It hurt—the crowd became both wild and silent. He hated it all. His chin was tilted up, jugular exposed to the air: to the people, to the gods.
He’d die. Telemachus, he’d die. His desperation rose. Something uglier stirred low his guts. A burst of pain made his head ache.
He forced himself to raise his eyes, and glare at the man in front: blood laid splattered on Antinous’ face, lips curled in mirth, eyes shining with a depthless thirst.
Telemachus was shaking: with fury, helplessness. His chest heaved.
“You parade me to them a second longer,” he emphasized, spitting on the ground. “I will slit your throat.”
“All this talk about greatness, and yet you’re still on the ground,” Antinous said lowly - as if barter between them two, Telemachus’ threats belonging to only him and to no man from the bolstering crowd. “You ought to learn to leave it to better men.”
Another tug at his scalp, he gave a violent gasp - a coldness ate him alive, at face of death.
His eyes flicked to his father’s seat: empty, he was pacing around, talking to a man he recognized as a foreign ambassador. The owl had fled.
Earn glory, earn respect - he had failed all of what Minerva stood for. All he ever truly lived for, was reared for.
Telemachus swallowed. Only a sensation of burning greeted him.
“You wish to be great? Die,” he rasped, “maybe then I’ll not feed you to the wolves.”
Antinous’ hand was hot - it struck him on the cheek, a cramping soreness creeping to his face. It throbbed, and he blinked. His head was turned to the side, his sight elsewhere. His face: probably flushed, raw. A surge of something fiery overcame him: fury, sparking and red fury.
His hand darted out to Antinous’ wrist, the one wrenching at his scalp. He closed his fist around it.
“You dare,” he gritted out. “You dare touch the son of a king?”
Antinous’ smile was ugly, and dark, and everything vicious in the world.
He was dropped back to the ground, limp. He groaned at the fall, his body sore and aching.
Raising his eyes, he saw a sword pointed at his throat.
“You’ll make a fine spoil, prince.”
Helpless, he was, abysmally helpless.
Spoil, like a trophy, like a woman taken from a sacked and blazing city. He tried to relax, to look as imposing or as graceful before being struck down to death - but he couldn’t. Every thought, every fledgling sentiment he had ever felt in his life, came back to him. Loud, unbidden, they all faded away in the same question.
Was this everything you wanted?
Foolish, he was. But this.
This humiliation, it made him bristle. Of his people, he’d accept with a bowed head. From foreign land, from a killer, from a brute no better than him? Worse, Antinous had no divine lineage. Worse, Antinous was not from Rome: war and glory did not sprang from him, only cruelness and dripping selfishness.
Blinding rage coursed alongside his blood.
They would never win. He’ll die, yes, but they would be trampled upon and perish last.
Aside, there was a crowd. And none dared to help or cry for mercy. For their prince.
“I’ll have your blood— all of you, cowards!” he looked around, furious. “On my father’s name, I’ll see you all bleed.”
None listened, because at the same time, Antinous tilted his blade just down his chin and roared—
“I’ve won,” so loud, Telemachus winced. “Five men down. Rome - she is ruined!”
Silence was thin, volatile, and yet still so cold.
“He has,” Telemachus heard a priest agree, loud enough. Roman priest, from the home. “Albans have won!”
Din broke.
And Telemachus could still breathe.
Confused—infuriated, he couldn’t pretend indifference any longer—, he snapped his glare back at Antinous.
“Won’t you end me?” he leaned forward. He could only think of Minerva still observing it all unfold, his people. He would stand a thousand strikes to his heart before the indignity. “Kill me, for once, stop stalling!”
Antinous lowered his eyes: dark, hungry.
“No,” he tilted his head, as if chiding a small child. “I won’t kill you. After all, you’re mine, now.”
Mine. The blade kept him still, like a duly slave.
Telemachus blinked. “I belong only to the gods,” his confusion melted to rage. “You to filth. I am a prince!”
His voice, for his ears, was more shrill and drawn: panic fleshed it out, like a child throwing an unruly tantrum. A royal that had everything in a flick of the hand, now denied entry of everything dear.
Antinous, appearing bored, huffed.
Redirecting his gaze to the priest, he commanded, “tell your king his son is to be dragged to Alba Longa.”
Away, away from home. A prize, to have an owner, expected to serve in all means. If he had died, maybe Rome would’ve forgotten the blood bled. Yet laying a claim on him - it made something hotter than outrage smolder, a tempest unshackled.
Not shame, but a dread so powerful. A dread that made him scared at the prospect of seeing another dawn, see the world bleeding gold and rose. To see the sun drop to the moon.
And all of Rome - it would see. Ruin.
His father, his mother, Minerva.
“I’m not!” he shrieked, chest rising and dropping unsteadily. “No, no! I’m not—”
He could see the man’s eyes wandering to the throne in mirth, dripping from amusement: how they flickered with thrill when they met his father’s, the king’s jaw clenched and eyes firm, Telemachus reckoned.
Telemachus opened his mouth to scream: and closed it, at another tide of shame.
To scream, to flail, to be everything but improper. He couldn’t fall limp or slack, but neither could he be naive and mad.
“Your oath is binding - your son, mine.”
No.
Telemachus reached for the man’s sword, wrapping a hand around the edge. A sting came forth almost instantly, and small drops of blood poured down his wrist. He tugged it closer to his windpipe, forcefully and with the little strength left in his body.
His palm ached the more the blade rubbed against his skin. A twisted daze befell upon him at the sight of more blood pouring down. Globs of deep red, warm and yet cool - he inhaled sharply. He couldn’t cry. Could only plead for one thing—a terrifying, horrible thing that left Telemachus aghast. But a terrifying, horrible thing was better than a life of torment. It lasted for a considerable less time, the jolts of dread wouldn’t accompany him past the grave.
Another wave of murmurs—curious, embarrassed, disappointed—overwhelmed the arena. His father did not raise his voice again.
Priests and ambassadors alike talked loudly - and after a pause, more people began talking and talking. A bet, heard Telemachus once. Or the state of Rome.
He couldn’t bear it.
“Just kill me,” he looked up through lidded eyes.
None heard him, not among the great ruckus. Antinous deliberately kept his eyes on the throne, defiant, aflame: he didn’t tug his sword away, or into Telemachus’ throat.
He felt a rush of anger. “I told you,” he tried to restrain everything inside him that’d make him sound scared or erratic. “Kill me. See it done. Just—do it.”
The man’s stand relaxed momentarily. Telemachus didn’t dare to look away to find out why.
Antinous glanced at him at last, uninterested. “Why should I?”
There was an arrogance etched in his face that Telemachus hated. It was fierce, but so self-assured. Not tentative, but challenging. One of his eyebrows was raised with poorly subdued mirth accompanied by leisure, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Triumphant, like all the world was beneath him.
Telemachus schooled his features. “Why shouldn’t you?”
He paled at the scorn in his tone, but Antinous just threw his head back and laughed.
And laughed. The sound was excruciating: almost hoarse, low. Telemachus stared—unabashed, with narrowed eyes—at the line bulging from the man’s neck. If he had his sword, if he only had it in reach, it would’ve been so easy to slit it.
He drew shallow breaths, faint and soft—the edge of the blade nudged at his throat uncomfortably. Scarcely, he actually exhaled or gasped. He could feel the jagged sharpness, the prick of another graze. He was terrified. His heart pounded, and his vision had black smeared. It took all he had not to sob, not to flinch and wince.
His mouth was pressed in a tight line, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip to stop himself from trembling.
The laughter subsided: hysterical as it was, Telemachus missed the grating noise to appease the silence of the dead littered around him.
Slowly, Antinous spoke - gazing at him almost reverently, careless of nicking his throat or chin. “You’re beautiful when knelt,” he murmured. “Tell me, why should I kill you? You don’t even deserve the death of a warrior.”
He tried to abate the storm inside him, urging him to forget all social rules and dignity and just fight. Instead, he watched the man carefully: how his grip on the hilt had become softer, how his eyes too became less rigid as Telemachus’ felt more and more fear throb and hum in his veins.
He wanted the blade to tear his skin. Wanted to drop dead and see it finished with.
The mere reminder his mother was watching - his legs felt horribly weak, errant heart trying to leap outside his body.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He hoped this way, the desire to cry and weep would cease. Silence passed, thin, and yet so long. The crowd became mute in his ears, everything did. Heavy quiet was all he heard. He wanted to be furious, and yet a warped pride bubbled low in his throat. He had fought for his nation, successfully before cornered. Stood and killed and fought.
But the smear of blood, blood ripped and stolen, the reminder of it all - hurried after him. He had killed a man, whose gaze was almost pleading.
A person, just like himself. Even if veered away from Rome by birth, even if he would have loomed over Telemachus given the opportunity, even if his footfalls petrified Telemachus short seconds before he swung his sword. All the same a person, whose body staggered before landing against the soiled ground, all because of him.
Gasping, he opened his eyes.
A grim pride shimmered on Antinous’ eyes. “Nod and be silent,” he said. “If mine, you’re not as lowly. A little pet has more luxuries than a slave. A game of fetch is better than a life of hunger. You just have to sit, look pretty, cry.”
A bitter tear escaped him. He’d never bend for him. For anyone.
Telemachus shifted, backside sore.
“Never,” he spat, frustration rising. He lifted his head to see the throne better. His father was not there: he bit down a whimper. “I - I will tear your heart through your throat if you keep me alive.”
He wanted blood to soak a hand - his, or Antinous’.
A whip, for him or Antinous - he didn’t know, all he knew was that punishment was due.
If something he had deserved and earned by failing that day, was the relish of death. Sweet death, compared to being a prize. He fought, he was a prince, war coursed through his veins with maddening ease. After all, he was born to war. Distantly, but still. Antinous, to whom?
He didn’t want to be a pet, who Antinous would so idly praise and strike.
Didn’t want to tempt, nor did he want to bleed at the hands of a man.
Pain darted all throughout his body. His muscles almost cramped at the memory of the prior fight. Of how he killed. How he watched. He felt nauseous. It was different - killing so intimately, at the mercy of amusement, so close. It was cruel.
Spoil, there it was again. Like property.
Undeterred, Antinous kept pushing. “Will you, now? Spoils are enough to warrant a war, if disobedient.”
“Stop—” he tried to lessen the disgust inside him, tried to calm his breathing. “I do not belong to you.”
“But you are bound to me - losers belong to winners.”
“Then I’ll kill myself,” he rasped, throat dry. “If you take me from Rome, I will kill myself before you lay one of your dirty fingers on me.”
He felt like an animal trapped and caged, away from the nest and away from home. He still felt the blood clinging to his skin. His, or the corpse’s, he didn’t know. It was gooey.
Voice raw, he added, “it’ll be your blood, if I do. That will warrant war. My name - my name alone is worth far more than your entire family.”
Antinous hummed, pulling the sword away. Telemachus felt every curve, every ridge sliding from his palm. It burned. Instead of seeing skin, flesh, all he saw was red laying on his hands. He had to wonder if at least a speck was of another man’s, tainting him and mingling with his blood. The sting didn’t dull after the sharpness left - it twinged, it seared.
He bared his teeth when Antinous tipped his helmet off with the blade.
He felt his hair stick to his forehead, eyes squinting and blinking at the brightness.
“A prize indeed,” murmured the man. “Feisty.”
Telemachus grimaced when he heard the man’s sword be thrown and land somewhere, squirming in his place.
The worst, the dreadful, was that he kept on the same position, even without the threat. He could’ve ran, fetched his sword. Victory was decided already - it’d have been a question of losing honor if he kept fighting. But for the Gods, if his body hadn’t frozen as fear wedged deeper and deeper between his ribs, he’d have.
A mixture of colors came to him: the crowd, again, the arena, the corpses.
Without the shadow cast by the bronze of his helmet, the blood shone brighter.
Antinous, too—still in full armor, unscathed. Greaves, breastplate, everything in shining iron. Telemachus tried to douse the envy. It should’ve been him, the victor. Instead, he failed, pathetic, weak, shivering.
He barely had time to open his mouth when Antinous hauled him against the ground.
The first thing that he felt was a type of soreness becoming taut. Then—
Pain so hot, thick, and sharp that it made his knee twitch. He thrashed: tried to, as Antinous’ palm pushed him against the floor of the arena.
His fingers became taut, closed around nothing—eyes-wide, he cried.
An incoherent yelp. He was not going to be murdered, and that made him dread. What would Antinous do to him? In barren land, glory shattered, in front of the eyes of hundreds? It didn’t lull the festering hysteria inside him. Gods, it fed it. It sowed seeds of hate inside him. Panic.
He would endure if the man had to destroy him, ruin and splinter shreds of Rome by doing so. He had strayed from victory, after all, but defiling or thwarting his dignity - no.
His chest rose unsteadily, eyes darting at everything.
“Get off me!” he shrieked, wrenching away. “Get off me!”
Far away, he heard a woman cursing. Imperial, yet wrecked.
“Stop this!” A loud yell, thunderous. He bit back a sob. “Release him, now!”
A flare of pain, blinding, coursed through his ribs and tailbone - he tried to lurch up, lunge at the victor’s throat, but rather he twitched on the ground, jaw slack with throbbing pain. He arched his back, raising his chin, the crown of his head almost hitting the ground.
Crowd, the crowd, he heard it, colorful and bright and loud - it bounced off his mind, his ears throbbing. Shouts, people yelling. Women groaning, men cursing. They roared, shrill and earsplitting: either snarled or cheered, either shrieked or grunted.
His nose wrinkled: in distaste, or sorrow, or both, or rather hatred. He didn’t know.
Antinous rose above him.
Telemachus laid there, breathing heavily. His mind reeled.
“Silence!” yelled Antinous. His voice bordered a purr and roar, pride and contempt. Silence fell, heavy.
Too easily tamed, the crowd: his heart panged and stomach churned. Loyalty quenched with a mere spill of a brawl. So weak and easy.
Telemachus jolted—his knees bent at the thrashing.
“Stop!” another shriek, hysterical and useless.
It—she, the voice sounded familiar. Too familiar.
He opened his eyes, heavy lidded and stinging.
He saw a woman’s stola and shawl clenched by a fist and raised above ankles, showing gilded sandals and pale skin: the diadem, the jewelry, the scowl.
Her eyes so ablaze, so branding - auburn fury, with a hatred so depthless.
Veins reddened her gaze, but it sharpened it all the same: the wrinkles around the corners, the filling dread, the authority. Roma, like Roma, hatred worth a sack, sorrow worth a war.
“Mom,” he whispered softly.
He hadn’t taken notice when she had arrived, when she had left the throne to be here. With stenching corpses, the ruin of Rome, and a killer.
Antinous kicked him on the ribs. He keeled with a groan, falling over his arm - the raw skin pulsed with pain, pain, and silence too fell upon the crowd.
Painfully, hopelessly—desperate and begging—, he raised his head slightly.
His mother, queen of Rome, his mother, who never birthed a proper man, less a kingly legend, his queen, walked with heavy steps towards the arena. Hurriedly, ushered by the winds and graces to save her son: and yet with a regal air Telemachus couldn’t help but be torn between amazement and coiling shame.
Her sandals struck the ground. He dropped his eyes.
Her face contorted in rage. “Release him!”
“He stopped being your son the moment he hit the ground,” snarled Antinous, stepping in front of Telemachus—sprawled on the ground, moaning and a hand over his ribs—, as if guarding a bounty. “He began to serve as property. You, woman, have no claim over him now. I do, as a rightful winner.”
“You are not rightful—.”
“Stop it,” whispered Telemachus.
She blanched, pale and sickly.
“What?”
“Leave, woman,” his jaw clenched, “this is my fate.”
Her face turned stern and cool. Eyes narrowed, her chest rose and fell agitatedly. “Telemachus—“
He closed his eyes, fists trembling.
“Leave!” he screamed, a hand coming to strike the ground. “Are you deaf? I said leave!”
Telemachus lowered his head so that his chin hit his chest, hair falling over to cover his face. He shook: from the tendons to his chest. Hot and awful tears gathered around the corners of his eyes.
Nestled and wedged in his heart, there was hate. Ember, fiery hate. More than Antinous, it rose and stirred against him. Eternal Rome, forever burning, tainted by him. Prince. Heir.
He was foolish. Dunce-like and everything in between. Shame twisted low on his guts: dread, on his throat.
“Leave me,” he tried to sound bigger than he was, tried to sound brave, even with his heart beating against his ears and dread consuming him. He couldn’t stand this. Not all the eyes upon him, not the man’s smug eyes, not— “Rome is greater than a prisoner - so are you,” he added quietly, raising himself just enough for his mother to look him in the eye and Antinous not haul him back down. Her face was almost emotionless, if he neglected the tears streaking down her face, the way her lips trembled. A desperation like nothing he ever knew overcame him: he gasped, desperate. “Please.”
His fists closed around the dirt. He wanted to yell and hurt. Hurt anything, something, anyone. He couldn’t handle it: her pity, her rage, probably her shame. He wanted to vanish—no, flay himself alive. Tutored by a god, forged by a king, taught by a queen - for what?
There was this pressure thrust upon him, the world falling upon him as he heard the crowd. Rome’s only hope, lost and worst, not even worth killing and claiming glory. A simple spectacle to sow humiliation and drifting loathing.
He heard Antinous stepping away from him. The sound was distant, far, and yet encroaching.
He drew a breath in relief. A reprieve of shame, of hate, of losing.
His mother’s eyes shone - with a dash of shame, a gleam of pity, and a flicker of love. “Telemachus…—.”
She made an aborted gesture, reaching for him—Telemachus looked away, shrinking to himself.
Everyone watching him kneel, fall, be a man’s - maybe he could live and die with that. His mother watching him kneel, fall, be a man’s and submit.
No, no, no.
His heart pounded, head ached. His body throbbed all over, sore and beaten, but gods, no. his mind reeled, breath came uneven, and he felt fear, fear gnawing at his everything. Shame, shame too much to bear, that made his vision go white and ears ring.
He bit his bottom lip, a spark of defiance making him shiver. The thought in itself was too much.
“He’s mine,” Antinous spoke above him, loud - intimidating, “by the gods, your gods, by the blood you spilled, by your accusations. Your prince is mine now.”
A harsh, biting hate settled on his heart.
An echo on the back of his mind whispered at him, trying to reach him—that it was done, that this was his life now, restless and humiliating. Furthering his pain, he heard his mother back away with steady steps.
He flinched at how Antinous said mine—with a jealousy, with a possession only an owner could earn after exerting his control over the thing. A rule of the world, unquestioned and unable to be changed. A fathomable ruin for an eternal nation - the weak prince captured, taken as a bewitching spoil.
Somehow, deep within him, the same terror rang.
Torture was not quite promised whenever Antinous spoke of a prize, spoil, or ownership.
Temptation, alight, and lust were—as if he were a woman, marking the ruin of his nation and marking the flourishing of another with his body. A traitor despite himself, despite his blood, despite his life.
He tried to look at the man, his body, his stand: tall, almost lazy. Uncaring for the queen, for the crowd, for him.
This was Telemachus’ keeper now. A man to serve, to act like a temptress and as himself, a seductor if he was taken from the grounds of Rome. If, just if, Antinous plotted to make him his, to hold him down and have his way, to forsake all tenderness and fuck Telemachus…
A blasted unease outstripped everything inside him, enraged. Frantic.
He wanted to stand up, tall and imposing. He wanted to fight until the bitter end, until blood drenched him, until his fingers satiated the itch for vengeance growing briskly inside him. But his body ached. He was trembling. He was reduced to something less than a man, and he could only think of Minerva. He had failed in everything.
But he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve a man’s touch, to know another man’s body, to be ensnared into this.
He tensed when he felt Antinous’ gaze bore into him. Every nerve jolted, every limb rigid.
“Don’t flinch, boy,” the man’s voice dropped, heedless of his mother. Queen, his mind rectified. “As beautiful as you are afraid, you’ll suffer more than this. You’ll know what it is like to belong, what is like to kneel–” he heard a sharp intake of breath, definitely not his or Antinous’. His stomach churned. “A godly prize, a prince stripped of his pride.”
Somehow, he knew the last words were not for him: for the queen, for his mother.
He tried not to quiver, not to fall victim to the disgrace.
But he was sick of it all. Sick of Antinous, sick of this.
“Do not touch him,” he heard his mother say—order, regal and queenly despite her distance. “He is not yours. He is Rome’s, himself’s—.”
Not any longer, not if Antinous decided to rob him of everything, including his gasps, whimpers, warmth.
“He’s mine, he’s my son. Minerva has cast her eye upon him.”
Telemachus, with a bravery unbeknown to himself, lifted his eyes. They wandered to Antinous’ with a dim, although abashed, plea. He wanted to beseech him to abandon his efforts to wound his mother, effective and ghastly as they were.
Antinous cocked his head, smiling. “No, he’s not mine yet, queen. You see—” the man waved a hand towards his direction, like addressing a wild, rowdy animal. “He is still trembling, still snarling. Still believes himself Roman. Now, I will take due enjoyment in destroying all of it, as a near war prize—.”
Everything hurt. Thick, blistering mortification crumpled inside him. Hummed, scared.
“This is the last you’ll see of your son and not slave, dear Penelope. Your oath, I remind you, is divine,” child-like, he explained. Telemachus wanted to rip him apart, wanted to pull every bone apart, hear it creak and hear the scurrying whimpers of pain. “And cannot be torn, per this rule.”
He met his mother’s eyes.
She shook her head, her gaze—sad, hardened by pain—ripping away from him and focusing on Antinous.
“The gods will raise hell and fire if you take him away, son of Eupeithes.” She spoke calmly, nigh unbothered.
Telemachus saw how her hands clenched around the fabric of her tunic. The tyrian purple folded underneath her strength, wrinkling. He wondered, distantly, if this would be the last he’d see or hear of her.
Telemachus felt like an onlooker - utterly helpless, hopeless, useless.
“Let the gods anger, or turn their gaze stray,” Antinous replied, smooth and so like a serpent. “I have no need for divine help or retribution with my trophy at hand. It was a pledge you Romans took. Abide by it.”
He had a sudden, overwhelming thirst to truly kill Antinous.
Twisting Roman values, daring to speak to his mother so crudely: that deserved an execution, a public one not the less. His mother, his queen, embodied every rightful value. Staunch, firm, yet so tender and nurturing. He understood why his father would let her take reins, when she was so full of guile and grand. Still, he thought. Even in front of this beast, crass and vulgar.
His body couldn’t take much longer. Every tatter of humiliation, pain, and anguish had built up in a startling exhaustion.
“Stop,” he gasped, flushed. “It is I who you desire to raze.”
His mother fell quiet, in an astonished silence. Her features bent downwards, lips pulling into a frown.
He had predicted for Antinous to sneer or to grin: he did not, only scowled.
“Quiet.”
Penelope glowered, raising her voice.
“He is not to be ordered—.”
“He is. He bewitched ruin, and ruin pursued him,” Antinous cut her off, louder, thrusting his chest out. His mother, eyes widened, drew a quivering breath. Her gaze strayed from him to Telemachus, each time shimmering with an ocean-like pit of sadness. The man’s voice was thick with condescension - Telemachus gritted his teeth, furiously glaring at the ground. “Woman, have better sons. Men. Look what happens otherwise: Rome on threat, son dangling off your enemy’s hand.”
With that, he bent enough to seize Telemachus’ wrist - he squeaked, tugging it back.
The man growled, yanking him up. His nails tore his skin, digging deeper by each passing second. Unwillingly, the muscles on Telemachus’ arm relaxed and fell slack with a rushing dread.
“Tell your Lord he failed,” Antinous said - to his mother, with such a deep scorn. But he stared at Telemachus. Telemachus hissed, trying to pull his hand back weakly. Desperation stirred and stirred inside him to amounts he did not think possible to man. “And to have another heir, better than the last excuse.”
To man - but to a slave, to a toy?
Antinous fixed him a glare too dark, grip wounding.
Telemachus felt a red, stinging need to cry, to run to his mother’s embrace and break. He looked at her, lips parted open - he mouthed one word, a styngian alarm growing and growing like a stubborn weed.
Help.
He watched her face fall, crumble.
He watched Antinous, how he looked like he wished he could hurl Telemachus down and kill him. But something more ruinous kept him from doing so: not rage, although alight, but something worse.
His mother swallowed, eyes flickering to a group of servants behind her.
A heap of emotions swallowed him whole. He wanted his mom, his dad, he wanted to go back in time and run without skidding to a halt.
“By The House of Odysseus,” She spoke slowly, but he heard the rage. Undoubtedly, Antinous did too, by the way his grip on his wrist froze before tightening. “You lay a hand on him, you touch him, Rome will see it through - your men shall be slaughtered, city on fire. The oath was for death, not for—.”
“Prizes?” Antinous said, head tilted. “Sons?”
Where was his father?
Her jaw clenched. “Loots, yes.”
Antinous’ thumb brushed against his skin, in awe, before jostling him.
Telemachus felt a taste like iron pour down his throat when he bit down hard on his lip to repress the moan of pain that threatened to leave him. He wouldn’t show weakness, he wouldn’t.
He watched his mother: the plan she must’ve been revising over her mind, a way to deceive, to buy time.
“I’ll do more,” Antinous replied, ominous, voice drawn and mocking. “Do not fret.”
His mind quietened, came to a quiet. An odd one, a consuming one.
More, more, more—
He twisted his arm away, ignoring the jolts of pain coming down his spine. Jerking, writhing: he had to get out, he couldn’t, no, no, why did he have to say that? Why, why did he have to fail, why?
“Wait,” his voice cracked, desperate. “No, wait, stop it, not her—! Don’t!”
He saw the skin of his wrist turning white at the clasp. He fought harder, hysterical, like a child.
“Calm down.”
“Father, where is he? Father—!”
He was dropped to the floor, again.
His mind was in a daze, a stupor too deep to fetch himself out of - all became clear, for a second, begging on his lips. He was on the ground, between Antinous and his mother, with a cohort of slaves waiting for his mother just behind. In front of Albans and Romans alike, watching with either unfitting shame or ecstasy. Oh, no, no, no.
Telemachus scrambled to a half-sitting position.
His mother looked surprised, taken aback by his fit. He almost cowered, disoriented. He had to find something firm, something to ground him.
When he tried to press himself against something solid, it was Antinous’ knee—he jolted at the rumbling laughter, face white. He almost fell on his two hands again, forward, at the adrift surprise.
He couldn’t hear well, but gods, his father, his father would put a stop to it as he always did. Telemachus just knew. If his dad could just appear, reclaim him back to the family, to the royal blood, everything would be fine.
Telemachus was scared.
Gods, he was scared, and it was all because of Antinous.
The world narrowed to two things: his mother, in front, appalled.
To Antinous, just behind him, cruel and ready to tear him apart.
The man broke the strung silence—the stillness, for Telemachus didn’t think the crowd would let itself be tamed—with a huff.
“You must know that princes don’t last long,” he said. “They’re the best prizes, aren’t they? Sweet and defiant. Especially the pretty ones. He certainly takes after you, in a way.”
Telemachus growled when a hand came down to ruffle his hair. He tried to hit the hand away, raising his palm - before seeing fresh blood on it. His eyes wandered down - a puddle of blood laid there, certainly not his. He was sure, if he looked to the side, he’d find another corpse.
Nausea assaulted him.
“Just kill him,” his mother sounded weaker, on the verge of begging. “Why spill his blood on foreign land after torment? Let us—”
Antinous tugged his hair lightly before withdrawing his hand.
“You misunderstand,” Telemachus heard the taunt in his voice. “I won’t kill him after a night, or two, or three. He’ll endure whatever I unleash upon him.”
Telemachus raised his eyes, weary and soulless - his mother’s eyes shone.
She was watching him, of course he was. He doubted she cared any longer about the threats, maybe stalling for his father. The king, he usually held more authority, after all. Bore more power in an awry way.
Crying is for men, used to say Minerva, stern and chilly. Men petulant and hopeless. You are above.
Telemachus sniffled, averting his eyes.
His heart began beating slower, the rushes of alarm and fright lessening.
He was afraid the only thing left within him was resignation.
Telemachus shut his eyes, breathing through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Voices drifted, sometimes he heard screams - he stayed still for what seemed like hours, long and horrible, before something awakened what he thought long lost.
“Odysseus.” He heard his mother, soft, but also in something akin to asking for help.
Immediately, he shot up, a kind of excitement fogging everything else—before Antinous placed a hand on his shoulder, hauling him down.
His eyes fluttered open. He gasped—with relief, unabashed relief. “Father.”
The king stood there, his father, his savior. Standing tall, with a troubled look on his face. A laurel wreath, gilded, a contrast to dark and wild hair, just like Telemachus’. Purple tunic embroidered with gold, what he’d have worn if he had won. Eyes hardened by years of war, of suffering, of love, too.
Mayhaps it was the fatigue winning over Telemachus’ mind, but his father’s everything trembled when his eyes landed upon him.
Something ugly, dark, murderous settled over his face.
“Antinous,” he addressed, wrenching his eyes away from Telemachus. “I see you’ve won.”
His tone was so full of hatred, of a warning, that Telemachus couldn’t help but squirm.
Antinous sneered. “Clearly.”
The king’s voice became colder, but calculated too—Telemachus watched a vile smile come to his father’s face, unhinged. “I sent a messenger to call for your king.”
Antinous did not tense, not exactly, but the air of something free was thwarted and taken from him.
“My father.” His voice did not waver, but it held a threat.
Like a scale was tipped over, slowly, with molten weight.
Telemachus didn’t dare to speak, instead staring avidly at his father. He flushed at a riptide of shame. He didn’t quite understand why the king himself had come - for his son, yes. But after dooming all of Rome, he could’ve waited and arranged all of it privately.
“I trust you know what will happen,” Odysseus placed a hand on the side of his hips, where his sword was sheathed. “If you keep my son on his knees for a second longer.”
Telemachus groaned when Antinous hauled him up on his feet with a forceful grasp, keeping him unmoving in front.
“And I trust,” and a sword was placed on his neck anew, inches away from a fierce death. “That you know, to defy Jove’s will, is to be stricken down?”
Telemachus didn’t dare to breathe. It was odd, how he had longed for death, still did, but a humane bound to life kept him from actively seeking out the one thing that’d make his soul so wrecked and death so foul. Telemachus abhorred being pressed so close to the man’s body. The armor left his back twinging, sore - the reminder it was blood-soaked only served to fuel his malady.
A rage overtook Odysseus’ face, hasty—it faded away quickly, as it came, but his father still looked disgruntled, wrathful.
His mother gasped. “No, Antinous, wait—.”
“He won’t kill him,” his father spat beside her. “He’s using Telemachus as shield.”
Antinous laughed, an ugly noise. It was long, vicious: if not deranged, intoxicated in triumph. “Telemachus is a perfect trophy. I thank you, king, for the gift -” he saw how his father’s hand clenched the hilt of his sword, pulling it out slowly. “Mayhaps, just maybe, peace shall be feasible.”
Telemachus tried to arch his back, wriggle out. It was near impossible if he didn’t yearn to drop dead in front of his parents. A thrilling dread flogged him, relentless, leather scorching.
His father almost pounced, scowl burning with hate. “You dare—!”
“Don’t,” Telemachus felt something trickle down his cheek, to his chin. Wet, warm. “Father, don’t. They’re watching. Don’t.”
A tear.
He opened his eyes with a gasp, almost throwing his head back. The sword pressed deeper against his trachea.
He whimpered, breathing from his mouth: regulated, afraid of a slice too deep.
A silver lining shone, close to grasp - rekindled, along with his desperation. It was feverish, but it was to live, to live long enough to see his parents regain standing afresh.
He felt like a slave seized by the scruff, this impotent, this helpless.
Odysseus—king, Telemachus had to remind himself, with how wild he looked—looked at him with wide-eyes, then regret, then guilt.
“Son,” his father called softly. “A war is nothing to this.”
His mother, trembling, nodded.
Antinous snickered. “But it is,” a ravaging bonfire so clear through his voice, his actions. An ember spitting and cracking, ready to burst. “Your son has brought dishonor, shame, and ruin. If you stand with him, I ought to freshen your memory: Romans aren’t loyal to those defeated.”
Penelope flinched, her breathing uneven and agitated. Then, motherly anguish seeping to her every move, she took a step forward.
“Penelope—.” His father choked out, bewildered eyes turning away from Antinous.
Another footfall.
His mother raised a hand, commanding silence. “Hand him over. Romans are unlike your people. Take me instead.”
Telemachus jerked, staring at her with baffled surprise too. “Get away,” he pressed himself against the blade, only to have the chance for his mother to hear him better. “Get away! He wants me!”
Antinous grunted, hoisting the blade enough to brush against Telemachus’ chin. “Hush.”
His glare flickering back to his father, a vexation bleeding to his words.
“Tame your wife, Odysseus.” Antinous snarled. Telemachus let out a strangled, wobbled sound when the blade pressed closer. A hot ripple of pain surged forward, making his body frail and limp. Another scratch. “Once you gave us entrance to your city, I was no blind fool. Men lay on each corner, ready to raze the insides of your city if I give the signal - or if I face death. Rome will be in flames, I assure you, if you do not put away that sword, and call off your assassins.”
Antinous had, still, the spirit to half-suppress a soft laugh at his parents’ reaction: his mother clutched her chest, father looked more incensed than he had ever seen him.
But also powerless, and it made something inside him twist and toss uncomfortably.
“If you were any smarter,” Antinous continued, unbothered. “I’d have accepted your queen over your son before you invited me to your home. Name it a gift for peace. Heirs - they are critical. But the way he snarls and bites… why, it seems my whims have won. Nothing like claiming a prize each night with how wild he is.”
Telemachus lurched forward, this time without a fear for life or for death: but for a wrath, coursing too deep in his flesh to be let to rest. Antinous cursed, a hand rushing to drag him back.
“Fuck you!” he screamed, trying to hustle the man away with his elbow. “Leave my mother out of this! Minerva will strike you down, you filthy pig!”
Far away, far away from his body, he felt the sting of a blade - little scratches, promising something more, something darker.
Antinous’ grip on his shoulder burnt, but it didn’t do much to keep him still. Telemachus rolled his shoulder, to free it, all while trying to writhe with all the strength he could muster: which was not much, abysmal, but it was, bitterly, something. The man’s hand slid down to his chest, just above his waist, palm pressing him so close and with a force Telemachus nearly mourned for his ribs.
At least, one was broken, with the soreness and panging.
He didn’t need more than three broken, however.
May Tartarus see him dear and befitting, because he’d rather fling himself to his death, than to allow this beast to hold more control than he does—.
“Son, calm down!”
He glared at his father through red eyes, puffy. Almost closed, with how fatigue seemed to weigh his eyelids down. Despite himself, all fight was drained from his limbs.
“Listen to your father, boy,” growled Antinous. Telemachus trembled, hot breath hitting his ear, the man’s voice so close. “You’ll kill yourself, in front of all of Rome, witless and pathetic.”
Lips brushed against his ear.
He fell slack, gazing pleadingly at his father. For what, nothing, really. Nothing could save him now, only his hand, only to end his life.
Odysseus' eyes were narrowed, chest rising and dropping unsteadily. He did not hide his anger. It almost made him look like a mad-man.
“Gods are not friends,” he heard Antinous, as if teaching him, tender and whatnot. “Unmade, now Rome lies. No goddess who evokes victory shall see it fall without first casting it aside. Without first -”
The warmth—closeness—was ripped from him. Telemachus inhaled, relieved. As if speaking to his parents, Antinous continued, sounding more smug.
“Abandoning this prisoner, won through correct means. Great Minerva won’t save him after you took a pledge, Odysseus.”
His mother looked ready to kill with her bare hands, but she too was helpless.
“You are a beast, walking over the threshold and taking—.” She drew a soft breath, as if regaining her composure. “You’ll suffer, Antinous.”
He felt the man take a few steps behind - carrying him along, like hauling stock.
His feet felt limp. Another bout of distress struck him. “I don’t want to go,” Telemachus whispered, breathing hard and painful. “Don’t, stop.”
“Your rules,” Antinous spoke over him. “Caused this. Your warmth and your oath.”
His mother’s voice trembled, and she swayed back, as if faint. “We did not—never, would have we taken a slave—”
“Uh-huh. The Sabines remember, even among you.”
“As if blight is unusual,” Odysseus stepped forward, eyes grim and dark. Unfathomable ruin laid there, he could feel it. But his father was so far away - “Rome has conflicts, like any other nation. Antinous, I personally shall give you countless riches, estates, territory, if you hand back my son, if that’s what you desire.”
Telemachus blinked.
He saw a sliver of pain in his father, as if it burned him from the inside and poisoned him to alone utter those words.
He felt the sword drop from his throat.
“Elaborate.”
Telemachus raised his chin, disoriented, to look at the crowd. There, above the arena, they all laid seated: or standing upright, really, discussing and gossiping with one another. Only a few kept their eyes fixed on not him, but his father and victor. Curious glances were shared, but all he could quite focus on were the coins being exchanged. Of course, greed and amusement go hand in hand. Bets and whatnot. But it still felt wrong, shameful - to find mirth in the corpses, in men doomed to die.
He was doomed to such fate, too.
He preferred it above everything now, too. By far, by every rich imaginable, by every shred of happiness.
“You are aware of what I mean, I trust. As well as a role in politics, which would be favorable,” his father took another step forward, too tranquil. “The Albans shall be commended throughout the empire and spared. Taken in.”
He saw, in himself, in his father - a gleaming speck of hope, of hope too bright to be possible. To be possessed by a man. Weary, Telemachus craned his neck to look at Antinous.
He half-hoped, too, his gaze could convey his unspoken pleas, to let him run back to his parents, that he’d be cast away nonetheless - but Antinous simply stared at his father with an undecipherable expression.
He heard his heart beat, heavy. He heard the rustle of the wind, watched the sunrays become intense.
“Empire, you always speak of, for, because of Rome,” at last, Antinous spoke. His mouth widened in a mirthless smile. “Repulsive, assuming Albans want to mingle with you. Even hubris has blinded you, king. Your pride will be your destruction. I’ll still take him.”
A hand hauled him back by his arm, hurrying him back.
His father remained too still, and then unsheathed his sword—
“Father! No— dad, mom,” Telemachus tried to be as loud as he could. He tried not to shake. “Listen to me, please. Leave.”
Odysseus almost dropped his sword. “What?” there was a disbelief tinging his voice Telemachus tried to forget, for his sanity. “He—”
His mother laid a hand on his shoulder, as if to restrain him from leaping at Antinous, at him.
“Child,” her voice was so weak, it almost made something inside Telemachus shatter and crumble. Maybe it did. It most definitely did. “You do not understand. This is worse than death.”
“Certainly,” Antinous agreed. “But he has already resigned to his fate, yielded,” his grip became wounding. Telemachus tried not to stumble. “There is not much left for you two to do, when he has chosen.”
Telemachus hung his head low, trying to rein the wrath.
“Just leave,” he repeated. “Another time, father, after tonight, you do whatever you want against him. But not now, not in front of everyone. Not with the oath. War will break out if you do. Leave me.”
In the end, it will be Antinous who shall be shamed by Rome and her people. In the end, he’ll be a wanted man, and the gates of both honor and blissful death shall never open for him. Meanwhile, Telemachus’ blood is from, for, and of Mars - that about him. Death would be sweet when it swept over him. Now, he only had to endure. Enough for his father to plot and concoct any plan he desired,
Telemachus was still a prince, he had to remind himself. The priests and augurs of Rome were, once, for him. The people were for him, used to cheer at his mere name. Rome, he was her heir. Even if he had lost all of that, his father hadn’t.
The Albans would lose, he repeated in his mind like a mantra to shield him from a blistering frenzy. They will.
Not this time, maybe, but Antinous’ people would fall by his father’s hand. Eventually. Antinous’ future throne, what did Telemachus care– Rome would not bow to him, and he, not kneel to him. Not willingly. It’d be fine. He’d protect his father, his mother. There wouldn’t be another war. Rome would not be sacked, not yet.
“You heard him,” the man behind him said coolly.
His father lowered the sword, slowly.
His mother looked away. Then, in a second, she was crying - bending over, hiding her face.
“Very well,” his father muttered, defeated. He looked destroyed: drained and miserable. “Tonight, son. I trust you.”
Antinous nudged him in the shoulder. Leaning over his ear, Telemachus tried not to shiver.
“Walk,” snarled Antinous, grip still on his shoulder.
Everything was happening too fast.
Only tonight, only tonight.
Antinous ushered him out: more like dragged him to the other side of the arena, where another door was open and signaled the entry for the chambers of what he could only guess were Antinous’. Not only would he be defiled like a war prize, but be defiled in his homeland.
And of course, none could do anything. Oath, and whatnot.
He could only bear two steps before turning back, finding his father still standing, still staring.
“If I scream,” he yelled, breathless. “If you hear anything, kill me.”
Antinous only pulled his arm harder.
The door wasn’t for prisoners, or victors, or the ones that priorly led him to the arena. It was a gate-way for the guest side of the palace, he was certain.
It was a mixture of sounds, of cheers, of colors when he walked over the threshold of the door: men were waiting for Antinous, of course they were, women too.
Wine was offered, leers too: Antinous denied everything, and kept hauling him. To where? Telemachus was too afraid to ask.
It was a big dwelling, Telemachus learned - the entrance was just the path to the arena. The longer he trailed after Antinous—with his body aching, still tainted in blood and in dread—, he found other routes leading to rooms, to chambers.
He only stopped once, to spare a glance at a servant beside a large door.
“Hadrian,” he said. “Fetch me a vial.”
The servant bowed. “Of?”
“Oil.”
Telemachus flinched, violently.
Antinous had to haul him up to get him inside a room—dim, horrible—, when he froze and refused to walk any longer.
Antinous kept him there for an hour, or two, or three.
Telemachus had huddled himself in the corner of the room, hugging his knees close to his chest. This wouldn’t ruin him, this wouldn’t destroy him: the silence, the looming doom. The dread. He glared at nothing in particular—cheeks bloated and eyes red and half lidded. A harrowing gaze, he was sure of, swirling with every bout of hate: of rage, helplessness.
Dizzy, he swore he saw an owl perched on the windowsill.
Everything ached.
“Minerva?” he asked, hopeful, before coughing. His heart pounded, ribs were in flames.
The owl narrowed its eyes, bright and dazzling.
He threw his head back, chest rising in a gasp. “I’m sorry.”
With a bidden determination, the bird made a noise.
Not grand, not something he had earned: it was soft, but too grounding.
Telemachus’ ears rang. Another wave of pain eclipsed anything tender, too bright to focus on anything else. He whimpered, a hand coming to clutch his stomach above his guard. He wanted to die. He only asked for that. He only wanted that now.
“Now you apologize,” a burst of light, again, voice so sharp and warped.
He tried to stand up in a hurry: his knee bent over the pain, twitching. His breath came pathetically slow, or too rapid: a hot, shameful need to explain himself overwhelmed him. To be worth a little shred of mercy before he abandoned all his pride to a man.
“Minerva, please, please—” he stumbled, falling on both of his hands. He bowed his head - his forehead hit the ground dully, eyes stinging with tears. “I failed you, I failed Rome -” his voice broke, became too animalistic and guttural. “But please, I don’t want him, his touch, I can’t.”
He kept sobbing, unrestrained: too wild, too loud. But he was being driven mad by the thought, by the preparation.
This had to be torture. Making him wait. Fear Antinous.
Because it all sank - the way Antinous had throttled that man with strength alone, the crazed and fierce glint on his eye when it did. How he looked alive and thrilled above the corpse, sinful and yet full of glee with Telemachus weak and thrashing on his grasp. He thought of his mother, father—
Another garbled cry.
“Goddess, please,” he begged. It hurt to speak, his throat parched - the strain was enough to render him faint. “Eternal maiden, I, can’t. If he touches me, I will…”
He heard a huff. “Look at me, Telemachus.”
A divine order - who was he to deny?
Trembling, he raised his head. He settled his weight back on his knees, a raw throbbing extending all throughout his body.
She was translucent, as if fleeting. Her eyes were white, helmet for once taken off: she looked the most human and yet divine Telemachus ever saw her. Brilliant, she did not have the marks of fury, as she once did - nor did a sneer linger in her face.
“Do not yield.” Her voice was stern. Loud, despite the inhumane slur to her words. It was inhumane, terrifying, stained with lingering anxiety. “Do not fall by his hand.”
Terrifying - for him, home.
More tears sprang forth.
“I don’t want this,” he sniffled. “I don’t desire a war, but—.”
Her spear struck the ground. Telemachus did not flinch. Silence, it meant. It always meant silence. He stared at the ground, succumbing to the dread. Fear, to the gnawing reminder everything would be torn by him by the bridge of time.
“I won’t take you back, Telemachus. You do not have to explain your reasons any longer to me,” but her voice became lighter, like a feather’s caught in a cold gale. His breath hitched, caught in a torrent. “You failed. Everything that happens after this, is not my affair any longer. I am telling you simply, do not submit.”
In a twisted, fright-imbued meaning, he saw it as mercy. He didn’t move - dared to, the last rays of dusk shimmering into his room. Beyond this, it’d be night, and he’d have to wait no longer: for the victor, for the killer, for—.
Footfalls outside the room.
“Minerva,” pleaded Telemachus, eyes-wide. He raised his head in alarm. “Don’t leave me with him.”
Close, too close. They struck the ground: a victor forever, and yet his mere presence commanded fear. Like the drums of war past blood spilled and lives torn.
An order, a command, but too desperate to hold any weight: the goddess just looked at him sadly, shaking her head.
“Please,” he added quietly, inching closer to her. His palms twinged.
Pallas shifted.
“Telemachus, an oath cannot be broken.” Her voice was soft, although it echoed in the vacant room: not furious, but not bearing any pride either. It was gentle. “I cannot help you, even if I so wished. Endure.”
The creaking of the door. It was slow, agonizing.
Like war, it ravaged, it was quiet and yet oh so loud. Overpowering.
He looked at her, begging on his gaze - imploring, on his knees, supplicating.
As if unbearable, she turned her eyes away: the only light, the only brilliance capable of guiding him home. “I warned you,” she drew a deep breath, and her hair fell upon her face. “I am sorry for what you’ll have to suffer.”
Gray specks of light formed, surrounding her figure, flickering with an aglow determination—and Telemachus was left staring at nothing, pleading at nothing. A tender, hot waft of sorrow overtook him ruthlessly.
He tried to breathe.
The door opened.
His time was over. It had ticked slow, it had spun fast. It now laid on someone else’s hand - Antinous’, blood-stained, rough at touch.
Though war long fought, Antinous still bore the cruelness of it. “Waiting for me, pet?”
What happened past cells, bars, past shackles, past crowd - it worried none now, except him and Antinous. He could do whatever he wished, whatever he needed to rid himself of the brutality of this man, named victor.
“For your death, maybe,” Telemachus snarled.
He ignored the way his heart pounded, how every muscle on his body grew taut in panic at the mere sound of the man’s voice. Minerva ordered him, do not yield. He was not planning to, either way. He’d not bend beneath the man, not whimper, not lose himself to mindless frenzy.
Antinous took another step, distance growing short.
The way his foot struck the ground, heavy and with an impatience - Telemachus hated it.
“Oh, that’s adorable,” he cooed, almost in praise. “Your little fight. It seems I have yet to teach you manners, boy. You are the host of tonight, aren’t you? Well—were.”
Telemachus almost shook when the man crouched beside him, twirling a strand of his hair in his fingers. In rage, or in fear, he didn’t know. Both rotted inside him, both scattered inside him with such an ease. A sickening gush of revulsion overwhelmed him the longer the man waited for an answer.
“Aren’t you needed outside, for the feast?” he bit out, fixing his eyes to the ground. To everything, but the warmth beside him, or the tugging at his scalp. “Your men shall be happy, eating themselves to death.”
“My men shall rule Rome, or sack her,” Antinous yanked at the curl - Telemachus winced. “Whereas, I shall ruin you.”
Telemachus swatted the hand away, raising his chin in a spark of anger. He hated this man. He hated kneeling, he hated this prison, he hated it all. He turned to face the man, breathing ragged in poorly restrained fury.
The man was clean - no more blood splattered on his cheeks, trickling down his face. No helmet, either, but the flames of forged warfare nonetheless lingered on his eyes. No armor, for what would he be in need of protection? Jarringly, Telemachus could’ve tolerated the sight of the arena much more. Of a warrior, reaping the prize of a tussle.
This, leisure and laziness, he could not.
He bared his teeth, scowling. “Trample upon Rome all you desire. I’ll see you, as you say, ruined for this.”
Antinous’ eyes crinkled, as if amused. Like Telemachus could not even begin to understand something.
“Rome? No.” His lips widened in a sneer. “It is you I want.”
Everything he had suspected - everything able to make him shatter. He didn’t want to satisfy lust, not the one that strayed from blood. Especially when Antinous looked like he wanted to devour him whole, that glint of his eye hungry and unsatisfied.
He breathed through his nose, composed. At least, grasping at the straws of everything sound and lucid inside him. Greedy, he may be, as fallen in battle, but still he clutched at what little pride he had left. He craved for a bath, to be ridden of the blood, the filth, to finally rest.
Shed a tear or two, he could not afford that. Scarcely, he wondered if Antinous would like him like that - eyes swollen, lips pulled in a frown as he sobbed and thrashed underneath him.
It was too early for the man to even crave his body, but the idea of when he would made him agonize.
He pursed his lips, almost dutifully, and let his eyes wander over the windowsill. Minerva was gone. Not quite abandonment, but he was alone. He tried to ignore the ire that roused from that.
Antinous’ lips brushed against his ear, breath hot. “Do you know what I'll do to you?”
Telemachus squirmed, baring his throat — he wanted distance.
“I don't need to know.”
“No, I think you do -” Telemachus shivered when the man nipped at the flesh, gasping despite himself. “I’ll rape you until you can’t scream, I’ll break you beyond the fathomable.”
His heart dropped. Trying to wrench out of Antinous’ grasp would deem punishment, something worse than what he just said, but a disgust flared inside him. It wouldn’t diminish or shrink, he knew: it’d only grow, never dwindle.
He didn’t know what he expected, really. But not this, definitely not this. A romantic, perverse travesty of sex, maybe - treated like a woman, pliant and soft. Weak. Slow, almost sweet coupling. Not brutality.
He flung his elbow against Antinous’ chest—the man just caught it with an open palm, laughing. Before he could blink, the man had pushed him against the ground, sitting astride on top of him.
“You cannot change your fate,” he sounded thoughtful, even merciful. Telemachus gasped, tried to hit his chest, anything. “I’d say prince, but you play the part of a whore much better, don’t you?”
“Get away!”
He pushed the man off. Or maybe, Antinous had already gotten off. It was a frenzy. All he felt, desperation. All he heard, his own heart pounding.
Telemachus kicked - the first thing he hit, he didn’t know, just kept writhing.
He heard Antinous growl, and something heavy fell against the ground. Telemachus didn’t care. Mind muddled, he skittered on the ground, trying to get up.
Honor be damned, if he could get to the door—
Telemachus screamed when the man grabbed him by his ankle, appalled. “Let the fuck go!”
“You brat.” Antinous hissed, hauling him over. Telemachus yelled the loudest he could, throat aching - somehow, between the shrieking and his curses, his voice became a wail when Antinous had him under his body. A sob, then another. Being under the man implied being used, which likely implied something far uglier.
He tried to claw at the air, at anything within his vicinity.
Which made everything worse, when his back arched and he pressed himself close against Antinous’ body.
Telemachus stilled: especially when the man’s hands slid down to his waist, grip staunch.
“Fucking whore,” Antinous’ voice was too close. It made his nape tingle. “By the gods, will you shut up? Prostitutes don’t howl as much.”
His head was rammed against the ground—he bit his tongue, groaning.
The man flipped him over.
He felt nails dig into his wrists. Above his head. He was pinned down.
The pain was dizzying, nauseous.
It burned, a rush of throbbing twinges overwhelming him - he felt the man’s hands press against him, the straps of his armor tugged and yanked at. The fingers fumbled with a keen neediness, an impatience of a dying man. When it no longer warmed his body, gave him a shield, he heard the armor strike the ground dully to his side. His belt was unbuckled with a swift hand, raising him slightly from the ground with a grip on his waist.
The nausea, the anguish: it subsided momentarily, enough to feel touches far too warm on his hips.
Bleary, he opened his eyes. Antinous didn’t spare him a glance over him, pulling at his loincloth.
He tried to wriggle, shaking his head. “No,” he whined, chest heaving. “Stop. I’m telling you to stop.”
And the heat was gone. But he felt more bare than naked. Like given a type of mercy: that’d only be ripped from him later on. Cruel.
All alike a prince. He tried not to shake at the reminder he was stripped from even that title, too. Only worth a battle’s prize. His voice had no weight any longer, nothing imperial or meritorious.
Antinous’ thumb pressed against his windpipe. “You still have scratches here, from my sword.”
The fog of stinging faded, unhurried.
Telemachus felt terrified. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything else.
“Please no,” he whispered, “please, don’t, don’t—”
Antinous’ hand wrapped around his throat, almost softly. And then he squeezed, forceful and with too much pressure - he gasped. Telemachus could only remember the corpse abandoned in the arena, eyes rolled and bulging, face ashen and throat littered with swollen purple. Maybe, it wouldn't be so bad.
“Quiet.” The grip tightened, then loosened. “You earn the right to speak.”
He gasped. “No,” or panted - much like a dog, laboured breath after another making his chest heave. “I do not follow orders -”
Derisive, Antinous smirked. “Your fight is compelling,” his hands drifted down his chest, a finger brushing delicately against his skin. His eyes flickered back to Telemachus’ face, hungry. “But it won’t save you. You’re mine now, pet.”
The man leaned down, lips brushing against the side of his throat.
“I’ll break you in the end,” he whispered, “why not yield, instead of suffering? Spill every moan, scream all you want. I am not fond of unruly -” Telemachus cried when Antinous’ nipped at his skin, tugging at it with his teeth. “Whores.”
Telemachus squirmed. “Stop,” he breathed out, body prickling at the touch. Burning with a heat not his own: hot, flaming. He gritted his teeth, throwing his head back. “I’ll never submit to you, you mutt.”
He’d never let Antinous be the judge of, ruler of his body - would never succumb to his lust, anger, or anything.
Antinous shook his head, like scolding an idiot. “I’ll carve my name here,” he traced the finger down his waist, low before resting on his hips - heavy, possessive. Telemachus wanted to shout. The man’s eyes followed his hand, a flicker of desire so strong on his eyes. “Breaks the spirit, shows ownership. A brand. Only then, might you forget this Rome. Maybe another night.”
Another night, if Telemachus’ mind could bear this one without crumbling.
He’d not unravel, come undone at Antinous’ feet. “I won’t let you,” he croaked.
He parted his lips in a sigh: shaky, weak.
The man smiled. “You are in luck, boy. I am feeling rather generous today,” he said. “I have no qualms fucking you as you scream and thrash.”
Telemachus winced harshly, hating how malleable his body felt under Antinous. Why couldn’t he arise and brawl his way out of this, like he always did? Why did fright and unease have such a hold over him, hindering his snarls and defiance?
It was to survive, a part of him responded. He was alone, absolutely alone, abandoned and aching with purple bruises bestrewn across his body - there was no saving, only hell, only hell to fall to if he relented under Antinous. And death, and more shame, if he fought until his bitter last breath.
He felt Antinous’ breath hit his collarbones. It made him want to shiver. He didn’t, he couldn’t show weakness, not if he didn’t want Antinous to chew him up. Wreck him.
He was not scared at death - he was scared of what he’d be like, after all of this.
Telemachus squirmed. “Crude,” he muttered. “A good lover would say that.”
He paled at his own words. It was a bluff, of course it was, but not even that seemed to quell the sick nausea threatening to drown him whole.
The urge to bare his throat grew more the more Antinous kept there, licking and scattering little pecks from his Adam's apple to collarbones.
The man chuckled at his words. The puff of breath was hot, too hot. The vibrations almost made him tremble. A tingling sensation came over his skin, a thrill - his muscles grew taut at the feeling. It was weird, intimate. Intimate, his head sank—that single word clawed him open nearly, so displaced and vicious.
“A lover,” Antinous’ voice was sweet. “Is not what you deserve. You are my trophy. You are less than a man, now. Lovers are for boys, and women, not unruly pets.”
Telemachus felt color drain from his face. Less than a man: he had to wonder if he ever was one, a proper and worthy one to begin with. A fear gripped him, merciless. It restrained him from thinking clearly.
“If I’m so worthless, why me?” he gasped, voice barely above a whisper. “Bid your night with a… someone, anyone, why me?”
A hand snaked down to the waistline of the little clothing left on him, gently tugging at it off his skin. The linen snapped at his hips as the man drew his hand back with a hoarse laugh, chest rising against his.
He squawked. “Hey—.”
“Shut up,” growled Antinous.
Telemachus pursed his lips, seething. He did not speak another word. Another pull at his loincloth, fingers hooking under the hem - before it slapped back to his abdomen. It stung.
He knew a warning when he heard one. He too knew the difference between a bluff and punishment.
Complying was somehow so utterly worse than having Antinous fiddle with his underclothes. Humiliation burst forth in his blood. It was not befitting of him, of a prince. If he gave a cold, apathetic air, and his grip remained stiff on the reins, that night he could live with.
“Because you are you,” the man muttered, eyes wandering over his body. “Fucking insufferable, begging for taming. And you caught my eye. Simple enough.”
Telemachus’ chest heaved. “Simple enough to murder men?” it was laced with bitterness, with awe, with horror. “To go to that arena, only to get me?”
A small burst of laughter left him. He couldn’t help it, the idea was ridiculous. Maybe he was losing it—he most definitely was—to hysteria, but gods. Another giggle fell past his lips. He’d have thrown his head back if the ground wouldn’t have met it, solid and sturdy.
“Partly,” Antinous glanced at him with disdain.
Telemachus, for once, and maybe the last time, could suppose what the man was thinking. Breaking something so quickly, what was the fun in that?
He licked his lips, which were probably wet and shining with spit. “You are telling me,” he inhaled, trying to regain his composure - eyes blown wide, pupils lost to fiery hazel. “You only participated, confident that you’d take me, that in every scenario you fathomed, I’d fall by your hand? You risked it all -” his voice was quick to fall in a panicked wheeze, “killed, for this?”
The same word resounded against his skull, beating it relentlessly. Killed. Killed, without a care. Killed, with a certain pride - for himself, not even for his nation. All of it for a little toy.
It made him sick.
He panted. “You are insane.”
Nails grazed at his hips, and he heard it: the cloth was ripped off. The air became colder. Maybe it was the fear.
Telemachus’ heart sank. “No—!”
His thighs shivered at the chillness of the room, legs clamping close instinctively. With a wave of nausea, he felt Antinous’ hand brushing lower than his hips. Hot, heavy on his skin. Like a searing brand.
He almost kicked at nothing as he tried to sit, elbows trying to steady him enough to.
With Antinous above him—his lap, at least, hand tracing his hips—, he could feel the man’s bulge press against him - big, twitching against his ass. That inside him—he shivered. Tried to stifle his disgust, hate. But the disgust was a sea, and it was up to his neck. It threatened to drown him. He couldn’t breathe.
His legs cramped at the weight. The distress, more like. He couldn’t throw the man off, no matter if he thrashed or wriggled. He had half the mind to use his arms, to hit or claw: but that idea didn’t settle well with him. A shame, sharp and thick, swirled at how he was the only one naked.
Abashed, he schooled his features, despite the heat growing on his cheeks.
Antinous rolled his palm against his cock, limp. “It seems,” Telemachus gasped at the touch, weird and violating and— “I’m feeling kind today.”
His hips twitched, body growing stiff. He had to get away. How, it was not important, he just had to.
Heat bloomed in his face, paired with a shame that ran deep. “W— what?” he breathed, eyes darting all throughout the room in a frenzied panic.
Raising his eyes, he was greeted by Antinous’ stare: deadpan, but also twinkling with amusement. He yelped when the hand wrapped around him, shuddering at the touch. His mind, his everything froze.
“What other way to ruin you,” Antinous’ voice was like a purr, “than to make you enjoy it?”
Torture, it was, and the worst man had ever concocted.
His hand moved slowly, but surely. Antinous' thumb brushing over his head before rolling his hand in a fist down. He stifled a snarl, watching how the man's wrist twisted. Without spite, the glide was not smooth - harsh objectively, torment for him.
A fire rekindled, coiled low on his abdomen, threatening to ravage. Not desire, never pleasure, never, never.
Telemachus shook his head. “Stop touching me,” he spat, forcefully tearing his gaze away. “I’ll never—!”
He stifled a groan at another flick of wrist, a throbbing settling itself low on his abdomen, electrifying. Wrong, bad.
“Well,” Antinous hummed. “Pathetic, but…”
Telemachus, as if bewitched, beguiled, stared at how the man’s hand pulled away from his cock, opened the palm, and spat on it. Something dark stirred inside him. Not hunger, but not anger. It ran alongside humiliation. His thighs tensed when Antinous closed his fist around him again, a hot misery falling upon him. His touch was smoother, wet -
He made a noise from the back of his throat. “Disgusting.”
And it was, with every inch of his being, it was.
It hurt. It hurt to even look. But if it hurt to look, he did not dare to imagine what it’d be like if he closed his eyes.
He bit his lip at a whimper, then a groan. The noises piled up. He tried not to focus on fighting, but on surviving. A shred of himself truly, truly believed that if he dared to try and strike Antinous, he’d be held down and it’d all be through.
The air in the room grew hotter, denser. “Stop that,” Antinous spat. “I want to hear you. Every moan is mine.”
The hand stroked faster - fairly, he felt something inside him die when his cock twitched.
“No,” he mumbled, tongue heavy. It felt like treason to speak. Like he’d break. “No.”
The man’s weight kept him pinned down, nigh astride above him. He hated how he was trembling, how something hot and tingly seemed to be begging to burst, how Antinous took and took and took from him. He hated.
“I said,” Antinous’ breath was more laboured. “I want to hear you. Gods, I’ll make you cry.”
Telemachus trembled, biting his tongue. The sting, the blood - it all was familiar. “Shut up.”
He clenched his fists until his nails sank into his skin. It was wrong. He wouldn’t enjoy this. Have even this kind of pride stripped of him. His throat ached, burning. Parched. He needed water. Anything but this. He was a son of Rome, of tactician after tactician.
He tried to rein in his features: every flicker of hate, aversion, and flushed pleasure. The raging fire, anger, shame. He stifled a whimper as another wave of pleasure—hrobbing, prickling—took him by surprise. It was too much.
“The gods will shame you for this,” he snarled, though his voice sounded too quiet for his liking. It trembled. “What you are doing is disgusting. You will not both defile me and live to tell it, I swear I’ll—.”
Telemachus stifled another moan.
His hips snapped up at the friction, seeking more— but no, it was revolting. No.
The urge to fight was overpowering, even if he couldn’t. At least one Roman spy would hear past the doors. Or another Alban, too ready to share how the prince cried and thrashed without a shred of dignity.
Antinous cocked his head, unbothered. “Quiet. If you don’t scream, I’ll just wring it out of you.”
“My silence doesn’t belong to you,” he sniffled. “Or my voice, or - or anything.”
The mere act made him want to chastise himself, punish himself. What prince, meant for greatness, cried? He had the goddess of strategic warfare and patroness of the arts as his mentor, since young. Maids and servants to fetch at any time, place, with as little as a glance.
A moan left his mouth when he was reminded that he wasn’t a prince any longer. Lesser than a peasant. It ached,
His cock throbbed, hard under the man’s hand. A warmth poured and poured, a pleasurable rush overtaking him. Pressure welled, making his whole body grow taut and strained despite the many pleas of himself to not succumb, begging with all his might not to actually finish.
But he needed relief, he needed to forget, he had to—
No.
He was royalty. He was the favorite of Minerva. Heir.
He was destined for glory, not for this. A speck of fury settled on his heart. Indignation. He deserved better, far better. His lips twisted in an ugly scowl. His cock was weeping now, buds of precum gathering on his tip. He wouldn’t cant or buck his hips, he wouldn’t even whimper or scream.
“Beg,” Antinous’ grip tightened.
Telemachus gasped. For what? For death?
A pulse of need, burning need made him want to die. He would not yield.
“Fuck off.” He snarled, blanching slightly when the man fisted his cock faster, brutally.
“I could fuck you now,” his voice was honeyed, thick with a sweetness that made Telemachus want to retch. “Make you scream on my cock, shriek - show Rome what a whore you are. Then, maybe I’ll leave. I’ll leave you well-rested for tomorrow’s victory feast: your place, on my lap.”
Telemachus shuddered, not deigning an answer.
Desire and hate stirred together, little hisses of pleasure leaving his throat.
“If you obey, a leash would fit perfectly - I’m thinking leather. It bruises skin faster, and red certainly is your color. If I tug enough, maybe you’ll lose your voice, blood aside.” He mused. “Anyway, I’d just fuck you tonight, and let you sleep. If you beg for my cock.”
Every muscle tensed at a burst of white, hot pleasure.
Telemachus faltered. “Gods, no,” he mumbled, strained. He couldn’t. “Shut up. Fuck.”
His hips arched, rising to meet Antinous’ hand - rolling against it slowly, bucking like a common whore.
“If you don’t,” Antinous’ voice was predatory. “You’d look ruined tomorrow, and - I’ve heard too much pleasure can break the mind. Can hurt terribly, if I just continue—”
Telemachus wanted to sob. “No, no, no,” child-like, he whined. He didn’t understand why his body liked it. It was gross, filthy. “I don’t want it. I don’t want you!”
Hazy, every string snapped. He heard himself moan softly, and it was over.
He spilled on Antinous’ palm.
A dizzy buzz, comfortable and drowsy, then - fright, dread, panic all struck him at once. Hatred.
Terrified, he stared when the man raised his hand up to his mouth and lapped the mess. His stomach twisted and twisted. He was about to vomit.
The man’s eyes crinkled.
“Oh, great prince, mighty son of Odysseus,” he purred, “how low you’ve fallen.”
Telemachus turned his head, pale—he coughed, spit flecking the ground beside him. It didn’t appease the urge to vomit.
He tried to jerk when Antinous reached for him again. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, though his tone wobbled. It was hoarse, faint. A horror gripped his heart. “You can’t -” his voice cracked, “stop it!”
Sensation came back to his legs, hips - slowly, he felt drained. Antinous’ hand squeezed around his cock.
His voice came more as a wheeze: he tried to wrench his way out, torso twisting, hips bucking up to lessen the weight. He squirmed, a shudder tracing his spine deftly. He felt sweat trickle down his temple at the everything, heels trying to dig to the ground as a way of leverage. It only served to scrape his skin.
His hands opened and closed, fists clenching and unclenching. An overwhelming rush of helplessness took him. Panic. His breath came in bitter puffs, too quick one after another, and it felt like suffocating. Dread spiked and spiked.
Telemachus was trapped.
He ached.
His shoulder blades dragged against the ground. It stung: the constant friction, the soreness.
Antinous sneered, scorn so clear. Telemachus wanted to cry, scream, bash his head open. “I told you to beg, pet.”
Telemachus felt every nerve sear when the man teased the head of his cock, before gliding down. A jolt. It was pleasure, but murky. It made him confused, left him more exhausted.
His breath hitched in a gasp. It was sharp. It hurt his throat. “Fuck off.” But his voice dropped lower, in a muffled whimper. What if someone was outside, what if someone heard him?
Antinous stroked his cock slowly. The smoothness was horrible. Pre and spit. It made his throat close, the memory - revolting, he decided.
Still his knees twitched, hips stuttering.
His world became too hot, vision blurry.
“You could fight me off,” Antinous sounded disinterested, as if breaking him was a chore, “but you don’t.”
Telemachus trembled, head hitting the floor as he tossed it back. He couldn’t cry. It wasn’t too much, he tried to convince himself. It wasn’t.
“Because you’re going to–!” he cried, arms tensing. His eyes widened in rage, then dropped when it began to sting, tears threatening to spill. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. “Does it even matter? You’re going to, to…” a noise too similar to a sob left his throat. Breathless, high pitched. “Gods, stop— what’s the point?”
His body was on fire. Especially when the man brushed against his tip. His wrist must’ve been sore, so why did he continue?
He couldn't take it. A hand clamped over his mouth, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
“Point is,” Antinous smiled at him. “You look good when desperate.”
His mind reeled. He tried to find a memory or trace when he was desperate in front of Antinous, but nothing appeared. Not like now, not reduced to a snarling or pride-hurt spoil. Everything was ablaze, too. He didn’t want this. His nerves burned, scorched, twisted in and out. Every thought he tried to form fled from his grasp. Time dragged itself. It was torture.
He looked at Antinous straight in the eye, panting.
He felt his chest rise and drop. Felt everything, far too much.
“When?”
The man cocked an eyebrow.
Telemachus wanted to scream when the pace was picked up again. Until he spat blood.
“When, you ask? Covered in blood, back out there,” but it was more like a murmur, “panic-stricken at what looked like your first kill. Dazed. Begging your mother to leave you.”
His eyes squeezed shut. Nothing of this was fair. His mind threatened to blank at the onslaught of sensations as the hand stroked faster, sometimes squeezed. One time flicked. Pain buzzed under his skin. Relentless. He tried to focus on his sounds. Not to let a single one slip, to maintain composure. At least, feigned composure.
A jab of pain, and—
He yelped when the man dipped a finger too far in the slit of his head, probing. “Stop!” he screeched, trying to sit. “No, no!”
His elbows scraped against the ground.
Antinous huffed, leaving his cock—palm wiping itself on his thigh—only for two hands to pin his shoulders down. The pressure upon his legs lessened. Greatly.
Telemachus almost sobbed with relief when the hand finally stopped touching him. He didn’t really care how the man loomed over him, or the dark glint in his eyes. All he felt was gushing relief, blissful. He didn’t feel raw, but the filth lingered. He tried to ignore how something was left unsatisfied inside him, still strung and taut.
He had to raise his chin to look at Antinous, lips quivering.
He opened his mouth. To curse, scream, or anything. Nothing came out.
That touch was not an idle-threat. Telemachus feared he’d crumble if he stayed but a further night with him. Beast, monster.
The man’s eyes narrowed, inspecting him like merchandise.
“Hm,” Antinous rumbled, like the hiss of fire. “Stuffing your cock after this wouldn’t be too bad of a punishment.”
Instant alarm - he jerked against the grip, chest heaving. “What the fuck? Let me go!”
His hands darted against the man’s hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away, clawing. He didn’t budge.
He groaned, frustration too much to bear. “I told you to let me go!” his nails sank onto Antinous’ wrists. Nothing. “It’s an order!”
Absent-mindedly, he felt tears trickle down his face. It was mortifying. A growl rose from his chest. He wanted to be in his home, he didn’t want this. In all fairness, he wanted to die.
Antinous snarled, slamming him back down to the floor. “Keep fucking still, you whore.”
It was hard to think clearly.
Telemachus didn’t understand. Orders usually worked, but oh so clearly, not with Antinous. Still, he was baffled - at the torture, maybe. He squirmed, hands wrapping around the man’s wrists, even if they hung limp.
“Don’t,” he choked. “Please don’t.”
He knew what’d come next. And after. And after.
Antinous rolled his eyes. “Begging won’t save you,” he snarled. “Shit, maybe I’ll drag you to my chambers tonight after I finish for everyone to see and keep fucking you. Maybe my seed will spill on the ground.”
He began writhing again.
“Get the fuck off me!”
“I’ll fuck you dry if you don’t stop moving.”
His eyes went wide, heart plummeting - at what implication, he didn’t know. Being fucked dry until he bled and tore or simply being used as a sex slave: both made him dread, like a prisoner on gallows. The little color from being flushed left his face, features falling in sheer terror. “What?” he croaked, body going slack infuriatingly fast.
The way Antinous’ lips curled at his face made fear rouse from his gut. Fear and hate.
“I cannot slit your throat until all blood is drained,” despite the mirth on his eyes, his tone was grave. A clear warning: comply or die. Rather, suffer. And this was a suffering Telemachus knew little of, and wanted nothing with. “Or starve you. It wouldn’t do for a prize. But I can make living the worst of tortures -”
Plea fell from his lips with ease, with desperation. Pride be damned. “Please, don’t -”
“Obey like a good pet,” Antinous raised the volume of his voice, overshadowing his easily. “Or pay. Understood, whore?”
Telemachus stared at him.
The rage was transparent in the man’s eyes. Barely restrained. “I asked if you understood.”
He dropped his gaze, tears clinging to his lashes. He dipped his chin to his chest. His arms lowered reluctantly to the sides of his body, stiff.
He nodded.
“Good boy.” Telemachus shuddered at the praise. He didn’t want to be good. “You are only useful as a thrall, a slut.”
He lifted his gaze in defiance, mind clouded with rage. He tried to suppress the urge to spit in Antinous’ face, to defend himself, to fight. He needed to survive. Even if fury thrummed in his veins, buzzed alongside his ever growing panic.
Antinous cackled.
“Don’t glare at me. How many whores do you think have come before you?”
Whores, he wanted to huff. From the streets, maybe, from far-away lands with pasture and flowing water. Bewitching, but not Rome. Never the one bound to conquer, with its accomplishment being immortal glory. Never settled by lost sailors handpicked by the gods.
He swallowed dryly, steadying his breathing.
“I doubt you killed for them,” he whispered. “Or were heirs to Rome.”
Antinous let go of his shoulders, instead opting to let his hands roam across his body. He whined when he pulled and twisted at his nipples, rubbed his thighs together in shaking discomfort when they brushed against his waist.
“Well, heir,” his tone was mocking, heavy with disdain. “You are as ensnaring as a siren’s song, or Venus' enchantments - but I’ve had plenty like you. You aren’t special. I’ve killed whores for less, and in your case, I’ve traded them for less than a scowl. My men have frustration to release.”
A blessing upon him, a smile upon him, and he’d have the strength to kill Antinous.
For red to stain his palms, spill down his wrists.
But there was none, and no gods would come to his call.
Lest Minerva be appeased by an offering of blood, he’d be struck down by Jove’s thunder or divine wrath if he raised his hand against the oath-binding victor.
He would have, bound to no rule like flowing and ebbing water that did not adhere to honor, but it was the persecution against his family that made him want to roll and curl in a little ball. He cared little about his own life when facing this. But his mother’s, or father’s - why, that was different. They too were fettered by and bound to the oath.
Dominion over vanquished. In both death and life.
The gods were not known for their mercy. They killed and took in whims. Unpredictable, like wildfires and tempests. They’d make spitting fire mercy if their will was defied, especially if their amusement was cut short. His whole family would be doomed.
He flinched when warmth brushed against his hips.
“Please,” the word laid bitter on his tongue. “Wait.”
Antinous’ glower almost made him cower.
“You’ve made me wait enough,” he growled. “Not anymore.”
Antinous stopped touching Telemachus, wandering hands coming to tug at the leather belt on his waist. He almost straddled Telemachus this way, knees on either side of his hips. Almost in his lap, a little lower.
He had the decency to look away, cheek hitting the cold floor as he heard the man’s belt being unfastened.
He only glanced back as Antinous hooked his fingers under the hem of the tunic’s neckline, and pulled it over his head. With ease, the linen folded, and exposed the man’s hips, stomach, ribs, chest -
Telemachus felt his throat constrict at Antinous’ length, bobbing free. It stuck to his abdomen—tall, definitely not small—, already leaking. It didn’t strain against the fabric anymore, not leaving much to imagination.
Neglected, it twitched against his thigh. Telemachus wanted to shriek. Bawl. A dull ache spread down his rear, the soreness of the arena.
Antinous tossed the clothing aside without a second glance.
It'd spear him. Tear him in half. He almost trembled at the thought of that resting against his tailbone, ready to breach him. Or on the back of his throat, hips bucking against his mouth. A whimper was drawn from him. He had to stop his mind from spinning, from tormenting itself.
Antinous' eyes dropped to him, and he grinned. “Eyes up,” his voice rumbled with suppressed laughter, “bitch.”
Telemachus was easy to bristle, easy to rouse his anger - but this.
A bravery seized him, gave him enough drive to look up at Antinous’ eyes, unabashed.
“Upon the depths of the Stygian lake, upon the Styx, I’ll kill you.” He didn’t avert his eyes, face blank.
Antinous descended upon him, leaning down enough so their noses were touching.
He ignored the way something pulsed inside him, fluttered at the proximity, at the hot weight lying close against his own cock. It made his skin prickle, a faint tingle.
“Feisty. Too bad that those who break their pledges often suffer horribly. Or -” he grinded his hips forward, against him, slowly. “Their loved ones do, at least. It wouldn’t fare badly to see Odysseus brought to death, now, or your mother—”
Telemachus raised his chest, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck, and pulled him in.
Kissing was on the back of his mind, something so horrible that had made him shiver - but he couldn’t bear to listen about his mom or dad like this. Brought low himself, bare and on the verge of begging. And he’d only hush Antinous one way. He clawed at Antinous’ back, desperate. It should’ve stung, but Antinous’ hips canted up.
Telemachus tried to bring the man low. Not like a lover, but not like a sacrifice either.
The man groaned against his lips, pupils dilating.
He bit his bottom lip, hands digging into his waist as he deepened the kiss. Telemachus whined at the iron pouring inside his mouth - Antinous only kept nipping, eyes intense and aflame.
His lips were warm. Telemachus hated warmth.
Pulling back, he coughed. “I -” his voice was raw. “You are wretched.”
He could’ve bit on the man’s tongue, but he didn’t. He felt as if he had committed treason against himself. Foolish. He sighed, soft enough.
Antinous’ puff of breath hit his face, and then a faint chuckle rang against his ears.
Telemachus flinched as a thumb brushed away a stray tear. Had he been crying? One hand was still placed on his waist, like marking a possession another man might desire to steal the moment Telemachus was left untouched.
Antinous looked satisfied. Beyond satisfied, triumphant. “Wild, and unpredictable,” he purred. “Have I chosen my bitch well?”
Glancing down, he saw Antinous’ cock rubbing against his, the man’s red and weeping, his soft and still wet with his cum. Somehow, just somehow, a pressure on his loins spiked. A tide of shame suffocated him when he had to still his hips from arching.
A thumb parted his lips—which felt bloody, a tender sting growing—, before snatching his chin. Telemachus hesitated before glancing up at Antinous.
“You can’t stand it when I talk about your parents,” Antinous cooed, having followed his eyes. “Can’t stand knowing you like this, either.”
He tried to shake his head, free himself from the man’s grasp. He wasn’t in control. It was odd. Painful.
Telemachus grimaced. “Shut up.”
This time, he did feel an unbidden tear trickle down. Pursing his lips, he tried to ignore Antinous’ cock jerking when he sniffled.
“You harbor contempt,” he rolled his hips again— “and think of me with hate. But you, too, do not realize your life is in my hands.”
A finger probed his mouth open. It glided against his fang, pressed against his flat tongue: drooled dribbled to his chin, jaw sore.
Antinous’ eyes were glazed, almost hazy. Not controlled by lust, not overpowered by it, but still felt the pleasurable thrum of the thrill and power.
Sweat clung to his temple. The finger thrusted too deep into his throat. Telemachus growled, as a warning.
“You stay quiet.”
He tried to implore, best he could with his gaze - half-lidded, brimming with tears.
At last, the man withdrew the finger. Telemachus gasped, heaving.
Antinous squinted at him. “You look like a dog.”
Familiar misery pounced back at him. What was he doing? Caving? Submitting to this man? But Minerva said endure, not fight. But enduring didn’t mean succumbing. It didn’t mean having jolts of white, blinding pleasure, his toes curling as he had come on the man’s hand.
“You’re cruel,” rasped Telemachus, breath ragged. His eyes were red, puffy. They were falling in pure exhaustion, too: the dread, the fight, all of it too much.
He let his lashes drop when the man pushed himself off his body, rolling to the side.
He curled into himself. “Go away.”
It was more a plea, quiet and hopeful.
Footfalls, and finally, distance.
He heard rustling, the man cursing, and his whole body ached. He could only imagine the burn, the throbbing after Antinous fucked him. He stifled a sob, lowering his head close to his chest. Close to his knees. The floor was cold, uneven, and lacking the heat of the man’s body, the rocking of his hips.
He thwarted another whimper low on his throat.
Telemachus wanted to break, to screech and beg when the man’s nails sank on his forearm and turned him over.
Blearily, he opened his eyes to see what Antinous wanted. He was sitting anew, looking happy, like a beggar with thirst quenched.
A flask was on his hands, being tilted up and down - the liquid swirled, a dark green that bordered on gold shimmering. His stomach churned.
“Oil,” Antinous had a wolfish grin on his face.
His chest trembled as he choked on a sob. Torso almost bent as it all befell upon him, cry after cry leaving his throat. To see became difficult, eyes stinging.
“Please don’t,” he whispered. Or cried, high and drawn and pleading. It did not make a difference, he knew. Only one thing he had certain, only one thing he could ascertain, only one thing he could have control over - Antinous would fuck him. “Oh, gods, don’t—please, please—”
His whole body flinched when the man raised him to a sitting position with the grip on his arm, jolts and wisps of panic fogging everything else.
“Anything,” he gasped, eyes closed shut. “Anything, they’ll give you… power, riches, anything! Please, don’t—”
His chest hurt, heart cramping.
His head fell forward, hitting Antinous’ chest. His arms flailed before grasping the man’s shoulder. He had to tranquilize himself, the storm raging inside him. Dull it all, let numbness be his ally. But it was hard. Hard to think, breathe, be.
He opened his eyes, sobs becoming quieter and softer. “Please,” he wheezed, shaking.
It hurt to beg. Prince, he was. Roman, no less. What happened to his honor—what control, intoxicating and thick, did fear have for him to taint himself so by begging? But the more he thought it all through, the more he felt the suffocating tide of shame rippling within - no, he couldn’t.
When he raised his head, Antinous looked at him with a bored expression.
“No.”
And his face hit the floor.
The man had shoved him off, and he had landed on his face. He felt the man shifting in place, something heavy resting on his tailbone. It dawned upon him: what it was, what’d happen.
His cheek stung. “Stop!” he shrieked. “Stop—why—don’t!”
He twisted, legs trying to close - the man was between them, warm hands on his thighs spreading them open.
“Stop!”
His body jolted when his ass burned, raw. It pricked, a heat spreading in his rear. He bit down on his tongue, the searing making his thighs tremble and arms fall limp. Telemachus flushed, a shame falling upon him. The hand rested against his rear after - kneaded the flesh softly, squeezed. He could only imagine Antinous’ cocky grin, having the heir of Rome tamed at…
He stifled another onslaught of humiliation, the urge of cry claiming considerable strength.
“That’s it, pet, relax. Crown princes,” taunted Antinous, “usually aren’t spanked, I reckon.”
Telemachus squawked when his ass was spread, the muscles on his legs growing taut. It wasn’t the roughness of the touch, or the crass act in itself that made an anguish spin and bounce inside his mind.
Rage webbed and dwindled. All left, torment.
Bitter, dirty torment.
He stiffened. “You’re a monster,” he spat, closing his eyes as something cold prodded against his rim. “Monster– fuck!”
He couldn’t drift or ignore it—the slide inside burned, although dulled by the oil. He clamped around the intrusion, breath suddenly coming in punched out gasps. The finger crooked, slowly pushing out before thrusting back in. It worked him open, too slowly, too patiently.
Instead of brutal, bloody, devoid of anything soft.
Unusually quiet, Antinous hummed. “Tight.”
Telemachus longed to scream, howl.
It was blatantly obvious this was the first person he laid with, and probably would be the last. Of course he’d be tight. He had never ventured his own body with this much desperation, need - barely had time to find relief, with a virgin goddess at his tail.
Intense distress clutched him. Like nothing he had ever felt. It didn’t hurt, no, but it was weird. Sweat clung at him, cold sweat. He was restless. Expecting more, wanting nothing.
He cried out, legs trembling. “Fuck -” he shuddered at a jolt of wild, stray pleasure. He tightened around the finger working him open, groaning. “You.”
The finger pressed against a bundle of nerves that made his back arch, before pulling out.
“Three,” Antinous replaced the finger with two, the slide smooth and yet stinging. “Three would work. Let’s see how you unravel at pleasure.”
Telemachus sobbed. “Nothing more—!”
He grunted when the man began scissoring his fingers, eyes burning with tears.
He hissed at the stretch: a lashing he’d have taken before this. He wasn’t full, but he hadn’t braced himself for something slow, almost tender. He threw his arm in front of him, using it to hide his face. He felt the wetness seeping to his forearm, the saliva. The way his lips trembled, the puffs of air from his gasps and muffled whimpers.
It was tedious, at best - the night’s silence did not help. He could hear his grunts ricochet off the walls, the echo loud and intolerable; the huffs of Antinous, the gasps when the man brushed against that spot inside him.
A hot pleasure coiled low on his stomach. A pressure welled, building up, pushing and pushing. Little pricks broke out under his skin, making him shake and jerk. Even then, it was hollow, blank, lifeless—the thrill, the burning. Pleasure with no merit.
If he rummaged inside him in search of feelings of true pleasure, he’d only find suffering.
He keened when Antinous rammed the fingers against that little spot, those nerves. His body was set on fire, a ravaging, all consuming fire.
“Fuck -” his voice cracked. “Antinous, stop.”
There was a firmness in his tone he had thought impossible, as spoil, as fallen warrior.
It all crumbled.
The fingers curled inside him, a throbbing soaring. His legs spasmed at the blinding sensation - it prickled, stung, and left his skin tingling and aching for more. His hips canted up despite himself, grinding back against the fingers.
A reprieve—he drew breath after another, trying to find his composure—, and three fingers were inside him.
“Scream, little prince,” murmured Antinous. “Let them hear how I ruin you.”
It was happening. He couldn’t continue begging, he had to hold to the straws of his pride, the little wisps of control. Control. But his mind was too heavy, fogged by something too thrilling -
“Have you ever spread yourself open?”
He shook his head, stifling a whimper.
“Answer me,” he growled.
Telemachus yelped. “No!” he wanted to sob. “Get them out!”
The man bent the fingers: they pressed against something that made every muscle stiffen, a rush of hot pleasure that made him jolt, head bob -
He clenched around the digits, thighs trembling. He screamed at the sensation—burning, all consuming. It made it hard to think clearly. His heart began to beat faster, and his hips arched.
Telemachus tried to still the neediness in him that was begging, that made his hips cant back, that made something low inside him coil tighter.
He threw his head back, cheeks burning with humiliation. “Stop -” he gasped, eyebrows knitting together. “Antinous!”
It was an order, him grasping to the last slivers of authority within him; yet his voice broke, a shrill shriek replacing it as the fingers pushed against that spot again.
Tears stained his face. Pain flared, it really did—his knees almost lifted up at the burn, his mind was disoriented and weak, world tilting in its axis. But something shameful stirred, too, desperate and strong.
His anger had long shrunk into something more terrifying, acceptance.
He thought of Rome for a second - bought no victory, only torment and pain and humiliation because of him. Memories flashed behind his eyes.
The dead eyes staring at his blade. Countless screams bouncing off the walls. A desperate mother reaching for him.
Telemachus bit back a sob, breath lodging on his throat before he gulped it down.
He shook when the fingers were pulled out of him, thighs jerking and a soft gasp leaving his lips.
It wasn’t the end, something told him in the straits of his mind - its volume rose, making his ears ring. Wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t.
Antinous’ eyes were lidded when Telemachus raised his eyes, tears clinging to the corners. With terror, he realized that jittery pressure inside him was still in need of relief.
“Your screams are,” the man cooed, chest rising and dropping. His voice was strained. “Delicious.”
A rush of desperation overwhelmed him, then his mind was blank. Chills ran down from his chest to his heel. It was simple, if Antinous wanted to ruin him - a victor was never denied. Telemachus was weak, and forsook everything Rome had wasted on him. But did he deserve this?
Telemachus sobbed. He didn’t stop.
Hysterical panic was all left inside him.
A string was snapped again and again inside him. His sanity, maybe, or what little more he could stand.
Antinous rested a hand on his thigh, big and grip unforgiving - a string broke. He heard a wet sound. Telemachus closed his eyes shut when something bigger pressed against his entrance, twitching - another.
“What a pliant whore,” Antinous praised, and the last one cracked in two.
His lashes fluttered open, tears clinging to them. Telemachus couldn’t endure. He either died or killed Antinous. He recoiled, knees drawing closer to his body. He raised his chest at the same time, twisting and flailing -
Antinous was too quick.
Two hands rammed his shoulders down again, knee pressing against his thighs.
Telemachus’ breath was ragged. He arched his back, hands coming to claw at the arms pinning him down.
“Let me go!” he snarled - or really, screeched. “You—”
Antinous leaned down, nose touching his.
“You will behave,” his voice was hoarse. “Else you want your mother to take your place.”
Telemachus tried to make himself believe that everything that monster said was a bluff, a tactic to make his parents wary and resigned - Rome was too big, and too wise to not have noticed foreigners.
He sank his nails deep in the man’s arms. “You don’t have the power -”
Antinous didn’t wince. Rather, a cool sneer stretched across his face.
“You’ll take my cock like a good bitch, or I’ll drag you out, right now, and ask for an exchange.”
Exchange, like cattle, like a farmer’s good.
It was as if he had gotten doused in cold water. He stopped struggling, a disbelief numbing down every bone, every muscle.
Telemachus’ eyes wandered to Antinous’ - dark, serious. He reined in a growl, brand-new anger springing. He remembered his mother’s wide-eyes, the firm determination to save her only son. Her near begging.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Antinous’ grip softened. He grinned down at him. “Wouldn’t I?” His tongue rolled smoothly, tone too kind. Testing Telemachus, if he had to guess. “Why, she’s a more experienced thing, pretty like you, stolen by the breaths of time. A few more years before infertility strikes.”
Telemachus’ throat bobbed, eyes darting across the man’s face to see any sign of a trick, or a taunt — but a firmness was etched on Antinous’ features, a glint of lust. Fierce, and in control -
Antinous wanted someone. And he could do without Telemachus.
“What will it be?” Antinous rumbled.
His arms flumped to the sides.
He spread his legs, averting his gaze. “Get on with it,” he tried to snarl, chewing on his bottom lip.
Telemachus tried not to dwell on how he gave Antinous exactly what he wanted.
Soft-hearted, weak, frail: Athene used to call him that, sometimes with shame and scorn the same, and other times with an endearing fondness. He was.
He faltered. “Only if you won’t chase after my mother,” he breathed. “And leave the Romans in peace.”
Antinous chuckled, raising himself up. It was a sufficient answer. Telemachus squirmed when the man settled between his thighs, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. His back ached.
Again, the man’s cock nudged against him. Telemachus inhaled sharply. It was big. Without the preparation, he’d have been torn. Absent-mindedly, he decided he’d have welcomed that burn and blood rather than a snug fit.
Tensing, he prepared. Any time now, any time now.
The man’s hips were pushed forward, far too gently. Slow. He felt the stretch, the sting, but it all faded away.
He stifled a growl. Glancing down, he could see Antinous’ hand wrapped around his cock, hips angled - the head brushing against his rim, leaking and red.
Waiting - that’d drive him crazy. It was. Telemachus was not abandoning the scraps of his pride telling him to fight for this.
“What are you waiting for?” Telemachus bit out, lips quivering. His face twisted in a scowl. “You filthy, worthless dog, you can’t even stay true to your word—”
And the man thrusted in.
His hips brushed against Telemachus’, pushing his full length in without warning.
Telemachus trembled, mouth opened in a wordless scream. He clamped down on the intrusion, little gasps and whimpers falling past his lips. His legs jerked, but he couldn’t hit Antinous’ torso or back—he kicked at nothing, a throbbing seizing him by surprise.
He was full, stretched open; he hissed at the dull sting, blinking away another wave of tears. He could barely think of something that wasn’t the man above him, how he was coming undone in his gaze. Telemachus stifled, a relentless urge to cry and beg catching up to him.
“You’re tight,” Antinous groaned through his teeth. “Relax, whore.”
The man dragged himself out, before slamming in again. Telemachus bit down on his tongue, body rocking at the force of the thrust.
Through the tears in his eyes, he saw Antinous looking down at him - eyes almost wide, cheeks flushed. Transfixed on him.
His mouth fell close, lips glistening with spit. It burned. “Stop,” his voice came in sobs. Nothing was worth this, he realized belatedly. He should’ve let his father fetch him from this monster’s grip, should’ve crawled to his mother instead of standing so still, instead of cussing them out with that pride.
He was brought back to the present at another stabbing sensation: of fullness, discomfort.
Through hazy eyes, he glared at Antinous. His thighs were still trembling. Eyes still stinging at the tears, body still tense and heart shattered -
“Doesn’t mean anything,” he panted. “This is -” a keening, breathy whine left him when the man’s hips stopped grinding, and a hand flicked his nipples. “Nothing.”
Antinous’ lips curled. “You’re mine,” he purred. “This is everything you are now.”
Telemachus whined. He fought the urge to jerk and to thrash. It’d only make Antinous enjoy it even more. He clenched his jaw as the man snapped his hips forward again, hands clenching and unclenching around nothing. His chest rose and dropped with small gasps and groans. Groans of pain, he coaxed himself to believe. If for a heartbeat, his mind leapt to Rome.
What’d they think, seeing their prince shaking and whimpering underneath the man who brought only shame by winning?
He arched his hips when the head of Antinous’ cock pressed against the spot, before the man angled lower at his gasp. Rome would kill him for this. Truthfully, Telemachus would beg them to, if he ever gazed upon her soil again.
Antinous gave another shallow thrust, as if knowing what he was thinking of. Tearfully, Telemachus focused on the man’s face.
A mix of annoyance and amusement flickered on Antinous’ face.
“Let Rome be damned, pet,” Antinous’ hips canted up. His eyes were alight, like flames dancing - between the threshold of lust and hate. “It’s not yours any longer. Come undone.”
A choked cry fled his throat - akin to adrift anguish. Another sob spilled, and before he could control it, he was sniffling and wheezing with yowl after another.
Antinous huffed a laugh—the warmth of his body abrasive and far too close—, as if savoring every tear, every scream. But his voice was hoarse, strained. Affected, and by Telemachus’ body, and the realization just made him want to cry harder. Until a blood vessel popped or his throat bled and tore at itself.
Telemachus’ back ached against the floor. He tried to focus on that ache, not on the burning fullness inside him, not of the sharp twinge of something weird flaring every time Antinous shifted.
“How does it feel to be brought this low?” the man asked as Telemachus thrashed when the head of his cock snapped against that bundle of nerves, “to be ravaged by the enemy, becoming a traitor to your own blood? That you’re mine?” sneered as Telemachus bared his throat in a wail.
His thighs trembled.
“Fuck you,” gasped Telemachus. “I belong to none but -” a high-pitched squeak abandoned him at another thrust that made his head bob. He yelped as something electric ran down his legs, a shiver down his torso, a familiar pressure welling on his abdomen. A blush crept to his cheeks. He was about to say he belonged to none but Minerva, but now? The virgin goddess of eternal wisdom, having her name defiled during this act? Especially when something in his body did react with pleasure, just proving he was a traitor. And, didn’t she just renounce him? He was weak. He didn’t deserve her glory. Telemachus swallowed his shame down. “Rome.”
But his threat was half-hearted, and he hated that fact - if it meant guarding his family, keeping his nation safe, he’d endure.
He didn’t know how much he could take before breaking.
His resolve weakened when Antinous canted his hips forward with more force. His pace was slow, but rough. As if he wanted for Telemachus to feel every twitch, every vein, as if he wanted more than anything for Telemachus to despair.
He whimpered when two hands gripped the sides of his hips. “No,” he whined. “Stop…—”
It was futile to ask the man to stop, he knew it. But with tears blurring his vision and a sting on his bottom half growing, he had to do something. Say something.
Telemachus choked on a whimper when Antinous’ nails dug on his skin. “Keep silent, whore.”
Antinous shoved himself to the hilt - Telemachus screeched.
He ignored the little waves of pleasure, or in the least, comfort. He stiffened, legs bending and near thrashing. He didn’t know why he screamed, when it didn’t hurt, when it wasn’t any different. But just glancing down was enough to drive him to frenzy. Just thinking of what was happening made his head throb and untethered his dread.
He groaned when the man guided his hips against his cock, pushed him down. The claws making him bleed weren’t what he was concerned with; rather, he was petrified at the sounds that left his throat.
Whimpers, cries. Moans.
Of pain, he tried to justify to himself. If they were from anything else, gods, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He’d reject every part of him that was willing to yield or, worse, enjoy this.
He lifted his eyes to meet Antinous. He glared. At least, tried to, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. Eyes half-lidded and tears running down his face.
A fiery, blazing hate scorched his heart. Telemachus hated himself for losing, for allowing himself to be treated this way, for allowing himself to show weakness. Ugly, useless weakness. Not Roman whatsoever, not good enough for a prince.
Antinous’ eyes were glassy. “You scream so beautifully,” he panted. “Get so tight, too. Terror suits you.”
His hips bucked up when the man brushed his cock with a finger; it was soft, and Telemachus hoped it stayed that way. The hand trailed up his stomach, his ribs, then rested on his throat. The weight was heavy, but there was a glint in the man’s eyes - like flaming, hungry reverence.
It pressed against his trachea.
Telemachus arched his back, leaning into the touch. Unspoken, he hoped—was eager for—the man would crush his windpipes before finishing inside him, tear his throat apart before properly owning him as spoil.
He snarled when the man moved up, cupping his chin. It was forceful. It pressed against his skin like Antinous desired nothing more than watch him bleed, made his cheeks hollow.
The man tilted his head up with a victorious expression.
Telemachus shook as the man set a faster pace - as his breath became more and more laborious, became more flushed.
Shame burned on his blood.
“Shut it,” Telemachus managed to growl, albeit belatedly. He shivered at the sound of skin slapping against skin, the throbbing on his lower stomach. The thick fullness, the burn.
Softening his grasp, a thumb brushed against his lips.
“You ought to learn matters, be tame,” Antinous’ voice was thick with want. Telemachus almost bristled. “You have to obey me, pet.”
Have to, as if there was no other choice.
“May Tartarus take me before I do,” he mumbled under his breath. A haziness fogged his mind. Made it hard to think when all he could feel was Antinous’ cock inside him pulling out, then dragging in. It made him feel warm. Throbbing. It was tormenting.
Antinous slammed in. All breath was dispelled from his lungs. A warning, he was sure, and he hated how certain he was. He had known this man for less than a week, yet here he was, writhing beneath him, knowing what shape danger took by the look in his eye. It made him feel sick.
Telemachus’ jaw felt sore as the man nudged a digit inside, then two. They glided past his teeth, the sharp fangs, deep down his throat—
He gagged, and bit down.
First came the taste of iron, which made him scowl.
Second came the cursing of Antinous, then the disbelieving laugh, which made him flinch.
The fingers dragged themselves out of his mouth—after pressing against his tongue like chiding a young wolf, a young thing that would never become a real threat—, a line of saliva connecting his lips to them.
Telemachus opened his mouth before closing it again at another snap of the man’s hips.
Antinous’ laughter kept, and Telemachus stared as the man wiped his fingers against his chest. Red smeared against his chest along with spit and sweat. Barely more than two drops, but it was warm, and it glistened under the rays of the early moon.
He wrinkled his nose. “How dare you—.”
A sliver of gratefulness stirred inside him when Antinous stopped fucking him, stopping his thrusts only to grind against him; but an even bigger splinter of hate overshadowed it. He hated Antinous, he wanted to see him bleed, he needed to go back home.
The look Antinous threw him was enough of a warning to keep silent. “I’d think of what I’m about to say if I were you.”
Telemachus glared at the man, hoping his gaze could communicate the disdain overflowing within him. Alight and filled with rage. Still, self-loathing lurked in the shadows of his hate - after all, Telemachus was a prince. He should be the one ordering him around.
He opted to stare at nothing. Averting his eyes, biding his time.
Minerva said endure. Not fight. She’d know. She didn’t act in spite, and would only reveal herself to help. To give orders.
Telemachus squirmed when the man stirred. Enduring seemed impossible -
“Thank me,” Antinous’ voice cut through his thoughts. It was smug and everything Telemachus held in contempt.
His eyes widened. Indignation, or surprise, he wasn’t sure. “What?” because what had he thank Antinous for? His victory came from Telemachus’ own failings, Telemachus was the prior host, Telemachus had done everything nicely.
A voice in the back of his mind, faraway and yet oh so close, whispered that it was Antinous who was the brute, who should be apologizing and kneeling. And it should be Telemachus with the crown of laurels doing this to him, despicable foreigner he was.
Antinous was insistent.
“I said, thank me.” The man growled, for once dropping that savior facade. But still he looked too cheerful, like the high of victory hadn’t passed. Never would as long as he kept his trophy - Telemachus. “For not killing you, not stealing your last breath. For lavishing you with my attention. For fetching you away from a horrible life.”
Telemachus shook his head groggily, dragging himself out of that dreadful thought. How could he? Gods, Telemachus felt dirty, he felt unworthy of life.
A little flame inside him was fed by Antinous’ words: the hearth of anger. Horrible life, he said. Lavishing.
It haunted him. This wasn’t a privilege. It was torture. Torture before killing him, before the last blow, before tomorrow, where he’d formally claim him as a spoil. Telemachus shuddered. He wouldn’t put it past Antinous to craft the idea of branding him.
Antinous wore a grin on his face as his eyes twinkled. “Go ahead, say it,” he dragged his cock out before pushing in slowly. “Say it lest you wish for the river of fire in the underworld to be merciful compared to what I’ll do to you.”
And for once, Telemachus believed him. And for once, he felt dread, dread not for this, but for something worse. How, he did not know it possible.
He pursed his lips, a thin line stretching across his face.
Everything seemed to shriek at him to comply, but he was obstinate; Telemachus was Roman, and Antinous would not take his self away from him. Identity, values, whatnot. His birth was Roman, his home, his soil—and while Romans endured, they didn’t bend until they broke. They didn’t submit. They didn’t commend their offenders, who dared to threaten their homeland and family aside self.
Telemachus didn’t break the eye contact, instead narrowing his eyes.
At last, his lips parted. “Make me.”
An irrational urge to apologize and say It was a lie, I’ll do it, don’t be mad, please, no more overtook him.
But he already said it. And he could betray his own body, he could betray his lineage, but not this. He wasn’t a whore paid to flatter or a pet.
The truth was, he was scared. Gods, he was, but he had to be brave. At least once, if being a prince meant anything. If being his mother’s and father’s son was anything.
His body could betray him, but as long as he had a rein to his mind, as long as he was himself, he wouldn’t beg for anything that wasn’t death or relief of pain.
Antinous’ eyes darkened in umbrage.
“Stubborn,” the man muttered, sighing as if with disappointment. “I ought to break that spirit of yours. Will laying Rome in ruins cut it, princeling? When it crumbles, will you?”
Glimpses of a ruined city flashed behind his eyes: fire, blood, hell. His mother being taken away, his people wailing and screaming and dying.
Telemachus shook his head, a sob falling past his lips. “No,” he whispered. “I won’t. I can’t. Leave them alone.”
Antinous started moving his hips slowly. The smile faded away into a frown. “Brats must be taught with the only language they know, I reckon.”
And though Telemachus’ will seared, fear bent to anything, and it was all he felt thrumming under his skin. “Antinous, don’t make me say it—.”
“And that is,” the man cut him off. Everything Antinous said, sounded planned. As if designed to only break Telemachus further. Like he wanted to twist his defiance into something lesser. Submission. “Violence and pain.”
Tears caught on his eyelashes. "Please," a mewl at another thrust that pressed him against the cold floor, leaving him writhing. "Gods, don’t—!"
He shrieked when the man set a pace that was rougher, faster, voice broken and hoarse. Like the cry of a dove having its wings torn away.
“After this,” Antinous began after a groan, “after this, you’ll be punished. As my property to tame.”
Telemachus wanted to sob and sob - especially when he struck that spot, that spot that made him arch his back and whimper. That allowed hot pleasure to run behind his skin and warmth to gather on his stomach, thighs, cock uncomfortably. It was brutal.
He clenched around the cock inside him, chills running down his spine. He hated this.
Antinous withdrew his hips before slamming in, making a noise too low to be a hiss, too low to be a moan. “You take it so well for a prince,” he purred, “stripped and writhing under me like a bitch.”
He drew another whine from Telemachus when he began abusing that bundle of nerves. And after that shrill noise abandoned his throat, only more kept coming. Antinous rammed into him like doomsday was close at hand, only seeking his pleasure; he gasped as the man’s cock caught on his rim before it was pushed inside again.
Telemachus was not a corpse: but he both felt dead and agonizing, he both felt alive and rotting. He felt every bump, every ridge, and the heat of Antinous’ body was despicable. At the same time, his eyes glazed, and his rattled nerves subsided in a numb dread.
His cock throbbed as he lifted his hips for more - no, no.
Telemachus stifled a cry. He wasn’t enjoying this. Even if he gasped and his mind went blank, gods, no, never.
“Fuck,” Antinous cursed out, hips bucking with more fervor. Sweat clung to his brow, and a sheen of strain covered his chest - it raised and dropped with effort. Telemachus rather focused on that than the hitch on his own breath, the scant pleasure that was burning and threatening to consume him whole. “Moaning like a whore. Poor thing, -” and with a possessive glint, he added with a growl - “You’re mine to own.”
Sore, and in pain, Telemachus relented. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he could without biting his tongue. Or worse, keening.
His chest was heaving with effort, too, making it all together hard to focus as Antinous kept spearing him on his cock -
He kept muttering crude things, if not forbidden; how good of a slave he was, how he’d fuck him until he couldn’t raise his head in exhaustion, how he’d have his parents on their knees as they were forced to witness how good a pet their son made. Threats turned into coos, and coos into a string of groans and moans.
Telemachus closed his eyes at some rate in defeat. It wasn’t long before Antinous leaned down, hips stuttering wildly, and sank his teeth on his shoulder.
He winced at the burn. “No!” he cried, tensing. Proof of a claim; every man that laid their eye on his shoulder would know what had transpired. Anger flaked. He was too tired to act indignation, wrathful, whatever. “Please—.”
He shivered as the man spilled inside him, a warmth coating his insides.
Telemachus didn’t speak again. The man let out a relieved sigh, tongue coming to lap at the blood that had trickled from the bite. It almost felt normal. Not right, but in order to set his grave further down. To make his will—fight—decay.
Antinous basked in the aftermath, going slack over him - the stickiness of skin against skin, of sweat, of the smell of sex made Telemachus want to retch.
A heaviness made it nigh impossible to keep his eyes open. The burning in his body sizzled away, doused by a cold disgust. Soreness assaulted him everywhere, in every place.
He heard a voice - uncaring, he allowed sleep to lure him inside its abode.