Chapter Text
TELEMACHUS felt all air leave his lungs, and his heart bloomed into the brightest heat.
Percy stood behind the railing, covering the whole landing in front of the royal wing just by himself, his face grim and speckled with red, eyes blazing in the sea-green light of his divine heritage. He was decked out in that royal armor of his, the teal color a flare in the night, drawing attention, awe and fear equally. Because that kind of equipment screamed the importance of the wearer, making it clear that this was no normal opponent.
No simple guard. No simple captain.
This armor was one for the legendary.
His Dearest had truly given up any sort of subtlety. There was no more hiding just whose son he was. Especially when the sky let out ominous thunder, and a drizzle of rain began to drench the world.
Percy stood there, raised against the dark sky like a statue, his godly blood obvious in the otherworldly glow surrounding him. Gold and teal mixing in the most mesmerizing pattern, rolling over his broad shoulders and build chest like a gentle caress Telemachus wanted to copy instantly.
But the prince was too far away to touch this godly gift of a man, to feel his warmth and gentle lips again. To taste that infuriating smirk and hear the low rumble of joyous laughter ring through his own body. Telemachus wanted nothing more than to be drawn back into the safety of his Dearest’ embrace, to be hiding away from the world again, with nothing to disturb them beyond food and the need to move beside passionate throughs in the sheets of their bed.
But the daydream was as far away as the morning right now.
Because the sun would rise red after the bloodshed of the night.
Even up on the first floor, Percy was faced with a whole bunch of suitors himself, trying to get past him and to the rooms where the Queen was most likely hiding. But the son of Poseidon stood strong and unmoving, the floor to his feet covered in bodies and blood equally, building a pile already.
He was protecting Penelope with all he got, and the devotion to his mother made Telemachus breathless for a second.
Who knew what could’ve happened to her while his father was raging somewhere down here, if Percy hadn’t been there?
A though best not explored.
But right now, the intensity of the demigod’s focus wasn’t on his own battle, that was still raging, even if it was somewhat muted to Telemachus’ senses. Instead, Percy’s whole body had turned toward the fight in the garden below.
Heat, hope and relief crashed over the prince, as his whole soul relaxed instantly in the face of his Dearest’ attention.
Of his lover’s careful protection.
How long the demigod had been watching could be anyone’s guess, but he had paid enough attention to intervene in the gravest moment by throwing his own sword, his steel sword, right into the man that had been moments away from gravely harming the prince.
It was the sort of instant protection Telemachus had always connected with Percy Jackson. Selfless till the end, always pushing, always fighting and defending those he loved.
Breaking all the bounds the moira normally placed on the world. Defying time and space and destiny. Always for others. Always for the ones carefully carrying that impossible man’s heart in their hands.
Like Telemachus did.
And he swore to carry it faithful and true for the rest of his days.
Because, while he might not be able to defend his Sea-Boy (or needed to), he would still fight for him with everything he had to give. To spare him from harm of any kind.
Like Percy did for him just now.
Even if it left the son of Poseidon without a weapon himself.
Which was a fact that jolted the prince harder than any punch he had taken in his own fight.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Telemachus eyes searched desperately for something to prove him wrong. But the demigod’s hands were empty, his back turned toward the suitors closing in on him, fully focused on the garden and the fight going in there.
Focused on Telemachus. Eyes burning bright and intense.
Full of fire and protective rage.
Full of love.
The world slowed for a second when their gazes met across the acre of the garden again. Words and feelings passed between them in a heartbeat, screaming for reassurance and care.
Are you alright?
I am fine. Take care of yourself.
It didn’t matter who spoke what. All that registered in the prince’s mind was the blaring danger all around them. There was the glinting of something small and sharp in his periphery, and Telemachus reacted without any thought.
“Don’t!”, even Athena’s cry in his head couldn’t stop Telemachus.
His spear was flying through the air, strong and sure, aimed as precisely as possible. Which wasn’t very much considering the circumstances, but enough to pierce the lone archer that had found his way on the other side of the balconies, right across from Percy, his bow raised and aimed at the demigod.
The drawn arrow released weakly, clattering on the stone floor uselessly as the man collapsed, spear clean through his chest. Life was leaving his eyes rapidly.
The consequences of Telemachus’ actions came hard and fast. Haven given up his primary weapon, the prince was left scrambling away when one of his attackers got over the shock of the thrown weapons and started the pursuit back up.
“Fight till the prince can barely stand!”, echoed Melanthius’ voice over the screams and curses, somewhere to his left.
Telemachus felt his heartbeat quicken, eyes roaming around for something to defend himself with, as he dodged another strike aiming for his head. The steel sword of his Dearest was still sticking out of the hairy bear that had attacked him earlier, just outside of his reach.
With one great barrel roll over another body on the ground, the prince was right beside the weapon, pulling it out with a wet squelch just in time to parry another axe coming for his legs.
Sword fighting was something Telemachus had trained in (of course he had, his lover was Percy Jackson), but since he’d switched to his spear, his dexterity with the one-handed weapon was something left to be desired. He knew the basics, had a few spars and was fairly confident that one-on-one, he’d be able to hold his own against a lot of opponents, but in the chaos of being attacked from all sides by an uncountable number of enemies, Telemachus knew this was an endeavor doomed to fail.
In his mind, the ending was already clear, even as he disarmed two more men and skewered another one. The wave of suitors just didn’t end, and he still hadn’t even faced Melanthius. His grip on the sword became heavy and shaky at the same time. Sweat collected in his palm, making the blade slide around and made him lose a lot of power in his strikes. Even Telemachus’ movements became slower from fatigue, and he felt it in his bones even before it became reality.
This was it.
“Hold him down! Hold him down!”, the men around him chanted in their menacing and dark voices. Hands came together with the weapons now, grabbing his clothes and armor, making the prince stumble and lose his balance as he swung the sword around in a desperate attempt to keep them at bay.
His eyes roamed around again, skirting up toward the hallway, where Percy was preoccupied with his own wave of enemies. The demigod was fast and focused, but still weaponless (as he had thrown his sword, and Telemachus’ spear was somewhere on the other side of the garden, still buried in the archer). Not that it stopped his Dearest from absolutely obliterating and demolishing the suitors one by one with his bare hands.
The snapping of bones and creaking of skulls was like a background clock slowly ticking away and Telemachus looked up just in time to see Percy snapping the neck of some burly man like it was a straw, face twisted into an angry snarl, hands dark with blood.
As hot as that was, it also meant that his Sea-Boy concentration was somewhere else, and he wouldn’t be able to come to Telemachus’ rescue again.
Which really meant that this was the end.
At least until the suitors up there were completely disposed of, leaving Percy free to help.
Melanthius’ voice was like a whip cracking over the air, calling for the last and greatest effort from the suitors: “The king will have to obey our commands! ‘Cause if he won’t, we’ll just kill his kid. Get him!”
The encouragement made the determination of his enemies flare up again, and suddenly Telemachus was surrounded by even more bodies, more weapons, more hands ripping and tearing, until one finally caught his wrist like an iron shackle.
The surprised scream that left his mouth was swallowed by the victorious roar of the suitors, as someone kicked in Telemachus’ knees, making him go down hard, legs scraping over little stones on the floor.
The sword slipped from his grip as someone crushed his fingers, and even more dirty and heated hands clamped down on his shoulder, holding him up while also pushing him down, so that he was bent at an awkward and painful angle.
“Got him!”
And there was Melanthius. Standing tall and towering directly in front of the prince, his smile a perfect depiction of cruelty and mania. The suitor had a sword in hand that he used to lift up the prince’s chin to meet his eyes.
A round of rambunctious leering came from the other men, and someone jabbed the blunt end of a spear into Telemachus spine, making him suck in a wheezing breath.
Every touch holding him down was like a fiery brand on his skin, even through the clothes, and pain radiated in his knees and wrists, which were twisted behind his back.
Telemachus promised himself not to make a sound for these dogs.
No matter how much they might hurt him.
(Not even for the hand wandering over his back down to the belt.)
He couldn’t risk distracting Percy right now. He couldn’t risk his father’s first impression of him being that of a weakling. It was humiliating enough to be caught at all.
Hopefully his Dearest would be quick and help him before the king found out about his shame.
Only then did the prince think about how unusual it was that the demigod hadn’t ridden himself of the suitors already. He was powerful enough to kill them all with the flick of his wrist under normal circumstances…so what did it mean that he didn’t?
But before worry could take over his heart, the fear and panic was already there, because Melanthius pushed the sword forward, nicking the skin of his throat enough to make a bit of blood seep out.
The man grinned in triumph: “Now I’ll-“
His words ended in a choked cry, as blood pooled over Melanthius’ lips and down the front of his robes. Telemachus felt the world stop, as he saw the very tip of a sword being pushed right through the ribcage, breaking bones and tearing flesh apart as if it was nothing.
The red liquid became like a curtain, splashing out of the deadly wound in the torso of the man before Telemachus, hitting the prince and wetting his face with the sticky residue that was still burning hot.
The sword stopped halfway through the suitor, who gasped and choked, trying to call out with the last of his breath: “Mer-Merc-“
“Mercy?”
Telemachus gasped. He felt the presence of Athena recede in the back of his mind, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
Not the hot hands on his body.
Not the pain radiating through his shallow cuts and bruises.
Not the knowledge that his greatest Love was somewhere to his right, fighting as well.
Because right in this second, against the darkness of the night sky and the dimmed light of only two burning torches, the King of Ithaca rose like a vengeful ghost.
And Telemachus got his first ever look of his mother’s husband.
Of Odysseus.
His father.
-
Odysseus, King of Ithaca, didn’t look anything like the statues that were built in his honor. Even the portrays and drawing lining his mother’s chamber only had the slightest resemblance to the man that came to a stop right in front of Telemachus.
He could understand Percy’s amusement now upon seeing the newest statue, as a faint part of his brain whispered, while every other thought had been blown out like a pesky fly.
The person rising behind the slumping body of Melanthius (still pierced upon the sword) was so very different from the regal King Telemachus had dreamed about meeting one day. He wasn’t very tall, but the dirty cloak bulging around his wide shoulders showed well enough that he packed a lot of strength, nonetheless. A gaunt face with sunken cheeks was only partly visible due to the low light and the hood still drawn up. Mangily dark hair was falling down to the man’s shoulders, tangling with an unruly beard that was both long and short, all of it matted with what had to be blood.
And still, despite the mess and dirt and blood, despite the obvious years that had passed and the expression that was wrought by unspeakable anger, Telemachus would’ve recognized the haggard warrior as his father anyway.
Their eyes were the same, just a slightly different color, one light with hope and youth, the other dark with pain and regret. The slope of their jaw and the straight nose was copy and pasted from one face to the other, both mirroring the many statues of previous generations.
It was only when Telemachus was finally able to compare his looks to his father for real, that he recognized what he had gotten from his mother as well. Like the high cheekbones and the gently curve of her lips. His brows were all Penelope as well, even though his hands might’ve been more like his father, as the man ripped the sword out of Melanthius again, shattering the moment for the prince like a glass on the ground.
“Mercy?!”, he roared again, louder and with far more rage.
Without even a second of hesitation, Odysseus twisted the sword and pushed it back into the already fallen man, before turning around with one swift motion, drawing a bow from somewhere and knocking an arrow faster than any man Telemachus had ever seen before.
The first shot struck the person holding the prince’s wrist right between the eyes. (A fact Telemachus could only see in the corner of his eye, for his body was still frozen in shock and fear, staring at the wright of vengeance inhabiting his father’s shell).
Blood splattered onto the floor. The cloak tied around Telemachus’ neck felt like a noose.
“My mercy has long since drowned. He died to bring me home.”, Odysseus stated, voice deep and raspy. His unspoken promise was underlined by two more arrows finding their marks in the slowly erupting chaos of the suitors. Men began to curse, some trying to flee, but more storming in, weapons raised.
The dark eyes of the king gleamed red in the light of the torches, as he growled: “And as long as you’re around, my family will never be safe!”
He evaded a strike coming from his left easily, before slamming an arrow straight to the suitor’s eye, knocking it after that to kill another person somewhere behind Telemachus.
For a second, the prince feared that the next shot would be aimed at him, but the king turned around again, not once looking down to the still kneeling boy, but instead continuing expressing his wrath with a dark declaration that echoed through the gardens: “You plotted to kill my son!” (They did?!) “You planned to rape my wife. All of you are going to die!”
Telemachus flinched hard when the words tickled in and settled into his brain. His breath came in quiet puffs, as his body began to shake uncontrollably. Eyes still glued to the silhouette of his father, as he razed through the suitors coming for his head like they were nothing, the prince felt himself drift. Like he himself was nothing but a specter watching the events, Telemachus distantly asked why no one thought to come after him again. He was motionless and paralyzed, still on the ground, helpless. But every suitor seemed to have forgotten about his presence entirely.
Odysseus was a true wonder with a bow. His shots were precise and quick, never missing their mark and the way he switched between this weapon and the sword still in his hand spoke of years and years of training and practice. The ease in his movements was something not even Percy possessed, as the king cut down foe after foe, until everyone halfway intelligent made to retreat, wary now that their luck had run out.
But the king wasn’t done. When he got the space to breath for a minute, he sounded level as he spoke his next words: “My heart is filled with hate because of you. Everyone who has done me wrong…” And then he whirled around, sword singing through the air right beside Telemachus.
The prince closed his eyes as he flinched even harder, a small whimper leaving his lips. But when the moment faded and he opened his eyes again, Telemachus wished for a second to have kept them close.
For his father had positioned him on the bench in the garden, the wind tearing at his clothes, as he held up the cut-off head of Melanthius by the hair, expression pained and shocked even in death.
“This will be your fate!”, the king declared menacingly, before throwing the head down like the sign for war that it was. As Odysseus jumped on the other side of the bench, away from Telemachus, head held high and weapon raised, the prince refused to look away again. He refused to let this moment pass him by. He needed to see this with his own eyes. Needed to know what was happening…who had claimed their palace.
Telemachus needed to know if one monster was simply exchanged for another.
Because everything he heard after his father’s words, were screams.