Chapter Text
You were nine years old when your father, with all the pomp and gravity he could muster, announced that you were betrothed to the prince of Ithaca. His voice echoed through the great hall, heavy with pride, as though the words themselves carried the weight of some ancient prophecy. Betrothed. A word too big and too foreign for your small frame, but one that landed like a stone in your chest all the same.
At nine, you were more concerned with climbing trees, getting mud on your hems, and sneaking sweets from the kitchens than with the intricacies of royal politics. Marriage? The thought sent a wave of revulsion through you. Kissing some stranger? Sharing your life with him? It sounded like the stuff of punishment, not fairytales. You wrinkled your nose at the very idea, your small hands balling into fists beneath the long table. You couldn’t imagine anything worse than being shackled to someone you didn’t know, especially someone who might not even like to climb trees or eat sweets or anything else that mattered.
“But it is a great honor,” your father had said, his sharp gaze cutting through your protest before it could escape your lips. “To refuse would be an insult to the royal house of Ithaca, who have shown us nothing but good faith. You will behave.”
That word—behave—struck harder than his cane ever could. It wasn’t a request. It was a command dressed in politeness, a warning tucked into silk gloves. Your father’s expectations had always been a weight you carried, but this felt heavier, colder, like chains rather than the invisible strings you had grown used to.
You swallowed hard, biting your tongue as instructed, though every fiber of your being wanted to shout and stamp your feet. What would happen if you refused? Would Ithaca’s ships suddenly appear on the horizon, their masts bristling with weapons? Would your father’s disappointment cut deeper than the threat of war?
But you said nothing. You had learned, even at that tender age, how to swallow your feelings until they settled like stones in your stomach. You were a princess. A princess behaves. So, you pressed your lips together until they were thin and pale, nodded stiffly, and let the weight of his words settle over you.
Still, as the servants poured more wine and the conversation turned to other matters, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering. Somewhere across the sea, a boy you’d never met was being told that you would be his bride. Was he just as disgusted? Just as helpless? Or was he laughing with excitement, eager for the day when he could claim his prize?
The thought made your cheeks burn with something that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite embarrassment. Whatever it was, you didn’t like it.
That night, as you lay awake in your chambers, staring at the beams of the ceiling, you vowed to yourself that you would never give your heart to this faceless boy from Ithaca. You might behave, but you wouldn’t love .
You were eleven when the first letter arrived, delivered by a stoic courier clad in Ithacan colors. The scroll itself was humble for something bearing a royal seal—its edges slightly frayed, one corner folded inward like the floppy ear of a stray dog. The parchment felt rough under your fingertips, uneven in places, as though it had been hurriedly prepared. And the writing… well, the writing wasn’t exactly regal. Slanted letters marched across the page in unsteady lines, some leaning too far forward as if they were in a rush, others standing upright with the stubbornness of a child trying to write neatly for the first time.
The letter began formally, with an introduction that almost made you laugh: Telemachus of Ithaca, as though the seal pressed into the wax and the courier’s solemn announcement hadn’t already made that abundantly clear. It was oddly endearing, though. Looking back on it now, you can almost picture him—this boy, barely older than yourself, trying so hard to sound princely while his words betrayed a youthful earnestness.
He wrote about his mother first. My mother, Queen Penelope, he called her, but the title seemed an afterthought compared to the way he described her. She was “wonderful and patient,” he said, a woman capable of juggling the endless demands of the court while also ensuring her son didn’t manage to accidentally impale himself on a sword he was far too young to wield. His tone shifted briefly, lighthearted, as he admitted she had eventually caved to his incessant begging and brought in a tutor to give him proper lessons in the afternoons. You could almost see her, exasperated but loving, her eyes glinting with a mix of maternal pride and resignation as she handed her reckless son over to someone more qualified.
He mentioned his father only in passing—Odysseus, a name as legendary as it was familiar to you. Tales of the wily king had been part of your upbringing, his exploits woven into songs and stories told by every bard worth their salt. But Telemachus didn’t linger on the man whose shadow loomed so large. Instead, he shifted focus to Ithaca itself, and it was here that his words seemed to come alive.
He described the palace where he lived, its stones weathered by time but still standing proud atop the cliffs. He painted a picture of the rolling hills that stretched endlessly, dotted with olive trees and grazing goats. He wrote about the sunsets—how the sky turned molten gold and fiery orange before melting into a deep, endless blue. His words were clumsy, almost apologetic, as if he knew they couldn’t quite capture the beauty he saw each evening. Yet there was a warmth in his description, a homespun charm that made you smile despite yourself.
You could tell he had rushed to finish the letter, squeezing the final details onto the bottom of the page before the ink had time to dry properly. There were small smudges where his hand had brushed the parchment, leaving faint trails of ink like fingerprints. Even then, at eleven years old, you recognized the effort he had put into it, the sincerity behind every slightly crooked letter.
It wasn’t what you’d expected—this first glimpse of the boy you were promised to. But as you reread the letter that night by candlelight, tracing the uneven lines with your eyes, you found yourself wondering what it would be like to see those rolling hills and sunsets for yourself.
You wrote back with a careful hand, sitting at the polished wooden desk in your chambers as the warm Mediterranean breeze filtered through the open windows. The sunlight danced across the pale stone walls, casting flickering patterns that reminded you of the olive trees swaying gently beyond the gardens. You dipped the quill into the ink, pausing for a moment as you gazed out toward the sprawling orchards and winding pathways that encircled your castle grounds.
You described the orchards first—endless rows of fig and pomegranate trees, their fruits heavy and ripening under the Greek sun. You told him about the sprawling gardens, where the sweet scent of jasmine and wild thyme always lingered in the air. In the springtime, the apple blossoms would bloom in delicate bursts of white and pink, their petals drifting lazily to the ground like snowflakes in the gentle breezes. You hoped that, through your words, Telemachus could imagine these places as vividly as you saw them.
Next, you wrote of your father, a man both steadfast and fortunate, who had not been called to fight in the long and bloody war against Troy. The gods had been kind to him, sparing him from the battlefield, and in turn, you wrote that your family had been spared from the grief that so many others endured. Still, you were quick to send your regards for King Odysseus, whose absence weighed heavily not just on Ithaca but on all of Greece.
You hesitated when it came to writing about your mother and sisters, chewing the end of your quill as you considered the right words. Finally, you settled on the truth. You told Telemachus about your fretful mother, whose brow always seemed knit with worry, even on the clearest of days. About your three older sisters, who clung to you as though you were a rare and fragile thing—an intricate sculpture carved from glass by the hands of a master. Their overbearing affection frustrated you at times, but you could never bring yourself to resent them for it. After all, their fussing was born from love, and you knew you were lucky to have so many who cared for your well-being.
As you neared the end of the letter, your gaze fell to the small collection of pressed flowers you kept between the pages of an old, worn scroll. Carefully, you selected a dried apple blossom, its pale pink petals preserved perfectly. It was one of your favorite flowers, a fleeting reminder of spring’s beauty. You pressed it gently into the parchment, just beside your closing lines, hoping the small token might bridge the distance between you and the boy across the sea.
Once the scroll was rolled and sealed with wax, you handed it to the waiting courier, your heart fluttering with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation. Would he smile when he saw the blossom? Would your words paint as vivid a picture of your home as his had of Ithaca?
As the courier disappeared down the marble steps, you lingered at the window, watching as he mounted his horse and rode off toward the horizon. For a moment, you wondered if Telemachus was waiting for your letter the same way you had waited for his.
You were fifteen when his letter arrived with a gift enclosed: a small, shining silver ring. It glimmered in the afternoon light as you turned it over in your hands, tracing the engraving of a wolf’s head on the raised circle. In his letter, Telemachus explained its significance. The wolf, he wrote, was a name given to me by the Suitors—the men who infiltrated the halls of my home, leeching off the kingdom like parasites. They called me ‘Little Wolf.’ At first, I hated it. It felt like mockery, a reminder of my youth and powerlessness. But as I grew older, I realized something: wolves protect their own. And now, with this ring, that includes you.
The words had stayed with you, as sharp and striking as the image of the wolf etched into the silver. You smiled at his sentiment, feeling a strange warmth bloom in your chest. But when you tried it on, the ring slid loosely down to your knuckle—it was a size too large. Not wanting to risk losing it, you threaded it onto a simple chain and wore it around your neck, the cool metal brushing against your skin as a quiet, constant reminder of him.
For his sixteenth birthday, you sent him a pair of delicate blue earrings—lapis lazuli stones set into bronze hooks, a color you thought would suit him. When his reply came, the words leapt off the page: I’ll never take them out, he had written, a bold declaration that left your cheeks aflame and your heart racing. Even years later, thinking back to that promise, you couldn’t help but smile, your fingers brushing the ring now resting snugly on your forefinger.
That had been four years ago—almost to the day. And now here you were, standing on the shores of Ithaca, the scent of salt and wild thyme filling your lungs as your legs trembled beneath you. The week leading up to your departure had been a blur of emotions, the memory of it all still fresh in your mind.
Your parents had been misty-eyed as they saw you off. Your mother’s embrace had been fierce, her arms wrapped around you with the strength of an Amazon, as though she could shield you from the uncertainties ahead. Your father, ever composed but no less sentimental, had received your farewell kiss on his cheek with quiet pride. You had saved your sisters for last, each goodbye more bittersweet than the last.
Alexandra, the eldest, now married with a son and a husband she adored, had gifted you a shawl she had woven herself—a rich cornflower blue that reminded you of spring skies. Irene, the second eldest with fiery red hair and an equally fiery temper, had slipped a set of bronze bangles into your hands, their soft jangling a cheerful echo of her presence. And Chloe, the youngest of the three but always the most maternal, had fastened a gleaming silver necklace around your neck. Its centerpiece was a polished oval of obsidian, as dark and deep as the night sky.
By the time you stepped aboard the ship, your heart felt both heavy and light, a contradiction you carried with you across the sea. The captain bowed to you when you disembarked, his task complete. His crew had brought you safely to Ithaca, and now the journey ahead was yours to walk alone.
Daryos, your attendant, stood stiffly at your side as he led the way up the sloping path toward the city. He was a man of few words, his loyalty unwavering but his silence sometimes unnerving. You didn’t mind it today, though; your thoughts were too full of Telemachus and the island he had described in so many of his letters.
Ithaca was just as he had written: a land of rolling hills, sunlit cliffs, and ancient olive groves. The scent of the sea mixed with the earthy aroma of wildflowers and rosemary that grew in clusters along the rocky terrain. The whitewashed walls of homes gleamed in the sunlight, and children ran barefoot through the narrow streets, their laughter mingling with the cries of gulls circling overhead.
At the highest point of the city, the palace stood—a fortress of weathered stone that seemed to rise from the land itself, as though it had always been there, watching over the island. Your thumb absently rubbed the ring on your finger as you climbed the final stretch of the path, your heart pounding harder with each step.
You wondered if Telemachus was waiting for you now, standing at the gates or watching from one of the palace’s high terraces. Would he recognize you, the girl from his letters, now grown into a woman? Would he still wear the blue earrings you had sent him all those years ago?
The thought made your pulse quicken and your cheeks flush, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to hope that the boy you had come to know in words might be everything you imagined.