╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
Telemachus burst through the palace doors like a storm given legs.
His feet slammed the stone floors, sandals skidding across the polished marble, the cold sting of fear still climbing up his spine. His breathing was uneven—ragged. Too fast. Too loud. And yet, somehow, still not fast enough to catch up with the dread clawing at his chest.
"Mother!" he shouted, voice cracking as it echoed up the corridor walls. "Mother—please!"
Behind him, Odysseus followed swiftly—silent and composed only on the outside. His steps were thunder, measured but urgent, and just above them, the sky mirrored the chaos below.
It had once been bright—blue skies stretching far and open. But now? It twisted violently. The clouds rolled with unease. Thick, bloated with something unsaid.
A low rumble curled through the horizon—not quite thunder, not quite divine—but wrong. Wrong enough that birds scattered from rooftops. Wrong enough that a hush fell over the palace like a dropped veil.
Lightning forked behind the hills.
Yet not a single drop of rain fell.
The air was too still.
Too dry.
Too... expectant.
Telemachus barely noticed. He was still running.
"Please—Mother—" he gasped again, chest heaving, his legs carrying him straight through the grand halls until finally—
Penelope appeared in the archway.
She looked smaller somehow. Frailer. Her gown was crumpled at the edges, and though she'd clearly tried to compose herself, her cheeks were blotchy and red, her eyes glassy and wet.
She was holding her hands to her chest like something might fall out of her if she let go.
She didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Telemachus came to a full stop in front of her—nearly stumbling from the effort. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps. He reached out, grabbing gently onto her shoulders, not even realizing he was shaking.
His voice broke. "Is she—"
Penelope didn't answer.
Her lips parted.
Then trembled.
And she fell into Odysseus' waiting arms just as he stepped up behind her.
The king's jaw was clenched so tight, the muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say anything at first. Just held her. As if he could carry her grief alongside his own.
