╰┈➤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...
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.64 ┃𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠; i had time to post so yay! happy y'all been liking recent updates, but for this one, y'all when i say i am so sorry 😭😭 y'all gotta suffer/read through 15k words 😔💔 i swear i tried trimming it/keeping it short, but then i remebered a lotta shit had to be covered lolololo oh well ❤️alsooooo i have another telemachus fic dropping soon and ngl i had fun! it's a bit on the light-hearted/romantic-comedy so i hope y'all like it (speaking of, i'll be mass updating the remainder of 'knot in time' soon lowkey forgot about that until i got a comment i'm so sorry 😭😭😭)
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Across the sea, in the belly of a creaking ship, Telemachus lay still on a narrow cot, staring at the wooden planks above his head as they swayed gently with the movement of the waves.
The cabin smelled of salt, old parchment, and oil—stale but not unpleasant. His arms were folded beneath his head, fingers locked tight like he could hold himself together that way. The light that filtered in from the small porthole above cast shifting shadows across his face, but even those couldn't soften the heaviness in his eyes.
Dark circles carved deep hollows beneath them. He hadn't slept properly in days.
Maybe weeks.
The boy who'd once carried hope like a banner now wore it like a noose.
His mouth—usually set in a thoughtful line—had curled into a nearly permanent frown, the corners tugged down with exhaustion. His hair was mussed from running restless fingers through it, and his chiton was wrinkled, still half-laced from when he'd tugged it off his shoulder hours ago and forgotten to fix it.
He hadn't moved in a while. Not since they passed the last harbor, anyway. Not since some random sailor came to check on him that morning, bringing dry bread and a strained smile, only to leave without forcing conversation.
His thoughts had drifted somewhere far behind the ship—back to Ithaca, back to the moment he'd first realized you were truly gone. The way panic had settled into his bones, slow and quiet, like rot. The way hope refused to die even when reason told him it should.
Twelve weeks.
He knew the number by heart now. Had marked it in the wax tablet stowed in his bag, though he didn't need reminding.
He had waited. Gods, he had waited so long. Had paced the palace halls like a trapped animal. Begged his parents, scoured sailor logs, storm routes—anything that could offer a trace of you. Anything.
And still... nothing.
The ship rocked gently, and Telemachus blinked up at the ceiling as if only now remembering where he was.
