╰┈➤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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━ ⭒─⭑━
When you woke, the first thing you noticed was the quiet. No crackle of fire, no low voice beside your ear. Just the sound of faint waves somewhere past the trees and the muted rustle of leaves brushing against the hut's walls.
You rolled over slowly, your cheek dragging against the rough linen of the pillow, expecting to feel the steady warmth of Telemachus at your side. But your hand met only empty bedding. Cold, even.
Your brow furrowed as your palm smoothed across the blankets. No indentation. No shape. Just space.
That was enough to jolt you upright.
Your heart kicked hard, racing before your mind even caught up. You sat up too fast, head swimming, and shoved the fur blanket down off your lap. Sleep still clung stubbornly to your eyes, blurring the corners of the room until you blinked hard against the dim morning light.
"Telemachus?" you croaked, voice hoarse.
No answer.
Your pulse hammered faster. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, toes sinking into the woven mats, eyes darting around the hut like you'd forgotten where you were. For a breath, you truly had.
The walls blurred in your vision—woven leaves strung tight with rope, shells clinking faintly at the entrance whenever the wind shifted. A faint smell of salt and smoke lingered in the air. Your satchel was propped near the corner where you'd dropped it last night, your wet clothes still in a little heap, damp and wrinkled.
You blinked again. Once. Twice. The panic slowly ebbed into confusion as you dragged a shaky hand down your face.
Right. You remembered now.
You weren't in Ithaca. You weren't in Port Telonia. You weren't in Apollo's halls.
You were here. On the island.
The memories pieced themselves together in fits and starts, tangled with the fog of sleep:
The three endless days in the boat with Peisistratus—his terrible singing, his stupid jokes, the way Hermes' compass never stopped glowing in your palm. The island finally breaking the horizon, the rain pouring down after his careless jab at Apollo.
Then the forest. The compass leaping from your hand. A shadow stepping out of the vines with curls soaked dark and eyes that still burned like they had in Ithaca.
"Telemachus," you whispered again, this time more to yourself than the room.
And Callias—gods, Callias. Fever-sick but grinning anyway, sprawled by the fire with that cocky lilt in his voice, hiding wounds that had nearly broken him.
