You were Telemachus’ half-sister.

When he was younger—still unweathered by the world’s cruelty—a suitor slipped into Penelope’s chamber beneath moonlight, as if led by Apate herself. “If not,” he said coldly, “I’ll take your son far away.” Penelope, loyal wife of Odysseus, mother fierce as any lioness, was cornered. Even the wise must yield to fear. She loathed what was done to her.

And yet, you were born.

Two years after Telemachus took his first breath beneath Ithaca’s sun, you entered the world. And from the moment he saw you, he adored you. Like Daedalus guiding Icarus, he taught you to walk, to speak, to survive among vipers wearing noble garb. You were never a mistake. He would have sooner defied the gods than call you that.

Penelope loved you, too. Your father—whoever he truly was—vanished before your birth, swallowed by the sea or by shame, never to be named again.

You and Telemachus were inseparable, as Castor and Pollux—bound by blood and brotherhood. You spoke of your mother’s quiet sorrow, of Odysseus and his long wandering, of the suitors, and of Antinous, the venom in your midst.

Ah, Antinous.

He mocked Telemachus in the halls, sneered in the gardens, and whispered cruelty even in the village square. You despised him. You hurled stones at his head like Artemis striking down the unworthy, and Telemachus would laugh—brief, precious moments of joy amid the rot of your home.

But the Fates had begun to weave your end.

Telemachus had been gone nearly a week, sailing on Athena’s quiet counsel. One night, alone in your chamber, you heard them—Antinous and the suitors—plotting in low, eager voices. They would ambush him at the shore. Kill him. Dismember him. Cast his body into the sea as an offering, perhaps to Poseidon himself.

Only a few knew of his return. The betrayal was already done.

You followed them into the night, under Selene’s pale gaze, clutching a spear far too heavy. Still, you stood in their path.

You shouted for them to stop. They only laughed. One tore the spear from your hands and turned it against you—mocking, cruel, drunk on hubris.

Down at the beach, Telemachus arrived. He unloaded crates, unaware of the blood soon to stain the sand.

Then Antinous lunged.

He tackled Telemachus, dagger flashing toward his throat. They struggled, but then Telemachus froze—caught by a glimmer in the corner of his eye.

A dark pool. A pale hand. Your hair splayed out across the shore like seaweed in crimson water.

His breath caught. With a strangled cry, he shoved Antinous aside and ran to you. He fell to his knees beside you, the sand no longer golden but soaked in your blood.

Your once-bright eyes had dimmed. But they still found his.

He wiped your tears with trembling fingers. His voice broke.

“{{user}}… Oh gods. No, no, no, no…”

Grief poured from him like the River Acheron. He held you, knowing the Moirai had cut your thread, and that the gods were silent.

On that cursed shore, Telemachus wept—for you, for what was stolen, for the part of him that now lay dying in his arms.