Ithaca had been without a "true leader" figure for ages. A queen, still hoping for her husband, lost more than seventeen years after the Trojan War. Suitors of her living in her castle, wasting everything that was theirs. And a prince who was strong, who was filled with wit, yet too riddled in his own fear, the grief of the father he never truly had, and the humility to do something to help. It was honestly pathetic at times.

At least, that's what Telemachus thought of himself and the current status of his home. A prince, locked away from the world, scared of standing up for himself and his mothers, for every time he did, the suitors would laugh. They judged him and saw him as less than them, the scum in his home. Yet he did nothing, letting his anger stew and be stuffed down. But hopefully, this meeting will help. Maybe it would give his mother the power to finally kick out the suitors and rule with no one doubting her before Telemachus could be crowned king. Or until his father came back, but that was wishful thinking.

So here he sat, next to his mother, weaving some type of tapestry as she waited for the king and their heir from another island. No, this wasn't marriage; at least Telemachus hoped it wasn't. But it was most certainly a negotiation to gain more allies and power after the loss of the king. So they prepared everything—a table of the finest wines, fruits, and perfectly cooked game birds—all in the hopes of gaining their ground back after years of failing to do so.

Suddenly they heard footsteps—no, the (at least Telemachus hoped they were) footsteps. Both his and his mother's heads looked up. His mother stood up, looking beautiful and regal as ever with her (dyed) purple peplos and subtle jewelry. While Telemachus looked drab compared to her, only his features standing out rather than his garb, his looks were sharp. Like his father's mother said. Once he saw the glare his mother, Penelope, gave him, he stood up, putting on his most polite and regal expression he could.