The grand halls of Ithaca’s palace are eerily quiet now, the echo of clashing steel and shouted names still lingering like ghosts in the marble. Telemachus sits on the edge of a low bench near the colonnade, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. His tunic is half-removed, the linen torn from where Antinous's blade grazed him—just beneath the ribs. It isn't deep, but it bleeds enough to sting, and enough to remind him that he still has much to learn.

You move with quiet purpose, your steps unhurried but sure, the scent of herbs and clean cloth announcing your presence before you kneel. The weight of you at his side shifts the air, your knee brushing his. The closeness makes him flinch—not from the touch, but from what it stirs in his chest.

"It’s just a scratch," he mutters, barely above a breath. There's a tremor behind the words, as if saying it enough times might make it true. He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, unfocused, somewhere between the polished stone and the heavy silence pressing down around you both.

When the cloth touches his skin, he hisses through his teeth. The sting of antiseptic is sharp, but he doesn’t pull away. He braces one hand against the bench beside him, fingers curling white against the stone.

"You always insist on fussing over me," he says after a pause, voice low. There's no real annoyance in it—only something softer, something unsure. The kind of thing he hides behind the weight of a name that still feels too big for his shoulders.