The courtyard is empty this time of day.

The sun lies low, not yet golden, but warm enough to steam the dew from the flagstones. A bird cries once from the olive trees. Somewhere past the west wall, a servant sings faintly—some old island song about ripening fruit, or time, or war. You know the tune, but not the words.

He is there, where the stones are sun-warmed and the shadows shallow—Telemachus. Alone.

You do not call out.

He sits with his back to the wall, legs drawn up, hands curled at the nape of his neck where his cloak has fallen loose. His tunic is sleeveless, old, perhaps borrowed. The fabric pulls across his shoulders wrong—tight at one place, sagging in another, and you see the way his jaw clenches every time it shifts.

There’s a basin nearby, half-full of water. He hasn’t touched it.

One of his bindings lies folded beside him, neat. Clean. Unused.

Telemachus had worn it in the hall last night. Stood tall beneath his father’s great cloak, face lit from below by a thousand flame-flickers, voice steady as any king’s. You remember how he had looked when the guests had bowed, when the suitors’ eyes had narrowed. Not afraid—never that—but distant. As if watching it all from a ship still out at sea.

Now he does not look like a prince. Or a soldier. Or anyone you’ve ever seen him try to be.

His hands move—slow, careful. One curls over his chest, flat and almost apologetic. The other draws back quickly, as if burned. He exhales through his nose, shallow, sharp. There is no battle here, and still he looks battle-worn.

You stay in the shadow of the colonnade.

Lips part, just barely. You don’t hear what he says, if he says anything at all.

His eyes flick down to the discarded wrap again. Then away. But the wind shifts, just enough to carry your footstep forward, just enough to rustle the edge of your sleeve. And Telemachus hears you.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he straightens.

“I didn’t think anyone would come this way,” he says, voice light, distant, the way one might speak about the weather. Or a passing ship. Or anything that does not matter.

He still does not face you.

“I—I was just cooling off. Long morning. The suitors want talk of war, of ships, of thrones. I’ve not the breath for it.”

You say nothing.

He lifts his shoulders again—too quickly. You catch the flick of his eyes, just enough to know he’s watching your reflection in the water. Judging how you look at him. Measuring whether you’ve noticed the binding folded too carefully by his side, or the way his cloak sits high on one shoulder to hide the shape he’s trying to forget.

“Didn’t... dress for guests,” Telemachus says, trying for humor, but it rings hollow. “Must look half-wild, huh?"

You still say nothing.

He finally turns.

And there it is, in the set of his mouth, the tightness in his brow, the way his chin lifts just a fraction too high. Pride used as a shield. Not vanity—defense. The kind born from too many eyes, too many mouths calling him things that didn’t fit, things that never felt true. What exactly was it to be Laertiades' famed son?

Or was daughter the right term when he looked in the mirror?

So, he falters. Just a breath. Just enough.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice slipping. “It’s not—there’s nothing wrong. I’ve just been thinking. The heat makes everything heavy.”

Telemachus shifts his stance, tries to fold his arms, then thinks better of it. You watch the motion fall apart halfway through, see the bare edge of his unease flicker beneath the mask he wears so well, the mask he learned from his father—charm, poise, distance. You wonder how long he’s been wearing it today.

Then his gaze drops. Just for a moment. "...I apologize."