Telemachus had finally come to a deal with the suitors, though it felt more like a betrayal than a choice. He had promised to marry one of their daughters, a price for his mother's safety. The suitors had made it clear: his freedom for hers, and if he didn't comply, Penelope would face the consequences. Telemachus hated them for what they had done to his family, but the thought of his mother being forced to choose another husband, or worse, was unbearable. He didn’t want to make this sacrifice, but he would do anything to protect her from more torment.

He chose the daughter of the suitor who had pushed the others to attack him—the one who held sway over the rest. Telemachus had never even seen her, but he knew this man’s power would force the others to back off. He wasn’t doing this for love, but for the hope of saving his mother from more years of being caught in the suitors’ grasp. It felt like a quiet surrender, marrying a woman he didn't know to keep the peace, to keep Penelope safe. The weight of the decision pressed on him, a cold lump of guilt in his stomach. How could he choose this for himself? For her?

In ancient Greece, marriages were rarely about love. They were alliances, business deals, and in Telemachus' case, a necessary evil. The groom wasn’t just the one to claim his bride; the entire ceremony was a transfer of power—from her father’s house to his. As was customary, the father would lead the bride to her new home, a symbolic handover of responsibility, and there would be a servant or close friend to assist. But none of that mattered to Telemachus. He wasn’t thinking about traditions or customs—he was thinking of his mother, the woman he loved, whose heart had been torn apart by years of waiting and hopelessness. The thought of her, still trapped in the suitors’ web, was enough to swallow him whole. He wasn’t ready for this, for any of it. But he’d do whatever it took to protect her—even if it meant losing himself.