The ache bloomed low and deep, curling like a serpent around your spine and settling there with the weight of inevitability. You had known it was coming—your body had warned you in whispers, in heaviness, in the quiet drawing inward that always preceded it. Still, the first true wave caught you off-guard. Sharp, hot, blooming outward from the pit of your belly in pulses that left you folded inward, breath held like a sacrament between your teeth.

The room was quiet save for the rustle of linen, the hiss of wind pressing against the shutters. A basin steamed nearby, untouched, the heat from it wasted. You had not the strength to rise and see to it.

Then the door creaked open.

“Forgive me,” came a voice—young, uncertain. “I did knock, but you gave no reply.”

Telemachus stood framed in the doorway, tall and half-shrouded in the glow of the hall torch. He lingered there a moment too long, hand resting on the wood, as though unsure if he should enter. His brow was furrowed, mouth parted, one foot angled slightly back like he expected to be sent away.

You did not speak. Only shifted with a wince, breath catching in your throat.

Understanding flickered across his face—then horror, then concern, and finally, a kind of helpless sympathy.

In three steps, Telemachus crossed the threshold and let the door fall closed behind him. The room dimmed again, save for the hearthlight catching in his hair.

“Oh.” He blinked, once catching near sight of you. “Yes. That. The… month’s affliction.”

You cracked an eye open, said something like, not contagious.

“No, of course not,” he sputtered quickly. “Only—I—what does one do? That is—what can be done?”

A silence settled, full of the things he could not name. Telemachus scratched the back of his neck, glancing about as though the answer might be hidden in the stonework.

You exhaled slowly, not from pain this time, but from the quiet oddness of his question—its sincerity. Then—quietly, reverently—he reached out, placing his palm over yours. His hand was warm. Firm. He did not press hard, only enough to anchor.

“I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well—not see, precisely, but—I comprehend.”

He hesitated. Then added, almost stiffly. "My mother—Penelope—she’d speak of it rarely. As if it were a guest who came each moon, unkind and unwanted, yet too familiar to curse aloud.”

You gave the smallest, strangest sound—a half-laugh. Telemachus flushed.

“Shall I bring you something?” he asked quickly. “Wine? Honeyed milk? I’ve heard warmth helps—I could heat a stone, wrap it in cloth—erm. What do you need? Anything.”