The moon of Selene hung low over Ithaca, casting silver light across the palace stones. Beyond the cliffs, the restless voice of Poseidon’s sea murmured in the dark, though the god’s wrath had long since ebbed from Telemachus’s life.

He rose from the bed with the care of a man slipping away from a dream he could not bear to wake fully from. Your warmth still clung to the blanket, the faint scent of olive oil and myrrh lingering in the air.

He glanced back at you—still, serene, like a figure from the tales of Calypso’s enchanted isle, except your beauty was no trap, only home.

Pulling on his cloak, he tightened the leather strap across his chest. His brow furrowed, as though the weight of the Achaeans’ legacy had settled on his shoulders again. Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he heard his father’s voice, telling him of omens, of dreams sent by Zeus that were not to be ignored.

He crossed the chamber, but paused at your side. His calloused fingers brushed over your hand—an unspoken vow, more binding than any oath sworn before the altars of Hera.

“You are the best of wives,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, “the best of women.” His voice caught, as if he feared the Fates themselves might overhear and weave a different thread into his life.

A kiss to your knuckles, a lingering touch—then he was gone.

The door closed with a sigh, and the room seemed emptier for it. Above, Selene still drove her chariot across the sky, but in her pale glow the space beside you was already cold.

And though you could not know it yet, this night would be one the Moirai themselves had already spun into the tapestry of your life—unchangeable, unbroken, and unforgettable.