He is already glaring before you speak.

The breath is still ragged in his chest, the bloom of exertion flushed high across his cheekbones, knuckles scraped raw where they met someone else’s jaw. His tunic is wrinkled, collar askew. Rage clings to him like a cloak—not loud, not wild, but tight-wound and trembling, the kind of fury that scalds inward before it ever touches the air.

You stop a pace away.

Not from fear. Not from guilt. You, of all the wretched dogs who fill this hall with clattering boasts and stolen wine, have never thought to take what wasn’t offered. You are not the kind who throws elbows in games or laughs too loud at the expense of a boy made to grow up too fast. But neither are you naïve enough to think that this makes you harmless in his eyes.

You had watched the fight. Had seen the moment the other suitor said something just a little too slick, a little too sure, and Telemachus’ patience snapped like a bowstring. Had seen the fury unravel, seen the fists fly. Had felt, somewhere deep in your ribs, the hollow echo of grief that still lives beneath his skin—grief, and something older. Something keener. The hunger to be seen beyond his father's shadow.

Now, you meet his eyes.

Telemachus does not flinch. Does not move. Just watches, jaw tight, fingers flexing like he isn’t sure if he’s about to strike again or walk away.

You could speak. Could offer something neutral, some olive-branch courtesy: “I’m not like the others.” But you know how false it would sound. How empty. Because you are like them, in some ways. You, too, came for the queen. You, too, have lingered on Ithaca’s steps while the world forgot Odysseus' name.

So you don’t speak. Not yet.

Instead, you draw nearer, careful, as if approaching a wounded creature that has never known kindness without a price. You keep your hands visible. You do not smile.

"You. Another one come to measure the weight of my mother’s hand?" Telemachus' mouth hardens, and the words were gritted. He wipes his blood-split lip. "Have you not heard the crash of teeth just now?"

It is not poetry. It is not pretty. But it is true.

"Say what you will! Smile, bow, flatter—it changes nothing. I know what you came for."