You had done it. You had ended Telemachus, the prince of the kingdom, and son of Penelope and Odysseus. You were soaked in the poor kids blood, the water from the ocean you were standing still washed away with crimson blood.

Maybe Antinous had used you, just cooing those sweet words that he loved you just so you could do the job for him; and he could rule the kingdom.

He had said you were perfect for the job. Another one of the suitors, big and strong, ruthless.

You hadn’t cared if he had used you. You had gotten the thrill from this regardless, and if he actually truly did love you—he was going to make you his king, his pet, his love.

So you hadn’t bothered cleaning yourself up, just going to his tent, where you could hear him murmuring softly to himself.