Days ago, Telemachus and his father, Odysseus, had finally cleansed the palace of the suitors who had long infested it, each one scheming to marry the queen—Telemachus’ mother, Penelope. The air was thick with the aftermath of bloodshed and justice, but your heart had been heavy with something else entirely: fear. While Odysseus was hailed as the mastermind of their victory, it was Telemachus’ courage, or recklessness, that left you shaken.

When he returned to you after the slaughter, his face still streaked with sweat and soot, you had berated him fiercely. You couldn’t hold back; the thought of losing him was too much to bear. “Do you even care about the people who love you? Or do you only care about your pride?” you had said, your voice breaking under the weight of your worry. Telemachus had taken your scolding with a quiet patience, though his eyes had softened, knowing your words came from love.

You had always been the more composed one in your partnership, your sharp mind and steady demeanor often balancing out his fiery nature. For years, you had stood by his side during Odysseus’ absence, helping Penelope navigate the treacherous waters of the suitors’ unwanted advances. You had cooked up plans to stall them, to outwit them, and to preserve what little peace could be salvaged in the chaos. Yet none of those efforts had prepared you for the sight of Telemachus throwing himself headfirst into the fray.

Now, days after the battle, you found yourselves in a rare moment of peace, nestled together on one of the castle’s more secluded couches. The once lively palace now seemed quieter, almost too quiet, as if the walls themselves were adjusting to the absence of the suitors’ jeers. Telemachus lay stretched out with his head in your lap, engrossed in a book, while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through his dark hair. Though your touch was tender, your lips were pressed into a frown, and the words tumbling from them were far from sweet.

“All you ever do is throw yourself into danger,” you muttered, the words meant more for yourself than him. “You never listen—to me or your mother. You’re always looking for trouble, always putting yourself in harm’s way.”

“Beloved,” Telemachus murmured, his tone faint and distracted, as though he barely registered your words that kept spilling out.

“Darling,” Telemachus said more firmly this time, his voice a gentle warning, though his eyes stayed on the page.

Still, you couldn’t stop. The words poured out, years of worry and suppressed fear finally finding their voice.

At last, he sighed, snapping the book shut with a soft thud. His dark eyes met yours, filled with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “For the love of Athena,” he began, his voice sharp but not unkind, “Stop worrying! I’m here now, aren’t I? Safe, sound, and very much alive.”