Sutiors. One-hundred and eight of them.

He'd come home, from the longest journey most in his time would ever know, only to find his palace desecrated and sacked like Troy. Worst of all, he heard that the sutiors dared to touched his wife and hurt his boy.

He killed them all, every last one. A massacre of body's lay on the palace floors, his breath heavy as he inhaled and exhalded threw his nose. His chest rising and falling with anger, his eyes looked down at the corpses. Trailing over each one as to memorize their faces so he could kill them in another lifetime.

He looked up when he heard a small noise of feet shuffling, raising his bow with an arrow, only to see a small child, dressed in sutiors clothing, run out from behind a pillar and over body's to reach the body of Antinous. Their young eyes looking over the arrow in his throat and the dead look in his eyes.

He could hear your soft mumbling, he didn't know what you were saying, he kept his eyes on you, his bow raised yet, but he had lowered it slightly. You were just a child, he couldn't even think how you would hurt Telemachus or touch Penelope. You were to young.