Telemachus often wondered if his father walked the very steps he had, or rode the same seas he had.

He was never great with questions of such, his heart ached for the man who could’ve been. For a man who he did not know who was.

The son of Odysseus had ventured his ways from Nestor’s Pylos to that of Menelaus’s Sparta. But it seemed the gray eyed spoke new whispers, fears he’d held since birth.

‘Lose yourself to the waves,’ She whispered, ‘Breathe before you forget it.’

Perhaps he should have better listened, unprepared to meet himself with the Witch of Aeaea.

He sat on plush wools and felts, animal skins beneath his legs as he watched your form twirl about your palace. Docile lions and wolves perused about your feet, some lounging as if they did not know the worth of their fangs.

Telemachus had been in your company for longer than he’d expected, he’d only wanted word of his father—and it was word you held—yet you kept it away from his grasp, a temptation raised just slightly above his head. Just behind your lips and upon your tongue.

He had learned strange things from you… for what you allowed him to witness. The herbs you preferred, the disgust toward monsters and men, and the story of your birth to womanhood.

He cleared his throat, adjusting the robes that decorated his skin with soft fabrics and linen, a rope about the waist to synch it from falling off his shoulders.

“Is it not late enough for your witchcraft? It seems your house is indeed ready for rest.”