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They were getting impatient, but so was she. The suitors were nothing short of swine, pests in her home. Their presence burned her. With every passing day, she believed one of their taunts. She is a wolf. She stands back and watches, waiting for the opportunity to bite.
Telemache is no idiot. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance against 108 grown men. Not physically, anyway. But small victories are better than none. She has other methods.
A snake snuck into the suitors’ chambers? She wouldn’t know anything about that. It must have been a prank by one of the men.
The food tasted a bit weird yesterday? The maids are always working with herbs. Maybe they didn’t wash their hands properly.
Argos bit Eurymachus? Her baby was just playing. How was he supposed to know any better?
How is she supposed to know any better? She was but a young and naive woman. She was only a princess. Her mother treated her like a saint, and her father was absent. Poor child. She knew no evil. And even if she did, she was much too stupid and guarded to hurt a fly.
That was the role she plays, even if no one truly believes it. No one can prove that she’s the one pulling the strings. No one can prove that there are any strings at all.
Pulling the strings is one of the things that she’s learned from her mother, the weaver, patient Penelope. And patient she is. Patient as she unthreads her work every night, away from gossipy eyes. Patient as she waits for the one man that she loves so fiercely. Patient, always.
Telemache lacked such virtuous patience.
It was a good thing that both her parents were liars. Manipulative and cunning whenever they deemed fit. And Telemache prided herself in being the best of both patient Penelope and cunning Odysseus.
. . .
It is when she is collecting olives for the next little torment that the raven first sees her, perched on a branch.
Telemache takes her time, thinking of how exactly to deliver this bit of poetic justice. It could be innocent. It could just be putting olives around the palace until they get sick of it. It would drive them mad whenever Penelope called Telemache herself an olive seed.
There’s a look in her eyes that betrays her scheming. And that is what draws the raven to her.
Telemache wanders further into the palace gardens, olives in a basket, and the raven follows. It becomes obvious that the princess is no longer actively searching for olives. Perhaps she grew bored of it, and decided to go on a walk. A wise choice. It does help clear the mortal mind.
But then Telemache pauses at a peristyle. She peeks over her shoulder, her long braid swinging with the movement. Her eyes are narrowed, scanning her surroundings. The raven poses itself on a branch near the princess, who keeps looking around.
“Show yourself.” Telemache speaks up. “I know you’re watching me. Show yourself.”
It catches the raven off guard. And then the wolf tilts her head forward, away from the raven, and speaks again.
“I can see you.”
A figure manifests itself behind Telemache. Inhumanly tall (two heads or so taller than the princess), with reddish brown waves of hair cascading down to her thighs. Tan skin, plump lips, irises pink like polished quartz, long and thin eyelashes. A soft pink chiton that matches her eyes and fades into plum purple, holding on to her shoulders by golden brooches. A pomegranate red himation. Bracelets of golden snakes around her forearms, a golden belt under her bust, droplet ruby earrings. A spiked diadem high on her head.
Telemache turns her head back, and her body follows. She smirks at what stands before her. A goddess. And the goddess merely stares at the young lady. Her gaze doesn’t hold the contempt that divine beings are known for. The goddess stares with pure, sincere curiosity.
“How did you sense my presence?”
“I was lying.” Telemache admits with no shame. “I simply thought it strange that a raven should show up here.”
The goddess blinks. She steps towards Telemache, holding her hands together before herself.
“Daughter of Odysseus.” The goddess declares.
Telemache feels a tiny bit unnerved. She looks up into the goddess’s eyes. She looks, almost, like a child, seeking for guidance and answers from a world that hid away what she wanted most.
“Your father has given my husband quite the workload.” The goddess smiles at Telemache, tilting her head down. “He is skilled.”
The silence gives way for Telemache to reply, as she knows the goddess expects her to do.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You are clever. I would love to see that grow with you.” The goddess says, a bit silently. She crouches, and her skirts pool around her. “I should wish to aid you. I would like to ensure that you are safe. If nothing else, it might give my husband less responsibilities.”
Telemache’s eyes narrow in the slightest. She holds her basket closer. There’s more.
“Why, truly?”
“Because. A parent’s love is strong. I wish that you would feel the love your father holds for you. I wish you would be reunited with him. It’s the most precious moment, to be reunited with a parent.”
The message is clear to Telemache. Let me help. She could use some help.
“Very well, Lady Persephone.”
When Telemache blinks, the goddess is gone, and in her place are red poppies. Nothing else changes, except for the pink color that takes over her left eye.