Chapter Text
Telemachus drew the bowstring back until the delicate white feather brushed his cheek. He made sure the arrowhead was aimed at the straw target.
He narrowed his eyes and imagined that instead of a black-and-white circle, he had the embodiment of all his problems in front of him. Antinous.
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards slightly.
He lifted the arrow a little higher to compensate for gravity.
The muscles in his back ached as he forced himself to hold the position a bit longer, just to be certain.
He released the arrow.
It barely struck the edge of the straw.
Far from the black circle in the center.
He missed.
He sighed, lowering the bow, and then sighed again when pain shot through his arm, radiating into his back. It was not only the pain from training
His arm had been hurting ever since Antinous had thrown him to the ground and then sat on him, pinning him down with his weight.
If not for Athena, it probably would not have ended with just bruises.
Anger began rising inside him.
He hated Antinous. He hated the 108 suitors of his mother who terrorized his palace day and night. He hated his smug smile, his dark, uncombed curls, and his sharp tongue. But most of all he hated himself. For how powerless he was against that strength. He was a prince. An adult man. And yet he still could not stand up to them. Even the help of a goddess had not fully protected him from their oppression.
Instead he was here, in a rarely visited part of the palace, surrounded by bushes, unable even to hit an imaginary Antinous.
Telemachus turned sharply and yanked another arrow from the quiver, set it on the string and jerked his aching muscles.
When Telemachus later returned to that day in his thoughts, he was not sure what had happened or in what order or what had caused what. He only remembered that everything fell so suddenly.
In the quiet of the corner came the rustle of footsteps.
Argos, who had been sleeping peacefully until now, lifted his head and suddenly jumped to his feet, barking.
Telemachus jerked his head toward him, alarmed.
Something in his shoulder snapped, flooding him with pain.
Pain appeared in his left forearm as well.
And then the air was cut by a whistle.
The laughter that had just begun suddenly broke off into surprised, painful cries.
There was a splash.
And then silence fell.
The pain in his forearm caught his attention. On his pale skin a dark red line appeared.
It took Telemachus embarrassingly long to realize that it was the mark of the bowstring.
Another embarrassingly long moment passed before he realized that his bow was no longer drawn, the arrow was gone, and that it clearly had not struck the target.
From the bushes behind his back voices sounded again. Hurried and nervous.
Telemachus remembered the cry of pain.
He had hit someone.
Oh gods.
He threw himself through the leaves, taking the shortest path toward the voices.
And then. Then he heard the voice that froze the blood in his veins.
“Hey! Asshole! Get out of there.”
Antinous.
Telemachus’s body froze instantly.
For a second the instinct he hated so much told him to run. Instead he tensed his aching muscles, straightened up and finally stepped out from the cover of the leaves.
The sight that greeted him…
Honestly, Telemachus would not have argued if it turned out that somehow he had died and what he was seeing were the Elysian Fields.
On the small courtyard with a fountain stood two men, leaning over the water basin with worried expressions.
And in the basin itself, with his backside in the water, wet hair, and his legs awkwardly thrown over the stone edge, was Antinous himself.
Telemachus stiffened again, this time for completely different reasons.
At least he was not the only one. The eyes of Amphinomus and Antinous widened into almost perfect circles, while Eurymachus, usually quietly judgmental, parted his lips.
It was he who recovered first, closing them again and letting out something that was very poorly disguised as a snort.
That snapped them all out of that strange bubble.
Antinous almost immediately tensed, straightening and apparently trying to regain as much dignity as possible while sitting wet in a fountain.
Telemachus did not get the chance to appreciate the amusing sight, because in the next second Antinous’s thick brows furrowed, twisting his face in anger.
“Have you completely lost your mind? Did I hit you so hard your brain got lost for good? What the hell were you thinking, shooting into the damn bushes? That’s practically begging for a disaster! What the hell made you think that was a good idea?”
Telemachus had no idea how it happened. His target had been set against the wall, the bushes were behind him. He knew you had to be careful with weapons. But instead of saying that, instead of apologizing for what was surely his fault, the only thing that escaped his mouth was:
“You’re hurt.”
The arrow had hit. Antinous’s left arm, right where his powerful bicep bulged under sun-tanned skin. It had only grazed him. The skin had torn, revealing red flesh flooded with almost black blood that ran down his arm, mixing with the water from the fountain in red streams, dripping into the basin and spreading into a rusty yellow stain.
Antinous turned his head for a moment, looking at his arm as if in surprise.
As if he had only now noticed that a damn arrow had grazed him and as if the pain he obviously must have felt was unworthy of his attention.
And as if to confirm that theory, Antinous looked back at Telemachus and, without the slightest grimace, tensed arms to push himself up and stand.
Telemachus felt small as the massive figure with sun-tanned skin, dressed in a red chiton and a wolf-skin cloak, rose and straightened to its full height.
Well, the effect would probably have been more intimidating if that proud figure had not been dripping with water and if the clothes and hair were not sticking to his skin.
Meanwhile Antinous spoke again.
“The fact that this time everything ended well doesn’t change the fact that you put every person in this palace at risk of death. Are you really so stupid that you don’t realize that?”
Antinous started walking toward him. Slowly, confidently. As if he were not afraid that Telemachus would run away.
He meant to beat him.
And this time he would not stop like he had in the dining hall.
There would be no witnesses to what he would do to him. No one except his most loyal friends.
The prince felt his body step back on its own, as if it wanted to disappear into the bushes again. But he stopped himself.
He had no intention of running.
And especially not from the consequences.
Even if it had been an accident, he had endangered someone’s life.
Even if that life belonged to human trash like Antinous.
He looked desperately at Eurymachus and Amphimous, who had followed their leader. Eurymachus, as always, looked lazily amused, while Amphimous had concern in his eyes.
The suitor was the only one who did not bother Telemachus that much. He was polite to the servants and never seemed eager to participate when Telemachus was being mistreated. His only faults were that he courted his mother and that he was friends with Antinous.
“Hey,” Amphimous said quietly. “Antinous, I don’t think that—”
But the words of protest seemed to vanish in the air. Or maybe they were drowned out by the frantic beating of Telemachus’s heart.
Antinous was barely three steps away from him, yet he did not seem to slow down.
“You can’t hurt me,” Telemachus said in a voice far calmer than he felt, despite weakness in his knees.
A dangerous smile appeared on Antinous’s face, which, combined with the scar cutting across it, looked almost sadistic.
“Oh really?” The sarcasm in his voice sent chills down Telemachus’s spine. “And you get to wave a bow around however you want?”
“It was an accident!”
“An accident will be the day someone finally snaps and cracks open that stupid skull of yours because they’re curious whether there’s a brain inside.”
He was too close. Telemachus could have sworn that the man’s figure cast a shadow over him, even though the spring midday sun could not possibly be blocked. And yet logic did nothing to dispel the cold shiver running through the prince.
“Antinous…” Amphimous’s worried voice did not seem to reach the suitor.
The man grabbed the bow’s shaft, almost effortlessly wrenching it from Telemachus’s stiff fingers and depriving him of his only weapon. Not that a long, flexible stick would have given him any advantage against Antinous.
“This isn’t a toy.”
Telemachus tensed his muscles, and when Antinous raised his hand he shut his eyes despite himself.
The slap rang out in the silence, and the prince felt pain spread through his head and radiate down his neck.
Telemachus froze. This time in surprise. So great that he did not even raise his hands to shield his head.
“I’m taking your weapon and don’t even think about playing with a bow like that again.”
Another hit. In the same place.
“That’s damn dangerous. And what if it hadn’t been me but some servant? A maid? Your mother?”
Another hit.
The sharp smack echoed across the quiet courtyard.
Only then did Telemachus lift a hand to his aching ear, staring at Antinous’s angry face with wide eyes.
Antinous had struck him.
With an open hand.
The sound had been loud. The pain sharp but brief.
No bones were broken. He had not been thrown to the ground. His skin had not been torn open, nor had his insides been spilled out. He had not been dragged by the hair, nor had his face been ruined so that the whole world would know Antinous had finally humiliated him.
No. He had been slapped.
Struck with fingers against his ear and temple.
The way one beats disobedient children or unruly dogs.
“Do you understand?” Antinous’s sharp voice cut through his shock.
Telemachus nodded, more automatically than as any real confirmation.
And Antinous?
His brows relaxed, the anger vanished from his eyes, and his mouth curved into a smile instead of a grimace.
“Good. This time you got lucky, so you’d better offer Lady Tyche a sacrifice, because she’s clearly keeping an eye on you with that luck. Now go cry to your mommy and put that back where it belongs.”
He shoved the bow into Telemachus’s chest and then, as if nothing had happened, turned to his friends.
“You’re giving him his weapon back?” Eurymachus raised an eyebrow.
“What the hell am I supposed to do? I won’t insult a weapon by throwing it on the ground. And I’m not going to the armory to clean up after him. Little wolf wanted to be the man, so he should deal with the consequences.”
“Are… are you okay?” Amphimous asked weakly.
“This? It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse.”
“It’ll leave a scar,” Eurymachus remarked casually.
He scoffed “Then it’ll match the rest. Oh, Come on, Amphimous! Do not look at me like that. Did you really think I’d beat the prince to a pulp?”
“You did that last time.”
“Last time he defied me in front of everyone. And everyone was watching. Come on, we’ve known each other for years. I get no pleasure from beating that runt, and since no one’s watching, I get no benefit from it either. Let’s call it a day and go. I want to get to the market before the sun burns what’s left to dust.”
“We should treat that. And you should change,” Amphinomus stammered.
“I’ll dry in the sun and wind. And we’ll buy some bandages at the market. If the others saw it, I’d have to make up an excuse and I really don’t feel like it. It barely stings, really. And if we buy wine, I won’t feel it at all.”
Antinous threw his uninjured arm over Amphinomus’s shoulders, pulling him in the direction they had been heading ,apparently toward a side gate of the palace.
“who would expect that our little wolf actually can bite, huh?”
A deep, grateful laugh echoed through the courtyard. So different from the drunken, malicious, and forced laughter that it took the prince a moment to realize that the sound, which crept into the hearts of everyone who listened, was Antinous's laughter.
Eurymachus glanced back at Telemachus as if calculating something, then laughed in his own, usual way and joined them.
Telemachus was left alone in the clearing.
With the bow in his hand.
and laugh ringing in his ears.
And only the pain in his ear and the drops of blood on the sand of the courtyard convinced him that what had happened was not his imagination.