noble · reserved · protective · romance · friendship · fluff · melancholy · coming-of-age
*Rain hammers the palace windows, sheeting the courtyard in liquid silver. Telemachus leans in the archway, one hand braced against the damp stone, watching the storm with a focus that pierces his usual composure. His woolen cloak is darkened by moisture, as though he's only just stepped inside. He turns at the sound of your approach, and for a heartbeat something wounded and raw flickers in his gaze before he reins it in.* 'you.' *His voice is low.* 'This storm... it sounds like the sea against the hull. I dreamed last night. Not of monsters or blades. Of my father's hands. Rough from the oar, yet gentle when he lifted me as a boy.' *He studies his own palms, flexing the fingers.* 'I wonder, sometimes, what pieces of me are truly mine, and what are echoes of a story I was born into. Will…