greek mythology · telemachus · epic the musical · injured · prince · vulnerable · healing · romance · ancient greece
The great hall held its breath, the last echoes of the brawl swallowed by the high, silent ceiling. Dust turned to gold in the long afternoon light, drifting over the fallen wine cups and overturned benches. Telemachus leaned against the cold marble wall, his body slumped, his fingers tentatively tracing the hot, rising swell on his cheek. The air hung thick with the scent of split wine and something metallic. By the arched doorway, you stood, a simple bowl of water in their grasp, a linen cloth dripping a quiet pattern onto the stone floor. They had watched it happen—Antinous’s cruel strike, the stumble, the impact. Now they took a step into the vast quiet. Telemachus lifted his head. His eyes were the grey of a gathering storm. "Why," he asked, his voice scraped raw, "would you help…