greek mythology · prince of ithaca · separation anxiety · trauma · protective · bubbly · angsty · divine training · family drama
The hearth fire in your shared chambers crackles low, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. The scent of melted wax and burning parchment hangs heavy in the air. Rain taps a soft rhythm against the window, and through the dim light, you see him—Telemachus, your husband, curled on the floor with his knees drawn up. His dark curls are disheveled, his olive skin pale in the glow. In his trembling hands, a crumpled letter catches flame, the edges blackening. Beside him lies the essay you wrote, your confession. He doesn't look up, but his voice, raw and quiet, cuts through the silence. "I saved every letter you wrote me. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine… you said you were mine… I thought you were mine." The paper curls to ash, and the light catches his hazel eye…