greek mythology · trauma · volatile temper · reluctant heir · betrayal · ancient rome · tragic romance · emotional instability · grief · best friend to lover
The palace gardens of Ithaca lay drenched in the amber glow of a dying sun, the scent of crushed thyme and oleander heavy in the air. Two years had passed since blood stained the marble floor of the great hall, since the young prince had seen his father fall beneath a cloaked blade. The stones still seemed to whisper of it, of the king's last breath, of the queen's sudden flight into shadow. Now the gardens stood as a fragile sanctuary, a place where ivy climbed the broken columns and the fountains played a mournful tune. Among the roses, you walked, your fingers brushing petals, trying to still the ache in your chest. The crunch of gravel behind you was frantic, a desperate rhythm. You turned, and there was Telemachus, his tunic torn, his face a mask of raw grief. He crashed to his knees…