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If someone were to ask him if he hated someone three years ago, Telemachus would've replied that he didn’t think he knew how to hate someone.
However, in the past three years, the sight of the suitors in his home filled him with a cold, tooth-aching anger. He couldn't understand how they could disrespect his family and home in such a way. They ate like pigs, drank wine like water, and showed no regard for the honour and hospitality that should have been shown to their hosts. Their voices bounced throughout the palace walls, echoing their arrogance and entitlement. Telemachus felt a sense of betrayal that these men could so callously disregard the values and traditions that were meant to guide their behaviour. They acted like animals.
Telemachus made a face while surrounded by tall, dry grass on the top of the cliffs. He was away from the palace, practically on the other side of the island. Argos snored, the dark hound dozing against Telemachus' side in the afternoon sunlight, the teen ran his fingers through Argos' fur, idly drawing swirls on the fur of the hound's belly. There was a clay pot on his other side, sitting noiselessly amidst the constantly shifting grass.
The prince knew of a handful of suitors who were worse. These suitors were even more disrespectful and crude, behaving in ways that made Telemachus question their humanity. They harassed the palace staff, insulted the guards, belittled Telemachus, and made a mess of the grand hall—terrorising the townsfolk and the owners of goats, pigs, and sheep in Ithaca—by having a never-ending feast. There were only one hundred and ten left, but their presence felt like a plague on his home. There were fifty-two from Dulichium, twenty-four from Same, twelve from Ithaca, and twenty-two Achaeans from Zacynthus.
All of the suitors were trying to win his mother’s hand, but Telemachus knew that at least three quarters of the men had slept with the maidservants of the palace. It was insulting. Their disrespectful behaviour was not only evident in their treatment of the staff and guards but also in their inappropriate relationships with the maid servants.
Gods, he was sleeping under the same roof as these dogs; Telemachus gagged at the thought.
He sighed, lying back on the ground beside Argos, and stared up at the blue sky, wondering how he could possibly rid his home of these suitors without causing a bloodbath. Said blood would probably end up being his and his mother's and whatever loyal guards were left in the palace. There were only a small number of them left: Sokratis—the man was a few years younger than the queen, in his early thirties—Charis—the man was old, nearly being fifty-nine—Miltiadis—a man in his mid-forties—and Kosmas—a guard in his late twenties.
The first three guards had been in the palace for as long as Telemachus could remember, retaining their loyalty steadfast despite their struggles of recent years. While Kosmas, the youngest of the guards, had been hired four years ago for his role in rescuing the townspeople during a horrific storm that had swept many monsters onto Ithaca's shores.
Telemachus had ended up boarded up inside his room by his mother and grandfather, Laertes, and by the time the young boy had been freed from his chambers. Kosmas had received armour and weapons and was speaking with Sokratis like they were lifelong friends.
Though, out of the four guards, Telemachus only saw Charis every day, as he was the one assigned to guard his door throughout the nights. Charis was a veteran warrior who had taught Telemachus how to defend himself with his Xiphos. The older man seemed like an older uncle or another grandfather to Telemachus, always offering guidance and protection in his father's absence.
(But not replacing him, never replacing him.)
Despite the age difference, Charis had treated Telemachus with respect and kindness, both of which the young prince never got from any of the suitors. The man had taught him how to ride horses, how to care for his arrows and blades, how to make traps for hunting, how to swim, how to carve intricate figures as gifts for his mother, how to…
Gods
.
Telemachus stopped petting Argos. He tried to clear his throat, but the lump that had formed inside it made it difficult to speak. Taking a deep breath, he finally managed to whisper, his voice almost lost in the whistling winds on top of the cliffs. "Thank you, Charis, for everything you've done for me."
Unsteady hands opened the clay pot beside him and ashes vanished into the wind and over the cliffs into the sea as Telemachus watched in silence.
Kosmas had been the one to find Charis, lying grey and stiff on his bed several days ago. His skin like wax and his features sunken, showing his true self—a tired, old man.
One of the suitors had called Charis an
‘outdated relic
' during breakfast after his death.
Telemachus had nearly thrown his fork at the man’s eye if it weren’t for Sokratis grabbing the younger boy’s arm—
ready aim, to hurt, cry, scream,
maim
, mourn, rage
—and Telemachus decided it would be best if he took his breakfast on a walk with Argos. Otherwise he would break the hospitality rules; he needed to clear his head before facing the suitors again.
Charis had died. Telemachus scattered the man's remains like he'd heard the man wanted. Into the ocean so he could have one last, never-ending adventure. Telemachus tossed the pot as well, a coin enclosed in it for Charis's soul to pass into the underworld.
Hours later, Telemachus found himself waist-deep in the sea, Argos barking behind him, back on the strip of sand at the base of the cliffs. He took a deep breath, the smell of salt almost burning his nose, and dunked the rest of his body into the lukewarm water. The coolness enveloped him, washing away the heaviness in his heart and the weight of his responsibilities, if only for a moment. Telemachus closed his eyes and let himself float, feeling a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in a long time.
He doesn't remember how he got into the water.
He let the thought drift from his mind, blinking up at the thin clouds dancing in the sky above him.
Nor does he recall dragging himself out far enough that he had to tread water to avoid going under the surface, but he does remember the disembodied voice calling his name from the shore-Telemachus, come back to yourself, little wolf, your parents would be heartbroken, Telemachus, set your feet on dry land-pulling him back to reality. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the horizon as he slowly made his way back to the strip of sand at the base of the cliffs.
(The sea called him back, insistent-come out further, let yourself float a small while longer, sink, boy-but Argos continued to bark and drew Telemachus back to shore.)
He quietly noticed he was still wearing his chiton, its fabric now soaked and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. As he reached the shore, he spotted Argos. The old hound was sitting on the sand with Telemachus's deep blue himation in his slobbering jaws, wagging his tail in agitation. Telemachus chuckled at the sight, realising Argos had been waiting for him all along, blocking out the heavy well in his gut. He approached the loyal dog, gently taking his himation back and giving him a pat on the head before flopping down onto the sand, his 'princely' grace nowhere to be seen.
The sun beat down on his face and front, drying the wet fabric of his chiton and his damp hair as he sat next to Argos, his shoulders drooping as he slowly came back to himself.
He ignored the dread building up inside him at the thought of returning home, the heaviness in his arms and legs as he moved to leave the beach as the tide came in.
(Ignored the loud voice in the back of his head that purred the idea of staying on the sand and letting the water pull him deep into the sea.)
Telemachus nearly burst into tears when he saw Sokratis was his new door guard. The man didn't ask where he had been, or why the teen's clothing was dripping tiny droplets of salt water along the palace floors, or if he was okay. Instead, Sokratis simply nodded in acknowledgement and opened the door for Telemachus to enter, his face stoic but his brown eyes so easy to read that Telemachus could have seen a waterfall of emotions pouring out of them.
He admired Sokratis for his intelligence and sharpness, but he wasn't Charis.
Sokratis didn't try to pat him on the back the next morning, when Telemachus' face was still puffy from crying.
Telemachus asked for another lock for his chamber door at breakfast.
Sokratis was standing outside Telemachus's room the next evening, and two new locks greeted Telemachus as he shut his door behind him. He now had six locks on his door.
Miltiadis, one of Telemachus's mother's guards, died seven weeks later, and Telemachus was left with no door guard as Sokratis was made to guard the queen instead.
A seventh lock found itself on the inside of Telemachus’ door.