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Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
It grabs you by its bony fingers and grips you so tight you can’t breathe.
It whispers sweet nothings into your ear and tries to pretend everything’s alright when it isn’t.
It tells you you don’t need anyone else when you obviously do.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
Loneli—
The thought broke in half at the slam of a door.
Telemachus flinched, his body instinctively flattening against the hallway wall as laughter echoed from the throne room around the corner, followed by the clinking of glass cups.
I need to get out of here.
The only way back to the prince’s quarters was through the throne room. Through the suitors.
Telemachus tentatively peeked around the corner.
The throne room sprawled out before him in warm torchlight and too-loud voices. Suitors lounged across the chairs and tables like they owned the place—boots on polished stone, cups raised in lazy toasts, laughter spilling everywhere. The throne itself sat empty, a silent reminder of who should be there.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
He swallowed.
Just a few steps. In and out. Quiet as a shadow.
Telemachus slipped into the room and edged forward, each footfall measured, breath held tight in his chest. The laughter surged again—someone told a joke, someone else nearly choked on their drink—and for a brief, fragile second, he thought he might make it.
“Hey, prince!”
Teleporting fear flooded into Telemachus’ veins as the familiar voice slurred his title.
Antinous rose from where he’d been leaning against a table, grin sharp and knowing as he stepped into the torchlight. He looked Telemachus over like a cat spotting a cornered mouse.
“Well, if it isn’t the little wolf?”
Laughter rippled through the room again—lower this time. Meaner.
Telemachus tried to speak. Nothing came out.
Antinous tilted his head. “Lost on your way to your den, pup?”
Someone behind him shifted, blocking off the exit.
Telemachus’ fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. Think. Think. His mother always said panic made fools of even the most clever men.
“I-I was just—” He stopped, throat tightening. Every excuse sounded pathetic in his head before he could even say it.
Antinous hummed as if savoring the silence. “Just what?”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
And then—
A cup tipped over at the far table. Red wine splashed across the stone, and a glass cup shattered loudly. Someone cursed. The attention fractured for half a heartbeat.
Telemachus moved.
He ducked low and bolted, weaving between shadows and startled suitors, the rush of air burning in his lungs. Shouts exploded behind him, surprise turning into anger in an instant.
“Catch him!” He heard Antinous’ booming voice from behind.
The prince didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
Then, time seemed to slow as a hand fisted the back of Telemachus’ tunic, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders and neck. He choked, the air wrenching itself from his lungs as he was hauled backwards and thrown hard to the floor.
The impact rattled through him, breath coming back in a sharp, helpless gasp. Stone scraped against his palms as he tried to push himself up, vision swimming.
“Got him.” This suitors’ voice was another one that Telemachus could put a name to; Melanthius. The second-hand man to Antinous, and just as bad as him.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
“The prince thought he could run from us…” Melanthius continued, purposefully not calling him “little wolf”.
They saved that name for his use only.
Boots surrounded Telemachus. Someone laughed. Someone else nudged him with their foot, as if testing whether he’d get back up.
Telemachus sucked in a shaky breath and tried.
A kick caught him in-between his ribs, causing him to fall back down onto the hard stone. Melanthius pressed the heel of his boot onto the prince’s arm, holding him on the ground.
Telemachus cried out, and Antinous’ figure loomed over him menacingly. Then he struck.
The blow snapped Telemachus’ head to the side, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Laughter followed. It always did.
Melanthius stepped off of him as Antinous grabbed a fistful of his tunic and hauled him up just enough that their eyes met again.
“Little wolf,” he sneered. “Still baring your teeth?”
Telemachus’ vision blurred. He didn’t answer.
Antinous threw him back on the ground. “Get up.”
The prince’s body shook as he attempted to push himself to his feet. Failed.
“Get. Up.”
Telemachus’ arms trembled violently as he tried again. His palms slipped against the stone, muscles burning, breath hitching uselessly in his chest. His vision swam—torchlight smearing into gold and shadow.
He barely made it to his knees.
Antinous scoffed. “Pathetic.”
A sharp shove sent him back down again. Not even hard— effortless. Just enough to prove how little strength it took.
Laughter rolled through the ring of suitors.
“Come on,” Antinous coaxed mockingly. “You ran before. I know you’ve got more fight than that.”
Telemachus clenched his jaw and tried once more.
This time he got one foot under him.
That was as far as he made it.
A boot swept his leg out from under him, and he hit the floor again with a broken cry he couldn’t stop from escaping. The sound only encouraged the suitors’ cruelty.
Above them, the throne still sat empty.
And for the first time, one cruel thought struck Telemachus harder than any blow:
Nobody was coming.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
“Look at him,” someone jeered. “Can’t even stand.”
Melanthuis chimed in, “Maybe he needs a little… encouragement.”
Antinous laughed. “Well? Help him.” He hissed at the rest of the suitors.
Before Telemachus could brace himself, hands seized him from both sides—rough, unsteady grips hauling him upright. His knees buckled, but they kept him on his feet.
Antinous rolled up his sleeve, flexing his hand. “You know, everyone likes to pretend Odysseus is some great hero. A warrior. A king.”
He struck the prince across the face. Hard. Telemachus struggled against the suitors, but he was kept in place by their bruising grip.
“But I remember what he really did.” Antinous continued, and another blow caused blood to well in Telemachus’ mouth.
“He left.”
The suitors laughed behind him, but Antinous didn’t. His voice remained steady, almost conversational.
“He sailed off and vanished.”
This time, the crunch of bone was evident as Antinous’ fist slammed into the prince’s nose. Blood poured immediately.
“Tell me, little wolf—do you think he ever even planned to come back?”
Telemachus tried to pull away from the suitors’ grip once more. They held him tighter.
“Look at you,” Antinous scoffed. “The mighty Odysseus’ son. Can’t even stand on his own.”
Another strike—quick, effortless—cut off the rebuke in Telemachus’ throat.
“Your father is out there fighting monsters,” Antinous said, leaning close. “And you can’t even defend yourself against men who are bored out of their minds.”
He nodded at the suitors holding him, and they let go. Telemachus crumbled onto the stone.
“Maybe,” Antinous continued, voice a low, cruel murmur. “Odysseus didn’t get lost at sea.” He nudged Telemachus’ chin up with the tip of his boot so their eyes met. “Maybe he just didn’t want to come home to this.”
Laughter rippled again.
Antinous wiped his bloody hands on his tunic, as if the whole thing had been an inconvenience to him.
“Get up,” he said once more. “Your father would have. But then again…”
He smirked. “You’re not him, are you? You will never be him.”
Telemachus felt tears sting his eyes. No. Don’t cry.
Antinous turned and walked away, grabbing a cup of wine from one of the tables as he stalked towards the throne.
No, no, no.
He settled himself down at the king’s seat, lounging back and watching, leaving him at the mercy of the rest of the suitors.
They grabbed him, pulling him back upright just long enough to shove him toward another group of suitors. He stumbled, caught himself for half a heartbeat—
—and someone shoved him back.
A cruel game.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Each push harder than the last, until he couldn’t tell who was hitting him or where the next shove would come from. Their laughter blended together—taunting, echoing off the stone walls.
“Careful,” one of them mocked. “He might bite.”
“He’s too weak to bite.” Another replied snarkily.
Telemachus tried to pull away, but a hand snatched his wrist and twisted, inching dangerously close to breaking it. He yelped, the sound sending another wave of laughter through the crowd.
Melanthius leaned in from behind, his breath hot against Telemachus’ ear. “Run again,” he whispered tauntily, “and see what happens.”`
A boot hooked behind his ankle and swept his legs out from under him. Telemachus crashed to his knees, hands scrambling against the stone. Before he could rise, a palm pressed firmly against the back of his head, forcing him down until his forehead touched the cold floor.
A suitor snickered. “There. That’s more fitting for a mutt.”
Antinous didn’t stop them.
He watched.
Smiling.
After a long moment of tormenting, he stepped forward, raising his voice just enough for everyone to hear.
“Enough.”
The hands holding Telemachus down withdrew—slowly, almost disappointed. He remained on the floor, trembling, breaths coming short and uneven.
Antinous crouched in front of him. “See?” He patted his head condescendingly. “I can be merciful, sometimes.”
Telemachus didn’t lift his head.
He couldn’t.
And around him, the suitors drifted back to their drinking, their laughter, their games—as if nothing had happened at all.
As if he were nothing at all.
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing…