Chapter Text

SCREECHING, SOBBING, THROWING MYSELF INTO THE SEA—WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?

Y'ALL. TWO. BOOKS. OVER. 100K. VIEWS. ON WATTPAD. WTF. WTF. WTF.

THIS IS NOT REAL LIFE.

Wattpad was literally the first platform I ever read and wrote on—like, baby me was out here devouring fanfics and original works at 2AM on a cracked phone screen, practically vibrating from excitement every time I found a good fic.

And now?? NOW I HAVE TWO BOOKS THAT PASSED 100K READS???? ON THE VERY PLATFORM THAT MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH STORYTELLING?!?!?

Y'all are too much. TOO. MUCH. (And by too much, I mean I love you all deeply and will fight Zeus himself for you.)

So, as a tiny thank-you for all the love and chaos, I present to you: "A Knot in Time"—a 10-chapter short story I finished weeks ago featuring Telemachus and a Fate-who-should-not-love-but-does-anyway.

It's slow-burn, introspective, and built on steady, lingering tension, because I wanted to write romance the way I personally understand it. Sooo if you're the type who likes instant love, jumping straight into things, and getting to the spice ASAP... yeah, this fic ain't it, bestie (but no worries, I have projects in the drafts more up that lane). 💀💀

But if you're here for a Greek-myth style tragedy-turned-love story about a man who should have died and the woman who was meant to end him... buckle in.

Hope y'all enjoy. And thank you, again, for making my inner bookworm FREAK THE HELL OUT. 🖤

Also, I'm working on a new update for both 'Know No Evil' and 'Godly Things' and oh! Y'all are in for a ride 😮‍💨

Chapter Text

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ᵗᵉˡᵉᵐᵃᶜʰᵘˢ-ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

╰ [UPDATES WILL BE ON TBA]

❀°••• ┄──┄ •••°❀

━ ❝Fates don't love... do they?❞

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you, a Fate, make the one mistake you were never meant to: 𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦.

Chapter Text

❀°••• ┄─────╮

Copyright © 2025 by
⌜𝐗𝐚𝐧𝐢⌝

╰─────┄ •••°❀

Hey there, winxies! Just a quick but important note before you dive in.

This novel is my original work—the storyline, writing, and overall structure are mine. That means I do not give permission for 𝑨𝑵𝒀𝑶𝑵𝑬 to copy, repost, or claim any part of it as their own. If you try, just know you'll be:

➢ 𝗠𝘂𝘁𝗲
➢ 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱
➢ 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱

Simple as that. Let's keep it respectful.

That being said, unless otherwise noted, I don't own any of the well-known characters mentioned in the novel. But the plot, worldbuilding, and everything else? All me.

🪶✨ And speaking of that...
I'm honored when people say my fics inspire them—but let's get one thing straight: inspiration is not duplication.

Taking inspiration means building something new because something in this story moved you. So if this book ends up making your brain itch in the best way and you wanna go write your own thing? Love that. Genuinely. Just don't copy-paste my scenes, dialogue, or pacing, slap a new name on it, and call it yours. I've seen it happen to other writers, and I'm saying this now so I don't have to say it later: If your story starts to feel more like mine than yours, that's a problem.

This story was built from scratch—by me. Through 2AM meltdowns, Google Docs chaos, and the kind of hyperfixation only fellow ND folks understand. So if I see it show up under a different title with my structure and soul still intact? Best believe I will say something. Also, if you see anyone mimicking this work too closely, please feel free to let me know.

This isn't me being stingy—this is me protecting what I bled into.

So, keep it cute. Keep it original. Or keep it moving. Because at the end of it all, you must respect the work, respect the labor, and respect the line between admiration and theft.

~

𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

Now, onto something just as important: how we engage in the comments.

1. Do not romanticize trauma. This story may explore heavy themes, but that doesn't mean they should be taken lightly. If you can't engage with these topics respectfully, this might not be the space for you.

2. Do 𝑵𝑶𝑻 trauma-dump in the comments. I understand that stories can be personal and triggering, but it's unfair to expect other readers (or me) to process heavy, deeply personal experiences in a casual reading space. If you share details about serious trauma, your comment will be deleted, and you may be muted. Remember, this is a public site and others engage on it too; be mindful of others' mental state as well as your own.

3. Respect cultural boundaries. For the love of Gods above, do 𝑵𝑶𝑻 refer to me as Author-nim, Author-chan, etc. unless you're actually from the culture or seriously learning the language. I'm not Korean or Japanese, and using those titles outside their intended context can come off as fetishizing. Just call me Xani, and we're good, lovelies.

4. Character descriptions & inclusivity. And finally, and most importantly, as you read, please don't be shocked if (keyword: 'if' so it may or may not even happen) there is use of broad/random signifiers such as "brown", "twists", "curls", etc. when describing features/hairstyles and types for characters in the book; it won't be the main focus, nor constantly used throughout the story, just sprinkled here and there to add a bit more realism (in my opinion) and no way meant to alienate anyone.

The aim and goal of my writing is to create immersive stories that include POC characters—ranging from side characters, love interests, etc. I want to create something that includes everyone, especially those who often feel left out (*cough* POC-readers*cough*). If this is something that upsets you, well, then leave 💀. I promise, there are thousands of other reader-inserts that provide the Y/N and their friends with 'pale skin' and 'pink blushing cheeks' descriptions to satisfy your cravings to read books that cater to you 🫶🏾.

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓 [Dec. 01, 2024]: A Final Note (Because Yes, I Over-Explain & I Know It 💀)

P.S.: Oh, and sorry if I come across as blunt or bitchy (trust me, I've been getting notes—and even emails 💀—about it lately). I promise I'm not like this in real life! It's just that I prefer to ensure all bases are covered when I write disclaimers, and sometimes that tone can come off differently in text than intended.

For a bit of context, I'm neurodivergent (autistic), which means I tend to prioritize clear communication and structure—sometimes to the point of being overly thorough. I don't use that as an excuse, but it does explain why I approach things the way I do.

And to be honest, my 'overly extra' or 'bitter' tone (yes, I've been told it's bitter and to just shut up and write because it's just fanfiction) isn't about trying to be combative or overly serious. It comes from a mix of past experiences where things spiraled out of control—people trauma-dumping in the comments, disregarding boundaries, or outright misinterpreting what I was trying to communicate.

Those moments taught me a lot, but they also left me overstimulated and anxious because I had to step in, whether that meant deleting comments, ignoring things entirely, or, in the worst cases, directly addressing someone and essentially scolding them (which, trust me, is not my idea of fun). Just thinking about those situations makes me uneasy, so that's why I tend to over-explain and sound a little "extra"—it's my way of protecting my peace.

I get that not everyone takes fanfiction this seriously, and that's okay. But for me, my writing is something I pour a lot of care and effort into—fanfic or not—so I feel it's worth being clear and firm upfront.

Being upfront also helps me avoid situations that can become unnecessarily stressful, so if that rubs people the wrong way, I genuinely apologize—but at the same time, I have to prioritize what keeps this space manageable and enjoyable for me and my readers.

Once again, I genuinely apologize; it's not my intention to come off harsh or unwelcoming, nor is it my intention to run any of you away.

I hope that clears things up a bit! I'm genuinely grateful for those who take the time to read, engage, and share their thoughts (even if we don't always see eye to eye). 💕

Thanks again for being here, and I hope you enjoy the story! 🫶🏾

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The first man died before he even realized it.

One moment, he was raising his shield, lips parted in a war cry; the next, a spear ripped through his throat, and the sound gurgled into nothing. He crumpled, twitching, hands clawing at the wooden shaft as though he might pull the death out of him. He wouldn't.

The next man fared no better—his skull split clean through, bone and brain matter spilling onto the trampled earth. The battlefield became a writhing mass of bodies, metal, and the thick, wet scent of opened flesh.

You watched from above.

It was always the same, this great wretched dance of war. Men cried out for their gods, for their mothers, for names that would never answer back. Their blood ran thick into the dirt, soaking it deep until the ground itself seemed to drink greedily, as though the earth was as starved for death as the men who fought upon it.

You didn't care for their screams.

You weren't there for them.

Their threads were severed by lesser hands—you and your sisters' attendants, those who wove and tangled and cut in a steady rhythm. But this war, this bloodletting, held a name too grand to be left to another's shears.

Telemachus.

Son of Odysseus.

Heir of Ithaca.

A man whose name was heavy with the weight of gods and stories, whose fate should not be handled by an unworthy blade.

That's why you were here.

You watched him now, below, moving through the chaos like something carved from the same lineage as war itself. He wasn't his father, but the blood sang true—his sword arm swift, his shield catching blows with precision rather than desperation. He didn't hesitate when he killed. That, more than anything, told you he had long since shed whatever softness he once had.

A shame. You think you would've liked to watch that happen.

But that wasn't your purpose.

You were there to cut.

And you would do it yourself.

So you followed after him.

The battlefield parted around you like mist, but you didn't move through air—you moved through carnage.

Bodies lay where they had fallen, some still twitching, others already forgotten. You stepped over the broken remains of a soldier, his face caved in where a blunt force struck true. Another beside him had been cleaved from shoulder to sternum, his insides spilling in steaming ribbons across the mud.

Blood flew in wide arcs, cast off from swinging blades and collapsing throats, but it didn't touch you.

It never did.

Telemachus didn't see you, but you watched as he moved with the ease of one who no longer hesitated. His sword dragged slightly at his side, its weight softened only by the blood still dripping from the edge. His shield was strapped firmly to his forearm, scuffed and dented but unbroken. He fought as if the war was a foregone conclusion. As if he were already stepping over ghosts.

A voice called out from behind him.

"Captain!"

A soldier—one of Ithaca's own—approached, panting, his face streaked with sweat and filth. His helmet sat askew, knocked loose in the fray, but he did not stop to adjust it. He clasped his spear against his side, fingers tight around the shaft as he bowed his head slightly.

"We've taken the palace, sir," the soldier reported between breathless gasps. "We drove them back through the southern gates. Their leader—he's fled inside. We believe he's taken to the throne room."

Telemachus didn't waste words. He nodded once, already turning toward the shadowed structure in the distance. The palace stood like a gutted carcass, its walls charred, its banners torn. The screams had dulled, but they still echoed within—faint, like dying embers.

He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward.

And you followed.

.☆.
   .✩.
      .☆.

Inside, the air was thick with the weight of crumbling stone and lingering death. The corridors stretched long and dark, the flickering remains of dying torches casting weak light against the bloodied walls.

Telemachus moved like a wolf in familiar terrain—silent, shoulders drawn tight, his fingers adjusting their grip against his sword's hilt.

A body slumped against the far wall, a jagged wound staining his tunic. His hand still clutched at it, frozen in place even in death. The hall stretched further, its silence more damning than the battlefield outside.

Telemachus didn't trust the emptiness.

Neither did you.

The room he entered was vast but bare. Once, it might have been a meeting chamber—columns stretched toward the ceiling, cracked but unbroken, while the long wooden table had been overturned, its contents scattered. Chairs lay in ruins, splintered by force, and the scent of spilled wine mingled with the copper sting of blood.

Telemachus stepped forward, slow. His eyes scanned the space, wary of shadows. His grip tightened.

It was time.

You readied your shears.

Telemachus didn't know you stood at his shoulder, watching.

He didn't hear the steady beat of fate ticking toward its inevitable end. He was oblivious to the delicate silver thread stretched before you, glimmering in the dim light. It swayed, pulsing faintly with life. With his life.

You pressed the blades around it, ready to cut.

But then—

A flicker of movement.

The air shifted behind him.

A blade was raised high—silent, swift, aiming for the back of his neck. A single strike, meant to end him before he could even turn.

Not just any blade, but the captain's—the very man Telemachus was hunting for.

You began to close the shears—

Telemachus moved.

He twisted, dropping low in an instant as the blade swung through empty air.

The captain, thrown off balance, staggered back, but his eyes burned with recognition and scorn. "You are but a shadow of your father, boy!" he hissed as he regained his footing.

Telemachus' response was a cold, dangerous smile. "A shadow, maybe. But even shadows have their strength."

They clashed again, metal shrieking against metal. The captain was fast, his movements trained and precise, but Telemachus met him blow for blow, relentless in his advance. His shield caught the captain's sword with a resounding clash, and in the next heartbeat, he drove his knee into the captain's ribs. The air whooshed out of the man's lungs in a strangled gasp.

The captain's dagger clattered to the floor.

"You fight with the desperation of a cornered animal," Telemachus taunted, his voice low and steady as he advanced.

With a grunt, the captain scrambled back, reaching for his fallen weapon, but Telemachus was quicker. His boot pressed down hard against the captain's wrist, pinning him to the ground. "And you talk too much," Telemachus retorted, kicking the dagger away.

The captain's free hand clawed toward the empty air where his dagger had fallen, his fingers grasping futilely. But it was too late. Telemachus shifted his weight, pressing his knee down onto the captain's chest, pinning him against the cold stone, cutting off any final act of defiance.

With his fate sealed, the captain's eyes burned with a mix of fury and resignation. He spat at Telemachus, his voice laced with venom, "You may kill me, but you'll never command the respect he had. You'll never be half the man Odysseus was! You're nothing but a pale imitation!"

Telemachus' response was a grim nod. "Perhaps. But today... I just need to be the man who ends you."

Then, with one final, shallow breath drawn by the captain, Telemachus raised his sword and drove the steel clean through his throat.

The captain jerked once, a sharp, convulsive twitch as his life began to ebb away. Then, stillness.

Blood pooled beneath his lifeless form, a dark, spreading stain seeping into the cracks of the stone floor, mingling with the dust of conquest and decay.

Telemachus didn't move, not immediately. He lingered, watching the light fade from the captain's eyes, his sword still buried in the flesh as the pallor of death settled over the man's features. His once fierce countenance was now slack, the harsh lines of anger smoothed into eternal silence.

Telemachus finally withdrew his sword with a measured, almost reverent motion. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed hollowly in the chamber. He stood over the fallen captain, his expression unreadable—a victor shadowed by the weight of his necessary deeds.

He had won.

And yet—you are intrigued.

How?

He shouldn't have seen it. Shouldn't have moved in time.

The sequence of fate is meticulous, a weaving of moments so delicate that no mortal should be able to step outside of it. And yet, Telemachus had. His thread had trembled in your grasp, the cut you had begun to make slipping from your fingers.

But instead of rectifying the mistake, as you always do, you let him go.

Just this once.

You will watch. You will see where this leads.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The battle was won. The war, for now, had ended.

Telemachus rode at the front of the Ithacan forces, his face marked by dust and dried blood, his expression unreadable. The men behind him shouted their triumph, yet their cheers were subdued by exhaustion.

They had seen too much, lost too many. The price of war lingered in their bones, even as the thought of home soothed their aches.

You followed unseen.

Occasionally, you'd drift away; your shears needed elsewhere to snip the threads of those whose time has come. Yet, inevitably, your path brought you back to him, the young prince whose fate you're deeply intrigued by.

You watched as their ships cut through the waves, observing Telemachus.

Despite the surrounding celebration, he remained aloof, separated from his men by the invisible wall of his thoughts and responsibilities. He stood on the deck, his gaze fixed on the horizon, seemingly untouched by the revelry around him.

His isolation was palpable, a solitary figure burdened by the weight of expectation and the ghosts of those he had lost.

Soon, Ithaca's cliffs loomed in the distance; the wind carried the scent of salt and olive trees, a far cry from the stench of battlefields past.

The ship glided into the port, and the soldiers disembarked.

On the docks, the people of Ithaca gathered, their faces a mix of hope and sorrow. Families pressed close, eyes scanning the returning soldiers, searching for familiar faces among the weary ranks.

Some found what they sought.

Joyous reunions unfold before you—tears and laughter mingling in equal measure, relief flooding through those who had feared the worst. Others, however, find only emptiness. Their search ends in the cold realization that some will never return to home's embrace.

And there, among them, stood Penelope.

Her hands were clasped tightly before her, her blue peplos catching in the wind.

She stepped forward—quicker, then running.

Telemachus barely has time to step off the gangplank before she was upon him, cupping his face as though to prove he was real. "My son."

Telemachus didn't speak at first. His fingers twitched at his sides before slowly coming to rest against her arms. He leaned into her touch, if only for a moment.

"Mother," he murmured at last.

Penelope's expression wavered, and then she was fussing over him, brushing strands of hair from his forehead, checking the fresh bruises and cuts marring his skin.

Odysseus watched from a distance.

The years had settled into him, the sharpness of his youth worn into something quieter, more tempered. He did not run to his son as Penelope did, but there was something in his stance—something in the way his gaze lingered on Telemachus—that spoke of pride.

When Telemachus finally turned to him, Odysseus stepped forward, clasping his son's forearm in a warrior's greeting.

"You've done well," Odysseus said simply.

Telemachus met his father's gaze. There is a moment—an understanding that passes between them, unspoken but felt.

And then, Penelope was speaking again.

"There will be a feast," she declared, her voice bubbling with the joy of his return. "You and the others—you must eat, you must rest." She barely gave Telemachus time to protest before she was shooing him away, gesturing for the servants to take him, to see that he was bathed, that he was prepared for the night's celebrations.

Telemachus allowed it.

But he didn't seem eager.

You watched as they led him away.

And later, when the halls grew rowdy and the moon hung high, you made a choice.

☆

☆

You sought him through dreams.

It was late at night when the world was hushed and shadows stretched long and deep, hours after the welcome-back feast had dwindled into quiet conversations and lingering goodbyes.

The palace was silent, save for the soft murmurs of the night breeze.

Telemachus was fast asleep, his body relaxed and unguarded in the deep embrace of exhaustion.

You emerged from the shadows to his sleeping form, pausing for a moment to watch him. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow across his features, softening the hard lines of his warrior's face.

Here, in the quiet of his chambers, he looked different—youthful, at peace, a stark contrast to the cold-faced warrior who had taken a life so simply all those days ago.

You leaned over, and with a gentle brush of your fingers against his temple, a shimmer of connection formed. His consciousness yielded, inviting you into the labyrinth of his dreams.

It wasn't difficult. The mortal mind is pliable in sleep, softened at the edges, drifting between memory and imagination.

You slipped between those cracks with ease, settling into the unguarded spaces where his thoughts lay.

You told yourself you did this to understand.

Was it luck? Coincidence? A warrior's instinct sharpened beyond reason? Or was there something else? Some force—some unknown, unseen thing—that had intervened?

You must know.

You must know so it doesn't happen again.

And so, his dreams opened before you.

And you stepped inside..

.☆.
    .✩.
       .☆.

You expected carnality.

That's what you've always seen.

Mortal dreams, when not touched by the gods, are selfish things—filled with hunger, with longing, with that ceaseless reaching for what they cannot have.

They dream of flesh, of power, of lost loved ones. They dream of desires so deep they drown in them.

But... Telemachus didn't.

You found him beneath the shade of a cypress tree.

The sun was high, warmth spilling through the branches in soft golden waves. He leaning against the rough bark, eyes closed, his expression unreadable. The grass bent with the wind, whispering in hushes that you didn't strain to hear.

He didn't stir.

It was a dream of peace.

A dream of stillness.

How rare.

You watched for a time, waiting for the dream to shift, for some deeper hunger to surface, but it didn't. If anything, he seemed to sink further into it, as if this moment—this brief pause in an otherwise chaotic existence—was something he wished to preserve.

But you hadn't come here for this.

You stepped forward, deeper.

The world bent.

The cypress and the warmth dissolved into mist, curling around your limbs as you pressed further into the hazy corridors of his mind. The deeper you went, the thinner the veil between memory and dream became.

And then—

A boy.

He was young—no more than five or six summers old. His frame was thin, wiry, his hair tousled from salt and sun. He stood in the courtyard of the palace, surrounded by men—older, stronger, towering above him.

They called him little wolf.

Though, not in kindness.

They laughed, their voices thick with wine, jesting about the boy's mother, about her "faithfulness" during Odysseus' absence. Their words were cruel, each one a barb meant to wound.

"Careful, pup," one of them chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair in a way that made his small hands clench into fists. "You bite too hard, we'll have to wonder who really taught you."

"Maybe you're more a stray than a prince. Who knows who you've really got running in your blood, eh? Maybe that's why you're so quick to snarl."

The boy didn't lash out.

He stood there, shoulders stiff, his jaw locked tight as he took the taunts. His nails dug into his palms.

He didn't look at them.

He didn't cry.

He waited until they were gone.

Only then did he exhale.

Only then did he move, retreating to the shadows of the halls, his small frame vanishing into the vastness of the palace as if he could disappear from the harsh world they'd thrust upon him.

The memory shifted.

A boy of thirteen.

You found him alone—his body leaner, his limbs stretched awkwardly as he grew into himself. He trained in the yard beneath the watchful gaze of no one.

No tutor. No father.

No man to guide his hand, to correct his stance, to sharpen his edge.

So he drilled himself.

Again. And again. And again.

The sun was low, casting long shadows that merged with his own. Yet he didn't stop.

He moved through the drills over and over, a wooden sword clutched in his aching hands, sweat dripping down his back, matting his hair to his forehead. His feet shifted across the packed dirt.

Each movement is deliberate. Repeated. A thousand times over.

His strikes were clumsy. His footing, uncertain.

But he didn't stop.

He pressed forward, his lips pressed thin, his brows furrowed in fierce concentration.

Every time he faltered—every time the blade dipped too low, every time his step was misplaced, every time he felt the sting of his own weakness—he gritted his teeth and began again.

It wasn't a skill he trained for.

It was readiness.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the day his father returned.

Waiting for the day he no longer had to prove he belonged here.

Waiting for the moment he'd no longer be seen as a child, but as something more.

You stepped closer.

Close enough to see the blisters forming on his hands.

Close enough to feel the sheer want burning in his bones.

His frustration mounted with each misstep. The wooden sword becoming an unwieldy extension of his tiring arms.

Finally, his endurance frayed, snapped by the weight of his exertions and the burden of expectations.

With a cry of exasperation, the sword clattered to the ground.

His energy spent, he collapsed beside it, his breaths heaving.

Dragging his knees to his chest, Telemachus tilted his head back, his eyes tracing the reddening sky as the sun dipped below the horizon.

In the silence, his voice cracked—not with pain, nor anger, but with something deeper. "Father... where are you?"

The quiet that followed was deafening.

A silence that spoke louder than any answer ever could.

And then—

The memory shifted again.

And now—he was older.

Not quite the man you saw on the battlefield, but close.

You knew this moment before it unfolded.

The threads of this event were woven long ago, stretched taut over the loom of fate, the echoes of many shears snipping with each thread you severed.

The suitors.

The great hall was awash in blood. It dripped from the marble columns, pooled beneath overturned tables, stained the once-pristine floors of his home.

Telemachus moved through the carnage with the precision of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life.

His movements were methodical, a dance of death perfected through years of silent preparation.

He fought beside his father now.

Odysseus—returned at last.

Reclaimed, reborn, bringing vengeance upon those who defiled his home.

Telemachus mirrored him, step for step, his blade an extension of his will.

Each suitor's life ended with a clean stroke.

Each final breath was swallowed by the great silence of the slaughter.

A man might've wept in such a moment.

Might've crumbled beneath the weight of it all.

But Telemachus didn't.

His expression was a mask of stone, unreadable even as the dying cursed his name.

He cut them down with the same ruthless efficiency as Odysseus.

It wasn't vengeance.

Not rage.

It was something colder.

Something... inevitable.

And you wondered—

How many mortals live their lives so deeply entrenched in both the mythical and the harrowing?

How many face gods and ghosts, war and loss, and emerge still standing, unbroken?

Enough.

You stepped away.

The memories unraveled, mist curling back into the void.

You withdrew from his mind.

You left the sleeping prince behind, returning once more to your duties, and after a few more snips, you returned home... if you can even call it that.

To call it a place would be a mistake. It wasn't a place, and yet it wasn't nothing.

It existed beyond existence, where time didn't pass, where the concept of form and function was a mere afterthought.

Here, the great spool of fate turned without ceasing, an endless thread twisting and stretching into eternity.

It was delicate, vast, incomprehensible.

To mortal minds, it was believed that the Fates worked tirelessly, aided by a hundred attendants—souls chosen to weave and sever the destinies of men.

They were wrong.

It wasn't hands that guided the threads. It wasn't effort that kept fate in motion. It simply was.

An eternal spinning. A balance.

A thing that should not be interrupted.

And yet—

When the halls are dark and your sisters weave their quiet rhythms, you find yourself thinking of him still... mortal who had slipped past his fate.

The son of Odysseus.

Telemachus.

You told yourself this wouldn't happen again. That you'd learned what you needed to. That his life was merely another thread in the grand design, nothing more.

And yet, you found yourself intrigued.

One step outside the weave, and what does a man become?

You think you'll watch him a little longer.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

It had been a week since you should've cut his thread.

A week since you let Telemachus slip past his fate.

You had more than enough time to rectify it.

There'd been countless moments where you could've simply reached forward, pressed the shears to the strand, and severed him from existence. You had every opportunity.

And yet—you hadn't.

It would've been easy to tell yourself you had simply been busy.

The world had no shortage of the dying.

Threads snapped, frayed, and unraveled in great numbers every day. There were always battles. Always kings gasping their last breath. Always nameless men falling beneath uncaring skies.

Yes. You could've said you had been preoccupied.

But even you knew that wasn't the truth.

Because once again—

You found yourself in his dreams.

Just as before, Telemachus leaned against the cypress tree, his eyes closed, his breathing even.

Stillness.

Peace.

The dream hadn't changed from last time.

You wondered if he willed it into existence each night, or if this was simply where his mind drifted when left unguarded—this singular moment of quiet, this illusion of untouched serenity.

Daring, you decided to disrupt it.

A selfish little act.

But you'd allowed yourself too many indulgences already.

One more wouldn't matter.

You reached forward.

And the world trembled at your touch.

A whisper. A shift. A ripple.

His body tensed.

The dream bent beneath your will, time stretching back, the threads of his subconscious untangling like loose strands from a spool.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dissipated.

And the past emerged.

It played out exactly as before.

The halls of the overrun palace stretched before him, dark and filled with distant echoes. Shadows slithered along the walls, the scent of fire and blood thick in the air, clinging to his skin like something alive.

Telemachus moved carefully, blade drawn, his steps silent as he wove through the corridors. His heart was steady, his grip firm.

He'd trained for this. He'd fought for this. He'd killed for this.

He entered the chamber, eyes scanning the overturned furniture, the splintered wood, the remnants of what once stood before war came to claim it.

But this time—this time, there was no last-minute dodge.

No instinct pulling him from the path of death.

No twist, no counter, no shield raised in time.

No—this time, fate followed through as it was meant to.

The captain's blade plunged deep into his back.

His body jerked forward, his fingers flexing, grasping at empty air. A sharp, gasping exhale ripped from his throat. His knees hit the stone with a hollow thud.

His grip weakened. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly beside him.

Blood spilled freely. Warm. Endless. Soaking into his tunic, pooling at his knees, sinking into the cracks of the floor like ink into parchment.

Above him, the captain loomed, silent, his expression unreadable.

Telemachus wanted to move, to push himself up, to fight, but his body betrayed him; his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Then, the captain laughed. A harsh, rasping cackle that echoed off the ruined walls, thick with mockery.

"Ah, little wolf," he sneered, nudging Telemachus' fallen sword with the toe of his boot. "Maybe you should have trained a little longer. Maybe then you'd have lasted more than a heartbeat."

Telemachus tried to summon the fire that had carried him through every battle before—but his limbs were leaden, his vision blurring at the edges. The fight was gone from him, drained along with the warmth leaving his body.

The captain crouched, his smirk curling cruelly. "All that blood, all that war—and still, you're nothing but a boy playing at being a man. Shame."

He then stood, wiping his blade clean with slow, deliberate strokes, as if Telemachus' life was nothing more than a stain to be discarded.

Then, without another glance, he turned and stepped back into the shadows, his work complete, his blade slick with the blood of a prince who was never meant to survive.

Telemachus didn't cry out.

He didn't panic.

His fingers pressed lightly against the wound at his chest, feeling the warmth of his own life draining from him. He didn't try to crawl forward. Didn't scramble to rise.

Instead, he simply exhaled.

And then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he shifted his weight and propped himself against the nearest wall.

The city burned beyond the open window.

The flames reflected in his tired eyes, flickering gold and orange against the brown depths. His breathing slowed, his shoulders slackened.

He watched the fire consume what remained of the kingdom he had helped conquer.

Accepting.

Untroubled.

Not a man who fought his fate.

A man who met it.

You tilted your head.

Interesting.

So this was what would have happened had he not moved. Had he not stepped outside the weave of fate.

This was what you were meant to see.

And yet—

Why did it feel so hollow?

You didn't like it.

This quiet, this stillness, this acceptance.

You'd expected resistance, had expected some lingering trace of defiance, something that would make sense of why he had slipped past your shears.

But no.

He'd welcomed your death with all the serenity of a man laying down to sleep.

The sight left a distaste in your mouth, an irritation you couldn't place.

With a swipe of your hand, you undid it.

The flames faded, the blood retracted, and the quiet hall was once again replaced by the cypress tree and the warmth of a dream untouched by fate.

Telemachus leaned against its bark, his expression calm, unaware of the shift in his subconscious. The world was still, undisturbed.

You left without looking back.

The moment you returned home, they were upon you.

The first voice you heard was Lachesis.

"Where have you been?" Her tone was clipped, the voice of someone who had already counted your absence and found it lacking.

Before you could answer, Clotho giggled, her youthful voice carrying easily. "Watching Prince Telemachus again, I bet."

You didn't respond, you didn't need to—Lachesis' frown deepened, her sharp gaze narrowing as she stepped closer. "Wasn't Telemachus supposed to be cut a week ago?"

You brushed past them, making a sound in your throat that could have been agreement or dismissal. "Yes, but something happened."

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth.

It was something in between, a vague enough statement that they would either let it go or pull it apart.

They followed.

Of course they did.

Lachesis pressed further. "And why haven't you fixed it?"

"Yes," Clotho agreed, voice far too bratty for someone who only ever handled the beginning of a thread. "You're always on us about staying on top of our work, about how balance must be maintained, yet here you are, letting some mortal—"

You sighed, the sound heavy enough to make them pause.

You didn't know if your frustration came from their badgering or from the truth buried in their words.

You should've fixed it. You should've severed his thread the moment it slipped from your shears.

But you hadn't.

And still, you hadn't.

"I'll fix it soon." You brushed past them before they could question you further.

You walked until all else faded.

This place—our place—was not meant for mortal minds to comprehend. They had tried, of course, twisting myths and half-truths into crude approximations of reality. They believed in three women weaving at a great loom, their fingers plucking at the fates of men, deciding who would live and who would die.

But they were wrong.

The loom didn't need you. It would spin with or without your hands.

It was the source.

The great, unending weave from which all things were bound.

Every single thread—every single thing that had ever existed—was here. From the smallest blade of grass to the vast, endless expanse of the cosmos. From the lowest beggar to the highest god.

It didn't differentiate.

Even deities, despite what they liked to believe, were not immune to the loom's reach.

Their threads were longer, yes. More complex, stretching far beyond the lifespan of a mortal. But they were here, woven alongside everything else, their fates just as susceptible to the pull and twist of time.

You stepped forward, the sheer magnitude of the loom stretching into infinity.

And yet—you knew precisely where to go.

Your fingers trailed along the countless threads, feeling the pulse of lives intertwined, the way they tangled and broke apart, the way some hummed with purpose while others barely trembled.

Then, you reached his.

You knew it by sight now.

By feel.

By the way it had wound itself between your fingers for days, always lingering at the edge of your thoughts.

Telemachus.

His thread should not have been here.

It should have been severed, should have fallen away from the weave, sinking into the void where all things ended.

And yet—

You held it between your fingers, twisting it slowly, feeling the life pulsing through its fragile length.

You thought of the young prince.

Of his story.

Of the way his life had unfolded, each moment shaped by things greater than himself—by war, by gods, by the weight of a name he hadn't chosen.

Why would he accept his fate so readily?

Why, after all this time, after finally carving himself into something more than just the son of Odysseus, would he let it all end with nothing more than a quiet sigh?

The thought frustrated you more than it should have.

You'd seen mortals claw at their lives with desperation. You'd seen kings wail and beg at your feet for just a little more time. You'd seen warriors rage, refuse, fight.

But not him.

He'd simply let go.

The thread in your grasp trembled. Your fingers tightened.

But then—

You inhaled. Slowly.

And you remembered.

You were Fate.

You were what gods feared, what even immortals did not question. Your knowledge was absolute. Your presence was inevitable. What use was frustration when the outcome was yours to decide?

The truth settled over you, heavy and undeniable.

You didn't have to be frustrated.

You didn't have to wonder.

You decided how this ended.

If you wished for answers, you would take them.

If you wished for this interest to end, you would end it.

The choice was yours.

The thought soothed the quiet irritation curling beneath your skin. Your fingers loosened, releasing the thread back into the weave.

Tomorrow, you would visit the young prince.

You would speak to him.

And then, you would put an end to this foolish interest once and for all.

You would fix what should've never been broken.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

It was the next day.

After a full cycle of overseeing and severing threads, of watching lives flicker out like candle flames, you left to visit the young prince once more.

Like the past two times, his dream was unchanged.

The cypress tree. The warm light filtering through the leaves. The quiet stillness that he draped around himself like a cloak.

But this time, you didn't simply watch.

This time, you didn't just alter the dream unseen.

This time, you did something.

You told yourself it was nothing more than idle curiosity. A moment of indulgence, nothing more. A small experiment, the same way one might dip their fingers into the surface of a lake just to watch the ripples spread.

It was detached.

It was nothing.

And yet, as you lifted your hand and shifted the dream around him, you felt something close to anticipation.

The cypress faded.

The warmth dimmed.

The world bent—

And in its place, a dense forest unfolded.

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

He didn't move at first. He simply scanned the scene, taking in the new surroundings—the thickened trees, the silver shadows stretching long across the forest floor beneath a cold moon.

Then, his jaw tightened.

He was wary.

Not panicked. Not afraid.

Cautious.

That you found interesting.

He is unsettled by this—by the unknown, by the shift in his subconscious.

But when he had faced his own death—when he had bled out onto the palace floor, when the captain had left him gasping, staring out at a burning city—he had been passive.

Accepting.

Yet now, faced with nothing more than a shift in the air, his instincts stirred.

Fascinating.

You didn't allow yourself to linger on it.

You had come for a reason.

The trees whispered as you stepped forward.

You didn't appear all at once. That would have been too direct. Too abrupt.

Instead, you let the air ripple first, the dream bending beneath the weight of something it didn't understand. A shiver of power rolled through the forest, the leaves trembling, the shadows stretching unnaturally long across the ground.

Telemachus straightened.

His muscles didn't tense for battle, but there was a shift in his posture—something keen, something aware.

Good.

A soft breeze moved through the trees, and you stepped into the clearing.

You didn't announce yourself immediately.

The cloak draped over your form, its fabric darker than the space between the stars, untouched by light. It didn't move as fabric should, did not cling or billow, but instead seemed to shift in ways that defied understanding, a piece of something not entirely real draped across your shoulders.

The hood was pulled forward, shadowing the upper half of your face. You didn't bother with grandeur, nor with any particular presence of menace or warmth. You simply were.

And in the space between you, the silence waited to be filled.

Telemachus didn't speak first.

The only surprise he allowed himself was a subtle shift in his jaw.

Interesting.

You broke the quiet with a single word.

"Evening, Telemachus, son of Odysseus."

Telemachus didn't react immediately.

He simply stared, his expression unreadable, his mind turning over thoughts you couldn't yet grasp.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Am I dead?"

You frowned.

The question was absurd. Pointless.

But something about the way he said it—the certainty in his voice, the ease with which he asked it—unnerved you.

You tilted your head slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Telemachus exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp yet distant, as if you had simply confirmed something he had suspected for a long time.

"If you're here," he said, "then that must mean I'm dead, yes?"

A flicker of irritation curled within you.

"You assume too much, mortal," you said, the words edged sharper than you intended. "Now tell me—what do you mean?"

He watched you carefully, weighing something in his mind before he spoke again.

"It's impossible to know who you are exactly."

His words were quiet, measured.

"The Fates are many, but only one ends the line. And if you are that one... then I shouldn't be here, should I?"

You said nothing.

His logic was sound.

If you were truly here for him, he wouldn't be standing before you, not even in a dream.

He shouldn't be able to speak to you.

Telemachus held your gaze for a long moment before something shifted.

A breath.

A huff of laughter—not mocking, but something close to understanding.

His posture eased. The tension in his shoulders unwound, the sharpness of his jaw softening just enough to make him seem human again, rather than the warrior you had followed through battle.

He apologized—apologized—before explaining himself.

"I nearly died once."

You didn't react, but something in the air shifted, a weight settling between you.

"It was during my first attempt to find my father," he continued, voice steady but touched with something quieter—something long since buried. "I decided to go alone on a small ship. Everything was going fine until not a week in, a storm took it. The waves swallowed me and before I knew it, I was drowning."

His fingers twitched, as if the memory was something he could still feel.

"In that moment, when I thought I had died... I saw her."

His eyes met yours.

"I saw you."

The world went still.

"You removed the attendant that had come for me. I saw it—a figure waiting in the water, reaching for me, and you—" he paused, exhaling slowly as he remembered, "you stopped it. You barely spared me a glance before disappearing. But I saw you."

The forest shifted, the dream thinning at the edges.

"That's why I dream of peace," Telemachus murmured, tilting his head slightly, voice quieter now, almost distant. "That's what I felt when I nearly died. And it always reminds me of you."

You blinked.

Taken aback.

For a moment, you almost disregarded it entirely.

Impossible.

This was nothing more than a mortal spinning meaning into something beyond his comprehension.

And yet—

Something scratched at the edges of your mind.

A memory.

A day you'd long since forgotten, brushed aside as nothing more than routine.

You hadn't cared to remember it before.

But now, standing before the prince, the scene rose unbidden.

The loom had frayed.

A premature cutting—one that should not have been.

Your sister had sent you, impatient and irritated, ordering you to fix it quickly.

The ocean.

The storm.

A body floating amid the wreckage of a broken ship.

A soul, already half-detached from its thread, lingering at the precipice.

An attendant reaching for him—one of the lesser ones, those who collected the dead and carried them to their end.

You had stopped them.

Swiftly. Cleanly. Without thought.

A glance at the figure in the water—just a single flicker of acknowledgment—before you had moved on, correcting the weave, restoring the balance, leaving without a second thought.

You had not thought of it again.

Until now.

Until him.

You stared at Telemachus.

"Yes," you said at last, your voice carefully even. "I seem to recall that."

The admission lingered between you for a moment, a thread of truth woven into the fabric of this dream.

But you didn't let it hold weight.

There was no reason to linger on the past when you'd come for the present.

"That is not why I'm here," you continued. "You were supposed to die a week ago."

You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

But Telemachus didn't flinch.

Didn't pale, didn't startle, didn't so much as tense at your words.

His expression remained unreadable, the calm of his features giving away nothing.

And then—

"I see."

That was all he said.

"I see."

You blinked.

You'd promised yourself you would remain impartial, wouldn't let this frustrate you.

But something tightened in your chest, something sharp and unfamiliar.

"That's it?" you demanded, your voice edged with something you didn't care to name. "You learn you were meant to die, and all you have to say is 'I see'? Has mortality truly lost all sense of self-preservation? Have mortals become so uncaring?"

Telemachus snorted.

The sound was so unexpected, so entirely human, that you were caught off guard by it.

"Apologies," he said, though he did not sound particularly sorry. "It's just—" He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as though something about your words genuinely amused him. "I'm not uncaring. I'm just practical."

You frowned. "Practical?"

"Yes."

He looked at you then, something steady and certain in his gaze.

"My death was meant to happen, wasn't it? Written in the stars, as they say?"

"Yes," you confirmed.

Telemachus nodded, unsurprised. "Then if it was meant to happen, what good would it do for me to fight it?"

You took that in, rolling his words over in your mind, trying to fit them into what you understood of mortals.

They were creatures of resistance. Of want. Even in the face of death, they clung. They wailed, they raged, they fought for every last breath.

But not him.

He accepted.

He didn't cling to his life because he'd already made peace with it ending.

A strange thing, for a mortal to be so willing.

"You are... wise for your age," you said at last.

Telemachus gave a small, knowing smile. "Thank you."

For a moment, silence lingered between you.

He took the time to glance around the dream, taking in the shifting woods, the way the shadows stretched and flickered in ways they should not.

Then, at last, he turned back to you.

"So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

The question was inevitable.

You found yourself at a loss for words.

The answer should've been simple.

And yet—

"I'm... not sure."

The words left you before you could think of another response.

And they were the truth.

The admission lingered in the air, weightless yet suffocating. It wasn't often that you were without an answer, and yet here you were—standing before a mortal, admitting to something you did not understand.

Telemachus watched you closely, searching your face for something, though you didn't know what. He didn't press you for an answer, didn't mock your uncertainty.

Instead, he hummed, as if considering something.

"Well, that's unexpected."

"Unexpected?" you repeated.

"That you, of all beings, don't know why I lived." He gave you a small, lopsided smile. "It's almost comforting, in a way. Even fate isn't infallible."

You frowned. "You misunderstand."

"Do I?"

You didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, you shifted the conversation.

"You seem remarkably unshaken by this revelation."

"Would it make a difference if I were?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Most mortals would not take this so lightly."

"I'm not most mortals."

A simple statement, but one that carried weight.

Telemachus settled back slightly, looking at you with an unreadable expression. He studied you with the same scrutiny you had studied him.

"You know," he mused, "for a being who deals in death, you seem very interested in those who still live."

"It is my duty to understand the lives I end."

"Then let me ask you something." He tilted his head, voice thoughtful. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret?"

"Yes." He shifted his weight slightly. "Do you ever wonder about the people whose threads you cut? Do you ever think about what might have been if you hadn't?"

"No."

The answer was immediate, instinctive.

Yet, even as you said it, you felt the weight of Telemachus' thread around your fingers—phantom and persistent, lingering even though you were no longer holding it.

Telemachus watched you, as if considering whether or not to believe you.

"I see," he said finally, though his voice suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, there was an ease in it, an understanding that neither of you felt the need to fill with empty words.

He shifted, stretching out his legs, his gaze drifting toward the trees above you.

"It's strange," he said after a while.

"What is?"

"Speaking with you."

"Because I am not mortal?"

"Because you are fate. Well, part of it." He gave you a glance, something wry in his expression. "Men have prayed to the gods for answers since the beginning of time, yet here I am, speaking to one who claims not to have them."

"I never claimed to have all of them."

"No, I suppose not."

A beat.

Then, he asked, "What was it like?"

"What?"

"Knowing how everything ends?"

You exhaled slowly. "Predictable."

Telemachus huffed a soft laugh. "And here I thought fate would be grander than that."

"Mortals think many things are grander than they truly are."

"I imagine so."

His fingers twitched absentmindedly against the fabric of his tunic, his thoughts drifting somewhere far away.

"Would you rather not know?" he asked.

"What?"

"How things end. Would you rather be... surprised?"

"No."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully but did not press the matter.

He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Do you fear anything?"

You looked at him. "Fear?"

"Yes. Surely even fate is capable of it?"

"No."

Another immediate response. Another truth.

Or perhaps... not.

Telemachus watched you carefully, his expression thoughtful.

"You're not what I expected," he finally admitted.

"And what did you expect?"

"Something colder. Something less curious."

"I'm not curious."

He gave you a knowing look. "If you say so."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But before he could speak again, something shifted.

A distant pull, a whisper at the edges of your existence, calling you back.

Lachesis.

Clotho.

Your sisters were summoning you.

Your time here was over.

You turned back to Telemachus, who watched you with calm awareness, as if he already knew what was happening. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

He nodded slightly, as if he had expected this.

"Will I see you again?"

You hesitated.

The answer should have been no.

But you didn't say it.

Instead, you stepped back, allowing the dream to dissolve around you.

The last thing you saw before you faded was Telemachus, still sitting beneath the trees, watching you leave as though he was already waiting for your return.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The last thing he saw before waking was your cloaked figure fading into the shifting trees, dissolving like mist at dawn. But even as you disappeared, your presence lingered, as if the dream had been carved into something deeper than mere sleep.

And then—

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

A dull, steady thudding filled the room, accompanied by a faint voice beyond the wooden doors.

"Prince Telemachus?"

The knock came again, polite but persistent, and Telemachus exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. The warmth of sleep still clung to his skin, the last traces of the dream curling at the edges of his thoughts like dissipating fog.

For a fleeting moment, he tried to hold onto it—the stillness, the strange, weightless peace that had wrapped around him like a second skin. He tried to picture you—your shrouded figure that had spoken of his death as if it were no more than a misplaced step, who had stood before him, watching with an unreadable gaze.

But the memory blurred.

The details unraveled, slipping away like water through his fingers.

Telemachus let out a tired sigh. He knew it was no use.

Pushing himself upright, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the haze of sleep. The knocking continued, more insistent now.

"Enter."

The heavy doors eased open, and a handful of servants filed in, moving with quiet efficiency. Some carried fresh linens, others brought water for washing. One knelt to help set out his tunic for the day, while another murmured about the meal waiting in the hall.

Telemachus allowed it all to happen around him, standing still as they moved, as they prepared him for the morning ahead.

His body felt weighed down by something nameless, something that had nothing to do with war or duty.

And yet, as always, he carried it without complaint.

.☆.
    .✩.
       .☆.

A short while later, Telemachus made his way toward the dining hall.

The scent of fresh bread and olives filled the air, mingling with the salt that drifted in from the open windows. Sunlight spilled through the archways, catching on the polished stone floors, casting long shadows along the walls.

He stepped inside, his expression unreadable, composed despite the faint tiredness still clinging to his features.

His father was already there.

Odysseus sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as ever. He was speaking with a servant, though his sharp eyes flicked up the moment Telemachus entered.

Penelope, seated beside him, brightened at the sight of her son.

"Ah, there you are!" she said, her voice warm, eager.

She rose slightly, as if she meant to reach for him, but instead motioned him forward.

"Come, sit. You must eat."

Telemachus hesitated for only a second before moving to take his seat.

The moment he settled, Penelope wasted no time in filling the space with words, speaking of the morning's affairs—the state of the household, news from the city, preparations for an upcoming festival.

Her voice a welcome warmth against the cool morning air; reminding him of childhood, of simpler mornings when he had no burdens to bear beyond learning his letters and running through the halls with dust on his feet.

"The fishermen have been restless," she continued, slicing a piece of fruit and setting it onto his plate as if he were still a boy. "They say the tides are shifting, that the waves have grown more unpredictable—some claim it's the gods stirring the waters again, restless with unseen quarrels."

She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Superstition, most likely. You know how they are—always searching for omens where there are none."

Telemachus made a quiet noise of acknowledgment but said nothing, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.

"Your father disagrees, of course," Penelope added, glancing toward Odysseus with an expectant look, as if waiting for him to correct her. "He says the sea never moves without reason."

But even as she spoke, Telemachus found his mind drifting once more. His thoughts wandered back to the dream—the presence that had stood before him cloaked in something more than mere shadow. He could still hear their voice, cool and steady, speaking of his death as though it were a certainty carved into the stars.

"So, if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

"I'm... not sure."

The admission had unsettled him.

Fate, uncertain?

It was almost comforting.

"Telemachus?"

His mother's voice was softer this time, breaking through the fog of his thoughts.

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his mind, and turned to find her watching him, her brow creased with quiet concern.

"Are you alright?"

For a brief moment, he considered brushing the question aside. But the worry in her voice, the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, made him offer a small, tired smile.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Just still a bit sore."

Penelope's lips pressed into a thin line. "Sore? And you haven't been keeping up with the physician?" She exhaled sharply, turning over her shoulder. "I'll have one of the servants fetch him—"

"Mother," Telemachus interrupted, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

She turned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm fine." He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Truly."

Penelope studied him for a moment longer before sighing, though her expression softened. "At least promise me you'll rest when you can."

"I will." It was easier to agree than to argue.

Satisfied for now, she let the subject drop, shifting her attention back to her meal.

Telemachus turned his gaze to his father.

Odysseus had remained silent through the exchange, watching rather than speaking. His expression was unreadable, as it often was, but there was something in his gaze—something measuring, something thoughtful.

Telemachus took a breath.

"Father," he started, carefully choosing his words. "Can I ask you something?"

Odysseus didn't answer right away. He held his son's gaze, considering him, before finally nodding, turning back to his meal. "Go on."

There was a pause, brief but heavy.

Telemachus' fingers continued to idly trace the rim of the goblet before him. He kept his posture steady, the same way he'd been taught since childhood—shoulders squared, expression measured, never betraying more than he intended to.

Yet, beneath the surface, his thoughts churned, coiling tight like a rope wound too many times.

Across the table, Odysseus ate in silence, his movements slow, deliberate. His father had always been a man who chose his words carefully, who listened more than he spoke, who measured the weight of a moment before deciding how to tip the scales.

Telemachus studied him for a moment before finally speaking.

"If you were given a choice," he started, voice steady despite the hesitation curling at the edges of his words, "a choice between accepting what has been laid before you... or questioning it, testing it—what would you do?"

Once again, Odysseus didn't answer right away.

Instead, he set his cup down and turned his gaze fully upon his son. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—something sharp, something... calculating.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant hum of the household, the occasional clatter of dishes from the servants tending to their tasks.

Then, Odysseus exhaled, leaning back slightly.

"That depends."

Telemachus lifted a brow, waiting.

"Some things are meant to be questioned," Odysseus continued, his voice low, thoughtful. "Some things must be challenged, bent, even broken if they do not serve you."

He paused, his gaze still steady, still searching.

"But not all things."

Telemachus frowned slightly. "And how do you tell the difference?"

Odysseus tilted his head just so, considering him, weighing something unseen. Then, after another pause—long enough to make Telemachus wonder if he would answer at all—he spoke again.

"Experience."

A simple word. A frustrating word.

Telemachus pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of his father's gaze as it settled upon him. He should have expected nothing less. Odysseus never gave answers freely—only hints, pieces, fragments that a man had to stitch together himself.

And yet... something about the way he looked at him now made Telemachus wonder if he'd already been caught in the middle of such a lesson without realizing it.

Odysseus let the words sit between them before speaking again, this time quieter. "Why do you ask?"

Telemachus hesitated.

For the briefest moment, he considered telling him the truth.

Of the dream.

Of the presence that had stood before him, draped in shifting shadows, speaking of things no mortal should hear.

Of the way his name had rolled from your lips—not as a passing thought, not as a thread to be cut, but as something... watched.

He almost spoke.

Almost.

But instead, he exhaled softly, forcing a small, tired smile.

"No reason," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I was just curious."

He reached for his bread, breaking off a piece between his fingers.

"Thank you, Father."

Odysseus said nothing at first, but Telemachus could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second longer before shifting away.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Telemachus finally began to eat.

☆

☆

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

There was always something to do—always another duty, another lesson, another expectation waiting to be met. As his father's heir, the days of his boyhood were long gone, replaced by the steady weight of responsibility that settled upon his shoulders with each passing season.

Meetings were held, one after another.

He sat beside his father in the great hall, listening as advisors spoke of trade routes, of disputes among neighboring lords, of rations and harvests, of ships in need of repairs. Every decision, every agreement or refusal, every discussion about Ithaca's future was something that would soon fall upon him.

He was being prepared. Groomed for rule.

At midday, he trained with the soldiers, drilling with them in the courtyard. Though he had fought in battle, had killed men with his own hands, his father was adamant—"You must never let your blade dull."

So he moved through the drills, his body following the familiar rhythm of combat, sweat trickling down his spine as the sun bore down on him.

Then more meetings. More lessons. More discussions on the kingdom's defenses, on alliances, on the ever-present question of what came next.

By the time the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold, exhaustion weighed heavy on his limbs.

And yet—

Despite the long hours, despite the endless duties, despite the weight of a crown he had yet to bear—

He found himself perking up.

There was a lightness in his steps, a quiet energy in his movements that hadn't been there earlier.

Because when night fell, you'd be back.

You hadn't said it. You hadn't promised anything.

And yet, something in him knew.

You would return.

.☆.
    .✩.
       .☆.

Dinner came and went.

His mother spoke to him throughout the meal, his father listened in silence, and Telemachus answered when needed, nodding in the right places, speaking when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn't impatience, not exactly, but something close to it. Something restless.

And so, the moment the meal was done, he excused himself, leaving the warmth of the hall behind.

His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way to his chambers, slipping past servants and torches flickering against the stone walls. He undressed quickly, tugging the tunic over his head, running a damp cloth over his face before settling beneath the covers.

Sleep did't take him right away.

But when it did—

He was there again.

The cypress tree. The endless stretch of grass. The dreamscape he had claimed as his own.

But this time, he didn't lounge beneath the branches, arms folded behind his head in easy rest.

This time, he stood.

Searching.

He turned his head, scanning the shifting space around him, waiting—expecting. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if anticipation itself had settled into his bones.

He waited.

And waited.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

And then, slowly, doubt began to creep in.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple before dropping back onto the grass with a quiet thump.

He scoffed at himself, shaking his head.

"Gods... I must look patethic," he muttered aloud, an amused huff leaving his lips.

"She's a deity. A mythical force. Of course she won't have no time for a mortal—" he let out another short laugh, "—Stupid Telemachus, stupid."

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

To sit here like some eager boy awaiting a story before bed? To anticipate something—someone—who had no obligation to return?

Letting out another sigh, he rubbed at his face, his expression briefly tense as he forced himself to accept it.

Maybe you weren't coming after all.

"Were you waiting long, son of Odysseus?"

The voice—your voice—slipped into existence like a thread weaving itself into the fabric of the dream, smooth yet carrying the faintest edge of something... perplexed.

Telemachus' breath hitched.

The tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding—the quiet tightness in his shoulders, the coiled stiffness in his spine—unraveled all at once.

Because you were here.

And gods, he felt it.

Your presence wrapped around him, something unseen yet unmistakable, shifting the very air of the dream, as if the space itself recognized you and bent to accommodate your existence. It was different from before—this time, he knew what he was looking for.

He wasn't caught off guard. He wasn't questioning whether or not you were really before him.

His head snapped toward the sound before he even had time to think, and his body was moving before reason could catch up, pushing himself upright with a sharp inhale.

He knew you would come.

A half-smile pulled at his lips, something wry and easy as he gave a small shrug.

"Can you blame me?" he mused, voice lighter now. "A powerful entity graces me with their presence—should I not be eager?"

His gaze flickered over you, taking in your form once more.

You were the same as before—your cloak draped over you like something untouched by the laws of the world, the hood still drawn, obscuring much of your face.

And yet, despite your near-ethereal presence, there was something almost... awkward in the way you stood there, as though you hadn't quite anticipated this.

A muted scoff floated between the air.

"Flattery won't get you far with me." Your tone was dry, unimpressed. "Maybe with Zeus."

Telemachus huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but said nothing more.

As you stepped forward, your attention drifted—not immediately to him, but to the world around you.

The cypress tree stood tall, its branches swaying despite the absence of wind. The grass beneath your feet remained soft, bending only slightly beneath your presence.

Your gaze swept across the familiar dreamscape before finally landing back on him.

"This is the same dream you've had for the past few nights," you noted, tilting your head slightly; your voice held no accusation, only curiosity. "Why?"

Telemachus looked around, his gaze drifting over the familiar scenery—the towering cypress, the soft grass beneath his feet, the golden warmth spilling through the branches. "Because it's peaceful," he said simply.

His voice carried a quiet certainty, as if that alone explained everything. And perhaps, to him, it did.

But then, after a beat, his brows furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering across his features. His gaze returned to you, thoughtful.

"Is it possible for me to do what you did the other day?"

Your head tilted slightly beneath the hood.

"What?"

"Change it." He waved a hand vaguely. "Like how you shifted the dream before. The forest. The... other things."

You considered him for a moment, the weight of your stare settling over him, unreadable. Then you spoke, your tone steady, measured. "Do you mean your dreams?"

Telemachus shifted, feeling something curl low in his stomach at the way you said it—so blunt, so matter-of-fact. He frowned slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looked away. "It does sound obvious when you say it like that," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

A quiet huff of air left you, something that wasn't quite a laugh but close enough.

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He turned his gaze toward the distance, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to quiet concentration.

A moment passed.

And then—

The air around you rippled.

Like a stone dropped into a still pond, the dream shuddered, distorting, shifting, bending. The cypress tree, the soft grass, the golden light—all of it melted away.

In its place—

A boat.

A small, wooden vessel, floating effortlessly on the surface of a vast, endless ocean.

The water was impossibly still, stretching infinitely in every direction, untouched by waves or wind. Above, the sky was a deep, endless black, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch.

And below—

The same stars.

The ocean reflected the sky perfectly, mirroring the constellations with such clarity that it was impossible to tell where the world ended and where it began. It was as if the boat was floating in the middle of space itself, drifting weightlessly between the heavens.

A hush settled over the dream.

You finally turned, your gaze settling on him.

"What made you create this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, something thoughtful beneath it.

Telemachusglanced down at the water, watching the way the stars shimmered in its depths before sighing softly, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips as he looked away. His fingers traced absent patterns against the worn wood of the boat, a quiet motion, thoughtful.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, scattered like dust across the heavens, flickering against the deep, inky black.

"Towards the end of my voyage to find my father," he began, voice quiet but steady, "I remember wanting to get away from the men."

His lips quirked slightly, a dry amusement threading through his tone.

"They were cheerful—too cheerful. Well, for me they were. They drank and laughed and spoke of adventures ahead, of the places we'd see, of the glory we'd find. But I..."

His fingers curled slightly against the wood.

"I wanted a moment of quiet. Peace." There's that word again.

He let out a soft breath, shoulders shifting as if remembering the weight of that night.

"So I took one of the side stowaway boats," he continued, "untied it just enough to drift a little ways off, though I left it tethered to the ship so I wouldn't stray too far."

His eyes lingered on the stars, their mirrored reflections shimmering beneath him in the endless water.

"I don't know how long I sat there," he admitted. "Just... listening. The water, the wind, the ship creaking in the distance. It was the first time I really understood how vast the sea was."

He exhaled softly, his voice growing lighter, almost distant.

"When I was younger, my mother used to tell me that if I ever missed my father—if I ever wanted to speak to him but couldn't—I should look up at the sky."

A pause.

"She said he was out there, beneath the same stars. That no matter where he was, no matter how far, he was looking at the same sky as me."

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his features.

"I used to believe it."

He tilted his head slightly, watching the constellations above, as if searching for something.

"That night, on the water, I found myself doing the same thing. Looking up. Wondering if he was somewhere out there, beneath the same stars, thinking of me too."

His voice softened, his gaze lingering on the vast sky.

"I suppose I still wonder about that sometimes."

You turned your gaze away from him, letting out a low, thoughtful hum. The quiet stretched between you, the boat drifting weightlessly in the mirrored expanse of the ocean, suspended between stars above and below.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice steady but carrying something almost contemplative. "It is beautiful," you admitted, your words simple yet carrying weight.

Not just the dream—the way the world had folded itself at his will—but the thought behind it. The way he sought quiet, the way he still looked to the stars like they could give him answers.

At your words, Telemachus shifted, his eyes pulling away from the constellations to settle on you.

For a moment, he simply watched.

There was something different in his gaze now—something softer. His sharp, measured features relaxed just slightly, his shoulders unwinding as his lips quirked up into a small, easy smile.

"Thank you," he said after a beat, his voice quieter than before, like he meant it in more ways than just one.

You didn't meet his gaze for long.

Instead, you let the moment pass, turning away as you rose to your feet, stepping onto the edge of the boat with an effortless ease. Or perhaps not stepping at all.

The boat didn't rock beneath your weight. The water didn't shift at your movement. It was as if you existed outside of it, your form moving as though the laws of this place bent around you rather than the other way around.

"I will be going now," you announced, your voice neither cold nor warm, simply a fact.

Telemachus didn't move, didn't stop you—only continued to sit, head tilted up, watching as you stood above him, your cloak as dark as the sky, your presence just as vast.

Still, something in the way he lingered made it clear—he didn't want you to leave.

You turned to go, the edges of your form beginning to fade, dissolving into the dream. The moment stretched just a second too long, and that was all it took.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

The words left him suddenly, hastily—like he hadn't meant to say them aloud.

For the first time since your arrival, you hesitated.

Your form flickered, stilling just slightly, as if the question had pulled at something unspoken. And then, after a breath—

"Yes."

The answer settled between you, solid, final.

And with that, you were gone.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The days passed.

Each night, you found yourself returning.

It was not deliberate at first. Or so you told yourself.

You arrived out of curiosity, nothing more—a desire to observe, to understand why Telemachus continued to defy his fate. Yet each time you stepped into his subconscious, you stayed longer than you should have.

It was a dangerous habit.

Not because of what you were doing—what you were doing was beyond consequence—but because of what you began to feel.

It started subtly.

A pause too long when he spoke. A flicker of something nameless when he laughed. A sensation in your chest when he looked at you—like you were being perceived in a way you never had been before.

And worst of all—you began to see the world through his eyes.

Through the eyes of a mortal.

.☆.
    .✩.
       .☆.

Tonight, you sat in a field of flowers. A dream of his own making, untouched by your influence.

The petals swayed gently in the breeze, the scent of earth and bloom thick in the air. The sky stretched wide and endless above you, painted in twilight hues that did not belong to any real place.

Telemachus was speaking.

"My mother used to tell me stories about the Fates," he said, idly plucking at the grass beside him.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he hummed, "she told me that you were three. Three sisters, bound together, one young, one middle-aged, one old."

You froze.

Then, slowly, you scowled. "Old?"

Telemachus grinned at your tone, his amusement poorly hidden. "Old."

"Of course mortals would imagine it like that," you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "It's always the same. The young one spins the thread, the middle one measures it, and the old one cuts it. As if we are nothing but symbols. As if we age."

Telemachus chuckled. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"

You folded your arms. "Does it?"

"Of course." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "Creation, life, and death. Three aspects of existence. The cycle of time. It's only natural for mortals to see you that way."

"Mortals see many things incorrectly."

"Then tell me how it really is."

You paused.

It was a simple request, yet the answer wasn't something you'd ever put into words.

"We do not have forms," you said at last. "Not truly. We are as we are perceived. We are as mortals believe us to be."

Telemachus brows furrowed, his gaze turning inward, as if turning over something heavy in his mind.

Then, softly, he asked—

"Then how come you're not old?"

You blinked.

The words hit you strangely—like something important that you had somehow overlooked.

Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet.

You materialized a pond nearby, a reflective surface rippling into existence at the edge of the field.

Stepping forward, you gazed into the water.

And then—

"Oh."

You hadn't seen this form in... ages.

You hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't questioned it.

Yet here you stood, staring at a reflection you almost didn't recognize.

Not the faceless void of inevitability.

Not the shadowed silhouette of something distant and unknowable.

But you.

A figure that was neither ancient nor unshaped, neither an old crone nor a shifting wisp of existence.

A form shaped not by time, but by perception.

By his perception.

You stared at your reflection, feeling something unfamiliar coil in your chest.

You pulled away from the water, turning sharply to face Telemachus.

"Why?"

The question left your lips before you could think to hold it back.

Telemachus, still seated amidst the flowers, tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet curiosity.

"Why would you see me like this?" you pressed, gesturing vaguely toward your reflection. "You grew up hearing the same stories as all mortals. If you were raised to believe the Fates were three—if you were told I should be old—why am I not?"

Telemachus didn't answer right away.

He looked at you for a long moment, gaze slow and considering. Then, with a thoughtful hum, he shifted his weight, stretching his legs out before him as he leaned back on his hands.

"Maybe," he mused, "it's because I saw you."

"You... saw me."

"Yes." His lips quirked, though there was no humor in it. "That night, when I nearly drowned. When I thought I had died. That was the form I saw."

He paused, gaze flickering upward toward the sky, as if tracing the memory in his mind.

"Maybe," he said at last, "because it wasn't my time, I saw your true form."

You considered that.

It was an acceptable answer. A logical one.

You hummed softly. "I suppose that makes sense."

Telemachus smiled slightly. "I'm glad you approve."

His teasing tone should have been irritating, but you let it pass without comment.

Instead, you settled back down into the grass, your gaze drifting across the field—the way the wind danced across the petals, the way the light caught in Telemachus' hair.

For a moment, you sat in silence.

Then, you asked your own question.

"I showed you your true fate," you said quietly. "I saw the way you died. And yet, when you thought it was happening... you were at peace."

Telemachus stilled.

His expression didn't shift immediately, but you saw it—

The way his breath slowed.

The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly against the grass.

The way his gaze drifted, not to you, but to something far away, something long buried.

He said nothing at first.

Then, finally—

"When I was young," he began, voice lower now, softer, "when the suitors were at their worst, I would sleep in my mother's chambers."

He didn't look at you as he spoke.

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, his voice steady, but there was something beneath it—something raw, something old, something carefully placed in the farthest corners of his mind.

"She would hold me against her chest," he continued, "and remind me of my father."

A breath.

"She would tell me stories of his cunning, his victories, his journey home. She would whisper to me that he would return, that he would set things right. That I just had to wait."

His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed.

"I believed her. Because I was a child, and children believe their mothers."

The wind shifted through the flowers.

"But he didn't come home."

There was no anger in the words.

No bitterness.

Just quiet resignation.

"Not for years," he said. "And in those years, I was not strong enough. Not clever enough. Not enough."

His hand pressed against his knee, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his tunic.

"I couldn't chase the suitors away. I couldn't protect her. I could do nothing except wait."

He exhaled, slow and tired.

"So I suppose that's why."

Finally, finally, he looked at you.

His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw a weight you couldn't name.

A weight you'd never felt.

His lips twitched—not in a smile, not in amusement, but in something else. Something... sad.

"Because when I thought I was dying," he said quietly, "it finally meant that waiting was over."

You said nothing.

Because for the first time in your existence—

You didn't know what to say.

You lingered for only a moment.

Slowly, you regained your bearings, straightening your posture, gathering your thoughts.

Then, you stood.

"I will see you tomorrow night."

The words left your lips before you could question them. Before you could decide otherwise.

Telemachus simply watched as you turned, your cloak sweeping behind you, the edges of his dream already dissolving into mist.

You felt his gaze on your back, steady and unmoving.

But you didn't turn back.

The last thing you saw before stepping away was the flicker of flowers swaying in the dream's fading wind.

.☆.
    .✩.
        .☆.

You returned home, but your mind didn't. You thought of the mortal boy.

Of the way his voice had shifted when he spoke of his mother.

Of the quiet way he had accepted his own death—not as a tragedy, not as a fear, but as something inevitable. Something welcome.

You'd existed for as long as time itself. You'd seen the passing of kings and beggars alike. You'd watched great empires crumble, had listened to the dying wails of men whose names were lost to history.

But never had you heard that.

Never had you heard a mortal accept death not because he had no choice—but because he no longer wished to wait for life to give him one.

Your thoughts trailed off.

A strange, restless sensation coiled beneath your skin.

Before you could fully name it, your hand reached up, fingers pressing against your chest—against the hollow space where a heart should beat.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but silence.

"Sister?"

The voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and immediate.

You exhaled, dropping your hand, schooling your expression into something neutral before turning to face the approaching figure.

☆

☆

High above the mortal world, Olympus stood bathed in golden light, its marble halls untouched by time, its sky ever stretched in hues of endless blue.

On the grand balcony of his palace, Zeus lounged with his usual arrogance, a cup of ambrosia in one hand, the other draped lazily around the shoulders of a nymph who had been hanging onto his every word.

Or rather, she had been.

Until the air grew cold.

The shift was immediate. The soft hum of conversation faded, the golden warmth of the chamber seemed to dim, and an unnatural chill curled at the edges of the room.

Then—

"You waste your time, brother."

A deep, measured voice.

The nymph gasped, eyes wide, already shrinking back as a figure emerged from the shadows of the marble pillars.

Hades.

Lord of the Underworld.

His presence alone was enough to send a ripple of unease through the air. He did not belong in Olympus, nor did he visit unless absolutely necessary. He was the shadow that stood at the end of all things, the weight of eternity itself, and his very existence clashed against the golden, drunken revelry of the upper realms.

The nymph barely had time to mutter an excuse before she fled, disappearing into the palace halls without so much as a glance back.

Zeus scowled, rolling his eyes as he watched her leave. "You could have warned me before making yourself known."

"And ruin the moment?" Hades drawled, stepping forward, his black cloak trailing behind him. His presence was stark against the golden light of Olympus—where Zeus shone, Hades absorbed; where Zeus burned bright, Hades swallowed everything whole.

Zeus exhaled, clearly impatient. "What do you want?"

Hades did not immediately answer.

Instead, with a slow, practiced ease, he stepped toward the balcony's edge, staring out at the sky. For a moment, he was silent, as if considering his words.

Then—

"A soul is missing."

Zeus' expression shifted.

Gone was the laziness, the irritation.

Now, his gaze sharpened, his posture straightening ever so slightly. "Missing?" he repeated, voice low.

Hades nodded once. "It should have passed through the line of judgment days ago. Instead, it is nowhere to be found."

Zeus set his cup down. "Who?"

Hades turned, meeting his brother's gaze.

His next words were quiet, but they carried a weight that settled heavily between them.

"Telemachus of Ithaca."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Laughter echoed around you, bright and loud, mixing with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the unmistakable tang of sweat. The room was alive, filled with the sounds of music, the clatter of plates, the merry shouting of men who had long since lost count of their drinks.

Telemachus and you sat apart from the celebration, watching it unfold.

His father was at the center of it all—Odysseus, the man whose name had been carried across seas and sung in halls far beyond Ithaca's borders. He was seated at the grand table, his weathered hands curled around his wife's, a servant leaning in to refill his cup as he laughed heartily at some jest.

Penelope—his Penelope—smiled.

A true, unguarded smile, one that softened the lines of waiting, the years of silent suffering. She looked at him the way a woman looked at something once lost but miraculously found again.

Her eyes were bright, her laughter clear.

She was happy.

Telemachus exhaled beside you, setting down his cup with a quiet clink.

"This may have been the happiest she's been since my father left," he murmured.

You glanced at him, but his gaze remained locked on the scene before him.

"I've never seen her quite like this," he continued, voice thoughtful. "Not with her eyes so bright, her smile so wide."

His fingers tapped against the rim of his goblet.

Then, softer—

"I wonder how things would have been if he never returned."

His voice didn't waver, but there was something hollow in the words.

"Would this feast still have happened?" he mused, staring at his mother's laughter, at his father's steady presence beside her. "Would we still be celebrating, only with some suitor sitting in his place?"

The thought lingered for only a moment before Telemachus seemed to shake it away.

He exhaled, straightening, forcing an ease back into his posture.

Then, with forced cheer, he turned to you.

"What about you?" he asked, tipping his head slightly. "Have you ever been to a feast?"

You blinked.

"No."

Telemachus raised a brow. "Never?"

"Only when there is a life to cut."

There was a pause.

Telemachus awkwardly blinked, shifting in his seat.

You didn't particularly enjoy the look on his face—the stiffness of it, the clear attempt to recover from what he deemed a grim answer—so you added, lightly—

"Even then, this seems... nice."

His expression eased at that.

A small, but real smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose it does."

For a while, you simply sat, watching the festivities unfold.

Then—

"So," Telemachus started, tilting his head, "how exactly did you and your sisters come to be?"

You arched a brow.

He chuckled. "Come now, I have the chance to speak with a Fate. I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity to ask."

Then, softer—

"Of course, if you'd rather not, that's no liberty of mine."

You scoffed. "I won't if I don't."

Telemachus grinned, amused.

But after a moment, you considered.

And then you began.

"We were not born as mortals are," you told him, "nor were we forged like the gods."

Telemachus listened intently, the light of the torches casting gold into his gaze.

"We were made at the beginning of all things, not as beings, but as function. The threads of fate existed before we did, but they were tangled, directionless. So, we were shaped—not from flesh, nor from divine ichor, but from time itself, from inevitability, from the fabric of endings and beginnings. We did not step into existence. We simply... were."

Telemachus hummed thoughtfully.

"It suits you," he said.

"Does it?"

"You don't seem like something that could be born."

You tilted your head, considering that.

Perhaps he was right.

"What of your sisters?" he asked. "How are they?"

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. "Contrary to belief, the strictest of us is not me but my younger sister, Lachesis."

Telemachus looked genuinely surprised. "Truly?"

"Truly." You smirked slightly. "And the youngest, Clotho, is just as mortals imagine her—giggling, whimsical, free-spirited."

Telemachus leaned back, shaking his head with amusement. "And yet, you are seen as the harshest?"

"It is easy to mistake certainty for severity," you said simply. "I do not worry over fate. I know what will come, what will be done, so I do not waste time fretting over it."

"And Lachesis?"

"She sets things in motion." You shook your head slightly. "She hates when things don't go as planned. It unsettles her when threads tangle or stretch beyond their design. She finds it frustrating when outcomes shift unexpectedly."

"And Clotho?"

You huffed. "Worse than me, in some ways. She is carefree. Too carefree. When you exist at the beginning of all things, there is no reason to concern yourself with how they end."

Telemachus listened, thoughtful.

Then, after a moment, he hummed.

You glanced at him. "What was that for?"

He shrugged, smiling slightly. "You all sound surprisingly... mortal."

You scoffed, but he continued—

"It's just amusing, is all. People speak of the Fates as if they are distant, emotionless forces. But listening to you, it almost sounds like—" He tilted his head, considering his words. "Like you have frustrations. Preferences. Personalities."

You stared at him.

And then, before you could stop it, you hummed; unable to stop the slight quirk of your lips, amusement flickering through you despite yourself at his words.

"I suppose you're right."

Telemachus shifted at that.

His posture straightened just slightly, as if your agreement surprised him, as if he had expected you to brush it off or contradict him. But you didn't. Because he was right.

You allowed your gaze to drift back toward the feast.

The revelry continued as it had all night—men laughing, servants weaving between tables, wine sloshing over the rims of golden cups. You took in the shifting expressions, the bright, flushed faces, the way hands clasped shoulders in camaraderie, the way Penelope's soft laughter lingered in the air like the sweetest of melodies.

Then—

Your gaze caught on him.

A younger Telemachus, moving through the dance with a lightness you had yet to see in him.

His face was flushed, not with wine, but with something warmer—happiness, exhilaration. His steps were firm but unhurried as he spun a girl around the floor, her hair flowing behind her, her laughter clear.

There was no weight in his gaze. No exhaustion in his shoulders.

Just... joy.

You tilted your head slightly, watching this moment, preserved in memory.

And then, before you realized it, a thought formed.

Who was she?

The question surprised you.

It wasn't the kind you usually had. It wasn't the kind that was necessary.

But you found that you were wondering all the same.

You turned to Telemachus, speaking before you could think better of it.

"Even then," you mused, "there will always be things my sisters and I will never fully experience—no matter how mortal we may seem."

Telemachus glanced at you, brows furrowing slightly.

"And what is that?"

You said nothing at first, merely nodding toward his younger self.

He followed your gaze.

It didn't take him long to realize what you meant—or at least, what he thought you meant.

His expression shifted, his face scrunching in thought, his fingers tapping against his cup in idle rhythm.

Then, after a moment, he exhaled, his voice lower now.

"Fates don't love... do they?"

The words weren't spoken with cruelty.

There was no malice in them.

But there was weight.

And truth.

You hummed in agreement. "No. Love is a thread we use to move lives along, but we ourselves do not entangle with it."

"Why?"

You paused, considering.

It wasn't a question you'd ever had to answer before.

But Telemachus watched you with an expectant gaze, waiting, and so you attempted to explain it in a way he would understand.

"Perhaps because we have never had reason to."

He arched a brow. "That's not an answer."

You hummed. "No. But it is true."

You thought for a moment, then said—

"It's not just that we do not love, Telemachus. It's that we can't—or rather, we shouldn't."

"Shouldn't?" he echoed.

"Think of it logically." You turned toward him. "Every soul is placed meticulously. Everything is balanced. Every meeting, every bond, every loss—it is all woven into the grand design. To uproot a soul from its course for our own novelty would be selfish, would it not?"

He listened, thoughtful.

"To pull a thread from the weave is no small thing," you continued. "The moment you remove one, the entire pattern shifts. To love a mortal would mean taking them from what was meant for them. From the cycle they were born into."

Telemachus watched you closely, absorbing your words.

Then—silence.

You assumed, at first, that he was simply processing it. That your words had given him something phenomenal to consider.

But instead, he spoke again.

And what he said—

"What about the attendants?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The attendants," he repeated, voice patient. "The ones who guide the dead. They were once souls, yes?"

You nodded. "Correct. But they were taken from the cycle. Their fate was to be uprooted."

"Right." Telemachus leaned forward slightly. "So if fate allows them to be removed from the cycle, why is it impossible for you?"

You opened your mouth—

And then closed it.

You stared at him at a loss.

Because in all your existence, you'd never questioned it.

The attendants were souls, yes. But they had been plucked from their mortal ends, turned into something new, something that would exist outside of life and death. They were chosen.

But chosen by who?

By fate itself?

By you?

Or—

You exhaled, your fingers twitching slightly.

Telemachus saw your reaction.

He saw your hesitation.

And his eyes sharpened with understanding.

"Interesting," he murmured.

You didn't respond.

Because for the second time in your existence—

You had no answer.

.☆.
   .✩.
      .☆.

You returned home, but your mind didn't.

Telemachus' words lingered, threading themselves through your thoughts, catching in places they shouldn't.

You told yourself you'd returned from your duties. That you'd come from overseeing the next cycle, to check the upcoming snippings, to ensure all remained as it should.

But you knew the truth.

You exhaled slowly, preparing to let your thoughts unwind themselves further—

"Finally decided to return?"

The voice was sharp, unimpressed.

You closed your eyes, sighing.

"Lachesis," you said, "I apologize for being late. I was out checking the threads—"

"Save it."

You blinked, turning to look at her.

Lachesis stood before you, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed in a way that suggested she had already decided your explanation was useless.

"I know where you've been."

Before you could respond, another voice—

"We both do."

Clotho bounced over—but something was off.

She didn't skip, didn't hum, didn't wear the same lazy, carefree expression she so often did.

For the first time in... you didn't know how long, she looked frustrated.

You straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

"You've been with the young prince," Clotho said. "The prince who should have been dead over two weeks ago."

The words settled heavily between you.

Your eyes widened slightly, and you opened your mouth to respond—to defend yourself, though you were not sure what you would say—

"Don't," Lachesis snapped.

You stiffened.

"It doesn't matter why you've taken so long," she said sharply. "What matters is that you can't keep lolling around."

A twinge of guilt stirred beneath your skin, but you pushed it aside, crossing your arms as you spat back—

"What's so different about this time? I've taken my time cutting threads before—"

"Because of us," Clotho interjected. "Not because of you."

Her voice was more serious than you'd ever heard it.

You hesitated.

"That is different," Lachesis said firmly.

"How?" you demanded.

Lachesis didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly before she met your gaze with something unreadable. "Follow me."

You followed them both through the great expanse of the Loom, moving past the countless threads stretching infinitely in all directions.

But as you approached the heart of it—the place where all things converged—you felt it before you saw it.

Something was wrong.

And then—

"No."

The loom was unraveling.

It wasn't an immediate disaster. Not yet.

But it was beginning.

Small knots tangled along the weave, imperfections that shouldn't have been there. Ripples spread across the fabric of fate, disrupting patterns, distorting the paths of other threads that passed too closely.

And the cause of it—

The source—

Your breath stilled.

Telemachus' thread was darkening.

Where once it had been a delicate golden weave, now it was fraying, strands unwinding slowly, creeping outward, infecting others.

It wasn't a break, not a cut—

It was a slow corruption.

The longer it remained unsevered, the more the loom bent and distorted around it.

You stepped closer, staring, taking in the way the disruption spread.

It wasn't fast.

But you knew what you were seeing.

You knew what it meant.

A presence shifted beside you.

"If a thread is not cut—" Clotho murmured.

You closed your eyes.

And you finished.

"Chaos will spread."

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Not a moment later, all of you gasped—your breath hitched, your vision flashed white-hot as a static hum pulsed behind your eyes.

"Zeus is here."

You all murmured it in sync, the words spilling from your lips like a prophecy already woven.

You didn't hesitate. You three left the Loom's chamber, stepping out into the vast space beyond.

The vibrations hit first.

A thrumming force against your ribs, a low hum in the bones of your skull. The closer you got, the stronger it grew—until the vibrations turned to tremors, shaking the floor beneath you, rattling the very foundation of this place.

Then—

A crack of thunder.

You rounded the last bend, and before you stood Zeus, his presence stretching outward, dominating the space as only a king of gods could.

Lightning still danced along his arms, crackling between his fingertips, illuminating the air with a sharp, electric glow. The space around him was charred—blackened streaks marring the once-pristine expanse, a few of your attendants shrinking back as the static still lingered in the air, their faces lowered in reverence or fear.

He thundered over them, his voice echoing through the chamber, demanding where you all are.

You understood his anger.

But you didn't appreciate his audacity.

Cold fury rushed through you, sharp and biting.

This was your domain. Your place. The Loom was beyond even the gods. Even him.

Before Lachesis or Clotho could speak, you stepped forward, your voice slicing through the crackling air.

" What  are you doing here?"

Zeus' gaze snapped to you.

You stood tall, unflinching, your sisters mirroring your stance on either side.

His boldness simmered just slightly at your challenge, though his frown remained.

"A soul is missing," he stated, voice low with restrained irritation.

Lachesis echoed, "Missing?"

"Yes—" Zeus began, but before he could finish, another voice cut through the air.

"What my brother means," a smooth, measured tone rose from the shadows, "is that after a bit of searching, I found that a soul suspiciously vanished on the very day it was meant to be harvested."

Hades.

He stepped from the darkness at the edges of the space, his presence swallowing the remnants of Zeus' electricity.

Where Zeus was fire and thunder, Hades was ice and shadow, calm but no less imposing.

His gaze landed on you.

You didn't look away.

You didn't lower your head.

Instead, with your chin high and voice steady, you came clean.

"Yes," you said plainly. "There's a soul that has yet to be cut."

Zeus bristled, but you continued before he could interrupt.

"But understand this—" you emphasized, your voice firm. "It was not by my own doing. He avoided his fate himself—my only choice was in not rectifying it."

There was a beat of silence.

Zeus and Hades stood before you, their expressions vastly different.

Zeus' frustration was still palpable, rolling off him like the remnants of a storm.

But Hades—Hades watched you with something else.

Something almost... interested.

Zeus was the first to speak.

"Fix it."

His voice was sharp, impatient. He leveled a hard stare at you.

"This is not a game, Atropos. The Loom could began fraying. If you have wavered for too long, then you will waver longer. Cut the thread and restore balance."

His words pressed heavy into the space—until once again, he was cut off.

"Now, now, brother," Hades hummed, tilting his head. "No need to rush things."

Zeus exhaled sharply, clearly done with interruptions, but Hades paid him no mind.

Instead, he turned his full attention to you.

"I see that you are interested in the soul you withheld from me."

It wasn't a question, it was an observation.

A truth spoken aloud.

You said nothing.

Hades took a step closer.

"So I will offer you a deal."

Zeus made a sound of protest, but Hades continued, unfazed.

"Let the warrior die naturally," he proposed, "and I will allow him to remain yours in the Underworld."

You stiffened.

Zeus' eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"It is simple," Hades said smoothly. "When he dies—when—he will not go through the usual process of judgment. He will not be cast into the fields of punishment or be weighed for paradise. He will not be thrown into the waters of Lethe to erase what he was."

His gaze sharpened slightly, but his tone remained neutral.

"Instead, he will remain yours. Unprocessed. He will stay in my domain until his time to cease comes, untouched by the usual fate of men."

You inhaled slowly.

Cut his thread and restore balance—

Or defy the very essence of what you were.

You hesitated.

You hesitated when you knew you shouldn't.

The Loom was fraying. Your sisters were right. You should have ended this now.

But—

Flashes of memory rose behind your eyes.

Telemachus, looking at you with that quiet, thoughtful gaze. "I nearly died once... and I saw you."

The way he spoke of death not with fear, but with peace. "That's why I dream of peace. That's what I felt when I nearly died. And it always reminds me of you."

Your lips pressed together.

You knew what you should do.

And yet—

You released a slow breath.

Your decision solidified within you.

Your hands unclenched.

And at last, you nodded.

"Very well."

With that, you turned on your heel, y sisters were close behind you, their footsteps steady, their presence pressing at your back as you made your way back to the chamber.

You could already feel the weight of your shears as they materialized in your hand, heavy, expectant.

They knew what must be done. You knew what must be done.

As you stepped into the chamber, your gaze fell upon his thread—the one that had been the source of these past unusual days, the one that had remained unsevered despite all logic, all laws.

And yet—

Your steps slowed.

You neared it carefully, deliberately, your fingers twitching slightly as you reached out.

Slowly, you grasped the thread between your fingers.

You thought of him.

You thought of the first time you saw him on the battlefield, the way he carved through men with the inevitability of a warrior who had no need to prove himself.

You thought of how, even when you poised your shears over his life, he had moved.

How he'd avoided his fate.

You thought of how you should've corrected it immediately—but you didn't.

You thought of the nights spent in his dreams, of his voice in the fields of flowers, of the way he would tilt his head in thought before asking you a question that would linger in your mind far longer than you cared to admit.

You thought of the weight in his voice when he spoke of his mother, of the child who waited for a father who didn't come.

"Because when I thought I was dying, it finally meant that waiting was over."

You exhaled, gripping his thread tighter.

You'd never hesitated before.

Not once.

Not in all your existence.

You were born not from gods, nor from mortals, but from necessity.

Time had existed before you did, but it had no shape, no structure. Events unfolded in chaos, endings and beginnings tangled together without form.

The Loom was created to bring order to it.

And you were created to tend to it.

You'd always existed outside the cycle. You'd always been separate.

But Telemachus' words had planted a thought in your mind—one you had tried to ignore.

Even you, once, came from something.

You took a slow breath and reached into the center of the Loom.

The sensation was immediate.

It was everything and nothing at once.

It was light and void, vastness and closeness, warmth and emptiness. The pulse of existence itself hummed through your fingers, a single string wound through the heart of all things.

The three of you—the Fates—were bound to it.

And yet, in a moment of split decision—of weakness, of defiance, of something you cannot name—

You did something no Fate had ever done.

And now... you were pulling on it.

The Loom shuddered.

Your sisters gasped behind you.

"What are you doing?"

Lachesis' voice was sharp, closer now, panic creeping into the edges of it.

Clotho let out a sharp breath, stepping forward. "Stop! Do you realize what—"

You ignored them.

Your fingers found the end of the thread—your end—the strand that had existed since the beginning of all things.

You felt its pulse, its connection to the Loom itself.

And then, carefully, deliberately—

You took Telemachus' snipped thread.

And wove his thread into your own.

The consequences were immediate. The moment the knot was made, the force erupted.

A violent pulse of energy detonated from the Loom, throwing all three of you backward.

You gasped as your body hurtled through the chamber, your limbs weightless, your mind ringing from the sheer force of it.

Somewhere, you heard your sisters' cries, the echoes of their forms striking against the unseen barriers of the chamber.

The Loom shivered.

Everything shivered.

The threads, all of them—every single one—shuddered violently, stretching taut before snapping still.

Silence.

Not the silence of peace.

The silence of something holding its breath.

The Loom—the endless, pulsing construct that had never once stopped—froze.

For the first time since time itself began—

Fate didn't move.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

The doors to the chamber burst open before any of you could react.

The force of it sent a sharp wind tearing through the space, rattling the threads, though they remained stiff, unmoving.

Zeus stormed in first, his presence crackling through the air like a live wire. His eyes burned with fury, his jaw clenched, his steps so heavy they seemed to shake the very ground.

Hades followed behind him, his approach far less explosive—but his silence was worse.

His face remained impassive, but you saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his dark eyes, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides.

His anger was contained—controlled in a way that was more unsettling than Zeus' open fury.

"What's going on?" Zeus boomed, his voice echoing across the chamber.

Before you could respond, Hades spoke, his voice calm but laced with something colder than usual.

"A strange wave just washed over everything," he said, his tone unreadable. As he spoke, he turned his gaze toward the Loom, his expression darkening as he took it in.

The stillness.

The eerie, unnatural stillness.

His lips parted slightly, his head tilting. "Is that what's wrong?"

Clotho was still on the floor, supported by Lachesis, but she managed to nod, her usual playfulness nowhere to be found. "Yes."

Zeus didn't care for any further explanation.

"Then fix it," he commanded, stepping forward, his form still crackling with restrained energy. "Now."

For a moment, you and your sisters exchanged a glance.

Then, suddenly perking up, Clotho bounced to her feet—though there was something frantic in the movement, something desperate—and quickly approached Zeus with an air of enthusiasm that was too forced.

"Ah, but wait—look at this!" she exclaimed, tugging Zeus toward a cluster of mortal threads. "One of your many demigod children—look how this one is growing! Quite the strong one, aren't they?"

She gestured toward a golden strand, a thread that twisted slightly brighter than the ones beside it. It belonged to one of Zeus' mortal offspring—one born of a union he likely forgot, one who had already begun to shape their own legend.

Zeus hesitated.

His ego won out—as she knew it would—and he allowed himself to be pulled toward the thread, his attention shifting, momentarily distracted.

Hades, however, didn't.

He stood where he was, his gaze never leaving the Loom.

Then—

"Is it supposed to be this still?" he hummed.

"No," Lachesis breathed out, her voice was quieter now, but firm. "The Loom is never supposed to stop moving."

Hades hummed again, but this time, his head lifted.

His gaze drifted upward, toward the higher threads—toward the threads of the gods themselves.

He watched them, motionless, stretching far into the unseen.

And then, without taking his eyes away, he pointed.

"And those?"

Lachesis hesitated.

"Those are the gods' threads," she admitted, her voice quieter than before.

Hades was silent.

He remained still for a long moment, simply staring.

Then—

"We aren't exempt either, huh?"

No one spoke.

The words hung there.

The meaning settled in an instant.

Then—Hades froze.

His body went rigid, his head snapping back down, his attention now fully locked onto you.

His eyes darkened.

His tone was no longer mild when he spoke.

"Chaos is spreading in the mortal realm."

It took less than a second for Zeus to storm back over, Clotho barely keeping up beside him.

"Hades—did you get the message from Hermes?"

Lachesis straightened, her impatience slipping through. "What news?"

Hades didn't look at her. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes dark, his posture stiff as he delivered the words that changed everything.

"Mortals aren't dying."

Silence.

A breath.

Hades' gaze flickered upward, as if listening to something only he could hear, his voice quieter now, but weighted with something heavy.

"Some souls," he continued, "are even resurrecting."

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Then—a shift.

Something trembled beyond the chamber walls, something vast and unraveling, stretching across the mortal world like a fault line splitting open. The Loom's stillness was only the surface—the warning before the tide.

But the tide had come.

In the lands below, chaos reigned.

The forgotten dead pulled themselves from their graves, their souls no longer bound to their end. Once-mourned heroes now walked the earth again, their names dusted off from history's pages, stepping forward into a world that had long since moved on without them. Legends reborn, but their stories incomplete.

Ghosts, meant to have passed beyond the veil, lingered instead, lost and untethered. Some hovered at the edges of battlefields, confused, searching for a war long over. Others returned to homes that no longer stood, their voices whispering through empty ruins, calling for families that no longer existed.

And worse still—

The unborn stirred.

Fates that had yet to be woven, lives that had not yet begun, manifested too soon. Infants cried from empty cradles, their bodies not yet made, their souls pulled forth without purpose, without time, without sequence.

The past, the present, the future—all of it bled together, strings twisting in ways that defied every law of fate. 

Zeus growled, "Fix it. Fix it now."

His presence crackled through the space like a gathering storm, electricity skimming over his skin. His voice was sharp, biting, demanding order from a world unraveling beneath his very feet.

"Hades gave you your deal—a damn good one—yet here we are," he seethed, "the entire mortal world unraveling because you couldn't do your job."

He paced slightly, his movements jerky with restrained fury. "The dead are walking, the sick are recovering without cause, kings meant to fall in battle are standing up again—what the fuck is happening?!"

Clotho swallowed.

Then, weakly, she answered. "We... we know what happened."

Zeus bellowed, his voice shaking the chamber. "Then say it, girl! What happened?"

Clotho flicked a quick glance toward you—toward Lachesis—her usual ease utterly absent. Her throat bobbed as she hesitated, then, slowly, she exhaled.

"Atropos... cut the prince's thread. And then she... tied it to the end of ours."

Zeus faltered.

It was brief, but it was there.

His body stilled, his rage momentarily suspended as if it took him a moment to comprehend. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing slightly, his mind working through the impossible weight of what she just revealed.

Then—realization.

Something darkened in his expression. His fury returned, sharpened, laced with something else now—something edged with understanding.

Zeus' gaze snapped to you.

You didn't move.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice low, seething. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence crackling, pressing down, thick as a storm on the verge of breaking.

Again, that tone.

That seething, entitled demand.

You were sick of it.

You scoffed, your arms crossing, your patience slipping further with every word.

"I don't answer to you,  Olympian ."

Zeus' nostrils flared, his hands clenching at his sides as his energy crackled brighter. "You—Why did you do it?"

And finally—

You broke.

Your voice cut through the chamber, your words spilling out before you could stop them.

"Because did you  ever  stop to think about what it means to be a Fate?"

Zeus paused.

The silence was stifling.

Hades watched, unmoving. Your sisters remained still.

But you didn't stop.

"You—gods, titans, deities alike—you get  everything . You're worshipped, you're loved. You experience joy, pleasure, companionship, desire. You're remembered in stories, sung about, written in the stars. You hold power, and yet you take as you wish— you live ."

You took a slow, shaking breath.

"My sisters and I? We exist to ensure that you may continue to exist. That mortals may continue to live and die. That the cycle remains. But what of us?"

You gestured to your sisters.

"We don't love. We don't touch. We don't exist outside of what we were made for. We're not worshiped. We're not remembered."

Your fingers tightened at your sides.

"Even  you , Zeus, the most self-serving of all gods, are allowed both. You're given purpose and indulgence. But we? We are fixed.  Bound . Changed forever in our duty, unable to stray, unable to reach for more."

Zeus' glare didn't waver, but he didn't interrupt.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

"Maybe, just this once— just this once —I wanted to be selfish. To choose something. To not let Telemachus be taken away, only to be forgotten in time."

Silence.

You didn't look at your sisters.

You didn't look at Zeus or Hades.

You simply breathed.

Then—

"You tied his thread to yours."

Clotho's voice was small, but sure.

You glanced at her.

She hesitated, then tilted her head, thinking aloud. "So... doesn't that make a new step in fate?"

Lachesis straightened slightly. "It changes fate, certainly," she murmured, eyes flickering with thought.

"But," Clotho pressed, looking at you, "if his thread is bound to yours... that means it didn't end."

Hades exhaled slowly, a sound that was almost amused.

"Interesting," he mused.

Zeus, impatient as always, growled, "Enough riddles. Can this be fixed or not?"

Hades hummed, then slowly lifted a hand.

Dark energy swirled around his fingertips before expanding outward—

And then, in a shimmer of twisting shadow—

Telemachus appeared.

His form was solid but slightly hazed at the edges, his essence caught in the in-between of the mortal and divine.

He drew in a sharp, startled breath, his chest rising and falling as if air had just been returned to him. His hands hovered over his own body, fingers pressing against his chest, his arms, his throat—searching, feeling. His breath came unsteady at first, his body tense with confusion, his muscles shifting as if expecting pain that never arrived.

Then, his gaze snapped upward, scanning the space around him, his brows furrowing—until his eyes found you.

You felt the exact moment he relaxed.

His stance eased, his shoulders losing their stiffness, as if you were something familiar—something known.

Clotho clapped her hands together. "Good, he's intact!"

Telemachus blinked at her, then at Zeus and Hades, then finally back at you. His confusion deepened, his voice slightly hoarse when he finally spoke. "What's happening?"

"We're fixing it," Clotho answered breezily, already waving toward the Loom. "And you're going to help."

Telemachus' frown remained. "How?"

Clotho grinned. "By restarting it."

His frown only deepened. "Restarting what?"

"The Loom."

Telemachus followed her gaze—only for his expression to shift.

He didn't know what it was.

But he felt it.

Something in his stance changed, something settling into place in a way that should not be natural. His fingers flexed slightly, as though drawn toward the Loom without understanding why.

You watched, your own fingers twitching.

Telemachus hesitated before speaking, his voice lower now, as though wary of asking the question aloud. "...Why... am I here?"

There it was.

You inhaled softly. "Because... when I cut your thread, I wove it into the end of ours."

His eyes flickered, his throat bobbing as if weighing what to say. He looked like he wanted to ask more—to question, to demand an explanation, to understand why, why, why—

But Zeus was already stepping forward, his patience fraying like an unraveling thread.

"We don't have time for this," Zeus snapped, his energy crackling against the chamber walls, his irritation tangible. "Get on with it."

Telemachus' lips parted slightly, like he wanted to push back—but instead, he swallowed his questions, locking them behind his teeth. He exhaled, his shoulders squaring, his expression unreadable once more.

You nodded at him.

He hesitated only a moment longer—then, finally, he stepped forward.

"Take a cut thread," Lachesis instructed, gesturing toward the loose strands. "And place it back into the Loom."

Telemachus hesitated again.

He looked at you.

You nodded once more.

His throat bobbed—then, with steady fingers, he reached for a single severed thread.

The moment his fingers touched it—

The Loom shuddered.

Then—

It moved.

The threads shifted, the great construct of fate beginning to turn, the fabric of reality slipping back into motion.

The entire chamber hummed, energy surging outward, strong, stable—

Then—

Another shockwave.

This time, not violent, not chaotic—

But final.

The impact dispersed through the chamber, slamming through the very fabric of existence, forcing Zeus and Hades out. The two gods vanished in flashes of golden light and shadow.

The doors sealed shut.

The force settled.

And then, at last—

The Loom spun.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

Telemachus blinked, looking down at his hand, where the thread was still clutched between his fingers.

The glow of the Loom flickered across his skin, illuminating the strand he held—one that should not have been returned, should not have been placed back into the weave. And yet... it had.

The three of you froze.

Lachesis' breath caught. Clotho's usual brightness dimmed, her mouth parting as if on the verge of a realization she hadn't yet voiced. And you... you felt it.

A shift. A disturbance.

A new step had been added to the cycle.

Something changed. Something irreversible.

The Loom had always been set in its design—souls were born, threads were cut, and fate moved forward unyielding. But now, the pattern had been altered. A new motion had been introduced.

Telemachus existed within it.

And he was still here.

For the first time in eons, something unplanned had taken root in the fabric of fate.

The three of you stood in silence, the weight of it pressing against you like an unspoken truth. Telemachus, still unaware of the full depth of what had occurred, looked up.

"What...?" he started, his voice edged with uncertainty.

Lachesis exhaled. "It seems you have become something new."

Telemachus lifted his gaze fully now, his expression unreadable as he sought yours.

You stared at him, your fingers loose at your sides, the enormity of what had happened settling into your chest. The Loom still spun, steady once more, and yet... something fundamental had changed within its design.

"What do you mean?" Telemachus asked, his voice cautious.

"Before this," you murmured, "souls, after being cut and sent to the Underworld, would cease to exist after their sentence."

Clotho grinned, her previous hesitation slipping into something resembling giddy excitement. "But now, thanks to you, they won't."

Telemachus straightened slightly, the words sinking in.

"You have become the movement of the cycle," Lachesis stated, her voice calm but certain. "What allows those cut threads to be reinstated into the Loom."

"You," you said, your voice quieter, steadier, "are the reason souls will now be allowed to be reborn."

Telemachus exhaled.

Slowly, the weight of it all settled into his bones.

A mortal no longer.

A part of the Fates.

The reason for something new.

He met your gaze with a quiet, knowing smile. "Well, I suppose I should thank you, then."

Lachesis sighed, exasperated, before reaching over and firmly grabbing Clotho by the collar, sensing the two of you needed privacy.

"Come on, we're leaving."

"But wait, wait—" Clotho whined, kicking her feet as she was dragged backward. "I still have questions! He was a prince! I want to know what mortals do at feasts! Do they really get as drunk as they say? What''s sex actually like? I've always wondered why they—"

"Out."

Lachesis shoved her through the chamber doors, slamming them behind her with a finality that made it clear they wouldn't be returning anytime soon.

Silence settled.

Telemachus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "She's... energetic."

"That's a word for it," you murmured.

He looked around the chamber then, his gaze sweeping over the Loom, the endless weave of fate stretching infinitely beyond him.

Then, softly—

"So... you didn't cut my thread."

It wasn't a question.

He knew you didn't.

You nodded. "I didn't."

Telemachus let out a short laugh—one of disbelief, one filled with something both knowing and unbelieving all at once.

"I gathered from your words that I was supposed to die," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Yet I always wondered—when would you do it? When would it finally happen?"

You tilted your head. "You thought about it?"

"Of course." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You don't exactly forget something like that. It's not every day you're told your life was meant to end."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, softly, you asked—

"How did your parents take it? Your death."

Telemachus' smile dimmed.

It wasn't a painful expression—not quite—but there was something heavy in the way his gaze flickered downward, something distant in the way his fingers tightened against his palm.

"It was written off as me simply dying in my sleep," he answered. "Funny, really. Days before, my mother had been pressuring me to see a physician."

You blinked. "Why?"

His smile grew smaller, more self-aware.

"I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. I suppose she noticed."

You stilled.

Your thoughts halted.

You had never considered it before—had never thought to look beyond the moments spent in his dreams, beyond the image of him you'd come to know.

Yet now, his words struck something deep within you.

"You were... unwell."

"Yes."

"Because of...?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering.

"Perhaps because of many things," he murmured. "The war. The waiting. The knowledge that the peace I longed for would only ever come in death."

Telemachus watched your face carefully, and something in his expression softened.

"I'm... glad," he said quietly, "that you never visited me outside of my dreams."

You lifted your gaze. "Why?"

"Because I don't think you would've been able to stomach the sight of what I looked like then versus now."

You said nothing.

The words settle like stone in your chest.

You gripped your arms without thinking, your fingers curling against your skin as something heavy—something wrong—twisted in your core.

Guilt.

It sank into you, wrapping around your thoughts like a vice.

Because now you understood.

Now, your mind finally allowed you to see.

This is why you and your sisters never let strings remain past their time.

This is why they must be cut.

Because the body—the vessel that encapsulates the soul—is not meant to endure when its thread is destined to be cut. It may resist for a time, but fate corrects its course, and in the end, the body will seek to unravel what should not remain.

And when it does—

It decays.

It grows weak.

It clings to life despite its fate, despite its function, despite the pain that festers within it.

And if you hadn't cut his string—

If you'd allowed him to slip past fate—

He would've become a soul stuck in a dying body.

A body that wouldn't stop suffering, that would never heal, that would never truly live nor die.

A liminal existence.

An endless, excruciating halfway point.

You inhaled, feeling the weight of that truth.

Feeling the way it settled into you—unchanging, absolute.

Telemachus didn't press you.

He simply watched as you processed it.

And for the first time since this all began—

You were truly, fully aware of what you'd done.

The weight in your chest was suffocating.

You couldn't look at him.

You couldn't face him.

"I..." Your voice was hoarse, unsteady. You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, forcing the words out. "I'm... sorry."

You turned away, shame curling in your stomach, your fingers clenching at your sides.

But before you could retreat—

He stopped you.

A hand—warm, solid, real—caught yours, gently but firmly.

You both froze.

It was the first time you'd ever touched.

For all the nights spent in his dreams, for all the conversations shared in the spaces between fate and reality—this was the first.

Telemachus swallowed, his grip light but unwavering. Then, with careful movements, he turned you toward him.

His fingers lingered against yours, hesitant now, as if he was only just realizing that you could touch.

"Don't be sorry," he murmured.

His voice was softer than you'd ever heard it, hoarse at the edges, laced with something you couldn't name.

"If you had cut it then," he continued, "I would never have truly enjoyed the last of my supposed days."

His thumb brushed absently along the back of your hand, and you felt it. Truly felt it.

The weight of his skin against yours.

The warmth of his touch, so human, so mortal, so alive.

He hesitated.

Then, as if spurred by the same unshakable force that had driven him on the battlefield, by the same instinct that had defied fate itself—

He cupped your face.

Your breath stuttered.

Your eyes widened.

His palms were warm, rough at the edges but gentle, cradling your jaw with a care that disarmed you.

You didn't know what to do.

Your body tensed, instinct screaming at you to push him away—because you weren't used to this.

Not used to any touch besides that of your sisters, brief and fleeting, born only of necessity.

But at the same time—

You didn't want him to let go.

His thumbs brushed along the curve of your cheek, his touch light, reverent, as though afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling with something unspoken, something heavy.

Telemachus swallowed, his throat bobbing.

"I didn't feel alive for so long," he breathed, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. "Not since the day I nearly died. Not really."

His thumbs traced along your skin, slow and searching.

"But the moment you came to me in my dreams—" He exhaled sharply, his forehead nearly pressing to yours, his breath warm against your lips. "For the first time in a long time, I felt peace."

His eyes met yours, his gaze piercing, unwavering.

"And I didn't have to close my eyes to find it."

Telemachus didn't let go.

His hands trembled slightly, but they didn't pull away. His breath was warm, uneven, as though the weight of his own words had stolen the air from his lungs.

Then—

"Stay."

It was a whisper, barely spoken, but it hit like a blade to the ribs.

Your breath shuddered.

His eyes glistened, unshed tears pooling at the edges, his emotions raw and unmasked.

"Stay by my side," he breathed, his voice cracking. "For the rest of time."

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

You shouldn't hesitate.

You'd spent your existence moving forward without question, without pause; always knowing what must be done.

But here, in the silence of the Loom, with his hands pressed to your skin, with his plea hanging between you like an offering, you realized—

You'd never had a choice before.

Fate wasn't something you chose.

It was something that is.

Yet here was Telemachus, asking you, the one who wields the shears, the one who had ended lives without question, to defy everything you are—

To choose him.

His lips parted, as if to say more, as if to beg—

But you didn't let him.

The words left you before you could stop them, trembling but true.

"Yes."

Telemachus choked on a breath.

His shoulders shook, something breaking in him, something unspooling after so many years of waiting, of yearning, of silence.

His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed, his grip tightening for just a moment before—

A kiss.

Soft.

Feather-light.

A single, fleeting press of his lips to your forehead.

It was not a mortal's kiss—not one of passion, nor hunger, nor desperation.

It was reverence.

Devotion so pure it nearly destroyed you.

His fingers brushed through your hair, lingering at the nape of your neck, holding you like something sacred. Like something his.

"...You're shaking," he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

You were.

You hadn't realized it until he spoke.

He exhaled a soft, breathy laugh, his lips still hovering against your skin. "Gods. You've held the fates of men in your hands, and yet this is what leaves you undone?"

You clenched your hands at your sides. "Shut up."

He grinned against your forehead.

Then—another kiss. This time to your temple. A lingering, slow press of his lips, as if savoring the weight of you, the realness of you.

His hands curled, pulling you just slightly closer. Not enough to force, not enough to demand—just enough to offer.

To give you the choice.

And, for the first time in eternity—

You chose.

You closed your eyes.

And for once, you didn't think about what comes next.

You simply existed.

In this moment.

With him.

Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

There is an old tale, whispered in the dim glow of firelight, passed through the lips of poets and dreamers.

A tale of a warrior who should have died but didn't.

A tale of a Fate who should not have loved but did.

Some call it myth. Some swear it is truth.

But all who hear it feel it.

For it is not a tale of gods or kings.

It is a tale of choice.

Of what it means to live—and what it means to love.

And so, the Loom spun once more, weaving, restoring.

Time breathed again.

Fate shifted.

A new cycle reborn.

And at the center of it all, a prince who defied his end—

And a Fate who dared to love him.