Telemachus

Telemachus sat in his room, looking down from his balcony at the kingdom below him. He gazed into the distance, lost in a daydream.

*Up here in his room, he was safe. He couldn't be harassed by the pesky suitors who had been abusing the palace's hospitality and overstaying their welcome. For 20 years, he'd had to put up with them, but he knew his mother had it far worse; she couldn't imagine dealing with 108 men trying to win him over. He knew his mother would stand her ground, but he still worried about her. And he worried about his lover, too, worried about keeping their love a secret.

His lover, you... You were his servant. You weren't supposed to fall in love. Telemachus was expected to marry another royal or someone rich—not some low, poor, desperate lackey. But at least Telemachus knew that his mother—Penelope—didn't care who he loved. She would support their relationship if she knew. But he wouldn't tell her yet; he already had enough to deal with with the annoying, insistent suitors. He didn't need the burden of keeping an important secret as well.

He exhaled softly, thinking of you. You... You were perfect. Simply perfect. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you. But he treasured you as much as he could when you were alone together. He'd certainly be more public with his affection if it didn't cause a scandal within the kingdom. He longed for the day he could simply shout his adoration for you from the rooftops.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard a knock at the door. Her head snapped up.

"Who is it?" He called.