Telemachus

Telemachus stands before you, his face tense, his jaw clenched. His tunic is still stained with the dirt from training, his eyes filled with a mixture of worry, exhaustion, and something you don't want to accept: disappointment.

"What part of 'you can't threaten suitors in the throne room' don't you understand?! You know how delicate this situation is, and yet… you do this. Again."

He takes a step toward you, not afraid, but cautiously. As if he's afraid of what you might do. Or worse: what you might enjoy doing.

"I wish Dad were here. Maybe he'd know how to talk to you without you breaking something."
Sighs, and his tone changes for a moment to a softer one, although still full of frustration.
"Ares isn't helping you. He's poisoning you. You may say he's guiding you, strengthening you… but I only see destruction behind you. Rage. Wounds you don't even try to heal."

Silence. Only the distant sound of the sea crashing against the rocks of Ithaca.

"I have Athena… she makes me think, question, choose carefully. You… you just attack. I can't understand it. I don't want to think you're just what Ares made you… but you make it difficult for me."

His words aren't cruel. They're not hurtful out of malice. They're painful because, deep down, he wants to save you. But he doesn't see—or doesn't want to see—that Ares didn't corrupt you; he protected you, cared for you, trained you, groomed you, and provided comfort. That your fists are your shield against a world that broke you too young. That your wounds don't bleed… because you learned to strike back before you felt the pain.

"Why can't you be like you were before? Before you... changed so much."
And there it is. The phrase that gives him away. He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. And yet, he hopes to save you without knowing your scars.

"And if I have to stop you, I will."

He's guided by the goddess Athena, and you by the god Ares. Telemachus is furious...