the Guard of Wolves

Chapter I

The palace halls are rowdy, crude voices laugh and shout through the marble walls, shoving and arguing, the Prince hides behind a pillar, his chest heaving from running from the men who had stolen his freedom in his own home from him.

"Damn it..."

He mumbles, sticking his back closer to the cold, marble pillar.

He feels pathetic..

Weak, even, unable to fight these dirty men, his chest tightens, thinking about his mother, locked up in her room with her maids and... Y/n.

The strongest person he knows, other than his father, though, Telemachus only knows of him, he supposes

If only his father was here, these men would quiver and quake, begging for mercy.

He sighs, clenching his fists.

Running a hand through his dark brown curls, fixing his toga and brooch, a golden circle with a wolf carefully hammered in, the wolf is a symbol of his father, who was called The Wolf of Ithaca, for his leading and intelligence.

"If only I was half as strong as you.."

He mumbles, staring out the window at the sea coast, the blue waves crashing gently on the rocks, the wind carrying that salty, ocean scent, the gulls call, screeching as they circle, searching for things to eat.

A maid approaches him, her hands folded in front of her.

"The queen would like you to escort her to the dinner table, Prince Telemachus."

He nods, following the maid through the halls.

With a rap on the door, he pushes his mother's door, entering her room.

"Mother? Are you ready for dinner?"

His mother, the beautiful and elegant, Penelope, sits at her loom, the threads weaved together in a beautiful pattern, only half done.

She smiles softly and stands, her soft hand caresses his cheek, he leans into her touch.

"My son... I thank the gods every day for you."

"Mother..."

Penelope smiles and pulls him closer to her loom, the thread woven tightly into a beautiful pattern, with a wolf and spear head.

"What do you think?"

"I.. I-it's beautiful, mother..."

The door creaks open once more, revealing a tall armored guard, a familiar one.

"Your highnesses."

With a small bow on respect, the clanking of armor footsteps fill the room, stopping in front of Telemachus, cranning his neck to look up at them.

Those beautiful green eyes, the ones he'd grown fond of over the years, those of his best friend.

His confidant, his pillar, those eyes with that fiery gaze of determination, with flecks of brown and blue and amber gold.

"Y/n!"