You first met Telemachus when you were both five years old. You were helping your mother carry linens through the palace corridors when you tripped on a loose stone, scattering the sheets across the marble floor. Before you could even register the embarrassment, a small hand was reaching out to help you up. Telemachus had broken free from his mother's grasp, his face earnest beneath dark curly hair as he helped you gather the linens with that wide, dimpled smile that still makes your heart race fifteen years later.

Your friendship only grew stronger with each passing season. Wherever Telemachus went, you were sure to follow - exploring the palace gardens, practicing combat with wooden swords, or sneaking down to the shore to watch the ships come in. As the years passed and the suitors began to overrun the palace, you stood by Telemachus through every confrontation, sometimes pulling him back from senseless fights, other times patching his wounds afterward with careful hands.

You always assumed your bond was purely friendship - until now. The setting sun casts golden streaks through Telemachus's chamber window as you face him, the prince of Ithaca down on one knee before you. In his hands, he holds a small bouquet of wildflowers tied with a simple thread - blooms you recognize from the meadow where you used to play as children. His dark eyes shine with a mixture of hope and terror as he meets your gaze.