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TYSM!!!

Telemachus always felt like the second choice, a placeholder, like everyone was waiting for him to become someone else. He was the Prince of Ithaca and the son of Odysseus and Penelope. Telemachus was in the peculiar stage between childhood and adolescence, his limbs were long and spindly, though he wondered when the rest of him would grow up too. Too often was he reminded how much he took after his father, with the messy brown hair and the deep brown bronze speckled eyes. He grew up listening to stories of Odysseus, always another reminder of how he was expected to become his father someday. Except, Telemachus had never met his father, he had only heard of the man in the tales many others had shared. Odysseus’s many accomplishments left Telemachus to wonder how he was going to live up to his fathers legacy.
As the moon set, the sun awoke, waking many up with it. Telemachus hadn’t slept much, he stayed up staring longingly at the shimmering sea, wondering how he too, could be a hero. A knock at the door interrupted Telemachus’s state of contemplation. Opening the door slowly, the prince found a figure standing behind it. He looked to be around Telemachus’s age, he was a few inches taller, with mid-length jet black hair, and a small owl on his shoulder. “Greetings, I am Pallamedes, son of Mentes, leader of the Taphians.” Pallamedes said with a smile. “I have come to Ithaca as a hostage," he stated.
“Well met, I am Telemachus, son of Odysseus and Penelope, Prince of Ithaca,” Telemachus said eagerly. Telemachus offered his guest a tour of the castle, allowing Pallamedes a more thorough understanding of the place the prince called home.
Telemachus helped Pallamedes settle in, placing his things in one of the many guest rooms the palace had to offer. Telemachus couldn’t help but think about Pallamedes’s abnormal appearance. He wore a black chiton with gold pins, he wore no shoes, and he had charcoal around his stormy blue eyes. The owl, Telemachus learned, was named Bubo, Pallamedes found her on his windowsill one night, he fed her every night after that, eventually, Bubo never left his side. The Prince felt a feeling he had never felt, it was comforting, like a warm fire on a cold day.
The suitors crowded the many tables of the dining hall as Telemachus and Pallamedes attempted to find a place to eat. Antinous, the so-called “Leader” of the suitors, was standing on a table, wine spilling from his cup as he announced how he would win over Penelope that day. Telemachus pulled Pallamedes by the hand, trying to find a table farthest from the loudest suitor so as to not be a victim of his drunken words. The boys found a somewhat empty table at the back of the room, the other occupants were all sitting on one side, laughing about their adventures from the previous day. “Prince of Ithaca, I see your mother is trying to keep the kingdom from seeing that you are a burden to this Earth.” an older boy called out. Telemachus recognized him almost immediately, Antinoclese, son of Antinous. The two were almost identical, besides Antinous being taller than his son, it was almost impossible to tell the difference.
“Be silent, you dog!” Pallamedes erupted. Antinoclese rose, his face was red with anger, his fists clenched. The Suitors yelled, cheering him on. Pallamedes and Antinoclese were surrounded by a circle of suitors, all cheering for the son of their “leader”. Telemachus was frozen, he couldn’t move, but he couldn’t let his guest take care of his fight for him.
A booming voice arose through the commotion, “Will somebody tell me, why is it that you all fight every time you are not supervised?”, the Queen, Penelope, pondered. She sat at the throne, waiting for a response, her brown and grey hair swinging by her shoulders. The room went silent, the air was tense, Telemachus could feel Antinoclese staring him down. “The Suitors must go, but I want my son and his visitor to stay.” Penelope announced. The Suitors shuffled out, leaving a mess behind in their wake, and leaving Pallamedes and Telemachus alone with the Queen of Ithaca.
Telemachus’s face was flushed, he thought about what Odysseus would do in that situation. He would’ve fought and won, not dishonoring his family like the Prince did. Pallamedes greeted Penelope, explaining to her his situation. She welcomed him with open arms, respecting the laws of Xenia. “Why did you not stand up for yourself Telemachus?”, she asked, her voice heavy with disappointment.
“I froze, I didn’t know what to do.” Telemachus explained, his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Time seemed to stay still, the world felt heavier, as if Atlas was slowly letting it fall out of his grasp. The Queen waved Telemachus off, silently telling him to go. He did. As soon as the Prince shut his door, he let out a sob, crying because he could never be like his father, because he would never be able to be the person his mom needed. The sun seemed to mock him as he lay in bed, shining brightly as Telemachus sunk deeper into the shadows of his mind.
The sky was stained purple and pink when Telemachus awoke from his slumber. The day was not over, but he had missed most of it. The sea was loud, like it was trying to help the Prince drown out his thoughts. The sound of flapping wings and tiny chirps filled the air as Bubo flew through the window. She pecked at his hands, small brown feathers falling from her wings. Pallamedes burst in through the door, his face hosting a devious grin. “Pallamedes, why must you continuously burst into my room unannounced?” Telemachus asked, his mouth shifting into a slight smile.
“You’ve been cooped up in this room all day, you need to see the world.” Pallamedes explained. He grabbed Telemachus by the wrist, pulling him out of his room and into the setting sun.
The sky was littered with flickering lights, all telling stories of worlds beyond. The ground was rough against Telemachus’s feet as Pallamedes tugged him towards the gymnasium. “Tell me something, Prince of Ithaca,” the black haired boy inquired, “why do you always feel the need to be one you are not?”. This question had startled Telemachus, for he had never thought anyone cared enough to notice such a miniscule detail. His whole life was centered around becoming a new version of Odysseus. That’s what the kingdom wanted, it's what his mom wanted. His eyes seemed to deliberate the question. The brown eyed boy tried to say something, but the words had become mud in his throat. All his life, he was seen as a replacement for Odysseus, his successor, an improved version of the esteemed King of Ithaca. Except, he never wanted to be Odysseus. His hands shook, his chest tightened with tension. Did Telemachus truly believe he could become his father? His head felt heavy, like he was caught in Arachne’s web. As the prince tried to unravel the words that were spinning through his mind, a voice cut through, louder than his thoughts,
“Did you truly think you could hide from me, prince?”. Telemachus turned, the air felt thick as he saw Antinoclese standing before him. “My father has been waiting for your tramp of a mother to make him King of Ithaca.” He spat. Telemachus could feel his heart in his throat. He had been called so many things, but nobody ever insulted his mother.
“Don’t you dare call my mother a tramp!” Telemachus screamed, his face was hot with fear. “Aw, looks like the prince wants to fight back, how cute.” Antinoclese teased*. His green eyes pierced through Telemachus’s skin, tearing him apart. “Let’s see how well the pup can do without his bodyguard.” The older boy laughed.
Telemachus barely had time to breathe before the man’s fist slammed into his ribs hard enough to send him stumbling into the palace wall. The impact rattled through him. Dust shook loose from the stone behind his shoulders while pain burst sharp and hot beneath his skin.
Atinoclese grinned.
Not a friendly grin. Not even an angry one. It was the kind of grin hunters wore before they gutted something smaller than them.
“Pathetic,” Antinoclese sneered. His fist met Telemachus’s face with a crunch, the marble pillars shook as the prince was slammed against them.
Telemachus shoved himself upright anyway, chest heaving. Sweat already clung to the back of his neck despite the cool air outside. The moon illuminated the gym, making the pillars of marble and the palace wall shine in the dark.
“You fight like a pup”, Antinoclese barked.
Telemachus lunged before he could think better of it. His fist connected with the suitor’s jaw, hard enough to split the skin across his own knuckles. For one stupid, glorious moment, hope surged through him. Then Antinoclese caught him by the arm and drove a knee into his stomach.
Air vanished from Telemachus’s lungs.
He folded instantly. Choking on the pain, and the next punch crashed across his cheekbone so violently his vision flashed white. He hit the floor shoulder-first, sliding across the stone floor.
“Get up”
The voice didn’t belong to Telemachus, nor was it Antinoclese’s. The prince froze. A woman’s voice cut through his skull like the crack of lightning. Calm. Sharp. Impossible.
“Fight, Little Wolf.”
His pulse stumbled.
Antinoclese was already stalking toward him again, broad and towering, shadow swallowing up the moonlight as he looked down at the prince. Telemachus scrambled backward, palms slipping against the stone slick with spilled blood.
“You done yet?”
Telemachus pushed himself up anyway. His legs shook, blood dripped down from his split lip onto the front of his tunic, bruises were already blooming dark beneath his skin. But something ugly and desperate clawed through his exhaustion.
“Fight, Little Wolf.”
The words echoed through him. The suitor swung. Telemachus ducked too late.
The punch clipped the side of his head and sent him crashing into a pillar. Pain exploded through his temple. His knees nearly buckled, but this time, he shoved forward instead of back, ramming his shoulder into Antinoclese’s chest with a broken yell.
The man staggered a single step, then laughed again. “Oh, there you are!”
A fist tangled in Telemachus’s hair and hurled him to the ground. His cheek slammed against the stone hard enough to blur the world surrounding him. Before he could rise, a sandal drove into his ribs.
Once. Twice.
Telemachus curled instinctively, breath tearing out of him in ragged gasps. He tasted blood. Sweat stung his eyes. Every muscle screamed for him to stay down. But the voice returned.
“Get up and fight, Little Wolf.”
He didn’t know who she was, why she was helping. Only that hearing her made something burn inside his chest. Hotter than humiliation, hotter than fear.
Telemachus forced himself onto one knee.
Antinoclese’s grin faded slightly at that.
Then the next blow struck Telemachus across the face and flattened him completely. The gymnasium floor pressed icy against his skin while darkness crowded the edges of his vision.
Somewhere above him, boots scraped stone.
Was the suitor leaving?
Telemachus lay there trembling, bruised and bleeding and furious at his own weakness.
Deep inside his mind, the woman's voice softened.
“You’ll get there, Little Wolf”

How did nobody see the blue haired boy staring into the river? How did they never see him with his huge black eyes, bruised with purple lines, always teary? Maybe he never existed, or maybe his story never reached their ears. Even then, the blue haired boy has always been there, waiting for someone, someone to hear his story, and stop his tears from filling the river.