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Odysseus makes his way toward the family wing of the palace, the day’s weight clinging onto him. His shoulders ache, not just from weariness, but from the quiet ache of being apart from her. How he hates it – being away from the woman he loved, even for a little while, when all he wishes to do is to rest beside her and their newborn babe.
Yet still he would not trade his crown, nor the mantle of kindship that he had received from his father, and he from his father before him. It is his duty, his birthright, and he wears it proudly. Still, the longing gnaws at him, quiet but constant. He cherishes what moments he can steal with Penelope, with their son.
Whenever he can, he takes little Telemachus along with him – when he listens to the petitions of his people, when he sits in council among the Elders. He knows what the sight must mean to them: the King and his heir, the line of Arcesius secure, carried forward in his arms. It is a comfort, a promise.
But he only takes Telemachus when Penelope is sleeping, wrapped in the soft silence of their chambers. She does not like to be away from their child, not even for a short while. He remembers once – only once for he had not let it happen again – she had awoken to find both of them gone: him and their babe.
Her sorrow had been immediate, uncontainable. He had dropped everything and abandoned court when he had been told, left the Elders mid-sentence, and rushed back to her. There, in the gentle hush of their rooms, he had found her beside herself, distraught, trembling and weeping, wrapped in her mother’s arms, with Eurycleia and several maids hovering by.
His mother had told him that such sorrow was not uncommon, that some women felt as though a piece of themselves had been torn away, after moons of carrying life within. It is difficult to be parted from a babe who was once part of your own self. He had listened, but more than that, he has done his best to keep that pain from touching her again. Now, the maids and attendants keep watch. The moment she stirs, someone runs to him. He returns at once, placing Telemachus gently back into her arms, where he belongs.
He finally reaches the door to their private chambers and pauses, lifting a hand to knock in that soft, familiar rhythm – five gentle taps, one after the other, a sound that will give him away instantly. No maid or guard knocks like that. It is a sound meant only for her ears.
The door creaks open, and the sight that greets him stills him where he stands.
There she is – his Precious Penelope, with Sweet Telemachus nestled in her arms, her fair hair loose and falling like silk around her shoulders. She hums low under her breath, cooing softly to the babe, her voice a lulling breeze. Telemachus gurgles in response, his tiny hand reaching up as if to touch her face. She leans down and kisses his brow.
There has never been a sight so welcome, so full of peace. A warmth spreads through Odysseus’s chest, deep and wordless. He closes the door quietly behind him, but does not move forward just yet. He stands there instead, letting the moment wash over him, taking in the vision of the two beings he loves most in this world, bathed in the soft afternoon light spilling through the lattice.
“You are back,” Penelope says, turning her head with a smile already blooming on her lips. It sweetens as she sees him standing there, her gaze softening, full of quiet joy.
“I am,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “and I have never been happier to return.”
“You are late,” she admonishes teasingly, though there is no edge in her voice – only affection, a little weariness, and deep, abiding love.
He smiles. “The Elders speak as though they have all the time in the world. I had to slip away before they started debating how to store grain for the winter.”
Penelope laughs quietly, and the sound is sweeter than anything else he has heard all day.
“Where is Lady Periboea?” He asks, finally stepping further into the room. The absence is surprising – her divine presence, ever watchful and frightening, has been a near constant since the weeks leading up to Telemachus’ birth. He cannot remember a recent moment when his wife did not have her mother close by, terrifying as the shifting currents of a river and just as hard to ignore.
She glances up, brushing her fingers over Telemachus’ tiny brow. “She returned to the waters for a while,” she says softly. “Mother said she was feeling tired, being away from her domain for so long. But she promised that she shall return at the earliest.”
Odysseus hums in acknowledgment, his lips quirking in a half-smile as he says, “Then I shall take pleasure in the moments I have been spared – enjoying my darling wife without her mother hovering at her side at all times.”
Penelope turns her head to look at him fully, and with a mock glare that does not reach her eyes, she replies, “My father would have been infinitely worse, had he been here instead.”
Odysseus chuckles, not even attempting to deny it. “That is true,” he says, remembering vividly the flood of gifts that had arrived months ago. They had sent word to his father by marriage to share the news that they were expecting a child, and Odysseus had thought, for a wild moment, that the King of Sparta had emptied out his entire treasury in celebration. Fine cloth, bronze and gold, sacred offerings and tokens for the gods, and trinkets for the yet-unborn babe – all had come pouring into Ithaca as though it was the birth of his own heir that was unfolding.
Penelope had only sighed then, amused and fond. “This is not even half of what he will give when the babe is born,” she had said. And Odysseus had believed her.
Now, another messenger is on the seas, bearing news of Telemachus’ birth. No doubt Icarius will send more soon – more treasures, more words, and perhaps a longing message for his beloved daughter, though the man had not once demanded her return since she had taken his hand left behind her father’s.
Odysseus closes the door completely now, drawing the heavy wood shut behind him. The chamber feels warm and quiet again, the soft scent of lotus and water lilies clinging to the air. He stands still for a moment longer, his gaze focused onto the sacred sight before him.
His wife. With their son in her arms.
There is no battle glory, no crown, no mantle that can compare to this. She sits on the kline, bathed in the midday golden light passing through the drapes, her skin flushed with the tranquillity of motherhood, her eyes heavy with love. And in her arms lies their Telemachus, his tiny chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm, his small fist curled close to his mother’s heart.
It feels surreal.
Even now, even weeks later, he finds it hard to believe. His son. His heir. The living legacy of both their lines. A babe who will one day be king, but who now sleeps without a care in the world, safe in the arms of a mother who loves him more fiercely than the sea does the shore.
“So,” He says at last, his voice warm with teasing affection, “You got your way.”
She lifts her gaze, already knowing what he means. A flicker of triumph flashes in her eyes, and she does not even attempt to feign innocence. “I did,” she replies, adjusting Telemachus gently in her arms. “I usually do. Especially when you are involved, My lord.”
He huffs a laugh, kneeling down beside her at last. “I will not deny it.” He never could – not when it came to her. Not when she had that particular look on her face, the one that always told him she had known exactly how things would end before the game had even begun.
She had won this particular battle days ago, when Eurycleia and his mother had both expressed their concern – no, outright opposition – to her nursing their babe herself. They had pleaded, insisted even, that a wet nurse be brought in. Penelope had refused, vehemently.
“I am here,” she had said, standing tall despite the lingering birthing pains, voice sharp as bronze. “And I will not hand my babe over to another woman when I am perfectly capable of feeding him myself.”
It had led to arguments – tense, hushed, but persistent, he had been most frustrated by the distress this entire ordeal was bringing to his still weakened wife. His mother had looked to him even this very morning, her tone exasperated, asking why he would not reason with his wife. And he had told her clearly, once and for all: “It is her choice. It is my child, yes – but she is his mother, she is the one who carried him within her all these months, and now she wishes to feed him. Let her be. Do not get involved again, it is upsetting her, Mother.”
Penelope had been triumphant. And though he had sighed at the inevitable fallout, he has no regrets in siding with her.
Their son begins to fuss in her arms then, a small whimpering cry breaking through the peaceful hush. Instantly, Penelope’s expression shifts, concern softening her features as she adjusts her hold, murmuring something soothing to their son. Odysseus watches her, concern tightening in his chest.
She looks so tired.
The shadows beneath her eyes, the faint tremble in her limbs – he sees it all. The memory of her lying on the birthing bed rises unbidden to his mind. The sight that he burst into that day – the blood, the moans of pain, the air thick with incense and whispered prayers – had branded itself into his soul. The sight of her so pale, so still, her sea-green eyes dulled with pain and exhaustion, had shaken him to his very core. She had looked up at him then as he entered in a frenzy, her voice barely a whisper, and called his name as though anchoring herself to this world with it.
He could do nothing but kneel beside her and pray. Pray that she would survive. That both of them would.
“Penelope,” he murmurs, reaching up and brushing his knuckles gently against her cheek, his thumb lingering near her jaw. “Give him to me, my love. Let me soothe him. You need to rest.”
But she only shakes her head and holds Telemachus closer. “He is hungry,” she says. “I need to feed him.”
Her tone is gentle, firm. And then, after a pause, her lips curl up into a smirk, sly and sweet. She looks up at him with a glint of mischief that is achingly familiar.
“And no matter how impressively endowed you are, my beloved husband,” she says, “you unfortunately do not possess the... facilities to do what he needs right now.”
Odysseus groans, dropping his head against the edge of the kline, laughing into the folds of her robe. “And now my sweet lady raises her opposition,” he says, lifting his face again and rolling his eyes at her. “I thought you enjoyed my endowments, as you call it.”
He watches her then – his wife, his love, mother of his son – as she shifts their son gently and prepares to nurse him. The babe’s fussing quiets the moment he latches, tiny hands curling into her skin, the tension in his small body softening as warmth and comfort take over.
She grins, the expression lighting her face despite the weariness clinging to her like a second skin. “I always do,” she replies, her voice soft and teasing, but heavy with the kind of love that only comes from surviving the raw, aching edges of joy and pain together.
She shifts slightly, adjusting Telemachus against her chest, and sighs – part exhaustion, part contentment. “And I will again,” she adds, casting him a glance full of promise and pleasure, “when I am not held hostage by this tiny, beautiful tyrant.”
He chuckles, reaching out to run a gentle finger along their son’s downy cheek. “Tyrant, indeed,” he agrees. “With demands at every hour, and not the slightest interest in diplomacy.”
She hums in mock agreement, her head tilting to rest against the marble. “And yet,” she whispers, “I have never bowed so willingly to any sovereign.”
Her words are light, but Odysseus sees the heart beneath them – the deep, overwhelming love, the bone-deep tiredness, the stubborn joy that she refuses to surrender. He leans forward and presses a kiss to her temple, then one to Telemachus’ tiny crown.
“You are both my sovereigns,” he murmurs. “And I would kneel for you both, every day, for the rest of my life.”
She exhales slowly, closing her eyes for a moment. “Then stay,” she says simply, barely louder than a breath. “Just for a while. Do not go back to the council. Let them debate grain and gods and whatever else old men fuss about. Just stay.”
He smiles, eyes warm as he leans forward to press another soft kiss to her temple. When has he ever been able to deny her. “Then I shall stay,” he says simply, voice low and sure. “For as long as you will have me.”
He rises to his feet slowly, careful not to startle their babe in her arms. She lifts her head, eyebrows rising in curiosity. “What are you–”
Before she can finish, he leans down, one arm sliding beneath her knees, the other steady around her back, lifting her – babe and all – into his arms in one smooth, practiced motion. She gasps, half in surprise, half in amusement, her arms instinctively tightening protectively around their child. The little one stirs slightly but does not cry, soothed by the nearness of them both.
He moves around the kline and sits down, carefully settling her on his lap, positioning her gently so she is still able to nurse. His arms wrap around her again, supporting her weight with quiet reverence. She turns her head to look at him, brows lifted, lips parting for a protest that does not quite find breath.
“This is better,” he whispers into the curve of her neck, the warmth of his breath brushing against her skin.
She scoffs softly, though the sound is playful. Her lips purse into a mock pout as she mutters, “The kline was comfortable enough. All those blankets and furs... I was quite content.”
Odysseus huffs out a low laugh. “I know, my soul,” he murmurs, settling his arms around her waist and gently beginning to massage the tender spots at her hips. “But I know you prefer resting your head here.” He taps his chest lightly. “And I prefer having you close.”
Penelope glances sideways at him, her lips twitching into a knowing smile despite her exhaustion. “You are an infuriating man,” she says softly.
He does not reply with words – only leans in and presses a lingering kiss to her cheek, before his hands resume their gentle ministrations along her hips and lower back, kneading where he knows she carries her strain. She gasps softly, her head tilting back to rest against his shoulder.
“Oh,” she whispers, the sound carried on an exhale. “That feels... so good.”
“I should have known earlier,” he mutters, his voice low and firm, though his touch stays gentle. “You should have told me. Told someone. You mustn’t keep it to yourself when you are aching and in pain. There are over a dozen hands who are here to only tend to your needs. If they are not enough I will have more of them assigned to your care, it is not a matter of concern. It is only you and your wellbeing that is of importance here.”
She is quiet for a moment, eyes fluttering half-shut as his hands work their way along the tenderness in her muscles. Then, slowly, she says, “I did not wait that long. You noticed. You always notice.”
Her voice is soft. Honest. The kind of truth that slips past walls and into the heart.
Odysseus stills for a breath, the smallest smile curling at the edge of his lips. A warmth pools in his chest – quiet, deep – but his worry shadows it. She always does this: looks after everyone but herself. He knows that this is something she has developed after she came to Ithaca, and likes it not. His Penelope was raised pampered and spoiled – the youngest child and sole daughter of the King of Sparta and a Goddess. Yet since they came back to his lands after their marriage, she has gotten it into herself that she must prove something to his kin, to his people.
The years that it took for Telemachus to appear have not treated her well. It had been only three years but she was the one who took the burden of everyone’s words, no matter how much he spoke against it and attempted to put an end to it. It still upsets him, this entire ordeal. Her suffering at the hands of his loved ones. He presses his forehead gently to the side of her face.
“Of course I notice,” he says simply instead. “I am your husband.”
She lets out a groan as his fingers press a particularly tight knot in her lower back, her body arching just slightly into the touch. “Gods, you are too good at this,” she mutters, breath hitching just a little. “I am so blessed to have you, my sweet king.”
He smiles again, this time fuller, his voice thick with emotion as he responds, “No, My Precious Penelope. I am the one who is blessed – to have you as my wife, and the mother of my son.”
She smiles at him softly and slightly sleepily, before carding her fingers through precious little Telemachus’ fine dark hair. He knows it is impossibly soft, like mist caught on a spring morning. The little one’s eyes blink open for a moment, still that deep, murky blue gray of all newborns, though he knows – like the physician said – they have not settled yet.
He watches them both, his gaze gentle, full of unspoken thoughts. The colour of his own eyes had taken months to decide themselves, the physician had told them, into the blue and brown that he had before Athena had blessed and chosen him, then shifting them to the god-touched gray and blue they now held. He wonders now, as he strokes the tiny hand curled against her chest, whose eyes their son will have. He prays, with a fierce and quiet yearning, that they will be hers.
He has so little of her already in him – Odysseus can see it. The beautiful little boy who is so clearly his father’s son: from the stubborn curve of his little mouth to the furrow of his brow when he fusses – he cannot find anything in him of hers, everyone tells him that his boy looks just like him. But he wants something of Penelope to take root in their babe too. He wants Telemachus to inherit her patience, her wit, her strength. He wants their boy to carry her quiet fire like a flame tucked beneath the ribs. He wants Telemachus to look like his mother.
His thoughts are interrupted by her voice, warm and soft, like the rustle of linen in summer.
“It will be nice,” she murmurs, “for Telemachus to have a sibling to grow alongside. A younger brother, or a sister–” she pauses, her smile turning sly “–or perhaps both.”
That catches him by surprise, though it really should not have. He chuckles, low and delighted, turning to press a kiss to her temple. “Woman,” he mutters fondly, “it has only been a few weeks since our son was born, and already you plot another?” He leans back just enough to see her eyes, mischief glowing in their depths. “You must calm your thoughts, my love. We have all the time in the world to give him siblings.”
Penelope hums at that, amused, but says only, “Good.” She winces slightly and glances down to whisper to their babe, “Gentle now, my sweet one…” She adjusts her hold and sighs before lifting her gaze once more to meet his. Her voice is quieter now, more reflective. “I grew up with seven brothers, remember,” she says, resting her head more fully against his shoulder. “And my cousins visited often. Another seven. That is not even including Anaxibia and the Atreidae, who my uncle Tyndareus took in when I was but six. The walls I grew up within were never quiet. Never still.”
Her eyes are far away now, staring into a space between memory and hope. “There was always laughter, always the pounding of feet down the halls. Quarrels and arguments that never stopped, yes – but always company. I want that for him.”
Odysseus is quiet, listening. The fingers on her waist have stilled.
“I know it is different here,” she continues. “Even my families, those who might send their children to us – they are far. And your sister’s daughters are on Same. There is little hope for cousins to grow with him. But we... we can give him brothers and sisters. I would like our halls to echo with the sound of children’s feet. I would like for him to never feel alone.”
A weight presses onto his chest – not heavy, but rather with the fullness of what she says. This, too, is legacy. Not just thrones or lineages or victories. It is the gift of warmth. Of belonging. Of the blooming of their home.
He leans down and presses a kiss to her head. “Then we shall,” he promises. “We shall fill this palace, and his life, with all the love and laughter it can hold.”
She sighs, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment, a small smile curving her lips. “Not just yet though,” she murmurs. “Let me rest a little before we fill the world with more tiny tyrants.”
He laughs, soft and rich, his arms curling more firmly around her. “As you command, my queen. I will give you peace – though I reserve the right to admire you every day and imagine it.”
Her smile grows. “You may imagine all you like,” she teases sleepily, “but you will be the one rising every time Telemachus cries for company in the night.”
He only chuckles, brushing his lips once more against her brow, and whispers, “Then I shall rise, a thousand times if I must. As long as you are here beside me.”
His arms ache everytime he has to put Telemachus down. And he can tell his little boy does not wish to be parted from his father either. Telemachus always fusses and grows upset when he has to be parted from his father's arms. and with how his dear wife is still slowly recovering, he has happily taken up caring for their son when awakens in the night with his cries. There is little he enjoys and loves more - though his own mother and nurse had told him that it was a great pain dealing with being woken up constantly by a crying babe.
The darkness beneath his eyes speak to the many sleepless nights he has spent these past weeks, yet he does not resent them in the slightest.
Night after night, he walks through their quarters with Telemachus nestled in his arms, gently rocking him, whispering tales of old, and singing lullabies he remembers from his own boyhood. He would not trade their time together for the greatest of glory or the most valuable of riches.
His fingers still gently massage the base of her back. He smiles again, not the grin of the wily trickster, nor the sardonic smirk of a king – but a man in love, lost in the shape of a life more sacred than glory, lost in her and the gift she had brought him. His hand slides up to cradle the back of her head, fingers sinking into her curls as if grounding himself in her presence. She tilts her head, her foreheads just barely brushing against his beard.
A soft breath escapes her and she leans into the touch. Their chamber is quiet now, save for the whispering breeze that plays, and the steady suckling of their babe.
Telemachus shifts in her arms, full now, his little face pressed to her skin, milk-drunk and content. She glances down at him and gently draws the soft cloth over her shoulder, shielding their son from the golden light pouring through the drapes.
“I think he is asleep,” she murmurs.
Odysseus does not move, not yet. Just watches her, watches them. His chest aches with a kind of joy that tastes too much like devotion. He presses one more kiss – soft as prayer – to the curve of her delicate shoulder.
“I pray that a few of our children after this little one take after their beautiful mother.”
He feels her giggle before he looks down and sees it, “This is the only time I will hope that the gods of our great pantheon do not heed my husband’s prayers.” She twists around slowly in his lap to look at him, her sea green eyes glow despite her evident need to sleep, “For I enjoy it most dearly that the children of my womb wear the face and hold the colouring of the man I adore and love above all in this world.”
He lets out a soft huff of protest. “Ah, but I would like at least one child to carry your eyes. Your golden curls. That quiet mischief you wear with the same ease you do a crown.” His voice is barely above a murmur, as though to speak too loudly might disturb the delicate peace now cradled between them. “Is it so much for a man to wish for a son – or a daughter – who looks like the woman he loves?”
Her plump lips curve into a smile, sly and soft all at once. She lifts her head just enough to meet his gaze, amusement glinting beneath the veil of drowsiness. “Well, my love,” she teases, “you may wish all you like. But as I am the one doing all the work of carrying them, I believe I get the final say.”
He chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating through them both. “And what is your decree, my Great Queen?”
She leans in, brushing her nose against his, her breath cool and lilting with affection. “That the House of Odysseus be filled with children who bear the face of their loving father – dark of hair, dark of complexion, eyes like bright skies or dark honey.” She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let your name echo through the halls, carried by our little ones who look just like you.”
He shakes his head slightly, in that helpless kind of awe only she can stir in him, he wishes to refuse her but cannot bear to do so, not when those sleepily sea green eyes look at him with such want and yearning. He has never been able to deny her. And as she settles once more against his chest, he looks down at the golden strands of her hair curling against his skin, at the lashes like spun sunlight resting against her cheek. There is a glow to her, even in fatigue. Even in sleep’s embrace.
He loves her so fiercely that he cannot help but wonder how his heart continues, carrying the weight and depth of his love for her.
Bending low, he brushes his lips against her temple. “Sleep now, my heart. Rest. I shall be here still when you wake.”
She hums faintly, already drifting. Her legs stretch out languidly along the kline, tangling gently with his. The comforting coldness of her, the trusting weight of her body against his, the small, perfect bundle of their son nestled in her arms – it roots him in a way nothing else ever could.
Just before she slips into sleep, her voice barely more than breath, she murmurs, “Take care of our little one...”
Her words trail off into stillness before he can reply, her breathing deepening, steady and slow.
Of course I will.
I will readily lay my life down for either of you, without hesitation, without question, without any thought.
He holds them both close, his hands gentle, reverent. He watches the rise and fall of her chest, the tiny movement of their babe’s fingers twitching in sweet dreams. Sitting still, basking in this moment – his wife and newborn son resting in his arms, safe and whole and utterly his. All the weight that rests on his shoulders – of duty and kingdom and protection of his people, it is all faded and forgotten. There is only the sound of their breathing, the cold familiar chill of her body against his, and the rise and fall of their babe’s tiny chest.
Odysseus exhales, long and slow, and closes his eyes.
This is enough. This is everything.