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Chapter Text

Odysseus knows he is being foolish. If he’s allowed to have a connection to a single Olympian, here on this Tartarus attempting to disguise itself as Elysium, it would make more sense for him to choose Lord Hermes, who has aided him before.

(It has been a year, and yet he still pines for home. Calypso has grown tired, and thinks that granting him a single god’s attention would sate him—as if anything could sate him but going home and seeing Penelope, meeting Telemachus again for the first time in thirteen years.

Gods. His boy is fourteen now). 

And yet, when the Goddess Calypso demands to know who he will take on, as his one deity, he finds himself saying, “Athena.” 

She nods, smiling. She knows his story—he’s told her before that he was Athena’s Champion, a Warrior of the Mind. Maybe she thinks Athena, having abandoned him before, will be especially harsh in refusing aid. She probably will be. 

“I’ll leave you to your prayers, then, Odysseus. Come find me afterwards.” It isn’t a request. He watches her go. 

Odysseus builds his altar. Athena would appreciate good craftsmanship, he thinks, and that is the only reason he can bring himself to build it up properly. He finds himself praying as he works, which is probably not what he’s meant to do—he should offer Her a sacrifice first, as is proper. His insolence was tolerated before, when he was in Her favor, but he has lost it now.

And yet—

Grey-eyed Athena, bearer of the Aegis, I offer You anything You may wish for from the isle of the Goddess Calypso, and once I am on Ithaca once more, I can offer anything You would wish for from Ithaca. The finest oxen, the finest lambs and yearling sheep, a thousand priestesses—anything, if only You would aid me in returning home. I have been here for one year already, my Lady, and though I am sure I deserve many more years of penance for disobeying You, I beg of You to allow me to serve them in my homeland. Please, my Lady. 

“So formal, Odysseus?” Lady Athena says from behind him. “That is unlike you.” 

Odysseus turns hastily, then drops to his knees so quickly he would hurt himself, if Ogygia’s lands weren’t so utterly fucking perfect. The sand cushions him. “Goddess,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed as he crawls to grovel at Her feet. “Lady Athena, I apologize for my former insolence. I swear I shall never presume so much again.” 

“Stop that,” Lady Athena orders. Odysseus closes his mouth so fast he can hear his teeth clacking together. She sighs. “I erred, when last we spoke—you should have listened to me, perhaps, but I should have stayed and aided you instead of berating you. You do not need to prostrate yourself at my feet. When have we ever bothered with platitudes, my crafty King of Ithaca?” 

Odysseus hesitates, staring at her. Is it possible that—? 

Lady Athena holds out her hand. Odysseus takes it, finding himself once more in his Lady’s realm. “Now we may speak more openly,” She murmurs, pulling him to his feet. Quick Thought blurs around them, and he is no longer on Calypso’s island, but in a field of flax. His Lady picks some up and begins to braid it, her storm-gray eyes calm and even kind. 

“Goddess,” he hazards, “I don’t understand. If you aren’t wroth with me, then why did you not come to me earlier?” 

“I was, until recently, too proud to admit to my folly in leaving you,” says Lady Athena. “It was your son who convinced me to check on you—and I found you awaking on Calypso’s shores. On Calypso’s isle, gods can hear prayers, but we cannot answer unless she wills it. She really does feel very strongly for you—I had thought I would not speak to you until I could convince my lord father to order your release.” 

The bit about prayers does soothe him. If Athena has been listening and merely couldn’t respond…but that can wait. “You met Telemachus?” 

“And I met Penelope again. I wished to see if the young Prince of Ithaca was like his father. He is,” she adds, hands still working the flax. “One look at him and I knew he was your boy, never mind how similar he is to you at that age.” She hesitates, dropping the braided flax, whereupon it disappears, unheeded. “I will tell you about them later, I swear it to you. But all is not well in Ithaca, Odysseus. Penelope waits for you loyally, but there have been suitors in her halls for a year now, impatient to hear her admit that you are dead and take one of them to be her husband. She is buying you time by delaying the end of your father’s mourning period, and they are so stupid that I think it will work for a long time. I allowed myself to be seen by them, and very obviously, so they are cowed for the moment and she knows to keep hoping. Still, we must work quickly if we are to minimize the harm they are already doing to your palace and your kingdom.” 

It’s just like it was in Troy, her sharp mind turned to victory. Only now, the victory is that he gets to go home, and she helps him do it. 

She really does forgive him. Odysseus weeps and throws himself at her in an embrace. “Athena,” he breathes. “Athena—oh, my lady, I have missed you.” 

He ought to be more artful, perhaps, but—she’s here. She forgives him. He can’t keep his distance now, not when she came to him the instant she could, not when she’s scheming to protect his family and win him back his throne. 

“There is a reason I sought your son, of all the Princes of Greece,” she confesses, allowing his arms around her. He laughs, giddy. “But—Odysseus, old friend, Calypso will not allow me to see you again, if she thinks I am helping you escape.” 

“I can lie to her,” says Odysseus, heart soaring. At the words, her arms come up, hesitantly, to return his hug. It is very clear that his lady has no idea what she is doing, but he couldn’t care less. She’s here, she’s helping, she’s letting him hug her, she’s calling him friend. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s in her realm, he’s very sure he would think he was dreaming. 

“I don’t like the idea of it,” Athena admits into his hair, fingers flexing on his back. “She is very close to losing patience with you and taking you to her bed by force. I wouldn’t like you to have to endure that, even for the purpose of a scheme you’re aiding and abetting.”  

The idea doesn’t appeal. But—Athena will be working to help him. For that, he could endure. “I could handle it, Athena.” 

“You could, if you felt you had to.” Athena agrees. She pauses, considering something. “Or…” 

“Or?” Odysseus repeats, breathing in and out. Athena smells of old books, cedarwood, petrichor, and olives. So different from the cloying floral smells Calypso prefers. Athena, perhaps sensing that he needs the physical reminder of her presence, puts one hand into his hair, combing through it with her fingers. 

Unlike with Calypso, Odysseus finds himself leaning into her fingers in his hair. She’s done this for him before, when he’s been too busy working to attend to his physical body, or when he particularly pleased her during training. He remembers long, sun-dappled afternoons, when Athena would comb through his hair and braid it back for him, a practical braid not unlike the kind his Penelope prefers when she happens to braid her hair. 

Maybe Athena will agree to braid it for him today, a physical marker of her returned regard, and their mutually-acknowledged friendship. 

“You could tell her that our talk has left you…open to the possibility of letting her into your heart. But you would like to get to know her, of course—she could not expect to just be your wife in one day? Your Lady is very particular about the things her chosen people are to do, and as you have only just reestablished good terms with her, you are not eager to see her favor removed. She is a celibate goddess.” If Athena finds it odd to talk about herself in the third person, she doesn’t show it. 

Much of that is even true, Odysseus realizes. Calypso cannot be his wife in just one day (she cannot be his wife at all), Athena is a very particular patroness, and quite frankly Odysseus isn’t eager to have her disfavor again.  

“I could say,” Odysseus continues the thought, “that I would only ever marry if my Goddess gave her blessing—after all, you blessed my marriage with Penelope—” Athena inclines her head. The fact that Penelope had been so favored by his Patroness (continues to be so, clearly) had definitely influenced how dearly he wished her to be his bride, though he thinks they are so well matched that Penelope could never not be favored by Athena, “—and so, no matter how much I wish to marry, I cannot. And I certainly could not lie with a woman who was not my wife.”  

Athena smiles. “A clever plan, I think,” she murmurs. 

“But—if Penelope—” 

“Your wife will be pleased for you to perpetuate the farce, if it keeps you safe until you come home,” Athena informs him. “I shall also explain this to Hera—she, of all the Gods, could influence my father, and the knowledge that you are working so hard to return to Penelope could be undercut by this scheme, unless I tell her what you are doing and why.” 

“I leave the realm of the gods in your capable hands, my lady,” Odysseus says. She tugs at his hair for his tone, half-admonishing, but she hasn’t stopped smiling. 

Now that they are working together once more, Ithaca feels closer to hand than ever before. 

She tilts her head at him. “If you’re going to get out of here, you need to build your strength up again. Eat, drink. She will be eager to give you those luxuries—you may as well enjoy them while you can.” 

“Yes, my lady,”

“And what have you done with your hair?” she continues, combing through a particularly stubborn knot. “It is not usually this unkempt.” 

“Calypso loves my hair—I can’t—she always wants to touch it. She doesn’t like it quite as much if it’s not brushed.” Athena takes her hand out of his hair so quickly that he is left blinking at her. “Wh—I didn’t say stop.”

“Forgive me for being cautious,” Athena huffs, making as if to step back now that she’s been reminded of Calypso’s pushiness.  

Oh. She really is very sweet. “My friend,” says Odysseus, tightening his hold on her, “you may touch me as and when it pleases you. It has been a long time since I felt a kind touch I wanted to feel.”

Athena purses her lips. “I will fix your hair for you, and then you must go. Calypso likely expected me to cast you aside almost immediately—she will have many questions. What will you tell her?” 

“I grovelled at your feet and you graciously decided to forgive me,” says Odysseus, thinking as he speaks. “But I know it’s a bit tenuous, so I’d very much like to do anything you ask of me—including when gaining a wife. Perhaps I will tell her you have asked for me to spend part of every day in solitary prayer,” he adds lightly. “Celibate goddesses, you know.” 

Athena’s mouth curls into a smirk. “I can tell her that myself. It will lend credence to your tale. Here—turn around, I think I can finally braid your hair properly.” 

Odysseus obeys. For the first time in a long time, he truly feels like he’s himself again—Odysseus, King of Ithaca, husband of Penelope, father of Telemachus, a favorite of Athena, a Warrior of the Mind, Sacker of Troy. 

And, now that Athena is aiding him actively again…

Calypso won’t know what hit her. 

Chapter Text

Penelope kneels in front of the statue of Athena in the Goddess’ temple on Ithaca. Odysseus had commanded it be renovated, a new statue put in place, one which is more accurate to her actual visage, including her red hair. It had been finished a month before Telemachus was born. 

Lady Athena had often been here in those early days of their marriage—accepting their worship, and training Odysseus. Not that the Goddess’ favor hadn’t been felt elsewhere. 

The day after Telemachus was born, Penelope had found a gorgeous baby blanket waiting in her son’s crib, made of some soft material she isn’t even sure is mortal in origin. It has olive branches and owls featured prominently on the design, and a similar, larger blanket had been laid out on her side of their bed. She still occasionally sleeps wrapped in it; the Goddess’ blessing is woven deeply into that blanket. 

“Athena Promachos,” she murmurs, bowing low and placing her most recent tapestry (depicting the Goddess with Odysseus, the last time Penelope had been fortunate enough to see them together) before the statue along with some of Ithaca’s best wine. On her arm, she bears a basket she’d woven herself, filled with bread and cheese. “Bearer of the sacred aegis, pray accept these humble offerings. My Lady, I have done my best to rule Ithaca with wisdom worthy of the wife of your chosen warrior. I ask only for a sign of your continued goodwill, and if at all possible, news of my husband.” She places the tapestry down, placing the wine, bread, and cheese right next to it. 

“He lives,” Lady Athena says from beside her.  

Penelope turns to face her, heart pounding in her ears. “Why—then—how far away is he?” 

"Not far, but he is also trapped."

"Trapped?" Penelope demands, then clears her throat. "My apologies—" she starts, but the goddess holds up a hand.

"I understand," Lady Athena assures her.

"What happened? Where is he trapped?"

“His traitorous crew,” Lady Athena starts flatly, “mutinied, and the next captain—Eurylochus—decided that it would be an excellent idea to attempt to eat Lord Helios’ sacred cows. My father objected, and ordered your husband to choose between being killed, and killing the rest of his crew.” 

Penelope frowns. “Eurylochus was an idiot, then,” she says. A callous thing to say about the man who married Odysseus’ own sister, but apparently true. Eurylochus’ disrespect has stripped him of all honor. Ctimene remarried last year, anyway. Penelope hadn’t blamed her for it even then, but she actively approves of it now. “But Odysseus—he lives?” 

“Yes. I suspect my father expected him to agree to kill himself—once he did not, he was sent to the island of Ogygia, to be kept captive by the Goddess Calypso, where he has been for the last year. I am working to convince my father to release him, but in the meantime...Calypso has become obsessed with Odysseus. She has convinced herself that he will eventually throw you and Telemachus over, and become her immortal consort, and she does not much care what Odysseus has to say on the matter.” 

Penelope’s fists clench. Her poor darling, trapped with a Goddess with so much more power than he has! “He cannot think I will think less of him.” 

“She hasn’t forced herself on him,” Lady Athena hastens to clarify. “Not yet, anyway. Right now, she still thinks she can convince him to come willingly. Recently, she asked him to choose one God to have a connection to—to continue his worship, I suppose. I was thus able to reconnect with him, once Calypso opened her island to me. We have hatched a plot so that I can work to free him and he can stall for time.”

“That is good, then. What is this plot?” 

“Do you wish for me to put it bluntly or shall I be more circumspect?” Lady Athena asks her. 

“Put it plainly, please my Lady.” 

“Odysseus is pretending to court Calypso, in order to avoid her raping him.” Lady Athena explains. “He is a devotee of mine, and I expect my favored mortals to practice celibacy until marriage.” That is not quite true, Penelope knows. The Goddess had looked the other way (with, now that she looks back on it, a certain kind of amused indulgence) as Odysseus and she took more and more liberties during the period of their courtship and engagement, but it does sound plausible. “And he has already informed us both that he will not marry until I give my blessing to the union.” 

They are both doing similar things. Attempting to stay true to one another, and allowing false suitors because they have no other choice. She nods. “Thank you for aiding him.” 

“He is my friend,” Lady Athena says. Penelope stares at her. She had known that since before she married Odysseus, and Odysseus had known it from the start, but she never thought the Goddess would acknowledge it aloud. Lady Athena smiles faintly. “I could do little else, especially since I had already allowed my pride to get in the way of our friendship once. With that said, you may call me Athena, Queen Penelope—you are too dear to Odysseus for me not to care for you.” She pauses to allow Penelope to process that revelation.

"I understand," Penelope says, smiling. If Athena is willing to extend the hand of friendship, it won't be her who rebuffs it. "Then I am Penelope."

Athena smiles, accepting the correction. "Penelope. He wrote you a letter,” she adds, withdrawing it from someplace Penelope cannot see. “I wished to explain the plot before I told you, but now that you know, and now that I can honestly say that I got your consent to the plot—I do have it, yes?—I can give it to you.” 

She would agree to whatever Athena wanted right now if it would get her Odysseus’ letter. Agreeing to allow her husband to stall for time as she is—well, if Odysseus is wrong for doing it, so is she. So: “Yes, yes, of course,” she says hastily. 

Athena hands over the letter without further comment. “When you have a message to give him—verbal or written, it doesn’t matter—you can give it to me.” 

The only thing that stops her from crying when she sees Odysseus’ handwriting is that she won’t be able to read the letter if she cries on it. 

My dearest, dearest, dearest Penelope,

It is a miracle beyond my comprehension that I am able to write to you, and know that you will read it. My forever beloved, my dearest most darling woman, the only one I could ever love. You must know, dearest, that no one in this world could compare to you in my eyes. They call me the cleverest man in Greece—if that is so, then you must be the cleverest woman. You are my equal in all things—indeed, I would even say that you surpass me. 

I miss you more than words can say. I have wasted seven perfectly good sheets of papyrus attempting to get my thoughts onto the page, and though Athena has been graciousness itself, waiting patiently as I started and restarted this letter, I have lost patience with myself. If this letter is disjointed, I beg of you to forgive me for it.

You must know that you and Telemachus are the lights of my life, the only things keeping me going on this accursed journey. I imagine every day what he is like, and what you are doing now. Athena tells me he is much like I was at that age—I suppose she, of all the beings in existence, would be able to know. 

If I might make a request, I beg of you to write to me in response. I know it would be faster to give Athena a verbal message, but a letter in your fair hand would make every last step of this accursed journey worthwhile. I am sure I will reread it over and over, as I did with the notes you slipped me during our courtship.

Do you recall those times, Penelope? Do you think of them as I do? I do not recall if I have ever told you, but I fell in love with you when I heard you debating the qualities of Helen's suitors, and dismissing most of them as "savages who want you only because you bring them power" and declaring that you would only marry a man who had some intellectual prowess.

It was only after that that I began touting my status as Athena's Champion.

My dearest wife—whatever you thought of me then (probably that I was an overeager fool), know that I did it because I knew, even then, that you were the best thing that could possibly have ever happened to me. Loving you is an outpouring of all the good I have ever possessed. And yet, I am fortunate enough to have a wife who understands, as I do, the value in using your wits and wiles to get your way.

Penelope, my love, my dearest, my darling—you, first and only. You are the only woman I could ever marry, the only woman I could ever want. It was you who revealed to me the reasons men want women—and yet no one could ever want you as I want you. I want you with every tender greedy grasping loving devoted possessive protective difficult wily part of me. Marrying you, having Telemachus with you—those are the most worthwhile things I have ever done and will ever do.

I am sure, once I am home again, that being a father to my boy will join that hallowed list.

Penelope, I am coming home. I cannot know how long it will take me. But know, whatever it takes, I will do anything to bring myself home to you.

I am yours. Whatever I am, whatever I've done, whatever that means to you—I am yours, wholly and utterly. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, my Penelope. I have been yours since time immemorial, and I will continue to be yours until Hades itself collapses.

Your husband,

Odysseus.

PS: How is Telemachus? Please, please, tell me as many stories as you can of him. I do not care how trivial or unimportant. What foods does he like to eat? What kinds of habits does he have? Anything you can think of, wife-mine.

Penelope's eyes blur with tears. She holds the letter away from her, so she doesn't accidentally ruin it. There's a gentle hand at her back—Athena, she thinks dimly—who takes the letter away, politely ignoring Penelope's sound of loss.

"Athena," she gasps. "Athena, my Lady, I cannot thank you enough, I—whatever I can do for you—whatever you would like as a sacrifice—as a token of our gratitude—"

"Enough," Athena says, not unkindly. "I'm aware that you're both very grateful." 

The goddess watches over her as she composes herself. There is no judgement in her gaze. "I must write to him," she murmurs. Athena nods. 

"I shall walk with you," the goddess says, giving her Odysseus' letter again.

They make their way from the temple. Penelope watches in some amusement as Athena's priestess falls over herself to honor their lady, who nods at her but doesn't otherwise react.

As they walk, they pass by the training ground. Telemachus is there, training with a bow. Athena pauses to watch it, so Penelope stops with her. They watch in silence as he shoots five arrows, all of which hit the target, but never in the center. Penelope frowns. Telemachus' instructor says something to him—something that makes Athena's eyes narrow, though it's too far away for Penelope to hear. 

Athena starts to step forward, then hesitates and looks to Penelope.

"Handle it as you will," Penelope tells her. She is eager to write back to Odysseus, of course, but Athena's reaction makes her think that perhaps Telemachus' instructor is not quite as competent as she had thought he was, and her boy's training is deeply important. "His name is Alkaios, son of Alexandros, if the information is at all relevant."

"I can send you to your room," she offers. "So you may write the letter."

Penelope considers it. She would like to write to Odysseus, but she would also like to know what Athena saw that made her eyes narrow like that. "After this," she says.

"Alright," Athena agrees. Penelope hadn't known Athena had relaxed, softened, until she steps forward again, all her godly strength on full display once more. "What is the meaning of this?"

Alkaios startles, eyes flying to Athena's. Hastily, he bows his head. "Goddess," he murmurs. "The Prince is being trained, that is all. His shots are abysmal."

"The fact that he is able to compensate so much for the unsuitability of his arrows is to his unceasing credit," Athena says flatly. Penelope can feel her eyes narrowing.

Telemachus, whose head had lowered in shame, looks up at the Goddess' words, mouth moving as if to speak.

"You assured me," Penelope says, raising her voice, "that Telemachus' arrows were the best possible."

"Well, the quality is very good, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the style of the arrow is suited to him. The spine of those arrows is too flexible, and the arrows are too long besides." Athena summons a different sort of arrow and offers it to Telemachus. "Here. I think this should work, but if it doesn't there are other styles to try."

"Thank you!" Telemachus says, hastening to bow. Athena gestures for him to rise. He turns and surveys the target.

Telemachus shoots too far left, this time. "You're still acting as if you're using those other arrows. Try again." Athena's voice is calm and kind, but firm. Telemachus pauses, readjusting his bow. He draws it back, aims, and fires. It hits the center perfectly. Athena straightens even further at that, smiling brightly. "Well done!" She waves a hand, and Telemachus' quiver fills with those arrows. "Keep those, and keep training."

Telemachus beams at her and turns back to the target. 

Such a simple solution, and Alkaios never thought to even try different arrows!

Alkaios stares in shock. "My Lady—my Queen—" he adds, "I—I am sorry. I clearly—the Prince is so like the King, I thought—" he cuts himself off, then bows deeply.

"Telemachus is taller than Odysseus was at his age," Athena says. She looks at Penelope. "The final decision of what should happen to you, I leave to the Queen."

Penelope, quite frankly, is out of her depth. "I shall call for you when I have made my decision," she decides. "I cannot make a reasonable decision now."

Athena nods in approval, then steers Penelope away from the training grounds. Penelope lets herself be led. When they get to her room (hers and Odysseus'), she waits for the door to close, then turns to Athena.

"I intend to train Telemachus myself, if you don't mind," Athena says.

"Yes—yes, of course, if you feel you have the time to devote to it." Besides, Athena is Odysseus' friend (and, apparently, hers now as well). He would be thrilled for her to help train their son, and Penelope is pleased too. "But—what should I do with Alkaios?"

Athena considers it. "I don't like how he spoke about Telemachus," she says frankly. "Calling his shots abysmal when he was still hitting the target—not even I would be so cruel, and I am sure you have heard all about my exacting standards."

Penelope smiles, remembering the way Odysseus would play up how very tired he was every time Athena trained him, at least until Penelope kissed him as a reward. Then he would straighten up, and declare that her love had healed him of his tiredness. But this is a different scenario altogether. "What should I do?" she repeats.

Athena thinks about it. "He is a proud sort of man, I think," she muses aloud. "Let me observe Alkaios as he trains, and especially as he trains Telemachus. If he is a competent teacher in other areas, then Telemachus may learn from us both. If he is not, or if he is too cruel in his teachings, then I will train Telemachus myself, and you may dismiss Alkaios and use either his incompetence or his cruelty as an excuse to dismiss him."

Penelope nods, relieved. Athena would know better than she. "Thank you."

"I must go—I should check on Odysseus. Call for me, when your letter is done. I will bring it to him."

Penelope has many things to tell her husband, clearly.

Chapter Text

Athena lands silently on Odysseus’ makeshift altar to her. He had done his best to ensure that the structure is optimal for her to land on as an owl (covering all his bases, just like she taught him).  Ogygia always prickles at her—as if telling her “you are welcome, but only for now.” As if she would spare even half a thought to it if her dearest (and, until recently, only) friend wasn’t here. Odysseus looks up from his silent contemplation of the waves, and his eyes widen as he looks at her. 

“Athena,” he breathes, reaching out for her and then letting his hand drop. His expression is raw and open, and doubtful. Why does he doubt?  She tilts her head at him in silent inquiry, then with a thought, transforms herself back into her goddess form. Before she can offer him Penelope’s letter (seven sheets of papyrus paper covered back-to-front), Odysseus is throwing himself into her arms. “I thought,” he says, laughing in a way that suggests he might cry if he does not laugh (she had learned this only because of him—it is not terribly uncommon for Odysseus to react this way), “that I—I might have imagined our reconciliation. I have dreamed of things like that often enough.” 

“...Do you often dream of Quick Thought?” She hadn’t thought mortals could do that, but Odysseus has been there more than any other. Perhaps he can. 

“Often enough. We’re usually—not here. In any case.” Odysseus coughs, then nudges at her arms until she recalls enough about how hugs are meant to work to wrap them around him. 

Home, she realizes. He had stopped himself from saying that they were home. Because Ithaca isn’t Athena’s home? Unlikely. It has never stopped Odysseus before—not in Sparta, during his courtship of Penelope, and not in Troy. Those times, he had said things like “well, when we’re home, I will get you a dozen of my finest lambs, Athena—we may celebrate then.” 

Odysseus’ newfound hesitance is Calypso’s doing, then. 

Athena could break her bones. She could. Athena is an Olympian. Athena is a War Goddess. Calypso has never even sparred with anyone. But Calypso might respond to her anger by refusing to let her back into Ogygia, or take it out on Odysseus, or both. So she will refrain. 

Odysseus makes a pleased noise against her armor. Belatedly, she realizes that she had gathered him closer to her while thinking. 

…Her armor cannot be comfortable to hug. Apollo (probably the most tactile of her siblings, and one of the only ones who has ever even attempted to hug her) had complained of that before. She had made Apollo endure it, but Odysseus has endured enough already.

At the thought, her armor shifts to a peplos, and—to her private shock, wings manifest themselves on her form. Still, Odysseus hums happily when they wrap themselves around them, so they can stay. 

Odysseus cannot doubt her so much, she decides. Not if they are to truly work together to bring him home. 

She pulls him into Quick Thought, before Calypso realizes Athena has come and tries to get her to leave. 

“We cannot have you doubting me all the time,” Athena says. Odysseus flinches, opening his mouth to—apologize, she supposes. It isn’t Odysseus’ fault, however, so the only thing to do is figure out a solution. She squeezes him into silence, the way she’d seen his sister do to him. It works the same way he did when he was still a child (though she suspects some part of her will always see him as such—and she abandoned him anyway. Never mind, this is getting her nowhere). 

She eyes his hair. It is, at least, washed and properly brushed, tied up in a chignon. (Athens is the only city state she knows of where chignons are at all common, and something tells her that that is not a coincidence). 

“Maybe—I don’t always need you to come to me,” Odysseus says quietly. “I know you have a lot to do.” 

She does, but some childish instinct she had thought long-dead wants to scream at him that he’s important, that he loves her, does he not understand how long it has been since anyone—anyone at all—has loved her? Especially the way he does? Odysseus is a man who loves easily, and quickly, but that he continues to love her despite her cruelty, despite her abandonment—that makes him special. That makes him hers. She won’t allow him to be hurt. 

“I receive many prayers, and though I of course listen carefully for my favored mortals, in places like Olympus, they are occasionally stopped by order of the God King.” Athena muses. What other options are there? Her eyes catch on his arm brace. Though the leather is obviously very fine, it has worn almost to the point of being unusable. Perhaps a replacement? She could have two made, connected to one another. She wears one, he wears the other. If he presses on it, she will feel it even more intimately than a prayer (as is the case for all enchanted objects that come in pairs), as long as she chooses to wear its twin. 

He follows her gaze. Frowning, he tries to follow her thought process. Being here has obviously worn him out, however. Athena will have to insist he sharpen himself again. 

Wait, no, she shouldn’t insist. 

While she’s sure he won’t yell at her the way he did after the cyclops, she would prefer not to upset him. Besides, she’s pretty sure she's not supposed to order around the people she wants to be close to. So: a strongly worded suggestion. 

“Athena?” Odysseus says, voice small. 

“Matching braces,” she murmurs for him. “Press on them and I’ll feel it. Perhaps—the more intensely you press, the more urgent your summons. We can figure out other signals once I have them made.” 

For some reason, that makes him brighten. “Friendship bracers?” 

“...Sure,” she says. If he wants to think of them as a mark of friendship, what’s the harm? They more or less are, anyway. “I’ll need to ask Hephaestus for them, but he works quickly. I’ll be shocked if it takes him longer than two days at most.” 

“Two days,” Odysseus repeats. He steels himself. “Okay.” 

Her poor boy. 

…She still hasn’t given him Penelope’s letter. “Perhaps this will help make the separation bearable,” she suggests, disengaging one arm from around him only to get the letter out and show it to him. She doesn’t offer it yet—Penelope had begun crying when she saw Odysseus’ letter, and the Queen of Ithaca hasn’t had to deal with the wrath of the gods the way Odysseus had. 

It’s the correct call—Odysseus stares at it, cataloguing the style of the writing and the length of it, and then bursts into sobs. Athena stores the letter away for the moment, and puts her arm back around him. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to require anything of her except that she allows him to clutch her peplos. 

He sniffles. “Sorry I cried on you,” he says, once he’s stopped shaking and can pull back. “I didn’t mean to dirty your peplos.” 

With a thought, the peplos is clean once more. “No harm done,” she murmurs. He seems alright now, so she retrieves the letter again, offering it to him properly this time. 

Odysseus reads through it slowly, apparently determined to savor his wife’s words. When he reaches the end of the letter, he says, “So, my boy is a good archer, then?” 

Athena blinks. Penelope had told Odysseus of that incident, apparently. “He was taught the fundamentals very well, and he has the strength for it,” she says. “I cannot fault your son’s education in that respect. But forcing him to use the same arrows you did, when he requires a different kind—I do not know yet if it was malicious, but it is certainly concerning.” 

Odysseus hums. “Penelope tells me you have taken his training upon yourself.” He says his wife’s name with a happy consciousness, clearly glad to be told things by Penelope once more. 

Athena pauses. “Should I not have?” 

“That's not what I meant!” Odysseus cries, wide eyed. “If you want to train my son, he could have no better teacher.” 

“Oh. Well then, yes.”

Odysseus lowers the letter. Athena frowns, realizing for the first time that she cannot see either his own or Penelope’s wedding ring. His own, he wears on his finger as is custom (or, he used to). Penelope's usually hangs on a chain around his neck. Penelope had ordered him to return it to her when he came home, and use it to remember her while he was away. Following her gaze, Odysseus says, woodenly, “Calypso objected to them.” 

Athena could curse her. She could be subtle. “Very well,” she says, even as she considers all the curses at her disposal. “I shall get them back for you, my crafty king.” 

Odysseus’ head snaps up to her. “Athena…” 

It’s no different from the reverent tones she’s heard from a thousand Athenian priests, but—this isn’t Odysseus. Odysseus, who had been so certain of her regard that he had felt safe enough insulting her to her face. 

“Don’t—do that,” she manages. “It’s—obviously I’m getting them back for you. Is that everything?” 

Odysseus hesitates. “Yes,” he lies. 

She looks at him with her eyebrows raised. “Odysseus.” 

“...Can you stay here for a bit?” Odysseus asks—so quiet. So hesitant. Her boy used to ask things of her so confidently. “Maybe not in Quick Thought? Calypso seeing you—I mean, she would probably not be happy, but I think I’m convincing her for now. So it should be okay.” 

Athena hesitates, thinking it over, but she’ll be back to check on him fairly frequently anyway. “As long as you promise to pray to me if you feel unsafe in the next two days,” she tells him. “I’ll be listening.” 

“Okay, Athena. I promise.”

“That’s good, my crafty king,” she murmurs, finally disengaging from the hug. “Okay. I’m going to let you out of Quick Thought now, Ody. Calypso either already knows I’m here or will know the instant I let you out—why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Ody?” 

Odysseus, she notes with some relief, looks more delighted than upset. She lifts her chin, raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” she says, with more confidence than she feels. This is mortifying. Only Odysseus has ever truly made her feel uncertain about what to call another person. 

He beams at her and looks about ready to hug her again. Calypso’s arrival puts an end to that, though. 

“Odysseus, I—Lady Athena!” The other goddess at least has the good sense to bow. Odysseus’ smile dies, then comes back, a smaller and more tired version of the genuine smile she’d gotten out of him. 

“Calypso,” Athena says shortly. Calypso’s expression twitches, and it takes Athena a long moment to understand that it’s because her hand is suddenly on Odysseus’ shoulder. He’s half-hidden behind the span of her wings and seems perfectly content to stay there. Still, Calypso rallies, giving her a bright, if false, smile. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Calypso asks. This is not a light offering. If Athena sits and eats at her table, xenia comes into force for them both. 

“Certainly.” She won’t leave Odysseus like this. Her mortal, no matter how skilled she’s made him, cannot stand up to a goddess alone. 

Calypso’s smile twitches again, but xenia has been taught to all those the God King has dominion over, so she nods. “I suppose you don’t mind, dear.” 

“No,” Odysseus steps closer to her. She allows one of her wings to drape itself over him, obscuring him from view. Calypso’s mouth flattens entirely. She catalogues this. If Calypso harms Odysseus over this—

Athena nearly lost him once. She will not have it occur again. 

Calypso, Athena notes, has no idea what kinds of foods Odysseus likes to have. Oh, a soldier’s palate is by necessity whatever is convenient for him to get, but her mortal has ever had a specific taste in foods, when there was choice to be had. “I did not know you developed a taste for lupin beans,” she observes, knowing full well he has not. Her mortal has always complained that the beans were too bitter. His tastes have evolved, but his hatred for that bean has been ever present. He had complained of it to her at nine, nineteen, and twenty nine. She is very sure he will still be complaining of it even at ninety.

Odysseus clears his throat. Looking anywhere but at Calypso, he says, “I haven’t.” 

“Ody!” Calypso gasps. Athena catalogues his subtle flinch, so different from the reaction she received when she used the same name earlier. “My darling, you ought to have told me so. How can I feed you properly when you do not tell me these things?” 

“Are you not eating?” Athena adds. A small show of camaraderie may make Calypso more inclined to like her in future, and anyway, she has already told him he ought to take advantage of the abundance of food being offered. “Ody, please. I would like to see you restored to yourself.” 

To her relief, Odysseus has not deteriorated so much that he cannot pick up on what she means. To her slight shock, though, the other goddess gives her a surprised, but pleased, look, when he relents enough to pick up a cut of lamb. 

“My appetite has decreased,” he says, as if in apology. 

“Mortals who are deprived cannot go back to eating a feast at once,” Athena reminds him. Odysseus, she is sure, has not forgotten. But if Calypso learns from it, all the better. “Eat until you feel full.” 

Then, very deliberately, she picks up a piece of bread and bites into it. She sips from her wine glass to wash it down. Thus is xenia in force. 

She can still work around it, she is sure. Still, it does make her a bit more careful. “I ought to thank you for hosting me,” she says. Calypso will take it as Olympian arrogance, that she does not say it outright. As if she could ever thank a woman who wishes to rape her mortal. Calypso cannot have him. 

Still, the apparent alliance to get Odysseus to eat has apparently worked, for Calypso’s smile does not hold even a hint of bitterness. “Not at all!” she says. “You can help me learn about my stubborn beloved and what he likes. Please, feel free to come here at any time.” 

At any time? 

She glances at Odysseus—Calypso will probably take it as her seeking his opinion. She may think what she likes about this. Her mortal is giving her a gleeful look, comprehending at once the many things a goddess like Athena could do with an offer like this. 

Yes, Calypso will regret that offer, and soon. Athena will do all she can to ensure that. 

Chapter Text

Odysseus has changed, since he gained the attention of his Goddess back. Calypso will have to curry her favor, it seems, since she has been able to convince him to begin accepting his new paradise. At least Lady Athena is a virgin goddess and thus wholly not a threat to her. Perhaps she can even wean Odysseus of her influence in time! Probably not wholly, her beloved has a stubborn loyalty to those he knew before he met her.

But that’s fine in moderation! Calypso is very charming in any case. She’ll have her beloved dancing to her tune soon enough. She hums happily as she contemplates the idea, weaving a random scrap of fabric. It will turn out lovely—everything she makes does, she is the Queen of this isle! And now—well, now she has her King. Perhaps she will make a himation, one she can wear when Lady Athena finally consents to their union and Odysseus will take her to bed. 

She shivers at the thought. She has not had the pleasure of anyone’s touch save her own, but she knows enough to anticipate her wedding-night with eagerness. And Odysseus knows how to pleasure a woman—he’s a man. Of course he knows how. He’ll take her into his arms and hold her down, and Calypso will be a soft and pliant wife for him, let him move her however he pleases. A bit of her magic, if he flags before she is ready to let him go—yes, he’ll be a fine lover indeed. She looks out of her window, catching sight of her husband-to-be. 

He is sitting on the beach again—Lady Athena’s mandated hour of solitude. But if it means her beloved’s odd moods can be planned around—yes, Lady Athena has the right of it this time. Calypso is gracious enough to admit that, unlike the other Goddess. 

Well. She ought not be rude. Lady Athena had been more or less pleasant company, mostly silent as Calypso chattered away, but the way she had stared—well, she’s lucky to be the patroness of the King of Ogygia. Calypso shakes her hands out idly as she studies her beloved. Odysseus is carving another votive—a silly looking owl, too tiny to be any kind of acceptable gift. Perhaps it is Lady Athena’s bird, but must he make it so small?  

She looks down at the threads she had been weaving, curious what the magic of her isle has offered her in the way of wedding clothes, and stares. 

Surely—surely there has been some mistake. The threads are—aren’t clothing at all! And—and a himation is merely a sheet! But this himation, far from being the soft, glowing pink she had envisioned, is a pale colorless nothing. And that is not even getting into the thread itself! It looks as if it will unravel if she so much as breathes too close to it, the warp threads have snapped and left gaping holes in the fabric, more like—like—there are no words to describe it! And the pattern which does exist—although she cannot even tell what it is meant to be a pattern of—is crooked and near falling apart at the frayed edges. 

And….she has never needed to shake her hands out before. 

She frowns, but shakes herself out of her mood. Ogygia is hers, after all. There’s no cause for concern! Perhaps her thoughts of Lady Athena had affected her more than she realized! She should strive to be more cheerful. 

Her cheer becomes much easier once she sees Odysseus get up to leave the owl carving at Lady Athena’s altar—she can speak to him once more! She rushes to meet him, leaving the botched project where it is. Odysseus never cares to watch her work anyway. Which is understandable. Weaving is a woman’s concern. 

At the doorway of their home, however, she is once again stymied. Lady Athena’s carving disappears in a flash of too-bright light, one that leaves even Calypso blinking away spots from her vision. 

In its place, of course, stands the Lady herself. Silhouetted in the light of the midday sun, she casts a long shadow over her altar. She is wingless but not unarmored, and the sight makes her frown, for Odysseus adopts a warrior’s stance in an instant, losing the relaxed slump of his lovely shoulders. 

Still, she can fix that, she is certain. She hastens her step once again. Lady Athena and Odysseus both snap their gazes toward her. Why, he even reaches for the sword she had to take away from him! It is good that his warrior spirit is returning. Perhaps she will let him hunt again once he has wed her. Only after, though, once he is bound never to leave. 

“Calypso,” Athena greets with habitual coolness, cutting through Odysseus’ half-voiced apology—perhaps she will make him apologize properly later, when his Patroness is suitably distracted. Athena’s sharp eyes sharpen further, as if she can sense the direction of Calypso’s thoughts and thoroughly disapproves of them. “What a surprise. I assumed you would be weaving for a while yet.” 

“You…you can see me when I weave, Lady?” Calypso asks. The smile feels frozen on her face. Does Lady Athena have something to do with her recent work? Surely not. The other goddess has been tolerant of her company so far, perhaps even amused by her. And Calypso has not shown anything but respect—perhaps a little less deference than might be expected, but then, Lady Athena is a guest on her isle, and Calypso is Queen here. 

“Not as such, no,” Lady Athena dismisses, her owl sharp eyes intent on Calypso’s face. She hesitates a moment, then turns to Odysseus. “Leave us be for a moment,” she orders, placing one hand on his shoulder. He leans into the contact, even as he stares up into her face. 

“Athena—” he protests. It is good to know that he is obstinate with Lady Athena too. Still, at a raised eyebrow, he obligingly whisks himself away, grabbing the carving knife as he goes.  Calypso watches him as he walks towards the outcroppings of rocks at the edges of their paradise. He is still bone-thin, but the wiry muscle that had first attracted her to him is steadily returning. She does not have to press him to eat anymore, and he even smiles as she tells him how she spent her days before she met him. 

“It sounds rather boring,” he had observed, two days past, his dark eyes alight with laughter. 

“Well, now I have you!” she had giggled back, thrilled that he was at last engaging with her, even if it was only idle pleasantry. 

She is snapped out of her pleasant reminiscences as Odysseus settles for one of the large rocks, hopping onto it and beginning to carve once again. 

“What did you do that for?” She can hear the sullenness in her own voice and doesn’t care. Let Lady Athena hear how displeased she is.  

“Well, if you would prefer that I call Odysseus back to hear about your little weaving problem, be my guest,” Athena replies. She sounds as bored as Odysseus had in his early days on the isle.

And—and how did she know? Did she do that? But why? What reason would she have to oppose her union with Odysseus, beyond perhaps some vague fondness for Odysseus’ weaver-wife? Calypso wove! Her garments were lovely!

…Were. Does the Great Weaver mean to make her learn how to weave properly? “How did you know I have a weaving problem?” she asks. There is an edge to her voice, and for an instant shame curdles in her gut like what she imagines those that indulge in wine must feel, if they do not have a magical isle which takes away the aftereffects. But it does not matter! Odysseus is well out of earshot and will not notice her lapse in wifely pleasantry. 

“I didn’t, until you just confirmed it,” Lady Athena observes blandly, stepping closer to put a hand on her shoulder. Calypso welcomes it; she had done the same to Odysseus not five minutes ago, after all! “You would not survive a day on Mount Olympus, I fear.” 

For an instant, it is as if the words are claws digging into the heart of her—and then Lady Athena steps back, and she cannot feel it anymore. “Why did it happen, then, if you know so much?” Calypso demands. Lady Athena raises an eyebrow at her. 

“I cannot say. I do not know your island, daughter of Atlas. It is not under my purview.” Lady Athena glances up into the midday sun and then looks to Odysseus. “I had thought to spar with him, but perhaps I may spare an hour or so to weave instead.” She rolls her shoulders and the armor she is wearing disappears—Calypso just barely sees the rip in spacetime as the goddess stores her armor away. 

“Could you not weave at your own loom?” Calypso asks tersely. Her toes curl into the sand, the sun glowing brighter and harsher in response to her question. 

Lady Athena stares at her, then closes her eyes. She looks rather like she would like to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I can spare an hour,” she says slowly and clearly, “to make sure that you do not damage your loom whenever you sit at it, and perhaps someday you will be able to actually weave without needing your magical island to do it for you. Unless you would like him to realize that Ogygia is failing you? If it is failing you in this, who knows how else it will deteriorate?” Athena’s grey eyes open and fix onto Odysseus’ turned back. “My father puts him on this island and it begins to fail,” she mutters, to the air or to Calypso herself. Then she turns back, pinning Calypso in place with her gaze. “I do not know what Father wishes to do to this island, daughter of Atlas. I do not know why he decided to put my mortal here. But I will take care of my warrior. Take care that you can take care of yourself, at least. And, if you are still convinced that you wish to marry him someday, you ought to learn. After all, Odysseus’ wife ought to be able to weave for him. He cannot do it himself, and you cannot teach yourself. You will have only scraps and nothingness. I would suggest you watch your tone with me.” 

There are horrid creatures squirming in her belly. “I apologize,” Calypso manages, her voice small. “I would—I would very much appreciate your guidance.” 

“I am not,” Lady Athena says shortly, “in the mood to be a patient teacher any longer. I do not care what you do, daughter of Atlas. Only mind that you may call yourself Queen of Ogygia, but I am a Goddess of Olympus.” 

“Perhaps a quick chat?” Calypso suggests. “I would offer you whatever delights Ogygia has, only please—” she swallows. If Lord Zeus has decided to punish Ogygia—punish her —Lady Athena is their only chance of escaping unscathed. 

“The things I tolerate for that boy…” Lady Athena trails off. “Very well.” 

The palace she shares with Odysseus is light and bright and airy, as it has been ever since she met him. Although, palace is hardly the right descriptor anymore. After all, having too much privacy might allow her poor darling to attempt to harm himself, and that is not something Calypso can tolerate. Instead, the space has transformed itself so that the kitchen leads directly to the dining room, with no walls in between, with Calypso’s loom very much still in the same space as the dining table. Odysseus does not have his own space—although he spends so much time by Lady Athena’s altar that she doubts he has noticed or cared. 

“It’s interesting to me that you used limestone,” Lady Athena observes. When Calypso stares at her blankly, she sighs and amends, “It’s interesting that your island chose to use limestone instead of marble.” 

“Is it?” Calypso asks. “Why?” 

“Oh, nothing,” Lady Athena says calmly. “Marble would take more time to erode, that’s all. If your magic continues failing…” 

“I’m sure it won’t go that far,” Calypso tells her smilingly. Lord Zeus is displeased with Odysseus, perhaps, but she has not done anything wrong. She concentrates on her magic in a way she has not done in centuries as she pulls foods together for a makeshift feast, but she feels just the same as she ever did. 

“You do not know my father.” Lady Athena replies. She does, however, deign to accept a peach, biting into the overripe fruit without seeming to mind that it drips juice down her chin. 

Calypso clears her throat, attempting to diverge from that dour subject. “When Odysseus and I are married, after I bear him a son—“ she begins. Lady Athena raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued despite herself. “I have asked him before what he would name a son, but he only ever talks about his precious Telemachus. Perhaps you might aid me once again?” 

“When he was very young, little more than a boy, he swore he would have two sons named Lysander and Alexandros.” Lady Athena takes another bite of the peach. Contemplatively, she continues, “I asked him why he would not name the second son Alexander, to better match with his brother, and he insisted that they deserved to differentiate themselves a little. He was only about seven at the time, I think? It’s so difficult to tell with mortals. In any case, I doubt he remembers it now.” She puts the peach down, wipes off her mouth, and fixes her stern gaze onto Calypso. “Odysseus has a son already, daughter of Atlas. Kings of Ithaca have not been able to bear more than one son for generations now. You will not be different, goddess or no. Penelope already gave him Telemachus.”

Calypso swallows hard and tilts her chin up. “Well then,” she says resolutely, “it’s a good thing he is not King of Ithaca any longer.” She’ll give him his two sons. She’ll bear twin sons. She is the goddess Calypso and this is her paradise. She always gets her way. She will have to relearn to weave, but that is a minor punishment, and things will not get any worse. She knows it.