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Ithaca goes four years without so much as an overcast day. The island is showered with just enough mist to keep the crops watered and the people fed, but storm clouds never dare to breach the shores for one thousand four hundred and thirty-seven days. Then, on an oppressively hot summer afternoon, the spell breaks.
Odysseus is walking the palace grounds, listening to Telemachus recount his latest diplomatic adventure with more gusto and energy than the old king thinks is humanly possible. The Prince is a shining light in the darkness. A beacon of joy and hope. While his energy can be….exhausting, Telemachus’ rhapsodizing always makes a content smile settle on Odysseus’ face. A handsome hound, clearly a descendent of his dear Argos, circles Telemachus’ feet, his tongue lolling happily. His boy– well, he's not quite a boy anymore, Odysseus has to remind himself. He has amassed far too great a number of scars and is far too skilled in battle to be called a mere boy. His son had named the pup Daemon, a perfect name for the aethling.
A yet-to-be-repaired gouge in a column catches his eye, making him pause. Odysseus’ smile falters and he runs the calloused pads of his fingers over the rough groove. He hears the phantom scrape of metal on rock, pictures the sword that chipped the stone– clutched in the trembling fist of a suitor. Time has not dampened the rage that rises within him at the memory and his blood rushes in his ears so loudly that he almost doesn't hear the distant roll of thunder.
Almost.
A shudder shocks down his spine and suddenly he cannot hear his son anymore. The crash of the waves against the sand becomes deafening, syncing with the erratic thrumming of his heart. On the horizon, angry, dark clouds gather together like thick mud, and they're growing closer. A sharp sea-wind whips his grey-streaked hair around his face, biting cold. The front is moving fast, as if Poseidon has finally found an opening and plans to wreack as much havoc as He can before Odysseus can get his family to safety.
Another, louder crack of thunder makes him flinch. The wind has taken on a vocal quality. Odysseus thinks he can hear a single, desperately repeated word with every gust. Captain, Captain, Capt–
“Father?”
Odysseus suppresses the panic that burns the back of his throat at his son's worried voice. He closes his eyes and sways on his feet as he attempts to retrieve his wits. Hermes help him. When he eventually speaks, his words sound far away. “Go to your mother. Brace for a storm.”
Daemon whines and presses his wet nose to Odysseus’ hand. He hadn't realized he'd clenched it into a fist. Without breaking his gaze away from the ocean, he gives the dog’s head a gentle pet.
“Father,” Telemachus repeats, less uncertain, “Come inside. We can weather it together.”
He swallows past the lump in his throat and meets his son's eyes– the same shade of brown as his own and brimming with love and concern. “You're right,” his voice shakes only a little, “I won't let you suffer alone.”
Telemachus visibly grows more worried and gingerly takes his father's arm. Daemon trots ahead, looking back every now and then. His ears are flat with fear. The wind whistles through the corridor, pounding a steady beat.
Captain, Captain, Captain!, it howls.
Odysseus closes his eyes. It does not help.
He lets Telemachus lead him through the palace halls, all the while thunder rumbles closer. Is it Zeus? Has the God King come to collect His due? No. Zeus will have to go through him before he gets to his family. Odysseus sacrificed everything to return home to them.
Hands, soft in intention yet rough in texture, cradle his face. Odysseus jumps out of his skin, his eyes flying open and locking his hand around the person's wrist. But the hands do not stop. And the face he's met with is one that calms him in an instant. Penelope's age-lined eyes are wide, searching. Her once jet black hair, now spun with silver, is tied loosely behind her head.
“Where did you go?” she whispers, running a hand over his head, “Where are you, Ody?”
“I'm….I'm right….,” his chest is tight, the air stolen from his lungs, and he takes a trembling breath, “I'm right here. I'm right here.”
“Exactly, my love. You're right here.”
The conviction in his wife's voice is enough to coax a sob from Odysseus’ throat. It's a pitiful, choked sound, and it saps his strength immediately. His knees give out and he sinks to the floor. Penelope envelops him, whispering kindnesses as she sinks to hold him to her. He shifts to wrap his arms tight around her waist, trying to focus on the feeling of her delicate fingers carding through his hair. He feels Telemachus settle on his other side, curling around Odysseus’ arm and resting his cheek on his shoulder. Even Daemon rests his head on the old king's legs.
Rain begins to fall in sheets, hammering the palace violently. Thunder rips open the heavens and Odysseus curls in on himself. The chants of Captain! Captain! Captain! are louder, now, more pleading and afraid. Behind his eyes, he watches flotsam and broken, bloated bodies drift on vicious waves. He watches the betrayal in the eyes of his remaining men, the acceptance hiding behind the disbelief in the face of Eurylochus, his brother-in-law.
He sees Polites, lying lifeless on a basalt cavern floor. Each boom of thunder is another brother slain by the cyclops’ club as he watches the light leave his best friend's eyes.
Odysseus is trembling as the storm arrives over the palace. The thunder is near constant, and so are the sobs that wrack his body. He will not let the Gods take his boy, his wife. But what good is he if he cannot move? Visceral images flash in his mind, only occasionally kept at bay by Penelope's soothing words. He can't move, he can't think, he can't breathe, something is very wrong and he can't figure out what or how to fix it.
“It's just a storm,” the tone Penelope uses reminds him of the nights Telemachus would keep awake screaming because of restless sleep. She would rock him in her arms and assure him that, “Everything is alright, my love.”
How many restless sleeps had he missed? How many nightmares could Odysseus have soothed, how many stories could he have told, how many nights could he have stayed up with his darling son and counted the stars?
Thunder so loud it shakes the very foundation of his palace breaks through the sloughing rain. In the hiss of the downpour, Odysseus swears he hears the faint whisper of, ‘But we'll die.’
“I know,” Odysseus chokes out in response to the air, an echo of that night.
Penelope presses a kiss into his hair, her breath warm as she tells him, “You will know. We will make it through this. This storm is not divine.”
“How do you know?” Telemachus eases, muffled by Odysseus’ robes.
“Because I remember the last divine storm,” she says calmly, dripping with righteousness, “It was the one that brought you home to us, Ody.”
As if by magic, the storm begins to fade into nothingness the moment the words leave her blessed lips. The thunder recedes, the rain slows, the wind stops carrying the screams of dead men. A single ray of light slips through the clouds, turning the bedroom from a war room to a place of peace. Odysseus isn't sure how long it takes him to stop shaking, to accept that the storm is gone, that his family is safe. But when he finally lifts his head from his queen’s chest, she smiles at him so softly, so tenderly, that fresh tears roll down his cheek. She brushes away those tears with her thumbs and brings him into a slow, sweet kiss.
“We're okay,” Penelope encourages, “The storm has passed.”
Odysseus sighs brokenly and paws at her face, just to be sure that she's here, that she's alive. Then he whirls around and does the same to Telemachus, pulling his grown son down into a crushing hug. He feels his son sniffle and his heart swells with grief and pride at the Prince's sensitive soul.
“You're okay,” Odysseus breathes, holding them both close to him. He lets his head fall back against the palace wall with a tearful, relieved laugh, “It's over, and you're okay.”
Birdsong filters into the room, bouncing pleasantly off the stone.
They made it.