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Chapter Text

DIOMEDES

Diomedes stared out at the storm-churned sea with an irritation that bordered on annoyance. This was meant to be a simple journey – less than a fortnight’s work, in and out, just as it always was when he and Odysseus were sent on some errand. And yet here they were, stranded in Messe by the whims of an ill-timed storm, their ship battered and their patience worn thin. He had half a mind to call it a curse.

He had not even wanted to fetch the boy. Achillides would never have been summoned if not for that wretched Trojan princeling and his damned prophecy. Without it, they would have let the child remain on his quiet little island, growing into whatever man he might have become, unburdened by the war that had stolen his father. But no, the fall of Troy apparently required his presence, and so they had come calling.

Diomedes had not known what to expect of the boy before, and he was not certain what to make of him now. The boy carried his father’s name like a weight upon his shoulders, so desperate to prove himself worthy of it that it set Diomedes’ teeth on edge. He had fought beside Achilles, had seen firsthand what the man was, what he had become. A son, no matter how eager, could not be his father. And yet Achillides would try, with all his might, and he would inevitably fall short.

He studied everything as if he were waiting to see where the next blade would come from, even before setting foot on the battlefield. The way he watched Odysseus, clinging to his attention with a quiet, desperate hunger. That was what made Diomedes uneasy – not the boy himself, but the way something in his presence made Diomedes feel like he was staring into a reflection he did not want to see.

The thought soured in his gut, and he shoved it aside, turning his irritation toward something far more manageable.

Precious Odysseus.

At least there was some amusement to be found in watching him fumble through this ridiculous attempt at playing father to the boy. The King of Ithaca was many things – a liar, a schemer, a man who could turn words into silk or poison at his leisure – but he was no father, not to anyone that was not his own precious son. And yet, Neoptolemus clung to him all the same, eager for every scrap of attention Odysseus deigned to toss his way. At first, Diomedes had found it amusing. Now, it simply grated.

It was not only the boy who was frustrating. There had also been the matter of Philoctetes.

Odysseus had done what he did best – talked circles around the man, weaving charm and wit together like a net to ensnare his grudge, trying to mend the wounds that had festered far beyond the one in the older warrior’s foot. The drama of it all had been entertaining slightly, more exhausting than anything, but what had truly tested Diomedes' patience had been Philoctetes himself. The way his sharp eyes wandered over Odysseus, trailing over the curves of his body with open, unabashed interest, the way he had let his eyes drag over Odysseus’ form as if he were gauging how best to take him apart.

Diomedes had hated it.

He had wanted to tear those wandering eyes from their sockets, had wanted to shove Odysseus behind him, wrap him in his own cloak and haul him back to his ship, away from Philoctetes, where no one else could touch him.

Regardless, Philoctetes was now at Troy, where he could preoccupy himself with putting arrows through Trojans instead of staring at what did not belong to him. Meanwhile, they were still stuck in Messe, their ship in shambles.

He had seen it the moment they’d pulled into port – sails torn, the hull bearing deep scars where the storm had tried to pry it apart. A few more days at sea in that state, and they would have been swallowing saltwater. Still, the damage was not beyond repair.

What was beyond repair, however, was their timeline.

They had sought an audience with the Lord of Messe, only to find his son standing in his place. The city’s ships, he explained, had already been sent off with their king. Menelaus had called upon them, and they had answered. To Troy. Of course. Which meant no spare vessels. No quick passage. No easy way out.

They would have to wait. Weeks, perhaps. However long it took to patch up the ship enough to sail again.

Diomedes had let out a sharp exhale at that, shoulders rolling back as he willed himself to swallow his frustration. It would do him no good. They were stranded, and nothing short of divine intervention would change that.

And Odysseus, ever-clever, ever-calculating, had taken this as an opportunity to throw another task upon him.

“You should write the letter,” he had said, with all the casual ease of a man suggesting something entirely reasonable. Which meant, of course, that it was anything but.

Diomedes had narrowed his eyes at him, suspicion curling in his chest.

Odysseus was plotting something.

He always was, but this – this felt more pointed. More intentional. He was hiding behind Diomedes, using him as a shield against whatever fallout this letter – or whatever he was planning – might bring. Diomedes could not say he minded it.

It was a quiet thing, the fondness that settled in his chest at the thought. It was one thing to be used, another to be chosen. and Odysseus, for all his cunning, had always chosen him to use.

And so, he had written the letter. He had penned it carefully, every stroke of the hard reed deliberate, knowing full well that anyone who read it would take one glance at the words and recognize them as Odysseus’. The writing was Diomedes’, but the voice behind them was not. The others would know. He imagined them shaking their heads as they read it, muttering amongst themselves that it might have been Diomedes’ hand, but those words were Ithacan through and through.

And still, he had sent it.

He did not mind what they thought about it all.

Now, as the last of the messages were delivered, as the shipwrights began their work under Odysseus’ sharp commands, Diomedes turned his gaze back toward the older man, watching.

Odysseus had been… different, since arriving in Messe.

Withdrawn. Restless.

He had spoken little of it, but Diomedes was no fool. He had spent enough time at Odysseus’ side to recognize when something was gnawing at him, chewing away at the sharp edges of his thoughts.

And whatever this was, it was important.

Diomedes did not claim to understand Odysseus.

Oh, he knew him, knew him in a way few did, but knowing a man and understanding him were entirely separate things. Odysseus’ mind worked in ways that were tangled and twisting, like the mazes of Crete, full of passageways that led to nowhere. He made choices with reasoning known only to himself, let things fester when they did not need to, agonized over matters that Diomedes himself would have acted upon without a second thought.

If something needed doing, why not do it?

And yet, there Odysseus stood, watching the ship repairs with a sharp-eyed focus that told Diomedes he was not truly watching them at all. His mind was elsewhere, caught up in whatever thoughts had plagued him since they arrived.

A shift of movement drew Diomedes’ eye before he could make his way over.

Neoptolemus.

The boy was staring at him, watching him with something that looked almost like reverence.

Diomedes sighed.

The boy had no reason to look at him like that. He had done nothing worth such admiration. He was simply a man caught in the current, moving where the war pushed him. But Neoptolemus did not seem to see it that way.

It was… unsettling.

He turned his attention back to Odysseus, deciding that the boy was a problem for another time.

For now, there was still the matter of whatever Odysseus was keeping locked behind his teeth.

Diomedes made his way over, standing at his side for a long moment before speaking, watching the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“Come, walk with me.”

It was not a question.

Odysseus turned to him with that slow knowing smirk of his, mischief sparking in his mismatched eyes.

“Come, walk with me?” he echoed, voice dipping into something low and teasing. “Tell me, Dear Diomedes, is that a call to council, or do you seek to drag me into some hidden corner, to press me close and leave me breathless?”

For a brief, heated moment, Diomedes did think about it.

He thought about how easily he could do just that – pull Odysseus away from all prying eyes, have him pressed against him, and take his time unravelling the older man. He thought about the way Odysseus would gasp and laugh against his mouth, how his clever hands would curl around his shoulders, nails digging in as he pushed back against him.

And gods, how he would enjoy it.

But this was not the time.

Diomedes levelled him with a pointed look, letting his silence speak for itself.

Odysseus huffed dramatically, those delectable lips curving into a pout, like a child denied a sweet, though there was amusement slapped all across his face as he relented. “Ah, you wound me, Noble King of Argos.”

Diomedes rolled his eyes, already turning away as Odysseus fell into step beside him. He called out sharp orders before departing, ensuring the shipwrights would see to the repairs, that the men would be kept in line in their absence. Then, with easy steps, he fell into stride beside Diomedes, his arm looped through his comrade’s as they strode through the streets of Messe.

The city swelled with life around them – merchants crying their wares, the scent of the sea salt and fresh bread twining in the air. For a brief moment, Diomedes allowed himself to enjoy it, this strange lull of peace so far removed from the cries of war. But his mind never wandered far from the man at his side, from the weight of his arm curled through his own, on the tension that lingered still in those broad shoulders.

He did not waste time with pretences.

“Something weighs upon you,” he said bluntly. “Speak, and be done with it.”

Odysseus hummed softly, tilting his head as though in thought. “Is that true concern I hear, my Sweet King? Or is this merely an excuse to have me alone?" His voice was light, teasing, but Diomedes had long since learned to hear what lay beneath Odysseus’ silk-spun words.

He sighed. He should have known Odysseus would try this again – it was his most favourite resort after all.

“If I sought only to have you alone, King of Ithaca, there are far better ways I might go about it,” he said, arching a brow. “Now, enough of your attempted distractions and play. Speak.”

Odysseus sighed, long-suffering and dramatic, as though he had just denied some great pleasure, but the truth was there in the breath that followed – a real, heavy exhale, as though he had been holding it in too long – deep and weary. He raked a hand through the gentle waves of his dark hair, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly as he let the act fall away.

“We are but a day and a half from Ithaca,” he admitted at last, voice quieter now, lacking their usual glibness. “A day and a half away from home. After near ten years.”

Diomedes did not interrupt.

“It will be ten years soon,” Odysseus continued, his lips twisting with something like bitterness. “Ten years since the day Telemachus was born.” He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Ten years since my sweet boy took his first breath. And I am so near to him, to Penelope, to home – and yet I cannot reach them.”

And Diomedes understood.

He understood the restlessness, the way Odysseus had seemed distant, drawn taut like a bowstring near breaking. Why his thoughts had been occupied near entirely, why his fingers had twitched continuously as if itching to grasp something held just out of his reach. For all his wiles, for all his trickery and silver-tongued speech, Odysseus had ever been a man bound to love. A man who, in all his wanderings and through all these years, had held his wife and child at the centre of his heart.

Without thinking, Diomedes' grip upon his arm tightened.

“Then go.”

Odysseus blinked, turning to him sharply. “What?”

Diomedes exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the weight of what he was about to offer. “Go to Ithaca,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “The ship will take two weeks to mend. That is time enough for you to make the journey there and back.”

“Diomedes–”

“No one need know,” he pressed on. “I will remain here and see to all that must be done. If anyone asks, I shall say that you have gone off to enact some secret scheme of yours.” A gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It would not be a difficult thing to believe.”

Odysseus stared at him, shaken and silent.

“My men are my men,” Diomedes continued, his voice quieter now. “They will not question me. They will not move against my word. If you would go – then go.”

For the first time in a while, it seemed as though Odysseus had no ready quip, no swift retort. His throat bobbed in a swallow, his gaze wet with something unspoken, something far too fragile for men like them to name.

Diomedes felt a strange twinge in his chest, something small but insistent, curling around his ribs as he looked at the man in front of him who he adored so greatly.

Tears shimmered in those sharp, clever eyes – eyes that so often gleamed with mischief, with calculation, with the quiet satisfaction of a man who was always ten steps ahead of everyone around him. But now, all of that was stripped away. For once, Odysseus was simply Odysseus – as he was a rare few times in the privacy of their camps, a man who had been away from home for nearly a decade, a man who had left behind a wife and a son and longed for them desperately, a man who had spent hours on hours singing of the ones who held his heart to everyone around him.

Telemachus.

Penelope.

It was unbearable to see him like this, standing in the middle of the busy street with his hands curled into fists, his breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

So Diomedes did the only thing he could.

Without a word, he took Odysseus by the wrist and gently pulled him aside, away from the bustling streets, into a quiet alcove between the buildings where they could have a moment to themselves. The scent of the sea still clung to the air, the distant sounds of merchants and traders drifting on the wind, but here, it was just them.

Odysseus let himself be led, silent and trembling.

When they stopped, Diomedes turned to him fully, his grip on Odysseus’ wrist firm but careful. “The words I have uttered come whole heartedly,” he murmured. “If you wish to go to Ithaca, then go. You need not hesitate. Not even the gods know of when the war will end.”

Odysseus swallowed hard, his lips pressing together like he was trying to keep himself steady. He shook his head slightly, as if struggling to form words, but whatever argument he might have tried to conjure up never came.

Instead, he moved.

Before Diomedes could react, Odysseus threw himself into his arms, wrapping around him like a drowning man grasping for solid ground. His arms clung tightly around Diomedes’ broad frame, his face buried against his throat, his breath warm and uneven against his skin.

For a moment, Diomedes stiffened – startled by the sudden weight of him, by the sheer desperation in the way Odysseus held on. But then, without any hesitations, he exhaled and wrapped his arms around him in return.

He held Odysseus firmly, securely.

And when he felt Odysseus shudder against him, Diomedes only tightened his embrace.

“Thank you,” Odysseus whispered, voice hoarse against his shoulder.

Diomedes huffed a quiet breath, lips barely curling.

“Do not thank me,” he murmured. “Go home.”

ODYSSEUS

The salty breath of the sea filled Odysseus’ lungs as he leaned upon the railing of the trader’s brown-hulled ship, his keen gaze fixed on the rising hills of Ithaca, drawn dark against the setting sun. Home. After ten weary years of toil and blood, of wandering and war, he has returned at last. His heartbeat fast within his chest, filled with longing and hunger for the land of his forefathers.

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thoughts from his mind like water from his hair. The ship rocked gently beneath him, the sound of the crewmen at their tasks a steady rhythm, grounding him in the present moment. He turned, casting a glance toward a grizzled sailor who crouched over a wooden crate, sorting through goods meant for trade.

"Tell me, friend, what wares do you bear?" Odysseus asked, his voice light and easy, slipping into the guise of a merchant with the same ease he had worn a hundred other faces before – prince, beggar, warrior, king. This was no different.

The old sailor lifted his head, eyeing him with the look of one long accustomed to men who asked too many questions. Then, with a grunt, he answered, "Fine linens, olive oil, and sweet wine from the slopes of Zakynthos. The usual lot. Ithaca’s trade flourishes in these days, for the Queen has opened her husband’s lands to trade further North – Illyria and the other lands across Adria. A clever woman, that one."

Odysseus stilled, his fingers tightening upon the worn wood of the railing. A spark of warmth flared in his chest, swift as a struck flint. Clever, indeed. His Penelope had not only guarded his house in his absence, but strengthened it, stretching her hands beyond the shores of their small kingdom.

The sailor scratched at his bearded jaw and added, "’Tis a strange thing, though. A woman’s place is in the loom and the storeroom, not among traders and kings. But perhaps it is no wonder – is she not the wife of Odysseus of many wiles?"

For a breath, Odysseus did not know whether to laugh or to break the fool’s jaw.

An insult? A compliment? Perhaps both?

His lips twitched, but he forced his hands to still, to let the man prattle on. It mattered little. There were other more important thoughts that filled his mind.

Like Penelope.

His wife, whom he had not seen in a decade, whose voice he had heard only in the memories that clung to him in the stillness of night. Would she welcome him, after all these years? Would she look upon him with love, or with a stranger’s gaze.

He longed to see her so.

And Telemachus.

His son, his only child, who would soon mark ten years of life. Ten years without his father’s voice, without his hand upon his shoulder, without the memories they should have made together. The thought curled like a knife in his belly. So much had been lost already.

But no longer. He was here now. So close. So damn close.

So near that he could taste the salt of Ithacan air upon his tongue, feel the heat of the sun upon the cliffs that he had once climbed as a boy.

And then–

"Reckless as ever, I see."

Odysseus flinched, his hand flying to the dagger at his belt before the voice reached him in its entirety.

It took him less than a second to realize who stood before him.

“Athena,” he breathed, half in relief, half in exasperation.

There she stood, bronze-clad and bright-eyed, arms crossed as she regarded him with a gaze both knowing and unimpressed. He had seen that look before – too many times to count.

“Tell me, Odysseus,” she said dryly, “Are you truly so incapable of restraint?”

Odysseus grinned, unrepentant, as was his nature. "The ship repairs had no need of me. And Diomedes, who is your own champion – so wise and warlike, spoke to me thus: ‘Go, Odysseus, and see your house again, for I shall see to the work that must be done.’"

Athena inhaled sharply through her nose, casting her gaze skyward as though appealing to Olympus itself, “Father, give me strength.”

Odysseus chuckled.

But Athena’s gaze returned swiftly, sharp as her spear’s point. "Diomedes," she said pointedly, "is a man who would carve out his own heart and lay it at your feet, if you so much as looked at him the right manner."

Odysseus only shrugged. “I am well aware.”

Athena’s lips pressed together, her piercing eyes narrowing. "And yet?"

“And yet,” he echoed, smiling, “I have long since ceased caring about what people think of my relationship with the young king of Argos. The world may whisper to their heart’s content, but their words are empty wind, and I have better things to hear”

He had heard it all already – Nestor, Agamemnon, Achilles before Patroclus had passed. He had learned long ago to let such things pass him by like water over stone. What did it matter? Let them speak. It changed nothing.

And he was not about to start caring now.

Not when Ithaca was before him.

Not when Penelope and Telemachus were waiting for him.

Athena sighed, rubbing her temple as though he were an impossible child who had long exhausted her patience. “Whether you be in Ithaca or Messe, I suppose nothing will change.”

Odysseus brightened at that, feeling particularly pleased. “Then you agree, Goddess mine?”

She gave him a long-suffering stare.

His grin widened.

She shook her head, as if in resigned amusement. “Tell me, then, Odysseus – how exactly do you mean on entering your palace and reuniting with your family, when all who dwell within still believe you to be on the distant shores of Troy?”

Odysseus spread his hands, his voice light as the mist that hid him from the rest of the men on the ship at the moment. “That is precisely why I came aboard a trade ship,” he explained. “I intend to enter my own halls as a merchant, seeking an audience with my brilliant queen to speak of matters of trade.”

Athena gave him a long look.

And then, with a quiet huff of laughter, she said, “You never change.”

Odysseus smirked. “And would you have me any other way?”

Athena let out a slow, measured sigh, as if she had already predicted every choice he would make. “A merchant you may be, but your waiting will stretch beyond measure. The queen grants audience to traders but once a fortnight, and the last such gathering was held five days past.”

Odysseus frowned, thoughts shifting, adjusting, reshaping.

“I suggest another way.”

Odysseus looked up at her. “Do tell.”

“Go not as a merchant, but as a herald.”

He blinked. “A herald?”

“A messenger from the shores of Troy,” She elaborated. “One who bears a message for the wife of Odysseus.”

Odysseus' eyes gleamed as he considered it. A herald need not wait for an audience; he could request immediate entrance under the pretence of urgency. A cunning ruse.

Athena gestured toward his satchel, her voice steady and guiding. “Among the things you carry is the bronze medallion that all your soldiers wear. Show it to the guards, and they shall accept your entrance and let you pass. Penelope, too, will know it for what it is.”

Odysseus reached within, his fingers closing around the cool, familiar weight of it. A token of his land, his people. A token of home. He had made it for his men and awarded it to each and every one of them before they sailed for war.

A slow grin curled upon his lips. “And you will aid me in this, I assume?”

Athena’s gaze was wry, unimpressed by his theatrics. “I will disguise you.”

Odysseus bowed his head, reverent and grateful. "Then I thank you, goddess, now and always, ever faithfully."

The ship rocked slightly as it finally came to port, the waves lapping at the brown-hull. The sights and sounds of Ithaca’s harbour filled Odysseus' ears – the calls of fishermen, the laughter of children playing along the docks, the ever-present scent of salt and olive trees on the breeze.

He inhaled deeply.

Home.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unbidden, blurring his vision as he took his first step onto Ithacan soil. His knees, though long hardened by war, felt unsteady.

For years, he had dreamt of this moment, of walking these shores once more, of returning at last, of walking the very soil of his own kingdom, breathing the same air as his wife and his son.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to steady.

Turning to the men who had travelled with him – now that Lady Athena had lifted the mist from their minds, allowing his words to be heard by all else. He offered a charming smile, clasping hands with them as he wished them well on their trade ventures. They bid him the same in turn, not knowing that they had carried a long-gone king back to his kingdom.

Then, with Athena at his side, he set forth the walk inland.

His palace stood atop the highest hill on Ithaca, a beacon of Ithaca’s strength but also a symbol of his love, of the family he had wished to build with the woman he loved. His hands clenched at his sides.

Soon.

But first, there was work to do.

Athena led him to a place unseen by wandering eyes, a grove where the Cyparissus trees whispered low.

“Now we begin,” she said simply.

She raised a hand, and at her will, a wave of power passed over him, shifting the very air about his form. His skin grew lighter, his hair paled, his tunics turned to those of a humble herald – a bearer of tidings, a man of no consequence.

When the divine veil settled, Athena lowered her hand and regarded her work with satisfaction. “It is done.”

Odysseus ran a hand through his newly changed locks, then let a slow smile play across his lips.

“Well then,” he mused, “let us deliver this message.”

Through the streets of Ithaca he walked, his steps measured, unhurried. His heart drummed within him, its rhythm quick yet steady. His gaze, though never lingering, drank deep of his land.

His kingdom – his kingdom – after so many years away.

Lord Helios’ light bathed the island in late morning light, illuminating the stone paths, the terraces, the olive groves swaying gently in the breeze, the small homes nestled against the hillside. The scent of salt, fresh bread, and pressed olives filled the air.

It was familiar yet changed.

His people bustled about their day on the streets, merchants calling out their wares, fishermen hauling their morning catch, women weaving in the shade of their doorways. They looked well-fed, well-clothed. Their faces unburdened, their bellies fat. Trade was thriving. His land was thriving.

Pride swelled in his chest.

Penelope.

Penelope had done this.

His wise and steadfast wife had ruled in his absence, not merely keeping Ithaca whole and afloat, but guiding it into prosperity.

Odysseus smiled to himself, shaking his head in quiet admiration. Of course she had.

His path wound upward, toward the palace, through the trees that had stood sentinel since his youth. His hands clenched at his sides as he neared, the grand structure coming into full view.

There it was.

His home.

He swallowed hard.

The palace stood tall, unwavering, just as he had left it. Yet, standing before it now, it felt impossibly far away. A dream barely within his grasp.

His fingers brushed the medallion hidden beneath his tunic, grounding himself.

He was here. It was real.

The closer he came, the slower he walked, as though he could stretch this moment – this impossible, long-awaited return – just a little longer.

Then–

Laughter.

The sound carried through the open air, high and bright, the unmistakable laughter of children playing.

Odysseus stilled.

His heart lurched violently against his ribs.

Who?

For a reason he could not explain, a force deeper than thought or reason, he wanted – needed – to see. His feet moved of their own accord, guiding him toward the sound.

At the gates of the palace, two guards stood watch, spears in hand. As he approached, their eyes flicked to him, taking in his garb, his bearing, the unassuming manner by which he carried himself, befitting his guise.

One stepped forward, voice firm. “Who comes?”

Odysseus inclined his head, unhurried, slipping a hand beneath his tunic.

“I am a messenger,” he said smoothly, retrieving the bronze medallion and holding it aloft. “I bear word from the distant shores of Troy, bringing a message for the noble wife of King Odysseus.”

The guards stiffened. Their gazes flicked to the token in his hand, and at once, a spark of recognition passed between them.

Respect.

They exchanged glances before stepping aside, bowing slightly.

“Enter, good man, and may the gods guide your steps.” Odysseus nodded in gratitude, stepping past them through the Palace gates, into the palace grounds.

His mind screamed at him to go to Penelope at once, to see her, to hear her voice, to hold her–

But his feet carried him elsewhere.

To them.

To the sound of laughter.

Through the courtyard he went, past the shaded colonnades, his steps swift, yet uncertain despite he having built these very walls.

A clearing. A wide, sunlit space where the grass grew green and the wind ran freely. There, a band of children played at ostrakinda, their laughter ringing bright as they darted and weaved, swift-footed as fawns, pure and unburdened.

Odysseus exhaled sharply.

Such a simple thing, and yet, it struck him deep, shaking loose in his chest.

A kingdom at peace. A home filled with laughter.

It was more than he had dared to hope.

A smile, unbidden, curled his lips. A chuckle escaped him, low and rough, as he watched their game.

He had not known how much he longed for this until this moment.

Then–

A sharp breath.

A sudden, shattering realization, slamming into him.

These children–

They were of age with his son.

And if they played here, within the palace grounds…

His heart thundered in his chest. His desperate eyes swept over them, searching, seeking–

A memory surfaced of the newborn he had held in his arms.

A head of black curls, thick as his mother’s though the colour was his father’s. Eyes whose colours had yet to set, the physician had said, but marked by twin hues like his father – one eye bright as the open sky, the other vibrant as the sea. Dark golden skin, again more of his father.

And then…

There.

A boy among the rest, with long black curls tumbling past his shoulders – not the waves of Odysseus, but the thick curls of Penelope.

His eyes–

One blue. One sea-green.

A beautiful, striking contrast.

A breath caught in Odysseus’ throat. A shudder passed through him. His knees near gave way.

The child turned, laughing still, and the sound struck him harder than any blow upon the battlefield. It was more beautiful any song he had heard.

Golden skin, glowing beneath the sun. Laughter so bright, so alive.

His son.

His Telemachus.

No longer a babe swaddled in his father’s arms, but a boy full of life and light, standing at the cusp of his tenth year.

Beautiful. Radiant.

And utterly unaware that his father stood mere feet away, watching him as though he had glimpsed the face of the gods.

Odysseus clutched the nearest column, his grip tight, his breath uneven. His vision blurred. His shoulders shook. A laugh – broken, half a sob – escaped him.

“Telemachus!”

Another child called the name.

Odysseus nearly collapsed.

It is him.

It is him.

How could I not know you my sweet boy? How could your father ever not recognize you?

He had known it already, had felt it in his bones, but seeing his son turn to the sound of his name, seeing the familiar tilt of his head, the brightness in his expression–

Odysseus was undone.

His shoulders trembled. His throat tightened as if a great hand had closed around it. A sound escaped him, rough, broken – a laugh, a sob, both and neither.

O Gods, he was so beautiful.

So bright. So alive.

How could he walk away? How could he turn his back on his son?

A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

Athena.

“Odysseus,” she murmured, her voice steady. “Move.”

He could not.

He could only stare, drinking in the sight of his boy, carving every detail into the depths of his soul as though he might never see him again.

“Athena,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling. “Look at him. Look how divine he is.”

“I see him.”

Odysseus shakily laughed, breathless, wiping at the tears that blurred his sight of Telemachus. “Had I not known better, I would have taken him for a young god.”

His son.

His beautiful, precious boy.

How could he leave him?

How could he leave him? How could he not stride forward and take the boy into his arms, press his lips to his brow, tell him he was here, he had always been here, even when he was far across the sea?

Athena’s fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder. “You are not walking away, Odysseus.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ground himself.

“You are simply going to Penelope,” Athena continued, her voice patient but firm. “And she will bring your son to you.”

A breath shuddered from his chest, ragged as a dying man’s last gasp.

The ache in his heart felt unbearable.

But he forced himself to nod.

He wiped his face, stealing one last, long look at Telemachus.

Then, with great reluctance, he turned away.

At the doors of the great hall where Odysseus once held court, few guards stood tall, gaze sharp.

One of them gave Odysseus a once-over before stating, “The Queen holds no court this day,”

Odysseus bowed his head, slipping his hand within his tunic, drawing forth the bronze medallion once more.

“I am a herald,” he said smoothly, “A bearer of tidings from the noble sons of Achaea who fight on the shores of Ilium. I bring word for the House of Clever Odysseus – to his brilliant wife, who has held this land in his absence and rules as its Regent.”

The guard’s eyes widened at the sight of the medallion.

Recognition.

For a breath, the man hesitated, then his shoulders squared. He nodded once, swiftly.

“Wait here,” he said quickly, turning to his companion. “I will go to the Queen at once.”

Odysseus inhaled deeply.

Then exhaled.

His heart pounded like the oars of a ship rowing against the tide.

Penelope.

He was so close now.

His Penelope. His brilliant, steadfast, beautiful Penelope. The woman who had bound his heart and taken it as hers from the moment he had laid eyes upon her all those years ago. The woman in whose memory he had lived, for whose love he had endured.

For ten long years, through war and hardship, through blood and loss, he had clung to the thought of her. Through every battle fought, every night spent beneath foreign skies, it had been her name whispered in his mind, her face that had anchored him.

And now–

Now she was so close.

He exhaled shakily, pressing a hand against his chest to steady the wild, desperate beating of his heart, though it cared not for his wishes. It had always listened better to Penelope.

The guard returned, and with him came others – men and women of his household, faces both known and half-forgotten, the keepers of his home. At the sight of them, a strange emotion swelled in his chest – recognition, nostalgia, a sense of homecoming so deep it nearly overwhelmed him.

These were the people he had left behind. The people who had tended to his home and hearth, who had served his wife and son in his absence.

And now they stood before him, bowing slightly in greeting.

"Welcome, traveller," one of the older servants said kindly. "The Queen has been told of your presence. She has granted you an audience."

Another servant, a younger woman with gentle eyes – whose name escaped him, though he knew she came with Penelope from Lacedaemon – stepped forward. "You have journeyed far, messenger. Will you take food and drink before you stand before our Queen."

Odysseus felt a pang of gratitude at their kindness, a reflection of the house he had built, the home Penelope had maintained in his absence.

He smiled, warm, sincere. “Great is the generosity of the noble house of Odysseus, and great is the kindness of his Queen,” he said. “But my message is urgent. I would stand before her first, if she would allow it.”

The servants exchanged glances, then the elder woman nodded. “As you will,” she said. “Come.”

Beside him, unseen by mortal eyes, Athena smiled softly.

"Go, Odysseus," she murmured. "She is near now – the woman in whose name you have fought, in whose name you have endured. Your Penelope awaits you."

Odysseus swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle deep within him.

Finally.

His Penelope. At long last.

And soon, she would be standing before him.

The elder maid, her hands worn by years of service, rapped gently upon the great wooden doors she had led him to. His own study that he shared with his wife.

A voice answered – a voice so sweet it might have been the song of the gods themselves, a voice that had ever been the melody of his heart.

“Enter,”

Odysseus swayed where he stood. The sound of it – soft yet steady, strong yet kind – struck him akin to an arrow to the chest. He felt as though the very earth beneath his feet had trembled.

Was this real? Or was he lost still in some dream, some cruel trick of the gods?

His breath came quick and unsteady. His limbs, made weak by longing, threatened to betray him. But Athena’s hands, unseen yet ever steadfast, pressed firm upon his shoulders, keeping him upright.

“Stand tall, Odysseus,” she murmured. “Your hour is upon you.”

He swallowed hard, willing his strength to return, forcing his mind to clear.

With great effort, he turned to the servants, those who had led him here, who had guided him through the halls he knew so well. He nodded, forcing the words from his lips.

“I am in your debt.”

Then he stepped forward.

One breath. Then another.

He reached for the doors, pressing his hands against the wood, and pushed. They opened before him, slow and heavy, revealing the chamber beyond.

And there–

There she sat.

His love. His life. His other half. His wife.

The golden light of the morning poured through the high windows, casting its radiance upon her form, surrounding her in a glow that made her seem even more divine.

Penelope.

She was as he remembered her, as he had dreamed her in countless nights beneath foreign skies. Her sea-green eyes met his, clear and watchful, clever as ever. Her golden curls, ever defiant, spilled free from their bindings, resting upon her shoulders just as they had in the days of their young marriage. She had worn her hair thus since the first he had told her he loved it unbound.

A smile graced her lips – small, polite, a queen’s welcome to a guest.

Her voice, when it came, was the gentlest of music. “You have come far, good man.”

Odysseus’ fingers clenched at his sides. He forced himself to move, to step forward, though his legs trembled beneath him. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling with the weight of all that had been lost, all that had been found.

His vision blurred, not with exhaustion, not with weariness, but with something far greater, far deeper.

With longing.

With love.

He willed himself onward, each step heavier than the last, yet lighter than any he had taken in ten years.

He reached the chair before her table and sat, hands gripping his knees to keep them from shaking.

A breath. Another.

He dared not blink.

For she was before him.

At long last, she was before him.

And he feared that if he should close his eyes now even if it were momentary, she would disappear.

Penelope’s beautiful gaze lingered upon him, calm yet questioning, her sharp eyes as piercing as a spear of bronze.

“I have been told,” she began, her voice steady, regal, though soft as flowing waters, “That you bear a message. A message from my husband, valiant Odysseus, far from the shores of Troy. Speak, then, and tell me – what word do you bring?”

Odysseus swallowed, his throat thick with emotion. His voice, when he found it, was low and rough, like a sailor long lost at sea.

“Indeed, Good Queen,” he murmured, bowing his head, “I bring such a message.”

His tongue, unbidden, longed to weave praises, as was his wont. How could he not speak of the woman before him? She, who was bright as dawn, wise as cunning Athena herself, steadfast as the oaks that withstood the fiercest of storms?

But before he could utter a single word of admiration, a voice – wry, exasperated – echoed through the chamber.

“Oh, enough of this,” came the groan of the goddess behind him.

Penelope gasped, her beautiful bowlike lips parting in a perfect ‘O’ of shock.

Odysseus turned, knowing full well what had come to pass. Athena, no longer unseen, stood in the chamber, her eyes keen as the owl’s, her stance unshaken as the mountains.

Penelope, ever swift of mind, moved as though to rise in reverence, but paused, her sea-bright gaze flickering back to him in front of her. Right, he was still in the guise of a herald.

Athena tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Be not troubled, daughter of Icarius,” she said, her voice smooth as running gold. “The man before you may see me as well.”

Penelope’s brows – had there ever been such finely shaped brows? – knitted together in confusion. Her hands, poised upon the polished wood of the table, clenched faintly. “Then tell me, great daughter of Zeus Aegiōchos,” she said at last, hesitant, “have you taken another champion?”

Athena exhaled sharply, as though she could scarcely bear such folly, and with a snap of her fingers, the room changed.

No– he changed.

The air in the chamber shimmered, as though the very fabric of the world trembled at Athena’s will. A wind unseen stirred through the room, though the great doors remained shut, and where once a humble traveller stood in threadbare garb, there now stood a king true.

The tunic of the herald faded like mist at dawn, its coarse weave dissolving into fine-woven linen, rich and deep-dyed as the wine-dark sea. A chlamys, simpler than the usual ones he wore with weight of his station, fell upon his shoulders, the deep crimson of its folds edged with gold, clasped at the throat with a brooch wrought in the likeness of an owl in flight – a gift from his father in the days of his youth.

His skin darkened, bronzed once more by the heat of a hundred battles, the long years beneath the open sky. The lines of hardship and age upon his face smoothed, though they did not vanish entirely. His dark hair returned once more to the fullness of its former strength. He could feel the gaunt hollows of his cheeks fill, his jaw set strong as the bedrock of Ithaca itself.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat. She staggered back a step, her hands flying to her lips as if to stifle the cry that threatened to escape.

Would she know me? Could she still see me behind all the years that had passed, all the salt and silence that had stood between us?

“This…” she whispered, her voice breaking like arrows on a strong shield. She swallowed hard, shaking her head as though to wake from a dream. “This cannot be. Surely, I am dreaming. Surely, this is some trick, some cruel jest played by the gods.”

Athena’s voice laced with quiet amusement of one who had long known the ending to a tale, spoke gently. “Most surely, daughter of Icarius, it is the man who you married before the altar of the Queen of the Heavens.”

A moment passed. Then another.

And then–

Odysseus moved. His breath laboured, his hands reaching as though to grasp what his heart still feared was only a shadow.

Odysseus rose from his seat, his hands reaching – gods, he needed to touch her, to hold her, to know that–

But before he could close the space between them–

Penelope moved faster.

With a cry, she flung herself into his arms, her body colliding against his, her hands clutching at his cloak, his shoulders, his face – anywhere, everywhere – desperate to hold, to feel, to know. Her hands gripped him like he was breath itself, like he might vanish again if she let go. She sobbed into his shoulder, her body pressed to his so tightly he could feel her heartbeat, wild and fierce, thundering beneath her ribs.

Her sobs broke forth, unchecked, her voice – gods, her voice – trembling as she whispered his name again and again, a prayer upon her lips. “Odysseus… Odysseus… Odysseus…”

And he – oh, he was no better.

His strong arms locked around her, crushing her to him, his face buried in the golden waves of her hair, the scent of her – lotuses and papyrus, oil and water lillies – more sacred to him than all the offerings he had laid before the gods. His breath came in shuddering gasps, his body shaking with the force of all he had held at bay for ten long, bitter, tiring years.

And he wept.

Not as a warrior. Not as a king.

But as a husband.

As a man who had been broken and remade a hundred times over.

As though a man who had been lost, adrift upon a cruel and endless sea, wandering from land to land, who had at last found his long sought after home.

“Penelope,” he choked, again and again, his tears falling into her hair, his hands trembling where they clutched at her. “My Penelope, my love… my heart… my home.”

And so they stood, clinging to one another as though to life itself, as though the earth might crack beneath their feet, as though the gods themselves could not part them now, as though the years of sorrow and longing might be erased in this single moment.

As though they had never been parted at all.

And for the first time in ten years, Odysseus was home.

Odysseus was with Penelope.

She trembled in his arms, her forehead pressing softly to his, tears still slipping down her cheeks like rain from olive leaves. Her breath mingled with his, salt-laced and shuddering, and when she spoke, her voice was broken with wonder and grief and love all at once.

“How… how are you here?” she choked out. “There has been no word – nothing from the east, no tidings, no sails on the horizon. We have heard no whisper of the war’s end.” Her beautiful eyes searched his face, wide and disbelieving, like she scarcely dared to hope. “Odysseus, how are you here?”

He closed his eyes. Gods, the sound of her voice saying his name again – it was nearly too much.

“I was sent on a matter of diplomacy,” he said, voice low and rough. “The King of Argos and I were chosen to sail to Scyros. To retrieve the son of Achilles for the war effort. The seer spoke: Troy will not fall without him.”

His lips softly brushed her brow, trying to calm her trembling – though he knew he was likely not better. “We found the boy. Young, fierce, burning with pride and vengeance like his father. We set sail again for Troy – but a storm rose. Not the Earth-shaker, I should think, but rather only the sea being what it is.” He exhaled sharply. “We were driven far off course. To Messe. A cruel coast made – broken hull, snapped mast. We were lucky to make landfall.”

She pulled back enough to look into his face again, her hands still trembling against his jaw.

“The ship will take two weeks – maybe longer if the Gods are good – to be made seaworthy again,” he said. “The others stayed to oversee it. But I… I could not wait. Not when Ithaca was so near. Not when you were so near. I had to see you. If only for a day. If only for a night. I had to.”

Precious Penelope gave a ragged, broken laugh, and her tears flowed anew, warm and wet against his skin as she buried her face once more in the crook of his neck. “You stubborn, reckless, glorious man,” she sobbed, pressing kiss after kiss to his skin – his throat, his cheeks, his temple. “You came back to me.”

“I missed you,” she whispered, words spilling now like water over a broken dam. “Gods, I missed you so. I thought I would go mad with it. Every morning waking alone. Every night wondering if you still lived, if you would ever find your way home again. It has hurt so much, Odysseus. So much.”

He held her face in his hands, framing her tear-streaked beauty, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as if he could soothe every wound these ten years had wrought. “I am here now,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I am here, Beloved Penelope. I swear it. Flesh and breath and bone. I am not a dream.”

She nodded, barely, eyes fluttering shut. And then she tilted her head just slightly, gaze drifting toward the space where the goddess had stood.

“Lady Athena…” she whispered. “I should thank her– she brought you to me, she must have– ”

But her voice faltered.

There was no one there.

The place his goddess had stood was empty.

She stared, wide-eyed, her mouth parting in a soft gasp. “She is gone.”

Odysseus did not even attempt to look away from Penelope. “That has always been her way,” he murmured, stroking her hair, reverent, gentle. “She comes when she knows she is needed, and leaves when her work is done. She was never one for goodbyes.”

And then, without another word, he leaned in and kissed her.

Soft and slow, with the reverence of a man who had prayed to every god of their great pantheon for this one impossible moment. She tasted of salt and sweetness, of tears and time lost. His lips moved with hers gently, tender and certain, as if to commit this moment to memory in the very ivory of his bones.

It was everything he had longed for, dreamt of, feared he would never have and hear again.

And in her kiss, he found home – not in walls or hearths or stones, but in her, always in her.

He eased her down onto the thick carpet, his body folding over hers with a care that belied the strength in his frame. His hands trembled as they touched her – her cheek, her hair, her shoulder – worshipful, awed, desperate to relearn every inch of the woman he loved.

And she welcomed him, making her sweet sounds that had tortured his nights for ten years past.

Ten years of waiting - of war - faded into nothing between them.

Though the war still called.

He was here.

She was his.

And this moment was theirs.

Chapter Text

ODYSSEUS

Odysseus – his heart still thundering from the flurry of his long-awaited reunion, from the overwhelming joy and the sacred ache of her finally in his arms again – moved with reverence. He gently helped his Penelope adjust the folds of her robe, his calloused fingers careful as they traced over the fabric, smoothing it where it had wrinkled, righting the edges. His touch, that he thought had grown used to only wield spear and sword, had remembered something far older, far softer – the devotion and tenderness that came with being by her side.

Her skin, still flushed from their union, was softer than the finest wool in all of Ithaca, warmer than the comforting hearths of his homeland. He drank in every breath of her, the closeness of her body, the press of her form beside his – he would have lingered in that silence, in that sacred peace.

But she shifted, intending to sit a little straighter – and that was when he felt it. A sharp, near-invisible jolt passed through her, her breath hitching for the barest of moments. A wince – faint, quickly buried – but not lost on him.

Immediately, his brow knit with concern. “Are you– ?” he began, voice low with worry.

But she turned her head, and even now, she could silence him with a single look. The sharpness in her eyes had not dulled in his absence; they were still bronze and sea and starlight. That stare – gods, how he had longed for those eyes to look at him – could still cut cleaner than any blade. But what betrayed her was the colour that rose to her cheeks, the deep flush blooming beneath her eyes, spreading down her elegant neck like wine spilled on marble.

“It has been ten years,” she explained flatly, arching a brow, though the corner of her mouth twitched in what was evident embarrassment.

Odysseus stared for a beat – and then laughter welled in his throat, soft and warm, roughened with affection. A sound that had not passed his lips in years.

He leaned close, pressing a kiss into the curve of her reddening neck, where the proof of her invaluable life fluttered fast and frantic beneath his lips. “Forgive me, my love,” he murmured there, against her skin. “I should have been more gentle.”

Penelope shivered in his arms, her fingers curling around the muscle of his forearm. Gods, that response – that small, beautiful reaction – it was everything. Even after ten long years, even after all the distance that had separated them, the war and its battles that he had thought ruined him forever… he still brought her pleasure. He still stirred her blood and stole her breath.

It was a victory sweeter than any conquest.

But before he could bask in it for long, Penelope’s lips parted – and akin to a siege breaking, the wave of her thoughts surged forward.

“Oh now that you are here– ” she began, the words tumbling out of her all at once. “We will need to inform the household staff. At least the close ones – Eurycleia foremost…” Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, eyes wide, mind already racing. “They will be needed to keep this quiet lest word spreads. And the guards! Oh gods, the guards – they saw you come in disguised as a herald– ”

She covered her mouth with one hand, half in shock, half in dismay. “They must think I have taken some strange, wandering man to my bed – Odysseus!”

He could not help but laugh, deep and low, his head falling forward onto her shoulder.

But she was not finished – not even close.

“And Telemachus,” she breathed, and the name made her voice tremble, and his heart skip a beat. “Oh My lord, he is going to be so pleased. He has longed for you his whole life. He has been asking about you since he could speak, even now he sits in the courtyard with your bow across his lap, asking when you will return. He asks me each year – each month – whether you are coming back. Even if he cannot tell his friends, even if he has to pretend you are still at war, he will know you are here. He will see you. He will finally see you.”

Odysseus felt something twist tight in his chest – a painful joy, bittersweet and heavy. The memory of his precious child playing with his friends, with such light and life and joy across his face, crossed his mind.

My precious son.

“And your parents,” she continued, her eyes bright and damp. “Anticleia… your mother has waited so long. She listens for word from the coast whenever a ship arrives. And Laertes… he pretends not to hope, not to feel, but he’s withered more each year. He will try to act stoic when he sees you, but– Odysseus, your father will weep. I know it!”

Her hands were moving now, wringing in her lap as though she could wring the emotion out of her.

“And then we will have to– ”

“Breathe,” He said softly, taking her hands in his. His thumbs brushed the tops of her knuckles, slow and calming.

She blinked, looking up at him.

“Penelope, my sweet loving wife,” he said again, his voice thick with love, “breathe.”

Gods, he loved her – he loved every inch of her, every fretting, passionate, loyal part.

He watched her breathe, watched the tension in her shoulders slowly bleed away beneath the warmth of his hands. Her fingers, once wringing in panic, were still in his grasp. Her cheek rested once more against the curve of his neck, and for a long moment, all was quiet again. The comfortable peaceful silence he had not known in a decade – the kind that only ever came when she was near.

But even then, even now, his dear wife’s sharp mind could not rest long.

After a breath, she murmured, “It will look suspicious, you know. Us spending all this time together. No one in the household knows who you are – not truly.” She lifted her head, eyes half-lidded but alert, the strategist in her never fully at ease. Troy would have fallen long ago if both his and her minds had worked together to bring its downfall. A pity. Though he could not bear the thought of her holy presence anywhere even near that land, or battle for that matter. “A herald lingers too long in the Queen’s Study? It will not take long for whispers to bloom.”

Odysseus frowned, her words pulling him from the warmth of their reunion. “You are right,” he admitted, a sigh leaving him. His gaze lifted slightly, sharp as ever. “But there is still one who watches over us.”

Without rising, without ceremony, he called softly, “Athena.”

The air in the room shifted at once. The papyrus scrolls ruffled unnaturally, the shadows in the corners deepened – and then, with a shimmer like sunlight on a wave, his goddess appeared.

Athena, bright-eyed as ever, stood before them, her presence ever undimmable. She looked upon them both and sighed, half in amusement, half in weary affection.

“Your worry is unnecessary, Odysseus and Penelope,” she said, voice steady and smooth as polished stone. “I have already seen to it. To the eyes of the palace and the city, the herald from Troy has departed the walls of the Palace after delivering his message to the Queen – he has gone to take lodging among the swineherd, the same one you once played with in your youth, alongside your sister.”

Penelope blinked in astonishment. Odysseus only exhaled; his relief palpable. He bowed his head low, voice thick with gratitude. “My thanks, goddess. You have done more for me than I can repay.”

Athena regarded him with a gaze that held a thousand unspoken truths. Then, just for a breath, her lips curved – a small, rare smile.

But it faded just as quickly.

“You have but a fortnight,” she said, her tone turning serious, the weight of time settling around her like a mantle. “Fourteen days, no more. Make use of them wisely.”

He nodded, solemn now. “I will.”

And with that, his goddess turned and disappeared – no flash of light, no burst of sound. Just gone, as though she had never stood there at all. Just like before.

As the quiet settled again, Penelope let out a soft, ragged sigh and wrapped her arms around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled, “I should get up. There are things I need to arrange… before the day grows too old.”

He looked down at her, his arms encircling her with a quiet strength. And he laughed – the kind of laugh that came not from humour, but from pure, undiluted adoration. “It is you holding me, woman,” he said, brushing a lock of her golden hair behind her ear. “And I would say the Queen of Ithaca may command her own schedule.”

She gave a soft sound between a scoff and a laugh, but did not move. “I cannot help myself,” she whispered. “I missed you… so dearly.”

His chest tightened at her words. He held her close, so close, and pressed a kiss to her brow – reverent, aching. “I missed you too,” he murmured, voice thick. “More than life itself, Penelope.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped around each other in the quiet cocoon of their presence, in the fragile stillness carved out after so many years apart. The world could wait – for just a few more moments.

Eventually – slowly, reluctantly – they parted. Penelope rose first, her feet brushing the marble floor with practiced grace… but Odysseus saw it. A subtle shift, a hesitation in her step. A limp. Brief, slight, but unmistakable to his sharp eyes.

His mouth twitched into a smirk, though he bit the inside of his cheek to hold in the full breadth of it. She walked to the door, her tunic now settled properly around her, and called out, “Bring Eurycleia to me – discreetly.”

When she returned, Odysseus was still seated. She extended her hand to him, her eyes flicking down in amusement at his lack of movement.

“Come, my lord,” she teased lightly.

He took her hand, rising easily with her help, but as he did, his voice was laced with mischief. “Careful with yourself,” he murmured, tone warm and wicked. “You walk like a woman freshly and thoroughly ruined. Any one who sees you will think some passing messenger from Troy took Odysseus' woman.”

The flush that blossomed on her cheeks could have rivalled a sunset.

She hissed, mortified, “Shut up, Odysseus.”

And he – gods, he could not help it – laughed. Loud and full and utterly besotted.

She huffed at him, though the smile curling her lips betrayed her. She tugged him gently by the hand across the room and pulled him down beside her on the kline, where she curled up neatly at his side once more, at his side where she had always belonged.

And he turned his head, placed another kiss to her forehead, and closed his eyes – just for a moment – to feel peace again. Only she could do this to him, bring him this comfort and peace. It was as though she held the gift of the heavens itself with her mere presence.

A soft knock at the door interrupted them.

“My lady,” came Eurycleia’s familiar, weathered voice from just beyond the threshold, warming his heart. “You called for me?”

Penelope straightened slightly beside him, but did not remove her hand from his. “Come in, Eurycleia.”

The door creaked open, and in stepped the old nursemaid – even older now, a little smaller now in the shoulders, though still straight-backed and sure of step, her hair bound tightly in the same no-nonsense knot she had worn since Odysseus was a boy. She closed the door behind her with careful fingers, the habit of caution ingrained deep.

And then she looked up.

Her eyes fell on him.

She froze.

One hand flew to her mouth, and her voice cracked with disbelief. “This cannot be…”

The years seemed to peel away from her in that single breath. Her eyes brimmed with tears, shimmering like dew on olive branches.

Penelope’s hand squeezed his. She sat proudly at his side, her voice thick with joy. “It is him. Lady Athena herself brought him home.”

Odysseus rose slowly, his smile full of affection as he stepped toward her. “I missed you so much I had to come back and visit,” he said, teasingly, even as his voice wavered with emotion.

Eurycleia let out a choked, broken laugh. “My noble King,” she whispered, and smacked his arm lightly – though her hand trembled. Then, without hesitation, she pulled him into her arms, like she used to when he was a child after skinned knees or nightmares. She kissed his temple, one hand cradling the back of his head as if confirming he was real, solid, home.

He held her close, closed his eyes for just a heartbeat as her scent – olives and aged linen – washed over him like a memory.

When they parted, he rested his hands on her shoulders and looked her square in the eyes. “Listen closely. I am here only for a fortnight. No longer. You must inform the members of the household I trusted most before I left– quietly. No word must leave the palace walls. None.”

She nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, My King. Of course.”

But then she paused, brows furrowing as she glanced toward Penelope. “And what of the Princess?”

The warmth turned to confusion as he turned toward his wife. “Princess?” he asked. “What princess?”

She froze.

For a long breath, she did not speak. Her eyes flicked to Eurycleia, and then back to Odysseus. And then she bit her lower lip – one he recognized as hesitation.

“I will… speak to them myself,” she said finally, her voice calm but firm. “Do not tell Telemachus or the Princess. Not yet. I need to… explain it properly. And gently.”

Odysseus stared at her, but she gave him nothing further in front of Eurycleia. There was a tension in her shoulders now that had not been there before.

Turning back to the older woman, she continued, “But do send a runner to Father and Mother’s estate. Discreetly. Tell them not to rush, nor to make a scene. Simply that they must come for breakfast tomorrow morn.” She looked down, then added softly, “I want no eyes on them. No suspicions.”

Eurycleia nodded, her expression thoughtful and serious. She bowed to them both. “As you wish. And– ” her voice wavered again, her gaze returning to Odysseus “ –my heart sings to see you here, my King. Ithaca breathes again with you in it.”

He smiled at her, deeply moved by her loyalty and affection. “And mine with yours.”

With another respectful bow, Eurycleia slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

She left, and Odysseus turned to Penelope.

She sighed softly and sank back down onto the kline, tugging him by the hand with a gentle insistence. “Come,” she murmured. “You have not sat long enough, you must rest well.”

He let her pull him down beside her again, folding easily into the warmth of her side, where she fit against him like a piece of his soul returned. It was as though the years had never passed at all – her weight tucked beneath his arm, the crown of her head beneath his chin, her breath steadying beside his chest. For a moment, they did not speak.

Then, quietly, she said, “The Princess… is Hermione.”

He blinked. “Hermione?” The name struck like an echo – the last he heard of it was during Menelaus’ drunk grief filled ramblings, of how his firstborn was growing up without him. “Helen and Menelaus’ daughter?”

She nodded. Her gaze was distant now, though her voice remained clear. “Yes. She was first brought here by Aunt Leda.”

He leaned back slightly to see her better. “Your Aunt brought her here? Whatever for?”

Penelope let out a quiet, rueful laugh and smoothed her hand over her lap, fingers brushing invisible creases in the linen. “Telemachus was only just over a year old then. It was… not long after I finally claimed regency. Wrestled it, really, from Mentor.”

A crooked, proud smile tugged at his lips. “I knew you would. It was why I named that man in the first place. He was a good foil, but you–” He tapped a finger gently under her chin. “You were born to rule.”

Her smile bloomed, that fierce glint in her eye returning – how he had missed that spark. “You always did know how to flatter.”

“It is not flattery if it is true.”

She chuckled, but the sound gave way to something heavier. “I was surprised when they arrived. Aunt Leda had grown older, slower. Her hair was more silver than black. She travelled quietly, without fanfare, and Hermione… she was so small. Clung to me like a frightened little rabbit when we met. The grief of losing Darling Helen did not do well to either of them.”

Her voice faltered for a moment, then continued, “Aunt Leda said Clytemnestra was… unwell. After Iphigenia–” Her words stopped again, and she turned her face away, though not before he saw the grief clouding her eyes.

Odysseus’ jaw tightened. He could not look at her just then. Iphigenia’s name always carried the weight of that sacrifice. He had spoken and pushed for it to happen, knowing that it was best if it was quick and done with rather than Agamemnon’s foolish plans of trying to stop it. Though it had hurt all three of them just the same, Odysseus had too known the girl since she was a child, but it was necessary. He opened his mouth, but Penelope spoke again before he could.

“I know you had a part in it.”

His mouth snapped shut.

Her gaze was calm now, steady on him. Not angry, but full of knowing. “You need not explain. I saw through it and knew it was your plan the moment I heard of it. And while I was… upset at first, I understood it. What the gods demand… us mortals give. It has always been the way.”

He swallowed, then nodded, grateful for the grace she gave him – grace he did not deserve. Iphigenia and Penelope were as close in age as Menelaus' Hermione and his Telemachus.

She went on, gentler now. “Aunt Leda said Little Hermione needed someone to play mother in Helen’s absence, and I was in a better place to raise Hermione than Clytemnestra ever would be after losing her firstborn. And that Hermione already knew me as her Aunt, remembered me fondly. So… I welcomed her in frequently.”

He let out a quiet breath and tightened his arm around her waist. “You raised her.”

“I helped,” she said modestly, though pride curled around her words. “She spent more and more time here as she grew. One of the slaves – Melantho, is of age with her, so it worked both ways. I have promised Hermione that I will give her that child once she weds away. And Telemachus…” She laughed softly, the sound threaded with something fond and wistful. “They are near inseparable. Like siblings born apart. So much like Helen and I.”

Odysseus’ smile returned, quiet and full. Grateful. “So she returned here once more?”

“A little over a month ago,” His Darling wife confirmed. “For his tenth-year celebrations. Said she would not miss it for anything.”

He tilted his head back against the kline, a soft sigh escaping him. “My son. My boy, celebrating ten years – and I have missed them all.”

Penelope shifted, turning to press a kiss to his shoulder. “You are here now. That is what matters. You still have time. Your son loves you so dearly.”

Odysseus closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle between them like a blessing. And when he opened them again, they were glassy with the weight of everything he had not said, everything he had not been able to say for ten long years.

“I missed him,” he said, his voice low, rough with unshed tears. “Gods, Penelope, I missed our boy.” His hand came up to press over his chest, as though trying to soothe the ache he carried there. “I used to imagine what his laugh sounded like. If it was still the same as when he was a babe, or if it had changed – deeper, older. I imagined the shape of his hands, the first time he walked. I imagined him asking about me, like you said. Asking where I was. Waiting.” His voice cracked. “And I missed it all. I was not there.”

She turned toward him fully now, one hand coming to rest against his knee, grounding him. Her eyes shimmered, full of grief and love, and something fiercer still – the quiet strength that had always set her apart.

“But you came back,” she whispered.

His gaze lifted to hers, and the expression on her face softened, changed – it became something so full, so rich with love, it nearly undid him.

“I missed both of you,” he said, his voice no more than a breath. “More than life itself.”

Then he reached up and touched her cheek – the pad of his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, catching the edge of the soft light pouring through the window. His fingers trembled as they traced the line of her jaw, as though relearning the contours of her face, reaffirming to himself that she was real.

That this was real.

She leaned into his touch like a flower to Phoebus Apollo’s light.

“It was the same for us too,” she murmured, her voice thick. “You were always with us. In every story I told him, in every lesson I gave. You were never truly gone, my king. Just… just far.”

Something inside him broke then – not in pain, but beautifully. Like ice melting beneath spring sun.

He pulled her to him.

Their kiss was not desperate, nor hungry – it was soft. Sweet. A homecoming. It held every unsent word, every sleepless night, every moment of yearning that had nearly broken them both. His hands cupped her face, holding her as though she were made of gold and offerings, something sacred.

And she kissed him back with the same gentle fierceness, her hands tangling in his hair, her breath catching with the weight of it all.

It was the kiss of two halves of a whole reunited. Of a Queen and her King.

When they parted, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

They did not speak – not right away. They simply were. Together.

Finally.

Odysseus could not stop the grin tugging at his lips, the sheer absurdity of it all lighting something wild in his chest. Here he was – Odysseus, King of Ithaca, the Greatest Mind for the Achaean War Effort, Champion to Goddess Athena herself – sneaking through his own damned palace like a lovestruck fool.

And gods, was he not?

He barely held in a laugh as the love of his life tugged him by the hand, her head darting this way and that down the hallways like some novice thief, utterly scandalized by the prospect of being caught. As though the palace was not his. As though it was not he who had laid the very stones beneath their feet, who had designed these corridors with purpose and care, walls and turns and courtyards that had sprung from his own hands.

Every stone here remembered him, whether the people did or not.

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” Penelope whispered furiously, glancing back at him with a glare that lacked any real heat.

He chuckled low in his throat, leaning in close behind her ear as they turned another corner. “What exactly do you mean, my Queen? Sneaking off with your own husband? In his home? My my what great scandal have you wrought?!”

“Hush!” she hissed, but her lips twitched.

The hallway was empty. Odysseus swore he heard the distant scuff of retreating sandals, but no one appeared, no sentry came forward to question them. Eurycleia. That old lioness had swept the way clean with ruthless efficiency, no doubt hissing and threatening and perhaps bribing with old secrets.

I am turning forty the next year, yet look at the antics I am getting up to, like a child.

He threw his head back and laughed.

Penelope whipped around, panic in her eyes, and slapped his arm. “Odysseus!”

“Gods, I missed this,” he wheezed, still grinning like a madman. “Sneaking about. Gods, Penelope, you should see your face. You are acting like we are still those children who used to attempt to flee from your father’s feasts without him taking notice!”

She shoved him again, and he let himself stumble into the wall, overly dramatic, drawing a peal of laughter from her despite herself. Her fingers were still laced with his, warm and sure, pulling him forward again with determined grace.

The hallways grew quieter still, the walls familiar, warmer – he knew this path. The air even smelled different. Olive oil, beeswax polish, and floral – Penelope’s scent.

Home. They were in the Family Wing now.

He had built it this way – deliberately. Placed far from the Audience Halls and Council Rooms, away from all the burdens of kingship and diplomacy. Because family should be sacred. Because here, in these quiet corridors, he had wanted to protect his peace, their peace.

And now, here he was again.

Finally.

The door to their bedchamber loomed ahead, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Ten years.

Ten years of war.

Ten years of missing this.

Of missing her.

As she pushed open the door, he caught her around the waist and spun her in before she could say another word.

She yelped softly, hands flying to his shoulders for balance, and he closed the door with his foot, eyes never leaving her.

The silence inside was thick and heavy, but not empty. No – this chamber welcomed him back, the way her warm arms did after his long absence.

And gods above, the bed.

Their bed.

The marriage bed he had built himself, roots and branches entwined, carved from the heart of an olive tree that still grew through the room’s centre. He had made it immovable, permanent – like his love for her. Like the promise of home and marriage he had given her in his proposal.

Penelope met his gaze, breath short now, pupils wide. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. “I waited,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know, my love. And I came back. I would always come back to you.”

She surged forward into his arms, and he caught her like how he had dreamed of doing through ten endless years. His lips met hers again – no longer soft with restraint, but urgent, worshipful, hungry in a way only a decade of longing could birth.

He would not rush this like their previous time.

But gods, how he would savour it.

As he laid her back on the bed they had once made sacred together, his heart near burst from his chest with how much he still loved her. Still wanted her. His Queen. His home.

Penelope’s breath hitched as his fingers slid beneath the edge of her tunic, calloused hands reverent even as they pulled the fabric away from her shoulders.

“Odysseus– you need to see Telema– ” she gasped, half-protest, half-plea, her hands rising instinctively to still his.

He pressed his mouth to the crook of her neck, kissing the soft skin there before his teeth grazed it lightly. Her breath faltered, her fingers twitching against his arms. He moved to her shoulder, where yet another proof of her divine lineage – iridescent sea green scales scattered on her shoulder, glinted. He bit down gently, just enough to make her squirm, knowing how sensitive she was.

“I will,” he said between kisses. “I will see our Telemachus. But after I have you.”

Her hand flew into his hair the moment his mouth descended further, latching onto the swell of one breast now bared to him, her bodice pushed aside by his own hand. She gasped, spine arching into him.

“Husband,” she moaned, “you just had me–”

“I am ready again,” he murmured against her skin, voice thick with hunger and something far more dangerous that she always managed to spark within him – devotion. “It has been ten years, My soul. Ten. Not since before Telemachus was born have I truly taken you.”

She whimpered as his knee pressed between her thighs, parting her. Her moan deepened, involuntary and sweet, and gods, how he lived for that sound.

But just as his mouth descended again and his hands curved around her hips, she pulled sharply at his hair, yanking his head back with enough force that he looked up, startled and half-dazed.

“No,” she panted, flushed and heaving beneath him, eyes bright but firm. “No. You need to meet Telemachus first. And Hermione – gods, Odysseus. She has such strong feelings about her mother and father both being absent, and we need to ease her into this.” Her fingers brushed along the edge of his face, tender even in the wake of her grip. “There will be time for us. There has always been time for us. But we owe them this.”

He stared at her for a moment, panting, chest rising and falling with desire and frustration and – love. Love so deep it could crack him open.

“Fine,” he growled, voice rough. “Fine. But you owe me. Tonight.”

She smiled faintly, victorious, and sat up, adjusting her bodice back over her shoulders and chest. Her fingers worked quickly, expertly adjusting the jewellery he had disturbed – clasps re-hooked, chains re-settled, the glint of gold once more regal upon her skin.

Odysseus watched her as she moved, unable to help the way his gaze lingered, admiring her as if it were the first time all over again, like their wedding night. She had been so shy then, innocent and naïve, as though all the kisses he had stolen from her before that were nothing.

Her figure had changed – softer in places, stronger in others. Wide hips, small waist, her stomach rounder, her back as generous and delectable as ever. She moved with the poise of a queen, his queen, the ease of a woman utterly at home in her body, and gods, how he loved her. How he desired her.

She turned, catching him staring with that wicked, knowing look of hers – one brow arched, half a smirk on her lips.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said, her gaze filled with that familiar lust that it took everything within him to not drag her back again into his arms and bed.

He did not even try to look innocent. He just grinned wide and unrepentant. “Can you blame me? If a man cannot admire and lust after his own wife, then what good is his life?”

She rolled her eyes, though amusement danced beneath the surface. “You are shameless.”

“And you are beautiful.”

She gave him a look that said she knew just how hard it was for him to stop, and how much she loved him for doing it anyway. Then she moved toward the door, adjusting a final pin in her hair.

“I am going to get Telemachus,” she said over her shoulder, and gods, how she looked like a vision as she said it. His wife, going to bring their son.

He flopped back against their bed with a groan, throwing an arm over his face dramatically. “Bring my son in quickly. I fear I cannot bear another moment without him.”

Her laugh floated behind her as the door shut close behind her, giving his heart strength to continue on for another thirty years.

He was going to meet Telemachus soon.

TELEMACHUS

Telemachus had been in the middle of a particularly good round of ostrakinda, his feet slapping against the sun-warmed flagstones of the palace courtyard, laughing as he twisted and sprinted away from the catcher. His friends whooped and called after him, the chalk-marked pebble that decided who would chase who now long forgotten in the joy of simply running free.

He had meant to spend the day with Cousin Hermione. Truly, he had! They always did things together.

But that morning, over figs and honeyed bread, Hermione had risen and declared – with the sort of dramatic purpose that only she could summon before the second fig had even been bitten into.

“I have decided,” she said solemnly, lifting her chin with pride, “that I am going to learn to weave. Properly. If Aunt Penelope was already a master weaver before she was even my age, then I must do the same.”

Telemachus had gaped, half a berry still in his mouth. “But we were going to go swim in the seas and attempt to catch fish bare– ”

But Moother had laughed – a full, bright, beautiful laugh that had filled the hall like light pouring through high windows. It was a sound Telemachus had not heard in a long time. Not like that.

She had reached across the table to gently tug on Hermione’s cheek, her voice soft and fond. “My precious protégé,” she said warmly, “you are always welcome to take up practicing in my weaving chambers.”

And that had been that.

So Telemachus had relented, pouting only a little, and allowed his two favourite women to disappear into their respective chambers, Hermione into Mother’s weaving chamber, and Mother into the Throne Room first, though he had no doubt she went to the Study after.

He had important matters too, after all – like defending his title as the fastest runner among the boys of Ithaca.

But just as he was mid-turn, preparing to dodge a tackle, he heard it – his mother’s voice, drifting warm and clear from the shaded edge of the courtyard.

“Telemachus!”

He skidded to a halt, blinking. She stood beneath the olive tree that grew tall against the courtyard wall, half in shadow, her golden hair twisted up, her yellow and blue skirts kissed by the wind. But it was the smile on her face that struck him still – it was bright, so very bright, the kind of smile she used to wear when he was small and asked for another story at bedtime.

It felt akin to the spring sun after a long winter.

“Come now,” she called, her tone lilting with something teasing and tender. “You have had your fun. Leave your game for the day – a gift has arrived for you. An unexpected, but deeply special one.”

A gift?!

Telemachus turned toward his friends, who were all looking too – wide-eyed and curious. One of them huffed and pouted dramatically, “Lucky,” under his breath.

Another, older by two summers, nudged him and said, “What did you expect? He is the prince. Of course he gets the best gifts.”

Telemachus giggled, the way he did when the tide pulled unexpectedly at his ankles. He waved at them, flushed with both pride and curiosity, then turned and ran to his mother. His sandals slapped stone, and when he reached her, he hurled himself into her arms with a delighted laugh.

She caught him, laughing again – that same bright laugh! – and held him close, her arms firm and cool around his back.

“Is it from Grandfather Icarius again?” he asked breathlessly, looking up at her with wide, eager eyes. “He sends the best gifts! Remember the toy chariot? And the carved lion whose mouth moves when you pull the tail? He promised me a Spartan hound next – do you think he has finally sent it? Oh, please say he has! Argos would love a friend!”

Mama only smiled, her hand brushing back his curls from his forehead. “No,” she said, though her eyes twinkled. “Not from My Father. This gift is… older. And far more precious than anything your grandfather could send.”

Telemachus blinked up at her. “What is it, then?”

She leaned in and whispered, “You will see, for this is a gift you have been asking for, for a very long time. Come with me.”

A gift I have asked for a very long time?

Telemachus gave a soft “oh,” but grinned anyway, not discouraged. “Still, Grandfather’s gifts are the best, and so is he! Is he not?” he added, as he skipped along beside her, sandals tapping softly on polished stone.

He remembered it well – one of the times Grandfather Icarius had visited Ithaca in person, sweeping into the palace like a storm of silk and gold, bringing with him chest after chest full of gifts and stories and laughter. Mother had scolded him, Telemachus remembered that too – “You are spoiling him rotten, Father!” she had said, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed.

But Grandfather had only thrown back his head and laughed, deep and booming, and scooped Telemachus right up into his arms. “It is a man’s duty,” he had declared, “to spoil his grandchild as thoroughly as possible!”

Mama had sighed, that long-suffering sigh she made when pretending to be annoyed, but Telemachus had caught the way her mouth had twitched at the corners, the softening around her eyes when he had laughed along with Grandfather.

She always said he laughed like her father.

But Grandfather always said he laughed like his daughter.

Telemachus secretly thought they both laughed exactly the same – but neither of them realised it.

Still holding tightly to his mother’s hand, he began to guess again, voice full of eager brightness. “Is it from Grandmother then? Lady Periboea? Is it from her?”

His mother glanced down at him with an amused hum.

“Because she is amazing,” Telemachus continued quickly. “She has blue skin, Mama. And blue hair! Blue! And she sings in a voice that makes the waters ripple and shimmer – I saw it! And when she holds me, it feels like… like floating in your spring after a long hot day.”

“My Mother is rather extraordinary,” Mother agreed, her voice low and fond.

Telemachus beamed.

“Is it from Aunt Ctimene then?” he tried again. “Or one of the Gods? Lord Hermes? I have been leaving him offerings! I’ve been good!” He peered up at her sideways, mock-solemn. “Mostly.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “No, not from Lord Hermes either.”

“Then… who?” he asked, the mystery now bubbling inside his chest like something fizzy. “Who brought it to me?”

But his mother only shook her head, her golden hair catching the light as they turned another corner of the palace. “Patience, my little heart,” she said. “You shall know soon enough.”

Telemachus puffed out his cheeks, but he did not argue. The excitement in her voice was enough to keep him from pressing too hard. That, and the way Mama’s smile had not dimmed once since she had found him.

She had not smiled like this in… in forever, really.

So maybe this gift – whatever it was – really was special.

Still, he held her hand tighter, just in case it led somewhere really important.

And in his chest, his heart beat a little faster.

Because even though he did not know it yet…

He had apparently been asking for this gift for a very long time.

Though he could not help the puzzled little furrow of his brow as they left the central halls behind and began walking toward the Family Wing of the palace.

This was odd. Guests were never brought to the Family Wing – not unless they were kin or closer than kin. Only he and Mama lived in that part of the palace now. The hallways here were quieter, softer, with pale walls and tapestries of his father, smelling faintly of lotus, water lilies and olive oil and the sea breeze that forever drifted through Ithaca’s open windows.

His sandals made soft sounds on the smooth floors as they passed the doors to his own chambers. He glanced at them curiously, thinking perhaps the gift had been placed inside, but Mama did not stop. Instead, she continued on, leading him to the familiar, vine-carved doors of her rooms.

“Mother?” he asked, confused now. “Why are we– ?”

But she did not answer immediately. She knelt before him instead, gathering the dust from his tunic with careful fingers, brushing away little trails of chalk from his game of ostrakinda. Her eyes, warm as sunlight, studied his face.

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow, her cool lips lingering just a moment longer than usual.

“Before we go in,” she said gently, her voice quieter now, “I want you to think carefully. Think of what you have prayed for, my little heart. Deeply, truly prayed to the gods for, to receive as a gift for this year of your birth.”

Telemachus tilted his head at her, thoughtful. “I have… prayed for a lot of things,” he admitted with a sheepish shrug. “I prayed for the Spartan hound Grandfather promised me.” He ticked it off on a finger. “And I prayed for Great-Grandfather Autolycus to visit again, so I could learn more of his sneaky tricks. He always gets me sweets without the cooks noticing!”

Mama’s smile curved, indulgent and fond.

“But most of all…” He paused, his hand falling to his side. “Most of all, I always pray that Father comes home. That the war in Troy ends. That he finds his way back. So I can meet him!”

He looked up at her, a little frown tugging at his lips. “But that cannot be it,” he added, shaking his head. “The war is not over. No herald has come. So it cannot be that.”

Silence hung between them for a breath.

Then Mother’s smile deepened – not just kind, but luminous.

She cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing against his skin. “Ah, but it is that, my little love,” she said, her voice thick with joy, and something tremulous, too. “Your prayers… have been answered.”

Telemachus stared at her.

For a heartbeat, all he could do was stare.

Then his eyes went impossibly wide, his mouth falling slightly open in stunned disbelief. “What…?”

She did not say anything more.

Instead, she stood, her hand still holding his, and turned to push open the door to her chambers.

The scent of her favourite incense drifted out. The light was dim and golden within, drapes covering the balcony.

And standing just behind the door, as if he had been waiting the entire time, was a man.

A tall man, with dark hair and a finely cut bearded face, shoulders broad, and posture proud even as he trembled. Tears traced clean, shining lines down the planes of his cheeks, though he did not try to hide them. His eyes –  mismatched just like his! Though his were blue and gray to Telemachus’ blue and green – locked onto him with something fierce and broken and awestruck all at once.

Mama’s hand squeezed his gently.

“Oh, my darlings,” she said, her voice now thick with feeling, “my beloved husband – come see your son.”

Telemachus stood frozen, blinking up at the man.

Mama’s husband?

He must have heard everything, he thought in a distant sort of way. Every word.

The man took one step forward, as if afraid to scare him. His lips parted, and his voice, though rough and low, shook with something deep and shaking:

“Telemachus…”

It was the first time he had ever heard his father say his name.

ODYSSEUS

Odysseus had not known what to expect.

He had dreamed of this moment so many times over the long, brutal years – on burning sands beneath foreign skies, in the groaning belly of ships, through silence and battle-cries. He had held on to the thought of this day much like how a drowning man clutches driftwood. But now, as he stood in his own bed chambers, and looked upon his son – his son – he found himself unmade.

Telemachus himself stood before him, uncertain but beautiful, bright eyes wide with wonder and wariness. A child no longer, and yet still so small in Odysseus’ eyes. Still my boy, he thought, throat aching. Still the babe I left swaddled in Penelope’s arms.

And gods forgive him – his son looked at him as he might a stranger.

Odysseus nearly wept.

But then – then – he remembered the words he had just heard, moments before the door had opened:

“Most of all, I always pray that Father comes home. That the war in Troy ends. That he finds his way back. So I can meet him.”

The words echoed in his chest like a war-drum, knocking the breath from his lungs.

His son had waited.

Prayed.

Yearned.

Just as he had.

Odysseus fell to his knees.

The motion was instinct, not thought – a collapse of awe and grief and love too great to carry standing. His eyes swept over the boy who had once fit into the crook of his arm. The boy who looked so much like him – gods, the same colouring, the same jaw, the same mismatched eyes – but Penelope’s too. The kindness in those eyes, the grace of him. His boy.

His boy.

“Hello, Telemachus,” he said, voice breaking as gently as waves against the shore. “I am your fath– ”

“Wait!” Telemachus blurted, eyes going impossibly wider. “You are my gift?”

Odysseus blinked. “Your…?”

“For my tenth-year celebration?” Telemachus asked breathlessly. “You are the gift Mama said?”

The words hit him like a spear of light. He nodded, heart full to bursting. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I am.”

Telemachus looked like he might shatter into pieces on the spot. His voice wobbled, fragile as an eggshell.

“Did you… did you really leave the war? You left it… just to be with me? For my birthday?”

Odysseus’ throat burned. He reached out a trembling hand, not quite daring to touch yet.

“I did,” he said, every word a vow. “I have longed for nothing more than this – for you. For every day I have missed, every year I could not hold you. You are more important to me than Troy, than victory, than even my name in some song. And when the gods gave me a chance… I came. I came as fast as I could. I have missed you every day, my precious boy.”

There was silence.

Then–

“Can I hug you?”

The question was a whisper, a plea, and Odysseus felt something in his chest crack open entirely. He wanted to scream in joy, to laugh and cry all at once.

He opened his arms wide, voice breaking with love. “Please,” he said. “Come here, my heart.”

Telemachus did not walk. He ran.

He barrelled forward with a sob, throwing himself into Odysseus’ arms, small body trembling with the force of his emotion. The moment Odysseus caught him – warm and real and solid – his world righted itself at last.

This was not a dream.

But then his Telemachus wept.

And Odysseus panicked.

“Shh, my little one – Dear Telemachus, why–? Are you hurt?” His hands fluttered uselessly for a moment, unsure where to hold, how to comfort. “Is something wrong?”

He looked up, frantic, and met Penelope’s gaze. She stood across from them, silent, her hand pressed to her lips. Tears gleamed on her cheeks, and she shook her head slowly – no, no, she seemed to say, it is alright – and in her eyes was everything he needed to understand.

It was not pain that made their son cry.

It was love.

Love for him.

“It is just– ” Telemachus choked, burying his face in his father’s shoulder, “–I missed you so much. I wanted to see you so badly, and Mama told me all your stories – every single one – but it was not the same. It was never the same. I wanted you, not just the stories. I wanted you here.”

Odysseus gripped him tightly, rocking him instinctively like he did on those nights when his babe could not sleep, pressing kisses to the boy’s hair like he might kiss away every tear, every ache.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered over and over again, voice thick with tears. “I am so sorry, my sweet son. I wanted to be here. I wanted nothing more than to come home to you. I am so sorry I was not here sooner.”

“I love you,” Telemachus sobbed, fierce and sudden.

Odysseus broke completely then.

“I love you, too,” he choked back through his sobs, holding his son close as though he could keep the whole world away. “I love you more than anything else in this entire world, and then some more, my dear little one.”

And there, in the safety of his chambers, with his wife watching through her own tears, Odysseus clung to his child as though anchoring himself to the shore of his own kingdom – and wept for all that had been lost.

He forced himself to pull back then, though it nearly broke him to let even a sliver of space exist between them. He needed – needed – to see his son’s face again. He cradled Telemachus’ cheeks in his rough, war-calloused hands, as though holding something far too precious for a warrior’s grip, and pressed kisses to his brow, to his temples, to both his cheeks, to the tip of his nose and his jaw and even his little chin, which trembled beneath his lips.

Again and again, he kissed him.

Desperate. Awestruck. Attempting to make up for a decade in a matter of heartbeats. As if he could kiss away ten years of absence. Ten years of missed first steps, and first words, and all the other firsts he had never known.

“Oh, my Telemachus,” Odysseus choked out, not even knowing if the words reached the boy through all the weeping, “my darling, my sweetest joy, my precious son. Look at you. Look at you. I have missed everything, but I have you now. I have you.”

And gods help him, he sobbed. He wept like a child, tears streaming down his face with no shame to damn them. His body shook with it, but still he held Telemachus, still he covered his son’s face in kisses, pausing only to take in his boy’s features – the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the wet lashes clinging to his cheeks like little stars.

His Telemachus.

His Telemachus, in his arms.

And his son wept with him – freely, openly – his little fists curled into his father’s tunic, holding tight as though afraid he might vanish – just like he did on that dreadful morning he had to part from him. But every time Odysseus kissed him again, the boy let out a little gasp or hiccupping laugh, and clung tighter still, as though those kisses filled a hole in his heart that had been empty far too long.

Then, softly, Penelope’s voice came through her tears. “Telemachus,” she said, her voice breaking, “you may not remember this, my love… but the morning your father left for Troy, all those years ago… he did just this. He held you in his arms and covered your face in kisses, just the same.”

Telemachus stilled for a beat – and then laughed through his tears, a sound so pure and bright it was like sunlight breaking through the storm. He turned his tear-streaked face up to his father again, eyes wide and shining. “You did?”

Odysseus laughed, breathless with wonder and disbelief. I am talking to my son. “I did,” he said, pulling him close again. “Gods, I did, my little one. And I have wanted to do it every day since.”

Telemachus let out another breathy giggle, and then threw himself back into his father’s chest, burying his face there like he might never let go. And Odysseus, for all his aching limbs and battle-scarred back, stood, lifting his son into his arms with a strength he had not felt in years. He stood tall and full and whole – and then he spun, spinning his boy in circles like they were the only two people in the world.

He laughed, free and wild, tears still clinging to his lashes, joy bursting from his chest like lightning.

“Penelope!” he cried, turning toward her, radiant and undone. “Are you seeing this? Look! Look at me – I am holding him! I am holding my dear Telemachus in my arms!”

And Penelope laughed too, a hand pressed to her mouth, her own tears sparkling as she nodded, radiant even through her weeping.

“I see you,” she said. “I see you, my love.”

Odysseus held his son high against his chest, spinning again, the room echoing with their laughter, their weeping, their joy. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, the war within him – the endless battle of longing and loss – fell quiet.

He was home.

A little while later came a soft knock at the door, and then Eurycleia entered, balancing a large tray of warm bread, fruits, olives, and honeyed cheese with a steadiness born of years of service – though the moment she caught sight of the scene before her, her hands trembled, and a fresh stream of tears welled up in her eyes.

“Oh, my boy,” she whispered, eyes locked on his Telemachus, who sat nestled in Odysseus’ arms, his head resting against his father’s chest. “My sweet boy in his father’s arms at last.”

He felt the ache of her tears like his own, and his throat caught around something too large to name. He could only nod to her, slow and full of unspoken thanks, as she placed the tray gently on a table before them and withdrew, her hand brushing across Telemachus’ curls with affection.

He sat now on the edge of the kline, Penelope beside him, her hand tucked into his, grounding him with her warmth. And in his lap – in his arms – sat Telemachus, now all giggles and chatter, as though the storm had passed and only the sun remained.

At first, Telemachus had resisted. When Odysseus reached to lift him up, there had been a beat of hesitation – something nervous, something shy – and it had cut through Odysseus like a knife. He had masked his wince, murmuring, “Only if you want to, little one.”

But oh, the relief – the joy – when Telemachus had smiled that small smile – oh the gods have blessed him with his mother’s smile – and scrambled eagerly into his lap, settling there like he belonged.

Which he did. Of course he did.

Now, he was regaling them both with tales of his day, his voice bright and so full of joy.

“And then– then Antiphon fell in the mud, face-first, and he had to walk all the way home like that!” he said, eyes wide as he chomped on a chunk of bread. “Mama says it serves him right for stealing my dice.”

He chuckled, heart full and splitting all at once. He held a piece of fig to his son’s lips and watched, helplessly in love, as his little Telemachus took it between his teeth and munched, quick and rabbit-like, cheeks puffed as he chewed. He looked up now and then between bites, mouth still working, to add another detail to his story.

“And then– wait! Then we raced, and I won! I was the fastest! Even Dion didn’t beat me this time.”

“Of course you were,” Odysseus said warmly, brushing a crumb from his child’s chin. “No one is faster than my son.”

Telemachus beamed. “That is what I told them – How could they beat the son of Odysseus!”

Odysseus could barely breathe through the love swelling in his chest, so big and wide it felt like his ribs might crack from the weight of it. He could feel Penelope’s gaze on them – soft, steady, soaking it all in. Her hand squeezed his. When he looked to her, she was smiling, eyes damp and shining, watching the two of them like she might never look away again.

He kissed her hand.

Telemachus continued his tale, snuggling further into him without even thinking, and Odysseus simply held him tighter, resting his cheek to his son’s soft curls, breathing him in.

Bread, figs, the warm scent of sun.

His son.

His home.

He fed him another piece of bread, smiling like a man who had wandered the world just to come back to this exact moment – and found it more perfect than even dreams could promise. He felt terrified to even move, so afraid that even a breath too large might break the spell. His arm stayed firm around Telemachus' middle, the weight of his boy grounding him in this quiet miracle of a moment.

Every so often, his hand would absently stroke up and down his son's back, a slow, comforting rhythm – he did not even know he was doing it.

Telemachus was still talking, though now with the dreamy, distracted cadence of a child nearing the edge of sleep, even with a half-eaten fig in his hand.

“…and then a few years ago Hermione said she was going to learn weaving like Mama, and I said that sounded boring – no offense, Mama – and she threw a pit at me.” He yawned, leaning back lazily against his father’s chest. “But it missed. It always misses.”

Penelope chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. “You deserved it,” she murmured, reaching over to gently wipe at a sticky spot on Telemachus’ cheek with the edge of a linen cloth. “You shall learn soon enough not to mock the loom.”

“‘Mione is scary with a spindle,” His son agreed with great solemnity, which made both his parents laugh.

Odysseus could hardly believe this warmth in his chest was not fire. He had spent years clawing his way back to Ithaca – to them. Fighting battle after battle – whether that be against Troy or some other raid, sweet talking and charming king after king, all so that the time he could get leave to return home, to his family, neared sooner. And so he had endured.

Telemachus twisted slightly in his lap to look up at him again. “Did you ever race when you were my age?” he asked, eyes curious and full of delight. “Were you the fastest too?”

Odysseus grinned. “I was,” he said with no false modesty. “Fastest in Ithaca. Maybe all of Cephallenia.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “That is a suspiciously bold claim.”

“And a true one,” he insisted with mock indignation, then dropped a kiss to the top of Telemachus’ head. “Your mother may have forgotten, but I was quite swift. I had to be, to catch her.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her with a smile.

“I want to race you!” Telemachus announced, sitting up straighter in his father’s lap.

Odysseus feigned horror. “Right now? With all this food in me?”

“Yes!” Telemachus giggled, reaching up and patting his father’s cheeks with sticky fingers. “You cannot be slow!”

Odysseus laughed, full and free, and caught the boy’s face in his hands, covering it with loud, ridiculous kisses. “You villain! You plan to defeat your own father while he is full of cheese!”

More giggles erupted from Telemachus as he squirmed and shrieked with delighted laughter. “Stop! Stop! Mama, help!”

But Penelope only watched them, eyes shining, leaning on one elbow on the kline, not lifting a finger to interrupt them. Her voice was warm and teasing.

“Consider it training, Telemachus. You wish to be a hero, yes? Well, a hero must be clever as well as quick.”

Odysseus, grinning, held his son tighter, dropping one last kiss to his temple before resting his chin on the crown of the boy’s head.

He met his Precious Penelope’s eyes, I missed so much of this, he thought, unable to help but think of another world where this was the norm. Her bright sea green gaze softened as she looked at him, You are here now, even if it is briefly, they said. He nodded once then, fiercely, blinking against the heat behind his lids.

Telemachus yawned again, then slumped fully against him. “I think I am full…” he mumbled. “But… if you fed me more grapes, I might eat a few.”

Odysseus laughed again, kissed his son’s soft hair, and reached for the bowl.

“My brave boy,” he murmured, offering the grape. “Come, let your old father serve you.”

And so, they remained – father, mother, and son – tangled in each other like vines around a pillar, rooted again in the home Odysseus had crossed the world to return to. The laughter quieted, the food disappeared slowly, and the shadows shifted on the wall as the day began to fade.

He was home.

And his heart – his heart was in his arms.