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Penelope woke to a cold and empty bed.
Her hand reached blindly, desperate for the warmth that had been there, that should have been there. Odysseus was home, he was here, he had returned, finally —
But there was nothing. No one but her in the darkness.
For several long moments, she was sure the despair would drown her. That was why she gasped for air, why her hands clawed at the empty bed as she writhed upon it and tears streamed down her face. She curled in upon herself, as if that could somehow keep her from breaking all over again.
It never did.
But this dream had been so — so vivid and real. They always were, but this one had seemed to stretch into days and weeks. The men trying to press for her hand had been killed, all of them, by her glorious Odysseus. He was finally able to be a father to Telemachus, as their boy deserved (and she knew she had failed in so many ways on her own, that perhaps her son would never look at her with the easy love he once had). They had been living together, making a home together, finally, after all those years apart —
Penelope stopped herself from dwelling on the details further. What point was there, other than tormenting her heart and soul?
Slowly, she rose from the bed. She walked with slow dragging feet, as if every step was through water, until she wandered out onto their balcony that overlooked the sea. It was a void, its waves only just visible near the beach and the remaining torchlights within the kingdom.
Perhaps it had swallowed her husband whole, and that was why he had not returned.
Perhaps he was bloated and rotting, a feast for creatures in Lord Poseidon’s realm. The hands she had loved so dearly cold and pale, his dark eyes lifeless and empty. Sinking further into darkness, bits of him taken away, until there was nothing left at all.
Or was it a sword that had caused his end? Some other weapon in battle? Monsters laid upon his path? A wrathful god? Had he been captured and tortured? Enslaved?
Or perhaps — and a pained noise escaped her at the thought, like a knife was thrust into her heart — perhaps he was not returning by choice. He had found another. A home. A wife. Someone that could fulfill every desire, so that all thoughts of Ithaca faded like a distant dream. She stood out and looked at the sea and agonized over every imagining of what could have befallen him, but he did not think of her the same.
Perhaps he had forgotten her altogether.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and she released a shuddering breath, the trails of her tears cold upon her cheeks in the gentle wind.
Oh, how she hated herself for such thoughts. But time was the greatest weapon of all, and there were none who were immune to it. There were many whose hearts would turn for far less.
But not Odysseus, some small pathetic part of her mind whispered. Still trying to believe it. Never Odysseus.
Her eyes opened, seeking the horizon that was blanketed in darkness, as if somehow thinking she would see his ship crest the waves, and draw toward their shores. Wherever he was, whatever that was keeping him — death or love or pain — she would continue to look for him regardless. She would remain, and watch the sea for her husband’s return, as she slowly crumbled like the cliff side, ebbing away beneath the waves of loneliness and time.
“Odysseus,” she whispered, as if her voice could carry along the breeze and find him. Draw him back home to her arms.
“Looking for me?” His voice — gently teasing, deep and wonderful and familiar, as if he were truly there — startled her from behind, though she did not dare turn around. Could not bear to look and find no one there.
Instead she nodded, made herself laugh, and played along.
“I’ve never stopped,” she admitted, though she could not hide the tremble in her voice.
She heard and felt his approach, the sound of his footsteps and heat of his body so achingly real that she struggled to breathe. Her hands clenched upon the railing, feeling as if the air itself was trying to strangle her.
She stilled while his hand — so warm, just as she remembered — and even this barest touch made her exhale, letting her shoulders relax a little. He stroked gently along her back, in the way he knew she found most soothing, and she could not help but lean against him.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, then her shoulder, and oh her eyes stung with tears again at the lovely feeling of his lips upon her skin.
She shook her head, though she still could not bear to look, to know that he was not truly there. “Only a dream,” she assured him, as if he were more than the conjuring of her desperate and lonely mind.
“Ah,” Odysseus kissed her shoulder again. “A fierce beast indeed. Would you like to tell me of it, so I may slay these fears?”
A small sound escaped her, not-quite a laugh, but it was the closest to it she had been in a very long time.
“They cannot be so easily fought, I’m afraid,” she replied, just managing to make her voice light and steady, her gaze continuing to focus on the fathomless sea ahead. The horizon that kept her husband from her, that forced her to create such delusions and imagine his return.
“Hm.” He slid gentle fingers down along her arm, and lifted her hand, kissing her knuckles. “A challenge I would happily take, to soothe your heart.”
“It is not…” she began, and then stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She should have continued to play along, should have simply listed some innocuous fear, and taken what comfort she could from the sweet lie of Odysseus’s imagined presence.
Instead, she finally turned toward him, and met his dark eyes. There was playfulness in them, but true concern flickering within. She stared for a long moment, waiting for her delusion to vanish, to disappear when she blinked, and leave her even more alone than before.
But he remained, waiting for her to finish speaking.
“I…” She exhaled slowly, vainly trying to keep her words even. “I dreamed that you were here,” she admitted, smiling, though her voice broke and her tears left burning trails down her cheeks.
He looked at her in confusion, then frowned, and his hands — so real, though she knew they were not, she willingly embraced the lie — found her face. His thumbs wiped at her tears.
“I am here,” her delusion told her, and oh she wanted to believe it, needed to, no matter that the harsh truth had been proven to her again and again and again. “You are not dreaming, Penelope, I swear it.”
In spite of her flowing tears, her smile only grew, and she leaned into his imagined touch to pretend as long as she could.
“You always do,” she whispered. And she always believed him, in the end, let hope and love restore her heart, to make it truly beat again. Only to wake alone.
His frown deepened, and oh, she hated that. Delusion or no, that was never an expression she wished for him to wear with her, not when his face was so suited for smiling. Then, he stepped back slightly, and panic seized her heart in a vice.
“No!” She clutched his arm before he could move further away, shaking her head over and over. “Please, I won’t say such things again, I swear, please don’t leave yet please —”
Instantly he was holding her close, pressed against his chest as his arms wrapped around her, and her face buried into his neck. She closed her eyes, marveling that she could even feel the beat of his heart through the conjuring of her mind. It was no wonder she clung to such lies so readily, when they were so sweet.
“Penelope,” he murmured, kissing her head, and she felt the rumble of her name through his chest. “I am not leaving you.” His arms around her tightened. “Nor am I again. I am here. Now. We are together, in our home.”
She did not reply. Couldn’t. Only gripped him harder, her fingers curling into the linen on his chest. But he seemed to understand her answer all the same. His hands moved, rubbing softly along her back, and he took a few seconds to reply.
“Will you walk with me? Allow the chance to prove it to you?” He placed another tender kiss to her head, and Penelope could not help the way she relaxed against him, like the warmth of his embrace was a soothing bath.
Hesitantly, the weight of all her previous heartbreak seeming to hold back any words that she could have attempted, she nodded.
They adjusted their stance, so that she was tucked within one arm and pressed close to his side, and then he led her back within the bedroom once more.
The remains of a fire were glowing within the hearth, casting only a little light about the darkened room. Still she could see the small table scattered with letters and lists of sums, reports written from days at court, and other remnants of the duties of ruling.
“These are mine, you see?” He brought her closer to the table, so she could look better in the dim. “You recognize my hand, don’t you?”
It was true, the script was not written by her, nor Telemachus. But she imagined Odysseus so well, it was hardly a surprise that she could recall his handwriting in such detail.
Still, she nodded hesitantly, not wanting to risk him vanishing. The more she went along, the more he would remain.
He seemed to sense her feelings regardless, and they walked around the table, to some clothes left behind on the floor. Or, from their appearance, thrown seemed more accurate: as if ripped off in a hurry, and then tossed to the side.
“These are mine,” Odysseus went on, and he gestured back toward their bed. “From where you threw them earlier. And here,” he faced her again, and carefully laid his hand along her collarbones and neck. She felt the sensitive spots on her skin as he passed over them, faint bruising remnants of his teeth. Warmth flashed through her body, and she shivered as she met his eyes. “Remember, Penelope?”
Slowly, she nodded again, though she could not bring herself to speak.
“And these,” he led her toward the bronze mirror, near where they dressed. Laid atop the table where it sat were several pieces of jewelry and hairpins, most of which were gifts from him. He picked up a particular one, and pressed it into her hands. She recognized it at once: it was not bought, but carved and painted by his hand, and depicted entwining flowers that would appear to be threaded through her hair while worn.
“You made this for me,” she whispered, gently running her thumbs across the smoothed surface, the realization of the truth settling over her as she felt each careful groove in its design. “Over the first few weeks of your return.”
His hands moved over hers, holding them, and she met his gaze — still concerned, but so achingly sweet — as the rest of the words hesitated behind her lips. Afraid, in spite of knowing the truth, that speaking them aloud would only prove her wrong, and tear her heart in two once more.
“You’re home,” she whispered, blinking back the tears that came to her eyes again.
He released a relieved breath. “Yes,” he squeezed her hands and offered a smile, the loveliest of sights. And here she had been convinced it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t real. Finally returned to her, after all those years, and she had behaved like a mad woman, arguing with the very man she so desperately missed!
How that must have felt to him, to have her saying such things, to accuse him in that manner.
How utterly foolish she was.
There was no stopping her tears then. They spilled from her in a flood, and he gathered her in his arms at once, bringing her back to their bed and sitting down upon it.
“You’re home,” she repeated, though it was more of a sob than true words. “You’re home.”
He kissed her cheeks, and pressed his forehead to hers as she tried to ease her breathing.
“I’m home,” he whispered, his breath drifting across her face. “I am home, Penelope.”
She kissed him, then. Despite her tears and how terribly foolish she was, he held her closer. Eventually, her eyes began to dry, and they settled back upon their bed, laying down against the headboard. Penelope’s head rested on his chest, the rhythm of his heart like the sweetest of songs.
As time passed, and the truth of him here settled further over her, guilt clawed at her, and Penelope knew there was more that needed to be said. She turned her head, and raised herself a little so that she could see his face.
“I —” She closed her eyes, then tried again. “I’m so —”
He leaned down and shushed her with a kiss. “Do not apologize. I am the one who owes it to you. I should have known such a thing would cause you distress, I —” He stopped, and gave a slightly shaking exhale. “I am so sorry, Penelope. It will not happen again.”
She shook her head, and wanted to assure him, to say that there was no fault (for how could she blame him? For the offense of daring to leave his own bed?) but other words came from her. “Where were you?” Had her voice not been so quiet, still catching on the remnants of her tears, it might have seemed accusatory, but he only held her closer.
“I…was not sleeping,” he admitted, and she knew had her own despair not occurred he likely wouldn’t have mentioned this to her. “Perhaps Lord Hypnos is evading me,” he added, and she could hear the half-smile in his voice.
“More like it is you doing the evasion,” she corrected, though her tone was more even now, and he did not contradict her.
“Mm.” He stroked his fingers along her arm, then down to her back, the gesture so comforting and familiar she almost began to weep again. “I thought walking around the palace would clear my mind, and I did not wish to disturb you.” He sighed heavily, and she could feel the guilt and sadness in his gaze, and needed to stop it before he apologized again.
This time she moved, sliding up his chest to kiss him, and interrupt his sorrowful thoughts.
“You would not have,” was all she said when she pulled away. Certainly not more so than waking to find him gone.
“I did, in trying to avoid it,” he countered. “And I meant it when I said it will not happen again. Hear me, Penelope.” He cupped her cheek within his palm, making sure she held his gaze. “You will never wake alone again,” his voice was tender, and he tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. “I promise.”
She closed her eyes, nodding, leaning toward the kiss she felt approaching, though she did not voice the thoughts that rang through her mind. The ones that she knew he was aware of: that such a promise could not be made, not truly.
Eventually, whether years from now or less than that, one or the other of them would wake alone. It was the inevitable fate of all things.
She knew he meant while he was alive. Or perhaps…he intended more than that still. To imply even then, when death had taken him, that he would still be here with her, somehow. To keep his promise.
Well. There were other seemingly impossible ones that he had kept in the past. Who was she to question another?
“Neither will you,” she said when he pulled back from their kiss, though she did not allow his mouth to be away from hers for long. “That is my promise too.”
She felt his smile against her lips, though the way his hands tightened upon her told of his own fears and tormenting memories. The many nights and mornings when he had reached for her, to find only emptiness.
“Never again,” he agreed, as she settled along his chest once more, her body aligning with his, pressed so close that it seemed almost impossible to tell where he ended and she began.
Odysseus was home.
As she slowly drifted toward sleep, lulled by his gentle hand, the sound of his heartbeat, and the rise and fall of his breath, she thought this time she might just believe it when waking.