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There’s something altogether unnerving about the way Odysseus looks, half-curled on his bed. The fact that his lower body is a snake’s body, not legs or even proper hips, is normally why he thinks this, but right now he’s got a more terrifying thing worrying him: his womb is swollen with his and Penelope’s son.
He’s… unsure about it. It looks like he’s swallowed something large, the life inside him apparently growing healthy and strong. This little one is the first to make it this far, and they’ve done so with no complications.
Odysseus still hasn’t named them. Penelope hasn’t either. This one is only a month or so away from delivery, and yet-
Lamias are not meant for children. Odysseus could change his name, bind his chest, wear the illusion-casting robe that Athena had got for him after taking him on as a student, but none of that would change what he was. And Lamias are not meant for children.
Odysseus rests his hands on his belly. The child within moves a little. They’ve been so easy. There haven’t even been any true scares. All the previous pregnancies had terminated long before they reached this point - most of them they only learned about after Odysseus began bleeding unexpectedly. It appeared, from the words of the doctors and midwives and Athena herself, that this child was going to make it to birth.
It’s all Odysseus wants. He and Penelope have been trying for four years. Four years of failure after failure. Of Odysseus sobbing into her chest that he wasn’t made to carry children. Of Penelope clinging to him and apologizing over and over for not giving him a child. Of long, aching nights where all they could do was hold each other and mourn lives snuffed before they could even be lit.
This is a miracle. He knows it. He treasures it. And yet-
Odysseus is carnivorous. It’s a simple fact. He eats like a snake. He’s never tasted human, but he knows he could change that, if he wanted to. Lamias, like snakes, sneak into nests and eat the young. It’s part of their design, of their inherited curse from that lover of Zeus driven mad by Hera.
Lamias are not meant for children. Children still end up in their bellies.
It looks like that’s what’s happened. Odysseus is so far along that he functionally does have a full child inside him. He had nightmares when he was younger about waking up to find he’d slithered out of his room in his sleep and eaten some poor Ithacan during the night. This is as close as he’s ever come to that being a reality.
He coils a little tighter around himself. He wants this. He and Penelope both want this. He wouldn’t give up their child for anything, he just-
“Odysseus?”
He looks up. Penelope is standing in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.
Odysseus lays back down.
He hears her walk in, shut the door, and cross the room to their bed. She lays down behind him and traces his spine down just past where his hips would have been if he’d been born human. Penelope likes petting his scales. Normally he likes it too.
“What if we’re making a mistake?” he whispers.
Penelope’s hand pauses on his tail.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I’m a lamia. Lamias aren’t meant for children. We aren’t supposed to have them. I’m barely capable of carrying, and even Athena isn’t sure how well my cloaca will handle birth. This isn’t supposed to happen for things like me,” he says, even as he runs the gentlest of hands over his belly, over the child they both tried for over and over again.
“You are not a thing,” Penelope says with a warning in her voice.
Odysseus scoffs.
“I was a cursed child, I am a cursed man, and I am not made to have children. What if he dies right after he’s born? What if labor kills him? What if I deliver him, and the moment he’s placed in my arms, I eat him?”
Penelope snorts, and Odysseus almost glares at her before she begins massaging his back.
“You thought the same thing when that couple asked for your blessing on their new child. You spent an hour locked in our room because they just put their child in your arms and you were convinced you were going to eat it. Did you?”
Odysseus feels some tension leave him.
“...no…” he admits, a little grudgingly.
“Then that worry at least, you don’t have to hold onto.” Penelope kisses him between his shoulders. “The others…”
Her hands still. Odysseus closes his eyes, and his tail wraps lightly around her ankle, anchoring him.
“There is nothing we can do about that. We, and our staff, are as prepared as we can be. Either this will work out, or it won’t, and if… if it… doesn’t… that won’t be your fault.” Odysseus feels tears prick at his eyes, and hears a wetness in Penelope’s next inhale. “But we’ve made it this far. You have made it this far. Don’t give up on this now.”
Odysseus shakes his head.
“Never. I just… there’s so much that could go wrong-”
“There always is. But maybe this time, maybe this one…”
Odysseus swallows against the lump in his throat.
“I… I was thinking,” he rasps, “Maybe… we could call him Telemachus.”
Penelope kisses the back of his neck.
“I like it,” she says, “And I hope it remains true.”