Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's just another day, (A busy, busy day)

And the morning sun is stunning

And you wish that you were running far away

—Just Another Day, Next To Normal

_______________

Penelope waited.

Rosy-fingered dawn had already broken through the sky a little while ago, painting it with blooming hues of yellows and purples, making way for the rising sun. There was a sweetness in the air — the kind of sweetness that came with the easy heat of spring, with the blossoming flowers, with the glow of land thriving under the gentle hands of lady Persephone.

Penelope shifted on the kline, lifting her arms from the rough stone of the window's ledge, turning her head to glance at the palace gates. But there was no distruption, nothing except for the guards who stood at the entrance and the occasional blow of wind drifting by.

He had promised that he would not take long, that he would return by the time the moon had traveled half of its journey across the heavens above.

It was already dawn.

She knew her husband, the liar, the wily one. Still, she could not help the tension that wrapped around her shoulders, the worry that settled into her heart when he was not near.

Perhaps she could ask for a search to be conducted, go to one of the guards and request that he find their king. Or perhaps she could sensible and wait, wait for him to inevitably return again — as he always did. He always returned to her in the end.

Yes, she should wait.

Though if she chose to be honest, Penelope have never been so rational.

So she stood there, pondering, caught between two opposing forces. She should conduct a search, (what if something had happened to him? What if he went missing?) but conducting a search for a king who has merely been gone for a few hours seemed excessive, even to her—

The sound of footsteps approached from behind, a familiar voice enveloping the room.

"My love," Odysseus greeted. His voice filled the air like a melody, like a lullaby to cerberus, like a welcomed sweetness that could rival even that of nectar. She turned, finding him by the threshold, sunrays spilling through the window, tinting the ends of his curls with gold. He paused before speaking, eyes trailing over her face. "You look as if you have not slept."

Her hands were pressed against the cushions, she suddenly realized, the tips of her feet planted on the floor, halfway through rising to go bury herself inside his arms, his warmth. But a part of her was petty — and she settles back against the seat — though not so much that he would be able to miss the rigidness that held her shoulders, the furrow in her brow. She had not spent hours worrying just to let him so easily slip past.

"You said you would return early tonight," she reminded, her voice carefully neutral, watching his face.

"It is already morning, is it not?" He retorted, his voice light in tease. walking over.

An unbidden wave of annoyance ran through her, though before she could say anything, before she could open her mouth to speak, he settled beside her, one arm wrapping gently around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head to pull her into a kiss.

For a moment — just a moment — she felt any irritation or anger she held suddenly melt away, soothed by the feel of his lips against her own.

But when he pulled back, all indignation returned as quickly as it had gone.

"You said you would return early," she repeated. She was not so willing to let him escape so easily, not after all of the thoughts that had plagued her tonight, not after how many hours she had spent staring at the moon and watching the stars and feeling a pit grow somewhere in her chest for every minute that he spent lost.

Odysseus let out a sigh. "I am sorry, sweet one, truly. It is just that some of the farmers were caught in a dispute between land again. It took hours for them to come to an agreement."

One of his hands came to cup her cheek, the rough callouses of his palm against her skin providing a soothing comfort. She titled her head, just so that she could press her nose against it, willing herself to drown in his scent. He smelt like sea salt, like cypress bark, like the land she had come to know as her home.

Though whether her home was Ithaca or Odysseus, it was arguable. She was leaning towards the latter.

"I kept imaging ways you might have died." Her voice was muffled, but not so much that he did not hear.

"And how did I meet my demise tonight?" He inquired, allowing her to bury her head into his shoulder instead. He lifted his hand, twirling a strand of her hair with his forefinger.

Penelope shut her eyes, seeing a bolt of thunder, a shake in the earth, a restless sea. "A tidal wave. A collapsing edge of a cliff." She paused, glancing at the sky once more, where Helios now rose undisturbed by the clouds. "Earlier, the clouds were gathering. I worried you might get caught in a storm."

Odysseus let out another, quiet sigh.

"Oh, my love," he said softly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for longer than necessary. She slowly reopened her eyes, his affection filling her with a tender warmth. "We have discussed this at length, have we not? You need to stop worrying so much."

"It is hardly that easy," she replied, her voice bitter, though it was only half-hearted. It was far too hard for her to truly be cross with him.

But really, to simply stop worrying — it was a laughable concept.

"Perhaps not," he agreed, his hands now running through the scales at her neck, "But you need to learn to let go of me."

That set a bitter taste in her mouth immediately.

Penelope frowned, her hands tightening against his arm, clutching at the fabric of his tunic. "How could I ever?"

The mere thought was ridiculous.

To let go of him, her Odysseus — the man who held half of her soul, the father of her son. It would be akin to forcing her to live without her very own heart. She doubted she would ever be able to survive such an occasion.

How could I ever?

It was unfathomable.

She would rather die —

"It is the seventh night in this past week alone that you have remained awake with the moon," he remarked, coaxing her to stand, her bare feet cold against the polished stone floor. "You should make your way to bed now, darling."

Her brow furrowed, a protest already rising to her lips, insistent as a tide, her hands enveloping his upper arm again. "Will you not join me, tonight?"

It was half a plea, half a question. She despised sleeping alone, despised feeling so small in a bed so large, like a sailor hopelessly adrift at sea.

"I will promise to join you momentarily," he said, pressing another kiss to the tip of her nose, the slightest brush. "I just need to finish a few more things in the study, and," he paused, grinning sightly, "That will leave us undisturbed for the latter part of the morning."

Stubbornly, she did not pull back, clinging to his arm like ivy strangling a column of marble.

"Come now," Odysseus smiled, his playful attempt at weariness hardly doing anything to quell the amusement in his eyes. The sight almost drove a smile to her lips — though she forced it way. "I swear it. I will return to you immediately after I finish."

"Your promises are not worth such merit," she retorted, stealing a chuckle from his lips.

"Perhaps," he agreed, though he leaned down, pressing his forehead against her own, his hand resting against her shoulder. "But how could I ever forgo a promise to my lovely, wonderful wife?"

Penelope remained unconvinced. That did not slip past him.

"You are stubborn tonight," he said, slowly prying her hands away from his arm, interlocking her fingers with his own. "But will you just go to sleep my love, for me?"

Penelope hesitated. Still, she nodded in the end.

He gifted her one last kiss goodbye before he left, pulling away and making his way down the hall, into the darkness. She simply stood there for some time, eyes lingering upon the hall where he had retreated, a familiar void reopening in her chest.

Eventually, she forced a breath, and turned around to find Diomedes standing at the opposite door.

Noble Diomedes, Son of Tydeus, Master of the war cry.

Odysseus' own accomplice in war, once. She used to ask him for stories by the hearth. It has been a while since she had done so.

He had been here for a little over a month now, having arrived just when winter's chill had started to thaw. Typically, his visits had only lasted a week or two during these last few years, ever since they had first become acquainted. Though for some reason unbeknownst to her (because he would refuse to give her a straight one), he had stayed for much longer, this time.

It was not as if Penelope minded. No — she did not mind at all. Although his… activities in Italia had died down over the more recent years, every assurance that he did not march into battle and risk his life was always a comfort.

Telemachus too adored him. She would catch sight of them sometimes, sparring lightly in the training pavilions. Others, she would find him and Telemachus in the study, pouring over scrolls and tablets and offers of trade, teaching her son the beginnings of how to manage the land that was his birthright.

The sight had always warmed her heart.

Beloved Diomedes had always warmed her heart.

But tonight, as he looked upon her with his honey-bright eyes, there was an odd concoction of wariness and concern in their depths. She never quite knew how to answer to such expression.

"Have you slept at all?" He asked. His voice held no command, but it was not so soft that its firmness did not escape her either. It felt like a warning, almost. He had grown accustomed to her lies over the years, perhaps that was why.

"You lie so often that it is nearly as if you and Odysseus share the same tongue," he had remarked once, some four years ago. That had made her smile.

"No," she admitted. Trying to say otherwise would likely be futile anyway. She felt it, felt the effects of this night's aversion to slumber. And perhaps she felt the previous nights' now too.

Diomedes sighed — slowly, wearily, enough to make guilt stir within her. Though not enough to yield.

"You should be abed, then," he said, approaching to carefully take her arm, tugging likely. It was a gentle coax. In spite of the guilt, Penelope could not help but frown, gently resisting his pull.

"I have matters to tend to," she explained, though she could tell almost immediately from the look in his eyes that such an excuse was not nearly reason enough.

"You need to sleep, Penelope —"

"But the kingdom—"

"Mentor and Telemachus already have everything in order," he reminded. "You know that."

Yes, she knew that of course. Mentor had more or less taken over Odysseus' shoes ever since the war's end. He had also taken over teaching Telemachus, even.

But still, she was Queen. Still, she had her own duties.

"That does not mean I should just stand idly by," Penelope insisted, refusing to waver. "Mentor may have taken over yes, but I am still the Queen and I still have my own responsibilities. And there is that festival approaching , I heard Telemachus and him discussing the needed preparations earlier —"

"Penelope," Diomedes started, though his voice was buried by the slur of her words.

"— And the goat herds should be preparing the sacrifices for the ceremony, we will have to see if they are choosing the right ones —"

"Penelope."

"— And some of the banners need to be rewoven, I asked Eurycleia but it seems some of the previous year's cannot be found, so I should —"

"Penelope."

His voice was firmer, louder, but neither cruel nor unkind. That drew her out of the whirlwind at last.

"Go to sleep," he implored, keeping that same firm tone. His hand on her arm had tightened, just enough for his grip to feel more apparent, but not so much that it was painful. "Mentor will see through all of the processions as he usually does. For now, you must get some rest."

Penelope hesitated again, glancing back at the hall behind her before finally nodding.

"Alright," she agreed.

He walked with her until they reached the family wing, gently squeezing her arm again in silent goodbye before leaving. She stood there for a while, watching his retreating form before she finally made her way to the front of her chambers.

No sooner had she pushed open the wooden doors did she hear Telemachus' own door creak, catching sight of her son exiting in a frenzy, looking as if he were in a rush.

Still despite it, he stopped almost immediately when her eyes met his own.

"Mother?" Telemachus breathed, pausing as he took a moment to examine her — why was every one so insistent on doing so tonight? — concern washing over his eyes as he looked at her face. "Mother, are you alright?" He asked, his brows knitting.

"I am alright," Penelope reassured, a twinge of warmth kindling in her chest, however annoyed the constant questioning made her feel. She looked at him, seeing the mess of his curls, the breathlessness in his voice, the wrinkles lining his tunic. "Are you alright, my heart? You seem to be in quite the rush this morning."

"I am — I am fine, truly," Telemachus replied, glancing at the windows, at the rising sun. "I simply woke late, and I have some things to discuss with Mentor before he goes to court —"

"It is only dawn, yet already say you woke late," Penelope frowned, stepping closer to push a wayward curl away from his eyes. She knew he had been more absorbed in the matters of the kingdom in the recent year, and of course she was incredibly proud of him for it, still, she resented how his dedication oftentimes led to times like this. "You know Mentor can handle everything well, your father would not have chosen him to bear such responsibilities otherwise."

"I know, Mother — but I would like to learn as well. And once I am king, it will be far more difficult to account for such mistakes," Telemachus insisted, though he did not rush their conversation, nor did he push her hands away.

"You will not need to be king so soon," Penelope reminded. "Not when your father still has the throne."

He did not reply to that.

"You should calm yourself," she said, brushing off bits of dust from his sleeve. The words were a slight tease, yes, but the admonishment still shone through them. "Perhaps you should go out hunting. I am sure Eumaeus would enjoy seeing you again — and the kingdom will not collapse if you take one day's rest."

Her son only gave her the slightest of nods. "I know, Mother."

She knew from the look on his face that he was unconvinced.

His stubborness was something for which Odysseus was to be blamed for, of course. But she would indulge him today, when she knew he would likely not relent. Perhaps tomorrow, she would manage to get through to him, stubborn as he was.

Penelope pressed a final kiss to his cheek before turning back. "Alright, then. I will be off to see your father," she said, only turning back to flash him a gentle smile goodbye.

Telemachus' expression shifted. "Father —?" His voice faltered, "or do you mean his portrait —?"

She was already too far down the hall to hear him.

_______________

Telemachus drummed his fingers against the table's polished wood.

There was a stack of untouched tablets sitting next to him — ones that he needed to go through before the day's end. There would probably be more tomorrow.

There was always more tomorrow.

Gods, how did his father ever do it?

He forced his eyes back to the tablet in his hand, trying to read.

He had made it about halfway through before, once again, realizing that he had not understood a single thing despite it already being his third attempt at reading the same tablet.

He — perhaps rather roughly — set the tablet down, the stone falling with a loud clang in undoubtable chagrin. Telemachus was too occupied resisting the urge to pull at his own hair to truly care.

It had been hours, and still, he could hardly focus.

He glanced out at the window, at the warm spring sun. He had passed by the training pavilions on his way to the study earlier, and had seen the guards sparring. The heat was sometimes stifling in Ithaca, but spring was calmer than its coming successor. They liked to take advantage of that.

Besides, it was a nice morning.

Part of him wished to make his way outside, perhaps to the gardens, or he could even do as Mother suggested and go hunting — he did miss spending time with Eumaeus.

His eyes, however, drifted back to the tablets on the table.

With a heavy sigh, Telemachus straightened, reaching for the tablet again. He had spoken with Mentor earlier and promised that he would have the entirety of these done by noon — and how ever would he prove himself worthy enough to take to the throne if he could not even do a task so simple as this?

Determined, Telemachus looked over it again.

He still could not focus.

Dammit.

He cast his eyes away once, glancing instead at the wall in front of him, at the tapestry that had hung there for as long as he could remember.

A portrait of King Odysseus, standing true and tall, the crown laid.proudly over his head like a brand — a weight under which he did not waver, a weight that he bore steadily.

Telemachus had always admired that steadiness.

(It had not as if he had ever stopped, though he would not pretend his envy had not left its stain either.)

How did you ever do it, Father?

As usual, the threads not reply.

It had been years since he had started learning, still he could not understand, still the tapestry loomed over him as if it were watching, judging, trying to see what was left of the house of Cephalus, waiting for Telemachus to prove himself enough.

It was not as if Telemachus could truly blame the tapestry.

Even he did not know.

Though this… intimidation, this weight that he felt before it mow — it had not always been like this.

Once, the tapestry had been a comfort, to Mother especially.

He could still remember those childhood days, days where the Kingdom did not feel as if it were collapsing under his feet, days where his Mother was not so… unpredictable. It had been she who had looked over these lands, she who governed their people, she who spent hours before this desk, making sure everything was as it should be.

Whenever he had grown tired of his friends, or his nurses, or had simply missed his Mother, Telemachus used to sneak away, through the gardens, through the halls, until he reached her doors where she would welcome him with open arms. He would sit by her side, watching, sometimes sleeping, others recounting wonderful tales that she had not been there to witness.

Though other times, even before he could slip past the doors, he would hear her talking, her melodic voice drifting through the crack in the wood. To one unknowing, it would seem as if she was merely talking to herself. To Telemachus, it was clear she was conversing with his Father.

And during such moments, he would choose to simply sit outside in the hall, not wishing to interrupt her. If he had — it would have felt as if he had interrupted a sacred ritual, a divine prayer. Doing so simply felt wrong in ways he could not explain

But now… Mother did not often meddle in the Kingdom’s affairs.

It was not as if she had simply stopped, rather, with her unpredictable moods, Mentor had thought it best that she stayed away, from court especially. Unless it was a particularly good day, those days where she was practically brimming with ideas, when she was like a sun that burned as much as it warmed.

But she did not need to, not if she did not wish — She was often too distracted to wish for it as much really

— But Mentor was there, and Telemachus did not at all mind dealing with his own responsibilities.

In fact, it felt nice. He would be a King one day, after all.

But Mother…

Gods, Mother.

His worry for her refused to abate.

Especially considering recent developments.

It had started as talks, first. There had been whispers about Mother needing to remarry for years now — but a year ago, he had heard rumors of suitors, of men wishing to court the Queen. He prayed, gods, he prayed, that they were just rumors, never to be heard again. But nearly six months ago, the first of them came. They bore gifts, treasures, words coated with such false sweetness that they were disgustingly saccharine. They spoke of a dead King, a throne that had stood barren for seventeen years, a Queen that needed courting.

They spoke of needing a king as if Telemachus were not there, not standing behind his Mother as they dared to run their mouths.

He had received them warmly, Mother had tolerated their short stay — but once they left, She and the elders had an argument in court that ended in her shouting. It had been easy to guess what exactly they had been arguing about.

And as she always did, she had locked herself in her bedchambers and refused to come out, refused to even eat.

(It had been a relief that Diomedes was there. He often kept her from spiraling too much, from sinking too deep into her thoughts.

It was the reason that Telemachus had first written to him after all.)

But perhaps the worst part of it all — even more so than her episodes — was that even Telemachus could not bring himself to agree with his Mother.

Not completely.

Though it was most definitely not that he agreed with either the elders or those men. Not at all. The mere thought of them courting his Mother made fury threaten to choke him.

But there reasonings… they were not wrong.

Because much as Mother may cry, may scream, may protest that, even seventeen years later, Odysseus remained breathing somewhere in the wine dark sea, the truth of it remained.

They needed a new king.

After all, it had been seventeen years. Even as much as he himself would still like to hope…

Well, those men had not been exactly wrong in their reasonings.

But they were not right, either.

After all, what need did they have for suitors when Telemachus was already there?

He was the rightful heir, the rightful son of Odysseus.

He would sooner be damned then allow another man to take his father’s throne.

Besides, the time had come. His seventeenth year had arrived several months ago. He was nearly old enough to be man, nearly old enough to secure his father’s legacy and become king, to take the crown Odysseus had once bore.

But even then, he knew it was not so simple.

Mother was stubborn, so insistent upon his father’s return, and with their isle having grown scarce over the years of war, the circumstances were dire.

Especially with those self-proclaimed suitors.

And to keep them way, to keep his Mother safe, he knew he needed to prove himself ready, prove himself worthy. Because if he was not able to protect her from the shackles of being forced to take a new husband —

Well, he dreaded the mere thought.

(She was already so violent with herself).

He could still remember a certain visit to Sparta, only three years ago now, when he had been fourteen.

He had known Mother had been wishing to go for months, and a few days before her birthday, he had finally managed to arrange their visit and convince her to go. The both of them had planned to stay for a few weeks, so that they could spend time with the rest of the family, her five — no, three — beloved brothers and Grandfather Icarius.

And for once, Mother had been happy. Truly, genuinely, and such an instance as that was so rare that he wished he had made time for them to stay for longer. Even just a little bit longer, just so he could continue seeing his Mother smile like that.

Even Cousin Hermione, Bright Hermione, and been there, smiling as radiantly as a thousand suns when she ran towards him for a hug.

Yes, it had been happy.

For the first week, at least.

Until the incident.

He and his cousin had been in the gardens, her fiery red hair glowing against the light as they wandered around under the blue sky. They spoke of little things, of fonder memories, of days that only hurt so because they found that they would not be able to return to them ever again. His older relatives and Mother had been in the hall, just a room over.

And then, he and Hermione had heard shouting.

They rushed back into the hall to find his Mother, his Mother who for once, had been so joyful, so free, shouting so loudly that her voice strained with every syllable, sheer fury lining every muscle, looking at her father and brothers as if they were enemies.

The altercation had ended abruptly when Telemachus had intervened.

Later, in the dead of night, he had found himself unable to sleep, wandering the gardens before encountering Uncle Thoas — who confessed that they had spoken of her remarriage, of her moving on.

And it had taken just that for Telemachus to realize why she had been so furious.

Odysseus’ wife, His mother, moving on.

Such concepts did not at all correlate well. If they ever correlated at all.

By the next morn, Mother had been red-eyed and furious, silently seething as she oversaw the servants gathering their things. She had given Hermione a kiss goodbye and she had refused to even acknowledge a single one of her brothers as they mounted the carriage for Elis. Grandfather Icarius had not been there to see them off. Perhaps for the best — Telemachus had resisted the urge to shudder seeing the way Mother had glared at him.

Her silence had stretched on throughout their days of travel. When they arrived in Ithaca, she shattered a mirror, cuts lining her arms from the shards. Eurycleia had forced her to the infirmary, having the physician bandage the cuts. Afterwards, Mother had locked herself in her bedchambers, as she always did whenever she fell into such moods.

(There had been other incidents, over the years, but seeing her break under the words of her own kin had left its lasting imprint upon him, like a scar that refused to fade.

She had not spoken with any of them since then).

And so he knew that if more men came, more men insisted, more men demanded she be courted, she would fall into one of those moods again.

(He had only managed to keep some of them away by lying that his poor Mother was afflicted by some heavy illness. It was… not exactly a lie either).

And Telemachus had always despised seeing his mother bleed, whether it be from a wound in her heart or the pieces of a shattered mirror, a broken clay pot, the splinters of her broken loom — it had always made him feel as if his very own chest was being cleaved in half.

But back then, he had just been a child.

Now, he would not simply stand idly by. He was a man. He was the heir — Odysseus’ heir, and once he could prove that title was his, that he was worthy, that he truly was his father’s son, he could keep everything safe. His mother. His Kingdom. His lineage. They would all be safe.

And that was all he wished for.

And even if Odysseus did not return, Telemachus would be enough for the both of them. He would convince Mother that he was enough for both of them, however impossible such a task seemed to be at the moment.

(He had to be enough. He was her son, after all. How could he not be?)

So with a renewed determination, he looked towards the tablet again.

The words remained lost to him.

Mother had always said he was stubborn.

Unfortunately for him, however, he was not stubborn enough to continue wrangling such unintelligible script, — though admittedly, perhaps it was his lack of focus that was to be blamed, instead of the script — and so he set the tablet down for a final time.

He could deal with those later. For now, perhaps he could find other means to be productive.

Then, his eyes landed on the scroll that he kept tucked away by the side.

Cousin Hermione had sent it weeks ago.

Some months before, the news had reached Ithaca via a merchant ship that had also passed by Laconia. They said that Helen — Beautiful Helen, Helen whose beauty had launched a thousand ships — had returned with Menelaus at last. They say the two had been stranded in Egypt, returning to their kingdom with piles upon piles of riches.

Mother had been ecstatic, of course. She had always spoken of her cousin, his aunt, so fiercely, so lovingly. Had insisted that Beautiful Helen had surely been kidnapped, that she would have never done so treacherous a thing as abandoning her kingdom, her husband, her daughter. She had written a letter immediately, and had been restless in the following weeks waiting for a response.

But there came none. Not a single one, even several months later.

Mother’s mood had soured until she retreated into herself again, and in the better days since then she had not spoken her cousin's name even once.

The silence from Sparta had confused Telemachus.

Hermione had not written to him, either. Which was odd — he had expected news from her immediately, knowing just how strongly Hermione felt about them.

A part of him had wished to go to Sparta himself, wished he and his mother both could, so that he could see his cousin and she could reunite with her own, perhaps even make amends with some other family too. But after Helen’s lack of a response, she had been so despondent that he doubted she would wish to travel, or even face any of her distant kin.

And Telemachus could not leave either, bound by his worry for his Mother and the state their kingdom was in after seventeen years ravaged by the hunger of war. They would need to start setting the stores for winter, especially with how scarce things already were. They also needed to secure alliances, taxes, trades — and as much as Telemachus trusted Mentor, he could not bring himself to leave at such a critical time.

The other kingdoms, the luckier kingdoms, they needn't struggle so. Their king and his men would have returned with spoils, with treasures, with fruits of their hard fought battles in war. But Ithaca’s own king…

He remained lost adrift somewhere, still. If only he had somehow managed not to succumb to the tides already.

Setting his thoughts aside, Telemachus reached for the scroll. The papyrus was already worn from how many times he had read it. Even before he had done so — he knew the contents would be far from joyful. Her anger was not unfamiliar to him, not since they were children.

“They abandoned me,” she had murmured once under Ithacan stars. Whenever she came to visit, they had both made it a habit to sneak away, often to the beach with an amphora of wine, though Telemachus doubted the wine made any difference. Already so brazen was Hermione about her disdain towards both of her parents — she had never needed a loosened tongue to speak of them so. “And if they return, if they return and even think that we could become family once more, they would simply need to live with their own disappointments.”

And so when he had first read her letter, her anger had not surprised him in the least.

It had read like one of her usual rants, like her angry ramblings in the gardens, like her bitter speeches in the running waters of the spring. The only difference perhaps, was that now that her mother and father were here, there were no more doubts, no more wanderings.

And even then, she had never needed such excuses.

Finally, the very end of the sheet, there was a promise — or rather, declaration — of a visit.

She had not received any invitations, though she had never needed them. Ithaca had always been open to her, ever since he himself was a mere babe. And even if in some odd world it was not, he also knew that any attempt at trying to get her to heed him would be useless, angry as she was.

Where Telemachus had spoken of his father’s return as if it was his salvation — because it was — Hermione had spoken of her own parents’ return as if it would be the day of her demise, the day her rage would burn the very skies.

He glanced at the windows, at the way Helios’ chariot had traveled further upon the sky.

By noon, he would have to make his way to the port and receive his cousin.

With another long-suffering sigh, Telemachus picked up the tablet and forced himself to read.

_______________

Finally, — finally, Hermione managed to drag him out to the beach.

It had been already three days since she had first arrived in Ithaca. Still, except for their meeting at the port, she had hardly seen him — it was as if he was determined to confine himself in the royal study. She had asked Aunt Penelope, and even Tydides, though they had both replied that he was merely busy learning about governing.

She knew how obsessed Telemachus was with such things, so enamoured as playing Man of The House as he was, but she did not remember him being oh so dreadfully boring.

It was nice to spend time with Aunt Penelope yes, but she missed spending time with Telemachus by seashore as they had done for years on end.

And so when she had had enough, Hermione had entered the study just and hour before, shamelessly slipping past the tall wooden doors, and demanding that he go fetch an amphora of wine for their venture to the beach.

It had taken some insisting, but Telemachus had relented at last.

Hermione's feet brushed against the sand, making her way to the calm evening shores.

"Must you walk so slowly?" She called, seeing that Telemachus was still descending the stone steps. She herself had already reached the shores

He hesitated, the night's breeze tugging at the ends of his curls. "I do not know if this is the wisest time, I really should finish —"

Hermione resisted a childish urge to stick her tongue out at him. "I have reminded you already, I am certain Mentor could finish such things well enough," she called, repeating those words for what felt like the hundredth time this afternoon alone. She really did quite miss when they were younger, when he had not been such a slave to duty.

Her most cherished of cousins frowned at that, though he relented all the same, setting the amphora of wine down on the sand, reaching her at last. Hermione sat down beside it, finally feeling as if she could breathe again.

She had spent so many nights upon this shore, beneath these stars, Telemachus beside her.

Gods was she glad to be back, to escape that suffocating house at last.

In truth, she had never felt so relaxed anywhere as much as she did in Ithaca.

(Even back then, Sparta had been drowning in chaos).

And Dear Telemachus was here. That always made things better.

But even now, out of the study — he felt different.

He felt... Older, perhaps, despite it only having been a year since they had last met. There was poise in his stance too, but not the mind that came naturally, comfortably. There was a rigidity in the slope of his shoulders, a sort of tension that filled every limb, an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes.

"What?" Telemachus asked, drawing her out of her thoughts. He raised a brow, handing her her cup before settling beside her, the amphora between them, with his own in hand.

"You look older," she said plainly.

His brow remained raised, questioning. "It has only been a year since we have last met, has it not?"

"It may be so," she shrugged, taking a moment to sip at her wine, her eyes observing his face as she paused, catching sight of the stubble that had started to grow on his chin. The sight made her want to smile and grieve at once. "Though you seemed to have changed in such a small span of time."

Telemachus too paused, a thoughtful expression falling over his face. "I see," he said simply, "though I would have to say you are the only one who has come to find surprise." His eyes met hers, searching. "I thought you might be raging by now."

She choked on a laugh and a sip of wine, her cup already half empty as she set it down. "Would you prefer it if I would?" Hermione challenged.

It was not as if he was flawed.in thinking so. She too had come to Ithaca expecting to rage — only a few days ago had she been on that ship, feeling as if she was so furious she might rival even the heat of Helios. But now… she did not really wish to speak of either Helen or Menelaus. Part of her would rather she forget the both of them entirely. Forever. Or for as long as she remained on this isle, that could work too.

But even now, even when she wished to just banish them from her mind, her anger refused to wane. She doubted it ever would, she had harbored it for so long that it now felt as if it was part of her very soul.

But now that he had brought it to light, she did not quite know why she wanted anymore. Whether to spill her anger or just tuck it away, she could not decide.

"No," Telemachus replied at last, taking his own sip of wine. "I simply find your silence to be a curious thing. You have never held any fondness for it."

She took another thoughtful pause, thinking.

"Did I ever admit to hat I have spent years envying you," Hermione admitted, her tongue moving faster than her mind. Perhaps it was the wine.

For a beat, Telemachus simply stared. "Envy me?"

The confusion in his voice made her wish to laugh — though whether it was out of true amusement or something else entirely, she could not decide.

But oh how she had envied him all of these years. Envied that he had a mother still, a mother who would not even dare stray, a mother who had remained loyal even after seventeen years spent waiting — hers had been unable to wait for even just a few short days before she had gone on her merry way with some pretty foreign prince she had just met days before.

She envied that he had a mother that was the complete opposite of her own.

There had been a time when she had wanted to call Aunt Penelope Mother once, when she had only been eleven, watching a toddling Telemachus run to his mother whilst babbling 'mama'. The ache of it all had struck her so sharply that she too wished to turn to her Aunt and ask if she too could call her such a title. Hermione had never been able to gain enough courage to ever truly do so.

(She had refused to either of her parents Mother or Father in the past few months. The guilt would come sometimes, whenever she saw their expressions. It was still not enough to make her start doing so.)

Though even through all the resentment, all the anger — there still remained a of of her she would never speak of, a remnant of that nine year old girl that had been left behind all those years ago. That girl wished to just let the anger go, to forget about all that has made her so furious over the years and just have her family back, her mother and father, returned at last. But she had stopped being that long before her parents had set foot on Spartan land and her pride would not allow her to take control now.

It was only when the silence stretched over the quiet of the night did she realize that Telemachus was still looking at her, expectant.

"Your Mother," Hermione explained. "I envied that you still have your Mother."

Telemachus opened his mouth at that, only so shut it again, turning away, his eyes falling distant.

Hermione took another sip of wine, nearly emptying the cup now, letting the sweetness consume her tongue. She would happily allow it to take her senses, too.

"Did I tell you that she did not even recognize me?" She asked, her voice catching somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "Though I admit I did not recognize her at first either, I only realized when she was standing by those gates, undoubtedly the most beautiful amongst them. She had the audacity to ask which woman was her own daughter."

Perhaps it is unfair, Hermione mused, silently swirling the drops as she stared out to the shifting seas. The tides were calm tonight. Even I could not remember her in the end. Though still…

Still, it had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Perhaps, if she had been younger, if she had still been nine and desperate and just wanting more than ever to have her parents beside her again, she would have been oh so joyful.

But she was not nine anymore.

A part of her wondered (a part of her had been wondering for years), if her mother had borne other children in those ten years, laying with another man behind foreign walls. Or perhaps even on those seven years in Egypt — her father seemed to have forgiven her well enough after all.

In truth, she had been surprised when the answer had proven to be no.

Throughout the entirety of her pondering, Telemachus had reminded silent.

Until —

"Perhaps she had not," he agreed.

But.

There was but.

There was more he wished to say.

But he held it back, as if it were a secret, as if it were something to never breach the tongue. Though with her — such things would never work with her. She had known him as intimately as the waves that caressed the shores before them.

The pale light of the moon only made him appear even more melancholy.

And if Hermione had to guess why —

"Aunt Penelope is well, is she not?" She asked, thinking briefly of those past few days spent with her dear aunt. She had been happy, she had looked well. Great, even.

So why was it that Telemachus' expression held a world's worth of heaviness, as if he bore the weight of the heavens above?

But at her words, his shoulders grew stiff again, eyes averting from her own, words lacking in warmth. "She is well enough."

Hermione raised a brow. "Well enough?"

Telemachus fell quiet again, drawing his lips into a thin line, contemplating.

"She is well enough," he said finally, "there are some exceptions yes — but I do not wish to speak of it tonight."

"Exceptions?" Hermione echoed. "What do you mean exceptions —?"

"It is nothing new, just her usual fits," Telemachus insisted, his voice growing thinner, sharper. "She is fine. I have made sure she is fine. As fine as she can be."

The note finality in his voice did not slip past her, though Hermione had never been one for listening.

And a sudden thought had returned to her.

"About Aunt Penelope, I have something I wish to offer you," she said.

Well, in truth, it was from Helen.

She had wished to tell him several days before, but Telemachus had been busy, and she did not quite know if Aunt Penelope would be reasonable, as happy as she was. Neither did she really trust Tydides. She had known the man over the last few years of course, though their visits only sometimes aligned, and she would estimate they had only spoken a few hundred words to eachother.

And so, she had waited to speak to Telemachus.

Telemachus glanced back at her, curious. "Something to offer?"

Hermione nodded. "It is a drug — Nepenthe, Mother calls it. It is something she had obtained in Egypt. I mentioned Aunt Penelope's… condition, once, and she had asked me to give it to you before I departed Sparta. She said it might help."

"A drug? How — how is this to help?" Telemachus asked, reluctance coating his voice. He was always wary, whenever it came to his Mother. He had been vigilantly protective of her even they had only been children. He had yelled at a guard, once. It had been funny to see the man cower to an eight year old.

"It could help one be joyful," she explained. "It casts sorrow away. Mother had said that even if a man where to lose his family in a single day, the drug would make it so that he would be unable to weep despite it."

She glanced at his face, expecting.

Telemachus still looked reluctant.

So she continued, "I understand that Aunt Penelope only has the worst of her fits when she is upset, yes? If she uses it—"

"I am thankful, I really am," Telemachus started, conflict filling his eyes, "but are you truly sure this will work? I do not wish — in case something does not work right —"

"I know it does," she assured.

Telemachus turned to her. "How?"

Hermione had to force away a smile, averting her eyes.

It was not as if she had even been stealing, really. After all, Helen had been far too loose with how she stored such things. A woman who had such knowledge of drugs really should have also been knowledgeable enough to hide them well. Or — at least not in a place where Hermione could access them by simply demanding the silence of a guard or two.

And it was not as if she was willing to risk falsely accusing her own daughter anyway, not with how thin everything already was between them.

When she looked up, Telemachus was staring at her.

"Hermione —"

"That is not the point," she cut in. She was already in a sour mood from all this conversation, she was not willing to endure a scolding as well. "What is important is that this might help your Mother, so at least try." Her eyes met his own, sharp. "You say she is fine now, but is she not always fine before something occurs to upset her."

Telemachus' shoulders slumped.

Hermione softened.

"Let us talk of something else for tonight," she offered, one of mercy, of respite, of all that had haunted them for nearly two decades now. reaching for the amphora, she refilled her cup, laying back against the sand. "You are right, anyway. We have already been separated for far too long. I do not wish to ruin such a rare moment peace."

Telemachus hesitated, before nodding. "Fine."

_______________

Penelope watched them from the salon's balcony.

She could see them, in the gardens below, running about along the grass, Hermione in front, dragging Telemachus ever so slightly. They looked, almost, like children again.

It had only been two weeks since Hermione had arrived, Penelope was already glad to see that she had managed to pull Telemachus out of the study.

A smile — a smile that felt like love and longing both — pulled at her lips.

They had been like this ever since they were children, her son and his dearest cousin, as inseperable as ever, unable to stray from eachother for too long, no matter the distance that separated them. It had always delighted her to see it, delighted her to see that despite all the years they had spent growing under the shadow of wars and battles and all the consequences that followed, they always managed to find solace in eachother.

And yet sometimes, oftentimes, she would watch them and see something else entirely.

Another time, another life, even, one that sometimes felt like it had belonged to another person entirely.

She had been younger than her own son now, wasn't she? Frolicking the fields of Sparta, the grass brushing at her feet, the sun shining overhead, her that laugh — the laugh that Hermione too laughed sometimes, the one that was wild and unbound and undoubtedly Helen's.

Back when they had only been girls, when they had been sisters, entirely unaware of the future that loomed before them like a doomed prophecy.

Back then such a future had scarcely mattered.

Back then there had no been foreign princes, no thousand ships headed for war, no rumours of kin who were missing, or kin who were dead, or kin who had condemned the entirety of Achaea when she abandoned her kingdom all for some foreign man. There had only been them, two girls, two girls who had once been as inseperable as the two children she saw now before time and toil and tides had ruined every bit of peace they once had.

Peace.

There had been peace, once, had there or not?

Or had that too been a dream, a trick of her mind — a delusion?

Gods, a delusion.

Something rose in her throat. Perhaps it was the urge to cry, or to laugh. Penelope suppressed whatever it was.

She hardly knew what was real anymore.

Helen…

Had she hallucinated the bonds of their childhood, too? The hours spent within springs and gardens, the evenings where they would lay in the same bed, giggling and gossiping so late into the night that they would find themselves awake until dawn?

Had that too been a dream?

After all — it had been months

Months.

Months since she had learned that Helen was back at last, months since she had written that latter in such heightened frenzy, so desperate to have her dearest cousin back again.

And yet, there was not even the slightest of acknowledgement, not a single response.

And perhaps it was because she was right, because her mind had been filling her with false memories, memories that had never been there. She could not even distinguish the delusions — how could she be sure of this?

(Even Clytemnestra had eventually turned against her).

And perhaps that was also why she had not written again, perhaps that was also why she did not wish for an opportunity to be proven right, to be proven that she truly did no longer know what was real anymore.

All she knew was that she missed her cousins, her family, her life.

She missed her hus —

A sob caught in her throat, her eyes burning.

Somehow, somewhere in the shake of her voice, the lump in her throat —

"Odysseus," she called, as soft as the whispering night wind.

This time, there came no answer.

Clarity did not often come with answers, when it came to this.

Clarity did not often feel better.

Clarity meant he was not there.

She felt him everywhere, in every room, every hall, every shadow, every moment of every day, every time Telemachus looked at her bearing his face. He was part of her, part of her soul, her very being and yet he was not here.

His absence made her chest ache so much that she could not breathe. His memory followed her so much that she would sometimes expect to see him with a single turn of a hall.

She could not decide which of those was a crueller torture.

Sometimes — oftentimes, she wondered how she somehow managed to survive for as long as she has, wondered how the years that had already stolen so much had not stolen her life as well.

Sometimes, she wished it did. If only to be free of this torture, if only to be with him again — even if it meant having to descend down to the depths below.

(Even during the first year, just after the war had ended and her hope had been at its highest, she had never once blamed Anticlea after they found her beneath the cliffs).

It was all she had ever wanted, really. To see him again.

Perhaps that was why there were times where she did not mind the delusions. Perhaps it was foolish. Clarity was real, after all. Clarity was true, but what good was clarity when he was not there? What good was choosing a miserable reality where she spent every hour of every day haunted by her husband?

It was never the delusions that pained her so.

No, it was the after.

It was that inevitable moment where clarity would come driving a sword through the entirety of her chest, the moment when the world would stop and she would remember. Remember that he was not here, remember that he has not been for seventeen years now, remember that her delusions were just that.

Delusions.

Every time, the grief would strike her hundredfold.

It was why she had not taken the pharmakon today.

Seventeen years. It had been seventeen years since she had seen him off at Ithaca's port and watched her heart disappear with that ship. It had been seven years since the heralds had come and the kingdom had rejoiced. It had been seven years since she had been promised to see him again. It had been seven years and she should have been in his arms already so why, why —

Her breath hitched.

She felt his arms before she saw him, wrapped loosely around her waist, grounding her to the world.

His hold was awkward, clumsy, hands tentative against her, as if he were uncertain, even after all these years they have spent together. But he was warm, and he was real, and he may not have been Odysseus but for once — perhaps it was better this way. It was evidence that she had not yet completely lost all of her senses, was it not?

(But would the latter be so bad, really? Would it be so bad for her to forget her grief, however briefly the peace might last? However worse it would hurt afterwards?

It was never the delusions that pained her so.)

"You are weeping," Diomedes remarked, his voice drawing her out of her thoughts, as lulling as a siren's song. A shudder ran through her, lips pressing together as his hand came to wipe at the tears dampening her face. His touch was a gentle as a feather's brush, as if he feared she might shatter under the slightest of touches. "Did you not take the medicine?"

Penelope took another trembling breath before shaking her head.

Her delusions had already been rampant, but ever since taking it, she had started seeing him everywhere, in every room, every hall, every time she did not just shut her eyes. It was as if she spent every moment in an ingenuine daze of joy where he was there and she would be happy until the world crumpled beneath her feet because eventually she would remember.

She did not think she could stand to bear it today.

But his absence had been so apparent — so much so that she would find herself fighting against her own reason, wishing she would have just taken the medicine, even if he would appear as naught but a ghost built out of her own desperation.

Telemachus had said that it would help.

"Nepenthe," he had called it. "It is something Hermione suggested. Something that might help in be ridding your sorrows."

But her dear son had not been wrong, either.

Odysseus, after all, was the root of her sorrows. At least the medicine had proven to work, even if it was perhaps not in the way her son had wished it too.

Though even then, she was no longer so opposed to it.

She should have just taken it today, should have just allowed herself to find peace in bliss, should have just allowed herself to delude a little longer.

(Perhaps if she just took it regularly enough, she would not eventually remember the misery that was reality).

Diomedes loosened his arms, allowing her to turn away from the gardens. His expression hardened with worry at the sight of her face.

Penelope felt her lip tremble, something that felt almost like bitterness rising in her chest.

She hated that look, that expression, hated that she saw it in practically every single face every day —

"Why did you not?" Diomedes asked, his voice patient despite it all.

Penelope felt him falter, when she buried her head into his chest, shutting her eyes.

Because she saw him everywhere. She always saw him, and whether that was something she despised or desired she could not even give a proper answer to.

And yet —

It was never the delusions that pained her so.

No, sometimes she even wished she could remain within those delusions, if only it meant he would be with her again.

Diomedes took her chin in his hands, gently lifting her head, their eyes meeting, his voice as tender as the breeze that blew around them."If it is the medicine that displeases you, we can try to look for other things. The Princess said her Mother had others—"

"No," Penelope started, her tongue speaking before she could properly think. "No, I am fine — the medicine is fine, I simply forgot."

Even if there were others, she would be fine with this one. She could make do with this one, as long as he continued returning to her.

After all, that was all she ever wanted.

Diomedes paused, then, searching her face as if he were looking for any hint of a lie, of deceit but she had been able to fool even her lying viper of a husband several a time before. Her trickery had never fallen short to his.

Evidently, there were still traces of wariness in his eyes, but Diomedes did not remark upon it any further.

"You have been grounded these past few days, yes?" He asked instead.

Penelope pulled the slightest of smiles, nodding. "I have."

He had her take the medicine afterwards, mixed in a cup of sweet wine. He made sure she finished the entirety of it while they sat beneath the stars, her head resting on his shoulder, pointing at a constellation or two every now and then. Perseus. The hunter Orion. Some others, too.

The wine dulled her senses well.

At some point, she had straighted, turning to him and cupping the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Diomedes did not resist her.

He felt real, warm, solid beneath her hands.

(But Odysseus too had felt real, he too had felt warm, solid — even when she knew he could not possibly have been).

When they pulled away, he had looked at her with an expression she could not name before coaxing her to stand, wrapping an arm round her waist when she stumbled.

"Let us get you to bed," Diomedes said, leading her through the halls.

When she had crawled into the bed, cocooned into the covers, she felt a hand atop her own, and opened her eyes to find him beside her, feeling as warm and as real as ever, the callouses on his palm rough against her own.

"Odysseus," she called, as soft as the whispering night wind.

He smiled, that same familiar smile, crooked and loving and reminiscent of what little she could remember of him.

This time, a whisper replied.

"Penelope," he said, his voice sweeter than any nectar.

A smile rose to her own lips, and she slept easier beside him than she had in weeks.

_______________

Diomedes sat in the dining hall.

Helios had already started his ascent some hours ago, his light seeping in through the windows, brightening the halls as the servants moved, placing dish after dish upon the table. The room was quiet, save for the bustle of their activities and Telemachus conversing with Princess Hermione at the other end of the table.

He had seemed lighter, these past few days. He spent more time outside with his cousin, conversing under the shade of olive trees instead of spending all his hours in the study, hunched over several scrolls.

It was good. That was good — he was still only a boy, after all.

Still a boy.

It was an odd thought, to realize that Telemachus was indeed still a boy. He had reached his seventeenth year only a few months ago.

Yet that had only been three years older than he was before Thebes, was it not? Before the first of his battles? Before he had been declared King in front of the entirety of Argos, bearing a crown that was too large?

It truly was an odd thought, to look at this boy, this boy who looked undoubtedly like a boy, remnants of childhood still instilled in him, and know that other boys his age would have been considered men already, would have been marched into battle for necessity or prophecy or whatever else it was that stole childhood from children.

But at least Telemachus — Telemachus had managed to stay away from such things. Perhaps war had not left him untouched, but at least he had not been at the front lines. Diomedes simply hoped it would remain that way, if the gods were willing.

Odysseus had named his son far from battle after all.

Thankfully, his name had proven through. He would not go through such things.

He should not go through such things.

Even then, War did not raise its hands against the warriors alone. He knew it well enough. He had seen enough of war, enough of the aftermath, to know that well enough.

A sudden memory, an unbidden memory, rose in his mind's eye. One from a few years ago now. The second of all his visits to Ithaca . Three — no, four years ago.

Telemachus had only been thirteen, younger and smaller and hardly even tall enough to brush past Penelope's shoulder's. He had towered over here only a year after.

Thirteen, the same age he had been before blood and war and battle had become his life.

(Whenever he was not in Ithaca, it still was his life).

He had been in the pavilions, simply observing the guards. The boy had been watching him, hidden behind one of he pillars, trying to keep himself subtle. Evidently, neither he nor his hiding spot had been subtle enough.

"Is there anything you need, Prince Telemachus?" Diomedes called, seeing the boy jump like a startled rabbit at the realization that he had been caught. He was willing to admit that the sigh had been slightly amusing.

Telemachus pondered, hesitating before he finally stepped out, his chagrin evident.

It had struck Diomedes then just how similar his visage was to Odysseus'.

It was not as if he was blind — he had known the boy shared his father's face the very moment he saw him, clinging to one of his nursemaids all those months ago, the similarities were so striking that it was near impossible to miss.

But when Telemachus had stood there, looking up at him with Odysseus' eyes — something new had struck him, something he could not put to words.

"King Diomedes," Telemachus had started, his voice low, uncertain, hands fidgeting together in testament to his unease, "can I ask you a question?"

He was not King anymore, but Diomedes did not correct him. "Go on."

"How did you learn to be a king?"

That had made Diomedes pause.

"I did not learn to be a king," he answered simply, truthfully.

Telemachus looked at him in confusion, brows scrunching — not quite understanding. "You did not?"

Diomedes shook his head.

There had never been a reason for him to learn. The throne should not have even been his — it should have been Aegialeus, Aegialeus who had been the rightful heir, Aegialeus who Grandfather Adrastus so adored, Aegialeus who had smiled at him mere hours before his blood had spilled in Gilsas.

The title had simply fallen to him because Adrastus had too died with only a unwed daughter and no other sons to act as spares.

"I became king because of a sudden circumstance," he explained, unwilling to elaborate further. "I did not learn, the title simply came to be mine."

Telemachus hesitated, before finally nodding. Though even then, he did not look satisfied. He looked as if he had more to say, more to ask.

"What is it, little Prince?" Diomedes softened. His voice sounded odd. Foreign, almost. He had never been one to be soft. There was little reason to be soft in battle, and battle was his life.

Still, at least it looked to have somewhat worked. Telemachus' shoulders relaxed, his eyes flickering shyly back to his.

"How old were you when you became king?"

"Fourteen," Diomedes recounted. "I was fourteen."

The recollection had reminded him just how odd it was to look at this boy, this boy who looked for all the world like the boy that he was, who clung to his mother like a puppy and barely brushed passed her shoulders in height was, after all, just a boy. Just a year younger than him before he was crowned.

Telemachus' voice had come quickly, as if the question was one he found necessary, but embarrassing all the same. "Do you think I could be king?"

He looked at the child, then, unable to help the confusions from flickering over his face. "There is no need for you to be king, Prince Telemachus. At least not so soon. Your father — his reasons for delay remain a mystery to us yes, but while he has yet to return, your Wise Mother and your father's most trusted advisor have ensured that the kingdom is thriving. You have no need to worry for such things."

Telemachus frowned, before a pout rose to his lips.

The irony was not lost to Diomedes; such a childish action it was for one so insistent to take upon responsibility far too big for his small shoulders.

"But I am the Prince," Telemachus started. "And you said it as well, I will need to take the throne eventually! The kingdom cannot remain kingless forever!"

"You do not think your father will return?" Diomedes asked.

Telemachus froze at that, a mixture of emotions falling over his face.

Then, he gave the smallest shake of the head.

"No, no it is not that I believe he is d —" he cut himself short, as if the words were something vile, something he could not bear to say. Diomedes could not blame him. "It is not that I believe he is never returning, but I know it is a possibility and if he really does not return I want to make sure the kingdom is safe, that mama—"

He fell silent.

Diomedes understood, then.

Penelope… he knew how Penelope was. He had seen a part of it himself and had heard the maids while wandering the corridors during the night.

And Diomedes, Diomedes who had fought in wars and struck gods and had spent a lifetime in battle felt something ache in his chest like he had never felt before.

For this boy — Odysseus' boy, — who stood before him with Odysseus' eyes and Odysseus' hair and Odysseus' node and who was so ready to give up why remained of his boyhood all for his mother. For this boy to whom Odysseus had wished a quiet life. For this boy who had been thrust into the shadow of a father whose faith remained mystery.

(Diomedes knew well what kind of shadows fathers leave for their sons).

Would Odysseus had been proud? He wondered. Odysseus, whose devotion to his wife had been so apparent despite him scarcely mentioning her — would he admire his son, for such similar devotion towards his mother? Or would he too wish that he would allow himself to remain a child, even for just a little longer?

Diomedes could not decide.

"I just want to be ready," Telemachus explained. "To make sure that when it does become mine — I can be a good king." Telemachus had looked up, meeting his eyes again. "Could you teach me? How to be King?"

And then, Diomedes had not been able to bring himself to say no.

Perhaps there was a childhood he would have to sacrifice, perhaps he would not be able to lead a life as peaceful as Odysseus had wished — how could he, with a father still missing and a mother tearing at the seams? — but he could achieve what he was so determined to do, to become king, to keep his kingdom safe, to keep his mother safe. And if Telemachus was to say that was all he ever wanted, who was Diomedes to oppose that?

Who was Diomedes to oppose Odysseus' son?

With a quiet sigh, he picked up a cup of wine.

At least over the recent weeks, things had improved. Much improved, even.

To his surprise, Penelope had taken to the Nepenthe well, after their conversation on the balcony. She had seemed better, calmer, happier. She had not had any sort of episode at all either.

Miraculously — they had found something that worked. Even if just for the time being.

And since things have finally settled down, perhaps he could finally return to Italia. It had been over a month already, and he still had yet to receive any news from Sthenelus. Perhaps that meant things were well, though a part of him still felt odd, having been away for so long.

Though perhaps he could stay for just a few more days. He did not need to leave immediately.

Yes, he could stay a few more days—

"Mother," Telemachus suddenly called, straightening to properly look at her. "There you are."

Diomedes too turned to the doorway, finding her approaching the table, a somewhat sheepish, apologetic smile drawn on her lips. "I'm sorry, my heart," she apologized, "I simply lost track of the time."

Diomedes nodded. The sight of her smiling kindling something warm in his chest.

Telemachus too relaxed, gazing at his mother, something like relief in his eyes.

Relief. That was good. They were growing better.

Penelope reached for the chair beside Diomedes, the wood gently scraping on the floor as she pulled it back. "And do not worry for your father either, he merely had something to attend to."

The entire room came to a halt, as though something had shattered in the air.

In front of him, Telemachus and Hermione had both frozen, the Princess' expression in confusion, Telemachus' hands tightening slowly, at the table's ledge, something in his eyes shifting as he realized —

Penelope only stared. "What?"

Diomedes set his cup down. "Penelope —"

"Mother," Telemachus' cut in, his voice kept carefully neutral, but strung tight, too tight, like a rope that might tear if pulled any more taut, "Mother he is not here."

He could see the confusion in her face, but she continued smiling still despite her confusion, looking almost amused. "I just told you, my love, he will be here soon—"

"Penelope," Diomedes repeated. Finally, she turned to him, falling silent. "Penelope, Odysseus is not here."