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The storm woke him in the night. For a moment he felt the rocking of the raft underneath him, could almost taste the salt and blood in the air—but then he felt the soft brush of linen sheets against his skin, the warmth of Penelope’s body curled beside him, the scent of her hair. He was not at sea. The storm was outside.
It was a while before he could breathe normally again. Penelope still slept, and careful not to wake her, he rolled to the edge of the bed and eased into a sitting position. He knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight, not so long as thunder boomed and sheets of rain lashed the palace walls.
He ought to rouse himself, light a candle, do something useful to pass the time.
He ended up on the balcony, letting the cold rain soak his hair and nightshirt and sting his eyes. As ever, his gaze was drawn past the silhouettes of the city buildings and trees, and towards the distant horizon where black sky met blacker ocean.
Wind whipped around him, and he clutched the balcony railing as surely as he had the wooden rails of his ship as it was tossed across the waves, with strength enough to drive splinters into his skin.
When lightning split the sky, it illuminated the island with perfect clarity for a single instant. Then darkness closed in again, and after a moment of temporary blindness, he found himself hunched over the railing, staring down towards the tiled ground of the courtyard below. The drop was far enough to kill a man, not merely to maim him.
He was not sure how long his eyes had been fixed on the ground when he became aware of a voice calling his name.
His wife’s voice.
His body shuddered, but he could not bring himself to look towards her.
He had warned her never to approach him unawares, or to try to wake him in the throes of a nightmare, but to always announce her presence with her voice first. He prayed to whatever gods might listen that the instincts ingrained in him over twenty years of near-constant danger would never lead him to lash out against her in a moment of confusion.
He could sense her now, standing behind him, watching, and waiting for a sign that he was himself, that he heard her.
He forced words from a closed-up throat as rain ran down the back of his neck. “Penelope. I’m alright. Go back to bed, my wife.”
“I’d rather not,” she said equably, stepping forward to stand by his side, close enough that their arms brushed. “I don’t think I can sleep any more tonight.”
He grunted. Still he could not bring himself to look at her, but stared over the balcony’s edge. It was as though his gaze was caught on the tiles below like an anchor lodged in a rocky seabed, drawing him inexorably downward.
He could feel his wife’s eyes on him, as she stood quietly for a long while in the pouring rain and rushing wind.
At the next strike of lightning, he heard her draw in a small breath, and then she pressed closer against his arm.
“Odysseus…” she said. Her voice was clear and strong as ever but there was a faint note of anxiety in it, barely detectable over the roar of the storm.
He knew his wife was not afraid of lightning.
“You don’t have to worry, I won't jump.” He gave a humourless laugh, so dry his throat rasped painfully. “How could I? I wouldn’t dare. To do so would be to—to spit in the face of—” He swallowed. “—everyone—who died so that I could get here. It would be worse than sacrilege…”
Though I did not earn their willing sacrifice, but stole it for myself. Wrested it from them while they screamed and begged.
He shook his head, as if by doing so he could shake loose the thought.
He would not jump. He would not give in—he refused to embrace such dishonour. He refused.
The ground seemed to stare back at him—no, it yawned open before him like a tunnel into the depths of Hades, challenge and invitation both.
How often will I have to fight this battle?
An involuntary sound escaped him, frustration and despair combined.
Penelope’s arm pressed more firmly against his, then her other hand reached across to touch his face, brushing his rain-soaked curls back behind his ear.
She let her fingers linger on his cheek for a long while, keeping silent. Then: “I trust you,” she said simply. “And…though I cannot fully understand all that haunts you, I…I know that the desire to be free of it all…can be quite powerful.” She pressed her cheek lightly against his, so that side by side, they looked over the balcony’s edge together. Her skin, though wet with rain, was warm.
“My love, you don’t have to pretend with me. I don’t blame you if…if a part of you prefers oblivion to the memories of pain.” Her gaze was still fixed over the railing. “I only ask that you would tell me…that you don’t carry this burden alone. Because I love you.”
She was far too good, too loyal, too merciful, his Penelope. And he had so little to offer her in return, besides his love. A wretched love that had been all too easily twisted to fuel the ruthlessness that had brought him home at the expense of his dead comrades. But it was all he had to give. And unless she chose to reject him, she would have it, for the rest of their lives. He prayed the gods would bless her with many more years…and then, that they might grant him the same, so that he could stay by her side.
For he could not bear to hurt her—at least, not any more than he already had.
Slowly, painstakingly, as if easing a liniment-soaked bandage from a scabbing wound, he turned his face away from the ground below and into the shelter of her palm, letting his eyes close. She turned to embrace him fully, stroking his cheek with her fingers.
He became aware of the chill suddenly, and the dampness of Penelope's linen nightdress pressed against him. Opening his eyes, he saw raindrops beading at the place where her thumb rested against his cheek, then spilling over to trace a glimmering line down her forearm and dripping steadily from her elbow. She swayed a little as the storm winds gusted around them, like an olive tree bending to the storm, but not bowing to it. Supple yet sturdy. She waited for him, as she always did.
“My wife, you must be cold,” he said.
“Only a little. Summer has not left us yet.”
Releasing his grip on the railing, he touched the bare skin of her forearm and found it clammy. “This rain is icy enough. You’ll catch a chill.”
She only hummed and pressed closer against him.
He let his eyes find the horizon again, following the sheets of rain as they disappeared into the roiling black waves. Then he turned back to his wife and took her hands.
“Let’s go inside and dry off.”
Inside the warmth of their bedroom, after she’d exchanged her dripping shawl and nightdress for dry ones, she helped him from his nightshirt and wrapped his shoulders in a linen towel. As she used another cloth to pat his hair dry, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, pressing her close, feeling the beat of her heart against his chest.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know.” She pressed a kiss against his temple while he breathed in the scent of her rain-damp hair.
“I won’t ever leave you. Not of my own volition.”
“I know.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders.
“Hades will have to drag me to the Underworld himself before I'd be parted from you.”
She shuddered every so slightly against him. “Then I will pray he may take both of us together, so you need not fight anymore.”
“Penelope,” he murmured. He could say her name a thousand times and it would still never be enough.
“My love,” she said, tenderly wiping a stray raindrop from his hairline.
“I don’t deserve you.” His voice was raspy again.
She looked at him sternly. “I chose you,” she said. “And I choose you again. As surely as I am yours, you are mine.” She kissed his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. “And I will fight for you. Believe in that.”
He sighed, and felt the tension begin to ebb from his body. Tonight’s battle of the mind, though treacherous, had been won—or at least, brought to a stalemate. And while the war was far from over, and might indeed endure for the rest of his life, he would not fight it alone.
“Let’s go back to bed, my love.”
Outside the wind still howled and the rain still drummed against the palace rooftops, but here, in their familiar wedding bed, curled up with Penelope’s soft arms around him and his face nestled in the crook of her shoulder, he could safely rest.
It was enough for now.