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Ever since the moment Penelope had laid her eyes on her husband again after two decades, the air in the palace of Ithaca had become sweeter to breathe and the queen found herself on the verging of skipping down the halls in sheer delight. It was as if she was once again the maiden on her wedding night, kicking her feet in excitement and squealing to her handmaidens about her betrothed and her dreams for their life together. 

Penelope shivered, glancing at the awed faces of her courtiers and serving people, and a smile pulled at her lips, unbidden. The figures in their tapestries seemed to glow with pride as her eyes passed over them, the mosaic floors sparkling in the afternoon light, the paint on their columns shining even more vibrantly. Her people still whispered, but instead of fear and trepidation over the strangers invading their home, Penelope could hear laughter, with distant cries of joy and relief echoing through the marbled halls. 

The very stones of the palace seemed to be celebrating. Her Odysseus was home, her gods-damned suitors were dead (Antinous' head well on its way to a spike adorning their gates), and their people were rejoicing in the streets, crying out for their king and queen. In all honesty, Penelope herself was also close to crying out for her king, for him to never leave her sight again. It took everything in her to continue down the hall towards her handmaiden, Phoebe, instead of bolting up the stairs, two at a time, until she was near enough to throw herself into her husband's arms and never let go.

But that wasn't fair to either of them, Penelope chided herself, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. It had been her that had sent Odysseus on ahead of her to their chambers, she reminded herself. It would only be a moment until she was joining him. Maybe even less time than she thought, Penelope realized, as she turned a corner and stopped Phoebe walking towards her. 

Phoebe was a well-proportioned woman, with large, intelligent black eyes, honeyed skin, and hair like sunlight, well befitting her name. On her hip, she bore a parcel of what Penelope assumed was the sensitive correspondence between herself and her family and friends in other kingdoms. No doubt she had been making her way to Penelope at the same moment that Penelope had been making her way to her.

"Phoebe!" she called out, her friend's eyes widening at the brightness in her tone. Even Penelope had to admit she sounded a bit like a besotted maiden, absolutely high on life. She smiled wider at the thought. "I need to talk to you, my friend."

"Of course, my queen," Phoebe said with a nod and a sparkle in her dark eyes. As her handmaiden laced their arms together and walked them both into an alcove, Penelope tilted her head in teasing disapproval at her use of "my queen," but couldn't hold onto even false displeasure when her heart was so light. She'd known the other woman all her life since they had both been girls playing ocean nymphs with Helen. 

In fact, Phoebe had been one of the women who came with Penelope from Sparta to Ithaca when she and Odysseus had married, and it had been Phoebe who helped her twist her hair into the styles of a married woman for the first time. Yet, she only ever called Penelope her friend when Penelope was particularly distressed, or actively weeping, but any other time and she poked fun at her by sticking to her formal title of "my queen." In the first few years, Penelope had been worried that Phoebe simply didn't consider them friends, but the mischievous sparkle in black eyes and a teasing smile on her lips as she said it had quickly banished that notion. 

Phoebe, her most trusted handmaiden, was simply another trickster who had charmed their way into Penelope's heart. No wonder she and Odysseus had always gotten on so well, Penelope seemed to attract only those who were most blessed by Lord Hermes and Pallas Athena. 

"What do you wish for me to do, Penelope?" Phoebe asked quietly, her hand warm and comforting on Penelope's elbow. She only allowed herself a moment to preen at Phoebe's use of her given name before she countered her question.

"Can I not wish to simply speak with you?" She asked, pressing her lips together to hide a smile. Phoebe cocked her head to the side, her face portraying that she wasn't falling for it. "Fine, yes. I need you to send out an official message to all our allied kingdoms."

Phoebe smiled at her, her eyes gone soft in a way Penelope hadn't seen in many years. "To tell them our King has returned home, I presume?"

Another shiver of delight ran down Penelope's spine at the words. How long had she waited for and dreamed of those words? "Yes," she said simply, her voice breathless. Gently, she raised a hand to Phoebe's shoulder and bent to press their foreheads together "You always know what I need, my dear friend."

Penelope heard rather than saw her friend's smile. "Oh, you knew that I would live and die for you," Phoebe paused, as if not sure her next thought was proper. "You are… the closest thing I have ever had to a sister."

Tears pressed against Penelope's eyes but she forced them back, opting instead to squeeze down on Phoebe's shoulder. "We are not close to sisters, dear one," she told her. "We are sisters. Ask me for anything and I will grant it for you."

Phoebe laughed, pulling back only far enough to toss her golden hair. "You're lucky I don't want riches or a kingdom, my queen," she teased. Penelope rolled her eyes but focused again on her friend. "Honestly. I like the life I have. I live well beyond the average life for a woman of my station, and I am blessed enough that my queen calls me 'sister.' I would not change it."

Moving her hand to Phoebe's cheeks, Penelope swiped across her honeyed skin with her thumb, reveling in the presence of one who had never abandoned her or abandoned hope of her king's return in all the time the suitors had dogged their palace. "Dear one," she said. 

Lightly, Phoebe reached up and placed a hand on top of Penelope's. "I will not let any prying eyes see the contents of your missive," she told her, finally handing Penelope the parcel she held. "And here are the replies to your private correspondence. Although, I wager we won't need to be as secretive now that his majesty has returned home."

"I don't believe we will," Penelope agreed, shifting the parcel under her arm. "Go now, sister. Tell the world the King of Ithaca has returned home." Phoebe nodded, her black eyes reflecting the same happiness Penelope felt, bobbed a curtsy, and walked off down the hall to do just that.

Moving out of the alcove, Penelope spotted her son, Telemachus standing just close enough to it to overhear their conversation. Her sweet boy was practically vibrating with joy, his smile as wide as the sea and his enthusiasm just as boundless. "What makes me think you were eavesdropping again, dearest?" she asked, raising a brow at her child. Scratching a hand through his hair, so like his father's, Telemachus' smile turned sheepish.

"What would make you think that , Mamma?" he asked. Penelope shook her head in response, her smile never leaving her face. He looked so guilty, like a puppy that had been caught gnawing on the tapestries. 

Unable to stop herself, Penelope swooped down onto her boy to pepper his hair with kisses. The love overflowing in her heart needed someone to be directed at, after all. "Mamma!" Telemachus squirmed, laughing as he pulled away from her attack of kisses, although Penelope could see his secret pleased little smile. "Mamma, I'm a grown man!"

Now, that was doubtful , Penelope thought. Eighteen was hardly a grown man, he was still a youth even if by technicality he was considered a man. Although she realized a pang going through her heart, hadn't Odysseus barely been older than Telemachus was now when he went to war? Penelope shook herself, now wasn't the time for such realizations. Not when her Odysseus was finally home. "Oh, I see," she said wryly, instead. "My sweet boy has outgrown kisses from his parents, I will inform your father."

Telemachus' eyes widened. "No, no, I take it back," he told her, waving his hands in front of his chest. "I will accept any kisses you and Pappa give me!"

"He'll be thrilled," Penelope laughed, jumping onto her tiptoes to plant one last kiss on his forehead. "Now, we've had a long day. I think it's time to retire to bed." Her son sighed dramatically, but nodded. He'd always struggled with going to sleep, truly his father's son. She'd always told them both that it was because their heads were too full of schemes for Hypnos to easily lull them into his spell. 

As she turned her gaze from her son, Penelope saw a manservant, Aleksos, as he bobbed around them in the hall, his arms full of rags, a bucket of water stained red, and bottles of minerals that her husband had mentioned to their loyal men were useful in removing blood from stone. The blood of the suitors, she remembered in a rush. The vile men who had whispered about wishing to murder her boy. The vile men who had shouted boisterously about wishing to rape her. The vile who her husband had cut into many little pieces for daring to threaten them, to threaten their servants, to threaten Ithaca. 

Penelope smiled once more at the memory, allowing herself the cruelty. Ah well, she decided. It was cruel, but it was just. The massacre had been ordained by the gods and she, for one, was not about to admonish them. "Keep your sword on you when you retire, my darling," she told Telemachus. His eyes had followed Aleksos the same as hers, and he turned to mirror her smile. "Of course, Mamma," he told her, pressing her hand between his own. "It never hurts to be safe."

But quickly the moment passed and the unbridled joy returned to his eyes. "Besides," he continued matter of factly. "I've already instructed the cooks to prepare Pappa's favorite foods for breakfast."

Penelope blinked in surprise, then pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh. Oh, she had raised the sweetest boy alive. "And how is it that you know your Pappa's favorite breakfast foods, Telemachus? I don't believe I've told you those."

Telemachus gave a light shrug. "Lady Athena," he said as if it were perfectly normal to have conversations with a goddess about your father's food preferences. With that he pressed a kiss to her cheek and walked away, whistling as he did, and leaving Penelope staring after him incredulously. Her son really was something, she thought.

The sea breeze blew the curtains that led out to their balcony in gentle waves, perfuming the air with salt and brine and sage. Penelope breathed in the scent, filling her lungs with the smell of Ithaca, of Home. It soothed the stirring in her stomach, the fear that this was nothing but a beautiful dream. Or perhaps it was the man that the curtains danced around that did that.

Between the curtain and open double doors, Odysseus was leaning against one of the red-painted pillars that belonged to the colonnade framing their balcony. His back was to her, his attention focused on the city that expanded out below them. Their little island home. 

Even from there, Penelope could hear their people celebrating in the streets and she had to once again marvel at her husband's mind. Almost immediately after eliminating the suitors, Odysseus had asked their head cook if they had already started preparing the, now deceased, men's meals for the week, to which their cook had trepidatiously said he had. Penelope was certain he had not expected Odysseus to smile, proclaim that it was excellent news, and then command all the food to still be prepared but be distributed amongst the common people instead. "It is a time for celebration," he had said, eyes alight. "Let there be a festival."

Looking at him now, Penelope knew that his reasons for this generosity had been twofold. While he was using the food to win the love of his people back after two decades away, she also knew that he also would be loath to let his people suffer while they had an excess of food. She knew it doubly because what would she have given to do the same all these years? But guest right had demanded she feed and house them, that she let them rob Ithaca blind until they could take no more. 

Odysseus was both kind and practical, generous and mercenary, he could not be one without the other. He wouldn't be the man she loved if he was. 

Silent as a cat, she slipped across the room to their bed, resting her hand in the branches and tracing the artfully twisted knots and dips that formed it. Their marital bed is formed from a still-living tree. Odysseus had chosen his metaphor well when he had created it, she thought. Softly, she leaned against one of the posts and drank in the sight of her husband.

The late afternoon sunlight fell heavily onto him like a lover's embrace, turning his dark, chestnut hair into glowing amber as the breeze ran through it. He still wore the mantle that he had left home in, a detail that made Penelope's heart squeeze. Had he not had anything else to wear, at least for the last ten years? Why else would he still be dressed like a soldier? 

His frame was slimmer than she remembered as if he had become nothing but skin, muscle, and bones. His sandals were falling apart, horrible blisters forming on the joints of his ankles and feet. His beautiful hair was wild and snarled from years of being whipped around by the sea, and longer than it had ever been. Not that Penelope was complaining, if she was honest, it was a rather attractive look on him, as was the beard. If only they didn't both scream of self-neglect. Odysseus never had been the best at remembering he had a physical body that he needed to care for and not just a mind. 

But he was alive, and he was here , and that was enough. 

"Did you know that Pallas Athena is revealing your favorite breakfast dishes to our son?" she asked as lightly as possible, momentarily vindicated when Odysseus jumped in surprise at her voice. Penelope had always been able to sneak up on him, he used to say that he needed to put a bell on her and she took a juvenile pleasure in still having the talent. But as her husband whipped around to face her too fast to be anything but a reflex, his jump looked more and more like a flinch. 

It was only a moment before his eyes found her and his mind caught up with his body, but it was enough for Penelope's very soul to ache for the pain her love had gone through all those years. All she could do was wait patiently for him, soothe him when he was within the reach of her arms, and while frustrating if that was all she could do, Penelope would damn well do it. Odysseus had crossed oceans for her, she could wait for him to catch his breath.

As it was, he blinked twice, processing what she'd said, and then smiled at her and huffed a laugh. "Well, I can't pretend that doesn't sound like her," Odysseus told her with a small shake of his head. "She always did favor the sneakier methods of retrieving information." 

Nodding thoughtfully, Penelope slowly crept along the floor towards him, her hand trailing across the branches of their bed as she went. There was a desperate longing in her husband's light brown eyes that she was sure was reflected in her own, both of them horribly afraid to touch each other and have this turn out to be a dream. "What sort of methods?" she asked too sweetly to read as a sincere question. "Like lying to a goddess in order to goad her into showing herself?"

Odysseus leveled her with a deadpan stare. "What kind of hubristic fool would do that, Pen?" he asked sarcastically, a spark of light in his eye. Play with me , it whispered and Penelope happily rushed to meet it, the sound of his voice filling her with light.

"Not a clue, my heart," she said in return, tamping down on the joy threatening to bubble over inside of her again so that she could keep a straight face in their game. Odysseus' eyes flashed. First to break loses, they taunted. "He sounds like the kind of person to propose marriage to the most beautiful woman in the world's cousin instead of her."

"Ah," he sighed. "But you fail to take into account that the cousin was probably the perfect match for the hubristic fool's wit as well as being twice as lovely as her cousin."

Penelope bursts into giggles pressing her hands together. "I am not twice as beautiful as Helen, Odysseus!" she laughed, then realizing what she had done covered her mouth with a hand. "I mean–"

"The horror!" Her husband gasped, shaking his head in jest. "It appears my lady love has become the hubristic fool in my absence, imagining herself to be the cousin of whom we speak! I will have to inform the Lady Athena."

Penelope choked on her giggles, desperately trying to find a way to salvage the game for herself but she simply couldn't force them down. All the stress and worry of the past decades was pouring out of her in the form of laughter, which she supposed, was a fine alternative to that pain. Her vision blurred, tears of laughter sending Odysseus slightly out of focus but not enough that she didn't see his eyes soften or recognize the adoration and love in his gaze. 

Gently, Odysseus crossed to her from the balcony and pulled her into his arms as she tried to catch her breath. Instinctually, Penelope curled herself tighter into him, pressing into the warmth of his body like she could crawl into his skin and make them one. "Was it truly that funny, Pen?" he whispered into her hair. "I'm not sure my little jokes were really worth your laughter."

Nodding against him, Penelope sighed and nuzzled her face into his neck. In her dreams, Odysseus never smelled like anything, like he was a ghost rather than a man. But now, Penelope could smell his leathers, his sweat, and the metallic scent of bronze all underpinned by the same sea breeze she had grown to love. Even while the smell of a sailor was, admittedly, rarely pleasant and her husband was no different, he smelled like Ithaca, like Home.

"Yes, it was," she told him, her lips ghosting across the shell of his ear. At the kiss of her hot breath, he shivered against her, pulling her closer on reflex. "Since it means that you're here to make me laugh again." 

Pressed against him as she was, Penelope felt as Odysseus drew a shaky breath. Her poor love, so much about him, had become unmoored, she thought. On her back and waist, his hands had begun to shake ever so slightly where they rested. Although whether it was from exhaustion or fear, Penelope didn't know. Either way, she knew what would help. 

Smiling and sniffing back her tears of joy, Penelope pressed onto her tip toes and planted a kiss onto the end of Odysseus' nose. "Now," she said and gestured deeper into their chambers and towards their adjoining bathing room. "I think we have some washing up to do before we retire, husband."

What she hadn't expected was for him to flush as red as the columns in their palace, yet that was exactly what he did. "Forgive me, my love," he looked away from her, eyes cast down in shame, and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. "I haven't…" he paused, and Penelope saw his throat working. Oh, her darling. Pride always had been a struggle for him. "I haven't had access to a bath in a long while and I–"

"Odysseus." Penelope cut him off, firm in her tone but running a thumb along his shoulder to soften the sting. "I would make love to you right here on the floor just as you are." At this, Odysseus blinked in shock, his eyes meeting hers again. Really, did he think that only he was allowed to worship the ground his lover walked on? "You, however," Penelope continued, flicking up her eyes to his, purposefully trapping him between her lashes in the way that had always made him want her. "Seem to be self-conscious about it. So we are going to bathe."

Eyes still wide but Penelope was gratified to see, slowly filling with desire, Odysseus nodded and conceded to letting her pull him across their chambers and into their bathing room by the hand, following her like a lost puppy. 

The bathing room had always been one of Penelope's favorite places in the palace. Built on a hot spring, when she had first arrived from Sparta, Penelope remembered being enthralled by the ever-steaming waters. She and Odysseus had spent hours here as newlyweds, enjoying each other's company and enjoying each other. The walls were painted with beautiful scenes of the gods and the reliefs, showing nymphs and flowers, had been carved by her husband's own hand. As had the mosaic that tiled the floor been designed and laid by him in the pattern of her favorite myths, a labor of love for her. 

"You know," she murmured as she toed off her sandals and collected all the bottles they would need for their bath. "I don't think I remember often enough how much the gods have blessed us with the ability to have hot baths whenever we wish."

Odysseus hummed in agreement, his eyes drinking in the sight of their little haven. After a moment, Penelope heard him murmur a prayer to Athena that she had heard him pray a thousand times before. It was so familiar to her ear, that she had recognized the cadence of his voice as he prayed it rather than the words he spoke, she realized and tears sprang to her eyes at the mundanity. He truly was back again, she could not have imagined the prayer.

The bath, truly more of a tiled pool, babbled merrily like one of the many brooks that Ithaca was home to as the steam rose into the air. It clung to Odysseus' hair, making his wild mop of waves curl in the misty air. Penelope smiled at the little ringlets, she had always loved running her fingers through them, but her smile faltered as she examined her husband's face.

Half turned away from her, Odysseus was staring down at the water of their bathing pool with a look of trepidation in his eyes. Oh, love, Penelope thought as she watched him. It wouldn't do for an island king to be frightened of going to the water again. 

Thinking fast, an idea struck her, so quickly it had to be divine inspiration. "My heart?" she called sweetly, waiting until his eyes were focused on her before smiling devilishly and pulling off her chiton in one fell swoop. Penelope tilted her head at him, with a teasing smile and eyes alight, as she stood before him stark naked. Odysseus, having opened his mouth to say something to her, trailed off into stuttering as he looked at her breasts for the first time in two decades. "Thoughts?" she asked, vindicated in her distraction.

He looked up at her, his eyes, normally as sharp as a sword point, dazed. "Tits are so great when they're connected to your wife." 

Penelope laughed, her body feeling fizzy and warm as he stared at her with undisguised lust even after all those years. "Strange." Penelope stepped up next to him and unfastened his cloak pin, tarnished and beaten but still recognizably bearing the symbol of Hermes. Soon his stained green mantle had hit the ground and was quickly joined by his sword belt, tunic, and leathers. "I had the same thought about… other parts of yours," she continued, palming the aforementioned part as she went. 

Maneuvering around her wandering hands, Odysseus pulled her against him again and kissed her firmly, his lips tasting of salt. As quickly as he had kissed her, he pulled back and began to trail kisses down her bare neck and onto her clavicle, his embrace the sweetest weight around her. She felt herself grow heavy as she relaxed into them. 

For a long moment, Penelope considered letting this continue, considered pulling them both to the floor and allowing her husband to ravish her on the mosaic tiles. Everywhere his lips touched burned with desire, pleasure spreading across her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her fingers as Odysseus held her upright in his arms as he always had. Always the strong one, always the protector, not with physicality but with his games of wits. 

His breath was hot against her, his desire evident as clung to her. His desire for her , for only her, she thought, remembering how he'd looked the first they'd made love in their marital bed. Odysseus' mouth moved across her sternum, leaving trails of fire in his wake. He has only ever ached for me , Penelope thought. The idea made her shiver in delight. And yet, she knew she could not let this continue.

Already her Odysseus' muscles were shaking under her hands as he strained to keep them both upright. Even as he kissed her, she could feel that the dizzy feeling surrounding her was not simply from desire and the steam but from the fact that her lover was gently swaying where they stood. No matter how much she desired him, she wouldn't let him hurt himself in order to make love to her and Penelope would have bet money on the fact that if they tried to sleep together Odysseus would faint dead away.

With great difficulty, Penelope managed to get herself under control and gently extricate herself from her lover's arms, although her resolve almost broke when Odysseus pouted at her, clearly wanting the same thing she did. Still, she hardened her heart to his prodigious puppy dog eyes, and took his hands instead, pressing a kiss to each in turn.

"Later, my heart," she told him, letting her desire color her voice just enough to remind him that this delay was not out of a lack of want. Never a lack of want. Her husband was as beautiful as the day she'd lost him. "But we're meant to be bathing! You sly man, you distracted me!"

Odysseus winked. "I am, after all," he said slowly, allowing her to draw him towards the water. "Just a man." Penelope swatted at him with one of the combs she'd gathered, making him laugh in turn. The sound still made her heart beat a little faster, even if it was quieter and more wary than it had been before the war. 

Carefully, Penelope sank into the hot water, moaning as it hit her aching muscles. "Penelope!" Odysseus told her, his voice strained. Penelope glanced up at him and snorted at the flustered look on his beautiful face. "You can't tell me we aren't going to make love on the floor and then make those noises ."

"Oh?" Penelope laughed, pressing a hand to her chest which only made Odysseus shake his head harder at her. His hair was sticking out at odd angles as he rapidly ran his hands through it. "I am distracting you now?" she asked sweetly.

Odysseus gave her a dark look that was chased away by a small smile as she held out her hands again. "Very much so, yes," he told him petulantly, but took her hands and allowed her to carefully help him down into the sunken pool. 

Her hands grazed his hips, stabilized his legs before they could buckle, and guided his arms to keep him balanced. Every inch of him was as precious to her as the most delicate votive figures in the temples, and she would show him that every day until the Fates parted them once more. As soft as linen, Penelope dragged him through the steaming, sweet-smelling water and into her waiting arms, bestowing him with a gentle kiss before reaching for their washing cloths. 

Following her eyes, Odysseus reached for one as well, his other hand coming up to massage her shoulders as he had so many times before. That wouldn't do, Penelope decided. Before he could reach the clothes, she caught his hands between her own and shook her head. This time, instead of being teasingly put out, Penelope could see that her rebuffing his attempts to care for her was confusing him. His little worry line appeared in between his eyebrows, his mouth half open as he tried to find the words to rectify his perceived slight to her.

"I'm not upset with you," Penelope told him, heading off the thought at the pass. The confusion in his eyes only grew, and she pressed a finger to his lips to stall the questions no doubt forming in his mind. "Let me take care of you tonight, my heart."

Odysseus blinked, several thoughts flitting across his eyes clear as day to Penelope. Patiently, she waited until they settled and her love relaxed, accepting of her care if only to indulge her. Swift and light as the wind, he nipped at the tip of her finger that was still pressed to his lips in retaliation before kissing it and letting it drop into the water.

Pleased, Penelope smiled and slipped through the water until she was practically in his lap, her washcloths and soaps at her fingers. "You're so beautiful in the water, my love," Odysseus told her, resting his head against the lip of the bath to watch her. Penelope gave a little curtsy, simply to brighten the light in his eyes and widen his smile.

"Would my mother be proud?" she teased, taking hold of his arm and gently scrubbing at the layers of brine that had accumulated there. Odysseus nodded contemplatively. "I think all water nymphs would," he told her, twirling a strand of her dark hair around one of his long fingers. "What parent doesn't love when their child inherits their talents?"

"Telemachus is a beautiful singer of the epics," Penelope told him secretively, remembering how her husbands used to serenade her with the stories. "I believe poetry may be his greatest love."

"Oh." Odysseus flicked his tongue across his lips, his eyes misted with tears. "I didn't…" he trailed off, his eyes falling instead to her hands working their way up his arms.

"Didn't what, my heart?" she asked, purposefully keeping her eyes down to let him compose himself.

"I didn't think that Telemachus would bear any of my characteristics," he said quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the room. "Seeing as I… wasn't here," he finished, the tremor of emotion running down his body under her hands.

"Odysseus." Penelope stilled her ministrations long enough to cradle his face. "There has not been a day that has gone by that Telemachus has not begged for stories of you. From me and from, I assume, our Lady Athena." Her fingers smoothed over the worry lines that had only grown deeper. "He is your boy."

Quietly, Odysseus nodded, pressing his lips together and allowing her to resume her work. "So…" he paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "What all has happened in the time that I've been gone? Did all our friends return home safely? Diomedes? Helen and Menelaus? What's the word of my sister?"

"Diomedes comes often to keep me company and tutor Telemachus in swordplay, as well as to put the fear of the gods into the suitors," Penelope paused as Odysseus grumbled something about how he should have killed them slower. She smiled at the words and kissed his shoulder. "Yes, thank you, my love. My honor was suitably defended." Turning his head to meet her eye, Odysseus smiled at her. "I expect he will come post-haste once he gets my letter telling him of your return."

"Oh, good, you've already sent one," Odysseus said on an exhale, his eyelids drooping ever so slightly. Penelope stroked one softly before pulling back a moment to grab the first of the sweet-smelling soaps she had collected for them. Silently she held them up for him to choose, the bottles scented with orange and sage in one hand and eucalyptus and crocus in the other. "I had meant to ask someone to do that before retiring to bed," he paused, pointing to a bottle. "Sage. I knew that I was forgetting something, I had begun to feel too relaxed."

Penelope sent him a wry look. "Well, I'm here to help you remember now," she told him as she layered the sage onto his skin, passing over scar tissue and tensed muscles as she scrubbed in small circles. "As for my dearest Helen and her Menelaus, they reached Sparta with only minor issues. I believe they too were blown off course for a spell, reaching as far as Egypt, but they were swiftly back on course." Odysseus had tensed under her hands at the knowledge that their friends might be in the same peril as he had been and Penelope was quick to rid him of the worry.

Moving onto his chest Penelope thought back to who else he'd asked after. Ctimene. "Your sister is also well," she told him and felt even more tension leave him at the news. The baby of the family, Ctimene was the special pet of all her relatives, something Penelope had understood right after meeting her. The girl was a delight, witty, kind, pretty, and loyal, with the same laughing, upturned, almond eyes as Odysseus although they were darker in color. She bore the same wild dark mess of waves and curls as her brother, recognizable even bound in golden jewelry as it often was. 

Penelope had always found the siblings remarkably similar, even among their differences, as if they were the very shades of Phoebus Apollo and Artemis Agrotera themselves. Both were light of foot and small of frame, with bright, clever eyes and quicksilver smiles. Yet while Ctimene had reveled in the world, Penelope had always found Odysseus to hold it at arm's length with a smile on his face and mistrust in his eyes. It was as if he liked the world, but didn't share his younger sister's ideas that it was trustworthy. 

Through the years Odysseus had been away, Ctimene's company was the only thing even approaching what it felt like to speak to her husband. Well, until Telemachus grew older and she found that he had inherited his father's mind, but in any case, it had never been a chore to accept the other woman as her own younger sister. Yet, she didn't know how to speak of Ctimene without bringing up Eurylochus, her husband and Odysseus' second in command who had notably not returned with him. 

She bit her lip. It seemed there would only be one miracle for the Laertiades. But Odysseus wished to know of his sister. "I also sent word to her," Penelope continued, maneuvering him into a better position for her to wash. "I expect she might even beat Diomedes here. You have truly been missed, my heart."

Odysseus sighed and leaned into her touch. "Aren't you going to ask what happened to him, Pen?" he asked, his voice hoarse and so infinitely tired. Inside of her chest, Penelope could feel her own heart seize. 

"I will if you wish to tell me," she told him instead. After a moment Odysseus nodded, his damp hair flopping into his eyes from the movement. "What happened to Eurolychus?"

"He–" Odysseus stopped abruptly, opened his mouth once more, and then closed it again, his breath catching in his throat. Concerned, Penelope braced him with her hands. Let him use her strength as his own. "It is my fault," he told her flatly, the light brown of his irises dull with grief. He sighed sharply. "Well, not entirely. It was both of our faults."

"Most things often are," Penelope murmured, as she kept hold of him, kept him safe under her watchful eye. Odysseus gave her a rueful smile.

"You are right, of course," he told her, then paused again, fidgeting with his hands in the way he only did when deeply upset. If he was trying to assuage her concern, he was certainly failing, Penelope thought. "It was just… He lost faith in me. That I would get us home."

Whatever she had expected him to say it wasn't that. Eurolychus, the loyal friend who dogged her lover's every movement, lose faith in his King? "Why?" she asked carefully. The laugh that came from Odysseus' mouth was devoid of humor. 

"I don't actually know." His face twisted and Penelope saw the look of bone-deep betrayal hiding just beneath the surface. "He probably would have given an answer, but I don't think he trusted me even before he realized that he didn't." Penelope nodded, that she could believe. "But he," Odysseus continued. "He could have come to me in private, without turning the crew against me with his doubts… But he didn't. Instead he caused a mutiny."

"He what?" Penelope gasped, her hands flying over her husband again searching for injuries, for the places where his so-called best friend had hurt him. "What possessed him–"

"I sacrificed six of our men to save the remaining thirty-six from Scylla," Odysseus told her, his voice still horribly dead. Like he thought that she'd condemn him. She wished she could assure him that she wouldn't, she had also had to do what it took to survive. "And Eurolychus… objected. Despite the fact that perhaps six hours later he got our remaining men killed with his hopelessness and lack of forethought."

"And yet," Odysseus continued, the words spilling out of him like he'd been holding them in for years. "Even after he mutinied, even after they tied me up at the base of that statue, even after they didn't listen to my warnings about danger, the moment that Eurolychus had a difficult decision to make, the moment he had to face the consequences of his actions, he was calling me captain again."

The story was coming to her in fragments now, danger, a mutiny, her husband being made helpless to do anything but watch as his brother damned his crew and then foisted the consequences of his actions back onto Odysseus. Oh, Eurylochus, Penelope thought, her heart aching for the lost soul who had ended his life inhabiting the body of her friend. What have you done, my friend? She could see the same pain and hurt reflected back at her in Odysseus' eyes. Sympathy and Betrayal warring for control.

"What did he do, my heart?" she asked gently, brushing damp ringlets from her husband's eyes. Odysseus leaned into her hand, chasing her touch.

"He slaughtered one of the Sun God's sacred cows," he said simply. Stomach plummeting, Penelope felt her eyes go wide and her hand still. "He said he was starving, and decided to kill one. And no matter how I begged he wouldn't relent."

"Did he not understand," Penelope asked, finally feeling the burn of anger begin to swell in her breast. "That he was dooming you all?"

Odysseus looked at her with tired eyes. "I have no idea. I… I tried to get us to safety, but no one can outrun the gods. Especially not Lord Zeus." Penelope's eyes widened even further, her body going cold even in the heat of the water. "He said as the captain I should choose for the crew, either I lived or they did. But Penelope, was Eurylochus not captain by then? Should he not have asked the Thunderbringer to bear that choice?"

He shook his head. "But no, he didn't actually want to make the choices, he simply wanted to rail at me for mine without providing any viable alternatives. I would have loved to not sacrifice any men to Scylla, Pen. But I had to choose the good of the whole that time." He paused, looking up to meet her eyes. "Was I wrong?" he asked. "Penelope, was I wrong to choose to live over my crew?"

For a long moment, she considered it. It was ruthless certainly, and shockingly cold towards men who had once been his dearest friends. But then again, so was mutiny, so was blaming your friend for your own faults. "No," she decided. "No, you weren't. You were cold, perhaps, but they made their own beds and now they must lie in them. You did not force Eurylochus' hand, not to betray you and not to kill that cow. You were the only one of them that did not commit sacrilege, my heart."

Gently, she brought their heads together. "Besides, selfishly," she told him, quieter this time. "I needed you, Telemachus needed you, Ithaca needed you. I am glad you chose yourself instead of taking the blame for your crew."

Tears filled her husband's eyes at her words, as he grimaced in distress. "I miss him, Penelope," he confessed quietly. In a moment, Penelope had pulled him into her arms to hold him. "I miss him, and I miss Polites, and I miss all my men who died along the way."

"I know, I know," she murmured into his hair, making a mental note to ask about Polites at a later date. "I miss them too. I miss the men they were, their friendship and loyalty."

"Why did it have to end like that?" he asked her, his voice raspy with barely restrained tears. "I wish it did end like that."

Her chest hurt. The force of his pain and grief invading into her lungs, making it difficult to draw breath. "The fates weave strange tales, Odysseus. I'm sorry it ended like that too. For you, for Eurylochus and Mene, for your crew."

"But you are not responsible for the mistakes of others, no matter how much you love them and that was Eurylochus' mistake and your crew's for standing by and watching. Do you understand?" Penelope brandished a new wash cloth covered in sage soap and gestured with it at him. Odysseus nodded, the smallest smile coming back to his face. "Now lay back while I finish my washing."

"Yes, my queen," he said tiredly. But at least his smile reached his eyes, Penelope thought. And at least he did what she asked and laid back. So, she set back to work with her washing as he closed his eyes and let her have her way with him. 

The cloth moved quickly over his hands, the planes of his stomach, and his sharp shoulder blades. Eventually, she moved lower, scrubbing the more sensitive areas that were submerged in the water. Once again, her thoughts strayed to how she had missed him. Maybe it would be possible for her to pleasure him without hurting him. Maybe that could work, she thought as she continued her monotonous work.

"Pen." Odysseus' voice was shockingly alert for a man she had assumed was resting. He continued, "Why have you been staring contemplatively at my penis for the past five minutes?"

Penelope looked him dead in his pretty eyes. "I was trying to figure out if you would faint if I jerked you off," she said. Odysseus choked on a surprised gale of laughter, his emotions still heightened from their prior conversation. Instead of blushing, she doubled down with a smile, "You know…just a little bit," she told him.

Odysseus shrugged and grinned at her, finally looking like the boy she had once known. "Well, if you insist–" 

"No, no. I didn't say I came to the conclusion that it was safe," she teased, bringing the cloth back to imitate the motions she might use.

"Pen!" he cried out, half in laughter and half in aggravation. That was finally what broke her too and she joined him as they both dissolved into slightly manic, laughter. Penelope buried her face into his neck as they laughed, his arms wrapping around her on instinct.

It took a long moment before the two of them could control themselves enough to look at each other without bursting back out into laughter. But, eventually, they both managed to relax back into their prior routine, and Penelope was able to scrub the last of brine and sweat from his skin. 

"Now to make you soft and pretty," she told him with a coy smile that only grew when Odysseus rolled his eyes at her, trying and failing to hide the fondness in them. "Hand me the oils, would you, love?" she asked, gesturing a hand towards the assorted stoppered colored-glass glass bottles that she'd placed near the lip of the tub.

"Really, Penelope," he said, even as he did as she asked. "You are the sweetest person I have ever met, but you don't have to lavish me with attention."

"I know that I don't have to," she told him, catching his eye before opening the wine-colored glass bottle and pouring the contained oil onto her hands. Slippery as a fish, Penelope swirled around her husband until she was pressed to the side of the bath with Odysseus resting between her legs. "But," Penelope continued, gently brushing his long curls over his left shoulder and out of her way. "I want to. I want to catch up on twenty years of holding each other."

Odysseus sighed, tilting his head back to look up at her with so much love on his face that Penelope almost had to look away. Almost. She was Penelope of Sparta and she would not hide from the man who loved her. "Very well. The things I do for you," he said.

"And letting yourself be cared for is one of these wild things?" she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it. Her hands moved to his shoulders, gently gliding the oil over his muscles to prepare them.

"Oh, my love," Odysseus said, smiling sadly at her. "You know that it is."

Returning the smile, Penelope nodded. "I do at that," she told him. "Turn your head back around and I'll start."

With that, she pressed her thumb down deep into the muscles of his shoulder and back. Earlier, when she had embraced him after ensuring that it was truly him who had returned home, Penelope had felt them spasming from what she thought was the exertion of using his bow after so long but as she massaged into the muscles she wondered if she hadn't been mistaken. 

Where there should have been smooth muscles, there was a mass of thick knots and scar tissue that jittered under her fingers as she passed over them. "Oh, sweetheart…" she murmured, her fingers catching at a particularly bad knot in his shoulder blade. The movement pulled a noise from Odysseus, half gasp and half cry of pain. Quickly, Penelope backed off that spot, pressing a kiss to it in apology. "Your poor body has taken so much stress keeping you safe, it must hurt dreadfully!"

"It's not…" Odysseus trailed off with a smaller gasp of pain, waving Penelope on when she tried to stop. "Admittedly, it's not the most pleasant experience. But dreadfully? I can mostly ignore it."

Penelope bit her lip. He shouldn't have to ignore it. He should be allowed to lay around their bed for days on end until the pain stopped. But, she thought wryly, Odysseus would never agree to that. He would go mad with boredom in barely half a day. "Even so," she told him. "I'm going to work on these every night until they release. That is," she paused. "Unless you want a handmaiden or manservant to do it, they may honestly be more skilled–"

Odysseus froze under her hands, the movement subtle but enough for Penelope to cut off her own ramble. "My heart?" she asked, coaxing like he was a wild animal instead of a king.

He blinked at her, ever so slightly too fast. "It's nothing," he said, giving her that subdued smile once more. It hurt her heart. How desperately she missed the flash of his lightning-fast grins, and the sliver of teeth that always appeared after he'd come up with a particularly clever idea. But they'd reappear, she knew. They always did according to Ctimene. "I'd simply rather have no one touch me but you," Odysseus finished.

It was Penelope's turn to blink, confusion and concern flaring in her breast before they steadily cooled to an icy horror and understanding. She knew the myths, she knew what happened to mortals who didn't behave exactly how the powerful beings of their world wanted them to. Oh please, Lady Athena, Penelope found herself praying. Let me be wrong, Tell me he was safe, at least in that regard.

But Penelope knew what the answer was, even without the goddess confirming or denying her worries. She pressed her lips together and continued to massage the oils deep into her love's overworked body. "Your choice," she said lightly as her fingers danced up to his neck. "I'm pleased, I wanted to be the one to do it. Bend forward."

Doing so, Odysseus laughed at her comment. "Well, what my queen wants, she will get," he told her. "I have enough festivals and birthdays to make up for anyway."

"As do we!" Penelope responded indignantly.  "Telemachus picked a present out for you every year, so you have a closet full waiting for you."

"Did he?" Odysseus asked, his smile growing when Penelope nodded. "He's such a good, sweet boy. I couldn't imagine a better son."

"Oh, I'm rather fond of him too," Penelope said sagely, working out the knots ravaging his neck and the base of his scalp. "Deep breath," she told him. "Do you want some stories of him?"

Face tense with pain but eyes bright, Odysseus nodded, his ragged breaths in time with her fingers rolling over the tender stops threaded across his body. "Well, let's see," Penelope began, running through her thoughts for the best stories of their son. "He could swim before he could walk."

Odysseus laughed, clearly pleased. "A true Ithacan," he got out between gasps of pain. Penelope hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss into the skin of his back and reveling in the shudder it brought through her husband.

"Like father, like son," she told him. Odysseus looked at her over his shoulder, tilting his head in disbelief. 

"Like father, like son?" he asked incredulously. Shaking her head playfully in a way she hoped indicated that she wouldn't repent for saying it, Penelope wondered why that was something her husband took issue with. Strange, strange man, Penelope thought, even as she fought down a smile. Has he not always been an amazing swimmer?

"Forgive me, my heart," she said dryly. "I must have been thinking of my other husband. You know, the fastest and strongest swimmer in Ithaca?"

Odysseus scoffed. "I wasn't denying that I'm a good swimmer, Pen," he said as if this had been clear. It had not. Making sure he was watching her, Penelope rolled her eyes. "Cruel thing," he told her, leaning backward into her arms so that she was forced to wrap them around him again. Not that she minded. "I am an island king. Saying that our son takes after me in swimming would be valid except for the fact that you, his mother, are half water nymph!"

Although she had been fully prepared to refute him, Penelope paused, opened her mouth, and then closed it again. "Well, I had not thought of that," she said finally, with as much dignity as she could muster before she would inevitably start giggling. Luckily, Odysseus didn't appear to be far off from that himself.

"Ah," he said simply, keeping his face carefully flat even as his eyes danced with laughter. Pressing her lips together to suppress her smile, Penelope nodded. "Well, I'll just turn back around then, shall I?"

"That would be best, I think," she teased, applying more oil to her hands before going back to attacking his knotted muscles. "Besides," she added when she felt him tense in pain again. "I promised you stories of our boy."

"Continue then," Odysseus told her. "I would–"

His speech broke off in a low hiss of pain as his muscle spasmed under her fingers, Penelope wincing right along with him. "Oh, love," she murmured, her fingers soothing across gently. "Well, you also wanted news of your beloved sister, did you not?" she asked breezily, even as her heart contracted in pain at the state of her love's muscles. Gods, she thought. He must be in near-constant pain. "I can think of at least a couple of stories that involve them both. She dotes on him, if you'll recall?"

Odysseus hummed in confirmation that he did, in fact, remember how his younger sister had cooed over their baby in his cradle, how well she had taken to being an aunt. "When Telemachus was young, and when our Mene was in Ithaca, of course, she would help me bathe him in this very tub." Penelope scritched at the base of Odysseus' head, relishing the careless touches between them that she hadn't appreciated until they'd been gone. "Your sister," she continued, his shoulder clicking audibly under her hands. "Would always bring these lovely wooden toy boats to Telemachus, and while I washed his hair, she would distract him by staging the wildest naval battles that I had ever seen in the water before him."

Penelope laughed at the memory. She could still see them now, her sister-in-law soaked by the waves she had created in their battle as Telemachus clapped with all the enthusiasm a two-year-old could muster. "Oh, he'd be enthralled for hours, Odysseus," she told her husband. "She's quite the performer, your sister. Runs in the family, I think. At any rate, Telemachus would babble excitedly and Ctimene would treat it like the greatest raving review of her talents. I remember, he particularly liked it when Mene made the crashing noises of the ships hitting each other," she remembered with another laugh, and was rewarded with a laugh from her husband as well.

"Does he ride?" Odysseus asked the moment her first story was done. Obligingly, Penelope launched into another about the first time Telemachus had galloped on his mare, and how her heart had leaped into her throat when he called to her that he could ride with 'no hands.' "I'd accept a derisive "like father, like son" here," Odysseus teased her. 

"Oh, believe me," she told him, as she whapped him lightly with her oil-covered hands. "I knew it then. Anyone who has ever heard him speak, or move, or breathe, knows he's your boy." She elected to ignore the hitch in his breath at that, simply continuing on with another story as he quickly requested. And another when that one was finished, and then another. And another.

"By the gods, Odysseus," Penelope laughed when she was certain that she had done all she could for his muscles just then. "You're as voracious for stories of our son as he himself was for stories of you as a little child!"

Although she once again felt his laughter against her as she wiped her hands and his skin with a cloth, Penelope could tell from the odd shake in his shoulders that he was near tears. Perhaps that revelation could have waited until the morning, she thought. But, never mind that now. Penelope gently eased him back against her, so that they were pressed skin to skin and simply embraced him for a moment.

"You're here now," she murmured into his hair, holding him tighter when his breathing grew ragged. "You're home. You're never going to be taken from me ever again."

"Penelope," he whispered, voice breathless and thick. Nuzzling into his neck, she shushed him softly.

" I'm here now," she told him. "You're safe, I will keep you safe."

Odysseus breathed in deeply. "I know," he told her quietly, his own lips brushing against her cheek, her ear, her brow. "I know you will, my love. My queen. My Penelope. "

Penelope shivered at the reverence with which he had said her name, you would have thought he had spoken the name of Golden Aphrodite or Bright-eyed Athena. She wondered if that was what she sounded like when she spoke Odysseus' name, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew that it was. Tears pricked her eyes, tracing hot and salty lines down her face and onto her husband's chest, just as she felt the same running into her hair as Odysseus wept with her.

After a long moment, Penelope pulled herself up and wiped the tears from her own and her husband's eyes. "Pass me the vinegar and olive oil, my heart," she told him, as she eased him into a better position for her to wash and detangle his long hair. Without a word, Odysseus complied, in that way that he would only do for her. "Good boy," she murmured, taking the bottles from him.

Odysseus stiffened. "Penelope," he said, voice carefully even. As she stroked her fingers down the side of his face, Penelope giggled. His skin had grown hot from flushing. "You can't just say things like that."

"Like what?" she asked him innocently. 

"You cruel, wicked, beautiful thing," Odysseus groaned in response. Penelope was positively preening at the words. What was the point of being married if you couldn't drive your lover wild with lust every once and a while? Well, love, she knew. But the lust was an added bonus.

"Now," Penelope sighed contentedly. "Onto your mane."

Odysseus laughed tiredly, as Penelope began to section his matted curls into sections. Even she had to admit it was the worst she'd ever seen her husband's usually beautiful hair, although that was partially due to the fact that Penelope had taken rather quickly to playing with it in the early days of their courtships. Your man's been blessed by Lady Aphrodite, Pene, she remembered Clytemnestra teasing her as she had waxed poetic about Odysseus one night in those early days. The way you talk about him, you'd think he was prettier than Helen! Penelope smiled at the memory of Helen's wild laughter at the comment, and how Clytemnestra had shrieked when Penelope had attacked her with a decorative pillow for it. 

Now his lovely dark hair was dulled by years of neglect and layers of sea brine that turned the rich brown dull. The wild curls that she had spun around her fingers were tangled into complicated knots that even her weaver's hand would struggle to undo. Ah well, Penelope thought, raising her comb and the olive oil. I do love a challenge. 

Deftly, Penelope separated the top of her husband's hair from the bottom and secured it to the top of his head with her bodkin, letting her own hair fall down her back at the removal from her chignon. Then, wielding her combs in one hand and her sewing shears in the other she set to work restoring Odysseus' hair piece by piece. Penelope gently coaxed out the windswept snarls before coating them in olive oil and twirling them back into the shape of curls, while the dead and frayed ends met their doom by the snip of her shears.

As she went, Penelope could feel Odysseus growing heavier in her arms as he finally relaxed against her, content to let her take care of things for once. Silently, Penelope swore to him that he would never have to do it on his own again. She was his, and he was hers; every burden they bore should be shared. To seal her silent promise, Penelope pressed a brief kiss to the side of his head as she let down a new section of his hair.

  Did they not have combs on that boat? Penelope wondered idly as she teased at a particularly stubborn knot. Well, perhaps they didn't, or perhaps they didn't have enough, but deep down Penelope knew the state of her Odysseus had more to do with his state of mind than a lack of hair combs. 

She remembered the days after their wedding, laying in bed with her new husband, trading stories, happy and sad, of their childhoods when Odysseus had told her about his first year as king of Ithaca. Penelope remembered how his voice broke remembering it, as he recounted his father growing ill from madness and leaving him the crown at only thirteen years old. One day a boy and the next a king, the man of the house, someone who was suddenly in charge of his own father. I was… quite distressed, Odysseus told her in confidence, not meeting her eyes. It is difficult to reconcile your father becoming so horribly confused when you thought he was infallible. It is difficult to run a kingdom when you imagined that you would have years more to learn how at his knee. 

He had told her that he hadn't let anyone touch him for months, scared that he would shatter entirely under their hands, and that in his distraction with his duties, he had neglected himself. Odysseus had laughed breathily as he told her, the first time Penelope had noticed how he used laughter when he was uncomfortable. Still, he continued, and she had learned how his hair had grown so disastrously tangled underneath the top layer of perfect curls that he had broken several combs trying to undo it.

In the end, he had whispered into her bare skin. I had to pray to my lady Pallas Athena for help. Only the Weaver herself was able to undo those knots, I fear. And she had, Penelope remembered. It was her favorite story of the goddess, better than any of the grand adventures she had heard tell of. In the years since that day, every time Penelope remembered the story she had gone to relight the candles at her husband's shrine to Athena and pray to her. 

As Penelope let down the last section of tangled hair, she gently pulled Odysseus down into her arms to get a better angle on the top of his head.  "Think you can handle laying on my breasts without swooning?" she asked. In return, Odysseus gave her the driest look she had seen in a good long while from where he was already actively lying against her chest.

"I think I'll manage," he told her. Penelope smiled and resisted the urge to kiss him as she coaxed and teased and oiled the last matted sections of his hair. Slowly, it was returning to its former glory under her attention. 

After the last knot fell apart in her hands, Penelope traded her combs and shears for the prettily bottled glass of vinegar before pouring a good amount into his newly freed curls. Odysseus moaned in a way that made Penelope flush as she massaged the vinegar into his hair and scalp. Although she supposed, that was fair. He might not have done a deep wash in around two decades; a rough turn for a man who had once been a touch vain. Then came her own sweet-smelling oils to add back the luster, and hopefully remind him by smell alone that he was home with her.

As she finished, Penelope smoothed a stray curl away from Odysseus' face, expecting him to have a smart remark for her. Instead, her husband simply burrowed his head closer into her chest, his ear resting above where she knew her heart was beating. Oh , Penelope realized. He's asleep. 

It seemed rather cruel to wake him, but Penelope also knew that they'd both be more comfortable in bed than in the bath. Ever so gently, she eased him onto the mosaiced floor, moving his hand to pillow his head. Quickly, Penelope got out after him and retrieved her discarded chiton to use as a makeshift towel for the both of them. After all, it wasn't as if she sweat much as a noblewoman. It was still clean enough.

As Penelope dried him off, Odysseus' eyes fluttered, his lips mouthing nonsense. It appeared he was a bit more conscious than she'd assumed. "Shh, shh, shh," Penelope murmured, stroking his eyes and nose gently. "Go back to sleep, my heart. It's only me."

As he settled again, Penelope looked through the archway to their bedroom. Truly, their bed wasn't that far away. Even at his fittest Penelope probably would've been able to half-carry him into it, and Odysseus certainly wasn't at his fittest. In fact… Penelope moved back to her love and shifted his body so that he was resting in her arms once more.

It was just as she thought. Even without the water, Penelope could still bear his weight in its entirety. By the gods, she thought, running her hands over his body. He has to have lost over a third of his body weight. Penelope shivered, tears burning in her eyes at the thought. He hadn't been the largest man to begin with either, but now? It was no shock that he had been able to easily pass as a beggar. 

Taking a deep breath, Penelope reminded herself that he was here now and she could cradle him all she wanted once they were in bed together and pulled him the rest of the way into her arms, staggering only slightly when she stood. Really, the most difficult aspect of the maneuver was that, while still a small man, Odysseus was taller than her, which made carrying him awkward. As was the fact that even the thinnest man was still quite heavy, especially when you were a noblewoman who hadn't been keeping up with her Spartan weapons training. 

Penelope cursed herself. She should be able to lift her husband, may the gods damn her. What if invaders came and told her that she could only take what she could carry? Then she would have to lift Odysseus and Telemachus. Perhaps we should have another child, Penelope thought, laughing to herself. A girl, hopefully. So that I'd have help with the carrying. 

But despite the hassle, Penelope was still able to swiftly cross their room to their bed where she laid him gently on his side of it. Her heart stuttered at the sight. How long had she prayed and yearned for this? Breathing raggedly, Penelope sent up a prayer of thanks to the gods in Mount Olympus. He was here. Odysseus was here, lying peacefully amongst the leaves and branches and linen sheets in the bed that he had made for them. But as wonderful as sleeping in the nude sounded, Telemachus had a habit of walking into this room unannounced so clothes were necessary. 

Leaning over, Penelope kissed his brow before going to their wardrobes to gather fresh night robes for both of them.

"Penelope…" the sleep-addled murmur of her name gave her pause as she tied her linen robes about herself. Looking back at her husband in the bed, Penelope could see his hand reach out to her side of the bed before meeting the empty and cold sheets instead of her body. Almost instantly, Odysseus curled in on himself, his hand retracting, and his breathing going ragged, halfway to sobs.

Penelope froze. She knew that posture, she knew that horrible feeling from her own lonely nights. How many times had she reached for him and found no one there? Even after years apart, she realized. Neither of them had lost the instinct to reach for the other.

Only stopping to grab a random robe from his things, Penelope rushed to her love. Gently she unwound his stiff limbs from where he had curled in on himself, running her hands up and down his arms as she maneuvered him into the robe. "Shhh, love," she murmured. Penelope swore internally as she felt his heart beating out of his chest. "I was only a few steps away."

Crawling across and under the bed linens, Penelope curled her smaller body around his, and lacing their hands together. Their wedding rings clinked together and Penelope smiled at the sound of metal on metal. "I'm here," she murmured into his ear, stroking the thumb up and down his hand. Slowly, his breathing began to even out again, his body pressing harder into hers. "I'm here."

"Penelope," he murmured again, her name like a prayer on his lips. "Pene, don't go." 

Penelope just held him tighter. He didn't want to be without her? That was fine, she didn't want to be without him either. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered softly into his ear. "You're home. Nothing will ever take you from me again. I'm right here."

After what seemed like an eternity, she felt him relax into her, still murmuring her name. Penelope let out the tiniest sob. Oh, my heart, she thought. What has the world done to you? Still, she cradled him tightly to her, unwilling to let him go even as she felt herself drifting, the sound of her husband's breathing rocking her to sleep. "You're home," she murmured once more before the tides of dreams pulled her under as well.

For the first time in nearly two decades, the King and Queen of Ithaca fell asleep in each other's arms.