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Ever since Odysseus came home after a long, torturous twenty years, he’d been different. It was more than the breeze of aging encircling them—Even then, he aged like fine wine, but it was smaller things. Some things he didn’t even realize he was doing. Penelope didn’t expect him to bounce back automatically after everything he endured, he just wasn’t wired like that. And so she gave him time. Penelope never had any notion of what happened on that journey. What happened to her man? Did the current sweep him up, never to truly return? Although he was still and always would be her darling husband, a part of him was locked away in the deep pit of his being.
Penelope always noticed. She was constantly watching him for subtle signs of discomfort, whether it was the wrinkle in his brow when a memory swirled in his head or the way he gently rubbed against a fresh scar on his arm when he got nervous, or how he’d bite the inside of his cheek. Anything he showed, she picked up on. She knew him better than herself, but whatever happened on that trip was still a mystery to her.
He’d tell open-ended stories of erratic, unnatural rushing waves, the almost intoxicatingly sweet smell of lotus flower, and the boisterous tricks of the gods. Although he had a gift for meticulous story-telling, these stories were incredibly brief, predominantly spoken of when their son would request them. Telemachus was always kept on his toes. One more word, one more detail. He would lean in, almost entranced by the heroism of his father. But then, once the story reached its peak, Odysseus would announce that it was time to wash up and finish dinner.
Telemachus would ask him later, desperate to know the end of those countless intrepid tales. Instead, Odysseus would continue on with another painfully empty story.
But he could almost feel her eyes burning into him when he’d do this. He’d have his back turned to his disappointed wife, who was propped up against the windowsill, figure taut. And when he’d look at her, he’d see that expression he sensed, the one he feared. The look of quiet disappointment. She knew he was telling another lie.
So he’d grow nervous, rubbing at that scar again. His eyes would dip. Then maybe he’d divert, maybe tell the great tale of the boar yet again. Telemachus knew the story, but he’d still listen, quiet, attentive, blissfully ignorant wonder in his eyes.
It was cruel, Odysseus knew that, to partially lie to his own blood. Lying was all he knew how to do. But remembering was like reliving, and he already did that every night.
Except for tonight.
Odysseus expected to not get a wink of sleep, as how he did most nights. It was just how the dawn passed. The moon would cast its glow against their bed, falling into the folds of the linen. Penelope slept soundly next to him, but her body never fully succumbed to sleep. Tonight, she felt the deep dip in the mattress next to her dissipate.
Penelope was slowly roused from her sleep to be greeted not by her husband, but by a wrinkle or two in the fabric from where had laid moments before.
Penelope slipped out of bed and past the door, which had been left ajar, and down the vast hallway. The halls were silent, not a creak in the floor or a clink of silverware. Penelope passed Telemachus’ room, who was peacefully sleeping within it.
Odysseus stood outside, face stone-hard, illuminated by the glistening moon. Only the song of the cicadas was audible. Penelope looked off into the distance where Odysseus was.
“You grow restless again, my dear.” Penelope stated the obvious, planting her feet next to him. Odysseus turned his head at the sound of her delicate voice. His eyes were half-lidded, countless years of age and exhaustion upon his face. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. He took her hand into his own and placed a gentle kiss upon her knuckles.
“I did not mean to rouse you from sleep.” He whispered into her skin, voice barely audible. Penelope almost instantly shook her head.
“I would stay awake for a hundred nights to keep your memories at bay if it meant you got one night of rest.” She said it like it was the easiest thing she’d ever said. Something she’d known deep in her heart. Odysseus opened his eyes to look at her, to take her in. The way her eyes found him, attentive, gentle. Perfectly his.
Odysseus couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that formed on his face.
“You are too good for me,” he said, placing another kiss upon her hand.
“I believe that we deserve each other, dear. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Odysseus sighs, placing more kisses on her skin, looking down again. His eyes were exhausted, yet he had a comforted look upon his face. “I’m not sure if you would love me still if you knew what I did,” He murmured. Penelope went serious. Her free hand found his cheek, and he looked up almost automatically
“I don’t care what happened when you were gone. There is nothing you can do that can make me stop loving you. I will love you until the sun goes black, and so forth. I will find you in every walk of life. In every timeline, No matter how far, you will always be my horizon. You talk about the possibility, no, the false scenario of me not loving my husband, and you may just get a talking to, do you hear me?”
Odysseus stared at her for a few moments, eyes containing a new shine, although he had his back to the moon. In this moment, against the moonlight, Penelope was breath-taking. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t always breath-taking. Even if her face was puffy and her hair a mess in the morning, if she was containing a grin behind her long fingers, or simply being. Penelope was like a goddess, perfect in every way. He wanted to not believe her, but how could he accuse his Penelope of lying?
At his lack of response, Penelope pulled him close, hand still in his. Their bodies enveloped their hands as if they were protecting their hearts.
“I don’t know where I’d be without you.” Odysseus whispered into the fabric of her nightgown, a few tears soaking into it.
“Neither do I.” Penelope replied, placing a kiss on the crown of his head. He was taller than her, but she always pulled him down when they were embraced.
Penelope lifted his chin to make him look at her. Squeezing his hand gently, she smiled.
“Let's go to bed, alright?”
Odysseus was soon led back to the comforts of their bedroom. He was curled up against Penelope’s stomach, his body cocooned between her legs like a blanket of ease and safety. The side of his face was buried in the fabric, his senses enveloped with her. He could smell the slight marjoram of her nightgown and he felt almost drunk on it.
He looked up at her with big brown eyes, the same eyes he gave her the first time they were united after those 20 years. He could stare at her like this for hours, even if it strained his eyes from the position of which he laid. Penelope smiled, her hand finding his cheek.
“What are you doing?” She asked, subconsciously smoothing out his scruff. Odysseus didn’t reply at first, and Penelope wasn’t sure if he heard her.
“Nothing, just... appreciating. I have not been able to do this in so long. I have missed it, you know.” He mumbled, blushing as she pushed some of his long hair back. When he spoke, she could feel little whiskers tickling her skin through the fabric barrier of her gown.
Penelope thought for a moment.
“Your hair is growing quite long.” She commented. Odysseus looked up again. He hummed. She wasn't wrong. Odysseus usually kept it short for convenience. It was almost past his shoulders and always fell in his face. The thought of a haircut sounded tantalizing.
“Would you trust me to trim it for you?” She whispered, like it was forbidden to ask. Like they were teenagers sneaking away to see each other, knowing they’d just get caught. But they’d still do it. Again and again. Usually, they had servants who could do things like that in the blink of an eye. But there was something exhilarating about getting up to trouble with her. Even if it wasn’t trouble.
A sly smile spread across Odysseus’s face. “Oh, you know I would entrust you with anything.”
“I know.”
The room is filled with comforting silence. They weren’t teenagers anymore, but that didn't mean they couldn't still get up to mischief. Tomorrow. Not while everything is still, and their hearts beating as one. Odysseus always liked sleeping with Penelope. Whether he laid on her chest to hear her heart beat or her stomach to feel her breathe, it made him feel safer. He was home. Ithaca.
“Get some rest.” Penelope lightly scolded, a simper on her lips. Odysseus’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked up at her, taking in each of her features like he’d done a million times over again. Odysseus shifted his body so he could rest against the palm of her hand.
“I love you.” Penelope whispered. Odysseus was already halfway to sleep, but he still mumbled a quiet “My Penny”. So quiet she was the only person in the world who got to hear that.
Odysseus always looked younger when he was asleep. He didn’t have the hesitation or ghosting touch like usual, like he was afraid she’d disappear in a flash if he touched her skin. He instead had a pleasant look on his face as he snored. Before the war, Penelope would complain about his snoring, but when he left, she struggled to sleep in the silence. So nowadays, she didn’t complain about his snoring.
She could study his face for hours, eyes following every crease and dip in his features, listening to his soft breaths coming in and out. And most importantly, the way he’d sigh deeply when her hand found his hair, her fingers running through the strands like the threads of her shroud. It was nice for him to finally feel comfortable for once.
She could remember the day he came home. That was a side of her husband she had never seen before. He was violent, angry, a stranger.
But he was so, so gentle. She drew a bath for him and washed off all the age, dirt, and blood, massaging through all the kinks and aches in his bones. She had no doubt he didn’t crack a few ribs while away, so she made sure he was all healed up. Odysseus, a man she knew as very chirpy and romantic, barely said a word throughout this. He was naked, yet he didn’t feel exposed or uncomfortable. She was his wife, after all, his Penelope. And he could never feel ashamed in her presence.
Penelope sighed and brought her fingers against his chin, thumb stroking his beard and lower lip. Odysseus looked up at her with those big, stupid eyes that told her exactly how he felt about her. And it made her heart shatter. He looked at her like she was the most gorgeous creature in the entire world. And she did the same.
Penelope reminisced on this as she held him again. His snores were slow and even, a pleasant look upon his face in his sleep. He mumbled something incoherent, and nuzzled his face closer into her.
And eventually, the blanket of sleep encapsulated them both. The world could wait. Just so they could rest as one, as the world intended, and let their souls interlock.