“Menelaus!” He called, waving tentatively to his old friend.
He felt Penelope stiffen beside him as they neared the king and the queen. He leaned towards her, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Say the word, queen, and we will depart.”
The kings shook hands, slapped backs, and joked about how old the other one had become. The queens… their interaction was different, muted.
Helen embraced Penelope, but it was a gentle touch, not that of a familial reunion. “Penelope,” she crooned, putting on airs, “It is so good to see you back home. Sparta looks good on you.”
His wife offered her a slight nod, hands clasped tightly behind her back. “It is good to see you, Helen. Though I can’t say I’ve missed Sparta.”
“Come, Ithacans,” Menelaus said loudly, clapping Odysseus on the shoulder. “Your late arrival means you are just in time for the meal.”
“Old bastard,” Odysseus laughed, shaking his head, “Let us have a minute to wash the sea off of us.”
“Nonsense,” the Spartan king replied, shaking his head. “It’s just this way.”
The four of them entered the room, an intimate table setting before them. Menelaus took his seat first, as accustomed, followed by Helen. Odysseus pulled Penelope’s chair out for her, snatching her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles before she sat down.
Gods, the smile on her was stunning. Even restrained and collected, he would cross a hundred leagues of open water just to see that sparkle in her eye.
Servants rushed into the room, filling their glasses with wine and preparing the places for the feast they were sure to have. Penelope glanced over, catching his eye. A grin stretched across Odysseus’ face, widening as he watched a fluttering of a blush creep up her neck.
Her eyes darted over to the Spartan king, watching as he gave orders to the staff, before turning to Odysseus. “You’re staring.” She whispered, eyes cast down at her hands.
He leaned closer, lips close to her ear as he whispered, “You expect me to take my eyes off of you, queen?” He rasped, sweeping her hair off of her neck. He pressed a kiss to the dip in her shoulder, reveling at the way she tried to suppress a shudder.
“Compose yourself, king.” She responded. “We are guests here.”
Being here, in the palace, sitting in seats he sat so many years before, he felt reckless. Overcome with the emotions that had first carried him to Penelope, he felt invincible. “I am the reason Menelaus has his queen at all, wife. Let him wait for me to finish admiring mine.”
Someone cleared their throat, causing Penelope to stiffen. Odysseus lazily turned toward the sound, leaving his hand on the back of her neck.
Helen looked pointedly at the pair of them, eyebrows raised. “So even after all this time,cousin, your king still looks at you like that?” He didn’t miss the venom in her voice, even if it wasn’t directed at them.
Menelaus had been speaking to staff, to members of his army, as they sat at the table, leaving his wife an island.
“Like what, my lady?” She replied from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. Odysseus moved the hand resting on her skin, reaching for her wringing hands.
“Tell me, Queen of Sparta,” Odysseus drawled, picking up his wine. “How else should a man look at his wife?” He lifted his glass in a mock salute before taking a sip.
“Odysseus,” Penelope’s whisper was quiet, but cutting, still avoiding the hosts that sat across from them.
“People have written legends on love less… intense than you two insist on having.” Helen’s voice was crystal clear. He couldn’t detect an ounce of emotion as she spoke.
Odysseus had been around enough kings and queens to know that the unsaid was always more important than the verbalized.
“Be that the case,” he responded, setting his glass down on the table and reaching across to take Penelope’s chin between his fingers. He guided her so that their eyes met. “Let’s hope their tongues can keep up.”
She was not pleased. He could see it in the way she glared at him, in the downturn of her mouth. But if her cousin, the very reason he had been separated from his family for decades, wanted to enter a game of wits and will, who was he to back down?
Odysseus couldn’t help the wicked grin that crossed his face before he leaned into his wife. His fingers still cupped her chin, keeping her from jerking back, though she tried. The hell with decorum, with pomp and circumstance.
He pressed his lips to hers, and he could feel the anger that radiated from his wife. Her ire was palpable, but for the briefest moment, he thought she might yield. Might let him have this.
She moved her hands up his chest, clutching at his tunic. Odysseus’ head spun, and he felt her hands tighten in his shirt.
Had he misread her?
Penelope pushed against his chest, eliciting an unruly laugh from the Ithacan King. “You’re insufferable,” she told him, shooting daggers at him as he tried, and failed, to wipe the smirk from his face.
