“Odysseus, it’s still daylight.” Penelope murmured, squeezing his hand. Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally, watching him closely, studying him.
“I have seen enough of this day, Penelope.”
40
THE MORNING FOLLOWING THE INCIDENT, Penelope woke before him, his grey dusted hair splayed loosely on the pillow, the muscles in his face finally at ease. She turned on her side, admiring the man that lay next to her, the man that had finally made it home to her.
They had been through so much together, even in the short time that he had been back. She wanted to hide him away from it all, wanted to take the gods, the suitors, the turmoils of kingship, and lock it away, give him the rest he deserved.
But time was not kind, the gods were not kind. But this small thing, this brief moment that she was allowed, she was going to treasure it. Even in the wake of Eupeithes’ death, of the commotion and the unrest that continued to lurk in the halls, she would take the time she had been granted.
Slowly, cautiously, Penelope propped herself up on an elbow, taking in the god of a man before her. Even after twenty years, he had not lost his definition. They both were not as young as they once were, but he aged like a fine wine. Each wrinkle in his smile, each line on his face, did nothing but deepen the love she had for him.
With a touch as light as a feather, she traced the arch of his nose, committing each plane of his face to her memory. He stirred beneath her touch, causing Penelope to freeze. He did not wake, but his arm found her waist instinctively, pulling her into him.
It was with a quiet sigh that she allowed herself to be held, to hear the sound of his heart against her ear, the even rhythm of his breath with the rise and fall of his chest.
Tears pricked at her eyes. They would not always have this. The gods were watching. This piece of the world was theirs alone, and she would pray to whatever god to extend their time.
Her eyes were drawn to a scar that was engraved upon the curve of his shoulder. The area was puckered, the white a stark contrast to the olive hue of his skin.
She stretched up, dragging a finger down the scar. She knew there were more, faded injuries from memories he hadn’t shared.
Once more, Penelope found herself biting back tears.
This man, this man, this man.
Never had there been someone so worthy of rest, so worthy of a kingdom of devotion, so worthy of peace.
Her hand laid gently on his cheek as she watched him. Gods help the soul, mortal or no, that tried to interrupt them now.
He was hers to watch over, hers to protect.
She would not let another harm him.
Odysseus drew in a quicker breath, his lips quirking up into a smile before his eyes even opened. The arm that was wrapped about his wife tightened, pulling her closer. He hummed a note of contentment in the back of his throat, nuzzling his face into the swath of her hair that clung to her neck.
“My heart,” he whispered, as though the volume of his voice could shatter the moment, “my wife.”
He wore no tunic that she could clutch, nothing that would anchor her to this moment, so she settled for the scar at his throat, tracing over it delicately.
“Where is this from?” She breathed, his eyes still not open to the rising sun yet.
His hand moved quickly, snatching hers up. He held their hands there, touching the scar, twined together. “Troy,” he replied, voice still thick with sleep. “You should have seen how they boasted about felling the Ithacan King.”
Penelope’s heart swelled as she heard the pride in his voice, the mischief she had fallen in love with. “They were agog when I rose, barely nicked by their poor aim.”
“And this one?” She asked, fingers untangling from his and returning to the scar on his shoulder. She felt his skin bristle underneath her touch.
“The cyclops, Polyphemus.” His voice sounded harder, tired. “Another failed attempt, wife.” His lips found her pulse point, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of her neck.
“So many scars,” she whispered, running her fingers down one across his chest. “So many stories.”
“All of it, I would do again,” he replied, lips brushing her ear now. “All of it led me here.”
“No,” her voice thick with tears. She couldn’t imagine him enduring even a second of it, not in this moment they had carved out.
“But I would, Penelope,” he tilted her chin up, pulling back to meet her eyes. “Over and over and over again. If it meant I could hold you. Even for a single minute.
