She fought back a shudder, a reminder flickering - these were her husband's hands. Her husband's lips. She willed herself to stay in the moment, begged her instincts to remember the safety Odysseus provided.
She moved her hands to the planes of his chest, pushing against him ever so slightly.
Penelope wasn’t ready.
“I’m sorry.” He gasped as he pulled away from her. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be,” she whispered, her voice thick with regret. She was once again wrapped in the safety of her husband, the warmth of his embrace, and the gentleness of his spirit. “I just-”
He cut her off. “No,” the word was firm, “You are ‘just’ nothing.” He shifted, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Tell me I can never touch you again, and I will love you from afar, my queen."
Penelope stifled a sob as she avoided his gaze.
“I’ve missed you, wife.” He whispered against her skin, and she could feel the gentle upturn of his smile with his declaration.
5
THE SCREAM TORE THROUGH THE ROOM, wrenching Penelope from a fitful night of rest. Grateful as she was to have her husband home by her side - twenty years apart made for rough bedfellows.
She was on edge instantly, snatching up the small knife she kept tucked beneath her mattress. A reflex, one she would have to work to subdue. After years of living with rancorous suitors begging to bed her, she never slept without protection.
Her heart thundered as she scanned the room, her muscles taut and ready for battle. But as the fog of fear lifted, the sound caught up to her: low cries that turned quickly into panicked gasps.
Odysseus.
He thrashed in his sleep, bedsheets tangled around him like a snare.
The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground as Penelope knelt on the bed beside him. “Odysseus,” she whispered, laying a trembling hand on his cheek. “Odysseus, you’re home. Come back to me.”
All at once, she found her back pressed into the mattress and her hands gripped over her head. The man above her might havelooked like her husband, but his eyes were wild, imprisoned by his own fear.
Refusing to fail him now, she steadied her breathing. “My love, you are safe.” She tried him again, “It’s me, It’s Penelope”
The blackness in his gaze began to fade, replaced by something softer, though no less haunted. His grip loosened, his weight sagging against her as though the strength had been sapped from his body.
She exhaled shakily, brushing her hand against his brow. “You’re home,” she muttered, though her heart still raced.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure who she was comforting - her husband, or herself.
Before either of them had a moment to settle their nerves, a frantic banging came at the door. “Mom!? Mom open the door!” Telemachus’ voice crashed through the silence. She heard a quiet curse come from her husband as she hurried to let her son in.
He took her in his arms almost immediately. “Mom, what’s happening?” In her son’s embrace, she could feel the way his heart was racing. Each beat was a reminder of the years they had spent without Odysseus. Years that had shaped him into someone who feared the world in ways she might never truly understand.
How did she let him carry this alone? How did she let them both become so afraid?
Years without his father - her husband - clung to him like a shadow. It was raw; it was fresh and new. Even with Odysseus in the room with them, fear was evident in both of their trembling frames.
“It’s alright, Telemachus. We’re alright.” She whispered, trying to steady her voice, but it shook with the weight of years spent in the dark.
His breathing calmed, and she patted the cheek of her son. He might now tower over her, but as she looked at his face, with shadows from the moon cast over his subsiding fear, all she saw was her son. All she saw was the little boy that she had rocked to sleep each night, the little boy that she had raised alone.
And for a moment, she could almost pretend it had always been this way, the two of them, safe.
But then she felt it - the brush of a hand on her shoulder, hesitant and unsure. Gentle, and yet, she flinched. As if the touch was to be followed by a violence she’d experienced. Never asking for permission, always expecting compliance.
Before she could stop herself, she jerked away. The reflex was immediate, born of years spent fending off unwanted advances and wine-soaked threats hanging heavy in her memory.
Telemachus mirrored her, pushing away on instinct. His eyes were wide with confusion, quickly replaced with dread. The air was charged with the weight of what they both survived.
