“Spring will be here soon enough,” He tried to keep himself from wringing his hands together, trying to tamp down the frantic feeling of anxiety that always wormed its way in when thinking of the end. “And… I worry about her, too.”
The young king nodded, but did not speak. Did not meet his father’s eyes.
“When the time comes, Telemachus…” his words lodged in his throat. “Please, son, watch over her.” Odysseus’ voice cracked as he forced the sentence out, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I have some experience in that area, Father.” The younger man attempted to tease, shifting to bump his shoulder into his fathers.
That was the final straw.
A few tears broke free of their place, leaving tracks on the old man’s cheeks. “I have always needed too much from you, son. Too much from your mother.” He tried to settle his breathing, to regain a bit of his composure before he was too far gone.
“It was never a burden, Father. I will protect her until my last breath. She is my mother.” It was his son’s turn to reach out to him. Telemachus’ hand settled on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. “And I can promise you, Mother would wait for you for eons more, Father.”
“Don’t-” His voice shuddered, “She’s too headstrong for her own good.” Odysseus shook his head, “Talk about me. Once I’m,” another sob escaped, “Once I’m gone, she will condense her memories, push them aside and away because she thinks it will keep her from cracking.”
“Father -”
Odysseus couldn’t speak. He held a hand up to his son, failing to collect himself once more. He was crushed by the weight of leaving his wife behind. By the weight of expectations he was forced to put upon his son. “Don’t let her forget me, son.”
He turned his face towards the sun, drawing in a measured breath. With his eyes closed, with fists clenched at his side, he had run out of words.
He felt arms around his shoulders, a tight embrace pulling him in. Odysseus’ breath hitched as realization settled in. Moving, he returned the motion, holding his son tightly in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Telemachus.” He whispered through the tears.
“We are lucky to call you ours, Father.”
Trying to stifle the sob that crept up in his throat, Odysseus gripped the back of his son’s tunic just a little bit tighter, as if he could freeze this moment in time and could keep the future at bay.
55
SAY WHAT SHE MIGHT ABOUT HIM, but it was Penelope that was the insatiable one. He had barely made it back into the room, barely closed the door behind him when her hands were on him. She hummed against his lips as he undressed.
“Hurry,” she urged, trailing a finger down the contour of his chest. “You were gone for so long.”
Desperation coursed through his veins as she whimpered against his mouth. “I was helping prepare our son for his ceremony tomorrow, woman.” He stepped backwards in time with her, pushing her gently back on the bed.
The look in her eyes was enough to send him over the edge. She was feral in the way she touched him, the way she dug her nails into his skin as he showered her with devotion.
It would have been enough to bring a greater man to his knees, for his heart to shatter in her hands.
He was not that man. He met her step for step, touch for touch, as they clawed their way into each other’s arms. He would always rise to the occasion that was his wife.
They collapsed into each other, exhausted and content. Odysseus would never tire of the sated look on his wife’s face asshe drifted off, a look of utter fulfillment that he knew only he could provide her with.
The night was still around them. The faint sound of ocean waves lapped in the distance as Odysseus himself succumbed to the pull of sleep, surrounded by the smell of her, by the warmth of her touch.
A dreamless sleep took him quickly, both he and his wife wrapped up in the shroud of the night. The moon was high in the sky when he felt Penelope stir beside him. A sleepy grin fluttered across his face as he reached for her, desperate to feel her underneath his skin again.
“Quiet, queen. Or he suffers too.”
Odysseus blinked, trying to shake off the weight of sleep. His mind was still half shrouded, hearing fears and thoughts as he fumbled around, searching for the warmth of his wife.
“If you keep squirming like that, pretty, it won’t just be your throat I’m after.”
He shook his head, a mess of hair falling into his eyes as his vision cleared. His body froze, heart lurching into his throat as he took in the sight before him.
His wife, his entire essence, the reason he woke, was pinned down to their bed. A massive hand dwarfed both of hers, clutching both of her wrists above her head. The other brandished a knife, pressed to her throat.
The devil in their bedroom was straddling his wife. The words he had dreamt… hadn’t been dreams at all. This creature dared to speak to his wife like that.
