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Chapter Text

Sitting around the dinner table, Telemachus was positive both of his parents were sick.

Not only that, but both seemed adamant about hiding their illness. His father kept sipping from his wine whenever he cleared his throat, which happened way too frequently to be considered normal. His mother tucked the same piece of hair behind her ear for the umpteenth time as an excuse to press a couple of fingers against her temple. She was very pale, whilst his father had a sheen of sweat collecting at his hairline. Both pushed their food around in the same manner, trying to make it disappear on the limited surface of the plate.    

If Telemachus hadn’t been so worried, he would have found the situation amusing. Okay, maybe he found it a little amusing.  

Telemachus had the two cleverest people for parents in the entire world. The only reason neither of them had been caught in their scheme was because they were too focused on concealing their own symptoms to notice the others’.

His father attempted to stifle a cough into his drink. Wine dripped down his chin as the goblet jostled from the involuntary hitch in his breathing. His mother didn’t notice, too occupied staring at her meal and raising a hand to her mouth, swallowing thickly.

Telemachus debated whether to call them out but decided against it. His mother was a horrible patient to put it lightly. He remembered a case when good old Eurycleia told her to stay in bed. Of course, she didn’t listen, and Telemachus had to secretly support her all the way back to her chambers after she nearly fainted during a council meeting.  He had only known his father for four months but based on the tales he heard from various sources he was looking forward to a tedious week.

Tomorrow, he decided. He would let them stew in their misery for one evening in case the prolonged suffering alleviated their stubbornness.

Would Athena be proud of his plan? Arguably not. But Athena never had to face a sick Penelope.

Telemachus drummed his fingers on the table. It was the next morning. Usually, he would be the last one to show up for breakfast, wiping remnants of sleep out of his eyes as his parents were already halfway through their meal. Today he sat alone with his empty bowl of porridge and a growing sense of dread.

He needed to check on them.

Walking up to the master bedroom he made an effort to banish the darkest thoughts from his mind. Telemachus had a nasty habit of imagining the worst possible outcome in any situation, then convincing himself that said outcome was happening.

His hand did not shake when he raised it to knock the familiar pattern on the wood.

Nothing.

Telemachus bit his lower lip, then repeated the knock a bit louder.

Nothing again.

“Hey, is it okay if I come in?”

The slightest noise of movement came from the other side, but no spoken answer.

Telemachus took that as confirmation to open the door. His heart hammered in his chest.

Inside the room lighting was subdued but Telemachus could make out the magnificent olive tree bed and the two bodies occupying it, tangled together in sleep. Thankfully clothed.

His mother rested on her back, black curls spilling over her pillow, mouth slightly open. Pressed into her side with an arm slung over her middle laid his father with most of the blankets piled over him. Telemachus thought he was also deeply asleep until he noticed a glimmer in the dark. His father peeked at him with eyes barely open.

“Telem’chus?” He whispered, voice horribly raspy.

“Yes, it’s me. Sorry, I didn’t want to bother but you both missed breakfast and I just wanted to know if you are well.”

“Oh.” Was all his father managed, scooting into a more upward position on the bed. He moved very carefully, which Telemachus couldn’t entirely attribute to his effort to avoid waking his wife. No, it looked more like the King of Ithaca was experiencing intense fatigue. 

“How late am I?” Odysseus asked.

“The shepherds have already arrived.” Not yet in the throne room, but they would be waiting soon.

“Then I must get going.” Telemachus’ father concluded. “We should let your mother sleep a little longer. She seemed very tired yesterday.” He cast a loving glance towards his wife and began to slowly extract himself from the pile of blankets.

Even in the dim light, Telemachus could make out the slight shaking of his limbs.

“Actually Father, I think you should stay too. I’ll call for the physician and…”

“Why? I’m not sick.”

Telemachus fought the urge to roll his eyes. Was he even surprised to find another similarity between his parents? And why did it have to be this?

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I feel fine.” It would have been more convincing if the end of his sentence didn’t turn into a coughing fit.

Telemachus sent an accusing glare towards his father, but Odysseus waved him off. It was time to change tactics. 

“You might be well, but mother isn’t. I agree, she looked off yesterday. She only goes quiet like that when she is coming down with something. And you know her, if she learns you are working, she will try to join too. I can deal with the shepherds.” As Odysseus opened his mouth then closed it three times in a row and drew closer to Penelope’s side, Telemachus thought, for this one, Athena might be proud of him.

Eventually, his father found his voice. Or the remnants of it. 

“I see what you are doing.” Telemachus held his breath.

“And I hate to admit, but well played my son.”

Telemachus couldn’t hold back his triumphant smile.

“Are you sure you can handle them alone?” Odysseus asked.

Anticipating this outcome, Telemachus wore his finest chiton, put on his laurel crown, and spent the night preparing his own points for the audience.

“As ready as I can be. Are you sure you can handle Mom?” His father raised an affronted brow as if the question itself was an insult. One did not question the King of Ithaca’s devotion to his wife without consequences. Telemachus simply enjoyed the privilege of being the result of said devotion, therefore he could get away with pretty much anything.

“I don’t have to handle her. I love her.”

As if on cue, Penelope stirred. She sent a sweet smile towards her husband, then, within a split second the blood drained from her face and took up a greenish tint. With a frantic look in her eyes, the Queen of Ithaca scrambled to the edge of the bed and emptied her stomach onto the floor. 

“I’ll send someone for the physician… and get some cleaning… stuff. I’ll be back in a second.” Telemachus nearly tripped over his own legs in his hurry to leave the room.

Chapter Text

Penelope hadn’t felt so sick in decades. Her head was spinning, her stomach churning, and she held onto the bedsheets with whitened knuckles. Her cheeks burned at the fact that she was throwing up onto the bedroom floor, but she genuinely could not move from her hunched over position.

A pair of hands found their way around her body. They gently collected her long hair, holding it securely but not tightly in one hand, whilst the other rubbed circles into her lower back. She wanted to thank Odysseus, but opening her mouth made her lurch forward to add more to the mess on the floor.

It took long minutes until Penelope’ stomach calmed down enough to allow her to relax into her husband, without the danger of staining their bed. She rested her head against Odysseus’ chest and tried to catch her breath. Shivers wracked her entire body, and she could still feel the acrid taste of vomit on her lips, enhancing her lingering nausea.

“Do you remember when I used to get sick in the mornings during my pregnancy and I told you it was the worst way to be woken up?” Penelope croaked, burrowing closer to her husband.

Odysseus hummed an affirmative noise into her hair.

“I take that back. This is so much worse. At least I got a reward for my suffering.”

The chest under her ear rumbled with laughter.

“You mean our son?” Odysseus tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Exactly. And also, being spoiled rotten by my fretting husband.”

“I didn’t fret, I just tried to make sure the two most important people in my life were safe and healthy. Especially, when one of them was too stubborn to take proper care of herself.” Penelope let out a snort.

Odysseus absolutely fretted over her. To the point, where his own mother, his old nurse and the physician all suggested he loosen up a little. Penelope loved how attentive he was, but the man had the tendency to go overboard with his worrying.  

“Besides, who said I won’t spoil you now?” And there went the attentiveness.

“With that voice? You better not strain yourself too hard. You are sick too, aren’t you?” As she slightly pulled herself together, Penelope noticed Odysseus sounded awful. What she assumed was her tremors, was more like their tremors and the overwhelming heat engulfing her was most likely his fever.

“Maybe a bit.” So, he was very ill. She tried to squint up at him to call out his lie, but Odysseus broke out into a coughing fit. The rocking of his body turned Penelope’s stomach, and she had to press a hand to her mouth and shut her eyes tightly to avoid throwing up over his lap.  

“Can we lay back down?” She whimpered once Odysseus was able to breathe again. Very carefully, she felt herself being lowered onto her side. Penelope wanted nothing more than being able to face her husband and assess him thoroughly, but for now, it was safest if she had quick access to the edge of the bed. Her disappointment grew when she didn’t feel his familiar weight joining her.

Instead of laying down, Odysseus crawled off the bed and headed to her vanity on unsteady legs. She heard him search around but had no idea what for. Seeing her confused expression, Odysseus held up his loot.

A ribbon.

“Can I braid your hair?” He asked easing himself back into bed.

“Oh, of course. Thank you.” Penelope haven’t even finished her sentence when fingers were already carding through her long curls. With practiced motions, Odysseus weaved a loose braid down her back and secured the end tightly with the ribbon. Then, a kiss was pressed to her temple and finally, her husband’s body came resting by her back with a groan.

“What now? I’m not sure I can stand up again.” Odysseus confessed. He wasn’t alone in his predicament. Unfortunately, there was still a puddle of vomit right next to their bed.

“We hope Telemachus doesn’t forget about his ailing parents.” Penelope heard a raspy laugh.     

“Maybe if no one shows up for the audience the shepherds will make someone look for us.” Odysseus debated.

“Maybe.”

Telemachus did not forget about his parents. He soon returned with the physician and two servants Penelope felt very sorry for.

She wrestled herself into a sitting position for the visit. It increased her nausea horribly and she had to take deep breaths through her mouth, but she refused to be seen any weaker. As a princess of Sparta, Penelope had been trained to never show vulnerability, which she thought she perfected. Until the suitors showed up and revealed to her how much her training had been lacking.

They were dead. Slaughtered mercilessly by her beloved husband and dear son, both of whom were within arm’s reach. She was safe.

Yet, Penelope was unable to lower her guard.

She answered the physician’s questions in curt sentences. She felt a poke in her side when she said her joints weren’t aching then reciprocated the gesture at Odysseus’ claim of being ‘just a bit under the weather’.    

Regardless of their lies both of them got sentenced to bedrest and some awful smelling herbs Penelope already dreaded taking. She also tried to ignore the two servants wrinkling their noses and struggling not to lose their own breakfasts at their task of cleaning up. To prepare for the future they brought some receptacles and placed it right beside the bed as well as basins of water, to either boil or make cold compresses. Telemachus also made sure there would be food brought for them, although food was the last thing Penelope wanted to see right now.

What she desperately wished for, was to be left alone in her misery where she didn’t have to put up appearances.

It took what felt like hours until it was just the royal family in the room. Silence at last. Then suddenly, Telemachus slapped a hand to his forehead.

“The shepherds. I am so late.” He spared a hesitant glance at his parents. “Will you be alright?”

Odysseus waved an ushering hand in his direction.

“Best we’ve ever been.”

Finally, the door closed behind Telemachus. Penelope slumped into the pillows with a shaky sigh.

“I hate being ill.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone who particularly enjoyed it.” Odysseus muttered from her side. He had a damp rag laid on his forehead and was blinking up at her with half-lidded eyes.

“You are lucky I don’t have the energy to slap you.” Despite her tone and claim, Penelope inched to her left to burrow closer to her husband.

They laid in silence for a while. Collecting themselves for the next step, Odysseus told himself.

The King of Ithaca was in pain. Not in an unbearable amount. He had definitely experienced worse during the war. But not in a negligible amount either.

The worst was his head. Throbbing and pounding from his forehead to his nape, making his every heartbeat sound like a powerful roar. The rest of his body was in different stages of pain. Many of his old scars flared up and his joints ached at any movement. He tried to remain as still as possible, but his fever kept jolting him with involuntary shivers. Yet, Odysseus felt like he didn’t get the shorter end of the stick.   

He squinted at his wife, tucked into his side, looking miserable. Penelope was curled into a ball with both arms clasped around her stomach. She had her eyes shut tightly and her ashen face was damp with sweat. Odysseus curled an arm around her and began to rub small circles into her back with his fingertips.

“We should eat something.” He suggested.

“Why does my cruel husband wish to torture me?” Penelope whined, squeezing words through clenched teeth. “His poor, suffering wife he claims to love.”  

“Penelope mine, aren’t you a tad overdramatic about the situation?”

“The deceitful King of Ithaca, dismissing his lover’s last plea for her life. How gruesome.”

“Dearest, you make it sound like I am organising your execution.” Odysseus’ couldn’t help a chuckle that made his headache so much worse.

“Why, isn’t that what you are doing?” Penelope hissed, burying her face into his side.

“Please, you’ve barely eaten yesterday.” The responding noise sounded unenthusiastic.

Odysseus crawled to the side of the bed, to retrieve the tray of food left for them. He propped himself against the headboard and rested his head against a thick branch. He shouldn’t have grown so tired from rolling over and back but here he was, breathing raggedly.

Penelope’s eyes opened to slits, to follow where her heat went. Odysseus offered her some of the food, pushing a small bowl of grapes in her direction. She didn’t dare shake her head, only expressing her refusal through tightly pressed lips and begging eyes.

“My love, you need to- “

“It will just come back up.” Penelope whispered in a small voice. “Please, don’t make me.”

Odysseus’ throat tightened, this time unrelated from his illness. Every fibre of his being protested against forcing his wife to do something that caused her discomfort. But not eating would make her illness worse.

“At least try to drink this. It might help with the nausea.” Odysseus pointed at two barely steaming cups the physician brew for them and insisted they drink it until it was still hot.

Penelope eyed the cup suspiciously, then she let out a sigh of resignation and began the very slow process of clambering into a seated position.

“I would like you to know, I’m doing this purely for Telemachus’ sake. I can’t leave him without a mother at such a young age.”

“And what of me, my love? Can you leave your husband without a wife?” Odysseus feigned offence, raising a hand to his chest. His words turned into a coughing fit, but he hoped that would only add to the wounded look.

“Will the husband, who is ready to poison his wife with such foul substances, truly miss her so much?”

“May I remind you it was the physician who left the instructions and I, your doting husband, merely the vessel conveying his message.”

“Very well then.” Penelope scoffed. “I’m doing it for you too.”

She stretched her legs under the blankets, until they were pressed against his and accepted the beverage. As she took her first sip, she stared deeply into Odysseus’ eyes. Her hair was dishevelled, her nightclothes twisted around her, soaked through with sweat, and her complexion sickly pale, yet that look made Odysseus’ stomach flutter. How did he manage to convince this woman to marry him?

After the single sip, Penelope lowered the cup with a grimace.

“You know, I jokingly called this a poison, but I’m not sure it actually isn’t.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Can’t it?” Penelope raised her brows.

Odysseus leaned over his own cup, sniffing at the liquid. He swallowed his first reaction, which was a gag, and the second, which involved the condemnation of multiple gods.

“Are you sure the physician is a trained one?” He croaked.

“Unfortunately. And he is good at his job… most of the time.” Odysseus took the news with a solemn nod. He raised his cup towards Penelope.

“Then, the best thing I can offer is to suffer with you.”

“That was an expectation.”

Odysseus decided to choose the quick way, trying to down as much of the concoction at once as possible. It took him four gulps and by the end his stomach was churning with the unease the liquid was supposed to prevent. Odysseus felt betrayed.

Penelope took small sips, visibly struggling with each one. She had to stop again and again to press the back of her hand to her mouth and swallow thickly. Her face grew grey and sweat began to drip down her neck. Finally, with a sudden shift, Penelope thrust her still half full cup into Odysseus’ hands.

She wrapped both of her hands around her middle, pulled her knees to her chest, hung her head between them and started to take very deep breaths. With the tray on his lap, the cup in his hand and his muscles aching, Odysseus felt dreadfully helpless. He attempted to get rid of the food but froze after the first shift of the bed.

“Don’ m’ve!” Penelope whimpered.

Odysseus could only watch as his wife fought for control, accompanied by increasingly concerning noises.      

“Penelope, it’s okay... Please, don’t hurt yourself. We can change the sheets.”

“No! I can’t-” 

Odysseus knew he would not be able to convince her. Penelope always had a strong will which only grew in his absence.

The suitors couldn’t touch the Queen physically so they targeted the only thing they could. Her pride.

Penelope had been talked over, laughed at, had her home torn apart all with a polite smile on her face. Some men had tried spilling their drinks on her, then claimed their action an accident. Others cornered her until she only dared to leave her room accompanied by servants, she couldn’t fully trust. The suitors went through every method of humiliation, pushing the limits of xenia as far as possible without having to face consequences.

Penelope always valued her sense of control, and since reclaiming it, she was gripping it with an iron fist.  

Sometimes Odysseus questioned whether the bloodbath was too barbaric, but at times like this he considered if he should have been crueller.

He reached out to smooth some escaped strands of hair back from his wife’s clammy forehead, then ran his palm down the length of her braid until he reached the small of her back. He felt her muscles contract as her stomach let out an ugly gurgling sound.  

Finally, Penelope managed to throw herself over the edge of the bed and spew her drink into the strategically placed chamber pot. Odysseus prayed the worst would blow over soon.

Chapter Text

This was the end.

Odysseus survived ten years of bloody war, came out of the Underworld unscathed, tricked gods and monsters, and slaughtered a hundred and eight men only to perish four months later on a sunny afternoon. The world was cruel, but at least he got to die in Penelope’s arms.

Okay, maybe Odysseus wasn’t dying, but he sure felt like it.

For a while, he was hopeful. His punishing headache gradually eased, and he stopped coughing so much. Even Penelope started to feel better, managing to keep down a couple of bites.

All was going well.

Until Odysseus felt the slightest of discomfort in his stomach. He decided to ignore it. He burrowed his face into Penelope’s hair, who was sprawled across his chest in a restless slumber and shut his eyes stubbornly. Sleep came easily with how tired he felt.

Unfortunately, his peace didn’t last long. Odysseus was woken up by his insides churning like a stormy sea less than an hour later. Assaulted by waves of nausea, he held his breath and tried to signal to his wife, that she needed to get off him immediately. Which would have proven to be an impossible task without using words or gestures if Odysseus weren’t married to Penelope of Sparta.

Somehow, even with her sickness-addled brain, his clever wife understood the message from his first irregular intake of breath.

“Oh, you too darling?” She sighed as she rolled over, smoothing a palm over Odysseus’ shoulder.    

 All he could produce was a weak groan.

He bit his bottom lip and prayed if he stayed still enough, he could trick his stomach into calming down.

It didn’t work.

In his youth his vanity might have stood in the way, but Odysseus reached an age, where he could appreciate his wife holding his hair back until he vomited his soul out without a fuss.

Odysseus slumped back onto his pillow drenched in sweat and trembling from head to toe. The old scar on his thigh throbbed with pain and his queasiness barely ceased. He would be back for a second round soon.

Penelope’s fingers caressed his cheek, then a damp cloth got laid over his forehead.

“You are still feverish.” She said. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been pulled through all of your weaving tools.”

“I see… I hate to say it, but I think we should call back the physician. Yes, I agree.” Penelope smiled at his dismissive huff. She absent-mindedly traced soft lines onto his arm.

 “You would make a handsome tapestry. Although a bit too colourless for the time being.” She added. Odysseus cracked an eye open.

“Are you sure I’m the one with the fever?”

“You definitely have one. I haven’t said anything about myself.” Looking at her, Penelope’s cheeks were flushed red, and her touch didn’t feel cool on Odysseus’ overheated skin.

They stared at each other with tired eyes then Odysseus tapped the empty space beside him with the tiniest shift of his hand. Penelope laid down without another word. She tugged and wiggled until both of them were covered by a blanket and curled up as comfortably as the circumstances allowed.

“We can sleep this off.”

Penelope awoke to a kick to her shin and the loud mutterings of her husband.

“No, please, no.” She was kicked again, more forcefully, but it was the words that brought her to full awareness.

“Not tonight. Please, I don’t want to…” Penelope’s blood froze in her veins at the terrified shriek that came from her husband. “Let me go. No. Stop. Stop! Calypso, please-” Odysseus’ words slurred into broken sobs.

The sheets rustled as he trashed around, shaking his head, and trying to crawl away from the nymph haunting his dream.

She needed to wake him.

“Odysseus.” Her voice was thin, and each syllable hurt. Penelope cleared her throat, but it didn’t feel any better. “Odysseus my lo- heart. Open your eyes. You are home, in Ithaca, with me.”

A knee came in contact with her abdomen, and saliva flooded Penelope’s mouth. She tasted acid in the back of her throat, and she swallowed shakily. Her nausea returned with full force, but she couldn’t afford to be sick now.  

Odysseus withdrew to the edge of the bed, where he curled into a corner. His exhales rattled unevenly, and he kept mumbling incoherent pleas.

“Odysseus, dearest. You are in your bed. The wedding bed you carved for us with your own two hands.” His breaths grew less erratic. Penelope knew he needed proof, something tangible to confirm he was not trapped on that island anymore. Another wave of nausea washed over her, and she croaked the next words through clenched teeth.

“Above your head is a root. Can you feel it? Feel – umh… feel the carvings…” Trembling fingers raised and traced the wood above Odysseus’ nestled form.

Penelope wasn’t able to say more, her stomach threatening to turn itself inside out.

Her husband kept grasping at several roots and branches. His eyes were open but glazed over. From his nightmare or a fever, Penelope couldn’t tell. Possibly both. Her hands clenched in frustration as she could only watch him fight against his mind without her guidance. Odysseus’ hands wandered over to the bedding, then to his own clothing, feeling up the fabrics with clumsy fingers. Finally, his gaze settled on Penelope, a spark of recognition igniting.      

He uncurled slightly, then reached out a clammy, still-shaking hand. Their fingertips touched and with a heaving sigh, a rush of tension left Odysseus’ body. His face was blotchy, tears and snot smeared across his cheeks and dripping into his beard.

“I’m so-” He wheezed. “So sor-… goin’ to be s’ck.” Odysseus convulsed and dashed towards the edge of the bed.

The sound of his gags hit Penelope like another punch to the stomach. Her meager meal was creeping up at the back of her throat. She turned to lean over the other side of the bed. She couldn’t quite make it.

And to make matters worse, a familiar sequence of knocks came from the door. Receiving no answer, a worried Telemachus entered the room.

Penelope sat patiently as Odysseus’ trembling hands tried to remove her nightclothes. She could have done it for herself. It would have been faster too, but he insisted.

She allowed him because he needed it. Odysseus looked very shaken by his nightmare. Like a flower following the path of the sun, her husband tracked Penelope with his entire being. Having his hands on her seemed to ease his terror, so she ignored his lack of speed.

Not having to look at her ruined clothes also helped Penelope to withhold the bitter tears threatening to spill from her eyes.  

Telemachus understood that his parents didn’t want an audience for their suffering. He dealt with the situation as discreetly as possible, for which Penelope was eternally grateful. Only after she and Odysseus left to take a bath did he allow the servants to come in and clean up. He also didn’t comment on anything he witnessed, simply helped his parents to their feet and dug up some fresh clothes for both of them.

The fabric finally gave way and the stained nightclothes slipped off Penelope’s body. Odysseus was already naked, skin prickling from a non-existent cold. Penelope sneaked an arm behind his back and slowly pulled him towards the water. It did not escape her attention, that her husband limped all the way to the baths then stood with most of his weight placed on his left leg.

The scar from the boar was on the right.

His face flashed with pain as he lowered himself into the water despite Penelope’s efforts to support him.      

Haphazardly, they washed themselves, too tired to move. Penelope decided, simply soaking in the water would get the job done.

Odysseus was still trembling, tucked safely into her arms. She sat on the tiled ledge, her husband seated sideways across her lap. This way, he could rest his leg on the ledge while remaining face to face with her.

“I would never face her… so she held me from behind.” He confessed in tears after the first time Penelope tried to snuggle up to his back and Odysseus nearly broke her nose by accident.

She hasn’t done it since, not without asking.

For now, they laid quietly, curled tightly into each other. Odysseus’ long hair floated around him, surrounding his head like a dark halo as he pressed his face into Penelope's collarbone. The steaming water quivered, tiny ripples running through the surface from their mutual shaking.

“I’m sorry.” The words were spoken into her shoulder. Small and hoarse. The embrace around her torso tightened and Penelope squeezed back with the same fervour.

“Don’t.” She whispered.

“I hurt you.”

“It was an accident.”

“It always is.” His voice cracked and droplets of moisture ran down Penelope’s shoulder.

“I know.”

“I would never- “

“I know.” She tasted salt on her lips.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Odysseus- “

“Intention doesn’t change the shape of your bruises.” Odysseus raised his head. His eyes were glossy, rimmed with red and so full of sorrow. Penelope took a sharp breath, that turned into a sniffle. She knew her face was also wet with tears. Then, she raised her chin, attempting to conjure the image of the regal queen.

“I’m Spartan I don’t bruise easily.”

“Penelope- “

“Please…” She breathed. “I would happily get all of my bones broken for you.” Penelope ignored her husband’s pained gasp. “It’s happening less and less.”

“Still too often.”

“Healing takes time.”

“It shouldn’t affect you.”

“Your health shouldn’t affect me?” Water splashed over the edge of the bath.

“Not if it hurts you.” Penelope took a deep breath.

“I dislocated two of your fingers when giving birth.”

An unintelligible noise left Odysseus’ lips.

“I gave you a black eye when I mistook you for a suitor.”

They both flinched, and Odysseus tried to protest. Penelope shut him down.

“When I had sprained my ankle on the stairs, you were so desperate to carry me you nearly sprained yours too.”

“I- “

“So my health can clearly hurt you. Am I not allowed the same privileges?” Her voice echoed in the empty chamber and Odysseus chewed on his lower lip with so many feelings swirling in his eyes.

For a couple of seconds, he just stared at her, frozen. Despite the strength of her words, fresh tears were making their way down Penelope’s cheeks, no matter how harshly she tried to blink them back. Finally, Odysseus’ gaze softened, and he rested his head on her shoulder. 

“They told me not to marry someone who is smarter than me.” He let out a soft laugh. 

Penelope also smiled a fragile smile and let her body, she hadn’t realized was so tensed up, relax. She quickly raised a hand to wipe her face and nose, then slipped it over Odysseus’ broad back to pull him closer.     

“I’m glad you didn’t listen.”

“I never do.”

Penelope breathed into her husband’s greying hair. It smelled like olives and the sun.

Home.

Safety.

And quite a lot like sweat.

“How are you?” She asked.

“Utterly miserable.” Odysseus huffed a self-deprecating laugh. “I can see the steam rising around, yet I’m so cold my bones are about to rattle. The crying brought back my headache. My leg feels as if it was torn open by the boar yesterday. And I fear if you squeeze me any harder my love, you will see the return of those grapes you refused to eat.”

“I think I’ve already seen them return.” Penelope wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I can’t believe there is anything left you can possibly throw up.”

They exchanged miserable glances.

“About the nightmare… I will be fine.” A shudder ran through him and Penelope pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Being in your arms… it helps.” Odysseus swallowed. “What about you?”

“Quite similar. Unfortunately. Well, except for the scar. But my throat hurts quite badly, and the room keeps spinning around.”

“I’m sorry.” It was Penelope’s turn to receive a tired kiss on her cheek.

They watched the setting sun paint golden streaks across the water. Penelope felt like they were also made of gold. Precious but heavy, melting into one structure in the boiling forge of the bath. 

Maybe she was sicker than she thought.

“We should get out.” Odysseus murmured. His voice didn’t convey any conviction in his words.

“I think we made Telemachus very worried.” Penelope hummed.

“He is a good kid. We should ask him how he did in court today.”

“We should.”

Neither of them made a move for several minutes, until Odysseus began to fidget. He peeled himself out of Penelope’s lap, but remained close, eyeing her chest. Penelope raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Whatever you are thinking about, I will either fall asleep or vomit on you.” She warned. Odysseus cocked his head to the side, and she could have sworn his complexion turned a shade darker.

“Don’t fear my love, I plan nothing of the sort.” He chuckled. “However… I might have cried all over your neck.”

“Oh.” Penelope said, then her eyes crinkled, and she let out a raspy laugh. “Hardly the worst thing to stain my skin today.”

Chapter Text

Climbing out of the water turned into an embarrassingly slow process.

“I fear I’ve grown old.” Odysseus smiled up at her as they struggled to find a way out that didn’t hurt his leg.

“Mhm, that’s not quite how I remember from three nights ago.”

“Penelope!”

Penelope immensely enjoyed the fact, that her battle-hardened husband still blushed the most delicious shade of pink at the mention of anything explicit.

Soon, Odysseus gave up on any dignified exit. Instead, he half crawled half rolled over the edge, then let Penelope pull him to his feet. He leaned his entire weight on his left leg and even then, his expression remained scrunched up in pain.

Penelope took on the task of towelling them dry and tug some clean clothes onto their weathered bodies. Leaning forward made her lightheaded and by the time she was finished, both of them were swaying on their feet.

The journey back to their room was a miserable hobble, where Penelope couldn’t decide which one of them used the other as a crutch more.

Telemachus paced the length of his parent’s room over and over again. Everything had been cleaned, the sheets got changed and the physician was waiting down the hall with a long-suffering expression Telemachus decided to ignore.

The Prince of Ithaca stepped out onto the balcony and watched the sun melt into the horizon, turning the endless sea a wine-like purple.

His parents disappeared when it was still bright outside. And they looked awful. With each passing minute Telemachus grew more anxious. 

He nearly jumped over the railing when a stern female voice broke the flow of his thoughts.

“You missed training.”

“Athena! If you show up like this again, I will miss every single session in the future too because I will be dead.” Telemachus raised a hand to his chest, trying to calm the intense hammering of his heart.

“With these reflexes you are as good as dead. And you haven’t answered my question.” Athena commented flatly, her unblinking grey eyes staring straight into his soul.

“You did not ask a single question.” Telemachus crossed his arms. To talk back to a goddess was unbecoming, dangerous even, yet the Prince of Ithaca feared no repercussions.

Pallas Athena towered over him on the small balcony. Her head tilted unnaturally far to the side, her spear gleamed in the golden light, and her gaze was even stormier than before.

“I was busy.”

The butt of the spear scraped against the stone, the sound sending shivers up Telemachus’ spine.

“I was in court.”

Athena raised a single eyebrow.

“Both of my parents are ill.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Athena’s posture relaxed, her spear vanished and if Telemachus didn’t know her better, he would have thought she looked… sympathetic?

“Exactly. It was such a mess. Not the kingdom, I can handle the ruling. In fact, that seems to be the easiest part. Funny, isn’t it?” Athena didn’t laugh. “I know Mom, and she never admits anything. She would be bleeding out with an arrow sticking out of her chest and still insist she is fine. Admittedly, I don’t know Father that well yet, but he seems the same. They both looked very sick, and now they’ve been gone for so long, because, again, they insisted to be left alone. So, yeah, I’m sorry I completely forgot about training. I swear I will make up for it next time, it’s just… it slipped my mind because I’m… worried about them. I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” Telemachus trailed off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

Athena stood silently, her expression unreadable.

“Odysseus is also the worst when ill.” Telemachus’ head whipped up at the measured words. “I can’t count how many times I’ve told him that proper recovery and minding one’s limits are integral to being a good warrior. He never learned his lesson.” The goddess’ words were tinted with resignation.

“How long has it been since they disappeared?”

“Over an hour and a half. Nearly two.” Telemachus cringed. Athena nodded slowly.

“Not great.” The prince had the urge to chuck something at the goddess, but that would have probably been an overstepping of the already thinly stretched boundaries of her friendship. With that said, Athena was not helping at all.

“Not really.” He said instead.

“They will be fine.” This time Telemachus couldn’t hold back a snort. According to his father, Athena had vastly improved in expressing her feelings in the past ten years but providing comfort had never been her strong suit.

“They are both accompanied by the only person they listen to.” She added. Now, that… actually sounded somewhat encouraging.

A muffled noise came from inside.

“See.” Athena pointed out. Telemachus breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ll go, check on them. Would you like to-?”

“Good luck.” The goddess cut him off. “Tomorrow, meet me at dawn at the usual clearing.” Telemachus didn’t get the opportunity to answer. He could only watch as a beautiful, unnaturally large owl took flight from the balcony, then soared high above the tranquil sea.

Telemachus hurried inside, catching his parents awkwardly shuffling to their bed. The pair of them crumpled on top of the fresh sheets with pained sighs.

His mother remained as she fell, face down into her pillow. His father laid on his back. His eyes were shut tightly, and he clutched his right thigh with whitened fingers.

“Father? What should I do?” Telemachus rushed to the bed. He was eager to help, but at a loss as to how.

His father didn’t shy away from ruffling his hair and pulling him into hugs. In fact, Telemachus had been caught completely off guard by how affectionate the man was. But it was usually Odysseus who initiated the contact. Warm and inviting and giving Telemachus the option to pull away every time but he was always in control.  

This was new.

His father never looked this vulnerable.

Telemachus hesitated.

“His leg needs elevation. Can you help with that dearest?” His mother’s voice was muffled by her pillow, but the command guided Telemachus to jump into action.

He searched for a spare pillow and with some careful nudges, slipped it under his father’s knee.        

Odysseus did not look as if he were in less pain, but he squeezed out a breathy ‘thank you’.

“I called for the physician again.” The two equally upset groans coming from the bed made Telemachus’ nostrils flare. “If you tell me it was unnecessary Mom, I swear I will tell the old Anakletos that you wish to seek his advice.”

Penelope wrestled herself onto her side and despite the fever shining in her eyes, her stare rivalled Athena’s.

“You dare to threaten your ailing mother with such horrific torture? How did I raise such a cruel child?”

Anakletos was one of the Elders. He had been one long before Telemachus was born. He had thin, bone-white hair and a missing eye. He also liked to give unsolicited advice in endless, mind-numbing circles and was impossible to get rid of once he latched onto you.  

Telemachus crossed his arms with an unyielding expression. Still massaging his thigh and raising his other hand to do the same with his temple, his father let out a snort.

“Oh, wife o mine, I’m afraid we’ve been betrayed and must surrender to our clever son.”

It was great that apparently, they were fine enough to joke around, even as they look half-dead. Just great.

“Athena was right. You are both the worst.”

Penelope thought two examinations a day were two more than she would have preferred. Thankfully, this one turned out to be quicker and more effective than the first.

The physician concluded that her dizziness was the result of losing every bit of food she had in her system and neglecting to replenish it. Penelope understood the problem, but the thought of eating still turned her stomach uncomfortably. Unfortunately, the physician stood his ground firmly, and entrusted Telemachus with looking after her.

Regardless of her displeasure, Penelope did have one reason to encourage the visit.

She was worried about Odysseus. The man was awfully good at downplaying his pain, so to display it so openly meant his leg was in an excruciating state. Furthermore, her husband had been running a fever since the morning that refused to decrease and was likely the cause of his headaches.

Penelope wanted to pay attention to the physician’s judgement, she really did. But the words slipped by her, her sluggish mind incapable of taking them in. She was getting so dizzy, she clutched at the blankets to anchor herself. With one hand she blindly groped around for Odysseus. She couldn’t lose her husband again.

“Mom. Are you awake?” The words were soft, barely breaking through the haze that Penelope was floating in. She had no desire to answer. Something deep inside told her if she answered she would have to move. An impossibly difficult task. She decided to ignore the voice.

“Mom. I can see that you are listening.” The voice was still subdued, but Penelope could hear a tint of annoyance.

She cracked an eye open.  

The room was pleasantly dark, illuminated only by the quivering light of an oil lamp. Telemachus sat on the edge of the bed a tray held in his lap. The crown of laurels was still nestled in his hair. With worry-lines between his brows and his figure towering over her, Penelope couldn’t help but notice how grown-up he looked.

“Mom?”

“’m aw’ke.” Gods, her throat was so dry, every intake of breath scraped.

“Close enough.” Telemachus huffed. “I will need you to sit up a little bit.”

Penelope was right, she should have ignored the voice. She highly doubted she would be able to do as much as lift a finger. She was completely drained.

The only thing she felt capable of doing was to sleep for a week, in the comfortable embrace of her…

“Odysseus!” Telemachus’ eyes widened, something sad sparkled in them and for a second, Penelope thought her chest was going to collapse. Her breathing quickened and suddenly her inability to turn her head felt torturous.

He was here.

It couldn’t have been…

She wouldn’t survive.

“Mom, hey. Father is right here. He is sleeping for now, that’s why I’m whispering.” Relief flooded Penelope’s veins and the invisible bond constricting her chest eased.

A small ‘oh’ was the only sound she could produce. The wrinkles between Telemachus’ brows deepened. 

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m- “

“Don’t you dare say fine.”

“Adequate.”

Telemachus sent a resigned eyeroll in her direction, but the back of his hand he laid against her temple was terribly gentle.

“Still too warm.” He hummed. “Do you need help sitting up?”

“I’m not-“

“Do you need help sitting up?” Telemachus repeated the question pointedly. Mother and son glared at each other for long seconds until Penelope gave in with a sigh. “I’m trying to make you feel better, please, don’t look at me like that.”

Telemachus placed the tray on the bed and stood to pile a couple of pillows against the headboard. He then held out a hand for her to cling onto. Instead of pulling her up however, her son just grasped Penelope’s hand and eyed her with a soft smile on his face.

“You need to let him go.” Penelope laid, perplexed, her heartbeat suddenly thundering in her ears again.

What?

Her bottom lip trembled.

As she continued to lay frozen, she realized Telemachus’ gaze was not focused on her face. He eyed a spot on her other side. Penelope was puzzled. What was there? Aside from her other hand. Her other hand.

Oh.

A crimson blush creeped up Penelope’s entire face as she came to realize why her son must have thought her behaviour horribly foolish.

She was very careful with pulling her hand from Odysseus’ grasp where their fingers were firmly intertwined. She avoided looking Telemachus in the eye, as he gently tugger her into a half-seated position.

Finally, she had a view of her husband. Odysseus’ leg rested on the same pillow with some sort of translucent ointment smeared liberally over his thigh. He had a cooling cloth draped over his forehead, only adding to the wetness around his head as his hair was still damp from the bath. His handsome face was slack with sleep, a rare phenomenon that warmed Penelope’s insides despite the circumstances. Odysseus deserved a full night of uninterrupted rest.

“He will be fine.” Telemachus murmured.

“I know.” The rational part of her understood, but the part that used to find empty bedsheets in the dark every time she stirred from a nightmare was not so easy to convince.

Telemachus gave her hand a little squeeze. Then he retrieved the tray and began to sort through the items.

"Any preferences?" He asked, his smile a hair too smug. Penelope could only groan. She was a master of stalling. She needed to put her talents to work. Unfortunately, her brain was as empty as her stomach, and she was facing one of the two people who could see through her schemes. 

“Water.”

“I won’t leave until you’ve eaten, I hope you know that.” Telemachus whispered as he handed her a full cup.

Penelope began to take small sips.

Her son took his job seriously. He hovered over her, pestering her with another kind of food when she rejected something. Eventually, Penelope settled on a piece of bread and chewed on it reluctantly under the watchful eyes of Telemachus. For her raw throat, every bite felt too large and too sharp and sat uncomfortably in her stomach.

“How did your day go?” She was interested, of course. In her son’s stories she would always be. But she also desperately needed a distraction. 

“Ah, you are doing it again.” Telemachus let out a quiet laugh. “Father had asked the same. Almost, as if you believe I can’t handle ruling for one day.” The spark in his eyes told Penelope he did not take it to heart.

“And for your information, I did not bring the kingdom to ruin. If anything, it was boring. Why do people like the sound of their own voice so much?” Telemachus’ suffering grimace made her chuckle.

“You are asking the wrong person.”

“What do you mean, you are not like that?”

“No, but I married one who is.” They exchanged mischievous smiles, and both cast loving glances towards Odysseus, who was blissfully oblivious to their conversation.

“I hope that ointment is effective.” Telemachus worried his lower lip.

“I haven’t even thanked you for helping with that. Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Father and son bonded quickly after Odysseus’ return. Telemachus has witnessed and helped out with some of the lasting effects of Odysseus’ journey, yet the situation must have been somewhat awkward.

Telemachus waved her off.

“It’s nothing. I just... he was in so much pain.” He lowered his voice even further as he whispered the last bits. “He tried to talk as a distraction, but I saw the tears.”

Penelope’s stomach clenched, the small amount of bread churned around, threatening to reappear. That scar used to flare up even before Odysseus was put through twenty years of torment, and the pain seemed to get worse with age.

“We’ll hope for the best.”

Telemachus chatted quietly as Penelope continued her battle with the bread, listening only half-heartedly. His voice soothed her and that was enough.

That is, until she couldn’t keep going anymore. Her stomach hurt, her throat hurt, her joints hurt, everything hurt. Penelope was so tired she could have cried. In fact, she felt moisture gathering in the corner of her eyes.

She blinked to keep the tears contained, but her eyelids felt heavy, refusing to stay open. She faintly registered Telemachus’ voice tapering off. Gentle hands pried the remaining bread from her weak grasp and Penelope heard the soft clinks of the tray being put aside.

“I think this is my cue to stop torturing you.” The bed shifted from the loss of Telemachus’ weight. Her son helped her slide back into a horizontal position. He adjusted the pillow under her head and tucked the blankets snugly around her. Penelope searched around until she found Odysseus’ hand and laced their fingers again.

Finally, as she got comfortable, she felt a presence hovering above her. Soft lips pressed against her temple.

“Love you. Try to rest.” Telemachus whispered. He was so silent on his feet that Penelope only heard the door creaking on its hinges as it closed behind him.

Chapter Text

Odysseus jolted awake, the vague memories of rough waves and blinding thunder making his chest heave. The nightmare was not as intense as the one he had the previous day, but the King of Ithaca still found himself trembling and biting the inside of his cheeks to prevent any noise from escaping.

He was home.

The very place he fought for twenty years to be.

Safe.

Alive.

Sick as a dog.

The sheets around him were utterly drenched in sweat. His hair felt as if it never dried since yesterday’s bath. His curls stuck to his skin as did his nightclothes, also soaked through. The good news: his fever finally broke during the night. The bad ones: he felt disgusting, and he was in need of another bath.

The thought contradicted his instinct to keep laying motionlessly.

By the strength of the sunlight Odysseus was surprised to find, he managed to sleep through the night. In fact, the sun was high in the sky, indicating it was close to midday. Odysseus’ stomach growled. Another surprise.

The sound made the covers beside him shift.

“Someone ‘s hungry?” Penelope’s voice sounded… painful. Vomiting always did a number on her throat.

Odysseus couldn’t stop a besotted smile spreading across his lips at his wife’s dishevelled head peaking out from the covers. Most of her hair was still in the braid he had done the day before, except all the tossing and turning made the hairstyle frizzy. Unruly strands stuck out in all directions. Her face was imprinted with lines, undoubtedly from the fabric of the blanket. Overall, she looked worse for wear and Odysseus wished to wake up on all his remaining days not an inch further away from her.

“Yes, I think I could eat. What about you?”

“Me too. I feel much better.” She cleared her throat. “Well, except for this.” She croaked.

“Good to hear.” Odysseus leant to the side to steal a kiss from Penelope. She was a bit reluctant first, but when Odysseus exclaimed that he could not possibly get any sicker from her, Penelope melted into him with a soft laugh.

“I’ll find someone to bring us food.” He said, but his wife stopped him with a strict palm to his chest.

“You will do no such thing. I can’t carry you in this state and I know you wouldn’t allow anyone else to do so.”

“My leg is fine.” Odysseus protested.

“Yes, and I have three heads.” Penelope answered without missing a beat.

His leg felt sensitive. Or slightly sore. Or throbbing steadily. Maybe not fine. But nothing that would justify not walking a handful of steps.

Before Odysseus could have objected, Penelope slipped out of his arms and practically jumped off the bed. She turned to send a cheeky wink in his direction, but the gesture was somewhat undermined by the way she had to grasp onto a branch not to collapse to her knees. Odysseus’ hands shot out instinctively, as if he weren’t lying way too far away to be able to catch her. 

“Is this you being fine?” He asked, staring at his wife’s whitened grip and the faint tremble running through her body.

“I just stood up too fast.” Penelope protested. “See, temporary hitch.” She exclaimed as she started to walk on unsteady legs.

Odysseus decided not to mention that the path she walked was not exactly straight. He simply blew out a breath of relief when his wife reached the door because the carrying situation went both ways.

“What has your food done to offend you?” Penelope asked after the fourth time Odysseus raised the same bite to his mouth only to bail the last second. The King of Ithaca lowered his spoon with a wry expression.

“Have you ever been hungry and nauseous at the same time?”

“Ugh.”

“Mhm.”

It was an unpleasant feeling. His stomach continued growling, indicating its emptiness, but the second Odysseus started chewing his throat tightened and the food gained a sickening aftertaste he couldn’t get rid of. Bit by bit, he powered through the entire bowl of porridge with a sour expression on his face.

He thrust the spoon back into the bowl for good, when his mouth filled with saliva and he had to supress a gag. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the worst of the nausea and leaned into Penelope’s hand that came to caress his back.

His wife was mostly picking at her food, but at least her plate was emptier by the end of the meal. She also nursed a cup of hot tea to soothe her raw throat. Odysseus recognised the smell of mint that used to be a constant around Penelope in the first four or five months of her pregnancy.

Soon, the urge to retch passed and Odysseus blew out a shaky breath. So far, the day didn’t start promising.

While they ate, the bath had been prepared. For the second time in two days, they took their sweet time lounging in the water. They had all the time in the world with no fretting Telemachus to be conscious of. Losing the coating of sweat felt like shedding an itchy, too-tight layer of his skin. Odysseus would have basked in the bath for the entire day, if not for two things.

First, the water has begun to cool. Not yet enough to be unpleasant but steam no longer rose from the surface.

Second, Odysseus was feeling sicker by the minute.

By the time he crawled back to the bed his stomach churned uneasily, and every bit of exposed skin was covered in goosebumps. He wrapped the blankets tightly around himself in an attempt to stop shivering.

Penelope sat next to him and carded her fingers through his dark curls.

“Should I braid it back for you? You look very pale.”

“Please.” Odysseus muttered.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

Penelope returned with a wide-toothed comb, a ribbon, and a bowl she placed within arm’s reach.

“I should have done this sooner.” She sighed at Odysseus’ first wince. From the past day’s tossing and turning, his long hair got riddled with tangles. Soaking in the water saved it from becoming a complete mess, but it was in a poor state.

“You couldn’t have.”

“You did mine.” Penelope huffed.     

“Because you were the one worse off. If it makes you happier, I don’t think I would be able to do it now.” Odysseus lied. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Penelope, although any braid he attempted in his current state would end up hideous. Not to mention he might puke on her back.

“It does not. I don’t like to see you hurt.” The kiss on his shoulder was feather light.

Penelope’s clever fingers did a quick job of detangling his curls and Odysseus revelled in the sensation of his hair being played with. As much as he enjoyed it, he let out a relieved exhale when his wife tied the ribbon around the end.

He sank deep into the bed, one hand immediately clamping around his middle. He curled into a ball and buried his face into Penelope’s thigh. She remained sitting to sip on another cup of tea but slipped her other hand to Odysseus’ nape, massaging it gently.

They laid in silence for a while. Penelope didn’t want to strain her voice, and Odysseus was too afraid to open his mouth. He tried to focus on the muffled calls of the seagulls fishing above the harbour and Penelope’s soothing touches that would have lulled him into sleep if not for the nausea.

The churning started to turn into cramps, and he felt his breakfast gradually climb its way back up. Odysseus shut his eyes as if that could prevent the inevitable. He should have listened to his own advice of not hurting himself and stop trying to hold on with all his might. Instead, he tightened his grasp around his stomach and resorted to slow, even breathing until he tasted something foul in the back of his throat.

“Pen-“ He darted into a sitting position, palm pressed against his mouth, not a second to spare.

The bowl got shoved under his chin, just in time to catch the trickle of vomit that forced its way past his lips. Penelope shifted to put her almost empty cup aside, then sat by his side to stabilize the bowl between his shaking hands.

His wife rubbed his back and murmured encouraging words in a hoarse voice as he threw up. Odysseus wrinkled his nose. The smell in front of him made his insides churn more furiously, which created a seemingly endless loop of retching.

By the time he was able to stop, he could barely sit upright. Penelope placed a cup of water in his trembling hands. He used half of it to rinse his mouth, the other half he gulped down but as soon as the water reached his stomach it came right back up. Odysseus coughed weakly, whimpering at the taste of bile the water brought with itself.

Penelope sighed and stroked his colourless cheeks with the back of her fingers. She grabbed a damp cloth and raised it to his jaw to wipe away remnants of vomit from his lips and beard. The latter made Odysseus’ face burn with mortification.

“Dearest, whatever is on your mind, please stop beating yourself up for it.” Of course, she noticed.

She finished cleaning him up, then handed him another cup of water.

“Try a little slower.” Odysseus trembled so hard he could barely hold it without spilling. He took some cautious sips and stopped at the first lurch from his stomach.

Seeing the desperation in his eyes, Penelope took back the drink without further nagging. She also reached for the bowl with a questioning expression.

Could he go without it for a bit? Considering how much he threw up Odysseus would be surprised if he had anything left in him. He gave her a weak nod.

With clumsy movements he tried to tug the blankets up to his neck and curl up into the foetal position that used to bring him comfort. However, when he pulled his legs to his chest, a blinding pain flashed through his right thigh. His hands shot to the source of it and Odysseus grit his teeth to choke back a scream.

The pain had been building since getting out of the bath, but the nausea had been so much worse, that he forgot about it until his body decided to send a harsher reminder. There was no way of ignoring it anymore.

After yesterday’s agonising night, he hoped the scar would leave him be, but as usual, luck was not on his side.  

His fingers dug into his flesh, trying to apply pressure, trying to make it stop. Odysseus turned his head to the side to muffle his pained grunts into the bedding. He laid on the wrong side where his body weight was putting more strain on his leg and he needed to roll over.

Roll over. Roll over. Roll over. He needed to…

It hurt too much.

The smallest of shifts sent new flashes of pain up his entire leg, making him lay paralysed in the same position.

“Odysseus?” The sudden touch on his shoulder had his body freeze up and Odysseus couldn’t hold back a yelp from the resulting agony. The touch was soft but that didn’t mean anything. The voice was not Hers but that also didn’t mean anything, she had altered it before. The smell was…

The smell.

No. The lack of it. Odysseus didn’t feel that nauseating sweetness he could never escape from no matter where he went on that horrific island. There was only sun-dried linen mixed with the unpleasant tang of his own sweat. The tension in his shoulders eased a bit.

As the blood ceased its rushing in his ears, Odysseus could make out raspy apologies.

“Penelope!” The relief made the words wheeze out of his lungs. “Help.”

“Can I…?”

She kneeled on the bed, hands hovering hesitantly over his body, and worry painted over her pale face.

“Please.” He begged.

Penelope was careful. She tried to jostle him as little as possible, rolling him over in one smooth motion and bunching a portion of the blanket under his knee, but no matter how gently she worked, by the time Odysseus was laid on his back, he was blinking back tears.

It felt as if someone was twisting a hot knife into his thigh. He clawed at the sheets to prevent himself from digging his nails into his own flesh.

He barely perceived his surroundings, the only thing on his mind was the searing pain radiating from his hip to his ankle. The bed dipped beside him, then something cool came in contact with his thigh. He cried out when the cool began to spread, followed by calloused fingers rubbing it into his spasming muscles.

For a while, Odysseus thought he was either going to lose consciousness or wet himself from how much the touch hurt. He hoped for the first, but the blissful darkness never came. Instead, he felt tears leaking from his tightly clenched eyes and he sank his teeth into his lips until he tasted blood.

He didn’t know how much time has passed but the pain eased a little bit, and he began to come back to his senses. He relaxed his muscles. They were sore from the elongated tension and the illness still coursing through his body. Odysseus let his head sink into the pillow and through heavy breathing, he cracked an eye open.

Penelope sat on the bed, concern weighing down her shoulders. She was even more dishevelled than before, and her lips were bitten red. Odysseus didn’t like how dejected she looked but what made his heart clench was her distance. Hands held stiffly in her lap, she was just out of arm’s reach. She could have been in the other room with how far she felt.

And she was doing it for him.

At times, when Odysseus’ mind betrayed him and made him believe he was still with Her he couldn’t bear to be touched. It was a lesson they learned through tears and bruises and the anger mixed with grief never ceased in his heart at Her. For tainting his security in the most sacred part of his life. The episodes varied in length, sometimes he was fine as soon as he recognised his surroundings, sometimes he needed hours.

At other times, it was the polar opposite and he craved affection like a starving man. He needed to be pressed as close to Penelope as physically possible as if her embrace could fend of his memories.

They could not predict which version would occur in a situation, so Penelope always prepared for the worse possibility and waited for Odysseus to initiate. He loved her for it, but when his body reacted in the latter way her distance made everything twice as painful.

He reached towards her.

Penelope’s grasp was as desperate as his own.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“Come here.” Odysseus’ voice was very small. She obeyed without another word, curling into his side while being mindful of his leg.

Their embrace transcended words. They went through this pattern too often, knew exactly what the other thought. Penelope felt guilty about something she could not control and already treated with the utmost care. Odysseus was irritated by something he could not control and being treated as helpless.

They could also recognize when the other didn’t want to talk about their problem.

“How is your leg?” Penelope asked.

“Well, it made me forget about the nausea.” Odysseus murmured. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, but her gaze remained heavy. “Better now.” He added.

She nodded with a tight expression. Odysseus splayed his palm over her waist and drew her even closer. Penelope nuzzled her head into his shoulder.

“When I married you-“ She inhaled deeply, her arm coming to rest across his chest. “everyone tried to warn me against it. A deceiver. A snake. The greatest liar, they told me.”

She paused and began to trace patterns over his heart.

“To them, you were. You could play them like the finest lyre. To them, you didn’t propose for the same reason.”

“None of those men would have looked half as good in your wedding dress either.” Odysseus interjected. Penelope just flicked his chest.

“My point is, I can tell when you are lying. And that, my dearest husband, was a big, fat lie.”

She craned her head to look him in the eye, but Odysseus used the opportunity to press his mouth to hers, cutting off other potential complaints. The angle was awkward, so he reluctantly pulled away, resting his lips on Penelope’s forehead instead.

“Earlier, you told me not to walk. Now, I understand why.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. The movement it created was enough for his leg to flare up. His hold involuntarily tightened around his wife and Odysseus spoke his next words in a breathy whisper. “I have not lied about feeling better. The pain is fading. It just…”

Penelope squeezed him gently.

“It hurts so badly.” Odysseus sniffed, swallowing hard.

He didn’t like to admit it, because there was nothing else they could do. It didn’t matter whether Penelope knew the true extent of his pain when, at this point, comfort was the only thing she could provide. Although her presence was indeed comforting.

Somehow, the pain really ended up cancelling out the nausea. Odysseus was thankful for that, as he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle throwing up in his current state. He wiped away the tear tracks from his face and tried to focus on the shape of his wife in his arms instead of the excruciating pain coursing through his right leg.

Penelope tried to entertain him, but she gave up on talking after her voice cracked one too many times. She tried to hum a lullaby, until Odysseus begged her for mercy. She turned up her nose in feigned offence and murmured something about ‘ungrateful audiences’. Odysseus almost had to beg again, because laughter still hurt him.

Finally, they resorted to holding each other in silence. Basking in the other’s presence and drawing lazy patterns on their skin as midday turned into afternoon. At one point, Penelope’s breathing evened out, her body growing heavier by his side. She always had brilliant ideas, Odysseus thought before succumbing to the darkness himself.

Odysseus laid in his bed, enjoying his favourite sight in the entire world. He rested his head on Penelope’s shoulder, propped up on a pile of pillows on one side of the bed. On the opposite side, leaning against the frame sat Telemachus, talking animatedly. 

If not for the lingering pain in his leg and the occasional cramps in his stomach, the moment would have been perfect.

After completing his duties, Telemachus showed up to make sure they were still alive. His son’s face showed palpable relief at finding his parents in a better state than the last time he visited. He had an eventful day. Athena took him on his promise of making it up for the missed training and apparently, she made Telemachus practice until the spear trembled out of his hands and he collapsed into a tired heap.

“So, the man patted me on the shoulder. Not even with proper strength, but I couldn’t help it. My knees just buckled, and I had to pretend I tripped over something. Oh, it was so embarrassing.” He buried his face in his hands, redness crawling up his neck.

Odysseus tried to organize his features into an understanding expression, but the corners of his mouth kept resisting. He felt sorry for his poor boy, as he had been there before. However, his suffering was rather amusing.

“Then, just as I recovered, we reached the stairs…” Telemachus let out a long sigh. Odysseus bit the inside of his cheek to choke back his laughter, knowing exactly how the story was going to go.

“Gods, it’s lucky he was so much bigger than I or else he would have fallen with me, but I’m sure my legs didn’t touch at least two steps.”

“Are you well?” Penelope sounded genuinely worried, but the shaking of her body betrayed her glee.  

“I fear my pride will never recover.” Telemachus groaned and Odysseus couldn’t help himself anymore. His son sent some dirty glances in his direction which only made him laugh harder.

“Don’t worry, at least you didn’t drop your wife into wet grass by trying to impress her.” Penelope said. Telemachus’ eyes widened and it was Odysseus’ turn to groan.

“My love, you’ve sworn to never talk about that incident ever again. I’ve been made to practice archery for the entire morning. Dawn to midday. Otherwise, I should have been able to bear your weight easily.”

“You shouldn’t have had to bear my weight, as there was no need to pick me up in the first place.” Penelope argued.

“Isn’t my love for you a good enough reason?” Odysseus feigned offence, staring up at her with innocent eyes.

“No.”

Telemachus inhaled sharply, then tried to hide his snort behind his palms as Odysseus gaped at his wife.

“You wound me, my Penelope.”

“As you had done me, husband. This is merely a payback.” Penelope’s eyes glimmered with mirth. Her grin was soft, her body warm draped against his side. Odysseus couldn’t have wiped off the smile off his face if he wanted to. Penelope leaned in for a kiss.

“I’m still here.” Telemachus cleared his throat, so they beamed at each other, and settled for a quick peck on the lips.

By the evening, Odysseus could move his leg without his body scrunching up in pain. Part of his lunch made a reappearance, but he didn’t feel half as sick as earlier. The night passed in blissful uneventfulness, as did the next day. Penelope vomited once, but she too was starting to look better.

On the physician’s strict orders – encouraged by Telemachus – they took three more days off. Odysseus knew they were truly healing as the boredom started to kick in. Forbidden from royal duties, they resorted to walks in the garden and visiting the beaches, or busied themselves with weaving and carving when the weather took a turn for the worse. And they rested, of course.

On the first day back in the game, Odysseus felt recharged. The day was looking to be a good one. Not too warm, not too many duties. He took his time getting ready, then, hand in hand with Penelope, strolled down to the dining hall. It was just the two of them, they didn’t expect Telemachus to show up until they were almost finished with their meal.

Right as predicted, their son sauntered into the room the second Odysseus put down his utensils. He exchanged knowing looks with Penelope then watched the boy plop down into his usual seat. Odysseus welcomed Telemachus with a smile, but his eyebrows furrowed hearing the hoarseness of his answer.

“Telemachus?” He asked.

At a second glance, his son looked pale. Very pale. His eyes were glossed over, and his hair fell limply into his forehead instead of the usual waves. He sat hunched forward and eyed his plate with an uneasy stare. Telemachus raised a trembling hand to his mouth and swallowed thickly.

“I’m never taking care of you ever again.” He moaned.