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Deep breaths, my love…
Penelope’s voice sounded far away, so far away. There was a hand on his shoulder, was it hers? Did he dare hope it was hers? Or was it someone else?
He was not taking deep breaths at all. Or maybe he was. But if he was taking deep breaths, it did not feel like he was. Deep breaths were refreshing and slow. But Odysseus was getting about as much air as he had, being drowned by Poseidon on the shores of his home.
The hand one his shoulder squeezed tighter, and the plate in front of his face was dragged away; he’d been doing so well with the beef, too. But he couldn’t protest, couldn’t eat any more, because his stomach was curling up and he was already choking without anything in his mouth.
Father?…Táta? What is it? What’s wrong?
He knew that voice. Still regrettably unfamiliar. But he knew it. He loved it. His son. He could at least try to pull himself together here for him.
Odysseus dragged his eyes up and forced himself to open them. He saw the storm clouds gathering out the window first. Telemachus was in front of it, half-standing with an anxious look in his eyes. Penelope’s other hand was gesturing for him to stay calm. Her right hand was on his shoulder, still.
“My love…” Penelope got up and leaned closer, and leaned against his side. The weight was just as much comforting and grounding as it was pressuring. “Perhaps we should retire to our chambers for the evening, to relax?”
Odysseus found himself nodding. Yes…privacy. He was still king. A king should not break down at his own dining table. If at all.
Penelope took his hand and guided him to his feet, looping her arm through his when she saw the glazed, distant look in his eye. Telemachus sat behind, looking a bit like a kicked puppy as his parents started to leave. And that was what brought Odysseus back.
“T-Telemachus.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Come.”
Telemachus, mercifully, needed no more words to accept the invitation. He shot out of his seat like he hated been poked with a spear, and ran to join his parents; had he been in a better mindset, Odysseus would have watched his speed with envy and pride. He came to Odysseus’ other side and looped an arm through his father’s, mirroring Penelope with one glance at her to make sure he was doing right.
Odysseus stared at the floor in front of him as he walked, the stones that he had seen placed himself, so he did not look at the windows, the storm and the sea beyond. When they reached the royal chambers again, and Penelope sat down with him by the olive tree’s trunk, he reached up to beckon Telemachus to join. Telemachus, again, eagerly obliged.
And so they stayed like that. Odysseus found himself in the middle of his wife and his son. His breathing had slowed down with the walk here. And when it threatened to pick up again…Telemachus curled closer and laid his brow on Odysseus’ chest. And Odysseus thought, he needed to keep his breathing even for him. He couldn’t do with watching his son’s head be bounced around in front of his own eyes. Penelope watched with a fond smile, settling her own chin on Odysseus’ shoulder while her arms circled his waist- a loving, safe embrace.
And when the lightning began to flash and the thunder shook the palace, Telemachus stayed close. Penelope whispered in his ear about how the rain would be good for the crops. Telemachus held his head still as Odysseus’ stiff fingers played with his red headband.
And to Penelope and Telemachus’ surprise, he fell deep asleep right in the middle of the storm.