#godly things

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 (post-move to the palace wing, late afternoon, private dining nook. Fluff overload.)

The stew was… awful.

Not poisonous—just aggressively bland. The kind that clung to your tongue and made your soul beg for forgiveness. A tragic grayish lump of overboiled roots and forgotten ambition.

You took one bite, then another—enough to seem polite—enough to fake it.

Then you set your spoon down with a sweet sigh and scooted your bowl ever so slightly toward the middle of the little table.

"Mm. You should eat mine too," you said, voice honeyed as you leaned your chin into your hand. "It's still warm."

Telemachus looked up from his own bowl, which he had been eating tucked by your window, sunlight catching on the tips of his lashes. He blinked at you, lips parted like he was mid-thought.. "That's the third meal this week you've 'sweetly' surrendered to me," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm starting to think you hate the palace menu."

You tilted your head. "Noooo," you said, much too fast. "I just like seeing you eat. You look happier when you're chewing. Like a thoughtful goat... It's comforting."

You spooned up a bit of your untouched stew and leaned across the table. "Here," you offered with a sweet smile.

He huffed a laugh but leaned forward anyway, letting you feed him a bite. His mouth opened, and he bit down, wincing slightly.

"Mmm," he deadpanned.

"You didn't even chew it all the way," you whispered, scandalized watching as his jaw flexed as he chewed.

"Didn't need to. The pain was immediate." He raised a brow. "Tastes like boiled disappointment."

You giggled, scooping another bite. "C'mon. One more. I'll even give you a kiss if you finish it."

Telemachus froze.

You blinked at him, innocent.

He took it, eyeing you the whole time, before glancing at your down at your bowl. "Wait a second," he muttered. "You hate this stew."

You blinked again, wounded. "I would never—"

"You always get all syrupy with the compliments when the kitchen messes up," he went on, leaning back in mock-revelation. "That soup on Monday. The weird lemon thing on Tuesday. The steamed cabbage loaf yesterday—"

"I was being supportive of the kitchen's dishes and wanted you to try it," you interrupted.

"You made me eat three of them."

"It's character-building," you said, solemn.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

"You're not off the hook, you know."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

Then slowly, he stood from his seat, circled the table, and crouched beside your chair.

You opened your mouth to say something else—but he plucked your spoon out of your hand before you could.

"Say 'ah.'" he murmured, crouching beside you now.

You blinked. "Telemachus, I—"

"I'm serious."

"You're going to make me eat it?"

"I'm going to feed it to you. Lovingly. Like you do me."

You stared at him with narrowed eyes. "That's evil."

He smiled—sweet, smug, soft around the edges. "Say 'ah.'"

So you sighed… and opened your mouth.

The stew was still awful.

But gods, his grin afterward made it easier to swallow.

He didn't comment when you tried to sneak him another bite halfway through.

He just took it. Quiet. Smiling. Watching you like he'd been waiting for this game to unravel.

And so it went—your silly little food dance. You pretending not to hate it, him pretending not to notice, and somehow both of you ending up full, and quietly warm.

And by the end of the week? His jaw was softer. His tunic snugger. You mentioned nothing.

Until one afternoon, when he poked his stomach and muttered something about needing to train more—because his belt was starting to groan when he sat down.

You just grinned.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the wooden walls of the study.

Maps lay spread before Odysseus like a battle waiting to be fought, inked lines and fraying parchment curling at the corners from years of handling. He sat hunched at his desk, one hand resting on a goblet of wine that had long since gone lukewarm, the other holding down a scroll as his eyes flicked over strategy reports from the western coast.

Across the room, Penelope sat by the hearth, quill in hand. Her writing was smooth and elegant, like the sweep of her wrist was practiced even when her mind was a world away. She was drafting a letter—he didn't ask to whom. Probably a cousin on the mainland or one of the allied queens who still wrote in spirals of gossip and veiled concern.

The only sound was the gentle drag of her quill and the occasional sigh from Odysseus as he reread the same line for the third time without absorbing it.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that came only when a queen and king had learned to share space without needing to speak.

Then—three sharp knocks. Quick. Nervous.

Penelope's quill stilled. Odysseus lifted his head, gaze narrowing.

"Enter," he called, voice low but firm.

The door creaked open, and in shuffled a young servant—barely more than a boy, really—hair mussed and eyes wide like he'd sprinted the entire length of the palace. He bowed, words spilling out before he caught his breath. "M-My lord, my lady—pardon the interruption, but I—I thought you should know."

Penelope sat upright. Odysseus arched a brow. "Well? Speak."

The servant swallowed hard. "People. At the gates. Dozens—maybe more by now. They're saying the girl—the one who healed the boy on the ship—word's spread. They think she's blessed. Touched by the gods. Some have traveled from neighboring isles already—hoping to be healed."

He blinked, clearly rattled, and added, "Should I alert the guards? Or... or send for the priestesses?"

Odysseus exchanged a glance with Penelope, his jaw tightening. He waved a hand. "No. That'll be all. Go back to your post. And... breathe."

The boy stumbled out with a bow, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence returned—heavier this time.

Penelope was the first to speak, voice soft but tinged with wonder. "Gods... it was just yesterday she helped that boy. Word travels fast."

Odysseus didn't look up from the scroll still unfurled before him. His fingers pressed into the parchment like he could will it to say something else. Anything else.

"I heard," he murmured.

Penelope didn't miss the tension in his jaw or the way his hand lingered too long on the page. She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the crackling hearth, and let her voice fill the silence he refused to break.

"They're calling her a healer now."

He said nothing.

"And a prophet. A siren. A daughter of Apollo." Her brow arched, the corners of her mouth curving into something between amusement and disbelief. "Gods, someone said she was Artemis in disguise just yesterday. And now this?"

"She's not Artemis," Odysseus said quietly, still not looking at her. His eyes remained fixed on the scroll, though the words there had long since lost meaning.

Penelope rose, slow and fluid. "No?" she said softly, a teasing lilt slipping into her voice as she walked over to him with  the kind of grace that made him feel seventeen again. She bent slightly, brushing a kiss just above his ear. "And here I thought you'd tell me she was the Muse of Ithaca next."

Odysseus grunted, shifting in his seat, but the tips of his ears—traitorous as ever—flushed red.

Penelope chuckled, the sound warm and fond, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were light, barely pressing down, but their presence settled him in a way nothing else could. She glanced at the maps scattered before him, then back to his face.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, voice gentler now.

Odysseus exhaled slowly. "Earlier today... I spoke to her...____."

Penelope said nothing, only waited.

"She asked me what it meant to carry a god's favor," he said after a moment, eyes still on the fire now. "Said she wasn't sure if she was ready. If she'd ever be. I gave her advice, but..." His lips pressed into a tight line. "She's still young. Still unsure."

Penelope hummed, stepping closer. "She's loyal," she said. "She's kind. And clever in a way that doesn't need to be spoken aloud."

He nodded once. "Dangerous combination."

"She reminds me of someone," she mused, her fingers trailing across his shoulder before resting beneath her chin. "Someone I used to know, before the years turned us both into shadows of our sharper selves."

He glanced at her then, eyes shadowed but soft. "That so?"

She turned to meet his gaze. "I was once a girl in these halls too, Ody." A small, secret smile ghosted across her lips. "Weren't you the man who taught me how to wield a dagger hidden in a spindle?"

"I was the fool who gave it to you," he said with a dry chuckle.

"And I was the fool who didn't use it on you when you returned from war, reeking of smoke and half a dozen curses."

They shared a look—wry, exhausted, and full of something older than pain. Something that survived it.

Something that endured.

Odysseus shifted slightly in his chair, the weight of memory pressing into his spine like old armor. He turned the scroll over, finally letting it go, and ran a rough hand through his graying curls.

"I've decided," he said at last, voice low.

Penelope tilted her head.

"There'll be a feast tomorrow," he continued. "A formal one. Public."

Her brow lifted. "What for?"

"I'm giving her a title."

That earned a blink, then a slow smile. "Oh?"

"I'm going to call her the Divine Liaison."

Penelope let out a soft hum, something between surprised and amused. "A liaison?"

"To the gods," he clarified, as if that explained everything. "She sings. She speaks. She listens."

"She also braids linen," Penelope murmured, crossing the room to refill her wine, "and shuffles quietly through the halls when she thinks no one's looking."

"She's not no one," he said, almost too quickly.

"No," Penelope agreed, glancing over her shoulder with a flicker of mischief. "But you're not doing this for her. Not entirely."

He didn't respond. Just stared at the crackling fire.

Penelope returned to stand beside him. "You're doing this for him."

Odysseus didn't deny it.

Her smile widened, voice warming into something teasing. "What, no snarky quip about strategy and optics?"

He exhaled through his nose, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "It'll put the right kind of eyes on her. Keeps her close, but not too close. Grants her place, not power."

"And Telemachus?"

He paused. His thumb traced a line along the rim of his goblet. "It gives him a reason to protect her."

Penelope's laugh was soft—surprised and fond, like the sound of wind through linen. "As if he needed one."

"I'd rather he had a title to point to than a heart to confess," Odysseus muttered, the admission slipping out like a stray arrow.

Penelope's smile faded into something quieter. Her gaze lingered on him, eyes kind. "You think this is love, then?"

Odysseus looked down at his hands. Calloused fingers, faded scars. Hands that had built ships, drawn blood, buried friends. Hands that had once held her, trembling and young.

"I think..." He swallowed. "He looks at her the way I used to look at you. When I didn't think you'd notice."

That silenced her.

Not from surprise, but from memory.

She stood straight, eyes misty with something too old to name. "I did notice," she said after a beat, voice a hush against the crackle of fire. "I just wasn't ready to believe it."

Odysseus nodded, quiet for a moment. Then. "He follows her with his whole chest, Pen. Tries not to—tries to act like he doesn't—but gods, it's written all over him. Like he's always waiting for her voice in the hall, like he counts her footsteps before they reach him."

Penelope let out a breath, touched one hand to her heart.

"He watches her like he's trying to memorize something he knows he doesn't deserve."

She smiled softly. "Then he's your son, alright."

Odysseus huffed a laugh. "And she... she doesn't even see it. Or maybe she does, and she's just scared. Either way, she's in it too deep to leave without bleeding."

Silence stretched again, long and tender.

Penelope's voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "So this title—it's not just for show."

He looked at her.

"No," he said. "It's a tether. A shield. A warning."

"To whom?" she asked gently.

His jaw flexed. "To anyone who'd think to take her from him."

And for a moment, the only sound was the hush of the sea through the window... and the way their breaths seemed to fall in time. The fire crackled low behind them, casting long shadows across the stone, but neither moved to tend it.

Then Penelope whispered, her voice so soft he nearly missed it. "We tried for years, you know."

His head turned sharply.

She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze had drifted somewhere distant—far beyond the parchment, the hearth, the years worn into the lines of her face. Her quill sat idle on the desk, ink bleeding slowly into the paper's edge.

"Before Telemachus," she continued, barely louder than the tide. "We tried, and the gods were quiet. I was beginning to think they didn't listen to women who prayed softly."

"Penelope—" he started, but she kept going, the words fragile and real and unshakable.

"But then... he came...Telemachus... Small and loud and full of everything I didn't know I'd needed." Her voice caught slightly. "And you were gone."

Odysseus reached for her hand. Found it. Held it.

His thumb brushed along the curve of her knuckles, memorizing them all over again.

"I never got to be his father while he was small," he said, his voice rough. "I came home to a boy with your eyes and none of my memories. A stranger, who I loved like he'd always been mine."

Penelope turned to look at him now. There was no judgment in her eyes. Just grief softened by time.

"I can't undo that," he added, a bitter edge creeping in. "But I can give him this. A chance. A way to—"

"Love without losing," she finished, her eyes searching his.

He nodded. "Exactly."

They sat like that for a long time. No more strategy. No more prophecy. Just two parents on either side of a life they tried their best to build.

The fire had nearly gone out when Penelope broke the silence, voice low and wry.

"You're terrible at pretending you don't care."

Odysseus huffed. "And you're worse at pretending you don't hope."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his knuckles, her eyes never leaving his. "Maybe. But this hope feels... right."

He nodded once. Didn't speak.

Because if he had, it would've been something soft. Something too bare to say aloud.

Something like: Me too

Penelope laughed softly at the silence that followed, not mocking, but something warmer. Something full of understanding. "You know," she said, eyes crinkling with affection, "I think I love her more each day."

That made him glance up.

"She's brave," Penelope went on, voice quiet but sure. "Even when she's angry. Even when she's hurting."

Odysseus smiled faintly. The corners of his mouth twitched upward like he couldn't quite help it, like something small in his chest was loosening.

"She reminds me of you, you know," Penelope added, reaching over to brush a speck of dust from his shoulder. "Not when you're scheming. When you're... trying. When you're trying to be good."

"Gods help us," he muttered. "Two of me."

Penelope smacked his shoulder, light but pointed. He chuckled, and she did too. The kind of laugh that curled at the edges of a long day. Familiar. Worn in like sea-soft leather.

And then—quieter now—she said, "I think she's the closest thing we've had to a daughter."

Odysseus stilled.

His smile faded, not in rejection, but in reverence. Like the weight of those words deserved room to breathe.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind outside rattled the olive branches against the shutters, a whisper of the island beyond. The fire in the hearth hissed softly, like even it had gone still to listen.

"I know," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Measured. "That's what scares me."

Penelope's expression shifted. Softer now. She stepped toward him, cupping his face in both hands, gentle and sure.

"She's not a god," she whispered. "But she's ours. And if the gods want her—well, they'll have to go through both of us first."

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

"...Then let them come."