𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚
Chapter 8. REPRIEVE BEFORE THE STORM

❝When all seems lost, it is the smallest hands and strongest hearts that guide us home.❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Countdown: 0 years and 2 months remaining

The sun was warm and gentle as it bathed the courtyard in golden light; the gentle hum of bees and rustling of leaves painting a serene backdrop. 

You sat on a cushioned bench cradling baby Telemachus as he blinked lazily at the world around him.

His tiny hand curled instinctively around your finger causing you to coo more over him, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small.

He was mesmerizing—a perfect blend of his parents.

Dark unruly curls framed his cherubic face as his honey-brown eyes glinted in the sunlight—well...most of them. There, in his left iris, a splash of vibrant blue stood out against the brown like a shard of the Aegean sky—Odysseus's unmistakable mark on his son.

“Look at you,” you murmured, brushing a gentle finger across his impossibly soft cheek. "You're going to grow into a strong one little Prince. Just like your mother."

The sound of wood striking wood drew your attention. Across the courtyard, Penelope was sparring lightly with a wooden staff, her movements sharp and deliberate.

She wore a simple chiton tied high to allow freedom of movement, her dark hair pinned back with golden cuffs that caught the sunlight with each turn of her head.

Her strikes were slower than usual, almost as if testing the strength of her recovering body. Yet every swing carried the precision and grace that defined her—each step calculated, her posture perfectly aligned.

Still you frowned, unable to keep your concern at bay.

"You know," you raise your voice just enough for her to hear, "you don't have to train like you're preparing for war. You just had a baby less than a month ago. Your body needs time to recover."

Penelope paused mid-swing, her chest rising and falling as she turned to face you. A single eyebrow arched and a faint smirk curved her lips.

“Are you telling me I should be resting?” she asked teasingly, though her tone carried a challenge that was hard to ignore.

"I'm suggesting you take it slow," you replied, adjusting your hold on Telemachus as he let out a soft coo. "Ithaca can survive without you wielding a sword for a little while longer."

Penelope chuckled, planting the tip of the practice blade against the ground and leaning on it. "Perhaps, but I've never been one to sit idle," She shifted her weight, the staff creaking faintly under her hand. "Besides, I'm older than you. I think I know my limits better than most."

You snorted, brushing a hand lightly over Telemachus' soft curls, marveling at their softness. "Hardly. And if I recall, age doesn't excuse recklessness."

Her lips twitched, her usual composure breaking just enough to let a smile peek through. "Recklessness?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Coming from the person who once fell into the river trying to prove they could fish with their bare hands?"

"That was one time!" you shot back indignantly.

“Uh-huh,” she said, her smirk widening. “And how many times have I pulled you out of trouble now? Five? Six?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide the grin tugging at your lips. "Fine. If you must, Queen Penelope," you said with an exaggerated bow of your head. "But if you pull something, don't come crying to me."

Penelope laughed warmly, the sound filling the courtyard, warm and unrestrained. It softened her sharp edges, momentarily chasing away the weight of responsibility she always seemed to carry.

Sheathing the wooden blade back in its rack, she walks over to you, her gaze softening as she looks at Telemachus. She kneels beside you, reaching out to brush a finger over his tiny hand that still clung to your own.

Her touch was feather-light—almost reverent, and her honeyed eyes softened as they lingered on her son. "He looks so much like Odysseus," she says fondly, her smile tinged with a trace of longing.

Before you could respond the doors to the courtyard burst open with a loud thud, shattering the peace.

A man stumbles in panting. His short wavy hair clung damply to his forehead and his spectacles sat askew on his nose threatening to slip off entirely.

His tunic was rumpled—one shoulder slipping slightly—as he braced himself against the doorway, his chest heaving as though he'd sprinted across the entire palace grounds.

"Penelope!" he gasped, his voice cracking with urgency.

Your brows furrowed at the casual use of her name. Very few dared to address the Queen of Ithaca so directly, even fewer without a proper title.

Penelope, however, immediately straightened from her position as her expression shifted to one of concern. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—a softening in her eyes that only occurred when someone she trusted was in trouble.

"Polites?" she asked, taking a measured step forward. "What's wrong? I thought you were with Odysseus."

You cast her a questioning glance, your arms instinctively tightening around the baby nestled against your chest causing the babe to stir slightly.

Penelope caught your look and offered a faint apologetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"____, this is Polites," she explained, nodding toward the disheveled man. "One of Odysseus's closest allies—his childhood friend actually. You'd have met him sooner if you'd joined us on our honeymoon voyage. He was part of the crew on the ship."

Her lips quirked into a smile and she raised a teasing eyebrow. Still holding Telemachus, you shot her a scathing glare.

"And be forced to watch you and Odysseus suck faces the entire time?" you retorted. "No thank you. It was bad enough hearing him brag nonstop about how he 'won' you."

Penelope blinked as her smirk faltered. But you didn't stop there. A wicked grin tugged at your lips as you leaned into the opportunity.

"Honestly it's a miracle I didn't lose my appetite," you said, your voice dripping with faux annoyance. "He wouldn't shut up about how he, a younger man, managed to win over a Queen older than him. How it was such a pity that men her age—or even older—couldn't compete for her favor. He said they couldn't match his charm, his wit, his everything.” You paused for dramatic effect. “'The cusp of adulthood,' I think he called it at the time."

Penelope froze.

Her teasing mask, so carefully maintained, cracked just enough for you to catch the faint pink rising in her cheeks.

"He—" she started, her voice uncharacteristically strained, "he did not—"

"Oh but he did," you cut in, savoring the rare sight of her flustered. Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, student of the God of War Ares, was struggling to form a coherent sentence.

Her lips parted as if to reply but she quickly snapped them shut again, her cheeks deepening in color. It was as if a memory of Odysseus's shameless boasting had appeared in her mind.

Your grin sharpened and you couldn't resist twisting the knife just a little more. "It's alright Penelope," you said in mock reassurance. "He's very proud of you. And himself of course. You should hear the way he talks about it to anyone who'll listen."

Penelope let out a mortified groan as she presses a hand to her face—as if that might somehow erase her blush. "You're insufferable...just as he is," she muttered, though there was no venom in her words.

Your lips curled into a victorious smirk. Rarely did you get the upper hand in your playful sparring with Penelope. But when you did, the retribution was all the sweeter.

With a contented sigh, you finally turned back to Polites who had been surprisingly standing there silently throughout the entire exchange.

Polites seemed frozen in place. His shoulders rigid as if he'd been turned to stone. Already flushed from exertion, the faint sunlight streaming into the courtyard illuminated the deep berry-red flush that crept across his cheeks.

He was staring. His wide amber-colored eyes fixated on you.

It was almost comical, the way he seemed unable to decide where to look, his expression an odd mix of awe and panic.

They flickered from your face to Telemachus, then back again—almost as if committing every detail to memory; the curl of your hair, the tilt of your head, the way you cradled the newborn.

His chest rose and fell with a tremor that betrayed his nervousness.

"You're awfully quiet," you remarked dryly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "Don't tell me you have something to add to Odysseus's tales of conquest."

The sharpness of your tone jolted him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. "Uh—n-no! Not at all!" he stammered, shaking his head so vigorously that his glasses slipped lower on his nose. "I—um—Odysseus may have...mentioned a thing or two..."

 "Polites!" Penelope says snaps as she sends him a warning look, her blush still faintly visible.

"Right! Yes! Back to—uh—why I'm here," he said hurriedly, practically tripping over himself as he tried to steer the conversation back on track. "My name—it's Polites!"

"I already know who you are," you said curtly, cutting him off before he could launch into a rambling introduction.

Polites hesitated before letting out a weak defeated "Right," straightening his posture as best as he could, the Kefalonian born soldier adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand.

The action gave him a brief semblance of control as he cleared his throat and turned fully toward the Queen in what you assumed was meant to be in confidence.

It didn't last long. He couldn't resist sending one more nervous glance in your direction only to cause his composure to falter again.

"Well um," he began gesturing vaguely as though the words might materialize if he waved his hands enough. "It was the uh, hunt! The celebratory hunt for Prince Telemachus! We—uh—Odysseus and I—we were out on the hunt you see and uh..."

Polites trailed off, his eyes darting around as if searching for the right thing to say. "We were setting traps—hare traps really," he added quickly, as if this clarification was of vital importance. "The thing about hares is that they're quite clever. Did you know Ithaca has over—"

"Polites." Penelope's voice was sharper this time, cutting through his rambling like a whip. "Focus. What happened?"

"Right! Yes! Focus!" he echoed as though trying to rein in his scattered thoughts. "So um the rookies—the new recruits—they were...uh messing around. Fooling with the arrows at the campsite—you know, trying to show off their aim. Which, by the way, was terrible. I mean their form? Absolutely abysmal—no discipline in their stances, no understanding of how to nock an arrow properly..."

He trailed off upon catching the pointed looks on both your and Penelope's faces. Realizing he'd strayed again he started speaking faster now, as if rushing to get the words out before his nerves got the better of him.

"And one of them—Zeus help him—let an arrow loose!" Polites blurted, his hands flailing in a panicked gesture. "It—it was headed straight for me but Odysseus—he—he pushed me out of the way."

The air seemed to still. 

Your breath hitched, a cold knot forming in your stomach. "...What?"

"Odysseus pushed me out of the way," he repeated in a shaky voice. "And he...he took the arrow instead."

Penelope's honey-brown eyes widened in shock. For the first time in years she looked genuinely taken aback.

Polites flinched at your combined reactions; his hands waving frantically in an attempt to explain. "H-he's alive!" he said quickly, his voice pitching higher in his panic. "The arrow hit his leg—it's bad but he's alive. They're bringing him back now!"

You released a shaky breath as the tightness in your chest loosened ever so slightly. Beside you, Penelope's expression shifted, the initial shock giving way to a steely determination.

"Where?" she asked, her voice low but firm.

"Almost at the gates," Polites replied, his voice still trembling. "I—I ran ahead to tell you."

Penelope’s jaw tightened, her expression unreadable as she turned toward the palace gates. “____,” she said softly, her voice calm but commanding. “Take Telemachus inside. I need to meet him.”

You hesitated, torn between instinct to protect her and duty to the child in your arms. "Be careful," you murmured.

She didn't reply.. Her focus was already fixed on the horizon, her steps purposeful as strode away. Polites lingered for a moment, casting you a nervous glance before scurrying after her.

As you turned back toward the palace, Telemachus’ small weight pressed against your chest, you couldn’t shake the unease curling in your gut.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The soft golden light of midday streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the spacious chamber.

You sat on a cushioned bench near the balcony, cradling Telemachus in your arms as a gentle breeze wafted in, carrying with it the scent of blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

The rhythmic chirping of distant birds blended harmoniously with the infant's soft coos, creating an air of serenity that belied the tension brewing beyond these walls.

Eryna, the wet nurse, stood nearby with her hands folded neatly in front of her. She hovered as if ready to assist, though she rarely needed to. Telemachus seemed to prefer your arms and Eryna had grown accustomed to allowing you to handle him most of the time.

As you rocked the baby gently, his eyes began to flutter close as he dozed off. "You're just like your father," you whispered with a silent huff of laughter. "Except you actually sleep quietly."

Your musings were interrupted by the quiet creak of the chamber door. You glanced over your shoulder to see Penelope standing there, her hand still on the doorframe.

Her face was pale, her features drawn with an exhaustion that went beyond mere lack of sleep.  Her shoulders, always held high and proud, slumped just slightly, as if the weight of the world had grown too heavy.

And her eyes—usually sharp and calculating—were clouded with something heavy...something that made your chest tighten instinctively.

"Penelope," you said softly, adjusting Telemachus in your arms as you rose to greet her.

Eryna, catching the unspoken weight in the room, gave a respectful bow and quietly left without a word.

Penelope walked further in, her steps slow and deliberate. She didn't look at you at first, her gaze fixed on the floor as if the act of lifting her head was too much to bear.

When she reached the chair beside yours, she sank into it, her elbows resting on her knees as she buried her face in her hands. Your stomach twisted. It wasn't often that Penelope let her composure crack.

And when she did, it was never a good sign.

"What is it?" you asked gently, though you already suspected the answer.

The Spartan born Queen took a shaky breath, lowering her hands just enough to let them rest on her knees. "The arrow...it missed anything vital," she started slowly, her voice steady but brittle. "But it tore through the muscle and tendon. It's bad—he'll have a permanent limp."

She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line as her hands grip her knees. "By the time they got him back to the palace the wound had already started to fester. It wasn't as bad as it could've been but..."

Her voice cracked slightly as she trailed off and she shook her head.

"But he won't be able to lead in the war," you finished for her. She nods, unable to verbally answer.

You sat there for a moment, the gravity of the situation pressing down on you.

Odysseus sidelined by an injury. The man who was supposed to lead in the war to come. A permanent limp. A festering wound.

The implications churned in your mind, but it was the sight of Penelope—her hands trembling slightly, her breath shallow—that hurt the most.

"Where is he now?" you asked finally, your voice quieter than before.

"In the throne room," she said, leaning in the chair and closing her eyes briefly from the emotional tax of the day so far. "The council is pressing him for answers and plans, discussing what to do next."

Penelope lets out a soft bitter laugh—though it lacked any humor. "Meanwhile here I am: doing nothing but thinking about how close I came to losing him."

You nodded slowly as your mind raced with thoughts of what the council might suggest. Another leader? A delay in joining the war effort?

None of the options seemed promising.

Your gaze drift to Telemachus who had drifted into a peaceful slumber, his tiny chest rising and falling with each soft breath. Gently pressing a kiss to his forehead you rise to your feet.

"Eryna," you called softly.

The wet nurse reentered swiftly, her expression curious yet attentive. Cradling the babe as if he were the most precious treasure in the world, you passed Telemachus to her, your hands lingering for a moment as you adjusted the linen wrap around him.

"He likes to be swayed gently," you said softly, transferring him into her arms with practiced care. "And make sure to hum—he loves that. It helps him settle when he fusses. I won't be long."

Eryna nodded, offering a small smile as her arms adjust to support the baby Prince. "Of course my Lady." 

Behind you Penelope's brows furrowed. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and exhaustion.

You turned back to her with a bright mischievous smile as your hands rest on your hips. "Why we're going to the throne room of course."

Penelope blinked. "...What?"

"To discuss all this war of Troy business," you replied breezily, your tone deceptively light. "Odysseus needs answers doesn't he? And since I know you're not going to sit here and let the council push him around without a fight, we might as well go together."

Penelope stared at you, her lips parting as if to argue. But no words came. Instead she let outs a quiet laugh and a shake of her head as she rose to her feet.

"You're...impossible," she muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"That's why you keep me around," you shot back with a grin, already heading for the door.

As Penelope followed you out of the nursery the weight in her steps seemed a little lighter. The worry hadn't left her entirely—how could it?

But for the first time that day, you thought you saw a flicker of hope in her eyes.