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Her water breaks just as the sun is setting.
The cup she was holding falls to the floor, already forgotten when it rolls under the bed. She reaches rather blindly for Odyssues and wraps her arms around his shoulders as best she can. Carefully, he guides her to the edge of the bed, his heart pounding. She’s already biting her lip, blood pooling at the sides. Her eyes have fluttered shut. Odysseus taps her cheek and whispers her name; not quite realising his worry until she cracks open her eyes. The relief that flows through him could drown a city.
“Hurts a bit more than I expected,” she says shakily.
“All right.” He squeezes her hand. “I’ll go tell someone to alert the midwife. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be here,” she jokes weakly.
He kisses her head before he goes, then her lips, then finally her belly. It gets a smile out of her, and she ruffles his hair. She tells him it will be fine, but something in it makes it feel more like a question. Especially when it is cut off by a short gasp another contraction comes. Odysseus wishes there could be two of him. He presses his forehead to hers and tells her again that he will be right back.
Then he sprints down the hall, faster than he has ever ran in his life.
Despite his assurance, he completes little quests on the way back; grabs fresh linens from the cupboards, sends another messenger to Penelope’s family, says a quick prayer at Athena’s altar. Maybe he should include an offering to Eileithyia too, but he is short on time, and if he had his pick of the Pantheon, his patron goddess would remain his first choice.
It is only as he checks things off this list that the fizzing begins in his veins, and he has to fight to hold himself together, to not start jumping up and down the hall because they are having a baby!
They are having a baby.
When he returns to their chambers, he finds Penelope up again leaning against the table, her knuckles white as she grips the sides. Her slow, measured breathing fills the room, followed by a deep groan as she bends over. Odysseus hurries to her side and presses himself against her, using his whole body as a crutch for her. She leans into his touch and covers his hand with her own, then whimpers.
“I’ve got you,” he tells her. “I’ve got you. The midwife is on her way. Just breathe with me, all right? Like we practised.” She nods quickly, her face contorted in pain.
“Ody,” she says, her whispered voice already straining. She presses her head into his shoulder, trembling not just from exertion. “I’m scared.”
He doesn’t need to ask why. Stories of women and infants dying in childbirth run rampant throughout Ithaca. Tenderly, he presses a kiss to her temple.
“I know,” he tells her. “I’m here. It’ll be all right. I promise.”
His mother used to tell him not to make promises when the gods could intervene.
However, this is his wife. If the gods try to intervene, they will go through him first.
By the time the midwife arrives, Penelope has given up on trying to be calm.
“Odysseus of Ithaca!” she screams. “If you ever put one of your goddamn babies inside of me again I will rip out this cord and I will fucking strangle you with it!” Her cheeks are bright red, her eyes blaze like a forest fire. Odysseus nods and pushes her hair away from her face.
“I know, darling.” He wipes the sweat from her forehead, then gathers up most of her hair as gently as he can before securing it with a ribbon. Then, he refreshes the cloth, squeezes out the excess, and places it on the back of her neck.
“Better?”
Penelope sighs audibly and sinks into the mattress. When she opens her eyes, the fire is still there, tempered by the cold cloth. Odysseus smiles.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“I know.”
“I’m just…” She grits her teeth against another contraction. “It’s a lot.”
“I know.”
Tears gather in her eyes and she pulls their joined hands to her chest. He can feel her heart, erratic and frantic, excited and frightened. Trembling, she presses a kiss to his knuckles. Her breaths come in short, swift gasps.
“I love you so much,” she mumbles.
“I love you too, Pen.” He kisses her forehead. “More than the world.” Penelope laughs, though it quickly turns into a pained cry. Her grip on Odysseus’ hand tightens but he holds his tongue. Compared to the agony she is in now, a bruised hand is a small price to pay. Those bruises bear her handprint after all; how can he complain?
They spend hours waiting for her contractions to become closer. He never leaves Penelope’s side; he helps her take sips of water and wipes the sweat from her skin and distracts her by reminiscing over the past. He recalls how he bravely climbed the tree outside her window to steal one last kiss. Penelope snorts and adds that he got so spooked by Helen also being in her room that he slipped from the branch and dislocated his shoulder.
At irregular intervals, the midwife and physician rush in and check her. Penelope holds herself together when they are in the room; she answers questions dutifully and honestly, remains silent as they examine her, nods politely when they tell her she is not there yet. She thanks them for their service and is sure to tell them how much she appreciates them. Every inch a Queen, even squatting with flushed cheeks and dripping with sweat.
After they leave, she lets out every curse word she can, some of which Odysseus didn’t know existed. She screams bloody murder and tells Odysseus how she’s going to murder him and then profusely apologises and tells him she loves him.
At one point, she looks at him with the most pleading eyes and asks him for her dagger.
“I need to throw something,” she begs.
“Throw the pillows, is that not why we got them?”
“I need to throw something and watch it split the wall in half.” Odysseus sighs and takes her face in her hands. Her skin is burning, her pulse races against his fingertips.
“Pen,” he tells her. “You are my everything. I would bring you Olympus if you asked. However, we are not throwing knives in the room where you’re giving birth.” He cups her cheeks. “Not because I don’t think you could, but because we should perhaps avoid questions about why the Queen is throwing knives in the delivery room.”
Penelope huffs and scowls up at the ceiling. Odysseus pushes back her sweat-soaked hair and nuzzles against her damp skin.
“After the baby is here, we can go out to the garden and you can throw as many daggers as you like.” The corners of her lips quirk upwards, even as she gasps again.
“Can I use your bow too?”
Normally, asking to use the King’s bow is close to treason. This isn’t normal though; this is Penelope. In labour, no less. He kisses her hair.
“Someone needs to teach our baby to shoot.”
After an eternity, the midwife declares she is ready. Penelope squeezes his hand once more, not out of pain but for reassurance, and gets into the position the midwife suggests. Seeing her there, Odysseus falls in love all over again. With her shoulders squared and her eyes alight, she looks like a warrior and he would follow her into any battle.
“My King,” the physician says. “Perhaps you should wait outside. No doubt you have duties to attend to and this is the women’s domain-”
“Absolutely not.” At the exact moment, Penelope’s hand tightens on his arm. Odysseus covers her hand with his without looking away from the physician, almost enjoying the way he retreats in shame. “I am not leaving my wife’s side. Her business is my business.”
The physician mumbles an apology, then slinks away without even looking at them.
Penelope clings to him like he might disappear on her, though whether that’s genuine fear or trying to cope with the pain is up for debate. Gods, his heart hurts to look at her, biting her tongue against the pain, beads of sweat on her forehead. Above all, it hurts to see the fear flickering in her eyes, to see his steadfast wife wavering in the face of the odds.
Somewhere inside, he is overjoyed to be meeting his child soon. But gods above, surely there should be a way that would spare her this pain?
He has never felt more useless than when he refreshes the cloth and tells her it will be alright. The midwife tells her when to push and what she can see; even the physician, irritating as he is, has his uses as he checks her pulse and prepares painkillers. Odysseus, King of Ithaca, is perhaps the least useful person in this room right now.
“I can see the baby’s head!”
“Nearly there, Pen.” He kisses her shoulder, strokes her hair. It’s amazing, how she still looks as perfect as the day they met, seventeen years old, in the shade of an olive tree. Penelope looks up at him now, exhausted beyond measure, wrecked and radiant.
This is the last moment they’ll have with just the two of them.
With his free hand, Odysseus taps her nose, the same gesture he made after she agreed to marry him. She laughs breathlessly, the way she did when she said yes.
Then she screams. And screams. And swears. And sobs.
Then, among the shouting and the swearing, a cry. A whimpering, stuttering little cry that grows louder by the second.
The world tilts. Time freezes.
“It’s a boy,” the physician declares. He looks over at them, a squirming bundle in his hands, and Odysseus’ heart stops. “It’s a boy, your Majesty.”
“A boy,” Penelope gasps. "Ody, it's a boy!"
In a daze, Odysseus rises from the bed and crosses over to him. A part of him worries the wiggling blanket isn’t his son, that this is some cruel joke the gods have planned but then… He is holding him. That little weight in his arms, tiny legs tangling in the blanket and tiny fists against his bare chest. The boy is screaming and writhing like a snake and he is covered in blood and gods only know what else and he is chalk white.
Odysseus is completely, utterly, inconceivably in love.
“Hello there, little one,” he whispers. He runs his finger along his impossibly soft cheek. When he reaches his mouth, the boy immediately goes for his finger in an attempt to soothe. There are no words in Greek or any language that could convey this feeling.
“Pen, look.” Gently, Odysseus eases himself beside Penelope and passes their son to her. He starts wailing immediately at the loss of his finger, the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.
Penelope glows, golden light bursting from inside her. A single tear runs down her face and despite the exhaustion carved into her face, there is something new about her. Like she’s been reborn. She looks at him, tired eyes glittering.
“We have a son, Odysseus!” she squeals. “Oh gods.” She touches his chest with her finger. “Hello, little Telemachus.”
With his entire, tiny hand, Telemachus grabs hold of her finger.
Odysseus says his name in his head, over and over again. He can’t think of a more perfect sound.
Behind them, the midwife clears her throat.
“Pardon me, but we will need to wash the baby,” she says. With a sigh, Penelope hands him to Odysseus, a kiss pressed to his hair.
The midwife goes to take him and Odysseus pulls back on instinct. Even Penelope, weary as she is, raises an eyebrow. They both know she meant no harm, emotions are just running high for everyone (least of all poor Telemachus), so Odysseus softens his face and manages a friendly smile.
“Thank you, but I can bathe my own son,” he says. “However, I will be grateful for your help.”
And he is. He lets her watch as he washes everything off the boy’s body and out of his curls (definitely from Penelope) and dabs him with oil. To make up for his earlier behaviour, he asks her if he’s swaddling the baby the right way, unexpectedly relieved when she says he is.
He expects there will be many more unexpected worries in the future.
He offers Telemachus his finger again as they make their way back to the room, laughing softly at the determination in which he takes it. His boy roots against his chest too and Odysseus chuckles.
“I think you’re hungry, aren’t you, little man?” he asks. “Worked up quite the appetite on your way here. Don’t worry, we’ll get you fed.”
In the bedroom, the physician seems to be finishing his examination of Penelope.
“Well, your Majesty, everything seems to be in order,” he tells him. Odysseus doesn’t respond until he is once again next to Penelope, forcing the physician’s gaze to turn to her as well. He presses Telemachus into her arms and asks her how she feels before he turns to him.
“You have my gratitude for assisting our midwife. I’m sure you learned much from her,” he says. Penelope hides her smirk.
“Indeed,” the physician says through gritted teeth. “I am sure you are both delighted. Especially as it’s a boy.”
“Oh, he could’ve been a minotaur for all I care.”
Penelope bursts out laughing, and even Telemachus’ gurgling sounds approving. The physician turns red and when he bows, he is as stiff as a board.
Odysseus waits for the door to close before he mutters “good riddance” under his breath.
Then he looks at his wife and child, and all other thoughts are banished.
Penelope adjusts her chiton and after some failed attempts, Telemachus latches on. There’s a small hitch in her breath, a noise of discomfort, and then she exhales. Odysseus rubs circles onto her back, easing out the knots formed beneath the skin.
For a long time, they just sit there, fascinated by the way his little jaw moves. Odysseus leans into her shoulder, the past few hours washing over them like rainfall.
“Pen, are you alright?”
“I told myself I wasn’t going to cry,” she sighs. Odysseus huffs a laugh and wipes her cheek.
“You just pushed another human out of your body. Crying is allowed.”
Telemachus pops off her breast, milk dribbling from his chin. The two of them laugh as Penelope wipes it away. It’s strange, to not hear him crying. That first cry will forever live in Odysseus’ head, a reminder of what he now fights for.
More than that, it’s what he lives for.
Penelope shifts over, letting Odysseus fully onto the bed. Slowly, she turns him around so that his head rests against his chest. They watch in awestruck silence as Telemachus looks around the room. Every corner of this room is new to him, floorboards Odyssues has tread a hundred times are as unfamiliar as the ocean’s depths. The world that Odysseus has taken for granted is a blank canvas for him to explore.
They created this. Him and Penelope. A whole new world of possibilities opens before him, endless adventures, countless new stories to tell. He might have an entire kingdom and 600 men under his command, and the favour of a goddess, but none of them compare.
This moment, here in this room, this is his entire world.