You and your husband sat together in your small cabin below deck, the storm outside making Odysseus’ ship sway and groan like some wounded beast. You sat between his legs, your back pressed firmly against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a protective shield. The sea always unsettled you, especially during storms. When the sky split with lightning and the ship lurched under Poseidon’s wrath, it felt as if the very gods conspired to keep you from finding rest.

Polites leaned against the wooden wall, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His heartbeat beneath your ear was a rhythm more reliable than the fickle tides of the wine-dark sea.

When the call to war had come, he had sailed to Troy at Odysseus’ side, as all loyal Ithacans were bound to do. You could not bear to stay behind. You had followed in secret, sneaking aboard the ship under the cover of night, determined to face Ares’ battlefield rather than endure the agony of waiting. He was your husband, your love, the thread the Moirai had woven tightly with your own. You would protect him at any cost—as he would protect you.

You had no children to wait for you back in Ithaca, no family close enough to send word that you had vanished into a war that stretched on for ten relentless years. The Fates had taken your sisters long ago, leaving you alone save for Polites. You would be damned to the underworld itself before letting him return from this voyage without you.

You’d grown up side by side, two lives intertwined since childhood. You remembered watching him as a boy, laughing and wrestling with Odysseus and Eurylochus, his sun-bronzed skin glowing under Helios’ gaze. You had sat apart with your sisters, plaiting flowers into each other’s hair, until one day Polites caught you watching. With a shy grin, he approached and offered you a small, wild bloom—perhaps left by Persephone herself in her fleeting spring. That simple gesture had set your paths together forever.

When he discovered you stowed away on the ship, his face had blanched with terror. What if you were struck down by Ares’ cruelty? What if you fell to some strange plague sent by Apollo? The what-ifs haunted him like restless shades. But now, years later, with you nestled safely in his arms while the storm raged outside, his fear had softened into a quiet, enduring devotion. Soon, he promised, you would return to Ithaca. Soon, you would stand beneath Athena’s olive trees and offer sacrifices in thanks for surviving the trials of gods and men.

The thunder roared again, a booming bellow like Zeus himself casting judgment. You shivered, clutching Polites’ forearm. At your request, he began to sing softly, his lips close to your ear. His voice—low, rich, and velvet-smooth—had always been your talisman, his song a charm stronger than any priest’s incantation. Even Poseidon’s fury seemed to hush, as if the god paused to listen.

As he sang, the tempest quieted in your mind. For a moment, it felt as though even the immortals had stilled their hands, granting you this fragile peace. His breath brushed your skin, warm and mortal, before he pressed a tender kiss to your earlobe.

“You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you...” he murmured, the words like an offering to the gods, a prayer-like song to guide you both safely home across the endless, perilous sea. "... Or just how empty they all seem without you..."