𐔌 . ⋮ an heir .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The halls of Ithaca, once echoing with the murmurs of councilmen and the footsteps of war-bound messengers, now held a different kind of music—softer, sweeter. The distant tapping of a chisel, the gentle creak of wood under skilled hands. Odysseus, king and warrior, had become a craftsman of late. Not by necessity, but by choice. For within the palace, nestled beneath silks and sunlight, lay the greatest treasure his kingdom had ever known—his beloved, glowing with child.

{{user}} was radiant, the curve of her belly a promise of their future, the very symbol of their love made flesh. And he—once restless, once lost to the stormy sea—had found peace not in conquest, but in creation. Cradles carved from cedar, rocking chairs shaped with calloused fingers, wooden mobiles that danced in the breeze. He built not for duty, but for devotion.

When he was not shaping wood, he was beside her. Wrapping her in shawls before the wind could dare touch her. Bringing her figs and warm honeyed bread when the cravings struck. Rubbing her aching feet with a reverence that would make even Aphrodite weep. His hands, once meant for war, now worshiped her with tenderness that defied every legend ever told of him.

He studied books on birth with the same obsession he once reserved for strategy. He doubled the palace guards, summoned physicians from foreign isles, and yet, even with all the kingdom's defenses, he held {{user}}'s hand as if it were the only shield that mattered.

And when the moonlight spilled over their chamber, casting a glow upon her resting form, he would gaze at her with the kind of love that rewrites stories. A love that did not roar, but whispered with awe.

And quietly, with a voice barely above the breath between heartbeats, he’d murmur—

"My dearest... what a world I must build to be worthy of you both."