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Darkness had already fallen when they found shelter, sufficient for their purpose, but poor all the same. Still, with winter’s chill upon them, Telemachus was not inclined to be picky for his own sake: he might not have slept in worse places, but he had spent plenty of nights in places no better than this one.
“It is not yet too late to make for the palace instead,” he said, latching the hut’s door against the winter night.
“It is dark already, and this will suit well enough,” Circe said, taking slow stock of their temporary shelter. “You have lived here before, have you not?”
Telemachus wondered which of his discarded possessions had given it away. Those he valued, he had taken with him, of course. “I was not king then, and alone.” He had not been afraid, he thought, not truly. He had not known his father, but he had known his mother well enough to trust her, to believe her when she assured him that all would be well.
And so it had, in a way, he supposed, though now that he was grown, he begun to see that sometimes, his mother’s words had been intended to protect and soothe, rather than to make him see the full and stark truth of things.
He wished he had her gift, to in time be capable of extending such comforts to his own children, and keep them happy, and safe, during those times when he could not keep them near.
“You think kings should freeze to death rather than spend the night in a goatherd’s hut?” Circe’s smile gave away her teasing.
Telemachus smiled in return. “Not at all. But you, I would see you comfortable, and honored as you deserve, goddess.”
Circe completed her circuit around the hut’s single room, the hearth in its center, providing warmth and light. Telemachus warmed his hands eagerly, eyeing the sparse bedding. He would go without willingly, though the night might get chillier yet, before dawn’s arrival.
“You honor me well enough, mortal.” Circe smiled again, light and yet heady as well-aged wine.
Telemachus felt himself flush. The fire crackled as he fed it more wood: doubtless that was the cause. “I am pleased that you would think so.”
There was a miracle to it still, he felt. To have her in his bed, or be invited to repose in hers. To feel her teeth on his neck, marking him as hers for all with the eyes to see. To have her deny him completion, reduce him to begging before she would grant him her permission to find release, to spend himself inside of her.
She had told him that he would give her children, and he dreamt of it sometimes, of seeing her belly swell as the seed that he had planted sprouted to life. Of running his hands over her skin, trying to feel the new life slumbering underneath.
“You please me in many ways,” Circe said. She had gathered the bedding, Telemachus saw, not surprised. It had been a long day, and it seemed the goats had been no more prepared for winter’s arrival than they themselves had been. Collecting them all and ensuring that they would be safe had made for lengthy labor.
Doubtless, there would be those who would say that such was not fit work for a king. Telemachus cared not, as he knew his mother and Circe did not. Theirs was the wisdom that ruled Ithaca, that soothed angry voices raised in recollection of events better forgotten. Theirs were the calculations that balanced merchant’s greed against farmer’s worry.
Rich, Ithaca would never be, but sufficient unto itself and able to survive what lean times the future might bring, yes. Telemachus found pride in that, and more pleasure than any glory or heroics.
If not, perhaps, more pleasure than what he found in she who had agreed to be his wife and queen.
“The hour is grown late,” Circe said, beginning to take off her clothes.
Telemachus sat on his hands to keep them from reaching out uninvited. “I will keep the fire going until dawn.” The hut’s size had its advantages: unlike the palace, it was well within a single man’s capacity to keep it warmed, so long as he did not doze off for too long. “You should do as you wish.”
“Should I?” Circe smiled her wine-like smile. “How kind of you to give me your permission.”
This time, Telemachus knew to hold the fire blameless for his heated face. “That is not what I meant.”
“Well do I know it,” Circe said. “And well do I know that what hours remain of this night, I had rather not spend them alone. I am chilled, still, and desirous of warmth. Will you not come and gift me what I wish for? You, who calls me goddess and yourself my humble worshiper? Or are these mere words, meant to flatter a poor, innocent woman?”
“Hardly innocent,” Telemachus mumbled, before he could check his tongue.
Circe chuckled. The fire’s flicker illuminated the bared skin of her arms, her breasts, her yet-unswelled stomach as she gestured him towards her.
“If the fire dies before morning,” Telemachus said, before he realized that he had forgotten what he had meant to say next. Perhaps it mattered not. The embers would spread warmth for a good while still, and they would be wrapped together, Circe’s body warming his as his would hers.
“We may wake chilled, or we may not, but regardless, we will wake together. That is worth some small risk of discomfort, is it not?” Circe asked.
“For the privilege of being held in your arms, gladly would I risk much more than that.” Telemachus’s hands found his own clothes. There was coldness, still, lurking just outside of the fire’s grasp, but then he had reached Circe, who bade him welcome without words, and he forgot the cold and everything save the truth of the two of them: that he burnt for her and she would let him until it pleased her to be kind and allow him to claim her as his, to worship her body as a goddess deserved, and to remember only the sound of her name on his lips, and his on hers.