Archive of Our Own ^beta

Odysseus looks at the map.  

He looks out the window. 

He looks at the map again. 

“This,” he says at length, “cannot be the way.”

He risks a glance at Athena, who is white-knuckling the steering wheel, unblinking eyes fixed on the road ahead. It takes a brave man to tell the goddess of wisdom she’s wrong. It takes a braver man still — or perhaps just a foolish one — to do so from the passenger seat while she’s driving. 

She does not even hesitate. “This,” she says, in a perfectly even voice that could persuade anyone but him, “ is the way.”

Right, he thinks. Sure. That’s why, instead of the motorway, there are cows outside.  

He knows she took a wrong turn. He’s pretty sure she knows that he knows she took a wrong turn. Not, of course, that she’s going to admit it. 

“‘We don’t need the GPS, Odysseus,’ she said,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the headrest. “‘The goddess of wisdom does not get lost,’ she said. ‘Owls have an excellent sense of a direction,’ she sai—”

“I can hear you, you know,” Athena snaps. 

“That’s the idea,” he shoots back, and though her jaw clenches, there’s nothing she can do without taking her hands off the wheel. 

“We don’t need the GPS,” she says through her teeth. “Would you trust that” —her nose wrinkles in disgust— “unreliable lump of metal over a goddess’ ability to navigate?”

“Right now? Yeah, actually, I would.” He folds his arms, glowering. “You realise this whole journey is basically a straight line, right? All you had to do was pick the right exit at the roundabout.”

“If I had chosen the wrong road — which I did not,” she adds, her tone just begging him to try her, “it would be because that roundabout was poorly designed. It had a frankly unreasonable number of exits.”

“It had three exits, and one of them was the road we drove in on.” 

“Exactly. Roundabouts should have an even number of turnoffs. This is known.”

Odysseus scoffs. “Who made you the authority on roundabouts? Did you invent them or something?” He pauses. “Wait, did you?”

“Of course not!” Athena sounds genuinely offended. “Had I been involved in designing the roads that sprung up in the wake of these” —she lifts one finger from the wheel and wiggles it around, presumably gesturing to the car’s interior— “noisy, impractical tin cans on wheels, they would be laid out in a much more logical fashion.”

“Who did invent roundabouts, then?” he asks, curious despite himself. Athena pulls a face. 

“A mortal, presumably.” She considers it for a moment. “Possibly with some help from Hermes. Or, in the case of that abomination back there, Dionysus. Three exits,” she grumbles, apparently to herself. She takes a breath, and her shoulders relax a fraction. “Listen. Even if, hypothetically, I had made a slight navigation error—“

“Which you didn’t.”

“—which I didn’t,” she affirms, pointedly ignoring his sarcasm, “it wouldn’t matter. Because if that were the case, all I’d have to do is head down this slip road” —she nods to the way ahead— “and rejoin the motorway.” She glances at him in the mirror, offering the slightest of smiles. “There’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Of course you’d say that,” he retorts, unwilling to let it go. “You could just fly out the window any time you felt like it.” Except she can’t, and they both know it. Athena is present here by way of a loophole in Zeus’ non-interference law. The king of the gods limits his family’s involvement in mortal affairs to those that he has given his personal stamp of approval. No god may intervene in human troubles without his express permission, but Athena being Athena, she found a way around it. 

There is a difference, she apparently told her father, between intervention and participation. And Zeus, after some consideration, agreed. A god may participate in any mortal activity of their choosing, but once they have committed to it, they must see the task through. No flying away. No spontaneously vanishing. Any displays of godly power must be minimal and unobtrusive. In other words, when Odysseus asked Athena for a little help getting home, her agreement bound her to the journey. All six hundred miles of it. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have called her, but choices were limited. His car — that rattling old heap of junk, as Penelope had dubbed it — finally gave up the ghost in the airport car park, just as he slid the keys into the ignition. It was quite impressive, really. All four wheels simultaneously deflated, the engine gave a death wheeze, and the gear stick came off in his hand. After ten weeks away from home, this should have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but Odysseus couldn’t dredge up the energy for the (extremely warranted) minor breakdown it ought to have provoked. Instead, he stared at the gear stick for what he suspects was a concerning amount of time before getting out of the car, turning his face to the sky and very quietly asking, “Athena?” 

To her enduring credit, she did not laugh. She also did not say, “You should have listened to Penelope,” though he wouldn’t have blamed her. Instead, she gave the car a quick once-over and told him, “I think that might be beyond even my power to save.” 

“Oh,” he said, rather miserably. She scrutinised him a moment longer, then sighed. 

“Get your things,” she said. He blinked at her. 

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Since I’m here, I might as well help.” And when he continued to stare at her like someone who’d only slept for three hours and had been awake for nearly twenty (which he had), she held up a set of car keys. 

“Get your things,” she repeated, and he did as he was told. 

That was this morning. In the time they’ve been on the road, he’s asked her why a god would even need a car — “We’re as capable of modernising as anyone.” — if she knew where she was going — “Don’t insult me.” — and whether she wanted him to drive for a stretch — “I doubt you’d be able to reach the pedals.”

Now, as they rejoin the motorway, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“I’m sure.”

Well, good for her, but he really doesn’t want to run the risk of going the wrong way when they reach the roundabout again. “If you pull over,” he tries, “we can swap—”

“You’re not on the insurance.”

“Gods have car insurance?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “And because we’re all over the age of seventy, we’re classed as senior drivers, which means it costs an arm and a leg.” 

He honestly cannot tell if she’s joking. 

After trying and failing to think of a response, he pulls out his phone. “I’d better call Penelope, tell her not to wait up.”

Athena frowns. “At our current speed, you should be home no later than eight p.m.” 

He knew she was breaking the speed limit. “Yeah,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure I saw a sign that said road work ahead—”

“I sure hope it does,” quips a voice from the back seat. 

Odysseus bites back a sigh. He’d almost forgotten they weren’t alone in the car.

Crammed into the back are Eurylochus, Polites, Elpenor and Perimedes, the last of whom is currently smirking at his own joke.  Except they’re not actually crammed in, because although Odysseus could’ve sworn there were only three seats back there when he opened the door, there’s somehow room for four. The plan had originally been for them to get a ride home with him, and while Athena had raised an eyebrow, she hadn’t objected to a few extra passengers — “Since I’m apparently going that way anyway,” she’d said. 

This is the first time any of them have spoken since they got in the car. It occurred to Odysseus much too late that they might, perhaps, be a little frightened to accept a lift from a goddess. A goddess who is, currently, doing eighty in a sixty zone for no reason other than she can. 

“Hilarious,” Odysseus tells Perimedes flatly. He glances down at his phone, then frowns. “Damn. No signal. Do any of you—?”

“Nope.” This from Eurylochus, who keeps darting nervous glances at Athena, and seems to be trying to make himself as small as possible, hunched against the window. “I was gonna text Ctimene, but we’re in a dead zone.” 

“Huh.” Odysseus turns to Athena as they approach the roundabout. “Is there any chance generating a phone signal is one of your powers?”

She smiles tightly. “Short of physically moving the cell towers, I’m afraid that’s outside of my purview.”

“Could you move the cell towers?”

“Naturally. But,” she adds, before he can ask, “obviously not when I’m driving.”

“Well, if you let me drive—”

“Absolutely not. Quite apart from anything else, I’m not going to all that effort for a call I expect you’ll be able to make in a few minutes anyway.”

“Excuse me,” says Polites, from where he’s squeezed in between Eurylochus and Elpenor, “but—”

“Okay, but when you say you could move them, do you mean you could physically pick them up? Or—”

“Ody,” Polites tries again.

“I could,” Athena says, “but really, lifting them would be the easy part. The wires and cables make things a little complicated. You see—”

“Hey!” Odysseus and Athena both fall silent, startled at the sudden shout. Odysseus turns to Polites, who smiles apologetically. “I am so sorry to interrupt. But, um… Athena?” He looks awkward. “You’ve taken the wrong exit again.” 

***

By the time they stop for petrol, it would not be inaccurate to describe the collective mood as fraught. 

Athena pulls into the service station and Perimedes practically takes a flying leap out of the car, Elpenor on his heels. They shout something about stocking up on snacks and vanish inside, so eager to get away that Odysseus might find it funny, if not for the fact that he’s this close to banging his head against the dashboard. Repeatedly. Preferably until he knocks himself out. 

Athena parks by the petrol pump, teeth clenched so hard that, if she were mortal, she’d be in serious danger of breaking her jaw. No sooner has she killed the engine than Eurylochus says, “You know, I think I’ll go stretch my legs, make sure Peri and Elpenor haven’t burned the place down. Pol, you coming?”

“Uh…” In the rearview mirror, Odysseus watches as Polites considers the question a moment before smiling. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

Eurylochus looks at him. Then, very subtly, he tilts his head towards the goddess in the driver’s seat, who appears to have added barely suppressed rage to her list of domains, and to Odysseus, who suspects he looks like he’s about to test that domain’s limits. Polites follows Eurylochus’ gaze and his eyes widen, and then he says, with the stilted, too-bright casualness of someone who’s just been told to act natural, “Actually, a walk sounds like fun! I’ve never been here before — I’m not even sure where here is! What a great opportunity to explore!” 

He scrambles out of the car, throwing Odysseus a glance that is somewhere between sorry and good luck, and he and Eurylochus make a hasty retreat. 

Odysseus and Athena are left alone. 

He waits for her to get out and fill the tank. When she doesn’t, he moves to unclip his seatbelt and says, as calmly as he possibly can (so, not very), “I’ll go and—”

“No, you will not,” Athena tells him bluntly. “You will stay right where you are, and you will not. Touch. Anything.”

That does it. “You cannot blame me for—”

“On the contrary, Odysseus.” Her voice is like ice. “I can, and I do.”

“How was I meant to know—”

“I told you we did not need the GPS—”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t prepared to take any more chances with that damn roundabout—“

“I would hardly have made the same error a third time! And perhaps if you hadn’t insisted on distracting me, I wouldn’t have made it in the first place!”

“Distracting—? Wait, so you admit it! You admit you made a mistake!”

“Oh, for—!” Athena smacks a hand against the wheel. “This is not about what I did or didn’t do! This is about you, and your inability to follow simple instructions!”

“No!” Odysseus barks, “this is about your stupid car and its weird layout, and the fact that the thing that looks like the GPS is actually the radio!” 

It had been an honest mistake. Odysseus still isn’t entirely sure what happened. All he knows is that, in trying to program in his postcode, he’d somehow ended up tuning into a radio station that exclusively played sea shanties. Long, loud sea shanties, one after the other with barely a break between them. And, in attempting to turn the radio off, or at least to literally any other station, he’d succeeded only in cranking up the volume. Cranking it all the way up, in fact, at which point he discovered he had no idea where to find the ‘volume down’ button. The occupants of the back seat had spent the next ten miles with their fingers in their ears, trying (with varying degrees of success) not to wince at the pain, and all the while, Odysseus searched frantically for a way to shut the radio up, while Athena sat rigid, looking like she was about half a second away from tearing the wheel clean off its column. 

In the end, it was Eurylochus who saved them, leaning over to press a button Odysseus somehow hadn’t noticed. Silence washed over the car. Odysseus exhaled in relief. 

And then Elpenor said, “Hey, that junction we just passed — wasn’t that our turnoff?”

That they made it as far as the service station is surely the result of divine intervention — not Athena’s, clearly, but divine intervention nonetheless. 

“You know what?” Athena says now. “If you’ve got such a problem with the car, you are more than welcome to get out and make your own way home.”

No, Odysseus means to say. Look, I’m sorry. I’m tired, and it’s making me act like an asshole. Honestly, I’m grateful you showed up when you did. 

What comes out instead is, “Fine! At least that way I won’t have to put up with your shitty driving skills!” Oh. Fuck. Who said that? “It was the second exit, Athena! It’s not hard!”

Her face has clouded over alarmingly. “If you had let me concentrate on the road—”

“What, the goddess of wisdom can’t count to two?” 

“I didn’t have to be here! I could have left you in the airport car park to deal with your own problems! I know Penelope told you to replace that ancient rust bucket you call a car, but did you listen? Of course not! You never do!” 

“I never—?” The sudden fury almost chokes him. “Half my problems start with listening to you!” 

A car honks behind them. “Shut up!” they both yell. 

“And just to remind you,” continues Odysseus, warming to his theme, “I wouldn’t even have been at the airport if it wasn’t for you!” Athena’s eyes are more black than grey, growing darker by the second, but still, he keeps talking. “I’d never have been away in the first place if it wasn’t for the mess that you and your family caused!” 

“Don’t,” she all but snarls. “We didn’t make anyone do anything.”

“Oh, sure you didn’t. Weren’t you the one who—”

“And what about you?” she fires back. “You’re the one who agreed to help out if it came to it! I will not be held accountable for a reckless promise you made nearly a decade ago!” 

“But it wasn’t! It wasn’t a reckless promise! That was the whole point, it should never have come to this! And the only reason it did is because you—“

“Get out of my car!” Athena growls. Her eyes are entirely black now, the irises and sclerae swallowed by darkness. Feathers flare at her hairline. “You can walk home, for all I care!”

“Great! Fine! Who needs you, anyway?” 

The car behind them honks again. “Shut up!” they scream in unison. Odysseus flings open his door. Half a second later, Athena does the same. 

“I’m not following you!” she snaps, before he can say anything. “I still need to fill the tank!” 

“I didn’t think you were following me!” retorts Odysseus, who did. “And even if you were, I wouldn’t care, because apparently I need to make a start on walking home!” He picks a direction and stomps off.

“Fine! Go on, then!” She always has to have the last word. “Goodbye, and good riddance!” 

“You don’t get to say goodbye when I’m the one who’s leaving!” he shouts back. 

“You’re not leaving, I told you to go!” 

The entire forecourt is goggling at them as Odysseus stalks away. He doesn’t care. He crosses the car park, and he keeps walking. 

***

Fifteen minutes later, Athena, peering down at her now-empty coffee cup, is starting to get the feeling that she may have overreacted. 

It wasn’t until the caffeine hit her system that she realised how tired she was. Mortals think gods don’t get tired, but that’s not entirely true. They can forgo sleep, if they choose, but can is not analogous to should. Especially not in this day and age. 

As the world has grown and changed over the centuries, it has somehow demanded more and less of the pantheon. In some ways, mortals have become more independent — Athena certainly receives fewer direct prayers than she used to. But their wars have expanded in both duration and brutality, and more and more often, she finds herself devising strategies that prioritise survival over victory. Her blood used to sing when she watched one of her favourites take down an enemy, and while she still retains some enthusiasm for such things, it’s a mere echo of what she once felt.

It’s not all bad, of course. She recalls how her wisdom aspect rejoiced when the first universities were built. But there are so very many of them now, and try as she might, she cannot be everywhere at once. And don’t even get her started on crafts!  Eight billion mortals on the planet, and at any given moment, nine billion of them are failing miserably at teaching themselves to crochet. Their hole-ridden efforts practically beg her for inspiration. 

It’s not that she can’t keep up. She’d just appreciate a break once in a while. 

Not that any of this means she’s willing to take responsibility for the past ten weeks. She can, perhaps, see how it might look like her fault. Well, hers, Hera’s and Aphrodite’s. Mostly Aphrodite’s. But if you ask her, the blame truly lies with Eris. 

No one is asking her. And even if they were, Athena is above pointing fingers. 

But it is Eris’ fault. 

Still, Athena could probably have handled — she glances through the fogged-up coffee shop window and out across the car park, to where she’s parked a few metres from the petrol station — that with more grace. 

Now that she’s calmed down (and brushed the feathers off her coat), she’s a little embarrassed by the whole thing. She didn’t mean to blow up like that. But the truth is, she’s never been particularly keen on driving. 

She wasn’t lying when she said owls had a good sense of direction. But the car, with its metal walls and roof, and the sunlight bouncing off the glass, might possibly throw it off. Just a little. And then there are the roads. Or, more accurately, the mortals who drive on them. She knows how distractible they are, and she doesn’t trust a single one of them. Drop your guard for one moment, and next thing you know, you’re at the bottom of a six-car pile up. 

That’s never actually happened to her, but only because she has taken care to prevent it.

Movement catches her eye. She turns, and there’s Odysseus, pushing aside the door into the coffee shop. He spots her almost instantly and hovers awkwardly in the entryway. After a moment, she motions for him to join her, and he drops into the seat opposite. 

There’s a pause.

“I—” he begins, just as she says, “Listen—”

 They stop. Smile sheepishly. “You first,” Athena says. 

“Okay.” Odysseus sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that was.” 

“I do,” says Athena. “Jet lag.” That, and the preceding ten weeks, which they acknowledge only through a mutual grimace. 

“Still. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” she can’t help but agree. She exhales slowly. “But neither should I.”

He looks at her sidelong. “Would you really have let me walk home?”

She shakes her head. “Only for… oh, forty miles or so. Just to teach you a lesson.” She smirks. “Then I’d have gone looking for you.” She tilts her head towards the phone in his hand. “Any luck getting through to Penelope?”

Odysseus sighs ruefully. “Still no service.” 

“Well…” Athena pushes her chair away and stands — more or less. This place really wasn’t built with gods in mind, and she has to stoop to avoid colliding with the ceiling. “Want to get back on the road? I’m sure there’ll be reception soon.” 

He smiles, and they head back out into the cold afternoon. 

***

When Eurylochus steps into the car park, he notices three things.

Or, more accurately, he does not notice three things.

The first is Odysseus, but that’s not too concerning. He’s probably around. Somewhere. 

The second is Athena, and that’s a little disconcerting, since she’s not exactly easy to miss.

The third — and this is the one that really worries him, especially when combined with the first two — is the car. 

“Huh.” That’s Polites, appearing beside him and apparently not noticing the same things. “Where do you suppose they’ve got to?” 

“I don’t know…” It’s beginning to rain — not heavily, but a light drizzle that promises much worse to come. He glances around. Perimedes and Elpenor are absorbed in their own conversation, oblivious to everything but each other — and for once, Eurylochus is glad they’re distracted. “I’m gonna try and find out. Excuse me!” he calls out to two women — mother and daughter, by the looks of them — who are trying to rearrange suitcases in the boot of their car. Both of them look up. “Sorry to bother you, but you wouldn’t happen to have seen our, uh, friends? We’re looking for—” He’s about to describe Odysseus, then realises there’s a much easier way to go about this. “Have you seen a seven-foot-tall woman around here?”

“Oh, sure!” the younger of the pair chirps. “She was with some guy, I just saw ‘em leave!” 

“…Leave?” Eurylochus echoes, like maybe there’s another, secret definition of the word that she will reveal to him. 

“Yep!” Her face falls a little. “Oh, you weren’t supposed to be getting a ride with them, were you?”

Eurylochus looks at Polites. Polites looks at him. 

“It could be a lot worse,” Polites offers. “You know, at least we’ve got our phones and wallets on us.” 

Eurylochus is about to say something — what, he doesn’t know — when there’s a shout from behind. 

“Hey!” Perimedes calls. “I finally got phone reception!”

“Great.” Eurylochus tries for a smile, but suspects his expression is closer to a wince. “You’d better look up the bus timetable.” 

*** 

Forty-five minutes up the road, Odysseus asks Eurylochus if he’s managed to get hold of Ctimene yet. 

Silence.

“Eurylochus?” he repeats. When there’s no answer, he turns. 

The back of the car is empty.

“Athena,” he begins, knowing what the answer will be but asking anyway, “did we… forget something?”

Her eyes are wide. 

“Oops,” she says at last. 

Yeah. Oops. 

Odysseus wants to double back, but Athena holds up a hand. “Wait. Let me look.” 

Her eyes glaze over for a moment (during which Odysseus has to literally bite his tongue to keep from begging her to watch the road), then she blinks. “They’re on the bus. They should be home late tonight.” She casts her gaze to the sky. Even without the rain clouds, it would be obvious that the light is leeching away. “They might even get there before we do.” 

Odysseus is silent, thinking of the absolutely ridiculous amount of grovelling he’s going to have to do to get his friends to forgive him for this. 

He looks at his phone again. The dead zone must extend for miles — that, or the weather is interfering. Sorry, Pen, he thinks, resting his head against the window. At least once he gets home, he can explain all this to her. Maybe they’ll even laugh about it. 

He only intends to close his eyes for a few seconds, but when he opens them again, it’s night. He peers out the window, at the orange glow of the street lamps through the lashing rain, and at the sparse traffic on the dual carriageway. 

“What time is it?” he asks, a little groggily. 

“Time you got a watch,” Athena replies without missing a beat. But after a few seconds, she relents. “Nearly midnight.”

Odysseus sits bolt upright, the fog of sleep banished in an instant. “What?”

Athena sighs. “Road works.” He’d forgotten about that. “We got diverted through Fates-know-where. Some pothole-strewn excuse for a road that looped twice around the back of beyond. We only rejoined the motorway a few minutes ago.” She flashes a tiny, sardonic smile. “You might be interested to know that the bus lanes remained open.”

So, the others are home. That’s something, he supposes. Hopefully, Eurylochus told Penelope what happened, so with any luck, she’ll have gone to bed instead of waiting around for him. Still, he’d better call her, explain where he’s got to. 

There’s still no phone signal. 

Odysseus scrubs a hand over his face. “You should’ve woken me. I told you, I’m happy to share the driving.”

Athena snorts. “You’re not driving my car, Odysseus.”

“Because I’m not on the insurance?”

“Because I would never add you to the insurance.”

He squints at her. “Are you calling me a bad driver?” She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Her silence does all the talking for her. “What, exactly, are you basing that on? If this is about the time when I was… what, nineteen?”

“You nearly swerved into a lamppost.”

“Because you materialised in the passenger seat with no warning!”

“That shouldn’t have affected your concentration. It’s important to be prepared for all eventualities.” 

“You know what, Athena?” he says. “I’m going to be the bigger person” (extremely magnanimous of him, he thinks) “and ignore that.” 

“I appreciate that,” she says serenely. He looks at her, and she shrugs. “After all, it must be very difficult for you to be the bigger person” —her smile turns wicked— “considering you haven’t grown since you were twelve.”

“This again!” He groans, putting his face in his hands. “We’ve been over this. I am a perfectly average height for a human man. Your perspective is skewed.”

“Eurylochus is taller than you.”

“Eurylochus is taller than everyone. He doesn’t count.” 

“Penelope is also taller than you.”

“She’s half-naiad, that doesn’t—”

“If Telemachus has inherited those genes, he, too, will be taller than you.”

“Are you just going to list off everyone you know who’s taller than me?” Odysseus snaps. Athena shrugs innocently. 

“Of course not.” A pause. “That would take months.”

They’re quiet for a time.

Then Athena says, “Odysseus?”

“Yeah?”

“Diomedes is also taller than you.” 

“Let me out,” he says, while she stifles a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Seriously, just push me out the door. I’ll hitchhike home.”

There’s a loud click. Odysseus looks at the door handle, then at Athena. 

“Did you,” he says, caught between laughter and sheer disbelief, “just activate the child locks?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Did I?” 

“Seriously, you—”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” 

Odysseus blinks at her sudden vehemence. “Athena?”

She makes an inarticulate noise, a somewhat muted version of a barn owl’s screech. “Look!”

His eyes follow the direction she’s pointing in. When they fall upon the sign, propped atop a traffic cone and starkly lit by the headlights, he’s tempted to make the same sound she did. 

CAUTION: FLOODS. 

ROAD DIVERTED FOR THE NEXT FIFTY MILES. 

Sure enough, the cars ahead of them are crawling off like ants down a diversion. A single lane diversion. 

Odysseus is weighing up the pros and cons of simply pulling his coat over his head and weeping when Athena says, “No.” 

“…No?”

“No.” Her face is set. Instead of reaching for the indicator, she pushes the car up a gear. “I refuse to be subject to the whims of the weather. How bad can flooding on a flat road possibly be?”

***

Bad, as it transpires. 

Reversing up the motorway does not take as long as Odysseus anticipated (even going backwards, Athena drives at speeds that really should result in some sort of accident), but it’s almost one a.m. before they reach the diversion they should’ve taken in the first place. 

“Not a word,” Athena warns. Odysseus holds up his hands.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He hesitates. “Look… maybe we should stop somewhere for the night?” Anyone, goddess or not, is bound to get tired after driving for more than twelve hours. 

Athena frowns. “Why would we do that? It’s only another…” She looks to a road sign up ahead. “Another four hundred and fifty miles,” she finishes. There’s the barest hint of despair in her voice. 

“So, let’s stop somewhere.” They’re heading for a small town, the name of which Odysseus doesn’t catch. “There’s probably, I don’t know, a motel or something?”

For the briefest of instants, Athena looks like she’s going to argue. Then her shoulders drop. 

“Alright,” she concedes. “Let’s see if we can find somewhere.”

“I’d look it up online,” Odysseus says, “but…” He waves his phone around uselessly. “How can we still be in a dead zone?” 

“Maybe we’re not,” Athena mutters. He shoots a questioning look at her, and she shakes her head. “I’m starting to suspect that someone up there” —her eyes lift towards the ceiling— “is screwing with us.” She looks at him suspiciously. “Have you offended any gods recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Hmm. It’s possible someone’s causing trouble for the sake of it, then.” She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me.” 

“Or it’s just bad weather?” Odysseus suggests. “Wait, let me try something.” He lowers the window and leans out into the rain, holding his phone above his head.

“What are you doing?” Athena demands — though she doesn’t slow down. 

“Trying” —he grabs the windowsill as she takes a sharp bend— “to get a signal!”

“What?” Athena sounds incredulous. “That’s— no one’s tried to get a signal that way since 2007! And it didn’t work back then!”

“Well, I guess I’d better change my name to No One, because I’m going to— no!” This last as a sudden gust of wind yanks his phone clean out of his hand and carries it off. He falls back into the car, blinking in disbelief. 

“And to think I thought you were clever.” Athena’s tone reveals nothing — which, because he knows her, actually reveals a lot. She thinks it’s hilarious. 

Odysseus puts his head in his hands. “How am I going to get in touch with Penelope now?” he mumbles, more to himself than Athena. Then he looks up. “Could I borrow your phone?”

“I haven’t got one.” He stares at her. She shrugs. “Why would a god need a phone?”

“Why would a god need a car?” 

“We work in mysterious ways,” she replies blandly, which he knows is all the answer he’s going to get. It was mostly rhetorical, anyway. 

Athena finally eases off the gas pedal as they enter the town, and Odysseus keeps an eye out for somewhere they might be able to stay. It’s not long before a sign, flickering above a brightly-lit doorway, catches his attention. 

“What about there? Looks like they’re open.” 

Athena glances at the sign. Her expression darkens. 

“Not there.”

“Why not?” he objects, but she shakes her head. 

“I know the person who runs it. She’s a… relative of mine. What she’s doing all the way out here, though…” Her face is inscrutable. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

“But—”

“We’ll find somewhere else,” Athena repeats, her voice brooking no argument. Odysseus tries to protest anyway, but shuts up at her look of warning. 

After two circuits of the town, it becomes apparent that they will not find somewhere else.

“We could sleep in the car?” Athena suggests without much hope, caving a moment later at the pathetic look he throws her. “Fine.”  She parks on the road outside. “I suppose this will have to do. But once we are inside, you will follow my every instruction as though your life depends on it. Do you understand me?”

“…Okay?” He can’t disguise his bafflement. “I’m not sure what the problem is, though. If it’s run by your relative—”

“That,” says Athena, stepping out into the rain, “is the problem.” He gets out too, and she looks at him over the car roof. “I’m serious. Keep your wits about you.” 

With a nod that’s more like a shrug, he follows her up the path to the door, propped open beneath the blinking sign that reads Circe’s Place. 

***

Four hundred and fifty miles away, Penelope is, at that very moment, at the police station, where she is making a truly heroic effort not to throttle the bored-looking officer at the front desk. 

“Listen, lady,” he says, “I can’t file a missing person report on a grown man who’s only been out of contact for” —he glances performatively at the notes she insisted he take, then at the clock— “eight hours.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she demands, adjusting the sleeping toddler in her arms. Telemachus stirs, but doesn’t wake. The officer rolls his eyes. 

“Both.”

Penelope takes a deep breath and does not call him a waste of space, an act for which she deserves a medal. Or a certificate, at the very least. She could frame it above the fireplace. Presented to Penelope, it would read, on occasion of her proving herself to be the most patient woman on Earth. 

When Eurylochus came by to explain what had happened, she wasn’t unduly concerned. It was only when, hours later, she still couldn’t get in touch with Odysseus that she began to worry. 

So here she is in a dingy little police station, dredging up her deepest reserves of patience to say, “Listen to me. I know my husband. He would not go silent on me for no reason. Something is wrong.” 

The officer sighs theatrically. Penelope wonders how much trouble she’d be in if she threw his coffee mug at his head. 

“Didn’t you say he was with a friend?” He shrugs lazily. “How come you haven’t tried to get in touch with him?”

“Her,” Penelope corrects. The officer’s eyebrows lift. He can’t keep the smirk out of his voice as he says,

“Well, you know, if your husband is hanging around with other women…” His tone is undeniably suggestive and Penelope almost cackles at the implication. She doesn’t know Athena quite as well as Odysseus does, but she knows they’d both spontaneously combust with horror at the mere idea. 

Biting down her laughter, she smooths out her expression and leans forward a little. “Alright. Let’s try this another way.” She adjusts Telemachus in her arms. “Do you know what this is?”

“Uh…” He squints like he’s expecting a trick question. “A baby?”

“Correct.” Penelope smiles, just a little wider than necessary. “Or, more accurately, a toddler. He’s just turned two. Have you ever met a two-year-old before?”

“Sure.” He eyes them both warily. “My niece, she’s the same age.”

“Oh, lovely.” Penelope positively beams. “I assume, then, you’re familiar with what happens when a two-year-old gets woken up unexpectedly? The noise is dreadful, isn’t it?” The officer’s eyes widen. “It’d be a terrible thing, wouldn’t it, if he were to suddenly wake up right now? Toddler tantrums can go on for hours.” She laughs lightly. “I guess they don’t call them the ‘terrible twos’ for nothing!” 

The officer looks genuinely afraid. That’s right, Penelope thinks with grim satisfaction, I’ve got an infant and I’m not afraid to use him. 

“You know,” he says, picking up a pen with such haste he almost drops it, “I’m thinking it might be worth me taking another look at this.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!“ Penelope‘s voice is all sweetness and light. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“No problem,” he mutters, head down, eyes trained on his notepad. Penelope almost feels sorry for him. He has no idea that Telemachus is, in fact, one of the most laidback toddlers ever to set foot on the planet. “So, exactly when and where was your husband last seen?”

***

It has been, all in all, a weird night. 

The woman at the reception desk switched on a dazzling smile as Odysseus walked in — then abruptly dropped it when she saw who he was with. 

“Athena,” the woman said sourly. That she wasn’t human was plain to see — her ears were pointed, her teeth a little too sharp, and her eyes reflected more light than the lamps dotted about the place could possibly have provided. 

“Circe. “Athena’s arms were folded as she scanned the lobby. “We’ll need rooms for the night. Rooms that lock from the inside.”

Circe scowled. “I suppose I don’t have much choice.” 

Athena smiled faintly. “How’s the pig farm doing?”

“Oh, fuck off back to Olympus.” Circe rooted around behind the desk for a moment before throwing two sets of keys at Athena, who caught them in one hand. “Checkout is at ten at the latest. See that you’re gone by then.” Then, her expression softening as she turned to Odysseus, “Breakfast is served between seven and nine. I do hope you’ll join us.”

“He won’t,” said Athena shortly. Odysseus, who was pretty sure he’d be hungry by then, tried to protest, but Athena fixed him with a look. “You won’t.” Then, lower, “Not if you value having a human form.” 

He did, in fact, value having a human form. 

That was hours ago. It’s now nine a.m., and he and Athena are heading towards the car, ready to get back on the road. The rain hasn’t let up, and he’s so tired that he could honestly do with shutting his eyes for another few hours. It was hard to sleep at Circe’s. Despite being in the middle of town, he could’ve sworn he heard pigs outside. 

Still, he’s not going to fall asleep now. Provided nothing goes horribly wrong (and other phrases he should avoid if he doesn’t want to tempt fate), he should be home by late afternoon, and he’d like to be awake for that. Besides, Athena would be left with no company, and that’s not fair on her, especially when she’s stuck with all the driving. (He offered, once again, to take over. She, once again, said no.) 

“We’ve got to stop for food somewhere,” he says, opening the passenger side door. “Just because you can go without, doesn’t mean I can.”

Athena rolls her eyes. “I know mortal bodies require fuel, Odysseus. There’s a protein bar in the glove compartment.” 

Great, he thinks unenthusiastically. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. He checks the compartment, and she’s right, it’s there, but…

“I think this might be past its use-by date.”

“Only a little. It hasn’t been in there that long. Besides, it won’t kill you.”

“Athena,” he says, holding the packaging up for her to inspect, “this says November 1990.”

“As I said. Recently.” 

“That’s not… recent. Not by mortal standards.” 

Athena sighs. “Fine. We’ll stop at the next shop or something. It’s—”

“Wait a moment!”

A different voice, from outside the car. They both turn to find Circe coming down the path towards them. Athena immediately starts the engine, but Odysseus says, “Hold on.”

Athena glowers. “Put your seatbelt on. If she tries anything, I’m putting my foot down.”

Odysseus does as she says, then winds down the window as Circe approaches the car. 

Circe holds an umbrella that seems to be struggling against the onslaught of rain, and she does not look happy. “I’m only telling you this,” she begins, “because I’m worried that if I don’t, it’ll come back to bite me later. The last thing I want is you back on my doorstep.” This seems to be directed at Athena, as does her dour expression. “The roads north of here are still flooded. If you go that way, you’ll get sent down another diversion. It’ll be much faster if you go straight through town and take a left at the junction. That way, you can avoid the floods without losing time.”

Odysseus and Athena exchange glances. 

“Why should we believe you?” Athena asks at length. Circe scowls.

“Believe me, don’t believe me, I don’t care. If you want proof, turn the radio on. You’ll hear about it in the traffic update.” 

“We’ll take your word for it,” Odysseus says quickly. He wouldn’t touch that radio again if you paid him. “Thanks.”

“Hmm.” Circe turns on her heel and stalks back inside. The wind turns her umbrella inside out. She pretends not to notice, just as she pretends not to hear the decidedly mean-spirited laugh that Athena fails to smother.

***

Four hours later, Odysseus decides to tackle the elephant in the room. (In the car? Wherever it is, he decides to tackle it.) 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

Athena stares straight ahead. “I cannot keep having this conversation.” She lifts a hand off the wheel, rolls her wrist, then sets it back down again. 

“Okay,” he says cautiously, “but you’ve been doing that” —he nods to her hand— “for the past two hours. And you’ve been driving for two days. Most people would be getting wrist strain by this point.”

“Most mortals,” Athena corrects him tightly. 

“Sure.” He nods. “But like I said, you’ve been driving for a while.” And you grip the wheel like you’re trying to strangle it.

There’s a pause.

“I am… not used to driving,” she admits at last. He waits. “Ugh, fine. You can drive for precisely one hour and not a second longer. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” he agrees as she pulls over. With her eyes on the road, she doesn’t notice he’s got his fingers crossed. 

***

When Odysseus sees the mouth of a tunnel looming ahead, he isn’t particularly fazed. This road runs through the hills, so they were bound to pass under them eventually. If nothing else, it’s nice to have a break from the rain pounding on the roof.

And then, when they’re almost a quarter of the way through, the lights that line the tunnel sputter out. 

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself, as he flicks the headlights on. “That’s probably fine.” 

Athena sets aside the map (“I might not need help navigating, but you almost certainly do.”) and leans forward, peering through the windscreen. Her eyes are eerily bright against the gloom. 

“No…” she murmurs. “Surely not.” 

“What?” Odysseus keeps the car going at a steady pace, but the exit remains a tiny pinprick of light in the distance. Athena snatches up the map and starts leafing through it, as near to frantic as he’s ever seen her. “Athena?”

“How close are we to the sea?” she demands. 

“I don’t…” He thinks about it. He’s seen more than one seagull over the past few miles. “Close, I guess?”

“No, no, no,” she mutters, then suddenly stops, the map open on a double page. “Fuck,” she hisses, and it’s so unlike her that he is instantly on alert, scanning the darkness for some unseen threat. 

“What? What’s going on?” 

“We need to get out of here.” Her voice is low and even, and all the more alarming for it. “Now.” 

He doesn’t argue. He knows better than to second guess her when she sounds like this. Instead, he presses down on the gas pedal and knocks the gear stick from fourth to fifth. “What’s going on?” he repeats. She makes a frustrated sound, high and owl-like. 

“I should be driving. Not you. But we don’t have time to switch. Put your foot down — and I don’t want to hear a thing about the speed limit.” 

“But what’s—”

“There are certain… creatures. Beings. Things that are not mortal. They shy away from the light, hiding underwater or in caves. But this close to the coast? Sometimes they creep further inland, and they take up residence in dark spaces like this.” Her words are those of a storyteller painting a picture, but her tone is better suited to a general who has already lost the majority of her troops, and is desperately trying to find a way to keep the remainder alive. It makes his blood run cold. 

“What are you saying, exactly?”

She looks at him, eyes glowing in the dark. “Does the name Scylla mean anything to you?”

“No…” Not no, it doesn’t , but no, tell me you didn’t just say that. He thought Scylla was a myth, a story parents used to scare their children. Don’t go wandering off alone, or Scylla will get you! Fear almost makes him ease off the gas pedal, then he gets hold of himself and presses down again. “Maybe she isn’t home,” he offers, without much hope. 

“Let’s not count on that.” Athena turns, looking through the back window. “I don’t—”

He sees it in the rearview mirror perhaps a millisecond before she breaks off. Eyes. Not one, not two, but many, too many, each of them blazing a sickly blue-green. And beneath those eyes, there is a mouth. And in that smiling mouth, there are teeth.

“Go!” Athena shouts, and Odysseus obeys without a thought. There’s a roar from behind them, and the sound of too many footsteps echoing through the dark. Something swipes at the car, narrowly missing the window, and Odysseus swerves left, then right, barely managing to keep from flipping over. He’s thinking faster than the car can respond as he veers across the road, but he doesn’t understand why until he registers Athena’s hand clamped on his shoulder and the accompanying crackle of energy under his skin, urging his thoughts to move quicker and quicker. Another swipe, and he jolts left, closer to the wall of the tunnel. Scylla detests the daylight, he remembers that from the stories. He just needs to get them out of the tunnel. If he can make it to the light, they’re home free. 

Scylla slams against the side of the car, and Odysseus has to spin the wheel all the way around twice to avoid colliding with the wall. She hits them again, and he swerves once more, barely keeping all four wheels on the ground, and he knows that speed is their only advantage, that if they were moving even a fraction of a second slower… 

And then.

Light.

They’ve made it. They’re out.

Odysseus hears laughter and for a moment, he can’t tell if it’s him or Athena. Both, he realises, both of them laughing with the sheer exhilaration of it. 

“Now who’s a bad driver?” he manages between gasps, desperately trying to stop so he can focus on the road.

“Odysseus,” Athena gets out, “that was terrible driving! You almost crashed multiple times.”

“But it worked!”

“It worked,” she agrees, audibly bringing herself back under control. “Maybe there’s something to be said for these modern forms of transport after all. Back in the day, Scylla used to swallow ships whole. The entire crew was considered lucky if just one person lived to tell the tale.”

“I’d have found a way past her,” he says, with the confidence of someone who knows he’ll never have to prove it. 

“Well, if anyone could…” Athena shakes her head. “It’s a good thing I was here. If she’s taken up residence in that tunnel, there ought to be some sort of warning.”

Right. A warning. It doesn’t occur to her that maybe the road should be permanently blocked off. “Sure. Like a sign that says caution: hazards ahead. Please drive carelessly.” 

“Yes.” And she sounds so serious that it’s all he can do not to crack up laughing once more. 

“Okay. Maybe when I get home, I’ll find out who you’re supposed to talk to about these things, and…” He trails off. “Why are we slowing down?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one at the wheel.”

“Yeah, but I’m not…” The car shudders and suddenly he knows what’s happening. Scylla’s teeth (claws? He doesn’t know and doesn’t care to find out) must have nicked a tire. 

“It’s okay,” says Athena, catching onto the situation. “There’s a spare in the back.”

There’s a loud clunk from the other side of the car, and they slow almost to a crawl.

“Any chance there’s a second spare you forgot to mention?” Odysseus asks without much hope.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, glaring at him through her fingers. “What do you think?”

***

They sit at the edge of the road, listening to the steady drumming of rain on the roof as they weigh up their options.

“The nearest village is approximately forty miles away.” Athena is studying the map, deep in thought. “We could walk. Assuming an average walking speed of three miles an hour… and accounting for the hills… and, I suppose, factoring in short breaks… it would take somewhere around…” She grimaces. “Seventeen hours.”

Seventeen hours. And that’s assuming they keep up the pace the whole way.  

Odysseus stares out the window for a long time. Penelope must be wondering where he’s got to. Has she tried to call him? Has she told the rest of the family he hasn’t come home? 

Has Telemachus asked where he is? 

He looks to the rain outside. 

He looks to Athena, still intent on the map. 

He makes a decision. 

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to stay.”

Her head tilts. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“This isn’t your mess to fix. Whatever commitment you made when you agreed to help me — and I’m glad you did, really — you’re not… beholden to it, you know?” He smiles at her sadly. “You can go.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Then she says, “Don’t presume to tell me what to do.”

Odysseus blinks, startled. “I wasn’t—”

“No.” She holds up a hand. “We’ll wait to see if the rain eases up. Then, regardless of whether it does, we will walk. We will walk,” she repeats, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, and feels a smile crossing his own face. “Okay.” 

***

They wait. 

The rain does not ease up. 

“Alright.” Athena’s face is unreadable. “There’s no sense in losing daylight. Let’s go.” 

“You don’t like the rain, do you?” Odysseus can’t help but ask, a little amused by the idea. Her mouth twists.

“Rain obscures visibility. It makes the terrain treacherous. Mortals inevitably start complaining that they can’t feel their fingers.” She turns her scowl skywards. “You want to lose a battle? Fight it in the rain.” 

“This isn’t a battle.” It’s just a forty mile walk. Uphill. In winter. 

Athena must be thinking along the same lines, because the sound she makes is decidedly unconvinced. “The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be there.” 

Odysseus doesn’t have much to say to that (nothing constructive, anyway), so he turns to the door and—

There’s a tap on the windscreen. 

Odysseus and Athena look up.

“You’re not going to leave me outside in this weather, are you?” asks Hermes, who is currently sitting on the bonnet. Rain bounces off a hat slung too low for Odysseus to see his eyes, but there’s no mistaking his grin. 

Odysseus leans over to open the back door and Hermes flits around the car and dives in. He shakes his head, and water flies in all directions, heedless of Athena’s little “Hey!” of protest. 

“Two questions,” she says. “First, how did you find us? And second, why are you here?” 

“And third,” adds Odysseus, ignoring the look Athena shoots him, “can you help us?”

“Woah, one thing at a time!” Hermes laughs, tucking his hands behind his head and leaning back. “First of all, finding you was easy. I keep my ear to the ground. And to the sky. And, apparently, to the Google search results.” At Odysseus’ blank look, he shrugs. “Of course I’m going to notice when my great-grandson is reported missing.” 

Missing? But it’s barely been a day. Surely it’s too soon to— 

“Penelope,” Odysseus realises, warmth lighting up his heart. Hermes beams. 

“Yes, Penelope! She’s just fabulous, isn’t she? Rumour has it that she held an entire police station hostage.”

“What?” 

“Or something like that, anyway.” Hermes waves a hand. “The point is, once I heard you’d vanished off the face of the Earth, I thought I’d better find out what was going on.” 

“If you’re just here for your own amusement—” Athena warns, but Hermes cuts her off.

“Well, really! What an entirely baseless assumption!” He shakes his head in mock offence. “Now, I can’t help, as such — don’t give me that face, Athena, you know what Dad’s like about interfering — but what I can tell you is that someone appears to have dropped a spare tire right outside your door. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“And you had nothing to do with it, of course.” Athena quirks an eyebrow. She may or may not be smiling. 

“Nothing at all! My presence here is a complete coincidence! And on that note, I must be going, because under no circumstances am I helping you two change the tires.” He pushes open the door, then stops. “Oh, and by the way, the rain will clear up in an hour.” 

Athena’s eyes narrow. “Since when can you predict the future?”

Odysseus feels rather than sees Hermes roll his eyes. “It’s called the weather report. So clever, the things mortals can figure out these days. That said, it doesn’t do to let them get too cocky… I think I might have to talk to Aeolus, see if they’d be interested in throwing a few gale-force winds around. Nothing deadly, just a bit of fun, a couple of weather warnings here and there…” He pauses. “After the pair of you have wrapped up your little road trip, of course.” He adjusts his hat and turns to the door once more. “Anyway, good luck! Try not to get into any more trouble. I doubt I’d get away with not helping again.” 

And then he’s gone, the open door the only evidence that he was ever there at all.

“Penelope,” Odysseus says, breaking the silence, “is incredible.” 

Athena nods fervently. “Let’s not waste any more time. If we change the tires now, you could be home by—“ She breaks off. “Actually, let’s not say things like that where they could be overheard.” She peers up at the ceiling, shaking her head.

“Since when are you superstitious?” Odysseus asks, getting out of the car to find the spare tire exactly where Hermes said it would be. 

“It’s not superstition if you know the people causing the problems,” she says dryly. “Oh, and Odysseus?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m driving.”

“Oh, come on!” He throws his hands in the air. “You cannot still think I’m a bad driver. I got us through the tunnel with the giant sea monster, didn’t I?”

“You also drove us into the tunnel with the giant sea monster.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t—”

Somehow, they get the tires changed.

***

The stars are out by the time they pull into the driveway, constellations keeping their distant watch over the silent streets. The lights are on inside the house, a warm glow emanating from behind the curtains. Athena has barely switched off the engine before the front door is flung open and there’s Penelope, dark circles under her eyes and a smile that her face can scarcely contain, practically flying down the path, Telemachus hurtling after her as fast as his tiny legs can carry him. 

Athena watches as Odysseus leaps out of the car and runs to them, somehow catching Penelope in one arm while scooping up Telemachus with the other. They are all laughing, and Odysseus and Penelope are crying, and he’s apologising over and over. Athena catches “—should’ve listened—“ and “—you can say I told you so—“ and “—missing? I don’t know how you managed that, but—“

She watches them a moment longer, and it’s strangely difficult to tear her eyes away. Still, her work here is done. 

Smiling sadly, she is about to close the passenger door when a voice calls out, “Hey!”

She looks up. Odysseus, still tangled in his family, is grinning at her, looking faintly bemused. “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”

Athena shrugs. “I didn’t want to interrupt your reunion. Besides, it’s late. I should be going.”

“It is late,” Penelope agrees. “That’s why— Telemachus, wait!”

Too late. He’s already wriggled free of his parents and is barrelling down the path, pulling himself up on his elbows to crawl across the passenger seat and throw his little arms around Athena. 

“Hi, Thena!” His voice is muffled, face pressed into her side. She laughs quietly, patting his head. 

“Hello, little wolf.” 

He peels himself away, just enough so that he can gaze up at her as, starry-eyed, he asks, “Did you go on a, um, a venture?”

“An adventure?” she asks, smiling as she raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah! ‘Cause Dad was s’pposed to be home… before. Not now. Before.”

“Yesterday?”

“Uh-huh!” He nods excitedly. “So, you and Dad went on a venture!”

“Not exactly,” says Odysseus, reaching into the car to extract Telemachus. He catches Athena’s eye and grins. “Though it definitely had its moments.” 

“Well, I’d love to hear all about it in the morning,” Penelope says as she comes to join them. Her expression is warm as she turns to Athena. “From both of you.”

Athena’s head tilts. “Penelope?”

“Like you said, it’s late. You must be tired. Don’t you think you should stay here for the night?”

Athena shakes her head. “I won’t have any trouble concentrating on the road, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Letting a little humour colour her tone, she adds, “Owls are nocturnal, after all.” 

Penelope and Odysseus swap exasperated looks. “Athena,” says Odysseus, “stay. What kind of people would we be if we sent a friend away in the middle of the night, especially after all you’ve done?”

Athena wavers. “I…”

“We want you to stay,” he says, holding her gaze. “Please?” 

“Yeah!” Telemachus struggles in Odysseus’ grasp, his little starfish hands opening and closing as he reaches for her. “Stay, Thena!”

“Besides,” Odysseus adds, releasing Telemachus, who promptly crawls into Athena’s lap, “you’ve still got the others’ luggage in the car. I’m guessing they’ll want it back.”

“Hmm.” Athena concedes the point, handing a reluctant Telemachus back to Penelope before getting out and walking around to join them. 

When Penelope pulls her into a hug, she stiffens, but only for a moment. A second later, Odysseus’ arms go around her, too. She almost mutters something about that being her physical contact quota used up for the decade, but decides against it. The sensation is unfamiliar, but not, she discovers, unpleasant. 

“Thank you,” Penelope whispers, “for getting him home.” 

“Any time,” murmurs Athena. A second later, they’re all pushed apart by Telemachus, who is blinking up at Athena with huge, hopeful eyes. She chuckles and, at a nod from Penelope, lifts him up so that he’s sitting on her shoulders. He shrieks in delight, quite possibly waking up half the street in the process. 

“Wait,” Odysseus says to Penelope as they all begin to make their way inside, “shouldn’t you call the police? Let them know I’m no longer a missing person?”

“Oh…” Penelope makes a dismissive gesture. “They can wait. I’ll let them know you both showed up… tomorrow afternoon, maybe?”

Athena frowns. “Both?”

“Oh, yes.” Penelope nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I reported you missing, too.” Everyone — apart from Telemachus — stares at her, and she shrugs. “What? I knew you were together, so if one of you had disappeared, you both had.” 

“You…” Odysseus sounds like he’s trying not to choke on laughter. “You had a missing person report filed on the goddess of wisdom?”

Penelope shrugs again. “Someone had to do it.”

There’s a lump of tears in Athena’s throat. She swallows them down before they have the chance to sting her eyes. 

“Well, I appreciate that,” she manages. “Without you, we’d still be walking.”

Penelope shakes her head. “First thing tomorrow, I want to know everything. Spare no detail.” Then, with a stern look at Odysseus, “And no adding stuff to make it more exciting, either. I know what you’re like.”

“Of course you do.” Odysseus, who already has an arm around Penelope, leans in to kiss her cheek. “Because you’re exactly the same. But I promise, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.” His gaze flicks to Athena. “We’ll tell you everything.”

Athena nods. Tomorrow. But not tonight. 

With Telemachus still hugging her neck, she follows them to the door. She stops on the threshold, sparing one last glance at the midnight sky, before allowing herself to be pulled inside.