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Icarius forced one foot in front of the other, over and over again. These were not the polished floors of his own home, and the coarse stone beneath his feet felt uneven and unfamiliar in the torch-lit darkness. How long had he been pacing like this? He was at least able to see the vague shape of his feet in the weak beginnings of Dawn as her light reached beyond the horizon. Time had seemed to crawl its way from one moment to the next, and pacing was the least he could do to keep himself sane as he tried not to pay attention to the pained cries of his beloved daughter.
Over Penelope’s voice, he could hear shouts of encouragement from Odysseus’s younger sister — “hold my hand, sister, you can do this!” — and the firm but soothing voice of Odysseus’s mother — “you’re okay, my child, just breathe.” Their attempts at comfort hardly seemed to make a difference to Icarius’s poor daughter, though, as she let out another agonized cry that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. It took everything in him not to break the doors down and run to his little girl, hold her in his arms, and tell her it would all be okay. It was his job to protect her, to be there for her, to take her pain away and wipe her tears. There was nothing to be done, though; even if Icarius and his insufferable son-in-law hadn’t been unceremoniously thrown out of the room for one-too-many arguments that evening, childbearing was women’s business. Between the midwife’s expertise and Anticleia having had two children of her own, Penelope was in capable hands. Neither Icarius nor Odysseus, in either of their current emotional states, would be of much help; that much had been made clear.
He couldn’t believe it. His Penelope, a woman. His Penelope, giving birth to her first child. His Penelope, in such a hurry to grow up, get married. His Penelope, his little duckling, in such a hurry to fly from the nest and start a family far from home on this nowhere-island. His Penelope was still a girl; she wasn’t ready to be a wife, let alone a mother.
More rushed and confused voices from within the room as Penelope let out a loud groan. Must they all speak over each other? How could any of them know what the other was saying if they were all speaking at the same time? Icarius tried to sift the women’s voices in to piece together some semblance of a coherent conversation:
“I can’t,” his daughter moaned.
“You can,” came the reassuring voice of Anticleia. “Have courage, sweet girl, you’re doing so well.”
“Get more water, Eurynome,” Odysseus’s sister shouted to be heard over Penelope’s subsequent scream. Icarius caught his breath again. It had been hours of agony for his child; surely she couldn’t take much more of it, and neither could he.
The doors flew open, and young Eurynome, Penelope’s maidservant, hurried out of the room with a large washing bowl in her arms. The girls had been like sisters since childhood, and Penelope had insisted on Eurynome accompanying her to Ithaca. She nodded her head in acknowledgement of Icarius, but before she could scurry off in search of more water, he grabbed her arm. “How is she?” he demanded.
The two of them both jumped at the sound of another of Penelope’s cries. Eurynome sighed. “She’s doing as well as she can,” the girl answered. “I’m sorry, sir, I promised them I’d be back quickly.” She lifted up the bowl with a small smile before turning away.
Even in the near-darkness, though, Odysseus noticed their start, and he quickly rose from where he had been sitting crouched on the ground. It was what he did best, hide and go unnoticed, until he wanted to be seen. It was one of the many things Icarius couldn’t stand about the young king — the boy’s uncanny ability to blend into the darkness like a shadow, unassuming and yet annoyingly observant. He supposed the boy had to be observant, though, relying on his sense of sight to make up for the lack of hearing Penelope said he’d had since birth. He walked to Eurynome, tapping her arm to grab her attention, moving his hands to ask a desperate question that Icarius could only vaguely decipher.
“I-I’m so sorry, king.” Eurynome circled her fist over her heart, the sign Icarius recognized as sorry. “She’s okay, I’ll tell you more later.”
Odysseus started after her but stopped short as the maid hurried away. It hadn’t been the first such instance of him trying to glean information about the situation from anyone he could. Now, he tried to hold Icarius’s gaze, knowing he knew but wouldn’t share. Icarius looked away. He didn’t feel like conversing with his son-in-law, and he didn’t have the mental capacity to try and understand the boy’s sign language. Was it fair? Perhaps not. But his mind was not in this hallway; it was in the room where his daughter was laboring, suffering. It was no benign thing, either; they’d already prayed and offered sacrifice to Artemis and Eileithiya for an easy delivery. Icarius wasn’t sure what an easy delivery would’ve looked like for his daughter. While she shared some of her mother’s divine blood, she was still mortal. Anything could happen to Penelope, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Eurynome rushed past him again, this time with her washing bowl full of water and a few linens slung over her arm. Odysseus tried again to grab her attention. Icarius may not have been well-versed in his hand-language, but at Penelope’s insistence, he was learning more of it and growing better at understanding. The boy’s fingers moved with incredible speed, but Icarius recognized his daughter’s name in their flight, a question in his son-in-law’s eyes.
“Eurynome!” Ctimene shouted from behind the door. “Where are you?”
“I’m coming!” the young maid called back. Odysseus kept his grip around her arm, but she pulled away. “I’m so sorry, king,” she repeated, signing her apology over her breast once again. “They need me back in there.” She nodded once toward the door before shoving it open with her shoulder and disappearing inside as Penelope yelled again in pain.
“That’s good, Penelope —”
“Hand me that, now —”
“It hurts —”
“I know, baby.”
”Icarius.” Odysseus’s unexpected voice was right next to his ear, his hand on his shoulder. He signed another question with his hands, spelling out Penelope’s name again, mouth forming the shape of the word what.
Icarius swatted his hand away. “What do you mean, what?” he snapped. “You want to know what’s wrong with Penelope? She’s in pain, she’s suffering, giving birth to your child.” It was complete chaos inside the room, and Icarius could feel it all too loudly in his heart, and Odysseus could hear none of it. The mere fact of it annoyed Icarius to no end. “Must be nice,” he sneered, “not to have to hear the amount of pain she’s in, not to have to suffer with her.”
It wasn’t the right thing to say. It might have even been cruel on his part. It wasn’t the boy’s fault he couldn’t hear, and it wouldn’t have changed his concern if he could. Part of him braced himself for the boy to lose his temper as he so famously often did when he was offended. Another part of him hoped against all hope that the boy didn’t understand what he’d said, despite his ability to read lips on occasion.
But the anger didn’t come, nor did a blank look of confusion. Instead his son-in-law looked….hurt. He let his shoulders fall, slumping under a weight that Icarius couldn’t see. He signed slowly and deliberately. [You’re a father. You were…where I am. My mother…encourages Penelope, every day. I can’t hear it…but I know she encourages her even now.] He paused for a moment before taking a deep breath. [But you…only make me feel worse. I know you don’t like me. But I love Penelope, and I love our child. That’s not enough for you… why?]
[You’re arrogant,] Icarius signed back. [And full of yourself. That is why I don’t like you.]
[Well, right now, I’m not full of myself.] His sign was sharp with emotion. [I know my wife is suffering. But I can’t help her. And no one… tells me anything. I don’t even know if she’s okay. You …have told me… nothing, this whole time. And I’m scared …for her, for the baby. I don’t know how …to be a good husband for her now, I don’t know how to be a father.] He looked at the ground. [My father is dead. I know both of us hate it …but you’re the closest thing I’ve got.]
He fell against the wall then and covered his face. If Icarius didn’t know him better, he’d have sworn that he saw a tear fall down the boy’s cheek as he slid to the ground.
Icarius had known somewhere in the back of his mind that of course the old king of Ithaca was long dead, and that the new one had taken over the reign of Laertes as a mere child. It wasn’t long ago that Icarius had lost his own father, the pain of that loss still stabbing him like a knife now and again, as sharp as it had been that first day. He had been a man, then, with more experience and more wisdom than Odysseus could possibly have as a mere teenager.
He was only a teenager. An arrogant, selfish, crafty…scared teenager. He was still a boy. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was a boy who loved his wife more — Icarius was sure — than he loved his own life. Not knowing whether his wife was alive, what her condition was, if she’d be okay… must have been isolating for him.
With a sigh, Icarius sat beside him now, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Odysseus turned toward him with red eyes and a tear stained face.
He was slow with signing, but he managed, [It’s okay.]
The boy seemed a little surprised by the sign, and for a moment Icarius wondered if he’d signed incorrectly. Surely, he did — he wasn’t anywhere near as fluent as Odysseus was, or even Penelope — but he mimicked the sign Eurynome had offered earlier: [I’m sorry. I was mean.]
His son in law stared cautiously, but didn’t respond.
So Icarius continued, in his broken sign, [You’re scared now…but it will be fine. You will be..a good dad. A great dad.]
Before he could react, the boy threw his arms around Icarius and buried his face in his shoulder. For a few moments, neither of them moved from that position, save the occasional moment Icarius took to awkwardly pat his son-in-law on the back in an attempt to soothe him. He was no Anticleia, of that he was sure. He didn’t have all of the right words to give Odysseus, let alone the right signs, but Odysseus didn’t seem to mind in that moment.
He pulled away and wiped his cheek. [We go back to hating each other after this, right?] he signed slowly.
Icarius gave him a wry smile. [Of course,] he signed back.
Inside the room, Penelope let out a loud groan that gave way to another anguished scream that tore Icarius’s heart in two. Anticleia murmured something he couldn’t catch.
Odysseus touched his arm. [What is it?] he signed.
Penelope sobbed. “Why isn’t he coming?” she groaned.
“How much more?” Ctimene’s voice demanded. “She’s exhausted.”
He had to put together whatever signs he could in order to answer. He sifted through his brain for something that Odysseus could at least decipher, even if it was in Icarius’s broken, shaky sign. He slowly spelled his daughter’s name out for her husband, who nodded expectantly. [Something isn’t …right,] he attempted.
It was enough to make Odysseus’s eyes widen with fear. Even so, Icarius could see that his attempts to control it were quickly failing. [What’s wrong?] he asked. [Penelope? The baby?]
[I don’t know,] he replied. He found himself on the ground again, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep the tears at bay. Nothing could happen to her, not to his little girl. Not to his Penelope. How much more of this could she take? What if she wasn’t strong enough? He tried to listen in closer to the conversation, but the voices raised themselves over each other and blended into incoherent noise.
“The baby’s having some trouble coming out—”
“Penelope, keep breathing—”
“What’s wrong with the baby?”
He felt Odysseus’s hand on his arm, and when he looked up, the boy was begging a silent question with his eyes. He needed to know, and Icarius was the only one who could tell him.
[Baby…] he started, wracking his brain for the correct signs to continue. [Something’s wrong…Baby won’t come.]
His poor girl cried out once more, “I can’t do this.”
“One more, Penelope,” the midwife told her.
“I can’t,” she insisted.
“You can, child. I’m going to help you, but I need you to use all your strength.”
She sobbed a broken response.
[Penelope is…fighting?] No, not the right sign. [Struggling. She’s …tired. Very tired.]
[They have to help her], Odysseus signed frantically.
[The midwife is helping], Icarius managed to reply, hands trembling.
Odysseus took a long, deep breath. As he exhaled, he placed his hands over Icarius’s, breaking only to quickly sign, [She’ll be okay.] It may have been more for himself than for Icarius’s sake, but he would take it. Here the boy was, comforting him.
Anticleia’s reassuring voice: “Your baby’s almost here, Penelope. You’re doing so well. Just a bit more. Okay, brave girl, with all your might!”
His daughter’s scream pierced through him like a war cry — one last mighty shout of distress, mixed with desperate determination — before she fell quiet once again.
The quiet lasted for a beat, and then another, and then it was filled once more, this time with the small but mighty cry of a brand new infant.
[What is it?] Odysseus signed. [What are they saying?]
Icarius heard the sweet sound of his daughter’s laughter, for the first time since this ordeal had started. “You’re here,” she rejoiced. “You’re here, my sweet boy, we did it.”
He looked at Odysseus through blurry eyes and signed, [Your son is here.]
The young man stared at him for a moment, holding his breath. [I have a son? We have a boy?]
Icarius nodded.
[And he’s okay?]
He nodded again. [He sounds strong.]
[And Penelope?]
[She is a Spartan. Of course she is strong.]
He didn’t often make his son-in-law laugh, but Odysseus laughed then, and soon after his laughter gave way to more tears as he tried in vain to hide them behind his hands. Icarius held him there in the hallway, relief, joy, and wonder all swelling up in his heart at once until it overwhelmed him, too.
The door opened, and Ctimene’s head appeared. She waved for her brother’s attention, and signed his name — a sign that was to stand for his name, as Penelope’d explained it. [Would you like to meet your baby?] she asked with a grin.
Odysseus nodded eagerly, and his sister led him inside with Icarius in close tow.
Anticleia was with Penelope where she lay in bed, looking pale and worse for wear. It didn’t seem to matter to her, though, the way she gazed upon the child in her arms. There might not have been a happier woman in Ithaca than Icarius’s daughter.
Icarius wanted nothing more than to run to her, kiss her head, and tell her how proud he was of her, but Odysseus beat him to it. He embraced her, held her face in his hands, while she signed over and over that she was okay, that she was fine, that their baby was perfect. He kissed her forehead gently, and their baby boy’s.
Anticleia signed while she spoke aloud, “Penelope did so well. She was so strong.”
Odysseus grinned. [Of course she was, she’s Spartan.] He glanced at Icarius and winked.
Penelope looked between them. [You're not fighting,] she observed.
Icarius patted Odysseus on the shoulder. They would go back to hating each other tomorrow.