He let his eyes remain closed, thinking of the days past and the peace at long last his. Athene the Grey-Eyed had seen him safely home. Many adventures he would share to reward his wife's patient waiting for him. Telemachus was a man grown, fine credit to their line even. The loss of poor Argus, holding to life for a mere glimpse of his master had been one bitter moment, but death was much a part of life.
Now, resting safe upon his bed, his faithful wife beside him, Odysseus recalled all that had gone in the long pilgrimage since his leaving. Friends gone, honorable enemies lost, and allies revealed as the monsters they had been all along jumbled through his mind.
"Shh, my lord husband," Penelope crooned, his first awareness that memory and resolve had warred, letting tears of rage and grief finally emerge. For the war had been without honor by its end, and there was nothing but deceit in its wake, product of Odysseus's own doing so that all could put the shameful period behind them. "You are home now, and all will fade into the past."
"If only that were balm enough," the battered king whispered.