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Penelope balls the edges of her skirt into her fist, her face trained into a tight look of thought as she stares down the large loom in front of her. Across the pedals and notches lies a partially completed shroud. The design across the wool’s surface had changed and shifted so many times it’d be impossible to count.
The Queen of Ithaka hums lightly as she starts to stitch the first corner of her newest craft, the outline of a face starting to come to fruition across its surface. The front of her raven black hair with the fading, grey edges is tied tightly down her back. She rubs the edge of her wrinkled brow, the leathery feel of her own skin coarse and tired.
Her calloused fingers weave, dancing across the edges with a skill to match the Lady of Wisdom herself (though one should never be a braggart when it comes to the loom in her presence).
She sits in peace in her grand bedroom: the only place she could now find any semblance of peace. Her eyes for only a moment shift to her bedside, to the pristine and pressed side of her bed that is not hers. She bites the inside of her cheek forcibly and with slight scolding, and returns to her work.
Penelope’s eyes do not lift again until she is staring out at the setting sun coming through the window, the edges of the stars already peaking along the edges of dusk.
She drums her fingers with anxiety across the furthest handle of her loom. She thinks for but a brief moment. She was far too tired tonight to deal with appearing at dinner this evening, having to put up with the onslaught of harassment of jeers she had all but become accustomed to.
It took seven long years. Seven years of the abuse and harassment of her and her son and her kingdom that her supposed suitors levied, always tiptoeing the dirty and crude line of Xenia, for her to break. It was a day ago that she had issued her challenge, to do the impossible feat her husband did to win her hand over twenty years ago.
Twenty years.
She sighs wistfully and lonely as she stares out the window, her gaze reflecting the setting sun. The rim of the ocean that encircles the entire horizon, the entirety of the view of their tiny kingdom, envelops the whole of her vision. She squints her eyes and brings a hand to her chest. Some days, if she is foolish and hopeful enough, she can will the visage of a line of ships across the horizon, dotting the edges of her vision as she waited.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
She lets out an exasperated huff and stands, pushing the edges of her jostled hair and those thoughts away. She quickly steps to the door, opening it. She may as well make an appearance, to see the looks of failure on her court’s jesters.
The palace is covered in red as the sun sets, sending the blood-colored hue across it in long shadows. Penelope’s shadow casts across the tapestries and brick of the walls around her, the open-faced windows cascading the whole of her form in a black shade. She adjusts the dark veil she’d grown accustomed to wearing in the palace now, shielding most of her face from any outside view. This mixed with her silent footsteps give her an edge of stealth. A stealth she exploits as she hangs around the corner of her palace’s main dining room, to listen silently at the jeers and shouts of the men that sit within.
A tall, looming man sits in the center of a hundred or so men, his black hair flowing freely across his face. The sadistic grin of Antinous stares down at his fellows gathered. The edge of his sword, the curved makhaira, glints in the fading sunlight. Though he stands in the center of them all, he makes no spectacle. Instead, the men around him shout and cheer, creating their own uproar as he treads a circle in their center.
It wasn’t a few moments later that a figure was being pushed into the center of the ring, right at Antinous’ feet. He grins as he stares at the glaring, hatred-fueled eyes of the prince. Telemachus’ hair is ruffled. Across one cheek is a welting bruise, his nose dripping a trickle of blood. His hands are bound behind him with a thick length of rope.
Telemachus is quick to his feet, but not quick enough, never quick enough as Antinous yanks him by the hair, pulling him forward.
“None of that,” Antinous grins, and then spits the last words like their poison. “Little Wolf.”
As if trying to fit his namesake, the young man bites into the arm of his assailant, who yelps and delivers a painfully swift kick to his stomach. Telemachus is back on the ground before he could even start, but with blood dripping from his molars now.
“Fuck’s sake!” Antinous hisses, dabbing the blood of the fresh wound across his fingers. He stares at the prince as the latter struggles to breath, hacking and coughing for air.
“No fuck you!” Telemachus shouts back, finally managing words through the mixture of rage and breathlessness. “By the gods’ name, what are you doing Antinous!?”
The man ignores Telemachus’ question at first, one of the other suitors handing him a rag he uses to wipe the smearing blood off of. He then tosses it in Telemachus’ face, earning him a huffed growl.
“It’s almost been a decade,” Antinous says with a cold nonchalance. “Seven years. Seven long years we’ve spent, trying to push past this damned family’s stupid stubbornness. Seven long years that this--”
He points his long-bladed weapon towards the head of the room, where a collection of thrones sits. More purposefully, the throne that had been empty all of Telemachus’ life.
“-- Has been empty. No king; no leader. Just the wiles of a grieving woman and her delusional son.”
Telemachus twists his arms against the ropes while the man above him talks, trying to wiggle them free to little use. So he instead turns to cut him off, stamping one of his sandaled feet to the floor.
“Well then what are you complaining about? My mother has allowed one of you to step onto the throne, yes? What is your issue then?”
Antinous grins, whips his head back, and laughs. It is such a manic, deep laugh, that it takes Telemachus slightly off guard, his whole body tensing in apprehension.
“I’m not stupid, Little Wolf,” Antinous finally says after his laughter dies. “WE are not stupid.”
Before Telemachus can retort anything else, Antinous slams his food on top of him. Telemachus sprawls against the stone of the floor, and he can see the biting edge of the makhaira in the suitor’s hand pressed to his neck.
“There was never gonna be any of us on the throne.”
Telemachus cranes his neck, trying to get away from the blade and he fails. He hisses as a faint line of blood starts to spill from where the blade is pressed.
“This challenge? This-- Game? Was never gonna let any of us win. It’s just another trick. Waiting--” he presses his foot harder against the prince, squeezing the air further out of him.
“For you.”
There is a silent moment that echoes through the hall before Antinous continues. Even his most loyal followers amongst the suitors would sometimes chatter over him on good days; now, they all sit silent, watching. Like a rabid pack of hounds waiting for what scraps they’ll get.
Telemachus makes a wheezing noise, his brow arching in confusion.
“Wha… Wha--?”
Telemachus now lets out a small scream as the blade slices downward, leaving a sharp cut across the edge of his bicep as the point of the blade now hovers over the bob of his adam’s apple.
“I told you. Don’t act like we’re stupid.”
Antinous arches an eyebrow, watching how the prince is starting to quiver in equal parts rage and pain. He cracks a toothy grin.
“We’ve all noticed how different you are. It wasn’t even a year ago that you were still a sniveling little brat hiding in your mother’s dress. And now?” He presses his fingers to his chin in thought. “Someone has been training you. To be faster, smarter, more bold. And that? Well, that’s something we can’t get behind.”
The words are met with a cheer from some of the other gathered suitors.
“We’ve all agreed that this little bloom should be snapped straight from the roots before it starts to grow its thorns,” Antinous says, shifting the sword in his grip.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen Telemachus,” Antinous says, fully shedding the prince’s pet name. “I’m gonna plunge my sword straight through your throat and toss the body in the ocean. And when your mama comes down to look for you, well-- We’re gonna be waiting.”
Telemachus lets out a sputter, but the press of the sword prevents him from speaking more than getting the wind kicked out of him ever did.
“And by the gods have we been waiting so long to taste from that sweet and delicate fruit. We’ve been waiting so long to strip her down and--”
A clattering noise echoes through the quiet hall, knocking Antinous from his speech. Every eye turns to the front, Telemachus’ eyes straining to his mother standing there.
Penelope’s gaze doesn’t even drift towards the gathered group of a hundred men as she lightly hums under her breath: a beautiful, soft lullaby from an age before.
Her dress glides across the steps leading up to the royal thrones as she bends over lightly, picking Odysseus’ bow from where it had been left mostly abandoned. She brushes her hands across it, feeling the individual notches and finger holds that had been worn into the wood. She grasps the finger grooves across the handle, as if trying to grip the hands that once held it.
It is then she looks up, dusting the edges of her dress off to look around the room, meeting each suitor’s gaze, finally ending on Antinous and her son in the center.
“Oh, please. Don’t mind me gentlemen,” she says with a bright smile that peeks over the edges of her veil. “Go about your business. Feel free to act as if I’m not here.”
She slowly and quietly plucks at the quarter string that lines up the bow’s shaft, delicately and with ease bending the bow, hearing it crack in just the right way for her to to notch the string on the other end. She tests the bow, thrumming it lightly against her fingers, a shocked silence as she does what the gathered room could not with ease.
“Your majesty--” Antinous starts, the sword falling from Telemachus’ neck as the suitor stands more properly. Telemachus wastes no time scrambling to his feet once more, wincing as blood trickles down his shoulder.
But Penelope simply silences him, bringing a finger to her ruby-colored lips. She holds it there a second before she quietly continues, setting the bow down on the vacant throne in the center.
She then moves to the axes that hang across the room, gliding a trained finger across the head of each one . Each one is fine and smooth, cleanly taken care of and freshly sharpened, but she stops at the twelfth axe, letting her finger rest on its head.
It is a beautiful axe that pales the others in comparison. It is easily double the size of them, the handle and head cast in gold and the blade a pure, shining bronze. Etched in silver across the center, right where the hole rests, is the visage of a vulture, talons poised to strike.
“Telemachus. Come here darling.”
When Penelope finally speaks, it could have been a pin dropping in the room’s center. Quietly and quickly, Telemachus pushes past the suitors and stands in front of his mother. He stares at her meekly, his eyes a question. But she does not answer it as she unhooks the gleaming axe from its place, and snaps the bindings from his wrist.
And then Penelope frowns at him, almost a glare.
“I am so disappointed in you.”
Telemachus raises his eyebrows, his mouth hung open in shock. His is not the only one as the suitors gape silently at her.
“Mother--”
“I mean, my boy! Have I taught you to be a slob? I went into your room just a half hour ago and it was a mess.”
Her finger delicately and lovingly, only in the way a mother could, ghosts across the wound on his neck. She collects a little of the blood, letting it stick to her fingers as she examines it with scrutiny.
“You are going to go up there and clean it this instant, with no argument. No son of the reigning king Odysseus will carry himself in such a state.”
Then her gaze shifts upwards, narrowing.
“And you will not come out until it is done. Under any circumstance. No matter what you hear, you will be there until I come up to check you’ve finished. Understood?”
“But. mother, you can’t--”
The look that Penelope gives her son shuts him up instantly. Telemachus meekly nods after, quickly and quietly sprinting out of the hall and out of sight.
“I love you,” she whispers faintly and quietly, though it was still clear and audible across the silent room.
Penelope waits until his footsteps disappear from the stairs before she turns to the suitors once more.
She unhooks a few of the smaller axes now, settling three or so in her palm. She lifts them, as if testing something subconsciously.
“Antinous, was it?”
The suitor in the center stiffens, but manages a smile. His grip on his own weapon tightens.
“Your majesty, I’m honored you know my name.”
“You should not be.”
The coldness and malice in her voice sends a shiver straight through Antinous’ body as he watches Penelope step lithely forward, down the steps that lead up the throne to more properly address the man in the center.
“The only reason I know your name is because my son used to come to me in tears when he was younger, telling of what you did to him. A man so much older bullying a teenager, a little boy. Does that make you feel strong? Big and powerful? Like a real soldier?”
Slowly, Penelope starts to shoulder the veil and shawl off. She tosses it lightly. Her sleeveless gown reveals where her toned muscles flex, her fingers bending across the blade. Where the dress opens down the back reveals a myriad of ancient, jagged scars from battles and fights long past.
“You know, I blame myself mostly,” she says wistfully with a sigh, deep and tired. “You have bent the rules of Xenia for far too long, and I’ve allowed it in fear the gods would make my life harder, make the lives of those I love harder.”
She steps closer, allowing her hair to billow out across her bare shoulders. She now stands directly in front of the ring of men, her gaze shifting across all of them.
“But now?”
She tilts her head upwards, as if staring an invisible force down.
“Fuck the gods.”
Antinous’ face pales further, his grip suddenly becoming less confident on his sword.
“For twenty damn years they have left me alone. They have forced me to carry the burden of life without--” she says, and then pauses, her voice a quiet quiver.
“And they stuck me with writhing, ugly parasites instead. So honestly? I’m done caring about what they want, or what they see. I am over it.”
Her gaze then levels back, staring straight into Antinous’ eyes.
“Antinous.”
“Your majesty?” Antinous says tentatively. Now that the attention is back to him, his grip tightens, and he starts to walk towards her.
“I have a question for you. See if you’re brushed up on your Ithakan history, hm?”
She hums the last part with a smile, almost with a playful tone that takes Antinous back. It does not stop his approach, though.
“My husband, the reigning king of Ithaka-- My Odysseus. One of his most famous exploits is his hunt of the Parnassian Boar. The mythical boar of Lady Athena. Here’s my question: what weapon did my husband use to kill the animal?”
Antinous tilts his head, his eyes staring down the bow on the throne. He gives her a toothy grin.
“Seriously? You’re still on about the damn bow?”
Penelope smiles wider, a sweet visage on her face.
“The bow. Correct! But, wait--” she pauses, tilting her head.
“Where in that story do you remember there being axes?”
Antinous raises an eyebrow.
“Axes? There weren’t any axes--?”
He never finishes the question as his face is split in half by the blade of a gleaming, smaller handaxe.
“That’s right, there wasn’t any.”
“Because the axes are MINE.”
Antinous collapses the ground, gripping at where the axe now sits. Blood and sinew spill from the wound where it splits straight through his mouth, his nose, and rests right in the middle of his brow. A clean shot straight down the middle. His screams are guttural and forced as blood quickly fills his throat, causing him to choke and gag at the rising liquid. He grips at it in vain, but the weapon is too far embedded in his skull to matter.
That is the only noise for a few short seconds as the room erupts into full chaos. The other suitors begin to scream, drawing weapons and screaming foulness as Antinous continues to sputter and whine.
Penelope slams the butt of her broad, golden axe into the table. It shatters the center with the force, drawing some silence. She walks forward, bending over Antinous long enough to rip the axe straight from him. That seems to finally do him in as he collapses fully to the ground, quiet and still.
“I am giving you all one warning and one chance. If you do not leave now, do not get aboard your ships and return from the miserable holes you’ve crawled out of, then I will be using your corpse to water my gardens.”
Her gaze shifts across the whole room once more, sweeping it in one motion.
“Get. Out.”
The silence could be cut with a knife as Penelope stands there firmly and with no mercy. Blood starts to pool around the edges of her sandals, soaking them.
And slowly, some of the men quietly mill out of the room, each looking like kicked, afraid dogs. She knew they might return, would probably return with a vengeance. But she didn’t care much now.
The younger, more naive men had left and what remained were the burlier, more headstrong men. The men with far more less to lose if they return home having won nothing after nearly a decade of waiting. They take weapons and shields, knives and swords and axes gripped in their hands as they start to encircle the Queen.
All in all, fifteen remain.
If they could not have the Queen, so it seemed, then one of them would sit on the throne alone.
Penelope brings the head of her golden axe up to her lips, quietly laying a kiss across its blade. Something deep within her stirs, some memory.
“It was rather foolish of me to try and recreate your image, wasn’t it?” she whispers quietly, her lips still pressed against the metal. “But it is true -- I would rather die than grow old without the best of you.”
The first swing of the axe cleaves straight through the neck of the men as Penelope skids across the floor, ducking under the low dining table. She can hear weapons swish and clang into its side. She lifts her head over the side, hurling an axe straight into the throat of another.
14, 13.
She spins around and kicks one of the chairs into another of the men. She splits his head straight through with the gleaming axe, pushing his body into another, knocking him over and straight into the blade as well.
12, 11.
Peneloep can feel the edge of one of their swords strike through her shoulder blade. She hisses lowly, and with an unnatural swiftness, she darts towards the front of the room. She sends a spiraling axe straight into the arm of one of them, sending him to the ground. She snatches another of the axes from their holster and hurls it straight through his skull.
10.
The axes practically spin as she dispenses them with deadly accuracy. Two others split through their shoulders and necks, causing them to thud against the cool stone floor. A third lodges in the table inches away from another, who speeds towards her. He tries to slam into her and she cracks her head straight into his. Through the dizziness, she slams the butt of her axe straight through his face, cracking his skull like one would a rock with a hammer.
9, 8, 7.
She shakes her head, nearly toppling off of the stairs. She can feel another blade stab into her calf and she kicks, sending a man straight to the ground. She slams the blade of her axe like an executioner into his neck, ripping it and chunks of his flesh out and into the chest of another.
6, 5.
Penelope is huffing quietly under her breath, gripping her calf tightly. She can feel her muscles tense and her aging body begin to tire. But she wills herself to her feet, limping over to one of the tables. She hefts a chair up and with a swift crack, splinters it and creates a mock shield.
Another slams his axe straight into it, and she pushes back with a mass force. She swipes the shrapnel edge across his face, embedding splintered wood straight into it. As he screams, she kicks him to the ground and slams the axe blade straight through his neck.
4.
Adrenaline pumps heartily and scarily through her body, her blood pumping like a footrace through her ears. She feels something slam into her face and her vision blurs. Pure instinct drives her body as she shifts, slamming the axe straight into the chest of another. She rips it out, rubbing her eyes and uselessly willing them to clear.
Through the haze she can see a shape, and she swings, cleaving through another, and another. Her movements are wild, sporadic and crazed as she starts to lose her momentum and balance.
The moment her vision just barely clears, she swivels around.
3, 2, 1.
1--
Where is--?
She feels pain split through her stomach as a dinner knife splits straight through her dress and into her abdomen. She clutches at it, feeling the metal slip out with a sick squelch. She fumbles at her chest, mouth opening and closing. She raises the axe in a haze, whipping around.
But she holds it in the air, quickly losing the strength to continue. She breathes heavily, the pain causing her eyes to widen as she stares into the face of that final suitor, a shocked smile slowly spreading across his face.
He raises his sword, ready to plunge it through her throat. She wasn’t fast enough, she couldn’t bring herself to block it--
She hears something whistle straight towards her, the sound of the wind grazing her ear as something whizzes past her. It sends her hair spiralling around her shoulders.
It flies straight through the hole of her raised axe, perfectly soaring through it and embedding itself swiftly into the neck of the man in front of her.
Penelope’s eyes slowly blink, and once the enemy in front of her is slain, she can feel her strength start to die. The adrenaline swiftly goes along with it, and she drops the blood-soaked axe in her hand.
She fully expects to hit the stone of the floor beneath her but the harsh cold never comes. Instead, before she can even think of falling, warm hands engulf her and she is lifted into them, suddenly being carried.
Her blurry and tired eyes stare up at the smudged face of a man that holds her aloft. He cradles her gently, like she was a broken treasure. He carries her over to the thrones in the front, grabbing the veil she had tossed aside what felt like hours ago. He tears at the edge of her dress, exposing the wound across her abdomen and wrapping the fabric thickly around it.
Penelope’s eyes close, and she inhales deeply. What she smells isn’t the blood, nor the sweat of combat. What she smells instead is the fresh smell of wood.
It is a rich, earthy smell of leaf and sprig that sends her mind spiralling back far away from the palace, far away from Ithaka entirely. The rich smell of olive wood, and the delicious fruits that grow on it.
With a sudden and vibrant force, the memory that touched Penelope’s mind earlier springs to her mind in full force--
The sun shines bright, hot and heavy across the bountiful orchard that Penelope rests in on the proud island of Sparta. Her eyes stare at the wide-leaved trees around her, the head of her axe lightly swatting the growing green buds straight from the leaves. She pops an olive into her mouth, sucking on the tangy and rich flavor before spitting the pit to the ground with a grin.
The twenty year old woman often found peace and serenity out in the orchards, far away from the courtly responsibilities. And did the gods know it was hectic now.
With the announcement that her cousin, Princess Helen of Argos, was being married, being heralded to every kingdom across the Aegean Sea, and that the rich shores of Sparta would be where it was housed, she rarely found peace. It was good that she enjoyed time with her cousins, both Helen and her sister Clytemnestra often sneaking out with Penelope to find solace from the crowds of men.
And so it was that Helen sat with her in the olive grove. Her beautiful blond hair was out of its bun, splayed across her shoulders. Her neatly tanned skin was dripping sweat, and the layers of her woolen dress were hiked to her ankles. Her feet were firmly planted in the dirt and she wiggled them lightly through the coarse material as she bit into the face of a Golden Delicious apple, the yellow surface reflecting the gold of the sun.
“-- and then ‘Emene told me that this guy, Menelaus, was practically jumping when he was announced as a candidate. Kinda childish, but also a lil cute, you know? I like men who are a little cute sometimes.”
She pauses, tilting her head towards her cousin.
“Penelope.”
Penelope nods absently, swinging another branch off of the olive tree above her head.
“Yep. Menelaus. Cute. Guys.”
Helen grins at her, lightly jumping up and swinging her arms around Penelope’s arm.
“Come on Penny! You gotta treat this more seriously,” she says, which earned a groan from Penelope.
“I am not letting you play matchmaker for me Helen.”
“But come on! There are a lot of super cute guys here! Plus, a whole ton of them are from wealthy families. I can’t accept all of them and--”
“Helen, having your seconds is not the compliment you think it is.”
Helen huffs, crossing her arms more tightly around Penelope’s arm.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” she shouts, and Penelope rolls her eyes with a smile. “What I meant was that you’ve seriously gotta think about marrying! With all these guys around, I’m sure one wealthy one's gonna catch your eye.”
Penelope scoffs lightly.
“I’ll choose when I am ready.”
“So, never!” Helen points and laughs.
She tosses the apple in the air with a flourish. Penelope grins, raising her axe slightly and waiting to snatch the apple out of the air before her cousin can catch it again with her other hand.
But the fruit never touches her fingers.
Instead, she hears the whistle of an arrow as it cuts straight through the hole in her axe, the little notch the maker made so it easily hangs on racks, and embeds itself into the apple. It sends the fruit flying backwards, planting it straight into the bark of a tree behind them.
Penelope blinks slowly at where the apple had been in the air. She can hear Helen swiftly turn, her face pulled into a scowl.
“Hey! You could’a hit somebody with that, you idiot!” she shouts into the trees.
“I am so sorry, fair princess, but I saw the opportunity and what better time to take it?”
Penelope’s gaze lifts to train on the man who walks from behind one of the olive trees. He has darkly tanned skin, the edges of his curly black hair tied down his back. He is short, barely coming up to Penelope’s shoulder, and his muscle is less bulk and more lean. The edges of a wispy beard grow across his chin, just barely coming in.
He is dressed in the rich attire of a noble of the court, so that’s clearly where he came from.
“Are you serious?! That’s not an excuse-- You could have shot one of us, and I’m--”
“Helen of Argos. Most beautiful woman in Greece,” the man says with a grin. “It’s hard not to know who you are, Lady Helen. You are why I’m here, after all.”
The man lithely steps over the roots of the trees, stopping to stand right in front of Penelope. His gaze shifts over her curiously. There is a slight twinkle in his eyes as he meets hers.
“Okay, so you knew who we were and you still shot an arrow towards--”
“Correction,” he says, holding up a finger. “I know who you are. But-- Who are you?”
Penelope stiffens as the man points the question towards her, and for the first time in her whole life her throat is dry.
“I-- Am Penelope of Sparta,” she says faintly, which causes Helen to raise an eyebrow at her. “And you-- You shot an arrow through my axe.”
The man smirks, hands on his hips as he seems almost proud of it.
“Yes. Yes I did.”
“How?”
He tilts his head, almost like a confused puppy.
“How what?”
“How did you do that?”
The man stares at her for a few beats and then gently takes one of her hands. She can see a faint dust of pink across his cheeks.
“It would be rather difficult to explain. A rather long story, actually. Perhaps I could teach you sometime instead, Penelope of Sparta? As-- An apology, for shooting an arrow toward you.”
Penelope narrows her eyes. She can see right through the facade, the cherry-picked words and the silver tongue. She had spent hours sat to the side of Helen, hearing dozens of men say the same things, the same propositions to meet alone with her, to lull her to a place of vulnerability. Penelope knew this tactic.
It interested her, deeply and profoundly, how one could look so cool and collected, and yet so much akin to a weasel.
Interested her perhaps far too much.
“Perhaps you can, lord--?” she says, holding the question out to him.
He smiles and lightly presses a kiss across the signet ring on her finger. When he lifts his head is when he speaks next.
“Odysseus. King Odysseus of Ithaka.”
Penelope offers him a small smile as he lets go of her hand, her own cheeks surely blushing brightly.
From allergies. Pollen or something.
“Alright, King Odysseus. I look forward to when we speak again.”
Odysseus brushes past her briefly, taking the arrow from the fruit where it was lodged in the tree. He smells like he stepped straight from one of the trees itself, like some male nymph of the olive branch. And then as quickly as he had mysteriously appeared, he was gone, disappearing into the trees once more.
Penelope could barely tune into what her cousin was saying next.
“-- Seriously, why was he even out here?! Was he stalking us?! What a prick . And he was acting all cool like Ithaka isn’t just a pile of rocks with some sheep on it. I swear he couldn’t be from a poorer place. And you aren’t seriously going to go out with him to the range, are you--?” Helen stops as she stares at her cousin.
“Penny.”
She shifts closer once more, gripping one of Penelope’s hands.
“Penny no.”
“PENNY NO--”
Penelope holds up a single finger, a smug smile on her face, her cheeks still burning red.
“You said I was allowed to choose any of them you didn’t want, right? Any of them?”
Helen practically grapples her to the ground as she tugs on her and Penelope lets out a laugh, expelling the fluttering feel from her bones.
“PENELOPE--”
Penelope’s eyes open once more, and her vision starts to slowly clear.
When she lifts her hand upward, she touches the slick, smooth beard across Odysseus' face. His sharp, grey eyes peer down at her. His hair was long and ragged, almost entirely grey. His face was worn and tired, an unimaginable length of scars visible across starting from his chin and trailing down his collarbone.
“Ody--?” she manages to sputter out, the pain still throbbing in her side as she comes fully to lucidity once more.
Odysseus’ face pulls into a smile, the edges of it exhausted. Tears prick the edges of his eyes as he gently cups one of her cheeks, the other hand gently resting her in his lap. His calloused and cold fingers touch at her skin, as if testing to see if she was real, tangible and physical. He feels the edges of her wrinkles, her laugh lines, across the edge of her forehead and up into her hair.
It was then, and only when his hands were sifting through her hair, that he spoke.
“Hey.”
Penelope can feel her face split into a grin, and the tears start to spill from her face. She chokes back a sob. She laughs, the sound wet and sloppy.
“He-- Hey.”
The tears in her husband’s eyes fall just as freely now, as he leans down, to whisper, his breath warm against her face.
“I-- I’m back.”
And she captures those lips into a kiss, passionate and loving. Odysseus shifts her in his arms, his grip so tight, matching hers. As if both of them were afraid letting go meant the other slipping away forever.
And all she can do as their lips part is parrot back what he said, the exhaustion finally sinking into her mind.
“You’re back.”