Chapter Text
The largest port in Lacedaemon spread out like a great tapestry ahead.
It was a sight to behold. Verdant and thriving, bustling with life and music and the scent of rich foods that carried all the way out to those still in the tide. The entire land was well known for being a place of beauty, wealth and prosperity, and its capital of Sparta was no exception. This port saw hundreds upon hundreds of arrivals every year, and its city was always bustling with citizens and travelers both, but the activity ahead went beyond even that description.
Odysseus — Prince and Knight of Ithaca — stood at the bow of his ship, hands upon the railing. He watched the slow progress of the far larger vessels before him that were just now beginning to dock, their grand sails furling.
It brought his mind to ants, streaming through the ground in endless waves. This overcrowding had already slowed their progress, and would drag out what should have been a morning arrival into what would likely become an afternoon one.
Hardly a surprise, despite his attempts to circumvent such delays: he had known the event they were all gathering for would draw the attention of many, though seeing the sheer result of that fact was another matter. And yet, in utter spite of all of his and the Goddess’s planning, all the poignant necessity of their arrival, the anticipation that had been building toward this day…
Odysseus thought once again of how much he was looking forward to returning home.
The city was beautiful, no doubt. And reoccurring desire to return aside, much of his mind was already racing ahead to think of all those he was likely to encounter, the competitions that the tournament would present. The thrill and excitement of it, the offer of such challenges, but most of all…the satisfaction he knew would come. Not at winning entirely — the notion that King Tyndareus would seriously consider him for Princess Helen’s hand was unlikely at best — but what he aimed to accomplish went beyond a marriage they never would have offered to him anyway.
Within this city was opportunity: not just a chance to show his strength and skill, but to gather information, seek connections to be forged. For himself, for his family name, for the Ithaca his sister would one day rule alongside whoever her husband would be. All vital for work toward further reaching the glory and greatness that the goddess Athena believed him capable of.
You have been walking the path all your life, she had told him, years ago. Though you did not yet know it.
Perhaps I did, he had replied, grinning. And for a moment, he’d thought she would laugh. She didn’t, of course. And though he was as persistent as ever in trying as time passed, he’d yet to see more than a small smile, but each of those rarities were still a victory.
He knew she was watching him. Even when she was not physically present — as she was then, disguised as an owl, not that anyone but those she wished to could see her — the goddess’s eyes lingered. The weight of her expectation and judgement was as eternal as she, and always looming.
I thought you possessed more patience than this, her voice came, as clear as if she stood at his side, almost the exact moment he expected it, as if summoned by mere thought.
Odysseus loosened his grip on the railing, and did not look back as he addressed her. His voice was quiet enough to be lost beneath the sound of the waves, of the crew following his orders as they waited for their chance to dock. She heard him regardless, always sharp and vigilant as an owl hunting for mice within their territory: there was no escape from her perception, not once she had decided to watch. If you thrived or fell to her claws was her choice.
“I possess it in abundance,” he said, cataloging the sigils upon the sails of the ships ahead: all ones he knew, and had expected to attend. “The key to true patience is to never act on the impatience you feel. Just as bravery does not mean you have never known fear, but rather that you have mastered it.”
There was a flutter of feathers, but not equal to the tiny owl she would have appeared as. Instead, it was a hint toward her true nature: the great beating wings of something far more powerful, looming behind him and stirring his hair, long purple cape flapping like wings of his own, though of course all else would simply think it the wind.
I see, Athena said. So you claim to have mastered yourself entirely, Odysseus?
He did not answer with words, just a smile that verged on a smirk.
She had not expected anything different, and both of them had known it when she asked the question. Despite her form, and that his eyes weren’t upon her, he could hear the not-quite-a-smile that would touch her lips whenever he gave the answer she had hoped for, or accomplished some great feat as a warrior.
You shall prove it, she said, as simply as she might state that another day would follow this one. Many eyes will be watching these events unfold, and all that will ripple out from them.
Odysseus felt the striking of her wings in the air once again, the cresting wave of sheer power that she possessed stirring everything around them. She was leaving, or at least giving the appearance of such, as he had long known better than to think she was truly gone simply because she appeared to be.
Still, even with the distance, the flapping wings and powerful wind, her voice was clearer than ever, as if she spoke these final words directly into his ear. If he concentrated, he could almost feel the weight and vibration of her words upon the shell.
Do not disappoint me.
With that, any sensation of her presence vanished.
Though of course he knew it was just as likely that Athena remained, he suspected she was seeing Diomedes of Argos, another champion of hers. Or perhaps someone else entirely: there were plenty of mortals that knew her favor, warriors or otherwise. A fair number lived inside this very city, as she was well-venerated within its borders; he was planning a visit to the great temple built in her honor — and its attendants — as soon as his feet touched the shore. He had offerings to place there, gifts from his family in the goddess’s name, and to ask for fortune in his endeavors.
Unfortunately, it seemed he would remain upon the water for some hours yet.
Odysseus breathed deeply scents he knew well — stinging salt of the sea, freshly caught fish, burning wood of the cooking fires — filling his lungs. Familiar, but different from those he knew all the same: far more smoke, spilling out above like steam rising from a great bath. The call of seabirds was quieter too, muffled beneath the cacophony within the city.
A few weeks here, to demonstrate Ithaca’s might, to learn and gather allies, and then he would return home. He would return with incredible bounty: glory he earned in the name of their family and kingdom. “Little” or “Barren Ithaca” some called it…and in comparison to the verdant land spread before him perhaps others would find truth in the moniker. But it had always set his teeth on edge. The way it would be said with a smirk, or a sneer, or as if they were babes in the cradle that needed careful guidance. Why could none of them see?
Those who spoke such words had not held Ithaca’s soil in their hands. Watched how deeply the olive trees rooted, becoming immovable. Seen the stark beauty of the dark cliffs against the grass and sea. The ripeness of their figs, how they fit so perfectly in the palm of the hand. The fine and beautiful wool gathered from their flocks, all thriving and strong. The fierce and loyal hounds bred and trained there, his own Argos chief among them. How hard all of its people worked, from his sister learning the ways of ruling, to their farmers in the fields...
Plenty grew in Ithaca. Most simply did not know it, or care to. What did grow there bloomed with strength greater than they could imagine.
Odysseus smiled again, though the ships before him were not moving any faster. His mind raced once more to all that he would accomplish in the weeks ahead.
Soon, those that had doubted would catch a glimpse of what he, and Ithaca, were capable of.
In the end, Odysseus’s predictions were correct: it took a few more hours for his ship to reach the shore, and some time after for he and the crew to unload all they needed. Once fully disembarked, and with the rest of the men on their way to where they would be staying, Odysseus set off to fulfill his first duty to Athena. The ornate temple dedicated to her name was not far from the docks, and loomed like a hunting bird waiting for its prey to pass. The one erected for Goddess-Queen Hera was even more opulent, and towered above all the rest as if it were a mountain that had existed since time began. Perhaps it once had been, and the favor she showed toward this land was as old as the earth beneath their feet.
He lit incense, whispered his patron’s epithets, and left offerings of olive oil (directly from the groves in Ithaca, the finest there could be), as well as rich wine, uncut with water and red as blood. In addition there was a small tapestry woven by his mother and sister, depicting Athena’s owl and bordered by olive branches. They would also continue their own prayers back in Ithaca, but providing their gifts within Sparta was important as well.
Here, amidst all that was left for the goddess, he felt the sharp sensation of her presence again, like a sudden shift within the air, though it was gone as quickly as it came. An acknowledgment and appreciation of his offerings, but nothing more.
When his duties at the temple were complete, he briefly stopped within Hera’s to give similar offerings and prayers, as was befitting for one stepping into a city the Goddess-Queen so loved. He began with a goat sacrifice, its blood spilling hot across the stones at his feet. Then, upon the altar he placed necklaces made from pearls found along Ithaca’s tide, as well as hair ornaments of wood and bone that his father carved. As the smoke from candles and incense surrounded him, the blood of his sacrifice still wet and gleaming below, he whispered to Queen Hera praises in her name, and his confidence of what he would accomplish while in a land she so adored. He hoped that she would look favorably on him and his people, and vowed they would continue to honor her.
After he was done, he left the temple and set off along the well-kept streets toward the smell of food, and eventually found himself at Sparta’s Grand Marketplace.
It streamed with far too many people to count, and covered stalls practically overflowing with their wares filled the wide roads, thickening the bustling crowd within. Some stalls were shaded with simple cloth, while others utilized colorful patterns or small sections of roofs built into the ramparts that bordered the city and its streets. The buildings that made these walls were shops and taverns of their own, and just as bursting with activity. Small flags fluttered above, adorned with symbols helping to guide travelers to the different sections of the market. A second level revealed itself as he moved further in: it was bordered by parapets, and as he walked he saw that it was accessed through crowded stone steps that climbed along the wallside. He passed one then another, and more after that. Every stair seemed evenly spaced at various locations between each area.
Odysseus walked leisurely, observing all of those around him, listening to bits of conversation, watching how the guards patrolled and the people interacted with each other. There were plenty of hours remaining before he was expected at the palace, as ceremonial introductions would take place toward the evening, while the tournament proper would begin the following day. Until then, time was his, and he would learn what he could.
He ate bread and figs (though the fruit wasn’t nearly as sweet as the ones he knew from Ithaca) and portions of freshly roasted pig, then continued to walk. As he wandered, his ears caught on mentions of the tournament, of Princess Helen, and those who would be fighting for her hand. While much of what he heard was rumor, dismissing the value of gossip was foolish. What people thought was true was often just as important as the facts, though knowing both was best of all.
“I hear Helen is so beautiful,” one young man said wistfully as he downed a cup of wine, sitting among his fellows at a small table crammed to the side and just out of the way of the ever-continuing crowd. “That everything pales once you’ve left her presence.”
Another older man spoke of her as a bard might, though his words were slightly slurred: “Her hair is spun from sunlight, her eyes as lovely as the clearest of skies—”
“No, no,” a different man protested. “Her eyes are green, and her hair is like honey, shimmering and golden —”
“You’re both wrong!” The youngest among them said, slamming his wine down upon the table. “I’ve actually seen her, she is fairer than snow, than the purest of clouds—”
Meanwhile, others spoke less of her appearance, though it was inevitably the first thing they all said of Princess Helen. Odysseus was certainly curious to see her for himself, despite knowing that he would never be properly considered as a husband for her. Though it was likely impossible for anyone to live up to all of such expectations, anyone who had met her certainly seemed to come away with a strong impression.
“I heard she already shows her favor,” a woman carrying a basket of bread insisted. “That she had chosen her champion before the tournament was even announced.”
“Maybe she’ll change her mind,” the maid she was speaking to giggled, “once she’s looked enough at her options.”
Odysseus walked past them all, slowing to listen but never long enough to be noticed. His hood was up and his cloak drawn forward, his shoulders hunched to mask their width and shorten his height further. He moved with a deliberate stride, hiding the weight of the sword at his hip, and the daggers that were sheathed along his other side. He was no more than a passing breeze through the crowd, a mere shadow that would not last, and people’s gazes slid past him in reflection of that. If — when — he desired otherwise, he could draw eyes just as easily. With as little as shifting the tone of his voice or the smallest change in his demeanor, none would dare look away, should he so wish it.
“Did you see that one they call ‘Ajax the Greater’?” One woman asked her companion. “I caught a glimpse as he left his ship—”
Her friend nodded, distractedly almost dropping the apples she was gathering in a bundle. “He’s certainly well named,” she tittered, a hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to hold back laughter, and they both burst into giggles.
Further on, several men were placing bets on who they thought would win, of the competitors they knew of.
“It has to be Achilles,” one man said, for what was clearly not the first time. “His blood is divine, just like Princess Helen’s —”
“What about Theseus of Attica?” Another interrupted. “He already rules a kingdom, and could combine his land and might into ours—“
On and on it went. Some described men that were not even in attendance — Old King Nestor of Pylos was not, in fact, here seeking an additional bride — while others insisted that the gods themselves would surely be competing in disguise. Helen was a daughter of Zeus after all: plenty among the pantheon would have been eager for some kind of claim to her, even if they did not seek to marry as the gathered lords and kings and princes did.
Odysseus continued further into the marketplace, the crowd seemingly growing with every step. He would learn more that evening, and once the tournament officially progressed, but in truth the competition had already started well before today. From the moment it was announced, the games had begun, and he had long since started playing.
He entered another section of the market, the scent of food becoming masked beneath perfumes, oils, and spices. He wandered further from there, and the offerings within the stalls changed again: he passed pearls, jewels and ribbons, pins and combs carved from bone and horn and smoothed wood. Beyond that were tables piled with spools of thread, and carts displaying intricately woven linens, from bedding to veils and more.
A sudden noise — sharp voices, running feet — made him glance up toward the source. Atop another set of stone steps that led to the upper level of the market, he just had time to see someone in a blue cloak at the peak of the stairs. Their desperate hands were trying to grasp at something, anything, within the jostling crowd as they toppled backward and over the side —
Odysseus moved without thought, arms raised as he made it in two quick strides. He grunted as the weight of them crashed down into his hold, but he remained steady. Their hood was knocked back from the force of their fall, and as Odysseus straightened, he looked at the person he had caught.
It was a woman. Or a girl, perhaps, though he would have been surprised if there was more than a five year difference in their ages. Her pretty blue-green eyes flicked across him before holding his gaze. Her hair was curly, soft and shining, but darker than a night without the moon or stars: much of it was pinned atop her head, but some had fallen out of its ties, framing her oval face and slender neck with slightly wild and unkempt ringlets.
There were scattered freckles along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, going all the way down her neck and collarbones, and they caught the sunlight as if they were flecks of bronze painted to her skin. Her full, pink lips were parted in surprise, and for several long seconds they simply stared at each other.
“Th-Thank you,” the woman finally said, her voice almost too soft to hear, though all of the other noises around them seemed to have dulled…as if they were in a separate room to themselves while the rest of the world went on outside of it.
Odysseus nodded, gathering his thoughts like unspooled thread within his mind.
“Are you well?” He asked, glancing over her for signs of wounds or distress. The soft weight of her in his arms was very warm, even through his gloves and leathers. Her dress was the same vivid color as her eyes, and very well-woven, though embroidered simply, without pearls or gems despite its clear quality and the richness of its fabric. It also hugged her body in a way he didn’t let himself linger on, though it was impossible to ignore outright: she was very shapely, and her bodice emphasized how her waist flowed out into wide, full hips. But he kept his gaze focused on her face once he found no injuries, and did not allow his mind to remain on these lovely glimpses of her.
The woman opened her mouth to reply, but a loud shout brought the sounds of the rest of the world rushing back to them, and she glanced back up the stairs from where she had fallen. One of her hands reached for him, fingers curling at his shoulder and snagging in his cloak as if to keep herself there. His arms tightened around her in unthinking response.
“Is someone troubling you?” He asked in a low voice, and she looked back at him in surprise. Her eyes flicked across him once more, her delicately dark brows drawing together. Then, to his own shock, she smiled. For a moment, he thought he accidentally took a step back, off some stair he could not see, without ground below to support him — but, no. His feet remained rooted, and it was merely a ridiculous fleeting thought that he pushed aside with ease, though his heart was beating faster than before. Anticipation for whatever trouble might be coming their way, no doubt.
“Perhaps a little,” she said, glancing back once again as another shout came — someone asking to be let through, to make way — and from how she shifted in his arms he sensed it was time to set her down. He did, though her hand slid along his shoulder, and remained at his forearm, as if to steady herself. Her fingers were far smaller than his own, but her grip was strong, the press of her palm warm as embers even through his leathers. The shouts were getting closer, the crowd moving to make way for the men that were coming.
Before he could ask if she needed help or escort, she turned back toward him. Then she leaned very close, enough for him to notice even more freckles, and a small mole at the underside of her right eye, nearly hidden beneath the thick inky fan of her lower lashes. She smiled wider, gaze alight with something that might have been playfulness, and in a voice that he barely caught, said:
“You’re my husband.”
He blinked, staring uncomprehendingly. Surely he misheard. “What?”
She laughed lightly — a lovely, almost musical sound — and her smile became unmistakably mischievous.
“Only for a moment,” she said, as if that was enough explanation in itself, turning to the commotion on the stairs. As she did, he glimpsed one of her ears peeking out from the spirals of hair that had come from their ties. It came to a delicate point, one that reminded him of the semihuman guise Athena often adopted when they spoke alone. Though, it was much less noticeable on this woman than the goddess, and he had little time to think on it further before the crowd on the stairs parted, and two armored men walked through. They were armed, though their weapons weren’t drawn, and from the sigils upon their chests they were clearly the city guard.
The woman had drawn her hood back over her head, and clung to his arm, trembling like a leaf, making small sniffling sounds as if she were crying.
Odysseus glanced between her and the approaching guards, who slowed as they took in his presence. They were both taller than he, but his shoulders were far wider.
“Please,” the woman said, glancing up and wiping at her eyes. “My husband is here, please, it is as I told you!”
Odysseus’s eyes narrowed, and he inclined his head at the guards as they approached once again, though with far less aggressive postures.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice was pitched softly, almost gentle, but carried perfectly even through the noisy crowd. The question could have been for the men, or the woman on his arm, though he made no effort to move her away.
“Sir, forgive us for disturbing you,” one of the guards offered a curt nod, which Odysseus did not return, merely gazing steadily back at him.
“Is this woman your wife?” The other guard interjected, not bothering to hide behind politeness. “Are you going to answer for her?”
“What is it you say she has done?” Odysseus asked, as the woman tightened her grip on him.
“A merchant accused her of stealing the coin that she carries,” the first guard replied, glancing sharply at the second to keep him from speaking again.
“I-I only used what you gave me,” the woman insisted, shuddering as if she were truly weeping. If he had not glimpsed her smile right beforehand, he would have believed it. “I did nothing wrong, I swear!”
“Stolen coin?” Odysseus repeated. He looked down at the woman, in her lovely dress and styled hair. Though she was not as adorned as other ladies of high station typically were, there was no doubting that this woman belonged among them. The way she spoke and moved all told the same truth, one that these guards did not seem to have noticed, or considered. Someone of her likely status would have no reason to steal coin, even if her being in a marketplace — particularly without a husband or chaperone — was highly unusual.
There were always other possibilities: perhaps she was tricking him, as she certainly did not seem to lack the capability of attempting it. She was also clearly a convincing actress, and yet…
Though she was tucked against his arm away from the guards, she turned her head, and found his gaze again. There was little difference in their heights: without his boots, she may well have been slightly taller, so their stares met on near equal level. She knew that he could speak otherwise, declare that he did not recognize her, and let the guards handle it as they wished. She did not move, or plead. Simply looked at him, and waited for his reply.
Slowly, Odysseus turned his eyes to the guards. One of them shifted, as if they yearned to take a step back, while the other tensed, his hand twitching toward his sword hilt, though he did not draw it.
“You dare,” he began in a very low voice, moving just slightly forward, “accuse my wife of stealing? Stealing the very coins that I sweat and bleed to earn for us?”
The defensive guard held up a hand, though the other man seemed ready to move toward his weapon again.
“Sir,” The first guard said in a carefully even tone, “she ran after we began to question her, and the man seemed very sure —”
“She ran in fright after you did not believe her,” Odysseus countered, stepping forward, and the woman on his arm moved with him, though she continued to tremble as if she were sobbing. The timbre of his voice was drawing attention: people were gathering, watching, and the guards noticed.
At least they take notice of some things, Odysseus thought. Truly, all it would require is a moment of consideration to recognize that whatever coin this woman held was hers, or had been granted to her willingly.
“Peace, sir,” the defensive guard went on, relaxing both of his hands, glancing around at the gathering crowd. “We were simply trying to learn the truth.”
“You have learned it,” Odysseus said, curling his forearm around the woman’s shoulders, tucking her further against him, covering her as completely as if he were her shield. She continued to make the same crying sounds, trembling against him. He was careful to not touch anywhere else, but the gesture seemed convincing enough.
“Now cease bothering my wife,” he went on, his voice carrying with the same force as when he gave orders to his crew. More people glanced toward them at the sound, stepping closer and whispering, drawn to the ringing confidence in his tone. “Unless you wish to take this matter further.” He leveled a steady gaze at them, and at this distance it was even more clear that he had the advantage in size over the both of them combined, no matter that they stood taller. It was the difference between the mighty rugged cliffs that made Ithaca so sturdy, and the smaller sloping hills that framed this city.
The first guard gave a slight movement that almost imitated a bow. “Of course,” he said, his smile very strained. “Forgive our mistake, sir.” He gestured to the man at his side, and then addressed the gathering people: “Move along now! To your business!”
Odysseus was already turning away, his arm still around the woman as they walked in the opposite direction of the guards, and slid through the flowing crowd.
The woman kept pace with him, though he was careful to not walk too quickly for her, and to keep his hold on her steadying rather than a pull that could trip her feet. They maneuvered along, past stalls of weapons and poultices and perfumes, and into the section of the market where most of the food was sold.
The woman glanced behind, and then met his gaze again: her face was bright, eyes shining, lips pressed together in what was clearly a losing battle to contain her laughter. Her hand flew to her mouth, as a small snort escaped her, and Odysseus could not stop his own low chuckle in response. When they were far enough away that none of the crowd would have recognized them, Odysseus slowed, and the woman did the same.
She giggled, studying him from beneath her lashes, and seemed to struggle for a moment to form words past her mirth. He did not mind, though his own laughter joining hers was a little bit of a surprise — and yet he could not stop the way it rumbled through his chest.
“Thank you,” she finally managed, her words still a little unsteady. Her cheeks bloomed with a pretty flush, and she had not lost her grin.
As we were all formed by the gods, he thought, the notion feeling natural as it was for him to breathe, it would seem they fashioned her face for smiling.
He arched a brow, though did not bother to hide his own smirk. “Perhaps I should not welcome your gratitude, if I have helped a master thief.”
She laughed again, and his chest warmed.
“Perhaps,” she echoed. “Is that truly what you think?” She was still holding on to his arm with one hand, though he thought that was for the best, with the remaining crowd. So that she wasn’t jostled, or fell once again. Or in case the guards passed by. Just…to continue selling their ruse, as they needed to.
“I think,” he answered, glancing between her and the path ahead so that they did not stumble, “Someone of your station would have no need to steal coin, my Lady.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? You are so certain of my station, and my actions? You do not think that I simply serve someone of great importance?” Her attempt at avoidance was lessened by the smile that remained on her lips.
“I am certain you did not wish to be recognized,” he said, “not that you were attempting to pass as a servant. None I’ve known would wear such a fine dress for work.”
They stopped for a moment, allowing a thicker section of the crowd to pass them by.
Her cheeks appeared even pinker than before. “It may be as you say,” she allowed, like she was granting a great service, as if the truth of it wasn’t obvious, and he almost laughed again.
“Why were you accused of stealing, then?” He asked, careful to keep his voice at a level only she could hear, as they walked near a fruit stall.
She gave a small snort as she slowed to examine the figs gathered within a large basket on the stall. She stepped out of his hold in order to look more closely, and his arm remained in the air a little longer than it should have, as if feeling the phantom of her shoulders.
“I was attempting to buy wool,” she said, turning the fruit over in her hand. “One of the merchants I approached had a very poor selection considering the price he demanded, and I told him such.”
Odysseus could not hold back his chuckle at that. “And he took that well, it would seem.”
She shook her head as she scoffed. “If anyone is a thief, it is him! He first attempted to convince me I did not know what I was speaking about.” She set down the fig, and went on to observe the apples, lovely and shining in the sunlight. “Perhaps once it had been as fine as he claimed, but the wool had clearly been transported in the name of speed rather than care for its quality. It had gotten wet, and then dried too quickly in an attempt to hide this fact. Anything woven with it would fall apart well before a year even passed — that is if it could be used for weaving at all.”
Odysseus nodded. He was no weaver, but had gleaned enough through his mother and sister to know that much. “From what I understand, damage to that degree is irreversible. You are not wrong to call it thievery of a sort.”
The woman glanced at him, deft fingers tracing lightly along one of the apples she was considering. The pink on her cheeks spread, reaching her ears. The pointed tips were hidden again, but he wondered if they changed color as well.
“Well,” she replied, refocusing on the apple, “the merchant did not agree. He stated that the only way I could carry the coins I held was if I stole them, and those guards were near enough to be drawn by his noise. I thought claiming that the gold was from my husband was the safest choice, as they would not have listened to the truth that I simply took it from my own chambers this morning.”
“...And you went to ‘go get him’ when it seemed they would not listen to that either,” Odysseus guessed, and she nodded, tucking one of her curls that had loosened during her fall back behind her ear. It escaped again almost immediately, though she did not seem to notice, but for an odd moment he could think of nothing else. His hand twitched, almost reaching —
Then her hand moved again, absently tucking the curl once more, and this time it stayed.
“I hoped to simply get far enough away to lose them,” she admitted. “But with the thick crowd I didn’t realize I was so close to the edge of the stairs, and, well…” she gestured toward him, and though her tone was playful her gaze was as sincere as it had been when she thanked him before, as she laid warm and soft within his arms. “I was very lucky that my ‘husband’ showed up regardless.”
“Something tells me, had the guards caught you, the merchant’s accusation would not have worked out for him.” Odysseus remarked, and the woman’s grin showed a flash of her teeth.
“No,” she said evenly, confidently. “It would not have.”
She picked up one of the larger apples, then reached into her coinpurse, but Odysseus moved to his own faster. She glanced at him in surprise as he passed the merchant the needed payment. Her eyebrows were raised, but her lips were softening into a gentle smile.
He grinned back at her, though his cheeks felt oddly warm. “Isn’t buying an apple for his wife the least of what your ‘husband’ should do?”
She laughed quietly, though she had not looked away from him, and for a rushing moment that same ridiculous thought — that he had somehow missed a step on stairs that were not there — passed through his mind again.
“True,” she agreed. “But do you not want one for yourself?”
He shook his head. “I ate before.”
“Hmm.” She pressed her mouth to the apple, as if in consideration, and he tried and failed to not think about how her lips felt. She took a bite, and he resisted the urge to glance away, though his face felt warmer than before. “I suppose,” she said, glancing back at him before beginning to walk again, “As my husband, it would be yours to share if you wished.”
He moved quickly to stay with her, to not be separated by the ever-streaming crowd, though she also slowed her steps, seemingly to ensure the same. Of course, it was not surprising after what had happened: surely she felt safer with him at her side. For now, at least.
“Tell me then,” Odysseus began, leaning close to her ear to be sure that she would hear, “if he may share in your apples, does your husband have a right to know your name?” He smirked, unreasonably pleased at how the flush in her cheeks darkened further. Though her voice remained steady when she replied, the teasing lilt to it was nearly enough on its own to make his smile widen.
“My husband would enjoy figuring out the answer,” she said, and Odysseus could not stop the laugh that burst from him at that.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke, moving along with other people and past several stalls bearing fruits or vegetables, though there were also starting to be ones that offered breads and honey, as well as cheese and spices. The woman slowed, stopping in front of one.
“You are here for the tournament, to seek Princess Helen’s hand,” she added suddenly, glancing back at him briefly before busying herself with looking at a basket of bread.
It was not a question.
“Am I?” He asked in return, amused with her certainty that matched his own about her status.
“I do not know your sigil offhand,” she admitted, gesturing toward the Ithacan crest that had been pressed into his leather chestplate, “though it looks familiar. But you are one of the knights competing.”
“Perhaps I am a sword for hire,” he offered, smiling slightly, though he was not truly trying to deceive. “Or a guard brought as escort.”
The woman held his gaze for a moment — unflinching, her eyes tracing his face as easily as words written upon papyrus — and shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She declared, as if she stood at the head of a throne room and her words were law.
“No,” he echoed, “I’m not. Your first guess was correct, my lady. I am here for the tournament.”
She nodded, looking away from him and moving on from the stall of bread as she took another bite of her apple. Something hard and cold seemed to settle in his chest, and suddenly he was compelled to continue:
“Though it is less for Princess Helen’s hand, than for the competition itself,” he said, almost too quickly, and he worked to speak more steadily. Again there was the feeling of misstepping, of going into freefall, though his feet remained upon the ground. “No matter my considerable skill,” he added, and was pleased to see the brief curve of her smile again, though it was gone just as quickly. “I doubt I would be chosen, and I have little intent to marry besides. Still, the invitation was not one to be turned down, not without risking the anger of King Tyndareus.”
The woman glanced back at him, seeming to search for truth in his words.
How odd it was, for all their refusals to admit the other’s names, and the false guise of husband and wife, for this to actually be one of his most truthful conversations with someone outside of his family. He wondered — with a flash of curiosity, of amusement at its possibility — if it was the same for her.
“Will you be attending?” He asked, moving a little closer. “To watch the tournament?”
Her lips curled into another smile, and she brought the apple to her mouth again, though she did not immediately take a bite.
“Perhaps,” she said finally, playful eyes bright, her bronze-like freckles shimmering in the sunlight.
“Though it is in Princess Helen’s name, I know other ladies may offer their favor,” he went on, and while his words didn’t waver his heart seemed caught in his throat, even as it drummed powerfully against his ribs. The noisy chatter of other conversations threatened to drown him out, and he leaned toward her again, unable to look away from her gaze. “Will you be offering yours?”
The flush returned to her cheeks, and her smile bloomed wide. “That depends,” she said, after a moment of thought, lovely eyes soft and sweet, “on who is looking to earn it.”
The crowd continued to push past, though they had drifted off to the side. No conversation had stopped, the noise of the world had not lessened, and yet he did not hear any of it. Her apple was half raised, as if she had meant to take a bite and forgotten, and he stepped closer still, his mouth opening to speak —
A wave of people in the crowd rushed forward, jostled by the passing of others, many seeming to be in their own hurry, and one of them bumped hard against the woman at his side, knocking the apple from her hand, and sending her stumbling —
His hands grasped her arms, and kept her steady, helping her regain her footing. He remained close, scowling out at the crowd in search of whoever it was that had crashed into her, and then simply continued on their way as if it hadn’t occurred. There were too many people, and the person that had disturbed her was well lost among them, but that didn’t stop his gaze from darting around, or him from pulling her a little further back to keep space between her and those still being dangerously jostled within the crowd. He was distracted by the gentle pressure of her hand against his chest, fingers curling into the leather plate there.
He turned to look at her once more, and found that they were standing closer than ever, almost nose-to-nose. With every breath, her perfume filled his lungs, more powerfully than anything else: honey and flowers he couldn’t identify.
“You’re beginning to make a habit of this,” she said quietly, gripping tighter at his chestplate, and he could not stop his gaze from darting between her lips and her eyes as she spoke. She smiled, tilting her head very slightly. “And earning my thanks.”
“There are worse habits to have,” he replied in a low voice, though his thoughts were distracted by her closeness: he could feel her breath drift across his skin, and the sweet softness of her, even through his gloves and the layers of leathers and clothing that separated them.
Her lips parted to reply, and he could look at nothing else —
—Then, a loud bell rang out, announcing it was mid-afternoon, its sound echoing across the entire city, and likely well out beyond. Both of them jerked in surprise, heads turning toward the source of the bells, and they stepped a little apart. Her hand was no longer against his chest, or upon his arm, and it was strange how much he felt the small distance that was between them. As if the warmth of his cloak was suddenly torn from his shoulders.
“I should go,” the woman said, taking another glance at where the ringing bells had come from, though her lovely face remained turned toward him, and Odysseus wondered if he was imagining her seeming reluctance. “I hadn’t realized the hour was growing so late.”
“May I…” he cleared his throat to be sure his voice remained steady, and held out his arm to her. “Escort you, to wherever you are going?”
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled and accepted his offered arm.
“You may, at least for a time.” She replied.“Though I must admit to some disappointment. I never found the wool that I was looking for.”
“Were you searching for a specific kind?” Odysseus asked, as they joined the flowing crowd once again. She led the way, though he kept pace with her, and kept himself between her and the heaviest throngs of people as best as he could.
“It was a gift from my father, years ago,” she explained, leading him further forward, down paths she seemed rather familiar with. Despite her troubles today, it was clear this was far from the first time she had entered the marketplace and kept her identity hidden.
“After a long diplomatic journey, he returned with gifts for all of us,” she went on, as they turned a corner, and ventured down a narrower line of stalls. “He offered many weaving materials for me, such as linen and hemp, and several varieties of wool. All of them were lovely, but there was one that stood out above the others for its quality. Father wasn’t sure which of the Kingdoms he visited that it came from, so I have been careful with my supply in the years since. But I’ve nearly run out.”
“So you wished to look for it here,” Odysseus finished, nodding. This market was renowned for its size and the splendor of its offerings, and it was very likely the wool she sought could be found within it.
“I hoped I could identify it through touch, and have tried in the past,” she admitted. “I even sent others to find it for me, but with no success. I thought with the tournament, and the increase in merchants coming to sell during it, that would be my best chance. Still,” she added, glancing at him with another smile that made his chest warm and tighten in a strangely wonderful way, “I wouldn’t say my attempt was wasted.”
His lips twisted to the side, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Because you fulfilled your dreams of being mistaken for a thief?”
She laughed, and Odysseus very nearly crashed into someone else in the crowd, as his gaze was ensnared watching the joy alight on her face. He just managed to avoid knocking into the person, and pressed closer instead to the woman at his side. She did not seem to notice the blunder he had narrowly avoided, though his ears were burning at how easily he had let himself become distracted.
“If it is wool you were seeking,” he said, keeping his voice even, as if nothing had happened and he weren’t still flushed, “Then I would have an offer.”
“Ah,” she replied, eyes sparkling with playfulness, petal-soft lips fighting in vain against her own smirk. “That is your identity, a merchant in disguise!”
“You’ve found me out,” he shook his head, and sighed regretfully, though he couldn’t stop his own smile as she giggled again.
“So, you have wool to offer me?” The woman asked, smiling wider as she glanced toward him, then to the path ahead once more. “I only hope your prices are more reasonable.”
“Very,” Odysseus promised, with a low chuckle of his own. “I can’t promise it will be like the wool you had, but I can attest to its quality.”
“Oh, you can? Just as the other merchant swore to the quality of his?” She raised her eyebrows at him, her smile never faltering, as they wound their way past other stalls, and to where the crowd was starting to thin as they drew further from the center of the marketplace.
“Ah, but unlike him I am an utterly honest man,” Odysseus said, with grave seriousness, and she laughed again in response, trying in vain to cover her mouth with her hand, eyes sparkling like vivid gems.
He tried to keep himself from smiling, but it seemed impossible not to, when her joy caused it so naturally. “Your doubt wounds me,” he sighed deeply, “But I assure you our wool is of the finest quality, and we take excellent care of it, no matter the trial or length of the journey. If you do not believe me, then I invite you to judge for yourself.”
“Then I may truly wound you,” she remarked quickly, her smile more of a smirk now. “And you shall have no recourse but to accuse me of thievery as well.”
“Not to worry, your ‘husband’ shall be there to diffuse any suspicion,” he said, with a quick wink, and she snorted at that, lips pressed together in a valiant attempt to contain another giggle. “And if the wool truly fails to meet expectations, then thievery would be deserved. However, if you do find it to meet your standards, then you may keep it. Would you call that a fair price?”
For a moment, she stared at him, then quickly looked forward again, though not fast enough to hide how her freckles stood out more vividly as her flushed cheeks darkened.
“More than fair,” she said finally, her eyes crinkling, hands folding together behind her back, something like a skip in her step. “At least, should it live up to your promises.”
He smiled in return, and leaned a little closer as the last part of the large crowd walked past, moving toward the marketplace they were leaving behind. “Then I look forward to your verdict,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be, “So you can see that it does.”
She kept her face a little turned away, but her smile grew. She gestured down a smaller street, with even less people, and he continued to walk with her. They were slowly getting closer to the palace, but in a circuitous way: perhaps to avoid crowds, as excitement for the tournament had already drawn large numbers, despite that ceremonial introductions remained hours away from beginning.
From there, they approached a horse-drawn cart that seemed to be expecting the woman — another sign that her appearance in the market was a common occurrence — and the man driving it asked no questions.
Odysseus nearly paid for it again, but this time she was faster, and stalled him by gently pressing her fingertips against his hand. He stilled at the touch as if she wielded some immoveable force rather than the softest pressure.
“Thank you, ‘husband’,” she murmured. “But this arrangement is mine.” Her smile widened, and her eyelashes fluttered playfully. He had the sudden ridiculous urge to duck his head and hide his grin, warm delight spreading through his chest. “Though if you are so eager to spend your coin on me,” she went on, “I am sure you can find other ways.”
She turned her back to give the payment, and his gaze was caught like a sail on a line by the sway of her wide hips, before her cloak hid the tantalizing sight from view. His cheeks were beginning to ache slightly from all of the smiling, and he could not recall the last time that had happened. When he was a child, playing with his sister? Or years ago with Eurylochus and Polities, perhaps?
“Ah,” he told her quietly, as the man she paid took his place at the reins, and they walked around to the back of the cart, “So it seems my ‘wife’ wishes to rob me of my coin after all.”
He offered her his hand to help her up, and her bright eyes flicked to hold his gaze for a long moment as she placed her fingers into his palm.
She raised her eyebrows, lips curving, the flush still alight on her cheeks.
“And here I thought it was a husband’s duty to offer gifts to his wife,” she replied lightly, stepping up onto the cart. Her hand slid slowly out of his, and he did not know if it was due to her instinctive reaction, or the way he could not seem to help but linger with her in his hold. Or perhaps even both.
Regardless, he followed after her, and the cart began to move.
It made its way up, along emptier streets, as more and more people swarmed their way both to the market and the tournament grounds. There were some hours left until the ceremonies started, but the anticipation carried by all was infectious and unstoppable. As the road curved further, following near the slope of the wall that surrounded the palace, trees began to take the place of buildings. They grew taller and thicker with every step, branches beginning to curl outward and above, arcing over the path as they continued on.
The cart climbed higher, the horse at its head snorting with effort, and the port revealed itself again. The sea shimmered below the pale sky as the sun lit a gold-gilt pathway along the shifting waves. More ships waited to pull closer to the docks. The arrivals showed no signs of slowing.
Odysseus glanced at the woman at his side, her face somehow even lovelier when aglow within the rays of sunlight that streamed upon them past the tree branches, then down to the city and the ocean beyond. But her expression was pensive, perhaps even wary.
“Does the city often receive so many visitors?” She glanced at him in slight surprise, and held his gaze for several lingering seconds as she considered her answer.
She was jostled slightly by the movement of the cart, and one of her curls swayed in front of her face. His hand twitched, the overwhelming urge to reach forward and tuck it behind her ear sparking in his mind like a torch suddenly lit and then forcefully doused. Her own delicate fingers moved to do it a moment later.
She shook her head. “Not like this,” she admitted, her soft voice almost lost beneath the noise of the cart and the horse’s shod hooves clattering upon the road. “Not even during our summer festival have we seen so many arriving all at once.”
“Many would think that a cause for further celebration,” he commented lightly, yet his mind asked more behind the words: why does it cause you worry? “That it would be a good omen of the tournament,” he went on, “and the marriage that awaits at its end.”
“Perhaps,” she said, her hands wrapping around her arms as if she were suddenly cold. “Yet a part of me cannot help but see it as sharks circling blood.”
Odysseus nodded, and though her attention returned to the docks that were about to slip out of sight once again, he did not look away from her expression. Something within his chest caught at the way her easy smile from before was now gone. It was more than apprehension: there was fear in her eyes, in the tilt of her brow, the slight downward turn of her lips…
“Some may be sharks,” he agreed slowly, and she turned to him. “Recognizing them will not always be easy either. They hide beneath the water, and when you have spotted them it is often too late.”
“You would say as much about these great men?” She asked, turning her head slightly to the side, as the cart continued down the long curve of the road, following the gigantic wall that surrounded the farthest end of the palace, and all within its borders. “They are your fellows, are they not?”
They weren’t as near each other as they had been in the market, yet the air seemed just as still, the noise around them just as distant.
“Some of them,” he answered with a faint smile, wondering if in part her question was meant to try and further reveal his identity. “But neither their greatness nor their position changes the truth of what they are. That you see it, however,” he went on, with a wide gesture toward the docks that had now vanished from sight, “and know to look for it, gives you far more advantage.”
She watched him a little longer, brows drawn together — to gauge his sincerity? — then her smile began to grow.
“Which are you, I wonder?” She mused, the playful lilt to her voice returning, and his heart lifted at the sound. She placed a finger near the side of her mouth, and both the motion and her question made his gaze flick down to her lips. “Or perhaps you are a different beast entirely?”
He huffed a laugh, his cheeks warming, trying and failing to keep his eyes from lingering too long. “The fiercest kind,” he agreed, flashing his teeth in a wolfish grin.
“I think,” she said after a moment, her smile widening, her voice very soft. “I would believe that.” She was closer than before, as the movement of the cart had slowly slid them together. Her knee brushed against his, then the entire length of her leg, as if to tease his mind with the sweet shape of it, of her, already striking through all other thoughts with the swiftness of one of his own arrows —
Then, the cart slowed, and stopped.
“Thank you,” the woman called to the man at the head of the cart. He gave a wave of acknowledgement in return, but did not otherwise look back.
Odysseus helped her down, and followed after, his boots sinking a little into the soft earth. At this distance from the city’s center, and outside the walls that encircled the palace, the road was no less cared for, but without any tiles beneath their feet. Many of Ithaca’s roads were the same, as their terrain did not allow for easy placement of stone upon their rising pathways.
“Wait a moment,” she called to the cart driver, as he flicked the reins to draw his horse around. He finished turning, but stopped the horse afterward, and waited a little further along the path that they had come from. Then the woman focused on Odysseus, moving close to him, her hand still in his, not having released him since he helped her step down.
“This is where I’ll leave you,” she admitted, though she did not let go of him. “I can find the way from here without being seen.”
Odysseus frowned, looking at the shadows cast by the palace and its walls, and the trees that lined the path’s other side. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
There were few other buildings close by, as the area probably expanded out into more forests and farmland. She was likely going into the palace — through some entry around its back that she was aware of, another hint toward her identity— but that did not guarantee a lack of danger.
The woman glanced at him, a playfulness lighting her face once again. “If I said it wasn’t?”
“Then I’ll go with you,” he replied immediately, already moving in the direction she had indicated.
She giggled, cheeks flushed prettily from her laughter, and it was almost as if he had never glimpsed her earlier sorrow or worry, with the way joy lit her features. Made by the Gods for joy, the echo of his earlier thought reverberated in his mind, impossible to ignore. Still, she pulled a little on his hand to slow him.
“Thank you, but…you are expected, are you not?” She asked. Her smile grew. “Besides,” she added more quietly, as she took a step back, though she did not release his hand. “I have to take time to consider my favor. Don’t you agree?”
There was something in the way she tilted her head, how her fingers held to his, and the soft glimmer in her eyes (so like the familiar tide that always beckoned him home). A statement without words that said her choice had already been made.
“True,” he sighed, lips quirking in turn, his thumb moving very slightly across her knuckles. “And I have to make due on a promise of the finest wool, don’t I?”
She laughed again, light as the gentlest birdsong. “That you do,” she agreed, “Or your ‘wife’ will be most disappointed.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, as he met her eyes once more. “Your ‘husband’ wouldn’t want that.”
She opened her mouth, but did not reply immediately, merely gazing back at him for a few lingering seconds. Then she briefly glanced away, biting her lip, her free hand tugging absently at her cloak as she shifted up slightly onto her toes and then back down.
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear, her smile so gentle it made his chest ache. She looked at their connected hands, took in a breath, and then stepped back, her fingers sliding slowly through his, and he released her in turn, though his hand hovered in the air afterward a moment too long.
“Will you be safe?” He asked again, a note of insistence in his voice that he hadn’t intended. His eyes flicked to the empty and shaded path ahead. Leaving a woman undefended in a strange area went against much of his training and instincts. The idea of danger befalling her if he walked away was…oddly — and powerfully — disquieting.
Her smile grew softer still, and her gaze even warmer as she nodded.
“You will see as much for yourself later,” she assured, with a quiet confidence that was like a promise. “If you choose to look,” she added, though her tease did not lessen the invitation within the words.
“I will,” he said, his smirk and tone matching hers, though worry coiled in his stomach as she stepped further down her path and he moved backward. He inhaled slowly, and did not let the thoughts of what could happen shape his words. They would meet again, as a circle did. “How else would I earn the favor I seek?”
She half turned away, then glanced back at his last words. She did not immediately respond, and the wind stirred her hair, curls that had slipped from her braids twisting around her face and the nape of her neck, while the branches shifted above, dappling golden sunlight along her skin, catching on her freckles and the shine in her eyes.
“I suppose,” she finally conceded, and he caught sight of her pretty pink lips curving upward, though she was turning away again. “You’ll have to find out.”
With that, she began to walk along the path, and away from him.
Odysseus stepped further back, then up onto the cart once more. He passed some coins over to the driver — more than the woman had given before, both for his own passage and for secrecy — then gave the direction they needed to go.
When he looked back, the woman was gone, just a flash of her cloak as she disappeared around a bend, following the road as it continued along the palace wall. His mind should have gone to the tournament, all the fierce opponents and grand rewards that were at his fingertips. Yet his thoughts did not obey. They were drawn like an anchor within the waves, caught in the current of the footsteps left in the woman’s wake.
He still didn’t know her name.
But he would, the next time he laid his eyes upon her.
(-)
Penelope, Princess of Sparta, sat high above the tournament arena, with her cousin Princess Helen — for whose hand all the men below had gathered to compete — at one side, her younger sister Iphthime on the other.
Their fathers — true in name, if not blood, in Helen’s case — and Queen Leda were seated behind and further up. Most of Penelope’s brothers were with them, or else near her and Iphthime, aside from Alyzeus, who was likely wherever he could get the best view of the horses, even if that meant he was down in the stables themselves.
Her father, Icarius, despite being mid-conversation, caught her eye and smiled, then offered a wink to Iphithme, who giggled.
Penelope smiled back, though she could not help but imagine, a little wistfully, her mother attending, sitting among her brothers and at her father’s side just as Leda sat with her uncle Tyndareus. It was a lovely thought, but the picture could not stay. Like a tapestry poorly woven, it fell apart on its own; it was rare that their entire family was together, but she had known better than to even expect an appearance from her mother. Palace life was not well suited for a full-blooded naiad, no matter how much she loved her husband and her children. She would not have lasted long amidst this crowd: even the years or months when she did live with them she had spent most of her time among nature, as close to her rivers as she could be.
Still, there was more family gathered here than there had been in some time, and it was a joyful sight.
Helen’s sister Clytemnestra was up near their parents as well, next to her husband, King Agamemmnon: his younger brother Menelaus would be among the many competitors, a surprise to no one. Clytemnestra was in the early stages of her second pregnancy, but would never have missed the tournament, not when Helen’s future husband would be chosen at its end. Her and Agamemnon’s first child, Iphigenia — now three, and with both of her parents wrapped around her tiny fingers — was back at their palace in Mycenae, and they would be due to return well before her pregnancy advanced too far for her to travel.
Penelope let her gaze stay on Clytemnestra as she and Agamemnon spoke: the older woman’s hand rested lightly on her slightly rounded stomach. They were not arguing, but from their gestures Penelope guessed they were disagreeing about who was likely to advance in the competition. While she continued to talk passionately, shaking her head at her husband, Clytemnestra noticed Penelope’s gaze, and offered a quick smile, then a flick of her gaze toward where the competitors would emerge, as if to say: can you believe they are meant to be the best men in Greece?
Penelope laughed softly, nodding, though she continued to watch the pair for a moment, her thoughts rippling out. All that had once been familiar had long since changed, and there was no stopping everything from shifting further.
Last night, she, Helen, and Clytemnestra had all stayed in the same bedroom, like they used to as children — when they had talked and exchanged stories until dawn began to lighten the sky. Though she and Helen had kept up the tradition longer than Clytemnestra had, those nights held fond memories, and re-creating them — even for only a few hours, as the pregnancy prevented them staying later — had been lovely, yet strange. It was not as it had been when they were children, and never could be again. Soon, Clytemnestra would leave for the home that was now hers. Soon, Helen would have a husband of her own, a whole new future and family ahead of her.
And Penelope… Penelope would remain.
Horns sounded, three long notes to signal the start of the ceremonies, a hush falling over the gathered crowds in its wake. All the noise and movement pulled Penelope out of her whirlpool of thoughts. At her right, Helen subtly adjusted her veil — lovely and honey-gold to match her dress and shine vividly against her pale hair, so blonde it ironically could have been mistaken for silver — then sat straighter, fingers curling in her lap, shoulders firm as marble. She took a steadying breath and focused her gaze on where the men would come through. Penelope reached over and gave her hand a small squeeze. Helen offered a brief smile — invisible to most, thanks to the veil — then returned her gaze to the arena below.
Meanwhile, at Penelope’s left, Iphthime bounced a little in her seat, partially from excitement, but also in an attempt to see better over the railing. She smiled as she looked at her sister; Iphthime’s twelve-year-old pride would have denied it as her intention, but her hair mirrored Helen’s: dark strands formed into complicated braids atop her head, entwined with thin gold chains and shimmering gems. Her dress, meanwhile, was similar to Penelope’s in its style, with the sleeves ending at her shoulders, and the bodice embroidered with pearls and ribbons, while the layers of skirts meant to call to mind flowing water, ever-shifting with each movement. It had been woven by another — its bodice high enough to reach her collarbones — and its colors were suited to Iphthime’s complexion, but the echoes of Penelope’s influence were clear all the same. She had been imitating them both since she was six, when she had started literally following her and Helen around… a habit she had not fully stopped, though she had gotten far better at going unnoticed.
“Which are you looking for?” Penelope asked, as if Iphthime hadn’t been talking about it nearly nonstop.
“Lord Achilles!” Iphthime hissed back, as if the idea of forgetting it was an insult in itself. Her cheeks were very pink, and she only spared a quick glance at Penelope before she went back to staring at the gate where the men would come riding through within moments.
“Ah, that’s right,” Penelope nodded, biting her lip to try and keep her smile from growing. “And you’ll know him on sight?”
Iphthime scoffed. “How could you not?”
“Of course,” Helen interjected smoothly, never looking away from the arena, though her lips had curled into a small playful smirk. “After all, she’s seen him as much as you have.”
Which was to say, not at all.
Penelope giggled, covering her mouth to try and muffle the sound, as Iphthime scowled, the pink spots on her cheeks burning brighter than before.
“I don’t need to have seen him,” she insisted, turning her head away with a huff. “Tales of his looks and deeds have told me all I need to know!”
“I am sure that’s true,” Penelope offered in peace, though she couldn’t quite get rid of the humor in her smile. “Point him out to me when you see him, all right?”
Iphthime peeked at her from the corner of her eye, before she relaxed, and nodded. Then she leaned forward to catch their cousin’s gaze.
“Who are you most excited to see, Helen?”
Helen turned her head very slightly, though her smile was more distant now.
“I have equal desire to see all who wish to compete,” she replied, gentle as a breeze. Penelope could almost believe it, but she knew better. Perhaps Helen would have spoken differently in private, but even with all the noise around them, she knew better than to say otherwise.
Then, after a pause — and perhaps to help sell the lie, even if there was truth within it — Helen added: “Though, I am curious about the one they call ‘Greater Ajax’...” She laughed, light as tiny bells, and Iphthime joined her.
Penelope echoed the sound, though it was as much a performance as Helen’s. Her cousin was curious, of course, about many of them. But these men carried her fate upon their shoulders, possibility and despair in equal measure. Of a life she longed for, or one she might forever regret. She couldn’t know which would lay ahead, not even when the choice was made.
Only time, and the fates, could tell. Unfortunately, neither were often kind.
Yet that did not erase the wanting. The hope for her future...
Penelope’s eyes closed for a moment, and her hands went to her lap, and the sash that was there. She had been expected to make it, even when she had once thought it unlikely that she would give it out at all. It was the same color as her dress, as her eyes, and had been made with the idea that she would likely be wearing it herself, rather than presenting it to anyone else.
Her throat tightened, strangled by the hope that surged through her, and she gripped the sash, winding it around her fingers.
“What about you, Penelope?” Iphthime chimed, though her gaze did not stray from the gate below.
“Hmm?” Penelope opened her eyes and turned to her sister, trying to banish the flustering thoughts, the desire that had caused her to bring this woven token at all.
“Who are you looking forward to seeing?” Iphthime repeated. “You said you had to think on your answer before.”
Unbidden, his face flashed through Penelope’s mind with the intensity of lightning: powerful and burning. As she had first seen it, such a welcome surprise after feeling the world fall from beneath her feet, and the sharp spike of terror in her heart as she rushed to the ground. His hold had been warm and strong, and he hadn’t even seemed to stumble, despite the speed of her descent and the weight of her body. His dark eyes had been so soft in their concern, then sparked with fierceness as the situation changed. He had stepped into her lie as naturally as breathing, voice commanding and confident, and played along step for step more than she could have ever hoped for —
“Penelope?” Iphthime insisted, turning her head at her curiously. “Did you hear me?”
Warmth flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to avoid answering, but another horn sounded, and the entire crowd shifted like a ripple upon water as the gates below opened.
Her heartbeat quickened — he wouldn’t be the first one out, would he? — and she leaned forward, craning her neck to see as much as she could, as the first of the competitors came out from behind the gate.
The man’s armor was grand and shining, either dyed or plated in gold, almost too bright to look upon — to the point where she could not even attempt to identify his sigil — and his pale horse was adorned to match. Blood-red tassels and a long plume of the same color streamed out behind the man as his horse galloped out. He gradually circled once around the length of the arena as the crowd cheered, those that had accompanied him or supported him raising their voices the loudest. Then, he reached the place that had been prepared for their ceremonial introduction near the farther end of the arena, and the vast open space that it faced. Spears had been readied, set point-down into a large rack, enough for every man. They were meant to grasp one while on horseback, and then throw their spear ahead through wreaths of flowers that outlined targets set atop heavy wooden posts. They were different sizes, and scattered at various distances. Some, she had heard a few of her brothers whisper, could even allow a man to hit more than one in a single strike if he was skilled enough… though she did not know how to identify which those were. Hitting the targets was not a true contest the way events in the rest of the tournament would be, but it was the first moment any of them could demonstrate their skills and try to make a lasting impression. It was not uncommon for a man to approach it confidently, only for pride to encourage attempting feats beyond his strength, or to even fumble ones they were well capable of.
Below, the first man let his spear fly, and it whistled in the air, then struck one of the center targets. It was not among the farthest out, but its path was true and his strength was clear, from the way the target shook in place, as if nearly falling over. The crowd cheered again; Penelope clapped politely, in a similar measured way that Helen was, though Ipthime was a bit more enthusiastic.
The man bowed low upon his horse, then removed his helm. His hair was light gold-brown, and he had a full beard, as well as piercing blue eyes. He was handsome enough, and far older than either she or Helen, though that wasn’t a surprise. She was sure plenty of the competitors were closer to their father’s age than theirs.
“I am King Theseus,” he called, loud enough for his voice to carry to all, grinning as he spread his arms, and offered another slight bow. “I rule from Athens, one of the greatest cities in the world!”
Some of the crowd roared again in their support, and his smile widened. His gaze landed fully upon Helen, where it remained, and he spoke again when it had quieted. “Though it cannot be compared to the beauty found here! I thank you, my lords, my ladies, for being such gracious hosts!”
Penelope knew without looking that her father and uncle were nodding their acknowledgement, and from the corner of her eye saw Helen dip her head, as if offering a bow of deference in return.
The man’s grin became wider still, then he turned his horse and reared it up dramatically, sliding on his helmet once more before riding away. He went out through another gate, to where he was expected to wait for the rest that would come afterward.
In the seconds before the next man rode out, Penelope’s chest fluttered: it was warm and strange, as if birds were nestling within her heart. Would she be able to recognize him from this distance? Would he see her — or look for her at all — as he had claimed? Her hands smoothed over her dress, and the fabric that had bunched at her thigh, where a long slit along that side would reveal much of her leg while she walked. It was a popular fashion due to the typical heat their city regularly faced, though some from other Kingdoms evidently found it — and the lower cut of her bodice — improper. This dress was also the same color as the plainer one she had worn earlier, a change made upon returning to her chambers and readying herself. Originally she had planned to wear another that she had woven in the same style, silver as the veil she now had pinned over her face, but…
You wanted him to recognize you, a traitorous part of her mind whispered, giggling like someone mocking her from an invisible crowd.
Penelope’s face flushed, no matter that it was merely her own mind giving the accusation. The blue and green of this gown simply looked better in the sunlight, and it matched her eyes. Besides, the carefully layered skirts were meant to resemble the way a river or stream flowed, and these colors highlighted that best. It only made sense, and she could wear the silver dress on another day of the tournament.
That was what she told Helen and Iphithme both, when they remarked on it. Iphithme seemed to believe the words, but Helen had raised her eyebrows, and given a look that indicated otherwise. Thankfully, there had been no time for her cousin to question the change. Or the oddly good mood she had upon returning from the market empty-handed, the taste of apple lingering upon her lips, as the echo of his warmth clung to her skin like she had been standing near a fire.
But the man Penelope met in the markets was not the next one out. Or the one after, or the one after that. On and on and on.
She saw all manner of men: some handsome and charming, as skilled with their presence as they were with the spear they threw, like Diomedes of Argos, who introduced himself the moment he emerged, then pulled on his helmet, sent his horse racing forward, and grasped the spear, throwing it with clear ease and power. He circled the arena to uproarious applause, before following after the others that had come before him, where they were to wait again. There was also the very aptly named Greater Ajax — whose rumors were not exaggerated, it seemed. He threw his spear further than anyone, with such strength that the target toppled over, knocking back several others that were behind it. Achilles, too, was suitably impressive — despite that he was younger than the others, he threw nearly as well as Ajax — and Ipthime had cheered so loudly Penelope worried she would throw herself off the railing after him as he passed. When his eyes happened to briefly slide near their direction, before lingering on Helen, Ipthime made a noise not unlike an excited puppy.
There was also Menelaus of course, one of the only competitors Penelope already knew. He came out with the confident ease of a man that had been riding all of his life (and Helen immediately leaned slightly forward, a motion no one else was close enough to notice). His large horse reared up on its back legs as he grasped his spear, earning some gasps from the crowd, but he was in control, and let the weapon fly. It pierced its target well, with enough force that the pole it sat on snapped at the base: it was not as far as Ajax or Achilles had thrown, but among the upper half. Agamemnon absolutely roared in celebration, loud enough that surely the entire crowd heard him, even over their own great din, as Menelaus removed his helm to offer introduction and greeting, his long, vibrant red hair drawing the eye as much as his skills did.
Helen, too, let her hands clap more than for the others, though only briefly, so as to not be easily noticed. Under the veil, Penelope could see her face was flushed, lips pressed together as if to hold in her own cheers, and to try and control her smile. But she bowed her head low and respectfully toward him, and her eyes remained upon his back as he turned his horse, and rode away.
Still, interesting or exciting or otherwise, the man she had met in the markets did not emerge, though the number of competitors showed no signs of slowing, even as minutes dragged out toward an hour. The enthusiasm of the crowd waxed and waned: some brought screams of joy or excitement, while other men stood out not at all in name or ability, and the people became restless and tired, growing ever more aware of how much time the ceremony was taking.
Penelope was faring no better, though anticipation kept her heart racing before each new man came through the gate, only for disappointment to make it sink within her ribs.
She shook her head, cursing her foolishness. Why was she so focused on this hope that he would appear? They had interacted so briefly — no matter that she repeated their conversations again and again as the hours had passed, recalling each moment as if to commit all to her memory. Even if he did come… if those words had not been a lie, no matter his statements the competition was in Helen’s name. For the sake of her hand and… and all that it offered.
For Penelope to expect otherwise was akin to purposefully setting her heart in a hunting trap.
Suddenly, with the speed and grace of an arrow in flight, another man shot out of the gate, his armor shimmering, dark horse already at a full gallop, moving so quickly it was almost hard to follow. A gasp rippled across the crowd in a wave — Penelope could not help but lean forward, as she sensed others doing — as the man rode right to the very edge of the arena, taking the turns wide to increase his speed further. The horse’s hooves beat furiously into the earth, treading deep prints where other heavier ones had already gone, as the man directed it toward the remaining spears.
He did not slow, and merely turned again, and for a moment it seemed clear that the man and horse both would topple into the weapons, and some in the crowd were already screaming —
But it did not happen. The man snatched up his spear in one hand, and continued to lead the horse in another loop, slowing only a little before gathering speed again. He adjusted his hold on the spear as they met the turn wide once more, going faster and faster. The targets were ahead of them now, the line to them straight and clear, and the man drew back his arm —
— A sharp sound filled the air, like the piercing cry of a bird, and there was a blur of motion that was impossible to follow until it struck.
Not just one target, but three.
The wreathed targets fell back against each other, like stacked tiles, leaving their posts empty and undamaged. It was the hidden spot Penelope had heard of: designed to be found, but only by those who could spot it, and with the skill to hit. The spear quivered in the last target: it hadn’t flown as far as the one thrown by Ajax (it was clear by that point none would) but it had been loosed from a greater distance. If he had thrown it where the others had…it would be much closer, at least as far as Diomedes or perhaps even Achilles.
The crowd cheered, louder than it had in some time, as the man and his horse finally slowed down, circling back to face the section where Penelope sat with her family. He was shorter than many of the other men, but broader than most of them: even his legs that sat in the saddle seemed shaped for strength (a thought she had when glimpsing them before, when they had first met, and one that caused heat to rise within her cheeks as it returned). While he approached, she could finally see the sigil on the front of his armor, and her heart leapt: it was the same as the one she saw imprinted on a leather chestplate back in the marketplace hours earlier, though painted in vibrant colors. An olive tree, with the heads of great horned goats at either side. Behind them, an owl flared large outstretched wings across an open sky. Each piece of armor was outlined in red and purple, including the helm, and matched with the tassels and leather pteruges that hung across his legs.
The man stopped his horse, wide shoulders still moving from exertion, and then removed his helm in a smooth motion, shaking out his curls as he lifted his head.
Penelope had been expecting — hoping? — for it, and yet a soft noise still escaped her at the sight. She recognized the proud line of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth that seemed made for smiling, framed by his dark close-cropped beard. Then there was his quick and intelligent eyes that took in all that surrounded them, seeming to peer beneath the surface and beyond what appeared, to the hidden truths within. He was, perhaps, even more handsome than he had been when he’d held her in his arms, or maybe it was merely the aftermath of witnessing his skills that had her thinking so. He looked around, moving carefully over each face, stopping for a moment on Helen, before his dark eyes found her, and stayed. Penelope temporarily forgot that she was wearing a veil, that he may not have known her face with it covered, and in those long seconds she could hardly breathe.
Then, he bowed low, before raising his head once more.
“Hail!” He called, his deep voice echoing out across the arena, and even up toward the sky. His horse pawed at the ground, as if eager to run more, but his hold on the reins was steady, and it calmed. “I am Odysseus, prince and knight of Ithaca! You honor me with your invitation, and by serving as host! I thank you, and hope —” he paused for a fraction of a moment, his gaze flicking to her direction, and her stomach dropped as if she was falling again, yet she did not want it to stop — “to earn your favor throughout the weeks to come!”
Odysseus of Ithaca, Penelope repeated to herself, as the crowd cheered again. She clapped with them, longer and louder than for anyone else, her mouth moving silently along its syllables. She wondered if he was still trying to know her name. If perhaps he had already succeeded in learning it.
The thought caused her lips to curl into a smile.
Odysseus of Ithaca. She liked the sound of it, the weight on her tongue and in her mind. How it brought forward memories of the strength of his hold, and his dark distracting eyes. The low rumble of his laughter. Standing so close to him, and somehow feeling as if her feet were not touching the ground, yet she remained steadier than ever before.
Other ladies may offer their favor, he had said, with an infuriatingly charming smirk. Will you be offering yours?
Her response then had been playful, evasive but inviting. The truth, however, had flashed through her mind in that moment, like an instinctive knowledge overtook her. Thinking of it again — feeling the certainty of it that could no longer be denied — caused her cheeks to flush, her heart to stutter in her chest, as she watched him lead his horse toward where the rest of the competitors were gathered.
Her fingers tightened upon the sash she had woven as it sat in her lap, the rich color of the soft fabric even more vibrant in the glow of the sun.
He had already earned her favor.
Now, all that was left was for her to give it to him.