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“Penelope?”
It was the sound of her name that pulled her out of her stupor — four syllables, all drawn in a single breath, pulling her out from the depths of the sea and back into the reality of the world.
Penelope blinked at the empty council chamber in confusion. When had they finished?
“My love?” Odysseus called again, clearly trying to grasp her attention, trying to draw her fog-filled head out further, back into the sun-warmed room and the empty council chambers and the slight concern that tinged her husband's eyes as he observed her.
Penelope blinked again.
She could have sworn the council was here only moments before, arguing about trade and taxes and whatever else they had to complain of. She made no word of it. She turned her head to face her husband properly.
“Hm?”
“Are you alright?” He asked, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. The movement made her flinch. He pulled away almost immediately.
“Sorry, love.”
“No, I just…” Penelope started, trailing off. Whatever came after, she did not know, either.
“Are you alright, dearest?” He asked again. He does not touch her this time, but his eyes still roamed over her face in worry.
“I am alright” she reassured, placing her hand over his. It felt less restricting, this way. Still, she glanced at his face, seeking permission. Odysseus did not pull back, and so she continued to hold him.
It was a fine line, threading between what was fine and what was unbearable for both of them. A part of her missed the days where it was easy. Missed the days where every touch only urged instead of repulsed.
If only.
If only the war had been kinder. If only the sea had not threatened to swallow him whole.
“Are you sure?” Odysseus asked again, his thumb gently stroking her own, eyes still trained upon her face. Watching. Observing. A part of Penelope felt as if she were back in that hall, standing in the presence of a beggar who infuriated yet allured her all at once. Even in his disguise, she had recognized those eyes. “We can call for the physician.”
Penelope shook her head. “The physician is not needed.”
“Penelope,” Odysseus said again, slower, this time, with an emphasis that made his insistence on the matter clear as day.
Still, Penelope shook her head again.
And although he let it go, for the moment, She knew that the battle was not quite won yet. There had been a stubbornness that had guided him through those twenty years and even before that — she doubted it had gone away even now.
Dinner is the usual affair.
She did not speak much during it; she was content enough listening to her son and husband conversing: of the herdsmen, of their combat training, or some matter regarding diplomacy that needed to be handled soon. She was content to listen to them, really, to the sound of Odysseus' deep rumble against Telemachus’ gentle cadence.
Yes, she was content.
(Even if she missed the days where Telemachus spoke to her, the days where he did not look at her with either apathy or disgust, the days where he had gone to her for advice until a plague came over their household and it seemed to have stolen her son from her as well).
But at least, it seemed father and son seemed to get along well. Tremendously, even.
(A part of her envied that).
But the sound of their voices was nice. It was nice to listen to the conversation of those she loved most instead of the sound of a hundred and eight men whilst they indulged in cattle and wine and stared at her with a kind of hunger that made her feel like nothing more than a mere piece of meat.
She tried to shake the thoughts away. She turned her head to see —
“Penelope,” Eurymachus smiled, one that was large and languid and made disgust crawl further up her spine. “Why don't you come and join us for some wine, Pe—”
“—nelope?”
Penelope’s eyes snapped to Odysseus'. She realizes both him and Telemachus were staring and resists the urge to shrink under their gazes.
“Yes?”
“Are you alright?” He asked again, for what must have been the fourth time that day. A part of her felt irritated. A part of her knew he was only worried. The latter won and she bit back a retort and only nodded.
“I am fine,” she said, though it was more pointed, this time, making her conviction apparent so that he might not ask a fifth time. A part of her felt as if she just might go mad if he did.
He did not press. But she did not miss the consistent worried glances he sent her way during the entirety of the meal either.
They retire to their bedchambers afterwards, and when morning came, she woke wrapped in his arms. She recounted the night before: his nightmares, her comfort, the way he had held her like he feared she would disappear. She recounted the night before and does not dare pull away.
But gods, it was awfully warm. Far too warm. She shifted her cheek resting on his arm and realizes how much she has sweated in the night. That was… odd. But she glanced at his face, peaceful and relaxed and could not bring herself to risk waking him.
Instead, she pressed her head against his shoulder and tried to think of anything else other than the uncomfortable heat and the odd weariness that seemed to weigh upon her shoulders. Perhaps summer came harsher this year. Perhaps she was simply tired from the night before.
Still, to her disappointment, he woke only minutes after she did.
The first thing he did was press his hand against her cheek. “You are warm,” Odysseus noted.
Penelope smiled and hoped it was reassuring. “It is only the heat. I am sure a bath will get rid of it.”
“How about going to the physician?” He asked again.
“I do not need the physician.”
Odysseus frowned, but said nothing.
Penelope buried her head in his shoulder and tried not to think about how he might start insisting later on.
She bathed alone afterward. They both did it together, back in the earliest years of their marriage. Now… she did not feel comfortable sharing a bath with him.
(Which was simply ridiculous — he was her husband, after all. Still, Penelope found that she was often irrational these days).
He did not mind, waiting outside in the hall as she changed, and for that, she was glad. When she allowed him back inside, he playfully twists a lock of her hair and asks to plait it.
“Do you still remember how?” Penelope asked curiously.
“I braided my own hair during the war,” he explained, guiding her to sit down and reaching for a wooden comb — one that he himself had carved for her years before — from her vanity. “Perhaps it is not as long as yours, though I surmise the mechanics are the same.”
“Speaking of,” Penelope said, glancing but not properly turning towards him as he started to comb through the locks, “are you going to cut yours?” she asked, seeing as his hair now brushed just slightly past his shoulders.
Briefly, Odysseus paused. “Do you think I should?”
“No,” Penelope said truthfully. “I think it looks handsome on you.”
Odysseus smiled. “Alright, then. As my Queen requests.”
Penelope smiled and turned back to the mirror.
Only to realize how… gaunt she looked.
She was pale, perhaps even unnaturally so, courtesy to her Naiad Mother. But she was not… this pale.
Perhaps she needed more sunlight. Perhaps they could find time to head to the gardens that afternoon.
They do not head to the gardens. By noon, she was exhausted enough that all she wanted to do was sleep. But she was a ruler, and she has ruled alone for the past two decades and resting when she had so much to do was simply not an option.
Though it seemed her dearest husband seemed to think otherwise.
“You look tired,” he remarked, just as she set aside another tablet.
“I'm fine,” she reassured, reaching for another, only for him to reach over and stop her hand, retrieving the stylus, too.
“No,” Odysseus said, firmer, this time, the type of firm that she knew even she could not go against. He coaxed her to settle down on the kline and laid her head on his lap.
“Sleep,” he said tenderly, brushing the stray locks of hair away from her face.
Perhaps she was too tired to argue. Perhaps a part of her actually she wanted to. Whatever the reason, Penelope burrowed further into his lap and falls asleep to the gentle scrape of his stylus against the tablet.
The next time she woke, she was in their bedchambers, feeling small within a bed that was far too large, the blankets pooling around her.
(Even during their years apart, she had never slept in the middle. There was always a part of the bed that had belonged to him and him alone, even oceans away).
Shivering, Penelope reached for the blankets and pulled them up to her shoulders. Nights were always cold, in Ithaca, but she had been born from the rivers and should not be feeling this cold.
A creak sounded from the doorway, and a part of her was overcome with the urge to run before her blurring eyes made out the figure in the threshold.
“You missed dinner,” Odysseus said softly, walking over. It was only then that Penelope realized that Lord Helios had long since departed, leaving Lady Selene to take his place in the starry night above. Her husband sets a plate down on the bedside table, drawing her attention.
The sight of food only made her stomach churn, but she had been sick enough when carrying Telemachus that she could still remember how to breathe slowly enough to keep the unpleasantness away decades later.
“Why don't you try to eat, my love?” Odysseus suggested, though the vehemence with which she shook her head seemed to be enough for him to relent. For the moment.
Instead, he took a stool and settled beside her. Penelope shifted closer, just so he might be closer to her. She wishes he would join her. She reaches her hand towards his own and he clasped it gently, his free hand pressed against her cheek.
“You are still warm,” he said again, a more prominent touch of worry in his voice. There was a bowl of water on the table with a rag dipped into it. She wondered how long he had spent watching her sleep. He took the rag and gently wiped her face. It was cold, unpleasant, but she did not fight him as he did so.
When he was done, she opened her mouth to speak, only for her voice to crack as she did. Odysseus frowned, reaching for a wine glass.
“The physician came in earlier," He explained, helping her up slightly enough just so she could swallow, tipping the contents into her mouth. “He said you had a mild fever.”
Fever. Penelope resisted the urge to groan.
She had not fallen ill — well, physically ill — when her husband was away, yet now only a few weeks after his return she falls victim to a fever. A part of her wished to find amusement in the irony of it.
Odysseus pulled the blankets down, clearly concerned with how warm she was. Still, Penelope frowned, pulling them up again, shivering. Odysseus sighed, ultimately allowing it, wiping her face once more.
Despite having just woken, her eyes were already falling heavy.
Odysseus pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sleep.”
Penelope shook her head. “Not unless you join me.”
Despite it, Odysseus let out a small, fond smile. “You stubborn woman.”
But he did not deny her, either. His hands wrapped around her waist, and she buried her head into his shoulder, already drifting off to sleep.
When she woke up again, she was in the dining hall.
And the first thing that was made apparent to her was the noise. The howlish laughter, the jeering, the sounds of ruckus going about. And then it is them. Occupying the tables, bent over plates of sheep and pigs and wine. Her husband's cattle — made into a feast for these beasts.
Perhaps if she moved subtly enough, slowly enough, she would be able to slip past the door without being noticed.
But it was as if she was stepping on leaves, because the moment she moved — it felt as if all one hundred and eight eyes latched onto her; hungry, wanting.
It made dread run up her spine.
“Our Queen!” Antinous called, his voice booming above the chatter and the laughter, filling the room with a kind of tension that made her want to return to her bedchambers and scrub herself raw so that whatever it was that ran through the air and stuck to her might just go away.
But she remained there, standing, frozen.
“Penelope,” he called again, a teasing, suggestive lilt in his voice that made her stomach churn. “Pene—”
“—lope?”
She woke to hands on her waist and someone beneath her and did not think before she started to scream and kick him away.
“Penelope, my love—”
“Get off me — get off me!”
“Penelope!”
It was the intensity of his voice that made her stop, that made the racing in her head halt like a sudden tide against shore.
Penelope blinked.
Odysseus was above her.
Penelope blinked again.
There was a scratch upon his cheek.
The guilt came immediately, a lump forming in her throat as a son slipped past her lips, hot tears running down the side of her face.
“Oh, my darling,” Odysseus breathed, his voice cracking slightly.
He pulled her close, settling her against his chest. She buried her head in his shoulder and allowed the tears to come. He murmured comfort into her ears and allowed her to cry.
Afterwards, she was sitting up in bed. The plate of food he had brought in the night before had been replaced by a bowl of broth.
Sniffling slightly, her voice was raw from crying when she spoke. “I'm sorry.”
“You do not need to be,” he reassured. Penelope found that hard to believe.
Odysseus pressed the bowl against her lips. The nausea rolled in her stomach; Penelope made a face and turned her head away.
“Just take a sip, love.” He coaxed.
Penelope shook her head.
“Please, Pen?” He asked again, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her head so that their eyes locked. She saw the worry in his own. She relented and drank the broth. He rewarded her with a kiss. She reminded him he might catch her fever as well. He continued kissing her anyway.
By noon, Phoebus’ light was still high upon the sky — though even the sun’s rays did not seem to help her feel any warmer. Penelope kept the blanket up to her shoulders.
But Odysseus pressed his hand to her forehead again and frowned. “We should loosen the blankets, darling.”
“No,” Penelope said stubbornly.
“Even just one?” He suggested.
Penelope sighed and let him peel the layer away. She continued to shiver.
By evening, the physician returned, giving Odysseus a bottle of crushed herbs and a list of what time she should be taking it. Odysseus nodded and forced her to swallow it down by the given time despite the absolutely rancid taste that burned her tongue. He apologized afterwards and had her drink wine to chase the taste away.
She heads back to sleep entangled in his arms once more and woke to find herself in Telemachus’ bedchambers.
And there was blood on the bed. Pouring down the sheets, running all the way to the hallway like a river of crimson.
And Penelope ran.
Ran through the halls, through the gardens, through Ithaca’s rocky hills, desperately praying to any god she could think of that Telemachus was fine, that he was safe, the he was alive —
But her prayers are proven futile.
The bloody river led her to the beach, to the still figure, the blood staining the sand beneath him red, red, red —
“Telemachus,” Penelope breathed. Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Telemachus, Telemachus.”
She fell to the floor beside him and gathered him into her arms. Her hands refuse to stop their shaking.
How could they —
How could they?
Her son, her dearest son —
She would have let them do anything, would have willingly laid silently upon a bed and let them ravish her if only it meant that they would not dare hurt him —
So why?
Why, why, why?
Penelope felt as if she could not breathe. Perhaps she has forgotten to. Perhaps it was only right. How could her heart continue to beat, after this?
The blood — Telemachus' blood — stained her palms, her hands, her arms.
Had she not held him like this, several times, all of those years ago? When he was but a babe and could not even walk by himself? When he was a child and came to her first for comfort?
She would have given anything to hold him like that again.
But this…
Not like this, never like this —
Telemachus shifted, ever so slightly. Their eyes met. His lips moved.
One, single word.
“Mother.”
Something guttural bubbled up in her throat and she could not stop herself from screaming.
And then there were hands upon her shoulder.
“Mother!”
Penelope felt herself slammed against something soft. Were they still at the shores? No — she could not see neither the blood nor the sky nor the sand — where were they then?
Then she saw him — and the mere sight steals the breath from her lungs again.
“Mother? Mother, can you hear me?” Telemachus asked, the words barely audible amidst the ringing in her ears.
He was whole. Safe. Alive — with not a single spot of blood marring his beautiful face. But she had seen him, had seen him dead and dying upon that sand and a part of her does not want to believe it lest it was merely a shade. A trick. A false image conjured by her own mind.
Perhaps this was merely a ghost.
Yes — hasn't she been haunted by ghosts for years now? Her husband. Her cousins. Her brothers. All of those that had left for war and returned damaged beyond repair. Torn beyond mending.
They had all haunted her.
But it was never supposed to be her son, her Telemachus, her dearest boy. He was supposed to be safe, safe behind Ithaca’s hills and free from the confines of a war that might steal him away as one stole his father.
He was supposed to be safe.
But hadn't Ithaca itself become a battle ground?
Had he not been forced to be stronger when men came to feast upon their halls and threatened to hold a blade against his neck if only it meant they would succeed in being given the power they had desired?
Had her son not still been forced to fight in battles that were far too large for him?
Words refused to form on her tongue. Instead, there came a sob tore at the very depths of her chest and shattered what remained of her heart. If there was even anything left to shatter. Penelope doubted there was.
His arms wrapped around her shoulders, and although he was merely a ghost, Penelope cannot help but relish the feeling of him all the same.
Gods, when had they last been so close?
Perhaps it was when he was twelve, before the suitors had come and his father still remained missing and he grew to hate the world as well as her in turn.
Penelope wept.
She did not remember much, afterward — but she remembered the dreams.
Iphigenia, smiling at her upon a burning altar. Clytemnestra, her eyes wide with anger, a bloodied axe in her hand. Her brothers, lying still upon foreign shores, refusing to stir. Helen, whom she desperately reached for again and again only for her efforts to prove futile. Odysseus falling slowly, slowly, down into the ocean’s floor.
The next time she woke, it was to a voice that was both familiar and foreign trying to convince her to wake.
And Penelope did not want to.
(Not when she knew she would open her eyes and realize that there was no one beside her at all).
Still, the voice persisted.
“Penelope, wake up.”
The sound of it is both torturous and sweet all at once. One part of her begs for her to cover her ears. The other part strains just so that she could relish the sound of his voice.
“Wake up, darling."
“No,” Penelope whimpered.
“Why not, my love?” She felt the ghost of a touch tracing a line upon her cheek. Penelope shivered from the contact.
“Because you are merely a ghost that is haunting me.”
“But I am not,” he countered. She felt a hand cover her own. It felt warm. Real. Far too real. Tears sting her eyes and she wanted to beg him to stop yet continue all at once. “Just wake up, love. Open your eyes and see for yourself. I promise you: I am real.”
A part of her did not want to. A part of her did. The latter won, and she opened her eyes to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching her.
His hand is real, holding hers.
“There you are,” he smiled, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. A warmth spreads through her where his lips meet her skin.
“Are you real?” She dared to ask.
“I am,” he said firmly. “I am real, and you will not need to be haunted by ghosts any longer.”
He fed her more broth, again, though it only took minutes before it ended up a mess on the floor. He cleaned her face and persuaded her to take some more medicine before he kissed her forehead, telling her to go back to sleep.
She did not want to sleep. Did not want to risk waking into a world where he was not there. But her body betrayed her and her eyes fluttered shut despite it.
Penelope dreamt.
By the fifth day, Odysseus called for Athena.
The goddess appeared mere moments after his summons. It had always been this way, ever since he was a child. He would call, and she would always be there, would always answer. Until that day they fought over a Cyclops and he screamed that she was alone.
He had not called her, ever since that night where he screamed her name into the cliffs of Ogygia. But to his relief — she appeared when he did.
“Will she live?” Is what he asked first. A part of him dreaded the answer. A part of him wished he had not asked.
Fortunately, Athena nodded
“It is only a fever.”
“I know — but it has been nearly a week, and it is as if her body refuses to get better,” Odysseus explained quietly, resisting the urge to tug at his own hair in exasperation.
“Have you given offerings to Apollo?” Athena inquired.
“I have. Of course I have,” Odysseus said shortly.
Athena did not acknowledge it. “Have some more offerings sent his way. And to Asclepius, too.”
Odysseus nodded. Then there is silence.
Athena glanced at him, briefly, a flicker of hesitance in those bright gray eyes — as if there was something more she wanted to say. But she seemed to think better of it and only nodded before disappearing.
He obeyed Athena's words and has more offerings sent to Apollo and Asclepius. He stayed by Penelope’s bedside and prayed.
Penelope dreamt.
The Spartan gardens were luscious, the sky a bright blue above. The rays of Phoebus were gentle against her skin as she settled down beneath an olive tree to read. It was peaceful, quiet. It was hard to find quiet in Sparta. Or perhaps just a home with far too many siblings and cousins to count.
Penelope read. A man approached.
He bore a grin as sly as a fox and held an apple in hand, his bright eyes holding both the sky and the earth in their depths, his skin as golden as honey. She cannot help but stare at this stranger’s eyes. She cannot help thinking they were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.
The man approached her, and held out the apple, his grin softening into a smile. Penelope raised an eyebrow.
“May I ask for your name?” The man inquired. The apple in his hand appeared nearly golden against the sunlight.
Penelope did not respond immediately. “I must have yours first.”
The man’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Ask for it, then.”
“What is your name?”
“I do not have a name. I am no man.”
She was unable to keep her own amusement from tugging lightly at her lips.
“Now,” the man asked, lowering himself upon one knee so that they were slightly more levelled — though even like this, it was clear he was far taller than she. “What is your name?”
A part of her wishes to continue their game of lies. Her tongue said otherwise. “Penelope,” she told him. “My name is Penelope.”
“Penelope,” he said, enunciating the four syllables slowly, clearly, as if testing her name upon his tongue. “That is a fitting name.”
“How so? You do not know me,” she countered
“Must I know you, to say so?” He asked.
“Well to make a claim such as that, yes, you must know me.” She declared.
“Well then, will you allow me to know you?”
“How?”
He shifted to rise again. Penelope almost rises herself in protest — she did not want him to go, not yet.
“Follow me,” he said, holding out his hand.
Penelope hesitated, for the slightest moment, before she placed her own in his larger one. His touch is warm. Gentle.
He smiled. “Come, Penelope.”
The echo of her name upon his tongue lingered.
“Penelope.”
She felt a hand caress her cheek.
“Penelope.”
Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the light of the world once more.
Odysseus was sitting by the bed, her hand in his larger one. The sight of her awake seemed to break a dam that had been withholding relief from him for gods know how long. His eyes softened as his lips pulled into a small, tender smile.
“You are awake,” he said.
“I feel… better,” Penelope noted, making an effort to sit up. Odysseus placed a hand on her back, helping her recline against the pillows, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
“Good,” he nodded, taking the goblet of wine and pressing it to her lips again, making her drink until he deemed it enough. “But you must continue resting until you have recovered completely.”
Penelope nodded, relenting. Though when Odysseus reached for the medicine again, she could not help but make a face.
“Just a few more doses, love, to make sure.”
“Must I?” She said, frowning, a tinge of melodrama to her voice.
Odysseus chuckled. “Yes, love.”
Penelope had an idea. “I’ll drink it in one condition.”
“And what condition does my Queen desire?”
Penelope pulled him — or rather, weakly drew him — closer, their noses brushing against each other.
Odysseus smiled, and pressed a kiss to her lips without her needing to ask. When he pulled back, Penelope reached for him again, but he halted, pressing a finger to her lips.
“Drink your medicine first,” he reminded.
Penelope glared lightly, though it was more fond than anything. “Fine, fine.”