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When the fields lie barren under Demeter’s grief and cold winds drive the warmth from the halls, Penelope sets her gifts upon the altar: dried flowers, bound in fine linen by her own hands; the flesh of a strong-tusked swine; and prayers, soft as falling snow. She would be a fool to presume upon a goddess, yet in the echo of their mourning – for the goddess, a daughter; for Penelope, a husband – she feels less alone. 

Both wait for the return of what was taken. 

But for each season that passes with Kore returning to her mother’s arms, Penelope watches the sea for any sighting of ships on the horizon. She tells her son of his father, wishing the Moirai would grant him back, so the boy’s memories may be of the man, and not solely a figure from her stories. 

For her son, and him alone, she smiles and laughs. She holds him until he grows too big for her to cling to. 

The men of Ithaca began visiting her halls three years ago, but soon others followed, from Same, Dulichium, and Zacynthus. One hundred and eight suitors, all vying for her hand and waiting for her to yield. 

Her suitors call it courtship. She calls it a siege – on her kingdom, her home, her family, her heart.

She will not bend to their will, nor rouse their wrath with blunt refusal. Instead she moves amongst them with measured grace, favouring some with a smile just long enough to kindle hope, then sends her handmaidens at night to murmur laments and promises spun of air for a future she will never grant.

They believe her flighty, caged by womanly duty but yearning for open air. They will think what they must.

The shroud has seen more tears than thread. 

But she will endure. She will keep them waiting, as she waits upon Odysseus, and when at last the day of his return dawns – perhaps then they will glimpse her ruse. Yet it will avail them nothing. They will taste defeat where they hoped to taste her.

She steps lightly into her bedroom from the antechamber, letting her hands linger over the carved panels of her doorframe. For a moment, she breathes easier – the suitors are gone, the halls empty, and the world reduced to the familiar weight of her own walls. The flames from the braziers cast a warm glow upon the walls, solitude a quiet blessing with the handmaidens off to convey her pretence. 

But as she moves further into the room, she hesitates. Something is off – not a sound, but a weight in the air, a presence she did not summon. She takes another step, then another, eyes drifting over the familiar shapes: the alcove where the loom rests, the folds of cloth she has so carefully draped. And there, leaning against the frame, is Eurymachus – fingers gliding over the shroud, head tilted, as though waiting for her to acknowledge him.

He watches her with that faint, infuriating smile.

She goes still, breath catching in her throat – too frightened to see its own birth from her mouth.

“My lady Penelope,” he says. “How fare you this young night?”

Get out, she wants to say, but to reveal her fear would give him ground he must never claim. She is still near the door – if she can keep him where he stands, distract him with words, she might yet reach the threshold before he remembers to bar it.

“Eurymachus, son of Polybus,” she says coolly. “It is not proper for you to be here at this hour.”

“And what is propriety these days?” he asks, quiet. His fingers trail idly along the shroud – and his ease unsettles her, urging her to turn and flee. “A proper woman would not use her guile to deceive the good men who seek her hand. A proper queen would already be wed.”

She steps back – a single pace, more reaction than thought. This is it: she has toyed with their patience for too long, and now she will reap the consequence. But she is not wholly unprepared.

She straightens her back, lifts her chin, and meets Eurymachus’ burnished amber gaze without flinching. “The shroud will be finished within a fortnight. I shall choose a husband no sooner, for I still have duties to the one whose halls you dishonour with your presence.”

He hums, low and thoughtful. “A fortnight, you claim? For all the time your skilled hands have laboured over this –” his fingers linger on the fabric, almost admiring “– and still it remains but half done. I would call a fortnight bold, my queen. Yet who am I to question you? I know little of a woman’s craft beyond what she allows a man to see.”

He looks up at her, that small, knowing smile unfurling. “Tell me, then – when the shroud is done, will you at last choose one of us to warm your empty hearth?”

“You have my word,” she says, thinking of unbending bronze and imbuing everything within her with its image. “My husband’s bow – the one among you worthy of my hand will be the one to string it and send an arrow clean through twelve axes. You may be wise to practice between feasts, my lord.”

He watches her, gaze heavy-lidded, silence reigning between them, his thoughts veiled behind eyes far too clever for comfort.

At last, he shakes his head. “Even should golden-arrowed Artemis herself grace me with her skill of the bow, I suspect it would not win the prize you have made of yourself. Thus I have come to you. Will you cease stalling, my queen, and accept my hand? I caution you to think carefully before you answer.”

Another step, and she stands at the threshold that leads into the antechamber beyond – little more than a passage between her bed and the hall. Nary a frown crosses his expression, serene despite her retreat.

“I will choose only the worthiest of you,” she says, voice unwavering. “Who that man is remains to be seen. No sooner than a fortnight, Eurymachus.”

He sighs, as though her answer were expected, yet disappointing all the same. “Do remember, my queen: when the crown hesitates, the realm starves – and it is always those beneath it who bear the costs.”

She backs into the anteroom, unwilling to let him out of her sight – lest the monster strike when her back is turned. The loom, and thus Eurymachus, stands half in shadow; the air feels heavy, stifling. She takes another step towards the door that opens into the hall –

“Agenor.” His voice cuts through the silence, calm as the undisturbed water of a lake. “Inside.”

Her hand ghosts across the handle just as it is wrenched open from the other side. The sound that rips from her throat at what she sees is scarcely human.

Telemachus – her darling boy, her sweetest joy – stands bound and gagged between two suitors, their grip on his arms unrelenting. 

Eurymachus – her son – the suitors – all of them here. How had she not seen? Where had they waited? How long?

Telemachus’ eyes, wide with terror, find hers, and her heart stumbles, caught between one beat and the next. She needs no explanation, no threat spoken aloud, to fall to pleading.

“Eurymachus,” she cries. She twists to see him emerging from the other room, composed as ever. “You need not threaten me further. Return him to his room, unharmed, and I shall wed you.”

“I wish I could,” he says with a small, indulgent smile, as he sidles up to stand by her. “But obstinacy begets consequence. I must carve the lesson into your soul, that it may last long after this night ends.”

She steps between him and Telemachus, arms spread to form a flimsy barrier. “I will yield.” The soft struggle of bound limbs hardens her resolve. “Do not drag him into this. I beseech you – as his mother, and as the woman who would be your wife: do not harm him. Let any punishment fall upon me. He is innocent.”

She stands firm as he comes close – far too close, closer than any man has been since Odysseus sailed for war that cursed day twenty years ago. His body brushes hers, heat all-encompassing, and his hand rises towards her face. She readies herself – but the touch never comes. It whispers past her, close enough to raise the hairs along her jaw, then comes to rest elsewhere. The sound that follows – a muffled whimper – tells her more than sight ever could. But she cannot falter now. 

She presses her palms against his chest, pushing, and he yields easily, stepping back until the distance is bearable.

Her heart flutters like startled birds in a cage.

“Please,” she whispers – her fingers clutching at his chiton, plea and warning in the same breath.

“I urged caution,” he murmurs, laying a hand on hers. 

She shudders but does not pull away. If touch is the price of safety, she will pay it. She will unfasten her fibulae with hands steadier than her heart and bare herself to him, if that will spare her son from harm.

Behind them comes a muffled cry, the scrape of heels against stone. Neither of them turns.

“I have offered you grace and patience,” he says softly. “Each gift chosen by my hand – and each year you deceived us, deceived me, weaving another thread of defiance. Did you think it would last forever? I warned you – I gave you every chance to yield. The crown is not yours to scorn. And your words will not save him.”

He clasps her hand tight, as though to break her hold, but she only clings harder, breathless with the urgency to persuade him.

“We will be wed in the morning, if that is your demand. Or now – consummate it here. Only spare him the sight. Spare him harm.”

“To take you before we are wed would be uncouth,” he says evenly. “I will not have rumours questioning my soon-to-be wife’s virtue.”

If she could only scream – release all the fury and despair that swell within her at his deafness to her pleas. She draws breath to speak again, but he cuts across her.

“No.” His tone allows no protest, his eyes hard. At last, with an anguished wince, she loosens her grip, lest her bones break beneath his. “You weary me with this endless begging. I have told you: words will change nothing. So now listen, for I will say this only once.”

Tears sting her eyes, but she furiously blinks them away, loath to give him anything when it is not she who will suffer for her deceit.

“You will watch as he bears your punishment and learn the cost of defiance. Each protest, each sound you make, will be pain upon him. Each movement is a scream I will tear from his throat until you sit, silent and still. Do you see? It is by your hand that he stays unscathed this night.”

He bends until his forehead rests against hers, his voice a murmur. “Without a husband, and without a son, you will be wed before the night is over.” He brushes a stray lock of hair over her ear. “You could still bear another child.”

She goes rigid as stone, as though she had gazed upon Medusa herself. To threaten her child – not merely his welfare, but his very life – is an offence no throne could justify. For a fleeting moment she doubts he would dare it, for such an act would end any scheme he means to pursue. Yet he need not kill to conquer. A bruise, a cry, a breath drawn wrong would serve as well. He knows it, this wretch of a man. He knows she will capitulate to his terms to keep her son alive and unharmed – and thus he holds her fast, bound not by chains, but by love.

But what cruelty does he mean – enough to punish, yet not to harm?

“What will you do?” she whispers – fearful of the answer, but needing to know.

Eurymachus smiles. He turns towards Telemachus, still held in the suitors’ grip, his heaving chest and slack posture testament of his struggle. A strangled noise escapes her, and she sways forward – a single step – before a sharp look from Eurymachus roots her in place.

In the two heartbeats it takes Eurymachus to cross the room, Telemachus has wrestled back a trace of defiance in his stance. But it is the tears brimming in his eyes that makes her wonder if he already knows. He glares at Eurymachus – furious, terrified, impossibly young – and she does not know what to do.

She cannot be the reason for his pain, yet how can she remain still when the tremor in his limbs blurs fear and terror into one?

Eurymachus reaches out, brushing a knuckle down her boy’s face – obscenity disguised as tenderness. His touch slides lower, fingers catching at the gag. Slowly, he loosens it.

The sound of leather against skin is deafening in the stillness, the gag hanging useless at Telemachus’ throat. Eurymachus’ hand falls to his jaw, gripping it, and his mouth – 

It presses against Telemachus’, no more than a gentle kiss meant for devoted lovers – but there is no love in it. Penelope’s cry tears through the silence before she can stop it. 

It is not pain he inflicts, not yet, but something else – humiliation, cold and deliberate. Telemachus is frozen, eyes wide with dread – until determination narrows his gaze. He sinks his teeth into flesh. Eurymachus flinches back, and she has but a moment to savour the vicious pride that wells in her, before she is crying out again. 

The back of Eurymachus’ hand strikes Telemachus’ face. The force whips Telemachus’ head to the side, but it is the crack of skin on skin that echoes in her mind, her boy backhanded by one of these wretches –

Her body moves before thought can intervene; she lunges for Telemachus, shoving Eurymachus aside to reach him, to touch him. Yet in the breath it takes her to do so, Eurymachus has already forced the gag back between his teeth.

“For that,” Eurymachus says, voice flat, “I will not prepare him fully before I take him. Be silent, my lady, or he will be screaming when I do.”

She studies the other side of Telemachus’ face – already flushed bright red where the blow landed – then notices the paling skin beneath her fingers and the way he flinches. Horror grips her: she understands, at last, what Eurymachus means to do. 

“What?” she breathes.

Eurymachus seems untouched by her horror, no trace of pity softening the glint in his eyes. He wipes the blood from his lip with a careless thumb and gestures toward the other room – and the bed beyond it, she realises with a sinking feeling.

“Go on,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable. I will take my time, to ensure it will not hurt.” His gaze drifts past her, settling on Telemachus with chilling calm. “It will be unpleasant, and he may whimper when I push inside, but so long as you both behave, I see no reason to make this worse for him. I could even give him pleasure, if he begs sweetly.”

“No,” she says – immediate, firm, though scarcely more than a whisper. She gathers Telemachus to her as she once did when he was small, heedless of the suitors who still hold him. She glares at them – would that her glance alone could teach them shame or fear – but when her gaze returns to Eurymachus, it gives way to entreaty. “Please. You have made your point. I know my place.”

“If you did,” he replies softly, “you would have known not to speak. Two fingers – do not give me reason to take away another. He will tear without proper care, and with bleeding wounds in such a tender place… Will you be the reason he succumbs to fever, my queen?”

She looks at Telemachus in despair. She cannot imagine how she will endure what comes, nor how he might bear it. But he catches her eyes, and for a heartbeat she sees not the child she rocked to sleep, but a young man – his gaze hard as forged bronze. He nods once, the smallest dip of his chin, a gesture meant to steady her. She nearly weeps.

Her precious boy, trying to reassure her when he should never have had cause to. He should never have been brought here – bound and gagged. This is her fault – her weaving, her lies, her every small defiance. She is to blame for what happens and he has every right to hate her after this. 

Her bottom lip trembles as she forces herself to step away from him, her hand lingering for a spell on his cheek. 

You will be all right, she mouths, knowing now the cost of speaking aloud. I will be here. You are not alone.

He holds her gaze – for his own reassurance, or simply to keep from looking at Eurymachus – until she must turn away, stifling a sob against her palm. She meets Eurymachus’ eyes, wishing her glare could sear him from within, but he only smiles that thrice-damned smile, pleased now that she yields.

She straightens her shoulders and walks past him towards the weaving room – her chamber – but at the threshold she falters, one hand groping for the frame while the other presses to her abdomen, fighting the bile that rises in her throat.

Her bed waits there, the bed Odysseus carved from living olive wood, its roots still buried deep in the earth below.

It is there, she knows, that Eurymachus will defile her son – in the place that once held her marriage vows. And she is expected to sit and watch it happen. 

She cannot bear it. Gods above, grant her the strength to endure what she must do – or else strike down the vile beast who purrs in delight at the thought of violating her child.

A hand settles on her shoulder, firm, guiding. She stumbles forward through the doorway. Every part of her screams in silence as a dull roaring fills her ears, drowning the world.

She wishes – with a despair deeper than any she has known, even through the longest nights bent over her loom, when bright Selene turned her falling tears to silver on the threads and prayers for merciful death were swallowed only by the echo of a child’s laughter – that Odysseus stood here to deliver them from Eurymachus and his wicked will.

She has never felt more hopeless.

Against the wall beside the bed stands a kline. It is there, on its smooth wooden seat, that she sits, hands clasping her knees tightly through the folds of her himation. It does little to steady the tremors, or the sickness rolling in her gut, or the tears clinging to her lashes. 

How can she weep when it is not she who will be laid upon the bed and despoiled? She must be strong, for his sake, if not her own. It is the least she can do – to stand unbroken, that he might find something steadfast amidst the storm.

Oh, but would he prefer that she avert her eyes and stuff her ears, to not bear witness to his humiliation? No – not humiliation. She will not allow it to be. It is through no fault of his own that he must endure this. It will be a violation upon him that she cannot save him from, but she will not forsake him. She will endure this with him, however she must.

However she can.

The faint shuffle of feet draws her gaze. She steadies herself on the feel of her soles pressed to the cold stone and the dull sting of nails cutting crescents into her palms – fragile anchors against the fury that urges her to strike Eurymachus down for touching her child.

He guides Telemachus through the doorway – a hand hooked beneath his upper arm, half-dragging him forward though his wrists are bound behind. Will Eurymachus truly stoop so low as to invite the two suitors to bear witness as well? Or are they placed at the door, faithful hounds to their master, that none may interrupt while he enacts his perverse design?

Telemachus moves as though against a current: slow, rigid, striving for composure even as uneven breaths betray him. The sound of them splinters something in her chest that cannot be her heart, for that already lies broken at her feet.

His eyes find the bed, and he stills. For a heartbeat he is all silence and stone, refusing to move. Then Eurymachus’ grip tightens, and he is forced across the threshold.

Gods above, how is a mother to bear this? 

Venerable Demeter, she prays, watching despairingly as Eurymachus hauls Telemachus towards the bed, mother to mother, lend me your strength against the man who would take my child from me as your Kore was taken from you.

Penelope may as well be a shadow upon the wall, unseen and unheard, for how Eurymachus drives his knee into the back of Telemachus’ legs and forces him down without a glance at her. She flinches at the sound her son makes.

Hestia, keeper of the hearth, do not let my home go dark. Hera, guardian of marriage, look upon the son born of mine. Pallas Athena, who once guided Odysseus – look now upon his blood. If you will not intervene, then lend him your courage where mine cannot reach him.

She counts her heartbeats like a beggar tallying stolen coins, hoping that somewhere, Demeter stirs, remembering her own loss. But the soil across the land is green again, the goddess long reunited with her daughter, and so no answer comes. Only the cold breath of the sea drifts through the shuttered room, and she understands: no goddess will rise for her tonight.

She lifts her chin, mouth set like tempered bronze, and resigns herself, at last, to the fate the Moirai have woven for them. Why they would weave such cruelty is beyond mortal grasp – yet she resents them, every god among them, for looking away while her son suffers. Penelope has doubted the gods before and will accept, if she must, the cost of her impiety. But Telemachus has done nothing to offend them.

The injustice of it burns in her like fever – that he should suffer twice for her transgressions.

“My faire Penelope,” Eurymachus says. 

She tilts her ear towards him, listening, but cannot bring herself to lift her gaze. He straddles Telemachus’ legs, Telemachus’ body prone upon the bed, one hand on his shoulder pressing his front against the mattress – the other drawing a winding path across his back. Telemachus’ pale cheek is squished against the pillow, his face turned towards her, but his eyes are shut tight.

“Let not your thoughts meander nor your eyes stray. Stay with him, that he may find strength in his queen’s resolve.” Eurymachus brushes the hair from Telemachus’ neck; she wonders despondently when she will lose the battle against the sickness. “You mistake me, my lady. I act only out of necessity. A single lesson learned quickly saves us both much grief. Obedience will bring mercy. And when we are wed, I will even grant your son safe passage.”

Telemachus gives a low, choked sound, and Penelope’s composure wavers. She looks at Eurymachus then – unable to stand the sight of his hand that has deviated from its idle wandering and now seeks lower. 

Her stomach knots upon itself. If she cannot endure the sight of his hand upon her son, how will she endure what is yet to come?

Her lips part, venomous words trembling on her tongue – but she cannot give them life. Trapped within her, they curdle, bitter and useless; she can only hope they burn through her eyes, that Eurymachus might read them there.

A small smile steals across his face, doubtless pleased that she knows being addressed does not grant her leave to speak.

“Silence becomes a woman best,” he says. “And you, my lady, wear it well.”

Would that she could weave it around herself, thread by thread, until even her fury could not breathe – that denying him her voice as a wife might one day bring regret. Yet she knows a man such as Eurymachus would take a wife’s silence for deference, and call it virtue. Once more the Moirai laugh at the walls she has, by her own hands, made crumble atop her. Before this, she wielded her silence – the withholding of an answer – as a weapon; now it serves as punishment.

She has given her prayers to the gods; now she gives this vow to herself – that when he lies beside her, she will remember the feel of a blade and where it must fall. 

She lowers her gaze from his, seeking Telemachus once more – and finds him already looking her way. Too many emotions swim in his eyes to name, save the one that brings mist to her own: despair.

The instinct to comfort him bids her hand to rise, but it stills, hovering just above her knees. Her fingers curl into a useless fist.

“You may come to his side, if you wish to soothe him,” Eurymachus says. He is reaching beneath the folds of his chiton and draws out a small earthenware jar. 

Telemachus shakes his head – a faint, desperate motion – his gaze pleading. He does not want her nearer. She nods once, the smallest incline of her chin, and lets her hand fall back to her lap. 

Eurymachus dips two fingers into the jar; they emerge slick with oil. The blood in her veins turns to ice.

She had not forgotten what tonight would bring. She had merely refused to dwell on it – delaying, as she ever does, until delay was no longer possible. But that time is now. 

Telemachus is deathly still on the bed, save for the rise and fall of his chest – each breath more ragged than the last. Whether he has read her reactions and guessed what is coming, or his gaze reaches far enough to glimpse Eurymachus and understand, it does not matter. Not when Eurymachus makes no ceremony of hitching up Telemachus’ chiton to bare his – 

She focuses wholly on Telemachus, his face, feeling pale and sick at heart. Something in his eyes – raw, pleading, devastating – nearly wrenches a sob from her. But it is he who flinches instead, a small cry escaping his throat. His entire body becomes taut like a pulled bow.

“This will be easier if you relax, my prince,” Eurymachus says, his voice a soothing murmur – as though he could not stop this any time he pleases. “Spare yourself undue pain and let me in.”

Whether at the hands of a lover or a monster, no mother should have to see her child like this. The act alone is humiliation enough, but for Eurymachus to insist upon her witness is cruelty itself. Had their fates been reversed, the mortification – to have either Odysseus or her son behold her ruin – would have struck her tenfold.

Telemachus, she is certain, wishes her anywhere but here. Yet here she remains, and so she will endure, as he does – for if he cannot escape the assault, neither will she turn away. Together they will outlast the darkness of this night, and all nights to come. 

She will not allow him to withdraw into silence nor sink into despair, not while she still lives and breathes – not when she has, since her girlhood, heard whispered tales of others who met the same fate and ended their pain by rope or by sea, seeking to flee the memory and the shame such violation leaves behind. 

The Moirai may have set them upon this cruel path, but if ever she perceives in Telemachus the faintest wish for death as mercy, she will hunt the Moirai themselves, tear his thread from their grasp – and as she has borne witness to her son’s desecration, so shall they bear witness when she strikes their shears in twain by her own hand.

She will not lose him, too – not to the rope or the sea, not to death, and not to Eurymachus.

Yet his words return to her, silent as a serpent’s hiss and just as vicious as its bite: when we are wed, I will even grant your son safe passage. Passage – exile wrapped in mercy’s guise. He will banish Telemachus from Ithaca before the bruises have faded, before she can see if he still eats, still breathes, still wakes screaming. 

The realisation hollows her. It does not matter what she does, how much she begs or swears; she will lose him still. Perhaps that is the Moirai’s jest – that she should live to watch him slip away.

His death by Eurymachus’ hand – or by his own.

She has nothing left to bargain with, nothing to sway Eurymachus into allowing Telemachus to remain until she is sure the Moirai will not pull his thread taut between their fingers.

And yet. And yet.

Who is she to be the cause of his grief, only to insist he stay within reach of the man who violated him – all for her own comfort, her own peace of mind? Perhaps distance, from her as well as from Eurymachus, would better serve the healing of his soul.

She will not send him to Sparta. There he may be welcome, as her blood, yet he is as likely to be cast out. Pylos – yes, Pylos would be better. King Nestor, long returned from war and once Odysseus’ steadfast comrade, held her husband in high regard. If she sends Telemachus with a message bearing her plea for protection, she knows in her heart that he will honour it.

Eurydice will see to his comfort. And Peisistratus, one of their sons – near Telemachus’ own age – might even call him friend.

For Telemachus to have a friend – her heart weeps at the thought. For years the suitors have haunted their halls. Oh, she had thought herself shrewd, spinning lies and half-promises as she waited for her husband’s return. 

But her ruse has cost her son every friend he might have claimed, his peace, and now his sense of safety.

A muffled whimper from Telemachus tears her from thought; her gaze snaps back to him – his face, twisted in distress. The gag smothers the next sound, and she sees how he turns his head away, eyes shut tight, a flush rising from his cheeks to the tips of his ears –

Oh. Sickness churns within her, as once it did upon a pitching deck at sea. She knows enough of a man’s body – first through maidenly gossip, later through her husband’s patient guidance – to understand the ways in which flesh may betray the spirit when touched with cruel knowledge.

But does Telemachus know? Does he yet understand that his body may act against his will? Or does he believe himself perverse – shamed by a treachery not his own? She wishes he would look at her, that she might offer what reassurance she may, her voice silenced more surely than by any gag.

She cannot keep fleeing into thought – yet what else is she to do? Does it make her a coward, that she cannot bring herself to look upon Eurymachus, to see what he does? Is it not enough that she remains, her gaze steadfast on Telemachus – or does she betray him still, leaving him to endure this alone?

She cannot ask what he would have of her – that she witness all as he endures it, or that she stay beside him in body and in soul, yet turn her eyes from what is done.

Clenching her hands, she resolves not to look away. She will feel embarrassment for him and for herself only in the act of witnessing what ought to be a private rite between husband and wife – or lover and lover – but never shame.

If turning her gaze aside makes a coward of her, fleeing the sight of what he is made to endure, then she will, gods willing, look – if only to remind herself of the fate she will weave for Eurymachus once this night is past.

She glances at Eurymachus – only long enough to glimpse the mildness upon his face, one hand on Telemachus’ buttock anchoring him in place whilst the other nestles between them, moving in a smooth, purposeful rhythm –

Her resolve to look shatters like a war-torn vase cast to the ground.

Rage bids her act – to do something, anything, to spare her child this torment – while reason pleads for restraint, lest she bring him greater harm. Telemachus lies motionless, no trace of the defiance she saw outside this room. Whether resignation stills him or Eurymachus’ threats have subdued him, she cannot tell.

She had left them alone but for a moment when she entered – and whatever words or threats Eurymachus spoke in that brief span, she may never know. Yet she does not doubt his gift for turning their love against them, winning their surrender with naught but his voice – all while robbing them of their own.

Telemachus has turned his face entirely away from her, burrowing it into the linen. She looks instead at his cheek, flushed a fierce red. She cannot escape the sight of Eurymachus’ hand upon him, whichever way she turns her gaze.

“Is pleasure not more merciful than pain, my prince?” Eurymachus murmurs. A harrowed sound escapes Telemachus as his body jerks forward; Penelope tastes copper on her tongue, the sting of her teeth but a distant awareness. “I am kind, when obeyed. It need not be so terrible, this time with me. You take my fingers so well, I trust you will do the same with all of me.”

Another noise slips past Telemachus – eerily akin to those he gave when Phobetor held his sleep in thrall, and she would rouse him lest he shake himself to pieces or cry his voice away. Would that this night could be escaped as easily as a dream – that she might draw him close and whisper that none of it was real.

“Sh, sh,” Eurymachus murmurs, leaning across Telemachus – draping the entirety of his body with his own. Telemachus shudders and buries his face deeper in the linen, his cry muffled as Eurymachus’ hand traces his flank with feigned tenderness. His mouth nears his ear. “Do not hate me for this; I only walk the road she laid before us both. The crown’s pride weighs heavy, and it is always the sons who pay.”

A rush of indignant fury jolts Penelope – that Eurymachus would dare so brazenly to sow discord between mother and son, no matter that he speaks the truth.

Telemachus, too, growls low in his throat, and the relief that floods her – that he would yet take offence on her behalf despite all she has wrought – smothers her, as fair flowers smother the soil they adorn.

With a soft chuckle, Eurymachus draws back just far enough to rest his hands upon Telemachus’ shoulders. “Take comfort, my prince – you serve your island better than she. Let that knowledge grant you courage for the night.”

He manoeuvres Telemachus onto his back – half manhandling, half coaxing – her boy yielding with an air of distressed resignation. He grimaces as his hands are caught beneath him, bound and weighted down, yet his eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to draw blood.

He is brave, and he is resilient – and she wishes she could tell him thus, yet Eurymachus has his attention captive. She bites her tongue when Eurymachus caresses the side of his face, lingering at the gag, before he falls back. The small jar lies beside them; he scoops a measure of oil while he fiddles with the front of his chiton.

Oh. 

Penelope swallows and hurries to look away before she can catch more than a glimpse of Eurymachus’ manhood. Her throat is dry as dust in the summer heat. How is her son – how will he not tear? 

Telemachus stares up at the darkened rafters, his jaw clenched around the gag. He emits a small, panicked sound when Eurymachus forces his legs apart; it shoots straight for her heart like a barbed arrow, burrowing deep and painful. Against her will her gaze shifts back to Eurymachus, dreading the moment he will make good on every threat.

Eurymachus meets her eyes and holds them captive within the swirling depths of his own as he leans forward on his knees into the arc of Telemachus’ legs, to keep him from closing them. Telemachus’ body tenses, then folds into stillness with a sob that tears at her. 

She knows better than to speak. She only prays that Eurymachus reads the plea in her eyes – that he deems the scare a lesson learned, or that he will choose her instead.

He does see it; she knows from the twitch of his lips. Then, without breaking apart from her, he decisively seizes Telemachus’ hips – and the soul-rending cry that bursts from Telemachus brings her to her feet before she knows she has moved.

“Eurymachus,” she cries. Her child’s frantic gasps raise the small hairs along her arms; terror grips her spine like a harpy’s claws. Her heart hammers against her ribs like hooves over bone, her breath short and ragged beneath the weight of it.

“Obedience begets silence,” Eurymachus says quietly, eyes now fixed upon Telemachus – whether fiendish admiration or sickening curiosity, she cannot tell. “Defiance, as ever, begets harm.”

Telemachus’ chest rises without rhythm, as though each breath were barred by an unseen hand. Tears trail into his hairline, his eyes screwed shut against the onslaught. The gag swallows his shriek before it can pierce the air; his body curls in upon itself, seeking escape or solace, but Eurymachus holds him fast.

In that moment, Penelope understands her folly. She shrinks back, crumbling onto the kline – helpless, aggrieved, emptied of all but breath.

Eurymachus grunts his approval – the sound abhorrent for its relation to any pleasure he might be deriving from defiling her son. He hauls Telemachus further down the bed – until his hips are flush with Telemachus’ backside and shallow wheezes escape her child. 

Would that she could close her eyes – see neither the anguish twisting her son’s face nor the cold composure of the man before him – but she must not forsake him now, nor ever.

Eurymachus leans down, wiping the tears from Telemachus’ cheeks and easing the gag from his mouth. At once, the chamber fills with ragged sobs, no longer obstructed by the strap of leather. He takes her boy’s face between his palms and presses their foreheads together – an act that mimics comfort while profaning it. Soft murmurs follow, the sort meant to soothe a child, until Telemachus quiets enough to look up through tear-stung lashes.

“There,” Eurymachus says, tilting Telemachus’ face back toward him when he tries to shy away. “Look at me. Breathe. The more you fight, the worse it becomes. Ease, my prince. I need not tear you if you yield to me.”

Penelope’s own breath falters when it dawns on her that her son is being soothed by the very man who causes his torment – and that she is helpless to watch it happen.

Telemachus nods once, small and uncertain.

Eurymachus smiles faintly. “Good,” he says, catching an errant tear on his thumb before it can follow the path of its predecessors. “I am cruel only when my hands are forced. Yet, with you, I promise to be merciful. I will allow you a moment to adjust. This will be over the sooner you welcome me without struggle, my dear Telemachus.”

The words are poison lathered in honey, and Penelope feels each of them as though they were struck upon her own skin. She bites her lips to keep from crying out. Her child – her poor child – nods again, helpless as she is, caught in the snare of Eurymachus’ soft-spoken commands.

She is desperate to catch his eyes, to offer him her assurances and comfort, but he does not look away from Eurymachus – not even as Eurymachus draws back. Whimpers spill from him when Eurymachus resumes his movements, slow and steady as they are. Eurymachus shushes him, patting his hip, eyebrows pinched.

Then Telemachus yelps, eyes rolling back into his head as he arches off the bed – and Penelope looks away, unable to bear witness to the pleasure Eurymachus forces upon him. Would that the gods would strike her deaf too, that she did not have to hear the obscene sound of flesh moving against flesh or her son’s whimpers turn to moans. 

“No,” he gasps. “No, I don’t – I don’t want –”

Eurymachus hushes him. “It is all right, my sweet prince. Do not resist what you cannot yet understand. Pleasure at my hands is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Penelope presses a hand to her mouth to smother the sound rising in her throat. His cruelty lies not only in what he does, but in the perversion of gentleness itself. He twists compassion into a weapon, truth into deceit. She wishes Telemachus would look at her instead of at his tormentor. She dares a glance – just to ascertain he is not; long enough to find his eyes still firmly upon Eurymachus’, his cheeks wet from a fresh wave of tears – then turns away. She counts each heartbeat, willing her mind to drown the noises that fill the chamber. 

Eurymachus’ voice wrenches her gaze back. “Witness, my queen, the mercy I extend to your people – your blood.” He smiles, blithe and easy, though the sweat-darkened fabric of his chiton clings to his back. “Surely our sweet prince has never told his mother of the hard times the suitors give him – the shoves, the jibes. Cruel of you, to leave him to their mercy while you remain safe at your loom, spinning yet more lies.”

She startles, staring in disbelief at Telemachus, who has turned his face from hers once more. Each time she asked, he assured her he was well – that though the suitors were rough and rowdy, they had never overstepped the bounds of xenia. What else has he hidden from her?

The lengths he has gone to for her sake – and this is how she repays him. She should never have thought herself clever enough to fool them for so long. Mortal pride: ever the cause of downfall, of ruin, of death.

If Odysseus ever returns, he will be right to cast her out – for failing as wife and mother both, for failing their son.

Her heart constricts. If Odysseus ever returns, she will already belong to another.

She lifts her hands to her ears when Eurymachus picks up the pace, chasing in earnest an end to the violation – then stops halfway, forcing them back into her lap. She knows only she is weeping when teardrops fall upon her open palms. Looking up, she finds Telemachus watching her, his mouth forming soundless words, his eyes misted, his expression torn.

A sob escapes her before she can stifle it; she cannot tell whether he is pleading for her help or bidding her to endure. How much has she missed, not to know this? She ought to know her son better.

She wipes her tears roughly away, keeping his gaze locked to hers, furious at herself for breaking when her son bears what she cannot.

You are strong, she mouths at him. You are loved. You are not alone. This will end.

He cries silently, shuddering now and then as though each breath cuts, each thrust of Eurymachus’ hips jostling his body. He can meet her eyes only briefly; when he turns away, she lowers hers too.

It ends, at last, with a rough groan from Eurymachus. She looks up to see him brace himself on his arms, half bent over Telemachus. His breath comes heavy, sated – and fury grips her once more, that his repulsive seed should find itself in her son. Rather her than him, yet it is far too late for such thoughts.

Then Eurymachus’ hand wraps around Telemachus’ –

She dares not look again until moments or aeons later, when stillness reigns at last, replacing the sounds Eurymachus drew from her child as one might rob a temple of its sacred offerings. Ducking her head and covering her ears could not smother them entirely. When she does look, she sees her son curled upon the bed, small as when he was a child. Eurymachus is gone from his side. Even seeing only Telemachus’ back, she feels a rush of relief so sharp it almost wounds her.

“I have been kind tonight.” 

She flinches: Eurymachus stands beside her, composed as marble, his expression mild enough to mock her fear.

“Tomorrow night, I may be less inclined.”

She pales, lips parting – yet she hesitates; the lesson is carved in her bones, whispering through her soul. He watches her with faint amusement and inclines his head. “You may speak, my lady.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she says, steadying her voice though her heart yearns toward her son. “I will inform the council of my decision to marry.”

“You would have me invite disorder into my own house?” His brow arches. “No, my lady. The proper rites must be observed. I will not have whispers that I stole Ithaca’s queen in the night.”

She rises, unwilling to sit meek as a servant. “What are appearances to you?” she demands, her voice breaking despite her poise. “You have what you sought. You have won – must you gloat as well?”

“I will not have this union questioned.” He need not raise his voice; she wishes she did not have to. “Three days will suffice for the arrangements.”

Her breath trembles. “And Telemachus? What becomes of him?”

“For tonight, he stays here – with you. Comfort him as you will. My men will stand guard at your door, that no harm befall you.”

“You wretch.” She laughs, bitterly. “You mean to imprison us in our own home.”

“Come dawn,” he continues, almost idly, “they will escort the prince to his chambers, where he will remain under guard. He will spend his nights with me.”

“No.” Horror seizes her. “He will stay here – with me.”

“And leave myself without your leash?” His head tilts. “Without the boy, what promise have I of your hand?”

She steps forward and jabs a trembling finger at his chest. “Then confine him to his room until the wedding,” she hisses. “Not with you.”

“He is your guardian,” Eurymachus says evenly. “So long as his word is mine to command, you will keep yours. Until the rites are done, he stays close. I would not have him lost to mischance before his mother becomes my wife.”

He is right not to trust her. She will still do all she can to ensure his escape, on her own terms – though she knows how little freedom remains to her. Were Telemachus free, she would have fled – anywhere, even into death – rather than endure this and betray her true husband.

“Please,” she says at last, her composure fraying. “I ask for nothing else. Let him remain with me until the day comes. Grant me that much.”

“During the day, perhaps,” he says. “So long as you appear the devoted bride.”

“You will touch him no more.” The plea tastes of ash.

“Obey, and I need not.” His glance flicks toward the bed. “Yet I must be sure of him – his obedience, that he will not falter when the time comes to give you away. Should he forget, I will remind him where he stands.”

The sound of her hand striking his cheek cracks through the chamber. The sting blooms across her palm before she realises what she has done. Her chest heaves with fury barely contained. Eurymachus blinks, more thoughtful than surprised, and catches her wrist.

“That,” he says quietly, “is no way to earn a favour.”

“Do not touch my mother.”

Telemachus’ voice, hoarse but firm, cleaves between them. Eurymachus releases her hand, chuckling. He turns toward the bed, where her boy has pushed himself upright, trembling yet unbowed. Red-rimmed eyes or no, he straightens when Eurymachus bends over him. Pride and horror tear through her chest; she has never been more desperate to weep at his feet and beg forgiveness.

Eurymachus murmurs something she cannot hear. Telemachus’ face drains of colour, his breath hitching sharply as his hands twist in the linen.

Before thought can reach her, she has crossed the distance and drawn him into her arms upon the bed.

“What did you say to him?” she demands, hearing his ragged breath, feeling the tremor in his frame.

Eurymachus only smiles. “A word of caution. I trust he will heed it better than his mother.”

She looks up at him, fury veiled beneath stillness, and holds her child tighter. Eurymachus cannot be reasoned with; he cannot be swayed. This is the taste of defeat. She is a queen in a palace asiege, and now she must bow to the victor. She will do so with grace, with pride – lest her breaking breaks her son as well.

Rather than yield Eurymachus another piece of her, she turns to her boy. She must see that he still breathes, tell him that he will be all right – that this night is but one of those dark passages a mortal life must cross, and that endurance will see them through it.

“Be merciful, then, my lord,” Penelope says, hollow, “and cease tormenting us with your presence.”

Eurymachus studies them, hands clasped behind his back, quietly pleased. “Fret not, my queen, my prince. Change is upon us indeed. Ithaca will prosper with me upon its throne.”

“Get out.”

He inclines himself at the waist – a parody of courtesy – and, with a languid flourish of his hand, turns and departs.

The silence that follows is so deep it seems to press the breath from her chest. She realises that her body trembles in time with her son’s, though she suspects the tremor is her own. 

“Telemachus,” she whispers, easing him to arm’s length so she may see him clearly. He yields without protest.

His eyes bear a troubling, glassy sheen – a distant look, as though his mind retreats from the ruin of this night. Would that she could let him drift, spared for a while from the weight of it; yet she fears the wounds upon his soul will fester if she does not call him back.

Will Eurymachus even permit a physician, should his cruelty have left lasting harm? Gods above. She may have to beg that her child suffer her touch long enough for her to know the measure of his pain. At least he wears his chiton still – a single, fragile thread of decency.

She cups his cheeks, mindful of the warmth beneath the pallor. “Sweetheart,” she murmurs, waiting until the inkling of awareness returns to his gaze. “Telemachus, precious one – tell me where you are hurt.”

Tears gather in sea-washed bronze eyes, shimmering green and gold in the wavering firelight. “I did not want this,” he whispers, voice so small she scarcely hears it. “Mother, I did not want any of it.”

“I know,” she says, wiping his tears. “Hush, love. None of this was your doing.”

“Not your fault,” he says, though the words tremble as they are born. The truth of what was done – of guilt and consequence – lies between them, inescapable as the night itself. She will meet lord Thanatos with that truth bound within her heart.

“Do you hurt?”

His breath catches; his teeth worry his lower lip, yet he does not answer.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his ear with one hand and threading her fingers gently through his hair. “There is no shame in pain, sweetheart. I know your heart aches – but does your body, too?”

He hesitates, his hands twisting together. Then, at last, in a voice so faint despite being so near: “Not… as much as I feared.”

She lets the silence reign a while, knowing she must speak once more, yet turning the words upon her tongue before she gives them voice.

“Listen to me,” she says at last, quiet but steady. “What happened tonight cannot change who you are. It takes nothing from your courage, nor from the man you are and will yet become. The shame is not yours to bear; it belongs only to him. Do you hear me? Not you.”

He nods faintly, and she feels the tremor through him. In that instant, her grief hardens into purpose.

“He will answer for it,” she whispers. “By the gods, he will answer.”

He presses close to her, her throat fast damp with his tears. “Do not let him keep me at night,” he sobs. “Please. I don’t – I don’t want this again. I don’t want An–” He shudders, moaning in despair. “I can’t.”

“I shall speak with him tomorrow,” she vows, though she knows any promise she makes may be one she cannot keep. “I will beg him, threaten him – whatever I must. My life for yours, sweetheart; that is the least I can give.”

He gives no answer, clinging instead to her as grief and pain find their only release in quiet weeping. She holds him fast, her eyes dry as the deserts of foreign shores.

May gracious Selene shine her light upon them this night, that they may feel her presence as a balm upon their souls.

No saviour will come. Penelope is alone in this: to guard her son’s body and his soul. She will become the meek thing Eurymachus desires – until Telemachus is safe, far from Ithaca. Then she will sow dissent among his men, salt his counsel, and scatter his path with stones that cut his feet. Whatever small torments she can fashion, she will make them his dowry.

In three days’ time her body will be his to claim – sooner, if she can persuade the council it must be so – but her mind will remain her own.

Let him think himself king; let him revel in the spoils of his cruelty. The man who sought to master her house and her son shall know no peace; his crown is gilded in blood, and it shall stain his reign to its end.