Page 17 of Elysium

“TRULY, YOU MAD WOMAN,” Odysseus groaned, rolling his eyes as she stood, “I have been home less than a week, and you want me to sit and listen to the grievances of the men of Ithaca?”

“Yes, king, I do. I have been holding gatherings and listening to grievances of many more men for so many years.” She clasped her hands behind her back, raising an eyebrow at the man in front of her.

Her heart skipped a beat as she watched a smile spread across his face, a childlike mirth gleaming in his eyes.

He was as handsome as the day she met him, aging like the finest Spartan wine.

He was made to grow old, the roots of his hair peppered with greys.

Each wrinkle on his face told a story, but her favorites were the ones that crinkled the corners of his eyes when he laughed.

She would wait a lifetime to see those lines grace his smile.

“And I took care of over a hundred of those men!” He said, exasperated. He stood, wiping his hands on his tunic while looking at her. “Haven’t I done enough? You leave me no peace, woman.” He sighed, but his eyes twinkled with delight.

“Not nearly, my dear.” Was her measured response. “Do hurry, mighty king,” she gestured for him to walk ahead of her, so she could follow in his footsteps, as a good wife and queen was wont to do. “Wouldn’t want your men to think their ruler had gone soft in his time away.”

He offered his arm, and time stopped. Penelope’s breath hitched, tears threatening to spill once more. “Together, my queen,” he whispered, “or not at all.”

For twenty years she had walked ahead, alone, where he lingered only in memory. Now, his arm was hers again, not in possession but in partnership.

She took his arm, fastening her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Each of their touches felt like the first again, her heart fluttering like the foolish nineteen-year-old girl she had been all those years ago.

“You’re allowed tears, you know,” Odysseus mentioned softly, resting his hand atop hers.

“You’ve carried this kingdom on your back for years, my wife. Allow yourself the freedom of sorrow.”

Penelope shook her head. “I’m not sorrowful.

” She looked to the King, a sad smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

The tears still brimmed, doing little to convince Odysseus.

“I am overwhelmed with emotions. Many of them are hard to name. But I only feel sadness when I am apart from you, even for a moment.” She offered her own watery smile.

“You have been the source of all my happiness throughout my life. You and your son.”

Odysseus pressed a gentle kiss into her hair. “Then we shall never be apart until Charon himself ferries us to the beyond.”

She laughed more freely this time. She never thought it possible to laugh again, to find joy in her life. But… She had given up hope on her husband returning, too.

His touch grounded her. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

The king would hum a tuneless song, and Penelope found herself falling deep into the man he was.

There was so much that needed to be repaired.

So much that they had to bury in order to survive…

But there was also so much of them that was the same.

“Ody,” Penelope stopped just before reentering the walls of the palace. “We should talk about the night of the festival.” She worried her lip, refusing now to make eye contact with him.

He stiffened under her touch. “No, I don’t think we should.” He replied, short but not unkind.

“Odysseus-”

“Not yet, Penelope. Not yet. The gods have stolen enough from us. Let us have these moments.” His body relaxed again, as if releasing any tension he held from that night in an instant. “Before I let their shadows fall on you again.”

She was torn between arguing and allowing him the false pretense of peace. She knew the specter would return to haunt them once more, but she felt like they were falling into a comfortable companionship, and she would willingly challenge the gods herself if it meant keeping that.

The king pushed the door open, allowing her to enter first. Penelope hated these gatherings.

Recently, each one ended with her son escorting her out while suitors and their families screamed and sneered at her.

She should have felt relief that the suitors were no longer around to cause her the same strife, but intuition told her that their troubles were far from over.

The agora was filled with angry faces, already shouting their demands. Penelope sent a quiet prayer of thanksgiving up to whichever god was listening: Telemachus wasn’t here.

Odysseus let his arm go lax, causing her hand to drop limp by her side.

She immediately felt the vast space, isolated in a room full of people.

But the separation lasted mere seconds before she felt his hand on the small of her back, warm and comforting.

She released a shaky breath, stepping up to the dais that held their seats.

Penelope perched herself at the edge of hers, not settling back or resting her arms on the sides.

Odysseus took his place next to her. He reached over the arms of their chairs and rested his hand on her thigh, grounding her once again. Her heart faltered when the king gave her leg a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He was here. She would not face this alone.

“Justice for our sons!” a voice from the mess of faces shouted, followed by several calls of agreement.

“Reparations for our losses!” A different voice yelled.

Penelope was swimming in the sea of shouts. Taking a breath to steady herself, the room smelt of sweat. Her pulse climbed in her chest. Her eyes darted across the swarm of red-faced men, her resolve wavering.

“Your sons,” Odysseus’ voice cut through the madness of the hall, silencing the men at once, “Lie in graves of their own making. The next man to raise his voice at my queen will join them.”

Penelope’s breath stuttered. She had forgotten what it felt like to hand over the reins. It had been too long since she had been supported and protected.

“Speak your grievances, guests of Ithaca,” finally finding her voice, addressing the crowd of men. “Your king and I are here to listen.” She turned her attention to her husband, who was looking at her with a dangerous grin, eyes sparkling with what she could only assume was mischief.

A soft rumble of voices washed over the crowd before one man stepped forward. He was an older man, tall but thin. He stood firmly at the foot of the dais, his eyes cut at the queen. “What have you to say, sire?” Odysseus asked, leaning forward to rest his free hand on his knee.

He was foreboding. His presence alone had charged the atmosphere of the room.

No man would dare speak the ways they had to her, to her son.

Her heart galloped as she watched his body language.

This man was a natural born leader. He demanded the attention of all that he overlooked.

It had taken her years of leading on her own to garner a fraction of what he had.

She was so utterly enamored with him, everything he meant to her. How could she have forgotten this?

“King, our sons were slaughtered. Our family lines have been cut with the shooting of your bow. How will you pay back this debt?”

Odysseus laughed, causing the queen to tighten her grip on her chair.

Inhaling sharply, she kept her eyes trained on her king.

“Debt? My good man, I assure you, it is you who owes the crown a debt.” He stood from his chair, taking a step closer to the crowd.

The silence that overtook the room was eerie.

The only sounds were the shuffling of feet.

“Your sons ate my livestock, desecrated my palace, and laid hands on my wife and my son.” His tone was deliberate, almost mocking.

“And yet you stand in front of me and ask for reparations.” He turned, walking around the pair of chairs where Penelope sat, frozen. “Reparations for what?” He sneered, coming alongside the queen and resting a hand on her shoulder.

She reached up instinctively and placed her hand atop his, grounding herself in him. He looked down to her, eyes searching her face. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, asking a question. Asking permission.

She nodded in response, placing her trust in her mad husband. Her instincts screamed at her to step in, to soothe and to guide the conversation. But she swallowed down the fear that she had led with for all these years and allowed her king to take the lead.

“Who among us can say you are truly Odysseus?” Another man shouted, practically spluttering his words. “The gods can disguise and mis-convey all information. The queen could be lying.”

Odysseus cut his eyes at the outspoken man, taking a deep, measured breath. She felt his hand tighten on her shoulder, his eyes darkening.

“Someone fetch my bow.”