Page 18 of Elysium

SHE HEARD ODYSSEUS SWEAR. “If this is what it takes for the lot of you to leave your queen alone, fine.” He spat, snatching the palintonos out of the man’s hand.

Penelope wrung her hands in her lap, the energy in the room creating an aura of unease around her. These men were angry, out for blood, and she wasn’t sure that the king’s cunning nature could soothe them.

The men dared not make a sound. She had expected jeering, screaming, and shouting. But he continued to command the room, even challenged.

The Ithacan King rolled his shoulders back, bracing the bow behind his knee. Penelope gasped as she watched the corded muscles on his back contract as he pulled his weapon taut. The veins on his arms stood stark against his tunic, revealing every bit of strength he never lost.

The tension was already shifting in the room, voices quieting as they watched Odysseus work.

The bow gleamed like fire in the sun’s light, its unusual curve familiar and deadly.

Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed the string.

It had been so long since she’d watched him wield power, so long since the world had felt balanced in her hands.

His breath came in ragged gasps, causing Penelope to flush. A gasp escaped her, and she clamped her mouth shut quickly.

But it wasn’t quick enough.

His gaze glanced at her, and she could only imagine what he saw. Her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, cheeks pink with blush and her own breaths coming heavier.

With a wink, the cord snapped into place, releasing a crack that echoed through the hall.

The sound vibrated down her spine, pooling in her chest and…

lower. Echoing in places she had long locked away.

Gods help her. She felt a stirring she thought she had buried, something carnal waking in her blood.

For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a flicker of dark flame curling like smoke at the edge of her vision. But when she blinked, there was only sunlight and stone, pulling her back into this moment with him.

This was the man she fell in love with. This was her husband. All parts of him were hers. His arrogance, his confidence, his maddening wit.

His arms, the way he held her for so many nights when she left everything she knew, everything that was safe.

His back, and how he had supported his family, built a home for them with his own two hands.

His heart, the only one she would ever love, no matter how many years he had been gone.

She had fought hard, for years, to harden her heart, and he had undone it with the stringing of a single bow. Watching him now… gods, she was a fool for him, too.

Murmured voices echoed in the agora, no one willing to look their king in the eyes. Penelope stood, folding herself into Odysseus’ side. “Drop your bow, King. You have nothing left to prove.”

Odysseus glanced down at her with a wild grin, his eyes alive with the same untamed fury that had stolen her breath all those years ago, stolen her heart. “Don’t I?” With his free hand, he tilted her chin up to meet his eyes fully, “Step back, wife.” He said, his voice low, demanding.

Penelope retreated a few steps backwards, a puzzled look on her face as her husband untangled himself from the now strung bow. He gripped his weapon firmly in one hand, using his other to pluck the bowstring, testing the tautness.

Penelope’s nerves were on fire, his rumination testing the resolve of her own strings. His arrogant smirk never left his mouth, even as he demanded an arrow from the audience.

She was enamored, star-struck. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him, even if she wanted to. As he notched the arrow onto the string, delicately drawing back the weapon, Penelope’s heart pounded in her chest, drowning out everything that wasn’t him .

He loosed the arrow, and a shudder slipped down Penelope’s back. She shivered, feeling anything but cold.

Her breath caught as the arrow found its mark… a pomegranate clutched in the hand of a suitor’s father, mid-motion, as he had been about to bite into the fruit.

Odysseus’ chest heaved with exertion, but his eyes never lost their mad spark. She stood there, speechless, as she watched a wave of quiet unease covered the agora.

“If there are no further questions, guests of Ithaca , you’re dismissed,” He said to the congregation of people, eyes never leaving his wife.

“Your queen and I have business to attend elsewhere.” The palintonos clattered to the ground, and in one fluid motion, he turned, snatching up his wife and carrying her from the crowds.

She gasped as he swept her up into his arms, her heart leaping into her throat. Before she could protest, her arms curled instinctively around his neck. “Odysseus,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against his ear.

He didn’t speak, not until he had slammed their bedroom door behind them and placed her firmly on the ground. Penelope felt as though her heart might burst from her chest, fingers trembling with the anticipation of this moment.

“I told you I could still string it.” He said, his voice low. The king took a step towards her. Then another. All thoughts of anything except the man in front of her had been swept away with the wind.

“I don’t recall needing convincing,” she replied, a little more breathless than she would have liked. She grinned at him, quirking an eyebrow. A challenge.

He took another step forward. Penelope stepped backwards, her back flush against the stone wall. Another step. He put his hands on either side of her head, caging her in.

She had never felt more free.

“No? Not even a little?” His voice was raw, dripping with desire. She watched as his eyes flicked down to her mouth and back up, almost asking permission.

She shook her head, “Never, King of Ithaca. I know who I married.” She intended for her voice to be strong, firm. But it was barely a whisper. He captivated her.

“My ego will never recover from this,” He mused, leaning forward to kiss the skin below her ear. His mouth traveled down her neck for a moment, nipping gently at her skin. She gasped, fingers curling into his tunic. “I have you undone, just by stringing my weapon.”

The power he wielded with his hands, whether bow, sword, or tender touch, he had always undone her.

His breath was hot against her throat as he nuzzled against her.

He hummed contentedly before laughing, the sound itself threatening to send the queen over the edge.

“I assure you, wife,” he shifted, resting his forehead against hers.

His eyes were almost black, his breathing just as labored as hers.

“Those unworthy suitors of yours could never match your old mad king.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She loosened her grip on his tunic to slide her hands up into his hair. Tangling her fingers up in the peppered strands, she whispered, “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes, but I’m yours.” His lips crashed into hers. Twenty years of separation, loneliness, and strife erased in this scorching kiss. This wasn’t the same chaste kiss they shared when he first returned, this was passionate and unrestrained.

His movements were as precise as his bowstring had been. Pulling taut, testing the line between pleasure and ruin. She prayed he would never release her.

Her hands tightened in his hair, keeping him anchored to her as though he might vanish if she loosened her grip. She tugged just enough to make him groan against her lips, and a thrill sparked in her blood.

His hands snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his body. She whimpered into his mouth, breath coming in unsteady gasps as his lips moved deftly against hers.

His mouth left hers, returning to the trail of skin on her neck. She attempted to steady her pulse, but she was drowning in him. The touch of his lips to her skin, the way his beard scratched against her neck, his hands gripping her against him.

She had forgotten… no… Buried how it felt to be undone by him, to be both held together and unraveled in the same breath. Now, her heart raced not with fear but with reckless abandon, as though the girl who first loved him had never hardened beneath the weight of twenty lonely years.

There had been a time when she would tease him endlessly, make him chase her through the olive grove like a boy in love with the thrill of the hunt. Now she let him catch her.

She would always let him catch her.

His hand found her knee, hitching her leg up around his waist. He moved closer still, encasing her in his smell, his touch.

She couldn’t help the way her hips rocked gently against his, eliciting a hiss from her king.

“If you continue that, my queen,” he rasped, breaths coming heavier against her skin. “You might break this stoic king.”

Penelope laughed, breathless. “No man has ever called you stoic, you giant oaf.”

He stilled against her all at once. The only sound in the room was their labored breaths. “Penelope…” he whispered finally, voice thick with something other than the desire that coursed through her veins.

She left her hands untangle from his hair, finding his cheeks. She gently guided him, locking her eyes with his. “Speak, husband.” She whispered, running the pad of her thumb over his greying beard.

“I have waited twenty years to hear your laughter.” He said finally, closing his eyes. “Twenty years to hold you in my arms again.” He turned, placing a gentle kiss on the inside of her palm.

“I’m not ready, Penelope,” he murmured, voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t doubt, not entirely, but it was heavy.

She felt his words deep in her chest, a soft ache that rose with all the unspoken history between them.

She understood. The man in front of her, the man she had loved for so long, wasn’t just her husband…

he was a man who had endured too much, carried too many burdens, and she knew how much those scars must weigh on him.

“We have time,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “We don’t need to rush.”

His gaze softened, but there was something almost mournful in the way he looked at her, as if his heart wanted more than he could give. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and for a moment, she wondered if he was apologizing for more than just the silence that hung between them.

But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she closed the small distance that remained, pressing her lips to his temple in a soft kiss. She would not force him, but she would not let him slip away, either, not when they had already come so far.