Page 19 of Elysium
HE WALKED THE HALLS ALONE THAT NIGHT. The marble was worn, not by his own steps, but by the restless pacing of a son raised in his absence.
By the steps of a queen forced to reign in his stead.
As the moonlight filtered into the expanses, his fingertips trailed the stones as he passed, brushing over once familiar carvings.
This palace had been built by his will, his sweat, his strength.
Now, it belonged to them. To a queen who had ruled in his place.
To a prince who had grown into manhood without him.
The loom stood quiet in the corner of the great hall, the threads too perfect, too exact. He remembered the way she had laughed when she wove her first pattern, cursing the knots and crooked lines. “I’ll never be like Helen,” she had said, exasperated, her cheeks flushed with frustration.
“Good,” he had replied, pulling her close, “because Helen was never enough for me.”
He clenched his fists. Her loom had become a weapon. Her clever hands had woven lies to outlast the gods. She had held Ithaca, held him , while he had been powerless against fate.
The weight of the mundane pressed against his chest. Penelope had built this world, a kingdom of survival. She had not waited helplessly. She had made Ithaca bend to her will. He was a king who had won wars, but she had carried him home on her back.
His ruminations brought him back to their chambers, the grain of cypress wood rough against his palm. Standing here, he was reminded of the first night they shared in this room. He had carved their bed himself, a labor of love and devotion to the woman that now slept soundly on the other side.
He paused before entering the room, mind reeling at the events of the last day.
Odysseus would have given anything in the last decade to have had Penelope at his mercy, to have her crushed against him and never let her go, but when he was presented with the opportunity, he froze. He was back on Ogygia, on Aeaea.
He was leagues away from the place of his nightmares, but they still threatened to push him further away from his queen.
He pushed the door open quietly, starlight spilling into the room, illuminating his steadfast wife as she slept. She lay with one hand curled near her cheek, the other resting where he had left her. The sheets were tangled around her legs. She always kicked them off when she was restless.
His heart clenched at the sight.
Odysseus sank into the edge of the bed, sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped.
He sat there in the silence, the weight of obligation pressing at his back.
He might be here, but he was a broken man, missing pieces of himself to time and to loss.
But she was here, and she had always been enough.
His voice broke the silence. “There were nights,” he whispered, “that I would have given anything to hear your voice, just for a moment.”
He felt Penelope stir behind him, but he did not turn.
“I am here now,” she replied softly, voice thick with sleep. She reached for him, gently laying a hand on his back.
“Yes,” he muttered, “but I fear… I am not whole.”
She moved, sitting behind him now. She pressed her cheek to his back, her warmth folding into him. “I know,” she whispered, and he could feel her breath against his skin, pulling him deeper into his sorrow. “Let me carry it with you, my king.”
He didn’t turn to meet her eyes, couldn’t bear to look at her as he pulled memories long buried into the present.
“Polites always laughed when the wind howled,” His voice catching, he cleared his throat, willing himself to continue. “He thought that courage and cleverness would be enough to challenge the storms.”
He felt her hand gently touch his arm. “And it wasn’t?”
“Courage is poor armor against a storm, queen,” he muttered, “or a king’s pride. When I told them to row harder, they did without question. He smiled even as the water swallowed him.”
He didn’t miss the way her breathing hitched. “He was loyal to you.”
“I was supposed to bring them home, bring all of them home.” His words tasted like ash on his tongue, tears threatening. “I left him to drown.”
Penelope moved without hesitation, circling her arms around his chest. She anchored him in this moment, into their bedroom and this life. “Odysseus,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his shoulder.
“Do not pity me, wife,” He muttered, reaching up to clasp her hands in his. “I will bear the weight of my choices until I draw my final breath.” He pulled her hands up, pressing his lips to her skin, a kiss both fierce and fragile. “But I am home, I am here with you, and that is peace enough.”