Page 27 of Elysium
PENELOPE WATCHED FROM THE DOCK as their sailors loaded the final trunk onto the ship. Along with their provisions for the journey, Ithaca was bringing olives, fruits, and a variety of honey to Sparta with them as a gesture of continued good will.
She would be lying if she claimed to feel at ease about this trip, as necessary as it was.
Standing here by the sea, the past overwhelmed her.
The ocean lapping against the pitch of the ship, the tang of salt lingered on her tongue, sharp as the loss she had felt that day.
She was back in that moment when they said goodbye.
That Penelope had no idea what was waiting for her, no idea the hells and horrors that she would face. All she knew was grief, raw, debilitating grief, as she had tried to wrap her head around her husband, leaving to fight in a war against the gods themselves. How she could bear to let him go.
“The sea still stirs something in you, doesn’t it, wife?” His voice was soft, measured, but she felt the weight of the question in every syllable.
His hands softly gripped her arms. His touch was welcome - steady and warm. A faint smile tugged at her lips. They had taken to accommodating the other without a second thought. Announcing their closeness to keep from startling the other.
“Not the sea,” she replied, her voice quieter than intended. “What it’s taken.”
Odysseus’s hands tightened ever so slightly, his thumbs brushing against her arms in a silent gesture of reassurance. “It’s also what’s brought us back to each other,” he said, tilting his head toward the ship. “And what will carry us forward.”
Penelope’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, though her heart still clenched with the weight of memory. “Do you think it knows,” she asked, nodding toward the restless waves, “what it’s done to us?”
He didn’t answer right away, his gaze sweeping over the horizon as if searching for the right words. “No… The god of the sea is cruel. He takes and takes,” he said finally. “But I do. And I know this, Penelope: no tide, no storm, no gods will take me from you again.”
Her chest tightened as she turned to face him fully, her fingers brushing the worn linen of his sleeve.
“I’m glad you’re coming.” She said softly, though her eyes drifted downward, unwilling to meet his for too long.
A sour tang of weakness rose in her throat, and she felt the weight of an old, familiar war within herself.
For twenty years, she had been stoic, steadfast, and unyielding as stone.
That had been her armor, her necessity to survive.
But standing here now, on the docks of Ithaca, with the ocean air tangling her hair and the waves crashing behind them, she realized how much of herself had been built around absence. His absence.
And now, falling into her husband’s eyes, there was a quiet yearning she couldn’t ignore. A desire to let the weight of it all slip from her shoulders. To be held, to be protected. To feel, if only for a moment, the safety she hadn’t even realized she had lost.
So she did.
She stepped closer, closing the space between them, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of his tunic as she pressed her cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.
It was a sound she had dreamed of, prayed for, and now it was real. Warm. Solid. Hers.
For a moment, Odysseus hesitated, startled by the suddenness of her movement.
Then his arms came around her, steady and sure, cradling her as if to shield her from the winds and waves alike.
One hand rose to her hair, his fingers threading through the dark strands as he whispered, “I’m here, Penelope. Always.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she let herself lean into him, let herself rest in the strength of the man she had never stopped waiting for. “Sorry,” she murmured eventually, pulling away and swiping at the tears on her cheeks.
Odysseus pressed a soft kiss to her temple, a grin teasing the corner of his mouth. “Come, wife. Our son waits to see us off.”
There was nothing quite so awkward as the tension that lingered between king and son.
Penelope choked on it each time the three of them were together.
Standing by Odysseus’ side, she felt young again - like the princess he had fallen in love with.
They were mending the wounds in each other, stitch by painful stitch.
But with Telemachus, she was a queen, a mother, and a warrior of her own accord. She herself grappled with unifying the two versions of Penelope that she held inside of her. The Penelope of the past, and the Penelope of the present.
She patted her son’s cheek, offering him a watery smile. “Be safe, my heart.” She said, suddenly overcome with emotion. “We will be back within a fortnight, should all go well.”
“And if all doesn’t?” He challenged, but she could see the shadows stirring behind his eyes.
“It will be well.” Odysseus stepped in, clapping his son on the shoulder. His voice carried a steady assurance, even as his eyes lingered on Penelope’s face. “If it is not well…” He paused, looking between mother and son with a softening gaze, “We will be home within a fortnight.”