Page 3 of Elysium
SHE STOOD ON A PRECIPICE.
If her heart were to be trusted, her husband was just on the other side of the door. She heard the shattering of glass, and the screaming of men, and her intuition gave way to a feeling she had lost over a decade ago.
Hope.
It fluttered like a butterfly within her chest, fragile yet insistent.
Even with the sounds of her palace crumbling beneath her, she thought of him.
Had he come home?
Had he saved her?
And yet - as quickly as the feeling emerged, she beat it down. She was the Ithacan Queen, even the smallest falter, the lightest weakness and — if she was wrong — the 108 men that desecrated her palace would take the opportunity to eat her alive.
Penelope was not allowed hope, not after this long. Hope led to trickery, to debasement, and to naivety.
Hope had no place in the fortress she had built around her heart.
She rose slowly from her seat, the knocking at the door synchronized with her fluttering pulse. Unraveled weavings fell all around her, but she spared the shroud no second glances as she steadied herself with a deep breath.
Try as she might, she could not taper the rising feelings of joy in her chest.
For a moment, her stomach lurched, remembering all the times she convinced herself she saw his ship on the horizon or heard his footfalls in the hall. All the times she cried herself into a fitful sleep, praying the gods would be kind enough to allow him into her dreams, if only for one night.
For the moment after that, she steadied herself. She had taught herself how to swallow such dangerous feelings whole.
“Come in,” she said, her voice strong. No matter who she was about to greet, she would do so with the same stoicism that she had led this island with for the last twenty years.
The door creaked open, and a man stood before her. A man that only partially resembled the man she had fallen in love with. War had not been kind to him.
She swallowed hard, holding her ground. “Tell me, stranger, what should I call you? Husband - or phantom?”
Her voice betrayed nothing. Not her strength or the storm of emotions raging underneath her skin.
The weapons that she hadn’t seen in his hands clattered to the floor, droplets of blood speckling around where they lay. As her eyes traveled back up the body of the man in her doorway, she noticed the blood that was caked on him, telling stories of numerous ended lives.
She would not weep for the deaths of the men that had invaded her home, the men that had brought shame upon her, and put her son’s life in danger. But… to see such massacre written on one man’s skin sent a shiver down her spine.
A tired grin crossed the face of the man before her as he took a few cautious steps into the room. Penelope’s heartbeat quickened as she watched him draw nearer to her. The ever-present fear that lay beneath her skin was screaming at her to move.
But he stopped, just beyond where she could touch him. The two of them stood there as though time itself had stopped. Neither one moved. Neither one dared to shatter the silence that enveloped them.
And then, as if collapsing under the weight of time lost, he dropped to his knees, shoulders shaking with unheard sobs.
“I know not what you should call me.” Was his reply, his voice thick with anguish. “I’m not sure I know what to call myself anymore.”
How many times had she prayed, had she begged the gods to bring him home to her, only to wonder if she would even recognize him?
Would he recognize her?
Her body moved of its own accord, tethered to this man by something unspoken, unbroken. She knelt in front of him. “You sound much like a man I fell in love with long ago.” She whispered to him, fighting back her overwhelming need to take him in her arms.
“Was it too long ago?” He lifted his face from his hands, finally looking at her. “Have I taken too long?”
His eyes were haunting, tired. The man she loved, her husband, had eyes as blue as the skies, as deep as the oceans they sailed upon. But this man… the life was gone from his eyes. The grey-blue hue of them carried a grief that she could not even imagine.
The need to touch him, to embrace her husband, won out.
She grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to her, burying her face in his wild hair.
“Never.” She whispered, the weight of twenty years heavy in her voice as she held him tight.
“I would wait decades more to hold you in my arms again. You are still my husband.”
“Penelope…” He replied, pulling back to look at her. “My heart.” His voice trembled. “Do you think you would still love me, still accept me as your husband, even if I am not the man that left for war so many years ago?”
His hand cupped her cheek, skin tacky against hers. Feeling the blood of the men that had invaded her home against her cheek sent a chill down her spine. She leaned into his touch, breath faltering at his query. “Nothing could keep me from loving you. Not tragedy, not time.”
Odysseus shook his head, as if in disbelief. As she tracked his war-worn expression, an idea came to her. One last act that would settle her nerves, quell any anxieties she might harbor for this man, and hopefully, ease his conscience, too.
Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though her voice remained sharp. “I… have to tell you something. Something I must get off of my chest.”
Odysseus quirked an eyebrow, confusion flashing across his face.
Penelope rose from the ground, brushing off her hands and turning her back to her husband.
“I had our wedding bed removed many years ago. What stands beyond is a replacement. It felt…” She took a deep breath, shoulders sagging.
“It felt wrong to lie there at night without you by my side.” She shifted slightly, watching her husband out of the corner of her eye.
“It wasn’t right to leave it as it was. Not without you. ”
The warrior king rose to his feet, a look of ire and disbelief written on his features. “You lie, Penelope.” His expression darkened, his voice low and unyielding.
“Do I?” She faced her husband, shoulders back and chin tall, a chill fluttering across her skin
His voice trembled, just barely, beneath the anger. “You tell me you’ve moved it?”
“Examine it, husband, and you’ll see for yourself.”
He took a step closer to her, studying her closely as if looking for a trick.
“That bed cannot be moved,” His voice wavered with restrained emotion.
“I carved it from the olive tree where we shared our wedding vows. The tree where I vowed my love to you. The centerpiece of our lives together, our palace built around a single bed, and you tell me you’ve moved it?
No one, no mortal or god, could tear it from where it stood. ”
Penelope let out a breath, relief flooding her very bones, followed by a smile that overtook her face before she could tamp it down. Her voice softened. “After twenty years. My husband has returned to me.”