Page 33 of Elysium

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Menelaus had insisted that they hold a celebratory banquet in honor of his queen’s cousin, in honor of his wartime companion’s safe arrival home.

Both Penelope and Odysseus had assured the king that it wasn’t necessary, but he was off with plans before they could say their piece.

Odysseus was seated at the king’s table, at a spot of honor. A soft smile graced Penelope’s lips as she watched him talk loudly with strangers he had never met before.

Watching his smile, an old sense of familiarity tugged at her heart. He was boisterous where she was soft, loud where she was reserved. He truly was the best parts of her.

The Ithacan queen had been ushered along by old family friends, insisting that she catch up with women and maids that had once tended to her. She wanted nothing more than to sit at her husband’s side, with his constant, gentle touches. His nearness alone could intoxicate her.

As the nursemaids bombarded her with questions of Ithaca, of the suitors, and of Odysseus’ time away, something grabbed her attention out of the corner of her eye.

Helen approached the Ithacan King’s chair, carrying two goblets of wine.

A lithe grin was plastered on her cousin’s face as she took the seat next to him.

Curious, Penelope took a few steps closer, leaving the gaggle of women behind. Grip tightening on her own glass of wine. She watched as Helen laughed at something Odysseus said, dragging a finger up his arm.

Confusion surrounded her as she watched her cousin, her oldest friend, lean into her husband, batting her eyelashes and swatting at his arm playfully.

As Penelope continued to draw nearer to where her husband sat, she heard her cousin’s voice carrying through the room…

“You must be tired of chasing ghosts, Odysseus.”

Fury licked at the back of her throat as she looked upon her cousin’s antics. Penelope had spent decades manipulating the attention of men. Did Helen believe she wouldn’t know an act when she saw one?

He is still a man, Penelope. A voice slithered through her mind. The same voice that invaded her senses that night on the Ithacan shores.

Persephone.

Men have forgotten their vows for far less than Helen of Troy. Do you think Odysseus is worth your unwavering support?

Yes.

She knew he was.

She forced her breath steady, fought against the heat rising in her chest. What lied before her was not the conscious act of her husband. This was not Odysseus. This was the gods, playing their games.

Is your trust in him stronger than your fear, Queen? Your heart was so certain last night.

Penelope was infuriated. Of course, of course , the gods couldn’t have left them well enough alone. Of course, they would continue to meddle.

You think love is enough? Then watch.

Persephone’s voice echoed off of the recesses of her mind.

She had stood before Odysseus last night and chosen trust over fear. And now, the gods had decided to test that vow.

A peal of laughter rang out from her cousin as she pressed a hand to Odysseus’ chest. Penelope willed her feet to stay. She would not be another pawn in the god’s game, never again.

Her husband stiffened under the touch, and even from across the room, Penelope saw the tension coil in his shoulders. His breath came slow, measured. Deliberate.

Then, his gaze flickered, just once. Not to Helen.

To her.

She felt it deep in her ribs, the pull between them like the ocean’s tide. He knew. He knew exactly what was happening.

A knot that had been twisting itself tighter and tighter in her chest suddenly unraveled.

A hundred promises meant nothing if they weren’t followed by action. She had stood by him through war and absence, through the torment of the gods. But this moment, this choice , was his alone.

Helen’s fingers trailed along his chest, a golden siren spinning her spell.

And then…

Odysseus moved.

His hand closed around Helen’s wrist. Even from a distance, she saw his grip - firm, unwavering.

“Helen of Troy,” he mused, his voice deep and carrying, smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath. “You must think me a fool.”

The hall stilled. A wave of silence crashed over them, as though every guest was holding their breath.

He lifted Helen’s hand from his chest; he was unyielding. “I am not Paris.” His voice cut through the air, sharp, merciless. “And, I am not Menelaus.”

Then, without hesitation, he dropped her hand.

The room shifted. Helen stood frozen, her expression unreadable.

Odysseus was already stepping forward toward her.

Straight to Penelope.

The crowd parted.

They always parted for him.

It was as though her entire world had melted away. There was no war. No gods. No past. Only him, striding across the hall, eyes locked onto hers with the intensity of a man who had spent a lifetime fighting his way home.

Penelope’s breath caught.

He stopped in front of her, and for the briefest moment, she thought he might simply take her face in his hands and kiss her then and there.

Instead, his voice rang clear. “Penelope.”

Her name, spoken like an oath.

“I have fought wars for kings. I have conquered lands, sailed seas, outwitted gods.” His voice was steady, filling every inch of the grand hall. “But let it be known,” his eyes never left hers, “the only victory I have ever truly sought is your heart.”

The hush that followed was deafening.

And then… that wicked grin. That infuriating, boyish, heart-stopping grin, as he added, “And that, I won long ago.”

Odysseus, King of Ithaca, dropped to his knee.

The room gasped.

Penelope swayed.

Before gods and men, before her cousin and her king, before Sparta itself, Odysseus took her hand and pressed his lips, once, twice, three times, to her knuckles, to her palm, to the inside of her wrist.

Unhurried. Unapologetic. A claim, yes. But also a devotion.

He rose, slow and sure. Letting go of her hand.

Penelope released a breath, trembling, uneven. Then, without thinking, she stepped forward. Her palm pressed against his chest, where Helen’s had been moments before.

His hand came up, their fingers intertwined.

The world had not yet restarted.

She gazed up at him. She did not see him as the King of Ithaca, as a war hero, but as her Odysseus.

“No thrones,” she whispered.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, a smile fighting through his composure. “No gods.”

“No history.”

And then she silenced whatever came next the only way she knew how.

By kissing her husband.

The hall gasped again. No royal woman, no queen , would dare. Not in public. Not like this. But she didn’t care.

Let them watch.

Let them see.

The gods had tried to keep them apart. The sea had tried to keep them apart. No man, no throne, no force would ever come between them again.

She would allow no one, god or man, to question her devotion to the man before her.

The man who cradled her face so reverently.

The man who kissed her back as if she were his lifeline.

The man who had never stopped choosing her.

And when he kissed her back, it was not defiance.

It was not a claim.

It was truth.

He was hers.

And she was his.