Page 59 of Elysium

THE SUN WAS RISING BY THE TIME he had finished cleaning up the weapons room he had used to get his answers. Odysseus prayed she would understand that he hadn’t come for her.

His work was not complete. He still had one last point to make. To the people attending his son’s celebration, to the gods, to his family.

Odysseus, King of Ithaca, would not lay down and let the gods walk all over him.

Zeus’ threat did not end with the attack — would not end because Odysseus took one more mortal life. With each strike of his dagger, he wove a deeper, more complicated tapestry of anger with the gods.

He sat now, in his son’s seat of honor, waiting for the day to begin. His hands were bloodstained, his tunic stiff with the lingering gore.

They would be here at any moment. His son and his wife would walk through those doors. They would see the vengeful creature that he’d devolved into since seeing that man’s blade on his queen’s throat.

Truth be told, he’d become a vengeful man long before last night.

He used to be a man who made promises, who swore on the gods’ names that he would return to her, swore that nothing could snatch his kind heart and his good nature.

Now, he sat here on his son’s throne, covered in the blood of those who dared to threaten his family.

He was a shadow of the man he once was.

Would Penelope even recognize him now?

We will never doubt this again.

Her words echoed in his head as he heard the bustle of Ithaca outside the walls. His pulse picked up as the thought of coming face to face with his wife crossed his mind.

The large courtyard doors creaked open, followed instantly by the sound of screams. Odysseus did not move, did not breathe. His eyes searched the crowd for his wife.

As his people trickled in, he fought to keep his composure. He would not shy away from the acts he committed in the dark now that the sun was up.

Shouts continued throughout the space as their eyes fell on his masterpiece.

He strung up the bastard who had broken into his home in the middle of the open space. Stripped bare and covered in his own blood and piss. His head lolled off to the side, eyes blank.

This is what happened to those that laid hands on his wife.

He had killed 108 men for her. What was one more?

His eyes still rapidly searched the crowd, seeing shocked and horrified faces, unable to find her .

His heart rate kicked up another notch. Was she hurt? Was she angry? His fist clenched either side of the throne, knuckles white as his anxiety heightened.

And then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through his cloud of negative thoughts, she was there. She stood just beneath where the man was strung up. But her eyes were on Odysseus. They did not stray.

He felt like a young man, shy and inexperienced. The last time he felt as helpless as this was in Sparta… looking upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, praying to the gods that she would, somehow… some way, be his.

She moved towards him, and the entire world froze. Perhaps people kept screaming, perhaps women fainted and men tossed up their lunch, but all he saw was her.

She moved through the room with an inhuman grace, with the delicacy of a goddess, with the pose of a woman who had ruled for a millennia.

He didn’t miss how the edges of her dress were stained. Penelope had passed through the blood that had pooled underneath his mutilation. She carried the evidence of his deeds.

His breath was ripped from his chest, his mouth suddenly dry as she neared him. The laurel crown that was woven through her curls reflected the morning sun like a halo.

She was everything .

Odysseus opened his mouth to speak, but all his confidence and swagger turned to ash on his tongue as she stepped in front of him. “My king,” her voice was a song, covering him in the warmth of her sunlight.

Slowly, weighed down by the intensity of this moment, she raised her hand. Her fingers danced across his cheek, her touch ethereal against the sweat of his skin. “Are you hurt?”

All at once, every ounce of tension, every modicum of stress, fell off his shoulders. He leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed her in. “Wife,” was all he could manage, “My wife.”

Her touch did not retreat as he opened his eyes, her immovable gaze locked onto him. “Whatever is in your head, Odysseus,” she whispered for his ears only, “Say it.”

The silence in the courtyard was not just perceived. The entire community paused with bated breath, waiting to see what next the mad king would do. “I don’t regret killing him,” He finally managed, unable to look away from her despite his rising guilt.

“I don’t recall asking for your shame, husband.”

“He hurt you.”

“He did.” Her words were absolute. “He also hurt you.”

“Bah,” he shook his head, finally able to break free from her stare. “I have changed much since we met on Spartan soil, wife.”

“As have I, husband .” Her eyes narrowed, the look that crossed her face bordered on impatience.

“You haven’t…”

“Killed a man?” She finished for him. “Decorated our son’s coronation celebration with his innards?” She bent down, grabbing his chin with her hand. “Left my wife alone that same night, wondering if her mad love was dead or alive.”

“Penelope-”

“Convincing me to not love you is a Sisyphean task, you fool.” There was a fire in her eyes, one that had anchored him many times over their lives together. “Did I not vow to support you, to love you, to stand by your side through every trial?”

Odysseus recoiled slightly as she recited her marriage vows to him. “Face your people, king. Say what you need to say, but you will say it by my side.”

He stood, the blood from his actions still covering his tunic, his hands, but he stood. Penelope pivoted to stand next to him, weaving her hand through his arm. “Together, my king,” she breathed, “Or not at all.”

She was a catalyst, bolstering him with every breath. “People of Ithaca, guests, esteemed friends…” Instantly, he felt Odysseus the King take over his fear, his anxieties. With his wife at his side, he could be unstoppable. “There was an attack on your queen last night.”

Gasps rippled throughout the room.

“The threat was neutralized, and will not harm another.” He nodded towards the scene he had created in the middle of the room. “But let it be known, let it stand , that in Ithaca, outside of Ithaca, in the home of the gods themselves… No harm will come to my wife, no harm will come to my son.”

There was another wave across the courtyard, this one of approval, agreement. The people of Ithaca always stood behind their king. “Be it Zeus, be it Sparta, be it my father’s hands. I will keep her safe above all else.”

He heard his wife inhale sharply next to him, her grip on his hand tightening.

“My son,” he continued, eyes finding Telemachus in the crowd. “Know that there is no one I trust as much as you, especially when it comes to your mother.” The men exchanged a nod, an agreement.

“There is nothing to forgive, Father.” Was Telemachus’ response, causing both king and queen to smile.

“Enjoy your day, son. You have earned every moment of revelry.” Odysseus bowed to the king, Penelope following suit.

“I am remiss to say my wife and I must retire.” He clasped their son’s arm, dropping his voice.

“We have much to discuss. Find us after your celebration has ended, son. Your mother and I will be waiting.”

The two left this festival in a manner much different from the first. Arm in arm, heads held high. His blood boiled beneath his skin, too many things stirred inside of him.

But the strongest was pride. Pride in his wife, at the way she stood strong in the face of everything he threw at her. Pride in the way she met him step for step, and the way she would never allow him to slip, never allow him to wallow.

The gods knew -

No.

Not the gods.

Odysseus knew exactly the partner he needed to stand by his side.