Page 6 of Elysium

THE SCREAM TORE THROUGH THE ROOM, wrenching Penelope from a fitful night of rest. Grateful as she was to have her husband home by her side - twenty years apart made for rough bedfellows.

She was on edge instantly, snatching up the small knife she kept tucked beneath her mattress. A reflex, one she would have to work to subdue. After years of living with rancorous suitors begging to bed her, she never slept without protection.

Her heart thundered as she scanned the room, her muscles taut and ready for battle. But as the fog of fear lifted, the sound caught up to her: low cries that turned quickly into panicked gasps.

Odysseus.

He thrashed in his sleep, bedsheets tangled around him like a snare.

The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground as Penelope knelt on the bed beside him. “Odysseus,” she whispered, laying a trembling hand on his cheek. “Odysseus, you’re home. Come back to me.”

All at once, she found her back pressed into the mattress and her hands gripped over her head. The man above her might have looked like her husband, but his eyes were wild, imprisoned by his own fear.

Refusing to fail him now, she steadied her breathing. “My love, you are safe.” She tried him again, “It’s me, It’s Penelope”

The blackness in his gaze began to fade, replaced by something softer, though no less haunted. His grip loosened, his weight sagging against her as though the strength had been sapped from his body.

She exhaled shakily, brushing her hand against his brow. “You’re home,” she muttered, though her heart still raced.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure who she was comforting - her husband, or herself.

Before either of them had a moment to settle their nerves, a frantic banging came at the door. “Mom!? Mom open the door!” Telemachus’ voice crashed through the silence. She heard a quiet curse come from her husband as she hurried to let her son in.

He took her in his arms almost immediately.

“Mom, what’s happening?” In her son’s embrace, she could feel the way his heart was racing.

Each beat was a reminder of the years they had spent without Odysseus.

Years that had shaped him into someone who feared the world in ways she might never truly understand.

How did she let him carry this alone? How did she let them both become so afraid?

Years without his father - her husband - clung to him like a shadow. It was raw; it was fresh and new. Even with Odysseus in the room with them, fear was evident in both of their trembling frames.

“It’s alright, Telemachus. We’re alright.” She whispered, trying to steady her voice, but it shook with the weight of years spent in the dark.

His breathing calmed, and she patted the cheek of her son.

He might now tower over her, but as she looked at his face, with shadows from the moon cast over his subsiding fear, all she saw was her son.

All she saw was the little boy that she had rocked to sleep each night, the little boy that she had raised alone.

And for a moment, she could almost pretend it had always been this way, the two of them, safe.

But then she felt it - the brush of a hand on her shoulder, hesitant and unsure. Gentle, and yet, she flinched. As if the touch was to be followed by a violence she’d experienced. Never asking for permission, always expecting compliance.

Before she could stop herself, she jerked away. The reflex was immediate, born of years spent fending off unwanted advances and wine-soaked threats hanging heavy in her memory.

Telemachus mirrored her, pushing away on instinct. His eyes were wide with confusion, quickly replaced with dread. The air was charged with the weight of what they both survived.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Penelope was weighed down with the shame that hung around her neck. As she met her husband’s eyes, she saw hurt flicker through his gaze. It was slight, but it was there.

“Oh, Odysseus,” she rasped finally, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean -” Her hand hovered, trembling in the space between them.

“It’s alright.” He responded quickly, cutting her off.

But the guilt continued to flood through her.

This man had fought his way from the edge of death to be here at their side - and she flinched away from his touch.

The tension in the room was palpable. The walls seemed to shrink with it.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He whispered, the confidence missing from his voice, replaced with something quiet - almost fragile.

But it was too late. Penelope could feel the space between them stretch, as though the past twenty years might never be bridged.

Their reunion, for all the warmth she had once imagined, was now suffused with something else entirely - this was not the ease of familiarity, but the rawness of something that needed mending.

Telemachus muttered a valediction, placed a gentle kiss on his mother’s cheek, and slipped out the door without another word.

“Odysseus -”

“Don’t.” He stopped her once again, lifting his hand to comfort her before dropping it once more. “Don’t apologize for the fears I was supposed to protect you from. Protect our son from. Don’t apologize for the strength you had to carry while I was away.”

Penelope’s throat constricted, tempting her emotions to break free of the dam she had built. How long had she yearned for his protection? For her husband to stand at her side once more?

As a tear slid down her cheek, she turned her head, embarrassed at the outward show of emotion. With her eyes shut tight, she let out a shaky breath. “I am not afraid of you.” Was she reassuring him, or herself? “I have never had a reason to fear you, and I do not have one now.”

“Penelope…” Odysseus started. He reached out again but did not falter this time, brushing the tear away with the pad of his thumb. His hand on her cheek felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

He gently turned her eyes to his. This time, she did not pull back from her husband. His hand on her cheek was a warm and welcome reminder of their lost love. “The only thing I am sure of is the man I am by your side. Come back to bed. Please.”