Archive of Our Own

PROLOGUE:

TWENTY YEARS BEFORE HIS RETURN

Penelope lived. There were days when she felt as if she could live no longer, but Penelope lived. 

She could not remember much from those first few days — or perhaps it had been weeks, months, years, she could not remember — after his departure, when he had stood upon that ship, that shore, and had stolen her heart away with him as his figure drifted further and further away, every wave another dagger upon her chest. 

She had thought it odd, then, that she had still breathed, still lived. It felt like an impossible thing, to continue living when her heart had been torn away, stolen from her chest like the way those shores had stolen her lord, her husband, her Odysseus. She had spent the following days half expecting the messenger-god to appear, to guide her into the realm for those who no longer lived, who no longer had no heart to beat. 

After all, surely it was impossible to continue living with a heart as torn as her own. 

And yet, oddly enough, she did. 

Not that it made much of a difference, really. 

She could still remember, then, how it felt as if nothing had truly mattered. Not her duties, not her health, not the way Autonoë and Eurynome had pleaded for her to eat, not the cries from Telemachus’ nursery that was just so shrill some nights that she had spent several nights with the pillow over her head just to avoid his crying. 

Nothing had mattered, then, and even now, she could scarcely remember much of it. 

She doubted there was really much to remember, either way. She had spent most of her days in bed, staring at the sky or ceiling, weeping for a shade that would not answer her calls, however much she pleaded or begged.

But she could remember — very clearly — the day his first letter had arrived. How long she had spent living as a shell by then, she could not remember. She had only felt it to be weeks, perhaps, a month at most, but Penelope had never been counting. 

(Though, later, Eurycleia would tell her it had been several months, and she would think that a part of her should be ashamed. But she was not. There was too little left in her for it).

The letter had arrived from a merchant’s ship, one that just so happened to be passing through the shores of Ilion before returning to Achaea. It had been delivered to a servant, then given to her by Eurycleia. And it had been then that she had risen from bed for the first time in weeks. 

Its arrival, perhaps, had given her the will to live again. 

It had been written upon a scroll of papyrus, bound by a singular thread and slightly sea-damp from it's long voyage. When Penelope had unravelled it, she had spent several minutes simply staring without reading, marvelling at that same, elegant writing that had become more familiar to her ever the years than the back of her own hand. 

It had been long — of course it had been long, her Odysseus had never been one for brevity, after all. But Penelope was not complaining. 

She had relished it. 

Every word, every letter, every stroke of ink written by Odysseus’ own hand, his own words, his brilliance. She had drunken it all in like a fish deprived of water, like a sea-nymph deprived of the tides. 

Even now, she could still remember every sentence, every word, every syllable. She had read it too many times to forget, and every stroke of ink had been etched within her own memory. 

--

To my wife, my dearest, my Queen: Penelope,

For all these months spent, oceans away from Ithaca, from you, from Telemachus — there has not been a single day that goes by where I do not long to hold you, to hold our son, to bathe beneath the light, shaded by olive trees as we do so often during those heat drenched summer days. Some nights I dream of it. Of you, of days where there are no wars, no battles, no seas to separate us — just you and Darling Telemachus, in Ithaca. Perhaps in the Olive groves or the beach, or simply in our bedchambers, within the bed where I had held you first as a bride and where I first had held our dear son. 

It is both a torture and a mercy. Often I feel as if my delusions are far better than reality, but that is simply why they are, delusions. And no matter how much I will for them to be real, to feel Telemachus in my arms, to be caught in the gentle scent of you, I am no god, and those delusions never will be. 

Not now, at least. Every beat of my heart, every breath I take, every battle I strive to survive — they are all for you. For both of you, for our reunion. 

I pray, my heart, that you have not lost hope. Not yet. Not ever. I am with you still and I will be until the end of our days. But those is still far, still distant, and even if the gods chose to condemn me I will ensure that it remains so. Time moves ever so slowly, upon these shores. Sometimes even slower still. But however slow these days may crawl by, I will live through every single one as long as I get to return to you.

Our battles have not reached much succession. Perhaps I should not be so surprised, the walls of Ilion were built by the hand of Poseidon Basileus and Phoebus Apollo themselves. Still, it has proved to be a struggle. 

But remember this, my light — do not let it deter you. We have Athena Promachos with us, guiding our every step, every battle. Never once have I doubted her, I do not intend to do so now.

But if I were being truthful, my greatest worry is not the war, not the walls, not the days that continue to pass without our fruition. My greatest worry is you. 

How have you been, my Darling Penelope? Have you been eating enough? Sleeping enough? Are you healthy? I know your body has been tender, ever since having our son. Are you recovering well? I hope you are. I pray to the gods that you are. That both you and our son are. Perhaps he has said his first word already. Or perhaps he had started crawling. I hope he brings you comfort. I hope he makes you feel less abandoned. 

I know it has been difficult for you, my love, I know. And I am sorry. I truly am sorry. I am sorry that my scheme had failed us, that I had failed to think of another way to remain with you, with our Telemachus. 

I really am sorry, and if you were to grow resentful of me because of it, that is your right, and once I return, every moment will be spent making up for it all. For leaving you, for leaving Telemachus, even if nothing might ever be enough. 

But I know, my Penelope, that you are strong — the strongest woman I have ever known. And this is why I ask this of you, even if it might feel like too much to ask for. I ask that you continue to rise with the sun each day, that you continue to hold our son in your arms, that you may see him smile, crawl, walk, talk, even if I might never do so. I ask that you continue to live, even if I know that you yourself had told me that you might not be able to for long. Even if I know that some days it might seem too much to ask. 

But that is all I ask of you, my love: that you continue to live, for however long I continue to fight to return to you. 

Please be safe. Be healthy. Be well. And make sure our Telemachus is, too.

Forever yours, your Odysseus, husband of Penelope, loving father of Telemachus.

--

Her vision had been blurred by tears, after reading it all, and she had even needed to pull away for fear that the stream running down her face might stain the ink.

Afterwards, she had done as he had asked of her. She had risen from bed, bathed, had her hair done, had food sent to their bedchambers, had gone to see Telemachus, had gone to Laertes and asked to take over the work he had taken in her stead. Her father in law had only given her half, had said he could do the rest himself. Perhaps he just hoped for a distraction, perhaps she had not imagined the concern in his eyes. 

Penelope had never been close with her husband's family, but by then, she appreciated them all the same. 

And she lived. 

In spite of herself, she spent her days governing the kingdom, caring for Telemachus, rising with Helios and eating and sleeping and all of the things she had neglected to do. Most days, she would take Telemachus to the gallery, would point at the tapestry of his father that she had woven with her own hands and we would say “That's your Papa, darling.” 

And on the days she did not wish to, on the days she could not find her will to do so, she would retrieve his letter from the chest tucked upon the floor beside her vanity and read it again and again and again until his words eventually pushed her to rise from bed.

Most days, it was enough. 

He sent her more letters every couple of years. It was hard to send letters from war-ridden shores, hard to find ships that could deliver from Ilion to Ithaca. Still, every letter he sent, she kept them, locked away upon that same chest that some days she revelled in and others she could not bear to look at. 

And she sent her own. She told him of his parents, of Ctimene, of how Ithaca was faring under her rule, of how Telemachus had started crawling and talking and walking and how his first word had been Papa and that he only ever stayed still whenever she told him a story. Often, they were stories of his father. 

And every letter he sent in response, she kept safe. Always preserved. Always perfect. 

And finally, just a few weeks after Telemachus had reached his tenth year, the streets burst in excitement, a herald told them Ilion has fallen, and his own letter came, weeks later, expressing his excitement for his return, for their reunion, for holding her and their son again. 

She did not send her own letter in response to that. She did not think she would need to. 

(Now she wished she had).

Ilion had fallen, and he was coming home.

And so Penelope waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

But neither ship nor fleet arrived to Ithaca, and neither did any more letters.

__________

ONE:

TEN YEARS BEFORE HIS RETURN

It took several months of waiting for her to write to him again. 

She had spent most of those first months by the shores, staring into the wine-dark sea, praying to Asphaleios Poseidon, desperately hoping for his return, for the day that the Ithacan fleet that had left so many years ago would come back and he would hold her again and kiss her again and she could tell him that she had missed him so much that it had physically ached.

She had hoped that by some miracle, he would return. 

(It should not have been a miracle. He was supposed to come home).

When the news of the war's end had come, Demeter Cthonia’s spring had been fresh upon the earth, flowers a-blooming, the greenery lush, the sky a beautiful blue — as if the land itself had been eager to greet its king and welcoming him home, preparing warmth for his homecoming. 

But soon, too soon, spring became summer and summer quieted into autumn and then Queen Persephone's descent back down to hades below burned the land with the freezing bites of the coming winter. And still, there came no ship, no vessel, no need for a king still missing when he had meant to return months ago. 

And Penelope prayed, and waited, and had offerings and incense and libations made for Athena, for Hera, for Aphrodite, for Poseidon, for the god king himself, and yet, nothing changed and sea remained barren and the days passed by with the ache of longing still deep within her heart. 

It was during the cusp of autumn, when the trees’ leaves had started shed did Telemachus come to join her upon the shores one morning, a blanket folded on his arms that he had draped upon her shoulders before he settled beside her, his head pressed against her arm, taking part in her ritual and watching the sea. 

He had asked her, then, his voice so soft that she had nearly not heard: “will my father really be coming back?”

And despite the ache in her heart and the seed of doubt had been planted within her mind she had responded as she always did. 

“Of course he will.” 

Usually, that would have been enough to convince him. Now, Penelope's heart had cracked at the doubt in his eyes, at the frown twisting at his lips. 

And Sweet Telemachus, Darling Telemachus, her Telemachus had hesitated to ask his second question, as if fearing he might upset her. 

“But it has been months already.”

Penelope herself did not really understand why she had grown so angry.

But something had come over her then — something twisted, something bitter, something that curdled within her and made her forget for one, awful moment, that her Telemachus was young and was innocent and did not deserve to have such harshness branded upon him for merely asking a question that has come with too much honesty than she could ever hope to bear. 

“I said he will, Telemachus, do not be ridiculous.” 

Her words had been harsh, scathing, and they had wounded him.

She could still remember the way he has flinched back, the way his lip had trembled, the way his eyes had filled with hurt and how he had drawn away from her as if she were something to be feared, something he could no longer trust. She had been angry with him plenty of times before as Mothers were wont to do — but never had she snapped at him like this. 

The guilt had come as quickly as the anger, despite the plea upon her tongue and his name brushing past her lips, Telemachus had stood, turning away. 

“I’ll… I’ll go now, Mama,” he said, his sandals lightly blowing against the sand as he turned and made his way back up to the palace.

And Penelope had sat there, regretting and waiting and feeling her throat close as her eyes burned. She had remained there, unmoving, and had only returned to the palace when an idea had come to her. 

She had been aware then that she did not have an address to have it sent to, no location to give a potential deliverer — for where would someone send a letter to a husband still missing when he had been expected to come home several months ago? But it had not mattered, really, she had not written for the intention of it actually reaching him, she had only been writing because she missed him and it hurt and she should have been home already and the world might crumble beneath her feet if she kept silent for just a little longer. 

And so Penelope wrote. 

My Odysseus,

Her hand stilled, her mind grew blank. 

There were a multitude of questions she had to ask of him. 

Where are you? Why are you taking so long? Why have you not come home yet? Why do you remain at sea? Why have you not returned yet? Why, why, why—

Why? 

So many questions. 

Too many questions. 

Penelope blinked. 

There was a droplet staining the paper. 

Penelope blinked again. 

Her vision had blurred, and trails of tears were running down her face, her neck. 

It was ridiculous. 

So ridiculous. 

Why did it matter, when the letter would not reach him anyway? 

It was ridiculous. 

And yet the tears came, hot, fast, heavy, spilling from her eyes like the streams of a river.

And somehow, somehow, through the blur of her tears and the shaking of her hands and the weight that was so close to tearing her heart into two, Penelope managed to write. 

--

My Odysseus,

I go to the shores every day, every day since they had said Ilion had collapsed, every day since we had learned that you would be returning. Every day, I pray to Poseidon Pontomedon, and yet everyday, I continue to be denied of you. 

Often, I wonder why you remain so far from us, husband mine. Perhaps you have encountered a battle when it should have been done, perhaps the years have left your ships scarce of resources, perhaps some good has condemned you trapped upon some foreign isle. 

But despite my wanderings, I have never wondered if it is yourself that does not wish to come home. 

There have been rumours, my dear husband, the most ridiculous of rumors, once which I had to bite my own tongue in case I might retort with something I will regret later. They say you have found a place more grand, that you who was once Ithaca’s proud king found a kingdom greater than this rocky isle and chose to flee there instead. 

They are rumours born out of idiocy. 

I know you, my husband, my Odysseus. I know how you love this isle, your land, your family — myself and Telemachus. I would be a fool to doubt that. I know that you are doing all you can to return. 

But there have been other rumours. 

Ones that came from other ships that had sailed through Achaea and landed in Ithaca. They say the God-King is displeased. They say the Earth-shaker is angry. They say the gods no longer look kindly upon the Danaans. 

I do not know which is true, I shudder to think of any of them. 

Why would the gods forsake you now, now that the war was won and it is all over?

I do not understand it. 

But even as the seasons change, even as the months continue to run by, I will continue to wait for you. Even when sometimes I feel as if your absence has robbed me of my ability to live, even when sometimes I feel as if my grief has already driven me to madness. 

I had grown angry with our Previous Telemachus this morning. I am still ashamed to merely admit it. 

Our dear son had joined me upon the shores this morning, as he often does. He had asked me a question, then, something innocent, something which he had clearly not meant to come with the cruelty that followed it, and yet I had responded with my own cruelty in turn. 

He had asked me if you were returning, had expressed his doubt for you — and in my anger, I had snapped at him. 

Never before had I ever regretted anything more. 

Although he did not voice it — our Dear Telemachus had been so hurt. And it was my hand that dealt it. 

How I regret it. Gods, I regret it all.

Please come home, my lord. 

Please. 

I do not think I can stand to bear it any longer, to live through every day wondering if a ghost might be the only thing to return to Ithaca's shores, if you would even return at all. I cannot keep a beating heart when I do not know if your own has grown still. 

I cannot bear it, Odysseus. Not anymore. 

Come home. 

Please come home. 

Your wife, forever yours, Penelope

--

Later, after she had locked the letter into a chest and had locked herself within her bedchambers, Telemachus slipped into the room. 

By then, she had been oblivious to the way Helios had almost finished his journey across the sky, oblivious to how Selene had been preparing for her own rising. She had not gone to the midday meal not had she eaten breakfast that morning — It was likely that her precious son had dined alone and had went to search for her in his worry. 

And where she was was in bed, curled amongst the sheets, staring at the ceiling. It was something she did far too often. 

And then his voice had come, as gentle as Zephyrus’ breeze in the warmth of summer’s air. 

“Mama?” 

Penelope had risen from where she had buried herself in her marital bed, hoping that the redness surrounding her eyes had not been too apparent. 

Her voice was gentle, even as it cracked. 

“Yes, my heart?” 

Telemachus hesitated, just for a moment, before he stepped within the room, the door closing gently behind him as he approached her. 

“Are you alright, Mama?” He asked, his voice gentle despite its cautiousness. 

Penelope's chest ached. 

Her sweet boy. 

Her sweet boy who she had grown angry at and yet still cared for her beyond measure.

“I am,” she promised, even as her eyes stung and her heart hurt. She sat up, reaching out a shaking hand towards him. An offering. An olive branch. A silent apology for what had occurred earlier. 

Telemachus nodded, shifting closer to her, allowing himself to be pulled into her arms. Penelope sighed against his curls, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. 

“I’m sorry, Telemachus.” 

His small arms wrapped around her neck, his head coming to rest upon her shoulders, breath gentle against her skin. “I forgive you, Mama.” 

Her eyes burned, tears dripping down her face. 

Gods, how she was so undeserving of him. 

Telemachus seemed to shift, at the appearance of her tears, his hands coming to rest upon her cheek, gently wiping. 

It was something he had done time and time again, when she had been too weak to hold her tears and he had been too sweet to ignore them. 

“Do not cry, Mama,” Telemachus frowned, wiping away at the dampness upon her face. “I do not like seeing you cry.” 

“And,” he added, pressing his head against her cheek, “I do not think Papa would like to see it either.” 

Oh, how she wished to cry harder.

Instead, Penelope swallowed, brushing the tears away with the heel of her own hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

“Alright, my love,” she agreed, cuddling him further into her arms. 

__________

TWO: 

SEVEN YEARS BEFORE HIS RETURN

Snowfall was uncommon in Ithaca, but the bites of winter came all the same. 

The trees had long since shed their leaves, now barren with little more than a few twigs. Lord Helios had started arriving later and departing sooner as well, allowing the night to blanket the island in the gentle hush of night. 

Despite — or perhaps, in spite of it all — Penelope still came to the shores every day. 

The habit had stopped, some months ago, the urge to come growing fainter despite her faith remaining determined still. 

But after what Anticlea had done…

(In hindsight, they should have suspected it. Grief had taken her like an illness. Still, it had been a shock to find that body washed up upon the shores).

A part of her felt almost obligated to come, to come so that she could prove that she still believed, that she still hoped, that she had not doubted as Anticlea doubted. 

That she would not — 

That she would not do as she had. 

But it made little difference, really. 

The shores remained empty. 

Their came no news of him. 

Penelope had never grown close to her husband's family, not after their initial disapproval, not even when Telemachus was born and they grew civil for his sake more than their own. 

But that day, Penelope felt as if she had understood Anticlea. Perhaps more than she ever had. Perhaps more than she had ever wished to. 

(And in truth, she could hardly blame her mother-in-law.)

Her eyes fell upon her reflection, distorting slightly in the ripples falling upon the water. She reached into the gentle currents, feeling the water envelop the tips of her fingers, shooting bolts of numbing cold from her fingers to her arm.

Penelope stared at the sea. 

Penelope thought of Anticlea. 

Is there really respite to be found within these currents?

Is he with you, down below?

Zephyrus’ breeze brushed past, lightly pulling at the ends of her hair. Other than that, there was no answer. Penelope had come to know that there were hardly ever any answers whenever she spoke to these ghosts, these shades, those who lingered to haunt her. She always found herself talking to them anyway. 

Perhaps the people were right in saying she was mad.

She lifted her hand from the water, flexing it lightly, feeling how numb it had grown, merely shaking it dry becoming an effort in itself. She should head back to the palace. Eurycleia would be worried. The other maids, too. Everyone would be worried, likely. She had been causing them a lot of worry recently. 

Still, even that was not enough of a cause for her to force her frozen body to rise. 

Instead, Penelope continued to gaze at the ocean. 

Odysseus had loved to sail. 

“Where are you?” She asked the waves, hoping that perhaps, wherever he was, he would hear. 

There came no answer. 

There never was an answer.

And even then, Penelope had never really learned to stop talking to her ghosts. 

If he were here, somehow, someway — would he listen to her if she demanded? Pleaded? Begged? Begged for him to return before it was too late? Begged for him to return before there would be more lost to him than just his mother?

Penelope did not know. 

Perhaps, later, once her legs found the will to move again, she could make her way back up to the palace and write to him again and return and wait and speak to a ghost and continue to wait for an answer that she knew would never come. 

But for now, Penelope spoke to her ghosts. 

--

My Odysseus, 

It has been three years. 

A little over a year ago, we found your mother beneath the cliffs, washed up on the shore. By the time we did she was already gone. 

It feels wrong too say it like that, so coldly, so bluntly. But I do not know how else to say it. 

It has been a long three years. 

I know me and your mother were hardly close. If anything, we were the contrary. But ever since that day I feel as if I understand her more than I ever have. If I can even say I can understand her. I do not really feel as if I do. 

But as much as I wish I did not, I do. 

Where are you?

Please come home. 

Please. 

Sometimes I wonder if I could do as she did. I find myself staring into the water. I find myself wondering if its embrace and the eventual call of Hermes Psychopompós then continue this waiting. This endless hoping. 

I find myself wondering if you are there with her. 

So much has changed, Odysseus. 

So much. 

So much that I worry that when you return, you will return to Ithaca, that you will return to a land that has been ruined by the grief dealt by time. That you will return to find ruins in place of your beloved kingdom. 

Why are you taking so long?

Gods, it has been so long. 

Where are you?

Are you safe?

Are you well?

I hope that you are well, that you are still fighting, that whatever has kept you from returning for all of these years has not drained you of your will as well. 

Please keep fighting. Gods know you deserve to rest, but despite it I still pray that you are fighting. To return to Ithaca. To me. To our Telemachus. 

Please fight. 

Even as you have grown weary, please fight. 

I do not wish for you to return to a homeland that you find is no longer yours. I do not wish for you to return to a kingdom that has long since forgotten its king. 

Please come home, come home soon. Before it is too late. 

Before I can no longer bear to wait.

Your faithful wife, Penelope.

--

When next she woke, Penelope found herself in bed. Penelope also found that she was suffocating. 

It was as if Helios himself had entered the room, burning her, stealing the very air from her lungs, as if fire was crawling up her every limb. 

“Ac—” she choked, her voice cracking, the mere attempt at speaking tearing at the back of her throat, her voice rising into something that came out more like a rasp before forming into a cough that made her chest ache. 

Gods, it was hot. Far too hot. 

Was it not the middle of winter?

Then — she heard a faint shuffle, a gentle drag if sandal against stone. 

Then, a voice. 

A gentle one. A familiar one. 

“Do not move yet, child.”

Eurynome. 

Penelope whimpered as she felt the older woman’s hands gently press against her shoulder, forcing her to slump back down upon the pillows. Her eyes felt heavy. Her throat ached. Eurynome pressed her palm against her forehead and allowed herself to frown. 

“You should not have stayed out so long,” Eurynome chided, her voice gentle despite the reprimand, wringing out a cloth to lay it upon Penelope's forehead, the coolness a relief against the warmth. Penelope opened her mouth to argue, only to cough again.

She heard a faint slosh of water pouring into a cup, allowing Eurynome to lieft her head slightly and press the rim to her lips. Penelope drank gratefully, feeling as if she has just emerged from a desert. Eurynome have her another cup full, and she finished that too. 

“You worried us all, my child,” she continued, setting the cup down as Penelope pulled the blankets up to her chin, feeling the bite of winter’s air still despite the heat in her veins. “The Prince especially.” 

A pang of guilt shot through her. 

Telemachus. 

Oh, her sweet boy. 

“How long…?” Penelope rasped. 

“Three days,” Eurynome explained, “we had tried to rise you for hours.” 

Penelope nodded, letting out a weary sigh. 

Gods, three days. She had been lost to their passage but not lost to the weight of them. 

Her eyes felt so incredibly heavy. 

Eurynome retrieved the cloth, turning it around before laying it back upon Penelope's forehead once more, lifting the blankets higher as she shivered. 

“Rest for now,” Eurynome soothed. 

Penelope had long since reached the realm of Hypnos long before she had even finished speaking them. 

When next Penelope woke, it was to the feeling of something curled beside her. Something warm, something soft, something familiar despite her inability to properly recognize what it was. 

Her eyes cracked open, landing upon the small body curled beside her. 

Telemachus. 

Her boy — her darling boy, curled beside her on the edge of the bed, his head pressed against her arm, his mop of curls strewn around his head like a crown of seafoam, his eyelashes resting against his cheeks, breathing slowly, steadily, fast asleep. 

Oh, her sweet boy. Her dearest boy. 

How she loathed worrying him so much as she did. 

Then — 

A creak of the door. 

“Forgive the disruption," Laertes said quietly, gently closing the door behind him before crossing the room to the edge of the bed, where Telemachus slumbered, his hands reaching out to stroke her boy’s cheek. “We have been searching for him for a while now.”

His hands, despite their shaking, were gentle. 

Penelope could never quite understand him. 

Ever since his wife had passed, he had often isolated himself in his estate. When she asked the servants, they said some days, he was idle, others, he seemed almost fine — well, as fine as he could be, given the circumstances. 

Penelope could never quite understand his grief. 

But it was not as if she had ever understood hers. 

A sudden thought occurred to her, then. 

“Why have you come?” She asked, her voice still a rasp, but lesser than it had been some hours ago. 

He had so rarely come to the capital, ever since Anticlea had passed — “had something happened, whilst I was asleep?'

Laertes shook his head. “No, I merely came with Telemachus. He had insisted on returning when he had heard.” 

Ah, right. 

Telemachus had been visiting Laertes. If circumstances had not changed, he should have still been at his grandfather's house, running around the fields and the vineyards and the groves that he loved so much. 

Another pang of guilt shot through her chest. 

Laertes shifted, then, lifting Telemachus into his arms, her son stirring lightly but remaining asleep all the same, his head lolling against his grandfather's arm. 

“He worried, quite a lot,” Laertes remarked. 

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat. She could only imagine how he must have felt, especially with how devastated he had been at the loss of his grandmother. 

He had likely feared, likely worried himself to exhaustion, and later she would apologize and try to scramble for a gift that might make up for the sorrow she had wrought and — 

“I hope,” Laertes said, suddenly interrupting the slope of her thoughts, his voice gentle, but slightly louder now, slower, as if he wanted to make sure that she heard every word, “that when Odysseus does return, you will not give him another reason to grieve.” 

The shame suffocated her more than the heat did. “I did not mean to —” 

“Perhaps you did not,” Laertes interrupted gently, his eyes soft despite the way his words had made her feel as if she could not quite breathe properly, “but I hope to remind you all the same.” 

Numbly, Penelope nodded. 

Laertes did the same, turning away, Telemachus still peacefully slumbering in his arms as he made his way out of the room. 

“Rest well.”

__________

THREE:

THREE YEARS BEFORE HIS RETURN

His anger had followed soon after the suitors. 

Penelope could not quite remember when it had started. One day, her son had loved her and she had loved him and they had loved each other despite the suitors and the ghosts and all that prevailed to remain wrong in the world. The next, he had started looking at her as if she were a viper, as if she was the very reason his home was being overridden by beasts. 

She could not remember when, where, how, why — but she knew that it had happened and that he had started hating her and she did not even know when. 

There never seemed to be a day where they did not bicker, a week where they did not argue, a month where the tension was so suffocating it felt as if it had caused the sir in the palace to rot. 

Some days, they both yelled and argued and bickered until they grew exhausted enough to stop. Others, they let the tension linger and rot the air within the palace and refused to speak to each other until one matter or another would force them together and they would smile and act civil and converse and act as if they had both forgotten the argument even as the absence of an apology lingered and drew the rope tighter and tighter around her neck. Until another disagreement arose and they would tear at old wounds in search of any cause to brandish their words like swords. 

Today, it seemed, was one of the latter days. 

They had not spoken of a certain argument for several weeks. 

But he had come to her with a certain expression upon his face, the kind that he wore whenever he wanted something and would stop at any lengths to get it. The sight of it had been enough to make Penelope turn around in hopes of avoiding him — but Telemachus was Odysseus’ son, and he has caught up to her before she could be far enough to flee. 

“Mother,” Telemachus called, reaching out to grasp her arm in an effort to halt her steps as she pointedly continued walking, “Mother, wait.” 

Penelope had paused in her steps. Penelope had thought of leaving anyway. Penelope stayed. 

“What is it, Telemachus?” 

The weariness in her voice had been apparent to herself, but not to her son, it seemed. 

“I need to speak to you.” 

“Can it not wait for later?” Penelope asked, abandoning all attempts of tact. “I have things to attend to. You know that.” 

Telemachus only scoffed. “What difference does it make? You always have things to attend to.”

It stung. It felt like an accusation. Penelope sighed, relenting. 

“Fine,” she said, motioning for him to follow along as she continued her way and slipped into the first room she stopped by — the weaving room. Still, he did not speak until she sat at the look and started to weave in an effort to avoid looking at him. 

“Grandfather Icarius has been wishing to see you.” 

Penelope did not say anything. 

Telemachus didn't either. 

“I see,” Penelope remarked vaguely. 

“Well?” Telemachus demanded. 

“Well what, Telemachus?” Penelope retorted, the agitation apparent in her voice. 

They had been to Sparta weeks ago. 

Usually, Penelope was thrilled to see her father, her homeland. 

But this visit had been different. 

“Eurymachus is a considerable suitor,” Icarius had said one morning, during an unsuspecting stroll in the gardens, causing Penelope to freeze beside him. “He has sent several gifts, has been respectful.” 

“And?” Penelope asked, unable to hold back the bite in her voice. 

Icarius had been direct, turning to her even as her eyes refused to meet his own. “We have already spoken of this, dearest." 

“And you are already aware of my thoughts on the matter,” Penelope dismissed, keeping her eyes pinned to a flower dancing slowly in the air. 

“My daughter,” Icarius had said, his voice gentle, but firm. “It has been seven years.” 

“And I would wait for seventy more.” 

“Do not be stubborn, Penelope.” He had placed his hand upon her shoulder, gentle, but insistent. “He could be dead by now.” 

“And who are you to say he had descended to Hades already?” She had spat. 

“It has been seven years, Penelope!” Icarius had snapped, then, his composure fraying, “who is there to say he has not found some other and has willingly chosen to remain at sea!?”

She froze, dumbstruck. 

Father had been unrelenting — he was always unrelenting. 

But Penelope was his daughter, and she too was stubborn and she had not spoken to him in the days afterwards before she had boarded the earliest ship to return to Ithaca. 

She had never been so furious at her father. 

(She had never felt so betrayed by him). 

“Fine, then — have you thought of my proposal?” Telemachus asked, a sudden shift of topic as if he had sensed she would refuse to speak of the first. 

Resisting the urge to sigh, Penelope only continued to weave, hands quickly manipulating the threads, following a rhythm that had been familiar to her hands ever since she was six years old. “Somewhat.” 

“And?” Telemachus prodded. 

“And my answer remains the same,” Penelope decreed, a note of finality in her voice that he had never quite learned to listen to, not when he was a mere babe demanding sweets past bedtime nor when he was a teenager insisting he take upon a task that was far larger than himself. “I am not giving you your father's throne.” 

He made no effort to hide the agitation in his voice. “And why not?”

“We have already spoken of this, have we not?” Penelope said impatiently, tearing away a row that had become uneven in the midst of her frustration. 

“But —” 

“Do not protest, Telemachus,” she snapped, weaving again with a ferocity that made the threads knot in her hands and made her want to tear at the fibers. “We had already put this argument to rest weeks ago, let it remain so.” 

“No!” Telemachus retorted, his stubbornness showing through his curled fists. “It will not rest until you see reason! Do you not see what they are doing, Mother!? What your stubbornness is allowing!? You are letting them ruin this kingdom — ruin you!"

There had been the slightest hint of fear in that final word. 

Penelope softened. 

“They would not dare to, not when Xenia —”

“They do not care for Xenia!” Telemachus interrupted, nearly shouting now. 

“Are you truly so foolish as to think they would not take what they think they are owed!? You are allowing this kingdom to crumble and threatening your own dignity for what? For a man who is dead!?”

The threads stilled in her hands. 

Telemachus had paused, his heavy breaths loud in the silence of the room. Perhaps he had known he had struck a target. Perhaps he had wondered if he should stop. He did not.

Instead, he seemed to be aiming further, deeper. 

“Even Grandfather — your own father — says so!” Telemachus snarled, his voice as unwavering as shore against storm. 

“And what if he is right?” Telemachus continued, each word an arrow, each arrow sinking deeper and deeper into the depths of her heart. “That Father has found another? That he had made you out to be a fool?” 

“Your grandfather is a fool for even assuming —” 

“You are a fool for waiting!” 

His voice had whipped through the halls, loud and ringing.

And Penelope…

Penelope had yelled back. 

Their words had been sharp, scathing, and things she could not recall even the shape of mere hours later, things she would have once screamed at her own self if she were to even think of them, things that would have once left her wondering if she even had a heart left anymore, things that still forced her to live with their cruelty despite the absence in her memory. 

But she could remember, afterwards, how she had sat upon the balcony connected to their bedchambers as the gentle hues of sunset faded into the quiet of night, simply staring, unmoving, not thinking, paying no heed to the tears that ran until her eyes grew dry and she felt as if she had been wrung dry of tears. 

Even then, it was not enough. 

Nothing ever was. 

Not for agony like this. 

--

Odysseus, 

It has been seven years. 

It is funny, really. 

I remember some time four years ago, some time near the suitors’ arrival — the nobles had started to whisper. They said you were likely dead. Or simply unlikely to return. I remember how I had insisted they were ridiculous for even considering so. 

They said I must have gone mad to insist on waiting for so long. 

Now I wonder if perhaps they were right. Perhaps I have gone mad. 

My own father clearly thinks so. 

I am still furious with him. 

It feels like betrayal. 

He had been telling me ever since the suitors had come that I should just remarry. Find another man, a better man — there is even a suitor he has taken a liking too. Father favors him. Father insists I marry him — he says he acts the most respectful out of all my suitors. 

But I would be blind to miss the blood behind those teeth. He manipulates his kindness in a way a bard manipulates a lyre. It is a performance for a crowd. Nothing more. 

He makes me shudder. 

As ashamed as I am to admit it, I also doubt some days. 

Father says you might have found another lover. I have not spoken to him since. 

Ever since he said it — I could never quite shake it from my mind. You, with another love, another woman, another kingdom. Perhaps you have found someone greater, someone more beautiful, a goddess for which you have lost interest in a wife who continues to slowly fade each day you remain gone.

I do not know anymore, Odysseus. 

Sometimes I do not wish to know. 

Sometimes I still wish you were at war. 

At least then, if you were to die in battle, I would be informed. I would know. 

Now I feel as if I do not know anything. 

Not really. Not anymore. 

Perhaps they really are right in saying I am mad. 

Perhaps you truly have done as they all say and have abandoned me. Perhaps I truly am a fool to sit here waiting, waiting for a man who continues to prove himself forever gone year after year. 

Are you even still there, still alive, still coming? 

Strangely enough, I cannot help but think you are. 

Sometimes I wish I could be brave enough to think the opposite. Sometimes I wish I were not so cowardly to refuse to believe it all, to play the fool in wait for a man who might have already decided that I am no longer worth returning to. 

You promised you would return. You promised me.

Or perhaps I am simply a fool for believing the promise of a liar. 

Please, if you are alive, if there is any love for me you have left — come home. 

Just come home. 

Penelope. 

--

Penelope sat in front of Hestia’s hearth.

The fire was crackling brightly, illuminating the chambers in a soft, gentle glow. 

He had sent her several letters, over those first ten years, letters she had read again and again when she was at her worst and it felt as if she just might crumble without him. 

The flames crackled. 

Penelope reached for the pieces of papyrus. They were worn, ragged from the amount of times she had taken them out to read, some parts of the ink stained from the tears she had wept time and time again. 

The fire was warm. But not warm enough to replicate the heat of his arms around her. 

The flames crackled. 

Penelope reached for scroll after scroll, memory after memory, fragment after fragment. 

The excitement had been so palpable, in his last letter. 

Words of his dreams about Telemachus. About her. About memories they would make. About days spent lounging under olive trees with their boy. 

Had that all been a lie?

A part of her was angry. Angry at the man who had promised her the world and yet could not even promise her himself. 

You left me, she wanted to scream. But it did not feel fair. Even in her anger.

“You promised to return,” was what she said instead.

But hadn't her Odysseus always been called a master of deception?

Penelope’s eyes burned. 

Penelope reached for the scrolls. 

Penelope threw them all into the fire. 

The embers were slow in their feast, the fibers curling gently against the heart, blackening into soot and ash. 

They had all become dust by the time she had finally stood and tore her eyes away.

__________

FOUR:

A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HIS RETURN

--

My Odysseus, 

Telemachus has now left me, too. 

It is ridiculous, really, how long it had taken me to realize. Dolius said he had left weeks ago, and not a single person had told me. Not Eurycleia. Not Eurynome. No one. 

Gods, I am so, so angry. If only I had known, he would have sooner left me dead then board that ship. 

I had thought, once — and perhaps I was a fool for thinking it — that he would stay. That he would always be here, that he would remain with me in the way no one has done in years. And of course, I was wrong. 

Gods, why?

Why?

Why did he have to leave me too?

Was it not enough that you continue to refuse to come home? Did the winds have to steal away my son, too?

Or is it merely because I truly am so despicable that everyone is fated to leave me?

It isn't fair. 

It hurts. 

He left me. 

You have both left me. 

Am I truly so easy to leave? Is it my own fault that I continue to be left upon these shores time and time again?

I am not Ariadne. I do not have a god coming for me. 

And even if I did, I would not want a god. 

I want you. 

Gods, I want my husband, my son. 

Please come home. 

Please. 

That is all I ask. 

I do not know what I am to do if you do not.

--

__________

+ONE:

A FEW WEEKS AFTER HIS RETURN

She finds him in their bedchambers, sitting casually near one of the windows the sunlight slipping through and bathing him in a soft, golden glow. He looked almost divine. 

She could remember, years before, when a sight like this would not have been so unfamiliar, when there had been no wars, no foreign isles made prisons, no gods so eager to destroy what little hope they clung to, when she had been young and he had been too and they had naively thought there would never be a time where they would ever forget the warmth of the other’s embrace. 

In her mind's eye, she could picture it. He would be a man still, but younger, too, the mop of curls that he also had given their son devoid of the silver strands that glittered against his darker hair. His expression would be gentle, eyes unworried, poring over either a scroll or tablet — something small that he had retrieved from his office when he still had some work to be done but it was light enough for him to slip into their bedchambers and use the chance to spend even just a few more minutes with her while he worked. 

The man that sat before her now made the one in her mind's eye look like a boy in comparison. 

Penelope did not quite know how to feel about it. She did not quite know how to feel about many things. 

He was here now. 

But there had still been so many years lost. 

“I wonder,” he suddenly spoke, jolting her out of the web of her thoughts, “what I could have possibly done to gather such an audience. 

As heavy as her heart felt, Penelope felt her lips quirk into a smile. 

“I just missed you,” she answered simply, honestly. There would have been a time she would have teased back, a time where she would not have felt as if she needed to tell him just how deep her longing ran to make up for all of the years she had not been able to, but that time had long since passed. 

She made her way closer, but stopped just in front of him, not reaching to hold him just yet, no matter how much she ached to. 

“Can I?” 

It was a simple question, but one she would not have needed to ask before. Even so, she made sure to ask every day, now that there were days where he would hold her so tightly that it felt as if he was trying to mold her body against his own and there were other days where he would tense at the slightest brush of her hands against his. 

She thought of the goddess that had done this to him and silent fury curled within her. She saw the smile that pulled at his lips and the anger unfurled as quickly as it had come. 

“Of course,” he allowed, offering his hand and pulling her to snuggle against his side when she took it, pressing a tender kiss to her lips as he did so. Penelope sighed, feeling herself melting as she leaned against him. 

Often, she found herself wondering if she might be dreaming again, if she would soon wake up and the grief would crash upon her like a tidal wave and she would beg for Artemis Khryselakatos to aim for her heart if it meant that the grief would be still with it once shot. 

But never in her dreams had he felt so warm, so solid, so alive. 

She closed her eyes, leaning her head upon his shoulder, the sounds of his breath almost like a lullaby calling her to sleep. 

Penelope yawned, her eyes cracking open, glancing over the scrolls he was reading. 

Instantly, she froze. 

She knew those scrolls. 

She knew those writings. 

She because she had spent years despising them and yet continuing to write them all the same. 

In her haste to rise, she almost stumbled against the chair. His arms wrapped around her waist, alarmed. 

“Love, what —?” He asked, brows furrowing with both worry and confusion. 

“Why do you have those?” Penelope demanded, despising the way her voice suddenly cracked like a wrong note struck upon a lyre.

“Do you not wish for me to?" he asked, voice gentle. 

She hated the way her eyes stung, hated the way her throat felt as if it were closing, hated the way she wanted to rip those scrolls from his hands and throw them into the hearth as she had done with his letters all those years ago, when the anger and betrayal had been too much and they had threatened to swallow her whole. 

“Those are private,” she said, already knowing it was a weak excuse. 

Nothing had ever truly been private when they had become husband and wife, perhaps even long before they had even laid upon their wedding bed. What was hers was his and what was his was hers. Nothing less. Never less.

And yet, still, Penelope felt —

Angry? Betrayed?

She did not know. 

She never seemed to know anything anymore, ever since her husband had left and did not return and she had been made to play the role of the mad wife who was allowing an entire kingdom to be ruined all for a dead man. 

All she knew was that she had not wanted him to read those letters, the letters which she had poured her soul within, the letters which she had written in sorrow and frustration and anger and where she had displayed her weakness so clearly that she felt mortified realizing that even her own husband might have come to know if it. 

Penelope had always known that she was a weak woman. 

And yet, now, she still feared that he would — 

Would what? 

Penelope did not know. Penelope never seemed to know anymore. 

Her eyes burned. Her throat ached. Her heart hurt. 

Gods it hurt so, so much. 

Would it ever stop hurting? 

It did not feel as if it would. 

A sob tore from her throat, like water suddenly rippling at the splash of stone. 

She felt arms wrap around her shoulders before she had realized that he had moved, pulling her closer, closer to the warmth that she had craved and longed for and ached for and missed so much over the past two decades that she had once felt as if she was slowly dying without it. Unable to help herself, she buried her head into his chest, not caring as her tears seeped into the fabric of his tunic. 

Somehow, by some miracle, or perhaps merely because of her own exhaustion, the tears had stopped flowing. Her sorrow remained. But at least, the tears dried sticking to her cheeks like dew clinging to grass. 

“I’m truly sorry, my dear heart,” he apologized, pressing a kiss to her cheek, brushing his knuckle against the dampness, stroking, his eyes as gentle as the low tides during the earlier hours of the morning. 

Penelope let out a sigh, shaking her head, though she did not lift it from his chest. 

“No, I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous —” 

“You are not,” he said, his voice tender despite its firmness. 

Penelope opened her mouth to protest — 

“You are not being ridiculous, love,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to her lips, as he so often did, in their youth, when she had been speaking and he had been disagreeing and he would press his lips against her own to hush her when he had found any other methods futile. Or even before that. He had never required a reason to kiss her. 

The familiar action almost made her smile. 

Almost. 

Instead, Penelope sniffled when he pulled back, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes to wipe away what little remained of what he had not already. 

“I will not read them,” he promised, brushing away a stray curl that had fallen across her face, his hand lingering upon her cheek. “Not if you do not wish for me too.” 

Penelope, however, had spent years under his company, had spent years memorizing the shape of his deception like a bard might memorize the tunes of a song. Her husband had been called a master at deception, yet she had known him for too long to be deceived.

And it was obvious, seeing the way the papers were strewn about the chair, the chest wide open near beside them, all four laid neatly across the cushions, having already been read, been seen, been revealed to the light when she had intended to keep them in darkness. 

She should have burned them as well.

A part of her wanted to reach out and do just that, if only her husband's arms weren't so warm that they were difficult to let go of. 

Despite the warmth, the shame crawled up her chest. 

“You already have,” she said quietly. Despite her attempts at masking it, it still came out like an accusation.  

He did not deny it. 

The shame threatened to suffocate her. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. 

It did not make it any easier to breathe. She had bared too much of her soul within those letters for a simple apology to make it any easier to breathe. 

So much of her anger, of her sorrow, of her grief, more than she was willing to show him, more than what her cowardice would have allowed her to show him, if only the choice had been hers. 

It hurt.

She knew she was being ridiculous. Nothing had ever been private between them. 

It did not hurt any less. 

She buried her head against his collarbone, unwilling to meet his eyes, unwilling to see what might be swirling within their depths. She felt as if the shame might completely suffocate her then. And maybe she would prefer it if it did. It would spare her of the embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “I truly am darling.” 

Penelope said nothing. Penelope did not know what to say. 

He ran his hand along the length of her hair, allowing her to keep her silence for just a moment more before asking: “will you not look at me?” 

His voice was gentle. It burned all the same. “I cannot,” Penelope admitted. 

“And why is that?” 

Penelope paused. 

“I am ashamed.” 

Odysseus paused in turn, seeming to think for a moment. “And what are you ashamed of?”

Penelope could not put it into words. Not really. 

All that she knew was that now, now that it was all over and he was back and he was solid and he was alive and he was hers — it all felt so foolish. So ridiculous. 

She settled on merely one. “Everything.” 

“Everything,” he echoed. 

Penelope buried her head further against his collar. 

“Did you truly believe it?” he asked gently. 

“Believe what…?” 

“That you were easy to abandon? That I would have stopped loving you?” 

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat. “Some days.” 

Most days. 

Odysseus let out the faintest of sighs against her hair. Penelope lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck. 

“You know I love you, yes?” Odysseus asked, his voice tender.

Penelope nodded. “I know now.” A smile pulled at the edge of her lips, despite it all. “It is all you say most days.”

“I know,” Odysseus said, his breath coming in a small huff of light laughter. “But I hope to tell you so that you would never forget it. Not again.” 

He pressed another kiss to her cheek, lingering against her skin for a moment longer than necessary. “I love you.” 

“I know. I love you too.”

“And I'm sorry for taking so long,” he said. In his voice, there was the slightest tinge of grief, one that had not escaped her notice. 

Penelope looked up, their eyes locking, before she gently grasped at his curls, cupping the nape of his neck, pulling his lips against her own. It tasted like the warmth of sunlight, like honey, like everything she had been longing for for the past two decades. 

“I love you,” he said again, when she pulled back their breaths mingling. 

“I love you more,” she smiled, truly smiled, in a way she had not done for decades. “More than words can wield the matter.”