A voice cut through the shadows, one that even Penelope would recognize. Odysseus stiffened beneath her hands, his every muscle snapping to attention. Warmth vanished from his body as he twisted, putting her behind him in one fluid motion. His hand fell to the weapon at his waist, one that looked all too at home in his hands on this night meant for joy.
In a different moment, Penelope’s heart might have caught to see him carry the dagger with him. The gift she bestowed upon him when she told him they were expecting. A simpleblade, created for him by a blacksmith that had once lived on the island. Olive branches decorated the weapon, a symbol of the beginning of their lives together, and the center of their lives now. But tonight, he did not brandish this dagger in the name of peace.
“Odysseus…”
The voice called out again, and Penelope turned her head, trying to follow her husband’s gaze. But darkness had made its home in the atrium, and she couldn’t see anything past the warrior in front of her.
“Show yourself, specter.” Her husband called out. She could feel the muscles in his arm tighten even further, coiled, preparing to strike. Afraid of him disappearing beneath her touch, she grasped at his arm, trying to anchor him to this moment, to her.
Lightning flashed in the sky above them, but no thunder followed.
Penelope quickly covered her mouth, catching her scream before it could escape. The phantom stepped into the light, shadows clinging to him like seaweed. His eyes were dark, hollow. But his face, his stature, was unmistakable.
Polites.
She knew he hadn’t made it back - no one but Odysseus had returned from the seas, from the war. And she knew what Polites had meant to her husband, knew that their friendship ran deep, and how deep a scar his death had left.
It was subtle at first, the tightening of his jaw and the hardening of his eyes. But she knew… Penelope knew him better than any man. This was not the man that held her moments ago. This was a soldier — prepared for battle — standing in his place.
She felt him tense beneath her hands as if the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders. His weapon remainedsteady, but his shoulders bowed. She watched as grief cracked at the man she loved. He was still, too still.
“King of Ithaca, or King of the Dead?” The phantom called out, laughter spilling from his mouth. The sound sent a chill through Penelope’s bones, freezing her in place. He sounded like a man drowned, as though his laughter was coming from beneath the waves. Her stomach lurched. “How many men bloody your hands, oh great king?”
“Six hundred and eight,” Odysseus answered, his voice low and unflinching, “But not all their blood stains my hands.”
Her breath caught at the number, knees threatening to buckle beneath her.
“You truly believe the deaths were justified, king of the dead?” The ghost warbled, drawing nearer to where they stood. Penelope’s eyes darted around the atrium where the party had been roaring to life less than a moment ago - she couldn’t see anyone. Anything. Darkness enveloped the three of them like a shroud, keeping the light out, or the dark in…
“I will not weep for the men that hurt my son, the men that dared to touch my wife.” The king replied, never wavering, never laxing. Penelope would give anything to see his face, to be wrapped up in his safe embrace.
“Strong words for a man enslaved by the gods. The scales will have their balance, Odysseus of Ithaca. The scales always have their balance.”
As quickly as the dark had taken the party, it was released. The lanterns roared to life above them, and the chill drifted back out to sea, replaced by the warm evening air. The sounds of music and laughter returned, wrapping around them.
“Odysseus… What's happening?” Penelope asked, her voice smaller than she expected. Had their people not seen what they had seen? Heard what they had heard?
He did not answer her. Odysseus took his hand in hers and led her out of the courtyard and back into their palace.
9
THEY MOVED SILENTLY THROUGH THE HALLS, shadows cast around them. His pace was breakneck. Penelope struggled to keep her skirts out from under his feet as he dragged her behind him. “Odysseus…” she started, drawing in a ragged breath.
“Not here.” His words cut sharply through the air around them, causing her heart to race. His grip on her hand was firm, almost too tight. Like she would slip away from him if he let go.
He stumbled through the door to their bedroom, closing it tightly behind them. Odysseus whirled on Penelope, eyes wild. “What was that?” He asked her, his voice bordering on feral. When he finally let go of her hand, she stepped back, pulse thundering in her ears.
Penelope wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stave off the cold that lingered on her skin. “What was that?” She asked, repeating his question. “That voice… Odysseus -”
The look he gave her stopped her in her tracks. “I know who it was.” He said, leaning back against the wall.
“Polites.” She finished, watching her husband’s face flicker with untold grief.
“Polites,” He confirmed, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. “Dead because of me.”
“Don’t do that,” she stepped towards him, hesitant. “You can’t carry the weight of all those lives-”
“I don’tcarrythem, Penelope.” He cut her off, his voice trembling with unbridled fury. “They drag me. With every breath I draw, they pull at my soul. They threaten each moment to yank me to the hells with them.” His hand balled into a fist, striking the wall behind him. The sound was muffled, but it shook the Ithacan queen to her core. “Do you think the gods will ever let me forget how I failed them?”
