Penelope watched this man, her husband, as he unraveled before her. Her breath caught in her throat like a bird trapped in a net. This wasn’t the Odysseus she remembered, the man whose laughter could carry the summer winds. She had no weapons that could fight against the weight of the gods.
“Do you know how I watched him fall, wife?” His voice cracked, carrying years of grief. When Penelope did not answer, he stood straighter, looking through her. “He called my name as Scylla ripped him from my grasp. I heard his screams long after the ocean dragged him under, I still -” He faltered, chest heaving as though the sound of the scream still lived within him.
She clutched the skirts of her gown, nails biting into her palms through the fabric, willing the pain to ground her. Her entire being wanted to pull him back from the brink, from the mania that had settled deep inside his soul. But how does a mortal mend wounds the gods inflicted?
“Odysseus,” she called to him.
He was pacing the room like a caged beast, his breath ragged as he dragged a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand what it means to command men to their deaths, Penelope.” His voice was a blade, dulled by sorrow but no less deadly.
“You stood here safe,untouched, while I drowned beneath their dying breaths.” He growled, eyes flashing with a fire that Penelope had never seen turned against her. “You didn’t hear their screams. You didn’t watch their blood darken the seas.”
She recoiled as though he had struck her. She parted her lips to speak, but no words came.
Penelope watched as the anger drained out of him all at once. His demeanor changed instantly, hollowed by his own words. She watched as his shoulders sagged, bearing the weight of the statements he had thrown at her. His hand hovered in the space between them, but he took no steps closer.
“Penelope,” he rasped, tears threatening to spill as he looked to her, “I didn’t… gods, Penelope.”
But her soul had already hardened, locking her hurt away behind a wall of dignity even the strongest of men couldn’t breach. “You think I was safe?” She kept her voice low and even, cutting deeper than she anticipated. “You think I was untouched?”
He stumbled over his words for another second more before Penelope turned her back on him. “Maybe one day, we will stop tiptoeing around each other, Odysseus of Ithaca. But do not assume that because I was in your home that I was safe. You may bear scars from your journeys, but I carry wounds from being left behind, too.
“Your scars can be seen, husband. Mine fester in silence.”
10
THERE WAS NOT A CHANCE he was going to sleep tonight, not after his rage burned through him. Not after he watched the light dim in Penelope’s eyes.
Odysseus prided himself on being a man that kept his head, even when blood soaked the ground. Even after the years at sea and at war, he could see through the chaos and make a call.
He had never met the man that stood before his wife mere hours ago. Even in a rage, in a terror, he had never snapped like that.
And never,ever, at Penelope’s expense.
He watched the waves crash on the shore, arms resting on his knees. The smell of brine and sand leveled him, if only slightly.
“The sea keeps you awake, too?” A voice came from behind him. Odysseus couldn’t even bring himself to tense at the sound.
“The sea,” the old king sighed, “holds everything.” He turned his head to look at his guest and found his son. Telemachus smiled sadly, taking a spot on the sand next to him. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Telemachus shrugged, “I don’t sleep easily,” Odysseus wished he could have missed the hurt in his son’s voice, “Haven’t for years, really.”
The boy that Odysseus had conjured in his head over his time away did little justice to the man that sat beside him now. Telemachus was easily a head taller than he was now, and although lean, he could see the strength his son carried. Both in his arms, and on his shoulders.
His eyes no longer sparkled, not like they did when he was born. There was a grief to his gaze that tore at Odysseus’ heart. If it weren’t for his mother’s eyes… he would swear he was looking into a mirror.
The old king had the luxury, at twenty, to not have felt the weight of the world on his shoulders… He had not given his son that same peace.
He had been dreading this moment, selfishly. He knew reckoning with Penelope would be hard, but it would be built upon a love like no other, a past filled with memories. With Telemachus… they did not have that. He had barely been a year old when the war called his father away. “I should have been here,” he said finally, releasing a ragged breath.
“You weren’t, and we survived.” His reply was cool. Even with his words directed at Odysseus, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride as his son spoke. He would make a fine king.
“You did more than survive,” Odysseus swallowed the lump in his throat, finding tears burning behind his eyes once more.
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a while, neither one moving, neither one speaking. “You have to be gentle with her, Father,” Telemachus broke the silence. “She is the strongest woman I have ever met, but she carries so much.”
Odysseus leaned back on his hands, looking up to the sky. “I left her to fight my battles. To raise my son, guard my home… I made her carry it all.” His chest tightened, the sting of shame burning him hotter than any battle wound. “All while waiting, never knowing the fate of her king.”
“Don’t do that,” Telemachus cut in, his voice sharp, “Don’t speak of her as if she’s a story, waiting for a better ending. She didn’t justwait, Father. She ruled.”
