14
PENELOPE STOOD TO THE SIDE of the audience chamber, head bowed, just as she had been taught. She kept her eyes trained on the uneven cobblestone before her, waiting. The tension in the room was thick, and she was afraid she knew what was coming to pass. Several days had passed since the Ithacan King had won the footrace, since he made a spectacle in front of the kingdom. She hadn’t seen him since. She waited, fingers twisting in her dress as she attempted to steady her nerves.
Her betrothed sauntered into the room, grinning ear to ear as his hand rested lazily on the sword at his hip. He was walking into a pit of vipers, and yet — it rolled right off of him. “Good afternoon, King of Ithaca,” her father offered, sneering. “You seem to have lost your way back to your small island, haven’t you? What brings you here today, to my chamber?”
“Why, I’ve come to collect my bride, Icarius.” Odysseus replied coolly. His voice remained level, but his eyes attempted to cut through her father. “You’ve strung me about long enough, Spartan. I will take what I am owed.” He punctuated his last statement with a wide grin, bowing to Icarius.
“A footrace to win a bride. A charming concept for children and poets, I suppose,” Icarius responded, not standing from his seat. He waved a hand toward the Ithacan king, lazily dismissing him. “This is Sparta, where alliances are forged through strength and spears. What power does Ithaca hold that makes my daughter worth such a risky gamble?”
While Odysseus’s smile never faltered, the tension turned sharp as Icarius insulted him, insulted his kingdom. “A clever king guides ships and swords alike. Cleverness endures when armies fail. I offer a kingdom that bends, but not breaks, your grace.” Disdain dripped from his every word.
“Your clever tongue may have charmed my naïve, inexperienced daughter, King of Ithaca, but it won’t win her hand. I have no needs for cleverness, King of Riddles. I think I’ll keep her here.”
“Then perhaps it is not her hand you should put on such a pedestal.” His voice lowered, eyes softened. “But it is her heart and her mind that would bring a true king honor.” His eyes flicked to Penelope, gentling slightly. “A heart built to weather storms, and a mind fit to find truths when they are concealed.”
Her heart lurched; no one had ever spoken about her the way Odysseus did. Penelope had never been spoken to the way he dared to speak to her in front of her father. She dared a glance at the Ithacan King, but her father's harsh words brought her back.
“A simple girl, easily swayed by your honeyed words.” Icarius spat, standing now. Penelope could feel the anger roiling off of him. “That is no queen.”
“You think her simple because she dares not raise her voice at you, Spartan.” Odysseus responded, leaving no air left in the room. He took a step closer. “A foolish king is the one who silences wisdom.”
She clutched at her skirt, feeling her blood hum with something… unfamiliar. The feeling of possibility coursed through her veins. A voice she didn’t know she had pressed her out of silence. “Father, you promised.” The words trembled on her lips, scarcely more than a whisper.
“Silence, girl. I will have the final say.”
Penelope shook at his dismissal, weighing heavy on her shoulders. But then, reminded of the confidence in Odysseus’ voice, the gentleness he carried, she spoke again. “You have the final say… because you fear what I might choose.” The words surprised even her.
Icarius spun on her, and she could see the rage in his eyes. Fear bubbled up inside of her, but she steadied herself, looking past the man that had raised her, and to the man that willingly claimed her.
“I choose Ithaca, father.” Her voice no longer wavered, each word landing like a stone.
Her eyes locked with the young king, heart pounding relentlessly in her chest.
She would never forget the grin that unfurled at her declaration, slow and triumphant. A fire igniting between them that even the gods would fail to extinguish.
15
THE SUN SHONE OVER THE OLIVE TREES, creating a gentle halo of light throughout her grove. Penelope found much solace in these trees over the past decade, the bark scarred with memories of a young king and queen falling in love with each other over and over again.
It had become a routine of hers. On the days she held court, she would rise with the sun and take her breakfast amongst the olive grove. Enjoy the peace that nature offered, and allow herself to feel sad, if only for a moment.
Penelope heard the rustling of leaves around her and turned to look. No one followed her out here, ever. She dismissed the sound as a rodent searching for a snack and continued her walk.
It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows in front of her. She gasped, fingers curling into fists before she realized who stood in front of her. The sight of Odysseus casually leaning up against a tree, arms crossed, made her stomach flip in a way she didn’t want to name. “You,” she practically hissed, pressing a hand to her chest to tame her rapid heartbeat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Surprising my wife, apparently.” He said, taking a step towards her. “Still faster than a suitor, even twice their age.”
Her brow furrowed, all playfulness leaching out of her.
“That was poorly spoken,” Odysseus replied almost immediately. The humor drained from his voice. “Penelope, please forgive-”
“You’re a fool.” She cut him off, her voice tight, but not unkind.
“I am your fool,” he admitted, his smile returning to his features, gentler now. “And I am learning.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes, watching her husband kneel and pluck an olive from the ground. He froze for a moment, inspecting the olive carefully in his hand, as if holding a precious jewel. “I’ve learned,” he mused, “olives are patient. Years to grow, seasons to ripen, but a few careless words and they’re ruined.”
She quirked a brow, unimpressed.
