“Only for you, my queen. Always for you.”
When his attention was finally pulled away from the woman at his side, he saw that Helen’s gaze had not left them, still void of all emotions, impossible to read. “So,” she says subsequently, “that’s what devotion looks like when it isn’t won by a war.”
Menelaus, Odysseus noted, was still entirely absorbed in his side conversations, paying no mind to either Ithacan fool or his sardonic wife.
Penelope opened her mouth, just to close it again. It wasn’t often that he found his wife lost for words, but he knew she would do anything to keep from upsetting her cousin, her family. Before he could step in, Helen spoke again.
“Although I wonder, cousin,” she raises her goblet, mimicking Odysseus’ earlier toast, “Does he pull these tricksonly in the company of kings, or does he make ahabitof such unruliness?”
“Oh,” she responded, cutting her eyes at her husband and his wild grin, “It’s a habit.”
Helen swirled her wine in her glass, casting a glance at her own husband. “A habit,” she mused. “A shame, then, that not all kings are quite so... persistent.”
31
AFTER RETIRING TO THEIR ROOM for the evening, Penelope couldn’t keep her mind from racing. She stood in front of a large mirror, unbraiding her hair mindlessly… The evening replayed in her head over and over again. Each word exchanged between her cousin and her husband. Each touch from Odysseus and how she was viewing them through this lens Helen had planted in her mind.
Odysseus exited the bathing chamber, the olive skin of his bare chest glowing in the candlelight. Penelope offered him a half-hearted smile, running a brush through her hair. He approached her, running his calloused hands down her arms. “Jealousy doesn’t suit the queen, does it?” He said with a smirk, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek.
“Mmm,” she responded, continuing to work the brush through her tangled locks.
“Whatever is in your head, wife, say it.” He looked at her reflection in the mirror, eyes gentle. His voice dropped, hands stilling on her arms as he waited.
“Do you love me, Odysseus? Or do you claim me?” The words are out before she can stop them, no matter how she might want to swallow them back.
And yet, he laughed, a mischievous grin returning to his face. “Is that what troubles you, heart?”
Finally, she met his eyes in the mirror, setting the brush down on the vanity beside where they stood. “You didn’t answer my question.”
The king sobered in an instant, turning her to face him directly. Penelope took no pride in the way his face fell, or how his breathing had become shallow. She could not let this fester between them. Not when they had already come so far.
But… She had to know.
“You are my wife. My queen. You are the mother of my son. I have fought, bled, and suffered for over twenty years to return to your side.” His words were firm, exacting. “Tell me, Penelope, does that sound like a claim? Or love?”
She sidestepped, removing herself from his grip. “You made a spectacle of us. Of me.”
“A spectacle? Penelope, you cannot truly believe the things you are saying.” He countered. She knew him well enough to know that he was edging on frustration. “How can you doubt me?” His voice was softer, perhaps hurt.
She eliminated the space between them with a few steps. Turning her head upwards, she met his gaze with a fire in her eyes. “If it were just us. If there were no thrones, no gods, no history,” her voice faltered, she felt tears threatening to spill. “Would you still love me like this?”
Odysseus didn’t answer, not for an eternity. He searched her eyes, looking for a deeper truth, for her soul at this moment. “Have you forgotten the vows I laid bare before you and our olive tree, wife?”
Penelope held her ground, refusing to shy away from his severe scrutiny. “There is no world where I do not love you, Penelope. It does not exist.” He responded finally, nostrils flaring as he did.
Her breath caught, frozen in his sights. She felt suffocated. But it wasn’t enough. “Would you have fought for me if they had taken me to Troy?” Her words were pointed, sharp, as they cut through the air between them.
“Penelope…” He let out an astounded laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I wouldn’t?”
She didn’t answer, she didn't know how. After one evening in Sparta, she felt like her entire being had been misaligned. Nothing was right. Her heart was racing in her chest, silently begging for relief, release.
She blinked once, and his hands were on her, cradling her face in his hands. “I would have slaughtered the men that touched you before the sun rose.
“I would have razed Troy to the ground with my bare hands.
“Penelope, I would have burnedthe world.”
She was crying now. She could feel the tears dampen her cheeks. But he did not let go, did not release his hold on her. “Would it have taken you twenty years?” She whispered, barely audible over the crackle of the fire, over their combined breaths.
