Thiswas the life she had envisioned with her mad king all those years ago.
Reckless. Wild. Consuming.
She looked to her husband, his hair tied back with a strip of fabric ripped from his tunic. His sun-worn skin glistened in the light of their home. He had fished for them; they had survived off the poor merchant’s stock.
Never once did Penelope consider she was too old for such antics. Not once did etiquette or niceties cross her mind on the open waves. She held no place in her soul for such propriety. Not when she was with him.
For just a moment, for this swath of time, she was nineteen; he was twenty-six, and they were together, running away, under the moon’s light.
She would give anything to live in the recklessness, to build a home in the expanse of irresponsibility and wilderness.
But the shore loomed ahead. Ithaca was waiting.
Odysseus reached over from his spot at the oar, brushing a loose curl off of her cheek. “It will be alright, love.” He told her, his smile settling all nerves that had twisted tight in her stomach. “No gods, no thrones,” He told her, not a hint of mirth in his words. “Say the word and we sail the other direction.”
He drew a laugh out of her. She shook her head at him, rolling her eyes. “Sail away from our son?”
“Ah yes,” he pretended to muse. “Do you think Telemachus has the makings of a pirate? A man of the water? I do so think our family would fare much better on the open waves.”
“Be serious, Ody.”
“I am as serious as the Fates themselves, my queen.” He feigned insult, pressing a hand to his chest. “If you told me to turn this boat around, I would do it. I would grow gills and live out the remainder of our lives in the ocean if you demanded it of me, my heart.”
He reached for her again, brushing his finger along her arm. “Say the word, Penelope.” He whispered, holding her captive in his gaze.
His words were like a knife to her heart. She felt the rawness of the plea that her husband covered with jests. He wanted to stay lost, to be found. “You know I can’t.” She finally replied, breaking away from his soft hold on her.
His jaw tensed, shoulders stiffened, only just. “I know,” he responded, voice falling softly, nodding his head. “But gods, I wish you could.”
As the king rowed them closer to the Ithacan docks, Penelope took stock in her appearance for the first time since leaving her homelands. She had ripped her dress at the knees, using scraps of fabric for bandages, to tie back her hair, to mend pieces of equipment on the boat.
Her dark curls were loose, knotted and wild around her face. She was covered in several layers of sweat, salt, and grime.
They looked like feral people emerging from the seas. Odysseus tied the boat up, hauling himself out. He offered his queen a hand. As he stood there, on Ithacan land, he looked like he belonged.
He reached back down, holding a hand out to her. She took it, allowing him to lift her up. Pulling her close, he stole a kiss, pressing his lips firmly against hers.
With his hands on her hips, he dipped her backwards, eliciting some whistles and calls from the sailors that surrounded them. “We don’t go back,” he whispered as he pulled back from her. “I am yours, no matter where our boats are docked.”
She hummed a note of agreement, untangling herself from his arms. Penelope clasped his hand tightly in hers, squeezing.
From the shoreline, she could see their son approaching where they stood.
A wash of emotions overcame Penelope as she watched her son walk closer to them. Odysseus tugged her closer, pressing a kiss into her unkempt hair. “He’s your son, Penelope. He will understand.” He whispered, taking the first step forward.
As Telemachus neared, she could see the severe look on his face, his brows permanently furrowed, mouth turned downward. “Mother, Father.” He practically spat, stopping just ahead of them.
“Son, I’m glad to see our island still stands.” Odysseus gestured towards the palace with his free hand, his charisma capturing the audience of several passersby.
Telemachus looked through his father, eyes cutting sharply to where Penelope stood. Her stomach jumped as she saw her son standing before them, clenching his fists at his side. “Not here, my son.” She said softly, low. If she searched long enough, there might have been a hint of shame as she stood.
He was her son. She was meant to protect him, care for him. And now he looked at her with such discontent, it was almost laughable.
“No, right here is just fine,” He retorted sharply. “It’s not a big secret, mother. You have been missing for over six days. Your ships returned over two nights ago, without their king and queen.”
“Watch your tone, son,” Odysseus stepped in. “Disappointed as you might be, she is still your mother. Show her the respect she deserves.”
Telemachus laughed, a cruel sound. “Respect? Look at the two of you. You look barbaric, like uncivilized mongrels. And you,father,” the word was filled with bitterness. “She was never like this before you turned up. She was steadfast, strong. Her people could rely on her.”
