Would Penelope even recognize him now?
We will never doubt this again.
Her words echoed in his head as he heard the bustle of Ithaca outside the walls. His pulse picked up as the thought of coming face to face with his wife crossed his mind.
The large courtyard doors creaked open, followed instantly by the sound of screams. Odysseus did not move, did not breathe. His eyes searched the crowd for his wife.
As his people trickled in, he fought to keep his composure. He would not shy away from the acts he committed in the dark now that the sun was up.
Shouts continued throughout the space as their eyes fell on his masterpiece.
He strung up the bastard who had broken into his home in the middle of the open space. Stripped bare and covered in his own blood and piss. His head lolled off to the side, eyes blank.
This is what happened to those that laid hands on his wife.
He had killed 108 men for her. What was one more?
His eyes still rapidly searched the crowd, seeing shocked and horrified faces, unable to findher.
His heart rate kicked up another notch. Was she hurt? Was she angry? His fist clenched either side of the throne, knuckles white as his anxiety heightened.
And then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through his cloud of negative thoughts, she was there. She stood just beneath where the man was strung up. But her eyes were on Odysseus. They did not stray.
He felt like a young man, shy and inexperienced. The last time he felt as helpless as this was in Sparta… looking upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, praying to the gods that she would, somehow… some way, be his.
She moved towards him, and the entire world froze. Perhaps people kept screaming, perhaps women fainted and men tossed up their lunch, but all he saw was her.
She moved through the room with an inhuman grace, with the delicacy of a goddess, with the pose of a woman who had ruled for a millennia.
He didn’t miss how the edges of her dress were stained. Penelope had passed through the blood that had pooled underneath his mutilation. She carried the evidence of his deeds.
His breath was ripped from his chest, his mouth suddenly dry as she neared him. The laurel crown that was woven through her curls reflected the morning sun like a halo.
She waseverything.
Odysseus opened his mouth to speak, but all his confidence and swagger turned to ash on his tongue as she stepped in front of him. “My king,” her voice was a song, covering him in the warmth of her sunlight.
Slowly, weighed down by the intensity of this moment, she raised her hand. Her fingers danced across his cheek, her touch ethereal against the sweat of his skin. “Are you hurt?”
All at once, every ounce of tension, every modicum of stress, fell off his shoulders. He leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed her in. “Wife,” was all he could manage, “My wife.”
Her touch did not retreat as he opened his eyes, her immovable gaze locked onto him. “Whatever is in your head, Odysseus,” she whispered for his ears only, “Say it.”
The silence in the courtyard was not just perceived. The entire community paused with bated breath, waiting to see whatnext the mad king would do. “I don’t regret killing him,” He finally managed, unable to look away from her despite his rising guilt.
“I don’t recall asking for your shame, husband.”
“He hurt you.”
“He did.” Her words were absolute. “He also hurt you.”
“Bah,” he shook his head, finally able to break free from her stare. “I have changed much since we met on Spartan soil, wife.”
“As have I,husband.” Her eyes narrowed, the look that crossed her face bordered on impatience.
“You haven’t…”
“Killed a man?” She finished for him. “Decorated our son’s coronation celebration with his innards?” She bent down, grabbing his chin with her hand. “Left my wife alone that same night, wondering if her mad love was dead or alive.”
