Chapter Text
Penelope stood in front of her empty loom, willing herself to start dressing it. Weaving had been her sole comfort and escape in the long years she spent in Ithaca alone, and now when she needed comfort, she could not find it here. The loom didn't feel like an escape; it felt like a chore.
Odysseus had been home just over a month and readjustment was not coming easily to him; he was on edge and jumpy, he would sometimes flinch at her touch. He cried out in his sleep, when he slept. He hardly ate when she could get him to eat. When they'd made love he seemed outside of his body, unfocused and distant. She hadn't tried again.
Penelope wanted to count herself lucky, as he was returned to her in the flesh, not an urn filled with bone and ash, as with so many other women she knew. Had he returned to her? Certainly he was Odysseus, but the man who left was not the same man who came back. She would look at him and see a man shattered, the pieces reflecting back only vaguely recognizable to her. He was so far away, though he was close enough to touch.
Why would the Gods not grant him peace? Why had they seen it fit to destroy his spirit so utterly?
Penelope thought of the Odysseus she fell in love with, the man she dreamed of; his mischievous and crooked grin, his bright and dancing eyes. The way he could convey a million things with a look and the way she always understood, how he could weave words as beautifully as she could weave wool.
Some part of Odysseus had been stripped away and she would give all she had to know what it was, for him to tell her what was robbed of him.
Tears fell and she didn't bother wiping them away, but she started gathering her bundles of yarn despite them. She felt pitiful and foolish, weeping for her husband that lived as though he did not. Her tears didn't stop, but her hands didn't, either; the methodical and careful process of preparing her loom was something that always calmed her mind, something she was in desperate need of, now.
She did not think about Odysseus' dull eyes as she tethered bronze weights along the many strands, adjusting them into even rows just above the floor. She did not let her mind wander to how it used to be, for that was no longer how it was. There was this, anchoring soft wool in place with a series of delicately-made knots, until the loose chaos of threads was taut and neatly arranged on the loom before her. Penelope let herself admire her handiwork for a few moments, running her fingers over the strands as if they were lyre strings.
She then focused on the slow back and forth of her weaving, the gentle tamping down of each row before she started the next. The rhythm was easy to fall into, the simple pleasure of creating that she loved so much.
Penelope was surprised when she heard Odysseus approach; he wasn't meant to be back until--Penelope gazed over the courtyard and was surprised at how far the sun had traveled. Had she been weaving all afternoon?
Odysseus asked her the same.
"I suppose I have, if you are not back early."
"Would that I could lose track of time for hours," Odysseus said, a slight smile on his lips.
"Where are you off to now?"
"I don't know. Nowhere."
"You could stay; I would enjoy the company."
He nodded wordlessly and sat next to her, in a chair usually occupied by one of their maids to help her spin wool. Odysseus had been adept at this too, once upon a time. Spinning yarn while he spun his tales, often getting too caught up in his stories to be of much help.
"You haven't forgotten how, have you?" She teased him gently as he picked up the hand spindle.
"We both shall soon see," Odysseus said with an amused noise, a short huff through his nose.
She grinned at him and they worked together in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the bronze weights gently tinkling against each other as Penelope wove and the distant lapping of the surf against Ithaca's jagged shores.
Odysseus made a pleased hum and Penelope glanced over at him; he was holding the spindle out for her appraisal.
"Does it meet your standards?"
It did not.
"What's that face? It's all on there!"
She could not argue that; all of the wool was on the spindle, in some fashion.
"Do not fret, my dearest husband; you are skilled in so many other things."
Odysseus barked a laugh and held the spindle close to his chest, as if to shield it from her criticism.
"It is not that bad!" Odysseus was insistent, though the truth was plain to see.
"Oh, my love, how you bend the truth to suit your fantasies."
"I am appalled at this!" he cried, pulling some yarn taut to prove a point that it did not reinforce.
"Odysseus," Penelope said, laughter coming to her unbidden.
"I see no difference," he said, though he was grinning cheekily.
Penelope's heart swelled. His crooked grin, the crinkles around his bright eyes. He did not seem so broken in this moment, here in this small room by the sea.
This could so easily have come before, when their worries were few, when she felt nearly one with him. The distance between them now, when they could have been no closer before; it is what hurt her the most.
"You could try your hand at weaving; our Telemachus has become quite practiced with a loom. He enjoys it as I do."
"You would allow it? After this display?"
"I won't take my eyes off you this time."
"Ah, so you admit that my skill was not truly at fault, your gaze was needed for me to be adept with the spindle."
Penelope rolled her eyes.
"That's not--"
"As you say, and I agree," Odysseus insisted and then began to insist upon her space, to her great joy.
Penelope feigned annoyance as he sat on her chair, urging her to make room for them both. She rested her chin on Odysseus' shoulder while he considered her weaving, running his fingers along the neat array of strands. His hair smelled like wood smoke and the sea and the warmth of his body against hers was as intoxicating as any wine she'd ever tasted.
"You make it look easy," Odysseus murmured, taking the spool of wool in his hand.
"It is not so hard. Do you want me to show you?"
Odysseus hummed an affirmative, giving her the yarn and busying his hands with touching the hem of her dress, then her arms when she reached out to pass the spool through the weave. She smiled against his neck.
"Are you paying attention, my dearest?"
"Mhm--"
Penelope handed the spool back to him after she finished a row, pressing a kiss to his ear.
"Then you would not mind taking over?"
"Of course," Odysseus said, looking at her sideways with a wily smile. Penelope reached up to run her finger down the bridge of his nose in response and Odysseus turned to gaze at her with such adoration she thought her heart might burst.
"Well?" Penelope asked him.
"Don't rush me," he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her palm. The brush of his beard against her wrist made her laugh breathlessly; she squeezed his cheeks beneath her fingers and held his eyes, grinning.
"You weren't paying attention at all, were you?"
"I was, you simply weren't paying attention to my paying attention. I should be offended by your accusation, but by my grace as King, I will allow--" his speech was not so impactful as it was muffled by Penelope's hand.
"Odysseus."
He kissed her hand again and Penelope rolled her eyes.
"Once more?" His eyes were sparkling and mischievous; she could not deny him when he was like this.
"All right," she said, taking his hands in hers and guiding them to the loom.
They moved together easily and Odysseus was a quick study; soon he was finishing rows himself and Penelope found her hands free--she was overwhelmed with the desire to simply hold him and so she did. She could feel the movement of his muscles as he wove, the gentle rise and fall of his steady breathing beneath her arms.
"I see why you and Telemachus enjoy it. It is satisfying work," Odysseus mused after a while, resting his arms against hers.
Penelope turned her gaze to the loom and was struck with strong, unexpected emotion.
She had spent so much of her life surrounded by death--living with the fear of Odysseus' death, warding off unwanted marriage by weaving Laertes' burial shroud, the recent and expedient deaths of her suitors that she did not feel remorse for.
This felt in so many ways death's antithesis, of hope and what could be. This could not be defiled or taken by the gods--what could they take? Why would they bother? It was so simple and small--no beautiful dyes, no intricate pattern--and yet so meaningful, in what it meant to her.
This was new and it was theirs.
She wept not for what she had lost, but for what was now possible. Odysseus must have felt her trembling, for he started to stroke her arm with his thumb.
"Is it so offensive that you have been brought to tears? Ah, perhaps you regret teaching me to weave, as my skills have clearly surpassed yours."
Odysseus joked, but his touch was so gentle. He took Penelope's hand in his and pressed his lips to her fingers.
"What upsets you, my dear Queen?"
Penelope kissed behind his ear and closed her eyes, leaning heavily against him.
"I am simply grateful that you have returned to me at long last."
"Come here," Odysseus murmured to her and urged her to stand with him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. He kissed her hair and mumbled sweet words to her, finding her hand and taking it in his.
Penelope pressed her lips to his lightly-marred knuckles and he cupped her face in turn, gazing at her again in a way that made her chest flutter.
Odysseus kissed her then, a light graze that was not nearly enough. She leaned in to catch his lips again, curling her hand around the back of his neck to keep him close. Penelope felt Odysseus smile and he allowed her this, to clutch at him with increasing desperation that she hoped he would not run from.
Stay with me, she pleaded with him with her touch, because she could not speak the words aloud. Stay here. Do not go to the place in your mind that frightens me so terribly; I cannot bear it.
She thought of the first time they had made love after his return; his sullen and distant eyes. Delighting in each other had always been easy and exciting, but seemingly no longer; he had gone so still under her, had withdrawn into himself and away from her intense desire.
Penelope could not name why and that hurt her, too.
A foolish thought came to her and she uttered it against her better judgement; a pitiful--though truthful--question.
"Do you still desire me, Odysseus?"
Odysseus pulled back to look at her with genuine shock. Penelope dropped her eyes and Odysseus seemed to rally, urging her to look at him. She did; his eyes were full of determination and resolve.
"My darling heart, I am in awe of your beauty!" Odysseus tucked a loose curl of her hair behind her ear and pressed a kiss to her forehead, this gentle affection and his ferocity already calming her heart.
"Your radiance is akin to the first blush of spring after a long and cold winter, such is the warmth I feel when I gaze upon the splendor of your form. I desire you as I have desired no other--I count myself lucky every day that one so lovely agreed to be my wife."
Penelope could feel her cheeks warm as she listened to Odysseus praise her.
"I loathe to imagine these thoughts clouding your mind for even a moment, my Queen. I would sooner claim the sun would not rise tomorrow, that the stars are not above us tonight, than to say I do not desire you."
"Would you make love to me?" Penelope asked, stroking the back of his neck.
Odysseus lifted her off the ground in lieu of an answer, wrapping her legs around his waist. She pressed her forehead against his and grinned.
He began to carry her to their bedroom but they didn't make it far; Penelope kissed him and Odysseus stopped to brace her against a nearby wall to deepen the kiss. His hands were ceaseless now that he was not fully supporting her, he still knew where to touch to make her gasp, make her arch against him.
"Odysseus..." Penelope couldn't deny her thrill, though she preferred any kind of involved act to also be comfortable. (Especially after a day of weaving, and they were not as young as they used to be)
"Penelope," he mumbled against the skin of her neck, a puff of hot breath that made her shiver. He kept kissing and nipping along her neck as his hands easily undid her, making the fire in her burn so hotly she felt delirious from the heat.
Penelope tightened her thighs around his waist and pulled him closer to her, getting little relief by grinding against the fabric that had bunched between them.
"Odysseus, please--"
He pulled back to look at her and his pupils were blown-out and dark. She saw Odysseus quirk his brow, undoubtedly about say something clever to tease her further. She spoke first, cutting him off.
"Our bed. Right now," Penelope's voice was thick and rough with lust. She enjoyed this game, but her need to be laid out and fucked in earnest was overwhelming her.
Odysseus nodded, dazed-looking and with no smart remark. He pulled her back into his arms and she leaned into him, pressing kisses to his dark hair as he took her to bed.
They did not bother undressing; Odysseus hiked up Penelope's dress and put his mouth on her, the intense heat of his tongue between her legs making her shake with need and fist her hands tightly in the blankets under them. He pushed her thighs further open and buried his tongue in her, groaning in approval when she jerked frantically against him.
"Hah, ah--ah! Odysseus!"
She could feel the brush of his beard as he pleasured her, delicious friction contrasted with the soft warmth of his lips, his clever tongue. He kept his hands on her thighs, squeezing and stroking them as he brought her impossibly higher. Penelope arched against him and he hooked his arms under her thighs, angling her hips in such a way that made her climax hit her so powerfully she couldn't breathe, just gasp and cry out.
Her hips slowed and so did Odysseus, pulling back and pressing his lips to the inside of her thigh. Penelope was dazed and overwhelmed; there was relief but there was hunger still. Odysseus let out a pleased hum and she felt his fingers press against her, sliding them in easily and kissing her thigh again. He thrust his fingers lazily and she rocked against them, her low-burning need burning hotly again as they moved together.
Odysseus asked if he should stop; she begged him not to and so he did not, again working his godlike silver tongue against her until she was spent, until the sharp and fiery pleasure felt closer to pain. She pushed him away weakly and let her legs fall open; she was panting and pricked with sweat.
Odysseus was grinning at her with such adoration that she threw an arm over her eyes to hide from its intensity. And oh, how it looked like he wanted to gloat--there was an undeniable smugness in his grin, too. She heard him although he did not speak:
'And this, surely, is among my many skills you spoke of so highly? Should you suggest I bend the truth, I might dare to challenge you.'
Penelope could feel Odysseus had moved over her and she lowered her arm to look at him.
"So you would agree, of my many skills," he began when their eyes met, and Penelope covered her eyes again, breathless with laughter.
Odysseus kissed her forearm and she looked at him, the laughter between them transitioning easily back to desire. Penelope wet her lips and kissed him deeply, the taste of her on his tongue further driving her hunger. She was not nearly finished; Gods, she could not get enough. Not of this, not of Odysseus.
She drew her legs up and hooked them over his, pulling their hips close. Penelope felt his cock brush against her and it was nearly too much against her slick and over-sensitive arousal, but she still wanted--needed--him to be inside her. She asked this of Odysseus, her voice rough from use and he was more than eager to oblige her. She tugged at the hem of his tunic to expose him fully and both of them guided his cock to where Penelope needed it so desperately, drawing a satisfied moan from them both as he sunk into her.
Penelope muffled a cry against his neck as he rolled his hips, slow and steady and so good--
She slid her hands under his tunic, clutching at him and canting her hips up to meet his thrusts. Odysseus leaned into her, giving her the hard and deep fuck that her body was begging him for. Their lips met and they were both too overwhelmed to kiss, just frantically seek pleasure and friction as Odysseus neared his peak.
Penelope would defy the gods themselves if they tried to take Odysseus from her again--Pallas Athena would have to strike her down, and Penelope would sooner be together with Odysseus in the Underworld than separated from him in life again.
Penelope felt dreamy and drunk as she and Odysseus enjoyed a warm afterglow, sharing languid, slow kisses and smiling at each other when they parted. This is what she had missed. His eyes were not dull. He was not distant. He was here, with her, and they loved each other so much.
Penelope was certain Odysseus was asleep, she could feel his even, slow breathing against where his head laid on her chest.
"Do you remember Palamedes?" Odysseus asked her quietly, as if he was also unsure if she was awake.
Recollection took only a moment, but her reaction was powerful and sharp, as if Apollo himself had pierced her heart with a wicked, gleaming arrow.
Yes, she remembered Palamedes.
Penelope and Odysseus were going over the plan once more: Penelope would play the mournful wife as Odysseus plowed the fields with a donkey and an ox attached to the plough--this itself Penelope thought would be enough to relay his madness but Odysseus insisted he also sow the fields with salt to further the ruse. Penelope was not happy but relented; she would much rather lose usable land to salt than lose Odysseus to war.
The binding oath Odysseus had proposed to King Tyndareus--also carefully planned between them like this--to defend Tyndareus' daughter Helen in exchange for permission to take Penelope to Ithaca, had come for them at long last.
'Palamedes will be gone by tomorrow; Menelaus and Agamemnon can fight their own war,' Odysseus told her.
Penelope held him close and prayed this would be true. They would not have him. The plan would hold. It must.
She remembered the rest only in pieces. Palamedes wrested Telemachus from her arms--he'd been born only two months before--and threw him into the dirt before Odysseus, forcing him to reveal his ruse or kill his infant son. She remembered a howl from her that was not from her. She remembered the violent tremors in her body that did not cease for hours; the hacking sobs of panic and terror that haunted her still, though they were her own.
She remembered holding Odysseus tightly against her that night, neither of them able to find sleep and both of them stricken, broken and laid bare.
She remembered the oracles' words: Odysseus would be gone for twenty years and return a beggar.
Odysseus would be leaving for war when the sun came.
Yes, she remembered Palamedes.
"A snake," she responded. "I pray all the ills of the world would befall him."
"I killed him, Penelope," Odysseus whispered to her.
"Would you tell me of it?"
He did, sparing her no detail. Penelope felt a savage catharsis, knowing Palamedes had not had a peaceful death, had not gone unpunished for all he had done. Palamedes had felt the same soul-breaking terror that he had inflicted upon them, just as suddenly and without warning. A just revenge.
"And only the King of Argos uncovered your deception?"
"Ah, but I knew he would not betray me."
"How were you sure?"
"Would you betray me?"
"Did I uncover your guise before all of Ithaca, when I could have?"
"You didn't know it was me," Odysseus insisted; they had spoken of this before. Before, she had let it go.
"Athena herself could not hide you from me."
"Then tell me, gave me away? Did you see the scar on my calf as well?"
Odysseus had told her he'd been discovered by a house servant--Penelope could not believe Pallas Athena did not hide his most distinguishing scar, but it was not what gave him away, as he so insisted.
"Perhaps it was because an elderly man in rags was asking me so seriously about the state of the kingdom and my faithfulness to the lost King of Ithaca. Perhaps it was because Athena did not hide your biggest scars, so she of course did not bother to hide the smallest ones," Penelope pressed a kiss to a small crescent-shaped scar on his jaw, then to a small nick on his chin where his beard didn't grow.
Odysseus smiled slyly.
"I was certain you didn't know."
Penelope made an amused noise as Odysseus settled against her again, draping his leg over hers.
"I hope you were good to the King of Argos, my dearest husband, as he did not reveal your deception, either."
"Mm, I tried to do right by King Diomedes, though you know how I struggle to do right."
"You do right when it matters," Penelope said, feeling a strong surety in this, though she knew others would just as strongly disagree.
Perhaps most of them would disagree. Perhaps it didn't matter if they did--they did not understand what it meant to be touched by divinity, did not understand what it meant to forsake your morality to survive. Perhaps they prayed to gods that favored meekness.
Penelope did not.
Over time, Odysseus began telling her more of his journey home, in the stillness of the night or when he weaved with her. He spoke of horrors but he also spoke of lightness, of those who helped him, of those who saw him as she did and aided his journey home. There were people she came to know through his stories: the oft-mentioned Diomedes, King of Argos; the witch Circe and the brothers Atreides--she had known Menelaus and Agamemnon before, but not well. Penelope was relieved to hear Menelaus did not bear any ill-will towards Helen, that he understood what had happened was something she could not have possibly foreseen.
'Of course he did not kill her. Menelaus loved sweet Helen so dearly, he would not speak an ill word of her, let alone end her life,' Odysseus had told her.
Penelope had a particular dislike for boars but she very much wanted to see Circe's island, to see this strange and powerful magic she was capable of with her own eyes.
Odysseus told her about Ogygia, the island where he spent the last seven years of his journey. Penelope shook with rage and despair; an unwanted suitor pursued Odysseus and held him captive--a nymph, the daughter of a Titan. Calypso, too, had powerful magic; she could weave and sing, ensnaring Odysseus under her spell. There was a cynical side of her that thought this a convenient excuse for him to have an affair with a deity, but his eyes were distant and sullen as he spoke. Penelope would not mourn Calypso, were she to suffer the same fate her own suitors had. Penelope would do this herself, given the chance. A just revenge.
Penelope stayed in bed until late morning for the simple pleasure of it, leaving Odysseus to the affairs of Ithaca. The summer breeze fluttered the leaves of the towering oak tree above her--now so large it required nearly a half-day to trim in the spring. It still lived and grew, flourishing and thriving; Penelope would do no less.
Today, Odysseus could lead the kingdom by himself; Penelope had done so alone for twenty years. He could manage a day. Penelope stretched and rolled onto her stomach, pushing away the heavy woven blanket that covered her. Soon the miserable summer heat would be upon them, she thought.
Penelope heard Odysseus approach from down the hall--perhaps she had been wrong, about leaving him to his own devices.
"Oh--Queen of Ithaca, certainly you are not all alone in these marvelous bedchambers?"
Penelope looked over her shoulder at him and he smiled at her, crooked and mischievous. Odysseus quirked his brow and she nodded, then Penelope feigned sudden shock.
"How did you get in here? I locked the door!"
"I'm a master spy," Odysseus said with a wicked grin, untying his belt and shrugging his tunic over his shoulders. "I can pick any lock with great ease."
"Oh, then you must be so...deft with your fingers," Penelope said, arching her hips up off the bed.
The 'intruder' had an uncharacteristically gentle touch, though Penelope did not tell him this. There was no need for his ruse to hold up to any scrutiny, no need for his deception to be anything but a game for their amusement. And for this she was glad.
They stayed in bed long into the afternoon and well after they were spent, unwilling to go back to their duties as King and Queen. Instead, Penelope listened to Odysseus' tell her more of his journey, content and happy in his arms as the light summer breeze fluttered through the branches of the grand oak tree above them.
Penelope did not have a care in the world, in this beautiful room by the sea.
Odysseus was here, with her, and they loved each other so much.
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