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In the early morning, Penelope woke to birds chirping and sunlight shining through the window at just the right angle to blind her. She huffed, annoyed, and turned around on the bed, reaching out her arm to hold a body beside her, only for her hands to grasp nothing but air. Her eyes fluttered open to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Odysseus promised her as he cupped her face in his hands and placed a kiss on top of her hair.
More than a decade later, the spot next to her is still unoccupied. Liar, Penelope thought.
Deciding to start her day now that she was up, she climbed out of the comfort of her bed, slipped on a simple blue peplos, paired with a lavender himation, pulled her brown hair with a few strands of gray up in a bun, and exited her bedchamber with no husband sleepily blinking up at her, reaching out to stop her from leaving his side.
As she stepped through corridors held up by high columns, some servants were already up, running up and down the palace, preparing for the day and bowing their heads slightly when Penelope passed them. Unlike in bigger, richer palaces, the royal members of Ithaca weren’t too prideful nor ashamed to do meager tasks by themselves that would otherwise be left for the servants in any other kingdom. But today, Penelope could not afford to help out her maids. She grabbed a cup of water from a servant, giving her a small nod, and strode down the hall, her steps confident and head held high. Once she passed two male guards and reached her destination, she sat down in front of her old loom and began working.
The once soft skin on her fingers had grown calloused and hard from the constant weaving her scheme required, and she found herself bored as her fingers fell into the same monotonous rhythm she once loved but now loathed. Naturally, her eyes ventured to the side and fell on the bouquet of tiny, humble, baby blue flowers idly sitting in a pot beside her.
Forget-me-not: a tiny, insignificant flower, yet it wears such a powerful meaning so perfectly like it’s second nature to it.
“Forget-me-nots?” Young Penelope questioned as she reached out and took them from his hands, gently not to accidentally hurt them.
“Of course, how could I ever forget your radiant beauty, my lady?” He closed his eyes and leaned back on her windowsill, resting his head against the wall, daydreaming.
“Blue is a color made for you,” Odysseus said breathlessly and reached out to tuck a forget-me-not that threatened to fall, deeper behind his bride’s ear at their wedding.
“If our last chance at sacking the City of Troy fails, I want you and Telemachus to know that I love you more than anything else in this world,” the last letter he sent read, accompanied by a single withered forget-me-not in Penelope’s hands.
Sighing, Penelope picked up the cup she placed down next to it and watered it, all the while waiting apathetically for the distant steps to reach her.
“My lady,” Antinous greeted civilly and stood outside the room, not trying to pass the guards at the door, knowing full well that he was not welcome here otherwise.
“Antinous,” Penelope said, facing him with a straight back and arms in front of her, signaling to the guards with a nod to let him through, which he did eagerly.
While more than half of the men in her home had no shame in taking her hospitality for granted, Antinous showed respect towards her. Or at least when she was around. She long learned from her maids that he was just as unworthy as all the other dogs sleeping in those quarters of the palace, but he had his own way of pushing his pursuit: making a reputation for himself among the suitors, trying to win over as many to support him as possible and any who’s not satisfied with the promise of a small part of the power and competes against him, will get shunned by the guards he’d managed to get in his pocket. As she stood before him firmly, all alone, she hoped her intel was correct, and the guards standing at the door were still on her side.
He didn’t bother with small talk as he walked up to her loom and let both his eyes and hands wander the shroud she was making. “Weaving is not a very fast process, is it?” He asked.
The making of a funeral shroud is not easy when you’re struck with grief,” she voiced out bitterly, the lie easily slipping out. Her grieving for not only the eventual passing of her father-in-law but her husband as well was not said out loud but it was still heard by him.
“It’s been fifteen years, my lady,” he said somberly with a compassionate look on his face that could convince almost anyone that it was real sympathy he was feeling for the mournful widow of an oathbound king who met his end with an invitation to war.
Penelope eyed the guards, noting how one of them had a stiff posture while the other was hesitant. She chose her next words carefully. “The will of the gods is unpredictable, fate can work in mysterious ways.”
Her own words didn’t taste as true on her tongue as she made it out to be, for the only possibility she dared to entertain for her husband’s extended absence was that the fragile pride and ego of gods couldn’t take the defiance Odysseus showed. Even as one of Athena’s warriors.
“That it can,” he agreed. Penelope didn’t let her guard down, not even for a short moment, and the walls she built over the years around her only hardened in defense over his next words: “Perhaps even gifting a queen with nothing but slow handicraft.”
She saw out of the corner of her eyes that one guard tensed at the insult directed at his queen but didn’t move just yet, trusting that Penelope had the situation under control. Antinous stopped before her, then roughly grabbed one of her wrists, dragging her forward. She winced and sucked in a breath from the stinging pressure. Odysseus had never held her like this.
The guard from before jumped to swiftly help his queen, only to get stopped by the other guard.
Antinous examined her fingers solemnly, trying to find any incriminating evidence of a scheme, and while it was right under his nose, it flew over his head from his lack of understanding of weaving. Penelope met his silent accusations head-on, not taking her eyes off of his and daring him to challenge her. Just as expected, he found nothing.
The cold in his eyes was only out to kill, not an ounce of mercy left in them for the grief-stricken widow nor any of her relatives. At times when Penelope and Odysseus were trying to outwit each other, it was always a game played with fondness and love, never trying to ruthlessly beat the other.
The rules of this game were unfamiliar but its course ran the same.
“Years of work hardens the fingers,” she spoke with silent fury, hiding the slight tremble in her voice. She was able to regain a silver of her composure and calmed her rapid heartbeat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have a cloth to work on in peace and quiet, with room to mourn my husband properly.”
She pried her hand open from his, showing her frustration but not fear, and turned to walk back to her loom, showing her back to the suitor. One guard immediately grabbed and led Antinous far away from the vicinity of her. Penelope made a mental note of the second missing guard to deal with later, but for now, she sat there facing the cursed shroud she was stuck forever making and destroying. She suddenly felt exhausted.
Lowering her face into her palms, the warmth behind her eyes intensified but nothing ran down her cheeks as she did not let herself cry. No one reached out to comfort her, even the lonely forget-me-not only stood and watched as she soundlessly drowned in her sorrow.
★ ★ ★
Early afternoon fog danced at the surface of the water, preventing Penelope from eyeing the horizon as she stood on the cliffside but not stopping her from trying. The water below was quiet for once, the waves almost seizing entirely, the only motion being their clash against jagged rocks. It was strange to think that this still body of water was the same one that may be responsible for swallowing her husband into its inky depth.
“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Her son’s voice, a bit accusative, came from behind her.
Once a week, before the last peak of light disappeared behind the horizon, she came to stand here at this cliffside, waiting for a black smudge to appear in the distance. Telemachus knew this, he even accompanied her in the past when both of them visited it more frequently, hope driving their wait. The only reason he’d seek her out at this time was if he was in one of those grief-stricken moods where he wished Odysseus had never existed at all.
She clenched her hands together but did not turn around to look at what expression he had on his face, only closing her eyes, numbly preparing for the conversation that was about to take place.
Her lack of response edged him to press further. “It’s a pointless wait and you know it.” He came to stand by her side, not looking at her, only at the blue. “He’s not coming back.”
“You don’t know that, my dear,” Penelope told him softly. She honestly couldn’t fault him for giving up on him. He simply couldn’t miss Odysseus like she did, for he never knew him.
“I do, it’s been fifteen years,” his voice was getting more agitated, trying to prove his point. They’d been waiting for five years to see twelve ships sailing back home from war, carrying their men, but they never came. ”He should be long home by now, but he isn’t. You’re waiting for a dead man to come home.”
She sighed internally. Her exhaustion was already clouding her mood, and she did not have the energy to put up with Telemachus’ faulty logic at the moment. “I am not having this argument with you right now.”
“We can go on without him.” That was finally enough to make his mother look at him. “I can step up as king and clean up the mess he left behind.”
You can go on without him, Penelope wanted to correct him but instead focused on the last part of what he said. “You will not. I refuse to put that much burden on you at this age.” Just what was he thinking?
“I am not a child anymore,” he growled with the anger of a child who’s been spoiled and sheltered his whole life. “My entire life everyone always told me I’ll become king when the time comes. Well, when is that time if not now, more than ever?”
“You’re much too young for that yet, my heart,” Penelope told him, resigned. They already had this argument many times before and no progress had ever been made in persuading each other’s mind.
“Am I? I recall you telling me that my dad stepped up on the throne at age thirteen,” Telemachus reasoned. “I’m fifteen, Mom. I can handle it.”
“Your father’s coronation was a special case, and it might as well have destroyed his childhood. I will not wish the same fate upon you.” Truth be told, she knew how much of a hypocrite she sounded like; the boy who was standing before her already had to grow up in a broken household. She just wished he’d let her pretend she could still protect him, just a little longer.
“Then what are you going to do about the men in our house?” He sighed shakily, burdened either way.
“Telemachus—”
“They don’t respect you. One of them is going to marry you and there’s nothing you can do about it.” His voice had changed from bitter to panicked and desperate, the terrified look in his eyes telling her just how much more he feared for his mother’s safety than for his own.
“I—” Penelope started then stopped. Deep down, she knew her son was right.
Five years later, Odysseus is still not home, and the suitors will only get more impatient and aggressive. Queen or not, she’s still a woman, and it’s only a matter of time before her games are found out and the stalling will be forced to end.
They both knew why she continued to refuse any man. Her chest hurt from the longing twisting and squeezing her heart.
It was a pipe dream and nothing else.
“Please, Mom, just let him go. I can’t stand to see you so heartbroken all the time,” Telemachus squeezed her hand and begged his mother, and Penelope had to swallow down the despair crawling up her veins.
Let go? Letting go of someone you never had was much easier than losing them when they’d already become a piece of you. How could he understand his mother’s grief when he’d never lost anyone before?
“You know I can’t do that.” She selfishly clung to the last bit of her to not fall apart entirely.
“You can,” Telemachus reassured her. The words ’you just don’t want to’ lingered in the air.
Penelope said nothing to that, just bowing her head guiltily, and it was enough to make Telemachus’ face morph into something else as realization struck him.
“You love him so much that you’re willing to waste away in sorrow in front of us all,” he realized and his mother turned to him with an expression she didn’t know but must have been terrified enough to make him break even more. “You’re willing to do anything for him—”
“Don’t—”
“Even dying in front of me, like Grandmother did.”
“Don’t!” A warning.
With newfound anger, his voice rose again. “It’s always been that way, just him and you, and the rest of the world be damned because he’s all you need!” Her eyes widened at that. “You don’t even care about what happens to me!”
“All I do is think about what happens to you!” It was Penelope’s turn to yell. She put up with the lousy men in her home, eating their food and ripping everything apart for him. She refused to remarry so he could inherit a legacy and not be exiled or, worse, killed by a new king for being the rival heir. How could he not see how much she cared?
Penelope always strived to shield her son from harm, let it be anything, but there was no protection from a father who left behind a void that still haunted the hearts of the people around him even after almost two decades.
“How many years must pass before all of you realize that he’s not coming back?” Telemachus shouted, tears in his eyes, with the grief of someone who grew up surrounded by people who looked at him with sadness and pity.
“He will.” Her voice was firm but shook slightly, trying to fool her son of this truth just as much as she was trying to fool herself.
“Now, you’re just lying,” he choked on his own anger as he accused her.
“I’m not,” she snapped back harshly which she, somewhere deep down, knew was wrong of her. “Your father loved us both very much—”
“Again with the lies! He didn’t love me, he never did!” Telemachus yelled over her, throwing his hands in the air, and Penelope had to clench her teeth together to fight back the scream that wanted to erupt from her chest upon hearing that. “His absence my whole life proves that!”
“—And he didn’t love you, Mom!” He continued, stepping towards his mother to look her in the eyes. “If he did, he wouldn’t have given up on getting back to you!”
Looking at the ground, Penelope snorted humorlessly, broken. Just what kind of picture did she paint of Odysseus to make her son think this of him?
With those last words echoing in the air, silence settled down after their screaming match; old grief resurfaced in both of them, choking them as tears were streaming down both his and her faces. She turned back around towards the edge of the cliff, her back to her son.
“Go back to the palace, Telemachus.” Her voice sounded hoarse and broken but she couldn’t care less. This conversation ends here and now. A moment later, the labored breathing came to a halt behind her, and the sounds of stomping and shuffling of grass replaced it.
★ ★ ★
Penelope’s favorite part of her every day was the evening.
She was always reminded of the threat that lay next door at day, constantly under siege in her own home. But men drinking wine all day carried the essence of drunkenness with it which thankfully gave her an evening where she didn’t have to worry herself.
By the time Astraeus’ dusk appeared in the sky, the suitors of both new and old were already passed out asleep. It gave her an excuse to retreat to her quarters. Though spending hours in the dark, doing what she did under Helios’ gaze, just pushing the shuttle under and above threads over and over, was no leisure time but the unfair punishment of the gods’ that she never deserved to be sentenced to.
As her fingers worked on autopilot, she let her thoughts drift away. This loom dates back to the days when she was still a girl, sitting in her tower in Sparta, working on clothes for Helen. She quickly fell in love with the art of weaving, spending most of her time on perfect embroideries and nothing else. As a result, unweaving threads were not unfamiliar to her; neither was the lack of company that Odysseus would provide when he wanted to be around her but didn’t want to distract her from her work, choosing to lunge on a sofa to her side while he worked on his own wood carving, often of his mentor, Athena.
The truth was that she missed him. She missed the nights spent together, missed when he would scoop her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to her cheek, or when they would share a dance, his arms guiding her, confident and strong. She missed his smile, always-calculating quicksilver eyes, and his silver tongue of lies the most. The world was so devoid of joy from the lack of his games and schemes.
She also knew that he would have done anything for her except stay. And even if she had asked, begged him to stay, he wouldn’t have done that. He was selfish and stubborn like that.
A knock pulled her out of her thoughts and, in stepped, the most faithful and loyal maid of the palace: Eurycleia.
“My queen,” she greeted with a bow, tray in hand, “I brought you your dinner.”
“Thank you,” Penelope said as the old maid laid the food out on a table to her side. Eurycleia had served the Ithacan royal family—had served not just Odysseus but Laertes as well—far before Penelope had ever met the love of her life. Her devotion ran deeper than any other’s, she was aware, to the point that the family picture was not complete without her.
Eurycleia nodded slightly then straightened up into a standing position with her hands in front of her, waiting for Penelope to give her any orders. But there wasn’t anything after that, just silence, and the old maid’s eyebrows slightly furrowed, face scrunched up, as Penelope only continued to work through rows of threads.
Though she would often ask Eurycleia for reports of the suitors’ activities, tonight was different. She was tired, oh so tired, and all she wanted was to be left alone. She hoped her face conveyed her wish so that she wouldn’t have to say anything out loud, as she didn’t know if she still had enough power left in her voice to not worry the maid’s old heart needlessly.
Penelope saw movement in her peripherals and heard shuffling and half expected her maid to leave or ask what was wrong after that. She certainly didn’t expect her to put a blue wedding dress next to the tray.
“It is a gift sent by Lady Helen,” the old maid told her. She anxiously shifted on her feet at Penelope’s silence. “She believes you would look gorgeous in this, my queen.”
Like she didn’t hear her at all, Penelope only continued to stare as a very familiar scene came to the front of her mind.
“You’ll look very gorgeous, dear,” her Aunt Leda said as she helped Penelope decorate her hair with forget-me-nots. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Penelope spoke with disinterest, trying to cover up her anxiety but likely failing. Her fidgeting with the fabric of her blue wedding dress didn’t help her case at all.
“Yet, you still seem worried,” Leda playfully remarked with a knowing smile. Looks like she failed just as she had expected.
Dropping the act as it was useless now she answered: “I’m just not sure if I’m ready to be a wife yet, or a mother, or a queen. It just seems like a lot of responsibility.”
Leda stopped waving flowers into her hair, and Penelope feared for a second that she may have said something wrong. But her aunt only sighed exhausted, someone who understood her worries like no other. She sat down next to her niece and linked their hands together.
“Our role as women in society is very exploitable,” she explained bitterly. “Most men don’t value us: they take the woman of the highest standard to strengthen their political ties, often leading to an unhappy marriage.”
“But you,” Leda spoke more cheerfully, catching Penelope off guard. “You have found true love. So don’t fret, for this man truly admires you, and he will always be there by your side.”
Leda continued after a moment of silence. “And if nothing else,” she cradled her niece’s face with her hands and locked eyes with her, “you have me. I’ll always be here for you, Penelope”
The room fell quiet for a moment as the words of Leda rang out. Soon, sniffing could be heard as those very words traveled and settled into Penelope’s heart. She reached to wipe away the tears in the corners of her eyes that threatened to fall down her face. Then, she lunged forward to embrace Leda in a fierce hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
Leda hugged her daughter back just as fiercely. “You’re welcome, my heart.”
Staring at nothing ahead, Penelope didn’t notice how much time had passed or the comforting weight resting on her hand.
“It’ll be okay,” Eurycleia said from beside her, slightly squeezing her hand.
Penelope hoped she was right.
★ ★ ★
Deep blue water flowed from the watering can Penelope held.
It was a peaceful morning. The fog has subsided and the skies cleared up with birds singing their endless amount of melodies. The trees shone an emerald gold, bathing in the warmth of the sun as flowers around them dressed up in vivid colors to strike beauty in the hearts of any passersby.
She had this recurring dream often: Waiting in the garden, watering flowers as a blurry figure—a ghost of a faraway memory—appears in the distance. He’s standing with his back to her, but she can recognize that short chocolate brown hair anywhere, among thousands even. She puts down the watering can and turns to him, taking shaky steps towards him until she’s sprinting to hold him, hug him, kiss him, her hair coming undone from its usual bun at her speed.
But no matter how fast she runs, how long, or how much, she can never reach him. The distance seems to grow between them, and when she stops, he’s walking away from her to where she simply cannot follow. She tries again by calling out to him but nothing comes out of her. Her voice is frozen, a heavy lump sitting in her throat and she feels the warmth behind her eyes before the image in front of her begins to blur. Sniffs, hiccups, and sobs quickly break out of her, and she falls to her knees in the soft sand of the beach underneath her. Waves clash against her, dampening her clothes. Her hands cover her face, tears spill from her eyes, and they fall, becoming one with the sea like how the other half of her soul became one with the sea of dead souls.
Penelope didn’t believe in the meaning behind dreams (if you could even call something like this a dream) and never told anyone of this particular one. They would be concerned and worried for the health of their queen if they learned of what kind of dreams her grief causes her to have. It could also be exploited if one slip of the tongue occurs, let it be anyone’s. She knows well just how fast rumors among the palace staff can travel.
Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, she continued attending to the plants around her. Nothing felt out of the ordinary.
Then, a familiar figure appeared in the distance and Penelope would’ve thought she’d been having that same dream if not for the figure making his way over to her.
She put down the watering can and turned towards Telemachus standing a few steps to her side. Looking into each other’s eyes, neither said anything, but her son didn’t need to; his eyes told Penelope everything.
In that quicksilver color she loved so much was a mixture of shame, fear, sorrow, and bitterness swirling together, trying to make sense of everything. The sight weighed down on Penelope’s heart and all she wanted to do was to take the suffering from him.
The faint echo of a small sigh, then Penelope was moving forward, embracing her son. His arms wrapped around her and his hands clasped her himation tightly like a lifeline, like she would disappear too if he let go. She pressed a kiss to his hair and began rocking back and forth, just like she would always do to calm him when he was a little kid.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His tone was quiet and carried a sense of regret. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know,” she answered just above a whisper. “I focused on my own pain when I should have realized you were hurting just as much as I was. I’m sorry too.” These words were not enough, Penelope knew. No words were ever enough to express just how sorry she was for everything.
Her son’s hold tightened around her upon hearing that, and he buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck. They stayed like that for a while, quietly clutching onto the last person they had left, never wanting to let go.
“I just miss him,” he said as his voice broke a little. “I miss him so much.”
“It must be hard growing up without a father,” Laertes spoke as he looked at the wine swirling at the bottom of his cup.
“He never knew his presence, thus doesn’t notice his absence,” Penelope told him the simple side of the truth, which was a bit of an oversimplification, but that didn’t make it any less true.
Now she knew she’d been wrong about that.
“I miss him too,” Penelope told him. Over the years, she had said these couple of words so many times that their number goes way above the number of stars in the sky.
There was a faint shuffling coming from below and the sudden sensation of fur brushing against their skin for a moment. Both broke their hug to look down and find Argos calmly sitting beside them, staring up in concern. Telemachus chuckled, a sound that Penelope had missed a lot before he crouched down to pull him closer and run his fingers through his fur in long pets.
His eyes wandered around a bit before they stopped dead in their tracks, caught on the light blue flowers bathed in the golden glow of the sun that stood just past Argos. The soft grass underneath her grazed her legs slightly through the fabric of her peplos as she settled down onto the ground. When she looked at her son, Telemachus’ face didn’t hold any grief or sadness for once, only awe.
“He really liked these flowers, didn’t he?” It wasn’t a question but a statement. He carefully reached out to softly touch the tiny blue flower petals.
“No,” Penelope corrected, “he loved them more than anything else in this world.” It was clear that his love for them was never really about the plant, just like how it was clear that none of the words they’d just spoken were about the plant either.
More than anything else in this world. He loved true unforgettable love more than anything else in this world.
Once upon a time, these flowers meant nothing to her. They were just another drop in the sea of flowers with a cheesy meaning for youthful lovers that she never truly understood. But then, Odysseus came into her life. Suddenly, that same flower felt so much heavier as she held it close to her chest, to her beating heart full of so much love for the man she now called her husband. It followed her through their journey, recording every little memory it witnessed.
Odysseus is gone—for now at least—but the love and memories he left behind for those around him were still here, locked in this flower, keeping him alive. The stories ensured that he would not be forgotten.
He never ventured far, Penelope thought. He’s been here beside us all along. It was a comforting thought that Penelope let convince her for just this once that things were going to sort themselves out.
Sitting there in the garden, mother and son could finally feel like the missing piece of their little family that they’d chased after for so long was finally in sight. It was far, just above the horizon, but it was slowly getting bigger, and closer.
He was coming home to them. All they had to do was wait for a little longer.