IT IS AMAZIMG OML 🙏🤌💛😭 ITS SO PERFECT AND SO GOOD I CANT-

IT IS AMAZIMG OML 🙏🤌💛😭 ITS SO PERFECT AND SO GOOD I CANT-

Something I wrote for university about Penelope waiting for Odysseus

@vega-theythem @defenestratehumanity

“Word came today, of Troy.” 

Penelope halts in her movements, head turning just enough to show she was fully listening to the girl at her side. 

“The city has been sacked, and the men are returning. Our King is on his way home.”

The queen lets out a long breath, chest a contradicting mix of tight and loose at the same time. Odysseus would be home within days, surely, and then he would be at her side again. Telemachus would finally have his father to show him how to live and breathe like the man the boy so desperately already wants to be. And yet, this news of his return left an ominous taste to the air, drying her tongue. 

“We must begin preparations for my husband,” She says in a low voice. “We shall be ready for when he lands on our shores.” 

The palace is a rush of movement. Grapes are plucked and made into wine, fresh bread baked, and meat readied for feasting. A great storm blows over the ocean, one that leaves the air tasting salty and metallic. Godlike, and spiteful. Days passed, becoming weeks, then months, then a year, and beyond. People whispered, palace slaves shared silent glances, and Telemachus waited daily by the doors for his absent father while other boys and men started to drift into the halls, the people of Ithaca murmuring about the sure death of their king.

“He will come today,” Telemachus speaks aloud, a mere thirteen years old. 

Penelope doesn’t respond to his pitiful hopefulness. While she, too, hopes for his return, fear stirs in her heart. That storm, the day Odysseus was sure to return, left an irremovable bad taste in her throat. The Gods had been angry that day. Posideon had been angry that day. For what reason, she surely could not know, but it was more than likely the old God had taken Odysseus, her husband, king, and dearest friend, and spirited him away, perhaps even to the Underworld. 

But Telemachus was too young, still, to understand, though one day he will. 

“You should attend your lessons, boy,” She tells him. He huffs and pouts, stomping his feet as he leaves her to her work.

The thread of the shroud rubs her fingertips nearly raw, as she rakes her hands through, destroying most of the work she had done on it just the day before. She had to leave some progress, so that no one got too suspicious, but this would not fool the men and boys taking up more and more space in her home much longer. It was a miracle it had worked for this long as it was, but soon enough, someone would catch on that she had no intention of finishing this project, not any time soon. 

She just had to hold on until Telemachus was old enough, then she would have him marry, and take his father’s place on the throne, where he belonged. She would not rob him of his birthright before he even had the chance to make a grab for it. She would protect him, no matter the cost, until he was ready. That was her duty, not just as queen, but his mother. 

Tears burn her eyes, but not from the stinging pain in her sore hands. Her heart aches. She hates to think these things, to have to make such underhanded plots. Odysseus was the tricky one, he was the one who could both talk his way into, and out of, all kinds of trouble. All with a wicked grin, no doubt inherited from his godly great grandfather. 

Penelope was clever, sure, but she wasn’t fit for tricks and lies, and there were plenty that knew that. 

“I can help with that, wife of my blood.”

The voice startles her, her hands pulling away from the shroud so quickly she hits herself hard in the chest. She stands and turns, searching for the man who had just spoken, who had entered her private rooms unbidden.

He flits about her space curiously, feet lifted from the ground as if he’d never once even touched grass or stone with his heels. He looks over her bed, built by Odysseus to be a part of the olive tree that grew beautifully there. She watches him dance through the air, taking in every bit of her personal space as he could before deigning to give her his proper attention. 

He drops himself onto her bed, pulling his petasos from his head and letting it hang on one of the low branches of the tree before raking a hand lazily through his curled dark hair. And for a moment, a real, firm moment, Penelope was sure she was looking at her husband, and it’s now that she sees just where he inherited his beauty. 

The God Hermes smiles at her, waiting patiently for her to be able to breathe. 

She gasps, lungs burning, falling to her knees in awe of him. He snickers at her, grinning Odysseus’ grin and watching her with swirling golden eyes, flecks of red and green making his irises sparkle even more. Looking at him is almost painful, his resemblance to her husband making her feel ill, and she wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if his image is a mere projection in order to move her heart, and listen to what he has to say.

“I can help,” He repeats, his voice strange, accented with every voice, every language, his words feeling oddly out of Time, as if he’d pulled his vocabulary from the men who had come before, and would come after. “If you want.” 

“H-help?” She asks, silently cursing how her voice trembles in the wake of this seemingly benevolent God. 

“Mm. Ody’s mine, through and through, so it’s right that I keep you all taken care of, yeah? You ‘n the little guy.” 

The tears that had been threatening her lashes finally start to fall, soaking her cheeks in a matter of seconds. The Gods had not given up on them, they weren’t being abandoned just yet. 

“Please,” She sobs. “Please tell me what to do.”

Hermes grins, eyes sharp and mischievous.

“You’ll have to be strong,” He says, standing tall, dark hair glittering with the same gold as his wild eyes. “Stronger than you ever have been before.”

-

“Mother!” Telemachus’ voice rattles her, though she doesn’t dare to show it. The boy looks and sounds more and more like his father every day, so much so that sometimes she can’t bear to even look at him. 

“I’m here,” She says from her spot resting on her bed, though she knows he’s already storming closer, his footfalls loud enough to shake the walls. 

“Are you sending notes to the suitors downstairs?” He asks, voice shaky with anger and pain. 

“They’re guests, my love. We must show them good hospitality,” She says softly, already bracing for his anger. 

“They’re trying to take you away! They’re eating us out of house, home, and wealth! And you’re encouraging it!” 

“Telemachus, please!” She lurches to her feet, moving to stand in front of him and take his soft, scarless face between her hands. “When you’re grown, you’ll understand better.”

He scoffs at her. At eighteen, he’s well grown enough, at least in his eyes. But without a father figure of any kind without Odysseus, he doesn’t truly know what he believes he does. Penelope sighs, eyes red and swollen from hours of crying, though if anyone looked closer, they’d see that she looked more calm than distressed, face too smooth for how many tears she’s shed. 

“My son, my precious prince, your father is most likely dead and those men down there know this. You must know this by now. You should start looking for a wife. You know your father and I were married by your age-”

Her son’s face goes red with rage and embarrassment, and he snaps at her to shut up, before shoving her away, turning on his heels, and nearly running out of the room. His words and tone wound her in a way that she’s not sure she’ll ever truly recover from, but she swallows her pain like she hopes one day he will swallow his. She forces herself to think of good memories, on days long past but never forgotten.

Odysseus had always been beautiful, just like the son they made.

They had been fifteen when he first approached her, all those years ago. He’d had the same strong nose and firm brow as Telemachus. His skin had been kissed by sunlight, and he blushed redder than any fruit or flower when he tripped over his own feet in front of her. 

In her mind, he was always glowing. He had the favor of Athena, and carried in him the blood of Hermes. The Gods loved him, and everyone knew it. 

And he loved her. 

He had bright eyes and a wide grin, and he always challenged her to word puzzles. He liked that she was so clever, that she could not only keep up with him, but in some cases even beat him. They spent their early days attached at the hip. Wherever she went, he followed, pattering after her like a duckling, quacking his questions and ideas. 

He’d gotten on his knees and begged her father to let him marry her. He’d given gifts, made grand gestures, and swore an oath to never even glance at anyone else. He needn't do any of it, as her father had loved him from the moment he saw how Odysseus looked at her, so it had been an easy decision. 

They married the same day, her good husband too excited to wait for propriety. It had been a secret, a quiet wedding with just them, and the Gods. They’d had a “real” wedding not long after, but they both considered that first night their true anniversary.

“Oh Aphrodite,” Penelope whispers into the wind. “Let my son find happiness in love, one day. He deserves at least that much for all his hardships.”

-

Penelope couldn’t bear to think of Eurycleia as truly traitorous, but even still. She had let her son, her soft-hearted boy board a ship and sail into the sea without any consideration for how such news could affect her. The woman had looked after Telemachus for such a long time, and was well trusted in the palace, and yet she had betrayed her mistress, the woman who had allowed her to hold and love Telemachus as a second mother. 

She had betrayed her, then told her not to cry lest she spoil her beauty. As if that was truly worth anything when there was now an even higher chance for her to lose everything she’s spent all these past years fighting to cling to. The woman should consider herself lucky if she ends up merely sold somewhere else, rather than beheaded should Telemachus not return.

The Gods had given her good dreams that night, wishing for Penelope to find peace and calm, yet she woke to find her heart was still filled with stormy anger and wretched pain. Her husband was already lost at sea, what was she to do if sweet Telemachus also didn’t return? Did he even realize what kind of situation he had put his mother in? 

If Telemachus dies, she no longer has any kind of protection from the men haunting the hallways, waiting for their chance to snatch her. If he’d only listened, if he’d cared to think, to look past himself for just a breath…

The sound of a bowstring snapping makes her jump, a gasp mixing with a yelp as she freezes her panicked pacing and whirls around, fearfully searching for the mysterious assailant. Who she finds is beautifully familiar and unknown all at once, feet unburdened by the ground.

“Great Hermes,” She wheezes, finding it a miracle in itself that she can even bring herself to speak to him after he’d startled her so thoroughly. “Telemachus is now also gone to the seas. He vanished days ago”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, completely unbothered. He plucks the great bow he’d been toying with off the wall and weighs it in his hands, his feet folding into a criss cross under him, his feathered sandals flittering to keep him afloat. His uncaring tone makes her chest fill with ache and pain, more wretched tears dripping from her eyes without permission.

“Ah, no, don’t do that,” He makes an audible tsk sound, turning and wagging his finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “I worked hard to keep you from ruining your face by giving you false tears, don’t screw it all up now by crying for real.”

His words dry her tears, as if he’d cast some kind of spell over her. Her breaths come calmer, and her shoulders lose some of their stiffness. His voice is warm and thick like honey, soothing her burning heart. He stretches his legs back out and moves closer, somehow growing even taller. He looms over her, though his face remains friendly. He bends at the waist, lowering himself to look her in the eye, shining, godly golden irises mixed with green and red, meeting her more human brown.

“Both my husband and son have left, vanished into the horizon and I don’t know if either will return,” She says softly, hypnotized by his gaze.

“Tele is with Athena, he’s fine.” There is so little care in his words, as if what he says is mere fact that Penelope should have already known. 

“And what of Odysseus, who has been gone for so long now? Have the other Gods truly abandoned him for fresher flesh?”

“Things aren’t that simple, pretty Penelope. Odysseus has a price he must pay before he can return. Damages he must remedy, fathers he must seek forgiveness from. Nothing I can do ‘bout it.”

His words make her dizzy, his language both familiar and strange. In and out of Time.

“So he is alive?” She asks. She can’t stop herself from grabbing her godly visitor by the shoulders, nails digging into surprisingly soft skin. He smiles at her, entirely unbothered by her actions, but he doesn’t answer her question.

“Please, good Hermes, I am begging you. Bring him home. I cannot handle all this alone, anymore. I need him. Telemachus needs him.” She says, voice warbling as tears once again threaten her lashes. Hermes tilts his head slightly, looking horribly, beautifully like Odysseus. He finally lets his feet plant themselves on the cool stone floor. She stares up in awe as he stands so tall the tops of his hair brush the ceiling of her rooms. His face curls, twisting in a mischievous expression.

“Let’s play a game.” He says, grinning like a cat staring down at his prey.

“A…a game?”

“Mmmhmm. I can’t just go giving you all the answers, that wouldn’t be much fun. If you want to know what I do, you gotta win.”

Penelope gapes up at him, eyes wide and unsure. Just what exactly did he mean by game? Surely it wasn’t going to be anything simple, and she doubted she’d get a real answer either way. But even still, if he was offering, she had no choice but to accept. 

“Very well, I will play,” She says, hoping to put on a brave face. 

“Atta girl, very nice!” Hermes is clearly pleased. “The rules are simple, solve all of my riddles, then I’ll spill the beans. Sound good?” 

She can’t help the way her lips turn upward, perhaps a bit over confidently. Odysseus loved riddles, loved playing word games with her. She could do this, she had to. 

“Alright, I’m ready.”

The God hums, eyes glittering with amusement and wickedness all at once. 

“Tell me, what can you miss only when you’re away?” He asks. Odysseus had told her this one before, surely Hermes must know that?

“Home.”

“Good, good. Now…what pushes men to strive for the top spot?” 

He’s jesting, he had to be.

“A…competition?” 

Hermes beams at her, nodding a bit too enthusiastically, before his face takes on that wicked look once again. He leans forward, lowering his voice so far that Penelope also has to lean in to hear his final question.

“A cunning king with a wandering heart, who braves the seas, a hero apart. Who am I?” 

It takes her but a moment, a small gasp escaping her at the revelation. She looks up at him, at Odysseus’ face, borrowed by Hermes for a painfully short moment-gone again when she dares to blink. She starts to answer, but the beautiful God straightens his spine, holding up a hand to silence her. He knew she knew, and no longer wished to hear what she had to say. Instead, with a wave of his hand, the great unused bow flies to meet him. 

As perfectly carved wood meets godly flesh, an unexpected bout of lightning shatters the silence.

Pressing the bow into her hands, his lips part to speak, but another unnatural rumble and cracking from the sky drowns out whatever he means to say. Rain starts dropping outside the windows, and the God of Travel, Thieves, and Trickery pats Penelope on the head like a father would his daughter, and is gone in a flash of angry lightning. She stares blankly at the space he once occupied, lips slightly parted as her mind comprehends what little bit of his words she understood.

“You have everything you need.”

Without its string, the bow couldn’t be drawn or fired, but even then, it had been gifted by Eurytus, the grandson of Apollo. No man living other than her husband should be able to handle the incredible draw strength. Her fingers tighten around the bow, her hand and mind steady as she comes to a decision. 

“Ares, grant me the courage to do what I must,” She whispers aloud.

“My lady,” The voice in her doorway makes her jump. “Will you join the men in their feasting downstairs tonight?”

“I shall,” She says. “But before I do, I need someone to gather some things for me.” 

“Of course, tell me what you need and I shall have it fetched for you.” 

“String. I need bowstring, and axes. Twelve of them should do.” 

“What will you do with it all?” 

“It’s time we rid ourselves of those who have long overstayed their welcome. I have decided to propose a contest. A test of strength and wills, that only a true king may complete.”