Title: An Enchanted Interlude
Author: Randa (aka Randa Beth)
Disclaimer: This characters in this story belong to Homer… if he ever existed, that is. The topic is highly debatable. Either way, it's not mine and I'm definitely not making money off of this.
A.N. This short story was written as an assignment for English 191. I, being the conceited prat that I am, thought that it was pretty good and wanted to share it. Flames are welcome, though I prefer constructive criticism to "YOU SUCK!" messages. And, naturally, I prefer good reviews to both. Happy Reading!
She came to him with hair unbound; autumn-hued locks waving in the breeze coming off of Poseidon's ocean, gently caressing a face paler than the pure white sand that their sandaled feet found purchase on.
He said nothing at first, silent Odysseus, only looked at her, stared at her, memorizing every aspect of her person. She was equally silent, almost other-worldly in her perfection, and the detachment etched onto her flawless face seemed askew from the vibrant woman that he remembered. Together they stood, each gazing into the others eyes. Remembering and relearning the forms of their respective loves.
He spoke her name then, "Penelope," and it felt strange from his lips; so long had passed since he had found reason to say it. In some vague corner of his mind, he wondered at how the syllables had not changed, so different now was his appreciation for them. He said it again, almost reverently, savoring the way that his mouth and tongue formed the word, reveling in the memories that the name conjured: playing together as children, growing older and fighting for her favor with the other young bucks, Penelope looking on in half-disapproval, half-delight, and, most of all, marrying his life-long love on the foamy shores of Ithaca, with Dawn smiling down over them in the form of gleaming sunlight and the other gods and goddesses looking on in approval at the joining of two of their mortal favorites.
It was with these memories in mind that Odysseus stepped forward, towards his wife, towards his salvation, and took her into his arms. They made a lovely picture to the stars above them; beautiful as they both were physically, when together they had always been enough to blind lesser mortals. But there is more to it than that, much more. Odysseus and Penelope were linked, mentally and emotionally, and when with one another they just exuded a sense of rightness that was beyond the comprehension of anyone but the two of them.
Though Odysseus would never admit it to Penelope, and would barely do so even to himself, he could not help but feel somewhat disappointed by this exchange. This could be due to a number of things, he assured himself. He had been mentally building the moment up for so long, naturally the actual occurrence would not live up to the dream. Or, perhaps they had been apart for so long that the innate sense of kinship that they had always shared would take a while to come back into effect. And, after all, it was not as if this moment was not enjoyable, because it was. But there was a…a sort of coldness to the interaction. Like there was something lacking that had not been lacking before. Like--
Before Odysseus could finish the thought, he was interrupted by his wife pulling away from him. Strangely enough, he did not mind the loss of contact very much.
Now, Penelope was smiling up at him, brown eyes glowing softly in Diana's moonlight. With a queer little smile, she held out her hands and offered him a bowl of rich red wine. Odysseus was certain that the bowl had not have been in her hands before. How could she have embraced him if it had been? The thought was gone practically before it appeared, though, and Odysseus smiled at the thoughtfulness of his beautiful wife. He was, after all, so very thirsty. Though, now that he thought about it, he had just consumed a rather large amount of water… But, what did that matter, in the face of such a lovely woman and such an appealing liquid treat?
With strong, deceptively gentle hands, Odysseus placed a hand on both sides of Penelope's baby-soft face, and trailed said hands caressingly down her throat, shoulders and arms, finally resting them on her gracefully formed hands. Then he carried the hands that still held the wine-bowl gently up to his lips. Holding them there, he met the gracious woman's eyes and whispered, "I love you."
Her face, earlier so free of emotion, twisted into an expression of almost-pain, and a tremor passed through her body, briefly wavering her image. The transformation was so fast that it could have been missed in the blink of an eye, and, in an instant, Penelope stood just as she had been, smiling up at him bitter-sweetly. "I love you, too, my Warrior," she replied. The words were genuine, the voice Penelope's, just as Odysseus remembered. The eyes, however, the eyes were a vibrant shade of violet, not Penelope's innocent brown.
The realization came quickly, but left Odysseus sluggish. Like a cold bucket of water poured over a sleeping head, those purple orbs had roused him from his magic-induced delusion. With hands that shook with barely-restrained rage, Odysseus knocked the wine-bowl away, and Calypso's hands with it. "You have sunk to a new low, Goddess," he snarled. "Impersonating my absent wife in an attempt to win me into eternity."
Dazzling Calypso nodded, thoughtfully, regretfully, and favored him with one of her dispassionate smiles. "Clever Odysseus. I should have known that tricking you was not possible. But, you must admit, I was close."
"Have you no shame, woman? No pride? Even knowing that I dream of Penelope every hour, you still persist in holding me here, away from my happiness?" The words were shouted in a deafening, accusing roar, directed not just to Calypso but to the cruel fates that had kept him from home so very long. They echoed in the night, and with each faint repetition Calypso flinched.
"Ah, but you forget, Odysseus," the broken goddess spoke. "You are my happiness." With those words she turned away from him, unwilling to share her pain with this man, who was, after all, still a mortal despite the godly features and traits that he possessed in abundance. It was that same celestial pride that caused her to send one last barb his way, for what kind of goddess would let a mortal have the last word? "Be content with your dreams for now, love. Savor them, enjoy them. But when they start to fade, as memories are apt to do, know that you will turn to me. Please, though, do take your time, for I have all the time in the world. And, as soon as you consent and taste my ambrosia, so will you." The last was said over her shoulder, with a coquettishly flip of gleaming blonde hair and a wink. Then, she was gone, disappeared into the dark night to a place where she could be alone with her pain.
Alone now, Odysseus collapsed into the sand and wept. He wept for long days in the sun of Ithaca, for dancing in the rain with Penelope, for a baby that he would likely never see become a man. He wept for dreams that could never be realized and memories that would soon fade. In her bedchamber, Calypso wept for a love that she could never have, and a man that she would never really understand. She wept for a heart that, even if she eventually gained, she would never fully possess.
Alone, yet together, Odysseus and Calypso grieved for the death of their dreams.
Fin
Author: Randa (aka Randa Beth)
Disclaimer: This characters in this story belong to Homer… if he ever existed, that is. The topic is highly debatable. Either way, it's not mine and I'm definitely not making money off of this.
A.N. This short story was written as an assignment for English 191. I, being the conceited prat that I am, thought that it was pretty good and wanted to share it. Flames are welcome, though I prefer constructive criticism to "YOU SUCK!" messages. And, naturally, I prefer good reviews to both. Happy Reading!
She came to him with hair unbound; autumn-hued locks waving in the breeze coming off of Poseidon's ocean, gently caressing a face paler than the pure white sand that their sandaled feet found purchase on.
He said nothing at first, silent Odysseus, only looked at her, stared at her, memorizing every aspect of her person. She was equally silent, almost other-worldly in her perfection, and the detachment etched onto her flawless face seemed askew from the vibrant woman that he remembered. Together they stood, each gazing into the others eyes. Remembering and relearning the forms of their respective loves.
He spoke her name then, "Penelope," and it felt strange from his lips; so long had passed since he had found reason to say it. In some vague corner of his mind, he wondered at how the syllables had not changed, so different now was his appreciation for them. He said it again, almost reverently, savoring the way that his mouth and tongue formed the word, reveling in the memories that the name conjured: playing together as children, growing older and fighting for her favor with the other young bucks, Penelope looking on in half-disapproval, half-delight, and, most of all, marrying his life-long love on the foamy shores of Ithaca, with Dawn smiling down over them in the form of gleaming sunlight and the other gods and goddesses looking on in approval at the joining of two of their mortal favorites.
It was with these memories in mind that Odysseus stepped forward, towards his wife, towards his salvation, and took her into his arms. They made a lovely picture to the stars above them; beautiful as they both were physically, when together they had always been enough to blind lesser mortals. But there is more to it than that, much more. Odysseus and Penelope were linked, mentally and emotionally, and when with one another they just exuded a sense of rightness that was beyond the comprehension of anyone but the two of them.
Though Odysseus would never admit it to Penelope, and would barely do so even to himself, he could not help but feel somewhat disappointed by this exchange. This could be due to a number of things, he assured himself. He had been mentally building the moment up for so long, naturally the actual occurrence would not live up to the dream. Or, perhaps they had been apart for so long that the innate sense of kinship that they had always shared would take a while to come back into effect. And, after all, it was not as if this moment was not enjoyable, because it was. But there was a…a sort of coldness to the interaction. Like there was something lacking that had not been lacking before. Like--
Before Odysseus could finish the thought, he was interrupted by his wife pulling away from him. Strangely enough, he did not mind the loss of contact very much.
Now, Penelope was smiling up at him, brown eyes glowing softly in Diana's moonlight. With a queer little smile, she held out her hands and offered him a bowl of rich red wine. Odysseus was certain that the bowl had not have been in her hands before. How could she have embraced him if it had been? The thought was gone practically before it appeared, though, and Odysseus smiled at the thoughtfulness of his beautiful wife. He was, after all, so very thirsty. Though, now that he thought about it, he had just consumed a rather large amount of water… But, what did that matter, in the face of such a lovely woman and such an appealing liquid treat?
With strong, deceptively gentle hands, Odysseus placed a hand on both sides of Penelope's baby-soft face, and trailed said hands caressingly down her throat, shoulders and arms, finally resting them on her gracefully formed hands. Then he carried the hands that still held the wine-bowl gently up to his lips. Holding them there, he met the gracious woman's eyes and whispered, "I love you."
Her face, earlier so free of emotion, twisted into an expression of almost-pain, and a tremor passed through her body, briefly wavering her image. The transformation was so fast that it could have been missed in the blink of an eye, and, in an instant, Penelope stood just as she had been, smiling up at him bitter-sweetly. "I love you, too, my Warrior," she replied. The words were genuine, the voice Penelope's, just as Odysseus remembered. The eyes, however, the eyes were a vibrant shade of violet, not Penelope's innocent brown.
The realization came quickly, but left Odysseus sluggish. Like a cold bucket of water poured over a sleeping head, those purple orbs had roused him from his magic-induced delusion. With hands that shook with barely-restrained rage, Odysseus knocked the wine-bowl away, and Calypso's hands with it. "You have sunk to a new low, Goddess," he snarled. "Impersonating my absent wife in an attempt to win me into eternity."
Dazzling Calypso nodded, thoughtfully, regretfully, and favored him with one of her dispassionate smiles. "Clever Odysseus. I should have known that tricking you was not possible. But, you must admit, I was close."
"Have you no shame, woman? No pride? Even knowing that I dream of Penelope every hour, you still persist in holding me here, away from my happiness?" The words were shouted in a deafening, accusing roar, directed not just to Calypso but to the cruel fates that had kept him from home so very long. They echoed in the night, and with each faint repetition Calypso flinched.
"Ah, but you forget, Odysseus," the broken goddess spoke. "You are my happiness." With those words she turned away from him, unwilling to share her pain with this man, who was, after all, still a mortal despite the godly features and traits that he possessed in abundance. It was that same celestial pride that caused her to send one last barb his way, for what kind of goddess would let a mortal have the last word? "Be content with your dreams for now, love. Savor them, enjoy them. But when they start to fade, as memories are apt to do, know that you will turn to me. Please, though, do take your time, for I have all the time in the world. And, as soon as you consent and taste my ambrosia, so will you." The last was said over her shoulder, with a coquettishly flip of gleaming blonde hair and a wink. Then, she was gone, disappeared into the dark night to a place where she could be alone with her pain.
Alone now, Odysseus collapsed into the sand and wept. He wept for long days in the sun of Ithaca, for dancing in the rain with Penelope, for a baby that he would likely never see become a man. He wept for dreams that could never be realized and memories that would soon fade. In her bedchamber, Calypso wept for a love that she could never have, and a man that she would never really understand. She wept for a heart that, even if she eventually gained, she would never fully possess.
Alone, yet together, Odysseus and Calypso grieved for the death of their dreams.
Fin