Penelope:
I've waited for so long for him to return. It's been far too long and every piece of my body yearns for him to return to Ithaca, to me, to our son, to our country. This war's been going on for nine long years, or at least I think. The years of time have started to become muddled in my mind.
I cannot help but hate my cousin Helen, for she is the reason why my Odysseus is not here to govern his people who love him and sorely need him. Yet, if it were not for Sparta's run-away queen, Odysseus would not have come up with his plan so that Helen's suitors would not kill each other and I would not have been given to him as a reward. Still, I often wish dearly that Hades would take both Helen and her lover Paris son of Priam, into his kingdom of the dead and thus ending this war.
A storm approaches now. A sentry yells out a warning and a lightning bolt strikes the ground in the distance. The villagers run hurriedly back to their homes and a lone figure of a ten-year-old boy is the one that keeps my eye, for he is my son Telemachus and Odysseus' son as well. I smile to myself as I think about how quickly he has grown since the start of the war. For that is how we measure things now, for when we measure time at least. The wine is fifteen years pre the beginning of the war, this fabric is from four years after the war's start, this person's daughter was born two years before the war's start.
A hand taps my shoulder and I turn to rest my eyes upon Melite, one of my young ladies in waiting. I smile slightly in greeting and she smiles in return.
"You'd best come inside milady," she said quietly. "The storm will be here soon and it will be dangerous up on these ramparts."
I nod and smile at the young woman though my smile doesn't reach my eyes, it is an empty smile, though not because of Melite. "I'll be in a moment, Melite, go on without me. Could you make sure that my son is safely inside, though?"
She nods and curtsies slightly before turning and hurrying off to find that rapscallion of a son of mine. I linger outside on the parapet for another moment before rain begins to fall and I turn around myself, heading inside to the warmth of the castle. A young servant girl, I should know her name yet I cannot remember it, brings me a light robe, which I quickly throw around my slightly damp body, shaking my head slightly to get my dripping dark hair off my shoulders.
Melite returns, Telemachus in tow. He yanks his hand loose from hers and runs to me, burying his head in my abdomen, hugging me tightly. I hug him in return and run my fingers through his hair. He looks so much like my Odysseus that sometimes it hurts to look at him, for I have had no word as to whether he still lives or not since communication is so slow here.
"Did Bresian show you how to use that bow of yours?" I ask him, a smile on my face.
He nods and broadly grins. "Uh-huh, and he says that I'm going to be the best archer anywhere one day!"
I laugh at the bold and brazen proclamations of a child who has just learned to do something and is convinced of his own ability.
Mere hours later, the storm passes and Ithaca's people come out once more, resuming their business as if nothing has happened and they merely had stopped for a moment's rest. Telemachus runs off, anxious to perfect his use of the bow in hopes of impressing his father who he barely knows upon his return. I say upon his return, for I know that he shall return and I will not listen to what others have told me, for while many have lots husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers to this war, for Pallas Athena protects and guides him.
Another year passes and soon messengers come with word that the war is over, that the Trojans have been defeated and the women talk of how their men will return soon. I say nothing, even if I feel as excited, if not more so then they at the sounds and talk of their return. Telemachus has grown even more and he waits impatiently for his father's return. He practices constantly now, more eager currently than ever to impress his father, a war hero, with his skill.
But yet he does not return to me; to me, my dear son, and to Ithaca. I send out messengers to the other countries, to Ajax and Menelaus and Agamemnon, but none of the ones who return my message have any word about Odysseus. I worry for he should have returned to me by now. Each passing month, each passing day, each passing minute only increases the pain and love that I have held within me for those ten long years.
More years pass and suitors have begun to come to Ithaca to try to win my hand in marriage. I quickly loose count of how many of come but on the last one to arrive, I loose my patience with him.
"Greetings Queen Penelope," he says with an insolent smirk on his face. "I have come to-"
"I know why you have come," I snap back, no longer able to control my temper at these prudes. "And I am sick of it. I AM SICK OF IT!"
The hall falls silent as I almost scream my last sentence. I rise to my feet and start pacing angrily in front of this latest suitor. "I am sick of you boorish asses coming into the hall of my Lord Odysseus, ignoring that fact that he still lives, and asking to marry me, regardless of the fact that I shall remain faithful to him in this world and the one beyond!"
The servants in the halls back slowly away from me and the suitors merely laugh at my angry outburst, thinking that I only jest though I am deadly serious. The newest arrival smirks at me and says, "Of course milady, I'm sure none of us never meant any insult to you."
I quiver with anger as I retake my seat, trying my best to ignore the suitors who return to their drinking and laughter, oblivious, or perhaps merely ignoring my outburst, thinking it to only be the foolish thoughts of a woman.
I try to delay making any decision for they constantly are pressuring me to choose from among them. I do not wish to choose. I shall not choose. I will remain faithful to my Odysseus. Telemachus is a man now; he can protect me from any who might think to take advantage of my slight build and think to force my hand in choosing.
I have come up with a plan. I tell these suitors that once I finish this new weaving I now have set out to work on, that I will choose from among them. They smile, nod, and agree, happy that I have made any sort of commitment no matter how small, to decide. But they do not know that any and all of the work I have done that day, I unravel at night so this funeral pall for my father-in-law will never be completed and I will never be forced to pick from these men who all seem so uncouth and boorish as any man would to me compared to my Odysseus.
But one of my young servants betrays me to these crude men, and I can no longer truly put this off any more yet I persist in not picking from among them. So these men just say that they will remain in Ithaca's halls until I do decide or Odysseus returns, thought they laugh and say that the latter will never happen.
They cannot make me choose, I will not let them. They could care less about me. I could be old and ugly and they would still come and seek my hand in marriage for it is I who control who is Ithaca's king, not Odysseus, for the line of rule runs through the woman, me, not the man. They are all greedy brutes who want to be able to wake up and call themselves king.
Ten years have now passed since the war's end and it has been twenty since I have seen my Odysseus. An old beggar comes to our gates and I find myself drawn to him. I do not know why, for he seems so familiar to me for some reason. Telemachus tells me that he has a plan to get rid of these horrid suitors and I can only hope that it will work. This old beggar is in on this plan somehow, though I am not quite sure how. I suggest to my son that he have the suitors try to draw Odysseus's great bow and that whoever can accomplish that great feat along I shall marry. Nevertheless, I do not think, no, I know that none of them will be able to do this and thus I shall remain safely unwed to any of these men.
Telemachus hugs me gently, reassuring me that everything will be back to normal before the sun's next rising. I smile at him before turning away to retire to my room for the night, trusting in my strong, young, and loyal son to save me from these horrid suitors. I pause for a moment in my doorway, I watch him for a moment, studying him as the old beggar approaches him and they talk for a few moments before moving on. I cannot help but think how much like my Odysseus he looks and how proud my husband would be if he could see him now as I see him, standing here with me at this very moment. A moment later, I head into my room, telling the young maid in there to leave and shut the door behind me. I must trust in my son to free me from these tyrants.
Dawn comes and I emerge from my room to the knock on the door. It is Telemachus and he grins broadly at me though I can see several dark spots on his clothes though in this light, I cannot tell what they are from.
"The suitors are gone, Mother," he says proudly.
I blink rapidly several times, not truly able to believe what my son has said. "Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?"
He grins broadly at me. "Gone! They won't be bothering you unless they've found a way to come back from the Afterlife to hunt you."
"I wouldn't put it past them," I mutter quietly to myself as I march down towards the banquet hall, wanting to see the roof with my own eyes before I believe this, for it is too good to be true.
I enter the hall and then stop dead in my tracks for not a single soul is in that vast room. Not a soul except for the old beggar man, but my eyes must be deceiving me for it is not the beggar and yet it is he. It is that beggar and my Odysseus. I plead silently to the Gods to stop playing these tricks with my eyes.
"Penelope," the man says to me, rising to his feet from where he had been sitting and walking towards me. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long, things didn't exactly go as planned for my return."
I hold up a hand, stopping him from advancing any closer to me. "No, don't. It can't you. I don't want to believe it only to have you taken away from me again."
He holds his arm out and open, palms up in a gesture of half peace and half openness. "Milove, I swear, it's me. What can I do it to prove it to you?"
I swallow hard before saying firmly and strongly, "If you can truly draw Odysseus's bow then I might be more inclined to believe you are truly him."
The stranger takes three swift steps over towards where the bow rests, already strung and bends it back with such a great ease. "There, do you believe now that I am truly who I say I am then my dear wife?"
I nod but I still refuse to believe what my eyes have told me. Deciding to give him one last test, I extend a hand to him, saying as I do, "Come milord, things here have changed in our absence. I have moved our marriage bed to a larger chamber."
He frowns slightly at me and then replies carefully, "But that is not possible, for our marriage bed was carved by myself from an Olive tree which grows in that very room. It is impossible for that bed to be moved by anyone."
I smile broadly for now I know that it is him and I throw my arms around him, resting my head just under his chin as his arms wrap around me in an equally strong hug. I can die happy now for my Odysseus has returned to me and to Ithaca. The years might have aged us, but he is still mine, my husband, my Odysseus.
I've waited for so long for him to return. It's been far too long and every piece of my body yearns for him to return to Ithaca, to me, to our son, to our country. This war's been going on for nine long years, or at least I think. The years of time have started to become muddled in my mind.
I cannot help but hate my cousin Helen, for she is the reason why my Odysseus is not here to govern his people who love him and sorely need him. Yet, if it were not for Sparta's run-away queen, Odysseus would not have come up with his plan so that Helen's suitors would not kill each other and I would not have been given to him as a reward. Still, I often wish dearly that Hades would take both Helen and her lover Paris son of Priam, into his kingdom of the dead and thus ending this war.
A storm approaches now. A sentry yells out a warning and a lightning bolt strikes the ground in the distance. The villagers run hurriedly back to their homes and a lone figure of a ten-year-old boy is the one that keeps my eye, for he is my son Telemachus and Odysseus' son as well. I smile to myself as I think about how quickly he has grown since the start of the war. For that is how we measure things now, for when we measure time at least. The wine is fifteen years pre the beginning of the war, this fabric is from four years after the war's start, this person's daughter was born two years before the war's start.
A hand taps my shoulder and I turn to rest my eyes upon Melite, one of my young ladies in waiting. I smile slightly in greeting and she smiles in return.
"You'd best come inside milady," she said quietly. "The storm will be here soon and it will be dangerous up on these ramparts."
I nod and smile at the young woman though my smile doesn't reach my eyes, it is an empty smile, though not because of Melite. "I'll be in a moment, Melite, go on without me. Could you make sure that my son is safely inside, though?"
She nods and curtsies slightly before turning and hurrying off to find that rapscallion of a son of mine. I linger outside on the parapet for another moment before rain begins to fall and I turn around myself, heading inside to the warmth of the castle. A young servant girl, I should know her name yet I cannot remember it, brings me a light robe, which I quickly throw around my slightly damp body, shaking my head slightly to get my dripping dark hair off my shoulders.
Melite returns, Telemachus in tow. He yanks his hand loose from hers and runs to me, burying his head in my abdomen, hugging me tightly. I hug him in return and run my fingers through his hair. He looks so much like my Odysseus that sometimes it hurts to look at him, for I have had no word as to whether he still lives or not since communication is so slow here.
"Did Bresian show you how to use that bow of yours?" I ask him, a smile on my face.
He nods and broadly grins. "Uh-huh, and he says that I'm going to be the best archer anywhere one day!"
I laugh at the bold and brazen proclamations of a child who has just learned to do something and is convinced of his own ability.
Mere hours later, the storm passes and Ithaca's people come out once more, resuming their business as if nothing has happened and they merely had stopped for a moment's rest. Telemachus runs off, anxious to perfect his use of the bow in hopes of impressing his father who he barely knows upon his return. I say upon his return, for I know that he shall return and I will not listen to what others have told me, for while many have lots husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers to this war, for Pallas Athena protects and guides him.
Another year passes and soon messengers come with word that the war is over, that the Trojans have been defeated and the women talk of how their men will return soon. I say nothing, even if I feel as excited, if not more so then they at the sounds and talk of their return. Telemachus has grown even more and he waits impatiently for his father's return. He practices constantly now, more eager currently than ever to impress his father, a war hero, with his skill.
But yet he does not return to me; to me, my dear son, and to Ithaca. I send out messengers to the other countries, to Ajax and Menelaus and Agamemnon, but none of the ones who return my message have any word about Odysseus. I worry for he should have returned to me by now. Each passing month, each passing day, each passing minute only increases the pain and love that I have held within me for those ten long years.
More years pass and suitors have begun to come to Ithaca to try to win my hand in marriage. I quickly loose count of how many of come but on the last one to arrive, I loose my patience with him.
"Greetings Queen Penelope," he says with an insolent smirk on his face. "I have come to-"
"I know why you have come," I snap back, no longer able to control my temper at these prudes. "And I am sick of it. I AM SICK OF IT!"
The hall falls silent as I almost scream my last sentence. I rise to my feet and start pacing angrily in front of this latest suitor. "I am sick of you boorish asses coming into the hall of my Lord Odysseus, ignoring that fact that he still lives, and asking to marry me, regardless of the fact that I shall remain faithful to him in this world and the one beyond!"
The servants in the halls back slowly away from me and the suitors merely laugh at my angry outburst, thinking that I only jest though I am deadly serious. The newest arrival smirks at me and says, "Of course milady, I'm sure none of us never meant any insult to you."
I quiver with anger as I retake my seat, trying my best to ignore the suitors who return to their drinking and laughter, oblivious, or perhaps merely ignoring my outburst, thinking it to only be the foolish thoughts of a woman.
I try to delay making any decision for they constantly are pressuring me to choose from among them. I do not wish to choose. I shall not choose. I will remain faithful to my Odysseus. Telemachus is a man now; he can protect me from any who might think to take advantage of my slight build and think to force my hand in choosing.
I have come up with a plan. I tell these suitors that once I finish this new weaving I now have set out to work on, that I will choose from among them. They smile, nod, and agree, happy that I have made any sort of commitment no matter how small, to decide. But they do not know that any and all of the work I have done that day, I unravel at night so this funeral pall for my father-in-law will never be completed and I will never be forced to pick from these men who all seem so uncouth and boorish as any man would to me compared to my Odysseus.
But one of my young servants betrays me to these crude men, and I can no longer truly put this off any more yet I persist in not picking from among them. So these men just say that they will remain in Ithaca's halls until I do decide or Odysseus returns, thought they laugh and say that the latter will never happen.
They cannot make me choose, I will not let them. They could care less about me. I could be old and ugly and they would still come and seek my hand in marriage for it is I who control who is Ithaca's king, not Odysseus, for the line of rule runs through the woman, me, not the man. They are all greedy brutes who want to be able to wake up and call themselves king.
Ten years have now passed since the war's end and it has been twenty since I have seen my Odysseus. An old beggar comes to our gates and I find myself drawn to him. I do not know why, for he seems so familiar to me for some reason. Telemachus tells me that he has a plan to get rid of these horrid suitors and I can only hope that it will work. This old beggar is in on this plan somehow, though I am not quite sure how. I suggest to my son that he have the suitors try to draw Odysseus's great bow and that whoever can accomplish that great feat along I shall marry. Nevertheless, I do not think, no, I know that none of them will be able to do this and thus I shall remain safely unwed to any of these men.
Telemachus hugs me gently, reassuring me that everything will be back to normal before the sun's next rising. I smile at him before turning away to retire to my room for the night, trusting in my strong, young, and loyal son to save me from these horrid suitors. I pause for a moment in my doorway, I watch him for a moment, studying him as the old beggar approaches him and they talk for a few moments before moving on. I cannot help but think how much like my Odysseus he looks and how proud my husband would be if he could see him now as I see him, standing here with me at this very moment. A moment later, I head into my room, telling the young maid in there to leave and shut the door behind me. I must trust in my son to free me from these tyrants.
Dawn comes and I emerge from my room to the knock on the door. It is Telemachus and he grins broadly at me though I can see several dark spots on his clothes though in this light, I cannot tell what they are from.
"The suitors are gone, Mother," he says proudly.
I blink rapidly several times, not truly able to believe what my son has said. "Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?"
He grins broadly at me. "Gone! They won't be bothering you unless they've found a way to come back from the Afterlife to hunt you."
"I wouldn't put it past them," I mutter quietly to myself as I march down towards the banquet hall, wanting to see the roof with my own eyes before I believe this, for it is too good to be true.
I enter the hall and then stop dead in my tracks for not a single soul is in that vast room. Not a soul except for the old beggar man, but my eyes must be deceiving me for it is not the beggar and yet it is he. It is that beggar and my Odysseus. I plead silently to the Gods to stop playing these tricks with my eyes.
"Penelope," the man says to me, rising to his feet from where he had been sitting and walking towards me. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long, things didn't exactly go as planned for my return."
I hold up a hand, stopping him from advancing any closer to me. "No, don't. It can't you. I don't want to believe it only to have you taken away from me again."
He holds his arm out and open, palms up in a gesture of half peace and half openness. "Milove, I swear, it's me. What can I do it to prove it to you?"
I swallow hard before saying firmly and strongly, "If you can truly draw Odysseus's bow then I might be more inclined to believe you are truly him."
The stranger takes three swift steps over towards where the bow rests, already strung and bends it back with such a great ease. "There, do you believe now that I am truly who I say I am then my dear wife?"
I nod but I still refuse to believe what my eyes have told me. Deciding to give him one last test, I extend a hand to him, saying as I do, "Come milord, things here have changed in our absence. I have moved our marriage bed to a larger chamber."
He frowns slightly at me and then replies carefully, "But that is not possible, for our marriage bed was carved by myself from an Olive tree which grows in that very room. It is impossible for that bed to be moved by anyone."
I smile broadly for now I know that it is him and I throw my arms around him, resting my head just under his chin as his arms wrap around me in an equally strong hug. I can die happy now for my Odysseus has returned to me and to Ithaca. The years might have aged us, but he is still mine, my husband, my Odysseus.