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Penelope listened intently as the echoes of the suitors' anguished cries began to fade away from the room where her maid had hurried her hours earlier. The air was heavy with uncertainty, and a mix of hope and dread stirred within her. Part of her still clung to the fragile belief that her beloved husband, Odysseus, might have returned from his long journey; yet, deep down, she was increasingly aware of the grim reality surrounding her.
The situation had taken a dark turn, and she feared that her earlier conviction, that her challenge to the suitors was impossible, might no longer hold true. With the recent chaos, one suitor had emerged victorious, ruthlessly eliminating the others. Now, only one remained, a fact that filled her with a mix of dread and resignation.
Then, the door swung open, and a flood of bright light spilled into the dim room, pushing back the shadows that had enveloped her. Before her stood the terrified female servants, their faces pale and eyes wide with fear. Penelope couldn't help but wonder if their feelings mirrored her own—if they too were gripped by the terror of her hand being offered in marriage to someone who was not their rightful king, someone who had no claim to the throne, or to her heart. The thought weighed heavily on her, as she grappled with the realization that the future she had imagined when she was young continued slipping further from her grasp.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the light before she could clearly make out the figure standing in the doorway: Telemachus, her son. He looked almost breathless, his chest rising and falling as if he had just sprinted back from the fight himself. The urgency in his presence was palpable.
“There is no longer a threat in the halls. You may all leave this room now,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. However, the comfort of his words did little to ease the swirling confusion in her mind and that of the other women gathered in the room. With cautious movements, she observed as the servants began to rise one by one from where they hid, each one hesitant and fearful, their expressions a mix of concern and uncertainty. Despite their apprehension, they did not disobey their prince; there was a deep-seated loyalty that bound them to him. She however had no need to share this loyalty, keeping herself put as she watched.
She couldn't help but feel that same fear gnawing at her—a fear mingled with worry for her son. His gaze locked onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, he shared an empathetic smile—a familiar expression reminiscent of the one he had shown as a child, particularly when he had spilled his juice all over the floor or broken a vase. It would bring a smile to her face if it wasn’t confusing her. If she knew that cause.
She shot him a puzzled look, her brow furrowing in concern, and in response, he momentarily shifted his gaze away from her, directing it toward the other women who were quietly leaving the room, their movements slow and measured.
She waited until the last of the maids had hurried out of the room. Only then did she dare to rise from her seat. As she stood, a troubling mix of emotions swirled within her; was it compassion for the maids’ safety that held her back, or was it a deeper fear for her own well-being? She couldn't quite discern the difference.
With hesitant steps, she made her way toward her son, the anticipation weighing heavily in her chest. Just as she opened her mouth to ask the question that had been burning in her mind, he cut her off, his voice steady yet laced with urgency.
“He’s returned.”
Penelope’s heart thundered against her ribs, each beat a reminder of the two agonizing decades that had passed in longing and uncertainty. Waves of emotion crashed over her like a stormy sea they saw days before close to the shore. Amidst the turmoil, she could almost hear her son’s voice calling out to her, piercing through the deafening ringing in her ears.
All of this stirred from just two words: One simple sentence. Her husband. Her Odysseus, finally home.
She closed her eyes tightly, attempting to gather her thoughts and steady herself, but the reality felt almost surreal. Telemachus gripped her shoulders, his warm touch grounding her amidst the chaos. Disbelief enveloped her like a thick fog. It wasn’t that she doubted her son; rather, it was the fact that he had never set eyes on his father before, not that he could remember. That thought usually brought a sharp ache to her heart, a pang of sorrow for the memories that could have been. Yet today, that familiar sorrow was drowned out by the tumult of anticipation racing through her mind. She needed to see him; she had to know for herself if he was truly back.
As she struggled to hold on to her thoughts, she suddenly felt two warm hands tenderly cupping her cheeks, breaking her reverie. Telemachus gently lifted her gaze from the floor, where she hadn’t realized her eyes had fallen. He looked at her with an understanding that transcended words, his empathetic smile echoing a deep familiarity that sparked a flicker of hope in her chest. In that moment, she felt connected to someone she had lost long ago, a recognition that stirred memories she struggled to reconcile with the present.
“He wants to see you.”
With that simple statement, she felt a rush of emotions as she gently took his hands away from her face and held them tightly in her own. She took a deep breath, the air heavy with tension, struggling to find the right words to say. Straightening her posture, she fought to present herself as composed, all the while doubting whether she was truly succeeding.
After a few moments, she reluctantly released his hands, letting go of the only anchor that had kept her steady in this turmoil. She glanced in the mirror, wondering if she appeared more exhausted and older than she had just yesterday; the reflection seemed to confirm her fears. She definitely felt that way, burdened by the weight of years filled with uncertainty. Yet she clung to her facade of bravery, knowing she had to. By now, Telemachus was aware of the struggle that lay beneath her surface. Time and again, she had donned this facade whenever she dared to enter the throne room, a space that the suitors had selfishly claimed as their own, filling it with their raucous laughter and arrogance. She doubted this mask would hold if it were her husband who awaited her within those walls. Taking another deep breath, she felt a profound emptiness, as though a part of her was missing without her son’s comforting hands cradling hers.
“Tell him to meet me here,” she instructed, her voice steady but laced with a hint of desperation.
For the third time, he offered her an empathetic smile, and the warmth of it almost made her protest against the pity that accompanied it. She wanted to tell him to stop, but the words caught in her throat as he departed, leaving her alone once more in the suffocating silence of the room, trapped by her tumultuous thoughts. This time, there were no sobbing maids to distract her or soften the edges of her despair.
After twenty long years of uncertainty and waiting, waiting for any news of his whereabouts, for signs of hope, or simply for her own safety, she dared to believe that this moment could finally bring closure. The culmination of endless anticipation and deep-rooted fear was here, and she could only hope it would all come to an end.
She didn’t allow herself to hope or dream that her long awaited prayers had truly been answered. With a sense of urgency, she paced the room, tracing a path from one wall to the other, her heart racing and her mind swirling with anxious thoughts. It felt impossible that he might really be back, and she couldn't shake the fear of what cruel trick this could be, or the nagging doubt of whether it was truly him. What would she say if it was indeed him standing there? What words could possibly bridge the gap of two decades? And if it wasn’t him, what stories could he tell about the life he had led in his absence? What trials and tribulations had shaped him during those long years away? Twenty years. Twenty long years. Two long excruciating decades.
She was in the middle of her tenth round of pacing when she suddenly heard the soft creak of the door. Instantly, she froze in place, caught in a moment of uncertainty that left her breathless. Was it fear that immobilized her, or was it a flicker of hope? Her gaze was drawn to the door as it began to swing open, revealing a figure that made her heart race.
There stood a man, strikingly similar in height to her husband, yet there was something unmistakably different about him. Time had etched deeper lines into his face, and he appeared older than she remembered. The younger version of him had haunted her dreams every single night, a ghost of what once was. But now, standing before her in the flesh, she recognized him, how could she not? She could identify his familiar features anywhere, at any time, despite the years that had altered his appearance. He looked tired and worn down, his body bearing scars that had never been present in her memories. One scar in particular stood out to her—the one on his knee, the mark of a fierce boar from an adventure he had shared long ago. It was the only part of him that felt grounded in her past; the rest of his figure seemed almost lighter, as if the weight of his experiences had changed him in ways she was still trying to comprehend.
She stood rooted to the spot, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. Slowly, she began to process the reality before her. Was it really him, the man she had waited so long to see, or were the fickle gods merely playing a trick with the shifting light and shadows?
"You look tired," he spoke first.
She looked tired? It almost made her want to laugh. He knew it would. One thing about her Odysseus was that he was always cunning and knew just what to say. Her words always seemed to fail her in the moments where he would flourish, and vice versa.
She needed to know it was really him. The man standing in front of her had to be her own, her Odysseus. There was only one secret they shared, known only to each other. She stepped forward, careful not to come too close, maintaining the queenly posture that had kept her alive for so long.
“You look tired, my dear. Would you like the servants to bring down our wedding bed? You must be too exhausted to walk all the way there.”
Penelope watched as his expression shifted from confusion to barely contained anger, as if she dared to suggest such a thing. Her heart felt like it could stop.
“To do that, they would have to cut it from the olive tree itself, demolishing the symbol of our love that I built for us. Do you understand what you have just asked me, Penelope?”
She could no longer maintain her composure; she felt like a dam breaking. Her hands flew to cover her mouth as her body fell forward, her knees bending until she lowered herself to the ground. She sobbed quietly, wanting to appear strong. The king was home. Her husband was home. Her son’s father was home. Odysseus was finally home.
He approached her carefully, almost afraid that he might break her or stain her with the blood that covered his hands. She could no longer endure the slowness, the waiting, and the confusion. Suddenly, she lifted herself, her quick movement startling Odysseus and causing him to take a step back. That was the last thing she wanted him to do—move further away from her. So, instead, she approached him.
“I am horribly filthy, my love. I do not wish to stain your skin and your clothes,” Odysseus said. It was truly Odysseus’ voice. He was finally in front of her, just an arm's length away. Two steps. No longer two decades.
She didn’t care much for his words. Nor did she wish to speak. All she wanted was his embrace. She didn’t mind being stained.
“Stain me. I do not care if your hands are forever marked with blood, as long as they embrace me. As long as you are here.”
She took two tentative steps forward, her heart racing as she wrapped her arms around his waist, seeking comfort and reassurance. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she inhaled the familiar scent of him, a blend of warmth and home. Without hesitation, he reciprocated her embrace, his strong arms enveloping her completely. One hand cradled the back of her head, drawing her close, while the other rested gently around her shoulders, anchoring her in this moment of solace.
She began to sob uncontrollably, the tears spilling down her cheeks. In that moment, the need to be brave dissolved; vulnerability flooded in, and she allowed herself to feel the weight of all those years apart. After a brief moment, she pulled back just enough to cup her husband’s face in her trembling hands, tracing his features as if to confirm he was truly there after so long away.
Her eyes locked onto his, filled with a mixture of longing and relief. She had dreamed of this moment countless times, replaying it in her mind as seasons changed and years passed. Though she wished it had come ten years earlier, she realized that every struggle and hardship had led her to this reunion. In her heart, she knew she wouldn’t change a single moment of that journey if it meant having her husband back in her arms once more.
She gently brushed away the tears resting on his cheeks before they had threatened to fall down. This time, he was the one who wrapped his arms around her first, burying his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent that brought him comfort. His hands found their way around her waist, holding her as if she were his anchor.
Sobs wracked his body as he whispered apologies into the warm fabric of her shirt, his voice cracking with emotion. He spoke of wasted moments, of the countless memories he wished he could have shared, of not being there to protect her, and the promises he had been unable to keep.
But as he surrendered to her embrace, all those regrets faded into the background. In that moment, she realized that none of it mattered anymore. He was home, and that simple truth filled her heart with warmth. For him, that was the only promise that she truly cared about.
"You did not choose another. You waited all those twenty years."
How could she have ever considered it? He was hers—soul and heart intertwined. She had no desire for anyone else, not for any of those eager suitors who sought her attention with fervent declarations. They did not love her; their affections felt hollow, and none could ever take Odysseus’s place in her heart. He loved her fiercely. He loves her.
Every night, she whispered desperate prayers to Hera, beseeching the goddess of marriage to bring him back to her. She implored Artemis to take her life if Odysseus was fated not to return. Night after night, her tears fell silently as she lay in bed, the space beside her cold and untouched, a painful reminder of his absence.
Through the endless years of heartbreak and the lies claiming he was dead, she clung to hope like a fragile lifeline, believing that one day, he would walk through the halls and back into her arms once more. And he had.
They lingered in the room, an unspoken bond holding them in place as if they were two stars caught in each other's gravitational pull. The air was thick with an unexpressed understanding, suggesting that leaving would somehow sever the fragile connection they shared. Each moment stretched between them, filled with a tension that felt almost tangible, creating a bubble around their intimate space. The world outside faded into oblivion, and the thought of stepping away seemed daunting, as if one foot out the door might cause the other to vanish entirely. All the possibilities and uncertainties danced silently around them, mirroring the emotions that flickered in their eyes.They remained in the room, as if they would vanish from each other if one left. All the love from twenty years filled that space. Engraved in each other’s eyes, arms, and hearts.