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He appeared to her in one of Sparta's fields.
It was the one where they had first met, the one near the rivers where she often swam with her brothers. She had only been a mere girl, then, one of age eleven, a princess of Lacadaemon, the youngest daughter born after seven brothers, brothers who were trained to fight, brothers whose hands grasped the hilt of swords the moment they had been old enough to wield one. She had grown up watching them, watching as they trained and fought in training pavilions.
She had grown up watching them and ached to fight as they did.
So by the age of ten, she spent the early hours of dawn sneaking out of the palace. Her brothers often trained after breakfast, so before she was called to the dining hall, she made her way to the weaponry and went through the equipment, holding spears, swords, and bows that were nearly as tall as her, marveling as she dreamt of how it would be like to wield them, to use them in battle.
It was Alyzeus who caught her first after she had grown bolder during these early morning escapades and had taken a bow that was much too big for her to the training pavilions, attempting with shaky hands to shoot the target.
He had humored her, stepping aside as she pulled the string. Surprisingly, her aim had proved true
Not long after that, she was eleven, knelt in front of a God of war, clad in his golden armor, staring unflinchingly at his crimson eyes, eyes that were the same color of blood. He had taken her as his student, and she, in turn, had taken him as her mentor.
Now, she knelt in that same field, no longer a girl, but his student, all the same, knelt in front of Ares Chalceos, staring unflinching at eyes that held the color of blood.
“Enyalios,” she greeted, bowing her head.
He did not respond immediately, allowing the silence to settle.
Penelope took in a breath, the familiar scent of blood and iron filling the air.
“Has Athena told you what has happened in Sparta?” He asked his voice, despite being softer than usual, still booming through the air. It caused the grass to sway, curling slightly, as if even the land had found its own way of bowing to him.
“Lady Athena has not told Odysseus anything regarding Sparta,” Penelope explained, lifting her head to meet his eyes once more. There was something — something within those pools of crimson, something foreign, something she could not decipher.
Another pause.
It felt like the stir of calm before a storm, the pull of retreating waves before a sudden tide reigned flood and terror.
Then—
“Helen of Sparta has been taken.”
Penelope stilled, her breath catching.
“Taken?” She asked, her disbelief audible to even her own ears as she scanned his eyes as if perhaps, just perhaps she could find something that proves she heard wrong.
But there was nothing.
Only confirmation.
“By a Trojan prince,” Ares explained. “Paris of Troy.”
Penelope inhaled, feeling as if she were back on Ithaca’s beaches, coughing as the sand coated the air.
Helen.
Cousin Helen.
Her dear cousin, her elder cousin, the cousin whom she had sung songs and shared a bed with all those years ago, during those now unreachable days when they were still girls wandering the halls of Sparta's palace.
It was not the first time Helen had been stolen.
But this was different.
They had made sure then, after Theseus, that Sparta was secure and that Helen was safe.
Still, she was stolen once more.
Helen.
The Queen of Sparta.
Her beloved cousin.
Stolen.
The world spun beneath her feet.
“There will be a war,” Ares continued, eyeing her with an intensity that made her chest constrict further as if she weren't already breathless enough.
There will be a war.
A war.
“Odysseus —” Penelope realized. There will be a war, there had been an oath.
A war to get Helen back. An oath to protect her marriage, an oath her husband had agreed to, an oath he had proposed when he was sixteen and trying to win her hand, an oath he had proudly boasted about during the early days of their marriage.
An oath that bound him to war.
He will be called to fight.
He will leave her, their kingdom, their son.
“Odysseus—?” Penelope said again, her voice steadier this time as if to ask a question as if to ask if her fears would prove true.
“He will not be called to fight,” Ares added.
“He will not?” Penelope asked, the tension in her shoulders unfurling ever so slightly.
“No,” Ares continued, “They will not need him. There has been a prophecy.”
“A prophecy?”
“The King of Mycenae has received a prophecy from his seer,” his voice was slow as if he wanted to be sure that she understood every word. “They do not need Odysseus. They need you.”
Penelope stared.
Her?
Her mind refused to understand, caught in a whirlwind.
Her.
They will not call for Odysseus.
They will call for her.
Roughly, she felt her stance falter, both of her knees slamming against the ground.
She will have to leave.
She will have to leave her husband.
She will have to leave her son.
Her son, who was only weeks old.
She could not breathe.
The earth beneath her shook
His footsteps were heavy as he approached.
Penelope forced herself to lift her head, gazing at his golden helmet.
“Remember this when you wake,” Ares commanded.
The world tilted.
She awoke with a start, her hand curled into tight fists, linens bunched in her palms.
The other side of the bed was cold, empty.
Empty.
Where was her husband?
She turned, scrambling to make her way out of bed.
Then came a creak from the door.
“Penelope?” Odysseus called, appearing in the doorway.
The sheets thrown over her twisted around her waist. Penelope flinches as pain suddenly flared in her hips, her hand giving way beneath her weight, causing her to slip off the bed, a small cry of pain leaving her as her body slammed against the floor.
“Penelope!”
His hands wrapped around her shoulders, voice urgent as he called her name as if trying to draw her out of a trance. Firmly, though gently, he pressed his palm against the side of her head, lifting slightly, coaxing her eyes to meet his own.
Penelope's chest heaved as she forced in a breath, a small, choked sob ripping from her throat.
His hands tightened around her shoulders.
“Darling, my darling, what troubles you so?” He asked, his voice soft, drawing her further into his arms, pulling her flush against him, but gently, still, so that he might not aggravate her aches, pressing a hand against her back, rubbing shoulders.
She could not find the words, so Penelope buried her head in the crook of his neck and wept.
____________________
Odysseus made his way to Athena’s temple after breakfast.
Penelope had not spoken much after what had occurred at dawn. She had spent the rest of the morning lost in thought, staring at nothing at all, holding Telemachus as if she feared he might disappear if she didn't hold him tight enough. He had tried to coax her, had tried to coax a response, an explanation out of her, had asked what was wrong. Still, every one of his questions had received no response.
The marble echoed beneath his feet, his steps vibrating off of the marble walls as he approached the altar. The marble was cold against his knee as he knelt.
It did not take long for her to arrive, did not take long for those bright, piercing gray eyes to fall over him, eyeing him as if she meant to see through the depths of his soul. It was a habit of hers that had unsettled him, at first, but he had grown used to it over the years. Despite it all, he greeted her as he always did, with a grin, or perhaps a smile, a smaller one, an echo of a habit he had started ever since she had started training him as her warrior of the mind.
Athena only raised an eyebrow. “Why have you called?”
Odysseus shifted, pressing his foot against the marble to stand. Kneeling was a formality, but one he did not always follow. Athena had never reprimanded him for not doing so, either way.
“Something had happened with Penelope,” Odysseus explained, the unease that had followed him since dawn spewing into his voice.
Athena remained silent, an unspoken prompt for him to continue. So he did.
“When she woke up, she just started crying. Even after I had her calmed, she refused to speak, refused to tell me anything.” Odysseus let out a small sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I believe she received a dream from Lord Ares, and since she refuses to tell me what is wrong, I came to ask if something could have possibly occurred and if you know what could have happened.”
Athena remained silent for a breath moment, as stoic as ever.
Then — there it was, the slightest softening of her shoulders, the usual intensity in her eyes dissipating. It looked, almost, like an expression of defeat.
Odysseus pressed his lips together in an effort not to frown and waited.
“It seemed Ares had managed to inform you before I could,” Athena said, lowering her head to properly look at him.
“What did you mean to tell us?” Odysseus asked, brows furrowing.
“Helen of Sparta has been stolen by Paris of Troy.”
Odysseus stared at her in disbelief.
“Stolen?” Odysseus asked. There had been no war, no battle, no collapse of a kingdom — women, most especially a Queen — were not simply taken without reason, how could she have been stolen?
But then this was no ordinary woman.
This was Helen of Sparta, the woman who held the title of the most beautiful one in the world, a daughter of Zeus, a woman who had kings upon kings gathering in Sparta’s halls, the moment she had come of age, gifting gold and treasures, all to gain her hand in marriage.
Not just an ordinary woman, but the woman who was deemed the most beautiful in the world.
Athena does not respond, allowing the silence to persist.
Odysseus let out a breath, eyes wide with incredulity.
“Do you understand what this will cause?” Athena continued.
Of course.
Of course, he understood.
Menelaus — kind, loving Menelaus — would not stand for this, would not stand to his wife being stolen in such a way, stolen from her halls, stolen from her homeland, stolen by a Trojan prince, away to the shores of Ilion.
And then there was the oath.
The oath that bound him to Tyndareus, to Helen, and, by extension, to Menelaus.
The oath that he had proposed in his efforts to win Penelope’s heart.
The oath, the oath that seemed so small, so insignificant back then.
The oath to protect Helen’s marriage.
There would be a war to retrieve her.
And there was the oath, the oath that bound him to Helen, the oath that bound him to a ship, the oath that bound him to a coming war.
Because Menelaus would not stand for this.
And he, in his foolishness, in his lack of foresight, had made an oath.
He would have to leave. He would have to leave his wife — his wife, who had given birth less than two months ago, his wife who was still recovering. He would have to leave his son — his son who was still so awfully young, who could not yet even walk.
He would have to leave.
To fight, to join in battle.
His eyes met Athena’s.
Then he opened his mouth, searching for his voice. Perhaps to plead, to question. Athena, however, spoke before he could.
“You will not be called to fight,” Athena assured.
He released a breath but did not dare hope, not yet.
And he was right to do so.
There was something in her expression.
There is something else, something more. Of course — he was not simply exempted from battle without reason.
The small, slight flicker of hope that had managed to seep into him despite his efforts dies.
Athena paused.
Odysseus waited.
“The son of Atreus has received a prophecy,” she continued. “Penelope will be called to war.”
Odysseus felt as if the wind had been knocked from his lungs.
“What?” He said, incredulous.
Penelope.
His Penelope.
Called to war, forced to fight among men.
The thought was downright absurd.
“She cannot fight!” He protested, hands curling into fists at his side. “She has not been trained for war—”
“She was trained by Ares,” Athena reminded.
Still—
“She is not a warrior!” Odysseus snapped, desperate. Why could she not understand? Why could she not see? Penelope was in no state to go to war, she could barely even stand, let alone fight.
Athena remained silent.
“She had given birth mere weeks ago,” Odysseus said, a crack in his voice, a plea. “She has not yet recovered. She will be the only woman amongst those men—”
His heart pounded.
The only woman. The only woman on that battlefield.
What would they dare do to her?
If she were captured — would she be considered a spoil of war? A prize? Would she be taken as a concubine as other women often were?
The thought made his blood boil.
“Let me fight instead,” he pleaded, “let me fight in her place, let her stay in Ithaca—”
“It is not that simple, Odysseus,” Athena said her voice, despite being firm, held the slightest hint of sympathy. “The prophecy calls for Penelope. These things cannot be avoided, you know that well.”
He knew, of course, he knew — but still, surely this could not be true, surely this could not be final.
His Penelope, fighting in war.
She had been trained, but not for battle, never for battle.
This could not be the only way.
Before him, Athena shifted.
“Have faith in her,” She said, placing a light hand on his shoulder. “Even I must admit that Ares has trained her well.”
It was meant to be a comfort, a reassurance.
It did not feel like one.
____________________
Two weeks later, Mycenaean ships arrived in Ithaca’s port.
It was Odysseus who spotted them first — it had been a daily ritual of his, waking early, looking out towards the balcony, watching, waiting.
And at last, it came.
A ship, a single ship, approached slowly towards the port. Odysseus let out a sigh, turning to glance back at Penelope who remained fast asleep. Despite his insistence that he take care of Telemachus during the night, Penelope still rose every night to take their son into her arms, unable to resist even the slightest sign of distress, despite his insistence that she was still recovering, that she still needed rest.
He leaned over and gently pressed a kiss to her temple. They had spoken of the plan weeks ago, unable to sleep after the news had reached them. So instead, they stayed awake and schemed.
Athena had spoken true, it was near impossible to deny a prophecy. Still, he would be damned if he did try.
He could not send her to war, not in this condition. How could he? When she was still recovering? She could barely walk, could barely kneel for prayers without a gasp of pain. How was she to fight?
So the excuse was easy to find, really. After all, it was not a lie Penelope had given birth mere weeks ago. The birth had not been merciful to her body. She had bled too much, far too much, and he had spent days on end at her bedside, fearing that every breath would be her last. He could not bear to do that again, could not bear to helplessly stand by while she fought for her life.
They could say she was unwell, that she was ill, unstable.
It would not necessarily be a lie, but rather an exaggeration. Though truthfully, even an exaggeration felt like an overstatement.
She had wept once mere days after Telemachus was born. He had taken their babe while she was asleep and had given him to a nurse, so that she might clean him. When Penelope woke to find him gone, she had broken down and wept as if the world was crumbling beneath her feet.
Eurycleia had warned him after that, that some women suffer hysteria after giving birth. So he had made sure not to repeat that again, made sure that Telemachus was always within her sight, never too far, always within her reach.
But if she were to go to war, if she were to fight on a battlefield, he would be unable to protect her from every bit of punishment, every bit of pain.
Penelope stirred under his touch but did not wake.
He could not send her to war.
He did not know how much time he spent there, simply watching her sleep, counting her breaths, watching the rise and fall of her chest. But then came a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he called.
“My lord,” Eurycleia said, opening the door with a faint creak, “heralds from the house of Atreus have come to seek audience with you.”
Odysseus took in a breath, sparing one last glance at Penelope.
The walk to the audience chamber was short, although it felt like a lifetime like he was making his way to the gates of Hades.
“Enter,” he called. He did not sit on his throne, he felt far too restless to do so.
Odysseus forced himself to smile as the wooden doors opened.
The herald, donning Mycenaean colors, stepped forward.
“Welcome,” He greeted, keeping his voice carefully measured. “I have informed you are a messenger from Mycenae. What news have you been given to deliver to our shores?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” the herald replied, kneeling before him and bowing his head, as was the custom. “I am a messenger from the house of Atreus. I have come bearing a message from Lord Agamemnon.”
“What news does the king of Mycenae want to share?” Odysseus asked, resisting the urge to curl his hands into fists, forcing himself to take a steady breath.
“I believe you have heard of Queen Helen’s abduction, my Lord?” The herald queried.
“I have,” Odysseus confirmed. How could he not? Even if Athena had not told him first, it was nigh impossible for him not to. The news had spread quickly, from sailors to merchants, merchants to citizens, and citizens to their sovereigns, making it known to every kingdom in Archaea that Helen of Sparta had been stolen.
“Lord Agamemnon has sent word to every King in Achaea to join the impending war to retrieve the Queen of Sparta. That includes every King that had sought Queen Helen’s hand and participated in the oath to protect her marriage to Lord Menelaus,” the herald explained.
“So I assume you have sailed here to call me to war?” Odysseus asked. A part of him almost hoped the herald would say yes. Perhaps if he did, then Penelope could stay here in Ithaca, where all was safe and she would not need to fight.
Still, the herald gave a small shake of his head.
“Not quite, my Lord. I had originally fought the same, however, Lord Agamemnon had received a prophecy from his seer, Calchas,” the herald continued. “I have been sent to call Queen Penelope.”
There it was.
Odysseus kept his expression carefully neutral.
He could not falter, not now.
“I do not mean to defy an order from the King of kings,” Odysseus started, hoping that it was only he who could feel the tension that filled the air, “However, you will find that my wife is in no state to join in battle.”
The messenger remains still, his face impassive. But there was something in his eyes, a glint of curiosity that made the unease curl tighter in Odysseus' chest.
“I see. However, surely you must understand, my Lord, Lord Agamemnon is rather insistent, considering the prophecy. May I ask exactly what state the Queen is in at this moment?” His voice, calm and composed, held a hint of the slightest mockery within that one word. It did not slip past Odysseus’ notice.
“My heir, my son was born mere weeks ago, Odysseus explained. “As a result, my wife’s mind and body have been disturbed by the ordeal. She has not yet fully recovered, nor is she in the right state of mind. I do not believe she will do well in battle.”
“I see,” the messenger responded after the briefest pause.
Silence, heavy, oppressive silence, settled upon the room.
“Well then,” Odysseus said, forcing another smile, hoping to appear warm. “You and your men have traveled far. I will have food and one of our guest chambers prepared for you.”
Truthfully, he wanted this messenger gone more than anything.
But he knew how it would appear to have him leave in a rush, without even being granted even a glimpse of Penelope. Their scheme would become far too obvious, then, that they were only staging a play. He would need to plant evidence over the following days, subtly, but not so much that the messenger would not notice.
The messenger smiled. “I thank you for your generosity, my lord.”
Odysseus nodded and then turned to one of the attendants, who stood off to the side of the room.
“Escort the messenger to the guest chambers.”
____________________
Penelope lay in bed, her eyes tracing the outlines of crevices in the stone ceiling.
Odysseus had played his part well.
She had awoken to find him gone the morning before. It had been Eurycleia who told her about the ships, the men, the messengers, all who came to Mycenae. Prickles of dread had risen in her chest, then, so she had simply nodded and waited for her husband to return.
He came perhaps an hour later.
“It has been done,” Odysseus assured, taking her hand in his own, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I told him that you were ill, unstable.”
Numbly, Penelope nodded. “Where is he now?”
“I had him escorted to the guest chambers,” Odysseus explained. “We will need to plant evidence over the following days, to soften his suspicions.”
She nodded again and allowed him to kiss her hair.
“You will be safe,” he promised. “You will not have to go. I will make sure of it.”
She spent most of her days in her bedchamber, after that. If she truly was as unstable as he claimed her to be, it would be odd to see her wandering the palace. Eurycleia came by, sometimes, to gather sheets stained with sheep’s blood. The physician sometimes came, too, but he did not examine her much — his presence was only for show. Penelope did not mind, really. She was happy to spend time with her son, happy to soothe his tears, happy to hear him coo, happy to make him smile.
She did not want to leave him.
She did not think she could bear to leave him.
Penelope turned over, grimacing at the flare of pain in her hips, turning to watch Telemachus through the railings of his crib. He was asleep, peacefully, his small chest rising and falling with each breath, tiny hands limp beside his head. Despite it all, Penelope felt a small smile pull at her lips.
With a small sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
She awoke to the sound of the door creaking.
Immediately — something within her, an instinct knew that something was wrong, that something was not right.
Her husband, despite being King, would not have just simply entered.
He would have knocked; he always knocked three consecutive taps against the door. And if he had, she was sure she would have heard it — she had developed the habit of being an awfully light sleeper ever since Telemachus was born.
Still, Penelope kept her eyes firmly shut and did not stir.
The footsteps approached.
Faintly, she heard Telemachus whimper.
Then, came a cry.
It took everything within her not to move, not to come to his beck and call at the slightest sign of distress.
Her hands, the ones hidden beneath the covers, fisted the linens.
Until she realized.
The crying was growing fainter.
She bolted up in bed to find a figure sweeping out of the room and the crib empty.
No.
No, no, no—
Penelope wrenched the sheets off and ran.
Her hips burned, her legs ached, her knees threatened to collapse — but that did not matter.
She could see him, already paces away from her, headed to one of the back exits, the ones that led to the gardens.
The ones that led to the cliffs.
Her nails dig into her palm.
Palamedes, Odysseus had called him.
Penelope had not wanted to curse a man’s name more than she did now.
Her feet stumbled, and she took in a sharp breath as her knees slammed against the floor. Still, she forced herself to stand on shaking legs and ran once more.
The halls were empty.
Where were the maids? The attendants? The guards?
Her legs threatened to give out again.
Still, Penelope continued to run
“Stop!” She yelled, the effort causing what felt like a tear in her throat.
Palamedes continued paces ahead of her.
Her dagger, her spear —
She should have taken her spear.
He was growing closer, with Telemachus wailing in his arms, closer to the cliffs, closer to the sea.
Penelope ran.
Telemachus wailed.
Palamedes was getting closer.
Dread bloomed in her chest, bile rose in her throat.
He came to a stop on the edge of a cliff, her son, her Telemachus, still in his hold.
There was a smile, a wicked, taunting smile on his face, as he stood there, Telemachus in his arms, the cliffs below them.
Then suddenly, he is tackled.
Odysseus.
Telemachus is wrenched from his hold.
Two guards run over and pin him to the floor.
Odysseus stepped back, their son in his arms, eyes blazing.
Penelope collapsed beside him, her heart pounding, shaking hands reaching for Telemachus, grasping the linens he was wrapped in, a small, shaky sob tearing from her throat.
Her hips burned.
Her legs ached.
Still, she reached for him, as desperate as a man reaching for the heavens.
Odysseus handed him over, the fire in his eyes softening as she knelt beside her and drew her in his arms.
Penelope’s eyes looked past him, gazing at Palamedes. Their eyes lock.
It lingered, that smile of his.
Wicked and taunting, as if to silently boast I've caught you, even as the guards held him down.
She held Telemachus closer, pressing her son against her chest.
Odysseus’ arms around her shoulders tighten.
Staring at the messenger, Penelope felt a heavy, burning flame of hatred spark deep within her.
____________________