Chapter Text
When he left, Penelope embraced him, kissed him, and let him go.
The first year that he had gone, Penelope remained optimistic. She didn’t expect him to return very soon. Penelope was no stranger to war and strife, no stranger to violence. She did not expect the war to be over in a year. All she could do was think of the baby in her womb and mourn the fact that Odysseus would not be able to experience his childhood years. She mourned that he would not be there to hold her hand when their baby, their Telemachus, opened his eyes and saw the world.
The second year, she cradled a wailing Telemachus. She ruled the kingdom in Odysseus’s stead, eagerly awaiting any news about the war. Telemachus called out his first word: “Mama”, and while she smiled at him and wrote letters to Odysseus about how their son was doing, inside her heart ached. Her heart ached for Odysseus, her kind husband, who was forcibly put to the brutality of war.
The third year that he had gone, she watched fondly as Telemachus toddled around the palace, his dark hair so much like his father. Telemachus had always been a lively child, so curious about the world.
Years passed by quickly, and before she knew it, Penelope realized that Odysseus had been at war for eight years. She didn’t want to lose hope. By this time, Telemachus was old enough to realize that something was amiss in his family. He, like many other children in Ithaca, grew up without a father, as his father was at war. He asked her sometimes: “Mama, do I have a father?”
The first time he asked, Penelope must have made an expression that Telemachus could tell was sorrowful. He quickly amended his statement, telling her that he did not really care that much. Penelope’s heart swelled with love. Her kind boy, so sensitive and sweet. She scooped him up into her lap and smiled. “Your father’s name is Odysseus…” she started.
From then on, they made a tradition of it. She would tell him stories of Odysseus, and Telemachus learned of a father that he had never met.
Eight years had passed when Penelope started to feel that hope was lost. For eight years, she told herself that her husband, brave and strong, would return to her. She could just imagine it. She would see the ships at the window, all of them. Penelope would put on her gown, and with Telemachus, they would race down to the gates. She would smile as the ships drew nearer, and Odysseus would race to the bow of the ship, and he would shout her name.
The next two years were agony. Penelope received word that Odysseus was close to home, just about to set foot on the shores of Ithaca, only to find out that he had been cast far, far, away. Everyone else had returned to their homelands, returned to their families, but still, Penelope, Telemachus, and the rest of Ithaca waited.
Soon, whispers arose. Whispers that Odysseus and his crew must have drowned at sea, never to return. Whispers that Odysseus had left behind a pretty widow with a wealthy kingdom. There were whispers that whoever could marry that widow could have all the wealth that the former king had, they could have everything.
When Penelope heard this, she was outraged. However, try as she did, she could do nothing about it. In flocks, the suitors arrived in the palace. She could not turn them away. As a widow, what power did she have? In the palace lurked many men. In Ithaca lurked even more. Like hyenas, just waiting for her to make a misstep, to come in and take everything she had. How could she allow that? Penelope knows all too well what they do to the sons of kings deceased.
Telemachus was only a boy of age ten. He was nowhere near ready to rule, not of age to inherit his father’s estate and to rule it. So Penelope allowed them in, allowed them to feast in her halls, and allowed them to eat her husband's cattle. She could deal with these men’s advances, their grabby hands, their disgusting eyes. She could deal with the pushy suitors asking for her hand in marriage. She could even deal with them making crude comments about her.
The suitors were impatient men. They were men used to getting what they wanted. It started with the occasional glance and smirk. Then a brush to her hand. It only got worse. Penelope wrote to her father, asking for loyal guards. Two guards to accompany her at all times, but that did not stop the suitors.
“Endure,” she told herself. “Do it for your son and husband.” Every night, she prayed to the gods, begging for her husband and son to remain safe.
So a year went by, and soon, Penelope and Telemachus learned how to sneak around their estate, how to get around unnoticed and untouched. They learned to steer clear of the suitors, to be careful with their words, as there were prying eyes and listening ears. Penelope’s servant girl came to her one day, telling her that there was murmurs. Murmurs that perhaps killing the prince would hurry the queen’s decision on who to marry.
Cold, all consuming fear gripped Penelope. She started to look more closely at the suitors, and when she saw one too many glances at Telemachus, she knew that when Telemachus grew older, it would only get worse. The suitors would conspire to kill Telemachus.
So, Penelope made a decision.