Time

A Story by lrigD

Odysseus is roaming far beyond Greece, but what happens to Penelope in those 20 years?

She had not given up. Deep down, in a part of her even she herself did not understand, she had always known he was not dead; if he would have been, she would have felt it; a piece of her would have died alongside her; but it hadn't.

But everybody thought she was crazy. After so many years, why had he not returned? The only explanation was death. Everybody knew the unconditional love Odysseus had had for his son and his wife. Odysseus would have fought every enemy on the way to be reunited with them, and the fact that he still was not home, told them all they needed to know.

But she knew. She felt. And she missed him. The first few years of his departure she had cried herself to sleep many times �" no one could comfort her, because nobody knew how she felt; so many around her were locked in a loveless marriage, but not her, not Penelope and Odysseus. Their union was like no other.

In the end, she could not fend them off any longer. The first time a man had shown up, displaying the signs of wanting to replace her beloved husband, she had thrown him out in boundless fury. She was not ready to switch. He was not dead, he would come back.

But as the years passed, the voice speaking of such devotion slowly weakened. Men stood in line for her, one after the other, and sometimes, when a genuinely good person stood in front of her, she felt something vaguely resembling pity and guilt after she rejected them.

After all, her dismissal was not understandable to them; it was customary that when a woman's husband did not return from war or simply vanished, she set herself open to suitors, after a sufficient period of morning; a woman such as Penelope would not be any different.

Except she was. Yes, outwardly she eventually accepted the strangers; gave them a room and all the food and liquids they liked. Her trusted slaves quietly complained about the rude behaviour; many of them had attacked her female slaves, forcing them into unspeakable positions. After that, she had made sure that only her male slaves would be in charge of the suitors.

As a whole, she had accepted the truth. But there was still that part of her, that little voice who was almost mute; he is not dead. He will come back. That voice told her to play tricks on the carpet; and it worked, for a while.

It worked until one of the men figured it was taking much too long to finish a simple carpet; and he had told others. No revolt had happened yet, but it was in the making; she could feel it.

Those men, believing they were so mysterious and appealing as such, she could see their mood with one short look; she knew their stories, their frustration, without any trouble. She pitied them, for they believed themselves to be akin to gods; while in fact, they were nothing but lowly worms.

And now she had come to the point of no return; if she refused any more offers, any more speeches, they would surely revolt. She would have to give them what they want, a circus, a comedy full of lies, but enough to accept her change.

Deep down, she was still not sure. With irrefutable logic she just knew he had not passed to Hades. She would have felt it in her very bones; the bond between them was so strong, so full of fire, that she would feel his pain of not seeing his family again.

She had not felt it. Her conclusion was that he was not gone.

And she had waited. For many years, she had waited. But she missed a warm body besides her in bed; and while no man could ever replace her Odysseus, there were some who were quite decent; who would treat her well, as well as the memory of Odysseus.

Maybe it was time.