true north.

Menelaus offered a smile that grew as bold as an oracle reciting futures. He knew little of true romance, for his own was cultivated between the future, the past and the present and what hung on the sparsest of threads. And so, he took her reaction - elation, happiness and perhaps hope - for his own, snatching it with greed to replicate later with another.

It was pride that kept Penelope above the others, in his eyes at least. It was her stature and poise that elevated her from someone’s daughter to a woman of her own. So he watched; humbled by her presence. Perhaps that was the difference between cursed brothers who were doomed. And so he offered a small laugh, the vibrations fleeing through his body as they talked of Odysseus; or so, as Penelope cooed. 

But his attention span was short and ignited; so he went to something else. His mind running ahead as a wild horse would do on the beach of Argos. “Ah, anything you can do?” He repeated, hands lifting to hold his waist as if to broaden himself - to seem as large and important at his brother, who always did tower above him. “I am fine as it is, my lady. Though I find myself wondering the halls of Sparta wondering why we all fight when I already have held Helen’s hand… Do you remember me from such times?” 

Perhaps she was admitting more of her heart than was safe to do so, opening a gate that would be torn asunder in another lifetime. Perhaps that was the folly of something so fickle as love. Penelope did not think on these thoughts, however, instead choosing to keep her eyes on the present and her thoughts safely on the conversation at hand. She adored Odysseus, it was true, but it was not entirely prudent of speak of him in the halls of her uncle’s castle; she could not imagine Icarius had not told his brother to keep his eyes out, to ensure his daughter remained unspoiled for the man he would deem worthy.

A laugh escaped her lips, joining Menelaus’ and she shrugged one shoulder regally. “If you find you need something, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Being a hostess came easily to Penelope, who often wished for everyone to feel comfortable in their own place, but she found it was strange to act as one when it was her uncle who was host and she was merely a member of his household.

Her lips curved upwards. She had heard many things about Menelaus from her cousin’s mouth, not that she would tell him that. “I remember some glances that some might call longing. And smiles that look similar to those that...” she paused, shaking her head. “And as for the why, well my uncle would hardly lose an opportunity for the prestige that has come with his little game.”

achilles snickered, the sound harmless as the flame from a sconce on a clay wall. “if they are flattering themselves, perhaps.” pride had always been a vice that held the phthian prince in its grip, kindled as it was in him by his mother’s talk of heroism and godhead. the lack of reaction to his name posed a threat to that great, all consuming, destructive pride, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that one day the name achilles would be unavoidable. his deeds would precede him like a herald for a king. “and you, penelope of sparta.” granted, he knew very little of her, but the name rang a bell somewhere in the recesses of his mind, likely just the talk of men over ale, beautiful as she was. 

it seemed tyndareus had drawn them all here for helen, and yet he had a palace full of beautiful daughters and nieces kept secret - he had wondered, during the welcoming feast what must it feel like, to be the women not afforded such lavish contests or high volumes of attention. a relief, likely, though perhaps one tinged with resentment. “i would ask you if you live here at sparta, or are just visiting for the festivities like the rest of us, but i doubt tyndareus would have had a loom of this size constructed merely for a visitor.” he laughed under his breath, good humoured and quiet, eyes raking over the structure, and then the artistry she had produced on the smaller one. men were not supposed to be interested in weaving, he knew this, but he had never held himself to the limits of that in the past, and he could not help but wish to peer in through this window into the ways of women he knew so poorly. “perhaps it is an odd request, but would you show me how it works, daughter of icarius?”

Lips twitched at the corners and her eyes took on a glint that few might describe as knowing. It was clear in that snicker, in his very countenance, that he was more arrogant than many of the men she knew. And yet there was something honest in it, as if arrogance was simply confidence, was merely the knowledge that he was better than those who came before him, who would come after. Penelope found him fascinating, this destroyer of Thebes who took interest in woman’s work as if it was simply something else to learn, to amuse himself with. Her lips remained quirked and her eyes crinkled at the corners in pleasure.

A laugh escaped her lips. “I live in Sparta, yes. But I grew up in Lacedaemon lands rather than the capital itself.” She did not offer more information, did not mention how her father had exiled her, how she felt little more than a pawn as Helen was turning out to become. “And the loom…came with me, actually. My father sent it as a parting gift.” Or as penance for the guilt that had briefly flashed through his eyes upon her departure.

It was a bit of an odd request, especially from a man she barely knew, but Penelope took great pride in her weaving, just as much as she did in her tools, and she inclined her head. She lifted the shuttle. “This is a shuttle; it’s used to move the threads through the warp – the strings that run from top to bottom. Do you see?” She slowly began to thread it back through each string, her hands moving with dexterity as she spoke. “You are lucky; this is an easy portion with only one color for the sea. My next thread will be more complicated.”

Not unkind. Hardly a ringing endorsement of the Spartan King, but Odysseus doesn’t press the issue. If Penelope had more to say about her uncle and her time here, she would say it.

Him, seeking Helen’s hand? Odysseus would laugh aloud at the notion, if not for that look in her eyes. He hadn’t the any idea where she might’ve gotten the idea he was the slightest interested in Helen, but to Penelope, the thought isn’t a joke. He stops where he stands and turns to face her, gently squeezing her hand as he does so. “No, no, of course not.” Enemies and allies alike could say what they wanted about him, call him ruthless and conniving, and they probably wouldn’t even be wrong, but he would not hold one cousin’s hand while seeking the other’s in marriage.

“Officially, I’m here only as advisor to King Agamemnon,” he tells her. “Talk of your cousin has reached us, yes, but it is Prince Menelaus who seeks her hand. I am here to help him in that goal.” But even if was did not, if Agamemnon had lost all reason and wanted Odysseus in the competition, he would have found a way out of it. Duty only goes so far. “I have no interest in marrying a woman I’ve never met.”

“Unofficially,” Odysseus continues, and does not let her hand go. Sincerity rarely comes easily to men like him, so used to speaking in double meanings, yet with Penelope, he has no desire to say anything but what he means. “I come to Sparta because I have grown rather fond of another.” There had been so much he’d wanted to say to her, before her father spirited her away. He felt could talk to her for hours, days, the time slipping away around them. Now, he chooses each word delicately, carefully. He does want to presume - all to aware of how little he has to offer her - and yet he cannot abide by her not knowing, in thinking he might have come all this way for the sake of her cousin. Perhaps it is too bold, to put words to the quiet thing between them, so soon after reuniting. He feels younger than his years, second guessing himself, more at the mercy of his nerves than he’s been in years.

“We only had a short time together, and too long apart.” The words are bolder than he feels. “But I had hoped that she might feel the same.”

Her time in Sparta had stretched on for eons, certainly much longer than the three years she had already been here. Penelope thought her uncle ambivalent; perhaps he did not care if she was there or not, but he would do his duty to her father in the way that her father had done so to the throne. She wondered if Tyndareus would care about her actions now, when he was so preoccupied with ensuring his daughter married well.

She said none of that to Odysseus, however, her lips parting as her eyes turned toward him and a breath of relief escaped them. Of course not. Three small words and yet they brought to Penelope a comfort she had not quite expected. Her expression became less pinched and she looked down at their joined hands with a half-smile rising upon her visage.

“Menelaus,” she repeated, her voice careful, unwavering. “I see.” She nearly asked why Agamemnon did not compete himself, but it was not her place to know and she was much more interested in losing herself in Odysseus’ eyes than she was in speaking of politics. “I am glad to hear of it. I would not wish to…” Compete with Helen. The thoughts came to the forefront of her mind, unbidden and unwelcome, though the words did not leave her lips. She shook her head, all breath leaving her body as he spoke further, admitting what she had hoped but would not even allow herself to think.

The corners of her mouth pulled into a smile, wide and beatific, eyes crinkled at the corners. He had to be speaking of her. Her head tilted to the side and Penelope sucked in a breath, the knowledge Odysseus had given her making it difficult for her to think, for her to breathe, for her to do anything but feel, to stare, to hold his hands as if they were a life raft while she was drowning.

“Too short a time.” Her father had not been pleased with his daughter’s infatuation with the man who had nothing to his name other than the goodwill of Mycenae. “But she feels…I feel the same, Odysseus.” The words were forward, remarkably so, but her mouth did not close. “I adore you so very much.”

A goblet of wine was lazily held in her hand as Penelope walked through the halls of her uncle’s palace. She had left the meal early, her golden earrings gleaming in the lamplight as her braided hair remained held in place with pins. The warmth of the fire was evident in her eyes as she passed an alcove and the young woman paused before entering it. So many guests in the palace had made her much less calm than she might have been otherwise. Here, she leaned back against the wall, taking a healthy swallow of the wine now that she was out of the sight of others.

Penelope’s eyes, which had shut for a brief moment, grew wide as she heard footsteps just outside in the hallway. Turning her head to the side, she was face-to-face with another.

The woman sucked in a breath and her tone was wry. “I suppose I was not the only one who wished to escape.”

“You can be more than you think, can offer the world more than you wish to. But sometimes I wonder if that’s what you even want. If I’m what you want. Or if it’s just an illusion and the idea of me is what’s heavy in your heart.”

@ofmanyturns

12. name a few of their favourite pieces of popular culture.

Penelope very much enjoys modern art and folk music. She is not generally a fan of pop culture, though she will admit to a fascination with true crime podcasts and her guilty pleasure tv show is always Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

13. show us what their last ‘sent’ text message is from five different text convos.

(i did six, sorry not sorry)

odysseus | @ofmanyturns

8:34 p.m.: i just ordered thai. can you pick it up on your way home? i love you!

menelaus | @repulson

5:15 p.m.: can you keep O out of the house for awhile tomorrow? (just don’t bring him back drunk)

helen | @swanheir

7:48 p.m.: how did you get out of this family dinner? our fathers have been talking about nothing but business and i’m pretty sure nestra and i will be wasted by the time this is over.

clytemnestra | @truedaughter

3:27 p.m. so i was thinking maybe we could finally take that girl’s trip next month. you, me, helen, and cass?

achilles | @ofachilleus

11:15 a.m.: god you and your boyfriend deserve each other after that display last night. i’m never being your designated driver again.  

theseus | @synoikismos

6:02 a.m.: you know, if you actually asked helen out instead of staring at her like a creeper most of the time, she’d probably say yes.

15. how does their diet look like?

“You are not a man: do not allow your ambition to blind you so much that you fail to see what is right in front of you.”

4. what do they ( plan to ) do for a living, and where do they aspire to go with it?

Penelope adores fiber arts: weaving, knitting, spinning her own yarn. Her end goal is to create bespoke tapestries for wealthy clients, though she has started small and teaches knitting and weaving classes at the local yarn shop.

8. describe their closet.

When it comes to clothing, Penelope can be rather frivolous. Her closet, nearly the size of her bedroom, is filled with dresses, blouses, and skirts. And then there are the shoes that pepper shelves against the floor. She prefers to dress somewhat traditionally, having never taken to trousers quite well. ( In fact, the only time she wears anything of the like is shorts when she’s at the beach. )

14. favourite and least favourite thing about living on this era.

“Is that so? Pushing aside the fact that you’ve little idea of how shawls are made and tapestries are woven, the insinuation I need a ring – or a man to go along with one – for happiness or my future is more insulting than I could put into words.”