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The gods knew Penelope of Ithaca to be a devout woman. Every morning like clockwork, the queen would wake and offer a prayer to the gods.
One for Demeter, for a plentiful harvest.
One for Hades, to bring prosperity to Ithaca.
One for Leto, for her son’s safety and future prospects.
One for Athena, her husband’s godly patron, for his victory.
As time wore on, it appeared that her current prayers could not satisfy her desires. So Penelope began appealing to other deities for aid.
To Hera, for her husband’s return.
To Hermes, to bring his great grandson back from his travels.
To Hermia, to finally complete her home by bringing back its master.
Today, there was one more.
“Lord Ares, hear my plea.”
In his palace, the god of war took notice.
“The queen of Ithaca is praying to me.” Athena, still convalescing under his care, shot up. She promptly ignored the subsequent scolding from Ares.
“Penelope? Why? For what?” Athena probed. Under his helm, Ares rolled his eyes. Neither of them would find out if she didn’t stop her incessant chatter so he could listen.
From Ithaca, a queen’s desperation rang out to the god. “Lord Ares, I beg this of you. Lend me your favor. Grant me your strength. Give me the courage to proceed with the actions I must take. Please .”
This new addition did not escape attention in Olympus either. After the frenzy Athena had recently stirred up surrounding Odysseus, any well-connected god or goddess would know his name.
As Ithaca’s queen ended her prayers to the heavens, Hera mused. With Athena gone still, Hera had taken to watching the royal family of Ithaca. She had no love for Odysseus nor his son, being descendants of one of Zeus’s bastards, but Penelope of Ithaca was intriguing indeed.
What wife could make a mortal man deny all worldly pleasures?
You cannot expect a man to be tethered to any woman and forgo all the world has to offer! Zeus would cackle when she raged at him for his frequent escapades.
And war was a taxing ordeal, one that commonly pushes men into the arms of many eager girls. So was loneliness, easily inspiring temptation when paired with a goddess offering a pathway to immortality. Men have taken far less justifiable actions with far less reason to.
What Hera wouldn’t give for a twenty year reprieve from Zeus’ antics. But Penelope of Ithaca, though aged, still held a girlish naivety. A wiser woman would have moved on by now.
But alas, the heart wants what it wants. Hera has learned that all too well from millennias past.
In Ithaca, the queen goes about her typical duties. She goes to greet her son, who has just awoken. Ah, here is another deviation from her routine. She carries with her his breakfast, which is received with a warm smile. As the prince attempts to sit up, he winces. His injuries from his encounter with his mother’s suitors a day prior are taking a toll. The queen caresses his hair, planting a motherly kiss on the top of his head. She then leaves the prince’s room, no doubt to embark on her royal duties.
Curiously, she stops at the armory instead. Of course, Penelope is no stranger to weaponry, being born a Spartan. They teach their women how to fight, a skill that Penelope has not neglected even in all the years away from her homeland. She and Odysseus used to spar, she remembers fondly. He’d always kept Spartan weaponry in the palace armory for her sake.
She finds it now, nestled in a corner and covered with a layer of dust, just another testament to the long years she’s been waiting. She hefts the spear in one hand and shield in the other, testing her grip. Perfect. After Penelope asks the blacksmith to sharpen the spear, she replaces them in their spot in the armory to continue on with her duties. The only other abnormality in her day is a quick stop to the kitchens to instruct that her son’s meals be delivered directly to his room where he will stay.
In the throne room, the men await. From daybreak to nightfall, they’ve been here, euphoric on their success and on the wine the queen has so kindly offered them today. She’s been cowed into submission , they whisper loudly, uncaring of her proximity to them. Soon, she will be ours.
In the front of the room, Penelope stops. The view fills her with disgust. The once-magnificent hall no longer retains its former glory. The arching ceilings, the plush carpets, even the ethereal atmosphere itself – tainted with the stampede of snarling men who hunger for something more than bread.
They all fall silent at the sound of her voice. (She dreads the day where they no longer will).
“My honored guests." She wants to laugh as the words come out of her mouth. Still, she has a role she must play, and she will play it.
"I have decided only the strongest man amongst you all may be wedded to me. I will not have a man who can be humiliated in combat and unable to protect my son and I. Decide amongst yourselves who that will be.” After delivering her message, Penelope flees the room, the grumbling getting louder the further she goes. If her plan is to succeed, she cannot remain in that room.
Up on Olympus, Hera chuckles.
“Unfaithful at last, Penelope?”
Penelope does not hear it. She’s rather occupied with her thoughts as she races to the armory and back to the throne room. Even from a distance, she can hear inside the closed doors. And she smiles. The carnage certainly wasn’t humorous, but the howls of the dogs who’ve haunted her for so long were almost… musical. The cacophony of screams continued, a beautiful symphony of sound to a woman wronged.
Penelope tightened her grip on her spear as her desire for vengeance began to overtake her reason. As she made to open the door and join the chorus of screams, a voice in her made her take pause.
Penelope of Ithaca, I have heard your prayer.
Suddenly, the cries of the men inside the throne room weren’t so loud. Within a second, they disappeared completely as Penelope found herself face to face with the voice. Her blood froze.
Ares.
The god of war stood across from her, his bloodstained cape gently flowing in a breeze she could not feel. Like her, he held a spear and shield. They were, understandably, far larger. She doubted she could even touch the tip of the spear if she tried. She then blinked up at his helmet where his eyes would be, her mind still occupied by the men who were no doubt staining her throne room with blood.
“Lord Ares.” She bowed as well as she could without dropping her weapons, but he waved her off.
You’re an interesting one, Penelope of Ithaca. I haven’t been called on by many, much less by mortals like you. I’ll grant you what you ask for.
Not a moment later, Penelope is once again in front of the throne room. Nothing has changed, but somehow, the shouts sound sweeter than before.
There is a presence next to her that she cannot see hiding in the shadows. But she can certainly feel it.
There’s a new primordial rage inside her, one not of her own making, and it’s messing with her senses. Her eyesight seems to be tinted red, her heartbeat permanently pounding in her ears. She no longer feels the pain from how hard she’s been gripping her spear, nor from her feet that her sandals have rubbed raw from all the running.
And she can feel her anticipation for growing stronger, no doubt due to the voice in her head baying for blood.
It is time, Penelope of Ithaca. Release your rage.
The poor suitors had no idea what was coming. The world seemed to slow as she broke open the doors, the men whipping their heads towards her to glimpse their new challenger. They were too slow.
The Spartan spear plunged through one, two, five bodies in a fraction of a second. Suitors approach from the left and right and from the back, but she sees them all. Before they can get close enough, they all fall, their blood no longer contained within their bodies.
Her spear continued to slice through the air, adding to the ten bodies on the floor when she entered. How shameful that the men could only eliminate so little of their own in the time she’d allotted them. No matter. She could take care of the rest.
In the throes of battle, she barely registers it when one of her suitors throws himself at her feet. “Please, mercy!” He shouts before she can plunge the spear through him. Ares laughs. The sound echoes in her head, seeping into her mind and into her very memories.
It all comes rushing back.
When they first showed up after Odysseus failed to return. When their admiration turned into jeers and how the jeers turned to threats. How they hounded her, a grieving widow. How she walked into Telemachus’ room to see him hastily stashing away bandages. How he had tried to hide the injuries by blaming his clumsiness. How her own son has had to live in fear in their home for all of his life. The frustration, the pain, the sorrow, now saturated with the red tint of rage. There was only one cure , Ares whispers. Forfeit to your desires.
“...Mercy? Mercy??” She throws back her head and cackles like a madwoman. (Perhaps she is one now.) A few of the suitors turn to her in surprise. She doesn’t think she’s ever laughed this hard since Odysseus had left, especially not in front of them. It echoes across the room until every man has stopped and faced her. Her eyes remain on the man in front of her, who can feel nothing but fear in front of a woman who feels nothing but rage.
“You dared to hurt my boy.”
“It was a friendly brawl, my queen. Forgive us so no more blood is shed.”
In a reasonable state, Penelope would’ve relented. But in the confines of Ares’ powers, all she could see was Telemachus’s blood on his hands. Her sweet Telemachus, always protecting her. Her sweet son, bedridden because of what these men had done to him but thankfully away from the bloodshed. She’d never thought these would be the lengths she’d go to for love, but for him, she’d do anything.
“I…” The kneeling suitor looks up at her with hope in his eyes as she starts speaking. He doesn’t live long enough to hear the rest of her sentence. His body slumps onto her feet, now permanently bent in a state of deference to her. There’s blood on her feet, she notice for the first time. Lots of it. She cannot bring herself to care.
“I have had enough."
And finally, finally, the remaining men come to their senses. This is not a fight they can win on their own, they know as they lock eyes. They all rush her at once. Perhaps they were hoping to overwhelm her into surrendering. Or perhaps they really did want to kill her. She wouldn’t wouldn’t know. More importantly, she doesn’t care.
Finally, a challenge. Some of the men waver as Penelope only seems to smile at their impending attack. Only the ones who don’t catch a glimpse of her bright red eyes before they fall to the ground, with a hole between their eyes or a flattened skull or both. Perhaps it was the adrenaline or the divine blessing, but she hasn’t felt this alive in ages. But as blessed as she may be, Penelope is still mortal and not the young woman she once was.
On your right! Ares warns just in time. One lucky suitor swipes at her with his sword, leaving a gash on the side of her chiton. He sneers at her with the bravado of a victor. He won't live long enough to regret that. When he makes to grab her, his corpse falls to the ground with a thump. He’s lucky that there’s still plenty of other men for her to deal with at this moment. If she had more time, she’d hack his body to bits starting with his hands (and other delicate parts).
She’s vaguely surprised to feel no pain radiating from her side, mind still hazy with the thrill of bloodlust above all else.
“Hold her down!” Antinous yells at the remaining men, just a fraction of their original count. They never stood a chance.
The man closest to her collapses to the ground, nose bleeding from the impact with her shield. He screams something she doesn’t hear as her spear pierces through his stomach again and again and again. His babbling tears inspire no sympathy, no pity within her, only revulsion. He finally stills once her weapon stops his heart.
Beside her, the figure of Ares stands gazing at what used to be a body, now a mess of displaced flesh.
Impressive, Penelope of Ithaca. You’ve earned my respect.
Perhaps Penelope should be a bit more concerned about winning the approval of the embodiment of destruction and bloodlust, but that would be something she could grapple with later.
As and she readied her spear and shield once again, she found that time had become infinitesimally slow. Before, she could watch her opponent slash frugally at her in slow motion. Now it looked as if all the men had been frozen. She could find a land bridge to Troy, find Odysseus, and bring her husband back to Ithaca in the time that it took them to take a step in her direction.
Oh, she was going to enjoy taking her time with them. No inch of the remaining men are spared her wrath from her spear or shield (and heel when appropriate).
And then it’s all over. Though it was a little too quick for his taste, Ares expresses.
“Mom?”
Oh no. Penelope could only turn around, soaked head to toe in the blood of countless men, as Telemachus (who was supposed to be in bed!) peered into the throne room along with a cloaked stranger.
Well, my job here is complete. Until next time, Penelope of Ithaca.
The red slowly receded from Penelope’s vision. The purple fixtures in the room regained its hue. The yellow glow returned to the candles decorating the walls and to the sun above them as Helios pulled his chariot overhead. Telemachus' eyes returned to the warm brown she loved. But there was still red everywhere. She feared the palace would be covered with it. The floors, the walls, her weapons, even her clothes and skin, nothing was spared from the remnants of her bloodbath.
“Mom!” Telemachus rushed over as quickly as he could, only pausing to carefully step over the bodies. He watched as his mother, his brave and strong mother, started to shake. He’d never seen that before. She had always been a monolith. The perfect queen, with no cracks or breaks. And here she was, trembling like a leaf in the wind with a new red glint in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was tears she was holding back or if it was from something else.
Red. There was so much red. She didn’t even know how she would get all of it off. She just wanted to lay down and rest, right then and there. But Telemachus was calling for her, so she had to compose herself. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Just one moment of respite.
“Penelope.” Her breath hitched. That wasn't her son's voice. She was hallucinating, she was sure of it.
Oh, but how could she not! Her name had not been said with such reverence for twenty years. On his tongue, her name was the sweetest sounding melody known to her, one she hadn’t heard for twenty years. It was the refrain to a song she could never forget, one that was engraved into her very soul. She would wake to it during the night whilst alone in her wedding bed, the other side cold as the depths of the Underworld she dared not to think of. She would hum it unbidden as she traced the familiar creases of the olive tree, worn by time and her fingers. She would hear it on the wind as she stood on the coast, endlessly waiting for the ships that never appeared. The suitors could only ever achieve a crude imitation. And now, more than ever, she craved the comfort it brought.
“Penelope.” There it was again. He said it like a sigh of relief, a prayer, an oath to return to her. Could it be?
She breathed out and opened her eyes.
The cloaked man in front of her removed his hood with the same hands that had held her so long ago. The same hands that had caressed her pregnant stomach, that had rocked Telemachus to sleep, that had wrapped around her waist as they parted. There were new scars, of course, but they were those same hands.
“Odysseus.” On her tongue, his name was an apology. For everything he had to endure, for not being there to comfort him all this time, and for the carnage that he returned to. Truthfully, she hoped it wasn’t him. He deserved the warmest of welcomes, to come back to a wife who would readily embrace him and to a son who knew his face, not to the desecration of his palace.
She wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hands and cup his face, just anything to know he was real. But as she went to touch him, her hands were red. Red from the blisters of wielding her spear for so long, red from the exertion of the last hour, and so, so red from the blood.
“Mom, did you do this? This is freaking epic!” Telemachus’ voice seemed so distant to her, even though he was standing right there.
“Mom, Mom! Are you okay?”
In the midst of battle, Ares’ power was keeping all the pain at bay. Nothing should distract a warrior from their mission, after all. But without the god’s power, everything came crashing down at once.
Odysseus just barely caught Penelope in time as she collapsed.
“I’ve got you, my love. You’re safe now," he whispered.
“Wait, you’re my Dad?”
Far away from Ithaca, in Ares’ abode, Athena was finally, finally recuperating without complaint. Long overdue, in Ares’ opinion. Who knew that a goddess could be mollified into bedrest with a bedtime story?
“And then when he begged for mercy, she just glared at him for a moment. Then she stabbed him super hard with absolutely perfect aim. If you weren’t already training her son, I’d suggest you train her instead.”
“Who says I can’t do both?” Both god and goddess of war laugh and then seriously begin to consider it until another presence arrives.
“Mother! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ares lights up even more than he was already, moving further to the edge of Athena’s bed to give Hera room to join.
“Your most recent rampage, of course.” Hera makes her way to the proffered spot and sits down.
“Do tell me about it, Ares. All Olympus must have heard it by now. Helios said he hasn't seen anything like it, not since Achilles.”
“Of course, Mother. Let’s do it in another room though. Athena needs to rest.”
“No, you didn’t even finish the story. I’ll rest once you tell both of us the whole tale.” Athena would vehemently deny pouting here, but she didn't want to rest. This was the most interesting story to happen since she got struck by lightning!
“Alright, fine. Promise you’ll rest afterwards?”
“I’m a goddess of her word, am I not?”
Back in Ithaca, Penelope awakens in her bed, just like she does every morning. But today, her bed is not cold. Her husband and son are tucked around her, their hands clasped around one of hers.
The coastal wind comes in through her window in a sunlit breeze, but they no longer sing her name like they used to. But she hears it still in the mumbling of her husband’s unconscious ramblings.
Her shifting seems to have disturbed him, uncharacteristically so. But twenty years away from peace will render even the heaviest sleeper into the lightest one, Penelope supposes.
In this cocoon of warmth and love, sleep is catching up to her once more. Before she succumbs to it though, Penelope sends out a wordless prayer.
To Ares, for giving her the strength to reunite with her own.
She will do the rest of her prayers after she wakes once more.