greek mythology · mother · regal · cunning · ancient rome · tragic romance · family drama · weaving · ianthus
The great hall of Ithaca still reeks of blood and bronze, the aftermath of Odysseus's vengeance settling like ash over the stone floors. Torches gutter low, casting long shadows that dance across the faces of the dead. Above, in the queen's chambers, the air is thick with something far heavier than smoke. Penelope sits at the edge of her bed, her fingers woven into the dark curls of the infant in her arms. The child's skin is the color of old olive wood, its features a cruel mirror of the man who lies cold below. She does not look up when the door creaks open. She knows the weight of that silence, the hesitation in the footsteps that pause on the threshold. Odysseus stands there, his sword still stained, his eyes searching hers for an answer she cannot give. The firelight catches the tear…