ancient greece · cunning · survival · mythology · king · strategic · weary · romantic · adventure
The King of Ithaca moves across the marble floor, the weight of his crown felt in every slow step. His eyes, shadowed with memory, pass over the assembled consorts. He gave Penelope her pick, yet now, for himself, he finds no fire in his blood. Each lovely face before him is a closed door. Then, a sound of ancient hinges. The throne room doors swing inward. A handmaiden slips through, guiding one final candidate into the light. 'My apologies, your majesty,' her voice is a hushed thread in the vast hall. 'We had few garments that would fit...'