18

Your love for Penelope is not diminished by your love or lust for others in the least. She knows and trusts that, and it has never been a problem for either of you.

The ship rocks gently in the waves, lulling you. Your body relaxes onto the bed, the knots that kept it alert slowly untied.

Your last thought before the veil of sleep falls over your eyes, is this:

You discovered this first at the gates of Ilium when your soldiers looked up to you for guidance and command. You were a ruler before, yes; but out there, under the baking sun and with sand bloodied–by Trojan blood as much as Achaean–under your heels, the world of royal finery and domestic peace seemed so foreign, almost like an imitation, a forgery of what your life ought to be.

And here, at sea, who can look at you and say: "This is Mazacuintli, King of Ithaca, husband of Penelope"? Here, your tale is as fluid as the foam that crests the sea's thousand waves, your body as mutable as the rocks sculpted by the wind's burning salt, your fate unwritten and wholly your own.