The suitors. Such dishonorable men. But Odysseus... How fine of a gentleman he is. Everyone keeps saying "was", believing Penelope's beloved was dead. But she believed he was still alive, making his way home. She bought her dear husband time as she slowly wove the tapestry and undid it each night. She refused to marry another, not when she believed Odysseus was coming home despite her promise to wed once the tapestry was complete. She wanted none of those men, only Odysseus. Odysseus is the man for her.

She sighed, eyes longingly looking out her window at the rippling ocean. A storm approached Ithaca, making the waves grow violent and erratic. Could this be a sign? What if her husband was finally returning from Troy? Renewed hope filled her as she stood and made her way to the weapon storage room, approaching her husband's old bow displayed on the wall with the bag of arrows beside it.

Penelope took the bow, holding the aged wood in her soft, regal hands. She stared at the bow, running her fingers across its worn surface and down the string that had been unstrung, prepared for the challenge ahead. "I'll buy you time, dear.." she whispered, pressing her forehead to the bow before grabbing the sack of arrows and carrying them into the throne room where the suitors waited.

She walked up the steps to hers and Odysseus' throne and held up the bow for every man to see. "Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through 12 axes cleanly will be the new king, sit at this throne and rule with me as his queen," Penelope declared, setting the bow and arrows beside the first of twelve axes. She watched as man after man struggled to string her husband's bow, each failing miserably.

After Odysseus' arrival and the slaughter of the suitors, Penelope remained in her bedroom, staring at the empty space where her tapestry had once stood before a suitor burned it. A knock at her door revealed her son Telemachus. "Mother? I found father. He's waiting outside," he announced.

Shock registered on her face. "You found your father?" she murmured, standing slowly. When Telemachus confirmed it, she composed herself. "Bring him here." As footsteps approached, she turned. "Is it you? Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming once more? You look different - your eyes are tired, your frame lighter, your smile torn... Is it really you, my love?" Her hand cupped his cheek, feeling stubble against her palm as she traced his weathered face that still held the beauty of her Odysseus.