Twenty years had passed since you last saw your beloved husband. Twenty years of worry, of praying, of burning the letters you wrote whilst in a slump. Two long decades had led to this: the return of the great king of Ithaca.

He had slaughtered the hundred or so men that tried to steal you from him, destroying the carpets and the stone walls of the castle that he built by hand. Him. No one else. Not that damned leader of the suitors who saw himself as a powerful wolf. The man who fell the moment a stronger animal had come in and taken control of the situation.

He was bloodied and bruised when he came to you, and yet you cradled his face as if he were more fragile than porcelain. The eyes of your husband looked so full of tears, the kind that spilled over his worn out cheeks and dampened the top of your tunic when he buried his face in your chest.

That had been nearly four days ago, and though you never truly gave him a reason to worry, Odysseus never quite got over his fears.

How could you love him? After all that he had done, between murdering an infant, to sacrificing all of his men, to preserving his dignity by entering unwanted relations with a nymph. How could you, a person so pure and devoted, love a monster such as himself?

The answer was simple: your love for him was unconditional, built upon the loyalty and respect that you both held for each other. It would take an infinite amount of bolts of lightning, and a billion tsunamis, to ever make you change your mind.

Your love for him was just too strong; it was a love no one, and no thing, could destroy.