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Penelope was spartan. This was something that few of her suitors deigned to remember. She was Penelope of Sparta, cousin to Helen and Clydemnestra of Sparta, and by proxy, cousin to Menelaus, king of Sparta. She had been raised to see women and men as intrinsically equal, and it angered her to no end that the suitors were constantly walking all over her and Telemachus.
Penelope stabbed the needle into her tapestry a little harder than she probably should.
The suitors were pigs, leeching off of her hospitality, and violating the sacred law of Xenia while hiding behind it whenever she attempted to force them out. In addition, the pests beat her son on multiple occasions, and threatened her own safety. She was constantly uncomfortable in her own home, constantly on edge, constantly keeping up multiple charades and facades to distract and shut down the plague upon her house.
Penelope's needle shredded two threads without her so much as flinching.
The suitors lived on technicalities. They were protected by Xenia, but disregarded it themselves. Only the head of the house could order them to leave, but Odysseus was out at sea, and if Penelope decreed him dead to become lady of the house, the suitors would demand she pick one of them.
Penelope came back to herself when her needle pierced the skin of her finger. She pulled her hand away from the loom and wiped the blood off with a handkerchief.
She knew how to play with technicalities as well. the grieving process was something that not even the suitors dared to interrupt. Penelope had said under no uncertain terms that she would grieve Odysseus by weaving his shroud herself. A particularly bold suitor, Melanthius, had suggested she get help from other maids to complete it quicker.
Penelope had coldly explained that she required every thread to be woven by her hand and her hand alone, and that if this fact dissatisfied him, he was free to leave.
None of the suitors bothered her about it anymore.
Penelope was clever though, if she wanted the shroud to be finished, it would be done before the end of the week. Every night, the Queen sacrificed her sleep to unweave all the progress made the day before. it had been nineteen years since she saw her beloved Odysseus. The shroud was nearing it's completion, her son was growing strong despite the circumstances, and the suitors were growing more and more impatient with every passing day.
She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up.