marzaenna:

Greek Mythology: Femslash Edition
↳ Clytemnestra / Medea

A betrayal of her trust, Clytemnestra rages for the daughter that was taken from her, who was robbed of the future she would never have. Iphigenia’s elation filled her when she was told she’d be marrying the Greek hero whose names fell from everyone’s lips, the great Achilles. How could Clytemnestra refuse both daughter and husband, who had seduced her mind with such a promise for Iphigenia? How could she keep her beloved daughter from the prospect of such a union? But oh, how Clytemnestra’s regret courses through her veins like ice water when she learns of Iphigenia’s death – no, her murder. A mother’s intuition is not to be underestimated; Clytemnestra already knows long before the news reaches her ears and already she has begun plotting her husband’s demise. It was for the greater good, he claims, but his words hold no value for they will not resurrect her daughter. Clytemnestra waits in the wings, a painted smile rests upon her lips, and her husband suspects nothing.

A betrayal of her love, Medea vows to have her justice from the man who cast her aside and for another woman no less. There are no laws that deem Jason’s act of abandonment as a crime and thus she’s alone in her quest, not even the sons she bore him can spare Jason from her wrath. They serve as only a reminder to her of the man she had lent her cunningness to, had given her love to, and had it thrown back in her face. If it weren’t for her Jason never would’ve been able to retrieve the Golden Fleece. Some might say he upheld his end of the bargain for he had indeed taken Medea with him when, by following her instruction, succeeded in his mission yet a broken heart cannot be mended by memories that are now tainted with bitterness. She speculates if Jason ever loved her at all. Agony and outrage make for a destructive combination and Medea has become vengeance personified.

One husband slain out of revenge for a daughter the mother will never see again, another husband, though former now, and their sons slain by the woman who once had claim to the title of his wife out of retribution for causing the affliction of unrequited love. Lest she wants to accept her death so soon, Medea is forced to flee and seeks refuge in a stranger’s land, but whispers of her deeds precede her arrival. She keeps her head bent and few take notice of the woman who does not belong there, no one questions her presence nor raises an alarm. One pair of eyes have scoped her out, the woman tells her to accompany her and Medea obliges. The scent of murder, a void existing in one’s soul where there should be remorse for having committed such a heinous crime, is unmistakeable and a silent understanding is made.

The festering anguish and indignation that gnaws away at their insides, rotting their bones, give way to devastation, a feeling that has clung to them both like a child that grips their mother’s hand too tightly, adamant in not letting go. Who else to better drown with in their own personal hells than one another? They are both the gasoline and the match, reigniting their fury, spurring on the destruction it drives them to cause. Ruination is left in their wake, and when they have nothing left to leave in a state of desolation they turn to one other to quench their insatiable thirst for demolition.