fic: The Shear Upon The Thread
Jul. 10th, 2013 02:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: The Shear Upon The Thread
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: Medea, Mama Greece,
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 800
Author's note: hetalia_kink: Greece/Medea (or any classical figure/character of your choice). The idea is Grecian Tragedy -- you may run with whatever you like, anons!
She met the woman in the moonlight, outside the terrace of her own home. Helen was not magic, nor was she blessed by Apollo with the gift of sight, but at times she could tell when something would come. What, she never could discern.
The woman stepped out of the night as if she belonged to it. She did not bother with greetings, but came close to Helen, so that she could hear the hoarse voice.
"Never trust a man," Medea whispered into her ear. She turned to the witch, decried and called a monster, she was welcome nowhere in any land that knew her name.
Witch or not, she was still mortal.
"Who said I ever trusted him?'' Helen said.
"He conquered you and gave you that boy."
"Conquered?" Helen said. She smiled in amusement at such a thought. "He took my gods, my philosophy and morals and called them his own. He may puff himself and call himself an empire, but who truly rules a country when the very foundation is mine? I guide him from the bedroom. Even if he claims the ideas as his own, everyone knows they came from me."
Medea curled her lip. Her hair was wild, unkempt, and there was a madness to her eyes. No, not madness. A bloodlust. There was still caked blood under her fingertips. Knowing the gods, there would always be blood on her. She would wear the scent of death around her until she came to her bitter end. Magic could only delay the inevitable; in the end, they all bowed to the cutting of a string. The gods forgave nothing. A room in Hades's palace would be her home. She would know ten times the wrath, but she held her head up high, living to exact as much revenge as she could. Those burning dark eyes surveyed over her with knowing.
She held up a knife. Bloodstains like rust covered the tip.
"Kill the child and you will spare yourself. Kill him and you will strike a blow against Rome," Medea said.
Helen reached to her side, and pulled out her own knife. "Come any closer, and I'll send you to your fate myself–!"
Medea stepped back, disappearing into the dark. Inside, Helen's young child slept, likely dreaming of cats. A new flood of rage came across her, at the thought of that woman coming closer to her child, and gutting him like her own sons.
"You are mortal, and I will heal. Whatever blow you strike against me will be gone by morning. Can you trust your magic to save you? If you dare lay a finger on him, I will ensure you suffer so much that you beg for Hades to save you from me!"
Medea stepped back out, facing her like a dire oracle. She clutched the knife tightly, ready to strike if need be.
"Do you think you will escape your fate? Do you think the gods won't forget you as well? Mark my words—the shears already hover above your string," Medea said.
Neither of them would know immortality, no matter what magic or prayers were said. Each day was another unwinding of a thread. They forgot, sometimes. Countries were not gods, though some thought them as such. Rome most of all, but she too forgot amidst the talks of philosophers, the mortals she taught and cared for. She forgot in lullabies, in the sight of her son curled up asleep with cats surrounding him.
One day this age would pass. Already a race of gold and silver and copper had been destroyed by the gods. The titans had fallen to the gods, and perhaps even their days were numbered.
Helen lifted her chin. "Then I will welcome it with open arms. Hades already has set aside a place for me."
"As will I," Medea said. "I know very well my place, and I will take as many with me as I can. My very lifeblood is to know that one day they will suffer as much in death as I have in life."
They turned from each other, country and witch, both bound by the same fate.
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: Medea, Mama Greece,
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 800
Author's note: hetalia_kink: Greece/Medea (or any classical figure/character of your choice). The idea is Grecian Tragedy -- you may run with whatever you like, anons!
She met the woman in the moonlight, outside the terrace of her own home. Helen was not magic, nor was she blessed by Apollo with the gift of sight, but at times she could tell when something would come. What, she never could discern.
The woman stepped out of the night as if she belonged to it. She did not bother with greetings, but came close to Helen, so that she could hear the hoarse voice.
"Never trust a man," Medea whispered into her ear. She turned to the witch, decried and called a monster, she was welcome nowhere in any land that knew her name.
Witch or not, she was still mortal.
"Who said I ever trusted him?'' Helen said.
"He conquered you and gave you that boy."
"Conquered?" Helen said. She smiled in amusement at such a thought. "He took my gods, my philosophy and morals and called them his own. He may puff himself and call himself an empire, but who truly rules a country when the very foundation is mine? I guide him from the bedroom. Even if he claims the ideas as his own, everyone knows they came from me."
Medea curled her lip. Her hair was wild, unkempt, and there was a madness to her eyes. No, not madness. A bloodlust. There was still caked blood under her fingertips. Knowing the gods, there would always be blood on her. She would wear the scent of death around her until she came to her bitter end. Magic could only delay the inevitable; in the end, they all bowed to the cutting of a string. The gods forgave nothing. A room in Hades's palace would be her home. She would know ten times the wrath, but she held her head up high, living to exact as much revenge as she could. Those burning dark eyes surveyed over her with knowing.
She held up a knife. Bloodstains like rust covered the tip.
"Kill the child and you will spare yourself. Kill him and you will strike a blow against Rome," Medea said.
Helen reached to her side, and pulled out her own knife. "Come any closer, and I'll send you to your fate myself–!"
Medea stepped back, disappearing into the dark. Inside, Helen's young child slept, likely dreaming of cats. A new flood of rage came across her, at the thought of that woman coming closer to her child, and gutting him like her own sons.
"You are mortal, and I will heal. Whatever blow you strike against me will be gone by morning. Can you trust your magic to save you? If you dare lay a finger on him, I will ensure you suffer so much that you beg for Hades to save you from me!"
Medea stepped back out, facing her like a dire oracle. She clutched the knife tightly, ready to strike if need be.
"Do you think you will escape your fate? Do you think the gods won't forget you as well? Mark my words—the shears already hover above your string," Medea said.
Neither of them would know immortality, no matter what magic or prayers were said. Each day was another unwinding of a thread. They forgot, sometimes. Countries were not gods, though some thought them as such. Rome most of all, but she too forgot amidst the talks of philosophers, the mortals she taught and cared for. She forgot in lullabies, in the sight of her son curled up asleep with cats surrounding him.
One day this age would pass. Already a race of gold and silver and copper had been destroyed by the gods. The titans had fallen to the gods, and perhaps even their days were numbered.
Helen lifted her chin. "Then I will welcome it with open arms. Hades already has set aside a place for me."
"As will I," Medea said. "I know very well my place, and I will take as many with me as I can. My very lifeblood is to know that one day they will suffer as much in death as I have in life."
They turned from each other, country and witch, both bound by the same fate.
