[ The path leads back to the basement. It always has. The blonde woman kneels at the bottom of stone steps in a pool of her mother's blood, cradling her body in her arms. The healing glow is already warm and steady around her, knitting broken bones and closing wounds. There are still traces of tears of relief on the young woman's face. But the tumultuous emotions of the earlier memories are gone, leaving in their wake a calm like an ocean that goes deep, deep, deep, deep.
She only just arrived, but she needs no explanation for the scene in front of her. She knows every single person in this tableau much too well for that. Her mother is not lying injured in her arms because she fought to defend her daughter. She is here because Medea doesn't understand what it means to be Psyche Callista, and that to struggle is only to hurt the ones you love. Her father, standing stricken at the top of the steps, is frozen not just with fear for his wife, but fear of Imperial displeasure. Very possibly fear of his daughter and the power that marks her so distinctly and irrevocably inhuman. And Eros, his eyes shining with greed in the glow of her power, is the simplest of all of them. He sees what he wants within his reach. ]
I see your divinity has returned. So you were telling the truth when you said the problem was temporary.
...Yes, Your Highness.
[ Does he know her well enough to hear the distinction in the choice of title? Likely not. In another light it could be humorous. She, averting her eyes from his ugliness because after all those years in darkness she longed for something to believe in. And he, disinterested in seeing her as more than a pretty, vacuous vessel for what he desired.
"I can really be a god if I have you by my side," he'd said, and she had somehow heard that as praise. As affirmation that the power she never asked for could finally be of use. But he'd been so laughably direct with his avarice. And most laughable of all: that he could have been. If he had simply asked. She, in all the blind devotion of her love, would have let him drive the knife into her chest himself and loved him all the while.
She is too calm to feel stupid just in this moment. Perhaps just calm enough to find amusement in the fact that, in his own way, his foolishness ran just as deep. ]
I guess it had to come to this for me to realize. Let's break up. [ He begins to protest, truly shocked for the first time she's ever seen. But she cuts him off, as dismissive of him as he ever was of her. Is there a thrill to that? Has a little of his ugliness left this stain behind on her nature like fingerprints, like bruises? ] Your Highness. How can love grow in a relationship full of doubt? Let's break up.
[ She says it again so he cannot pretend not to have heard her the first time. There is no anger anymore, and in this moment, no hurt. Is it emptiness? The smile rises easily to her lips. He, too, has always smiled so easily although he too is empty. In this one moment perhaps they at last understand each other in perfection. ]
Get out of my house. Now.
[ He does. This retreat is not a victory, she knows. It is only the opening declaration of war. There was no safety in meekness, but neither is there safety in the baring of fangs like this. Not even an animal would be allowed to live after striking a member of the Imperial family.
Let him try. If she's going to be hunted like an animal then she will fight like one, cornered and furious and clawing to the last. If not for herself — it is still hard to fight for herself — then for the people around her he has hurt to reach her. She is not a vessel. These powers are hers, these claws are her birthright. Human, animal, or monster: it no longer matters. She is herself and her will is her own, her body her own, her powers her own. She will not be seen as an object again. And she will never again be the tool he uses to hurt others. ]
no subject
She only just arrived, but she needs no explanation for the scene in front of her. She knows every single person in this tableau much too well for that. Her mother is not lying injured in her arms because she fought to defend her daughter. She is here because Medea doesn't understand what it means to be Psyche Callista, and that to struggle is only to hurt the ones you love. Her father, standing stricken at the top of the steps, is frozen not just with fear for his wife, but fear of Imperial displeasure. Very possibly fear of his daughter and the power that marks her so distinctly and irrevocably inhuman. And Eros, his eyes shining with greed in the glow of her power, is the simplest of all of them. He sees what he wants within his reach. ]
I see your divinity has returned. So you were telling the truth when you said the problem was temporary.
...Yes, Your Highness.
[ Does he know her well enough to hear the distinction in the choice of title? Likely not. In another light it could be humorous. She, averting her eyes from his ugliness because after all those years in darkness she longed for something to believe in. And he, disinterested in seeing her as more than a pretty, vacuous vessel for what he desired.
"I can really be a god if I have you by my side," he'd said, and she had somehow heard that as praise. As affirmation that the power she never asked for could finally be of use. But he'd been so laughably direct with his avarice. And most laughable of all: that he could have been. If he had simply asked. She, in all the blind devotion of her love, would have let him drive the knife into her chest himself and loved him all the while.
She is too calm to feel stupid just in this moment. Perhaps just calm enough to find amusement in the fact that, in his own way, his foolishness ran just as deep. ]
I guess it had to come to this for me to realize. Let's break up. [ He begins to protest, truly shocked for the first time she's ever seen. But she cuts him off, as dismissive of him as he ever was of her. Is there a thrill to that? Has a little of his ugliness left this stain behind on her nature like fingerprints, like bruises? ] Your Highness. How can love grow in a relationship full of doubt? Let's break up.
[ She says it again so he cannot pretend not to have heard her the first time. There is no anger anymore, and in this moment, no hurt. Is it emptiness? The smile rises easily to her lips. He, too, has always smiled so easily although he too is empty. In this one moment perhaps they at last understand each other in perfection. ]
Get out of my house. Now.
[ He does. This retreat is not a victory, she knows. It is only the opening declaration of war. There was no safety in meekness, but neither is there safety in the baring of fangs like this. Not even an animal would be allowed to live after striking a member of the Imperial family.
Let him try. If she's going to be hunted like an animal then she will fight like one, cornered and furious and clawing to the last. If not for herself — it is still hard to fight for herself — then for the people around her he has hurt to reach her. She is not a vessel. These powers are hers, these claws are her birthright. Human, animal, or monster: it no longer matters. She is herself and her will is her own, her body her own, her powers her own. She will not be seen as an object again. And she will never again be the tool he uses to hurt others. ]