fleetingmyth

on tragedy, fate, and inevitability.

born to a powerful titan in the age of the olympians, a sister to thousands of siblings. yet never important enough to guard helios' cattle, never pretty enough to be married off to a human king of crete. never smart enough to stand beside her father. simply circe. young, unspecial, forgotten circe.

of how she saw kinship form for her siblings, and how strongly they loved. her mother forgotten by her father, simply another nymph, or the man she loved so dearly but who never glanced at her.

the rage that must have filled her veins when glaucus dared to appear before her and beg for a potion to trick a woman into loving him. how she loved him so purely, but was rejected and used. the regret that came when scylla no longer looked like herself, and how even then glaucus did not want her.

never good enough. replacable. easily cast out by her father, banished to an island where she will mother neither sons nor daughters, and constantly be forced to raise the daughters of gods who wanted sons.

will they become her daughters one day? will she go above and beyond to protect them as her own mother did not protect her?

what did she think, i wonder, when her niece appeared before her grasping a sword bearing the blood of her nephew? what could have possibly gone through her head when she saw the insincere look hidden within jason's eyes? i wonder if the gods told her how he scorned medea eventually, the same way glaucus did her.

and then he appears and he is everything she has ever wanted. but day and night he speaks of his wife, even as he lays in the warmth of her arms, in her silken sheets, hidden behind her wooden door held up by the walls of her home.

he sails away and that is that. another chapter. another empty nothingness.