Work Text:
“It will not bring you peace,” the Trojan princess says, standing there wide-eyed, placid as a cow to the slaughter; Clytemnestra thinks of Iphigenia in a flash, and wants to die, wants to bring the world down with her in a welter of blood. “Only your children will do that,” the girl murmurs on a bloody dying breath.
Clytemnestra leaves her there on the floor and sets off, Iphigenia’s shade whispering vengeance in her ear, secure in the power of a mother’s devotion, and does not tremble.
