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Hermione squeezed her arm like a vice as she watched the ship dock. She did not run down, though a childish part of her desperately wanted too. Shapes of blurry men hauled out goods and sealed cases, all bronze in white sailors wear. Hermione couldn’t see them well from high above on the cliffside, but she was certain their eyes would be hard and calloused. It had been five, no fifteen years since she had seen these people; and those.
She turned away and held herself in the breeze. It was all too vivid now and her gut was sickly. Her father and mother. They had left ten years ago for Aphrodite and Are’s sake; and then way laid in the fertile ponts of Egypt for five more, while she was bedded and wedded to her vermillion husband. Pyrrhus was in the Spartan palladium. Hermione had asked to do it alone. He had frowned but conceded; a rarity. This was far too important to argue about. Sparta had been ruled since Menelao’s loss by regents and cousins, Phoebe’s husband had even attempted a coup which was shortly cut down.
Her marriage and leaving for Epirus was a huge wound to their line, but now the king was back and there was no more wanderings on the matter. It was back to her again, of course. She had to have more than one son, and he would be the heir to Laedamon, not Epirus. Her knuckles were white with anticipation. Her eyes drifted back behind her, to that beautiful boat with his fierce red eyes and shined blue black coat. It probably knew her own father better than she ever could. Too much time had been lost.
Oh, it was so likely that this whole succession matter would end up on her, she considered bitterly back to her wonderings. Hermione’s whole life was smoothing or burdening or dampening fires her pare—no, her *mother* had lit.
Almost like walking out of her head, out of her fever dreams and prayers; the fabled ones walked out the boat and with light steps searched for her on the wooden port.
That was her, Hermione recognised in an instant. There's the bitch.
Frantically her father looked to see her and at least for that Hermione ached. She had no such sympathy for her mother’s lost looking. She’d promised herself seeing her wouldn’t daunt her so.
But it did. Her flaxen hair billowing in the winds, her rouge visible from even here, oh Gods! How could she dare to be so fucking dazzling even now, even at this time? Hermione thought angrily. It was just the gall of her. “And me, my father’s daughter.” She said sourly to Boreas blowing swift. It shouldn’t have sounded like an insult though it was often hurtled as one; she loved her father. He was determined and loved her, he was……
Oh damn it all. Hermione had no idea who he was. No-one knew their father at nine! Children were entirely self interested. He had hauled her up in his arms and thrown her to the sky, roaring with laughter until she was giddy and her lungs ached; *That* was what she knew about him. She remembered him. For all it counted. But she did love him, of course it was hard not to. And she was on his side.
Her mother………..had abandoned her. People did try to pass it off as rape or kidnapping but Hermione knew it wasn’t true. The days Paris, hideous insect as he always was in her memory, had made her giggle and blush like a maiden and she’d traced his hands on her own like it was all a big joke. Hermione had been almost ecstatic over his mangy death; In her life, it was impossible she could ever have hated anyone as deeply as the Trojan prince,
“Guady and girlish prick.” She said fondly, uptick for a smile. Putting him down felt like retribution.
Vaguely she noticed figures crawling upon the hillside steps, going up to meet her the hard way instead of traversing the whole landscape to meet her. Hermione pushed an auburn mangle from her eyes and bit her thumb. She had chosen the most frumpy looking hideous dress she could and had not washed, not brushed her hair, not tended to her face at all.
If they love me, they will see me at the most opposite, more natural, most raw; and embrace me all the same. If they love me.
She recalled the learned slave who taught her numbers and letters, his son who she pestered so often for answers lounging at the other end of the room chewing on a root.
He had happened on her crying, maybe two years into the war and asked her why she was unhappy. She had questioned whether her parents loved her at all, if she was not enough for either of them to remain. He had laughed gaily though it was not a light matter at all. He must have been attempting to cheer her up with levity.
“Mothers and fathers love without meaning too, of course. It’s the way of everyone.” He concluded. “No.” Hermione had replied coolly. “Not always, it didn’t count for Iphigenia.”
Now reflecting back on it, as they grew closer and closer; as she made out more of their faces and eyes and teeth and hair and hands and bodies—- she thought it probably wasn’t enough for her either. There was a love to be found, there was a shame to be rectified, there was a need for freedom, there was a desire for gold. There and here; above and beyond. Still, she did not hate……well.
Father crashed onto her and pressed her deep into his chest. Hermiones arms automatically looped around his neck as he kissed and cried into her, whispering something. She discerned it; “My little girl,” and suddenly there was too much bubbling in her to even dream of resentment, at least to him. “Papa,” she prayed and wished for years and now “Papa!” She called in his arms, feeling like her own soul was bleeding into the wind and the air was her beating heart, drum ruthless in her ears. All she wanted was down to this moment forever; to have him care and want and need and be there to see her.
“I missed you,” she sobbed. “Gods above, why did you leave me?” It was such a silly question but he wept into her just the same, “My precious thing, my precious thing.” He repeated. Hermione broke through a dam of grief. Clutching to him, she never wanted to let go, “You won’t go, you won’t leave again.” She babbled and she meant it, “Never leave me!”
“Never, never ever.” He promised and they parted with tears in their eyes and some warmth blooming in her ribcage.
An iron cough swatted it down; and she remembered why she had dreaded this at all.
“Chilly.” Was her weak mumbling. Well surely chilly for her, Hermione reckoned. Oh, it was so humid in Asia, wasn’t it? Mother tucked one hair behind her ear and father, betraying her, broke their tight hold on the other to gesture to mother pointlessly. It might have been an attempt at an introduction. Hermione smiled cruelly. How horrid she was to look at.
Men could clamour over her hair, her eyes, her skin (perhaps it had always been this tanned. Perhaps it had become so.) her faint khol linings and the suns dancing on her forehead; symbolising sovereignty over Mykane. But deeper than that, all Hermione saw was sun tinged dreams of Helen rocking her to bed, and then walking out the door, down the dark hallway; distant, disheveled and preparing to sail away.
“Mother.” She croaked out. Hermione wanted to be cold and icy, to exact some form of revenge of this stranger in front of her; but seeing her again, all the words died in her mouth and she felt hollow at nine all over again.
“Hermione….” She said, voice drifting off. Awkwardly closing in between her and Menelaos, she ghosted her hands over Hermione’s face, but did not take the plunge. Hermione tried to not to let it sting. Even now. She couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, hold her face, kiss her. She was no mother at all.
But she had been of course. Helen had raised until she was nine, she had played with her in the gardens and weaved her clothes, braided her hair and spun her around, tucked her to sleep, sang to her; a hundred other wondrous normal things. And Hermione couldn’t bear to remember them, she couldn’t bear to look in Moth—Helen’s eyes. She clasped her father’s hand, hoping the allegiance was obvious.
Helen just watched. Father cleared his throat and set him other arm by Helen’s shoulders, trying to brusquely bring her into. She resisted.
Hermione scoffed without even meaning too. She was too angry to think. Disgusted, she squeezed Menelaos hand twice and then walked off. She wouldn’t give her the luxury of her tears, or a look back. This murderess had sipped her fill on grief and delighted in it; but Hermione would not reward her.