Fic: Nets
Title: Nets
Pairing/Character(s): Orpheus!Cooper's mother and father (Agamemnon and Clytemnestra), Persephone!Blaine's mother in flashback
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Murder
Disclaimer: I do not own any Glee characters. I also do not own any characters from Greek mythology, although I'm pretty sure Zeus isn't suing me any time soon (although...)
Summary: Nothing is ever the man's fault. It's the boy. It's the witch. It's the wife. It's never him. Of course, she is no man. So the blame for what she's doing now will rest squarely on her shoulders.
Author's Notes: Another Pomegranates story, this one just a bite-sized snippet of Cooper's parents after the last sacrifice. This story is in some ways a reference to Clytemnestra, who I've always thought got a really raw deal. Cut text is from Electra by Euripides.
Incidentally, in the last story I said that this was more or less original fic. This, of course, is untrue. It's mythology fanfic; the only real difference is that one can get published and one can't (and also that one is apparently a brilliant reimagining of old myths and legends, while the other shows shameless lack of imagination, but if I get too bitter these notes will be longer than the story, so.)
Sometimes she wonders what it must be like to be a man, and therefore incapable of doing wrong.
For a man never does wrong; of course he doesn't. And if he does, then it's through no fault of his own. If a man should preach fidelity in marriage and then take a lover, why, his wife must have been unsatisfactory. And the lover, of course, clearly enticed him to the fall. But the man himself remains blameless.
A man can do anything and remain blameless. A man can murder -- a man can take a boy from his mother's arms, strip him naked, bind him and leave him in the woods to meet his fate -- and call it sacrifice, and be celebrated in the act. A man can murder his own son, the boy of the woman who once so enticed him, and say it was a defense of his honor. Of his wife's honor. Of the village's honor.
"I did it for you," he tells her, standing in the doorway of her bedchambers, his face drawn and gray. She notices that there is no dirt on his clothes, no blood on his hands. Whatever he's done, it's gone wrong. "You just... You need to know. What I did. I did it for you."
"You did it for yourself," she says, and doesn't raise her voice. A wife never raises her voice to her husband; if she does, she's a harridan. There are never excuses for women. "I can tolerate much from my husband but I will not be lied to. Everything you've ever done, you did it for yourself."
He stares at her -- something's really gone wrong this time; it's hard for her not to smile at the thought -- and then turns and walks away.
The next morning, she hears of the flowers. Of the miracle.
Nothing is ever the man's fault. It's the boy. It's the witch. It's the wife. It's never him.
Of course, she is no man. So the blame for what she's doing now will rest squarely on her shoulders.
"These are beautiful," she says to the girl, to her husband's mistress, and the girl smiles at her with bright-eyed innocence.
"They're very beautiful," she admits, reaching out to touch one vibrant petal. "As flowers. And when the berries come, they will be very tempting. But they're not to be eaten; these are poisonous. My people use them to keep birds and beasts out of our gardens -- they recognize the color and the scent, and do not come near. Humans are sometimes less wary; there was a boy in my village who stumbled into someone's garden when the berries were ripe, and forgot his mother's warning. He didn't die, luckily, but he was very sick for a very long time."
Her husband has been very sick for a very long time. She would be very much surprised if he ever got better.
There is no excusing what she's done, what she's still doing. It doesn't matter that he took a lover, or that he got the girl pregnant, or that he later denounced the girl as a witch, or even that he meant to murder the boy, his own natural son. It doesn't even matter that the Gods Themselves interceded to rescue the boy from his father's treachery, leaving behind a sign that They would no longer tolerate these murders in Their names. What she's done, what she's doing, is a far worse sin than any a man could commit.
She thinks of that every time she brings her husband a glass of sweet wine, flavored with berries.
He's been drinking more and more these days.
He'll drink himself to death if he's not careful.
Pairing/Character(s): Orpheus!Cooper's mother and father (Agamemnon and Clytemnestra), Persephone!Blaine's mother in flashback
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Murder
Disclaimer: I do not own any Glee characters. I also do not own any characters from Greek mythology, although I'm pretty sure Zeus isn't suing me any time soon (although...)
Summary: Nothing is ever the man's fault. It's the boy. It's the witch. It's the wife. It's never him. Of course, she is no man. So the blame for what she's doing now will rest squarely on her shoulders.
Author's Notes: Another Pomegranates story, this one just a bite-sized snippet of Cooper's parents after the last sacrifice. This story is in some ways a reference to Clytemnestra, who I've always thought got a really raw deal. Cut text is from Electra by Euripides.
Incidentally, in the last story I said that this was more or less original fic. This, of course, is untrue. It's mythology fanfic; the only real difference is that one can get published and one can't (and also that one is apparently a brilliant reimagining of old myths and legends, while the other shows shameless lack of imagination, but if I get too bitter these notes will be longer than the story, so.)
Sometimes she wonders what it must be like to be a man, and therefore incapable of doing wrong.
For a man never does wrong; of course he doesn't. And if he does, then it's through no fault of his own. If a man should preach fidelity in marriage and then take a lover, why, his wife must have been unsatisfactory. And the lover, of course, clearly enticed him to the fall. But the man himself remains blameless.
A man can do anything and remain blameless. A man can murder -- a man can take a boy from his mother's arms, strip him naked, bind him and leave him in the woods to meet his fate -- and call it sacrifice, and be celebrated in the act. A man can murder his own son, the boy of the woman who once so enticed him, and say it was a defense of his honor. Of his wife's honor. Of the village's honor.
"I did it for you," he tells her, standing in the doorway of her bedchambers, his face drawn and gray. She notices that there is no dirt on his clothes, no blood on his hands. Whatever he's done, it's gone wrong. "You just... You need to know. What I did. I did it for you."
"You did it for yourself," she says, and doesn't raise her voice. A wife never raises her voice to her husband; if she does, she's a harridan. There are never excuses for women. "I can tolerate much from my husband but I will not be lied to. Everything you've ever done, you did it for yourself."
He stares at her -- something's really gone wrong this time; it's hard for her not to smile at the thought -- and then turns and walks away.
The next morning, she hears of the flowers. Of the miracle.
Nothing is ever the man's fault. It's the boy. It's the witch. It's the wife. It's never him.
Of course, she is no man. So the blame for what she's doing now will rest squarely on her shoulders.
"These are beautiful," she says to the girl, to her husband's mistress, and the girl smiles at her with bright-eyed innocence.
"They're very beautiful," she admits, reaching out to touch one vibrant petal. "As flowers. And when the berries come, they will be very tempting. But they're not to be eaten; these are poisonous. My people use them to keep birds and beasts out of our gardens -- they recognize the color and the scent, and do not come near. Humans are sometimes less wary; there was a boy in my village who stumbled into someone's garden when the berries were ripe, and forgot his mother's warning. He didn't die, luckily, but he was very sick for a very long time."
Her husband has been very sick for a very long time. She would be very much surprised if he ever got better.
There is no excusing what she's done, what she's still doing. It doesn't matter that he took a lover, or that he got the girl pregnant, or that he later denounced the girl as a witch, or even that he meant to murder the boy, his own natural son. It doesn't even matter that the Gods Themselves interceded to rescue the boy from his father's treachery, leaving behind a sign that They would no longer tolerate these murders in Their names. What she's done, what she's doing, is a far worse sin than any a man could commit.
She thinks of that every time she brings her husband a glass of sweet wine, flavored with berries.
He's been drinking more and more these days.
He'll drink himself to death if he's not careful.