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Phaedra Unraveled
Words: 787
Summary: A severely mixed-canon meditation on Phaedra.
Spoilers: she lives.
What everyone forgets about Phaedra is that she was young.
She had grown up with stories of Theseus - how he had come to Crete, how glorious and strong he had been, how he had won her sister’s love with his power. Half in love with him already, she had wandered the hall of Minos’ palace, pretending to be Ariadne. Her Theseus, that creation of love and hope, did not abandon Ariadne, not though all the gods of Olympus demanded her for their own.
And then he came again. The island was hushed, quiet with the rumor of his return. When Minos greeted him, she was there. She felt her knees tremble, not with love, but with disappointment: was this the hero who had loved her sister? Her face stayed smooth.
He knelt to Minos, and to her, paying her the tribute she knew her beauty merited. Stiff as a statue of the goddess, she received him, feeling the weight of his eyes upon her. As if in a dream, she heard him negotiate with her father for her hand, and for the friendship of Crete and Athens.
And now it was two years later.
She no longer dreams of love. She knows what it is, now, of course: she loves the two children that she had borne under her breast for nine long months, with a love that she feels will suffocate her. But Theseus - she does not love him, as she had dreamed she would. He treats her with a kind of cold respect.
And then there is Hippolytus. He is two years younger than her, and all his mother’s child. She hates him for that, because Theseus loved Hippolyta, and loves all he sees of Hippolyta in his son and hers; because she does not love Theseus, and because Theseus does not love her.
Around Athens and Troezen she finds traces of Hippolytus, tracking him like a hunter. He leaves behind his bow, or a hunter’s net, or a deer’s skin. She begs Theseus to send him away, and Theseus laughs, humoring her. And her hate grows: she hates his excessive purity, and his airs, and his presence.
He does not change, when it happens. He is still the same Hippolytus that she detested - the hunter, the lout, the Amazon’s son. But now, when she finds the bow, the net, the deerskin, she smiles and keeps it, until she can return it to him. He always takes it gracelessly, barely acknowledging her, and goes back to the hunt.
At night, when she lies by Theseus, hearing his breathing regular and smooth beside her, she can think of nothing but Hippolytus, who is, now, what she wished Theseus had been. She forces her breathing to be calm, and she makes every breath a prayer to Aphrodite - not to make Hippolytus love her, but for relief. Her mind wanders like a deer caught in the nets, hobbled by the constant thought of Hippolytus.
And then, at the end of her endurance, she tells him. He says nothing, and his silence is worse than any curse could be. And having told him is no relief. She still feels the goddess riding her, goading her on. That night she tells Theseus that she cannot sleep, and slips out to the cliff from which Theseus’ father once leapt. She dangles her foot over the edge, and turns around, and returns home, to lie beside her husband.
The next day Hippolytus brings her to bay alone, against a wall. Roughly, he kisses her, then pushes her away.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice breaking.
She is too astonished to say “no.” She tears away from him, runs, unmindful of her dignity, the dignity of the Queen. Theseus finds her curled in the center of their bed, weeping. Gently, too gently, he asks her why she is crying, and only provokes fresh tears.
And then the goddess goes, as suddenly as she had come. Phaedra looks at Hippolytus with the same eyes, the same heart, and finds no love for him. All she wants is to punish him for not loving her, for being who he is. But she masters herself. She remembers her two children, remembers even Theseus. She does not tell him that once she loved his son.
When Phaedra and Hippolytus see each other, in the years to come, they will nod cordially at each other. The memory of Hippolytus’s kiss will be between them; neither of them will forget it. But Theseus will never know. She will walk beside him, happy in her affection for him and in the two children she bore.
The years will unroll like Ariadne’s thread, leading them toward the future.
Words: 787
Summary: A severely mixed-canon meditation on Phaedra.
Spoilers: she lives.
What everyone forgets about Phaedra is that she was young.
She had grown up with stories of Theseus - how he had come to Crete, how glorious and strong he had been, how he had won her sister’s love with his power. Half in love with him already, she had wandered the hall of Minos’ palace, pretending to be Ariadne. Her Theseus, that creation of love and hope, did not abandon Ariadne, not though all the gods of Olympus demanded her for their own.
And then he came again. The island was hushed, quiet with the rumor of his return. When Minos greeted him, she was there. She felt her knees tremble, not with love, but with disappointment: was this the hero who had loved her sister? Her face stayed smooth.
He knelt to Minos, and to her, paying her the tribute she knew her beauty merited. Stiff as a statue of the goddess, she received him, feeling the weight of his eyes upon her. As if in a dream, she heard him negotiate with her father for her hand, and for the friendship of Crete and Athens.
And now it was two years later.
She no longer dreams of love. She knows what it is, now, of course: she loves the two children that she had borne under her breast for nine long months, with a love that she feels will suffocate her. But Theseus - she does not love him, as she had dreamed she would. He treats her with a kind of cold respect.
And then there is Hippolytus. He is two years younger than her, and all his mother’s child. She hates him for that, because Theseus loved Hippolyta, and loves all he sees of Hippolyta in his son and hers; because she does not love Theseus, and because Theseus does not love her.
Around Athens and Troezen she finds traces of Hippolytus, tracking him like a hunter. He leaves behind his bow, or a hunter’s net, or a deer’s skin. She begs Theseus to send him away, and Theseus laughs, humoring her. And her hate grows: she hates his excessive purity, and his airs, and his presence.
He does not change, when it happens. He is still the same Hippolytus that she detested - the hunter, the lout, the Amazon’s son. But now, when she finds the bow, the net, the deerskin, she smiles and keeps it, until she can return it to him. He always takes it gracelessly, barely acknowledging her, and goes back to the hunt.
At night, when she lies by Theseus, hearing his breathing regular and smooth beside her, she can think of nothing but Hippolytus, who is, now, what she wished Theseus had been. She forces her breathing to be calm, and she makes every breath a prayer to Aphrodite - not to make Hippolytus love her, but for relief. Her mind wanders like a deer caught in the nets, hobbled by the constant thought of Hippolytus.
And then, at the end of her endurance, she tells him. He says nothing, and his silence is worse than any curse could be. And having told him is no relief. She still feels the goddess riding her, goading her on. That night she tells Theseus that she cannot sleep, and slips out to the cliff from which Theseus’ father once leapt. She dangles her foot over the edge, and turns around, and returns home, to lie beside her husband.
The next day Hippolytus brings her to bay alone, against a wall. Roughly, he kisses her, then pushes her away.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice breaking.
She is too astonished to say “no.” She tears away from him, runs, unmindful of her dignity, the dignity of the Queen. Theseus finds her curled in the center of their bed, weeping. Gently, too gently, he asks her why she is crying, and only provokes fresh tears.
And then the goddess goes, as suddenly as she had come. Phaedra looks at Hippolytus with the same eyes, the same heart, and finds no love for him. All she wants is to punish him for not loving her, for being who he is. But she masters herself. She remembers her two children, remembers even Theseus. She does not tell him that once she loved his son.
When Phaedra and Hippolytus see each other, in the years to come, they will nod cordially at each other. The memory of Hippolytus’s kiss will be between them; neither of them will forget it. But Theseus will never know. She will walk beside him, happy in her affection for him and in the two children she bore.
The years will unroll like Ariadne’s thread, leading them toward the future.