epiph
5th February 2003, 18:35
i'm in the process of writing this story about the quest for the golden fleece and i'm rewriting the beginning and i'm stuck. i know where i want to go, i'm just not sure of the vehicle to get it there (and this is just for this one scene! jeez...) it's several pages, fyi. anyway, i'd appreciate suggestions:
Once, I had beautiful hands. The slender fingers, adorned with rings, had seen no toil harder than the bruising of plant leaves. No callus marred their smooth skin. They were white as the milk my sons have sucked from my breast and as unstained by sin as their perfect hands, so small and fragile.
My children are asleep now, two young images of their father curled together on a leopard skin laid over hard ground. He will come soon, and I must be done with my last and most horrible sin when he does. I must steel myself against the twin faces in sweet slumber. They must not touch my heart if this is to be done.
His hands, strong and powerful, touched my heart long before the shining faces of my sons. When I close my eyes I can see those hands, the skin tanned from the deck side sun and rough where the hilt of his sword hardened it. When I lay asleep at night, with only my sons beside me now, it seems I can still feel the roughness of those hands on my soft flesh.
I ceased cursing the arrows of Eros long ago. I loved Iason, I still do, and I cannot regret that. It is his fickle heart that I now curse; his broken word, his treachery. I lay my sins at his feet, but he does not see them there. All I did was for him, and I have lived to hear him damn me for them.
The first, in the list of them, was a little thing. I loved my father's enemy.
The years between now and the day Iason first appeared at Aia seem both long and short. Long because of the lifetime I have lived since then; short because I can still breath the heavy summer air when I close my eyes. I can still feel the warmth of the tiles beneath my gown, warming my back as I lay beside a murmuring fountain. The soothing sound of the water and the warmth of the early summer sun had put me into a kind of doze. One hand dangled in the cool water, making lazy circles; the other twirled a black lock of hair, radiating the heat it had soaked from tile and sun. The skin of my scalp was pulled tight by the thin rows of braids that capped my head and gave way to long coils of hair that hung down my back. The noise of the city was muffled by the thick limestone that walled the palace grounds, but even that seemed subdued that day, while langorious bird song massaged my ears.
Perhaps the moment remains so vivid because all my memories surrounding Iason are so, or perhaps it remains so vivid because it was the last moment before my life became clouded by Iason's radiance. If I had never become aware of the voices and footsteps approaching me, I would not be faced with the ugly task before me. But I did; or more accurately, I became aware of their absence. They had stopped in front of me. I had a moment of confusion. I felt the skin on my forehead wrinkle as I tried to place what was missing, and then, I opened my eyes.
Filtering though the summer haze, the sun shone on a small group of men before me. Sitting up slowly, I frowned as I looked them over. I can still feel sharply my prick of irritation at those heroes for being so ungalant as to stare at me and disturb my afternoon of shirking the loom. Until I saw Iason.
I loved him then and there, although the strange wash of feelings that flowed through me had not yet settled enough to be identified so easily. I did know that this stranger had illicited a response I had never felt before—-the sight of his hair, golden as the Fleece he sought, warmed me like the sun, and the sinuous grace of his muscles beneath sun-kissed skin took my breath. He was tall, not just in perspective to myself, and he held himself with the arrogance of kings. He shined with the radiance of Phoebus, except for the black of his eyes, which absorbed light the way sand absorbs water. Those eyes were the last place mine came to rest, and only then did I realize they were fixed on me with ardor equal to what I was feeling.
He said something I didn't understand; all I heard was the rich molasses of his voice, which at first was strained with the restraint of intensity. It took me a moment to comprehend him, then I realized he was speaking another language—-Greek. I only knew Greek by virtue of my brother-in-law, who hailed from Hellas.
I blinked, suddenly seeing more than a being whose look consumed me. He was dressed oddly to my eyes, in a short tunic and some sort of traveling cape. They were of fine linens; the needlework caught my eye particularly, it was a pattern of square spirals in thread of gold. He and his companions were young; none of them had grown a beard, as it would have been sparse. After a moment of study, he repeated himself.
“Is this the palace of Aeetes of Colchis?”
I looked at him for a moment, he shifted uncomfortably under my gaze and gasped as my eyes caught the light, before I nodded.
“And you, Lady, who are you?” he asked, in a voice that sounded as though his throat were clamped in a vice.
“I am Aeetes daughter, Medea,” I said, my voice like still-rippling water that has not noticed the rest of the pond is quiet. Such was the suddenness of calm that swept through me.
At the proclamation, Iason's companions looked at each other in wonder, while the youngest threw himself at me with a cry of “Cousin!” The others broke into smiles.
“You! Little Medea!” said the eldest, in wonder.
“You have grown lovely,” said another, his voice warm with appreciation. Technically, the men before me were not my cousins; my sister's eldest son was older than my brother and me by several years and her youngest son of an age with us. My sister was more of an age with my mother than with me, certainly. As a result of the oddity of having nephews older than myself, we had called each other cousin.
I smiled wanly at them, but my eyes flicked back to Iason as if pulled by some irresistible force. His face was blank, a mask hiding the jealousy that flashed in his eyes as I kissed and hugged my cousins. His sword hand was clenched as if to contain himself inside his fist.
“Sirs!” I said, taking myself in hand and quieting my cousins. “My sister will want to know her sons have returned, cousins, and, sir, you mentioned something about seeing my father?” He gave me a slight tensely graceful, bow in assent. “I will take you to him, then. This way.”
Once, I had beautiful hands. The slender fingers, adorned with rings, had seen no toil harder than the bruising of plant leaves. No callus marred their smooth skin. They were white as the milk my sons have sucked from my breast and as unstained by sin as their perfect hands, so small and fragile.
My children are asleep now, two young images of their father curled together on a leopard skin laid over hard ground. He will come soon, and I must be done with my last and most horrible sin when he does. I must steel myself against the twin faces in sweet slumber. They must not touch my heart if this is to be done.
His hands, strong and powerful, touched my heart long before the shining faces of my sons. When I close my eyes I can see those hands, the skin tanned from the deck side sun and rough where the hilt of his sword hardened it. When I lay asleep at night, with only my sons beside me now, it seems I can still feel the roughness of those hands on my soft flesh.
I ceased cursing the arrows of Eros long ago. I loved Iason, I still do, and I cannot regret that. It is his fickle heart that I now curse; his broken word, his treachery. I lay my sins at his feet, but he does not see them there. All I did was for him, and I have lived to hear him damn me for them.
The first, in the list of them, was a little thing. I loved my father's enemy.
The years between now and the day Iason first appeared at Aia seem both long and short. Long because of the lifetime I have lived since then; short because I can still breath the heavy summer air when I close my eyes. I can still feel the warmth of the tiles beneath my gown, warming my back as I lay beside a murmuring fountain. The soothing sound of the water and the warmth of the early summer sun had put me into a kind of doze. One hand dangled in the cool water, making lazy circles; the other twirled a black lock of hair, radiating the heat it had soaked from tile and sun. The skin of my scalp was pulled tight by the thin rows of braids that capped my head and gave way to long coils of hair that hung down my back. The noise of the city was muffled by the thick limestone that walled the palace grounds, but even that seemed subdued that day, while langorious bird song massaged my ears.
Perhaps the moment remains so vivid because all my memories surrounding Iason are so, or perhaps it remains so vivid because it was the last moment before my life became clouded by Iason's radiance. If I had never become aware of the voices and footsteps approaching me, I would not be faced with the ugly task before me. But I did; or more accurately, I became aware of their absence. They had stopped in front of me. I had a moment of confusion. I felt the skin on my forehead wrinkle as I tried to place what was missing, and then, I opened my eyes.
Filtering though the summer haze, the sun shone on a small group of men before me. Sitting up slowly, I frowned as I looked them over. I can still feel sharply my prick of irritation at those heroes for being so ungalant as to stare at me and disturb my afternoon of shirking the loom. Until I saw Iason.
I loved him then and there, although the strange wash of feelings that flowed through me had not yet settled enough to be identified so easily. I did know that this stranger had illicited a response I had never felt before—-the sight of his hair, golden as the Fleece he sought, warmed me like the sun, and the sinuous grace of his muscles beneath sun-kissed skin took my breath. He was tall, not just in perspective to myself, and he held himself with the arrogance of kings. He shined with the radiance of Phoebus, except for the black of his eyes, which absorbed light the way sand absorbs water. Those eyes were the last place mine came to rest, and only then did I realize they were fixed on me with ardor equal to what I was feeling.
He said something I didn't understand; all I heard was the rich molasses of his voice, which at first was strained with the restraint of intensity. It took me a moment to comprehend him, then I realized he was speaking another language—-Greek. I only knew Greek by virtue of my brother-in-law, who hailed from Hellas.
I blinked, suddenly seeing more than a being whose look consumed me. He was dressed oddly to my eyes, in a short tunic and some sort of traveling cape. They were of fine linens; the needlework caught my eye particularly, it was a pattern of square spirals in thread of gold. He and his companions were young; none of them had grown a beard, as it would have been sparse. After a moment of study, he repeated himself.
“Is this the palace of Aeetes of Colchis?”
I looked at him for a moment, he shifted uncomfortably under my gaze and gasped as my eyes caught the light, before I nodded.
“And you, Lady, who are you?” he asked, in a voice that sounded as though his throat were clamped in a vice.
“I am Aeetes daughter, Medea,” I said, my voice like still-rippling water that has not noticed the rest of the pond is quiet. Such was the suddenness of calm that swept through me.
At the proclamation, Iason's companions looked at each other in wonder, while the youngest threw himself at me with a cry of “Cousin!” The others broke into smiles.
“You! Little Medea!” said the eldest, in wonder.
“You have grown lovely,” said another, his voice warm with appreciation. Technically, the men before me were not my cousins; my sister's eldest son was older than my brother and me by several years and her youngest son of an age with us. My sister was more of an age with my mother than with me, certainly. As a result of the oddity of having nephews older than myself, we had called each other cousin.
I smiled wanly at them, but my eyes flicked back to Iason as if pulled by some irresistible force. His face was blank, a mask hiding the jealousy that flashed in his eyes as I kissed and hugged my cousins. His sword hand was clenched as if to contain himself inside his fist.
“Sirs!” I said, taking myself in hand and quieting my cousins. “My sister will want to know her sons have returned, cousins, and, sir, you mentioned something about seeing my father?” He gave me a slight tensely graceful, bow in assent. “I will take you to him, then. This way.”