January 7th, 2011

Spooks: The ghosts in the attic

(no subject)

There is a darkness in the magic of Medea; there are whispers of the dead and the sharp tang of burned herbs. She is the Witch of old, not as she once was but still greater than any who walk around her. She is Medea. She is myth, she is demi-god and enchantress and seductress and murderer, equally betrayed as betraying yet still blessed in the eyes of her Gods.

There's a saying. She's a mystery unto herself. Medea is.

Of all the people who have walked barefoot across the earth, Medea believes she understands herself more clearly than any of them. But in truth she understands herself not at all. For all her magic, for all her cunning, and her spells, and her pain-driven acts of violence, Medea hides herself behind a wall she doesn't even know is there.

These are the things that Medea knows:

She is kind (she is not)

She is fair (she is not)

She is forgiving (she is not)

She is wronged (sometimes so, sometimes not)

She is the witch who brought Jason home. (This one, at least, is all truth.)

Children in the street steal the breath from her lungs. She watches their tiny hands as they pry open packets of candies with the sheer public abandon of the very young (one shared only by the very drunk). They make the back of her throat itch, they make her think of two little boys who had to die because there was a lesson to be learned: it's worth all the pain in the world if someone you love and hate will feel it too.