A/N: I was going through some of the old incomplete fanfics I've written and I came upon this one. This was one of the first fanfics I've written a few years ago and it actually inspired my pen name. I didn't edit anything from the original way I wrote this years ago so my style might be quite different from my recent Narnian stories. As of now this story is still incomplete, but if I find any readers for this, I may be able to finish it. So if anyone ever bothers to read this, do send me a review if you want me to continue. It was only last night that I found a category for this under Greek Mythology in I didn't publish it before because I thought there was only the "Iliad" as category and Hermione's story does not really fall under the Iliad. Her story comes primarily from Ovid and Euripides.

This is my version of the story of Hermione (not the Harry Potter character, I'm talking about the original Hermione), the daughter of Helen of Troy and the wife of Orestes.

Hermione

I stare out into the glimmering sea watching the sun die as it slowly fades over the water's edge. Phoebus with all his glory, surrenders at the end of the day to Poseidon's kingdom and makes way for darkness. It was ordained to be such each day. It is a futile fight of Phoebus but he knows he shall return again tomorrow—as I know my time shall come and He shall return for me.

I am waiting again, as I have waited countless times for how many years. My waiting in the past has brought me nothing but disappointment and pain. But there is nothing to do but wait still. In waiting lies my hope and my one last reason to live.

I've been betrayed so many times by the closest persons known to me. I have lived with so many lies that I find it hard to believe anymore. Only he remains for me.


I had no recollection of my mother until I saw her briefly when I was fourteen. I was barely four years when she left my father's house, a willing captive of my father's guest. Paris, the young prince from Troy had beguiled my mother, my aunt Clytemnestra used to say. But I knew better. My mother was Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world. And she had done her share of beguiling the handsome stranger from the East. She is not as guiltless as my aunt defends her to be or as my father reasons. She departed with her lover in haste, not even bothering to look back at her home or to even leave a farewell kiss to her only child.

But why should she worry? The queen of Sparta has no business with children, even with her own daughter. To her it was a right to do what she pleased. I knew from the stories I have heard growing up how my mother had led a pampered life. She was the daughter of Zeus through Leda and was proclaimed as handsome as the goddesses of Olympus. Kings, princes and lords flocked to her when it came time for her to marry. Her foster-father Tyndareus chose Menelaus of Argos, brother of the Agamemnon and the most powerful Grecian king for her. No doubt, Helen could have had Agamemnon himself had he not been already married to her sister, my aunt. Her marriage had only increased her status. She became queen of her homeland, with her husband settled as king. How my father indulged her, I can only imagine from the rich rooms she settled in. What more could she ask for? She was richer than anyone, save her sister. She had a husband that worshipped her constantly and a beauty envied by all. She was revered a goddess on earth. But no! It was not enough! It was never enough. When a strange prince comes to her door, she must have him as well.

And so it was that she left and my father, my uncle Agamemnon and all the nobles of Greece gave her chase. I was only the first of many casualties. Abandoned by mother, deprived of father, I was sent with a nurse to live at my aunt's house where I joined in the sorrow of others.


I remembered little of my first day in the house of Agamemnon. But I remembered the household that greeted me was one disturbed with wailing. I learned later that Agamemnon had sacrificed his own daughter Iphigenia to gain fair winds to set sail for Troy. Had I been older, I would have been horrified at such cruelty of a father to his own child. My father, I thought, would never do such a thing. I was to learn later that a daughter is worth only as either a sacrifice or a prize, the latter being harder for a woman to bear. In this, Iphigenia was fortunate.

My aunt had nothing to do with me. She barely spoke or even looked at me at all. No inquiry of my welfare had ever passed her lips in the ten years I've lived with her. It was her young daughter Electra, only nine years old then, that looked after me. On the day of my arrival, I remembered the warmth of her welcoming embrace.

"Greetings cousin," I recalled Electra say as she took my hand. I could see tears welling in her eyes at the thought of her older sister offered on the altar of Artemis. Yet even in her sorrow she struggled to be cheerful for my benefit. "Come, you must be friends with my brother."

She led me to a chamber where no sound of sorrow entered. Here in the midst of lavish curtains and expensive toys was a boy of my age with dark brown locks the same color as my father. He sat up when we arrived and he came running at his sister, entreating her to play with him.

"Not now, Orestes, I cannot," Electra said gently as she pulled his clutching hands from her robe. "But here, I've brought you a new playmate. This is our cousin, Hermione."

Not being around other children, I was rather shy and frightened of Orestes. But he was such a delightful boy that we immediately became friends. We passed many a time together, unaware of the sorrow of the house until it passed. Electra came to us often and would entertain us with stories or bring us gifts. What I knew of a mother's love, I knew only from her.

Clytemnestra never came to us. When she wanted to see her children, she summoned them to her quarters. Orestes and Electra always came back from such meetings with dejected spirits. Apparently, Clytemnestra only speaks to her children to scold them of their wrongs or to lecture them of their duties. Electra usually receives the harsher reproaches. Poor Electra lamented that her mother always found her too plain and ungraceful. Her awkwardness in carrying herself usually earned the ire of her mother who constantly berated her faults as unbefitting a princess.

"Why can't you be like Iphigenia?" Electra would repeat her mother's rants, when she cried to us after a scolding session. "She had everything—beauty, grace, wit. It was unfortunate your father had to sacrifice her. She would have won a prince or a king when she married. Not like you. No nobleman of Greece would want you. You are fit only for a peasant. Your father should have sacrificed you in her stead. We would not have gained a terrible loss then."

I didn't know how to comfort her when she cried. But I always held her hand and she would look pleased. Orestes, however, knew exactly how to make her smile again.

"That's not true," Orestes would say to her while kissing her face and engulfing her in his arms. "You're beautiful, Electra. And when I am king I'll find you the kindest, most handsome and richest husband." He would then turn to me. "And I'll find a husband for Hermione too."

Electra would just laugh at him. "You need not worry about Hermione. You will be her husband." She would then explain how our grandfather Tyndareus had already promised us to each other. Orestes and I never thought much about that, but as I grew up I valued that promise for life.

Clytemnestra was different with Orestes. As a son and heir it was natural that he was treated differently by their mother. But that did not make her any more endearing in Orestes' eyes.

"Why doesn't she look at me?" Orestes asked one day when he came back after a scolding. "She speaks sternly but she always looks away from me. It's as if she doesn't want to see me. When her gaze passes my face, she hurriedly looks away. Am I so hateful?"

"Of course not, darling," Electra soothed him. She paused and looked away and her face hardened all of a sudden. "It's not your fault you look so much like father."