You are the first of the Furies. You sprang from the spilled blood of a mutilated god, your wings still dripping when you unfurled them under a red sky. Your head turned upward, your mouth open to swallow a bladeful of breath. People have called you eumenides. Kindly ones. You are not your sister Alecto. Your anger is a subtler weapon.
You are not angry that he keeps trying to leave. As if the prince ever had any idea what was good for him. All the riches of his father’s realm in his grasp, and he is determined to flaunt his reckless brilliance in the form of gilded pedestals and bone drapery, and rain gemstones upon wretched shades who know no better. The first time he bests you, you take your whip back into the House and look for Dusa. You stay far, far away from the Styx.
You are not angry that he gave you six bottles of contraband. It gives you pleasure to throw the first one against your wall, watch the stains paint your room a brilliant orange, let the glass glitter cold and bright. You dream of honey.
You are not angry that all your things in his room are exactly where you left them.
You are not angry that he has forced you to work with your sisters again. Alecto kisses Tisiphone on both cheeks and then pinches her on the arm, so lovingly the bruise doesn’t fade for a week. You have nothing to say to them. You take up your place at the front, and you feel them burning at your back, and no one sees the look on your face.
You are not angry. You are the first of the Furies, and you save your rage for better things. If he never grows up enough to understand that, it’s his loss.
for kii // megzag exes // things you're not angry about