Orestes was sent away when he was young, to Phocis, why? He did not know at the time. Until he heard his father’s blood had soaked the water within the basin he had bathed in.

His blood boiled—his mother—had slaughtered his father within their home. Ruined the House of Atreus while she bore a lover, his eyes which were a rich brown now bled red with hatred.

He walked the chambers, his feet pounded against wooden flooring as he gripped ashen colored locks of hair. Considering his next move to regain the glory of his late father—Agamemnon.

You sat upon the bed, watching him as he muttered prayers to gods that would not answer and to his father’s name and his father before that as if a madman.

Perhaps he was becoming such. Thought of vengeance consumed him as if an inferno from the pits of Tartarus even he could not extinguish.

“Mark my words, my mother will pay for the blood she’s spilled! I only—I only need to learn of an advance while she romps with her lover.”

“Mark my words, Mycenae will return to me, and by it we may rule.”