You were a curse from the moment your eyes opened.

Agamemnon, the first of Atreus’s sons, the heir to Mycenae who now sat in a cot upon a ship sailing to Tyndareus’s shores while you drummed into his ear with nerves.

Parts of him wished to shove you off the ship, watch as you sank to the depths and your lungs corroded with the waters. But The Erinyes would fly over his concious, reprimand his deeds if he chose so.

He’d watched his father, King Atreus, die by Aegisthus’s blade—bringing his uncle to rule their once home. Saw the blood fall from his father’s lips, and eyes die of light or knowledge that once held him to fear.

He’d done what his mother asked, taking you far away from that of Mycenae to Tyndareus’s lands of Sparta. For allies and wealth, to bring—you—a future to Mycenae that perhaps she would not know.

He heard the boards of the ship creak overhead, the sounds of men shouting as the seas pushed against the ship. He was young, younger than one dare admit for the future he so closely held to his heart.

And how you dare stand in his way—his father and mother’s favorite, the beacon of Mycenae, younger yet braver while he seemed to cower at the thought of battle while Zeus blessed you with strength.

He wanted to see you fall, leave him lonesome as the child of Atreus and ruler of the house—despite the curse—he would have been content alone. In his mother and father’s praise and affections that constantly murmured your name then his own.

He jolted as he felt you hold him, a sound of some sort frightening you with your youth. He frowned, attempting to push you off—he’d seen Thyestes kill his father, saw what kindred did with blade.

How would you prove differently?

He was young, but even he knew kin were only by name—why did you fail to understand such?

why must his heart wrench at your fear for that which he wished to soothe?