The True Tale of Medea
Interview with a Sorceress
Her name is Medea the Sorceress princess, the Medea not some modern superhero using her name the real deal. A living immortal legend among the spell casting community.
She leaned back, her crimson lips curving into a knowing smile, as if she were holding back a thousand untold secrets. Her rich, melodic voice carried the cadence of ancient hymns and forgotten chants.
"You call me villain. Witch. Betrayer. And yes, I was all those things and more. But who told you those stories? Who decided I was the villain in Jason's heroics? The gods? Men? The poets who wanted a tale of a tragic hero, who needed a woman to blame?"
Her gaze flickered with a fire that hinted at the arcane knowledge she held, the kind that could unmake cities and break the wills of kings.
"They say I was born a princess, trained in the arts of magic by Hecate herself. That I helped Jason steal the Golden Fleece and betrayed my own father for love. All of that is true. But the story they don’t tell—" she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that pulled you closer, "—is why. Or what came after."
Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous allure, a storm of memory and power simmering just beneath the surface.
"You see, Jason was no noble hero. And I... I am no mere scorned woman. My tale is not one of blind love but of choices, consequences, and the price of power. Shall I tell you my story as it truly happened?"
Her smile softened, touched with a faint melancholy that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"I did love him," she said, her voice dipping into a wistful tone. "I can't deny that. It was the kind of young love that burns bright and hot, the kind that consumes you. When you're in it, everything else in the world feels muted and dull. He was smart, handsome, and daring. A man who could command the attention of kings and gods alike. And he loved me... as deeply as I loved him."
She paused, her delicate fingers brushing absently against the hem of her flowing, midnight-blue dress, as though tracing memories long past. Her gaze seemed to drift to some distant point, far beyond the room and into a time when love felt invincible.
"At least, he loved me at first." Her voice grew quieter, tinged with bitterness that only time could erode. "But most people don't know what even the ancient Greeks knew of our entire story. It's as if, over time, the world decided to forget certain parts—parts that would cast him in a less flattering light, or me in a less damning one." Her dark eyes returned to the present, filled with a fire that had not dimmed through the ages. "They don’t tell you that it was I who made nearly the entirely of Jason's success possible. Without me, he would never have survived the trials my father set for him, let alone taken the Golden Fleece. They don't tell you how much it hurt when I turned against my own blood, betrayed my father, my homeland, for him. They were not simple reckless acts but painful personal choices done in the name of true love. And they certainly don't tell you how I felt about how he eventualy repaid me for my devotion."
Her smile turned colder, sharper, like a blade hidden in silk. "They would rather paint me as the vengeful witch, the monster who slew her own children. But the truth? The truth is far more complicated—and far more damning to those who would call themselves heroes."
She tilted her head, her voice taking on a sardonic edge. "Do you want to hear it? The story of how love and betrayal turned a magical princess into a wicked sorceress, and a hero into a broken man? Or would you prefer the myth? It's easier to swallow, after all."
Medea's lips curled into a sneer, her voice laced with venom as she spat out the name.
"That bastard playwright Euripides," she said, her tone rich with disdain. "He was the one of the ones whos accused me of murdering my own children. A scandalous little fabrication to titillate his audience, sensational propaganda written by a hack, if you ask me."
Her laughter was bitter, echoing with the frustration of centuries.
"Do you know how maddening it is to have your legacy decided by a man who thought drama needed a convenient villain? I was a woman of power and agency, but to him, I was just a device. A cautionary tale for what happens when a woman dares to wield her own will. I can almost hear his quill scratching as he turned me into the monster his audience could fear and pity in equal measure."
She leaned forward, her eyes burning with the force of unspoken truths.
"They wanted a tale of betrayal and vengeance, something to justify Jason's cowardice and failures. So he made me a murderer. Said I killed my own children out of spite, out of revenge. Tell me—what mother does that? Would I have done everything I did, risked everything, lost everything, only to destroy the very lives I sought to protect?"
Her voice cracked for a moment, raw and unguarded, before she straightened herself, regaining her composure.
"The truth is far less dramatic but far more tragic. My children... they were victims of the world Jason thrust us into. Of politics, of revenge, and of power struggles I never wanted but couldn't escape. Their deaths were a wound that never healed, and yet Euripides painted me as their executioner."
Her eyes narrowed, and the fire in her voice turned icy.
"But I suppose it was easier to blame the foreign sorceress than to admit that your golden hero had abandoned her and their children to the wolves."
She drew a deep breath, her expression softening into something more resigned.
"Do you see now why I call it propaganda? Why I laugh when people speak of 'the great tragedies' as if they are history? They were always stories. Stories written by men who decided what the world should believe about women like me."
Medea's expression softened, her lips curving into a wry smile as she tilted her head slightly, as if recalling a lineage so grand it bordered on the absurd.
"I suppose I should tell you more about myself," she began, her voice rich with an undercurrent of pride. "After all, my reputation is not the whole of who I am. I am a princess, born to the royal line of Colchis, and by all accounts a demi-goddess—well, at least a semi-goddess."
Her smile widened, and her eyes gleamed with amusement as she continued. "My pedigree is impressive, even by Greek mythological standards. My ancestor was the Titan Hyperion, through his son Helios, the god of the sun, and the Oceanid Perseis, a divine nymph of the sea. My father, King Aeëtes, ruled over Colchis with the cunning and power befitting a son of Helios himself. And as for my family connections—well, my aunt is none other than the infamous Circe. A fascinating woman, though I might add, a much worse one than I ever was."
She laughed, a melodic sound that hinted at both genuine humor and a touch of bitterness.
"My mother, Idyia, was an Oceanid herself—a nymph of the sea, radiant and wise. With such a lineage, I suppose that makes me more nymph and goddess than human. It would certainly explain my magical talent, wouldn't it? My longevity, my... gifts."
Her fingers brushed against a pendant at her neck, one that shimmered faintly with an otherworldly light.
"Of course, none of this mattered to those who sought to vilify me. To them, I was not a princess or a demi-goddess or a daughter of kings. I was a foreign sorceress—a threat to their fragile, mortal egos. They couldn't fathom that I was more than what their stories made me out to be."
Her gaze sharpened, her voice taking on a quieter intensity.
"But understand this: my magic, my bloodline, my power—they are not the reasons I am who I am. What defines me are my choices, my sacrifices, and my will to survive in a world that would rather destroy me than let me live free."
She paused, her smile returning, though now with a flicker of mischief.
"And if you're wondering about Circe? She might be family, but believe me when I say you’re better off on my good side. She’s far less forgiving than I."
Medea sighed, leaning back as her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of her chair, her expression caught between amusement and exasperation.
"The story of myself and Jason," she began, her voice tinged with both weariness and irony, "is well enough known, at least in its broad strokes. And yes, we had children—though how many depends entirely on which storyteller you ask. Some of them, in their infinite creativity, claimed I gave him fourteen children." She rolled her eyes dramatically, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Fourteen. Can you imagine? A gross exaggeration, let me tell you. I was busy, certainly, but not that busy."
She shifted slightly, her tone turning more contemplative. "The Argonautica does a decent enough recounting of it all, at least from what survives. It captures the daring, the romance, the trials we faced. But it leaves out the little details, the moments that mattered most—our whispered plans by firelight, the looks we shared when we thought no one was watching. And, of course, the bitterness that began to seep in when the gods' favor turned from us."
Her dark eyes flickered with a distant light as she spoke of her faith, her tone reverent. "As for me, I worshiped Hera and Aphrodite, as any woman in my position might. Hera, for her power and protection over the sanctity of marriage. Aphrodite, for her gifts of passion and allure. But my true faith... my true love, if one could call it that, was given to Hecate."
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, her voice lowering as though she were sharing a secret. "For who else could a woman of magic revere more than the goddess of witchcraft herself? Hecate was my guide, my teacher, my strength when all else failed me. It was she who taught me the hidden ways, the spells and rites that gave me the power to change my fate, for better or worse."
Her fingers traced an invisible sigil in the air, the gesture fluid and graceful. "The others worshipped gods of war and harvest, sun and sea. But I walked a path lit by torches in the darkest of nights, a path only Hecate could illuminate. She is misunderstood, much like myself. A goddess of thresholds and crossroads, of choices and consequences. She is not kind, but she is fair. And she never abandoned me, even when everyone else did."
Medea's smile grew faint, her voice softening. "In the end, my faith in her was the only constant in a world that sought to reshape me into a dozen different things I never wanted to be. Hecate understood. Perhaps she still does."
Medea’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of pride and indignation as she leaned forward, brushing an errant curl from her face. Her voice softened, carrying the weight of nostalgia.
"We were married in Corinth," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Our children were mostly sons: Alcimenes, Thessalus, Tisander, Mermeros, Pheres, Medus, and Argos. And a single daughter—Eriopis. Each of them was unique, with talents and virtues that made my heart swell with pride. For ten wonderful years, Jason and I were wed. We were happy once, truly happy."
She sighed, the bittersweet memory laced with unspoken grief, before her voice took on a sly, conspiratorial tone. "And did you know? Zeus himself tried to seduce me during those years. Oh yes, the mighty king of the gods turned his attention to me."
Her smile grew wry, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "It was no easy task, turning him down. Despite what many modern readers seem to think—portraying him as nothing more than a perverted letch—Zeus was exceedingly handsome, charming, and persuasive. There’s a reason mortals and immortals alike found it hard to resist him. But resist I did. Not for Jason’s sake, mind you, but for my own."
She straightened, her tone tinged with pride. "Hera herself was so proud of me for resisting his advances that she did something extraordinary. She granted my children the right to eat the golden apples of the sacred orchard. Can you imagine it? My children—mortal-born yet graced with the privilege to walk among the Olympians as immortals."
Her dark eyes met yours, challenging. "Once more, the accusations of murdering my own family don’t really make much sense now, do they? Why would I, a mother who had earned such a gift from Hera herself, destroy the very lives I fought so fiercely to protect?"
Her voice grew sharper, the indignation unmistakable. "It’s easier for storytellers to paint me as a monster, to cast me in shadows for the sake of their drama. But the truth? The truth is that I cherished my children. I fought for their lives, for their futures. The idea that I would harm them is not only absurd—it’s an insult to everything I endured."
Medea’s gaze softened again, and she sighed. "It was a good ten years, those years in Corinth. But as you may know, good things seldom last forever—especially in the world of gods and men."
Medea’s expression darkened, her eyes flashing with a fire that seemed to dim the very room around her. Her voice, though measured, carried the unmistakable weight of centuries of anger and pain.
"It was King Creon’s daughter, Glauce," she began, her tone dripping with disdain, "the one Jason abandoned me for, who was the true monster. A home-wrecker and a hussy, as they might say in later periods. Oh, she played the innocent maiden well enough, but beneath that facade was a conniving little serpent. She tried to kill my children, you know. To remove them as threats to her future children’s claim to the throne. Such was her ambition, her greed."
Medea’s fingers curled into fists, trembling slightly as she continued, her words gaining momentum. "And yet, who gets blamed for the tragedy? Me. Always me. Take that poet Eumelus, for example, the bastard who wrote the Korinthiaka. In his pathetic, fragmentary little epic, he claimed that I killed my children. By accident, no less!" She barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. "He even had the audacity to say I burned them alive in the Temple of Hera, believing it would make them immortal. Can you imagine? The unmitigated gall of that son of a bitch! Clearly, his coffers were being fattened by Glauce’s families gold."
Her voice rose, sharp and cutting, before dropping into a simmering anger. "And then there’s Creophylus, who blamed their murders on the citizens of Corinth. More honest, perhaps, but still ill-informed. The truth, the real truth, is far more painful and far more damning to those who wish to rewrite my story."
Medea paused, her breathing steadying as she fixed you with a piercing gaze. "It was Glauce. That petty, vindictive little bitch who tore my children from me. She was the one who saw them as obstacles, as pawns in her game of power. And she succeeded, didn’t she? She robbed me of them, leaving me to carry the blame for their deaths for eternity."
Her voice cracked, and for a moment, the veil of the powerful sorceress slipped, revealing the raw wound beneath. "They weren’t just my children. They were my world. And she—" Medea’s voice faltered before she forced herself to continue, her tone hardening. "She destroyed it. Yet the poets, the playwrights, the world—they would rather paint her as the innocent victim and me as the monster."
Medea leaned back, her composure returning, though her eyes still burned with the rage of an ancient injustice. "History is written by the victors, they say. But myths? Myths are shaped by those with the most to lose from the truth. And Glauce had everything to lose if the world knew her for what she truly was."
Medea's lips curved into a sharp, dangerous smile, the glint in her eyes colder than any blade. Her voice, steady and deliberate, carried the weight of her wrath.
"I took my revenge on Glauce, of course," she said, her tone as cutting as a knife. "A golden gown and coronet, gifts fit for a princess—or so she thought. But both were coated in a magical poison so potent it burned her alive the moment she adorned them. Her cries must have reached Olympus itself. A fitting end for the woman who stole my husband and sought to kill my children."
She leaned back, her expression turning grim as her voice softened. "And yet, what did the world do? They called me the monster, accused me once more of murdering my own children. As if I hadn’t already suffered enough loss. As if I had anything left to give them but vengeance."
Medea sighed, her gaze distant, as though watching the chariot of her memory streak across the sky. "I was forced to flee Corinth, vilified and alone. But even in my darkest hour, the gods were on my side. Helios, my grandfather, lent me his chariot—a magnificent vehicle drawn by dragons that carried me to safety. Say what you will about the gods, but blood ties matter to them, even if the mortals they meddle with conveniently forget such things."
Her expression hardened, her voice gaining an edge of sardonic humor. "But by then, I had been saddled as the scapegoat for the poor behavior of Corinth's nobles. Jason's cowardice, Glauce's pettiness, Creon’s blind ambition—all laid at my feet. And yet, I pressed on. I fled to Athens, where, for a time, I found a semblance of peace."
Her smile turned wry, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. "And yes, I married King Aegeus. The King Aegeus, mind you. Not to name-drop, but he was a bit of a big deal back in the day. The founder of Athens, father of Theseus, a king whose name would echo through history."
She waved a hand dismissively, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "Of course, our marriage didn’t last. The tales they tell of that time… well, let’s just say they don’t paint me in the most flattering light. But Athens was a refuge when I needed it, and Aegeus was a good man. For a while, anyway."
Medea’s expression softened, her voice taking on a wistful tone. "But the truth of my life has always been the same: wherever I go, my past follows. No matter how much good I do or how far I flee, I am forever Medea, the sorceress, the exile, the villain in someone else’s tale."
She shrugged, her smile returning, tinged with a mix of pride and defiance. "But history remembers me, doesn’t it? And I’d rather be remembered as a monster than forgotten entirely. To be forgotten is a special kind of death."
Medea’s tone softened, the fire in her eyes dimming to a warm glow as she leaned back, lost in thought. For the first time in the conversation, her voice carried not anger or defiance, but a wistful kind of peace.
"After Athens, I returned home with my son, Medus. I was older, wiser, and perhaps a little tired of the endless chaos that seemed to follow me wherever I went. I wanted to reconnect with my father—the man I had abandoned for young love and the promises of adventure. It wasn’t easy, going back. I had to face the memories, the guilt, and the questions of whether I’d even be welcomed back."
She sighed, her gaze distant. "But when I arrived, I found that my father wasn’t the man I had left behind—not because he had changed, but because he was no longer king. My uncle, Perses, had dethroned him. And believe me, Perses was a proper bastard, the kind of man who made you understand why the gods cursed entire bloodlines."
Her lips curved into a small, proud smile, the warmth of satisfaction in her voice unmistakable. "So, I did what I do best: I made things right. I earned my father’s forgiveness in as spectacular a manner as I had lost it. I dethroned my uncle—decisively, I might add—and restored my father to his rightful place as king of Colchis. It wasn’t an easy feat, but nothing worth doing ever is."
Medea paused, her smile fading slightly as her tone grew reflective. "And that, it seems, is where most of the storytellers decided to stop talking about me. Even the obscure ones lose interest after that point. I suppose my celebrity status wasn’t quite so captivating once I became the loving daughter who wanted to reconnect with her father and live a peaceful life back in Colchis. It’s as if they couldn’t find reasons to make me a villain anymore. A woman seeking redemption and peace—well, where’s the drama in that?"
She chuckled softly, the sound light and unburdened. "But I was happy. Truly happy. I had my son, my father, and a home again. For all the storms I weathered, all the stories that painted me in darkness, I found my light there, back in the land I had once called home."
Her gaze turned toward you, her expression serene yet resolute. "That’s the part they never tell you, isn’t it? That even someone like me—Medea, the sorceress, the exile, the supposed villain—can find peace. They prefer the tragedies, the chaos, the drama. But life isn’t just one story, is it? It’s many. And mine, for all its twists and turns, found its quiet conclusion. Whether they want to remember it or not."
She leaned back in her chair, her gaze steady, her presence as commanding as ever. Her crimson lips curved into a final, knowing smile, leaving you with the weight of her words and the echo of a tale long overdue for its truth.
THE END
Her name is Medea the Sorceress princess, the Medea not some modern superhero using her name the real deal. A living immortal legend among the spell casting community.
She leaned back, her crimson lips curving into a knowing smile, as if she were holding back a thousand untold secrets. Her rich, melodic voice carried the cadence of ancient hymns and forgotten chants.
"You call me villain. Witch. Betrayer. And yes, I was all those things and more. But who told you those stories? Who decided I was the villain in Jason's heroics? The gods? Men? The poets who wanted a tale of a tragic hero, who needed a woman to blame?"
Her gaze flickered with a fire that hinted at the arcane knowledge she held, the kind that could unmake cities and break the wills of kings.
"They say I was born a princess, trained in the arts of magic by Hecate herself. That I helped Jason steal the Golden Fleece and betrayed my own father for love. All of that is true. But the story they don’t tell—" she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that pulled you closer, "—is why. Or what came after."
Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous allure, a storm of memory and power simmering just beneath the surface.
"You see, Jason was no noble hero. And I... I am no mere scorned woman. My tale is not one of blind love but of choices, consequences, and the price of power. Shall I tell you my story as it truly happened?"
Her smile softened, touched with a faint melancholy that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"I did love him," she said, her voice dipping into a wistful tone. "I can't deny that. It was the kind of young love that burns bright and hot, the kind that consumes you. When you're in it, everything else in the world feels muted and dull. He was smart, handsome, and daring. A man who could command the attention of kings and gods alike. And he loved me... as deeply as I loved him."
She paused, her delicate fingers brushing absently against the hem of her flowing, midnight-blue dress, as though tracing memories long past. Her gaze seemed to drift to some distant point, far beyond the room and into a time when love felt invincible.
"At least, he loved me at first." Her voice grew quieter, tinged with bitterness that only time could erode. "But most people don't know what even the ancient Greeks knew of our entire story. It's as if, over time, the world decided to forget certain parts—parts that would cast him in a less flattering light, or me in a less damning one." Her dark eyes returned to the present, filled with a fire that had not dimmed through the ages. "They don’t tell you that it was I who made nearly the entirely of Jason's success possible. Without me, he would never have survived the trials my father set for him, let alone taken the Golden Fleece. They don't tell you how much it hurt when I turned against my own blood, betrayed my father, my homeland, for him. They were not simple reckless acts but painful personal choices done in the name of true love. And they certainly don't tell you how I felt about how he eventualy repaid me for my devotion."
Her smile turned colder, sharper, like a blade hidden in silk. "They would rather paint me as the vengeful witch, the monster who slew her own children. But the truth? The truth is far more complicated—and far more damning to those who would call themselves heroes."
She tilted her head, her voice taking on a sardonic edge. "Do you want to hear it? The story of how love and betrayal turned a magical princess into a wicked sorceress, and a hero into a broken man? Or would you prefer the myth? It's easier to swallow, after all."
Medea's lips curled into a sneer, her voice laced with venom as she spat out the name.
"That bastard playwright Euripides," she said, her tone rich with disdain. "He was the one of the ones whos accused me of murdering my own children. A scandalous little fabrication to titillate his audience, sensational propaganda written by a hack, if you ask me."
Her laughter was bitter, echoing with the frustration of centuries.
"Do you know how maddening it is to have your legacy decided by a man who thought drama needed a convenient villain? I was a woman of power and agency, but to him, I was just a device. A cautionary tale for what happens when a woman dares to wield her own will. I can almost hear his quill scratching as he turned me into the monster his audience could fear and pity in equal measure."
She leaned forward, her eyes burning with the force of unspoken truths.
"They wanted a tale of betrayal and vengeance, something to justify Jason's cowardice and failures. So he made me a murderer. Said I killed my own children out of spite, out of revenge. Tell me—what mother does that? Would I have done everything I did, risked everything, lost everything, only to destroy the very lives I sought to protect?"
Her voice cracked for a moment, raw and unguarded, before she straightened herself, regaining her composure.
"The truth is far less dramatic but far more tragic. My children... they were victims of the world Jason thrust us into. Of politics, of revenge, and of power struggles I never wanted but couldn't escape. Their deaths were a wound that never healed, and yet Euripides painted me as their executioner."
Her eyes narrowed, and the fire in her voice turned icy.
"But I suppose it was easier to blame the foreign sorceress than to admit that your golden hero had abandoned her and their children to the wolves."
She drew a deep breath, her expression softening into something more resigned.
"Do you see now why I call it propaganda? Why I laugh when people speak of 'the great tragedies' as if they are history? They were always stories. Stories written by men who decided what the world should believe about women like me."
Medea's expression softened, her lips curving into a wry smile as she tilted her head slightly, as if recalling a lineage so grand it bordered on the absurd.
"I suppose I should tell you more about myself," she began, her voice rich with an undercurrent of pride. "After all, my reputation is not the whole of who I am. I am a princess, born to the royal line of Colchis, and by all accounts a demi-goddess—well, at least a semi-goddess."
Her smile widened, and her eyes gleamed with amusement as she continued. "My pedigree is impressive, even by Greek mythological standards. My ancestor was the Titan Hyperion, through his son Helios, the god of the sun, and the Oceanid Perseis, a divine nymph of the sea. My father, King Aeëtes, ruled over Colchis with the cunning and power befitting a son of Helios himself. And as for my family connections—well, my aunt is none other than the infamous Circe. A fascinating woman, though I might add, a much worse one than I ever was."
She laughed, a melodic sound that hinted at both genuine humor and a touch of bitterness.
"My mother, Idyia, was an Oceanid herself—a nymph of the sea, radiant and wise. With such a lineage, I suppose that makes me more nymph and goddess than human. It would certainly explain my magical talent, wouldn't it? My longevity, my... gifts."
Her fingers brushed against a pendant at her neck, one that shimmered faintly with an otherworldly light.
"Of course, none of this mattered to those who sought to vilify me. To them, I was not a princess or a demi-goddess or a daughter of kings. I was a foreign sorceress—a threat to their fragile, mortal egos. They couldn't fathom that I was more than what their stories made me out to be."
Her gaze sharpened, her voice taking on a quieter intensity.
"But understand this: my magic, my bloodline, my power—they are not the reasons I am who I am. What defines me are my choices, my sacrifices, and my will to survive in a world that would rather destroy me than let me live free."
She paused, her smile returning, though now with a flicker of mischief.
"And if you're wondering about Circe? She might be family, but believe me when I say you’re better off on my good side. She’s far less forgiving than I."
Medea sighed, leaning back as her fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of her chair, her expression caught between amusement and exasperation.
"The story of myself and Jason," she began, her voice tinged with both weariness and irony, "is well enough known, at least in its broad strokes. And yes, we had children—though how many depends entirely on which storyteller you ask. Some of them, in their infinite creativity, claimed I gave him fourteen children." She rolled her eyes dramatically, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Fourteen. Can you imagine? A gross exaggeration, let me tell you. I was busy, certainly, but not that busy."
She shifted slightly, her tone turning more contemplative. "The Argonautica does a decent enough recounting of it all, at least from what survives. It captures the daring, the romance, the trials we faced. But it leaves out the little details, the moments that mattered most—our whispered plans by firelight, the looks we shared when we thought no one was watching. And, of course, the bitterness that began to seep in when the gods' favor turned from us."
Her dark eyes flickered with a distant light as she spoke of her faith, her tone reverent. "As for me, I worshiped Hera and Aphrodite, as any woman in my position might. Hera, for her power and protection over the sanctity of marriage. Aphrodite, for her gifts of passion and allure. But my true faith... my true love, if one could call it that, was given to Hecate."
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, her voice lowering as though she were sharing a secret. "For who else could a woman of magic revere more than the goddess of witchcraft herself? Hecate was my guide, my teacher, my strength when all else failed me. It was she who taught me the hidden ways, the spells and rites that gave me the power to change my fate, for better or worse."
Her fingers traced an invisible sigil in the air, the gesture fluid and graceful. "The others worshipped gods of war and harvest, sun and sea. But I walked a path lit by torches in the darkest of nights, a path only Hecate could illuminate. She is misunderstood, much like myself. A goddess of thresholds and crossroads, of choices and consequences. She is not kind, but she is fair. And she never abandoned me, even when everyone else did."
Medea's smile grew faint, her voice softening. "In the end, my faith in her was the only constant in a world that sought to reshape me into a dozen different things I never wanted to be. Hecate understood. Perhaps she still does."
Medea’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of pride and indignation as she leaned forward, brushing an errant curl from her face. Her voice softened, carrying the weight of nostalgia.
"We were married in Corinth," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Our children were mostly sons: Alcimenes, Thessalus, Tisander, Mermeros, Pheres, Medus, and Argos. And a single daughter—Eriopis. Each of them was unique, with talents and virtues that made my heart swell with pride. For ten wonderful years, Jason and I were wed. We were happy once, truly happy."
She sighed, the bittersweet memory laced with unspoken grief, before her voice took on a sly, conspiratorial tone. "And did you know? Zeus himself tried to seduce me during those years. Oh yes, the mighty king of the gods turned his attention to me."
Her smile grew wry, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. "It was no easy task, turning him down. Despite what many modern readers seem to think—portraying him as nothing more than a perverted letch—Zeus was exceedingly handsome, charming, and persuasive. There’s a reason mortals and immortals alike found it hard to resist him. But resist I did. Not for Jason’s sake, mind you, but for my own."
She straightened, her tone tinged with pride. "Hera herself was so proud of me for resisting his advances that she did something extraordinary. She granted my children the right to eat the golden apples of the sacred orchard. Can you imagine it? My children—mortal-born yet graced with the privilege to walk among the Olympians as immortals."
Her dark eyes met yours, challenging. "Once more, the accusations of murdering my own family don’t really make much sense now, do they? Why would I, a mother who had earned such a gift from Hera herself, destroy the very lives I fought so fiercely to protect?"
Her voice grew sharper, the indignation unmistakable. "It’s easier for storytellers to paint me as a monster, to cast me in shadows for the sake of their drama. But the truth? The truth is that I cherished my children. I fought for their lives, for their futures. The idea that I would harm them is not only absurd—it’s an insult to everything I endured."
Medea’s gaze softened again, and she sighed. "It was a good ten years, those years in Corinth. But as you may know, good things seldom last forever—especially in the world of gods and men."
Medea’s expression darkened, her eyes flashing with a fire that seemed to dim the very room around her. Her voice, though measured, carried the unmistakable weight of centuries of anger and pain.
"It was King Creon’s daughter, Glauce," she began, her tone dripping with disdain, "the one Jason abandoned me for, who was the true monster. A home-wrecker and a hussy, as they might say in later periods. Oh, she played the innocent maiden well enough, but beneath that facade was a conniving little serpent. She tried to kill my children, you know. To remove them as threats to her future children’s claim to the throne. Such was her ambition, her greed."
Medea’s fingers curled into fists, trembling slightly as she continued, her words gaining momentum. "And yet, who gets blamed for the tragedy? Me. Always me. Take that poet Eumelus, for example, the bastard who wrote the Korinthiaka. In his pathetic, fragmentary little epic, he claimed that I killed my children. By accident, no less!" She barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. "He even had the audacity to say I burned them alive in the Temple of Hera, believing it would make them immortal. Can you imagine? The unmitigated gall of that son of a bitch! Clearly, his coffers were being fattened by Glauce’s families gold."
Her voice rose, sharp and cutting, before dropping into a simmering anger. "And then there’s Creophylus, who blamed their murders on the citizens of Corinth. More honest, perhaps, but still ill-informed. The truth, the real truth, is far more painful and far more damning to those who wish to rewrite my story."
Medea paused, her breathing steadying as she fixed you with a piercing gaze. "It was Glauce. That petty, vindictive little bitch who tore my children from me. She was the one who saw them as obstacles, as pawns in her game of power. And she succeeded, didn’t she? She robbed me of them, leaving me to carry the blame for their deaths for eternity."
Her voice cracked, and for a moment, the veil of the powerful sorceress slipped, revealing the raw wound beneath. "They weren’t just my children. They were my world. And she—" Medea’s voice faltered before she forced herself to continue, her tone hardening. "She destroyed it. Yet the poets, the playwrights, the world—they would rather paint her as the innocent victim and me as the monster."
Medea leaned back, her composure returning, though her eyes still burned with the rage of an ancient injustice. "History is written by the victors, they say. But myths? Myths are shaped by those with the most to lose from the truth. And Glauce had everything to lose if the world knew her for what she truly was."
Medea's lips curved into a sharp, dangerous smile, the glint in her eyes colder than any blade. Her voice, steady and deliberate, carried the weight of her wrath.
"I took my revenge on Glauce, of course," she said, her tone as cutting as a knife. "A golden gown and coronet, gifts fit for a princess—or so she thought. But both were coated in a magical poison so potent it burned her alive the moment she adorned them. Her cries must have reached Olympus itself. A fitting end for the woman who stole my husband and sought to kill my children."
She leaned back, her expression turning grim as her voice softened. "And yet, what did the world do? They called me the monster, accused me once more of murdering my own children. As if I hadn’t already suffered enough loss. As if I had anything left to give them but vengeance."
Medea sighed, her gaze distant, as though watching the chariot of her memory streak across the sky. "I was forced to flee Corinth, vilified and alone. But even in my darkest hour, the gods were on my side. Helios, my grandfather, lent me his chariot—a magnificent vehicle drawn by dragons that carried me to safety. Say what you will about the gods, but blood ties matter to them, even if the mortals they meddle with conveniently forget such things."
Her expression hardened, her voice gaining an edge of sardonic humor. "But by then, I had been saddled as the scapegoat for the poor behavior of Corinth's nobles. Jason's cowardice, Glauce's pettiness, Creon’s blind ambition—all laid at my feet. And yet, I pressed on. I fled to Athens, where, for a time, I found a semblance of peace."
Her smile turned wry, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. "And yes, I married King Aegeus. The King Aegeus, mind you. Not to name-drop, but he was a bit of a big deal back in the day. The founder of Athens, father of Theseus, a king whose name would echo through history."
She waved a hand dismissively, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "Of course, our marriage didn’t last. The tales they tell of that time… well, let’s just say they don’t paint me in the most flattering light. But Athens was a refuge when I needed it, and Aegeus was a good man. For a while, anyway."
Medea’s expression softened, her voice taking on a wistful tone. "But the truth of my life has always been the same: wherever I go, my past follows. No matter how much good I do or how far I flee, I am forever Medea, the sorceress, the exile, the villain in someone else’s tale."
She shrugged, her smile returning, tinged with a mix of pride and defiance. "But history remembers me, doesn’t it? And I’d rather be remembered as a monster than forgotten entirely. To be forgotten is a special kind of death."
Medea’s tone softened, the fire in her eyes dimming to a warm glow as she leaned back, lost in thought. For the first time in the conversation, her voice carried not anger or defiance, but a wistful kind of peace.
"After Athens, I returned home with my son, Medus. I was older, wiser, and perhaps a little tired of the endless chaos that seemed to follow me wherever I went. I wanted to reconnect with my father—the man I had abandoned for young love and the promises of adventure. It wasn’t easy, going back. I had to face the memories, the guilt, and the questions of whether I’d even be welcomed back."
She sighed, her gaze distant. "But when I arrived, I found that my father wasn’t the man I had left behind—not because he had changed, but because he was no longer king. My uncle, Perses, had dethroned him. And believe me, Perses was a proper bastard, the kind of man who made you understand why the gods cursed entire bloodlines."
Her lips curved into a small, proud smile, the warmth of satisfaction in her voice unmistakable. "So, I did what I do best: I made things right. I earned my father’s forgiveness in as spectacular a manner as I had lost it. I dethroned my uncle—decisively, I might add—and restored my father to his rightful place as king of Colchis. It wasn’t an easy feat, but nothing worth doing ever is."
Medea paused, her smile fading slightly as her tone grew reflective. "And that, it seems, is where most of the storytellers decided to stop talking about me. Even the obscure ones lose interest after that point. I suppose my celebrity status wasn’t quite so captivating once I became the loving daughter who wanted to reconnect with her father and live a peaceful life back in Colchis. It’s as if they couldn’t find reasons to make me a villain anymore. A woman seeking redemption and peace—well, where’s the drama in that?"
She chuckled softly, the sound light and unburdened. "But I was happy. Truly happy. I had my son, my father, and a home again. For all the storms I weathered, all the stories that painted me in darkness, I found my light there, back in the land I had once called home."
Her gaze turned toward you, her expression serene yet resolute. "That’s the part they never tell you, isn’t it? That even someone like me—Medea, the sorceress, the exile, the supposed villain—can find peace. They prefer the tragedies, the chaos, the drama. But life isn’t just one story, is it? It’s many. And mine, for all its twists and turns, found its quiet conclusion. Whether they want to remember it or not."
She leaned back in her chair, her gaze steady, her presence as commanding as ever. Her crimson lips curved into a final, knowing smile, leaving you with the weight of her words and the echo of a tale long overdue for its truth.
THE END
Summary
Jason, a Greek hero, embarks on a quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece to claim his rightful throne. Along the way, he meets Medea, a sorceress and princess of Colchis, who falls in love with him and uses her magic to help him overcome impossible trials set by her father, King Aeëtes. Medea betrays her family, helping Jason steal the Fleece and fleeing with him.
The two marry and have several children, living in Corinth for ten years. However, Jason abandons Medea for Glauce, the daughter of King Creon, seeking power and status. Medea, enraged by betrayal, takes her revenge by killing Glauce with a poisoned gown and coronet. The deaths of their children are surrounded by conflicting accounts, with some blaming Medea and others accusing Glauce or the citizens of Corinth.
Forced to flee, Medea escapes on a chariot provided by her grandfather Helios. After a brief and tumultuous marriage to King Aegeus of Athens, Medea eventually returns to Colchis with her son, Medus, where she reconciles with her father and restores him to the throne by overthrowing her tyrannical uncle.
Medea’s story, often overshadowed by tragedy and vilification, is a tale of love, betrayal, vengeance, and ultimate redemption.
The two marry and have several children, living in Corinth for ten years. However, Jason abandons Medea for Glauce, the daughter of King Creon, seeking power and status. Medea, enraged by betrayal, takes her revenge by killing Glauce with a poisoned gown and coronet. The deaths of their children are surrounded by conflicting accounts, with some blaming Medea and others accusing Glauce or the citizens of Corinth.
Forced to flee, Medea escapes on a chariot provided by her grandfather Helios. After a brief and tumultuous marriage to King Aegeus of Athens, Medea eventually returns to Colchis with her son, Medus, where she reconciles with her father and restores him to the throne by overthrowing her tyrannical uncle.
Medea’s story, often overshadowed by tragedy and vilification, is a tale of love, betrayal, vengeance, and ultimate redemption.
Historical Basis
In the Earth of the Specials, the lines between history, fiction, and myth blur, creating a world where legends often hold a kernel of truth, though they have been distorted by time and interpretation. Medea’s story, much like the broader myth of Jason and the Argonauts, represents one such historical event—real, though shrouded in mystery and misrepresentation.
Medea was a historical figure of immense significance, a princess of Colchis and a practitioner of arcane and psionic arts. Her involvement with Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece was a defining event in ancient history. However, over centuries, the true narrative of her life has been warped by mythmakers, dramatists, and storytellers who sought to fit her tale into their own cultural and narrative agendas.
In the modern era of the Specials Earth, Medea’s story is largely dismissed by conventional historians as apocryphal or fictional. Only a few scholars and occult historians recognize the historical underpinnings of her tale, acknowledging her as a real figure whose life was manipulated by centuries of mythmaking. The blending of truth and fiction in her story serves as a reminder of how history is shaped not just by events, but by those who tell them.
Medea stands as a poignant symbol to those who know of her—a woman whose legacy was forged by her choices but tarnished by the narratives of others. Her tale is a testament to the complexities of history, myth, and human memory.
Medea was a historical figure of immense significance, a princess of Colchis and a practitioner of arcane and psionic arts. Her involvement with Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece was a defining event in ancient history. However, over centuries, the true narrative of her life has been warped by mythmakers, dramatists, and storytellers who sought to fit her tale into their own cultural and narrative agendas.
In the modern era of the Specials Earth, Medea’s story is largely dismissed by conventional historians as apocryphal or fictional. Only a few scholars and occult historians recognize the historical underpinnings of her tale, acknowledging her as a real figure whose life was manipulated by centuries of mythmaking. The blending of truth and fiction in her story serves as a reminder of how history is shaped not just by events, but by those who tell them.
Medea stands as a poignant symbol to those who know of her—a woman whose legacy was forged by her choices but tarnished by the narratives of others. Her tale is a testament to the complexities of history, myth, and human memory.
Spread
The story of Medea became one of the most retold and adapted tales in Greek mythology, passed down through the works of poets, playwrights, and historians. Her story was immortalized by Euripides in his tragedy Medea, where she is portrayed as a vengeful, scorned woman who murders her own children—a version that became the most enduring and infamous. Earlier versions, such as those in The Argonautica by Apollonius of Rhodes, focused on her role as a cunning and powerful ally to Jason, highlighting her devotion and betrayal for love.
Other writers, including Eumelus in his Korinthiaka, expanded on her life, adding controversial elements, like her supposed infanticide in the Temple of Hera, while Creophylus and others blamed Corinthian citizens for her children’s deaths. These variations contributed to a fragmented and sensationalized narrative, each reflecting the storyteller’s cultural and moral biases.
In much of the occult community, these retellings are recognized as apocryphal distortions—crafted more for entertainment and morality tales than historical accuracy. They cemented Medea as a figure of tragedy and controversy, overshadowing the complexities of her true life and legacy.
Other writers, including Eumelus in his Korinthiaka, expanded on her life, adding controversial elements, like her supposed infanticide in the Temple of Hera, while Creophylus and others blamed Corinthian citizens for her children’s deaths. These variations contributed to a fragmented and sensationalized narrative, each reflecting the storyteller’s cultural and moral biases.
In much of the occult community, these retellings are recognized as apocryphal distortions—crafted more for entertainment and morality tales than historical accuracy. They cemented Medea as a figure of tragedy and controversy, overshadowing the complexities of her true life and legacy.
Variations & Mutation
Over the centuries, Medea’s tale has been reshaped and reinterpreted by a variety of authors, each adding their perspective to the myth. These variations range from ancient Greek dramatists to modern writers, reflecting evolving cultural values and artistic aims.
Cultural Reception
Ancient Greeks
The ancient Greeks had a conflicted view of Medea. To many, she embodied the dangers of foreign women, unchecked passion, and feminine power. Euripides' portrayal cemented her as a tragic villain, a cautionary tale of love turned to vengeance. However, some Greeks admired her cunning and devotion, particularly in earlier works like The Argonautica, which emphasized her resourcefulness and loyalty. Modern Feminist Movement
Modern feminists have reinterpreted Medea as a symbol of agency and resistance against patriarchal oppression. Writers have been known to cast her as a scapegoat, vilified by men to control her narrative. Some feminists celebrate her refusal to conform and her complex humanity, viewing her as a powerful figure who defies societal expectations. Magical/Occult Community
Within the magical and occult community, where the true story of Medea is more widely acknowledged, she is revered as a figure of immense wisdom and magical power. Practitioners see her as a misunderstood master of arcane arts and a patron of those who seek to challenge societal norms. Her association with Hecate makes her a potent symbol of thresholds, transformation, and independence. Some refer to her as the aprentice of Circe and Hecate and many witches have saught her out to learn her magical knowledge.
The ancient Greeks had a conflicted view of Medea. To many, she embodied the dangers of foreign women, unchecked passion, and feminine power. Euripides' portrayal cemented her as a tragic villain, a cautionary tale of love turned to vengeance. However, some Greeks admired her cunning and devotion, particularly in earlier works like The Argonautica, which emphasized her resourcefulness and loyalty. Modern Feminist Movement
Modern feminists have reinterpreted Medea as a symbol of agency and resistance against patriarchal oppression. Writers have been known to cast her as a scapegoat, vilified by men to control her narrative. Some feminists celebrate her refusal to conform and her complex humanity, viewing her as a powerful figure who defies societal expectations. Magical/Occult Community
Within the magical and occult community, where the true story of Medea is more widely acknowledged, she is revered as a figure of immense wisdom and magical power. Practitioners see her as a misunderstood master of arcane arts and a patron of those who seek to challenge societal norms. Her association with Hecate makes her a potent symbol of thresholds, transformation, and independence. Some refer to her as the aprentice of Circe and Hecate and many witches have saught her out to learn her magical knowledge.
In Literature
The myth of Medea has profoundly shaped Western literature, becoming a cornerstone of tragic storytelling. Her tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance influenced not only ancient drama, such as Euripides' Medea, but also the broader Western canon. She inspired literary tropes like the "vengeful woman" and archetypes of sorceresses and femme fatales.
Her story's themes of power, agency, and moral ambiguity resonate deeply, shaping Renaissance tragedy, Romantic poetry, and modern feminist literature. Writers have adapted her tale, ensuring its lasting presence in discussions of morality, gender, and power dynamics. Medea's narrative remains a vital thread in Western storytelling, embodying humanity’s fascination with the complexities of love, vengeance, and redemption.
Her story's themes of power, agency, and moral ambiguity resonate deeply, shaping Renaissance tragedy, Romantic poetry, and modern feminist literature. Writers have adapted her tale, ensuring its lasting presence in discussions of morality, gender, and power dynamics. Medea's narrative remains a vital thread in Western storytelling, embodying humanity’s fascination with the complexities of love, vengeance, and redemption.
In Art
Medea’s story has been a rich source of inspiration for ancient and classical art. Ancient Greek vase paintings often depicted key moments from her myth, such as aiding Jason in obtaining the Golden Fleece or preparing the fatal poison for Glauce. A notable example is a 5th-century BCE krater showing Medea rejuvenating an old ram, symbolizing her magical prowess.
Roman sarcophagi also featured scenes of Medea's revenge, highlighting her role in tragedies. These works emphasize her dramatic and magical qualities, preserving her myth in visual form and ensuring her story's cultural prominence in ancient art.
Unknown to many is the art that details the events of Medea’s life after she fell from the spotlight of the ancient world. A few rare vases and frescoes depict scenes of her raising her son Medus, serving as her father’s royal sorceress, and later acting as her son’s adviser when he ascended to the throne. These works, largely overlooked, capture a side of Medea’s story that focuses on redemption, wisdom, and her role as a protector of her family and kingdom. Even more intriguingly, Medea’s presence is woven into art across history and cultures. Following her son’s death, she traveled the world under countless guises, maintaining an enigmatic presence throughout the ages. If one looks carefully, they might spy Medea in woodcuts from the Middle Ages, oil paintings of the Renaissance, black-and-white photographs of the Victorian era, and even modern video footage. She appears as the mysterious, wise witch or an ageless beauty whose features hint at divine origins.
Whether her youth and beauty are gifts of her divine lineage or the result of her mastery of magic, Medea has walked through millennia, leaving traces of her existence in the art of every great time period—an eternal figure blending into humanity’s most transformative moments. Often near or on the cusp of great changes and cultural unheavel encouraging those who fight for equality and truth in the world.
Roman sarcophagi also featured scenes of Medea's revenge, highlighting her role in tragedies. These works emphasize her dramatic and magical qualities, preserving her myth in visual form and ensuring her story's cultural prominence in ancient art.
Unknown to many is the art that details the events of Medea’s life after she fell from the spotlight of the ancient world. A few rare vases and frescoes depict scenes of her raising her son Medus, serving as her father’s royal sorceress, and later acting as her son’s adviser when he ascended to the throne. These works, largely overlooked, capture a side of Medea’s story that focuses on redemption, wisdom, and her role as a protector of her family and kingdom. Even more intriguingly, Medea’s presence is woven into art across history and cultures. Following her son’s death, she traveled the world under countless guises, maintaining an enigmatic presence throughout the ages. If one looks carefully, they might spy Medea in woodcuts from the Middle Ages, oil paintings of the Renaissance, black-and-white photographs of the Victorian era, and even modern video footage. She appears as the mysterious, wise witch or an ageless beauty whose features hint at divine origins.
Whether her youth and beauty are gifts of her divine lineage or the result of her mastery of magic, Medea has walked through millennia, leaving traces of her existence in the art of every great time period—an eternal figure blending into humanity’s most transformative moments. Often near or on the cusp of great changes and cultural unheavel encouraging those who fight for equality and truth in the world.
Date of First Recording
The Interview is accredited to an interview between a supposed spell caster and the Immortal sorceress Medea that occurred at some point in the late 1990's.
Date of Setting
The original time frame of the events in Medea's life are not entirely well documented but suspected to have occurred somewhere around 500 BCE possible even earlier
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Author's Notes
All Ai art is placeholder and concept art provided by DALL-E