@thcoi ; plotted starter
The first thought to cross her mind when the maid announced the presence of Orestes was that this was some sort of ruse intended to distress her further.
She trusted none of her servants in Epirus’ palace. Confidence was a rarity for Hermione in this place which she still struggled to call home, perenially under the dominion of the goddess Eris as it was. Her husband and his grandfather were no different. Still, the heavy air of bitter dissension had not been assuaged in the slightest since Neoptolemus had journeyed to Delphi - his absence seemed to have increased it somehow, with the constant dispute for influence between Peleus and the new queen leaving it to a new level of hostility while he was away.
It was far from unlikely, thus, that he and the servants would have schemed to bring the name of Orestes just to arouse further strife between the royal couple in some way she could not yet figure out, expecting the king’s fast return. From the day she’d left her home to wed the son of Achilles, Hermione knew that this alliance hung by a thin thread. Everyone in this court was aware of it, too. With her hand simultaneously offered to two different princes by two different kings of Laconia, with no less than the throne of Sparta tied to it with her status as its heiress, the promise of turmoil had accompanied her from the very first day.
(For that much, at least, one ought to be grateful for being less than Helen, Hermione had often pondered: whatever turbulence would come of this could never be greater than those of the past, for the sake of mother).
Still, once the announcement was given, Hermione had no choice but to see for herself. Tenacious and solemn, she told the maid that he would be received in the megaron, if only to suggest her intention to greet him in the most diplomatic manner - the only proper way to welcome the only man who could dispute the king’s right to her hand inside his very kingdom. Any hint familiarity or privacy would have been deadly improper.
After the maid left, she made sure to cover her head with her veil, the very sight of decorum through each step taken towards the palace’s main hall.
“Cousin”, she greeted him thus, bearing a faint look of surprise at the realization that it was truly him – although that did not diminish her state of wariness in the slightest.
Her eyes assessed him with caution, ever so alert to the possibility of being herself a target to his vengeance — the memory of their last meeting still too fresh in her mind, just as her consciousness of the slight he’d suffered with her present wedlock.
“I am glad to see that you are well”, she corteously told him, despite the sudden tension that grew in her muscles, “yet I fear this is no safe place for you, as you must know.” It is not so even for me.
