an Antigone retelling
*there is an explanation note at the end of the piece*
What The Gods Hold Wicked- an Antigone retelling
The Gods would tell her when it was her turn. She longed to feel the phantom brush of their delicate fingers across her forehead. She wanted to hear them whisper in her ear, their airy voices telling her that she was free. She wanted them to tell her that it was okay to give up. More than anything, she wanted them to show her the faces of those lost to her.
The Gods would tell her when her time was up.
Antigone stared up at the branch in the twisting oak where she perched as a child. She would sit and swing her legs, her older brothers play-fighting with fallen branches below her, her sister weaving flower crowns by her side. Sitting there restlessly, gaze filled with envy, she watched her brothers spar. In those moments, nothing was more pressing than the lack of a branch-sword in her hands.
She had wanted to join them.
No, it had only started as a want. It became a need, and as Antigone allowed her heavy eyelids to close, the feeling dug into her in the toxic form of regret.
Regret, because when her brothers fought again, but with real anger behind their blows, she did not take up the sword. What if she had been able to stop them from killing each other on the battlefield? Could she have saved their comrades, whose families were now grieving for their dead sons?
No part of her disagreed when the voice in the back of her mind called her a coward.
It was the will of the gods that she was perfectly healthy while nearly everyone she loved was dead. It had to be. She would cry and scream, and she would throw herself into whatever mundane activity she was obligated to do. Nothing was meaningful.
She had no purpose, only regret.
Kneeling at her family’s sacred tree, Antigone whispered her morning prayers. Her father used to bring her here to speak with the Gods, to feel the rush of their power. She still saw their divine energy in the tranquility of the meadow around the tree, the pollen floating in the air like magic. That unnatural stillness that remained constant no matter who she lost. Even when her siblings had stopped coming to the tree to pray, Antigone dutifully made her way back every morning in the light of the rising sun.
It had been two days since her brothers killed each other on the battlefield; their swords raised against each other, but not for play.
She had tried to provide counsel to her brothers, Eteocles and Polyneices, when their conflict began. They had always fought and made up- why couldn’t this conflict have the same conclusion? No matter how reasonable her arguments, they would not listen.
“Don’t do this. Fighting each other will bring nothing but pain. You know that,” Antigone pleaded as Polyneices gathered his weapons before the battle.
“He’s left me no choice. This has been coming for years. It’s fate, Ani,” he responded. “All we’ve ever known is pain. You should be used to it by now.”
“I don’t care about fate. This is vile- it’s sinful. He is your brother. The Gods would tell you to put down your weapons.”
“If that were so, I’m sure I would have heard from them by now,” Polyneices muttered, moving toward the door. He glanced back at her before he walked out for the very last time.
“Which of us can say what the Gods hold wicked?”
He died on the battlefield next to Eteocles.
And of course, she grieved for both of her brothers, but only Polyneices’s soul still lingered around her.
Ismene, her sister, had been the one to tell her of the King’s cruel decree. He, who had sided with Eteocles in the conflict, said that any who took Polyneices’s side would remain unburied, unable to pass into the afterlife. So, in the wake of the bloodshed, Polyneices’s body remained on the battlefield, untouched and alone.
Antigone's reaction to this news was a scream filled with a devastating sort of anger. Ismene had stumbled forward in her grief, wrapping Antigone in her arms. Her sister was sweet like that.
But she would never disobey the new king.
Creon, King of Thebes. Antigone and Ismene’s uncle had taken the throne after the heirs had died. Sometimes, Antigone wondered if the right to rule could have been passed on to her instead of him. But it could never be. After Creon’s death, another thoughtless man would revel in the glory of being in power.
Antigone stood from her place at the base of the tree. Her anger was an undying flame that made her fists clench and her muscles tense. Creon had left Polyneices on the battlefield as if he were no better than a villain.
Her brother.
She wanted the Gods to tell her to give up, but there was no airy whisper in her ear, no brush of fingers across her forehead.
A fallen branch caught her eye, and she crushed it under her foot. The snap resounded through the clearing. Even when the Gods let her die, she would never see Polyneices again. He would not be waiting for her in the afterlife.
Her brother.
As the sun finally broke into the sky, Antigone pressed her hands against her face, eyes closed tightly. She was haunted by the sound of the branch-swords clashing, the giggles of her brothers as they fell to the ground. She imagined what they might have yelled to each other over the clash of real metal; when there was sticky blood on their faces, real pain in their eyes.
They still fell. They just didn’t get back up.
The sun filled the sky and sent its warmth to encompass her shaking body. The birds started to chirp, and the flowers began to lift their buds to the light.
When Antigone finally felt the brush of delicate fingers against her forehead, she let out a broken sob. Her head tilted to the clouds, her long curls falling against her back. The Gods were finally here.
Is it time? She asked them.
Her body shook with silent sobs, but she did not feel heavy or sick. She did not feel the end hanging over her.
You live for the idea of your own death while the world cries around you. You still have time, my dear. The voice of the Gods echoed like a scream into the chambers of her crumbling mind.
It was not her time to die.
Antigone had gone still. The words of the Gods slowly sank into her skin.
When she opened her eyes, there was a sword lying at her feet.
She knew, with sudden conviction, what she wanted to do- what she needed to do.
--☽☀☾--
The stars were high in the sky when Antigone snuck out of her room that night. Tears stung her eyes, dirt caked under her fingernails. She buried her older brother with a gentle hand.
She had chosen to disobey Creon instead of staying quiet; to help her family instead of dishonoring them. To bury her brother instead of standing back to watch as she had during his battle. It was not a difficult choice, though she knew the price for disobeying Creon could be her life.
Heart aching, she closed her eyes and whispered the burial prayers over Polyneices. Antigone wore a black cloak, the Gods-gifted sword strapped across her back. The weight of the weapon was pressing as she dashed home, her feet barely skimming the ground.
She felt the soul of Polyneices drifting away, safe. The darkest parts of her filled with a warm light. An invisible weight lifted from her shoulders.
Going against Creon’s decree was punishable by death. It did not matter to her; Antigone grinned in the face of her impending demise. Polyneices was free.
But her duty was not done.
She would not die.
When the Gods said that the world was crying around her, Antigone only had to think of Thebes to grasp their meaning. She felt it in the lingering souls of Polyneices’s fallen men. She heard it in the weeping of families in the streets after Creon had announced his decision. She lived it as he shut down her efforts to change his mind.
So, when Creon’s guards shoved through the doors of her room the next morning, Antigone did not resist. Smirking, she let his men grasp her arms, but she set the pace. Her feet did not drag on the way to the throne room where Creon waited. His eyes narrowed as she approached without a trace of regret in her demeanor.
“Disobeying my orders is punishable by death. Though you are my kin, there are no exceptions to the rules. I am your king above all else,” Creon told her, voice cold.
He would eventually receive his punishment; a decree like his would have serious consequences. Antigone only hoped to clean up the destruction left in the wake of his mistakes.
His thoughts shone clear in his pale eyes: she is only a girl, this is to reinforce my rule, this is right.
She was only a girl
She would be the Queen of Thebes.
In the back of her mind, Antigone heard her family under the tree. The clash of branch-swords and the soft laughter of her sister.
She heard the thud of two bodies hitting the ground, the scream of her mother, the pain on her father’s face as he died, the grief in her sister’s now-strained smile.
Antigone heard Creon’s satisfied tone as he condemned her to be bolted underground.
“The Gods frown upon your sinful actions,” Creon boomed, looking down at her.
“There are honors that we owe to the dead,” she replied.
He shook his head. “Not the same for the wicked as for the just.”
Antigone stepped up to his throne, meeting his flinty gaze without a flinch.
Her lips curved upward, “Ah, Creon, Creon. Which of us can say what the Gods hold wicked?”
She pulled out the sword.
The Gods did not tell her that her time was up.
They told her it was her time.
Works Cited:
Sophocles. Antigone. An English Version by Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald, 496-406 B.C.
a (long) explanation:
This is a retelling of Sophocles's Antigone. We read Antigone for class, and honestly, I really liked it.
Well, I liked *some* of it.
I love Antigone as a character. She is strong and relentless, staying true to her beliefs until the very end. She refuses to cower in front of Creon.
Respectfully, the ending of the story upset me. I know this is the purpose of a tragic ending, but I was upset.
I came to the conclusion that the story would have been improved significantly if Antigone had a sword.
I ended up entering my piece into The Young Writer's Initiative's Myths and Legends writing contest. I had been just writing it for fun, but this was a nice, perfectly timed opportunity to use the piece for something. I made it to the final round of judging but didn't win.
There was one line in Antigone that really got me. Damn, it's so good.
"'Ah, Creon, Creon. Which of us can say what the Gods hold wicked?'" (scene two, lines 415-416).
This line is really what this retelling revolves around. I had a lot of fun writing this piece. Women with swords. What else do I need to say?
Hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a comment :)
Thanks for reading,
Miranda
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