OPHELIA

  IN MY DREAMS I AM running, screaming, fleeing for my life. My feet pounding against the marble floors, heart thundering in my throat — but no matter how far or fast I run, I can still feel that eye watching me, blood red and haunting.
  I feel its gaze, like sweat slicking my skin, sticky and unending, no matter how vigorously I try to scrub myself clean.

  I awake in tears, clawing at my skin with my nails, praying that's all it was. Just a dream. Except it never is.

  Once I ready myself, those mute maids pouring inside my room the moment the sun breaks the sky, pulling at my hair with wide-toothed combs and fastening glistening stones at my throat, so many that I begin to wonder if they plan to drown me. When at last I step from my room I realise... At the end of the hall, there is no statue. There is no door weighed down in locks. There is no eye staring back at me from the keyhole for there is no keyhole to be found — only smooth oak.

  What there is, however, is a scuff. A tiny black mark etched into the marble tiles. Signifying a place that something once was but has since been moved, and I feel my insides plummet.

• • •

  "ARE YOU AFRAID?" Asks Ascella as she perches beside me on the bench overlooking the gardens. It is one of the only places in this desolate city that still holds life. She did not believe me when I tried telling her about last night's events. Even going so far as to suggest I'd never even been awake at all — that it was all just a vivid dream.

  I purse my lips, swinging my hanging legs like a petulant child as we both stare off into the distance — at the great Goliath of a mountain that looms over the city like a terrible storm cloud. "Always."

  "Me too." She says quietly, and not at all like herself. Her eyes stay on the outlines of the Spartan King's palace, it crawls around the mountainside like a fist around a throat; partially obscured by a thin breath of mist.

  My chest feels heavy just looking at the bone-white structure, and knowing that that is where we will be taken — that is where we will be sold. Though there will be no spoken exchange, we will be given to the Spartan King as a tribute, a gift of sorts, he will be the ones to barter us off to the highest bidder — the man he deems most worthy, most deserving. Or if he does not think us overly fruitful, unworthy of his time nor attention, we may be discarded altogether like a butcher chucking offcuts to dogs.

  "I can't believe this is allowed. It's not humane." I reach down, tearing my eyes from the palace and picking one of the millions of flowers from the ground, examining the vermillion petals before crushing it in my fist. Crimson tears stain my palms and I feel my throat tighten with thirst; aching for the pomegranates I favoured back home. "I cannot believe father is allowing this."

  Ascella shrugs as if we are not the ones being bartered. "Slaves are often given as gifts to the Gods during the reaping. Even father gifted men once — back when he could spare them."

  "Yes, but we are not slaves Ascella." I cannot help the sneer that curls my tongue, and realise just how much I sound like my father's second wife; icy and aloof — believing that we are better than those born below us, more worthy of salvation. But we are not. "We are the daughters of house Onasis — we are his daughters."

  My sister sighs, taking my hand, massaging at the tightly balled fist until eventually, like a flower during spring, it breaks open to reveal the massacre of petals pooling in my palm. She cocks her head, speaking softly as she brushes the petals free, fingertips tracing the bloody lines stained into my skin. "Four years ago he gifted several summer's rye... The next he gave copper." Her touch is gentle; sweet like her words. "After that, jewels." Ascella's fingers slip between mine, interlocking and clasping as she smiles sadly, " — And now, he has pledged too much, he cannot keep up, the Spartan King expects too much of him, especially now when he has nothing left to give."

  "Do not defend him." The words leave a bitter taste on my tongue and swallow thickly to rid it. "There is no excuse for this."

  She nods as if agreeing but then says, "He's proud, which makes him foolish. It's a curse all men carry."

  She's wrong. It is his foolishness that makes him proud, but I do not argue with her. Instead, I sigh, and for once decide to humour her. "Even Gods?" I ask, wanting to stay nettled but finding it impossible. I suppress a smile, it's strange to hear my sister outrightly insulting our father, I wish that she would do it more often so I would feel less alone.  She leans closer to me as if it's some great secret and whispers, "Especially Gods."

  I grin as a younger sister should, feeling like a giddy child again for what feels like the first time in forever.

  The way she speaks of these men — these great leaders, it's as if they really were more than just men. A huff escapes my lips. "Why does he just not go? We could send a messenger to the palace to say he's deathly ill — they wouldn't force a dying man."

  Her eyes widen and at once she's shaking her head like a sinner who's sworn in church. "That would never work, regardless of father's presence, they would still expect his tribute. After all, it's not him they want." Ascella releases my hand, smoothing down the pale creases in her robe. "The Spartan King... Is cruel." She thinks over her words, debating the proper phrasing, " — And certainly not someone you'd like to upset."

  The Spartan King sounds very much like a rotten child, I think coldly, spoilt and ungrateful. Never happy, never satisfied, always hungry for more. His parents should have hit him more and given him less — that is what my sister's mother would suggest.

  "I hate this man already." The laugh that comes from me is short and sharp and entirely humourless.

  "He's much more than a man, Ophelia." My sister smirks, prodding me in the ribs and raising her thick brows at me exaggeratedly, " — He's a God!"

  I cannot help but roll my eyes, shoving her back, "He's as much a God as I am!"

  A throat clearing behind us causes all laughter to stop abruptly. We turn in unison to see Andromeda, arms folded firmly over her chest, and a frown weighing on her lips. "Father has been asking for you two."

  At once we stand like trained dogs. Following behind our eldest sister as she leads us into one of the many study rooms where father sits behind a table made from dark wood. He looks almost small, a mouse drowning in this room of grandeur — one of the few rooms of the house that is not stark and lifeless. In this angle of sunlight he looks cruel, face pinched, nose strong; sharp. And his watery blue eyes glaring straight at me. "Sit." He orders, and we do. Daintily placing ourselves upon the three stools lining the opposite side of the table, legs crossed and palms neatly folded — just like Pala taught.

  "Are your possessions all loaded in the carriage?"

  We all nod. Once again I'd forced twenty-one years of living into a few wooden trunks, all safe for clothes for tomorrow's travel.

  "Good." He strokes at his half-hearted beard with fingers that are gnarled from a lifetime of work. "We leave at sunrise to arrive early afternoon."

  There is an uncomfortable silence for a few long moments before I fidget in my seat and ask, "Is that all?"

  Andromeda tenses beside me. She would never dare interrupt father, but is it really interrupting if all he does is glare at us? That is what he always does, pregnant pauses, all for the purpose of what? The enjoyment of watching us squirm?

  "No, Ophelia. It is not." His jaw ticks, nostrils flaring and if looks could kill, I would be sleeping beneath the vermillions. "Now may I continue?"

I press my lips into a fine line. I want to shout at him, to climb across the table and scream in his face. How could he do this to us? We are his daughters, though clearly blood means very little to him — less than his pride. Less than coin.

  "Whatever you think you know about the Spartan King," He looks at Ascella, "Whatever you've read about him — it is wrong." Father knots his hands on the desk, thick gold rings dancing in the light. "However monstrous you belive him to be — he is worse."

  Nobody dares interrupt. Father pauses again, staring at us like he's trying to gauge a reaction. My face is a hollow mask, scanty and visually impassive.

  "When you are presented before him you will not meet his eye. You must not speak. If he asks you a question, which I doubt he will — but if he does, you answer, and that is it. Other than that you let me do the talking. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, father." Three voices harmonise into a single feminine affirmation. Beneath the desk I slip my hand around Ascella's, giving it a squeeze. I act like I need her support, but in reality, I'm giving her mine for her palm is clammy and shaking. She squeezes back; grateful.

  "Good." Father sighs, leaning back into his chair. "Then may the Gods have mercy on us all."

***
QOTD - Song recommendations? — TFOA