OPHELIA

    IN THE BEGINNING, only silence ensues. No one dares move. No one dares breathe. Beyond the door, only the dank eyes of darkness stare back at us, along with something else...
  A strange pulse thrums in the empty air, like the buzzing thrill that settles right before a storm.
No one wants to be the first to move — to step into the blackness lingering beyond the threshold.

  I feel like a child again, sat on Pala's knee before a roaring hearth, her whisper in my ear; it is innate, it cannot be helped nor should it be shamed, we are not the Gods that rule us. It is the human condition to fear the unknown.

The whole world hesitates and Ascella's hand finds mine, I hadn't even realised I'd begun to creep forwards, eyes straining to make out faces in the inky silhouettes leering just out of reach. There is a movement, somewhere far off, past the meek capabilities of human sight. A temptress of a shadow, daring the brave and frightening the afeared.

All at once, there is barely a flicker and the torches ignite. They line the walls and cast the enormous chamber into a thousand deafening shades of honeysuckle gold, glistening like stars if only they were filled with sun.

  — And there, at the apex of it all, a great mountain of a man sat upon a throne of molten misery; the Spartan King.

  A flash of sable hair, black as a deathless night, and a brief glance of tawny eyes that I swear for that small moment in time meet my own — and then I am torn away by the gentry's greed. By their horrid hands, all pushing and shoving, each desperate to be the first seen — to be admired.

  I stamp on the toe of a hag who pulls at my hair as if it is a rope she is using to climb her way into the Spartan King's sight. There is a hand, clutching at the flare of my robe, nails biting into the finery with fear, and I follow it, hoping that it is not another old crone trying to leverage herself towards the crown. Relief floods me to find it's my middle sister, her face as flushed as my own.

  The King's guards begin barking orders, commanding some semblance of civility. Like cattle they force us into a line, and somehow my family manage not to lose one another in the chaos.
Once the shoving stops and the crowd begins to settle I spare a torrid glance my father. His mask is just as well-worn as my own, thin lips pressed firmly, garish lines marring his brow. It's as if I can see the cogs whirring inside his head, and I don't like the sight of it at all, because even though he doesn't say it — he's on edge. Just as worried as the rest.

If he is worried, then my sisters and I should be terrified.

"The reaping begins." Commands the same soldier as before, his face shied in bronze fortitude, his posture impossibly tall.
  I cannot help but think how uncomfortable it looks to have to stand that straight, all day, everyday. My bones ache at the sight of him. Still, he snarls as if daring us to disobey, "Step forwards once — and only once, your house has been announced. You will then present the king with your tribute." He hesitates and though his face is covered, I can see enough to tell his look is pious. Much alike a hound ready to set upon a den of foxes; eagerly awaiting the command.
These men are bloodthirsty. These men are not the wolves in sheep's clothing that Pala so often warned us of. These men hunt the wolves. "If your tribute is worthy then you may continue to the river," He gestures towards a second set of double doors, much the same as the first, and again heavily guarded by scarlet soldiers. " — Where you may pray and leave further accolades."

My stomach clenches painfully; he made no mention of the fate of men who bare lesser tributes.

  My mind is still reeling when the first name is called. "House Eetos, and its sons." Towards the front there is movement. I crane my neck greedily but only manage to steal a fraction of the image. An old man and his three curly-haired sons kneel at the foot of the throne. Their heads bent and arms outstretched, offering up armfuls of prized pelts from strange, foreign creatures I have not seen before. At their feet they bare open chests full of delights, curved daggers carved from fangs as thick as my forearm and ivory bowls that look as though they're from bones.

  I cannot see the King, only the very tips of his raven boots; the leather so fine it could keep a family in bread for months.

A gaudy scorch in my throat makes me realise that I am holding my breath, and have been for a while. I am hungry. I am starving for air and yet still, I deprive myself. I don't move, frozen like dumb prey in the crosshairs of a huntsman. Awaiting the voice of the faceless man that's stalked my nightmares for many more nights than I'd ever admit.

  It is as if the air itself waits for him, stolen from our lungs until he decides to gift it back with a word of command. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Nobody fears for the fate of the old man and his three curly-haired sons. They fear for themselves.
It is said that the Great War destroyed half of Greece. That as Gods and Titans warred they tore the very clouds from the skies and damned the oceans gold with ichor. What would — what could, they do to a meager man?

  We wait and we wait and we wait. They say the Gods live forever, they say the Gods don't live at all. Trapped eternally in a single moment of time; thus is the curse of immortality.
I never believed in the Gods at all.
  But maybe this is why he hesitates so, assessing House Eetos' tribute for what to a mortal is a painfully long time — but to a God, is mere moments in an eternity of life. A brief breath out of a thousand thousands more.

  No answer ever comes, least not audibly.
It only dawns on me once I see the swiftness of the old man and his sons as they dive low into grovelling bows and hear the gratitude from their liars tongues. Great and merciful Ares, they say, our house is forever indebted to your unending grace.

  The Spartan King did not need words to deliver his verdict loud and clear as if he'd branded it with a hot iron into the swollen, fat bodies of the gentry.

  He let them live, that was answer enough.

***
QOTD-What do you think Ares will make of House Onassis' tribute?