OPHELIA

  THE BOAT SWAYS beneath my feet, so much so that it knocks me off balance. I hear Andromeda being sick in her cabin, despite the closed door and Ascella's quiet knocks, pleading for our sister to let her in so that she may aid her.

  They call it Poseidon's curse — or so the captain says, truth be told like any man I do not trust him. Over the past three days aboard he's told many a tall tale — said he's seen ghost ships and fought off great sea beasts with nothing more than his bare hands and half a broken oar, among other things. And whilst his stories may spark wonder in Ascella's eyes or a rare smile for my eldest sister, my lips stay steady. I do not believe him one bit. He may lie for their favour, however, a lie is still a lie. I do not like liars.

  The waters are calm, barely a stir amidst the monotonous blue. Half an hour later Ascella enters, hair slightly dishevelled as she sighs, "She finally passed out."

"Good." I say, fixing a raven strand behind her ear. "It's better this way."  And she nods in agreement, sitting beside me before the small circular window that looks out into the blank canvas of a new world beyond.

  "Are you nervous?" I ask and she laughs, "Of course — I'd be mad not to be."

  "What about Andromeda?" Her name tastes sour on my tongue; like a bitter fruit.

  "Ophelia." Ascella laughs. "She's just as terrified as the rest of us, if not more so, she only hides it best."

  I'm not sure how to feel about that, I thought I would find the confirmation satisfying, but I don't. Even though I blame her partly for it, none of this is my eldest sister's fault. Her only crime was her silence, her impassiveness. But watching the world fall apart when you alone may be the aid is still a crime.

  "She should be," I say. "She's devoted her life to their Gods, and this is how they return her favour. When she needs them most they are nowhere to be found."

  My sister purses her lips, "Or maybe she knows the most of their Gods, which is why she's the most terrified of all."

  I know she is right. As for as long as I can remember my eldest sister has fawned over the histories of our lonely island, prayed to the pious, and pleaded with the stars in hope of some never-ending redemption. That is the life that her Gods dictate to us, forever in their debt, forever in fear.

  However, like in all things the North reins almighty. Nursemaids, many of which were born of those lands, tell tales, they say their Gods live among men, yet never as their equal. They say that the Nothern Kings are Gods. They say many monstrous things of the men of the North. I grew out of those stories many years ago, Andromeda did not.

  They say Zeus sent eight of his strongest sons and daughters down from Olympus to rule over the cities of Greece in his stead. At the foremost of which was the Spartan King; Zeus's firstborn son and the God of war himself, or so the stories said. Truth be told I'd always thought their mythologies were just another way to elicit fear within the Grecian people. For nobody would dare rise against a self-proclaimed king if they believed him the son of Zeus...

  Ascella places a warm hand on mine, "Ophelia, don't hate her for what she cannot control."

  The laugh that leaves my lips is hollow and fleeting, "I do not hate her for what she cannot control, I hate her for what she can." Then I stare down at my hands, ashamed of my own spite, "She stood by and said nothing as her mother tore me apart before her."

  "What good are words when nothing will change?"

  "That didn't stop you." I retort and she shakes her head sadly, "I never said that mother was right. My impulsion overcame me, but only for a moment,  you must control your emotions Ophelia — before they control you."

  Floors above deck I hear a man's yell, one of the sailors, he cries of shore.

  The boat sways, groaning beneath the weight of the waves and certainly enough, in the distance a thin strip of land begins to appear, riding the horizon. " — Look."

  Her head turns, studying the fine line. "We are close."

  Our attention changes in unison as the door opens, Andromeda stumbling in. Her face is ashen and her lips are chapped as she slumps into the armchair beside us. "Are we near?"

  "Only a few more hours." Ascella assures her, placing a hand on her sister's thigh. I look away, unable to stand even looking at the girl any longer.

  I tell myself I hate her, though I know that isn't true; she is my flesh, she is my blood. She is me, if only the most cowardly parts.

  I had never been particularly close to my eldest sister, even as children Ascella had always been a mediator between the two of us.
  At the age of twenty-four Andromeda was three years older than me, though in her mind the gap was far greater. Even so, I'd never particularly wanted to be close with her — I'd always found her rather boring.

  My days were spent outside, climbing in the rafters of the barn amongst the webs or beneath my mother's pomegranate tree, whilst hers were spent inside, locked safely away in father's library.
  — Maybe that's why I resented her. I'd only ever set foot in father's private library once, and that too was fuelled by malice. I had been only twelve years old and mad with jealousy, I had snuck in through the half-latched window late one night and stolen a book, just one. The only reason I'd done it had been out of spite, I had no want for literature, though even all those years later I still kept the book — except now the cover was frayed and worn, weathered by damp hands and dust. That was how I had taught myself to read, for if I had not, I was certain no one would teach me.

  It was strange to think that despite being a lifetime away from home, my book still remains, tucked away in that secret corner of the barn, beside the little oil lamp for late-night reading.
Sometimes when the sky grew black I would go there, climb up into the loft and read the words I'd read one thousand times before.

  It was a beautiful tragedy; a tale of love and loss. An Iliad, of sorts.

  Yet still, no matter how many times I poured over the honeysuckle words, I found the ending bitter. I wished to change it, to write my own end, but try as I might I could never replicate the melodic words. Instead, mine sounded harsh, brash, uncoordinated.
Andromeda had been a talented writer, most likely due to her habitual book-bound state, but I would never dare ask her to write for me.

  "Ophelia?" Andromeda's smooth voice pulled me from my thoughts; a subtle edge of worry in her tone. "How are you feeling?"

  "I am fine." I lie. For what else can I say? What good are words when nothing will change — I feel the true merit of Ascella's words now.

  Except occasionally, even if words themselves may not directly cause a change, powerful words may insight powerful actions.

  I should ask her how she is, I think, it is the only polite thing to do — the civil thing. For that is how conversations work. She would ask and I would engage, put on that pretty smile and speak with sickly sweet words, laced thick with honey to hide the blade — if we were in company, but we are not. It is just us, so I ignore the urge, training my eyes onto the thin slither of land that fast grows thick.

  The first thing I notice is the mountains, forcing their way between the white marble structures and jutting violently from the earth. There is life, though sparse — the greens struggle to press through, forming in thick clumps along the rock-face.

  The buildings are the colour of ivory bone, peaking through the flesh wounds of the earth and blurring into one another at this distance. The closer we sail the clearer they become and for a long while we are silent, allowing ourselves to soak in this new sight.

  "We're a long way from home." Ascella says quietly and it takes me a minute to realise the true weight of her words. This land is different, foreign, so far removed from our tiny little corner of the world.

  This land is hot and unforgiving, and even the buildings look as if they are bleached by the sun. The trees are strange and thick with fruit, almost synthetically so, they look like the paintings that Ascella used to create.

  Sometimes she'd stand for days on end before her easel, staring out at my pomegranate tree but painting it newer, brighter, and filled with vastly coloured fruits that I'd never even seen before.

  Her mind had always amazed me, much like Andromeda's.

  I hate standing beside my sisters, my accomplishments are null alongside their own. But they mean something to me, which is all that matters, no matter how they make my father scowl or his wife's face come alight with sickening glee.

  The young sailor did not knock before he poked his head around the door, taking the three of us by surprise. He realises his mistake at once from the vicious glare Andromeda sends him. If looks could kill he'd be tied to the hull by his throat.

  He shrinks back, "My apologies my Lady, but the Captain says we'll be docking soon. He reckons within the hour."

  Ascella interjects before our sister can begin to tear the poor sailor boy part. "Thank you Paedro." He nods and leaves quickly, eyes averted to the uneven planks of the wooden floor.

  "Paedro?" Andromeda says; horrified.

  Ascella shrugs as if she has not just broken protocol. Pala would've had a fit if she was here, I think sadly, finding myself missing our plain-faced maid already.
  "He was kind to me." She says, "And why shouldn't I know him by name? — He's a person just like you and I."

  "He's a sailor boy!" Andromeda scowls, "And a drunkard too at that! — I could smell the liquor from here! You must stay away from them," She wrings her hands unconsciously as if washing them of her sister's sins. " — Can you imagine if father found out! — Let alone if he saw him come bursting into one of our rooms unannounced! My God I dare not think of the rumours it would incite!"

  "So what?" I stand from the window seat and smooth down my dress. "Let them talk."

  "Are you mad!" Her eyes grow wide, and I cannot tell whether she's angry, shocked or scared. Possibly all three. "A rumour like that could be the final blow to tear this family apart! — That's the last thing we need, now of all times!"

  It's already too late, and she knows it too. The moment the words have left her lips the seed has been planted — the idea has been formed. "No!" She says at once. "Ophelia, don't you dare! You cannot!"

  I say nothing and Ascella stares at the both of us; confused.

  A small smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth, perhaps I may yet come to call the sailor boy by name.

  "I will not allow your selfishness to ruin this opportunity! You do realise that we may never get another chance like this as long as we all shall live! — People kill for chances like this Ophelia!" Her face is red, flush with heat and feeling. She has always been far too easy to anger. I don't even need to respond for her to go off at me, though maybe that's because she knows that my most devilish ideas are always silent, never dared to be spoken aloud.

  — And as tempting as the idea may be, I still find myself torn and unable to find stable footing in this uneven moral plane. Everywhere I step I seem to fall; there is no winning.

  There is only ever one true winner in every single hypothetical situation that my mind can imagine. The North always wins.

***
QOTD-Who is your favourite sister and why?