THE NEXT DAY arrives in a flurry of molten skies and bird cries, a final, dawning reprieve from my sleepless night. The bed is comfortable — the most comfortable I have ever felt, and here the air flows cool and free. It is only when the day arrives brings the heat along with it that it becomes unbearable.

None of that is the reason for my sleeplessness, however. So much has happened in so little time, and I feel last night was my first few moments of rest, of stillness, reflection. My first time being alone in days. Only once those thoughts came, they refuse to leave. Instead, replaying in my mind over and over and over. They curl around my lungs, steal my breath. Ensnare my limbs, so I feel each and every one like a lead weight curling around all those empty bones. It is a strange thought, that that is all I am. Empty bones. Held together by flesh and thought and love, and yet, empty.

No maids come for me, so for the first time in as long as I can remember, I dress myself. It is a small thing, I know, but the feeling it gives is not. In this life, freedom is few and far between, and so I will gladly horde whatever scraps of it I can get.

My trunk sits at the end of the bed, and for a while, I rummage through. Never having a choice does not mean it comes easily when offered. I suppose I never really put much thought into what I would wear if I could decide for myself. Blue and green and purple fabrics run through my fingers like trickles to a stream, though none feel right, that is until beneath it all — buried right at the bottom — I find one of my mother's fabrics.

Blood red and threaded with gold. Fit for a queen, which I am certainly not, but then again neither was she. This was part of her dowry all those years ago, and now, I suppose, it is part of mine.

I pull it flush to my nose and inhale the honeysuckle scent, dampened slightly by the earthy smell of storage. It has long stopped smelling like her — as have most of her things, but if I close my eyes, I can at least imagine it. It is a piece of her, no matter how small. So I clutch it to my cheek and pretend it is her hand, cradling me in the loving way I have never known.

It fits me well, almost eerily so. And it brings about all those aching thoughts I seem to spend my life trying to keep at bay.

What was she like? What did she look like?

If only Ascella was a little older when my mother had died, she could have cast her likeness upon a mural — or carved her kindness into stone, so that in years time, I could look upon it.

But she was not yet in her second year of life when my mother had passed. My birth had been her undoing and my father had never forgiven me for it. I was born backwards, so he said, in a way that had forced the nursemaids to cut me from her, spilling her life out into mine. My mother had died so that I could live.

Was that what she had wanted?

Pala said that she had begged for it, that she had screamed at those shaking nursemaids — save my baby — until finally, they cut her. They had not wanted to, it was known that women did not survive such things and none of them wanted to bear the brunt of my father's rage.

In one corner of the room, there is a mirror, bigger than I am and inlaid with various gemstones. In it I stare at myself, wonder, do I look like her?

Pala used to say that I look more like her with every passing day. Supposedly that is why my sister's mother hates me so. It must have been hard spending your days looking into the same eyes as the only woman your husband would ever love. Even if she was dead. Even if she was your sister.

I line my eyes with kohl, dark in the way that is favoured by the women of my isle, pinch my cheeks to bring about a flush and braid the two front pieces of my hair back at my crown. The braids are clumsy, not half as good as Ascella's, but they will do.

There is another knock on the door, only this time, the face that emerges is not one I recall.

"Onasis," Calls the servant girl. Her face is pinched with distaste, "The King calls for you."

"Yes, one moment," I reply, attempting to coax the last of the unruly strands into the braid.

"— You would command the King to wait for you?" Asks a new voice incredulously, and then suddenly the servant girl is dismissed and it is Sir Deimos in my doorway, lingering like a bad smell. "I wonder if you would have the bravery to say such a thing to his face, perhaps we can arrange it?"

He holds his helmet beneath his arm, and for the first time, I get a proper look at him. It throws me a little that I do not find him entirely unpleasant. I wish I would, he would be easier to despise that way, though I am sure he will give me reason enough for that soon.

I look away quickly, fixing the last of the fine hairs into place. "Arrange what you like, Sir Deimos, I will not be rushed."

"If you will not hurry yourself then I will be forced to drag you, ready or not."

There. That is the barbarity I knew him to have. "I would expect nothing less from a Northerner." I snarl, not even attempting to hide my distaste.

He has every right to strike me, no one would blame or chide him for it, if anything it is to be expected. It is needed. A woman out of line is hardly a woman at all. And yet, here, alone, with just the two of us to see, he does not. Instead, he smiles.

"I am done," I announce before I can allow myself to think too much of it and saunter past the soldier, brushing slightly against him in the doorway as he refuses to move and so do I.

It is a move I regret rather fast, for this palace is a maze and I have no idea where I am headed. Still, I do not stop. The soldier walks behind me, silent, I imagine there is amusement on his face as I stride ahead, determined, but hopelessly lost. Not that I would dare admit my confusion, especially not to him. My pride would never allow for help. And so he waits, waits for me to admit my disillusionment, and waits and waits and waits.

I try to retrace my steps from the previous day, and then, as if in divine answer to some unspoken prayer, there is sound. It is a laugh, rich as honey, deep as the dark, and rough as seafoam washed up on rocks. It is the call of the Northern King that summons me, and I follow such a sound like a trail-scented hound.

He is there, gloriously undone beneath the morning sun, draped carelessly across his throne in a way so lax it seems almost disprespectful to the supposed sanctity of such a thing. No one stops him or even dares cast a disapproving look. The King of Kings does as he wishes, looks upon what he pleases, takes what he desires. Even nature herself submits to the toils of these Northern winds.

Bathed in gold, with the sun streaming down upon him, his markings appear almost black in contrast, dark and sudden as lightning, slashing through all those thick coils of muscle. He is art himself, lolled in this light or in any other for that matter — and he knows it.

This throne room is far larger than that underground chasm of a cave that he received this year's tributes in. Like all these most outer rooms, the entire right wall is open to the elements, with only a clay-carved rail and a couple of intermittent pillars to prevent from falling. The floor is tiled, and in the centre, a large wooden circle stands, smooth and unblemished, which I can only presume is for dancing. I heard Daedalus built a similar thing for the Cretan princess, Ariadne. Perhaps he made this one too, so fine is the craftsmanship that it would not surprise me.

I look around for the cause of the King's laugh but only see my two sisters, knelt before the dais.

The King's tawny eyes lock with mine, predatory grace weighing his handsome face into a smirk as he says, "Ah, here she is.

The curtsy does not come naturally, and my mother's dress is unnaturally restrictive at the waist. "Northener," I say, stolen by his gaze, unable to look away. He is like looking directly into the sun — look long enough and you start to see things that couldn't possibly be there — a subtly twitch of his mouth, something like amusement.

Sir Deimos bows to his King and then moves to stand sentinel beside the dais, sword at his hip and helmet beneath his arm.

"You slept well, I hear." Says the King; unbearably neutral.

Someone must have overheard our argument. Andromeda and Ascella look to the ground in shame, but though hard to judge I do not find the Spartan King's tone to be accusatory. It is testing, prodding to feel a push.

"Well enough," I reply.

The throne is large, wide as three grown men and half as tall again. He fits it well, makes it look relative. He's all thick mass and muscle as he sits up, legs spread wide in that way men do, taking up as much space as he pleases — and he pleases to take it all. He sees me staring at those strong lines of his thigh, to those hidden, forbidden places where it trails off beneath his tunic. He likes the looking — thrives off being looked upon, lusted after, envied. Desired. That is why he wears his tunic so scandalously, chest half exposed, draped so casually from one shoulder as to be careless.

His tawny head cocks, a dark strand falling over his forehead, "See anything you like?"

My cheeks burn but my voice comes steady, certain, he will not embarrass me here, "Not particularly," I say; flippant, "This land is barren of beauty, the sun is too hot, nothing grows and the fruits are sour."

He laughs. Laughs at me. Laughs for me. It is small and short and over entirely too soon. I want to catch it — bottle it up, keep it for myself so that I may hear it when I please and keep the sound separate from the man. "Is that so?" He says, raising a sinfully dark eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Well," He speaks slowly, in a way that makes me think that each word may well be the last, "What a curious little thing you are. Your sisters did not lie, you have spirit." He leans forwards, forearms resting on his knees, fire eyes scorching into mine, "So tell me, little lamb, what would you have me do to make this land fit for a creature such as yourself? Tear the sun from the sky? Spit honey to fruit? Tell me what it is I must do."

He is making fun of me, I know. The bristle is involuntary, out my mouth before I can stop it, "Nothing you have the power to."

He is not smiling anymore, "Try me."

Ascella shifts uncomfortably. They all do, even the soldier. I had not realised how terse the tension had become until it was nearly suffocating. "Why did you call me here, Northerner? Surely it was not just to torment my sisters with talks of this land?"

"And if it was?" Sun catches in the subtle shift of his circlet, a circle of thorns cast out in gold.

"I would like to think that a King as feared and renowned as yourself would have better things to do than antagonize women, perhaps I may suggest you find a village to ransack or a kingdom to pillage instead?"

"And so that is what you think of me?" There is no shock in his expression, in fact, there is hardly anything at all. "Do you fear me, Ophelia?"

He may as well have struck me, it would have had the same effect. In his hands, from a tongue as heinous as his, my name is a weapon, forged from a fire I have never felt before. Heat erupts in my chest, bursts from my lips, "Should I?"

He thinks about this for a moment, "I have not yet decided."

***
QOTD- what do you think of the Spartan King so far? What do you think of Sir Deimos?