THERE'S A STRANGENESS about him — the Spartan King. Something not quite right. Something I fear does not even have a name. It's there in the cruel quirk of his lip, he enjoys the teasing, the taste before the bite. It's in the way he wears his crown, the finest I have ever seen, and yet he wears it crooked, carelessly, as if it is nothing more than a plaything. It's in his eyes; hot and demanding, as if he can see straight through me. See my thoughts, no matter how sinful.

  "What is it you want, Northener?" I say coldly. He may have the power to command my head from my shoulders with nothing more than a look, but at the same time, I am just a woman. With no reason to be feared and nothing to be gained from harming. Unlike men, there is no valour to be gained in killing senseless women. No, not when there are far more satisfying ways to envoke devotion. To break the mind perhaps? — Or better yet the spirit.

  Yes, that is it — the look in his eye — he revels in the breaking, the destroying of something beautiful just so he may call it his.

  "Your eldest sister," He nods his head towards Andromeda as if only now remembering she is there, "Can read and write —," So can I, so can Ascella, so can all the women of our isle, "— And she has talent in her voice. Won't you sing for me, little bird," He commands it and so it is done. Andromeda's pretty voice rings loud and clear, but awkward, uncomfortably forced into the stark silence of the hall.

  It is only a few lines at most, but it's enough. His power is shown. "Thank you." He says, and at once her song cuts off, falling short three notes of the end.

  "Your other sister," Ascella keeps her head down, "Well, you may see for yourself," The King gestures towards the far wall and I have to turn my head to look. The stone has been carved, and within it lies figures; people, animals, all entrapped in dance whilst the silhouette of the city lies high above them. And there, highest of all, the mountain standing proud as ever, the Spartan palace wrapped around it. The work is fine, unmatched, and undoubtedly Ascella's. She must have slaved all morning to create such a thing, though I can see that clearly it is not yet finished, the faces undefined and the palace roughly carved.

  "It is only a shame we have yet to see her talent with a harp for lack of one. Still, as we speak, Daedalus works to create the finest one ever known." Then his eyes narrow, thin as snake slits, "So, what is your talent, little lamb? Can you sing? Dance? Stitch — sow?"

  I give the only answer I can, the word sounds hollow, so small  and insignificant for such a great space, "No."

  "There must be something," Amusement dawns in the sunless pits he has for eyes. The game has begun.

  "Sing for me." He commands.

  "I said I cannot —,"

  "— I said, sing!" The sharpness of his tongue rings like a lightning strike. For a few, long seconds, stunned silence follows. And then, a voice, small and ugly; unrecognisable as my own.

  I sing the same song Andromeda did, starting where she finished, though the notes are not carried nearly as sweetly and my voice shakes terribly with nerves. I only allow him three lines of song, and in reality, it has probably been no more than thirty seconds, and yet unlike my sister he does not interrupt or tell me to stop. It feels like forever. He's smiling; a wicked which only grows when I fall silent, teeth gritted.

  "No, you're certainly no songstress." His eyes bore like fire into my own. He's laughing at me and makes little attempt to hide it. He wants me to know it, see it, fear it. My face feels alight, my palms slick with sweat and I have to resist the urge to dry them on my mother's dress. He's not done yet, this is only the beginning. "Perhaps dancing it is then." He says, "Dance for me."

  "I do not know any." My mouth feels dry as sand and I have to force the lie from it with as much conviction as I can. It is not enough. It will never be enough.

  His muscles shift in wicked symphony as he moves, sitting forwards on his throne, each tied and tight with well-hidden restraint. "Then make one up, little lamb," He says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, condemning me to humiliation. "Do not make me force you."

  The wooden dancing circle is polished smooth beneath my feet, and with all the grace I can I move across it, gliding, spinning, hoping — it will be enough. My dress fans out around my like a crimson flower in spring, always a step behind as I twirl this way and that, back and forth. The steps are simple enough, an old dance performed annually, at each harvest of our small isle, but it has been so long since I last recall them and there are several I cannot remember, fumbling blindly for the next. My sisters would know them well, better than I — who spent each harvest celebration hiding in the barn rafters with the stable boys so I could avoid such nauseating festivities.

  "Good."

  The single affirmation calls me back and I stop short. The King's approval thins the air, making it finally breathable, only then highlighting how thick it had previously become. My chest heaves with silent exertion, and I curtsy, deliberately too low as to be mocking.

  "It appears we may have use for you yet." Says the Spartan King, dark and dismissive. With nothing left to tease he's lost interest and so I am discarded, discharged like my sisters. "You may go. Sir Deimos, see to it that they are fed and bathed."

  And just like that, as swift as leaves on a gust of Nothern wind we are blown from his presence, ushered back into the hall where only the soldier follows. Right before the doors close behind us, I glance back, our eyes meeting in a silent battle of wills, neither relents, and then, the door slams shut and I am left staring at grooves in the oak.

  "Come, Ophelia." A familiar hand slides into my own, but I am unable to tear my eyes from the place where his once were. Why does he torment me so?

  Ascella pulls me, not like a mother leading an unruly child, more so how I would imagine one to lead a feeble-minded thing, guiding, gentle. As though I have not a thought of my own. All my thoughts are of him, tainted black with the sin of his hair, set alight by the fire of his eyes. I watch them burn and inhale the smoke, he seeps so deep into me that he may never leave.

  "Are you hungry?" Dutifully asks the soldier.

  The meal that follows is simple and silent. Seeded loaves of bread, fresh fish, cheese and wine so thick and sweet it makes my head ache and leaves our lips stained a sticky shade of scarlet.

  When is it over the soldier stands. He has eaten nothing, though I have given up fearing poisons. Instead, I think he is watching, waiting for his dismissal. As the head of the Northern King's troops, I do not doubt he believes guarding girls as a feat unworthy of a soldier such as he. "The women will take you to the hot springs to bathe."

  None of us thank him as we should. And soon, the maid women pour in, he exits in the midst of them and they part for his presence like a stream for a boulder.

  "This way," Says the same maid I recognise from earlier, the one with the face like she has tasted something sour. When neutral I find her to be rather pretty really, but plain, nothing discernible about her face except the distaste it emanates. Like most of these slave girls her hair is lighter than ours, the peaks of her cheeks red with burn, the sign that she is yet another woman stolen in war, not a native.

  The East wing of the Spartan palace burrs itself deeper and deeper into the rockface like a leash tied too tight for too long around a throat, eventually, the ruined flesh will begin to grow around it. The mountain spills over the east side of the palace until it becomes entirely underground, lit only by torches. Even the sun itself would not dare enter a place of the Spartan King unpermitted.

  The maids come here to their stores to gather handfuls of pumice stones, strongly scented oils and other things I do not even know the names of. I make a mental note that should I ever need anything, the west wing is where to find it. The stores are vast, practically overflowing with rooms and rooms of things beyond measure.

  Apparently, despite being considered important by the Spartan King enough to warrant almost constant supervision, we are not considered too important by these slave women to be above loading like mules.

  "Hold these," Orders the surly maid. My arms are piled high with supplies until they ache and I can hold no more. Andromeda struggles to balance an armful of vials containing powdered ash, Ascella lurches to catch one she drops.

  Then, at last, we are led back into the light.

  "That place gives me the creeps," Says Ascella, casting a wary look back into the flicker of the flame-lit tunnel.

  The hot springs are not too far from the East wing, no sooner does the sun return than we are led outside. Fresh air laps at my face, warm and light and entirely welcome.

  "Put them down here, the girls will sort them."

   We unload, glancing around as the weight is shifted. Water cascades down the mountainside from a hidden source, a creation of nature captured by men, slaved and shaped so it gathers at the place before us in a deep pool that overlooks the city. As it overfills, water spills over the wall that separates it from the endless fall to freedom.

  "Where does it come from?" I ask, if anything the water looks to come from a source higher up the mountain, but as I cannot imagine there is ever much rain in a place as dry as this, how could it possibly be infinite?

  "The will of Gods." The maid says, full of piety, pressing her two forefingers to her lips and then offering them in a silent prayer to the sky, "Our merciful Ares."

  Ascella casts me a look that says, do not, for she knows the quick of my tongue lashes to take a strike at the woman. They are fools, there are no gods here, only men and thrones and swords.

  She turns to me, "Take off your clothes."

  "Excuse me?" I say, startled.

  "I said, take off your clothes," Drawls the woman, hard set in her defiance, "Or do women of your isle tend to bathe fully clothed?"

  My mother's red dress clings to me, my skin slick with sweat brought about by the sun's scorch. Beside me, maids work to undo the clasps and knots of both my sisters' robes. I look away as the fabric pools at their feet. At home, we always bathed separately and in a bronze tub filled with well water heated over the fire rather than by hotspring.

  In this way my sisters are braver than I, they who go willingly to nakedness, baring the tender skin of their hips, their exposed breasts, long since swollen in the wake of womanhood.

  Impatient, the maid grabs at the back of my mother's dress in an attempt to undo it. My hand strikes out so fast before my mind can follow and I slap her hand away, "I do not need your help! — I can undress myself!"

  Ascella's laugh carries from within the pool despite how she tries to stifle it, the water around her steams, billowing up into great coils carried off by the wind.

  "Strange," Says the maid, her voice deathly quiet, each syllable an arrow strung and aimed to kill, the glare she gives could fell a nation, kill a God. "I've never known the King to share his whores, though as their latest conquest I would think you would be a little more used to undressing for an audience." And then with that, she turns, summoning her women from the water where they wash my sisters with sodden cloths, "Come. Let them bathe themselves for a change," Then she adds with a sneer, "Though I doubt they even know how."

  "Wait," Ever the pacifier, Andromeda calls out, "The King said we were not to be left alone, what will he say when he finds out you have abandoned us in such a way? For all you know we may slip and drown!"

  The maid stops to laugh at my sister, "Oh you naive little girl, who says you are alone?"

***
QOTD- What do you think she meant by that🫠