Ghost Queen in the House of Love

17. Hedone

A week passes with surprising ease, and then another. It grows less hard for me to pretend this is a vacation. Then again, most of my life was a single, eternal vacation. I spent my time asleep to the world and dreamed well.

I learn more of the land, the plants I'm shown. And the people here, they rely on their communities, but there are others, such as Miss Honey from the moors far north of Greece, who request help from Melinoë.

My host and I form a loose routine. Because I'm a late sleeper, we have a later breakfast of honeyed breakfast before noon. It works out, since the appointments Melinoë has often take place in the morning; I learn the closest village is only five miles away.

Sometimes, I watch from outside my window as Melinoë talks with the mortals. Or I hear them speak to her while I sit on the steps, keeping my distance from their troubles. They sometimes talk about how Melinoë's special seeds help their luck with growing crops in swamp soil or how her poultices soothe their aches.

Many of the people, secluded from the world for centuries, speak in languages besides Greek, like Tsalagi, all of which Melinoë spoke with ease. They are some of the few people left who have not assimilated under Olympus; most people outside of the Olympian Empire have been assimilated or erased from existence.

Though I don't know what to do or say, don't know how to comfort anyone, I can watch or listen.

The people pay no mind to the ghosts. Or perhaps they don't see them. They aren't frightened of Melinoë's unearthly form, which subtly changes. The energy, that is; the skin-runes glowed brighter, and I wonder if Melinoë obscures her form from select people. If, somehow, I'm privileged to always see her as she is.

I wish I could talk to them, the mortals, help them, change their lives for the better. That I could have the strength to take a mourning woman's hand in mine and give her comfort.

But the idea frightens me. It's selfish, I know, and strange; I've never been one to try to be stoic and ignore my vulnerabilities. The keen awareness of my vulnerability, however, compels me to merely watch from a distance. From above, through the barrier and lines of the window.

Almost every day, I help Melinoë pick herbs and organize them. When Melinoë needs to be alone or go out, I pore over the books she has. While I understand what I read about alchemy and the history of witchcraft, it's out of her usual line of interests; I tend to prefer fiction.

Nevertheless, I read on, and time passes quickly.

In the evening, we have dinner, often hen, figs, bread, and maybe different kinds of cheese. The bread tears apart easily, so soft it melts on my tongue.

Throughout it all, the weeks I spend in the manor, we don't speak of anything of much significance after that first day we went to the garden, which is fine with me. Oh, how sometimes I wish to talk more about deeper things, but I worry about revealing too much of who I am. Somehow, things feel easier with Zeus; he doesn't ask about what I think or believe. I can act by rote, with willowy grins.

Although Melinoë often keeps her distance and lapses into minutes of silence, it becomes normal. Not awkward, not moments when I need to inject something, anything to keep up appearances. After the crests and troughs of tension and obsession I grew accustomed to with Zeus, I don't know how to react but let myself become comfortable with quiet, when only the murmur of insects and the bellow of alligators swell distantly in the air.

Love is fire, Father taught me; love kills and aggrieves. It is an agonizing, grueling conflict. Often, it's death. Father brought thousands to ruin with his love-casting arrows, and Mother grieved and endured trials to be with him. Gentle love without tragedy? Oh, that's for silly girls who play in flower beds. Love and hate are similar, and I was taught that passion and violence cannot be set apart.