Ghost Queen in the House of Love

32. Onia

When I sleep, I dream of the dead again. I look for Semele, but she isn't there; of course she isn't. My relief is cold and empty. At the end of the onyx table, I stare at my ivory plate, lined with staring opals. Dates, figs, a bleeding slice of black pig in the middle like a heart.

When I stare at the other end of the room, dread ices my throat when I peer into the brown eyes of a woman. Though the color is warm, her gaze is iron, and her hair falls in striking black coils down her shoulders, except for the small braids that pull away the hair from her temple. The frosty braziers by both her sides are in sickly contrast to her deep brown skin, her high cheekbones and long, royal nose, which reminds me of Zeus.

On both sides of her golden laurels, dotted with topazes and garnets and adorned with the shapes of open pomegranates and wildflowers, are two blue, imperious flames. What a heavy crown. What a burden.

Her rippling stola, with a sash of saffron across her chest, is a deep violet, and it glitters, lined with patterns of roses and skulls. The iron clasps of her stola are engraved, one with a three-headed dog, the other with a cornucopia, a symbol of Demeter. A cloak ripples off one of her shoulders, the inside adorned with golden sheafs, silver scythes, and red cypress leaves.

Persephone the Dread, the Iron Queen of the Dead.

She must be telling me something; but no, it is Morpheus who brings dreams and Melinoë, goddess of ghosts, who brings nightmares. And madness.

I am not mad.

I am not mad.

Something red pours from Persephone's shoulders, and I cannot tell whether it is blood or the pomegranates of her crown coming alive and weeping. Something wet trickles on my collarbone, and I panic. My wound must be worse than before, leaking pus and blood.

When I touch the wetness and look at my fingers, it is blood, but not like the kind from my injury. It is bright, uncorrupted.

To become anew, I am dying, as the Queen of the Dead had. Why must we always lose parts of ourselves? Why must we let our former selves die? If I met my young self, frightened and unsure, I would try to make sure she is safe and happy. Suffering makes us better, I've heard philosophers say, but what of joy? Sometimes, I wish I could live again in Mother's palace of roses, shells, and doves.

I look down at my plate. Eat, and be done with it.

I cannot sleep yet; there's too much work to do.

When I cough myself awake, I taste blood; I bit my tongue. When I miserably loll my head and swallow, early dawn light streams through the curtains. I slept for the entirety of the last afternoon and night.

Seems my infection, my curse, is trying to consume me again, as if it detects its end. My head is clearer than it was yesterday, though.

My eyelids are heavy.

I must do something.

But I have, and now, I'm waiting.

I'm not sure I can go further. Whether this will all be worth it in the end. This choice, these actions, won't only affect me. Phelia was right when she said if we fail, I may suffer, but I have chances of recovering or appealing to my parents' pity, even if I might not prove that Cadmus sickened me. After all, I've been sick for so long. I have a chance, despite how his machinations may disempower me, but Phelia, her and Eleni and Myra and the others, they could be thrown out or worse. Executed for conspiracy, no matter who stood at my side.

I can't let that happen.

That won't happen.

I am not mad.