Ghost Queen in the House of Love

2. Onia

I bow my head. "Oh. Why, of course. I'm terribly sorry. I'll make myself sparse."

Her eyes flicker to my collarbone. "How is that necklace my son and I made fitting you? I hope it isn't too tight." It doesn't escape my sense of irony, however suppressed, that the goddess of motherhood helped jealous Hephaestus fashion the necklace that cursed all my children to suffer and die. And blackened my womb to soon give way to miscarriages and barrenness.

Before my parts shriveled, I had a son and four daughters.

Semele, my youngest. How she'd curl close to me during thunderstorms and strum the lyre. Her blonde hair caught red in the sunlight. Beautiful. Hopeful. Dead.

Slewn by Hera when Zeus slept with her, and the mother-goddess learned of it by taking the form of a trusted friend. My daughter, betrayed. Struck by lightning. A pillar of ash with only a fetus left in the crumbling pile.

My youngest daughter, always willing to talk, hold my hand, and brush my hair, was my closest companion. Even when I never fed any of them, even when having the king's children was more of an obligation than a desire. Unlike my other children, Semele didn't grow tired and frustrated with my deep melancholia.

My eyes sting, and my cheeks and throat flush with shame.

I cannot say anything. I cannot weep.

Steeling myself, hands clasped before me, I offer a placid smile. "Like all the gifts of the gods, it's perfect. No mortal could hope to create a necklace even half as splendid." This is my lot in life. Queen Harmonia, bringing peace to vanquish discord. In return, I live well enough, though I wish I could do more. Cadmus prefers that I remain inside the palace.

"That's wonderful." As one of the attendants feeds her, she daintily accepts a plump, red grape into her mouth. "Really, I would hope your madness has abated by now. How much feces did you manage to throw on the walls?"

"None, my lady. It was never like that." Centuries of melancholia and apathy. Something doing a pendulum swing to panic and paranoia. Not dignified, but not theatrical. Not the crown of rue a doomed maiden wears or the stage play madmen used for japes.

That disappoints her. "I see. Ah, I remember, it was urine with you, wasn't it?" She offers a starry smile. "I don't want to keep you from your husband. Please, Mad Queen, go enjoy your festivities."

I prickle. Mad Queen Harmonia. Ever since Hephaestus made the twin serpent necklace, shaped like a horseshoe, bearing hard around my nape like a vise, that's all I am. Pathetic. Irrational. Sent for my own good to the westernmost tower of this palace to sulk and weep, only allowed to embroider or do anything under steady watch. Fed by maids, given few books, until my sanctuary deepened my living dreams. I lived in my own unreality, but at least I was easily controlled in a gilded cage. Not much has changed. Except my physical pain with the necklace has worsened, but the bite keeps me tethered to this world.

I swallow the lump in my throat. If I don't, I will cry.

Or worse, become angry. Ugly. Truly mad. Nothing is more hideous than a queen who loses her composure, slips off the pedestal.

Hera pretends I'm no longer there when I say, "Please, give King Zeus my regards." When he isn't busy with one of his mistresses.

What an awful thought, I chide myself as I stroll away. I shouldn't be so bitter.

I pity her. She's the goddess of marriage, raped by her brother Zeus and used and humiliated by him. When she tried to revolt, she was further debased. He's all she has, but she doesn't have him at all. No one cared about her pain, the trauma he inflicted on her, the whiplash his kindness and charm do to the mind, so why should she care about others' anguish? Every day, I fight to not become embittered.

When the wound around the left serpent head leaks, it burns my fingers when I touch the suppurations. As if the snakes molder my skin with venom, letting me rot as a living cadaver should.

I should be grateful. I am grateful.

***