The House of Atreus | ONC 2023 Shortlist

XVII

I close my eyes.

Two men are walking on either side of me, gripping my upper arms, guiding me. Or are the guarding me? As if I could even attempt to run and hope to make it farther than just two steps. The army has gathered all around us. Hundreds of bodies are pressing in on all sides. My guards have to shove men aside left and right to clear a path for us between them.

The ground slopes slightly upward as we walk but there's grass here, not just sand and dirt, though it's dry and yellow. I stumble slightly when we reach the platform. My feet are heavier than usual as I climb the steps that are made from marble, grey and unyielding. I wish I could be like one of the marble statues looking at me from across the square. Unblinking. Unmoving.

The altar is bleak, a slab of stone, large and wide and as high as my hipbone. It's bare except for a large brass phiale sitting in the middle of it, glinting golden in the sunlight. It's empty. For now.

I feel the crowd close behind me as I ascend the platform, building an impenetrable shield of bodies behind my back as they push against each other, trying to get a spot in the first row.

Two priests in their long chitons stand on either side of the altar. One carries a torch that he uses to light the ritual fire, while the other comes towards me and places a hand on my shoulder. I almost slump forward when the guards let go of me. The priest leads me across the wide platform toward the altar where my father and uncle are standing, waiting.

I will myself not to look but as we near them, my gaze strays towards Father and my chest seizes when he doesn't look back at me. He stares right ahead, towards the crowd behind me, but off into nothing. His jaw is set and I can see that he's clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles have turned wide. I avert my eyes and instead look ahead at the horizon that stretches in the distance. I can see the ocean from here and it almost brings a smile to my face as my eyelids flutter and I taste the salty spray of it on my lip.

The sun is past its zenith now, a radiant orange orb that blinds me as I trudge forward, steered by the priest at my side. I'm thankful for his hand on my elbow that seems to ground me, I fear I might just lift off and float away into the sky if it weren't for him. The day's heat is still beating down but I feel the hairs on my forearms rising as goosebumps erupt across my skin. My feet are bare and cold on the marble beneath them even as rivulets of sweat run down between my shoulder blades.

Too soon we reach the marble altar. We round it until I'm standing behind it, facing the crowd now, the ocean at my back and I wish I could at least die looking at the waves instead of the faces that gawk at me. There's an eerie silence surrounding the square in front of the platform as if everyone is collectively holding their breaths, waiting for the bloodshed.

Achilles isn't in the crowd, yet my gaze still searches for his golden-haloed head in the heap of onlookers. Even though he seemed moved by my words, he tried to hold me back. He tried to reason one last time with the men that came to his tent, armed with spears and swords. He couldn't fight them, he only had words. "Will you be able to call yourselves honourable men if you let this happen? Will you be heroes if you partake in such a brutal crime?" They didn't answer him, of course, they were just obeying orders. And who knows what crimes they might still have to commit in the war? In the end, Achilles refused to come, refused to watch.

I blink and the second priest has brought over a wooden box that he holds out to my father. Time seems to pass both in a blur and agonisingly slow. It's disorienting. I can't believe it's only been two days since I sat at the loom next to Xanthe and talked to her about wanting to be free of the Gods' will. And now I am here, a slave to the same Gods' whims. In the end, it was all an illusion. To think I could have a semblance of free will. I, the child of a cursed bloodline. My ancestors took that away from me a long time ago, I was just too blind to not see it earlier.

Mother, in a way, is still too naive, though she is the most clever woman I know. She thinks she can still fight my father's curse. I let my eyes sweep over the gathered people again and as if she's sensed my thoughts, there she is, in the middle of the crowd. It's looser around her, the men next to her seem to lean away from her, standing at an arm's length from her tall figure. Maybe it's the anger radiating off of her that I can feel even from a distance. Maybe it's the stench of impending doom, of heartbreak that clings onto her that keeps them away. But then, that same fragrance seems to pollute the air of this square and spare no one in it.

I look at Mother, begging her for forgiveness with my eyes and time seems to stretch as she looks back, locking us in a moment. I wish I could say a thousand emotions flit across her face in that instant between blinks, but she's as stoic as ever. I know she doesn't approve of my choice and everything in her is screaming and on the verge of tears, but she won't allow herself to let them loose.

I'm sorry, I mouth at her as my vision goes blurry. I inhale a shaky breath and bite the inside of my lip. Blood wells up way too readily as if it can't wait to be spilt, coating my tongue and the inside of my mouth and leaving a bitter tangy taste.

The ritual dagger is sitting in my father's hands now. It's golden and shiny in the slowly setting sun, almost blinding as the light reflects off of it. The blade is curved slightly, clean and polished carefully though it won't remain that way for long. The hilt is inlaid with gems, rubies and sapphires, and intricately carved around them in swooping swirls. It looks too beautiful, too precious to be an instrument for killing.

When I blink again, Father is standing behind me. I can feel his presence at my back, the warmth of his body radiating from it. I'd just need to shift my weight a little and I would lean against his chest, hear his heartbeat one last time. I wonder if it goes as quickly as mine. The scent of his leather armour envelops me as he reaches out his free hand and I can feel his thumb stroking the back of my neck, gentle even now. His fingers are cold and I flinch at the contact.

The priests take hold of my arms and at first, I don't know if they mean to hold me down forcibly. Everything in me screams to buckle, to try and shake them off but instead, I slack at their touch. I allow them to tilt me forward until my throat is exposed to the crowd before us, suspended above the waiting phiale on the altar.

Then father's other hand reaches around and only I can sense it trembling. The knife hovers in front of me. I can't see it with my head tilted back, but I feel its cold edge just a breath away from my skin. The blade seems to whirr in the quiet air around me, singing for my blood.

But all I can think about is that I didn't get to say goodbye to Elektra and Orestes. Not properly at least. I wonder if they'll even remember me when I'm gone. Or will I be one of those girls from the myths? Will I just be a brief chapter in someone else's story? Someone more important than me. Waiting to be slaughtered for the sins of others.

We only ever get to hear one side of the story and it's not that of the victims, of the people left behind. Theirs are the secret lives that slip between the cracks.

I can feel Father's pain and regret seeping from him as he breathes shakily against my neck. Not even he could avert this destiny. But Mother's gaze is murderous.

The blade moves, drawing blood and I close my eyes for the last time.