The House of Atreus | ONC 2023 Shortlist

XXII

We take the horses to get to the palace. Orestes mounts his brown mare, while Pylades helps me climb onto his own white-speckled stallion. I sway in the saddle and he has to grab my waist to keep me from sliding down. His hands let me go immediately as if he's burned himself. I can't see his face without turning but I feel him shift a little uncomfortably behind me. Even though I've petted and fed many of the horses in the palace's stables as a child, it's my first time on horseback. Learning to ride isn't exactly part of a princess's education. I've always wanted to learn it though, maybe because I often pictured myself running away if I could've.

My brother and his friend let me dismount again before reaching the palace gates, out of eyesight. They'll enter through the gates, pretending, once again, to be messengers sent from Athens to bring news of the Prince's unfortunate death and deliver his urn to his home. I will be entering through an entrance the servants use so as not to be seen with them.

My heart is in my mouth when I look after them as they steer their horses back onto the beat-down cobbled path. I remain by the side of the road for a few moments, willing myself to calm down. Then I slip into the shadows of the fig trees that grow by the side of the walls. I walk briskly, stepping over fallen branches until I reach a small iron gate that barely comes up to the height of my shoulders. It's overgrown with ivy, bearing red and black berries, hidden from anyone except those, who know where to look.

I first learnt of it when I was twelve. I remember Xanthe and Cilissa walking ahead of me in the dusky light, leading me across the courtyard and the gardens in hurried steps and disappearing through a tiny gap in the vines. I ducked through the low gate only to emerge in between the shrubs that grew rampant outside of the palace walls. I knew it was secret from the way I'd caught them whispering about it to one another one evening. I knew my mother had forbidden them to meet up in the woods with the women from the village to worship some foreign Goddess.

I'd begged them to take me ever since I'd noticed they were sneaking off each month on the waning moon. I didn't care much for cults or worship but anything that my mother had forbidden, immediately seemed to catch my interest. I spent so much time being angry at her. Angry for sending my older sister away to be a priestess on some godsforsaken island I'd never even heard of because Achilles didn't want to marry her. Angry that she'd let another man into her bed while my father was away at war. But most of all because she'd cast me to the side as if I didn't matter. So I'd somehow wound up worshipping Hecate. Not because I revered her, but because I was trying to rebel.

Now I step through the bushes outside of the wall, careful not to tangle my skirts in the branches and pass through the gate into the gardens. I walk along the well-worn, familiar paths until I slip into the palace.

The marble floors are icy beneath my bare feet except when they land on one of the woven carpets. I can still pick out the ones I made myself by the threads that stick out awkwardly in places. I'm much better at it now, I had to be or I wouldn't be able to sell any of my handmade goods in the market in order to buy food.

When I near the megaron I hear indistinct voices drift out into the hall. I know I should go on, continue towards the inner courtyard and beyond, to where the family quarters and the Queen's chamber are. Instead, I linger by one of the doorways trying to the conversation inside.

My brother's voice is a deep mumble that is answered by our stepfather. He sounds uninterested, unimpressed even though I can't make out the words he's saying. I step closer, into the doorway, but remain hidden in the shadows.

"You recognise me?" Orestes sounds surprised, but so am I.

I never took Aegisthus as the most observant character. Unlike Mother. She has always been sharp. She could always tell when I was lying as a child. It was almost as if she could smell it on me. It took years to perfect and maintain an impassive face around her. I think if she didn't hate me so much, she might actually be proud. Hiding her feelings behind a mask is what she does best, after all.

I glance into the great hall, towards the fireplace, where the throne is. Two figures are standing at the foot of the platform it sits on, Orestes and Pylades. And above them, flanked by two stone lions thrones Aegisthus. One of his elbows is resting casually on the armrest, his hand propping up his chin. I want to run to him, to scream and tear him out of my father's throne. He does not deserve to be sitting there, he doesn't even deserve to be in this very room.

How I hate him. For everything he stole from me. My mother, my father, my life in the palace.

"I've seen you grow up, boy." He looks down at my brother with a sort of bored expression that spikes my annoyance. "It's hard to forget that face when you look like your grandfather."

Orestes remains silent for a moment and I can't tell if he's hesitating or calculating his next move. But then he suddenly starts forward, climbing the stairs of the platform in two big strides, until he's right in front of the King. There's a sword in his hand when he says, "Then you know why I'm here."

Aegisthus nods, solemn. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry, if that's what you expected to hear, boy. Because I am not."

"Don't call me boy!" My brother's voice belts out, cutting him off. He raises his sword arm, putting the tip of his weapon beneath the other man's chin. "Stand up and face me like a man, coward. This will be nothing like what you did to my father."

Aegisthus' mouth quirks into a smile but he obliges and stands. "I did what I had to do," he says as he faces Orestes. He stares at him, challenging the Prince with his eyes. "Can you say the same about yourself?"

But Orestes doesn't give him a chance to say more. He thrusts his arm forward in a flash, letting out a yell that seems to resonate in my very core. The soles of his boots scuff on the stone floors as his body follows the movement of his sword. It propels him forward, bringing him face-to-face with his opponent. There's a horrible squelching sound and then a pained gasp. Orestes looks down at Aegisthus, but I can't see the look in his eye.

He lifts his other hand to prop it against the older man's shoulder, holding him in place as he steps back. There's another wet sound as he pulls out the sword with an almost impatient gesture, followed by another groan. Aegisthus slumps forward and stumbles when my brother lets him go. He looks down at himself, at the crimson stain that spreads on his chiton. His hands come up to his stomach, stopping short before touching it, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. He coughs and blood spills over his lips, down his chin and throat.

"Like Father, like son," he rasps when his knees give out and he drops to the floor. His back is against the stone lion now and he looks up at my brother, who's still looming over him, face dark and unreadable, sword hanging at his side. Blood drips from the blade like tiny scarlet beads that burst once they hit the marble.

"Please," whispers Aegisthus, spluttering more blood down his front and I can't tell if he's begging to be let go or asking to be relieved of the torture of bleeding out.

Orestes lifts his arm again and drives the sword into his chest. Blood pools at his feet, soaking his boots and the striped fur that hangs down over the edge of the throne.

The King is dead.