And wait.

And wait.

I preserve my eyes open. Wanting my final moments to see that Apollo is okay. That he’s healed.

“The diadem!” shouts Chiron. “Placed on the crown of flowers!”

My eyes snap to the pedestal at my aspect.

The throne and the crown.

Each had been wanted for the ritual.

I’m the supply of the facility, the crown is the conduit, and the throne is the sink.

Throwing myself up from the throne, I sprint for the pedestal. Tossing the black veil off the pedestal, I grasp the diadem.

A lot for a crown of flowers.

This crown appeared nearer to a diadem of loss of life.

Thorns crawl across the circlet. Threatening to chop my pores and skin even now ought to I be lower than cautious.

As I drive myself again down on the crown, I don the crown.

The electrifying sensation of magic surges by means of my pores and skin. The hair on my arms stands on finish.

Gritting my enamel, I slam my eyes shut. Quivering, my nails dig into the flowery carved wooden of the armrests.

No quantity of vitality can open my eyes.

The sensation was odd. Not painful however uncomfortable. Electrifying and exhausting. Exhilaration flows within me. I really feel like I am flying on the clouds but in addition dragging my toes within the depths of the underworld. Mucking alongside, pulling the filth and rocks together with me.

Slowly my shuddering subsides. Apollo, Arista, and Artemis are as silent as loss of life.

Or possibly I am mud? Now that will be merciless. Unable to speak or unable to maneuver however nonetheless being. Listening to every little thing happening round me.

My breath quickens. Flashes of individuals, of cities and the dominion fly by my thoughts’s eyes. Artemis, Athena, Chiron, Apollo, individuals who work within the palace and strangers. Nymphs, satyrs, centaurs, and others. All turning to the weather. To stone, to flowers, to bushes, to marble statues and extra.

The faces of the women who got here earlier than me. All terrified to sit down on the throne and don the crown. None totally figuring out what precisely to anticipate. Particularly the early ones. Blood drips from the thorns of the diadem. Sitting on the throne. Mud spreading by means of them like leaping into water. Beginning low with their toes. Crawling up their legs, midsections, their garments turning to clay too. Till they take their final breaths. Eyes glasses from tears.

Typically two are taken on the identical time. The second maiden stands terrified at their buddy’s destiny and their very own. Combating the guards was ineffective. Their destiny was already forged. Both Athena, Apollo or the guards would push them down onto the throne whereas the opposite pressured the diadem on their heads.

Some had been extra frightened than the others. Much less prepared to just accept. Apollo and Athena would stand, every dragging a lady to the throne. Every beside them. Forcing them down. Holding them to the throne. Shifting to clay proper beneath their fingertips.

“That is for the nice of the dominion,” Apollo would inform the opposite maidens. “You are courageous. Thanks on your service to my court docket.” Comfortless phrases to those that are completely terrified.

Regardless of the preventing.

Regardless of their pleas.

Regardless of their tears.

Flashes of every maiden and their destiny. Turning into a clay statue. Being positioned in a kiln to set their kind. Brush strokes portray them into their former likeness. Set within the library on a sculpted throne to be revered. At their toes lies their identify. Thrown within the library like all of the earlier maiden’s taken from the mortal realm.

Some with names I acknowledge. Traces of individuals whose descendants nonetheless stay on the town.

Laying forgotten. Mud coated their kinds within the library. Every sitting on her throne. All with totally different expressions. Some are in worry, some are stony calm, others smiling bravely.

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