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And wait.
And wait.
I keep my eyes open. Wanting my last moments to see that Apollo is okay. That he is healed.
“The diadem!” shouts Chiron. “Put on the crown of flowers!”
My eyes snap to the pedestal at my side.
The throne and the crown.
Both were needed for the ritual.
I’m the source of the power, the crown is the conduit, and the throne is the sink.
Throwing myself up from the throne, I dash for the pedestal. Tossing the black veil off the pedestal, I grasp the diadem.
So much for a crown of flowers.
This crown seemed closer to a diadem of death.
Thorns crawl around the circlet. Threatening to cut my skin even now should I be less than careful.
As I force myself back down on the crown, I don the crown.
The electrifying sensation of magic surges through my skin. The hair on my arms stands on end.
Gritting my teeth, I slam my eyes shut. Quivering, my nails dig into the elaborate carved wood of the armrests.
No amount of energy can open my eyes.
The feeling was odd. Not painful but uncomfortable. Electrifying and exhausting. Exhilaration flows inside of me. I feel like I'm flying on the clouds but also dragging my feet in the depths of the underworld. Mucking along, pulling the dirt and rocks along with me.
Slowly my shuddering subsides. Apollo, Arista, and Artemis are as silent as death.
Or maybe I'm mud? Now that would be cruel. Unable to talk or unable to move but still being. Listening to everything going on around me.
My breath quickens. Flashes of people, of towns and the kingdom fly by my mind’s eyes. Artemis, Athena, Chiron, Apollo, people who work in the palace and strangers. Nymphs, satyrs, centaurs, and others. All turning to the elements. To stone, to flowers, to trees, to marble statues and more.
The faces of the girls who came before me. All terrified to sit on the throne and don the crown. None fully knowing what exactly to expect. Especially the early ones. Blood drips from the thorns of the diadem. Sitting on the throne. Mud spreading through them like jumping into water. Starting low with their feet. Crawling up their legs, midsections, their clothes turning to clay too. Until they take their last breaths. Eyes glasses from tears.
Sometimes two are taken at the same time. The second maiden stands terrified at their friend’s fate and their own. Fighting the guards was useless. Their fate was already cast. Either Athena, Apollo or the guards would push them down onto the throne while the other forced the diadem on their heads.
Some were more frightened than the others. Less willing to accept. Apollo and Athena would stand, each dragging a girl to the throne. Each beside them. Forcing them down. Holding them to the throne. Shifting to clay right under their fingertips.
“This is for the good of the kingdom,” Apollo would tell the other maidens. “You're brave. Thank you for your service to my court.” Comfortless words to those who are utterly terrified.
No matter the fighting.
No matter their pleas.
No matter their tears.
Flashes of each maiden and their fate. Becoming a clay statue. Being placed in a kiln to set their form. Brush strokes painting them into their former likeness. Set in the library on a sculpted throne to be revered. At their feet lies their name. Thrown in the library like all the previous maiden’s taken from the mortal realm.
Some with names I recognize. Lines of people whose descendants still live in town.
Laying forgotten. Dust coated their forms in the library. Each sitting on her throne. All with different expressions. Some are in fear, some are stony calm, others smiling bravely.
