THE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE MY ROOM was a scary place.
I had tried multiple times to escape, usually at noon, when I knew that the servants standing guard switched. But each time, I had only managed a few steps before my heart started pounding, my vision fogging, my limbs trembling like dried leaves in the wind.
My mother's god-praying wail would echo in my ears, deafening and horrifying, and I imagined her head bending down and hitting the floor multiple times in manic piety, begging for the gods to forgive her. Her red mane of hair would spike up and be ripped off by her tight hands, leaving bald spots behind, a punishment for allowing me to escape mine, although I had no idea what I was punished for.
If I got out of the corridor, in the outside world, I would easily get hurt; the glimpse of Sun through my barred window couldn't measure up with the real, burning beast it was, and my skin would quickly turn red and aching.
Just a playful push from my siblings would break my bones, and I was sure that even a word from them would send me in a miserable state, if this state I was in wasn't miserable already.
Here I was, more pitiful than a rat, a child who stayed in his own room and couldn't escape, not because it was locked, because it wasn't, but due to his cowardice.
A forgotten child, an unneeded child, whose only worth was his beauty, a beauty no one could even see, a beauty that was reduced every day by the lack of exercise and malnutrition.
Every time I returned to my room from that damned corridor, I felt an immense sense of relief when I lay again on the soft mattress of my pallet; and then, I was swarmed by guilt, it ate my weak insides, I thought of my crying mother, and I shuddered at her vivid wail ringing in my head.
I would weakly tap my fist against the wall, and then quickly stop at the first signal of pain in my knuckles. I would grab one of the scrolls I had never returned to the archives and read it, and re-read it, again and anew, till my eyelids grew heavy and the parchment grew wet with tears.
All the meals brought, no matter how succulent, tasted even worse than what I imagined a piece of parchment would feel like in my mouth; I had a desire to retch it all out, and perhaps the pungent smell of my own vomit would bring me to my senses again.
I was a prisoner in the palace I was a prince in, and I had lost all hope, predicting my days to continue on and on this way, until the rot of my mind spread to my body, too. The only thing I wished for is for Death to come soon.
Thanatos, I begged. Come reap my soul, and quickly so. Be merciful.
Thanatos didn't listen to my prayers. It was as if he was playing a cruel game with me.
In the end, it wasn't the God of Death that came. It was someone else.
The only sibling of mine I hadn't grown to abhor.
Daphne.
She wasn't really a sibling. Although we shared the same father, she was a product of his laying with the gardener's daughter, just after Argalus had been born. She was allowed to stay in the palace, to help out the maids, but she didn't have her own room, having to share it with servants.
She starkly resembled her mother, who died at childbirth; the green eyes, the soft brows, the auburn locks. Only the slight cleft in her chin showed she was sired by my father.
"You look quite filthy," she said, appearing out of nowhere that day, leaning on the opened door, her hands crossed in front of her chest, which was still flat and boyish despite her already being twelve. "What did they do to you?"
I weakly lifted my head off my smelly mattress. My mind was in a daze. How long had passed since I last saw the servants? Maybe a day, maybe two.
I hadn't seen Daphne in quite a long time. I haven't seen no one from my family, in fact. She had grown taller, her once round face tapered and narrowed, her eyebrows became bolder, her curls longer and thicker.
I tried to speak, but I could only manage a croak. My throat was as dry as the grass in summer.
Her grin disappeared, and her brows kneaded in worry.
"Wait here," she commanded and quickly disappeared.
Of course I waited. It was the only thing I was fit for.
She promptly returned, carrying a carafe full of water in her arms, along with a bowl. Tightening her lip, she managed to bring it to my bedside table. She poured water into the bowl and even the sound seemed relishing to my ears.
"Drink," she ordered.
I licked my dry, bloodied lips and leaned over, too weak to even lift up my body. I drank like a dog, the water splashing everywhere, creating a mess.
Daphne watched me silently, pouring more water at my silent nods, and I didn't want to raise my gaze and meet hers. I was too afraid that I'll see her green eyes are full of pity.
I didn't want pity. I just wanted to be treated like anyone else.
I gulped down the water, my tongue swirling as I tried to force it down my throat. The carafe was half empty by the time I couldn't feel my thirst anymore.
"Do you feel better?", Daphne asked.
I nodded, swallowing the last drop left in my mouth. She stretched out her hands, and I was disappointed when I realized it wasn't to embrace me, but to help me sit up.
"Did you leave this room lately?"
I shook my head and pointed with my bony finger to the wooden basin in the other end of the room. It was filled with pungent, browned-yellow liquid.
Daphne wrinkled her nose. She understood. Just a glance at my dust-covered body must have revolted her, yet she didn't complain aloud.
We sat in silence; she, cross-legged, the harsh linen peplos being the only separation between the dirty floor and her body; and me, on my equally filthy mattress, hugging my knees, my weak head resting on my frail hands, swinging back and forth.
She was the one who spoke again.
"Do you know that your mother died?"
My body froze. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, pounding like the Fates knocking at my door.
My voice came out hoarse yet thin.
"W-what do you mean?"
Daphne sighed and ruffled her hair in exasperation.
"She had quite a wicked malady. It was quite tough to watch; her skin had turned all blue. She was fighting like a Makhai, but her body had to give out. The funeral pyre will be lit this evening."
I turned my head, and all the tendons in my neck hurt. Outside the barred window, the sun was coloring the sky a dark mauve color, setting behind the hills.
"You should assist," Daphne said. "You were her most beloved child, after all."
I scoffed. That was the first time I had showed signs of laughter in a long time.
Beloved child . If this was how she had shown her love, I'd prefer she had hated me and beaten me.
Daphne's green gaze was intense, like raw emeralds. "Will you go?"
The earth beneath my feet. The wind in my hair. The last rays of the Sun, kissing my skin.
I would probably die of the shock of experiencing that all after years of being deprived of it.
But even if I had to die, I needed to feel alive for just a moment.
"Yes", I said. "I will go."