Ghost Queen in the House of Love

35. Melinoë

"We must make gods or die. / We must kill gods or die," -Adonis, from Death (tr. Samuel Hazo)

My sleep is dreamless, but all I can think of is how much I achingly feel like a woman, and I enjoy it. Never did I consider intimacy outside the occasional erotic scroll I would take to bed. Of course, I would hide them, insisting I had no need for romance.

But in truth, it was because I thought romance was insipid, and because I felt so different. I didn't realize, as it's acceptable to be chaste forever, it's also acceptable to wait quite  long time to have feelings and act on them. Often, women must have sex for obligation, to please their husbands and give them children, and I didn't want that. Didn't want someone who'd expect me to fulfill their whims and grow angry and bored when I went through long periods of disinterest. Or with the gods, it's often quick and casual, and that didn't feel right for me.

Eyes closed, only a sliver of chilly light creeping in, I feel the space beside me with my unfurled fingers.

It's cold. Empty.

Blearily, I crack my eyelids open and search for Hedone. I can smell the sweet lemon of her hair, and a few black curls linger on the pillow, but that's all that remains of her.

Something is wrong.

No, Noë. You're overreacting. She could be in the washroom. Out by the trees. With Adonis or Caeneus.

My skin and runes ripple, taut. With my arm, I lift myself into a sitting position. When I swallow, my throat protests, a pang shooting down it.

Something is wrong.

My eyes sting. I can't prove anything; it's like when Mother sometimes would pace the halls of onyx and bone, herself a phantom.

Attention falling to the abandoned, half-eaten pomegranate, cleaved in half, I sit and redress in my rumpled clothes, slinging the cloak over my shoulders. When I look, everything in this room that was Hedone's is gone, except that sweet citrus fragrance, where the sugar almost eclipses the sour. The cloak I made her, gone, though the other clothes remain. That gives me hope.

Going to the other side of the bed, I slip my hand under the pillow where she slept, and I don't feel the darkness tug back, that phial she showed me.

She's gone. Gone. It sinks into my bones, that despair. And a twinge of betrayal. Last night, I gave myself to her in ways I never gave myself to anyone, in ways I may never again. It's so rare for me to feel arousal, but when I did, once I was so close to her our hearts pulsed against one another, it was gentle and good.

I didn't think of the sky leering over our heads, the inevitability of our separation. The goddess of ghosts, born from my mother's anguish, who should've never been born. The goddess of hedonism, born from her mother's trials. Kindred spirits in knowing grief since we were in the womb.

But did I not say I am also made of life, that I've created life? My gardens, my healings, this respite for ghosts and wanderers. All this time, I cannot bear to think I was only outrunning my destiny, only to realize it was futiles. The Olympians always win. Zeus always wins.

I must find Hedone. Hope thorns my heart. The tighter its hold, the more I'll bleed.

When I exit the bedroom, Penelope stands in the hall.

"What is it, girl?" I whisper.

Coming up to me, she shuffles her paws on the deep auburn floral rug and whines.

"Yes," I whisper, pressing my palm atop her wrinkled head. "I know." When my fingers rake through her fur, she doesn't wag her tail, and I feel so tired.