122 BC

Gubernatorial Villa
Ephysus
Cimmeria

hektē hōra

Metis stands naked before the silver mirror Anaxagoras has accepted as favour from a less than honest trader.
Her hair is almost white and falls amply to her waist, carrying the same vibrance as when she was a child.
Her skin is that of a young woman. Hidden from the sun by Anaxagoras’ decree, its pallor exposes the blue of veins that pulse beneath it… particularly this one… 
Guided by reflection, she lifts a finger to her throat to trace the path it wends from jaw through cleavage to where it falls into the blonde foliage that had marked her life’s first movement from child to woman.
She strokes the developing outline of her stomach. It is warm under her hand… these days warmer than elsewhere on her body. 
She closes her eyes, sensing it through fingertips, while wondering if her present condition is more want or need… or if that want or need was ever hers.
She stares into the mirror… into eyes Anaxagoras insists are kept behind the newly-fashionable veil… to wonder at their familiar dawn-sky blue with the fleck of green that she insists is no flaw, but the fault in her beauty that binds her to him.
Achlys holds out a breechcloth.
Metis shakes her head.
‘Allow my freedom from this. It is not often I feel so exposed and it is… exciting.’
She snatches the cloth from Achlys, throwing it into the air. ‘Could we even say… dangerous?’
‘Hē Kyría mou… your condition… is this not danger enough?’
Metis laughs out loud at Achlys’ timidity.
‘This is to be a child, Achlys. Not a daemon.’
‘But my mother’s sister died of childbirth.’
Metis catches one end of the cloth in her maid’s hand and draws her close.
‘Your aunt died ‘in’ childbirth, Achlys, not ‘of’ it.’
‘There is a difference, Kyría mou?’
Metis wraps the cloth around both their waists, binding Achlys to her skin so the girl can feel the warmth radiating from her belly.
She whispers in her ear. ‘A world of difference, Achlys.’
Achlys pushes herself away… the fabric slides and a gap appears between them.
‘But… Kyría mou, my aunt is still dead.’
Metis tightens her grip and draws Achlys close again.
‘And I am still naked, Achlys. This happens nowhere else between my toilet and his bed so I shall revel in it. Join me. Come and read the story this fabulous silver tells of your body.’
‘Hē Kyría mou, my frail body would shine no light beside yours.’
‘All women shine light, Achlys. Are we both not women? Or do you fear the shadow that name casts over us?’
‘I do not know what fear this would be, Kyría mou.’
Achlys turns away, catching a glimpse of her indecision in their joint, silvered reflection. She has never known her Kyría shine so brightly. Metis’ hair alone shames the light while her own bones do little more than shape the cloth draped over them.
Metis gently pulls Achlys closer to the mirror.
‘Do you fear me, Achlys?’
Seeing herself and Metis reflected so tellingly brings a waiting truth to Achlys’ lips.
‘I fear that one deep breath from you would consume me, Kyría mou.’
Metis turns Achlys around. The girl’s eyes show a truth caught by the mirror and the depth of time it has lain behind every deference… each trim of cloth… each strand of wayward hair addressed.
‘If I promise to hold that breath, will you touch me?’
‘Hē Kyría mou!’
‘I want your hands, Achlys. I need to know them and I need them to know me.’
Achlys takes a step back and hides her hands but Metis reaches out to take them. She places one each side of her own face and smiles into the astonished look in the girl’s eyes. For a moment she is afraid of the change this may mean for this fragile bird, but even though Achlys seems little more than skin over bone, there is a vibrance in her eyes… and a growing one in her fingers.
She places those fingers against her lips.
‘Begin here, Achlys.’
‘And then, Kyría mou?’
Metis reaffirms her stance… bracing against the touch of another in a way she has long needed.
‘Make a map of me, Achlys. I want you to find me… know me… I want to hear the names you give my hidden places… but most of all…’ She shows Achlys the soft skin becoming stretched by the impending child. ‘…I want you to remember me as I am now.’
Achlys’ hands tremble as they pass from Metis’ face to her shoulders. Her fingers trace the softer skin under Metis’ arms as if afraid to ruffle nascent flight feathers she might find there. She turns Metis around, spreading fingers wide to traverse Metis’ spine until she reaches the cleft where she pauses at a darker patch of skin.
She kneels to look more closely at the mark.
‘You have injury, Kyría mou?’
Metis swallows air like a woman drowning while Achlys’ fingers circle the perfect cheeks surrounding the shape.
‘It came… at birth… Sunbird… mother tried… remove it… that’s why… now… so faint.’
‘It must have been a thing of beauty, Kyría mou.’
‘Not so as you, Achlys.’
‘No… no… Kyría mou. I am only…’
‘Achlys. You are about to say you are only a woman, but to be a woman is a thing of beauty in itself.’
‘Beside you… Kyría mou…’
‘Achlys… erōménē mou… How thin is skin?’
‘Eî hē erōménē mou?’
‘Naí, Achlys… eimí sḗ erōménē.’
‘Then where shall I begin this map of our love, Kyría mou?’
‘Kiss my Sunbird, Achlys. The rest will follow.’
‘I am afraid to kiss you, erōménē mou. If my lips should cause you to take that single breath…’
‘And if I do, Achlys… what then?’
‘If you left me I would die without air.’
‘Achlys, if you place your lips on my Sunbird, we are bound forever.’
‘You would wish this, Kyría mou?’
‘Achlys… kiss me wherever you will but in this moment I need your lips on my skin.’
Achlys leans forward… trembling with fear at the power this woman is taking over her life… feeling betrayed by her own lips that moisten in readiness and draw her to the kiss.
As her lips touch the faded mark, an energy surge rips through her. The light touch of her hands turns to a grasp of flesh.
Metis is silent… head back… eyes closed… serenity in her face. She takes a deep, wild breath… and holds it.