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There was a book her mother used to read to her as a child, back when her mother used to read to her at all. It was called Myths and Folktales from the Old Countries. Her favourite was of King Midas and the Golden Touch — the prideful king, cursed to turn everything he laid hands upon to gold. She always thought him a fool — he had everything he could ever want! Food, love, easy laughter. What else could he need? What was gold in comparison to riches like that?
She thinks she understands now. Her crown is gold. Her throne is gold. Even her fucking eyeliner is gold. Bea says it makes a statement, that it marks her as elite. In the corner of her eye, Emilio changes his trademark obsidian earrings to those of solid gold. She feels equally elated and distraught. Elated — because he is hers now, more hers than anyone else’s, and anyone who even thinks of laying a finger on him will see those earrings and remember the reason why her soldiers started calling her Novikov with no questions. Distraught — because she can tell he hates it. She can tell he feels more trapped than he ever did with his father on the throne — and it’s her fault. But what is she supposed to do? Abdicate?
She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She’d sooner die than give up her power.
And so the story goes.
Midas was frightened. What could he have done to deserve such a thing? Surely he was a noble man — and faithful too! The gods couldn’t punish him for this. And yet he found that he could not bring himself to stop. His world was turning to gold, just as he had so foolishly wished. His lover, that miracle boy, tried consoling him. In his anguish, in his pain, he did not realize the damage he did until it was too late, gripping his husband’s wrist tight and watching as beneath his fingers, he, too, turned to gold.
And Midas was alone.
Her skin feels as if it is boiling alive. It’s so hot — why was it so hot? She looks around and the flames leap for her at every turn. She’s barefoot, her slip of a dress threatening to catch in the fire. She remembers it in flashes.
There was a party. She’d had a flute of champagne in one hand, and Emilio’s arm in the other. She’d ordered her dress to be made special, a bright red so reminiscent of the years ago. Why was it important to remember the years gone by?
Emilio was looking at her like he was scared of her. But then, he’d been like that for months. Perhaps he’d always been like that. Perhaps she’d been too greedy to notice.
But — no, surely not when she came home? Surely not when the shouting and shooting was replaced with hoofbeats and a spark in her heart as she came closer and closer to the palace? Surely not when his yell came down the way, the joy in his eyes.
Surely not on their wedding day — even when she’d hated it. Even when her dress was a perfect fit and yet felt so terribly, terribly wrong. Surely not when she’d reached him, and ripped off her veil, and had only one thought in mind: if it had to be someone, I’m glad it was him.
Surely he’d not been afraid then.
She’d danced, the champagne bubbling down her throat and tickling her inhibitions. Emilio had slipped away as he always did and she picked a guard — black hair, a bit taller than her. Stockier than what she wanted, but then she hadn’t had what she wanted in a long time. She flashed her eyes at him, turning her neck so the gold caught the chandelier light.
There is always a moment when you can tell. When the formality slips away and they don’t care anymore. When you walk into a room and every eye is on you, and you know the moment they decided they wanted you more than they wanted their status.
She hadn’t been able to catch it with Emilio, but he had been — special.
There’s nothing after that, just black. The smoke is starting to make a home in her lungs, and she tries to remember, again.
Emilio had disappeared, and so had Bea and Joseph, gone from their posts and that wasn’t normal, was it?
She had taken another flute of champagne and made small talk with a visiting ambassador.
They’d been discussing something trivial — trade routes, the outlook on the new shipment of hibiscus that was set to come through. And then — a boom. Screaming. Blood in her teeth, gas in her throat, her uniform stained with someone else’s insides.
But no, she was at the party, she was at the party, and she wasn’t wearing an army uniform, it was a red dress, and the ambassador’s liver was in her hands, and she was screaming, too. Everything was red. Red and gold, dripping down her cheeks and onto the floor, where people were falling.
Her skin feels as if it is boiling alive. It’s so hot — why was it so hot? She looks around and the flames leap for her at every turn. She’s barefoot, her slip of a dress threatening to catch in the fire.
Somewhere along the way, she must have lost her shoes. She’s trapped, trapped again. She feels faint. She won’t go out like this. She can’t — she is a god! She is better than them all.
She’s clawing at the floor, at the windows, her throat a jagged edge and her voice all but forgotten in the chaos.
There is something lodged in her gut as she climbs, slowly, painfully, out of the low kitchen window. It’s not a bit of rebar, or a blade. It’s some horrid feeling, some combination of guilt and sorrow and rage. She tries to scream but she can’t.
It’s raining, and in her mind’s eye it looks like gold.