8. Ophelia
OPHELIA
The party tonight is the most interesting thing on Ophelia’s calendar for the foreseeable future. If that doesn’t communicate how boring Priestess life is, she’s not sure what does.
“Ouch!” she yelps when Aika yanks too hard trying to pull her long, tight curls into a bun.
“Sorry, Phelia! You’ve just got so much hair,” Aika exclaims, not sounding sorry at all.
Dora braids Aika’s hair as Aika deals with Ophelia’s as Ophelia gets her eyeshadow palettes ready. A train of productivity, they are.
“You do have so much hair. It’s not fair,” Dora says, waving her own in front of Ophelia’s face and thus into their shared mirror.
The mirror was one of Ophelia’s first inventions—it follows the user around the room with a light refraction sensor.
Now it struggles to adjust to Dora’s dangling chestnut hair like it’s frantically shaking its head.
“Look at mine—paper-thin. The Forms really do pick favorites.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dora,” Ophelia says, rolling her eyes with a smile. “You’re beautiful. Everyone says so.”
“Hmmm, you might be right,” Dora concedes. “But you’re ethereal. Uncanny. Who else have you met with cocoa skin and golden eyes?”
“What about me?” Aika whines. “Someone compliment me!”
Dora hums before providing a succinct, “Eh.”
“Yeah, I haven’t heard anything nice,” Ophelia adds.
Aika gasps dramatically in offense and snaps her teeth near Ophelia’s ear, and Ophelia swoons backward into her arms.
“Oh, you’re much prettier when you’re acting like a wild animal,” she says. “Ravish me, you beast!”
She and Aika make eye contact and it only takes a second for them to fall apart into laughter.
“Stop moving, Aika,” Dora complains, tugging at Aika’s hair.
“But how else will Ophelia admit how dangerously hot I am right now?” Aika asks.
“You’re hot all the time,” Ophelia tells her, grabbing her cheeks with one hand and pushing her back in range of Dora’s hands.
Further chaos ensues, as always with the three of them, but through it somehow everyone’s makeup gets done and Dora pulls some sparkly bodysuits out from under her bed.
“Ophelia,” Dora orders like the group leader she always has been. “You’ll wear the orange one. Aika, you take the green because it contrasts your eyes. I’ll do the blue.”
The outfits are patterned with intricate elemental designs: fire, earth, and water. They are also, more notably, sleeveless, glittery, and very, very tiny. The Mothers would have a heart attack if they saw the three of them. Just how Ophelia likes it.
Taking pictures with their rings takes far longer than they expect it to—no surprise there—so they’re among the last girls to sneak out of the temple.
Ophelia sighs exaggeratedly and Aika winks back at her with a knowing smile.
The process of sneaking out of the Temple is just so arduous and in the kind of outfits they wear? It’s miserable.
The journey starts with scaling down to the roof of the Temple of the Rose and ends with some free-solo rock climbing until they reach a tunnel carved into the cliff, with plenty more hoops to jump through in the middle.
But as much as she complains, the trek isn’t all bad. It’s entrancing to watch the silhouettes of girls in the Temple of the Rose and the occasional Priestess of the Scale performing similarly elaborate routines to exit their temples without the Mothers noticing that they’ve gone.
Though Ophelia suspects that both the Mothers and the Guardians are well aware of the parties and the sneaking out. What they want is plausible deniability. Hence the climbing and creeping and the fact that the Auxiliaries’ rooms are soundproof to keep any noises from escaping.
Because the Mothers were once Priestesses, after all. And the Guardians were once Auxiliaries.
So they turn a blind eye. If you make an effort not to get caught, they won’t catch you.
And thank the Forms for that.
In front of her, Aika jumps over one last rock and then swings into the cave-tunnel nestled into the cliff. Ophelia and Dora follow close behind.
Ophelia smirks at the familiar sight of the secret path; it’s littered with wine bottles, burnt-out candles, and, at this point in the night, mysteriously amorous noises.
They pass two girls making out in a corner.
An Auxiliary leaning against a wall, chatting someone up, attempting but failing to be casual.
A Priestess and an Auxiliary, her in his lap with his hands tight around her waist.
Aika breaks first, as always, into a fit of giggles and Ophelia joins soon after.
“Guys, shush,” Dora whispers.
But even she can’t stop herself from cackling when they catch sight of a boy absolutely entranced by the Priestess sitting next to him as she passionately recites philosophical theories.
The tunnel eventually leads to the familiar dining hall.
Priestesses spend one morning a month here cooking and serving food to the Auxiliaries.
When her cooking shift comes around, the Auxiliaries usually groan in disappointment.
Something about her pancakes being ‘both rock-hard and scarily liquidy’ apparently?
She hears Aika sigh in relief behind her when they finally turn the last corner into the kitchen. They tiptoe through steel appliances and sneak bites of tomorrow’s ingredients on the way to the door. The one that opens to a storeroom full of wine.
It’s meant for the Guardians, surely, though technically no one in the Leadership Classes is permitted to drink. But the Auxiliaries use the space and the alcohol at least once a week and no one has stopped them yet.
Aika runs right to the boy serving wine, dragging Ophelia and Dora with her.
“Three cups, please,” she requests politely, batting her lashes.
The Auxiliary on bartending duty turns bright red and laughs nervously. “Anything for you, Aika,” he says, pouring wine to the brim of each cup and handing them over with a smile.
Aika: her adorable, tiny, doe-eyed master manipulator.
After an hour or so of chitchat, a loud fight erupts in the center of the room.
“I showed up to your stupid party. What more do you want, Kleitos?”
Of course it’s Kleitos starting the fight. She isn’t surprised, given the dirtbag he is.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe stop being such a scared little kitten?”
“Why do you care? What makes you so interested in whether or not I’m a ‘kitten’?”
Kleitos growls and moves to pin the smaller boy against a wall.
The whole room winces and Ophelia prepares herself for a beatdown—these hotheaded Auxiliaries never back down from a fight—but instead of biting and kicking like she expects, the smaller boy ducks under Kleitos’ arm, sticks out his middle finger, and melts into the crowd.
Well, okay then.
Cheers and whistles fill the room for him, and she gladly joins in.
When Kleitos skulks away, Ophelia has to laugh. Maybe she should pity him. He’s emotionally repressed and probably fighting demons of his own. But he is also a jackass. And she loves seeing him put in his place almost as much as she loves doing it herself.
He’ll find her soon, once he’s done licking his wounded ego somewhere. He always does. She can’t wait to turn him down again.
But for now she bustles about, finding and losing her friends in the haze of the party.
Music invigorates her movements, and with every moment she becomes less of a human and more of an entity.
She drinks wine with Aika and it tastes like the sweetest honey; she spins a beautiful stranger whose eyes are the brightest green; she joins a tight circle of frantic dancers, convinced that somewhere in the sweaty bodies and dark orange lights, destiny is waiting for her.
Then, as she pours herself another glass at the quickly depleting wine table, someone taps on her shoulder, and she is human once more.
As she predicted, Kleitos stands leaning against the table.
She’s truly not sure why he keeps on trying when he knows what her answer will be. He may be able to trick the other Priestesses into his bed, but Ophelia knows an asshole when she sees one.
“You look cute,” he says, no innocence about it.
“You don’t.” She keeps her eyes to the table. There’s wine spilled over it. She wonders idly if it will stain.
“I complimented you,” he scoffs. “Are you really going to be that way?”
Ophelia keeps her mouth shut. It always makes him the most upset when she refuses to respond, and it’s hilarious to see him all red-faced and angry.
“Are you really going to pull this shit again, Ophelia? I mean, what, you think you’re better than everyone else?”
“Yes, actually,” she responds—so much for the silent treatment—and takes a long sip from her cup.
He scoffs before a clammy hand presses to the back of her thigh and a warm body pushes her up against the table.
“Are you sure?” he teases, breath stinking of alcohol. His hand keeps moving until its tight on her waist. He’s never been this bold before—never dared.
“You’re going to want to remove your hand and back off right now.”
“You know what, Ophelia? I don’t think I will. This… this cat and mouse game has gone on long enough.”
He says it like it’s a line he rehearsed. She wouldn’t be surprised if it is.
She sets her drink down onto the table, slowly so as not to spill any. Then she pulls her arm forward. She doesn’t even feel bad. She did warn him after all.
She slams her elbow back to hit him directly in his gut and hears a groan as he staggers back from her.
She could just leave it at that. Walk away and find her girls. Maybe call it a night early. But it’s not quite enough, is it? For touching her like that? She needs to get to him in the way that will hurt the most. His libido first. Then she’ll attack his pride.
She holds his collar and relishes the sting on her palm when she slaps him in the face. Hard. She hopes her handprint stays there for hours. It’ll scare the girls away, at least for tonight.