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There’s a godling visiting her labyrinth.
Well. Ariadne shouldn’t be haughty: he’s a godling - roughly her age, thirteen at most, barely known to the outside world -, but a god nonetheless. Maybe he’s owed some respect, even if he’s a god from far, powerless Athens. She’s heard they have quite a few, but this one is the youngest of them, and thus, recognizable, even if his name escapes her. Why would Ariadne care about foreign gods?
She put a hand to her hip when she found him huddled in a corner, far away enough from the entrance to get her annoyed at how he could’ve gotten in. He’s got these huge lilac eyes the color of mature grapes, flecks of green splattered through, and his hair is a matted mess. There’s an undefined stain on his clothes, and the light of her lamp did not illuminate enough for Ariadne to tell what it might be. She, not for the first time in her life, wished Daedalus had placed light wells in this place, but the risk of flight was not worth the illumination.
Ariadne was not in her best clothes to meet a god: it was the day she did her weekly maintenance on the labyrinth, got rid of her darling brother’s meat scraps he left to rot everywhere, patches holes if there’s any because he’s clumsy and tripped on his feet a lot, brought fresh cloth, talks with him a little. He was not a monster; yes, sure, he is more bull than man, but that did not make him a monster. Asterion had a penchant for poetry and jokes and delighted when Ariadne sneaked him sweets in his twice-daily basket drop of food, his once-a-day chance to see light - and even then: her father has ordered a cover to be made over, so that not even a little light could reach poor Asterion.
“Hello there.” She started, because even a godling from another land deserves respect. Ariadne does not go down to be at eye level or lower: this is her land, her labyrinth, and he is the intruder. She’s a princess of Crete, and won’t be cowed. “This isn’t a safe place.”
A pause from the godling as he rose, knobbly knees and a stain that, in closer light, looks like jam. He saw Ariadne’s eyes staring at it, and he, comically, tries to wipe it off and only managed to make it larger, spreading it further.
Ariadne sighed, sets her lamp on the floor, turned to her basket and rummaged through it, before she produced a set of clean clothes (a necessity when one deals with half-eaten scraps of meat and other foreign substances), offering it wordlessly to him and turning her back.
“Thank you.” A nice, smooth voice. High pitched, maybe, but Ariadne was old enough to remember when her brothers changed their voices, cracking in unexpected places. Maybe he was even younger than her. There was a rustling of fabric as he speaks, background radiation. “Sorry. I wished to be somewhere safe, and when I realized - well.”
Ariadne looked at the stone walls of the labyrinth. This was barely safe to her - imagine to an Athenian youth?
He was Athenian, of course: his accent was foreign to her ears, maybe heard once or twice in the foreign envoys her father received.
“Why, though?” She asked, staring at his shadow. He moved gracelessly, too. “Haven’t you heard about the monster?”
A pause. Fabric kept rustling. Ariadne kept waiting.
“Your bull has been wreaking havoc through the countryside, so, sort of?” Fabric finished rustling, and the shadow stilled. Ariadne turned: there is the godling in her clothes. His hair still was matted. “I don’t know why I came here. I wanted to be somewhere safe, and these - powers? - have brought me here. I’m rather new at being a god.”
He looked at both sides. Neither provided a clue to where the exit might be (the right). His eyes, that weird color, turned to Ariadne. Shame coated her cheeks a little, but not much: residual embarrassment to be caught not as Ariadne-Princess-Of-Crete, no jewelry adorning her arms, no fancifully decorated cloth, hair pulled back so it wouldn’t get dirty - but to be seen as Ariadne-Mistress-Of-The-Labyrinth. Worker, more like it; she was only its mistress in official functions, decked in jewelry. She did not look like a princess.
“Well, it is the safest place around. Home of my brother, the Minotaur.” The words tasted bitter in her tongue. Such a sweet boy, destined to linger in darkness. “Daedalus himself constructed it, and my brother has yet to escape.”
“Oh! I see.” He flicked his wrist. Nothing happened - obviously. The divine could come in, but it couldn’t leave without her aid. Ariadne leant down, grabbed her lamp with one hand and her basket and went to the left. “Wait! Where are you going?”
Steps other than her own rung on the stone floors: Ariadne looked to the side to see the godling walking with her.
“I’m going to work. I have to clean.” She said, matter-of-factly. He nodded. “Are you going to help?”
“I can! I can.” The first one had certainty; the second one was comfort for himself. “What is your name?”
So Athenians knew nothing! Another doubt about these foreigners her heart confirmed. She chuckled, and his eyes were wide at the sound.
“Ariadne.” She said, and he quickly nodded. “And you, o godling?”
“Dionysus.” Ariadne rolled through the list of Athenian gods she knew. Yeah, new one. Young. She hadn’t heard of him, but she could smell the sweet vines, fresh off the in growing stalks, pouring out of his pores.
The smell of rotting meat hit her nose, but Ariadne - who’d been doing this since she could remember, at first in her mother’s back, then with her mother’s hand on hers, and now, since she was eight, alone - barely realized it, her brain registering and throwing the information away. Dionysus gagged.
“You get used to it.” She said, kicking the bones into a pile. He stared at her. “I mean, at least I’m not on latrine duty. Daedalus made one of those. It could be worse.”
He gagged again. Ariadne reached into her bag, pulled a perfumed cloth - her mother insisted she always pack one, just in case the smell got too much -, and quickly moved to tie it over his face, gentle as possible. Ariadne was a foreigner to this god; she did not need to offend him.
He breathed the smells once, and his gagging eased. Myrrh was just that good, sweet and masking everything impure. Dionysus breathed with ease, and his smile was not seen under the mask, but felt: his eyes seemed to shine brightly like the sun Ariadne did not see.
She kept moving. He kept following in silence, watching as she kicked bones in neat piles for her to pick up later. When they reached near the center, when the sound of Asterion’s hooves could be heard and felt, she stopped him in his tracks. The godling stared at her.
“My brother is a few meters away. The son of the bull, if I must remember you.” She whispered, and his eyes grew huge. “He hasn’t met many people other than, well, me and my mother. He can’t see too well: he lives in near darkness. I don’t think it’s safe for you to continue.”
Dionysus nodded quickly, fear hitching his breath. He held her hand - worry in the touch, maybe? His hands were so soft, Ariadne noticed distantly: unlike her own, marred by sewing and spinning and every other woman’s tasks, always with grime from the labyrinth under her nails. How easy must a god’s life be.
She pushed away the envy. Her duty came first.
“Okay. Your company was delightful.” Ariadne stared at him like he was mad. “Can I come over again?”
“If the gods won’t strike you for visiting Crete, who am I to stop you?” Ariadne waved him off, and Dionysus jumped up and down like an unruly child, free of the constraints of royalty. “If you want to go back, just follow the path we’ve been making. It should let you out.”
He kissed her cheek, and the surprise made Ariadne blink fast once, twice, thrice: by the time her eyes opened the fourth time, he was gone, and only the smell of vines remained, hearing his sandals hitting the ground as he moved in pure darkness. She stared at the spot where he’d been, waved her hand in the air - as if he was going to come from the darkness beyond her lamp and come hold it.
Utter nonsense. Ariadne straightened her back and went to face her brother.
He waited until they were doing his bed to speak, finespun cloth that smelled clean floating gently in the air.
Asterion was almost exactly half man, half bull: he had the head and shoulders of one, torso and hands of man, and below his waist it was all bull again, cloven hoofs and all, fur a white that would be glaring bright in sunlight. He looked like a man, despite his age.
“I heard a voice.” His voice was man, not bull: shy and unbroken by puberty, even though he was almost fifteen. She wondered if his growth was sped up or slow, and dismissed the thought. “Are you going to be dismissed, sister?”
She patted his cheek, felt the coarse fur under her fingers.
“You know I would rather take a dagger to my throat than leave you.” Not entirely a lie. Ariadne loathed to think of what her other siblings, who’d never met shy and quiet Asterion, would do with him. Better her, used to him, than someone like Phaedra.
Relief flooded his shoulders, and he took a deep breath. Ariadne used the moment to take the most important things from her bag, the things she stole away in secrecy: a lamp, enough oil to last until her next visit if he spared it, and the most important items she could carry, cautiously carried: papyrus of stories, freshly made by Ariadne,the ink carefully dried so it wouldn’t smudge.
She knew how to write: her mother insisted all her children did - even Asterion, who her mother taught herself. When her visits stopped, Ariadne promised him she’d bring him things to pass time.
Literature was silent, and thus, did not bother her father like music would.
There was a smile on his bovine lips as he saw the offerings, but it looked surprisingly human.
The god kept coming: first once a week, always managing to land in her weekly maintenance - meeting her cautiously just inside the entrance, and always with Athenian gossip hot on his tongue. Once, he even bought honeycakes, still warm, and Ariadne had greeted her brother with fingers sticky with honey. His hair was clean these times, at least, and his clothes bore no odd stains.
Then, twice a week, but the first one was as awkward as they come: the godling found Ariadne hiding between the foliage, tears staining her face. He’d kneeled to her height, tried to touch her face, and Ariadne - in grief, in anger, in some emotion she could not name yet - swiped it away like an unruly cat. Dionysus’ eyes grew wide, and he sat a few hands away from her, hugging his knees, looking at her. Ariadne - not a princess, not a mistress, just a thirteen-year-old - looked into his eyes. She looked, probably, untamed: no jewelry to adorn her arms, no brush taken to her hair yet. She probably looked only marginally better than her time at the labyrinth.
“You Athenians killed my brother.” She spat out, and Dionysus kept his silence. “He was twenty, and just because he won -”
“I’m not Athenian, and he tried to kill the bull.” Dionysus said, calm, and Ariadne rolled her eyes. As if they liked the damned thing! As if he wasn’t just causing trouble! No, Androgeus could not kill the bull, not because it was sacred, but because he was not Athenian: the writing was clear on the wall. “There’ll be war, won’t it?”
She nodded: her father had gotten the news over breakfast, and a flurry of movement had swept the palace. This grove where Ariadne hid from the world was the only place where feet did not hurry to hit the floor.
From the pleats of his clothes, he took a little piece of linen, offering it to her - the sweet, faded smell of myrrh the only thing that made her notice he’d kept it -, and Ariadne took it as gracefully as her grief-heavy limbs could, sniffing without any of the royal composure bred onto her.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I saw him at the games. He looked like you a bit. Around the eyes.” He said, and Ariadne looked at the boy god, surprise etched in her face, and it reflected on his face. “Do you want me to tell you?”
“Yes, please.” She said, and Dionysus, with a nod, started narrating. He told the tale, her brother’s victories, the way he moved like a god himself. She could almost see it painted, told and retold until Androgeus was the foreign facet of a god from Athens, come down to humble them or something else. Ariadne cared little for the songs of bards.
She calmed down. Her father went to war. Dionysus kept his secretive visits. The first time he saw her in jewelry, silence had been his greeting, and she’d grown nervous.
“Is it weird?” She asked, fiddling with a bracelet, avoiding his odd eyes. There was a blush in her cheeks, and Ariadne fought the urge to slap it away. She was now a few days shy of fourteen: who was she to be blushing over gods, like some common woman?
“No, not weird. Different.” He grinned, boyish youth and sunlight. The smile was a sickness, easily contagious: Ariadne grinned in turn. “You didn’t tell me you were a princess.”
“Inside the labyrinth walls, I am not one.” Ariadne replied, looking around, but no guards seemed to pay attention to her - actually, now that she noticed, the foliage seemed to move with them, a protective canopy that guarded the secret visitor. She supposed they would not see an Athenian presence during the war in any good faith.
Dionysus nodded, and smiled. He started chatting with her, firing words like a barrage of arrows in the battlefield, and Ariadne soon was in the same tone, speaking as fast as he did, quick and barely finishing her sentences before he already knew what she was going to say, excited like a child. He told her about the feats of his older siblings, wise Athena and quick Apollo and clever Artemis, and all Ariadne could offer back were the tales of her much older siblings, their exploits, their adventures through distant lands.
It became a habit, like two servant children who were not a godling and a princess: to talk for an hour or so, sometimes more. Twice became thrice, thrice grew into four, and soon he was, every morning without failure, walking through the gardens with him. He attended the royal festivals with her, and became the only one who could pull her away from the reverie of royalty to be a commoner for a few hours.
It was better than before: there was a sense of companionship with the god.
When the war ended with Crete victorious, the news arriving a few days after her fifteenth birthday, Ariadne had run to meet him: and Dionysus, loyalties be damned, had picked her up in his arms, had spun her around and whooped with her at the news of her father and brother’s secure way home, as if he was from Crete too. He’d let her down gently, and his arms kept on hers, as if propriety did not matter. Well, she supposed that, to a god, it was of little relevance.
She looked at him, curious, and he bit his full lower lip. His body was warm, incredibly warm, and odd feelings stirred inside her, feelings only poetry and songs seemed to name as love. Ariadne wondered, and her musings always turned to him.
But there was something different about Dionysus: puberty did not seem to touch him, not like it touched other men. Whilst she remembered all her brothers filling up in hard angles and shadows, Dionysus seemed to grow soft in curves and smoke.
Like her.
Of course, Ariadne would never say it: the presentation of a god was between them and whatever higher forces they obeyed; all she could do was hope she was getting the right gender. Besides, what did she care about it? Dionysus was her friend, and she knew him. There was no girlhood to his person, and, therefore, no female title would ever leave her lips regarding him.
“Can I just… Say something?” He said, quiet, and Ariadne acquiesced, hoping she looked regal. “Do you really see me as a god?”
“You look like one to me, what with you popping in and out of existence.” She said, waving off his concern, but the hardness and solitude in his eyes did not abate. “Dionysus. We’ve known each other for years now. What plagues your mind?”
A pause. The two of them kept walking. The smell of flowers filled the air, sun bathing their skins. Good things were promised by the day.
“My father wants me to be a goddess.” He spat out the last word. Ariadne frowned. “Weaving. Textiles. Not one of the things I enjoy and am good at, because…”
A handwave in frustration, gesturing at his cloth-covered body. She blinked slowly, reached for his hand and held it. There was surprise in his fantastic eyes, and Ariadne kept her hand still in his.
“What do you like, then?” A blush took his cheeks. Ariadne chuckled: she’d seen him get interested in the large barrels of wine that had come over as tribute, and the next day, his clothes had the typical stain of someone who’d spent the day crushing grapes. “I know. Don’t worry. Crete cares little for the whims and wants of your Athens. You can be a god of wine here, and if anyone tries otherwise, they’ll deal with me.”
He fell to his knees; Ariadne, sure she’d done something wrong, fell too, an apology bubbling in her tongue, but his eyes shone in an unnatural green, and it killed whatever words she could say.
“When you need me, I’ll come. No matter where you are, Ariadne, just call my name and I’ll always come.” He paused, and pulled her hand, kissing her knuckles in a promise; it was Ariadne’s turn to blush. The moment was then over, and both were scrambling to their feet, hands still clasped together. “Oh, that was too much, wasn’t it?”
“A bit.” Ariadne conceded. He blushed further. “But it was nice of you. By the way, we’ve got some new casks. Thracian wine, I’m told. Some seeds too, mother has been wanting to give our wine some variety…”
His eyes sparkled. Ariadne giggled, and dragged him into the promised direction.
It had been one summer afternoon, when Ariadne watched the festivals from afar because they were not for royals but for the people, and there were things that they shouldn’t do because it wasn’t proper - and Ariadne pretended to not know the meaning of jealousy -, that Dionysus appeared at her windowsill. Ariadne gave a shrill shriek when he touched her shoulder, then realized it was him, and stopped.
“You scared me!” She said, but there was an easy smile on her face, and it matched his. “Hello, Dionysus. What brings you here?”
“Do you want to go winemaking with me?” He blurted out, and Ariadne blinked quickly.
“I’d love to, but I very much doubt father will allow me.” Ariadne replied, and Dionysus’ grin persisted. He offered her a hand, and Ariadne stared at his palms, callouses already forming on the soft surface.
In his hand churned the dark color of wine, a pool of liquid fog that invited trouble - and Ariadne was curious.
“He won’t even realize you’ve gone away from your rooms.” An interesting proposal. Ariadne took his palm, and the fog felt warm, like grapes after a long day in the sun. She blinked, and her seat disappeared under her, falling in the air for a moment. She interlaced her fingers with Dionysus’.
When she opened her eyes, she was with her feet steady on the ground, with Dionysus right by her side, grapevines all around her like walls, song in her ears. She looked up, above the leaves, and there were people she didn’t recognize. Ariadne looked at Dionysus.
“I didn’t think you’d like to come to the winemaking right by the shade of the palace, so I brought us a little bit farther. It’s still a big town, so probably no one will realize we aren’t from here.”
“And if they do?” Ariadne asked, eyes back to the festivities, itching to join them. She’d never been to one, but it always seemed so fun, from afar, if a bit messy - a few of the servants always had the tips of their fingers stained in hues of purple, and always seemed giggly when they gossiped, away from royal ears, about it. Ariadne had been curious, but she couldn’t simply go and demand that they tell her whatever they laughed about.
Dionysus’ hand did not leave her own, and Ariadne did not want it to go.
“Then we run.” His fingers were tighter against hers. Ariadne grinned in turn, and pulled him towards the people.
By sundown, the two laid down on a grassy hill, still breathless, smelling like crushed grapes, and she was tinted purple at the tips of her fingers, the edges of her clothes taking in a shade closer to a deep burgundy.
“That was fun.” Ariadne said, and Dionysus, who managed to steal a carafe of wine from someone, took a long swig of it. She watched his throat move, a droplet of sweat accompanying the movement, and Ariadne averted her eyes, a blush in her cheeks.
“I can take you to more, if you’d like. There’s one in Thracia in a few days.” He replied, and offered her the carafe. Ariadne took it quietly, put it to her lips - the place she touched still warm -, and drank greedily, aware of his eyes on her.
“I’d like that.” She replied, words bathed in the warmth of his mouth.
“You’ve been very friendly with that boy god.” Well, at least Ariadne’s mother still had some sense. Ariadne, fresh from a quick bath after returning from the festival Dionysus had taken her to, the tips of her fingers scrubbed clean of any tints of color, hoped the cocking of her head looked innocent enough.
Her mother really was the daughter of Helios: she sparkled like the sun, every jewel glinting like it was noon, not sunset, a warm bronze glow that came from the inside of her skin. Ariadne had not inherited that - no, Ariadne had the dead glow of the moon in her skin, a sad, pale color that had a certain swallowness of the dead, no matter which color combinations she wore. All Ariadne had of her mother was the dark hair, which, really, only made her look even more like the dead.
“Who?” Ariadne inquired, and her mother leveled her with a look that made her give up all pretense of innocence. Her mother sat down behind her and started gently brushing her hair with her fingers. “Dionysus is a nice boy.”
“He’s a god, still.” Ariadne smelled like the perfumed, imported oils from distant lands, but there was still a hint of greenery in her. She hoped it wasn’t noticeable.
“A fifteen-year-old.” Ariadne snorted. A tug on her hair silenced her.
“Still dangerous.” There was a note of something Ariadne could not detect there. Regret? No, not possible. “You have little contact with boys because of your position, and I’ve allowed your… Friendship, but as you two grow, I worry. Athens…”
Oh, please - that silly little town? What could they even do? They didn’t even win a mere war.
Besides, Ariadne was too busy keeping the damn labyrinth clean to ever think about Dionysus in any other way than friendship - and she ignored the way her knuckles burned at the memory of his mouth there, or the memory of the carafe, thank you.
“Nothing will happen.” Ariadne assured her mother, who worked nimble fingers in her hair as if she was working in a loom.
Her mother didn’t answer; there was something worrying her mind, and Ariadne did not pursue it.
Her father came home with the most awful of news: seven girls, seven boys, all sacrifice to her brother - Asterion. They’d come in on the next ship, and then, once a year, for every year in the foreseeable future.
Even Ariadne, who dismissed Athens as little more than nothing, could foresee the anger in their hearts.
Her mother, in private - away from the eyes of the cheering populace, who saw the tribute as not nearly enough for dear Androgeus’ death - confronted her father, but Ariadne saw nothing of that. No, she ran to the labyrinth, its key hitting her chest with every step like a slap.
Dionysus waited on the entrance with a clear slap mark on his face, and that made Ariadne skid to a stop, almost crashing onto him, but he stopped her - hands delicately on her arms, sadness written like a song on his face.
“I didn’t ask for this.” Ariadne blurted, and he nodded. “I think it’s cruel to everyone. Asterion wouldn’t know what to do with a person, he’s - he’s… Dionysus. Please.”
“I know.” He said quietly, and one of his hands freed themselves from her arms, touching the mark on his face. The hand was much bigger than his own - his father’s, perhaps? “I told father that. But he wants to wage war. He’s going to…”
His words didn’t trail off: his mouth kept speaking, but no noise came forward, and he winced, closing it. A mark on his throat had flared out in soft purple - a thread, thrice constricted -, and then faded.
Even Ariadne knew the meaning of that.
“The Moirai won’t allow me to interfere anymore.” He said, and his eyes looked at the door. “Can I go in? With you? To see your brother?”
Asterion, of course, knew of Dionysus - when he was Ariadne’s only friend, it was hard for him not to. She’d even shared the honeycakes with him when she’d gotten them.
Ariadne nodded, grabbed the key from her breast, and opened the labyrinth. She didn’t need the lamp now: her feet carried her through it with no issue, and Dionysus, hand in hand with her, followed quietly, in sepulchral silence, until they arrived at where her brother - still big, still man-like, still a boy - resided.
She found him eating the leftovers of the feast, still warm, the basket still laying on the floor, and the boy her brother was eating with her hands, no tact at all.
He didn’t even know what her father had planned.
“Asterion.” Her voice was thick with tears, and Asterion’s eyes, the sweet eyes of a cow before slaughter, looked at her in surprise, then at her visitor.
He clambered up to his feet, graceless, and went to her. Dionysus stepped back, almost into the darkness of the corridor, but stayed present, vivid behind Ariadne.
“Ariadne. What’s wrong?” Was Asterion’s question, and a sniff left her. “Is… Is everything alright?”
“No.” A deep breath, then an explanation: shock found itself in his features. Ariadne tried to reach a hand to touch him, soothe her older-yet-younger brother, but he stepped back, and she cringed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Asterion.”
Dionysus said nothing. He stepped forward, sure, fingers glowing a delicate green, and he - somehow: there was a three head difference in height between them - touched his forehead.
“I’ll bless you. As long as there’s Athenians to be sacrificed on this island, madness will overtake you, and you won’t remember a thing. Let this be Dionysus’ apology for it.” His voice was soft, barely heard, but it echoed in the walls of the labyrinth, folded over and over and over until there were several gods speaking. Vines grew in the walls, thick and plentiful, the sweet smell of grapes ripe in the air.
So this was the power of a god - what a beautiful, awful thing.
When Dionysus let go of Asterion, his hand wormed its way into Ariadne’s own, and Asterion, now, had imprinted in his fur what seemed like a crown of ivies.
The first fourteen arrived. Ariadne tended to her labyrinth.
She had been present to the ceremony to show the nobles and Athenians alike their fate, when her father showed truly was a marvel of Daedalus the palace was: her father had guided them to the garden, near where the well that led to the hole in the ceiling for Asterion’s food was, and with the pull of a lever, had opened the courtyard’s floor, split it into two like magic from some god. The walls were thick: two men could walk there without their shoulders touching. Ariadne wondered why - did Daedalus expect her brother to punch his way out?
She had always wondered why there had been so much empty space there, in that mysterious courtyard. Her brothers used to play at war there, right above Asterion’s head, and both parties had not known.
Asterion, down below, had screamed at the sunlight. The nobles and the Athenians screamed, too - and how alike their voices were.
The Athenians were barely more than children. Some her age, some above, one twelve-year-old, but children. Ariadne wanted to apologize, but - she was a princess of Crete, and Crete did not show weaknesses, not even when servants started to pour, gently, oil down the walls, slicking them, impending either parties from escaping the labyrinth’s confines.
Dionysus did not come. Ariadne could not blame him. She, too, wanted to be away from this madness.
She, as the mistress of the labyrinth, led them all to their doom. Well, she and a handful of guards, prodding the ones who did not want to move, a retinue of doom.
When she opened the door of the labyrinth, the air smelled thick of oil. Ariadne swallowed her nerves, stepped aside, and watched, hoping she did not look passionate, as they sent every single Athenian inside.
Ariadne arrived on the surface just in time to see Asterion tear one of them - the youngest - to pieces, huffing like a mad bull, the crown of ivies in his fur in full display. Distantly, her father made a comment that Ariadne barely caught as she fainted.
As expected from a monster.
She woke up in moonlight, sweat clinging to her skin. Ariadne was alone in her room, and distantly, she still could hear the celebration going. A scream ripped the night; Ariadne closed her eyes until she saw stars.
“Dionysus.” She called, voice weak, and put a hand to her mouth. As if! As if he’d come. Not after tonight. Not after they spilled Athenian blood. Her friend was gone, and Ariadne, who’d opened the door, who’d led them, was to blame.
He said he wasn’t Athenian - but he lived in their town, drank their drink and ate their food; might as well be one. Therefore, it was easy to assume that…
“I’m here.” He said, voice soft, and Ariadne sat up in her bed. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she threw her arms around his neck, bringing him close to her as sobs wrecked through her body.
His hands - when had they grown so big and callused? - patted her back, his voice whispering cooing words to comfort her: that he wouldn’t remember anything, that Asterion would never know what happened, that he would still be her brother when this was all over.
When her tears abated, Ariadne separated from him, sitting properly in the bed. Dionysus stayed by her side, and their hands found each other with the simplicity of a formed habit.
“That’s what you meant when you said madness?” She whispered, and Dionysus, breath caught in his throat, nodded. “And he won’t remember a thing?”
“Not a thing. It’ll be like he was asleep.” A pause, again. There seemed like he wanted to say something else, but instead he settled for the current matter. “I should’ve warned you. My powers, they’re… Not good. Not kind, maybe.”
“He won’t remember a thing. I’ll take it.” Ariadne looked into his eyes, and he looked back, a question written in lilac and green. Then, completely contrarian to the moment: “Kiss me.”
The words came as a surprise to them both, but it made sense, in Ariadne’s mind. He gulped, dryly, but leant in and did as told.
His mouth tasted like sweet wine, and her hands found the way to his hair, tangling themselves in it, trying to keep him close. There were vines growing between them, keeping them tied close to one another, and all she wanted to do was to keep kissing him. Alas - she was human, and needed to breathe.
When they separated, she could feel her cheeks flushed - and even in only the half-moonlight, she could see the way Dionysus’ face was red.
“That was nice.” She elected to say, as if she was judging a fabric. Dionysus grinned, and Ariadne broke her countenance of a princess, smiling alongside him. “Okay, fine, that was very nice. Can we do it again?”
A half-smile, then his features set in muted silence. Ariadne waited, hoping that she hadn’t said the wrong thing.
“My father said he’ll make me a god. A male god, if I…” A pause, a deep breath. Ariadne waited; let him have his time. “He says that, if I’m truly a man, then I should go out. Have adventures. Bring trophies home. Then, when I’m done and he’s satisfied, he’ll change everything related to me. I can be the god of wine, Ariadne, I....”
A mad fervor added a tone to his words as he babbled, and Ariadne kissed his forehead - which effectively stopped him in his tracks, words dying in his lips.
“Okay. Can you come visit, at least?” The way his face fell said everything Ariadne needed to hear. She quietly put her hands on her lap to avoid wringing them, or worse: to hold them onto Dionysus’ own and never let go of him. “Aw. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll send gifts. Anything that reminds me of you, you’ll see. I promise.” He reached for her hand, and Ariadne offered it to him. Dionysus held it tenderly, as if she was a gift, too.
Ariadne smiled in answer, pulled him to bed with her. He blushed - a shade the color of wine in moonlight -, and she kissed his cheek.
“Then give me this gift and stay the night.” She murmured, and Dionysus, holding her gently, acquiesced.
By morning, he was gone: Ariadne found no surprise in that. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, stretched, and putting on fresh clothes, she went to check on Asterion.
The labyrinth’s ceiling had been closed: Ariadne supposed that her father did not wish for her brother to be always seen. She entered the labyrinth, expecting the smell of blood to overtake her senses, but instead, all she found was the carefully neutral smell of damp earth, same as always. With a frown, she proceeded further inside, expecting to find remains; but no. Nothing found Ariadne, and when she arrived at her brother’s cell, he was sleeping peacefully.
The only thing that seemed different was the ivies that coated his wall: they seemed greener, lusher, plumper. Ariadne, with a frown and half a theory in mind, approached them quietly, wondering how she might proceed.
The labyrinth was unchanging: its walls never played any tricks. No one but Ariadne came down to it - and yet, the labyrinth stood clean of carnage.
There was only one change. Ariadne quietly found a small, sharp rock uncovered by the foliage, and dragged her hand until blood pooled in the wound, falling to the floor in thick, red drops.
The plants descended on it like a bunch of hungry birds. When they receded, the floor was clean, and the plant seemed satisfied.
Ariadne shuddered and left before Asterion could wake up.
Time passed: Ariadne stayed as the mistress of the labyrinth and Dionysus stayed away. Once in a while, gifts would arrive for her - all from foreign lands Ariadne had not even thought could exist, all always accompanied by a small cask of local wine. People wondered who was Ariadne’s mysterious suitor, her father more than all, but Ariadne’s single reply was that her duty was not to man, but to the labyrinth and its creature. Once, when her father pressed enough, Ariadne asked him if he was going to make any of her sisters take care of the monster inside it like she did, and her father asked no more questions.
Her favorite gift was a ball of yarn, shining in a soft lilac in moonlight, with an accompanied, scribbled a note in a small piece of papyrus that as long as she tied it to a door, she’d never be lost inside the labyrinth. It was a nice, thoughtful gift for anyone else, really, but Ariadne kept it anyway, holding it in her pocket like a charm. Once, out of curiosity, she tied it to her bedroom door and walked around the palace three times: the thread never ran out.
She spent a night putting it together again, and it did not get entangled in anything if she had any say over it.
Time passed: every year, fourteen Athenians arrived in boats with black sails, and Ariadne guided them to their doom after a three-day festival. She always forced herself to look at the murders that her brother committed, fur slick with blood; someone had to mourn them, mourn him.
Asterion, of course, never remembered anything, and there was no proof of his bloodshed: the vines were well-fed with blood, and Ariadne was thankful for it. She could clean rotten meat scraps and bones, but - but Asterion, in his madness, was brutal: viscera coated the walls more than the oil. Ariadne would have to start cleaning it immediately before, and only be able to finish a day before the new sacrifices came. Thus, if the ivies of Dionysus wanted blood, they could have it.
They tended to produce fruit, too - fat grapes, perfectly round and shining as if polished, which quickly became a favorite of Asterion. He always offered some when she went over, and Ariadne, who knew their origins, always politely refused.
When she was twenty-two, the sacrifices came, and Ariadne was jaded to their presence. What use, really, was to try to save them, when they all would die anyway?
One sacrifice approached her, somehow: Ariadne was surprised he’d evaded the guards, and thus, kept Dionysus’ name close to her tongue.
“Are you the labyrinth’s mistress?” He started, voice fast, all words made one, and Ariadne stared at him: he couldn’t be much older than her. She gave him a nod, and he kept speaking. “I’m Theseus. I want to save your brother.”
Ariadne blinked, once, twice, thrice: he what? Was he madder than her brother?
The man was full of energy, like he could barely contain his excitement. What a weirdo.
“You what?” She said, dignity gone, eyes wide. He grinned. “My brother is a mad monster that only knows carnage.”
He shook his head, as if clearing thoughts from his mind. Ariadne kept staring at him.
“And I can save him. Lady Athena has sent me a vision, and has told me the secret to cure him.” Had she? Ariadne did not know the Athenian gods much, but Dionysus always called her wise - and wasn’t wisdom the contrary to madness? Maybe… “I just… Need a way out of the labyrinth.”
Ariadne’s hand found the ball of yarn before her mind could react, grabbed it, pressed it onto his hand, whispered the instructions, and the man’s eyes shone.
She did not believe him too much: many Athenians had died already. Her father, in an attempt to make the sacrifices more amusing, had even started to let them bring weapons in, try and defeat Asterion, a promise of freedom always dangled above their heads.
The sacrifices always failed.
“Thank you, mistress of the labyrinth.” He said, voice in awe. “I am Theseus. Remember that.”
Oh, she would. She always remembered the sacrifices’ names.
She guided the sacrifices to the labyrinth’s door, and Theseus was the last to enter, giving her a wink.
Ariadne huffed, ignored it, purposefully forgot to lock the door (just in case he succeeded), and walked back to her place of honor in the feast - they all thought her brother was a monster, since his madness was all they saw, and thus, Ariadne was the most courageous of women to go there, week after week after week, always returning with nary a scratch.
She arrived just in time to see Theseus arrive in the middle of the labyrinth, where Asterion already seethed in anger. The Athenian had his sword in position, and in his pocket, the gentle hint of thread barely shone among the carnage.
Ariadne stared at him, impassive. She expected little. She reached for some finger food, watching, out of the corner of her eye, as the man thrusted forward, Asterion doing the same.
She did not expect for his sword to hit true. A gasp resonated through the crowd, and Ariadne, food falling from her hand, watched as he took out his sword - Asterion bled red, like any other man - and, with a swiftness unexpected, as if there were not tendon and muscle and bone in place, beheaded her brother.
Screams rung out. One of them was hers, as Theseus, grinning like a child wanting to show off, lifted Asterion’s head to show the crowd. Her father screamed something about finding him and bringing him to heel, and seemingly, like a wave crashing ashore, everyone rose, trying to catch Theseus with their bare hands, nobles and guards alike in purpose.
Ariadne was not stupid. She did the same.
She found him, still smelling like death - something bloody in a sack over his shoulder, mercifully closed -, hastily boarding Athenians into his black-sailed vessel.
Obviously, he would not stay. He would not hang around the dark corners of the palace, wanting to kill her father next.
No. Athenians had a duty to their city, just like Ariadne had a duty. The key hung heavy between her breasts, but she bit back tears.
“You told me you’d save him.” Ariadne said, making him and his fellow sacrifices freeze in place. He looked at them, gestured for them to hurry, and turned to look at Ariadne. “You lied.”
“From my point of view, I saved him from a life of madness.” A frown marred his features. “Shouldn’t you be glad?”
“My brother was not a monster. My brother was cursed with madness.” She insisted, and he cocked his head. “Give me his head - I know that’s what you carry, don’t protest -, and let me bury him whole.”
A grin spread through his face. Ariadne suppressed a shudder.
“And who’ll believe, dear mistress, that you had nothing to do with this?” He cocked his head, and Ariadne gave a step back - gaining, for it, his hand on her forearm, keeping her locked in place. She let out a yelp that went ignored. “The door was unlocked. I’ve left the thread there. They’ll think you were working with me, o high mistress, and they’ll lop off your head like I did the Minotaur’s.”
That’s not his name, she wanted to cry out, but words failed her: Ariadne knew he spoke the truth. She had let the door open because he’d given her the foolish hope of her brother escaping, and thus, it was all her fault.
It was a simple choice to let herself be taken inside the Athenian boat. She did not see them leave the shore; her eyes were too full of tears for that.
The days passed in the slog of maritime travel: Ariadne was given a nice cabin, and through the boards of the ship, she heard the bustling noises of every trade port they stopped for fresh water and to, obviously, show off her brother was dead.
Amphe was the first, closest to Crete it was. Karpathos, then Rhodes, then several tiny islets. Ariadne retracted further and further inside herself. There was no reason to be there. She’d be paraded in distant Athens as a hero for helping Theseus, a poor victim of her father, and who’d believe her about Asterion?
Not even Theseus did, and he visited her frequently: every night, he brought her dinner, and stared as she ate.
Every night, he asked the same question.
“You’re not happy. Why?” He never brought the sack around, at least; no, that was a trophy. Ariadne picked at her food in silence. “Isn’t he a monster?”
“He liked love stories.” Ariadne replied, not looking into his confused eyes. “He was a boy, Theseus. The first time he saw the sun, he screamed.”
“A boy that killed more Athenians than a war.” Theseus scoffed, and Ariadne did not answer; she pushed her food away, and he took the cue to leave. Ariadne crawled under the blanket given - a threadbare thing that had seen better days -, and hoped her sleep was dreamless.
She woke up with grass on her face, the sound of birds in her ears, and no movement of a boat under her body. Groggily, Ariadne rose to see herself on an island.
Theseus had abandoned her - left her to die, probably realizing that no, the princess of Crete was not waiting for salvation, and therefore, she was of no use to mighty Athens.
Ariadne sat down, hugged her knees, and watched the sea - wine-dark in the sunrise, moving slowly as if asleep -, and softly, quietly, called for the one person who always came for her.
Would he even answer, away on his voyage? Ariadne didn’t know, but she kept repeating his name, over and over and over, a prayer to which no answer came forth.
The sun rose. The sea became a calm blue. Boats, so far away her pinky seemed bigger in comparison, passed by. Ariadne repeated Dionysus’ name until her voice faded. By the time her shadow was perfectly aligned with herself, Ariadne wondered if there was still hope.
“Sorry.” He said, breathless, and Ariadne didn’t wait for any more words: she threw herself around him, buried her head in his chest - when had he become so tall? -, and if Ariadne still had any water in her body, she would’ve sobbed. Instead, she settled for clutching him tight. “I’m here. I talked with my father.”
She looked up at him, and his lilac eyes seemed to not hold any bad news, so she waited.
“He said we could marry. That’s why I took so long to answer. I was convincing him.” A pause, and panic settled in his eyes. “But if you don’t want to marry me, it’s okay. I can drop you off in Crete and we can go back to being friends and pretend this didn’t happen, and…”
Ariadne did not answer: she pulled him by his chiton and kissed him. The past seemed to repeat itself, but this time, Ariadne would be leaving with him, instead of staying behind.
When the kiss ended, Ariadne put her hands on his face.
“I accept. I just ask that you confuse the bards. Make them not agree on what happened to me. I don’t…” Her words trailed off, and his eyes shone as he leaned down, kissing her mouth briefly.
“I can definitely make them crazy.” His grin was roguish, and Ariadne - for the first time in what felt like years - laughed.