Page 136 of This Divine Revelry

That he is at my mercy.

It should feel wonderful. I want a rush – the same spike of power I felt twisting the labyrinths to my whims, an illusion of control where I sorely need some.

But I just feel … dead.

And I don’t think it’s my current state, either.

‘I could force it down your throat,’ I muse. ‘Watch it burn you from the inside out.’

But it’s my own stomach churning. I don’t want this.

Fuck. Medea was right. Revenge isn’t what’s fuelling me, not any more. And it’s already too fleeting to cling to. Even when I have nothing I still can’t grasp it enough to make it the only thing within my reach.

My fury is the only thing keeping me warm, she’d said. But you – you have other suns blazing within.

But I don’t, not any more – or I suppose I do, I have so many suns firing in my core that I might mistake it for the Phlegethon, but they’ll fade.

I’ll fade.

And all I will have left is my grief – not my rage, just misery.

Torturing Theseus won’t change the fact that he lied, that he touched me with falsehoods on his tongue and that he left me there, on the rocks, that I thought I would die a dozen times over, fighting for survival that never felt worth it, that he hurt me so profoundly I couldn’t even let something good happen to me. I pushed it away because I couldn’t trust it any more.

Perhaps because at some point his lies became my truth, and even as I denied it, a part of me really did believe I’d invited the ruin into myself. That it was my fault for trusting him. For sleeping with him. For not being smart enough to see through his lies, for not being virtuous enough not to want it, for not being honourable enough to wait until marriage vows in earnest instead of seeking out a dozen technicalities. And if I am not smart or virtuous or honourable then I didn’t deserve to be treated well.

That I still don’t.

That it doesn’t matter whether I knew what I was consenting to because I should have known better, should have anticipated the consequences …

‘Ariadne,’ Theseus says almost tenderly. ‘You don’t have to do this again. You defied your father to free us. You fought to keep me from your sister. I’m sure you did something to end up here too. But it doesn’t have to always be on you – those things are not your responsibility. You’re dead. Let yourself rest. Don’t consume yourself with all this. Free me. Let me return to the world of myth and heroes and monsters, and allow yourself to step away from it all at last.’

I look at him, bound there.

Dark shadows spill beneath his eyes. His broad swell of muscles has surrendered to the tightness of the ropes. And in those once-captivating eyes I see unwavering certainty. He’s not trying to manipulate me this time. He really, truly believes this.

That myth is made for men like him, and it awaits his return to it.

That girls like me are only there to bolster tales, and step aside when the time comes.

I cross to the rivers.

‘No!’ he calls. ‘Ariadne, please no.’

I find the largest shell I can – deep and cupped.

I remove the cloak draped across my shoulders and wrap it around my hand like it might protect me from the waters.

And I dip the shell into the nearest river, letting that milk-white water fill it.

‘Ariadne!’ he screams. Can he see me? Does he think I’m fulfilling my threat? The waters of the Phlegethon to burn him with?

I cross back to him carefully, not allowing a single drop of the waters of the Lethe to spill.

When I stand before him, I hold the shell up high.

‘No, no, please,’ he begs.

‘I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘Myth and stories have a way of coming back to claim men like you. I’m sure you’ll be free one day – maybe some other hero will rescue you and you’ll become nothing more than a way to bolster their story instead of your own. Whatever happens –’ I bring the shell to his lips, even as he tries to strain away – ‘I want you to be a better person when you return.’