Page 48 of This Divine Revelry

I can’t calm it. Can’t tell where sensible Ariadne ends and please, it might be fun Ariadne begins because every part of me is swept up in the currents flowing between us, this sudden riptide lying in wait.

‘I didn’t know you were here yet,’ I say, reaching a hand out to his chest, a visible sliver against his low-cut chiton. The warmth and softness I expected, braced for. But his heart pulsing beneath my hand, feeling the thrum of it in tune with my own laboured breaths?

Olympus above, save me.

Wait – Olympus? I glance around, expecting to spot unfamiliar faces peppered in the crowd. But I can only see those I know, or else the tell-tale ivy wreaths of the maenads and twisting horns and pointed ears of the satyrs.

When I turn back to Dionysus, he gives a subtle shake of his head.

They’re not here. They didn’t come.

My fingers curl into his chiton, and his hold on me tightens by the slightest degree.

A reassurance beyond hurt feelings and wounded pride.

If the heroes banded together against Dionysus, would any of his family stand with him? Or would they look away, and when he fell claim he was never really one of them at all, so it could hardly be considered an offence to the pantheon?

I think then of what Myrto said, how Hera refers to Dionysus’s cult like he is not part of the collective gods. Hera who is goddess of marriage.

Who will surely not bless this union.

It’s not too late. Sensible Ariadne finally pulls herself together. You don’t have to tie yourself to this doubtful cause.

My gaze falls to his throat, where he has strung a necklace of pine cone teeth, brown petals laced like shells. His brow quirks pointedly, daring me to comment. It’s not altogether horrific, actually. And I know that’s his intent – to prove a point, to rile me, to snatch my attention and place it solely on him.

My doubtful cause, a voice answers. I’m not sure who. Which part of me echoes the thought. But it settles as resolve into my bones, a heavy certainty. Mine.

‘Excuse me! Coming through – could you clear a spot, wider – I can’t quite control these things.’ I glance up to the calling man careening through the sky. I catch traces of him as he spins: slight build, reddish-brown skin, sandals with aggressively flapping wings.

He collides with the sand as maenads shriek and run out of the way. The man spits his hair out of his face and it falls in a dark and messy heap.

‘Urgh. They haven’t been the same since I lent them to that demigod,’ he says, like that might explain anything.

Silen offers a hand to help him to his feet. ‘Always a pleasure to see you, Lord Hermes.’

Hermes! Though of course I should have known that. The winged sandals ought to have been immediately telling – and here I am having once claimed to be a priestess. Hermes – god of a great many things, among them spiriting souls to the Underworld and acting as the messenger for the gods.

It’s unclear which purpose he’s here for.

Hermes brushes off his robes. ‘Do continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

Dionysus regards him without his usual joviality. ‘Are you alone?’

Hermes’s gaze softens. ‘Sorry. They did want a full report, though, asked me to pass on any salacious details. You know what they’re like – always a new hero to cheer on or mortal to chase …’

Dionysus’s jaw clenches, but it’s the only sign of his anger. They aren’t just the gods – they’re his family. His own father refused to come to his wedding and, alright, I’m probably not one to speak about such things – if my own were here, he’d be readying another arrow – but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Mine does – that my father would see my death as little more than an obstacle before him. That my mother who only ever wanted my joy can’t be here to see it. That Charis wasn’t the one who cut my hair this morning and that Phaedra isn’t here smarting over the fact I get to marry an actual god … It all hurts.

‘There’s a bit of a battle for the sky at the moment. They’re distracted. Father has the overview of it, of course. But the stars are unspoken for. Zeus keeps placing his lovers up there and Hera keeps sending the monsters up after them – once they’re done with Heracles, obviously. I’m sure they’d all have been here if they could.’

It’s a hollow lie, and Dionysus laughs in the face of it. ‘No matter, we wouldn’t want to temper our celebration anyway.’

I take Dionysus’s hand, drawing him back to me. He turns, and I cradle his face, angling it towards mine. There is a split second of doubt there, before he realizes what I’m doing and nods, almost imperceptibly.

I kiss him quickly – like it means nothing. But that’s as much a lie as everything else. It means forget everybody but me and I am here and we do not need anyone else. It is the mortals we need to convince, after all. Not the gods.

And if I’d heard a tale like this – a girl so abandoned, rescued and given the world – I might have spared a prayer or offering for him too.