34 - Ariadne
“I cannot feel her,” Ariadne murmurs.
“I’ve obstructed that pesky bond for you,” Hecate says with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll remedy it all soon.”
Ariadne’s stomach turns, wondering what it will feel like to rip their souls apart. Perhaps Hecate will remove the pain, or at least the physical manifestation of it, but she will never recover from Iona’s betrayal. The agony shall live in her heart forever.
“Come along.” Hecate takes her hand and guides her onward.
“Where… Where are we going?” She regards their dark surroundings with disdain, wishing they had gone to the asphodel fields instead. “Why are we here?”
“To right a wrong,” Hecate says.
She takes Ariadne down the dark tunnel to the iridescent web.
“There lies the weaver of your fate.” Hecate gestures above them to where Arachne perches on a thread. “The reason for your suffering.”
“Iona is the reason for my suffering.” Ariadne tries to turn away, but Hecate places an arm around her shoulders and fixes her in place.
“It’s as you said,” Hecate insists. “The Crone, Iona, your family, all of them are beholden to Arachne’s directive.
Every wound, every disappointment, every awful thing is her doing.
She gave you Iona only to rip her away. She gave you a family who only served to torment you, a friend who nearly killed you, others who only used you.
She crafted every nightmare, cut every scar, ingrained in you every flaw you possess. ”
Ariadne glares at the spider with burning contempt until, for the first time, the spider stops her weaving and looks up, all eight black eyes trained on her.
“I could not blame you for hating her. Fate is cruel indeed.” Hecate gently strokes her hair.
“Even after millennia of observing the toil of mortals, I still cannot comprehend the need for such recurrent suffering. What right does she have to do this to you? What right does anyone have to cause you harm? You, who have only tried to survive, to love… to be worthy of love.”
Ariadne tries to blink her tears away, but her emotions are so raw, so exposed. She can no longer muster the strength to bury her feelings away anymore.
“If not for her, would you have been subjected to such mistreatment by your scornful mother, while your father looked on and did nothing?” Hecate asks.
“You did not intervene either,” Ariadne murmurs, “even when I called for your aid.”
“I couldn’t,” Hecate says, pointing with a long sharp finger, “because of her.”
Blood roars in Ariadne’s ears, her hands shaking, her entire form trembling.
“You wish never to be hurt again?” Hecate asks, still stroking her hair. “To possess the peace you’ve always longed for? To be freed of all your pain?”
“Yes,” Ariadne rasps.
“What price would you pay for your freedom?” Hecate asks.
Hot tears drip down her cheeks. “Anything.”
“Then take her, my daughter.” Hecate’s breath tickles her ear. “Rid the world of her tyranny, once and for all.”
Ariadne looks up at her, struck with a cold realization of what she implies, but Hecate only stares solemnly back at her.
“Take her,” Hecate says again, “before the Crone succeeds in usurping Arachne’s will. Protect your world from catastrophe and ruin.”
When Ariadne looks back at the spider, she expects her to run, to scurry away into a crevice in the rock never to be seen again, but Arachne remains still, balancing on a single shimmering thread.
“She will keep you tethered to Iona even if your blood bond is broken,” Hecate reminds her. “You cannot resist Arachne’s decree. You will worship at the feet of a woman who only desires you due to unseen forces contriving your attachment. Iona never truly loved you. Never.”
A pathetic sob racks Ariadne’s body, and Hecate hushes her, caressing her cheeks and wiping away her tears.
“There, there,” Hecate says. “Heed my words and all shall be well again.”
Ariadne takes one step toward the creature, then another, and another, until she’s close enough to reach out and scoop her up into her palm. The spider doesn’t squirm, or bite, or try to escape. Arachne only looks up at her, so seemingly fragile and meek, and yet capable of such devastation.
“She took Euphemia,” Hecate whispers in her ear.
Ariadne flinches away, but Hecate keeps her in a firm embrace.
“An innocent baby boy is left motherless. A kind young man widowed,” Hecate continues.
Her fingers twitch as she’s wracked with violent sobs that echo within the vast cave.
“She is why the one you love has left you for another.” Hecate gently pushes one of her curls behind her shoulder.
“She’s alive,” Ariadne mouths.
“She’s a monster,” Hecate says.
“If I did this…”
“You would be a hero.”
“A killer.”
“She is the killer,” Hecate says softly, wiping away another of Ariadne’s tears.
“The harbinger of death to countless millions. Those whose lives were tragically cut short. Those whose dreams are never realized, whose potential is squandered by mere circumstance. Should our fate not lie in our own hands?”
Ariadne’s vision is obscured by her vengeful tears. She can barely see the spider as she wraps her fingers around its body, then closes her fist, clenching it shut.
“Pyrkagiá,” she chokes out, channeling all the magic now afforded her, and a flame bursts between her fingers, burning the creature inside.
When Ariadne opens her hand again, all that’s left are specks of ash. She blinks, unable to believe what she’s done. Around them, the threads glow, then turn to ash, too, and scatter across the damp floor of the cave, until there are none left, turning the cavern into a dark void.
All felt suddenly very strange, as if nothing were real, or suddenly everything is.
“What does that mean?” I ask, looking up at Hecate, and my heart stops.
Her mouth is upturned into a sharp toothed smile, her eyes the darkest I have ever seen them.
“Finally,” she says, as she places her palm over my forehead, and all goes black.