On the AFTERNOON of APRILIS 11, the sun blazes. It climbs and climbs the clear sky, until even spectators of the TOURNAMENT OF KINGS must wipe their brow with sweat. An injured Ariadne — licked with burns and marked by blood, only some of which belongs to them — nurses their wounds at the edge of the WISTERIA TRAINING GROUNDS. @junocalidus
Her shadow is long on the ground, a warning all on its own. The sharp angles of her shoulders, the clean lines of their silhouette — it terrifies. It is the first thing Ariadne sees, there on the ground, and so they know it is only a matter of time before she will come with her demands, her orders. And so it is a choice, deliberate and a small revolution of its own, to deny her this small satisfaction.
I see you, they will not say. I recognize you.
They do not say anything at all, when her shadow stills and the wind shifts to bring the acrid smell of her hunger to their nose. Ariadne presses the damp cloth to their palms, where they let the flame linger on their palm and bite at the thin skin. They wipe at the streak of blood on their shoulder. But they do not raise their eyes to meet Juno’s, and in doing so, Ariadne denies Juno her godhood.
The silence is ruined by her nearness; they rage against the loss of it. Ariadne digs their nails into the cloth and against their wounds. When it stings and stabs, they do not wince, and they do not hiss in pain. Instead, they mutter, “You gave me the signal. I had every right to use my magic.”
