Title from Walt Whitman.
Ariadne's fingers were sore and her wits dulled by monotony when she heard the steady thud of feet against stone outside the room, and pulled her hand away from the distaff too quickly, catching her hand on the needle. She did not feel it pierce the skin, but she felt the sharp rush of pain afterwards, and looked down to see a long line of red along her palm, like an extra vein for the priestesses to read.
She wondered if that was how her brother had died, if brave Androgeus, who used to pick her up and swing her in his arms until she laughed, had looked down and seen his life bleeding out of his armour, and whether they had left him there or struck him again, until he was less her brother and more some unknown, broken mess, calling out brokenly for his loved ones, too far away to hear.
Perhaps that was why her father had not let her see the body as the Athenians carried the litter from their boats, the truth concealed behind carefully arranged curtains. It might be easier to think so, instead of blaming her long hair and the growing curve of her hips.
"Your highness?" said one of her maids, standing by the threshold. If Ariadne squinted, she thought she could see an outline of a man against the wall behind her, half hidden in the shadows. But princesses did not squint, and if Ariadne had been a man instead, he would speak with her as an equal; but then if Ariadne had been born a man she would not have been here. "A messenger has come from Megara to tell you –"
Ariadne was on her feet in an instant, "Let him in."
Her maids stopped weaving, and ordinarily Ariadne would have been glad of the reprieve, but her mother was as good as gone, her brother dead, and if her father had died, then Crete would fall. She could hear the beat of her own heart, thudding against her throat, the sound of it in her ears, the way Androgeus had once described it, there's no feeling quite like it in the world, he had said, fingers tangled in her hair, still drenched in sweat and blood from his first battle.
"But –" one of them stammered out.
Ariadne drew herself up, back straight and tall like her father's, and ran her gaze very coolly along them like he did with quarrelling advisors, until she found herself looking at the shadow again. "Let him in."
The girl hesitated, stepping aside slowly, leaving the entrance clear, but the man did not step through it. He did, however, move closer until they could see him as he bowed, a cloud of long dark hair leading down to broad golden shoulders until the man straightened. He moved with almost fluid grace, more dancer than errand boy.
"Forgive me, princess," he said, eyes fixed on the ground, "I would not dare."
"There are no laws against your presence here," Ariadne said, for man had ever been brought to trial over inobservance of a custom, not in sunny Crete. "You are most welcome, traveller."
"I have great news of your kyrios and king, madam. Megara is conquered, and Nisus gone. King Minos is victorious, and is soon to return." He bowed again, and backed away, only then looking up. Their eyes met, and then he was gone.
Ariadne sank down onto her chair, and pressed a hand onto the hollow of her throat, pulse drumming against her fingers.
Acacallis laughed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, it'll be glorious," she said. "The parade of triumph, and the men all marching in the lines. I do hope they'll send good tribute this time."
"It would help the coffers," Ariadne replied dumbly.
Phaedra merely smiled at her. "Always so serious," she murmured, and walked over to stand behind Ariadne's seat, leaning down to brush Ariadne's hair behind her ear. She smelled of flower oil and the fine residue of dust, but then they all did, coddled inside for so long. "And yet I saw the way you looked at him. Not everything must be so serious, Ariadne."
"I was worried for Father!"
"Worried he would find out you almost let a man here, perhaps?" Her sister whispered. Ariadne looked up, panicked, eyes darting around the room, but her women had returned to their weaving, though some still watched them with interest. She felt her cheeks burn.
"But he was a fine specimen, was he not? Did you not want to run your hands along –" She stopped abruptly when Ariadne glared at her.
"Your betrothed is finer, I'm told," she said by way of reply, fingers running along her cut, "especially for an Athenian."
Phaedra straightened. "He'll grow out of it, knowing my luck. And father would not wed me to my brother's murderer." But she did not sound sure.
"But he will wed you to the murderer's son."
"And so he will doom my husband." Phaedra said quietly, smoothing down her robe. "Ariadne, please, you must persuade him otherwise."
Ariadne smiled, and reached out for her sister's hand. "Don't worry yourself yet," she said, "he won't marry you off before me, and that will not be for some time yet."
But she could not promise, for her father listened to his men, not his daughters.
"They're coming!" Acacallis cried out suddenly, pointing out of the window. Ariadne had not even seen her move, but she was waving now, careful to keep her arm inside, out of the glare of the shining sun. "We should meet them."
She turned around then, and the light backlit her, and Ariadne felt her breath catch. She looked just like their mother had done, before their father had left, and she had taken to her bed and would not be coaxed out.
"We can't go out, Acalle."
"Surely Father would make an exception for his victorious arrival home? After all, you make exceptions all the time." Her voice was carefully casual, her eyes wide in faux innocence.
Ariadne looked at her carefully for a moment. "In the courtyard, then."
She stood up, and with a small wave of her hand made the maids do the same, and they followed the sisters down, Acacallis in excited victory and calm Phaedra at Ariadne's side. They took their places in the shade of the courtyard, standing in a short line with the maids behind them.
Gradually they became aware of the growing noise of the approaching army, the thud of the horses and the shouts of the men, and then only the latter. Some time after that, when a few of their companions had began to fidget, their father came out of the house to meet them.
He looked tired, but he smiled to see them all the same. As the eldest, he went to her first, put his arm around her, and pulled her close.
"We were watching from the towers," she said, and was surprised to see him start at this, and pull back to look at her as if without recognition. There was a line on his forehead that she had not seen before. "Are you well, Father?"
He did not answer her, simply smoothed her hair with his other hand, tucking it behind his ear. "I've found a man to make you a dancing ground here."
Ariadne fought to keep a smile on her face. Of course, Crete being what it was, he had to have gone to some effort, for few men could make a level dancing ground on such uneven ground, but still.
But she could not quite bring herself to complain, not when he had just returned, and so he moved on from her to Phaedra.
"Now, where is your mother?"
"She's not well, Father. Deucalion is with her." said Acacallis, reaching out for him. He put his arm around her too, so that he was holding both of his younger daughters, and turned to face Ariadne.
"He is a very learned man," he said, as if he knew her thoughts. "I think you might like him. Now, shall we see to your mother?"
And so he led them inside.