The Divine Comedy || bloodlines

Rebirth

ARIANA

September, six years old

AT CAMP JUPITER, the legion had little formal education. There were classes on myths, languages, and basic arithmetic—when you were a soldier, born into it and raised to die for it, you needn't know much else. If Ariana recalled anything from the stories of old, it was that the hero never got his perfect ending. The gods loved their pretty misfortunes, tragic follies, and Luke had sworn it to her; they were going to be different.

That night, they had camped on a cliffside under the stars. They had no supplies, no warming fire, no weapons besides the bronze blade Luke had wielded when they met. At the time, Ariana had still been hoping for an end to the journey. She wanted a soft place to rest her head, and she expected Luke to lead her there. In truth, she didn't remember much of how they'd come to separate. Lupa had appeared, and she hadn't seen the boy from Charleston since.

Years had passed, but Ariana's dreams often returned to their last night and their final conversation. She had still been Andromeda then, still speaking the language of Italy, and she had a narrow view of the gods. Every story Luke spoke of ended in tragedy, and he told her that the gods didn't care what happened to them. If they gave a shit about any of their children, they wouldn't have spent the last few months starving.

As she'd grown, she knew he had tempered some of his anger for her young benefit. She understood that he had wanted to say we are born just to die.

There isn't anyone? Ariana had asked, encircling her knees with scratched up arms. Not one hero was happy?

There's Perseus, I guess. Luke had sounded reluctant to say it. He got the girl, a kingdom. Saved his mom.

Ariana had been too young to hear the pain in his voice, but it haunted her dreams. She always wondered what he had said goodbye to before their first hello, and now she had come to realize that it was everything.

He saved Andromeda. Luke turned to look at her, his troublemaker grin back and sewn in place as if it had never left. She was a princess, y'know. If your dad knew about the gods, you were probably named after her.

Ariana had sat up eagerly, curious at the mention of her name and the story she barely knew. Was she anything other than a princess? Did she fight?

Luke's expression of regret, as if he hated the news he was about to deliver, told Ariana enough. Just a damsel. He leaned forward, smiled, and brushed dirt away from her eyes. I'll tell you what, kid. That name's not strong enough for you. I think you've outgrown it.

Ariana had laughed, assuming he was making one of his eloquent metaphors that flew above her head and could not be caught. You can't outgrow a name.

Sure you can. The stars sparkled against his pale, waxy face to light the blue of his eyes. A shadow drew a scar down his cheek. We are not our blood. Fate is ours to forge.

The dagger of bronze passed seamlessly into her hands, and Luke laughed as he called it a gift for her rebirth. Ariana would carry that blade with her for years, a companion who had journeyed with her longer than even Luke had. Hundreds of monsters had died by it, and thousands more screamed at its touch.

Ariana. They had scratched her new name on the blade together, jagged indents in the bronze.