Chapter Text
To suggest that Sarah wasn't essentially a hopeless romantic would be a serious oversight; her heart fluttered as she delved into the lines of the poem a second time.
In the mists of ancient lore, where shadows softly weave, there lived fair Ariadne, princess of Crete, destined to believe. With a graceful hand, she led brave Theseus through trials fierce and wild, to slay the Minotaur, the beast of dread, in labyrinthine guile.
Yet, cruel fate's tempest blew, and with a bittersweet farewell, he sailed from her embrace, casting a spell, a hollowed well. On Naxos's gentle shores, her heart lay broken, frail, till Dionysus, wild with love, found her, an aching tale.
The child of mortal and god, he turned madness into flame, and lifted her to heights divine, forever changing her name. A radiant bride, with hair like sunlight’s kiss and eyes like verdant seas, she stood with serpents' grace beside him, reigning in eternal ease.
Together, they forged a legacy where dreams took wing and swirled, and their children danced with golden hearts upon the tapestry of worlds.
Sitting within a pentagram made of cool whip and salt, ringed by gifts of small gold nuggets, an array of lush grapes and figs, and exquisite fox furs. The scent of incense drifted from a copper dish that resembled a leaf. Beyond the circle, her statue of Dionysus, carved from dark, old wood with pointed horns atop his curls, kept watch over her.
A soft hum escaped her lips, bubbling with anticipation at the notion of discovering her destined soulmate. Though she harbored no illusion that he might be a divinity, she dared to dream he would be stunningly beautiful and wonderfully wicked, a kindred witch perhaps, with a light of magic that blazed as vividly as hers.
Sarah imagined herself as a modern-day Ariadne, less graceful, less beautiful, mortal and flawed but with a labyrinth of her own with its many twists and turns, uncertain paths, and the ever-present shadows of doubt.
The poem's words ignited her heart, stirring a yearning to break free from the mundane and search for him. She envisioned a love story as timeless as the one she'd just read, a tale where passion and destiny were entwined.
In her mind's eye, she stood on the shores of fate, waiting for her Dionysus—not a deity, of course, as she would never be so vain, and it would be incredibly disrespectful to even think so.
Just someone who could truly see her.
Her surroundings didn’t reflect a splendor of myth, though; they were instead cluttered with the remnants of her daily life—an overstuffed worn armchair, a wicker basket of unattended laundry, and an array of disordered herbs aborning her kitchen island.
The grittiness of the salt surrounding her reality was as essential as it was grounding, while the whipped cream symbolized her dreams, light and sweet. As she hummed a tune and felt a buoyancy in her chest, Sarah closed her eyes and embraced her magic.
In that moment, she yearned not just for a partner, but for a kindred spirit, someone who would share her journey and bring laughter as they navigated life's obstacles. She longed for a companion who understood her, who could perceive the shadows in her heart; she knew she wasn't so unique, but different in a way, others like her existed, yes but did they often embody dominance, stubbornness, pettiness, and vengefulness? She wished to be cherished for her true self, the dark parts of her that she so carefully hid. With a renewed sense of purpose, Sarah set the book aside and gathered her magic into her hands.
"In wild festivity, where maenads dance and satyrs spin their merry charms, oh father, under the lavish caress of golden rays, I raise your name; my heart longs for a soul like my own, fierce and wild. Let his eyes shine like the silver moon and sparkle like the clearest glass. I ask you, Dionysus, bring him to me, as I lay before you my gifts of golden bounty, lush wines, gentle furs, and vibrant clusters of grapes, mingled with the sweet scents of eucalyptus and lemongrass."
While she was weaving her incantation and the pentagram vibrated with power, an unanticipated, intense pain suddenly hit her, knocking the witch onto her back. A deep sorrow wrapped around her.
A tortured gasp slipped from her lips as the burning pain raced through her veins, forcing her to writhe on the cold kitchen floor. She bit her tongue so hard that blood filled her mouth. With an agonizing scream, Sarah kicked out wildly, scattering ingredients and crystals all over the ground.
The soulspell had failed!
Words eluded the witch as she became overwhelmed by despair, surrendering to tears as the ground beneath her appeared to crumble. A sudden gust from the dark abyss struck her forcefully, twisting her form and sending her spiraling into an endless void.
Silent screams escaped her as the encroaching darkness swallowed her whole. Cold, murky water began to seep through her maroon hoodie and jean shorts, invading her senses. Struggling against the numbness of her limbs, she gasped for air, choking as the liquid filled her mouth.
Breaking through the icy surface, she spluttered and coughed violently, expelling the water from her tormented lungs as brilliant sunlight dazzled her vision.
"By the blessings of the gods!"
A sonorous voice, rich with an elegant accent, echoed from the side of her shaking form. Trembling and lost in the flowing water, Sarah blinked rapidly, her gaze drawn to the enigmatic silhouette.
A distinguished elder, his short hair flecked with gray, stood next to an easel by the riverside. He wore flowing garments of soft white and gentle blue that enveloped him like a cocoon.
Were those robes reminiscent of ancient Greece?
There was no doubt in her mind that his words danced in Latin. With a lineage steeped in Cajun French, Sarah had also pursued the arcane tongue of the ancients, yearning to master the art of witchcraft. Her grandmother, her Nemae, had instilled in her a deep reverence for knowledge.
"Come this way, my dear!" The venerable man proclaimed, adjusting his paintbrush against the canvas's frame.
She answered his call, wading through the water slowly, reaching the bank, and extending her hand towards his welcoming grip. Though the witch had consented to let him help her rise, she flinched at his unexpected gasp of disbelief as he lifted her from the depths.
"What are you wearing?" The question echoed around them like a whispered spell, drawing her attention to the delicate sheen of embarrassment blooming across his neck and cheeks. His face was a canvas of vulnerability.
Looking down, she was enveloped by a wave of confusion, noting her attire of snug jean shorts, boots that provided stability, and a lengthy maroon hoodie, which made up her outfit. Her brow furrowed in surprise as she caught him glancing away from her legs, the weight of shyness anchoring him.
Then, in a heartbeat, he removed his light blue outer robe as if peeling away layers of his discomfort, wrapping it around her like a cocoon, a valiant effort to shield her legs from the chill of possible prying eyes. As he hovered, they shared a fleeting connection—just before their gazes merged, a theatrical sigh escaped his lips, breaking the tension. "Are you a nymph?"
Her laughter, fragile and restrained, spilled forth like a broken melody from her aching throat, a symphony of coughs escaping her lips before she whispered in a raspy tongue, "No, not at all."
"Yet a mysterious figure rising from the depths is a rarity, a ghostly specter."
His eyes bore into hers, questioning, skeptical. Sarah breathed deeply, nodding slowly, then murmured, "Apologies if I startled you. Can you pinpoint my location?"
"Florentia, naturally."
"Florence, Italy?"
Panic tightened its grip around her throat as her jaw clenched. "Italia, dear child."
The realization settled like a heavy fog; she was on the other side of the world. Yet, beneath it all, a flicker of reassurance sparked.
She drew deep, calming breaths, fighting against the tide of anxiety threatening to sweep her under once more. The older man's gaze was sharp, like an eagle surveying her, keen and discerning.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, feeling the weight of his robe, suffocating yet anchoring. Tell me it's still 2019.
In a blur of reality, she gasped, "What is the current year?"
A wave of dread washed over her as she beheld the confusion knitting his brow, time momentarily suspended in that shared silence.
"It is 1154, presided over by Consuls Vincentius and Fravitus," he finally revealed, his voice echoing strangely in her ears.
A tide of anxiety surged within her, each beat of her heart quickening as she pressed for clarity.
"Is that BCE or CE?" The man’s puzzled expression deepened, as if the answer eluded him.
"Ab urbe condita?" She asked, her voice trembling with urgency. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and tears brimmed in hers; it was the ominous yet real 401 CE.
The distance from her home felt infinite. A choked sob escaped her, nudging the man into a fidgety awkwardness as he shifted from one foot to another, eventually encircling her in an embrace that felt both foreign and safe.
"Fear not, young one. I am here to assist you," he murmured. She surrendered to his warmth, seeking solace from this gentle apparition in a strange land.
The comfort of his presence quelled her apprehensions—his essence resonated goodness. Trust emerged from the depths of the witch’s heart; she deemed him safe enough, for now.
As he patted her back, a soft laugh slipped past her lips. Throughout the ages, men had shown an innate tenderness when confronted with a weeping woman, their kindness timeless, an anchor she cherished. He pulled away with a gentle smile that lit up his face, displaying teeth that were remarkably clean despite the years he had accumulated.
"I am Cassius Artorius. How shall I refer to you, young one?"
"Sarah—it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He chuckled softly and nodded in acknowledgment. "Your name has Hebrew roots."
"I hail from a land beyond the ocean." Cassius raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Which land, precisely?"
"The United States of America."
"And what brings you to this place?"
"Magic." The witch provided a clear and concise answer, albeit with some difficulty in articulating her thoughts. After observing her for a considerable time, Cassius began to hum lightly to himself.
"Is this world not breathtaking?"
"Do you truly believe in magic?"
"I hold faith in various things." He returned his attention to his canvas, a smile illuminating his face. Sarah admired the impeccable depiction of the river from which she had just emerged.
"You possess remarkable skill," she complimented him as he crouched to stow the paint jars into his bag. As he walked past her to rinse his brushes in the river, she scrutinized him with her eyes.
"Would you be interested in joining me at my home? My daughters would be delighted to meet their distant cousin."
Watching him adeptly clean the brushes, her eyes widened in surprise.
"I have limited alternatives." She carefully assessed his aura for any signs of insincerity, which remained pure and gentle.
"I would be delighted to meet them." He turned to her with a playful grin, eliciting a smile in return. Indeed, she had developed a fondness for Cassius—she felt certain they would enjoy each other's company immensely.
She found herself before a grand mansion, its Romanesque curves rising like ethereal whispers. Cassius' abode sprawled beneath a flat, brown-tiled roof, a singular story that loomed large against the sky.
A verdant garden cradled the entrance, a sanctuary festooned with polished marble statues, gurgling fountains, and inviting tables and seats that beckoned her closer. The mansion's pale stone was steadied by strong, reassuring columns.
"Alba, make certain my niece is perfectly polished and attired before my children return from their jaunt in the city,"
Cassius declared, his voice echoing with intent, likely alluding to the far-off Florence. She directed her gaze westward, where the city's silhouette danced in the twilight, recalling that her sought-after knowledge suggested the second wall's rise would linger for another century in delay.
The unexpected sound of a sharp gasp pulled her focus to a small, middle-aged woman beside Cassius, her wide, hazel eyes scrutinizing Sarah’s uncovered legs with thinly veiled disdain.
Alba's contempt ripped through the air, prompting Sarah to scowl defiantly, her expression a mirror of anger at the older woman's clear disrespect.
"My lord," the woman intoned, "She looks as if she hails from a tribe of wildlings."
With an arched brow, Cassius mused aloud, turning his eyes back to Sarah, who stood quietly. "Sarah, when you’ve finished with your preparations, meet me outside for lunch."
He departed, humming a tune that floated through the air like a breeze. His spirit, vibrant and youthful, contrasted sharply with the shadows of age that trailed behind him.
A low, sharp sound emerged from Sarah as Alba gripped her arm tightly, dragging her towards the house, barking orders at the surrounding figures clad in simple white robes with tunics of blues and creams underneath. Employees?
Sarah's heart raced, wincing at the grim reality of a world where chains of slavery still clung to the lives of many.
.
.
.
They hovered around her like shadows; several women's bewildered gazes morphed into hands tugging at her drenched attire. Alba showed a wave of disgust on her features as she scrutinized the witch's crimson bra and dark lingerie.
As the hands encroached to strip away the last remnants of her clothing, Sarah thrust them aside with a fierce glare, reclaiming her hoodie, navy cotton camisole, and shorts from the grip of an unfamiliar figure.
"I know how to take care of myself."
The witch yanked off her boots with fierce resolve, her face twisted in annoyance as she bent to wrestle off her soggy socks.
Alba pulled at the fabric cradled in her arms. "Let go!" Sarah's sudden shout drew a sharp, irritated look from the woman with the scowl.
"It is imperative that we cleanse them, at the very least. Your reasoning for wanting to keep them escapes me; however, you may reclaim them post-wash."
At the patronizing tone, Sarah let out a laugh that echoed in the air. "You simply cannot comprehend"—and Alba accepted the barb with a calmness Sarah could never emulate. The witch shed the remainder of her wet clothing, handing it over to a nameless woman.
Sarah extended her hand to test the water's warmth. Satisfied that it was bearable, she slipped into the tub, submerging herself completely.
Veils of gentle hands roamed through the silken strands of Sarah's hair, pulling her forward into a swirl of fragrant whispers. Women encircled her like a bouquet, cascading aromatic oils over the soapy tresses, buzzing with a fervor that stressed her the hell out.
Alba's rough fingers danced an intricate ballet upon her scalp, wrestling with the wildness that dwelled there. A hiss escaped Sarah's lips, sharp and stinging, as the woman pressed too earnestly upon her roots.
With a swift motion, Sarah turned, sending a fiery glare at the woman. As her angry brown eyes clashed with the pale hazel of Alba's, the atmosphere softened slightly, and hands grew gentler, a quiet victory and defeat echoing between them.
By the time the bath completed, Sarah stood as a figure of flustered humiliation, a portrait of chaos among serenity. When lifted from the cool embrace of the water, the witch grunted, wiping herself hastily with the velvety fabric offered by awaiting hands.
Alba attempted to scold her locks into submission, tsking as stubborn strands resisted. Clad in layers of delicate pinks and whites, whatever they called it — tunica? No, stola?— she couldn't help but find the fashion a labyrinth of frustration.
Perhaps on her next encounter with Cassius, she could conjure the courage to unravel the mystery of these fabric layers.
With a swift dismissal, Sarah kicked away the uncomfortable sandals offered by a stranger, hearing another annoyed exhale from Alba.
As the woman attempted to tame her bedraggled mane, Sarah took a step back, locking eyes with her exasperated tormentor, then inward to herself, absorbing the truth — she was dressed, covered, and thoroughly washed, and in a dreamlike haze, that was enough.
Ignoring the echoing cries of the distressed women and Alba's urgent entreaties, the witch glided away from the dim confines, swiftly traversing the narrow passageway, and stepping into the world beyond as she rounded the bend.
There, two youthful figures danced around the man, both seemingly of her own age or perhaps even more tender in years. Their attire was a swirling tapestry of pink, orange, yellow, and white, casting a vibrant spell. Each adorned with flowing, lavishly styled hair that seemed to radiate elegance, they exuded an enchanting allure.
The girl closest to Cassius boasted light brown waves, her skin a porcelain canvas contrasting with her companion's deeper tone. She bore high cheekbones and a nose that spoke of classical grace, her full lips shaping a subtle pout that invited admiration.
Her eyes, deep and dark, glimmered with an entrancing light. In contrast, the second girl, though not as striking, was wrapped in her own charm. Her rippling deep blonde strands framed her face, while her slender, coal-black eyes seemed to perpetually reflect a hint of melancholy.
As Sarah drew near, Cassius’s warm gaze rose, catching sight of her alongside two other sets of dark eyes that turned in her direction. "Could you share the whereabouts of your sandals?" he mused, perhaps also curious about the tangled state of her damp hair, yet he seemed to choose to withhold his thoughts.
"They were uncomfortable, so I removed them."
The witch responded nonchalantly, her gaze drawn to the young women observing her. Cassius laughed heartily and hummed, "I hope you didn’t make things difficult for Alba."
He turned to the two young women, adding, "My dears, we welcome your cousin Sarah for a visit as I wanted you to meet her. Sarah, this is my eldest daughter, Caelia," he gestured toward the young woman whose eyes sparkled and whose smile brightened the scenery. "—and this is my youngest, Valeria."
The other girl gave Sarah a disdainful look. The witch frowned, displeased with Valeria’s attitude, while Caelia walked toward the witch. "It’s wonderful to finally meet you, cousin!"
Sarah couldn't help but respond awkwardly, "Likewise," when the girl pulled her into a tight embrace. "Please come and join us!"
With a burst of excitement, Caelia pulled out of the hug and took hold of Sarah's hand, leading her toward the table. It was already filled with food and wine. Sarah nearly drooled as she looked at the assortment of bread, olives, cheese, grapes, and crackers.
Caelia eagerly seated the witch across from Cassius, while Valeria took a spot next to Sarah, looking at the witch with disdain. Sarah stared back with a blank expression but quickly turned her focus when someone touched her arm.
"So, cousin, where are you from?"
Cassius gave a brief nod to Sarah as she reached for a few olives. "—I hail from beyond the ocean."
As she spoke, the witch savored an olive, delighting in its smoothness, free from the burden of a pit.
"Which realm do you claim?" Valeria's haughty voice cut through the air, demanding acknowledgment.
Without missing a beat, Sarah replied, "The United States of America." She remained aloof, avoiding the brash girl's gaze. "I'm unfamiliar with it. Surely, its culture lags behind."
Sarah, counting in her mind to maintain her calm, opted for a smile rather than meet Valeria's intense stare. "Oh indeed, it's quite wild and free."
And it was. America, at that juncture, was a land of raw freedom, untouched by greed.
"Are you married?" Caelia inquired, diverting the witch's gaze toward herself. "—and may I ask your age?"
"I am twenty-two and unwed," came the witch's response. "Oh, how unfortunate! To be single at that age surely presents its trials, what with society's expectations looming over you," Valeria's feigned sympathy began to reveal itself.
"Valeria!"
Sarah burst into laughter, effectively muffling Cassius's offended retort before he could utter more.
"At present, the thought of matrimony holds little allure for me."
Valeria gasped in disgust, but Caelia, undeterred, continued her discussion as a fit young man donned in white made his way toward them.
"I am now eighteen, and Valeria is seventeen. Should our father grant his blessing, we shall soon have the chance to wed."
Sarah observed with keen interest as the young man with tousled dark hair leaned closer to whisper to Cassius, her brown eyes catching fragments of wisdom that flitted across his features, too fleeting for her to grasp completely.
At last, Cassius stood. The young man backing a few steps away to give the elder room.
With her eyelids lowered and a slight smirk, Sarah observed the young man, taking pleasure in how he met her gaze only to hastily look away, surprised, his cheeks and ears blushing with a delicate pink hue.
He was undoubtedly handsome. It had been quite a while since she had been in the company of an attractive human man; her encounters had predominantly been with supernatural beings, such as satyrs, warlocks, or high fae. She had no interest in werewolves, as she found they smelled to much of wet dog.
Typically, human men did not possess the stamina she desired, yet they remained delightful, and she relished the sight of them begging. She watched him fidget in place, his eyes nervously darting back toward her while his hand awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.
If only she were not adrift in time at this precise moment, if only she were not reliant on Cassius's benevolent assistance for her survival, she would certainly have taken the attractive man into a broom closet and indulged her desires; however, regrettably, it would likely incite a scandal, and despite how amusing that may seem, she could not afford such a risk, not even for a fleeting moment of pleasure.
After a prolonged moment, Sarah averted her gaze from the appealing young man as Cassius addressed the group. "I must attend to important matters, ladies. I encourage you to develop friendly relations." The elder gentleman directed a significant glance at Valeria before promptly departing towards the entrance, followed closely by the young man.
In an ethereal stillness, Caelia remained serene until her father’s footsteps faded into oblivion, then, she whispered excitedly to Sarah, "Oh cousin! What joy it would be to aid you in your quest for love. Let him be a wild spirit, a satyr at heart, who knows the warmth of passion when the world dims."
Sarah, taken aback by such exuberance, animatedly waved her arms, laughter cascading from her like summer rain. "Oh, no! I do not need your help!"
Indeed, Sarah had been in pursuit of love, and though the enchantment of the soulspell had crumbled, it had serendipitously led her to this very moment.
But why?
As if on cue, Valeria leapt to her feet, her presence dissolving into the ether, the witch momentarily casting aside thoughts of sorcery and enchantment as the blonde practically stomped away.
At last, Caelia shattered the silence with a teasing grin, saying, "Forget her; she’s nothing but a tempest in a ladle."
Sarah tilted her head with a laugh falling from her lips, her eyes fixating on the endless cerulean above, pondering her reason for being in this place, in this time.
As Sarah stirred from her slumber, a wave of disquiet washed over her, triggered by the haunting remnants of her dream.
A young man lingered in her mind, his mesmerizing silver-blue eyes glinting with an otherworldly allure, like melted mercury, a sharply sculpted jawline framing plump lips that seemed made for kissing.
His dark brown eyebrows arched below rich brown locks, and his nose, broader than most yet harmoniously integrating with his other features, only added to his unique charm. An electric thrill coursed through her veins.
Each word he had spoken resonated like a poetic melody, stirring something deep within her. She could almost feel the warmth of his presence beside her, the air thick with unspoken desires.
Thoughts of their shared breath and the way he effortlessly commanded her attention filled her mind, leaving her breathless. Each moment replayed was a tempting invitation to explore the depth of his character, a siren call she couldn’t resist.
Was it truly him?
Could her envisioned soulmate be more than a mere figment of her imagination, a creation born from her longing for connection? Weary from casting a soulspell earlier that day, Sarah felt the pull of twilight as silvery moonbeams seeped through the slightly ajar window, signaling the approach of night.
Cassius, her kind host, had insisted on her rest, recommending they continue their conversation come morning. With a heavy sigh, Sarah turned onto her side and gazed out through the translucent pane of glass.
The witch understood all too well that her time in this era was limited; she needed to find a way back to 2019, to her projects, her home, and most importantly, to her cherished friend Rowen. Yet the path to achieve that safely remained shrouded in uncertainty.
Nestled against the plush embrace of the bed, Sarah closed her eyelids, deliberately obscuring the silvery glow of the moon. The witch savored the serenity as she drifted into a deep, contemplative state, only to be abruptly yanked from her tranquility by an unsettling mental disturbance.
Her eyes shot open at the instinctual recognition of another presence nearby. A frown crossed her forehead, tinged with curiosity and distrust as she delved deeper into her inner psyche. There it was—a new and unexpected manifestation.
With her eyes shut once more, she pried into her thoughts and beheld a brilliant golden thread reaching outward from her essence, connecting her to a distant entity shrouded in the dark expanse of her mind.
Miraculously, as she tugged at it with her mental capacity, it recoiled, eliciting a stream of disbelief, confusion, and simmering anger toward her.
Frustration mounted as the foreign presence incessantly probed the tenuous thread that tied them together, sending her spiraling into madness.
"Stop that!" she commanded urgently, a spark of satisfaction igniting within her as she perceived the shadowy figure flinch and retreat momentarily. Yet, it was not long before it resurfaced, this time radiating a mischievous energy.
As the dark figure hovered around the thread, Sarah felt her pupils dilate, and a shiver ran up the golden string, prompting a gasp from her lips. It emanated an aura of a sinister temptation.
The more she tried to mentally cast out the entity, the more her frustration mounted due to its stubborn resistance. Acknowledging the presence's overwhelming strength and her defeat in their mental tug-of-war, she exhaled sharply and collapsed onto her back in exasperation.
The entity seemed to exude a sense of triumph. "Be quiet!" she muttered in anger, realizing her words drifted down the string towards the other being. She could feel its amusement returning, and it became clear that it was taunting her.
In a desperate attempt to shake off the malevolent spirit plaguing the inside of her head, she turned onto her side and pressed her face into the bed, thoroughly irritated. Whatever it was, it was annoying.