Arianna Rose: The Gathering (Part 3) by Jennifer Martucci, Christopher Martucci Page A

reason for it, knew it was his father’s need to survive at work, but never felt prepared for it, no matter how many times he experienced it. 
    He paused before the looming structure, taking in the imposing scenery around it.  A dark silhouette stood framed by a second-story window, his considerable form backlit by a soft glow of light.  He would have known it was his father even if he had not seen the shape behind the glass.  He could feel the leaden weight of his stare.  It also helped that his father was the only year-round lifetime inhabitant of Antarctica.  Like a phantom, his father lived, nestled between snowy peaks, without anyone knowing of his existence, hiding in plain sight. 
    The figure disappeared as Desmond made his way toward the compound.  The front door opened and his father waved him inside.
    “Desmond!” his father greeted him.  “It’s so good to see you.”
    Desmond stepped over the threshold and into a mudroom.  His father clasped his hand and pumped it vigorously.  Never a man who favored affectionate gestures, a handshake from Agnon was the closest thing to a hug Desmond had gotten since he was a boy. 
    “How are you, son?  You look tired.  Did the journey drain you of strength?”
    “I am well, father.  I’m a bit tired.  The cold, you know, I’m not used to it.  I had to use my powers to keep myself warm.”
    His father gave a half smile.  When he did, he looked like a man far younger than he was.  Born centuries earlier, Agnon had seen the rise and fall of empires, dictators, prophets and madmen.  Yet, he didn’t look a day older than his fiftieth year.  With meticulously groomed silver hair and matching beard, few creases lined Agnon’s face.  His blues eyes were the exact azure of Desmond’s eyes and matched the sky on a clear day and his body was large and fit.
    “Take some of those layers off, and your boots, and come in.  We will have coffee by the fire.”
    Desmond minded his father’s instructions and began removing the outer layer of clothing he wore.  He laid his snow pants, coat, hat and gloves atop a wooden shelf and made his way into the living-room area, but not before removing the Tome of Ares from the backpack he’d brought.
    His father sat with impeccable posture in a leather chair, his regal profile outlined by a roaring fire.
    “Come,” his father ordered him. “Sit down,” he gestured to an identical chair beside him. 
    Desmond could feel the panicked pound of his pulse hammering in his neck as he sidestepped the chair and stood, instead, in front of his father clutching the Tome.  He dropped the book in his father’s lap and worried his voice would waver with the words he was about to speak. 
    “What is the meaning of this, father?” he asked and was pleased that he sounded far more confident than he felt.
    His father opened the book and flipped through its pages casually.  “It is exactly what it claims to be.  It is the Tome of Ares.”
    “The original Tome of Ares,” Desmond corrected. 
    “Yes,” his father replied unimpressed.
    “The most sacred text of our people, the very one that speaks of the prophecy, of the Sola, right?”
    “Yes,” his father answered.
    Arrogance waited just beneath the surface of his father’s nonchalant attitude, waiting to pounce like a coiled snake.  Desmond could feel the tautness of his energy wafting in strained waves. 
    “And the last chapter, it was authored by you?”
    “Yes it was,” his father replied tightly.
    Desmond wanted to scream in his face, accuse him of unspeakable betrayal for not telling him of his role in the Tome, of not telling him the truth.  But he knew his father’s temperament well, knew of the cruel and vindictive streak he possessed.  He would never get the answers he came for if he indulged his father in a shouting match.  So he measured his words carefully.
    “The chapter about the Sola, your chapter, is different from what I was taught growing