The Dark Dyad (Tom Riddle & ofc)

Chapter 11. Forward into the past

A young woman was hurriedly braiding her daughter's hair. Her long, pale fingers buried themselves in a mop of raven-winged hair—the unruly curls her daughter had inherited from her father—but the color was just like hers. The woman smiled as she gently kissed the girl's forehead, and cunning sparks flashed in her big green eyes. But still, she did not immediately say what she wanted and only sternly demanded, "Now read a book and then go to bed."

She started to leave the child's room but stopped. After hesitating for a moment—her daughter didn't notice it at all—she said, "Irene, tomorrow we have a little trip and a surprise for you."

"Surprise?!" Eleven-year-old Irene gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut because of a strange tickling sensation in her stomach. It must have been her mother's words about the surprise that had excited her.

The mother left the room. Irene was left alone. She didn't feel like reading the book. She looked at the cover of "Slavic Deities and Rituals of Summoning" and flopped down on the bed. It all looked like fairy tales, of course, but it would be nice to see something with her own eyes! She opened a large black book at random and yawned lazily. All her indifference and laziness, however, faded away in a flash. The book, fortunately, opened not on a solid text with those unbearably difficult letters of the Slavic language but on a picture. Little Irene stared mesmerized at the faded page with the black-haired woman's face.

"It's me!" Irene squeaked when she saw the undeniable resemblance.

The worn inscription in her mother's language read 'Mara'. Irene inhaled excitedly, preparing to read the whole thing in one sitting, to tell her mother—she was the one who made Irene read books in her own language—and perhaps even her grandmother. Grandmother lived somewhere far away, in some cold country, and for some reason they had never been there. But what if this surprise was a visit to this wonderful country, about which little Irene had heard only in stories and read in books? With an excited breath, she began to read on.

There was a sickle in the hand of the beautiful woman in the picture, and next to it was written that human lives were reaped with it; there was also a huge black moon and skulls.

Every morning, Mara attempted to murder the sun, but the rays of light drove her away. She personified death, winter, and night, associated with the extinction of the vital fire, negative symbols, evil, and darkness. Accompanying the transition to the world of the dead, she was also present at the rain-calling ceremony and the change of seasons leading to the withering of the living.

Irene jumped out of bed briskly and ran to the large mirror, unbraiding her hair as she went.

"It's definitely me!"

She laughed loudly, looking at herself in the mirror. Then she turned around busily, theatrically throwing her head back and spreading her arms, as if in a dance—objects around her began to float slowly. With a loud squeak, she rushed back to the bed—the objects fell to the floor with a crash, to which Irene did not react in any way but continued to read with rapt attention.

The name comes from the word " morъ". The ancient Slavs associated her appearance with the deaths of people and animals. Taking the souls of mortals, she allowed them to be reborn and appear on Earth again. The legends changed over time, and the goddess's magic began to be forgotten. But the fear of death, inherent at the level of instinct, remained.

"Ha!" Irene exclaimed belligerently. "I want to be feared the same way!"

Mara is the wife of the Deathless.

"Who?" Irene frowned and began to fussily flip through the pages to find out who this was.

She woke up to the muffled voices of her father and mother coming from downstairs. She rubbed her eyes with her small fists to chase away the drowsiness and looked under her side, where the book lay open. Apparently, Irene hadn't noticed how she'd fallen asleep to a fascinating read. However, her agile little mind was occupied with another question: why were her parents talking so loudly? Intending to find out by all means, Irene climbed off the bed and removed her shoes and socks so that not a single step could be heard. The door creaked softly, and a grim, thin silhouette slipped into the hallway. When she reached the stairs leading down to the common living room, she froze.