9 - Ariadne
D evising another lesson in combative magic is a most welcome distraction, but even that is not enough to quell her worrisome thoughts.
She doesn’t wish to consider the dinner invitation yet, or really at all.
She’d prefer to pretend it was never extended, that it was all an awful dream, and her family still hates her, as she’d expected them to.
You were conceived for one singular purpose: to serve your bloodline and its interests. Without that purpose, you are worthless. Her mother’s words repeat endlessly within her fretful mind.
“Ari!” Iona protests when she’s accosted by yet another wave of faceless assailants, their attacks becoming more aggressive in reaction to Ariadne’s tumultuous thoughts.
“Fight harder!” Ariadne calls from the stands of the gladiatorial arena she’s crafted in the center of the secluded valley.
Iona huffs and makes her best effort at defeating each attacker, but her spells are almost always defensive. She often hesitates, as if she’s afraid of harming the men, despite knowing they aren’t real, and she avoids their attacks out of fear, not survival.
Ariadne sighs and takes her water goblet, beckoning Aster to follow her down the stairs to the arena of clay and sand. Iona is covered in it, her black trousers and white shirt stained red from falling down countless times.
“Can I not rest a moment?” Iona asks, then yelps when an illusory man charges at her.
“I am not sure how to teach you,” Ariadne admits.
“Whatever do you mean?” Iona asks, trying to study her face, but she’s distracted by another attacker wielding a sword. She opens up the ground and lets it swallow the attacker whole.
“Your first impulse when threatened is to panic and cower,” Ariadne observes. “You do not fight on instinct.”
Taking pity on her, Ariadne ceases her barrage of illusory men and allows Iona a moment to rest.
“Of course not,” she pants. “I am not like you.”
Ariadne turns away, trying not to take her words as an insult. She is ever the brute, the violent aggressor with no capacity for restraint.
“No, that is not what I meant,” Iona protests.
“What then did you mean?” Ariadne snaps, resenting her thoughts being read.
“I am not… strong in that way. I never was. Not like you are,” Iona says.
“You must be,” Ariadne says.
When Iona doesn’t respond, Ariadne turns to behold her dejected expression.
She hesitates, than says, “I cannot change my nature. I will fight when I must, but there are many other ways to prevail in times of trouble.”
“Not with maleficians,” Ariadne says.
Iona has no answer to that and absentmindedly kicks a loose stone with her foot.
“You’ve fought with me before, and with Ksenia and Elise,” Ariadne points out.
“I was blinded by rage,” Iona says, wringing her hands. “I wasn’t in my right mind when I did those things. Especially with Elise.”
“Then I need you angry,” Ariadne muses.
“That is not an invitation to provoke my worst impulses,” she warns.
“And why ever not?” Ariadne cocks her head playfully. “I’ve quite a talent for it.”
Iona eyes her warily, but a smile tugs at her lips. “I shan’t be baited into quarreling with you.”
“I suspect you avoid dueling with me because you know you would certainly lose,” Ariadne says.
Iona frowns. “That’s not so certain.”
“Isn’t it?” Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “I suppose we shall never know.”
“And I suspect you are so set on dueling me so you might flaunt your spell work and stoke your ego at my expense,” Iona retorts.
“Then you admit, I would easily best you?”
“I admit nothing! I am merely saying-“
“You needn’t worry. I know how delicate you are and wouldn’t wish to discourage you too terribly.”
Iona scoffs in annoyance and Ariadne widens her stance, daring her to cast a spell.
“Have you forgotten that I can read your mind?” Iona asks. “I know what you aim to do, and it shan’t work.”
“Then I suppose we can instead determine my lust for you outweighs yours for me.” Ariadne shrugs, feigning offense. “For if our roles were reversed, I would brave a hellscape of trials just for one taste of you.”
Iona’s cheeks bloom. “Honestly, why must you provoke me so?“
“Why must you be such a bore?” Ariadne sighs melodramatically and turns to walk away. “If I-“
She screams when a cascade of ice-cold water falls from above and drenches her to the bone. When she turns back to protest, Iona has her arms crossed and glares with indignation.
“You bore me with your incessant nagging,” Iona retorts.
Wiping water from her eyes, Ariadne shivers. “That was freezing!”
“Who is delicate now?” Iona goads her. “A bit of cold and you fall to pieces.”
But Ariadne notices the water spreading across the dirt, collecting at Iona’s feet, so she turns it to ice. Iona slips within seconds and falls on her bottom before Ariadne can catch her, and to Iona’s further irritation, she cannot help laughing.
It’s to her own detriment though, because in her distraction, Iona casts another spell that shrinks her down to the size of a cat before she can bring up her shield.
“No shrinking spells!” Ariadne protests, holding up her shirt as it becomes a dress pooling around her shrunken form.
“A bit late to set rules,” Iona says. “But if we are, I say your shield is cheating.”
Ariadne manages to recover her natural height and readjusts her clothing before glowering at Iona, who by that time has rid the ground of ice and stands on her feet again, waiting expectantly.
“Fine, no shield,” Ariadne acquiesces, letting it fall away.
Less than a second later, the ground within the confines of the arena trembles, then explodes with the growth of hundreds of trees stretching up towards the sky, their branches snapping and trunks groaning as they climb, the thick canopy of leaves blocking out the sun.
Aster cowers, barking in distress until the growth ceases and all at once, there is silence. Ariadne gapes at the show of power, her heart racing in her chest, when she notices that Iona has disappeared.
At first, she considers it all could be illusion magic, but when she reaches out to touch the bark of a nearby tree, she winces when she gives herself a splinter.
Pulling the thin shard of wood from her forefinger, the tiny wound produces a single drop of blood.
It’s then she knows it must be real, for Iona would never give her even the illusion of pain.
“Iona?” she calls, trudging through the new forest. “Who is flaunting their power now?”
A distant giggle makes her whirl about, but there is nothing but green leaves and hanging vines.
“Find her,” Ariadne whispers to Aster, who puts his nose to the ground, sniffing furiously to seek out Iona’s scent.
She follows behind her familiar, ready to cast a spell at a moment’s notice, but the lush greenery is too impressive to ignore.
It’s yet another reminder of the disparity between their artifacts.
The staff could perhaps evoke half of the trees needed to cover the arena, but never this many.
If only Iona could channel this power into defeating her enemies, it would ensure that no one could ever harm her.
“Iona?” Ariadne calls out again, wondering if she might be sitting in one of the many arena seats and laughing as she watches Ariadne wandering about aimlessly.
“Yes?” Iona whispers in her ear, and Ariadne cries out in surprise, but when she turns to look, no one is there.
“This isn’t exactly a duel if you refuse to face me!” Ariadne calls, and Iona’s responding giggle echoes in yet another direction, making Ariadne turn in a circle, searching for any footprints or disturbance in the leaves that might indicate where the invisible Iona has gone.
She considers how best to proceed. She could start cutting down trees to clear the area, but she fears one of them might fall onto Iona.
She considers using fire but would risk the same issue.
She looks up at the thick branches, wondering if she could break through them with conjured wings, but she could never spot Iona from up there.
A length of vines descends upon her, swirling around her torso, her arms, her legs, hoisting her aloft and lacing its tendrils around the staff to pull it from her grip before she can react.
“Hey!” Ariadne protests, trying to wrench her wrists free, but she’s well and truly bound.
“My, my, what’s this?” Iona reveals herself and grins up at her. “I’ve caught a Zerynthos witch unawares. Whatever shall I do with her now?”
Ariadne’s struggles and writhes but the vines won’t budge, and the staff hangs high above, out of her reach. She grunts with frustration.
“Admit defeat,” Iona demands.
“I can still…” Ariadne kicks her legs in vain, the faintest of ideas emerging.
But when Iona’s gaze locks on hers, her attempts at escape become halfhearted. Those hazel eyes transfix her, entrance her, the flecks of gold glittering with mischief and awakened desire.
“Will this insatiable lust never cease?” Iona whispers. “Every spare moment when my mind is allowed to wander, all I can think of is you…”
Ariadne chuckles, her core warming. “Then let me down, and I shall-”
“Of what I wish to do to you,” Iona corrects her, then goes on her tiptoes to position her mouth so close, her warm breath caresses Ariadne’s parted lips. “How I wish to kneel before you and let you use my mouth until you collapse.”
All the breath leaves Ariadne’s lungs at the promise in Iona’s eyes, that she will do as she says if given the chance.
She so often prioritizes Iona’s pleasure, which is as much a pleasure to her, especially given their bond, but it seems to have only delayed Iona’s hunger for her, which has turned ravenous indeed.
“Were you counting the men I defeated?” Iona asks, her eyes sparkle with glee.
“Um…” Ariadne inhales sharply when Iona presses a soft kiss just beneath her jaw.
“Five and thirty, by my count,” she says. “And you, my dear, I count as three.”
“Only three?” Ariadne asks, slightly offended.