11 - Iona
“W hat is it?” Ariadne asks.
“A Cornish pasty,” Iona says.
Ariadne inspects the golden-brown pastry with curiosity, while Iona conjures one of her own, filled with beef, potatoes, turnips, and onions.
Having been unable to finish their dinner after the chaos that ensued, and now that Ariadne has wept all her tears, a Cornish pasty is as good a meal as any to eat on the front steps of the villa, not requiring the use of plates or silverware.
Ariadne tries at first to refuse it, but the grumbling of her stomach is impossible to hide, and Iona is unwilling to let her starve.
She’s always noticed the small, persistent ways Ariadne avoids eating.
It was worse when they’d met. At every meal she’d conjured a bowl of thin soup and a cup of clove tea, time and time again.
She was much thinner in those days, her bones sharp against her skin and her height only emphasizing her gaunt appearance.
Though Iona had been often unsure of how to nurture her, she’s never brought attention to her observations when she knows well how defensive Ariadne can sometimes be.
Instead, she found ways of naturally encouraging Ariadne to eat her fill during their feast at Yule or their weeks of holiday in Brazil.
She’s found that it’s not a matter of hunger for Ariadne, more of a compulsion to avoid ‘overindulgence’ as her mother calls it.
Day by day, meal by meal, she’s witnessed Ariadne shedding those harmful impulses away as she allows herself to live unhindered by them.
All these months later, Ariadne is healthy and radiant. She has always been a transcendental beauty but is now even more so. At times, Iona finds it difficult to look at her without blushing as she admires the strength of her limbs, the swells of her curves, and the contentment in her eyes.
Whether it is due to Iona’s encouragement, Ariadne’s own inner healing, or a mixture of both, she cannot be sure.
Ariadne’s thoughts never dwell on such things.
She prefers to bury her torments deep within herself, but now it seems they’ve all been brought to the surface at once.
Iona doesn’t wish for her progress to be ruined in one horrid evening.
“I would often bake these with my mother when we lived in Cornwall, but only when we had the ingredients to make them. At times there were riots over food… If only I’d been able to conjure then.
I could have solved everything quite easily,” Iona muses, then takes a bite of her pasty.
She waits for Ariadne to follow suit, but she hesitates.
“I am not hungry,” Ariadne says again.
“Yes, you are.” Iona raises an eyebrow at her, and her cheeks turn pink at being caught in a lie.
“I can wait until breakfast,” Ariadne says. Her nose is still red from crying but her hunched posture makes it abundantly clear that she doesn’t wish to speak of what occurred in the dining room.
“Allow me to put it this way,” Iona says, in a foolhardy attempt at humor. “If you wish to eat me later, you’d best finish the entire pasty.
Ariadne lets out an incredulous snort. “Is that a threat?”
Iona takes another bite of her own pasty, a mischievous grin threatening to form on her lips as she chews.
“You drive a hard bargain, nymph.” Sighing dramatically, Ariadne takes a small bite of her pasty and hums her approval before taking another larger bite. She says around her mouthful, “I would riot if someone dared to take this from me.”
Iona chuckles and shuffles closer to rest her head against Ariadne’s shoulder. As silence falls between them, a wave of fatigue washes over her until she finds it difficult to keep her eyes open.
“What a palaver,” Iona murmurs.
“Quite,” Ariadne says.
“I am sorry for breaking your mother’s ankle,” Iona whispers.
Ariadne snorts again. “She deserved it.”
“Do not say such things,” Iona scolds.
“I would have done it myself if given the chance,” Ariadne says.
“No, you would not,” Iona says.
Ariadne sighs. “No… I suppose not. But you needn’t fret over it. It was only broken for a minute or two.”
“I still… I do not want your family to think me a violent person,” Iona says. “I did not realize it would happen. It was an accident.”
“They surely know that,” Ariadne says. “Nothing about you would ever make one think you are violent.”
“I must be more careful,” Iona murmurs, more to herself.
“On the contrary, that sort of power is what I’ve been trying to draw from you during our lessons,” Ariadne says. “You should embrace it so you might learn to control it.”
Iona mulls it over in her head as she chews, consumed by a litany of thoughts.
She had been enraged, disgusted, to witness a mother committing such an awful act upon her own daughter.
Humiliating her, causing her pain in full view of her entire family.
It is beyond anything Iona can fathom. But there is another, nagging thought that she cannot stifle.
“If you wish to break the blood bond, I will not take offense,” Iona says.
“What?” Ariadne stiffens. “Why would I want that?”
“But… was it true? What your mother said about you never wanting to bond with another woman?”
Ariadne does not respond immediately. “Yes, but… that was before I met you.”
“Why did you say it?” She lifts her head from Ariadne’s shoulder to study her expression, which is riddled with conflict.
“I’d only ever witnessed my parents’ bond, and it often disturbed me,” Ariadne says softly.
“It seemed like a cruel imprisonment for my father. I often pitied him, though perhaps I shouldn’t have.
He chose it, after all. To lose one’s autonomy so entirely, and so permanently…
I could not imagine desiring such an affliction. ”
“Then why did you agree to bond with me?” Iona asks.
“I love you,” Ariadne says simply.
Iona’s heart swells at the words she will never tire of hearing.
“I would not let Elise take you from me,” Ariadne says. “I would not let you die. It would have destroyed me along with you. I… I wouldn’t survive it…”
A sudden rise of fear takes Iona off guard, so clearly conveyed through the bond that if she’d been in another room, she’d have wondered if a terrible monster had appeared before Ariadne, its teeth bared and claws sharp.
She takes Ariadne’s hand, and it trembles beneath her palm. “I owe you a great debt of gratitude for-”
“You owe me nothing,” Ariadne says.
“Ari.” Iona caresses her cheek. “Listen.”
Ariadne lowers her gaze, then presses a kiss to Iona’s palm and waits for her to speak.
“I will be forever grateful to you for your bravery and devotion,” Iona says. “However, Elise is without power now. She cannot hurt me anymore. Merlin spoke of a way to reverse the bond, though it is difficult and he did not explain how.”
“I do not want that,” Ariadne says. “Please believe me.”
Iona searches her gaze, then her mind, for any trace of doubt and finds none. Her stomach flutters when Ariadne leans in to steal a gentle, lingering kiss.
“If you’re sure,” Iona breathes.
“I am,” Ariadne says. “My soul is yours forever, and you are mine.”
At the sound of a throat clearing behind them, they pull away from each other and find Xiomara standing by the door with a hesitant smile.
“Might I have a word?” she asks.
Xiomara guides them through the villa’s winding halls, and Iona struggles to keep up with her and Ariadne’s long strides. When they make their fourth turn only to find another seemingly endless corridor, Iona looks about in confusion.
Do not try to make sense of it. Ariadne takes her hand and coaxes her forward.
How can a hall be there if we already turned… Iona looks over her shoulder, losing her bearings entirely.
The villa is enchanted. Ariadne reminds her.
Then how do you know where you are going? Iona asks.
When Ariadne shrugs, Iona steps closer to her, not wanting to lose track of them and find herself lost in a never-ending hallway with no apparent end.
Eventually, Xiomara stops at a tall door with a wyvern carved into the wood.
They step into a vast library with three stories of shelves filled with thousands of grimoires, scrolls, and tomes of all sorts.
Breathing in the comforting scent of old paper, Iona runs her hands along the spines, then picks up a well-worn book on the Conjuration of Living Creatures and leafs through it.
“Your father beseeched me to give this to you,” Xiomara says, offering Ariadne a flask. “A healing potion.”
“I have no need of it,” Ariadne says.
“It is not brave to linger in pain for the sake of it,” Xiomara says. “Or to subject Iona to it on account of your own stubbornness.”
Ariadne lowers her eyes and wordlessly takes the flask. She drinks and rubs at her ribs, at the bruises that will disappear before Iona can lay eyes on them, but the memory of them will never fade, nor the disgust for the one who caused them.
When Ariadne and Xiomara sit at a small table in the corner, Iona returns the grimoire to its place on the shelf and approaches them.
“Perhaps a family dinner was not my finest idea,” Xiomara grimaces.
“What possessed you to think it would be if my mother was in attendance?” Ariadne asks.
“She is…” Xiomara rubs her temples. “I shall never comprehend the voracity of her discontentment.”
“Neither shall I,” Ariadne mumbles.
“I’m appalled by her behavior,” Iona says, then winces. “Even so, I did not intend to physically harm her. I do apologize.”
“Do not think on it for even a second, Iona,” Xiomara says. “Anyone could see it was an accident. You do not yet know your full strength. And frankly, she deserved it.”
“I said the same,” Ariadne says.
“No one deserves pain,” Iona argues.