17 - Iona
A riadne nearly breaks the door off its hinges when she bursts into the spare room, but her face falls when she finds Iona fully dressed and perched on the edge of the bed.
“There you are.” She fights to keep a straight face when she observes the blatant disappointment on her beloved’s face.
“But…” Ariadne looks between her and the cheval mirror in the corner that she had only just been kneeling in front of.
“Close the door and sit with me, won’t you?” Iona pats the space beside her on the bed. “I wish to speak with you.”
When Ariadne slumps onto the mattress, she leans her elbows on her knees and rubs her face in her hands.
“I am not confident I can survive another frank conversation this night,” she says, her voice betraying just how exhausted she’s become.
It’s then that Iona identifies a variance between them.
For Ariadne, social gatherings are an emotional labor that seems to drain the life from her, leaving her irritable and sluggish.
Iona has found that she does not mind them.
Perhaps it was her prolonged isolation early in life that made her unaware of this aspect of her personality, but she truly does enjoy dressing up in fine clothes, meeting new and interesting people, and though she has less experience in the art of conversation, she’s not as daunted by it as she once was.
She never had so many people watching her, admiring her, revering her. She shan’t let it get to her head, but she would be lying if she claimed she got no pleasure from it. For Ariadne, it seems such attention is torturous.
“We should remain here for the rest of the night,” Iona decides.
Ariadne pulls her hands away to look at her in surprise. “Really? But… are you not needed for more introductions?”
“There will be other rituals,” Iona shrugs. “I’d prefer to rest. It has been a very long day.”
“Indeed, it has,” Ariadne sighs.
A fraction of the rigidity in her posture fades, but Iona observes persisting agitation in her demeanor and decides more is needed to comfort her. Anything to keep her from seeking out Rebekka, for that couldn’t possibly end well.
“Lay on the bed,” Iona says.
Ariadne’s eyes brighten with renewed interest. “I thought you wished to speak.”
“I do,” Iona says. “Lay on the bed, please.”
“As you wish,” Ariadne grins, shuffling up the mattress to lay on her back.
“Turn round.” Iona motions for her to flip onto her stomach.
Ariadne’s brow furrows slightly, but she does as she’s told. Iona climbs on top of her, straddles her hips, and makes their dresses and stays disappear. Slicing a line down the white cotton fabric of Ariadne’s chemise, she pulls the tear apart to expose the smooth expanse of Ariadne’s back.
Letting her fingers drift lightly over Ariadne’s shoulder blades and along her spine, Iona delights in the slight shift of her muscles in response. She massages Ariadne’s shoulders and finds a great deal of tension there. Tightening her grip, she kneads the muscles until they go soft and malleable.
“Mmm,” Ariadne moans her approval.
She presses her thumbs along the curve of Ariadne’s spine from her neck all the way down to the two dimples of Venus on her lower back. Then she lightly grazes with her nails as she moves her hands back up, making Ariadne shiver as she repeats the movement a few times, slow and gentle.
Goosebumps rise along Ariadne’s shoulders, trickling down to her lower back, and Iona observes with fascination as they spread. She leans forward and licks the skin to feel the pebbled texture against her tongue and Ariadne sucks in a breath at the contact, tensing with anticipation.
Iona grins and leans back. “I’ve noticed something.”
“Hmm?” Ariadne relaxes again.
“We’ve never spoken of what we found in the arches during Morgan’s trials,” Iona says, “What did you see?”
Ariadne folds her arms in front of her and rests her head against them. “I traveled far into the past the first time. The witch I spoke with did not know the year, but I surmise it must have been… the eleventh century or so judging by her clothing and speech.”
Iona ghosts her fingers over the two dimples on Ariadne’s lower back and idly wonders what causes the divots to occur, as she does not share this feature on her own back.
Out of curiosity, she very lightly presses her thumbs into the dimples, slowly adding pressure until Ariadne sucks in an involuntary gasp.
“Um…” She squirms. “I... saved the witch from a mob of humans. They chased us through a marsh all through the night, could barely see a thing except when their torches were too close. Fortunately, we found a place to hide until dawn, and she told me of how the townsfolk had turned on her when their wells ran dry.”
“What of the second arch?” Iona asks, conjuring a glass vial of lavender oil and pouring its contents generously.
Ariadne lets out a soft moan when Iona rubs the oil in, spreading it evenly, until her olive skin glistens prettily in the candlelight, so smooth that Iona’s hands slide with hardly any resistance, sometimes pressing in with her palms or using just the pads of her fingertips to trace the subtle bumps of Ariadne’s spine.
“Ari?” Iona asks when she catches Ariadne’s eyelids drooping.
“Renaissance,” she mumbles, “The witch brewed a love potion, but I convinced her to toss it into the dirt.”
Iona’s hands falter. Reaching for a pillow, Ariadne buries her face into the bundle of feathers, clearly not wishing to speak any more of it.
So, Iona runs her nails along the nape of her neck, sinking her fingers into her thick, dark curls, and scratches her scalp.
Ariadne makes an indiscernible noise of pleasure into the pillow and Iona closes her eyes as she feels the faint echo of the sensation through their bond.
Ariadne turns her head to the side to say, “I cannot concentrate when you-”
“And the third arch?” Iona prompts, lacing the fingers of her other hand in Ariadne’s curls and making circular motions with her fingers.
“1969.” Her eyelids flutter closed. “Three witches held a seance. Their minds were clearly altered by some manner of herbs or intoxicants. Their questions were difficult to interpret. I fear I was a disappointment to them.”
Skimming her nails back and forth over the tender skin just behind Ariadne’s ears, Iona asks, “What did they wish to know?”
“How…” Ariadne shudders. “Must you do that?”
“You do not like it?” Iona asks.
“…I do, but I may as well be Aster.” Ariadne expels a shaky breath as another array of goosebumps trickle down her neck.
Iona elicits yet another soft sigh from her and grins. “Focus, love.”
“They asked about… the nature of fate,” Ariadne says.
“To what end?” Iona asks.
“They wished to alter predestined events they’d foreseen, and I told them it was impossible to do so,” Ariadne says, “Or at least, I’ve never heard of a spell to accomplish it.
They seemed confused by my answer. I explained to them that fate is woven by Gods, not meant to be altered by mortals on a whim. ”
“Did they tell you what they wished to change?” Iona asks.
“There was a war they wanted to prevent… or end,” Ariadne says, arching into Iona’s touch when her hands return to the smooth contours of her back, massaging in the final traces of fragrant oil. “Who did you see?”
Iona recounts her conversations with Delia and Vanessa, both of them strong young witches in times of personal strife. She leaves Lucretia for last.
“Triora?” Ariadne cranes her neck to look back at her. “I wonder if Nonna knew her.”
“I believe it was before her time, but perhaps your Nonna’s mother might have been acquainted with Lucretia before they fled the city.”
“How dreadful, to know there was nothing you could do for her.” Lying flat on her stomach again, Ariadne presses her cheek against the pillow.
“It was awful…” Iona whispers. “Whatever did she do to deserve such a terrible fate?”
Ariadne goes quiet for a moment, then says, “In my experience, the goodness of a person does not determine how their fate unfolds. There are many who suffer for no reason at all and there is no sense to be made of it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Iona says.
Lucretia had faced her death with bravery that Iona deeply admires. She still thinks of her often, and her plea to never be forgotten.
“I am sorry I left you,” Ariadne whispers.
“Why did you?” Iona asks.
With her mouth partially covered by her hand, Ariadne’s red eyes are distant as she stares out her window at the moon hung among the blue clouds.
“Are we allowed secrets from each other?” Ariadne asks.
Iona goes still. “What do you mean?”
“You could read my thoughts, sense each feeling, examine every single memory if you wanted, but you rarely ever delve that deeply,” Ariadne says, her voice betraying her gratitude, “And yet, you were cross when I withheld the truth about Hecate and…”
“I am not owed your every thought and memory. Those are private, not secret. What are thoughts anyhow? Fleeting whispers, not absolute truth. Deeds are far more important,” Iona says.
“And I never needed a bond to know your feelings. You wear your emotions like a second skin.” Ariadne hides her face away into the pillow, and Iona chuckles.
“In fact, please do keep your thoughts well hidden if it will spare me glimpses of your past intimacies.”
Ariadne groans with mortification, the sound muffled by her pillow. “That was purely accidental. It shall never happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” Iona says, trying to keep her voice light, but there is an edge to her tone.
“It won’t,” Ariadne says again.
When another silence grows between them, Iona lightly runs her nails over Ariadne’s back to calm her, until the renewed tension in her muscles subsides. She traces the very faint indent of Ariadne’s ribs along her sides, the bones far less visible than they once were.
“The reason you left the field, is it a secret?” Iona asks.
Ariadne doesn’t respond, and in so doing gives her answer.