17 - Iona #2
“I trust you to tell me what I should know,” Iona says. “I was only cross before because… I did not like how Moira used my ignorance against you.”
That seems to surprise Ariadne in some way, but true to her word, Iona does not look into her mind to see why.
Instead, she drapes herself across Ariadne’s back, blanketing her in warmth and pressing an ear to her skin to listen to her steady heartbeat.
Ariadne sighs contentedly, taking Iona’s hand and pressing it to her lips.
“I trust you, too,” Ariadne says softly. “I do.”
And there it is. The slightest trace of deceit that Iona cannot ignore but is too frightened to confront.
Ariadne’s statement is more of a hope or a wish, but not the absolute truth, and the distinction is as alarming as it is hurtful.
It lingers there, a haze of nocuous candor that neither of them can escape.
“I know,” Iona says anyway, pressing a kiss to Ariadne’s shoulder before pulling away and caressing her into a stupor.
She hadn’t intended to sense the equivocation of Ariadne’s words, but at times, the bond’s insights are compulsory, the same as the unwanted images she’d seen of Nenet.
She hopes that in time they will gain better control of the magic, of their own minds, so that such infringements will not occur, but for now, it has proved a recurring aggravation.
On Samhain, Ariadne had admitted it was difficult for her to trust. She’d claimed she would try, and Iona had accepted that, for the time being, but she struggles to comprehend why Ariadne still cannot trust her now, after everything they’ve endured together.
Does Ariadne not know how everlasting her love is?
What more must she do, or say, to convince her?
She reminds herself that their love is still new, still so fragile, despite their bond. Perhaps in time, this will resolve itself. She will prove her love with each passing day, until Ariadne’s doubts are eradicated.
She is increasingly aware of how difficult life has been for Ariadne, understands now more than ever how hellacious her mother is.
To live for years with someone like that…
Of course it would have a lasting effect on a person.
Of course, Ariadne will need time, and Iona will give her that, because she knows their love is true, even if it might not be perfect.
Before long, Ariadne’s breathing grows heavy and slow.
Iona peers around the mass of dark curls and just as she’d suspected, Ariadne’s eyes are closed, her full red lips slightly parted.
With exceedingly careful movements, Iona lays down without waking her and admires her beautiful face, which reflects serenity at last.
Stars flicker within an ink black sky. At first, they are like pinpricks of light, so small that she squints to make them out, until they glow brighter and brighter and brighter, their blinding glare shining like a thousand suns, making her eyes water, but try as she might, she cannot blink or look away.
All at once the sky goes dark again, the outlines of light still scorched onto her vision as brumous spots of deep blue.
The spots morph into petals that drift on the wind, kissing her cheeks and filling her nostrils with a sickly-sweet scent of roses. She holds out a hand to catch petals in her palm and bring them up to her nose to breathe them in, drunk on the fragrance.
Her eyes close, then she flinches at the crash of broken glass shattering the silence and compelling her eyes to open in a sudden panic only to find herself in an endless field of flooded grass.
When she looks down, she expects to see water and mud making her toes cold and wet but instead finds blood so red it’s stark against the vivid green.
The torrent flows between the stalks, staining her feet and ankles, and making her wretch.
She runs from it, her footsteps splashing droplets of red onto the hem of her white skirts.
She takes refuge within a dense, dark forest.
It’s there the screaming starts, though from where she cannot decipher, and she cannot decide whether to go to it or run from it.
She only runs aimlessly as silent tears stream down her cheeks, but her steps are meager and slow, despite her haste.
No matter how she labors, she remains stuck in the same spot.
Her neck is bare, her wand nowhere to be found, and when she calls for Ariadne, or Samuel, her mother, her father, no one comes.
After a while her steps slow, her panicked breaths heaving from her chest, until she is wracked with an awful cough as the air is poisoned with heavy smoke.
She looks behind her to find the forest ablaze with waves of ravenous fire that rush towards her, angry and calamitous in its unrelenting destruction, but her feet will not move.
Her cries are drowned out by the cracking of the branches and the roar of the searing flames that reach for her.
There, within the scintillant blaze stands a dark figure cloaked in black, her back hunched, her face indistinguishable, with a golden dagger strapped to her waist. The scabbard glistens tantalizingly by the light of the inferno, as if anticipating the moment the blade will be unsheathed and plunged into its next victim.
A child’s cry rings out above the clamor, forlorn and faint.
“Iona!”
With a jerk, she wakes to find her cheeks wet with tears and Ariadne hovering over her, her eyes wild and filled with concern.
“Iona,” she says. “It was only a dream.”
“She’s coming,” Iona chokes out. “She’s watching me… She can see me even now.”
“What?” Ariadne asks, her face going pale with dread. “Who? What did you see?”
A prickling sensation dances along her fingers and toes from too much air too fast, so she forces her breaths to slow.
Disoriented, Iona almost forgets where they are, until she remembers the ritual, the spare room in Euphemia’s manor, caressing Ariadne into slumber, only to be ravaged by such a terrible dream.
“Look,” Iona says.
Ariadne delves into her mind and beholds the remnants of the dream before it slips from Iona’s memory entirely, as dreams so often do. Even as she thinks on it then, she can only recall fleeting images and hazy details. With every passing second, Iona only remembers the terror, but not the cause.
“It was only a dream,” Ariadne says, though she does not seem so sure of it herself.
They both know well that dreams are never just dreams, but rather omens. Perhaps not as clearly rendered as Samaira’s insights, but still they should not be ignored.
So instead, Ariadne amends, “She only means to frighten you, whoever she is. I will never let anything happen to you. I swear it.”
Iona nods, knowing that the pendant’s magic will protect her, too, but even with that assurance, her face scrunches up as she fails to suppress her sobs.
“Come here.” Ariadne embraces her. She listens to Ariadne’s heart again, and it calms her enough that her trembling slowly subsides.
They yelp when a letter appears with a pop and lands on the bed in front of them.
“For goodness sake!” Ariadne snaps, taking the letter and tearing it open. Her frustration turns to stern resignation as she reads.
“What is it?” Iona asks.
Ariadne lets out a heavy sigh. “Samaira had another vision.”
The vision was of sand that stretched out for leagues in every direction, but not much else.
Samaira did not see any faces or hear any voices, but the vision remains a substantial glimpse of what’s to come.
They dispense letters to any witch or warlock they can think of who live near desert, sending a warning of a potential attack.
Word of the recurring malefician attacks has already spread far and wide, sowing unease among their ranks.
Even if they cannot prevent the attack itself, perhaps less blood will be spilled if those in peril are cognizant of the danger, so long as they are not overtaken by panic. Children will be kept safely in their homes, and no one will wander after dark.
Euphemia insists that they stay with her while they await more news, claiming that she feels safer with them close by, but really Iona suspects it is for Ariadne’s benefit, to provide her a place of peace and tranquility far from her family.
They take their tea in the garden with young Hugo, a charming little boy with his mother’s blue eyes, and in the afternoons, Ariadne plays piano while Iona and Euphemia read by the windows. It is a picturesque escape, but it does little to preoccupy the mind.
To pass the time, Iona is almost grateful to practice magic with Ariadne in the sunlit valley.
There is nothing to be done while they wait except prepare.
Samaira has returned to Nepal to meditate in isolation.
She will send a letter the moment she gets another glimpse of the future or perceives any insight from the threads.
Days pass with no news, and Iona’s foreboding only grows.
“If we are called to fight, we shall be ready,” Ariadne says in answer to Iona’s anxiety ridden thoughts.
“You seem so sure we can protect them,” she says.
“Indeed, we can, when you overcome your fear,” Ariadne says.
Kicking a loose stone with her boot, Iona leaves her doubts unspoken.
“I thought you’d be in finer spirits,” Ariadne says. “I let you wear the pendant this time.”
“How generous,” Iona mutters.
A burst of heat hits her backside, and she yelps, more from surprise than anything. She turns to glare at Ariadne who smirks and raises her eyebrows expectantly.
“We haven’t finished,” she says, gesturing to the line of targets laid out in the grass.
Iona conjures a ball of fire in her palm and hurls it at one of the targets. It nearly misses, hitting one of the outermost rings.
“Decent,” Ariadne says.