19 - Ariadne #2
“Please.” The fatigue in Xiomara’s voice is palpable. “I beg you, please stop bickering. I can take it no longer.”
Ariadne stirs, fighting against the sleep that confines her. A warm hand cups her cheek.
“Wake up,” Iona whispers.
Moaning softly, Ariadne tries to lift her eyelids, but they are too heavy. For a moment she wonders if sleep wouldn’t be a comfort. She doesn’t want to face her problems, to see Iona’s face contorted by disappointment or fear.
“She will be livid with you, too, for quelling her,” Moira warns.
“Perhaps, but I know she will forgive me,” Iona says. “I, too, have given in to rage, and she forgave me for it.”
“You?” Moira snorts. “I cannot imagine it.”
“Continue speaking to me thus and you shan’t need to imagine it,” Iona seethes.
Moira only chuckles in a condescending manner. “You truly are a pair.”
Ariadne stirs. Soft lips press against her forehead, so lightly she can hardly feel it.
“Come back to me,” Iona whispers.
With a heavy sigh, Ariadne opens her eyes. Iona’s smile is weak, her eyes tired, but to Ariadne’s relief there is no anger.
I didn’t… Ariadne doesn’t know how to finish the thought. I shouldn’t have…
A flash of memory overtakes her vision, of Iona hurling Cintia across the dining room, then of her attacking Ksenia during one of their lessons at college.
I have no right to criticize. Iona runs her thumb against Ariadne’s cheekbone.
Though she isn’t sure if their outbursts could ever be compared, Ariadne is grateful for any amnesty she can be afforded.
“The tormentor awakens,” Moira says snidely.
“Must she be here?” Iona complains to Xiomara.
“No.” Xiomara glares at her daughter, who puts up her hands and steps away in silence.
Ariadne stretches her aching limbs. They’d carried her back to the solarium and laid her across a chaise by the fire. The sun rises in the window, shedding light upon their weary faces.
“How do you feel?” Xiomara asks.
Humiliated, betrayed, ashamed. “Fine.”
Iona helps her sit up and stays kneeling at her feet, clasping Ariadne’s hand firmly between both of her own.
“Good,” Xiomara says. “Now I shall only say this once. If you ever, ever use your magic against my family again, I will have Hecate drop you down a chasm so deep within the Underworld, that even Hades himself will struggle to find you. Do you understand?”
Iona goes to protest, but Ariadne squeezes her hand to stop her. It would be a grave mistake to anger Hecate, not when she is evidently watching them so closely, or to offend her family, if they are all that tempers the existence of dark magic in their world.
“I understand,” Ariadne says, though she refuses to apologize. Thankfully, Aunt Xiomara does not ask it of her.
“The others have arrived,” Marina says, making herself known where she’s perched on the windowsill.
“You are a part of this crusade now, irrevocably,” Xiomara says. “I expect loyalty above all else, or we shall never prevail against the darkness.”
With that, she leaves to greet the rest of the coven in the atrium. Ariadne slumps in her seat, her fatigue nearly causing her to faint.
“Can we not sleep first?” Iona asks. “We’ve been awake all night.”
“This sort of work does not follow a strict schedule,” Moira says. “Best to acclimate yourself with exhaustion, as I have.”
“Is that why you are ever a contemptuous bitch?” Iona asks. “If that be so, please find your rest if it might rid us of your insufferable excuse for a personality.”
Ariadne’s mouth falls open in utter disbelief, as does Moira’s.
“Why I never…” Moira frowns, seemingly torn between taking offense or laughing.
“Iona, darling, you truly are wearied.” Marina giggles by the window, earning a sideways glare from Moira.
“Though I do sympathize with your woeful incognizance of the true burden you so ignorantly accepted, do not unleash your discontent onto me. My patience does have limits,” Moira says, a warning in her tone, in contrast with her well-practiced smile, until her eyes sparkle with renewed mischief.
“You should have seen the look on your face when the Goddess appeared. Your eyes were like that of a frightened deer. It was well worth the wait.”
Iona pouts and rests her head in Ariadne’s lap, ignoring Moira’s smug expression and Marina’s enduring giggles.
You never cease to surprise me with your outbursts. Ariadne plays with her hair.
Likewise. Iona closes her eyes.
Ariadne’s fingers go still within Iona’s soft red locks, but she keeps her eyes shut, finding whatever rest she can before the family converges.
When they are all gathered, Marina recounts the events of the previous night, tells of the malefician’s alarmingly powerful spell work, and of her piercing unintelligible screeches that incapacitated and nearly deafened them.
“It is like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Marina says. “She must be very old… ”
“Then we are certain it’s not related to the smaller attacks of late?” Sebastian asks.
“I doubt it,” Moira says. “I don’t see why a malefician that strong would bother with leeching magic from children. Those are lesser witches, who shall be dealt with soon enough.”
Ariadne is taken aback by her casual mention of defeating a malefician, lesser or otherwise. The others merely nod in agreement and carry on.
“How is it that you knew this attack would take place in the desert?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“Samaira’s artifact grants her prophetic visions,” Ariadne says. “We sent a letter in warning, but the child snuck away anyhow.”
“Such a shame…” Aunt Zephyra says with a heavy heart.
“It is good you have such a powerful ally,” Aunt Xiomara says. “Of course, we ask that you do not disclose our secret to her, as it is imperative that we maintain anonymity. We tend to rely on Marina’s insight to warn us of the future.”
“I must admit my frustration,” Iona says. “Samaira’s vision was unclear, not as they have been in the past. She did not even see who would die. And forgive me, but Marina only saw Sara’s death in the stars after it was already too late to rescue her.”
“I’m surprised they saw anything at all,” Aunt Zephyra says.
“You must understand, just as we work tirelessly with our magic to anticipate the malefician’s next move, so too will she use her power to shroud herself in darkness and make it near impossible to detect her.
With both forces of magic in constant opposition-”
“One offsets the other,” Ariadne murmurs.
“Exactly. We must use whatever shreds of insight we can acquire to the best of our ability. It will not be easy. It never is,” Aunt Zephyra says.
“We’ve also lost the element of surprise.
If she sees your faces again, she’ll know to run or attack on sight, but I suppose there is no remedying that now. ”
“There was no chance of defeating this one in a single attempt,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“What we are reckoning with is more than likely a Crone, a very old, sage malefician who has awakened from dormancy. They would be capable of the spells Marina described and will attack however many times as is necessary to gather ingredients for a grand rite, then go back into hiding again for another few decades or more. We must find them before they do.”
“How old could she be?” Iona’s eyes go wide.
“It may be impossible to know for certain, but I would wager a guess that her impending ritual is meant to keep her alive a while longer,” Aunt Zephyra explains.
“There is no spell that can make one immortal, but maleficians have long cultivated infernal necromantic spells to delay the aging process, most unnaturally, and it can have side effects. That is likely why she hides her face. Who can say what abomination she has become, a grotesquerie beyond imagining.”
“When next Samaira does have a vision, I insist that at least one of us accompanies you to ensure your safety in battle,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Is that entirely necessary?” Ariadne asks.
“How many maleficians have you killed?” Cintia asks.
Staring her mother dead in the eye, Ariadne says, “I’ve defeated one.”
“I’ve killed seven and fifty maleficians,” Cintia says. “Moira, how many have you slain?”
“Five and twenty,” Moira says, “thus far.”
“Indeed, all of us here have defeated more than twenty, if I’m not mistaken.” Cintia glances about the room. “And you’ve ‘defeated’ one, accidentally, and only due to the intervention of Merlin.”
“If you hadn’t kept this from me all this time, my accomplishments would rival yours,” Ariadne says, straightening her spine.
“You, who is incapacitated by nightmares and intimidated by crowds?” Cintia tilts her head.
Ariadne’s cheeks burn. “I did not cower when darkness came for me and Iona. You should not have doubted my strength.”
Aunt Xiomara sighs, “Must we-”
“And when exactly should my doubts have been alleviated?” Cintia asks.
“If your spat with Vivien was enough to nearly unravel you, then how could you be expected to duel a malefician, whose magic is capable of turning your mind inside out? The very idea is ludicrous. We wondered if even Morgan’s trials would prove too difficult for you in the end. ”
Ariadne clenches her jaw, keeping her emotions buried deep, as her character is torn to shreds while her entire family watches on, stone-faced. She thinks back on every gathering, every holiday and ritual, and sees her memories with new eyes. They all knew. All except for her.
“At least the pendant, if you’d managed to claim it, would have fortified your power.
We intended to explain everything then, and if you failed, never to tell you at all,” Cintia says.
“Never in our wildest imaginations did we predict Morgan allowing you the option to give it away. If you’d like someone to blame for this delay in your enlightenment, it would be her.
I told you so… so many times how important it was for you to claim it.
It is solely your fault that you failed to heed me and your grandmother. ”
Ariadne struggles to keep her voice steady. “Neither of you saw fit to explain-”
“A true Zerynthos witch puts duty above their own selfish whims. They follow orders and place loyalty to the coven above all else,” Cintia says.
“What, do you think Hecate explains her every intention to us in detail? If you cannot heed simple, plain instructions, how could you possibly be trusted?”
“If I may interject,” Marina says, addressing Ariadne with clear eyes.
“You were valorous in last night’s duel.
Your defeat of Elise Lysander should not be diminished either.
In truth, we did worry if you were not suited for this sort of warfare, but it seems we are indeed forged from the same fire.
If it weren’t so, Hecate would not have taken you with her to the Underworld. ”
“Is that why she ignored my prayers?” Ariadne asks. “She once thought me too weak?”
“No,” Aunt Zephyra says softly. “A Goddess of her caliber cannot possibly answer every prayer.”
“What does it matter now?” Cintia asks. “We must focus on the task at hand. These petty concerns are of no consequence.”
“Is that why you treat me so abominably? You deemed me too weak to kill for you?” Ariadne asks.
The air in the room thins. Cintia glares at her, clenching her jaw so tight, she may well break a tooth.
“That is in the past now,” Aunt Xiomara says. “We must put aside our differences, our personal grievances, and be as one united force.”
“There is to be no accountability?” Iona asks.
Cintia turns her glare on Iona, who doesn’t flinch.
“You are the worst mother I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter,” Iona says. “I will not fight alongside you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cintia spits the words.
“Iona,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Never,” Iona says, with that look in her eye. Ysolde Lysander’s look, that which is carved into stone in the Lysander College courtyard.
Aunt Xiomara’s eyebrows raise, glancing briefly at her sister’s sullen expression, before nodding. “Very well. Another of us will accompany you when the time comes.”
“You will take orders from her?” Cintia yells.
“A crone, Cintia. You know as well as I that we cannot hope to defeat one without Iona and the pendant. She has set her terms,” Aunt Xiomara says, and she hesitates before saying.
“Frankly, you needn’t have tormented Ariadne in such a heinous manner.
If I’d known the full extent of it, I would have intervened long ago.
I cannot change that now, but neither can I claim ignorance of your indiscretions. ”
“Unbelievable.” Cintia rises from her chair and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Flinching at the sound, Ariadne looks down at her hands and realizes she’d been unconsciously picking at her skin. She winces and pulls her hands apart, not wanting to cause Iona any discomfort.
“With that settled, I must rest, or I shall be of no help to anyone,” Iona says, grasping Ariadne’s hand and guiding her to the door.
“Yes, of course,” Aunt Xiomara says. “Take all the time you require.”
Iona steps into the hall first, and as Ariadne follows, she overhears a whisper from Moira.
“Ferocious little thing, isn’t she? When she’s impassioned enough.”