20 - Ariadne #2
His jaw clenches. “If you only came here to argue, I would ask that you please leave me in peace.”
Sighing with frustration, she regards the cramped space with pity. The sorry excuse for a study is his only haven within his own family’s villa. Perhaps it is inconsiderate of her to confront him here, when she knows well the value of solitude.
She nearly makes it to the door, but her father’s gasp has her whirling about in alarm, mere moments from conjuring a shield.
“They are blooming!” He points to his cereus cactus, the first of the nocturnal flowers popping open before their very eyes. “I knew tonight would be the night!”
Their quarrel set aside, they huddle around the plant and watch intently as each bud bursts apart to reveal thin, spindly white petals, their fragrance like jasmine and vanilla. Ariadne lifts one to her nose and breathes deeply.
“Brilliant!” he exclaims, practically trembling in his excitement. “Such ephemeral beauty… You must bring Iona to see the blossoms before they wilt at sunrise.”
She nods, hoping Iona will awaken in time, and asks, “In your travels, have you yet gone to Brazil?”
“I can’t say that I have,” he says.
“We journeyed there in search of Iona’s kin, and explored part of the country together,” she says. “The diversity of flora was astounding, many of the species unknown to me.”
“Is that so?” His brow furrows in contemplation. “I must plan a trip and see them with my own eyes.”
With his shears, he clips a sprig of lavender from a pot in the corner, handing it to her. She lifts it to her nose, breathing in the calming scent, and it reminds her of Iona, of Samhain, of their vows to each other.
“I quite like Iona,” he says, as if reading her thoughts.
“Most do.”
“Such a lovely young woman. You chose well.”
“You are in the minority of that opinion.” She picks at the calyx of the lavender, plucking them and letting them fall to the floor of the study.
“You put far too much importance on the thoughts of others,” he says. “If you are content, then what does it matter?”
“Yes, when have negative opinions ever led to misfortune?” she asks sarcastically.
He doesn’t respond, and she admonishes herself for the lapse in civility.
“Your approval means far more to me than their opposition,” she says softly.
His smile is renewed. “I meant to tell you earlier, but I must express my admiration for your decision to heal the Nicolo girl. It was very good of you.”
She meets his gaze and beholds the pride expressed there, mixed with an emotion she cannot quite place. He leans in to press a tender kiss to her forehead.
“You have an opportunity to right many more wrongs, as you did with Vivien, and I do hope you will rise to the challenge,” he says. “With that staff of yours, you can protect those unable to protect themselves.”
She lowers her gaze, her emotions too overpowering to conceal. “I shall try.”
She lifts one of the cereus blooms to her nose and breathes deeply, committing its scent to memory.
“You look dreadful, fiore,” her father says with concern. “Please, go to bed and rest.”
“I cannot,” Ariadne says.
“Why?” he asks.
She hesitates, then admits, “I am plagued by nightmares again. Not of the river. New ones.”
“I see,” her father says, then ducks his head to browse through his apothecary cabinet. He gives her a glass vial of a blue luminescent potion. “Take this when you return to bed. It will grant you a dreamless sleep, that I swear to you.”
She holds the vial gingerly. “Many thanks.”
He pulls her into an embrace. She stiffens initially, but as the seconds pass, she lets herself go slack as she is nearly overcome by her suppressed emotions. He kisses the crown of her head, then pulls away sooner than she would have wished.
“Now go,” he says.
When she returns to her room, Iona has flipped onto her side, facing away from the window.
Drinking the sleeping potion in one gulp, the mixture tasting of poppies, valerian root, and chamomile, Ariadne pulls back the covers and shuffles closer to Iona, pressing her torso against her back and breathing in her scent of crisp ocean air.
“Hmm….” Iona sighs contentedly, taking Ariadne’s arm and cradling it against her.
Her final thought is of her hand pressed against Iona’s chest and her fingertips brushing the pendant’s opal, its surface smooth and cool.
Iona insists on training at dawn the following day, even when Ariadne suggests they rest a while longer. There is an adamance in Iona’s disposition that compels her to acquiesce, though at first, she makes the practice easier, not wishing to cause Iona any undue distress.
“You’re holding back,” she accuses.
“We needn’t work ourselves to the bone,” Ariadne protests.
“I must make up for lost time,” Iona says. “Who is to say when the malefician will strike next? They could attack tomorrow. Or right this very minute.”
“Or it could be months from now.”
“I cannot afford to assume as much. I must be prepared. I cannot sit idle, hoping for a reprieve. Not when others would be harmed due to my complacency.”
They’ve been using illusions again to practice spell work, with the illusory men only casting simple charms. Ariadne measures Iona’s expression, her determination, and sighs.
“You told me to be nice,” Ariadne reminds her.
“Don’t,” Iona says. “Be ruthless.”
They hold each other’s gaze, until the labradorite stone glows. The pastoral valley melts away, becoming a desolate landscape of flat, featureless land.
An exact copy of the malefician appears between them, her billowing robe flowing in the gentle breeze.
“She won’t announce her spells,” Ariadne warns. “And when she strikes blows, it will hurt.”
Iona widens her stance and glares at the illusory figure, undaunted. She conjures a ball of fire, hurling it at the illusion with a grunt. The figure steps out of the fire’s path and casts a spell on the dirt beneath her, so it swallows her up until only her head peeks out.
Struggling, Iona closes her eyes and, with effort, breaks her arm out of the ground and claws her way back up.
The malefician circles her and slices a shallow cut across Iona’s exposed back. She cries out in outrage, more so than pain, and turns to glare at the illusion, with her bottom half still stuck beneath the rock.
A bolt of lightning crashes so loudly, Ariadne screams and takes cover. It strikes the illusion directly, making it convulse in agony, until it collapses on her hands and knees. In that time, Iona manages to pull herself out of the ground and jump to her feet.
Healing the cut on her back, Iona casts her own cutting spell, slicing across the illusion’s face, straight through the fabric wrapped over it.
But when the black linen falls away, a featureless mask of bloody skin is all that is revealed.
Iona grunts, then casts another spell, and another, until a rapport between her and the faceless illusion is established, a relentless push and pull.
Ariadne tries as she might to predict every one of Iona’s spells, without looking through the bond, but she is indomitable in her every movement. Her methods are still, at times, unrefined. She has blind spots, hesitations, miscalculations.
Ariadne exploits every weakness, but she is not entirely without mercy.
The illusion only strikes her just enough to sting in places that can withstand it, her back, her stomach, her shins, her shoulders, avoiding her face and stomach altogether.
Every blow the illusion makes only incites Iona’s tempest, the wealth of anger bourgeoning in the depths of her soul.
The only difference between their anger being that Iona’s does not cause her to scream or lose herself to a frenzy. She goes deathly silent while she ascertains the most efficient way to retaliate three times over.
When the hour is nearly over, Iona is dripping with sweat and covered in dirt, her red hair loose and wild against her shoulders, her white shirt ripped and covered in stains. It is the hardest she’d ever fought, and Ariadne knows why, but she dares to take a look through the bond anyhow.
All Iona thinks of is Sara’s face, and the face of her grandfather in Brazil, oscillating repeatedly between the two. Her guilt has transformed into vengeance, single-minded and fierce. The illusion disappears and Iona’s expression reflects disappointment.
“That’s enough for today,” Ariadne says.
“I can continue,” Iona protests.
“No,” Ariadne says firmly.
Iona blinks and looks down at her hands.
“You did very well,” Ariadne says, her voice betraying her veneration.
Iona does not meet her gaze, so she approaches and presses a finger beneath Iona’s chin. She reluctantly looks up at her with boundless hazel eyes.
“I speak the truth,” Ariadne insists.
The storm in her gaze recedes, until whatever had possessed her is gone.
She cups Ariadne’s face in both her hands, pulling her face down for a kiss.
It’s soft, lingering, tender. Then she wraps her arms around Ariadne’s neck and holds her close, gently stroking the nape of Ariadne’s neck with her nails.
Ariadne sinks into her warmth and closes her eyes, pleasant prickles running down her back from Iona’s caresses. She waits to see what Iona might choose to do next, but she doesn’t. They simply stand there holding each other in silence, an inescapable feeling of foreboding crossing between them.
“What would comfort you most while we await the fray?” Iona asks.
Ariadne goes to pull away, to read Iona’s expression, but Iona tightens her hold, burrowing her face in Ariadne’s neck. She rubs Iona’s back to soothe her while she thinks for a moment, then whispers her answer in Iona’s ear.