21 - Ariadne #4
“You’ve never told me that,” Ariadne mutters.
“I was quite sure she hated me. She never spoke a word to me unless forced,” Samaira continues. “Imagine my surprise when the girl dove into the water, like a darter bird, and propelled us both from the river with her mind.”
“At seven years of age?” Iona’s mouth falls open in awe, then her brow furrows as she glances at Ariadne. “But that was before you found your wand.”
“Two years before,” Ariadne nods.
“One moment I was sinking, the next she grabbed my wrist, and we were catapulted out and onto the riverbank!” Samaira exclaims.
“You are making it sound far too dramatic,” Ariadne gripes.
“It surely was! I thought I’d died, and a demon was taking me to Patala as punishment for my disobedience,” Samaira says.
“You’ve never told me that either,” Ariadne chuckles.
Samaira chuckles with her. “Then she practically carried me through the wind and rain until we returned to the house.”
“You were always heroic, then?” Iona asks, with reborn light in her eyes.
“I wasn’t,” Ariadne sighs.
“I almost certainly would have drowned,” Samaira says.
“But how did you know where to find her?” Iona asks.
“I followed her when she left her bed,” Ariadne says. “Tried calling after her, but the wind was too loud. I barely made it to her in time.”
“We dried our dresses by the hearth and huddled together for warmth.” Samaira smiles at the memory. “I thanked Ariadne for saving me and she told me, through chattering teeth, how stupid I was to be out there in the first place. We’ve been the best of friends ever since.”
Iona snorts. “Heroic and insolent. You’ve not changed at all.”
Ariadne’s ears burn, but Iona caresses her, running a thumb softly over her cheekbone, until she looks up.
For all your shows of arrogance, you never have learned to accept praise, Iona observes.
“It was not heroic,” Ariadne says again. “Anyone would have done it.”
Iona only smiles and takes her hand; a tender gesture Ariadne has sorely missed. Finding Iona’s hand much warmer than her own, Ariadne cradles it between both of hers and takes to tracing Iona’s veins while she listens to Samaira’s many tales of their unlikely friendship.
They exchange stories well into the early hours of the morning, until they don their cloaks and fly down the mountain to the valley below.
In their arms, they carry bottles filled with yellow potion that Samaira had brewed with care.
They disperse the potion in wells, fountains, every water source they can find.
“Will they not taste it?” Ariadne whispers, opening her bottle and sniffing the concoction. It smells of lemon and nettle.
“They have not seemed to notice. The water dilutes the potion,” Samaira shrugs.
Then they trek to the outskirts of town where a collection of tents is scattered across the grass. Samaira explains that the infected people reside there until they either heal… or not. Iona goes straight towards the encampment.
“Wait.” Samaira takes Iona’s hand and holds her back.
“Why? I can help them.”
“We must be cautious. What will the city think if every sick person became well again all at once? An act of god… or a far more sinister assumption.”
“Why would they assume-”
Samaira silences Iona with a look.
“Do not forget the witch trials,” Samaira says. “Innocent humans should not suffer on our account, nor any true witches who live here.”
Iona looks out at the small collection of tents with a mixture of regret and sympathy.
“Is there nothing to be done for them, then?” she asks.
“If you only healed them partially, that would not be as suspicious,” Samaira says. “That is what Ehani and I do for as many as we can.”
Grateful for the suggestion, Iona approaches the camp, her pendant glowing as she becomes invisible.
They wait for her reappearance, until a flash of light cuts through the darkness within one of the tents, then another, and another, washing the sickness away.
Once each tent has been visited, Iona reappears.
“There,” she says. “I took their pain away, and the rest will alleviate with time.”
“Well done,” Samaira says.
Iona beams, and in that moment all Ariadne can think of are her mother’s words, meant as an insult, calling Iona an irenic saint.
Despite all the darkness, all the disappointment and death, her light is never stifled for long.
Truly she is as close to a saint as Ariadne had ever witnessed, and she has never felt less deserving of her.
They decide to take the scenic route back up the mountain.
It isn’t easy, the roads being steep and rocky, but it’s worth it when they look out at the view as the sun begins to rise.
With the rain gone for the moment, visibility across the valley is much clearer.
There is an enormous mountain in the distance, it’s peak covered with pristine white snow.
“Which mountain is that?” Iona asks, pointing at the marvel of rock and ice.
“That is Sagarmatha, the goddess of the sky,” Samaira says.
They stop to admire the behemoth mountain in a tranquil moment of silence. The light of dawn crests over the ridges, turning the clouds bright orange, and reminding Ariadne of a particular flower. She conjures a marigold and hands it to Iona, who takes it with a smile.
You do deserve me, Iona reminds her.
She tries to avert her eyes, to withdraw into herself, but Iona presses soft, increasingly persistent kisses on her cold cheek until she elicits a smile.