23 - Iona
“I ona goes nowhere without me.” Ariadne’s voice is a low, menacing, absolute promise.
She squares off with Sebastian in the atrium of the Villa Mitriora, just barely making it through the door before they are at each other’s throats again.
“We had a fleeting window of opportunity, with the Crone distracted by Iona’s pain, but you were too lost in hysterics!” Sebastian yells. “How are we meant to succeed when you so blatantly prioritize her over us?”
“She nearly died!” Ariadne yells back. “What was I meant to do?”
“Kill the Crone!” Sebastian screams, a vein in his forehead bulging from the force of his words. “For the greater good-”
“I would rather die a thousand deaths then to let you lot gallivant across the world using Iona as some sort of expendable weapon! It is out of the question!” Ariadne spits.
“Then perhaps you should fight alongside us instead, with that staff of yours,” Zephyra suggests. “Though not equal to the pendant, it did prove surprisingly useful.”
“Yes. Then Iona could stay here and… knit. Or garden with your father. Perhaps those tasks would better suit her prim sensibilities,” Sebastian says acerbically.
Ariadne glances at Iona, a trace of doubt in her eyes, but she says, “Hecate entrusted this quest to Iona, not I.”
“And due to her misjudgment, another innocent man is dead, and the Crone is one step closer to committing whatever horrors she plans to wreak on our world. There is a higher purpose at play here. More significant than you, or me, and certainly her.” Sebastian gestures angrily at Iona.
“Sebastian!” Zephyra snaps. “Show some compassion for pity’s sake! She was well intentioned.”
“I…” Iona clears her throat, not bothering to wipe away her tears. “I thought I could save him. That’s all I wanted…”
Sebastian tries to approach her, but Ariadne steps in his way. He glares at her, then peers over her shoulder.
“Our only goal,” Sebastian says, slowing his speech to a condescending pace, “is to kill the malefician. All else is secondary. The longer that witch survives, the more lives she will take, and that blood shall be on your hands.”
“You had best stand down now, Sebastian,” Ariadne grits out, their foreheads almost touching as she takes a step closer and stares him down. Aster snarls at her side.
“Cease this foolishness!” Zephyra says. “We shall not resort to infighting. It won’t bring that man back to life.”
“Hecate wanted you, not her,” Sebastian says to Ariadne. “These are the consequences of your cowardice.”
Ariadne lunges for him, and Iona reaches out to hold her back, but instead catches her as she falters, fatigue near to overtaking her.
She leans against Iona, blinking rapidly as she fights to maintain consciousness, while Sebastian watches on with something bordering on apathy.
Ariadne’s cheeks color with embarrassment.
“You should rest and replenish your magic,” Aunt Zephyra advises. “It’s a wonder you’re still standing after healing Iona from the brink of death.”
Shrugging Iona’s hands away, Ariadne uses what remains of her strength to storm off, clenching and unclenching her fist as she goes. Iona follows after her, glad to put as much distance between her and Sebastian as possible. She dearly misses the time when the man hardly spoke.
“Ari,” Iona says.
Ariadne’s footsteps slow, until she stops altogether. “I do not know what to say to you, Iona. I need time…”
Silent tears drip down Iona’s cheeks as she turns away, but Ariadne grabs her arm to hold her back. Confusion fills her as she regards Ariadne warily.
“I…” She trails off, her voice thick with anguish.
“Do you wish to be alone?” Iona asks.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
Iona pulls her arm from Ariadne’s grip and stands there, observing the conflicting emotions in her tormented gaze.
“I could feel you,” Ariadne mouths. “I thought…”
Iona’s heart sinks. “Oh… I am so dreadfully sorry, I-”
“I’ve felt it twice now. Twice within a year,” Ariadne whispers.
Iona stares up at her, at a loss for words.
“Am I truly all that stands between you and Death?” Ariadne asks, her voice but a whisper.
Shame settles in Iona’s gut, taking all her words, making them seem meaningless and hollow. Ariadne steps away, her head hung low, and Iona lets her go.
Any faith placed in her is broken, eradicated by one fatal lapse of judgement. She should have ignored Ariadne’s attempt to keep her from the fray. She should have used all she’s learned these past months and proven herself capable of wrath when the situation demands it of her.
The more she dwells on it, the more she decides it is not one lapse, but many. She’s failed again and again to be strong the way others needed her to be. Her fear rules her, weakens her, and she doesn’t know how to overcome it.
“Psst!”
She startles, whirling to face Moira where she leans against the wall, observing her with a small, humorless smile.
“Let us take a short trip,” Moira whispers.
“A trip?” Iona wipes away her tears with the back of her hand.
“Some air would do you good, I’d wager.” Moira looks her up and down.
“Ariadne will not wish to leave,” Iona says.
“Good. I did not invite your guard dog.” Moira brushes her dark hair over her shoulder.
“But where-”
Moira puts up a finger to silence her, then crooks it. Iona hesitates, glancing in the direction Ariadne had gone. Part of her wishes to reach out through the bond, but she can hardly stomach her own grief without opening her soul to another’s. She looks down at Wisp, who reflects her doubt.
“Fine. Stay here and wallow in self-pity,” Moira says, walking away.
“Wait!” Iona calls.
“I wait for no one, dearest,” Moira says.
Sighing with frustration, Iona gathers Wisp in her arms and holds her close as she follows Moira outside where the red carriage awaits, drawn by pristine white horses.
“Have you yet been to Denmark?” Moira asks, once they’ve taken their seats and the carriage jerks forward.
“No,” Iona says.
“Rold Forest is quite beautiful, though the trolls can prove irksome at times.” Moira wrinkles her nose at the thought. “We could venture there upon our return, if you’d like. You go weak at the knees for forests, I hear.”
Iona flushes. “I have an appreciation for nature.”
“Hmm…” Moira hums with disinterest. “I’m partial to cities myself.”
“I imagine one so fond of attention would gravitate towards populous regions,” Iona murmurs.
Moira chuckles. “Do not pretend to be above such things. You lavished in the covens’ sycophancy on the solstice, far better than I would have thought. I was admittedly impressed.”
“If I thought so lowly of every person I met, I would be very often surprised by their achievements,” Iona says bitterly.
“On the contrary, my expectations are permanently high,” Moira says. “Your surpassing them is… a capricious feat.”
Iona narrows her eyes. “Meaning?”
“You have much to learn,” Moira says, her gift in condescension seeming to be a familial trait, “but when you allow yourself to thrive without contrition, you are indeed a wonder to behold.”
With that, Moira swings open the carriage door and steps out.
Iona follows and when the frigid ocean air fills her lungs, she nearly breaks down again from an overwhelming bout of melancholic nostalgia, but Moira does not give her much chance to take in the view off the cliffside.
She walks with purpose towards a tiny village of only twenty houses.
“Why are we here?” Iona asks.
“There was an attack just this morning. Yet another leeching spell,” Moira says, tapping the tip of her hematite wand against her chin.
“There is a malefician nearby?” Iona gapes at her. “Why on earth did you take me… I should not be here. I will only make matters worse.”
“If you intend to pester me with your self-flagellation, you may wait in the carriage until I’m through.” Moira cuts her a glare.
Iona opens her mouth, then shuts it and stews in her indignation.
“Don’t fret,” Moira says, “This one is only a baby.”
“How do you know?” Iona asks.
“Meydana cikarmak,” Moira incants.
Traces of blue and black maleficium appear in the air around them, though only in thin, vaporous streams.
“There would be more if the malefician were stronger,” Moira says. “My guess is they will celebrate tonight under the stars.”
“Is that a common practice?” Iona asks.
“It may as well be a tradition for these wretches,” Moira says.
“The stolen magic elicits a sense of ecstasy, a sort of drunkenness, not unlike what we may experience when we harvest magic on ritual days, but significantly more potent. A malefician will give in to that sybaritic frenzy in isolation and perhaps slaughter an animal or two to bathe in their blood. The cover of darkness allows them the freedom to indulge in that sort of depraved hedonism.”
“You know a great deal about this,” Iona observes.
“The knowledge has been passed down through my family for generations,” she says.
She walks away and Iona struggles to keep up with her long strides. They follow the trail of maleficium down the edge of the cliff to the beach.
“I do not wish to be rude,” Moira says, “but allow me to handle this. You’d only get in my way, in your current state of mind.”
She puts out her arm, forcing Iona to stop short, then continues on with her wand at the ready and goes past a massive grey boulder.
Iona flinches at the sound of an explosion that propels sand and rock shards everywhere.
There are continued sounds of a scuffle, screams of pain, then an awful gurgling sound that turns Iona’s stomach.
“There,” Moira says. “It is safe now! You may approach.”
Iona remains frozen still, her breath stuttering in her lungs, until Moira pokes her head from around the edge of the boulder.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Moira chuckles. “All is well, I swear it.”