27 - Iona #4
Ariadne besieges her with bruising kisses, her hands everywhere at once. The salt of her tears is like poison on Iona’s tongue; every kiss wet with them until it’s all she tastes. They’re soon ripping at each other’s clothes, wanting nothing but their skin between them as they fall into bed.
Ariadne’s embrace becomes a desperate, covetous rapture, as if she’s afraid Iona might disappear and clinging to her will keep her tangible, or otherwise she’ll turn to smoke and slip through her fingers.
As if every wave of pleasure she coaxes from Iona’s writhing form will convince her to stay just a while longer.
“Ari,” Iona gasps, stroking her flushed cheek. “I am here. I-”
Ariadne silences her with another all-consuming kiss, and Iona lets her do whatever she wants in the hope that it might console her in this unnerving state. Ariadne worships her, every loving touch tainted by unrelenting fear.
She keeps repeating her love, whispering it, moaning it, demonstrating it with her hands, her mouth, without teasing even once, until Iona swoons and begs her to stop, too sensitive to bear it any longer. Only then is Ariadne’s trance broken, and she seems to remember herself.
“I…” Ariadne pants. “I love you.”
Iona sighs with slight exasperation. “I know it well enough by now.”
The jest is lost on Ariadne in her naked fragility, her emotions entirely exposed in a way she rarely allows.
Iona caresses her neck and runs her hands over the smooth planes of her back, until Ariadne’s breathing slows and the crazed look in her eye fades as her muscles go slack and she slumps atop Iona in a languorous heap.
“You are the one who taught me love, in all its many forms,” Iona reminds her. “Please, my darling, hold me and know that my devotion to you is not capricious, no matter our quarrels, or the dangers we may face.”
Through their bond, Ariadne’s panic is lessened by her words but even then, even still, her worries persist. Iona doesn’t know how to pacify such a monstrous incertitude. She does not know if she can.
Her concern persists when Samhain is upon them and she grips her golden token, the metal branded with a skull. She hopes beyond hope for a moment she’s longed for more than anything. Four steps into the brush of a nearby forest, and she’s transported to the other side once again.
The grove turns from moss-covered beech trees to drooping willows. The sweet air is perfectly cool, and the sky above is brilliant with clusters of luminescent stars that shine almost like daylight.
“Mother?” Iona calls and even speaking the word aloud is enough to bring her close to tears. “Father?”
“Iona?” Ariadne calls, and to their mutual surprise, they meet in a small clearing. “I thought-”
“We did cross over,” Iona says, without doubt. “I suppose we are meeting our ghost together.”
Ariadne lets out a heavy sigh of relief, then explains, “I thought… I dreaded seeing Grandmother again. I do not know if I could stomach it.”
“Oh,” Iona says softly, then takes Ariadne’s free hand. “You needn’t worry about that any longer. I imagine she won’t wish to speak with you ever again, for a woman like her would find you repulsive.”
Ariadne’s eyes widen, her face falling.
“And that is a very good thing,” Iona says, a small smile lifting her lips, and to her great pleasure, Ariadne smiles wryly, too.
They make their way through the thicket until there is a break in the trees. There hidden is a blue roofed cottage with a stone chimney and a flourishing herb garden in the yard. When they reach the front door, Iona knocks.
Less than a second later the door is wrenched open, and her mother stands there with wide hazel eyes, her long crimson hair weaved into a single braid, and her lips stretching into a smile.
She looks how Iona prefers to remember her, untouched by sickness, with blood in her cheeks and strength in her limbs.
“Meu querida,” She opens her arms and Iona runs to her, finding incomparable solace in her mother’s warm embrace.
“I’ve dreamt of this day for so very long,” Iona says, smiling wide.
“Let me look at you.” Her mother places her hands on Iona’s shoulders. “Que beleza.”
Iona flushes and says, “I missed you terribly. Are you well?”
“My renewal is everlasting,” her mother says. “All I miss these days is you.”
“Iona?” Her father comes barreling into the house wearing a paint-stained apron. “When did you get in?”
“Just now,” Iona says, and is surprised to find herself shy.
“I’ve lost all track of time,” he says apologetically as he removes the apron and drapes it on a kitchen chair.
Iona grins at his dishevelment. “Easy to do, I expect.”
“You’ve no idea,” he winks, then embraces her.
“Don’t blame time for your tardiness,” her mother chides. “He was like this in life, too.”
“Now, now, let us not relent on my many faults,” he says, then looks over Iona’s shoulder. “And who might this be?”
Ariadne stands awkwardly in the doorway, uncertainty written all over her face, and Iona admonishes herself for her thoughtlessness.
“Father, Mother, I’d like you to meet Ariadne Zerynthos,” Iona says, beckoning her inside.
She steps in, closing the door behind her, then curtsies, “Good evening.”
“Much prettier than Tamsyn,” her mother whispers.
“Mother,” Iona hisses, flushing scarlet at the mention of the girl she’d pined over in her youth. She did not realize her mother had noticed.
“I suppose you’ll do,” her father says, giving Ariadne a once over, “though I would have preferred if you’d asked for my blessing before taking up with my only beloved daughter.”
“Oh,” Ariadne’s own cheeks redden. “Uh…”
“Father,” Iona groans. “Please, be polite.”
He grins unapologetically, but acquiesces, “I’ll consider us square if you assist me in the garden. I have it on good authority that you are rather skilled with plants.”
“Yes, sir. I’d say that I am,” Ariadne says with a small smile, before glancing at Iona for reassurance.
If he gives you trouble-
I’d more than deserve it, Ariadne jests, but her humor is hollow.
The two of them step out the back door into a botanical garden worthy of a king.
“How are you, my darling?” her mother asks.
Iona averts her eyes. “I… I thought ancestors kept watch over their descendants.”
“Some do,” her mother says, “but we trust you to live well and wouldn’t wish to impede on your liberty. Do tell, how is your life? Tell me more of Ariadne and the pendant.”
When once she would’ve had countless stories to tell, Iona finds herself at a loss for words.
“Are you well?” her mother asks with a trace of concern.
She feels the prick of tears but refuses to let them fall and waste precious time.
“Perhaps you should sit.” Her mother takes her arm and ushers her to a chair by the hearth.
In a sudden deluge, Iona tells her all that’s happened; Hecate’s quest, the relentless attacks, the wretched dreams, and the strain it’s all taken on her bond with Ariadne.
“How could you stand it for all those years?” Iona asks. “How did it not poison the love you shared? There must be something I’ve done wrong.”
“Oh darling…” Her mother’s brow furrows, conveying her conflicted thoughts, before she says, “We were never bonded.”
“What?” Iona asks. “But… I assumed you would be. You love each other.”
“Hopelessly,” she agrees with a small smile, “but we never saw the need.”
Iona leans back in her chair. “How then did you find each other in death?”
“I traversed this plane of existence until I found him,” her mother says.
“It took time, but we were reunited in the end. You see, a blood bond tethers you to Ariadne inexplicably, instantaneously, but that is not the only way to be bound. I spent a life with your father, over weeks, months, years, until our souls did entwine of their own accord. Some are afraid theirs will not do so in the natural way, if their time runs short or their connection should fade for any number of reasons, so they form a blood bond to ensure nothing will impede them in the afterlife. I worried when I spent so many years without your father, until my time came, but when I reawakened here, I heard him calling me home.”
Iona smiles at the resilience of her parents’ idyllic love, until her own doubts resurface.
She wonders now more than ever why Ariadne is so vehemently against breaking the bond.
There’s no questioning her knowledge of this, after years of diligent study, and yet she chose not to mention it.
Iona can only surmise that Ariadne fears their love’s decay, should it prevent them from finding each other in the afterlife, but that would never happen. She must know it would never happen.
“You’ve not done wrong by bonding with her,” her mother says, observing Iona’s disheartened expression.
“I’ve heard it can be absolutely wonderful in good times, and difficult in dark ones.
Relationships of any kind can become strained in times of strife, and with all you’ve told me, I would be astonished if all was perfectly well between you two.
You will endure this adversity together and become all the stronger for it.
You must only be patient and compassionate, as I’ve always taught you. ”
“Yes, mother,” Iona says.
“And if all else fails, you must be honest with her,” she advises. “If her love is true, she will understand.”
Then her father and Ariadne return to the house carrying a bounty of produce to cook a goulash. Iona directs Ariadne to a chair in the kitchen, for anytime she attempts to cook, she burns everything, despite being so prolific at brewing potions.
Iona takes her place at her father’s side, helping to prepare the ingredients and follow his rather flexible instructions. He refuses to measure anything, using only his eyes and his instincts, until the food is declared perfect.
They sit at a wrought iron table in the garden where they eat, tell jokes, and trade stories to their heart’s content.
Iona doesn’t remember when last she laughed so hard, or felt so completely safe, and though Ariadne is a more reserved version of herself, as she tends to be upon meeting new people, her smile is bright as the stars above them, and it warms Iona’s heart.
It is bittersweet when Iona opens her eyes, waking on the forest floor, back in the land of the living. She knows she will see her family again, and treasures the time she’s spent with them, but it was all too fleeting. Ariadne lays beside her, sighing and stretching her limbs before she sits up.
“They like you,” Iona says, for she knows Ariadne will need that assurance.
Her responding smile is weary, and there is something else hidden behind her eyes, but she turns her face away before Iona can identify it.
Ariadne needn’t have bothered, for the emotion becomes so heightened that she unwittingly disseminates it across the bond.
A fierce, overwhelming manifestation of envy.
“They were lovely,” Ariadne says, a melancholic tinge to her tone that Iona has never heard before. She stands and walks away, leaving Iona to ponder her words, and all that they imply.