29 - Ariadne
T he lie haunts her day and night. She recognizes it the moment it passes Iona’s lips, and it takes everything in her to keep from seeking answers, from searching Iona’s mind for the truth, until she cannot bear it anymore.
By the time she musters the courage to look, Iona’s thoughts have shifted to other things.
Ariadne could delve deeper, sift through her psyche like a woman possessed, but she’d be the foulest of hypocrites to do so after she’d expressly asked for the privacy of her own mind, which Iona has respected without fail.
For days, she cannot stop obsessing over the lie, and Elise’s cruel words in the prison cell. She cannot decide what part of it would be worse for Iona to agree with, Elise’s description of her many flaws, the disadvantages of the bond, or perhaps both.
She would never dream of attempting to force Iona to keep the bond should she ask to be rid of it but breaking it would undoubtedly exacerbate the rift between them that is already growing into a canyon of unspoken words and resentments.
What if her mother is right, and Iona’s love will inevitably fade as all good things do…
She should have known it would never last forever.
Why would magic tie me to someone like you? Iona once whispered.
Ariadne had no answer then, and even now, after all her many failures to protect Iona from pain, from fear, from all that threatens them, she still cannot understand why fate would do this.
Why Arachne would do this. Ariadne prevailed once against Elise, but even that, it seems, was no true victory.
They’d escaped with their lives, but what is life without Iona?
Her catastrophizing thoughts leave her incurably restless, wandering the halls of the Villa Mitriora like a phantom. They both wish to leave this place but cannot agree on where best to go. Iona has expressed her reluctance to return to Brazil after the many weeks she’d unknowingly lost there.
Nor does she wish to visit Samuel again, only to be constantly reminded of Elise’s impending demise.
They decide not to impose on Crescentia either, to Ariadne’s relief, for she is so wrapped up in her romance with Frankie and neither of them wish to put a damper on their bliss, especially since they cannot fully express what torments them.
Nonna’s inevitable interrogation is not worth the sanctuary of her veritable eden.
Her keen perceptiveness would have her sensing the tension between them in seconds and demanding answers that Ariadne is unwilling to divulge.
Likewise, even Samaira’s quiet observation would only grate on her and make her unbearably self-conscious.
They are running out of havens, without a true home to speak of, but the thought of putting down roots now is a revolting prospect, though she cannot quite explain why.
Her thoughts drift to Euphemia, though she wouldn’t wish to impose upon her either.
Her perfect life should not be sullied by this disharmony.
And yet, Ariadne waxes nostalgic for those awful parties when Euphemia had made a game of cheering her with any method at her disposal and convinced her friends to accept Ariadne despite her sullen nature and unsociable disposition.
In hindsight, those months were some of her happiest, until she’d met Iona.
The November chill raises goosebumps on Ariadne’s arms as she leans against the balcony rail and looks out at a spectacular view of Rome, dark and silent in the early hours of morning.
Sleep still evades her and Iona’s proximity in her bed only serves to disorient her with constant worries and yearnings.
She left Aster behind to guard over Iona while she slumbers.
“What are you brooding about?”
Ariadne flinches at the sound but refuses to look. “Go back to Thessaly. You’re not wanted here.”
“You are still my daughter. You will speak to me with the respect I deserve,” her mother’s voice harbors a warning, but not the usual vitriol Ariadne has come to expect.
“I’m only your daughter when it suits you,” she says.
“Oh, poor Ariadne,” her mother says with mocking melodrama. “Kept in splendorous luxury without want of anything, born with more magic than any could dream of, instructed by the very best on how to wield it. Such an awful tragedy indeed.”
“Enough,” Ariadne snaps. “Iona does not want you here and-“
“And what? She’ll send her guard dog to chase me away? Or perhaps she’ll break another one of my bones for good measure?” her mother sneers.
Ariadne sighs and pushes away from the balcony to haunt another part of the villa.
“Ariadne Zerynthos, you shan’t turn your back on me!” her mother roars.
She goes still, her heartbeat quickening, then turns to glare with as much defiance as she can muster in her exhausted state.
“You think yourself above me now? Is that it?” her mother asks. “You would be nothing without me.”
“Whatever you say,” Ariadne mumbles. “I tire of quarreling. Take Moira as your progeny and disown me as you threatened. It would be best if we never spoke to each other again.”
Her mother’s eyes flare. “And what of your father? You shan’t pick and choose your parents at your whim.”
“Keep him,” Ariadne says. “He constantly chose you over me anyhow. I’m more of a tiresome pet to you both, and I won’t stand for it any longer.”
“You are so ungrateful,” her mother seethes.
“Aunt Xiomara was more of a mother to me than you ever were,” she says, unable to resist the barb.
“My sister was always the pitying sort,” Cintia retorts. “Do not mistake her compassion for anything but charity. She was the fortunate one to sire two devoted daughters worthy of their name.”
“They are devoted to her because she loves them dearly,” Ariadne says.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “You knew what was required to earn my love and respect, but it seems your lewd infatuation was worth more-”
“Please,” Ariadne says. “Go and leave us be. I won’t… I cannot endure this anymore.”
“I was right about her,” she gloats, her smirk returning. “Admit it.”
“I will not.” Ariadne stands taller.
“She is not the leader you or Morgan thought her to be. The trail of dead bodies in her wake are proof of that,” she says. “As per usual, Ariadne, you did not think this through. This mess is entirely your fault.”
Clenching her fists, Ariadne storms up to her mother until they are nose to nose.
“I am not the one who lied for years on end! If you wished for me to make an informed decision, then you should have told me the damned truth!” she shrieks, her voice echoing into the night.
“Never would I have given her the wretched pendant if I knew what was at stake, that the obligations would be more than just parties and politics and rituals. In that Iona would surely thrive, if that’s all it had been.
Never would I have knowingly subjected her to this hell!
I would have gladly taken it and let it drain the life from me before I’d let harm befall her, but because of your incompetence, we are the both of us endangered!
” Cintia tries to interject but Ariadne speaks over her.
“If you think Iona is so poorly suited to this, then go and fight the Crone yourself, and die for all I care!”
Her mother’s look of shock is at least a small satisfaction to be had, but as Ariadne’s rage abates, all she feels is emptiness.
“Do not shame me for what I chose. Don’t you dare…” She blinks as her fatigue sets in. “Just because you were too old and weak to claim the pendant yourself.”
Ariadne does leave then, running down the northward stairs and out the side door into the peristylum. She shivers, then uses the staff to conjure a cloak lined with fur and wraps it tightly around herself.
“Inauspicious stars,” Marina whispers.
Ariadne startles, tripping on her feet as she whirls around. “Must you always sneak about like that?”
“I wasn’t.” Marina’s eyebrows lift above her dreamy red eyes. “You weren’t paying attention.”
“Leave me be,” Ariadne mutters. “Go and pester Moira.”
“She’s away. Another council meeting… the covens grow restless.
Moira did not wish for Mother to travel alone when their assembly will likely be a detestable contretemps,” Marina says, then looks up and any peace in her countenance fades.
Her jaw slackens, her neck craning into an unnatural angle, and her red eyes go so wide, it’s a wonder they don’t pop from her skull.
Ariadne looks up too, a creeping unease sobering her. “What do you see?”
“A star has died,” Marina whispers. “It’s brilliant death is a most gruesome omen. I fear we will be met with the very worst of hostilities this night, and not all will survive it.”
She points up and just as she’d described, a new light much larger than an ordinary star glitters in the dark sky.
“Where will she strike?” Ariadne asks.
Marina squints, “North…”
“Where north?” Ariadne asks with impatience.
Marina goes silent and still. Ariadne waits, having been taught to leave Marina be in those moments of consummate perception.
“I see clouds and fire,” Marina whispers, “and wings… clipped.”
“What do you mean by-” Ariadne chokes on her words, then grasps Marina’s shoulders and shakes her, willing her to look down. “Where? Where north?”
When Marina takes too long to answer, Ariadne sprints back inside, running to the atrium where, on a table beside the front door, sits a letter.
Ariadne grasps for it blindly, nearly ripping it in half in her haste, and reads Samaira’s hurried scrawl with voracity.
Go at once to Sweden! It may be too late, but…
“No,” she gasps, the letter slipping from her fingers. “Not her.”
Marina runs up behind her. “Ariadne, wait. We must find-”
She conjures a portal and jumps through only to flinch away from the burning wind, ash, and embers. Every breath she takes is suffocating, the smoke so black it blocks out the moon.