31 - Iona
T o move is to suffer. Her every muscle aches at rest, and if she dares to shift even the smallest amount, shooting pain accosts her entire body and steals away what little energy she has, until sleep takes her again, fraught with perturbing nightmares of gore, and desolate screams.
Lifting her eyelids is a feat she cannot muster for long, though she tries anyway so she might gaze upon Ariadne’s worry-stricken face, wishing she could speak so she might lessen her concern.
Ariadne never leaves, takes every meal at her bedside, and frequently drifts off in a chair with her head braced against her arms, leaning against the mattress, as close as she can be without touching.
Xiomara demands the separation in an abundance of caution, for they do not know the nature of Iona’s ailments, or how they might be transferred.
It pains them both, for Iona is certain her pain would be marginally more endurable if only she could lay with Ariadne at her back, curled up against her, whispering in her ear that it will all be over soon.
Healing potions, brewed with meticulous care by Ariadne’s father, are administered by having the cup hover by Iona’s lips for her to drink.
Sometimes at night, when they are alone, Ariadne takes to brushing her hair, careful not to touch her skin, and it seems as much a comfort to Ariadne as it is a respite for Iona.
In her brief moments of lucidity, she watches Ariadne while she dreams and listens to her mumble in her sleep, “Not her… not her, too… not her… not her…”
Worst of all, she cannot respond to Ariadne’s revelatory confession at Euphemia’s funeral, not even through the bond. She tries many a time to form a coherent thought and send it to her and doesn’t know if it is her state of enervation that prevents her, or her total lack of clarity.
She cannot make sense of what she’s seen, cannot reconcile the woman she loves being capable of inflicting torture on another girl.
She knows Ariadne to be capable of aggression in her worst moments, but Iona never thought it possible for her to do those things.
It makes her sick just thinking of it, but in her state of incapacitation, she finds herself fixating on the dreadful memories, Vivien’s screams haunting her as they have Ariadne.
And so, the seconds, minutes, hours, days tick by, a chasm of unspoken words inhabiting the space between them, filled with wretched uncertainty, longing, and guilt.
“She’s nearly died thrice now on your Goddess’ errand!” Ariadne screams, “And where then were you when the Crone nearly burned us alive and slaughtered my friend?”
Her slumber interrupted, Iona tries to open her eyes, but her lids are heavy as lead.
“I was with Mother while she defended your incompetence!” Moira yells. “The council is in an absolute uproar! All this death in so short a time-“
“We are doing all we can, but I shan’t sacrifice her-“
“Enough,” Xiomara yells, with a tone of finality. “We cannot lose our heads.”
Moira huffs, followed by loud footsteps and the slam of a door.
Silence follows until Xiomara asks, in a much softer tone, “Are you well, Ariadne?”
“I…” She sighs with frustration. “Can I not just hold her hand?”
“We do not know what affliction has made her-“
“I do not care if I fall sick.”
“We cannot lose you, too,” Xiomara says firmly. “You are too important.”
“She needs me,” Ariadne says, her voice small. “She looks so much like…”
She cannot finish the thought, but Iona knows of whom she speaks. There is a swish of skirts as Xiomara crosses the room to comfort Ariadne, but a divot in the mattress indicates her shrinking away from Xiomara’s touch, leaning against her elbows to hover over Iona as close as she dares.
“Others need us now,” Xiomara says. “She will not even notice your absence-“
“I shan’t leave her,” Ariadne says.
“You are the only one of us capable of shielding against maleficium-“
“A lot of good it’s done me,” Ariadne says, bleak and hopeless.
“You’ve saved many lives already, including hers,” Xiomara says. “We require your help and-“
“I will not leave her,” Ariadne says cooly.
“We cannot afford to be selfish when there are countless innocents whose loved ones will be taken from them permanently without our intervention.”
“Let them fight for themselves as I have.”
“We possess greater magic, and even we struggle to-“
“Where is Hecate?”
The question stops Xiomara short so abruptly, it makes Iona tense with apprehension, the small movement sending shockwaves of pain through her every nerve ending.
“Is she a Goddess, or isn’t she?” Ariadne asks. “She should heal Iona-“
“Ariadne,” Xiomara chuckles nervously.
“Let her come and strike me down for saying so!” Ariadne cries. “First Morgan, now her! I tire of their cryptic excuses to justify their lack of intervention. At least Morgan is dead, excuse enough I suppose, but Hecate simply watches and does nothing! All because of a damned spider!”
“Fate is absolute,” Xiomara says.
“I tire of that, too,” her voice breaks. “I am… I am so tired. Sleep gives me no rest…”
“I’ll have your father brew a potion.”
“Just leave me with her,” Ariadne whispers.
Another silence draws out, and for a moment Iona thinks Xiomara did leave as Ariadne asked, until she finally says, “I will call upon Hecate.”
Ariadne shifts, her surge of hope palpable.
“I cannot guarantee she will respond, but I shall call to her,” Xiomara says. “You must go.”
“What?” Ariadne asks, “But why-”
“She does not wish to see you,” Xiomara says. “She may not wish to see Iona either, after all that’s happened…”
Another silence, the air thick with tension.
“How can she possibly blame either one of us for this?” Ariadne says, her voice so soft, Iona strains to hear. “We’ve broken ourselves many times over-”
“If you wish for her aid, it would be wise not to challenge her judgement,” Xiomara says, not unkindly, as if she hates being put in the middle of their quarrel. “This is how it must be.”
Sighing heavily, with great regret, Ariadne stands. “Very well. Fetch me when it’s done, the very second she’s gone.”
“Of course,” Xiomara says. “I suggest you take the time to rest.”
“I’ll rest when she’s well again,” Ariadne says, opening the door and closing it gently behind her.
“Goddess help me,” Xiomara murmurs to herself.
More than ever, Iona wishes to open her eyes, to call Ariadne back to her, but listening to their tense conversation is enough to bring on another wave of fatigue. She faintly perceives the press of Xiomara’s hand against her forehead as she drifts away into another amorphous dream.
Something soft and light touches her skin, and her eyelids flutter open as she reaches for it, plucking a purple petal from her cheek and holding it up to her eyes. Blinking, she realizes the movement causes no pain, her vision is clearer, and her breaths take less effort.
Above her, wisteria blossoms hang from the ceiling, and all around her, growing from the floor and the walls, are so many flowers, she can hardly comprehend them.
She’s only seen such a marvel once before in Ariadne’s dream, a projected depiction of her childhood bedroom while she wore the dream talisman.
“You are safe,” Xiomara says. She sits in a chair in the corner with her hands folded in her lap. “We brought you to Thessaly for your convalescence.”
Sitting up, she winces at how sore her muscles have become, bringing a hand to her forehead. “How long… Where is Ariadne?”
“She is not far. She took a walk in the forest to clear her head,” Xiomara says. “You’ve been quite ill for weeks. As I’d hoped, the Winter Solstice provided magic enough to heal you.”
Reeling, Iona tries to do the math in her head. Last she remembers, it was the very end of November. Yet again, weeks of time have been stolen from her.
Wisp trills and jumps up to lick at her face, and she scoops the fox into her arms, kissing her head and whispering soothing words.
Then Aster approaches, his ears flat and his eyes cautious.
Iona beckons him closer, understanding the significance of his presence here.
Ariadne must have left him to watch over her.
The wolf’s yellow eyes shimmer when she scratches his head, but it only reminds her that her beloved is somewhere on the grounds, praying for her recovery.
“I must go to her.” Iona swings her legs over the edge of the bed and tries to stand, but her head pounds, her limbs prickling, and she nearly faints as she falls back into bed.
Xiomara jumps up and rushes across the room, crushing flowers underfoot in her haste. “For goodness sake, Iona, take caution! You’ve only just awoken. Please, allow yourself time to adjust.”
Nodding reluctantly, she takes deep steadying breaths, pressing a hand to her chest until her pulse slows beneath her palm.
“I must impart a message to you before your departure,” Xiomara says, an edge to her tone.
Iona glances at her, and any relief she harbors swiftly fades.
“Hecate was the one who healed you,” Xiomara says, “and she bid me tell you it shall be her final blessing.”
Her heart sinks. “What… What does that mean? Why?”
“Iona.” Xiomara takes her hand and looks her in the eye with great sympathy. “I regret the position you’ve been forced into. I am certainly not the first to tell you that this was never meant to be your-”
“What did she say?”
When Xiomara averts her eyes, Iona braces herself for the worst.
“The death toll has risen too high,” Xiomara says. “You made a valiant effort despite your disadvantages, but the time has come to accept that you are not ready to face so formidable an adversary.”
Iona cannot even muster a plea for another chance when she knows in her heart that Hecate is right.
“Ariadne might still help,” is all Iona can think to say.