32 - Ariadne
S he has no earthly idea what compels her to say such terrible things and not mean a single word of them. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, or if Iona will wait long enough for her to make sense of her feeble, perfidious mind.
Her exchange with Iona at the funeral is all she’s thought of while guarding her body and sending her thoughts through the bond that do not seem to reach her. Myriad apologies have been stuck in Ariadne’s throat for weeks, near to bursting from her lips, but Iona cannot hear her.
Her hazel eyes are clouded, her face grimacing at the pain that besieges her, rendering her immobile. The echo of the pain seeps through the bond, and Ariadne lingers within it, seeks it out, so she might suffer with her. It should be her in that bed, not Iona.
The fresh air does little to comfort her, the cutting chill of winter making her tremble, but she refuses to conjure a cloak.
She’d decided to leave Aster behind to watch over Iona in her stead, despite the wolf’s many protests.
And so, she walks aimlessly through the Thessalian wilderness, the ground covered in a layer of virgin snow, waiting, hoping, praying that Hecate will heal her beloved and Arachne will not cut her thread.
Eventually she comes upon the meadow, bereft of its many aster flowers.
Deciding she may as well entertain herself while she waits or at least distract herself from her dread-ridden thoughts, she conjures a pianoforte right there in the snow, taking a seat on the bench and lifting the lid to reveal the keys, and plays the first song that comes to mind, from Clementi’s Piano Sonata in F-Sharp Minor, Piú tosto allegro con esperessione.
“Ariadne.”
Her breath catches in her throat as she turns in her seat. Aunt Xiomara trudges through the snow to reach her.
“Did Hecate answer?” she asks.
“Yes,” Aunt Xiomara says with an exhausted smile. “Iona is awake. She is well again.”
A sob bursts from deep in Ariadne’s chest at hearing weeks of tortuous waiting are finally at an end, but before she can make a portal to her bedroom, Aunt Xiomara puts up a hand in caution.
“She is well, but…” Aunt Xiomara hesitates.
“But what?”
“She’s relinquished Hecate’s quest. She will battle the Crone no longer.”
Ariadne blinks at her, unable to comprehend her words, until she realizes the full implications of them.
“The loss of Iona’s magic is a significant one,” Aunt Xiomara says. “We will be at a great disadvantage. In truth… we have been all this time. You are our only advantage now.”
“Me?” Ariadne breathes.
“Do you mean to abandon us, too?” Aunt Xiomara asks, her eyes flitting to the staff with trepidation.
“No,” Ariadne says compulsively, her hands clenching into fists. “Euphemia’s death must be avenged.”
“Indeed,” Aunt Xiomara murmurs, scrutinizing her with care.
Though as she thinks of it, Ariadne is unsure of how Iona will feel about her continued involvement in their crusade without her. Then she shakes her head, unable to accept it. “But Iona would never leave innocents to die. Perhaps this is only a momentary lapse of courage.”
“She nearly died,” Aunt Xiomara says softly. “She wasted away in that bed for weeks. I cannot say I’m surprised by her choice to abstain, as bitterly inconvenient as it may be for us. You said it yourself. She almost suffered the same fate as Vivien.”
The comparison makes her hands tremble as she stands and paces about in agitation. “I would never allow that to happen.”
“You cannot always control such things, dearest. It was Hecate who healed her, and next time,” Aunt Xiomara lowers her gaze, “we may not be so fortunate. I spoke with Hecate on her behalf, and we are all agreed, it is for the best. The family shall convene in the sitting room within the hour to strategize, for we must determine the best way to divide our efforts prudently. There is an alarming barrage of attacks littering the countryside. It’s becoming like it was before Mother came to power. ”
“I could try to convince Iona to persevere,” Ariadne says, with slight reluctance. “I imagine the Crone will not simply let us go. She knows our faces.”
“Quite right… However, I must respectfully decline,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“But you just said-”
“I agree with Iona’s decision, as does Hecate.
I regret to say it has become abundantly clear that she was never meant for this life, and clearer still that you were made for it.
” Aunt Xiomara reaches for her and takes her face in her hands, looking down on her with adoration.
“Your mother tried to stifle your fire. Wrought with jealousy that woman is, but she could not hide who you truly are. My successor.”
Ariadne’s mouth falls open. “But… I didn’t…”
“You never needed the pendant, dearest,” Aunt Xiomara says. “It certainly wouldn’t have hurt if you’d claimed it, but you are a Zerynthos witch all the same. Your staff aided in your heroism, but the artifact is not what makes a witch exceptional. That depends only upon the witch herself.”
Beyond words, Ariadne closes her eyes when Aunt Xiomara presses her lips to her forehead before pulling away.
“But…” she stutters, still unable to accept it. “What of Moira or Marina or-”
“A skilled soldier and seer,” Aunt Xiomara says. “Neither of them are leaders.”
“I do not know if I…”
“Fortify your confidence. You’ve more than proven your worth in battle.
I would not make this determination thoughtlessly,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“For now, I ask that you take a moment to clear your mind, bolster your strength, and return to the manor when you are ready.” She turns to leave then stops short to mention.
“But please do not take too long. The ritual is set for midnight, and the other covens will be arriving any moment-”
“Of course,” Ariadne says. “I shan’t be long.”
“Very good,” Aunt Xiomara smiles, then turns to walk back up the path to the manor, leaving Ariadne to her musings.
For a moment, she considers using a portal to return to Iona’s bedside, but she forces herself to heed her aunt’s advice. It would not do for her to be overwhelmed by her emotions when she joins her family.
She looks up, disappointed to find another moonless sky. She has no way of knowing how close to midnight it might be, but she imagines the covens will arrive soon. She should like to find Iona before they impose upon their solitude.
There is a place hidden among the towering rocks where the ritual will almost certainly be conducted. In times past, Aunt Xiomara would preside over the ritual, then lead the crowd back to the manor for the reception in the ballroom.
As a child, Ariadne would often sit on her balcony and watch the arcing lights from afar, then sneak out of her room to sit by the stairs and listen to the music and laughter.
On very rare occasions, her father would allow her to sneak in amongst the crowd for as long as it took for her mother to discover her and send her back to bed. She’d longed to be a part of the festivities, before she knew how tiresome they can truly be.
Iona will certainly resume her rituals once she’s recovered fully from her illness.
That is what had appealed to her in the first place, sharing magic with those who have very little.
She can dedicate herself to noble causes, reshape the world into a kinder, more tolerant place, while Ariadne keeps the monsters at bay, and comes home to her when evil is vanquished once more.
In time all this darkness will fade, and they will finally be able to rest. Ariadne will do all she can to make it so.
She’s been such a fool to let her fears cloud her judgement.
She will grovel. She will beg for Iona’s forgiveness on her knees if she must. Despite all her worst intrusive thoughts, she somehow knows in her heart that Iona will forgive her, that their love is not so fragile that it would shatter in adversity.
That if anything, with no secrets left between them, they may flourish now more than they had before.
Her shame has been brought to light, and if Iona can still love her despite it, then there is no greater love she could ever find.
She allows herself to hope, to believe that Iona won’t forsake her.
As she makes her way up toward her family’s manor, her feet crunching through the snow, her excitement grows at the thought of seeing Iona well again, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright.
She barely notices Rebekka’s carriage stationed by the roadside as she trudges down the front path to the manor.
She must be the first to arrive for the ritual, one that Ariadne will gladly abstain from so she might embrace Iona again and never let her go.
She only thinks of Iona and what she means to say when-
Ariadne’s heart stops. Her breath stops. Everything… stops.
Iona stands under the cover of barren cypress trees, likely thinking herself obscured from view, while she kisses Rebekka within a flurry of snow.
At first, Ariadne cannot believe it. It must be some awful trick.
The Crone must have found them here and aimed to use Ariadne’s worst fears against her again to distract her before attempting a killing blow.
But Ariadne dares to reach through the bond, only barely delving in, like dipping a toe into water to check its temperature for fear of its freezing embrace.
Though Iona’s eyes are closed, Ariadne can sense her feelings of lips against her own, of relief mixed with guilt and passion.
She rips herself away from Iona’s mind before she can see anymore and only intensify her agony.
It is her… It is Iona before her very eyes.