"So he gargled, you say?" she quipped at the medicus, her brows shooting upwards in feigned surprise. Over the last five years, this man had gone in and out of these quarters, and each time Galatea's hopes dropped, the bald, thick-bearded man felt a strong need to arouse it. For what reason? She shrugged her shoulders and reached out for a goblet her servant had slipped into the corner of her eye. "That's all he does, is it not? Gargle and tremble and grunt, and for what?" She took a brief sip of her watered-down wine, her steel-blue eyes dropping to the marble floor, to her bare feet. Pensive, she would have remained, had it not been for the pressing hunger she could not ignore any longer. She raised her eyes to meet his and spoke: "Next week, same time."

After due payment, the man was promptly dismissed, and the day resumed with the customary toilette. Galatea settled down on a bench and allowed her servants to braid and pin her golden hair; she stood once she was finished, and had her lavender gown laid over her body and tightened at the waist. Another swath of cloth was draped and pinned over her right shoulder, its ample length left to brush the floor behind her. Finally, she chose her jewels, and given today's rather tranquil schedule, she decided to keep her choices uncharacteristically modest. Polished silver instead of the gleaming gold; the cool, dark tones of sapphire over the harsh intensity of rubies. Perhaps her choices reflected her mood, the blonde haired woman thought as she looked down upon her armband, but how so? Was she feeling cold? Icy towards her companions? Or was she trying to cool down the fire that burned within her bosom, a hunger for power? Or was she grieving? And if so, what? Her husband's withering?

Whatever the case, her demeanor changed as she laid eyes on her sister-in-law. Whatever hard edge she wielded at the start of this day seemed to become dull in her presence. Why that was so, Galatea did not know. It wasn't often that someone could disarm her the way Iolanthe did. Perhaps it was the fact that she saw her blossom; perhaps it was the fact that both felt equally devastated when they were torn from each other's arms. Maybe it had more to do with their struggles. Galatea too had found solace in Iolanthe's heartbreaking script, even as she wrote back confessing how much worse Isidore's abuse had gotten in her absence. But that time of gloom had long passed, and in Iolanthe's presence, it seemed like a new opportunity to do right for themselves loomed.

Galatea smirked upon approaching Iolanthe, her powdered cheeks brushing her sister-in-law's before taking a step back to look at the seaside view. Hardly the jewel that was the Taengean coastline, but the rocky crevices and stormy seas bore a charm, albeit the sort that had not quite seduced Galatea. Though this was indeed her home, Colchis left a lot to be desired.

A slave pulled her chair from underneath the table as she withdrew from Iolanthe's embrace. Her steel blue eyes darted towards the seaside and then back to Iolanthe, smiling. "I fail to see why you need to ask this of me, sister," she chuckled before sinking into her chair, her hand reaching towards a small terracotta bowl holding olives. "Did Hypnos grant you rest or will we have to recur to Dionysus tonight?" she asked, hoping to lighten the mood before speaking of her morning.

Though this was indeed Galatea's home and meager kingdom to rule, it felt offputting for someone that was born here to assert that they were but guests. A matter that boggled Galatea, who practically played a role in the academic raising of the young woman before her. So today she decided it was time to put the matter to rest. "You are not a visitor, Iolanthe. This was your home long before it became mine. This is and will always be your home, too," she assured as she leaned forward to pluck a grapevine, raising it over and above the rest of the small banquet before laying it on a gold-rimmed plate before her. She plucked a single, bulbous grape and popped it into her mouth, wondering how she would be received were she to stumble into her Taengean home, penniless and fearful. Would her brother take her in? Probably. But she would certainly be warned not to overstay her welcome. Surely her reputation would have tainted her standing among the wives of her brothers; well-to-do women all too happy to bow their heads low when their husbands spoke and raise their stiff noses when they felt insecure. Galatea, now having been free from the reins of marriage for five years, knew she could not be that kind of wife...

Galatea, in the meantime, listened intently, her expression matching her delight and desire to reassure Iolanthe some more. "And sink a ship with such a fair maiden aboard?" Galatea teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of her wide mouth as she eyed her companion, almost longingly. "He may be cruel and merciless at times, Iolanthe, but blind he is not!"

Soon enough the conversation turned around. Galatea was happy to be the object of scrutiny; having passed so long away from Iolanthe meant that there were too many things to speak of. There were too many stories to tell and no clue as to where to begin. But to speak of her morning seemed appropriate. She sighed and poured herself some watered-down wine into a cup. "Each month, a medicus comes to see to your dear brother and his condition," she began, her tone becoming low, matching her desire to discuss such matters. Nevertheless, Iolanthe had to know about the inner workings of the household; the usual characters that graced the Arcanaes stage nowadays; the roles they played. "The medicus tries to assess the strength of Isidore's heart; he tries to get him to respond to pinches and tickles and whatnot... sometimes the room reeks and he discovers ulcers on Isidore's back. He has been coming for the last five years. As you can imagine, he's run out of things to say about Isidore. He gives weight to gurgles and grunts. He thinks I should light a candle, say a prayer. That I should hole. Easy to say, don't you think, but this is what I have had to live with every day. I've run out of sympathy. I am certain he believes me to be cruel for wanting to hear something other than is misplaced hope."[/b][/b]

Galatea took a sip of her watered down wine; the liquid silently slipped back and forth in her mouth until she swallowed. The blonde woman looked to Iolanthe. Her shoulders loosened, as did her gaze as the woman went on about whether or not she was a burden, to which Galatea decidedly replied: "You're not a burden, Iolanthe, and never have been. You are a very welcome guest and, whether you like it or not, part of this family. My family." If Iolanthe wanted to hear a cold, rationalization of her reasoning, Galatea was capable of giving her that, too. Wouldn't her Arcanaes subjects feel offset by her decision to not welcome one of their own into her ancestral home? But this wasn't about politics or maintaining a well-to-do image before her people. Galatea was genuine in her desire to keep Iolanthe close and away from whatever harm may come. Here, Iolanthe could escape the obligations that had beset her for so long. Here she needn't think about being a wife, or of being a daughter, or of trying to become a mother. She could be herself. Her very best self. A woman of poise, of charm, of enviable beauty... she could play muse to poets should she desire to do so, or inspire the handful of painters who came here to practice their craft, all the while looking for the enchanting qualities Galatea could so easily detect in Iolanthe.

As Io did, Galatea reached out for a piece of bread. Unsatisfied with the choice of cheese, she reached for the olive oil, dribbling some into the nearest, near-empty plate before patting the soft side of a piece of bread against it. "Worry not about whether or not it is kind to keep him as such; I've done all I can to ensure the man's comfort and provided him the best our money can afford. I cannot say if he would have treated me with such care," she quipped before eating her morsel, her hands busy to break off another bit of bread before she swallowed. She hadn't realized the hunger that gripped her stomach that morning was as ferocious as her will to remain here in Arcanaes, no matter the cost.

"Your brother, dear Iolanthe, was not kind to me after your departure. I feared that confessing this to you would only result in a worse fate for myself, given the fact you share blood. And I was taught to remain quiet," Galatea confessed, her tone tainted with regret. She would have held Iolanthe's demons throughout the entirety of her marriage, rarely ever disclosing her own demons to anyone. Arcanaes was a lonely, lonely place, and without Iolanthe, there were few people for Galatea to rely on. And why would Galatea concern the young woman with her own, miserable plight? At least now Galatea could speak boldly. She had taken matters into her own hands, proven her worth as mistress of this House. All that was left to do was ensure that her capacity and claim were not challenged should her husband come to pass.

"I think about his condition every now and again," Galatea grumbled, dabbing her bread in the residual oil once more. "And each time I reach the same bloody conclusion. I think about how I would prefer to be dead than sit like him, waiting and waiting, and for what? It's cruel, yes, but you know well what would happen to me, to both of us should he pass?" She took a bite of her bread and reached out for the dish holding olives, green, maroon and black. "Until we find our peace, I don't intend to grant him his, sister. Lest we all lose our liberty."

At the risk of losing her husband and thus her position, the blonde had no qualms about seizing power and doing whatever good she could, for the people and for herself. The House of Peisistratos, or rather what was left of it, had reason enough to complain; Galatea did not care about the rules, the expectations set out for her... her marriage vows were being publicly smeared through the societal mud. Her withering husband lay dumb and clueless in a chaise lounge, tended to yet not being able to enjoy the slightest of the pleasures of being alive. She wasn't surprised by the reactions she had received: had she no heart? Had she no desire to see him rise from his fidgety slumber? Or was she more interested in bringing so much shame that he dare not awaken?

Though others may have seen the great and withering Isidore as though he were of great worth, simply due to the fortune of having been born with an ant-eater-like appendage between his legs and too much hair growing all over, Galatea saw only a shadow of a weak, coward of man. A man who was a monster, no less. A man who stunted her growth by demanding less and less of her. Long ago, Galatea set foot here; a beautiful, youthful woman, whose pride was battered each time she bled. Each and every month, she would be reminded of her apparent uselessness.

Little did Isidore know, his disdain and mistreatment became fuel for her fire, and with that fire, she would burn anyone who dared question her capacity to take control. She would use that fire to make the House of Peisistratos all that she dreamed it could be. The House may seem set to meet an early end, but at least no one could deny it had never been so prosperous. Her reputation may have hit rock borrom, and tongues surely wagged on and on about matters that painted her in a less than favorable light, but Galatea had never felt so alive, so motivated... The fall of Galatea was inevitable, however, and it pained her to see that the woman in front of her, sweet Iolanthe, was likely to play a part, whether she liked it or not. Galatea could and would not complain, of course, of her dear friend's return or her inevitable displacement. Iolanthe was cherished and loved, and Galatea couldn't ask for a better woman to fill her shoes. But she would be more comfortable knowing that her treasured Arcanaes was in the good and capable hands of a woman who knew her worth.

But it was a matter that could wait. Galatea, in fact, did not try to think too much about her reluctant and bittersweet departure. Instead, she focused on the very matter Iolanthe brought up. Galatea tensed up in her chair at the very mention of finding a suitable husband, and the role her cousins would play. "Your cousin Timaeus was here, a few days short of your arrival. Then left as swiftly as he came," Galatea stated, her eyes looking out towards the horizon, her mouth curling into an unpleasant, disapproving pout. Timaeus was, of course, expected to be the first to butt in, but Galatea had not imagined the man would intercede so early on. But she could imagine his reasoning. "He wants what's best for you. What he considers to be the best for you... I want him to understand that you also have something to say about what is best for you. And that we're not going to expedite the process. Isidore has been like this for years. He can last a few more."

Galatea's soft gaze followed the young woman, and a smirk stretched into a sweet smile as she settled beside her. The warmth of her youthful body was as welcome as its tempting, shapely form. And her embrace was nothing short of delightful; a blessed glimpse into their girlish beginnings. Iolanthe's touch was well received, and to be returned with equal and just as enthusiastic tenderness. Galatea leaned against her, leaning the side of her head against the brunette's bosom and nuzzled it, her nostrils filling with Iolanthe's perfume. She had only arrived some days ago, and unlike most of the men and women that crossed Galatea's path, Iolanthe struck a chord seldom revisited, giving rise to more primal desires, of the sort that were fortunately grounded in more than just fleeting pleasure. Galatea laid a gentle hand on Iolanthe's, and raised her hands to look into her eyes.

Questions of Timaeus reached Galatea's ears. "Timaeus, Timaeus..." she echoed as she looked up to her, smirking. "A fine man. One I would see you marry had the misfortune of a barony not fallen on his lap," Galatea stated, amused at the young man's prowess. A fine man, thankfully one not too far removed from earthly pleasures yet. Galatea sucked in a breath before going on. "He knows what this house needs, and he is hoping that someday, you will be able to provide it. Timaeus desires continuity, the sort that I was unable to grant your brother." However bothersome that fact may have proven to the old Isidore, Galatea wouldn't allow her childlessness to define her. The blonde stroked Iolanthe's arm as she spoke, letting his hand linger on her forearm before taking hold of her hand.

"Timaeus and I have concluded that what's best for you, and what's best for this House is that we not rush towards making ill-thought decisions," Galatea began, shifting in her chair before rising. As she did so, the blonde turned her body towards her guest and reached out to take her other hand. "Your sex, dear Iolanthe, will not be mistaken for powerlessness, and I will not allow your worth to be questioned by any of your suitors... This house is but a pale shadow, absent your light." She broke her grasp to reach out for the pitcher of honeyed wine. She poured its contents into two goblets which, once full, she lifted. Upon offering one to Iolanthe she continued.

"Still your tongue, and don't let wasted words spill from mouth. Your return but gives purpose to my work, Iolanthe. Your pockets are heavy, and our purse swells even more as the days pass. The harbors are open... trade has been reinstated. Our fortunes remain afloat so long as no one stands to obstruct the status quo." Galatea could go on, boring Iolanthe with specifics of their flourishing fortune, but she wanted to grace Iolanthe's ears with sweeter words. Galatea snaked a hand around her companion's waist and momentarily pressed her forehead to Iolanthe's smiling.

Fingers pressed idly against the skin of the damsel, her nose tracing the yonger woman's hairline. "Timaeus wants nothing more than your happiness, and I want nothing less than to know you will be well taken care of. Either you use your good fortune to entice a more powerful suitor, or you will marry someone who will agree to take your name. Timaeus and I will see that you do not settle for less than what you deserve," Galatea whispered before drawing back to meet Iolanhe's gaze, hoping to assess the brunette's reaction.

"You are in good hands, sister," she added with a reassuring smile, squeezing Iolanthe's waist.

The vivacious blonde smiled at such an imaginative mention, unable to resist chuckling at the apparently unwelcome possibility. Iolanthe may have complained about having to straighten some thick curls, but all Galatea could think of was how beautiful she would look unraveling the bountiful mane of such a child. But of course, thoughts were quick to find purchase in the reality that Iolanthe had been close to experiencing such a possibility, to savor relief of the sort Galatea could only imagine, only to be let down at the very end. The young woman experienced a soul-shattering loss; this much Galatea could derive from the countless letters exchanged and the marital grievances they shared. But this would be the case no longer. Timaeus was a man of his word, and the blonde woman was no less loyal to their common cause.

"Worry not, my dear, for Timaeus will not be a choice unless you wish him to be," Galatea added, hoping that such a statement might seduce Iolanthe into thinking differently about herself and her situation. Her potential was simply waiting to be unlocked, and Galatea and Timaeus were going to work towards making sure that she was secure and happy. If that wasn't the case, it would be unlikely that Galatea or Tim would sleep well at night.

If only her parents had been so careful; perhaps then Galatea would have had a better relationship with them. If her brother had been considerate, perhaps she would have found purpose within their household, managing business matters and crunching numbers while he stomped through Taengea with the armies. But he did not protest when the sole surviving sister was given away. He only gave her a jeweled dagger, the sort that was "proper of a lady of Arcanaes," and offered no instruction on what to do with it beyond keeping it in a box, far away from reach, and far removed from memory. That's what women like Galatea were to men like Isidore. Placeholders and doormats, to be stomped on, wrecked and replaced. Such was not to be Iolanthe's fate.

"Rest calm and assured that you will not be forced to leave these walls. This estate is as much yours as it is mine. This is your home," Galatea softly said. It wasn't long before she placed her cup down as well. As the young woman embraced her form fully, Galatea couldn't help but return the gesture with equal fervor, tightening her gentle hold on her luscious form as kind words poured out of her delightful mouth. Galatea's hand rose to stroke the back of her head, inviting her to dive deeper, to find comfort against her form. But her hands couldn't remain idle. Her fingers traced the edge of her ears briefly before gently touching upon her soft jaw. As Galatea withdrew, her elegant fingers gently pulled her sister-in-law's chin upwards.

How fortunate could a woman be? To have her husband nearly dead? To have his absence replaced by a presence most beloved? Her thumb reached upwards to stroke the brunette's bottom lip before her own, aching and wanting lips dove in. The immediate intent, however, was not to kiss, but rather brush. Her eyes then settled on Iolanthe's in what was a rather overstated attempt to derive where her interest lied.

A gruesome grin stretched across Galatea's features, betraying her delight at the notion that Iolanthe was finally taking charge of her destiny; it was most heartwarming to see that even suggestions most advantageous would not move the young woman to commit the same mistake of letting anyone convince her that her choice was anything but her own. "If that is so, then I may just consider taking dear Timmaeus for myself," Galatea jested, but she withdrew her eyes, knowing well that there was an underlying suggestion, a desire for the death of Isidore to befall the House. Thankfully, it was the woman before her who drew out such thoughts, who distracted her with a promise of joyfulness, of positive energy, of a power both sought to reclaim.

Iolanthe's skin may have sparked at the touch of Galatea's elegant fingers, but it was her calm demeanor, her rather welcome reactions and seeming alacrity which drove the blonde's mind to fire in ways she believed to be most fortuitous. It wasn't often that she encountered someone so enticing, whose eyes she could get lost in, whose hair she'd want to run her fingers through morning and night.

It was Iolanthe's enthusiasm that cemented the blonde's, whose fervor and delight came further into the light as she cupped the woman's face between her warm palms, enshrining her visage as if to better appreciate it as she leaned forward bringing their bodies closer together before diving in to taste her lush lips once more, this time stripping the action of all playfulness and reveling in the more primal urges Iolanthe inevitably incited. An invitation was all it took for Galatea to feel this confident as she prepared to conquer Iolanthe's milky skin, her hands sliding from her face and down her neck, her touch growing lighter as it reached its destination and found purpose: to tease the edges of her chiton at décolleté. Ducking her head away, Galatea turned to look into Iolanthe's eyes, satisfied, her lips curling into a pleasant smile. "I hope this means that we have an understanding now, Io," Galatea whispered, a hand drawing up to cup the younger woman's cheek.