Chapter Text
When they meet again, she is weak. For one moment, she had been on the brink of victory; it was her work that was going to ensue the German victory, and her general who would praise and promote her status in the scientific and international communities. For the first time in her life, Isabel Maru was doing what she loved, and gaining the recognition she deserved.
And she had almost succeeded. The plane- everything was meticulously planned and carried out. She had even exited her lab to stroll across the tarmac, barking orders in her dry, raspy voice, and she had been delighted to find her commands obeyed without question. And then the general joined her, allowing her to stand protected in his long shadow. Everything had been perfect. She had gone back to her lab, waiting to hear the plane take off, waiting for Erich to return, for them to toast one another, and await better days
And then she had encountered a goddess. And that goddess plunged her sword through Erich’s strong body and empty heart, and all had gone to shit.
“Are you all right?” The soft, earnest voice cuts through her swirl of thoughts as she opens her eyes. The room is dark. The bed she is in looks hard, modest, but she is too numb to feel it. Her captor’s face is in the shadows, as if she, too, is scarred by the darkness.
What do you think? she means to snarl, but all that escapes her swollen throat is a whimper.
“Don’t try to speak,” the cloaked woman says unhappily. Isabel scowls. At least she scowls inside- her body is too broken to accommodate her thoughts. The goddess had pulled her into a seated position and is now spooning soup into her mouth. Isabel considers refusing, as she refused her scarce meals in prison, but her body complies against her will.
“How is she?” a low voice asks as its shadow crosses the threshold.
“She is very weak, but awake,” Diana- the name Isabel has cursed and murmured for three years- replies. “Thank you for helping me find her, Napi.”
The tall man lowers his rifle as he approaches the bed, and Isabel is too weak to look up at him. He bows his head and murmurs a few words in a strange language, and she wonders if he's cursing her.
“She still has so much hatred,” he says softly, and she hates his light voice, she hates the worn hat that covers his searching eyes, she hates the proud tilt of his beardless chin. She hates that he is talking about her as if she is not listening; she hates that he can see the rage behind her unresponsive face. “Be careful, Diana.”
“The war has broken you, Dr. Maru,” Diana says quietly, setting aside the empty bowl and sliding her strong hands around Isabel’s back, pulling her down into a more comfortable sleeping position. “Many things have broken you, have they not? But you are strong.”
The goddess rises, and her cloak parts slightly to give Isabel a glimpse of the gleaming armor underneath. She leans down, and for a split second, Isabel thinks she is going to kiss her- or possibly spit on her- but she only takes the candle from the nightstand, and slips away, leaving her in darkness.
Diana.
She cannot remember how many times she has whispered that name to herself- as she curled up in abandoned houses, listening to the snow and wind howl overhead; or in the frigid corner of her cell when they had finally found her; or, after she escaped, as she huddled amongst the dead branches of trees, barely daring to close her eyes for fear of the men and animals prowling below.
You will be free, the goddess had said, ironically gripping her sword in one hand, and the glowing end of her lasso in the other. You will be free, she had insisted, as Isabel had knelt before her, tightly bound, unable to move, unable to think.
Free from what, Diana? she had bitterly asked herself countless times afterwards (sometimes substituting the woman’s name with a choice word of her own). I was free before you appeared, I was free to work, to live, to rise. I had everything I could ever have hoped to have. Free from what? I have been in captivity ever since I met you. Captive of the Allies. Captive of her ruined reputation. Captive of the suspicious looks the villages gave her before they eventually drove her away. Captive of those dark, haunting eyes, and that beautiful, infuriating face. Hatred courses through Isabel’s body and she jerks awake. There is a low murmur of voices from somewhere outside of her closed room. She can recognize the cadence of Diana’s voice- her gentle, melodious voice. She closes her eyes.
She no longer has her mask. She can’t remember the last days before she woke in this strange room, but her mask is gone, and she is dressed in unfamiliar clothes. Diana is constantly there, sometimes speaking softly about strange things. There is a healer in Themyscira, and she uses cotton to bind wounds, or when we rode to the gala, I understood for the first time how beautiful this world could be, untouched by man. There were birds singing, and Charlie was singing back at them, and Napi told me the stories of his people, and Sameer and Steve…
Sometimes her voice would trail off, and Isabel would go back to pretending that she wasn’t listening. She owed this woman nothing, nothing for all that she had taken from her.
“I know you are angry. With me,” Diana says several days later. She has a rough cloth in her hand, and a bowl of warm water on the nightstand, and Isabel does not protest as the goddess slips her dress off one shoulder and begins to sponge away the cold sweat and dust from her skin. But she scoffs at the woman’s words. She still can not bring herself to speak- whether it is because of her swollen throat, or because of blind hatred, or because she is afraid of what she might say.
“Napi has explained to me the… the ways of war. And he says that you, like me, sought to end the war. Definitively. There is no honor is your weapons, but- I understand. It is so easy to hate, even those you do not know. Especially in war. For a moment, I hated as well.”
There is a silence, then Isabel says,
“What- made you stop?” Her unused voice sounds rough and grating in her ears, but Diana simply turns away to dip the cloth in the bowl and says,
“You.”
Isabel stares at her, but Diana only gives a sad smile and continues to move down her body. Her touch is gentle and impersonal, betraying no emotion at all as the cloth runs over the splattering of scars in her skin. Isabel lies back and glares at the ceiling, hating this world, hating this woman, hating this maddening, exposed position she is in.
“Where have you been, all these years?” she finally asks, hating even the silence.
“After the war ended, I went to London. But it became clear that I had no place there, with the leaders. Sameer decided to leave, so I went with him to his homeland, and then I returned to Paris for the war trials. Napi was there, and we went together to Germany, Poland, Spain, Portugal. He understands, in many ways, this land, these people.”
Spain. Madrid. Johanna.
The thoughts flood Isabel’s mind, and she closes her eyes, unable to stare at the ceiling for a moment longer. She is still weak, and she wonders if this feeling threatening to overwhelm her is grief or longing. For the past three years she hadn’t even allowed herself to think of home- her homeland. As much as she hated it, it was much more hers than Germany, and it would always be.
She opens her eyes as Diana draws together the folds of her dress once more and sets the damp cloth down beside the bowl. Then she pulls the covers up over her body like a corpse. Her hand lingers for a moment before pulling away. Isabel knows she should thank her, but the words refuse to come, and in another moment, Diana is gone.