Archive of Our Own ^beta

She likes to imagine what it would feel like to have answers— to not have to sift through all the noise and migraines and mysteries— and stare down through clear-as-glass water to see the smooth gemstones below as plainly as the shimmer of starlight above, and implicitly know the difference between the two. To sense the truth of what makes light, and what merely reflects it.

Imogen likes to picture herself sitting in a warm, quiet room with no one around, an open book sprawled before her, pages unfurled into a perfect map with all the wisdom of the world to protect her, marking in tidy black ink the entire course of her life. It's the simplicity and surety she craves. To live burden free: joyful, painless, a child playing in the fading light of summer.

Imogen likes to imagine a lot of things she doesn't have. But it's all pointless, a callow daydream.

Laudna's eccentric. That much was apparent the first moment they met, reinforced in every second of her company. She's articulate and verbose, speaking as much with her bony hands and obsidian eyes as she does with her mouth. It pours out of her smoothly and fearlessly: her wants and hopes and dreams, her ardent feelings on whatever mundane subject happens to pop into her peculiar mind at the time, and she tells Imogen all of it.

It takes her two weeks to decide that this conversational pattern is less annoying and more refreshing than she originally anticipated. It's easy enough: Laudna talks, Imogen sometimes pipes up, Laudna listens raptly when she does, but never pressures her to respond. She speculates that this dissimilar communication style works because they've both been lonely for a bit too long. But where Imogen is a slowly melting glacier, Laudna is a massive crack in the ice, a splash in the arctic, shattering that frozen floe into pieces so small it has no time to thaw and no barriers left to protect itself.

Imogen appreciates that, the honesty of it. It takes a great deal of bravery to be defenseless in this world.

The headaches are a constant struggle, one she often brings upon herself.

It begins as white-hot lightning behind her eyes, the telltale sign that she opened herself too far, sought too much at once, invited an ocean when she needed a stream. Imogen furrows her brow, blocking out the noise and knocking that rattles in her mind's eye, a chaos so tumultuous it distracts her from the physical world. Her mind blanks with pain and she closes her eyes, senseless except for the pitched whine of voices that bruises behind her skull, engulfing her, and she is blinded by it, sightless and aching for stability.

She is in this helpless state, insensate and groping about in some backwoods town square, when Laudna first offers her arm with a whispery, "There we are."

So cloudy is Imogen's head that she doesn't even recoil, too agonized to be unnerved by a touch she didn't initiate. But she doesn't feel anything deeper from Laudna, no burst of telepathic connection to drive another spike through her mind, just a thin arm scooping beneath her own, patting her wrist.

"I'm fine," Imogen snaps, squeezing her arm anyway.

Grey and brown pool behind her eyes like spilled paint and rolling fog, and she stumbles on a cobblestone. Her fingers dig into Laudna's lean bicep, but she doesn't comment on the desperate grip as she rights them both, steering them into an alley and away from the mingling villagers, who regard her somewhere on the spectrum between spooky and an outright menace. She backs Imogen against a small crate, guiding her to sit. She touches her shoulder, once, twice, then her hand falls away and she stands watch beside her.

Imogen doesn't know how long she sits in that alley, head in her hands, curled over own knees on the edge of a shipping crate. Eventually the noise recedes to a manageable level and she blinks herself groggily upright. It's daylight still, a muggy, sluggish afternoon, well past lunch. Silence now rings in her ears, as if finding cognitive equilibrium is a battle and one she'll never win.

Laudna has yet to move or speak, silently guarding their alley from any passersby, a gangly gargoyle. That must be hard for her, Imogen thinks. Laudna likes to talk. The second thought is slower, a sentence dragged through molasses: she likes it when Laudna talks to her.

As if exerting her own form of telepathy, Laudna says, "You know, if you ever wish to read my mind, I will simply tell you instead."

The corners of her mulberry lips quirk up, and at first Imogen thinks she must be mocking her inability to control these powers, for wasting their time and never gleaning a single useful shred of information for all of her attempts. But the expression remains fixed, a sanguine, sincere smile, and Imogen deflates for ever assuming the worst of her. She's seen the way Laudna shrinks back like a struck puppy when people respond fearfully to her geniality— though it must be said that she is not afraid of them or what they'll do to her; she will harden into violent shadows to protect herself and Imogen too— but she is a kind woman who first seeks the same kindness from others. Always more disappointed than angry when they snarl with disgust at her friendly smiles.

And Laudna's been honest with her emotions from the start. It reads plain as day on her pale doll face when she's happy to see Imogen or concerned that she's anxious, pitch-dark eyes following the creases in her brow.

"Thanks," Imogen mumbles, chagrined. "For this. And I'll, ah, let you know about the mind-reading."

Laudna dips her head. "Shall we?" She extends her arm, and Imogen takes it.

The Marquesian landscape is as varied as its population: brittlebush deserts and snowcapped mountains, and a mental voice to match every league Imogen's passed through. Some scream, some whisper, but always the presence of another mind within her own is a cacophony that splits her head and saps the energy from her limbs. Since that first time Laudna knows where to stand so Imogen's trembling palms can find her elbow. Without being told, she knows at first to say nothing because Imogen won't hear her over the silent discord that clangs in her ears. She learns that sometimes the exertion makes her body sore too, and she needs to recover the whole night, sleeping like the dead to even have a chance at a normal morning. But when it happens again, no matter the circumstances, Laudna is always there to catch her.

They are in a crowded market of some no-name town she doesn't recall when there is a shift in Imogen's energy— clenched teeth and a gunpowder aura, and air that catches in her throat like a fishhook, all because she needed directions and didn't want to ask— and she reaches out in silence to take Laudna's arm.

"I'm fine," Imogen groans, full weight leaning into her side. She's always saying that, truth be damned. "I'm all right."

Laudna nods, "Of course. I'm simply bone-weary, you know. There's a little inn we passed a moment ago, and I supposed we might splurge on a room. So much camping is bad for the constitution, I think."

This is the third time in as many weeks that this exact story has played out. Imogen reads a crowd, searching for answers at the cost of her own comfort, and Laudna takes her arm, heaves a dramatic yawn, and pulls them someplace quieter, ostensibly to sleep. Imogen's not stupid. She sees the pattern plainly and wants to take umbrage at this waltz they keep practicing, plainly born of pity, but her muscles tense and quake, and more than anything she yearns for a place to hide. Laudna's saucer-wide eyes find her own, and she gazes at the signs of a flare in her head, beholding her like a shooting star, before sweeping them away to a cheap room on the outskirts of town.

They are both travel-worn and covered in healthy film of dust, much like the wooden planks in their room— the best accommodations that two silver pieces could buy— and Imogen fumbles with her belt, fingers shaking as she unbuckles it, working her way up to the gilded buttons of her ivory vest. She shrugs out of it, smarting and wincing, fabric catching on her blue dress beneath. The godforsaken vest is just a bit too small—

Spindly fingers touch her shoulder blades and Imogen jumps, flinching with a stilted exhale. She wheels around in a burst of discomfort and fear, powder blue skirt brushing her calves. Her heart races, shocked, though she felt no sting of mental connection.

Laudna stares down at her, pale face drawn in apology and self-loathing. "I'm terribly sorry," she says. Her normally expressive hands are clutched into unmoving fists, tucked beneath her arms. Hidden away. "My head wasn't on right, I'm afraid. I meant no harm."

Imogen shakes her head slowly, waving away Laudna's clear disgust for herself as her own heartbeat settles. She isn't used to unexpected touch, not from anyone, and she didn't hear her approach. Laudna is not the problem; she has never been the problem.

"No, it's not you. I didn't hear you—"

"I take no offense. I understand, truly," Laudna steps back, withdrawing from her entirely, tall frame hunched small. In the weeks they've been together, Laudna's never responded to her with sorrow like this: the contrition of a sick, dirty thing who knew it shouldn't touch someone healthy and clean. As if Imogen is any better when all her layers peeled back, the muck and grime and hideous uncertainty the only surety she'd ever have in her life.

"No, hey," Imogen speaks softly, "I didn't mean to jump. It's not you, Laudna, I mean it." Her hands drop limply to her sides, still clutching her belt as the brown leather drags on the floor. She should be the one apologizing, not Laudna. Her lips feel sewn shut, string tight as a book's binding, stitched closed on the wrong side, unopenable, unreadable. "I'm not used to being around people. Or— or touching. Helping."

Slowly Laudna's grey fingers unfurl, twitching against her billowing maroon shirt. She clears her throat, "You do not owe me an apology. You're very capable and don't need the help, to be sure."

Imogen smiles, dropping her belt to her threadbare bed. "No, sometimes I think I really do." Reluctantly, she adds, "I don't like it, naturally, but I need it."

"We all do, on occasion." Laudna unties her accoutrements, careful with the birdskull-adorned rat and red string around her shears, preparing for whatever passes as a bath in the little inn. Likely a bucket of cold water and a rag.

It requires no telepathy on Imogen's part to recognize the shy, sore sadness of lingering regret on her face, a wound not quite healed. Imogen wonders then how awful life would be for others to immediately assign to her terror for her differences in appearance, an instantaneous divide between their supposed normalcy and the assumption of her deviance from it. No one flees from Imogen that way, though often she wishes they would.

She turns to face Laudna fully this time, eyebrows set in a flat line of benign displeasure. "Laudna, I told you that I didn't jump because of you. You didn't do anything wrong and you don't scare me. You believe me?"

There is a pause, and tiny nod, rock chisel gently bobbing in her white-streaked bun. "I do."

"All right then." She turns her back. "If you wouldn't mind helping me with this damned vest."

Laudna returns to her side at once, breezing soundlessly across the creaky floorboards like a ghost. Tentatively, she touches the vest with a single finger, a pressure barely there. In the spotted reflection of an heirloom mirror in the corner, Imogen sees a tenuous hesitation in the woman towering behind her. But she says nothing as she surreptitiously peers at her, waiting.

"Your hair is caught. May I?" asks Laudna.

Imogen's spine suddenly stiffens when she realizes the dilemma, her cheeks warm with nervousness. She manages, "Mhmm."

Wavy hair slides against the skin of Imogen's neck, tickling her throat. Laudna's fingers are pleasantly cool as she continues, and she is slow to peel the vest away from her, one arm at a time, unhurried and gentle. When she finishes she folds the vest over one arm, a stark contrast against her inky fingers, and smiles back at Imogen's reflection.

Imogen balks, returning to her senses, horrified at having been caught staring. She turns on her heel, hiding from the mirror, yanking back the vest.

"Thank you," she stumbles, reaching for politeness when no other words spring to mind.

"My pleasure," Laudna replies, joy radiating from her curtained face. She is a happy thing again, pleased with herself, and Imogen cannot help but smile up at her in return.

Zhudanna's house is always warm and smells of cooking spices, of clove and cinnamon and sage. The knitting needles are in constant motion, a hypnotic, rhythmic metronome that Imogen has come to associate with comfort and quiet evenings. The stew they ate for dinner has been cleared and cleaned, dishes washed and dried, and the little chores they've left aren't really necessary, but it helps Zhudanna, and keeps them both busy. Imogen sits at the table, turned to the fading orange light out the window, rewrapping skeins of yarn, somehow loosened in the wicker basket Zhudanna keeps near her rocking chair. She's no great untangler of rat's nests, but practice makes perfect.

Laudna sweeps, chattering about this and that and their day in the city, spurred on by soft murmurs of acknowledgement from Imogen and Zhudanna, not that she needs them. The broom dances closer to Imogen, careful not to prickle her bare feet. Abruptly, the motion stops. Imogen glances up from her work, confused.

Laudna stares down at her thoughtfully. "You know, you've so many little freckles. Makes me simply writhe with envy." She resumes sweeping, still musing, "What a gift, freckles."

"Pretty thing, freckles," Zhudanna chimes in as a farewell, needles keeping pace even as she shuffles to her bedroom for the night.

"Aren't they though?" Laudna agrees and the door clicks closed.

They are left alone in the living room. Imogen, who does not know how to do any of this— untying knots, carrying casual conversations, accepting and giving heartfelt compliments with someone who shares her space and emotions so naturally— feels very much at a loss for words. She wants to answer her in kind, to praise Laudna's many, many lovely features— the way she smells like a funeral in a nice way, if there is such a thing, like lilies and myrrh, and the fresh soil spice of patchouli— but that urge, like all irrational desires, makes her nervous.

"You have— really great hair," she forces out.

Her hands knot in the red skein, yarn cutting off her fingers' circulation like a woolen noose. Zhudanna's house suddenly stifles her with heat and pressure.

"Why, thank you. But no, no," Laudna waggles a finger, sweeping forgotten again. "I've no need need for reciprocation when we are talking about you, and your most definitive characteristic."

Imogen laughs, more a huff of relieved tension than humor, but asks, "It's not the purple hair?"

Laudna genuinely considers this, lips puckered forward as if in a kiss. "Lovely, yes. I do like your hair. But no, if I had to select my favorite Imogen feature, I should certainly choose the freckles." She sweeps once, bristles barely grazing the wooden floor, and adds, "Physical Imogen feature."

Her black slippers glide across the room again, moving back toward the hearth, her red shirt unlaced at the collar. Laudna looks casual and comfortable, like saying these vulnerable things is so simple and straightforward. As effortless as good morning and twice as enjoyable. And then there is Imogen, who is sitting ramrod straight, twisted at the waist to follow Laudna's dreamy trajectory. Her hands remain laced in the yarn, entwined by the fibers and her own inquisitiveness. She cannot help herself seeking answers. She wants to know this answer especially, for some reason she's yet to discern.

Imogen begins, "They say curiosity killed the cat—"

"And satisfaction brought it back," Laudna quips. "No one ever finishes the saying. It's so strange."

"Huh," Imogen frowns as the fabric entirely traps her hands. "I didn't know there was a second part."

"Yes, and it really brings the whole proverb full-circle, doesn't it? The cat lives and gets its reward after all." Laudna's hair falls into her eyes as she peers up, asking, "What were you going to say?"

Heat fills Imogen's face but she presses on, wondering when she resigned herself to becoming the proverbial dead cat. She trips over her words, thinking she might not be resurrected after all. "I— was— what's your favorite non-physical Imogen feature?"

"Oh, your tenderness certainly," Laudna's response comes at once, clear and sure and without a moment's hesitation. The broom resumes its measured sweeping.

Imogen opens her mouth and closes it again, flustered and utterly vexed by it, because, truly, she brought this on herself. Her pulse is a drumbeat in her veins, and she wishes she could find the words to deny her sensitivity and self-consciousness.

"That," Laudna tips the handle of the broom toward her. "That is exactly what I mean. It's like you cannot bear your own kindness, but neither can you refuse to show it. You've been nothing but good to me from the start, and that," she sighs, a rueful smile on her wine-dark lips, "is a rarity."

Electric anger flares momentarily, and Imogen scowls, "Everyone should be nice to you."

"I'm afraid they are usually not."

There is an airiness about Laudna, even now, baring herself directly to Imogen, an open book to be studied. Effusive in every way even when Imogen is terse with her, or cold, pulling back when she cannot find the line, the barrier between empathy and telepathy. Laudna does not look away, not in those moments and not now, standing unassumingly before the heavy oak mantle place and the fire that casts yellow outlines around her frame. Sadness permeates her, subtle on her face, as if she doesn't quite know how to express that sentiment with her usual passion.

It does not suit her at all, Imogen decides. She misses the gusto of broad, dramatic gestures, and the wide smile that reveals rows of pearly teeth. She knows well the intense way Laudna experiences her emotions, and those feelings should be reserved for pleasure and delight and contentment alone. One answer clarifies in her mind: she would like Laudna to smile again.

Imogen holds up her yarn-snarled hands. "Would you mind helping me?"

"Not at all," Laudna exhales.

She glides to the table, broom forgotten, unbinding Imogen's hands with practiced precision. Laudna has her own spool of crimson thread, thinner and more delicate, a tool for stitching and sewing, but the yarn pulls apart easily beneath her ministrations, wrapping tidily around her own pinky instead. Her hands are cool and soft, and Imogen remains still between them, twisted in the kitchen table chair, admiring the glitter of her earrings and the small, dainty beauty mark beneath her right eye. Imogen's pulse quickens but she steadies her breathing, teeth worrying her lower lip.

Laudna snips off the end of the yarn with her shears, binding the fabric into a tidy bundle. She murmurs, "This one must have been very tangled."

Imogen's hands fall back into her lap, free again, and she simply nods, embarrassed with herself for her silence. It's too much for her to voice, the sudden realization that somewhere deep in her chest Laudna reminds her of summer. She shouldn't, Imogen realizes. There's no logic to the connection. She has the look of a winter creature, grey and grim and ancient. But what Imogen feels from her is sunshine, bold warmth radiating in every direction, freely given because she cannot keep it contained.

The railcar sways them, side by side as usual. It was mercifully empty on the way down from the cursed library, not cramped and noisy like their ascent but equally rickety. The Conservatory denied Imogen's request, of course, another collapse in a long string of struggles since coming to Jrusar. Since long before that, even, if she allows herself to count.

Laudna gazes out the window at the cloudy, towered cityscape jutting into the sky, and Imogen rubs her forehead and eyes, brittle with failure and the hot embarrassment of trying this ploy over and over again, feet in perpetual motion with no forward progress to match. She's desperate for answers, always seeking, never finding.

Her malaise is mollified— from instinct or accident, Imogen cannot tell— by Laudna sitting next to her. She's solid, more solid than she looks for all her looming twiggishness, a heavy, smooth stone etched with runes and symbols that Imogen's yet to translate. The spine of a book: flexible and strong.

Imogen loops their arms, inching closer. When she does this, Laudna begins talking for her. The breathy brush of her voice fills the box car with a nonsensical string of thoughts about stone falcons and the eggs they've yet to buy for Zhudanna and a tolerable compliment about Imogen comporting herself with dignity when she felt rather snappish. Imogen hums once or twice in response, her cue to continue, and Laudna obliges.

She rests her temple against Laudna's shoulder and closes her eyes, daydreaming, warmed by the summery sound of her voice.