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if beauty is the only way
to make the nightmares go away
i’ll plant a garden in your brain
and let the roots absorb the pain.
- trust, lucy dacus
Fire and lightning. Blood and dust. Tall grass like a sea she might drown in, the sharp keen of the sky splitting open, death written in the wind—
Imogen stands there and watches the storm swallow the horizon.
If she stands there, if she waits, she knows the storm will swallow her too. Knows it wants to. But she can’t look away. Her feet feel heavy, leaden and useless. She glances over her shoulder. Tonight, there’s no sign of home in the other direction. Only an empty field stained red by churning clouds.
Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. The storm stretches towards her, flattening the grass and scorching her cheeks.
Run, she hears. Run, Imogen.
At last, she turns away from the storm and begins to move. She feels fire at her back, soil crumbling underfoot with every step—tastes something metallic, draws one hand over her mouth, and pulls it back bloody.
Run, Imogen!
She does. She runs, runs towards nothing and away from everything, runs until tears blur her vision and her legs tremble with every staggering step. Thunder roars as if it might tear the world in two.
Her foot catches in the grass, and she falls.
*
Imogen jerks upright with a gasp. In one motion, she pushes the blanket away from her and presses a fist to her mouth, desperate to silence the trembling sob rising in her chest. It doesn’t work, of course. The sound slips past her lips, somewhere between a cry and a whimper.
“Imogen, darling.” Laudna’s voice drifts across the tiny room. “Is that you?”
Imogen starts to answer, then stops, swallows, and tries again. But she can’t keep her voice from cracking when it’s all she can do just to breathe—rapid and shallow, heart in her throat. “Only a dream. Go on back to sleep.”
“Another nightmare,” Laudna says, not a question. “Are you alright? No. Of course you’re not. I’m coming.”
Imogen can’t make out a thing in the black room, but she hears Laudna stand: the wheeze of her rickety bed, a gruesome pop as she stretches, soft footsteps padding towards her. She wishes she could see Laudna, but she always feels too frail after a nightmare to summon any light. The way her hair spills over her face when she’s just woken up, all loose and disheveled; the surprising softness of her face without all her jewelry, silver in the moonlight; her dark eyes flooded with care—nothing brings Imogen back to herself like the sight of Laudna.
Sometimes, when they’re on the road and Imogen wakes suddenly, Laudna will make a fire; Imogen never has to ask. Tonight, in the inn, she hears Laudna move towards the window and, with a hiss of effort and a muttered curse, pry open the shutters. Only the faintest glow illuminates the room, more starlight than streetlights, but it’s enough for Imogen to glimpse Laudna’s thin silhouette against the night sky.
It’s enough.
“Shit. I’m sorry I woke you,” Imogen says, scooting up against the headboard and pulling her knees to her chest. She feels small. Silly. And then Laudna arrives at her side, clutching her tattered shawl with one hand and already reaching towards Imogen with the other, and she doesn’t feel anything other than relief.
“You did no such thing.” Laudna lowers herself to sit at the other end of the bed, folding her long legs under herself. The mattress sags and creaks when she sits; these beds hardly seem meant to hold one body, much less two. But coin is short, and they have an unspoken agreement: any room that keeps them close to one another will do. “I thought I’d stay awake in case you had a nightmare. I know it’s been such a dreadful few days.”
Three nights in a row. Imogen’s more tired than she’s ever been in her life—hasn’t managed more than a stray hour or two of sleep each night. The dreams aren’t new, but they’ve never come this often. Not in a long time, anyway. “I’m sorry, Laudna. It shouldn’t be your problem, too.”
“Nonsense. You’re never a problem, my dear.” There’s just enough light in the room now for Imogen to see the way Laudna tilts her head to one side, but her mind fills in the rest of the portrait: the way Laudna presses her lips together, the way her brows draw with concern. “Look at you. You’re still trembling. Give me your hands.”
Imogen obeys, carefully unwinding her arms from around herself. Laudna’s bony fingers loop around her wrists, her touch cool and soothing, as she gathers Imogen’s hands into her own. “It’s not fair,” Imogen says, managing a not-quite-smile, “that you get to catch me shakin’ like a leaf and I can’t see anything.”
Laudna hums low in her throat; Imogen can picture her pleased expression, even in the darkness. “I do like to keep an eye on you.”
That might be a little unsettling, Imogen thinks, if she wasn’t so glad to have Laudna watching her. She looks down towards their tangled hands. “It was a bad one,” she confesses. “I feel—not so good.”
“Look at you,” Laudna murmurs again. She lifts one hand and gently presses two fingers to Imogen’s neck, right below her jaw. Imogen knows Laudna can feel her still-racing pulse; she wonders if she can feel the way it jumps at her touch, too. “Take a deep breath.”
“I’m tryin’ to,” Imogen mumbles. She closes her eyes and tries to concentrate on Laudna’s cold fingers at her throat. She always runs hot, like she’s got lightning in her blood—always wakes from her nightmares flushed and feverish. She doesn’t remember what she used to do without Laudna’s touch.
Most of the time, this tactic works—the simplest of all the methods they’ve mastered: Imogen focuses on a single sensation until she forgets everything else, imagines relief spreading out from Laudna's fingertips, through her body, until her heart slows and her breath comes steady again.
But it’s not working tonight. When she closes her eyes, she sees red clouds, swirling, moving towards her; when she inhales, she feels panic bubbling in her chest again, threatening to surge and choke her.
She opens her eyes to find that Laudna has moved closer. Sometimes, Imogen thinks, it’s Laudna who reads her mind.
“Why don’t we try the garden, Imogen?”
“Yes, please. If you—if that’s alright with you.”
Laudna straightens her shoulders and, with a crack, rolls her neck. “Of course it is. Now?”
Imogen licks her dry lips; her chest rises and falls in one more brittle breath. “I think so.”
Tenderly, carefully, as if she’s afraid Imogen might crumble at her touch, Laudna takes her face in her hands. She brushes lilac hair back with long fingers, then presses her forehead to Imogen’s. When Laudna’s thumbs graze across her cheekbones, Imogen feels it at the base of her neck—a shiver that slips down her spine and anchors her to the bed.
She relishes in that aching coolness for a long moment, so unlike the scalding wind of her dream. And then, cautiously, Imogen closes her eyes and opens her mind.
Like usual, she catches the last trace of Laudna’s thoughts, scattered fragments slipping away as her attention shifts—steady, steady—fix this for her—my brilliant girl—but nothing else interrupts. With practice, they’ve gotten better at this: Laudna finds her focus quickly now, welcomes Imogen into her head readily and willingly. Sometimes, Imogen misses the thrill of their first tries, before Laudna had learned to clear her mind. Laudna’s thoughts feel different from everyone else’s. Quieter, steadier. Always, always kind. At least when she’s thinking about Imogen.
Imogen thinks about Laudna a lot. It was a relief, the first time she opened her mind and caught Laudna thinking about her.
Her guard lowered, the edges of Laudna’s mind overlapping with her own, Imogen carefully weaves a thread of communication between them. Okay, she thinks, willing the words to reach Laudna, okay, I’m ready.
“Alright,” Laudna says aloud, her voice at once lilting and strained with the weight of concentration, “here we go, then. Imogen, darling, imagine—”
Laudna falls silent, but Imogen still hears the rest. Words and images blurring together, the full force of Laudna’s imagination floods her mind.
Picture a garden, Imogen. Your garden. Flowers open around you on every side as you walk. Tall blooms climb stone walls and wind around a wooden arbor over the pathway. They’re beautiful—purple, yellow, white. There’s a bench where you can sit, if you’d like.
Long fingers begin to push through her hair, Laudna’s nails lightly scraping against her scalp in the way that always pulls the breath from Imogen’s lungs. Unthinking, she arches into Laudna’s touch.
Are you there? Imogen wonders. But then she knows. I can see you on the bench.
Laudna presses her thumbs to Imogen’s temples now, tracing tender circles there. I’m there, Imogen. I’m calling to you. You’re coming to sit beside me.
Imogen stretches closer, her limbs loosening and her heartbeat slowing. Laudna’s hands move again, ghosting over Imogen’s shoulders, trailing down her arms, at last settling on Imogen’s folded legs—long fingers splaying over her knees and then slipping to her thighs, her touch gloriously cold even through the thin fabric of Imogen’s robe.
As their bodies move in the sacred silence of the room, a second universe unfolds behind Imogen’s eyelids. She feels sunshine washing over her, the warm wood of the bench beneath her, and Laudna at her side; she looks up to see a blue sky stretching overhead, unmarred by a single cloud. It feels real. More real than any nightmare.
What do you see? Five things, darling.
I see—the arbor with the flowers. The gravel path. A cluster of white lilies. A pomegranate tree over the wall. You.
What can you touch?
Imogen’s hands move. She brushes her fingers across the frame of the bed and the rough sheets, then falters. She needs four things. But only a second passes before Laudna’s hands find hers. The bench. My dress. Your sleeve. Your hand.
What do you hear?
Birds. I hear—water?
Laudna squeezes her hands. Yes. There’s a fountain. Beautiful. Water as clear as crystal. One more.
Birds. Water. You.
What can you smell? Two things.
Jasmine blossoms. She inhales. All night, the inn has smelled sour, musty, exactly what you’d expect for a handful of copper. But now, here, she smells… incense and smoke, something sweet and herbal, something familiar. For the first time since her dream, she draws a deep, steady breath. You.
What can you taste?
In the garden, Laudna turns towards her, her lips parting with Imogen’s favorite smile. In the garden, Imogen thinks, she wouldn’t hesitate. She would take what she wants.
But in the inn, Imogen saves that thought for herself. She feels the tightness in her chest slip away. Salt on the breeze.
Good girl. You’re safe here. You can stay as long as you need. You’re—
Imogen opens her eyes.
“—safe here,” Laudna croons, the warmth of her voice mingling with the thrum in Imogen’s mind. “There we go. There you are. You’re feeling better?”
“I’m feeling better.” Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. Their connection flickers, then fades. Imogen’s been slowly learning how to make it last, with lots of practice and lots of headaches, but it never feels quite long enough.
“Do you want to try to sleep?” Laudna asks.
Imogen’s shoulders tense. Before she can answer, Laudna rises from the bed.
“Stand up, darling. We’ll gather all the blankets and sleep on the floor. Then, if you have another dream, I’ll be right beside you.”
“Thank you,” Imogen says, quiet.
Laudna scoffs and waves a hand, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not everything.
Standing to one side, Imogen clutches her pillow to her chest while Laudna arranges the inn’s meager blankets and their own bedrolls in the center of the room. It’s not much, though no worse than the lumpy mattresses they’ve abandoned, and Imogen gladly sinks down to the floor—Laudna’s hands gently guiding her in the dark, tucking her under the softest of the blankets.
They settle in beside one another, close but not touching, the floorboards hard and cold beneath their makeshift pallet. Imogen knows she’ll wake up sore. Right now, though, she only feels grateful. Grateful and safe. She stares at the ceiling for a long time, counting each breath. When she tentatively closes her eyes, she doesn’t see a storm—only jasmine crawling up stone walls, blue skies, fruit-laden branches. And Laudna.
At last, slowly, Imogen slides her hand closer to Laudna’s. Just barely. The moment their knuckles bump, she goes still. Like it was an accident, like she doesn’t care what happens next, like the faintest brush of Laudna’s fingers might be enough for a lifetime.
But before Imogen even has time to count out her next breath, Laudna turns her hand, slipping her fingers into Imogen’s. “Do you need something?” Laudna asks. “Water? An extra blanket? What can I get you?”
“No, I—I’m alright.”
“You’re sure?”
“I was just… thinkin’ about how I wish we could really go there,” Imogen says, soft. “The garden. Somewhere beautiful, you an’ me.”
“We will,” Laudna says. She sounds so firm, so certain, that Imogen believes her. “We’ll figure this out. No more bad dreams. And then we’ll go anywhere you’d like.”
Imogen laughs, just barely—a breath and a smile. “What would I do without you?”
Laudna doesn’t respond right away. And then she tightens her grip on Imogen’s hand. “Let’s not find out.”
*
They don’t talk about it. All this time traveling together, and they never talk about it during the day. There’s always too much to do, too many people around, somewhere to go or someone to find. Everything feels different, in the day.
But it’s okay, Imogen thinks. For now, it’s okay.
That’s the thing: they don’t have to say a word to understand each other.