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For Imogen’s striking appearance, she did very well to blend into crowds. When traveling through the town of Gevlaan, her home, she found herself looking down at the cobblestone more than anything. She picked up a long, black cloak a few weeks back––right after all this mess began––and she can feel herself melt into the boisterous, occupied chatter of mindless thoughts.
It troubles her beyond belief.
Where’s my darn…
…it's colder than usual today…
I’m going to punch that fellow in his…
…thief! thief!
Shutting her eyes makes it worse. Shutting her eyes makes it louder. Thinking about it makes it worse. She’s getting better at keeping the thoughts at bay, but it never seems to quiet, never seems to calm down, never seems to go away. Home isn’t quiet either. Her father’s anxiety, fear, and dread becomes her own, and having to feel what he feels, taking it in as if it is her own, is too much to bear. The fear, more than anything. Fear at what his daughter has become. Nowhere is quiet.
So she spends most of her time wandering around town. Back alleys, befriending ne'er-do-wells, or anyone who has no idea what she can do. A stranger, a bad omen, a witch , to the people who saw her grow up and loved her up until a point. She’d tell ‘em to go to hell, but then there’d be nobody left alive.
…there’s another…
…another witch…
…can’t go out past light…
…in the dark.
…she hunts in the dark…
…I’m scared.
That’s new. She feels her blood begin to chill with their minds before she pulls away. She sees a set of black eyes, dripping with something. Imogen is tempted to listen. She’s tempted to push open the curtain out of pure intrigue, but the last time she tried this, it became so loud––a thundering, crashing, heavy, deafening, frightening wave so loud that she physically tried to make herself as small as possible and tried to cover her ears and tried to scream louder and nothing made it stop, nothing made it quiet. It hurt real bad. Her head rattled and she felt like it was going to explode, and then she grew dizzy, passed out, and remembered waking up. And everything was back to normal––however close to normal this could be.
But this witch.
Gelvaan rarely gets visitors, being so far in the mountains. The occasional traveler never stays for more than a few days, and whatever their names were fade from the town’s collective thoughts.
But fear stays. Fear always stays, and the less truly known about whatever the fearful thing is, the more fearful it is. And these thoughts are screaming.
There’s another witch. She had to know. If she was going to be damned to this fate, she might as well get to know its other victims.
No, she had to know.
She had to know how to control her powers. How to make them go away. This witch would know more than Imogen does, because Imogen knows nothing.
Imogen never learns her lesson. She was always stubborn, and headstrong, and if her mind was set on something, she’d travel to hell and back to get it done. No exceptions.
So she pulled the mind’s thread. Delicately, carefully, and fearfully. Just to see if there was more . Just anything more about this witch.
…thank god I ran…it was dark…and cold…getting water…by the well…
…shouldn’t go out at night…dark and cold…night…she hunts at night…by the well…
Imogen could see him running, could feel his fear. Barely guided by the moonlight––tripping and stumbling over raised roots in cold, raw terror. She began to grow lightheaded and almost stumbled into a passing stranger.
She knew where the well was.
It was cold at night. The mountains carried cold drafts down into the valley. Her cloak did little to keep her warm. But it was quieter now. As people drifted off to sleep, thoughts became calmer, and more pleasant. Dreams of Gelvaan’s vast plains, grass in the wind, the witch.
She couldn’t sense anything as she approached the well. The only sound was the eerie drip of water, deep into the ground.
“Is anyone there?”
Imogen’s own voice was louder than she thought it was, yet still barely above a whisper. It was silent outside, and her voice carried across the grass.
Is anyone there?
She tried that way. Some desperate part of her needed this to be real. She needed to meet someone… like her? If everyone was going to call Imogen a witch, then maybe she was one. And maybe another would have some goddamn answers.
A figure appeared.
Imogen shivered. The air began to grow colder, the night darker. She could barely see until the figure stepped closer.
…who’s there?
Imogen projected her mind. She tried to sound as fearless as possible, but she felt herself trembling.
…my name is Laudna…
Laudna. Laudna? It came in whispers––slowly––melting around Imogen’s brain as if it were a hundred different voices speaking at once. It was warm, almost beguiling, yet she saw through the terror.
How are you doing that?
Imogen called out again. Afraid and confused and a little excited. She could hear everyone, but no one sounded like this.
…doing what, darling?...
“Who are you? Come out where I can see you!” Imogen shouted aloud, growing eager at this newfound experience. The fear took no effect. Imogen could do this same thing, albeit less creepy. The excited and naive part of her burned to know more.
The figure approached. Dark, black, wet hair covered a pale face. Bony features and tattered clothes adorned this mysterious figure. Imogen saw a black darkness seep from their fingertips and drip down their face like old blood as the figure’s neck contorted unnaturally to the left. She recognized the black eyes.
Then music. Faint, scratchy sounds like a well-worn-out folk song. The melody stumbled and faltered, went out of key, and came back in, then fell into its lilting rhythm. Imogen pushed deeper. She pushed deeper into this Laudna’s mind as it sounded like nothing she had ever heard.
There were no words––no racing anxieties or mindless chatter. Just music. Just this simple melody.
…who are you Laudna…
…what are you doing in my brain…
…Imogen, my name is Imogen…
…Imogen, you’re…
Laudna stepped closer, right up to Imogen to where their noses almost touched. Imogen could hear her sluggish breathing. The black icor began to slow, as dark brown pupils rose from the darkness. She blinked, stared hard into Imogen, like she sensed something. Imogen’s breathing grew quicker, her heart beating so loud she could hear it.
…you can hear me…
…you can hear me!...
…you’re…
…like me…
…you’re like me…
The two women were face-to-face, staring at each other intently, but silently. They reached a profound understanding, reached into each other and found something they both recognized.
An outcast. She’s feared. They don’t know. They don’t understand you.
They don’t understand you…
…so they fear you.
The music grew louder. Stronger. Imogen was outside a cottage, she saw and smelled the woodsmoke from the chimney. This wasn’t her home, it was Laudna’s. Laudna stared into her, as if she too saw what Imogen was seeing. A man was sitting on the porch of the house, plucking the tune, slowly, sleepily.
Then fire. Then fear. Darkness. More fear. Imogen was getting greedy. She wasn’t supposed to do this–– these things weren’t for her to know ––but she had to know.
…enjoying my head, darling?…
But Laudna knew that she knew. And nobody ever knew that she knew, and Imogen couldn’t help but experience what this was like––to know, and for someone else to know she knows, and have them both know, and both understand.
…what are you, Laudna…
…dear, I’m dead…
Imogen snapped back. She slammed the door of Laudna’s mind closed and physically stepped away from the woman in front of her in bewilderment. She gasped, clasped her chest like her heart was going to jump out of her chest. She looked around. It was still quiet. Laudna stared. Alarm and confusion swept over Imogen. It made sense: the pale figure, the lifeless eyes, the visible, bony frame.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry, should I have led with something else?” Laudna spoke. Her voice was soft, and gentle. Completely unlike her appearance. Completely unlike the voice she projected into Imogen.
Completely misunderstood.
“If I were anybody else, I’d either run, or try to kill you.”
“I’ve had my mix of both,” Laudna laughed softly. “But you’re different.”
“ I’m different?” Imogen asked incredulously.
…you can hear me…
“Miss, that is terrifying .” Imogen shuddered, the whispers still echoing in her head before beginning to fade. “You really shouldn’t do that to folks.”
“Oh, but you started it!” Laudna scoffed, walking over to the well and sitting down. “It would have been very rude of me to ignore a guest.”
The man running away from the well. Fear, cold. He ran. He didn’t understand.
Imogen just stared. The music returned again, and she found it, for the first time in her entire life, a mere background to the person in front of her. The music poured from Laudna like honey, like all she thought about, all she cared about, was this memory of before.
“So you’re dead?” Imogen finally spoke.
Laudna sighed, lifted her head up to the sky. “Quite a long story, but yes. Are you dead?”
“No, no, I’m not…dead.” Imogen stuttered out. She looked at the woman again. She looked young––for someone who was…past alive. Her hair fell in front of her face, hiding her features. The moonlight reflecting off her skin glowed softly.
She looked more like a god than a witch.
“Ah! Wonderful!” Laudna chuckled lightly again. “Would you like some tea? I might have something laying around.”
“No, miss, I’m quite alright, thank you.”
“Oh, please, darling. I’ve never had such polite company before!”
Imogen saw the fear through Laudna’s eyes. She saw the scared townsfolk, the fires and pitchforks and shouting, the fleeing, and the rumors. Would that be her one day? A witch, running for the rest of her life, living in hiding because the whole world thought she was evil?
“If you have any questions, feel free to ask.” Laudna spoke, aware of Imogen’s probing. She knew. She knew!
Imogen blushed. “My apologies. It’s new.”
“What is?”
Imogen was taken aback by the curiosity. She was used to fear when people learned of her… abilities.
“Don’t talk about this, Imogen. Don’t tell anyone. Please, please, just don’t.”
“But why, father? What’s wrong with me?”
Thoughts become memories, become her own. Imogen doesn’t want them. But she has them all and nothing to do with them.
“I can…I can hear things. Things people think.”
“Oh dear. I hope mine are not too bothersome.” Laudna chuckled, unphased by Imogen’s scandalous reveal. “Although, I imagine many people are. Your townsfolk are…charming, in their own ways.”
Imogen chuckled, letting out a huge breath she was holding in. “You got that right.”
“Please, please, my house is just through the brush. I’d love some company.” Laudna insisted, rising from her seat and beckoning Imogen to follow.
“I’m not sure…”
…please, darling, I think we might have some things in common…
Imogen bit her lip, looked back to the lights of the town below. If anyone saw them, she’d be shunned for sure. If anyone thought Imogen wasn’t a witch before, they would now. She turned back to Laudna, who offered an awkward smile, and a wave. Was it a trap? Was Laudna seducing her into damnation?
…relax, darling, I want to help you understand…
Imogen stepped forward, hesitantly, and grabbed Laudna’s outstretched hand. It was cold, yet quite soft and dainty. “You really should just say things out loud. It doesn’t sound how you think it does in my head.”
They began walking into the woods.
“Oh! But how does it sound? Do tell! Do tell!”