Work Text:
Imogen is well into her eighth hour of reading, head aching from the cramped text of a dozen different arcane studies, when a Bengal cat wanders across the tabletop.
She squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing halfheartedly at her temples with two fingers. Hallucinations haven't really been a side effect before, but she's always been vaguely curious if they'd ever come into play at some point in her future. As far as waking dreams go, I suppose a cat isn't the worst place to start.
When she opens her eyes, though, the cat is still there. It is fluffy and a little bit angular; from one blink to the next, Imogen could swear she sees glints of blue and black magic glittering in its liquid eyes. It spreads itself out leisurely atop the centerfold pages of Lightning Lessons for the Intermediate Mage and starts calmly cleaning its paws, tongue flicking back and forth steadily. Dripping black pawprints stain the covers and spines of several other books on nearby shelves. The creature must have walked through an inkwell on the way here.
A few hours ago, Imogen would have started to quietly panic about the property damage. The letter that Eshteross gave her is still tucked carefully into her belt - a flimsy little piece of paper, but it's her only entryway into the secrets and mysteries and answers of this place. Surely one of these shelves has to have the knowledge she needs...
But her head feels like it's splitting in two with the amount of information she's tried to cram, and she's been on her own for most of the evening, the assistant scribe long since having deserted her with a half-hearted excuse about needing to shelve some stray documents. So she reaches out a hand and wearily scratches at the cat's head. A low, contented purr rumbles through her fingers in response. The sound reminds her of one of Dorian's thunder spells, or the sound that Laudna's bones make when they dislocate a little too roughly.
"I hope you're having a better time studying than I am," she murmurs, and turns her focus to back the book in front of her.
After about fifteen minutes, the cat departs, slinking to the floor and trotting off into another part of the cavernous reading room. It returns once, weaving a speedy pattern around her legs. Then it leaves and returns a second time. On the third departure, Imogen gives up on reading and rests her chin on her hand, tracking its path through the library.
The cat eventually stops at a table on the other side of the room, and starts rubbing against the legs of a man who is practically drowning in haphazard stacks of spellbooks and magical tomes. He is wearing a long brown coat; a thick silver scarf is wrapped around his neck despite the warm temperature, glowing softly with some type of imbued protection spell. His hair is bright and flame-like, tied back messily into a ponytail, and ink coats his hands and forearms from many hours of study.
The cat returns, purring a little more insistently. Imogen decides enough is enough. It only takes an instant to open a connection in her mind.
I don't mean to bother you, sir, but is this your cat?
To his credit, the man doesn't jump like people often do. Instead, he blinks, slowly sets his spellbook down, and turns to look directly at her. Imogen smiles and gives him a little wave, as the Bengal cat curls contentedly around her ankles.
Ja. His name is Frumpkin, she hears a moment later. I am sorry that he is getting in your way.
The voice is friendly, yet neutral. Carefully and consciously neutral. If Imogen had to guess, she'd say he's a wizard. Other casters always sound like their spells, and this one sounds like he's spent too many years studying magic to be easily startled.
Imogen pets Frumpkin's head and is rewarded with another deep purr. Muscles untense themselves in her shoulders and neck and back. A breath releases from somewhere deep in her lungs, where she hadn't even realized she was holding it.
No need to apologize. He's a very relaxing companion. Though, if you'll pardon me for asking, he seems rather...
Magical?
Well, yes. His eyes are glowing.
Frumpkin purrs at Imogen, then leaps off her lap and daintily knocks over her inkwell with his tail. It breaks onto the table with a crunch of glass. Imogen bites back a cuss word too strong for such a formal place, then dives for the nearest notebooks, scrambling to rescue the papers before the puddle of black ink can reach them.
He is my familiar. And a fey, the man says. A slight laugh tinges the end of the sentence this time.
Ah, of course. That explains his...mischievous nature.
The ink continues to spread. Imogen flops back into her chair as Frumpkin disappears and watches it soak deep into the crevices of the old wooden table. If Laudna were here, she'd be delighted by the aesthetic.
How are we speaking to one another? the man continues. You are too far from me to be casting the base Message cantrip, and Telepathy is not habitually cast for casual conversations.
I've been able to speak this way for a long time. No spell slots necessary. The scribe is most certainly not going to come back any time soon. This might be the moment to find a new place to sit -and if she doesn't get blamed for making a mess of library property, all the better. My name is Imogen, by the way.
Caleb Widogast, she hears from the other side of the room. Pleased to meet you.
By the time Imogen has found another table a few rows away, the silence has stretched on long enough that she feels too awkward to break it. She settles down, leaving the mental connection open just in case the cat breaks something slightly more vital next time and she has to request some assistance. Twenty pages into the next scientific study, Frumpkin returns, leaping up onto her shoulder and curls around her neck.
I do not mean to intrude, but he's quite a curious cat, Caleb says a moment later. He says you're looking for information on dreams and red storms? That's a very rare area of study.
Imogen carefully closes the book and frowns at Frumpkin.
I'm sure you're searching for something too, Mr. Widogast, she replies. But you don't hear me commenting on your choice of reading material, do you?
Apologies, apologies. I simply wondered if you needed help. I have been studying here for the better part of several weeks; I've become quite well acquainted with the shelving systems.
The letter at her belt feels heavy. Precious. Costly. Imogen thinks about the cruel woman working the desk, the days spent fighting and hiding and heisting for even the barest chance of getting into this place.
I'd truly consider taking you up on that, Mr. Widogast, she says, a little curtly. But in my experience, knowledge is rarely offered free of charge.
The mental connection is quiet for a little while. Frumpkin leaves again, vanishing off into the towering stacks with a soft shhsh of padded paws on tiled floor. Imogen finishes the study in her hands, heaves a deep sigh at its attempts to prove that telepathy is uniquely connected to the number of pets which a sorcerer owned as a child. Despair is starting to bubble up inside her chest, like a bucket sinking deep into a well without a rope to pull it back up.
What happens if there are no answers to be found here? Or anywhere, for that matter? What happens if she dragged Laudna - dragged all her friends, old and new alike - into this mess for nothing?
A rustle breaks the clandestine calm of the library. A moment later, Frumpkin leaps onto the table, a book held delicately in his mouth. He sets it down carefully in her open palm, then flops onto his stomach dramatically, feline eyes wide and innocent and still tinged with edges of fey magic.
Imogen looks at the slim tome in her hands. The red leather cover is flaking off in places but the title is still visible, spelled out in dusty grey letters. Dreams of Red Storms, written by one Prof. Kadija Sumal.
When she glances back across the room, Caleb is barely visible behind his stack of books. Only the top of his head can be seen, bobbing up and down slightly as he transcribes some spell by hand.
Thank you, she says to him across the mental tie. This looks like it could be....well, exactly what I need.
She opens to the first page, eagerly skimming the table of contents, heart rate already starting to accelerate.
From one scholar to another, she hears in response, a moment later. Knowledge should always be free of charge.