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‘Okay. I don’t mean to make a habit of saying this but - Chetney was right,’ Ashton sighs, slings his hammer over his shoulder. ‘Worst. Day. Ever.’
Chetney puffs up with pride. Or maybe a growl. ‘You should always listen to your elders.’
‘What are you talking about, youngster?’ Ashton jerks his head sideways to Fresh Cut Grass, who waves cheerily. Chetney deflates. To everyone else, Ashton says, ‘Let’s go to fucking sleep. I’m tired, I smell like a fucking sewer, and thanks to Laudna, I gotta wash this shirt for the second fucking night in a row.’
‘You’re wel-come,’ Laudna sing-songs, beaming.
Fresh wheels to her side. He tilts his head, oculars reflecting the evening sun as he peers at Ashton and helpfully points out, ‘Actually, I think that was sarcasm. It can be hard to discern when it comes from Ashton but they – it’s in the tone.’
Her face falls and she winds her fingers in her hair, tugs gently. ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
Ashton makes a gruff sound and pats her on the shoulder. Gently, for them. ‘Fuck, don’t make that face, it’s fucking awful,’ he says, which is Ashton for Don’t be upset, Laudna guesses. ‘I didn’t have to wash it. But tear stains don’t exactly work for my,’ he grimaces, flicks a look over to Chetney, and grits out, ‘street cred.’
Chetney nods sagely.
Imogen frowns at him. ‘You were cryin’? Is everythin’ alright?’
Ashton makes a tremendous effort not to look at Laudna—or anyone else, for that matter—as he baldly lies to their mind-reading friend. ‘Stubbed my toe.’
‘Your…toe.’
‘Yep.’
‘And cried?’
‘That’s right.’
Imogen makes a thoughtful sound; Laudna doesn’t think anyone else would catch it but she knows it to mean that Imogen isn’t convinced. 'What does that have to do with Laudna?'
When Imogen says her name, Laudna is real.
She knew that, of course. Only, it's been a bit of a nebulous concept for most of the day, her reality. What even is reality? She's a daughter - she's a mother now. She's not a daughter anymore, that's right, they died - but does that sever the connection? Interesting. Who is she, in ill-fitting, ill-coloured clothes? Who is she, in weightless hours unmoored to time - past, present, alive, dead - and left to rot in some toppled house? Who is she, when her new and dear friend-son Orym-Georgie reacts to her messages as though she is some horrific haunt? When Imogen says her name, Laudna remembers. She is real. And what a funny thought it is that she could forget! A funny, funny thought! One that makes her laugh aloud, cheerily eerily. What joy there is in being reminded of oneself, that she is.
Distantly, as though he were far away and not beside her, she sees Fresh rock back and forth on his wheel like he's itching to help. Distantly, she thinks she sees Imogen's head snap her way but when she looks over, Imogen is staring down at the ground, frowning really, and gnawing on her thumbnail. It must have been memory, blurring over her now. That hasn't happened in a very long time.
‘If I may,’ Fresh interjects, distracts, and his oculars whirr and whiz, focusing in on Ashton. ‘Sometimes, when we have a strong physical reaction to something that would ordinarily cause a smaller one—like cryin’ when you stub your toe, for instance—that can mean that there’s somethin’ else goin’ on. Maybe you’re feelin’ stressed out about somethin’?’
‘Maybe,’ Ashton agrees through clenched teeth.
‘Then – and I don’t mean to put you on the spot – but I have noticed that there’s a few people in this group who might also benefit from this advice – I don’t want to name names but Laudna, Imogen –’
‘You don’t want to but you will,’ Imogen mutters, rolls her eyes. For a second, her eyes land on Laudna, who stays staring, who smirks at Imogen's clear annoyance with their metal friend; for a second, Imogen smiles back at her and it is as though nothing has changed.
But it has.
Imogen must have forgotten herself, forgotten her own displeasure. It is a good sign - a point in the favour of time and Orym's advice, she will be listening to him again – but the knowledge weighs on her, the thought that Imogen might forget her displeasure when Laudna has not, can not. Each moment this rift goes unaddressed, despair burrows through her, emptying her out until she is hollow with it.
It occurs to her that perhaps she ought to listen to Fresh because the despair gnawing at her is too ravenous to be new.
‘– improved by taking a little time to ask yourself where these feelings are comin’ from and what they might be affectin’. It helps too, to talk it out with someone you trust! For example, yesterday, I got a real nasty shock in findin’ out that Dancer is alive and that shock might’ve – might’ve, ah, nudged me into some rash behaviour.’
After a moment of quiet, Ashton says what they are all thinking. ‘You mean when you cut that guy into ribbons?’
‘Uh oh, you said an inside thought!’
Fresh grimaces. ‘No, that’s alright, Fearne, I - that's okay, they’re right to mention it. It was a bit out of character and I'm sorry if it caused anyone to worry.’
'We worry about you, grandpa,' Chetney tells him, the gnarled lines of his face scrunched into a masterclass of gruff annoyance; the expression is betrayed by his beady little eyes, peering out with fond concern from beneath big bushy brows.
Ashton nods. Adds, ‘If it helps, he deserved it.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. At any rate,’ Fresh shrugs their little backpack higher on their chassis and wheels to their newest caravanserai, ‘we should all get some rest and decompress. Take a little time to take care of ourselves! The first step in helping others is helping ourselves.’ He enters the building with a little hup of effort, wheeling over the bump of the threshold.
Laudna smiles after the blood-spattered little healer and makes to follow them when a soft touch against her elbow stops her. She whips her head down and finds a hand there, plucking at her sleeve; she follows it up to its owner, Dusk, who takes a step back away from the group, away from the entrance way, and tilts her head to the side in wordless invitation. Laudna is happy to oblige.
From the doorway, Fresh Cut Grass calls, ‘Laudna? Dusk? Y’all coming?’
Dusk hesitates, biting her lip. Looks to Laudna,a question and hope apparent in her bright eyes. The expression (braced, overwhelmed, apologetic) is odd, is so familiar (so familiar, how odd), and so clear in what it conveys—need, need for a moment to talk, to be alone (alone with Laudna, how does she know that?), to unravel in peace and safety—that Laudna doesn't hesitate to speak for the both of them, calls cheerily over her shoulder.
‘In a moment, Letters!’
‘Oh. Alright.’
‘Thanks,’ Dusk whispers, and boldly takes Laudna’s hand, pulling her toward a nearby alley. They don’t move far into its shade, only far enough that they can speak with a little privacy, and Dusk leans back against the wall of the alley with a relieved sigh, sweeps a hand through her tousled hair. ‘He’s so nice, I didn’t want to say no. But I wanted to talk for a second, if that would be okay?’
‘Of course!’
‘And maybe – I could…ask you a question?’
Laudna looks across at the elf, surprised by the somewhat hesitant tone, and finds their bright eyes fixed on her; they are made all the more bright by the steely expression they wear, a frown stamped into their forehead. Confused, thoughtful. Laudna can’t help it—she laughs.
‘You look so distressed,’ she says, tone gently chiding. ‘Of course you can.’
‘Are you sure? It’s about, well, you.’
‘I had assumed. What is it? You want to know how I died?’ Laudna reaches a hand up to her neck, fingers slipping beneath the itchy cloth of her new scarf to touch cool skin. ‘It was perfectly dreadful,’ she begins, but Dusk is already shaking her head.
‘No, not that.’
‘No?’
‘No. Well.’ Dusk smiles sweetly at her, bright eyes holding hers. ‘One day, hopefully. When you want to, I’d be honoured to hear it. I’m sure it’s quite a tale. But for right now, there’s something I was, uh, wondering about.’
Something flickers in Dusk’s eyes. A shine, a sheen, that sends a shiver down Laudna’s spine. Deep within Laudna, something stirs, wakes. And pays keen attention to Dusk in turn.
‘This morning, when we were talking to the general.’
Laudna snarls. ‘Ratanish. Yes.’
‘Yeah, him. You didn’t – say very much to him,’ Dusk points out. ‘Everyone was telling him what they’re all good at and you…didn’t. Which seems weird because we want to convince them that we’re powerful, right?’ Her nose crinkles and she lifts her palms between them, as one might to soothe a fearsome creature. Or ward one off. ‘And I don’t mean to make it sound like you should have done anything, like you did something wrong! I’m just asking because it – I guess I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense that you wouldn’t speak up because you’re—’ Dusk waves a hand excitedly to Laudna, who only frowns. ‘You know.’
‘A being of grotesque undeath?'
‘Uh.’
‘Horrifying?'
Dusk tilts her head.
Another shiver crawls down Laudna's spine. She doesn't think the effect is a spell but she cannot deny that it is charming, the way the elf glances up at her from under long lashes. Had her lashes grown longer, suddenly, or had Laudna simply not noticed when they met how long and dark they are? How could she have missed it when they frame her bright eyes so beautifully?
‘That’s not the word I would use,’ Dusk says, and her tone is transformed quite dramatically. Lower. Still warm, but tinged with something. Something.
Laudna presses her long fingers together until they crack under the pressure, and shakes them out, shakes out her hair in front of her face as well, and laughs, apropos of nothing, as a nervous energy crawls beneath her skin.
‘Why not? It’s apt.’
Dusk hums. Her eyes—those eyes—flick over Laudna’s face. She watches them through the curtain of her hair, watches carefully, but whatever the elf thinks of what she sees, Laudna can’t begin to discern it. Gone, is the perfect understanding of her expression; gone, is the comfortable familiarity. In its place, eyes, brighten further. A glint, deep within black pupils, that reminds Laudna of nothing so much as it does a wisp, shining bright, luring oh so sweetly. The clear-glass surface of a perfect, still lake in a perfect, still glade, and sweet alluring light.
‘It’s not the word I would use,’ Dusk repeats.
This time, Laudna lets herself reach for that bait. ‘What-' Her steadying breath rattles in her chest. 'What would you use, then?’
A single step closes much of the distance between them.
Laudna watches, curious, as Dusk lifts a hand and touches her. Sets their hand precisely where Laudna had touched Dusk the day before - you're real, you feel real, she hears herself say, and as time bruises and bleeds, she isn't sure if she is saying it to Dusk or to herself.
Dusk's hand is warm - real - and the warmth snares her attention, pulls Laudna back into her body as the hand trails up Laudna's arm to her shoulder, ever-so-slow. The hand leaves her shoulder to sink into dark tresses, fingers tangling a moment, twining with the grace of a fond cat, before Dusk brushes Laudna's hair back behind her ear. Warm fingers glide, impossibly gentle, over the gold of her ear cuff.
Laudna stands, stares, shivers.
Dusk stares back. Their eyes dart over every exposed inch of Laudna's face and when their hand slides down the line of her jaw to her chin, it is trembling.
'Glorious,' she breathes. 'Absolutely, totally glorious.'
Laudna blinks. Withdraws a fraction.
Dusk lets her go, fingers flexing as if she wants to follow, wants to keep that point of contact. Any contact. It's a heady thought, that someone might- but it's ridiculous.
'You're mocking me,' Laudna accuses.
'I'm not.'
‘You cannot think I—monstrous, scary—’
‘The most terrifying,’ she agrees, in the same tone Laudna has heard reserved for great works of art. ‘And that’s just what I’ve seen. I get the feeling that you’re holding back, all the time, and I don’t get it. There’s something powerful in you—’
‘Her name is Delilah and she’s a bitch.’
‘No,’ Dusk shakes her head sharply. ‘Not her. Something in you. Can’t you feel it? Because I can. I felt it the moment we met. You’re different.’
‘Things that are different are frightening,’ Laudna explains. ‘And things that are frightening are rarely welcomed in this world.’ As she speaks, a part of her wonders. Wonders what memories have to do with fear. Surely scary is scary, whether one can recall past frights or not.
‘You’re not a thing.’ Dusk’s eyes widen and the lure is back, magnetic, the dreamy dark of her eyes flecked with light like a starscape. ‘You’re a frightening woman and there are some people who find that…exquisite. Who find you exquisite.’ Her hand doesn’t tremble when she reaches for Laudna now and retakes Laudna’s chin between thumb and crooked forefinger. ‘I’m one of them, in case I’m being too subtle.’
‘No,’ Laudna breathes. ‘I – I understand.’
It is with a lithe grace, so reminiscent of the fey that Laudna has encountered, that Dusk shifts closer again. There was not much space between them but there is less now and it seems to strip something from Dusk, some sense of reticence, and Laudna can see no warmth in her face, just a stark light, a want, a hunger as she looks at Laudna.
‘One day soon, you’re gonna let loose,’ Dusk murmurs, and her thumb lifts to run over the dip in Laudna’s lip, traces the slope of her mouth to its corner. ‘You’re going to show the world what it means to be afraid of the dark and I really, really hope that I’m here to see it.’
Laudna’s hands open and close at her sides for want of something to do, and a part of her she thought long dead urges her to set them on Dusk’s waist. She does; settles her hands at their sides, fluttering there until Dusk presses her free hand against one of Laudna's, guides it to their waist with a tiny nod. Invitation. Laudna follows, obliges. Curls her hands around the angular set of their waist. Their free hand moves from that hand, mimics the path they had taken earlier up to wind about Laudna's shoulders.
They are embracing, Laudna realises, brain reduced to nothing beyond this.
Dusk’s thumb strokes tiny, maddening strokes at the corner of her mouth. Each drag of their skin against hers sends a shiver through her.
‘I haven’t – I’ve never,’ she says.
Dusk shrugs. ‘That’s alright. A thousand lifetimes with the fey, I’m sure I’ve learned a thing or two.’ Her thumb grazes across Laudna’s lower lip. Presses lightly against her lips in a mimicry of a kiss and laughs, not unkindly, when Laudna’s lashes flutter. ‘I want it,’ she says, winds herself close, closer, lips just shy of Laudna’s own. She swears she can feel their words when they speak, and their breath is cool and fresh like midnight air. ‘Your first kiss. Can I have it?’
Sharp features, bright eyes, hungry words. Sincere and surprising all at once. Where is the sunny Dusk of the last few days? Is this what it is to be fey? To be at the whim of passion and desire to such a degree that it changes her? Or is that something particular to Dusk?
Could it be particular to her? If she journeyed into the feywild, could she leave Delilah behind? Could she be more herself? Could she be someone else?
If she kissed Dusk, could she get a taste for that? For being whomever she wishes to be?
‘Yes,’ Laudna says, to herself, to Dusk, to both. ‘Yes, please.’
Dusk’s eyes flash with something like triumph. It is a devastating look on her; pride suits her well and Laudna finds she enjoys being something to be won. She is still reeling with it when Dusk’s hand presses against the back of her neck and urges her forward and—
Her lips are soft.
Soft, and the pressure sweet, gentle.
Dusk’s nose nudges against hers and for a moment, sweet is overshadowed by clumsy. Laudna smiles, laughs against their lips; Dusk pulls back, tilts their head considering. With their grip still on Laudna's chin, they adjust the angle of her head, of their kiss, moving her into place with the precise calculation Laudna had noticed on their first meeting—line, force, direction, result—and kisses her again. The arm around her shoulders drops to her waist, encircles her, pulls her close and the last space between them folds into a crushing, heated kiss.
Laudna gasps, clutches at Dusk's shoulders as her knees tremble. 'Oh,' she breathes.
'Good?'
Dusk doesn't give her space to think—maddening fingers stroking against her spine, along her jaw, without any pattern that she can learn—but gives her time, a moment.
Laudna touches her lips, curious. 'Yes.'
'More?'
'Yes,' she agrees, even as she wants to laugh that they are, apparently, reduced to single words. How silly. How wonderful. 'Just let me-' She swirls a hand and everything grows dim. The world itself darkens around her periphery and as magic surges in her veins, Laudna feels time slink, sweet and slow as honey. Dusk makes a small noise when the shadows surround them, engulfing the alley in total, black privacy.
‘Neat trick,’ Dusk approves and steps them—Laudna back, herself forward—until Laudna is pressed against the wall of the alley. ‘Now here’s one of mine,’ Dusk says, and kisses her again, and again more deeply.
She kisses like they’ll never have the chance to kiss again, urgent and a little desperate, a little bittersweet, the kind of taste that Laudna has to chase after. Mercurial, never the same, Laudna’s mind tumbles over and over itself as she tries to understand, to follow the embrace as she would their lead in a dance, but each time she thinks she understands the steps, Dusk changes the pace on her. Teasing, light kisses that break away, flutter up her cheek, bring a delighted smile to Laudna’s lips but as soon as the affection is bestowed, Dusk changes. Now achingly slow, their fingers slide up her jaw, splaying thumb to the point where jaw meets neck and fingers curling round the back of her neck. Cradling her, as though it is the last kiss they will ever share. And now hungry, which robs Laudna of every thought, leaves her able only to think to stand on her shaking legs with the assistance of the wall and Dusk's shoulders beneath her hands. Dusk tries in their limited time, their numbered kisses, to memorise her, to drink her in, drink her down—the way she responds, the way she sounds when she is kissed just so—and if Laudna had enjoyed being something to be won, it is nothing to the way it feels to be desired. With each kiss, cold seeps into Laudna’s veins, the delicious, full-body chill of a freezing wind, until she is shivering with it. Then, and only then, does Dusk pull away.
The shadows lengthen, stretch, and slink away into nothing.
Laudna lifts her fingers to her lips. Lets her hand fall to her heart, which thuds in the slow manner it always does, not roused to any quickened pace, the liar. She looks up to Dusk, who is trembling again, but she can't see what expression she wears, what might be dredged up from the depths of those lovely eyes, because she turns away sharply. When she does finally look back, it is with smile firmly in place.
‘Thank you,’ Dusk says, and Laudna reels with the knowledge of what that bittersweet note tastes like on her lips, her tongue.
‘I rather think that’s my line.’
‘Nah. It was sincerely my absolute pleasure,’ Dusk teases. Laughs sunnily, the brilliant laugh that Laudna has come to expect from her. ‘Would you believe me if I said that’s not what I meant to do?’ she asks, eyes dipping to Laudna’s lips again. ‘That I really did want to talk to you about being powerful and amazing and –‘
Laudna cocks her head to the side, smiles. ‘Why wouldn’t I believe you?’ Dusk only smiles, shakes her head. A little shy and a little sly, Laudna continues, admits, ‘I – didn’t expect it either. But I enjoyed it. Very much.’
She drags her eyes over Dusk—their mouth ever so slightly swollen from kissing, lips reddened, a rose blush blooming high on their cheeks, hair more tousled than before—less artful, more suggestive, and it sends Laudna’s stomach into free-fall. She reaches out. Carefully adjusts their hair.
Dusk allows it. More, she leans into Laudna’s hand; catches it when Laudna pulls back and presses a kiss into the palm.
Her hand tingles. Her lips tingle. She wonders if she looks anything like Dusk does—if it is even possible for her to look so alive.
‘Good. That’s good. I’m glad.’ Dusk offers her elbow to Laudna, goofily, jauntily, and grins over at her. The expression is tinged conspiratorial, like they are sharing a joke with her or a very delicious secret. ‘Shall we join the others?’
Laudna slips her hand into the crook of Dusk’s elbow. ‘Let’s.’
They seperate in the hall. Dusk turns unerringly toward Fearne's room. Hesitatsing at the door, which stands cracked an inch wide, she draws Laudna in for one last kiss that lingers. Laudna watches her slip away and turns toward her own door, drums thoughtful fingers against her bottom lip. She steps inside, closes the door behind her. Turns when she recalls that she is not alone.
Indeed, she is not. It doesn't look like Imogen has done anything - hasn't unpacked or changed or washed up; instead, she is sitting at the table crammed into the corner of their room with a cup in hand. Beside her is a small, square window that lets in a breeze. It is cool and lifts the oppressive heat of the day. The room smells like a storm and Laudna isn't quite sure why until she joins Imogen and glances out the window, which offers a perfect view of the alley.
'You saw?'
Imogen flicks her a look, perfectly calm.
They are in the eye of the storm, Laudna knows, and she wonders how many hours, how many days, they have until the other side hits. Imogen nods.
'Yeah, I did. Not the whole time, obviously,' she hurries to assure Laudna, cheeks flushing, and fiddles with her teacup, swirls her finger over the lip of the cup. 'That's - excitin',' she offers, in case Laudna wants to talk about it.
Laudna frowns. 'I think there's something wrong. With Dusk.'
'Huh?' Imogen sits straight, drops her cup clumsily to its saucer. 'What do you mean?'
'I'm not sure, exactly. It's a - feeling. While we were talking -'
'I didn't see much talking,' Imogen interjects, lifts a brow.
Laudna looks away. She isn't sure how to respond to that; she feels off-kilter and not just because of Imogen, not just because for the first time in two years she and Imogen haven't known how to talk to one another but also because the kiss - kisses - are lingering, make her feel light-headed and weak-kneed, and abruptly guilty for what she is saying. And what she hadn't said, back in the alley.
'Sorry,' Imogen mutters. 'Sorry. Go on.'
'The things she was saying... She likes that I am frightening. Glorious, she said.' Laudna frowns over at Imogen. 'And the way she looked at me...'
With great effort, Imogen smiles. 'Laud,' she says, laughs, really. The whole world seems to brighten when Imogen says her name like that. Fond, sweet. 'She likes you. That's - you're a little different, sure, but so is Dusk. And it seems like -' Imogen's lips flatten, tilt, before she forces a smile again. 'It seems like she really likes you. Sees that you're beautiful and - amazing. That's a good thing.' She sucks in a deep breath and when she smiles again, this time it is effortless, it is achingly sweet, achingly kind; it makes Laudna ache. 'You deserve good things, Laud. Have some fun. Have a good time. With Dusk, if that's what you want. Don't think too hard about it.'
Laudna inclines her head but when Imogen stands, says something to the effect of getting ready for bed, she remains. Stays as she is and replays each moment of her conversation with Dusk, trying to pinpoint what it is that has unsettled her. In the end, there is nothing—no words that cannot be simple compliment; no action that cannot be simple admiration, or intrigue—and eventually she allows herself to creep into bed, taking her place beside Imogen. When she falls asleep, she falls into dreams of the wild dark.