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1.
One of the earliest things Laudna notices about Imogen is her hands. They don’t come first, not before the glossy lilac of her hair, tumbling over her shoulder in a loose ponytail, and not before the sight of her nervous smile and the crinkle of her eyes when it reaches them. But after that, after the first anxious introduction, after Imogen’s father walks away and leaves them to their own devices, Laudna notices her hands.
It’s not the tiny forks of lightning peeking their way out of the dark leather gloves that keeps her gaze lingering, though that’s maybe what draws her to them in the first place. It’s everything else, up close. The little calluses from years of hard work, the thin slice of scar tissue on the side of her index finger, her perfectly rounded nails. The way her fingers are twined around the coarse rope, half slung over her shoulder.
“It was - it was Laudna, right?” Imogen asks, the first words Laudna hears her speak, quiet and a little jittery.
And it should be a nice moment, Laudna knows, hearing this pretty girl talk for the first time, a lovely voice to match the rest of her, but Laudna’s pretty sure she’s ruined it, the way she ruins most things. Imogen’s nervous, or something like it, and Laudna knows that it’s her fault. She’s scary , as much as she tries not to be. No matter how much she smiles, how kind she tries to be, her joints still crack and her skin is still grey and her body still insists on leaking inky black ichor at every opportunity.
No matter what Laudna had half convinced herself could potentially happen between them, in the infinity of a half second between laying eyes on Imogen and hearing her speak, it’s been shattered now. Monsters like Laudna don’t get happy endings. She learned that a long time ago.
“That’s me,” she smiles her biggest smile, regardless.
She’s going to be working here for as long as she can, biding her time until she gets sick of the stares, or else she’s run out of town again or too many questions get asked. She may as well try to make as good a first impression as she can.
“I’m-”
“Imogen,” Laudna interrupts, “your father told me.”
Imogen blinks, a little taken aback, Laudna thinks. She shouldn’t have interrupted, but in all truth, she wanted to feel how the name sounded in her mouth, roll it from her lips to the back of her teeth. It’s a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.
“Right. Imogen,” she nods, and her fingers tighten, just a little bit, around the rope, knuckles paling.
They look at each other, a beat turning into two, and Laudna knows that the empty space should be awkward, by all accounts, but somehow, it isn’t.
“You new in town?” Imogen asks, breaking the quiet.
“Yes,” Laudna says, a perma-answer to a usually suspicious question. Only this time, there’s no venom behind the question, no ghost of an accusation. “Is it that obvious?”
Imogen laughs softly, nose wrinkling the tiniest amount, and Laudna’s sure, for a moment, that her heart is going to slow down the final amount and drop off completely. Somebody will call an ambulance and the doctors will insist that her body has been dead for years. She will be a marvel, cut up and dissected and sent to labs all over the country for inspection.
And then the moment passes, and Laudna is still alive, or halfway so. It’s anything but a relief. She wants to hear that sound again, pluck the music from Imogen’s lips until she knows it by heart.
“No,” Imogen answers, “I’ve just never seen you round before. And I think I’d have remembered.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m quite distinctive, I suppose,” Laudna frowns down at herself, all black and white and blood red.
“No, no. Not ‘cos of the way you look or nothin’. I-” Imogen cuts herself off, furrows her brow, presses her lips together like she’s trying to keep a secret locked up inside. “Doesn’t matter. C’mon, I’ll show you round.”
Laudna hesitates as Imogen turns to walk towards the fields, confusion setting in, unsure how Imogen would have remembered her if not for the way she looks. She figures she must mean because she’s scary , the general aura of dread she gives off, the sick feeling she knows settles at the back of some people’s minds when she’s around them too long. The fact that there is something very wrong with her. She supposes that’s not technically because of the way she looks, though it is, in a round about way. Maybe Imogen was just trying to be polite. She seems like the type of girl who would.
Laudna’s used to learning new jobs by this point, her second cash-in-hand job this year, latest in a long, blurry string of them. It’s not like she can settle anywhere and work her way up a corporate ladder. Laudna died, decades ago, doesn’t technically exist anymore. She has no bank account and no social security number and no drivers license, she couldn’t pass a medical exam or guarantee that her jaw wouldn’t unhinge in the middle of a board meeting.
It isn’t like she thinks any of those jobs would suit her, anyway. But it’s always nice to have the option. To rule yourself out, rather than have the decision made for you.
She learns this one like she’s learned all of the others, quickly and without fuss. She knows the routine by now, knows to get in and work hard and keep her head down, earn enough money for a place to stay and something to eat, wad up gold notes and stash them in her shoes so she’s got a supply with her when she inevitably has to go, enough for a bus ticket someplace far away. The only problem is that she’s running out of them now, of far aways . She’s going to try her damned hardest to stay here for as long as she can.
Imogen shows her the livestock, how to get the cows lined up for milking and bribe the chickens in at night. She walks her around the little fields of crops, points out the route the tractor drives. And then they’re at the far field, and Imogen’s whole face lights up at the sight of the horses, trotting over in a close-knit group of three.
“Hi, girls!” Imogen coos to them, reaching a hand over the fence and laying it on the white star across the nose of the closest horse. “This is Flora,” she tells Laudna, as a sturdy looking palomino butts Flora out of the way. “Daisy! Be nice,” she chastises.
Flora whinnies, and turns her attention to Laudna instead, Imogen occupied with carding burrs out of Daisy’s mane.
“Hello,” Laudna whispers, holds out her hand very slowly, trying her hardest not to spook the horse. Horses are very intelligent, she knows. Smart enough to realise that she shouldn’t be here, walking around. Smart enough to freak out about it.
But Flora isn’t immediately turning and running. Her ears prick up, but she leans her nose forward gently, cautiously, letting Laudna’s fingertips brush over her soft tawny fur.
Laudna hardly dares breathe, fighting back a smile at the gentle horse in front of her.
“She likes you!” Imogen exclaims, turning back to look at them.
“Does she?” Laudna breathes, voice heavy with disbelief.
“Yeah! Flora won’t let just anybody touch her.”
“ Oh .”
“Here,” Imogen digs around in the pocket of her plaid jacket, pulls out half a carrot, “you can give her a treat. Hold your hand out flat, like this.” She demonstrates, and when Laudna holds her hand just a little too rounded, Imogen’s smiling again, pressing her fingers against Laudna’s to flatten them.
Her touch sends sparks skittering along Laudna’s skin, blooming from the point of touch, curling up along her wrist, arm, storing themselves somewhere in the depths of her chest cavity. Laudna gets through the rest of her shift with a warm glow protecting her heart.
2.
Laudna learns quickly that there is very little Imogen loves more than her horse. She doesn’t see her much for the first couple of weeks she works there, but when she does catch glimpses of her, unmistakable with her bright hair, she’s always with the horses. And always, always , greeting Laudna like she’s never been more pleased to see somebody before.
Today, Imogen looks pale, dark shadows welling up beneath the pretty violet of her eyes. She looks sick , and Laudna immediately wants to fix it. Somebody like Imogen deserves nothing but happiness.
“You wanna try?” Imogen asks Laudna as she approaches, padding towards Imogen in the stables, running a soft brush through the pale brown of Flora’s fur.
“With the brush?” Laudna asks, quietly amazed that Imogen has heard her picking her way towards her.
One thing that she’s learned in all of these years of solitude is how to be quiet, how to creep away in the background. But Imogen always notices, almost like she can sense her presence.
“No,” Imogen shakes her head, turning to smile at Laudna, the same smile she swears will be her undoing. “You can ride her, if you like.”
Laudna blinks, unsure at first whether she’s heard her correctly. She’s still learning the ins and outs of the farm, sees other people come to ride the other two horses, watches the other farmhands brushing through their manes and refilling their feed buckets. Nobody else ever comes close to Flora. She is something very precious to Imogen, Laudna knows.
So it doesn’t make any sense that she would offer her this.
“You’d let me ride Flora?” Laudna asks quietly, tilting her head a little to the left.
“Sure! If you want to, I mean.”
Laudna hesitates a beat, looks up into the gentle face of the horse. She’s ridden horses before, once, a long time ago, a different lifetime she keeps shut into a corner of her brain to stop herself from breaking . Way back. When she was beautifully alive and wonderfully loved.
“Oh, I do! I do want to,” Laudna nods, and Imogen shoots her a tiny sad look that Laudna would have missed if she needed to blink as much as the average (or rather, alive ) person.
She doesn’t though, so she sees it, and it doesn’t make any sense, but a split second later and it’s been replaced by the soft, kind look that Laudna likes so much, so she tries her hardest not to dwell on it.
Laudna knows that this feeling she gets sometimes when she looks at Imogen cannot result in anything good. If she was to act on it, which she shouldn’t, won’t, can’t , at best it would end in a polite rejection. At worst it would end in Laudna having to flee, once again, this place that’s just starting to feel like it could be home-shaped.
(It’s not like there hasn’t been anybody , in all of her years on the road. There have been people, far and few between, who sought a body beneath them and weren’t at all fussy how warm it felt beneath their fingers. There have been people who were fascinated with her, whose fascination turned hungry. And once or twice, in the long blur of loneliness, there have been people who cared. People who Laudna let herself entertain some sort of future with. It never lasted. These things never do.)
Even if Imogen, who really, Laudna hardly knows, didn’t reject her by some kind of miracle, this is not what she deserves. Laudna knows enough to know that Imogen deserves the sort of wonderful life she could never have herself. Not a life shackled down by a monster.
So she pushes the thought away, ties it down at the back of her mind with everything else she categorises as don’t think about it .
“You ready, Laud?” Imogen asks once Flora is tacked up, stands back and dusts off her hands on the dark cotton of her leggings.
“I think so,” Laudna says, takes a big, steadying breath in.
“Ok. Put one foot in the stirrup,” Imogen guides her, holds the polished metal of the stirrup still, “your hands here,” she gestures to the front of the saddle, “and pull yourself up.”
She does, clumsily, too slowly, not a pinch as gracefully as she’s seen Imogen doing it, but she does it all the same, winds up atop the horse even though her legs are sort of shaky.
“I did it,” she breathes, unable to stop herself from beaming down at Imogen, who has wound the guide rope through her hands again, looks back up at her with pride.
“Yeah, you did!” Imogen half laughs, that music that Laudna likes so much. “C’mon. I’ll lead you round the paddock out back, let you get a feel for it.”
Laudna nods, lets Imogen lead them away, getting used to the old familiarity of the rise and fall of a horse’s gait. It dusts something off in her memories, opens up a part of her she’d long since closed off.
After, when Imogen offers her a gloved hand to help her down, Laudna holds on for a moment longer than necessary. Imogen does not pull away. Laudna files this one as a good day .
3.
The scream crests across the early morning dew-covered fields, hitting Laudna like a physical blow. She’s not even supposed to be here this early, couldn’t sleep, figured it wouldn’t hurt to show up for her shift an hour early and get started on some of the lighter chores. It’s barely even light, the sun’s rays just starting to stretch across the land, warmth tickling Laudna’s cheeks.
It had been peaceful, to be alone amongst the greenery at the very start of a new day. Now there’s adrenaline circling through her veins, her slow heart still good for something.
There is screaming. And she’s only known her for a little under two months, but Laudna spends enough time listening to her voice to know that it’s Imogen.
Laudna isn’t a very fast runner, the muscles in her legs wasted away considerably after decades of technical death, but she makes it over the fence and down the hill towards the source of the sound in record time, lungs burning, legs screaming.
She makes it just in time to find something quite inexplicable. There are two men standing near Imogen, another struggling to close the door of a large blue van parked on the very edge of the field, one knocked out cold on the grass, and Laudna sees red until, just as they properly come into view, Imogen reaches out her hands, and one of the men falls in a sting of purple lightning.
Imogen stares at her hands. Both of the other men stare at Imogen. Laudna runs faster.
She doesn’t mean to do what happens next. As a general rule of thumb, she tries to appear as non-threatening as possible. Anything to prolong her stays. But all she sees, as the remaining two men shake themselves out of their daze and start to move towards Imogen again, is shadowy tendrils of black beginning to obscure her vision.
By the time she reaches them, seconds later, her bones have cracked and snapped her body into something new, stretching and dripping ichor and snarling. She is the stuff of nightmares. The monster . And Imogen, surely, will never want to go near her again.
But at least she’ll be safe.
“What the f-” the tallest man still standing whips around to face Laudna, skin draining of blood.
“What are you ?” The other man asks, voice quaking.
In two seconds flat, Laudna has them both pressed against the side of the van, faces pushed into the metal, nails biting at the flesh of their cheeks. She’s vaguely aware of Imogen doing something with the van, doesn’t dare to look her way. She doesn’t want to see the look of terror on her face. Doesn’t want that to be the last memory she has of her.
“ Leave ,” Laudna hisses, making sure to push her words deep into their minds at the same time, watching the horror cross their features. “ Leave here and never return. ”
She can feel it, the cold dread filling them up, drops them unceremoniously to the ground, ichor from her fingertips dripping down their faces.
One of them turns and vomits in the muddy tire-tracks, and then he’s stumbling up and dragging one of the knocked-out men into the van with him. The other one copies, diving into the back and slamming the door, and ten seconds later all four of them are driving out of sight.
Laudna’s relieved. Of course she’s relieved, having gotten out of the situation without her or Imogen getting hurt. But she’s also too scared to turn around, to see if Imogen is even still there, whether she’s run back to the house to fetch her father or a pitchfork.
And then, “Laudna?” The voice comes soft and unsure. But it isn’t afraid.
Laudna takes a deep breath in, looks up from the puddle of vomit, decides she cannot avoid this forever. She focuses, cracks her joints back to their usual position, shrinks away the shadows, wipes stray ichor from her eyes with her sleeve. She looks as normal as she’s going to get. Finally, slowly, she turns.
“I’m sorry,” she half whimpers, “I’m sorry, Imogen. I didn’t want them to hurt you, I-”
“Hey,” Imogen’s stepping towards her, holding one hand out tentatively towards her face. She holds it for a beat, looks between it and Laudna’s face, still uncertain, still not afraid. Finally, she must win her internal battle, cups Laudna’s cheek gently, warm and kind. “Don’t say sorry, Laud. That was - it was incredible .”
Laudna blinks. “What? It’s terrifying. Horrifying, I’m - I’m a monster .”
“ No ,” Imogen says with force, “you’re not a monster. You’re special .”
Imogen pulls her hand back slowly, drops it to her side, does not step back to widen the space between them. Laudna’s heart compresses in her chest, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think something miraculous was happening inside of her, something like coming back to life.
“Did you, uh…” Imogen trails off, looking down at the scuffs on her laced up boots, “what did you see?” She whispers.
Laudna knows what she’s asking, without having to be asked it.
“I saw you, scared, and defending yourself,” she answers quickly, not leaving any little hesitations for Imogen to misinterpret.
She looks back up, meets Laudna’s eyes. “You saw the - what I did?”
“Yes,” Laudna nods, “it was marvellous, Imogen.”
Imogen’s eyes widen, face a mirror of what Laudna imagines hers was like a moment ago. Somehow, they share this. Each of them understands what it’s like to carry a terrible secret, to have others fear you, to fear yourself . Understands how it is to live a life on broken glass, waiting, waiting for the next thing to shatter.
“Everybody’s scared of me, Laud,” Imogen confesses, and there are tears springing into her eyes, a thin sheen atop the violet.
“Imogen,” Laudna can’t stop herself from taking that final step forward, wrapping Imogen in her arms.
She knows she’s too bony, all angular and wrong, but if everybody’s afraid of Imogen, maybe it’s been a long time since anybody has held her like this. If she’s anything like Laudna, she’ll have almost forgotten what it feels like, to just be held by somebody who cares, without any agenda other than comfort.
Imogen leans into Laudna, wraps her arms around her back, and Laudna rocks them, gently, in the half light of the morning, carding one hand slowly through Imogen’s hair. It feels right, holding her like this, and Laudna knows better than to give in to any little indulgences like this, knows that more often than not they end in heartbreak, but she swears, this is only for Imogen. For the sad, beautiful girl with lightning at her fingertips.
Later, after they’re done standing together in the little thicket of trees, after Imogen has reported the incident to her father and the police have been called, though nothing was stolen in the end, Imogen invites Laudna back to the bottom field to help repair the fence.
There’s a quiet understanding between them now, something lifted within them, floodgates opened.
“I’m technically not alive, you know,” Laudna says, holding a wooden slat in place as Imogen brings down a hammer, muscles rippling in her strong arms.
She half expects disgust at that, for it to be the final straw, but Imogen just looks at her with something akin to wonder, “I can see inside people’s heads. I’m not great at stopping it.”
“I have a dead woman living in mine.”
“I have these - these nightmares.”
“I sweat ichor.”
“I’m afraid. All the time.”
“So am I.”
They stop, fence secured in place, look up to face each other, everything out in the open. Imogen smiles, and the sun tangles in her hair, ignites all of the different shades of lilac and lavender and heather. Laudna smiles back and wonders if this is what it’s like, after all these years, to have a friend.
4.
Laudna gathers, as she grows closer and closer with Imogen over the next few weeks, that one of the only things she loves anywhere close to as much as her horse is her truck. It’s an old Chevy pick-up, baby blue paint faded with time and the hot Gelvaan sun, the metal all bordered with rust. It splutters to life, each time sounding like it might be the last, but still, it persists. Imogen explains that it used to belong to her daddy, that he taught her how to drive in it (“stick shift or nothing, kid”), a rare few months since the purple began to wind its way up her arms when he actively chose to spend time with her.
That’s all it takes for Laudna to understand that the truck is not just a truck. The truck is a web of memories, a reminder that even though it’s hard right now, Imogen is still loved. It is a promise that her father still cares about her, even if that looks different than it used to.
So, when it thunks out of life in a pothole on a dirt track on the hottest day of the year so far, Laudna feels terrible .
“It’s ok!” Imogen insists, after a full minute of stuttery engine, steam beginning to stretch from the front of the truck up towards the sky.
Laudna’s panicking, just a little bit, knowing that she’s all but wrecked the second great love of Imogen’s life, hands flying to her head, tugging at her hair, stupid, stupid, stupid .
“Honey, honey, it’s ok, I promise you,” Imogen repeats, louder this time, but just as calm. Her warm hands find Laudna’s, pull her fingers free of the tangled mass of hair, squeeze them gently between her own.
Laudna barely even has time to register the fact that Imogen’s called her honey , one of the little pet names that’s been falling from her lips more and more often these days when she speaks to Laudna. Her stomach flips , every time. And every time, she has to remind herself it’s just what Imogen does, just the kind of person she is. Lovely to everybody.
“S’not the first time this has happened, don’t worry. Ain’t your fault. Let’s see if we can get ourselves out of this,” Imogen says, pragmatic, lets go of Laudna’s hands after one final reassuring squeeze, unclips her seatbelt, jumps down from the passenger seat.
Laudna follows, regretting letting Imogen try to teach her how to drive stick. Laudna has not driven in decades, explained as much to Imogen, liked the way her eyes lit up when she explained that she wanted to teach her in the truck so much that Laudna had no choice but to say yes.
It’s a little dangerous, how much Laudna likes making her happy. How much she craves that spark in her eye, the uptick of her lips. How the ichor or blood (she’s never sure where one ends and the other begins) in her veins begins to simmer when anything takes that away, makes Imogen unhappy.
Laudna watches her, the pale blue of her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, twisting something under the hood of the truck, some kind of black substance already smearing her hands, wishes one of the powers she had somehow developed when her eyes tore open in the pile of bodies was being able to click her fingers and fix machinery, fix this, make Imogen smile again.
“There’s a toolbox under the back seat, Laud,” Imogen says, face still buried in wiring, “could you hand it to me?”
Laudna does, struggling a little to lift the rattling metal box. Imogen is all muscle and sinew, stretching beneath the skin of her forearms, and she takes the box with ease, sets it down and pulls out a wrench. Laudna watches, wrings her hands together, hopes she hasn’t broken something Imogen loves irreparably.
After a half minute more of fiddling, she stands up, dusts her hands together, looks at the truck suspiciously.
“Try the ignition?” Imogen asks, and Laudna nods, dives quickly for the driver’s side door.
The truck stutters again, pauses, and then promptly clunks once more, before falling quiet.
“Ugh,” Imogen drops her head to her hands, “ok. I’m callin’ it. We need help.”
After Imogen’s done calling her father, the girls move to the back of the truck, the air too stifling to stay inside, the small breeze the only respite outside, despite the fact that it’s almost completely dark.
They start by sitting, side by side, legs dangling off of the back of the truck bed, close enough that their bodies are just touching. Close enough that it’s a little intoxicating. Too close and yet not quite enough, terrifying and exciting all rolled into one.
Ten minutes later they are lying on their backs on an old picnic blanket Imogen had in amongst all of the junk in the back footwell, spread out over the truck bed, heads pillowed on hands. When Laudna looks to the right, her nose is almost close enough to Imogen to brush at her skin, and if she just rolled over a little on her right side, she could loop one arm around her waist, and -
But no . Imogen is her friend, she reminds herself. It’s been so long since she’s had one of those. She will not ruin this by going looking for more. Imogen deserves so much better than this, than her, than a life of transience and hatred and fear.
“You’re awful quiet. What’re you thinkin’ about?” Imogen asks, after a stretch of silence, snapping Laudna out of her internal turmoil.
“Oh! I, um, the - the weather. The weather. It really is very warm here,” she lies, quickly and probably, she thinks, unconvincingly.
“The weather?” Imogen raises her eyebrows, turning to face Laudna too, and Gods , she can make out all of the ridges on her lips, a little chapped from the heat, the red blooms where she’s scraped her teeth over them in moments of uncertainty or anxiety.
“Yes,” Laudna swallows. “I spent last summer up north. I’m not quite used to this.” It’s not a lie , exactly, this early summer heat isn’t something she’s experienced in a while. But it definitely wasn’t what she was thinking about.
“Right,” Imogen says, like she’s not totally convinced, turns back to the sky.
Laudna mirrors her, looking up at the swirls of black and blue and the pinpricks of white and the dual light cast from the moons.
“You like it here?” Imogen asks next.
“Yes,” Laudna answers without preamble. It’s not something she has to think about for even a second. It might be her favorite place she’s ever been, in fact, and that has nothing to do with the small town community or the heat of the sun or the daily rhythms of her work.
“Why?”
You, you, you, “it’s peaceful.”
“Hmm,” Imogen hums, “I guess that’s true.”
“Why do you ask?”
Imogen doesn’t answer straight away, night air only filled with the sounds of crickets and somewhere far away, a coyote howling into the night.
“I’m thinkin’ of leaving.”
Laudna turns to her quickly, pushes herself up on one elbow to get a proper look, finds violet eyes thick with sadness, delicate lips pressed into a thin line.
Laudna swallows down what she really wants to say, the way she wants to beg her not to. “Where would you go?” She settles for instead.
“‘M not sure. I just…I need answers. These nightmares, the things goin’ on in my head... I need answers and I need to get away from - from everyone starin’ at me like I’m about to combust, or hurt them, or… I don’t know. Nothin’ good’s gonna happen if I stay here.”
Her voice is small and sad and far away, and it’s not like Laudna hasn’t noticed, how Imogen gets that lost look when she thinks nobody’s paying attention to her.
If leaving here is going to fix that, Laudna will be the first one to help her pack, throw a dart at a map to choose her destination. Even if in doing so, it’ll shatter her heart into thousands of tiny little shards, if she’ll feel them cutting up her insides every time she moves for the rest of time or until her body gives up and starts to decay for real.
“Alright,” Laudna says, and swallows it all, everything she wants to say, her admission that staying here loses every ounce of its appeal if there is no more Imogen here to tether her. “Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need?”
Imogen looks at her, blinks, parts her lips just slightly, and then, “I- I think… no, it’s fine, Laud. I’m just…” she swallows, Laudna catching the hard bob of her throat, “I’m just afraid, I guess. I’ve never left the country. Never been out there by myself, y’know?”
“Oh, Imogen,” Laudna reaches down gently, brushes a rogue strand of hair away from Imogen’s face, “you’ll be wonderful, darling,” she whispers. “You can do anything .”
“No, I can’t,” Imogen half laughs, looking up at Laudna, pupils huge in the low light.
“You can. You’re so much stronger than you know.” She notices, then, as a cloud moves east in the sky, stops partially obscuring Catha, that there’s a smear of oil at Imogen’s temple. “You have something-” she leans down, swipes over the oil with the pad of her thumb. It barely moves, so she changes tact, brings her thumb to her mouth, sucks at it to wet it.
If the breeze was a little louder in the grass, Laudna would not have heard Imogen’s sharp intake of breath. But in the almost-stillness, she catches it, freezes, finds Imogen looking at her with something like a hunger .
Laudna is torn, half wanting to act like nothing is happening, half wanting to lean down and claim Imogen’s lips, kiss her the way she deserves to be kissed, run her fingers through her hair and leave marks on her neck and, and -
There’s a low roar in the distance, the crunching of tyres on dirt, and the white glow of headlights peeks over the top of the hill.
It’s Imogen’s father, of course, and Laudna backs up like she’s been electrocuted, wiggles down until she’s jumping off of the back of the truck. The moment passes. The moment should have never happened at all. Imogen, Laudna tells herself for the hundredth time, deserves so much more than she can possibly give.
5.
Imogen’s daddy’s birthday falls on the last working day of the week, and he invites anyone working on the farm that day out to the bar in town after shift. Laudna’s surprised, when Imogen tells her, that the invite extends to her. It’s not like she's close with any of the other farmhands, or Imogen’s father himself, but they’re pleasant enough to one another. There are good morning s and thank you s and even sometimes a few how was your weekend s.
Laudna isn’t stupid, she knows that she makes most of them uneasy. She guesses that her closeness with the bosses’ daughter helps keep them civil.
“Really? I can come, too?” Laudna checks, that morning, half leaning on a pitchfork as she cleans out the pig pens with Imogen.
“You’re invited too,” she confirms, “daddy said everybody. ”
Historically, these kind of invitations have come with a subtext - everybody except for Laudna, but Imogen’s looking at her with hopeful eyes, and she sounds so sure.
“‘Sides,” Imogen continues, when Laudna is quiet, “ I want you there. And I have to go ‘cos he’s my daddy. So,” she shrugs, and that’s that.
Laudna doesn’t have time to go home and change before they head to the bar, but Imogen offers to lend her something, leads her by the hand up through the farmhouse to her little corner bedroom with the bay windows, wrenches open the closet and lets Laudna choose whatever she likes. Imogen’s shorter than her, but Laudna’s thinner, so most things seem to fit ok. She winds up in a pretty grey dress that falls just past her knees, flows beautifully when she twirls, and best of all lets her carry the sweet, soft smell of Imogen with her all evening.
“Does it look alright?” Laudna asks, before they leave.
“You look beautiful, honey,” Imogen tells her, stretches up on tiptoe to tuck an errant strand of black hair behind Laudna’s ear.
She wants to untuck it, all of it, screen her face behind it so that Imogen doesn’t notice the deeper grey of her cheeks, catch her biting back the smile threatening to overtake her. It’s been a long, long time since anybody has called her beautiful. It’s been even longer since anybody’s meant it.
Colton’s is the only bar in Gelvaan proper, across from the only restaurant, beside the tiny bowling alley that Imogen swears is a front for something. The bar is small, like most things out here, one room with a handful of tables, a smattering of regulars taking up residence on the barstools, a pool table in the centre and an old jukebox that Laudna notices only works when smacked.
The two of them find a booth in the corner, peeling black pleather, a way away from the rest of the group, and one hour and a steady stream of tepid beer later, they’re both a little tipsy. It doesn’t take much, Laudna barely ninety pounds when soaking wet, Imogen very rarely drinking and having a low tolerance.
It’s nice, Laudna thinks, the warm glow she feels, can’t pinpoint quite whether it’s from the alcohol or the proximity to Imogen, who touches her more with every drink. It starts with their sides pressing together, and then Imogen stretches an arm around the back of Laudna, resting on the booth back but touching her hair and her shoulder and the top of her arm. She loops her booted-foot with Laudna’s, rests her head on her shoulder, and by the time the night is fully drawing in, she’s leaning against Laudna’s chest, giving her no option but to wrap an arm around Imogen’s waist.
She’s warm and comfortable, and holding her just feels right . Like Laudna’s hands, which have trembled and taken and hurt, cut and chapped and split, have been in the wrong place her whole life. Like they were made for this, holding this girl, protecting her, giving and caring and loving.
“Are you alright?” Laudna asks, leaning close, whispering low, after a few minutes of stillness. Her nose touches Imogen’s soft hair, all jasmine and lilacs, sunshine and the desert dust snared up in there after the heat of the day.
Imogen nods against her, “just tired.”
“Want to go home?”
Imogen’s quiet for a moment, thinks. “Yeah. Ok,” she says, shifts to sit up. Laudna misses her instantly, feels the absence of her weight, moves to wrap her long fingers around Imogen’s wrist instead, acts like it’s for support rather than selfish reasons.
“I’ll walk you,” Laudna tells her.
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” Laudna says, and that’s the end of that.
The bar spits them into the darkness of the Gelvaan Main Street, a little light spilling out of the other buildings, the distant sounds of voices, but it fades into nothingness when they turn into the back streets.
There is something Laudna’s been wanting to ask, and this evening is beginning to feel more and more like the right time.
It’s been weeks, and Imogen hasn’t brought up her leaving again. Laudna isn’t sure if it’s because it was just a fleeting thought, something she was never really serious about, or because she just hasn’t made the plans yet. Asking hasn’t felt like an option. Asking makes it real, and Laudna isn’t ready, in any shape or form, to lose Imogen.
But she has to know what’s going to happen, whether she should start the terrible process of a goodbye already.
“Have you thought any more about it? Leaving?” Laudna asks finally, trying to play it off casually.
Imogen doesn’t speak right away, looks up at Laudna as they walk on down the street, hands knocking as they go. It’s dark and quiet, almost feels like they’re alone out here, the only ones left on the earth, and Laudna thinks that she wouldn’t mind that, being here with just Imogen. No more stares, no more running. And no more loneliness, either.
And then they turn the corner, and Laudna can make out the trails of light way off in the distance, the interstate cutting the country in two, and up above, the green flash of an airplane, flying people far away. People like to move, she knows. Maybe it’s more fun when you have a choice, can stop anytime, settle back to the mundane.
Laudna’s about to speak again, the silence having stretched on too long, about to apologise for asking, but then Imogen stops, so she copies.
“You know,” Imogen says, turning a little so she’s facing Laudna head on, “the first thing I noticed about you was the music.” Her words are just the tiniest bit slurred, smudged around the edges, though Laudna’s sure hers are too.
Laudna tilts her head, “the music?”
“Mmhmm,” she taps her temple, “in here. Sometimes it’s hard to - to shut out the thoughts. And your mind’s like music. It’s the first one I’ve found that doesn’t… doesn’t hurt .”
Laudna has questions. Mainly, she’s worrying that Imogen only spends time with her because it’s peaceful, after so long struggling to be with anybody else. Loneliness can drive a person to some strange things. Like hanging around with the dead girl, perhaps.
“It’s beautiful ,” Imogen continues, using that word in reference to Laudna again. It feels strange, wrong, ill-fitting. “Everythin’ about you, Laud. Beautiful.”
Her heart thrums in her chest, “don’t be silly, Imogen,” she scoffs, plays it off as a joke, knows that she is the furthest thing from beautiful.
“‘M not,” she shakes her head, steps closer, “I wish you could see you like I see you.”
“No,” Laudna frowns, “I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you. So strong, so brave, so kind,” she hesitates, lowers her voice before she speaks again, “and you’re the beautiful one.”
Imogen ducks her head, cheeks colored red under the harsh white of the streetlights.
“Come with me,” she says, quietly.
“What?”
“Come with me,” Imogen looks up, meets Laudna’s eyes with a blazing intensity, “I’ve thought more about where I wanna go. Or at least, where I could start. But I - I don’t wanna do this by myself. And not just ‘cos I’m afraid. I’ve never met anybody like you, Laudna. You make me feel like - like me again.”
Laudna studies her, watches for a crack in her resolve, anything that says she isn’t completely serious. She does not find it.
“And I know it’s a lot to ask, and maybe you wanna stay here, in which case, that’s ok, I’d get it. But if-”
“Yes,” Laudna interrupts her, stops her in the middle of the nervous wringing of her lightning-brushed hands together.
Imogen frowns, “huh?”
“Yes! I’ll come with you, Imogen. I’d like nothing more.”
Imogen’s lips part, eyebrows raise, “you mean that? You really mean that, Laud?”
“Yes,” she nods, beaming quite suddenly, filled with joy, uncontainable, “of course I’ll come. I’ll help you! We can figure it all out together.”
Imogen looks at her a beat longer, bites at the corner of her lip, and then she’s laughing, filling up the street with music of her own creation. Imogen might have been drawn to Laudna because of the music in her mind, but Laudna was drawn to her because of that laugh , her need to hear it every day, the inexplicable addiction that is Imogen Temult.
“You’ll come?” Imogen asks once more, through her laughter.
“I’ll come,” Laudna’s laughing too.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
They are laughing, standing across from each other in the street, a little drunk and stupid happy, Imogen doubling over a little, reaching for Laudna’s hands to hold herself up. Laudna grasps them, steps closer, wishes she could freeze this moment, bottle up the feeling, look at the way it swirls around in glass like a snow globe.
Imogen stops laughing, slowly, stands up. Laudna hadn’t realised how close they’d be, face-to-face. She stops laughing too, looks into the violet of Imogen’s eyes. The circles underneath aren’t so deep today. There are so many freckles dotted across her cheeks that some of them join up. Her glasses are crooked.
There is something between them, a tension Laudna swears she could cut with a knife. But it’s not the bad kind, the kind that makes her hair stand up at the back of her neck before an altercation. It’s something like magic, a curling in her stomach, a stuttery feeling in her chest. It takes away her breath, and then she doesn’t need it anymore, because Imogen’s lips are on her own, and she can’t imagine ever having the strength to break away from her to breathe again. Having Imogen fill up her senses is so, so much more important than air.
Imogen kisses hungrily, and Laudna kisses back with equal desperation, moves her hands to Imogen’s waist, feels Imogen’s fingers tangle in her hair, one hand pulling her closer by the sharp jut of her hip. Laudna opens her mouth wider, deepens the kiss, swipes her tongue over the chapped landscape of Imogen’s lips, the way she’s been longing to do for months , tastes the remnants of Imogen’s drink and copper and sandalwood, static electricity, of the soft florals she seems to be drenched in.
Imogen whines softly and the need Laudna feels sinks lower, pools in the pit of her belly, arms winding around Imogen until there’s no space between them at all. Imogen splays her fingers at the back of Laudna’s neck, tugs her down, and Laudna’s just starting to wonder how far they can get, out here in the street, when there’s the rumble of a car one street over, and they spring apart.
Laudna worries for all of a second, afraid that Imogen is going to regret this, leave, wake up tomorrow and tell Laudna it was a mistake.
And then Imogen looks right at her, smiles shyly, and says, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a real long time.”
Relief floods Laudna’s body, “so have I! So have I, Imogen, but… but I - I’m not… I’m me .” She swallows, doesn’t say what she wants to, the adjectives that cross her mind, the catalogue of names she’s been chased out of villages to.
“I know,” Imogen steps closer again, takes both of Laudna’s hands in hers, “and I like you , Laud.”
“Imogen,” she squeezes her hands, “life with me isn’t - it’s not easy.”
“I left easy behind a long time ago. Can’t ever go back. It’s easier with you, actually. You get it. You get me. And I don’t wanna do this with anyone else.”
Laudna looks at Imogen, up and down, from the scuffed brown boots on her feet to the soft white of her dress, her tan skin, the grazes on her knees, the lightning marring her skin, the curve of her nose, the most vibrantly purple hair she’s ever laid eyes on. She pictures, for a moment, telling Imogen that they can’t do this. It would probably be kinder in the long run, let her live as ordinary a life as possible. She might have magic now, but she’s still young and pretty and so very alive. She pictures dropping Imogen’s hands and disappearing forever.
And then she allows herself to picture the alternative, to think about leaning in to capture Imogen’s lips again. About lazy mornings waking up beside her, about hearing the symphony of her laugh each day, holding her hand whenever she likes, supporting each other through bad times and good.
Maybe it would be selfish to do this, and Laudna is not a selfish person by nature. She is kind , because she knows what it’s like to feel pure terror, to have nothing and nobody, to feel the last bit of air leave your lungs for the last time. And maybe it would be selfish, but right now, Imogen wants this too. Right now, they’re the only people in Exandria who quite understand one another. They’re both lost and learned and grown so much, whether they were ready for it or not.
And Gods, Laudna has been aimless for so long. This, whatever she’s at the very beginning of with Imogen, means something. Means everything. She decides, in the space of a heartbeat, to give herself this. Something for her, just this once. Or, no. Something for both of them. Something beautiful.
Laudna leans down, and kisses Imogen for the second time. Imogen kisses back, and it feels, after all this time, like peace.
Four days later they pile their worldly possessions into the back of Imogen’s beat up old truck and watch the farm shrink into nothingness in the rear view mirror. Imogen tangles her fingers up with Laudna’s over the centre console, and they drive west, to find the answers, or nothingness, or something in between. Either way, they’ll have each other.