Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

a place in the clouds, a foundation of stone/many precede and many will follow/a young girl’s dreams no longer hollow/it takes the shape of a place out west/but what it holds for her, she hasn’t yet guessed

‘wide open spaces’ by the chicks

—

The day Imogen leaves her family home, she’s decided she’s more than ready.

She does love her home; Whitestone has been an excellent place to grow up. She spent her days in beautiful hallways, eating mostly delicious food and getting to learn about any subject in the library that she pleased. She learned how to hunt, even if she wasn’t that great, and she studied the ins and outs of almost any magic she wanted to.

Still, Imogen is ready to get out of this place. There’s an entire world outside of the Whitestone walls, and plenty of things for her to learn. Not everywhere works like Whitestone, and she wants to see that. Even moreso, she wants to see a life outside of her family’s eye.

Don’t get her wrong; Imogen knows her family loves her— that’s never been a question. Her childhood is a mirage of sepia toned memories, holding her mother’s wooden bow in her hands for the first time, reading books on the plush rug of her father’s study and smiling to herself about the fond looks he would send her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. But Imogen has also grown up feeling like the family outsider.

See, everybody had favorites. Gwendolyn was her father’s, the family’s youngest darling who got whatever she asked of anybody, Imogen included. For her mother, it was Wolfe. She adored them all, of course, in her very particular way, but she and Wolfe had the same roguish grin— Imogen could never begrudge her mother for that, when she’d spent so long missing the feeling of having someone who had matched her in that way. And everybody adored Vesper: Aunt Cass, the people of the castle, the citizens of Whitestone. Her gentle grace, warm smile, and smart tongue made her the favorite of the town. 

Leona and Dan might not have had a particular attachment with the adults in their family, but they had each other. They weren’t the twins of the bunch, and the year-and-a-half difference between them made that clear, but the pair of them had an understanding the others didn’t seem to breach, Wolfe included.

Imogen loves all her siblings, and they love her back in turn.

But Imogen… Imogen is nobody’s favorite.

Still, she is loved, and the first de Rolo child to leave the nest. Vesper was of age, of course, but had elected to stay in Whitestone and continue to study under her father. It was a well-known truth that as the oldest, and the most devoted, she was next in-line to rule Whitestone. Traveling on the road had much knowledge to grant, Vesper said, and maybe she would find it one day, but her duty was to her home until she had learned all she would need to.

When Imogen makes it to the dining room in the morning she sets out, the place is abuzz with emotions. Her youngest two siblings are still missing, but the rest of their family has found their way downstairs already. The five of them are all crowded around the dining table, the smaller one that they only use for family meals, and a buzz of other people's thoughts wash over Imogen as she enters.

Her oldest sister has already taken her seat at their father’s right side, and as she tugs at the end of her braid, Imogen can feel the rise of emotions coming off of Vesper. With time, studying, and the help of her aunts, Imogen’s gotten pretty good at putting up her mental walls— the last thing she needs for her anxiety is a running play-by-play of everything her family thinks about her every movement, nor does she want to hear some of her mother’s more… colorful thoughts. At this point, her norm has reached the level of only sensing the most surface level of thought, usually in tone rather than actual verbiage. It gets harder to keep that level of block up the more overwhelmed she gets, or the more people around. Most days, however, it’s a gentle buzz of noise that doesn’t block out whatever’s going on in her own head.

Vesper’s thoughts are, much like she is, tempered. As the oldest, and the heir to their father’s title, she’s learned to hold herself with a certain dignity and grace some of their siblings haven’t mastered yet. There’s a frayed edge to it, though, that floats off her. Imogen supposes it’s fair; she’s the second oldest, the closest to Vesper in age. They’ve got a good four years between them, the oldest jump in any age save for the distance between Dan and the surprise that was Gwendolyn. With Imogen gone, that will jump to almost six for Vesper and the twins. Being the oldest, at times, has burdens to bear, and Vesper will have to carry them herself now.

Across from her, Leona is swirling the water around her glass in circles. She’s quiet, and so are the thoughts that come from her, but she’s always like that. Beside her, Wolfe is much the same, but that’s the one that’s out of character. Wolfe, at his most core, is a force of nature. Bold and brash, with charming words and a hot temper, Wolfe is always feeling something. Now, though, his head is quiet and a bit morose.

Her father is much like the twins, but Imogen doesn’t need to tap into anything to tell whatever he feels is overshadowing with anxiety. His movements betray him; he’s evolved from simply cleaning his glasses to polishing each of his his unused utensils with a cloth napkin, as if they hadn’t been meticulously cleaned and dried by the staff already.

Her mother is the only one who manages to seem serene, but even with her walls up and tightening, Imogen can feel that same anxiety that skims the top of her brain. From her position at the second head of the table, she’s the first to notice Imogen enter the room, and she smiles.

“Good morning, darling,” she greets, resting her hands on the table. “Are you excited?”

“Very much so,” Imogen replies, stepping into the room. “I finished packing last night.”

Whatever her mother would have said in response is cut off by Wolfe as he climbs to his feet once he notices his sister’s entrance. “Here, Imogen, let me get your chair,” he offers.

It’s clearly a set up for something he’s going to say, but Imogen acquiesces him anyway. Wolfe rounds the table as she reaches her chair, and he pulls it back proper for her, hands on the sides of the backrest. The perfect picture of a Whitestone gentleman, until he leans down to speak to her.

“For you, my darling, electric sister,” he says, wearing that sly grin of his even though the comment earns him their father’s warning gaze.

Imogen only smiles back, eyes glinting as she takes a seat. “Why thank you, my darling, pimpled brother,” she replies, giving a pointed look to the red bump that’s forming on his cheek. The expression on his face turns into a frown, hand coming up to poke at the spot. When he feels it coming up under the skin, he sticks his tongue out at her and shoves her chair under the table. She laughs as he grumbles towards his own spot.

“Dearests,” their mother says, as Wolfe drops back into his spot across from Imogen. “This is our last family meal for what might be a very long time. Can we all make attempts to be kind to each other?”

“Sorry, mother,” both of them chorus at the same time. Despite it, he offers her a stink-eye from across the table, and Imogen fights the urge to snort.

Love you, she projects to him, half-teasing and half-genuine. He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips tells her he’s not mad.

That’s the thing with Wolfe— he gives out hits, and in this family, he had to get used to getting them right back.

Their father sighs, once, at the antics, but he makes no comment. He’s moved back to cleaning his glasses for the moment, but once he props them back onto his face, he turns to Imogen.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” He asks. “Did you remember to check your bowstrings?”

Imogen nods. “Yes.”

“And you’ve remembered enough arrows, as well? Just because you can use magic doesn’t mean you don’t need other means of defending yourself.”

“Yes, father.”

“And have you remembered an extra pair of—”

“Percival,” her mother warns from the other end of the table, fond.

“Right,” he says, and he gives a thin smile. “I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”

“Just a bit, dad,” Leona says, matter-of-fact. 

Despite it, Imogen smiles. As neurotic as her father could get about these kinds of things, it was always done with a measure of love. He wasn’t the most expressive with words, at times, but it was so clear in almost everything he did that he loved them. Imogen would miss it.

And speaking of another thing Imogen would miss—

Gwen comes into the room bouncing, her cheerful expression already fixed onto her face. She's always been full of energy since the moment she was born, but somewhere between ten and eleven, her movements had gained a certain level of grace. When she entered the dining room, it was almost like she danced to her seat.

“Good morning!” She crows, and brightens even further when they all returned the greeting in turn.

The youngest de Rolo clambers into her spot next to their mother. Once settled, she turns to her sister, and the bright look on her face dims slightly.

“Good morning, Imogen,” she says. Even though her voice has softened, it’s still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. “I am very sad you’re leaving today, I’ll miss you.”

“Not as much as I’ll miss you, little deer,” Imogen replies, reaching out to run a hand over the top of Gwen’s head. Her younger sister giggles, leaning into the touch, before turning to their parents.

“Where’s Dan?” She asks, as if their brother isn’t always the last one to the table.

“Probably fixing his hair for the third time this morning,” Wolfe remarks, and then winces as he is, more than likely, kicked by his twin under the table. It doesn’t go unnoticed; their mother sighs.

“Sorry,” the twins both reply, not unlike Wolfe and Imogen had when they’d been chided less than two minutes ago.

The rest of breakfast is filled by warm, but a bit inane, conversation. Dan slips into the room less than a minute before food is served, and Wolfe’s suspicions were all but confirmed by the glossy, slightly frizzed look it got when he overbrushed it before leaving his room.

Imogen is quiet throughout the affair. She’s never been the most talkative of the bunch, not when there’s Wolfe and Gwendolyn to contend with, but today she speaks less than usual. Not for a lack of interest, however. She’s ready to go, really; she’s excited. But her family, despite her occasional outsider feelings, is the warmest constant she’s ever had. For the last bit of time she gets them all together like this, she wants to soak it in.

They may be a lot to handle, and a right mess to keep organized with so many of them, but they’re Imogen’s family. She’s never loved anything this way before.

—

They all break to do their different things after breakfast, and Imogen’s parents trail up to her room after her.

There’s no heartfelt goodbyes with words, but the next hour and a half feel like one. Her mother checks over her bow, and inspects each of her arrows one by one, just in case anything is flawed. They won’t be— her mother strung the weapon herself, and her father made each arrow. The two of them are thorough in most things they do these days, especially when family is concerned.

Her father is the same with her bag. Imogen has a checklist, but he’s got one of his own. He goes down it as he checks through the contents of her pack, and leaves more than once to fetch something he assures her she’ll need.

For the most part, Imogen sits on her bed, enjoying the comfort of it for what will be the last time in a long while. Besides her family, that’s what she thinks she’ll miss the most. The food is no issue— she’s grown up eating fresh-hunted meat her whole life, and she’s never been picky. She won’t mind the mental peace, either, but she will miss her stack of pillows and her downy blanket.

When her parents have run out of things to check, leaving them with no other viable reason to keep her waiting, they call the whole family to gather in the front entrance. 

Saying goodbye is a family affair. She gets hugs from Dan and Leona, and a longer one from Wolfe, who holds on just a few seconds longer than the other two. Gwen is next, and she clings, but Imogen won’t begrudge her. True to character, Gwen has charmed their whole family, and Imogen isn’t immune; she presses her face to the top of her sister’s head, right between the horns, and breathes her in for a long moment.

Vesper is the last one, and her hug is the tightest. Imogen is only half an inch shorter than her, but that gap feels wider as she ducks her head to tuck it in the crook of Vesper’s neck. They stay that way for several long moments, and the warmth behind Imogen’s eyes start to well. 

There’s no way she’s making it out of this house without crying.

When they pull back, Vesper doesn’t let her go far, keeping one hand on Imogen’s face. She’s wearing that grin— not the practiced one of politics, or the gentle warmth she uses amongst more familiar company. No, it’s the one reserved for family, that drips with the earnest love Vesper has always afforded them all.

“I have something for you,” she says.

“Please tell me it isn’t another checklist,” Imogen replies. Vesper laughs, wet on the edges. Oh, she’s going to cry, too. Imogen really is leaving in tears.

“No, it’s not,” her sister assures, reaching into her pocket for something. When she finds it, she grabs one of Imogen’s hands in her own and drops what she’s holding into it.

Imogen glances down. It’s a smooth rock, blue-tinted with the sigil of Whitestone carved into it. Beneath that, there’s a V and an I inscribed.

“You got me a Sending Stone?”

“Mother wanted to, but I got mine first,” Vesper says. “Sister privilege wins out sometimes.”

Imogen takes a shaky breath to delay the inevitable. “Vesper,” she breathes, and there’s a sharp pulse of love that passes between them. 

“You use this, and you Send me whenever you need me,” her sister says, reaching out once more to wrap Imogen’s fingers around the stone. “Or even if you just want me. And I’ll Send you, too sometimes. To check in.”

Imogen’s next inhale is shaky, and the tears start to slip out. “I’m going to miss you.”

Vesper grins, her own cheeks starting to dampen. “And I’ll miss you,” she replies. “But you are going to go do something important, I know it. And you’re so smart, I know the libraries in Jrusar will be falling over themselves to help you figure out the nightmares.”

It’s the first time anybody’s brought them up today. Funny, considering that they’re half the reason Imogen is setting out in the first place. Whitestone’s libraries, and the libraries around them, have been exhausted trying to discover the connection between her magic, the dreams, and the lightning cracks that web up the skin of her fingers.

“I’ll tell you the second I learn anything, promise.”

“You better.”

Imogen pulls away, finally, with a little laugh. When she turns, the only ones left waiting for her are her parents.

She folds into her father’s arms, first. He smells the way he always does: sandalwood and gunpowder. For half a second, it feels like being six again, when he would carry her to bed after she’d fall asleep in the den. He didn't know, but the movement of him carrying up the stairs always roused her. Imogen would never say anything; it was nice to just be, her and her father, in those moments. This is like that.

“Be safe,” he says into her ear, his arms still wrapped tight around her back. “And smart. Don’t let anybody convince you to do anything you don’t want to, and trust your gut; yours is very smart, and that’s a gift you can’t ignore.”

“I know, dad. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he tells her, before releasing her into the arms of her mother beside him. Much like his had been, her embrace is familiar. Over the past twenty years, Imogen has hugged her mother thousands of time, but none of them have felt final in the way this one has. The longest she’s ever been apart from her mother is a few weeks, and trips like those were never frequent. But this could be months.

Imogen realizes in that moment that it could be years. It’s a terrifying thought.

Her mother saves all her words until she leans back, eyes skimming her face as she raises one hand to cup her daughter’s cheek.

“I love you so much, darling,” she says, and her voice aches with the truth of the words. “And so does your father, even if he is terrible at saying it aloud in more than three words. You and your siblings are our whole world. So just— be careful. After all, I grew this whole body of yours myself, and I’ll be beside myself if anything happens to it. Or you.”

With one last squeeze that pinches the skin of Imogen’s jaw, she adds: “I am so proud of you.”

Imogen swallows, nods. “I know,” she says, because she does. Her mother is not a perfect being, but she is a wonderful mother, and she has rarely lied. “I love you.”

Her mother breathes out, and Imogen realizes that the woman is crying, too. “Oh, I love you,” she repeats. “I hate seeing you go.”

“I have to—”

“You do,” her mother agrees. “I know you do. I want you to. But I hate the thought of missing you.”

“Me, too.”

Imogen allows her mother to wrap her in another hug, longer than the last. Imogen soaks her in, the way the forest seems to hang off every limb of her mother, the way she holds her children like the rest of the world is nothing to her.

And then she leaves.

Walking out the front door is the hardest part. Her parents don’t follow, and she throws one last look over her shoulder at them as it closes behind her. With it, the emotions that have been flooding off of them all dim, and her head clears until it’s just her own sadness she feels, sitting in her chest.

It gets easier with every step, though. She takes the long walk down to the rest of Whitestone in silence, and lets the quiet soothe her. When she makes it to the town in earnest, she tosses waves and few scattered goodbyes to the citizens she recognizes. Several of them wish her luck; the whole town has been known, since Vesper declared her intent to stay, that Imogen would be the first to set out. It’s just been a matter of when.

When she gets to the wall, the guards are expecting her. The gate is opened without fuss or fanfare, and Imogen watches as the road and the forest stretch out before her. She stares for a moment, at the dirt path and the trees, before she takes her first step.

At twenty years old, Imogen de Rolo steps out of the gates of Whitestone for the last time in two years, and becomes Imogen Temult.

Chapter Text

take to the sea/and open up your heart and see how far you get atop this place/and it’s a big old world we live in now/and how mighty it can be/and all this time i pictured you, standing next to me/so we could go find things we’ve never seen

‘just one day’ by the mighty oaks

—

The worst part about traveling is that Imogen’s feet hurt.

Really, that’s it— she misses her family, sure, but that’s overwritten by her excitement. Eating dried meats and whatever else will last on the road isn’t a bother, and she loves the chances she’s getting to see the world around her, even if she hasn’t made it far past Whitestone as of yet. Sleeping on the ground and in various inns isn’t as much of a burden as thought it would be, either.

So traveling, really, just means a lot of pain for Imogen’s feet.

It isn’t as hard as her mother’s stories always made it sound, but she supposes she got a better start: a well-packed bag, hardy weapon, and a sizable amount of gold given to her by her parents. 

What she really loves, however, is the peace of it all. There are no loud thoughts buzzing around. She may have adjusted to living in Whitestone Castle with her family to the point that their surface thoughts no longer bothered her, but she hadn’t realized how loud they all were until she was on the road by herself. Most days, she doesn’t have to bother with putting up any walls at all, and the whole world is blissfully peaceful.

There are still days where she wakes up and feels lonely; there’s no family breakfast to be shared on a lazy morning, no Wolfe to bicker with across the table. When she comes out of the forest in the evening with a piece of game she caught to cook for dinner, her mother isn’t there to look over the catch and praise it. One of her arrows breaks when she misses a shot and it hits a rock, and she has to go to the market for a new one rather than asking her father to make a new one. She misses passing by the library to see Leona and Dan with their heads bowed over the same book, or Gwen asking her for a story at night like she isn’t already reaching for the high shelves on their father’s bookcase.

And Vespier is the empty space that aches the most. Some days, a serene smile from her older sister was the only thing it took to smooth out her wrinkled emotions. If that wasn’t enough, something she had to say often was. Independence was a new skill she was developing, too, without Vesper. She hadn’t realized how much she looked to her for an idea of what to do. When a vendor offers her a price that seems wrong at a stall, she has to haggle on her own without being able to glance over at Vesper to know whether or not she’s making the right moves.

But she’s growing every day. She makes decisions on her own without the crutch of her sister’s approval, and she learns to be satisfied with eating meals by herself. When she spills her quiver one night and snaps a few of the arrows under her feet the next morning, she makes a pit stop at the nearest village and acquires a few more.

Imogen misses her family a bit more every day, but it also gets easier to adjust to, every day. She writes letters when she gets the chance, and Sends her mother at least once a week. With the stone, she talks to Vesper at least every couple of days, and the short messages put her at ease, even if twenty words is entirely too small to say everything she wants to.

So Imogen keep putting one foot in front of the other, and with each mile she gets further from Whitestone, she gets more okay with being by herself.

—

The first real snag in her journey comes almost three weeks in, when a wolf ambushes her as she’s starting to set up camp for the night.

It comes fast; one moment Imogen is all by herself and in the next, there’s a snarling mass of gray teeth and sharp fangs with it’s eyes set on her. The moment she sees it, her heart stutters in her chest and her mind starts to cloud with alarm. If she had her wits about her, she might remember that her bow is only a foot away from her, having just been pulled off her back for the night.

But Imogen doesn’t remember that, because a buzzing panic has laid itself out over her brain like static. Rationality flies out the nearest window, gets stuck up in the nearest tree.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. The wolf, who must be able to tell he has some sort of upper hand, circles around her with bared teeth. It’s looking for an opening, and she’s stuck with the realization it has plenty— she’s alone in the forest with no cover and no weapon in her hand.

It lunges in to strike, and Imogen does the first thing she can: she throws her arm out in front of her and stops thinking. Instead, she channels the thunder of the energy that rumbles under her skin and lets it go.

A bolt flies from her palm, not unlike the streaks of purple lightning that cover her fingers. It’s nothing she’s ever practiced back at the castle. This is wild, uncontrolled and unrestrained, alive with energy. When it hits it’s mark, the beast is thrown from her and into a tree, colliding with a sickening crack. That same hand she just wielded like flies to cover her mouth as it hits the ground, seizing several times before falling still. 

The forest is quiet once it stops moving. When the magic that had crackled out of her fizzles away, it’s just Imogen and the wolf’s body, both of them unmoving for two very different reasons.

She feels a little bad; hunting seems far more impersonal than whatever she just did. Even if it was self-defense, it’s the first time she’s ever used the arcane energy in her fingers for something violent. She’s put arrows through the eyes of dozens of animals, but she’s never killed anything with her magic before. It’s a jarring thing, to find out how much power you can use like this.

However, it helps that she eats very well that night.

—

Over the course of her journey, Imogen stays in several places. She rents beds at inns when she stops in towns, sets up camp in the woods. On a few occasions, she spends the night with family friends in their spare rooms.

Those are her favorites. Not for free bed or the home cooked meals, but for the stories. Each person she stays with is more than happy to recount exactly where or why they know her parents. Imogen is intimately familiar with her parent’s history through their own eyes, but it’s something else entirely to see it through someone else's. 

Her favorite, of course, is her aunt Velora. In the past few years, she’s left Syngorn and settled in Westruun instead. Imogen’s visited several times, sometimes to access the Cobalt Reserve for research purposes, sometimes just to see family. Each time, her aunt has been warm and welcoming, and always excited to hear everything each of her nieces and nephews have to tell her.

The evening she spends there is full of chatter, but without six children vying for her attention, Velora actually gets the chance to speak. She tells Imogen about the first time she met her mother, and all the curse words she and Imogen’s uncle taught her. 

“My mother had been abhorred,” she said with a snort. “And somehow, that had made it so much better.”

(Imogen laughs so much that night her ribs ache with it.)

When she retires to a spare room for the night, intent on getting some sleep, Imogen stops to pull out her Sending Stone. It’s cool in the palm of her hand, and when she rubs her thumb over the surface, it shines with arcane energy.

Hey, Vesper, she Sends. I’m in Westruun with Velora. Learning lots of great stories about mom. I’ll send a letter. Love you.

The response comes half a minute later.

Glad you’re okay. Please share everything you’ve learned, spare no details. Tell her I said hi. Love you. Stay safe!

Imogen smiles, a little fond, a little sad. With one last look, she tucks the stone back into the pocket she pulled it from and curls up to sleep.

—

She meets Laudna the day she leaves Kymal.

It wasn’t exactly on the way, but it was only a day and a half’s detour on an otherwise long stretch of road, and a chance to peruse a bigger city’s markets before she trekked onwards to the port in Emon. A few of her arrows had snapped over time, and some were looking a bit worse for the wear; she needed to get a few more before setting out, and replenish her stock of healing potions.

When she heads out that morning, the sun is just starting to really shine, casting bright rays over the tops of the trees. The weather stays that way all day, and Imogen is treated to a pleasant walk through the Dividing Plains in which she makes great time.

She makes camp that night near the base of the Ironset Mountain Ridge, only two miles or so from the Silvercut Crossroads. The trees that edge the road are just dense enough to provide ample cover, and she’s still close enough to known civilizations that the chance of bandits or anything hostile is low.

That doesn’t mean there’s no life, there, though.

Imogen hears the woman before she sees her. It’s not uncommon when there’s nobody else around— the thoughts often precede the person when there isn’t anything else around to drown them out.

What is strange, though, is the sound of them. It isn’t like the heavy buzz she hears with everyone else she’s met, that fills the halls of her family home and the walls of every city she’s passed through. No, it sounds like music. Light and lilting, drifting into the space where Imogen’s let her walls down. A single person’s thoughts aren’t anything more than the annoyance of a fly, but she’s never heard a head that sounded pleasant. It sparks something in the center of her chest, and she aches to hear it a little louder, to have it a little closer.

Her father told her to trust her gut. Maybe that’s why, when her head tells her she can trust this woman before she’s even seen her, she believes it.

“I know you’re there,” she calls, into the shadows the setting sun casts in the trees. “You can come out.”

The world around her hesitates, before a figure starts to slide into view. From this far away, Imogen can’t make out more than her silhouette, tall and feminine.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice is scratchy, like she doesn’t use it much, and it has an echoing quality to it. Strange, maybe, but it mixes with the music in a way that just makes sense.

She doesn’t make a move to step any farther, into the space where the light form Imogen’s campfire touches.

“Hi,” Imogen replies.

The silence falls again. The woman stands where she is, unmoving. It’s an eerie image, her figure cast in shadows and too far away to make out in anything more than broad strokes.

Imogen struggles for something to say. She’s met plenty of strangers, but almost all of them have been in a context where she understands the etiquette the situation demands of her: foreign dignitaries from in Whitestone, vendors and shopkeepers in various cities she’s visited. It’s been a long time since she’s had to make conversation with somebody outside of one of those predefined social situations.

“You can come closer,” Imogen offers, eventually. “I haven’t been known to bite.”

She has the strange urge to hold her breath as she waits for a reply, but she forces herself to be calm, and collected. The music coming from the woman picks up in tempo, ever-so-slightly, and as Imogen watches, she takes a step into the light.

The first thing she realizes is that this person, whoever they are, isn’t human. Not all the way, at least. There’s a dead look to her, like she was dragged back to life after being left to rot for just a few hours two long. The tips of her fingers are blackened, and the bun in her hair is pinned in place by a hammer or chisel of some sorts. 

Maybe she should be taken aback by the woman’s appearance— gray skin, thin ink-black hair, skinny limbs— but she isn’t. She’s too entranced by the sound of the music to care anything about how the woman looks.

She could be a siren, and Imogen would dive into the water without a second thought.

After a moment, Imogen realizes she’s been staring. When her eyes track up, the woman is watching her, something nervous in her gaze. It occurs to Imogen that, despite being unfazed by the way she looks, most people probably don’t afford this woman the same courtesy. How long has it been since she’s had a real conversation?

Maybe the two of them are in the same boat, in a way.

Imogen decides to make the first move. “Seriously, you can come closer and sit down,” she encourages. “I promise I’ve never bitten anything that wasn’t served to me at a meal.”

Her attempt at reassurance must work, in some way. The woman takes her invitation, crossing the space with gentle steps and taking a seat by the fire, across from Imogen. From here, the music she gives off is just that little bit louder. Imogen wants to lean in further; will the song develop words if she gets closer?

“I’m Imogen,” she says, instead. “Imogen Temult.”

The last name is steadier on her lips than usual; she’s gotten used to saying it over the past month or so. It had been at her father’s advice— he worried, even with the peace that surrounded Whitestone these days, that being a de Rolo would see her targeted. After all, even if his major enemies had been vanquished, it wasn’t out of them realm of possibility that there were those out there who still harbored resentment for their parents. Beyond even that, though, being a de Rolo meant she had money. Having money, coming from money, meant she could be a target.

“Laudna,” the other woman replies. “I’m afraid I don’t quite have a last name.”

“That’s alright,” Imogen says. “You don’t really need one.”

“I suppose not,” Laudna replies. “I’ve never met somebody who shared my name, after all.”

“Me, either. Well, your name. I’ve met another Imogen.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, two weeks ago, actually,” Imogen explains. “She ran a market stall in Turst Fields. Charged me half-price for some fruit for a name discount.”

“She sounds sweet.”

“Oh, she totally was! Until this teenage boy tried to snag a bunch of peppers from her stall when he thought she wasn’t looking and she hit his hand with the hilt of a dagger.”

Laudna laughs, high and light. “That must have been a sight.”

“It was! She was at least sixty years old. Maybe sixty-five.”

Another laugh. “It sounds like you’ve been having several adventures.”

“Oh, not really,” Imogen replies. “It’s only been a month or so. Mostly a lot of walking.”

“Surely you must have some good stories?”

“Not a lot from traveling, to be honest,” she admits. “It’s been a bit dull. But I do have five siblings, and each of them is… pretty unique, so I’ve got a lot from home, I guess. But you seem like you've been on the road for a while, right? I bet you’ve got some good ones.”

Laudna perks up. “Well, this one time near Wildwood…”

The two of them sit there for hours, swapping a few stories as the sun sinks into the horizon, leaving the fire as the only thing to besides the moon to cast light. Imogen would normally start to stamp it out at this point in the day and start to retire for the night, but she finds herself hanging off of every word Laudna gives her. 

Imogen’s been on the road for a few weeks; the only good story she’s managed to acquire is the time she watched a man trip on his own coat and crash through a vendor’s stand, smashing several fruits and more than one pot. But Laudna’s been on the road for years. Decades, even. She shares several long, enthralling tales, and Imogen gets the sense that there are dozens more that would take them a long time to get through.

A little, burning part of Imogen, not unlike the embers that are still warming them, want to learn them all.

Eventually, she asks the question that’s been starting to sit on the top of her mind.

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Wandering, for the most part,” Laudna says. “Civilization is… not quite my forte, these days. People tend to find me scary.”

“I don’t think you’re scary,” Imogen says, almost without thinking— like she can’t stop the words from coming out. “At least, not scary-scary. Maybe… fun-scary, you know? Good scary.”

The melody that wafts from her sings a little. “Good scary?”

“Good scary,” Imogen confirms. “I like it.”

“You would be the first, I think.”

Something pangs in Imogen’s chest, and she fights to keep from frowning— how could somebody be so consistently pushed away when her thoughts are so sweet?

“Then I guess I’m the smartest.”

Laudna brightens, smiling. Not the demure, almost polite one she’s been wearing so far, but something genuine. It’s a little unusual; her lips stretch a little too far into her cheeks, and her eyes almost turn up at the corners. Imogen, for whatever reason, finds it nothing less than charming,

“So, just wandering?” She repeats. “Are you going anywhere?”

“I’m always going somewhere, I guess,” Laudna replies with a shrug. “Never anywhere in particular.”

A thought occurs to Imogen, maybe a bit too sudden or rash, but one that excites her. Her lips start to pull up in a grin of her own.

“Want to come with me for a while?”

—

(It’s taken a month— both a very short and very long amount of time— but Imogen has made herself a traveling companion.

Laudna is sweet, and funny, and her head is always singing something calm. Sometimes, Imogen glances over at her and wonders if this is the start of what her parents always talked about.

A party. A family.

If Laudna’s the first one, Imogen thinks she’s got a lot to look forward to.)

Chapter Text

twilight breaks in, and it leads away/these shapes and shadows that hide your face/the moonlight guides us, when the dark sets in/shoulder to shoulder, where we begin/the midnight hour, it gets colder/we’re moving closer, oh, the closer the better

‘midnight’ by jordan mackampa

—

Traveling was nice before, Imogen thought: the peace, the nature, the feeling of control over her own life. But traveling with Laudna is wonderful, in a way that surpasses that all.

It’s awkward, at the start. As well as they got along that first night, the two of them are still little more than strangers. Imogen struggles with finding the right things to say when it gets quiet, how to offer little bits of herself without making it seem like she’s trying needle Laudna into doing the same in return.

And, of course, there’s the added factor of explaining the whole mind-reading thing, too.

Laudna takes it all in stride. That’s new— in Whitestone, word spread fast of the de Rolo daughter who could read minds. Everyone knew within a week, it seemed, and it showed. Nobody was ever unkind to her to her face, but she could sense the way they all tightened when they saw her, how their thoughts became stiff and nervous. Made it hard to make friends, especially when she was already a de Rolo.

The children of foreign dignitaries were better, at least a little. More often than not, they’d already heard, but they weren’t afraid to ask questions. It gave Imogen and her parents to explain that yes, she could read their minds in theory, but she’d put her own mental blocks high enough to keep everybody else’s thoughts out. She wanted to hear them as much as they wanted them to be heard: not at all.

“You really wouldn’t?” One child had asked, when Imogen was fifteen, and she’d shaken her head.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she’d answered, with a kind smile. “It hurts.”

The kid had pouted, just a bit. “That sucks,” he’d said. “If I got a cool power like that and couldn’t use it because it hurt, I’d be really mad.”

Laudna doesn’t react like any of them. She’s curious, but not put off. Imogen explains, in a voice a little too fast as she rushes to get it out before Laudna decides it’s too much and walks away, that she’s practiced at keeping everybody else’s thoughts out as much as she can. 

“Why would you need to do that?” Laudna asks, tilting her head.

“People deserve privacy, at least in their own heads,” Imogen replies. “Besides, it can hurt, hearing all of that. It gives me a headache.”

“It hurts? Have my thoughts been hurting you?”

Imogen’s heart jumps into her throat for a minute, at the fact that Laudna’s first thought is concern, rather than disgust or distrust. “No, yours don’t hurt,” she says. “It’s more like… music? A melody? It’s relaxing, actually. Nice.”

“Is it often like that?”

“No. It’s only yours, really.”

It’s as simple as that. Imogen assures her companion that she keeps her walls high enough for Laudna’s thoughts to stay private, and only the musical nature of it comes through. Laudna’s unbothered, assuring Imogen that whatever is most comfortable for her is enough. “I trust you,” she says.

“Even though we’ve just met?”

“I guess it is a bit strange,” Laudna replies. “But… you’re very easy to trust, Imogen.”

Imogen smiles, the kind that makes her eyes crinkle up at the corners. “You’re pretty easy to trust, too, Laudna.”

Over the next week, Imogen starts to become familiar with all the various quirks and oddities that Laudna’s made up of. She meets Pâté, the a little rat wearing a raven’s skull, and learns that Laudna often uses the strings attached to him to puppeteer him and express the occasional thought. She also gets used to the particular way Laudna speaks, and the way the music from her head always ticks up in tempo when she gets excited.

Once, Laudna gets scratched by a bramblepatch branch, and the blood that wells to the surface is black. Imogen doesn’t blink as she draws a clean piece of cloth from her bag to dress the wound.

In turn, Laudna accepts the strange things about her. When Imogen wakes up from a nightmare, choking on the tail end of a scream, Laudna is there to calm her down and convince her to get more sleep. She doesn’t get annoyed when Imogen wants to stop and disappear into the woods for a few days to catch more fresh meat when they’ve still got enough from the last time she took her bow out.

They fit, like a puzzle made of two pieces. Her weird edges make sense to Laudna.

For the first time, Imogen realizes she has a real friend, one that wasn’t born into the same family as hers. It’s so much better than she thought it would be.

—

Here’s the thing about Imogen: she’s always been a bit tactile. Her parents had been giving with their affections, both in their own ways, and she got used to holding hands with her sisters— Vesper when she was a child, Gwendolyn as she got older and became the big sister. But she’s been careful with it. For the most part, Imogen’s physical affection had been limited to family, and their close friends.

The more time she spends with Laudna, the more she realizes that she misses that. In Whitestone, she was always being swept up into her mother’s arms, or having Gwen climb into her lap like she was still the same size she was when she was six. Even her brothers had that same craving for touch— Wolfe was always throwing an arm over her shoulder, and Dan used to grin when she's scratch her hand through his hair as a greeting.

She wants that back, at least in part. The thing is, though, that it’s a strange thing to express to a friend. As fast as they’ve started to get along, it hasn’t been very long. And Imogen left her family home not just for the sake of research, but to gain some independence; the last thing she wants is to be needy of the first real friend she’s ever made.

They’ve only been traveling together for a month, and Laudna did just fine traveling on her own for decades before that. If Imogen scares her off with her desperate desire to be touched again, she’s afraid she’ll never forgive herself.

The wanting doesn’t go away, though. It was easy not to notice when she was alone, but it’s impossible to ignore. She does her best, anyway, clenching her jaw and fisting her hands at her sides when they itch to reach out,

When Imogen finally gives into it, she does it without thinking, or even meaning to. She’s just coming back to the little abandoned cabin they’ve been setting up shop in for the past few days, a squirrel dangling from her hands, and catches the scent of something actually cooking. Not just the way she’s grown accustomed to roasting meat over a fire, but something with actual herbs and spices.

Laudna’s inside the cabin when she enters, tinkering away at the ramshackle dining room table, but the smell is coming from the stove beside her. It’s all aged metal and cracking rust, and clearly doesn’t work the same way it’s used to. Still, Laudna’s managed to make it do something, because there’s a little fire blooming on top of it, with a pot balanced on top in a way that seems just a bit precarious.

The door creaks when Imogen walks in, alerting Laudna to her presence. The woman turns in her chair to face her, and Imogen gets a glimpse at the scraps of string and fabric she’s working on.

“Welcome back!”

“Thanks,” Imogen says, glancing at the stove. “Are you… cooking?”

Laudna hums an affirmation. “Well, the stove doesn’t really work right, but it’s still there,” she replies. “And since you were bringing meat back, I figured I’d start a broth for stew.”

“You tired of roasted meat already?”

“Hardly,” comes the reply, laughing. “But I thought you might be.”

Imogen is, a little bit, but not enough that it really bothers her. Still, the fact that Laudna went out of her way to do something nice for the sheer fact that Imogen might be bothered by it makes her heart swell on her chest. Grinning, she hangs the squirrel on the hook by the door (it still needs to be skinned, after all) and crosses the room to where Laudna sits.

“You’re the best,” she says, bending down and draping an arm over one of Laudna’s shoulder and resting her chin on the other. It’s more muscle memory than anything— this is how she used to hug some of her younger siblings when they were sitting down, a quick squeeze before letting go and leaving them to finish whatever they were doing.

When she remembers this is Laudna, not Dan or one of the twins, she jerks back. “Sorry!” She apologizes, and it’s the closest her voice comes to a squeak.

Laudna glances back at her, brow furrowed. “Why are you sorry?”

“I— I didn’t ask,” Imogen says, almost stammering over the words. “We’ve not— we’ve never really been touchy, and I didn’t want to cross a boundary, I’m just kind of used to touching people—”

What could have been a long-winded ramble is cut off when Laudna leans back, grabs one of Imogen’s hands in her own.

“It’s okay,” she assures. “You don’t need to apologize for touching me.”

Imogen hesitates. “I still should have asked.”

“I understand. But in the future, you don’t have to ask. You can just touch me.”

The nerves swelling in her chest starts to dissipate. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Wanna try again?”

“Are you sure?”

“Imogen.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Imogen says. Despite the apology, though, she can’t help but pause. When the look on Laudna’s face still doesn’t waver, she leans back down and resumes her previous position, one arm over Laudna and her head on her shoulder. There’s a momentary spike in her anxiety when she notices the embrace is a bit stiff, but it calms when Imogen realizes she’s the one who’s tense.

They stay there for a long moment, and Imogen allows herself to actually sink into the embrace, head slumping a bit into Laudna’s so that their faces are side by side.

“This is nice,” she admits, once she actually allows herself to relax. Laudna smiles— Imogen can’t see it, but she can feel the way it stretches her cheek from where it’s pressed against her own. From here, the music that comes from Laudna is just that little bit louder, and works to further soothe her nerves.

When she pulls away, Imogen realizes that she’s been grinning, too.

—

(“Laudna, how long was that on the stove before I got back?”

“An hour, maybe? Why?”

“I… the squirrel still needs to be skinned. And we might want to cook a bit before we put it in the broth. It could take a while cook all the way through.”

“...I put it on too early, didn’t I?”)

—

They get a lot more affectionate, after that. Imogen is nervous, but she allows herself to reach out for a hug when she comes back from the market some days, or squeezes Laudna’s hand when she passes by her to grab something. It doesn’t come as naturally to her now as it did back home, but she works on it. It helps that Laudna, once it becomes clear that Imogen is still a bit hesitant, starts going out of her way to initiate physical contact first.

It escalates from there. What starts as a few touches becomes a multiple-times-a-day occurrence. Hugging Laudna becomes the first thing she does in the morning, and one of the last things she does at night. Pretty soon, Imogen is crawling into the empty space in Laudna’s bed after she has a nightmare— to not be alone at first, but soon it becomes about being held.

By the fourth month of traveling together, they’re retiring to the same bed every night, falling asleep holding hands and waking up wrapped together.

It’s around this time that Imogen starts to notice her scars are growing. She’s been using her magic more, lately, outside the controlled environments she’s learned it in. The lightning marks on her skin have started to stretch their way across her palms, curling up to her wrist. It should inspire a sense of urgency, but Imogen finds she minds far less than she thought she would. 

The speed at which she travels has gone down, too, but Imogen doesn’t quite care about that either. If she was moving the way she had been at the beginning, she would have reached Marquet by now, but she hasn’t even made it to Emon. She and Laudna have been taking their time, going from rundown cabin to abandoned home in the forest across Tal-Dorei, spending stretches of time in each before moving on. What was traveling once starts to become something almost like playing house, and they start making improvements to the places they stay; Imogen hangs curtains over the window in their room and Laudna patches the holes in the walls.

When winter starts to creep in, a chill sliding up the inside of Imogen’s gloves, she’s the one to suggest they hunker down and stay put to weather out the season.

Things are just so easy between the two of them. Laudna isn’t just her friend; she’s her best friend, the same way that Leona and Dan’d had that inexplicable bond that none of their other siblings that ever been able to breech or understand. The two of them start to anticipate each other, moving out of the way a second before the other passes by, anticipating a touch when it comes. Imogen’s never been close to somebody like this before, and the whole thing just feels warm.

Beyond their friendship, though, there’s just so much to admire about Laudna. She’s so talented with her hands, and she consistently goes out of her way to do things she thinks will make Imogen’s day better. When Imogen wakes with a headache the day after going into town, Laudna spends the next half an hour pressing various cool patches of her body to Imogen’s forehead, switching them out when the warmth of Imogen’s skin seeps into hers until the pain becomes a dull little throb in the back of her mind.

The list never ends. With the little glimpses of Laudna’s past she gets, being driven from town after town, she becomes further impressed. After all that, you’d expect her to be jaded, or at least a little flighty. But Laudna is the farthest thing from skittish, actually— she’s bold and proud of who she is, half-alive quirks and all. There’s never been a moment where Laudna was embarrassed to make Pâté dance around the room, or the fact that she often fell asleep with her eyes wide open. When she cuts her hand and gets black down the front of her shirt, she curses the fact that it’s going to stain, not that it’s strange. She knows her smile is too wide at the corners, and she shares it with Imogen every day anyway.

It occurs to Imogen one morning that, while she’s never had a particularly hard life (nightmares and strange scars excluded until further notice) that this is the happiest she’s ever been in her life. Even as they start buying extra blankets and stuffing cloth in the cracks of every window to fight the incoming chill, Imogen has never felt content like this before.

That’s life with Laudna, she supposes. And she really hopes it lasts, because she’s getting rather used to it.

Chapter Text

i can still smell the fire/though i know it’s long died out/the smoke still hangs in my hair/and on some quiet evenings, it burns my eyes/so darling, play your violin/i know it’s what you live for/darling, play your violin/we will manage somehow

‘because dreaming costs money, my dear’ by mitski

—

When Imogen was younger, she learned everything from two places: the castle library and her tutors.

Lessons were an almost daily affair, taught by a handful of various adults who specialized in various subjects. Jarvain taught them arithmetic, Ellisa covered their languages, and Miryann was the one who schooled them all on the various forms of proper etiquette a child of a ruling family needed to know. As they got older, other courses were added to the rotation: history, politics, rudimentary medicine and arcane knowledge. When the lightning started to crack through Imogen’s skin, she began to receive the occasional lesson on magic, how to wield the energy that buzzed inside her.

All the de Rolo siblings attended lessons together, save for Gwen— the significant widening of the age gap it would have caused wasn’t feasible, and as such, she often saw her tutors one-on-one. The rest of them would file together into the castle’s classroom five days a week and spend a couple of hours listening and taking notes on whoever was slated to teach.

They had a guest teacher once, and only once, when Imogen was 15. On that day, Dan and the twins were excused from learning for what their mother claimed was ‘a much needed day off’ for hunting. Imogen had been annoyed, just a bit, that she and Vesper would be expected to attend lessons while the others got to practice their tracking skills in the woods.

That is, until she walked into the classroom and found her father standing at the front waiting for them.

Vesper’d been just a step ahead of her, and when she entered the room, her brow furrowed. “Has Professor Raheed been called away?” She asked.

“Raheed has been given the day off,” their father replied. “I’m your teacher for this afternoon. Please, take your seats.”

“Will we need our books or papers?”

“You won’t need anything besides yourselves.”

Imogen slid into her chair at the front, and Vesper took the seat beside her. The energy in the room, between her missing siblings and her father leaning against the desk, was strange and almost tense. Imogen's lightning scars, which stretched no further down her fingers than her nails at this point, thrummed with nervous energy.

“Are we… still going to be talking about our trade relationships today?” Vesper asked.

Their father shook his head. “No,” he said, in that voice he used whenever things were serious, the real kind of serious. “Today, I will be teaching you the darkest point in Whitestone’s history: the Briarwoods Invasion.”

It was impossible to stop the way Imogen’s eyes widened with shock. “The ones who…”

“Murdered almost our entire family when I was a child, yes,” her father finished, and despite the way his voice stayed steady, the look in his eyes flickered. “So, while you may not always enjoy your lessons, I ask that you pay careful attention today. This is a part of our history both dreadful and very personal. There is blood and dark spots in our history, and as de Rolos, it is something you need to understand.”

—

By midwinter, Laudna and Imogen have developed routine.

Every day isn’t quite the same, but most of their weeks are similar. The two of them read books, practice some magic, and fix up the house despite their intent to leave come spring. Imogen has still been hunting in order to keep providing fresh meat, but with game starting to hide for the cold season, it’s becoming an affair that takes up more time. Laudna, for her part, has been investing time into her tinkering and crafting; she’s decided that she can play her part by learning to make arrows so Imogen won’t have to buy more in town. It hasn’t been working so far, but the sentiment and effort behind it is appreciated.

As promised, Imogen Sends her mother once a week to let her know she’s okay, and give us much of a description of how she’s doing. It’s a bit easier with Vesper, since the stone means no expended spell slots, but it’s still only twenty-five words. To make up the difference, she sends the occasional envelope home stuffed with letters to her parents and siblings. She never attaches a return address considering they’re living in the middle of the woods with no promises she would still be there before the letter would get back to her, but she fills them with even the most mundane details about her life to assure them all she’s safe and well.

It’s while she’s writing one of these letters, signing her name at the bottom, that she looks up at Laudna across the room and stops. Her pen, which is already part of the way through the R in her last name, pauses.

She’s never told Laudna about her family. Well, she has in vague details, little stories from her childhood and fond memories she thinks back on. But she’s never told Laudna where they’re from, or the fact that they’re the ruling family. As far as Laudna knows, Imogen’s last name is Temult, and she grew up in a village just outside the Parchwoods— the cover story her parents helped her to put together so she could answer basic questions without giving away her wealth or lineage.

It was reasonable at first. After all, when Imogen met Laudna, she was just a stranger walking out of the wood. But she’s her best friend, now; they’ve been traveling or living together for six months, and they fall asleep in the same bed every night. The reasons she was keeping it to herself have become moot. Now it’s starting to feel like a lie, a secret she’s been keeping even when she doesn’t need to. It’s not like it’s really dangerous anymore— half a year would be a very long time waiting to run a long con on somebody if you think they have little to their name and you’ve been alone in the woods together for the entirety of it.

Once she realizes that, though, is when the hesitance really sets in. Not about telling Laudna, when she’s grown to trust her like she does her own feet beneath her, but because it’s taken her so long to do it. What if Laudna feels betrayed for keeping this from her for so long? What if it changes the way she sees her? There’s little she’s learned to treasure like their relationship, and fracturing it in anyway frightens her.

Still, Imogen is a de Rolo— they’ve been built and bred to buckle down and do the right thing for the people around them, the way Whitestone deserved it’s leaders to be.

The day she decides to share the truth about her last name, and the family it connects her to, Imogen spends the morning in the forest. She tells Laudna she’s going out to hunt, which is true, but they could go another day or two on what they’ve got. Really, she needs the time in the forest; the frost on the ground and on the trees settles her, much like the weight of the bow in her hand. It may not her preferred method of defense, or her strongest, but it is something she grew up with. It’s as familiar to her as her mother, unflinchingly sure and steadfast.

When she comes back, two small pieces of game over her shoulders and her cheeks pinkened by her cheeks, Laudna’s not in the main room. Imogen can hear the music of her thoughts drifting in the air loud enough to parse out, though, which means she’s somewhere in the house.

She goes through the normal motions of a finished hunt: taking off her boots and leaving them to dry by the door, hanging her bow by the door, placing the meat on the counter to skin later. Once she’s stripped out of the warmest layers she dons to leave the cabin, she checks their room for Laudna.

Sure enough, the woman is cross-legged on the bed with her back against the wall and a book in her lap. When she glances up to see Imogen in the doorway, she grins. “I thought I heard you come in.”

Imogen’s eyebrow raises. “And you weren’t worried it was someone else?”

“It was you,” Laudna replies. “I can always tell when it’s you.”

She’s charmed by the words for a moment, before she remembers what she wanted to do. The smile that was forming on her face slips away. Laudna must see the change in her expression, because she sits up straighter.

“Is something wrong?” She asks.

Imogen wrings her hands together. “I have something I want to tell you,” she says. 

Laudna’s eyes flash once with curiosity before she slides a placeholder into her book and drops it on the crate they’ve been using as a nightstand. “Come have a seat,” she says, patting the space across from her on the mattress.

After a moment, Imogen crosses the space between them and takes the offered spot, folding her legs under her. There’s an itch— the kind she always gets when she’s nervous— where the lightning scars underneath her gloves have spread to meet the veins at her wrists.

“It’s not something that I meant to keep from you this long,” she starts. “I didn’t tell you at first because it’s something I didn’t tell anybody— my parents, we thought it might put me in danger, if people knew. And then it just became… something I forgot I should tell you? Not because I didn’t think you deserved to know, just because it really didn’t occur to me as something important, sort of? I’m having trouble explaining it.”

The other woman reaches out to place a hand on her knee. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Imogen takes a deep breath. “My last name isn’t Temult,” she confesses. “It’s de Rolo.”

“De Rolo?”

She nods. “And it’s not just… any family. We’re the ruling family of—”

“Whitestone,” Laudna finishes, cutting her off.

“You’ve heard of it?” Imogen asks, before chiding herself mentally. Laudna’s tracked up and down half of northern Tal’Dorei; of course she knows of Whitestone. They may be a bit isolated compared to some of the other major cities, but they’re still a significant point on the map.

“I’m… familiar,” Laudna replies, pulling her hand back and letting it drop into her lap. The moment she does, the air in the room changes. “In truth, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, too. I just wasn’t sure…well, quite how to bring it up. But it seems rather important, now.”

“Now?” Imogen repeats. Her head whirls. What’s changed about their situation now that she knows who Imogen is? She’s still the same person she was, just… with a little more notoriety and a lot more family wealth. Imogen de Rolo and Imogen Temult— they’re both the same girl who hunts squirrels in the woods to keep them well-fed and holds Laudna’s hands as they fall asleep at night.

Some of her anxiety plays out across her face, because Laudna straightens her back. “It’s— Imogen, you’ve done nothing wrong,” she assures. “I’m not mad at you for keeping this from me, it’s just… well, I was from Whitestone.”

Imogen blinks once, twice, before the words sink in. “Wait, you were?”

“Before I died. But it also… is where I died.”

Something pings in the back of Imogen’s head. Laudna’s told her before that she’s been dead somewhere around thirty years now, and has spent the entirety of that time roving the continent. She’s never said anything about where she’s from, though. When she runs the mental math in her head, it clicks.

“The Briarwoods Invasion?”

Laudna sighs. “Yes,” she says. “The Briarwoods invited my family and I to dinner in the castle. At the time, it seemed like a gift— I was just coming into my magic, and I thought that if I could impress them with it, it could improve our station in life. We lived on the outskirts of the town, near the farmland. There was always so little food to eat, and we had almost no money… my little brother was always so hungry when he went to sleep. I wanted our lives to be better.”

Something cold grips Imogen's heart at the mention of the dinner. There’s a sinking feeling in the now-hollow pit of her stomach that tells her she knows where this story is going, but she stays quiet. It’s Laudna’s life, not hers. She deserves to tell it without interruption.

“It was a beautiful meal,” she continues. Her voice has taken almost a wistful quality. “The finest food I’d ever eaten, in the most beautiful place. It was the first time in so long that I knew I’d go to bed full. And they were so kind to us, at first. When I showed them my magic, Lady Briarwood… had smiled, and told me I was a girl with wonderful potential. I thought she meant because of my gifts, but when her husband attacked, well. I learned what she really meant. They had me held down, cut my ears, and killed me. When I woke up… my brother and I were hanging on a tree in new clothes, and he was dead. And I wasn’t.”

“You were on the Sun Tree,” Imogen breathes.

Laudna nods, and Imogen feels like she might be sick. It’s not the only realization she makes, either. She hesitates for a long moment, wondering if she should even voice what she’s thinking, but the need to know wins out. She asks: “Did they put feathers in your hair?”

“They did. Why?”

She feels like she might be drowning on the air. She can’t believe she’s never seen the similarities before, even if they aren't that prominent. They’re far from carbon copies— Laudna is taller than her mother, and the actual details of her face are distinct. But the curve of their jaws, the line of their noses. Laudna— Laudna was killed in the same place that Imogen lived, where she ate dinner and fell asleep nearly every night. Inside the same castle where her mother still resides, wearing raven’s feathers in her hair and rearing the rest of her children.

“You… the woman they killed you, to… dress you up as,” Imogen says. “She’s my mother.”

It’s the first time Laudna’s solemn expression has given way to something else: shock. “Your mother?” She repeats.

Imogen feels like she can’t find her voice, or maybe any words. Either way, she’s rendered speechless, and the only thing she can manage is a nod.  I’m so sorry, she wants to say, so sorry that I wear half the face of the woman that you were killed for, that I attended feasts and functions and laughed in the same room your life was taken from you. Nothing comes out.

Laudna watches her for a long moment, as Imogen attempts to process the new information. When it’s all finally absorbed, and her face starts to slacken, Laudna’s eyes flick to the bedsheets.

“That’s not all.”

Oh Gods, what else can there be? Imogen feels a spike of fear; for Laudna, not her. In a voice that she can’t quite keep the shake out of, she asks: “What is it?”

“Lady D,” Laudna answers. “Delilah Briarwood, she’s… in my head.”

“In your head?” Imogen repeats. “Like…”

“She talks to me, sometimes,” the other woman answers. “It’s actually rather annoying, more than anything else. But she’s there.”

A breathy ‘oh’ leaves Imogen's lips. Delilah Briarwood is a woman she’s never met, but she knows of well. Many of Imogen’s lessons have faded into knowledge she knows off-hand, but what her father taught her and Vesper has never left or dimmed. Their family line has been reduced to a branch that she and her siblings hang off of like fruit while the rest of the tree was pruned and sheared until it was unrecognizable. Her aunts and uncles are the ghosts that haunt her father and Cassandra’s eyes; the last portrait commissioned of the de Rolo family when he was younger still hangs proud in the Council’s Chambers. That story is the kind you don’t forget, especially when the blood that was spilled matches what runs in your own veins.

Nobody says a word. Silence falls over the room, and all that Imogen can hear is the staccato sound Laudna’s thoughts are making and the breeze that whistles against the walls of the house. 

Finally, Laudna speaks. “It’s okay if this changes things.”

Imogen blinks. “What?”

“I know what she did to the de Rolo family,” Laudna says, and from the almost stilted way she speaks, it’s clear she’s choosing her words carefully. “To your grandparents, and your aunts and uncles. I wouldn’t blame you if you would rather… not be around me, in light of the situation.”

Something frantic sparks in Imogen’s chest. “Laudna, no,” she replies, sliding closer across the bed until their legs are touching and Imogen can rest both of her hands on the woman’s knees. “She did all of that, not you. Why would I blame you?”

“Not blame, per se, but… at this point, I may be her only tie to the mortal realm,” Laudna points out. “And if there’s anybody she’s most dangerous to, it would be a de Rolo.”

“I would argue she’s most dangerous to you,” Imogen protests. “On account of both how you died and the fact that it’s your head she’s in.”

“Still—”

“Still nothing,” Imogen says. “You’re my best friend, I won’t be scared off by a little voice in your head. There’s plenty in my head, too.”

Laudna huffs the smallest of laughs. “I’d say that’s quite different.”

“It’s close enough to me.”

"Imogen, I'm still not sure what she might be capable of. If I... hurt you—"

"You won't," Imogen assures.

"If—"

"I trust you. I trust you."

(Maybe it's stupid. Maybe she's risking her entire life in this moment right here, because she's a child unwilling to let go of the first genuine friend she's ever made. Imogen wouldn't care; she has no doubt in her mind or her gut that Laudna is worth it.)

A glint catches her eye, and Imogen finds herself staring at the golden cuff that pokes out from her hair. The setting winter sunlight that comes through the window makes it shine, and her hand twitches up as if to reach for it. After a moment, when Laudna meets her eye and doesn’t stop her, she lets it.

“Is this okay?” She asks, as her fingers graze the cold surface of the metal. “If I… take if off?”

She stalls in place until she receives an answer. When Laudna nods, she pulls the cuff free. Underneath, she can see what remains of the mutilation. Just as her father had described to her and Vesper, the top curve has been sheared into a triangle. It’s unnatural; where most ears would curl in on themselves like a shell, hers are flat along the line they’ve been cut into, and the edges are uneven from how they’ve healed

They’re not unlike Imogen’s own. While hers are unscarred, the end of her ears have always been slight. The quarter-elven ancestry she and her siblings share means that they’re no more than sharpened at the tip. With a gentle touch, she runs her finger over the mangled flesh of where Laudna’s were docked, the limp point they form.

“We match,” she says, voice quiet.

Laudna’s watery, reverent smile lights up the room. 

“You aren’t scared?” She asks, and Imogen shakes her head. How could she be, when the music that comes from Laudna's head is so beautiful? She’s got the kindest heart of almost anyone she knows, and the most crafty hands. There’s never been a single moment since they met that she hasn’t made Imogen feel seen.

“No,” she answers. “I told you, you’re good-scary only.”

A few black tears gathering at the corners of the other woman’s eyes. She doesn’t hesitate to dab them away with her thumb, smearing inky-black liquid across the pad of it.

The two of them rest in the content silence for a moment, and Imogen shuffles across the bed to sit against the headboard, her leg flush with Laudna’s. These kind of moments are her favorite, where neither of them need to say anything to know they’re there, that they’ve got each other.

Laudna is the first to break the silence. “So Whitestone is free, now? And things are good there?”

“It is,” Imogen says. “And they are. We could go some day, if you wanted.”

Laudna hums. “Some day,” she repeats. “For now, I’m rather content with where we are.”

Her heart twists. Imogen reaches out across the bed and fumbles to take Laudna’s hand in her own. Once she’s got it, she squeezes. “Me too.”

—

Things shift again after that, just a bit. 

With all their cards on the table, Laudna mentions that she has no issue with Imogen bringing down the mental walls she’s constructed between her and the rest of the world, at least in regard to her own head. She has nothing to hide that she wouldn’t share with Imogen anymore.

Imogen hesitates, but after several assurances on Laudna’s behalf, she brings them down. Without any barriers between the two, the music is fuller. She can hear it almost all the time now, even when she’s trekking out into the woods to catch a meal. It’s like a siren song, leading her home every evening without the need for the path her feet are starting to wear back to the cabin.

It’s a new kind of closeness, the kind she’s never been able to share with anyone in her family. Projecting thoughts into Laudna’s head becomes effortless, and the same is true in turn. They can have full conversations without the need to be in the same room, and Imogen finds some nights after waking from a nightmare that it is far less exhausting to speak with her head than it is with her mouth.

It’s strange— just when she thinks things are as good as they could get, they get better. 

—

(“Hey, Imogen?”

“Yeah?”

“Have I ever told you Pâté’s last name is de Rolo?”

“It’s what?”

“In his defense, he’s had it longer than you have.”)

Chapter Text

everyone’s on board/the richest and the poor/all the lonely kids/have so much left to live for/so we’ll run to the sea/and find no captain waiting/for we’re all that we need/to keep this boat from sinking/abandon everything you know/sail with us and we’ll show you/what it means to be alive

‘abandon ship’ by fin

—

When Imogen grew up, she learned that the definition of family, at least in her family, expanded far beyond what that of most people believed.

For the de Rolos, it went beyond who was related to you by blood. Imogen grew up surrounded by aunts and uncles— Velora and Cass, of course, but there was also Pike and Grog and Keyleth and Scanlan. None of them shared blood with her, but they were family to Imogen all the same. Many of her favorite childhood memories were of the visits, watching Uncle Grog spar with Aunt Keyleth or listening the Uncle Scanlan’s latest (child-friendly) songs.

And wasn’t it strange, that half of Imogen’s family were legends? The heroes in children’s bedtimes stories were the goliath who carried all her siblings at once at and the gnome who ran the bakery that she snuck Imogen croissants from. Even stranger, to think that the parents who read her bedtime stories and sang her lullabies had done the same.

The whole thing was less strange, though, on the rare occasion you could get them all into the same room. All six of them gathered became an imposing sight that they— Grog excluded— didn’t seem to present on their own. 

Her parents told her the stories of how they all met, the adventures and mishaps they got into. They were Imogen’s favorite growing up. She always thought it was fascinating, and more than a little cool, to see how seven strangers could grow into the kind of team who were willing to fight to the death by each other’s side. A group of people who, at the end of it, were willing to lay their lives down on the line to save the other. 

A part of Imogen knew that, when her parents watched her walk out the front door of Whitestone Castle, that was something they were hoping she’d find. A strange little family of her own, the kind that doesn’t seem to make any sense until you realize it really, really does.

—

The group of people she and Laudna take up with are… a little strange.

Maybe that’s a light way of putting it. Considering everything they’ve managed to get themselves into in the past couple of days, normal seems a bit out of the realm, anyways. Especially when you take into account that Imogen and Laudna only just got to Jrusar a month ago, and they've already managed to be swept up and off task again.

Despite that, Imogen kind of likes them. Orym, perhaps the most sensible of them all, strikes a chord with Imogen immediately. The smooth tone of his voice and the rational way he speaks to all of them puts her at ease. It’s not like with Laudna, whose musical thoughts drew her in across the campfire— his are still buzzing and a bit unnatural in her head, like the rest of the group— but she finds him comforting.

The others endear her in their own way. Ashton is loud and funny, and he hasn’t been put off once by Laudna despite how many others often are. Fearne’s… interesting, but she’s clearly sweet, which Imogen appreciates. And Fresh Cut Grass’s positivity is like a little breath of fresh air. Not to mention the fact that the amount of personality and empathy he’s capable of is fascinating.

After handling Duggar and getting the bounty Eshteross offered for him, they all return to Spire by the Fire and invest several pieces of their newfound wealth in drinking. Ashton’s suggested game of ‘What the Fuck is Up With That?’ proves to be helpful, and Imogen learns plenty about her company. She shares a little about her own family, skimming past some of the more intimate details and discussing both her parents and her siblings in broad detail. 

When Orym mentions the Ashari, Imogen has to stop her eyes from going wide. His continued veiled references to the Voice of the Tempest, who she knows as her aunt Keyleth, makes her skin itch, as does the mention of Zephrah. Imogen’s been, once or twice, but she doesn’t recognize Orym. Based on how he’s said nothing to her about it, she assumes he doesn’t recognize her either. His eyes do light up, however, at the mention that Pate’s last night is de Rolo, something Imogen files away to think more on later.

She waffles if she should say something to him. If this is group is going to become a more permanent thing, it might be pertinent information. At the very least, it’ll be awkward if she never mentions and it comes up later. Plus—

This is the first time in a long time since she’s been around anyone who really knows any of her family. While Keyleth may not be related to her by blood, she’s as much her aunt as either of her parent’s sisters. She was always there with a warm smile or a gift for Imogen and her siblings. For Pelor’s sake, Imogen’s parents chose her middle name after the woman. 

Imogen decides to keep it to herself, after a few moments of consideration. While she wants to think of Orym as someone she can trust, she’s grown used to being Imogen Temult outside of Whitestone, and these people seem to like that version of her, too. Maybe the fear is unfounded, but there’s a part of her that wonders if they’ll see her differently once they know where she’s from. And Imogen doesn’t want to just be the second de Rolo daughter; she wants to be someone people fight beside, someone they trust to learn and grow with them. 

She thinks she can have that, here, and she’s not ready to risk it.

When the night starts to wind down, she and Laudna retire, arms linked as they make their exit. Once they’re out of sight, Laudna turns to her. She doesn’t speak aloud, but Imogen still hears her loud and clear.

What do you think about them?

Imogen considers her response for a moment. I like them, she answers. Even if they’re a bit of an odd group.

Well, we’re a bit odd ourselves, aren’t we?

She chuckles at the grin Launda’s wearing. I guess we are.

—

(Somewhere in the whole mess with Vali Dertrana and Ira Wendagoth, they pick up Chetney, too.

If Imogen’s honest, and she has her moments, he’s the one she has the most trouble forming a solid opinion on. He’s… a strange man, and she doesn’t know what to make of him. One second, he’s hiding eighty platinum he found in Vali’s office, and the next, he’s offering to take on the riskiest part of whatever plan they’ve come up with.

He starts to win her over, though, with the wooden toys. Maybe she had expected him to go back on it, once it became clear he would be more than a fleeting addition to their little group, but he doesn’t. Instead, he handcrafts what are very clearly thoughtful mementos for each one of them in turn. 

The way Laudna lights up examining the house he made her for Pate sways Imogen in the end.)

—

The nightmares start to get worse.

A lot worse, actually. They were just an occasional bother back in Whitestone. In the early days when she was on the road with Laudna, she had them maybe twice a week, or three if she was particularly unlucky. These days, though, it’s a good night if she doesn’t have one. And Imogen is starting to run out of good nights.

Usually, Laudna’s there when she jerks away, panting and swiping at the sweat starting to form on her brow. She’s never mad at being woken, and always has something calming to say, or an open embrace for her to crawl into. The nightmares are never pleasant, but it’s manageable with Laud.

However, their new situation means Laudna isn’t always there when she wakes up. With such a big group of them, and the fact that they’ve been throwing themselves into some shady business as of late, they’ve agreed that taking watch when they’re out an about is a necessity.

Part of it is Imogen’s fault— she’s assured Laudna that they don’t have to take all their watch shifts together, that she can spend a night on her own. She’s an adult. Besides, it’s not like she’s gone far, and Imogen can always come find her if needed. Laudna’d been hesitant about it, of course, but Imogen had insisted several times she could handle herself on the occasional night alone. 

She had meant it, at the time, and she still does now. But when she wakes up, the scars on her hands humming and her chest heaving, a little bit of her regrets it.

It always takes Imogen a moment to recognize where she is when she wakes up like this, eyes flying around the room as she looks for something lock on. Once she starts to piece together her surroundings, she starts to settle, the muscles in her body starting to relax. She knows this room. Through the small window she has, she can see the sky outside— all clear, with no clouds or lightning in sight. There’s no storm.

The problem with her nightmares, though, is that once she’s up, she’s up. Laudna’s pretty good at convincing her to go back to sleep, but what helps about that is her presence. Left to her own devices, Imogen can’t quite manage that same level of soothing. There’s a buzzing that sets in under her skin, that urges her to get up and do something, even if it’s just to to move for a while.

Once she’s caught her breathe, Imogen slides out of bed. Her socked feet make soft thumps on the floor, and she casts her boots a look before deciding to forgo them. She’s got no plans beyond taking a quick walk around the settle her bones back into her body, and the boots can be a whole production to put on in the mornings. 

This late at night, there’s never anybody around to disturb her. It’s nice, not having to answer anybody’s questions about why she’s up or wandering around at this time of night. The peace that comes when everyone’s thoughts are still drenched in sleep reminds her of what it used to be like when just she and Laudna were traveling. 

That’s why she’s surprised when she steps out into the hallway and Orym is standing there.. He’s still dressed for sleep, and his sword hangs loose in his grasp. 

“Orym,” she says, brow furrowed. “What are you doing up?”

“I came out to check on you,” he replies. “I heard you screaming.”

A wave of guilt crests in her throat. She’s usually pretty quiet, but that isn’t always a guarantee. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “Did I wake you?”

Orym shakes his head. “I was already up,” he answers, letting the tip of his sword rest against the floor. “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh. Thank you, Orym. I’m okay.”

She expects him to leave it at that, but as he relaxes from whatever defensive position he was in, he studies her. Orym has the kind of eyes that make you feel like he’s looking into you, not at you. The kind you feel like you can’t hide from.

“You sure?” He asks.

Imogen swallows the small lump that’s starting to form in her throat. He’s not an easy guy to get one past, and she has no desire to try that hard at this time of night. The storm in her head might have her wide awake, but sleep still pulls at her limbs, tugs at the corners of her brain.

“No,” she answers honestly. “Had a nightmare. But I will be.”

“You wanna talk?”

“Not really. But I appreciate the offer.”

He watches her for another moment before he nods. “Okay,” he says. “That’s fair. But I’m always here if you want to talk.”

“Thanks, Orym,” she replies. The corner of his lips curl up, and he gives her a small salute. When she returns it, his smile widens a bit more before he disappears back into his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Despite the rough jolt she’s had from sleep, the interaction has Imogen smiling for most of her walk.

—

Imogen doesn’t realize at first, how quickly things have picked up between the seven of them. Within maybe a week, the newly-minted Bells Hells are always doing something. The day to day routine of life with Laudna gives way to the constant move and change that seems to follow the Hells. 

They may have only just met, but close quarters breeds quick relationships. While she’s still adjusting to have her walls back up and trying to stop the onslaught of everyone’s thoughts, she finds that actually really likes them. F.C.G. displays a shocking amount of kindness, and both Fearne and Ashton make her laugh. 

(Orym’s mentions of the Tempest come and go. Each time, Imogen wonders if she should say anything.

Each time, she chooses silence. They may be getting close, sure, but it’s only been a couple of weeks. It took her sixth months to tell Laudna about her family, after all. She can wait a little longer on this one, too.)

Her mother is quite pleased during their weekly check-in when she discovers that Imogen’s made new friends. She doesn’t have enough words to give more than the lightest of details, and she needs more of her spells these days, but the knowing tone of her mother’s reply tells her she understands what’s happening. Imogen does, too— she’s forming her own party, just like her parents had thirty years ago.

She wonders if this is how her mother used to feel at the beginning. There are still days where she feels unsure of how to act around the others. Never Laudna, though. The two of them are a constant that helps ground her; Laudna never makes her feel unsure of herself.

However, the closer they integrate into the party, Imogen does start to get a bit nervous. She knows, no matter what, that she and Laudna are friends, but it does feel weird going from them against the world to the Bell’s Hells against the world. 

It’s not a constant source of anxiety, but it does crop up every once and a while, when she sees Laudna laughing at one of Ashton’s jokes or showing Pate off to Fearne. It’s not like she has much room to be upset about it, when she often finds herself having long conversations with Orym or Fresh Cut Grass at dinner. And it’s not jealousy, but… it’s a little close

She knows where it comes from. Imogen grew up charmed, but no matter how much she knew her family loved her, that outsider feeling never really went away. She’s gotten used to being Laudna’s de-facto favorite by virtue of the fact that it was always just them. After two years of that, it’s scary to think she might have to give that up.

But that’s her problem to handle, not Laudna’s. It wouldn’t be fair to put that on the other woman after everything they’ve gone through together. No, she’ll have to deal with it on her own— and she’ll adjust. She might not want to, but she’s got five siblings, she knows how to share.

That’s what she thinks. The thing about Laudna, though, is that she always manages to smooth Imogen over, even when she doesn’t know it. They’re getting ready to go to sleep one night when Laudna asks from her spot on the bed: “How do you think things are going so far?”

“Good, I think,” Imogen replies, shutting the drawer in her hands. “It’s… a lot busier than we were before, but it feels like we’re doing something important. And it helps, that we’re doing it with a good group.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“I think so,” she says. “I mean, we’ve all been getting closer lately. You and Ashton seem to be getting along quite well.”

She does her best not to sound miffed by it, because she really isn’t. Imogen likes Ashton. They’re bold and they always say what they mean. She likes them more, still, because of how they treat Laudna. Nobody’s unkind to her— they all treat her the same way they treat Imogen— but Ashton’s the only one who seems like they actually enjoy Laudna’s quirks and oddities. 

Her voice must stay even, because Laudna only smiles. “I quite like them,” she says. “And the others, too. But you’re still my favorite.”

Imogen goes still. Her breath catches in her throat, and warmth starts to well behind her eyes before she can push it down. Her voice cracks when she asks, “I am?”

When she turns back, Laudna’s face is half fond, half confused. “Of course you are,” she says. “You’re my best friend.”

She says it like it’s simple, an established fact she’s simply reminding Imogen of. When Imogen blinks, a couple of tears slip out through her eyelashes.

“Imogen? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay,” Imogen replies, and she manages a steady voice despite the water spilling down her cheeks. “I’ve just… never been anybody’s favorite before.”

Laudna smiles, all serene and gentle. “Then I guess I’m the smartest,” she says.

When Imogen starts to cross the room, changing into her bedclothes forgotten for the moment, Laudna slides over to make room and open her arms. Imogen doesn’t hesitate before falling into them, pressing her face into the crook where Laudna’s neck meets her shoulder.

“You’re my favorite, too,” she says, her voice muffled by skin, as arms slide up around her back. “You’re my best friend.”

When Laudna presses her face into the top of her head, Imogen can feel her smiling.

—

(The next morning, Ashton makes a crack at her for being the last to wake up and get moving. It only serves to make her grin; in a weird way, he reminds her of Wolfe.

As such, she throws back a remark as snarky as the one she’d give her brother. Ashton blinks, like he’s taken aback by it, before the corner of his lips curl up into a grin. 

“Nice one,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting that from you.”

She smiles, a little sharp at the edges in a way that makes her feel at home. “In my family, you have to be ready to take it and give it,” she replies.

He snorts, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

When Imogen meets Laudna’s eye across the table, she’s beaming.)

Chapter Text

i can fit two people under my skin/and i will prove it if you will listen/you crawl up in there and join me within/i can feel your heart beating under my skin/and the beating of your heart is making me bleed within/and if we cut open your heart, pour it in a cup/do you think it’d be enough, do you think it’d be enough/to fill my heart with music?

‘under my skin’ by jukebox the ghost

—

They’re on the skyship one night when Laudna pulls Imogen aside to check in.

“You’ve grown so much in the past few months, it’s astounding,” she says. “But I also just wanna make sure, you know? The pressure and just everything in this new group we’ve suddenly found ourselves running with. You know, you’ve seemed a little…” 

She trails off, and Imogen finishes the thought. “Out of sorts.”

It’s not an unfair callout, if that’s what you’d call it. Imogen finds it hard to explain. The emotions that sit in her chest about everything have been harder to understand. Their new friends, her powers, even Laudna. It’s like her head is starting to overload, and she isn’t sure what she feels about a lot of things around her. 

Laudna winces. “Yes,” she replies. “I didn’t want to say it, but…”

It’s getting hard to ignore. “Yeah.”

“And I don’t want to question your empowerment—”

“I know.”

“—Because if you are owning your truth, yes,” Laudna continues, and the emphasis she puts on the last word makes Imogen smile. “But also you know, just want to make sure that you’re okay.”

Is she? Imogen isn’t so sure anymore, but saying that will just worry the other woman. She’s a grown girl, she can handle herself. 

“I’m okay,” is what she answers. “There’s just a lot going on. But I’m okay.”

Laudna fixes her with that look, like she knows there’s something bubbling under the surface. “Are you sure?”

“I mean, I’ve been missing my family more often lately,” Imogen admits, before she pulls the Sending Stone from her pocket. “But they’re never that far away.”

Laudna’s eyes catch on the stone. Something in her gaze turns unreadable for a moment before it shifts into plain curiosity. “I’ve never seen one before,” she says.

“You haven’t?” Imogen asks. It’s a strange thought. She’s been carrying this around in her pocket as long as she’s known Laudna. But the only thing she cares about doing in privacy is speaking with her sister— not to hide it, but because… Vesper is special. The quiet moments she get to share with her aren’t as frequent as they used to be, and always fleeting, but they matter to Imogen. In a world where she’s getting used to sharing again, the same way she always shared with her siblings growing up, Vesper feels like the one thing that’s still just hers.

“They’re not all that common,” Laudna replies. “At least, in my lived experience.”

(Fair. Laudna grew up on the outskirts of Whitestone before she died, and spent the last thirty years wandering the outside edge of civilization. It’s not like she would have known many people who owned one, let alone had the chance to use one herself.)

“Do you wanna see mine?” She offers.

Laudna blinks once. “Would that be okay?”

“Just be careful with it,” Imogen says. “I barely have enough spells these days so Send to my mother once a week. Adding Vesper to that would drain me dry.”

“Of course,” Laudna agrees, and Imogen drops the blue stone into her palm. She stares down at it for a moment, studying the carved Whitestone crest on the surface, the initials etched beneath it. Imogen wonders if this is the first time she's seen that symbol since she died.

And then her face changes.

They both panic. Laudna reaches out for Imogen, trying to find purchase on her shoulder as the hand holding the stone closes around it. Imogen, for her part, has no idea what’s happening— but the frantic way Laudna grabs for her makes her heart jump into her throat.

“What’s going on?” She asks, and when Laudna shakes her head, repeats: “Laud, what’s going on?”

“I— I don’t,” Laudna stammers. “Imogen, I can’t—”

Something like adrenaline crashes into Imogen, and she reaches out with both hands to grab Laudna’s. It’s clenched so tight the already pale skin of her knuckles is almost snow-white, and it shakes in Imogen’s grasp. One by one, Imogen pries Laudna’s fingers free, and at the end of it, they’re both staring at the Sending Stone.

Or, what was the Sending Stone. It’s shards of rock, now, sitting shattered in Laudna’s palm.

The two of them jerk away from each other at the same time. Laudna looks as shocked as Imogen feels; she cold take a moment to register that, maybe, if she could think about anything other than the way that her heart sinks out of her chest and down into her feet.

“Imogen,” Laudna’s saying, and there’s a sad, scared panic in her voice. “Delilah just— I don’t know what just happened.”

Imogen does. Laudna just broke the last link she has to her older sister.

She raises her gaze, eyes filled with tears, and whispers, “You lied.”

—

It takes her approximately five minutes to hear from her mother.

To be fair, it’s Imogen’s own fault that she forgot one Sending Stone loses it’s arcane energy if the other ever breaks. Therefore, it’s a foreseeable consequence of the matter that her sister would notice, and tell her mother to check on her.

She makes it into the belly of the ship and to her room a minute before the message comes, which she spends seething against the wall, her hands clasped into fists so tight her nails are digging into her skin as the sorrow and betrayal from earlier give way to anger. Right when the first wave of it starts to dull, the familiar tones of her mother’s voice ring out in her head.

Imogen, is everything okay? Vesper said her stone has lost it’s power, so yours must have broken. We’re just a little concerned. Are you alright?

The sound of her mother’s voice both soothes and fires her up. She only gets twenty-five words to reply, it’s not like she can explain the extent of the situation, and her mother wouldn’t have the appropriate context anyway. They may not be speaking right now, and Imogen might be furious, but it doesn’t mean she wants to let her mother know that Delilah Briarwood lives in her best friend’s head. With a sigh, she Sends back.

Yes mom. It was— I didn’t mean to. I’m fine, I promise, nothing happened. I’m sorry, I’m kind of dealing with it at the moment. Love—

The spell fizzles out on the last word, and the ‘you’ at the end of the thought meets the empty air inside her mind. Somehow, that just frustrates her more. The distance between her and her mother feels so palpable in this moment— the last time she was this angry, she was nine and Wolfe had poured sauce on her favorite blouse in his poorly-conceived idea of a prank. Her mother had fixed it, then, by making Wolfe apologize and getting somebody to remove the stain.

She wishes the woman was here to fix it now, but she doubts it would be so simple. Still, she feels like she wouldn’t be so irritated and torn up if her mother was just here to hold her for a moment and let her be mad. 

But that’s not possible. They both have responsibilities, and Imogen can’t run home crying just because she and her best friend had a fight. No, she’s going to buckle down and see the whole thing through, no much how much it hurts, no matter how much she wants to put her fist through a wall.

That’s what de Rolos do.

—

(The days that follow are rough..

Imogen wakes up alone in a half-empty bed for the first time in a long while— even when Laudna would wake up first, there was always some trace of her left behind, the blankets askew or the pillows rumpled. When Imogen yawns awake the next morning, the other side of the mattress is still made, the same as it had been when she went to sleep.

It’s not like things get better from there. Laudna might have found somewhere else to sleep the night before, but she doesn’t seem at all upset at Imogen about it; rather, she’s a shaky sort of desperate. Every move she makes, she glances over her shoulder to wherever Imogen is, like she’s trying to gauge her reaction to know if she misstepped. 

Imogen hates it. She’s still— Gods, Imogen is still so angry, but Laudna’s her best friend. She hates that the two of them are trapped in this strange limbo, and the way Laudna’s normal confidence has been replaced by this fear of making one more wrong move.

Even still, she can’t bring herself to do anything about it. Instead, Imogen shuts down every attempt at conversation, spends her days focusing on the next plan rather than delving deeper into her tangled emotions, and goes to bed alone at night.)

—

It gets worse when Dusk shows up. Fighting with Laudna was bad enough already, but with a third person in the middle taking up all of her attention? That makes the whole thing harder.

She doesn’t get a right to be mad about it, really. Just because they aren’t talking doesn’t mean Laudna isn’t allowed to make new friends. She’s upset, not bitter and hateful.

But she hurts. They’ve never fought like this before, and every rebuffed conversation or instance of broken eye contact makes her stomach churn. Even if she’s not ready to talk about it, the whole thing still aches horribly in the pit of her chest, and Laudna— she’s just replaced the spot at her side with somebody new like Imogen’s absence doesn’t even sting. 

She knows she’s being irrational. Laudna’s been nothing but clear that she doesn’t want to fight anymore, that she wants to apologize. But that fire in Imogen’s chest hasn’t died out yet, and she still feels sick with it all. There’s no room for a productive conversation when she can’t yet make sense of all the mixed up emotions that could her head. Laudna drips with guilt as it is; Imogen can see it every time their eyes meet for just a moment. Any talk they’d have now, she’d just push more of the pain off of her and onto Laudna, and the whole thing would just get worse.

And more than anything, she misses Vesper so bad. All she wants to do is talk about this with her older sister, and with the stone sitting in pieces, she’s lost that ability.

That’s really the crux of it, isn’t it? The ugly truth she’s been trying to shove down is that she isn’t just mad at Laudna, she’s mad at herself. It’s been two years since she’s seen her family. Yes, she’s been caught up in some pretty intense business for the past month, but she had all the time in the world before that, and she used none of it. Instead, she chose to keep playing house with Laudna, dragging their feet on getting to Jrusar and shacking up in the wilderness. And she was happy, sure, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have taken a quick break to actually see her family— her aunt Keyleth is always a Sending away, and she would have been happy to help.

Now she’s stuck, and it’s her own fault that this has stretched out so far. She made the mistake of assuming she had all the free time in the world, and now that it’s starting to slip through her fingers faster than she can catch it, she has no idea when she’ll be able to see them again. It’s not like she can pack off, leave the Bell’s Hells to deal with everything while she’s gone, and step back through the Sun Tree for a quick trip home. 

Normally, she tries to shove to ache down with something else when it arises, but Imogen lets herself wallow in it. Her family was the thing most familiar to her before she left, and now it feels like they’re becoming strangers in her mind. It’s been so long since she’s spared a sending for Dan or one of the twins, choosing to use most of them on Gwen, or her father on occasion. She has no idea what they’re up to these days, since the messages she passes with the others are far too limited for that kind of conversation. The last time she saw Wolfe, he was finally starting to sprout facial hair. Has he managed to grow a mustache in her absence? Has her younger brother become a man while she was gone?

And Gwen— she was eleven when Imogen left, and now her fourteenth birthday is cropping up on the horizon. How tall is she now? Does her hair still smell like the rose shampoo she was so fond of? If Imogen passed her baby sister in a crowd, would she still recognize her?

Her stomach churns with how bad it hurts. For a moment, she considers ditching the party to find the nearest tree and Sending for her aunt, her earlier reasoning be damned. It would be cold, and would undoubtedly lose her favor in many of their eyes, but she has never craved to have Vesper hold her this much in her life. The loss of the stone makes it worse— will she still be able to spare the spells to send her?

And now, on top of everything else, she’s bald!

She vents her frustrations to Orym when prompted, and rather loud in his head at that. He’s a good listener, with sound advice and a talent for getting Imogen to see through her own emotions and take a more logical approach to the situation. It also helps to talk through it. Imogen’s grown private, both from the strain of understanding what it’s like to invade everyone else’s minds and from keeping half her identity secret from the rest of the group. The only person she really talks these things through with Laudna, which isn’t really an option on the table. Talking to Orym helps.

I could definitely be wrong, he says in her head, his silent eyes staring at her across the table. I haven’t known you that long, but… I watch you and Laudna together, and you guys are so close. I feel like, you know, you get— I see you get down on yourself, and I think maybe it’s just coloring your thinking a little bit.

He’s right. The situation’s become more than just what Laudna did. With Imogen’s complex feelings about it thrown into the mix, plus the Delilah of it all, it’s stretched beyond more than just a simple moment of broken trust. She feels stuck in the heavy whirlwind head’s becoming these days.

I mean, when you have a falling out with a friend, I don’t know. I think, breathe through it. She… 

Orym sighs, audible across the table. That dead lady’s got a lot of love in her heart, he says, and Imogen’s nodding before he can even finish the thought.

I know, she replies, and a wistful smile draws onto her face. She’s got a really good heart. It’s the one thing about this whole situation that’s undeniable. As upset as she’s been, she’s never doubted that Laudna’s a good person. She’s opened herself to Imogen time and time again, and even when everything else got rough, she was always there.

Also, you saved that elf’s life, Orym adds. And I see you kicking yourself, but you saved their life. And also, you just did an amazing thing for Fearne. That was a good thing you did. 

Imogen smiles. She seemed really happy.

Let that sink in.

She takes his advice, lets the moment play back in her head. Fearne’s smile, her excitement. Yeah. Thank you.

He offers her a nod. If they were sitting next to each other, she thinks he might rest a hand on her shoulder. You know, work through it, he says. But when you’re ready… talk to her.

I know, I know. It’s just— she broke the Sending Stone I use to talk to my sister, she admits. She said that Delilah took over and did it, but… Delilah’s never been able to take control of her like that before.

Orym’s face twists. Why would Delilah want to stop you from talking to your family?

His words take a moment to sink in, but when the do, Imogen feels like an idiot. The angry part of her that she usually tries to shut out has been left open, and she’s been focusing on the fact that Laudna let Delilah slip through on something that was important to her when she always holds her back the rest of the time. What she hadn’t considered is why Delilah would have wanted to take control in this moment, a reason that she cared more than any of the other chances she’s had to get one over on the rest of them.

The stone connects Imogen, and by extension, Laudna, to Vesper. Vesper is a direct link to her mother, the same woman who’s killed Delilah twice over. If she was Delilah, she would have wanted that snapped away, too. It was a no-brainer.

He must see something in his expression, because his eyes narrow. Imogen, is there a reason Delilah would want to stop you from talking to your family?

Her throat feels sick. It’s… complicated, she says. A me and Laudna thing.

Is it… dangerous?

Imogen wants to say no, but it might be. Over time, she’s gotten used to Delilah just being the dark whisper in the back of Laudna’s mind, but she’s never forgotten what else she’s done. How could she? It changed the shape of her family, haunts her father, bloodied the end of her mother’s arrow. There’s no erasing that.

It might be, she answers. One day. But not now.

Okay, Orym replies, but he seems a bit skeptical. If you’re sure. But you know you can always talk to me about it, right? My door’s always open. 

She smiles, bittersweet. I know. Thank you, Orym. 

Any other conversation is cut off as the rest of the group runs back toting the souvenirs they’ve managed to grab up from the gift shop, and an employee comes to urge them out so he can flip their table. Still, Orym throws her one last encouraging look before he slips off to the store himself, and she thinks it’s resolution enough.

He’s right; she’ll work through it until she’s ready, and then talk to Laudna. Even though the loss of the Sending Stone sits heavy in her heart, Laudna’s too important to lose.

—

After her talk with Orym, Imogen dedicates herself to being at least a bit more of a positive presence in their little group. She knows that the tension between her and Laudna is starting to seep into the rest of them, and that’s the last thing everybody needs. The least she can do is a bit more upbeat.

It becomes harder, though, when Dusk asks if her and Laudna are a thing.

For some reason, the question eats at her. They’re not— Laudna’s her best friend, and maybe the most important person in her life, but that’s the extent of it. It should be, at least, but the palpable relief Dusk gives off when she says they aren’t eats at her. That gnawing feeling gets worse when Dusk mentions a romantic interest in Laudna, one she thinks is mutual

Shouldn’t Imogen be relieved about it? Her discomfort at seeing Dusk and Laudna together is because of the idea that Laudna would just make a new best friend the moment they’ve started fighting. If this is romantic, that’s something else entirely, and Imogen’s position is still safe and secure.

She’d be a terrible person if she didn’t want Laudna to find that kind of happiness with someone just because it might change their friendship.

The thing is, though, that she’s not relieved. The idea of Dusk and Laudna being Dusk-and-Laudna makes her teeth grind and her stomach turn. Her throat feels thick with it, and the anger she’s been trying to let go of rears it’s ugly head once again.

As she stands alone by herself, staring out the window to collect her thoughts, she can’t stop the way the idea of it turns over and over in her head. She can’t stop picturing it, and she can’t figure out why it makes her so angry. Of Dusk, being the who walks at Laudna’s side and makes her laugh. Dusk, taking Imogen’s spot in Laudna’s bed, being the first one Laudna looks to in a crowded room. Being the one Laudna—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Chapter Text

light pink sky, up on the roof/sun sinks down, no curfew/twenty questions, we tell the truth/you’ve been stressed out lately, yeah, me too/something gave you the nerve/to touch my hand, it’s nice/to have a friend/it’s nice to have a friend

‘it’s nice to have a friend’ by taylor swift

—

The realization that she’s in love with Laudna knocks the air out of Imogen’s lungs.

She feels like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. For not realizing it before she fell in so deep, at least, because she can’t even begin to consider where it started. Was it the first time she saw her, standing in the middle of the forest? That first winter they’d spent holed up together? Somewhere on the road in between, or the journeys that followed? 

It doesn’t matter. Whenever it was, she’s smart enough to tell it’s been there for too long to be an easy fix. The feelings are buried too deep in the center of the chest, pulsing in time with the beat of her heart. She can’t very well nip it in the bud without digging it out, and there’s no telling the damage it would take. 

Would she even want to, anyway, this far in? Has she been in love so long that it’s become an integral part of their friendship?

The position she’s standing in makes her stomach flip inside out. For one, she and Laudna aren’t even talking right now. As much as she may be planning on changing that, the timing of it makes the whole thing feel all the more loaded. For two, it’s not like she can talk to anybody about it. Sure, she could go to Orym, or even Letters and Ashton, but that’s… she’s not on that level with them, yet, to unpack something of this caliber. This is something she’d take to her best friend, who is also Laudna.

Or Vesper, or her mother, or even her aunt Pike, but none of those are viable options right now.

At some point, her pacing transitions to her sliding down onto the floor, back pressed to the wall and her knees tucked in towards her chest. With her feet still, the racing of her minds turns to something more akin to a storm, thoughts swirling past too fast to hold onto any of them for more than a second at a time. Everything is a mess at the moment; it’s the worst time have realized this when she knows well enough it’s up to her to be the one to extend the olive branch between them, and—

Oh, Gods, she hasn’t even stopped to consider how Laudna feels about her.

She’d know if Laudna felt the same, right? Her thoughts have always been wide open to Imogen, not that she really ever goes looking beyond the music. Still, with the fleeting things that drift into her head… it seems like there would have been something to notice, and she would have. She notices most things about Laudna.

But everything Imogen has ever given to Laudna was reciprocated in full, without hesitation or discomfort. Each touch, every hand extended, every moment, Laudna gave it all back and more. Sure, Imogen had always thought it had been platonic, but the past twenty minutes are evidence that her heart hasn’t been honest with her brain. After all, the current crisis wouldn’t exist otherwise.

Is it possible she’s missed something? It’s not like she stops to focus in on every passing whisper of Laudna’s brain. The gate is open, but that doesn’t mean everything drifts though. Imogen’s always been free to go browsing at her leisure, and Laudna’s never indicated anything about it makes her uncomfortable, but most goes unseen. Just because she makes no demand for privacy mean Imogen won’t afford her some.

Sweet Pelor, it’s a disaster; she’s in love with Laudna, the two of them are speaking, and she can’t get a solid idea of the change that Laudna feels the same. She’s starting to fear the odds aren’t in her favor.

Imogen folds her arms across her knees and buries her face into them to muffle the scream she thinks will tear free of her mouth when she opens it. The only thing that comes out is a sigh.

—

(Imogen will never be able to figure out the moment she fell in love, really. She’ll make an occasional guess, something that happened their first winter or a bar in the music of Laudna’s thoughts, but she won’t be able to parse it out. Eventually, she’ll settle herself with the idea that falling in love is something gradual that happens over time, not in one second.

That’s half true. Imogen fell in love with Laudna over time, yes, upon a collection of supposed moments that built up into a foundation. But the full truth of it is that there was a tipping point, like one last drop in a too-full glass of water that broke the surface tension and sent everything spilling over.

The two of them are on the road to Emon, for real this time, as spring starts to set over Tal’Dorei in earnest. The sky above them is that crystal-clear shade of blue that artists love to use as a backdrop for painting, and the flowers bulbs are starting to bloom into bright-colored petal sprawls around them.

Halfway through the walk, Laudna pauses in place to drop into a crouch, bending over a patch of daylilies that have sprouted up in the grass that edges the path. With a gentle touch, she pulls a pair of scissors from her pouch and snips one free.

“Here,” she says when she stands, passing it from her hand to Imogen’s. “For you.”

“You’re giving me a flower?”

“It reminds me of you.”

Imogen laughs, twirling the stem between her fingers. No reason jumps out to her, really— the flower is yellow rather than purple, and Laudna’s never been one to call her delicate. “What about it?”

Laudna smiles. “Full of life,” she answers. “And beautiful.”

Imogen’s heart swells, and flips, and she swears she’s never been this kind of content in her life.

She hasn’t, because content wasn’t the word she looking for. She just didn’t know it then.)

—

Sleep is fleeting the night she makes her grand breakthrough. The nightmares come with a vengeance, and with the terms she and Laudna are still on, it isn’t fair to seeking her comfort. It’s up to Imogen to either get back to sleep or wait for dawn to break alone. 

After a few laps, and a few tears she wipes away before they can spill out, Imogen quiets her mind enough that she can fall back into the mattress and get a few more hours of shut-eye. She still feels groggy when she wakes, but less than she would have without the extra rest, so she decides to chalk that up as a win she desperately needs right about now.

The others have already gotten a jumpstart on discussing their plans for the day when she slips out of her room to join them. Imogen is preparing to take a seat beside them and chip in when her mother’s voice rings out in her head.

I’m just checking in, she says, and even in her head, the voice is soothing and warm. Is everything alright, darling? You seemed rather stressed in your last message. We can work on getting you a new stone.

Imogen excuses herself as politely as she can without speaking, ducking out of the room and down into the hall. When she’s far enough from the others that she’s got a reasonable expectation of privacy, she responds.

I’m okay. Laudna broke it, and I was upset, but it was an accident. We’ll talk it out.

She’s got seven words left to use. There’s a lot she could add— if there’s one thing she’s learned over the past two years, you can fit a lot of things to say in just a handful of words if you construct them carefully. She could give a little more context to the matter, or ask her mother to wish the family well on her behalf. She could tell her how much she would appreciate a new stone, or a good way for them to get it to her.

What she Sends is: I think I’m in love with her.

On the last word, that slight bit of connection she feels between her and her mother severs. It leaves her feeling empty. The negative space between them always feels so much wider when the Sending spell ends, and her confession leaves her nerves exposed and tender to the touch. More than anything, she just wants to hear her mother’s response— she’d say something calming right about now, something to put the raw edges of her anxiety back together.

With a shaky breath, Imogen casts a Sending spell of her own, conjuring up the image of her mother’s easy smile and warm eyes. Unbidden, her hands slip into the pockets of her clothing, where the purple pencil Laudna gave her at Taste of Tal’Dorei still sits.

Actually, can you say something back? I just realized it, and we aren’t talking right now, and I think I’m freaking out. I miss you.

Her mother’s response takes less than a minute, which Imogen spends rubbing the pencil in between her fingers and trying to stay calm.

It sounds like you are, dearest, she says, more gentle than before. But I can’t decide that for you. I’m incredibly proud of you, and I love you so very much.

When the spell fades, Imogen feels a little more ready for it this time. Her mother’s agreement, in a way, tastes like proof. She’s the one who’s been getting Imogen’s weekly updates for the past two years, after all. If there’s anybody out there who could truly be justified in answering the question, it’s her mom.

Imogen takes a few more moments to herself in the hall, processing the short conversation, before she heads back to join the others for real. Orym is the first to notice her re-enter the room. The look he gives her might be his usual brand of concern, or due to her something in her expression that strikes him as odd; either way, he asks, “Everything alright?”

“All good,” Imogen assures, reaching up to tap her temple. “My mother was Sending me. Checking in.”

He nods, turning back to the plate in front of him as Imogen takes her place at the table. When she slides into the seat, her eyes catch Laudna’s, and she can see the guilty look the other woman wears. A few days ago, that little bitter part of her would have felt justified, but it just makes her ache now.

The two of them need to talk. Soon.

—

The morning before they return to Finders Takers, Imogen decides that she’s calmed herself back into a state where she can be rational, and asks Laudna if they can talk. When the other woman meets her eye across the room and nods, the breath she’s been holding in for the past few days releases. After a moment, she makes a quick exit from the room, waiting for Laudna to follow.

Dusk manages to pull Laudna aside before they can talk, which she does her best to stay calm about. With an understanding for the reasons behind her rampant jealousy, the fire of it burns hotter, but it’s easier to control.

Once Laudna’s actually standing in front of her, with nobody else around to get in the way, Imogen finds herself at a loss for where to start beyond a hello. She starts all but stammering on about F.C.G. and how she promised he could help with this, but it quickly devolves into the two of them talking over one another, both of them trying to express how much they don’t want to fight anymore to the point that neither can get a word in edgewise. The two of them are a mess, blabbering on about Delilah and their friendship until they’re grabbing for each other at the same time.

Imogen falls into Laudna like she’s coming home. Maybe that’s a dramatic way of putting it, but with Laudna’s arms around her back and the music of her thoughts in Imogen’s head, that’s how it feels. Maybe it’s not quite what walking into Whitestone Castle would be like after all this time, but it’s home to Imogen the same, being with Laudna.

She also takes the chance to give Laudna the ring she bought, a peace offering in the same way the pencil was. The rubies glint under the light, and Imogen takes the moment to recognize that, while she bought it before her realization, the gesture feels far more loaded than she had meant it to.

If Laudna picks up on that, though, she doesn’t show it. Their conversation spirals out from there, shifting from apologies and making up to something that’s more typical of them. At least, until Dusk comes up, and Laudna drops the latest bomb.

“And— did she just hit on me?”

Imogen’s brain buzzes into full static for a moment before she gets a handle on it. “She did?” She blurts, half in shock as she clutches her hands to her chest. When Launda gives her that look, the frantic and wide-eyed one that means panic is incoming, she steadies herself back into the role of the rational best friend. “She did ask— I got the impression she was interested.”

“What do I tell her?”

No. She wants her to tell Dusk no, that she’s Imogen’s, but she pushes that down. “What do you want to tell her?”

“I don’t know, I’ve just been so… really wanting to make sure that we were okay,” Laudna admits. “And, just, you know, um— I don’t think… I haven’t accessed that part of my brain in like, thirty years.”

Imogen doesn’t even want to parse through what that means for her and her feelings, and it’s definitely not the time. “It would be strange, I know, that,” she agrees.

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure. She seems sweet, they seem sweet.”

Laudna nods, but there’s a twitch in her movement that betrays her frayed nerves. When she stammers through her next sentence before changing the subject, Imogen indulges her, sharing the details of her latest dreams. If Laudna doesn’t want to talk about Dusk anymore, Imogen is more than happy not to. Even if she knows the whole thing— Dusk’s invitation, Laudna’s panic, the unaccessed parts of her brain— are going to eat at her for the next few days.

—

The tension takes a while to settle, even after they’ve made up.

Laudna hesitates sometimes, before she reaches for Imogen, like she’s afraid she’ll be turned away. She won’t— Imogen can do many things she finds difficult, but denying Laudna will always be a struggle for her. Every time the other woman pauses, unsure of herself, Imogen reaches the rest of the way to close the gaps. Before too long, they’re relaxing back into their normal, speaking into each other’s head and walking everywhere with their arms intertwined.

It’s a bit of a double-edged sword. Now that Imogen’s acknowledged her feelings, they become a beast she can’t ignore. Sparks run across her skin in the places Laudna touches her, and what was once enough makes her ache to reach out for more: more contact, more time, more Laudna. Maybe it was always that way, but she notices it now, and that makes it all seem different. 

It’s a tough line she’s learning to walk, being in love with her best friend. Any part of her that was freed by the realization is overshadowed by trying to project the version of herself she was before, the one who thought she was content with just being Laudna’s best friend. For the most part, it’s not hard; she might want Laudna in a new way, but what has always mattered the most in having her whatever way she can. If that’s this, a close-knit friendship for the rest of her life, she’ll learn to be happy with it. The prospect of losing her is far worse than any others.

Still, when they climb into bed together at night and Laudna presses a kiss to the hand Imogen wraps around her, hope sparks like lightning bugs in the center of her gut.

Chapter Text

even when i was a child/i’ve always know/there was something to be found/you know that i can see you coming from the edge of the room/creeping in the streetlight/holding my hand in the pale gloom/can you see it coming now?/oh, i think i’m breaking down again/oh, i think i’m breaking down again

‘breaking down’ by florence + the machine

—

When Imogen’s world falls apart, she’ll decide there’s no one to blame but herself.

There are little pieces of blame she could give to others, sure, but the lion’s share is her own. After all, it was her that Otohan had been going for in the first place. Her inability to give the woman what she wanted, her failure to be strong enough to stop her, is what doomed Laudna in the end.

The worst part is digging her out of the rubble, because Imogen knows she’s gone before she even spots her; the silence on the other end of their mental connection tells her so. Laudna’s music has never been gone before, even when they were fighting. For the first time she can remember, Imogen feels like the world is too quiet.

Ashton appears at her side within a few seconds, and even battle-weary, they’re hefting away the larger chunks of rock she can’t even buzz. They’re saying something to her, but it sounds like static in her ears. It’s like she can’t hearing anything when she can’t hear Laudna, and as they free more and more of her limp frame, the cold vice grip around Imogen’s heart just grows tighter.

When she pulls away the last few stones covering Laudna’s face, what waits for them underneath is bruised, bloody, and still. Guilt-tinged nausea flares in her stomach, and Imogen swears she’s going to scream. The only thing that comes out is a choked gasping sound.

“Come back,” she begs, cupping Laudna’s cheeks in her hands. “Come back, come back.”

Nothing answers, even when she shoves the rock from her pocket under Laudna’s hand and calls for Delilah to do something. In the long second of silence, Imogen’s chest concaves on itself with grief.

It doesn’t get better. F.C.G. manages to get Fearne back on her feet, but Orym and Laudna are a different story. Even with Fearne’s spells, they only have a short window of opportunity to bring somebody back. A frantic energy overtakes them all when the realization that they can only save one sinks in; they need to make a choice before it’s taken from them, or they’ll be left with two bodies instead.

Without the time for a full discussion, they trade panicked, half-thought out ideas, most of which are terrible. Fearne suggests a vote that’s shot down the moment it leaves her mouth by all of them, Fearne included. The only thing that all of them seem to be able to agree on is that there’s no fair way for any of them to decide what to do— when somebody suggests leaving it to chance, nobody can come up with something better.

They all wait with baited breath as Fearne tosses the coin F.C.G. had offered to her. It glints when it catches the sunlight breaking through the dust as it flips through the air, and lands back in her palm with a quiet thwap. Fearne slaps her free hand over it the second it touches down, shielding it from everyone’s view with a grip tight enough her knuckles pale.

Her fingers shake, ever-so-slightly, when she lifts them just enough to peek through. Imogen finds herself leaning forward, waiting for the reaction; surely the look on Fearne’s face will tell her what it says. But the still-stunned, wide-eyed expression she’s been wearing since she was revived doesn’t shift in the slightest as she nods, slipping the coin off into her pocket and out of sight.

When she slides over to Laudna’s body, the broken pieces of Imogen’s still-beating heart stutter with hope. Please be Laudna, she thinks, even as it makes her feel selfish, mourn for the dead halfling next to them who has done nothing but reach out Imogen and do his best to be there for her. He still isn’t her. Please be Laudna.

But it isn’t, because Fearne only leans forward to brush away the stray hairs on her forehead. “We’ll find a way back for you,” she whispers, quiet and sad. “I promise.”

Imogen’s hands, which have found their way up to grip at her scalp, tighten so hard she can feel strands of purple snapping under her fingers.

When Orym comes back, sputtering, she wants to be relived. His first response to the news of Laudna’s death is a shaking demand to know what their plan to fix it is, and Imogen wants to be grateful for him and his determination, but she can’t get herself to feel anything but the pain of it all.

—

(She’s not so sure, really, that it was the coin flip that made the decision. It was a fifty-fifty in either direction, and the chance of it coming up in favor of what Fearne herself would have chosen is just as likely as the other way around. Still, the doubt lingers in her head, but…

Imogen’s all but drained out. All the anger she has left inside her has fled to the hollow pit of her stomach, waiting to be called upon later. Whatever’s left of it she’s expended already, cursing Delilah for her abandonment and wishing pain on Otohan for what she’s done. Now, all but the basest few of her emotions have slipped beyond her reach, hidden away for another time. Maybe forever, if they can’t fix this.

It’s like— Laudna has always been her missing piece, and with her gone, so if half of Imogen. The only thing that’s left is the sinking ache of despair residing in the gap between her lungs where her heart used to sit, and the rest of her is cracked-open empty.)

—

With Laudna gone, any thoughts of rage or vengeance have to be placed on the back-burner. As much as Imogen would love to see Otohan Thull crumble into the same rubble she tried to bury three of the Hells under, there’s no time to focus on it. Instead, their priories thin to the only two things necessary: off-loading Armand Treshi and figuring out how to bring Laudna back to them.

They’re brain-storming plans the moment they make it back to Imahara Joes and have a real moment to take stock. It won’t be a simple task; a resurrection at this point will be a heavy ask for anybody, and with the multitude of both the contacts they have and the price each may charge, they have to consider every move before they make it.

The six of them are laying out all their possible options on the table when Orym suggests one that makes Imogen’s entire body turn to stone.

“There’s the Lord and Lady of Laudna’s hometown.”

Her brain slogs back and forth in her skull like molasses, and she has to shake her head once to clear it. “Whitestone?” She says, once she’s managed to get a hold of herself. “Is that a good idea?”

“She was brought back once there,” Letters points out. “Maybe going there could bring back the same?”

“But Delilah—”

Orym leans forward. “They know everything there is to know about her?”

“Would they be willing to risk it? After everything she’s done, don’t you think they’d consider Delilah to be too much of a risk?”

“Maybe,” he replies. “But we might not have many other choices. There’s only so many people we can ask for help, and… bringing a person back from the dead isn’t something that just anybody can do.”

F.C.G.’s wheel screeches as he jolts forward a little too fast, still a bit out-of-sorts from combat. “We could try Delilah again.”

“I already tried Delilah,” Imogen says. “She’s too weak.”

“Maybe taking her to Whitestone could make her stronger?”

“She isn’t going to be strong enough without Laudna.”

“But wasn’t she gone before?” F.C.G. asks. “And she got her back the first time anyway. Maybe if we—”

Goosebumps bristle up under the gloves covering Imogen’s wrists and forearms. “Delilah is gone,” she insists. “She can’t do anything to help us.”

“But we could try—”

“It won’t work!”

The words fly out of Imogen with far more force than she intended behind them. When the rest of the group goes quiet, she realizes they’re staring at her— somewhere in the past minute or so, her voice has risen into something verging on a shout. Not the greatest look.

She takes a deep breath to quell the rising fire in her stomach back down to embers. “She was powerful, still, when Laudna came back the first time,” Imogen continues, in a more even tone. “She doesn’t have that power anymore, and she doesn’t have any physical form left to turn to. All she had was Laudna, and Laudna’s… dead.”

It stings to say out loud, but it’s the truth of the matter. In the situation they’re in right now, Imogen can’t afford to ignore reality. She can’t fix it if she does.

Orym spares her a curious look, but when she avoids his eye, he turns to the rest of the group. “The de Rolos know everything there is to know about that woman, but they’re only one option,” he says. “We still have others.”

Ashton huffs. “What others?”

“We could try… calling my boss.”

“Can she bring people back?” F.C.G. asks.

A half-sorrowed, half-sympathetic look crosses Orym’s face. “Usually,” he answers, and the buzzing of his thoughts ticks up a few notches. They sound too much like Imogen’s own have these past few hours, maybe a little more worn at the edges. He’s thinking about Will.

“Even if it’s been a while?” Fearne questions. “It might take us time to get to her.”

“I don’t know,” he replies. “She can come to us, but… not here. But if she agrees to help us… the Tempest has a lot of connections. If she can’t bring Laudna back, she might be able to help us get to someone who can.”

Imogen sighs. “Wouldn’t Keyleth just direct us back to Whitestone?”

The moment it comes out of her mouth, she knows what she’s done. Orym has never referred to Keyleth as anything but the Tempest, or her boss, and he’s never said anything about her connection to Whitestone— or Imogen’s parents. She just told him she knows more than she should.

The use of the Tempest’s first name doesn’t register with most of them, but Orym blinks at her like she’s struck him. There’s a few seconds that tick by where he just stares at her, wearing the same looking he always gets when something clicks into place in front of him.

F.C.G. jumps in point out that Orym’s entire mission is about protecting Keyleth from the people who are in the very same city with them right now, providing a distraction from the way Imogen is faltering under the halfling’s gaze. With everyone else’s eyes on Letters, Orym takes the moment to tap a single finger against his temple.

The discussion moves on around them as Imogen slips into his mind with her own. Orym?

He’s not looking at her anymore, following whatever Chetney is saying now, but she hears him clear when he says: I think we need to talk.

She swallows. Yeah, I think we do.

His eyes dart to her once more before he focuses on the rest of the group, who have moved on from the Tempest to debating whether whatever price Jiana Hexum would charge would be worth it.

Orym clears his throat. “Let’s table this part for now,” he says. Despite everything, his voice is even, if a bit weary. “We’re all exhausted, we can come back and comb through our harder-to-achieve options later. What we need to do now is get out of here without losing anyone else. In the mean time, we can reach out to some of our other contacts first, and Jiana Hexum can go farther down that list.”

The others mumble various agreements, but there’s not a lot of enthusiasm or energy to go around. In the wake of Laudna’s death, even F.C.G.’s positivity seems sapped. Overall, the mood is rather dour.

Ashton slips away first, muttering something under their breath as they skulk away. Orym is next, with a pointed glance in Imogen’s direction as he slips out of the room. She knows well enough what he’s signaling, and after a good ten seconds or so have passed, she excuses herself and follows him out of the room.

As expected, he’s waiting for her, leaning against the wall halfway down the hall with his hands in his pocket. Despite the fact that he’s almost half her height, something about the way he’s slouched seems intimidating. Maybe it’s just her own nerves about the coming conversation, but her scars start to itch under her gloves.

He straightens when he sees her. “Hey Imogen.”

“Hi, Orym,” she replies, crossing the rest of the space between them and stopping a few feet away. He looks up at her, and while the expression on his face isn’t harsh, it’s certainly resolved.

“We should talk about what you just said in there,” he says. “Because I don’t… want to sound accusatory, or pry into your life, but you got pretty heated when Delilah and Whitestone came up, and I’m… pretty sure that I’ve never told you the Tempest’s given name, either.”

A sigh slips free from her chest. “No,” she replies. “You haven’t.”

“And you seem to understand a lot about the things that happened in Whitestone,” he adds. “Which I thought made sense at first, because Laudna could have told you, but given the conversation we just had, I’m starting to think something else might be going on.”

“Yeah,” she says. It sounds like an admission.

“Imogen, how much do you know about the Lord and Lady of Whitestone?”

The empty pit in her stomach splits down the middle, and with it, the secret she’s been holding onto for reasons she doesn’t even understand anymore. “They’re my parents.”

It plunges them both into silence. When she lifts her gaze to Orym from the floor, he’s studying her. Any surprise is long gone from his face— rather, it looks like he’s fitting everything he knows in his head into a single, cohesive picture.

“I thought so.”

“How long have you known?”

“I didn’t, really, until about five minutes ago,” he answers. “But it’s been on my mind since you told me Delilah broke your Sending Tone. I knew the de Rolos had a daughter named Imogen, and I noticed you looked a bit like Lord— well, your father. It crossed my mind when we first met, too, but the chances of it seemed slim, and with Delilah in her head, I thought…”

“That there was no way I’d be traveling with her,” she finishes.

He sighs. “Yeah. That.”

She can’t blame him for the assumption. Imogen would have said the same herself, before she met Laudna, and she’s sure her parents would have thrown in their hearty agreements.

“I didn’t know, when we first met,” she explains. “And I didn’t tell her I was a de Rolo, either. By the time I found out, well… she was Laudna. My family might’ve been Delilah’s victims, but so was she. She never asked to have her murderer’s voice in her head. How could I blame her for being haunted?”

“I guess you can’t.”

No, Imogen thinks. I really, really can’t.

“How much do your parents know?” He asks.

“None of it,” she answers. “They know that we’ve been traveling, but… Delilah, the tree, I haven’t mentioned any of it.”

“So they think…”

“That she’s my human best friend from somewhere other than Whitestone with no connections to it.”

Orym blinks. “Oh,” he says, and then again on his next breath, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Oh.”

The two of them let that fall between them. When Imogen slides down the wall to sit on the floor, legs crossing beneath her, Orym joins her. The tops of his knees brush against the underside of her own as the hallway fills with nothing but the sound of their quiet breathing.

“They’re your parents,” he says, after a while. “You don’t want to ask them for help?”

“Orym, my father abhors that woman,” she replies. “He watched as she killed his entire family, and fought against her when he tried to do the same to him and my mother multiple times, including at their own wedding. If he thinks it’s a risk, even just a bit…”

“You don’t think he’ll help,” he finishes.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “Maybe. He’s still my father, after all, and… we’ve talked about what happened. About the Sun Tree, before I met Laudna. He knows it was a senseless murder, and I know he feels badly for what happened. It might help, who she was, but… it’s Delilah. I want to believe he would, but…”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I can’t,” Imogen agrees. “And that terrifies me.”

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she adds, “If they say no, I don’t know what I’ll do. My mother knows what she means to me, even if she doesn’t know the rest of it. The idea that they wouldn’t do this for me, even if it’s because they’re scared, even if it’s because they’re afraid I’ll get hurt… I love my parents, but I don’t know how I could ever get past it.”

Her entire body aches with the weight of the truth she’s shared, the thinly veiled confession hidden within what she means to me. Imogen knows she grew up privileged, and so loved, but… this is Laudna. As much as she can’t imagine a world without her parents, it’s impossible to fathom being able to move past the betrayal being denied would feel like. Even if she understands the weight of what she’s asking, what Delilah did to her father, she can’t conceptualize ever learning to be okay with the fact that her father had the power to help her and wouldn’t.

There’s either no right response for that, or Orym can’t find it, because he doesn’t say anything. What he does do is reach out and places his open hand face up on her knee in an invitation. It’s so much smaller then hers, but she takes it anyways, holding on so tight to his that it must hurt.

He doesn’t protest; instead, he laces his fingers between hers and squeezes right back.

When she bends down to rest her head against his, he doesn’t stop that, either. He just leans into her side and lets her breathe in the silence.

—

The six of them run through every possible connection they can until the well starts to run dry beneath them. Lord Eshteross offers them a method of transportation, but no resurrection, and Jiana’s vague response all but outright implies the payment she’d require for an undertaking of this size would be Fresh Cut Grass. Despite the fact the F.C.G. appears willing to pay that price, the rest of them are not. Even Imogen can’t bring herself to consider it, and there’s little she wouldn’t do at this point.

Her anxiety frays with each lead dead. Her parents and Pike still sit as a last resort in her pocket, but taking Laudna back to Whitestone… that’s an emotional bomb for almost every part involved, and there’s no guarantee it will work. As much as she wants to believe her parent’s love for her will swing in favor of helping her, she’s afraid it might see her denied instead. The beast attached to her request is her father’s storm, the thing that haunts his nightmares, and she’s spent the past two years sleeping in beside it every night. That’s how they’ll see it, at least. With Delilah Briarwood in the mix, she can’t get a clear enough idea of how they’ll react to feel secure.

A dark part of her whispers that they’d do it, if it wasn’t Imogen asking. That her father would grant Gwen this, or her mother would give it to Wolfe, but not Imogen. They loved her, but it’s been two years— would that be enough? Would it have been enough if she were another one of her siblings?

(Her anger might still be hiding in a place beyond her reach, but she finds that the bitterness comes quite easy without Laudna here to smooth out her rough edges.)

When they’ve got nowhere else to look for help, though, it can’t be put off anymore. Imogen knows it, and so does Orym. They’re all gathered together on the deck of the skyship when he turns to her, face drawn.

“Imogen,” he says. “I think we’re out of other options.”

They are, and the fact of the matter is that Imogen’s sitting on the last card they have to play.

“You’re right,” she agrees. “I’ll Send a message to Keyleth and see if you can take us to ask my parents for help.”

Her words catch attention from the rest of the Hells. Ashton turns to her, their brow furrowed. “No offense, Imogen, but since when did your parents come into this?” They ask. “And what are they supposed to do? We’re shit up a creek right now, is this really something they can do anything about?”

“They can do… a lot more than you might think,” she replies, choosing her words with care. “And they know a lot about dealing with Delilah.”

“I thought we— what about the Lord and Lady of Whitestone?” F.C.G. suggests. “I thought they were the experts on Delilah. Aren’t they still options on the table?”

Every eye in the room goes back to Imogen as they wait for her to respond. The collective weight of their gazes, and the knowledge of what she’s about to share, sit heavy on her chest. It’s almost suffocating, with them all staring at her.

This could change everything, she thinks. I’ve kept this from them for a month, even after Launda died. They might never look at me the same.

It’s not out of the realm of possibility— who knows how betrayed they may or may not feel, especially when she continued to hide it after they first discussed their options? But, what matters more than that is this is the last chance they have to get Laudna back. With every other lead dried up, it isn’t something she can keep to herself. And even if she didn’t tell them, it’s not a secret she can hold onto when they’re standing in the middle of Whitestone Castle, her siblings around every corner and her face in the family portrait that hangs in their parlor. Not to mention that every citizen and guard will recognize the de Rolo daughter with lightning in her skin.

Imogen takes a deep breath and says, “The Lord and Lady of Whitestone are my parents.”

Nobody moves, and their eyes stay glued to her face. Save for Orym, they all stare at her like she’s grown a second head or an extra arm.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Ashton says, finally. “‘Cause I feel like I’m not hearing you right.”

She sighs. “My last name isn’t Temult,” she replies. “It’s de Rolo. And my family reigns over Whitestone. Lord and Lady de Rolo are my mother and father.”

“Whitestone, where Laudna was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, wait,” Fearne interrupts, confusion marring her face. “I thought Delilah killed the de Rolos before she killed Laudna.”

“She killed most of them,” Imogen corrects. “My father escaped, and one of his sisters was spared. But his parents and the rest of his siblings were murdered by Delilah and her husband.”

“But… they’ll help us, right?” Fearne asks. “Laudna’s your best friend, and they’re your parents.”

“It’s a shot, but it’s… not the one I wanted to count on. I am their daughter, and they’re inclined to do the right thing. I want to believe they’d help— there’s a chance that they might feel some responsibility for her death the first time.”

“Because she’s a citizen of Whitestone?” F.C.G. asks.

“Because of how she died the first time.”

Chetney sits up higher in his seat. “I thought Delilah killed her?”

Imogen swallows down the bile that threaten to rise into her throat. “She did,” she replies. “But Delilah killed her to be a message to an adventuring party that was attempting to take control of Whitestone from the Briarwoods.”

“What’s that got to do with your parents?”

“My parents were in that party,” she explains. “And my aunt Keyleth— Orym’s boss, the Tempest. Delilah killed people to represent each of the adventurers and dressed them up before she hung them from the tree in the center of town. Laudna was… meant to be my mother.”

Her shoulders slump further. “It’s why her ears are docked.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ashton says, dropping their head into their hands.

“Do your parents know about… any of that?” F.C.G. asks.

“They know about the history they were there for,” Imogen answers. “And they know Laudna’s been my best friend for two years, but I haven’t said… they don’t know anything that happened to her, or that she’s from Whitestone.”

The room goes so quiet you could hear an Owlbear’s breath a mile away.

“Let me get this straight,” Ashton says. “You’re going to call Orym’s boss, who is also your aunt, to ask her to take us to Whitestone. Whitestone happens to be both where you and Laudna are from, and we’re going there to ask your parents for help resurrecting her. And, on top of all of that shit, the voice in Laudna’s head, who killed her so she could dress her up like your mother, is also the woman who killed your dad’s entire family. All of this, they happen to know nothing about?”

“That would… sum most of it up, yeah.”

“Well, that’s fucking grand,” they reply, throwing their hands up in the air. “Definitely not complicated at all.”

Orym clears his throat. “You guys, this is still good news.”

“Is it?” Fearne asks. “It seems like… a lot.”

“It is a lot,” he replies. “But having a connection to the Lord and Lady only strengths our request. Being asked this favor by a stranger is far different than being asked by your daughter.”

“Yeah?” Ashton asks. “If it’s such good news, why does Imogen look like she wants to puke?”

Imogen’s hands clench into fists as the coil of unreachable anger in her stomach finally snaps, lashing up and into her throat. “What, I can’t be nervous about seeing my family for the first time in two years and asking them for this?”

“You’re scared to ask your parents for help?”

“I haven’t seen them in two years, and it’s not like I told them that my best friend’s carrying around the woman who slaughtered our family! Of course I’m worried!”

“About their response, or their opinion? Because it’s been days and you haven’t said shit at all to us, even when you knew they could help Launda—”

She stiffens. The line of her back turns into a straight rod, her chin tipping up as her jaw turns to stone. It’s habit, adopting the same stance her father always used when a member of the Council forgot their place and said something outrageous.

“Do not imply I was doing anything I thought would avoid helping Laudna,” she replies. “If I thought this was our best option, I would have said we should do it the moment Orym put my parents on the table. I don’t think you understand the severity of this ask would be to my family; this is asking my father to risk welcoming his family’s murderer into his home with all six of his children under it’s roof, for a single person. Do you like those odds, Ashton?”

“Everybody calm down,” Orym cuts in, voice steely. “This isn’t the time to argue. It’s our only chance left.”

He sends a look her way, and it works. The fight brewing inside Imogen slips back into the hole of her chest, waiting to be unlocked later, and she slumps as the tension holding her up drains away.

“You’re right,” she admits after a few beats, voice back to normal as the earlier guilt rises to the forefront once more. “I’m sorry.”

F.C.G. lifts his head. “Imogen, it’s okay—”

“It’s not,” she replies. “I kept this from you, and it’s okay to be upset. But I wouldn’t have kept this a secret until now if I thought it was our best chance.”

“We understand, Imogen,” Orym says. She isn’t sure if she believes him— for one, he’s Orym, and she knows he’s been carrying around his own guilt for being the one they brought back in Laudna’s place. Besides that, he already knew about this, and it wasn’t the first time it had occurred to him.

The rest of them have been blindsided.

“I’ll send for Keyleth,” she tells them all. Arms buzzing with energy, she leaves the room before she has to lift her head and see how the rest of them must be looking at her now.

—

Her aunt, while surprised to hear from her, grants assistance without preamble, and promises to meet them the moment she has a chance. It’s the part Imogen was least worried about— Keyleth has never been anything but kind in the time she’s known her, and the woman’s always had a weakness for the entire de Rolo brood. Getting her help was all but guaranteed. 

The confession, as well as the spat she got into with Ashton, creates an obvious tension over the group. It isn’t horribly thick, and the others treat her much the same as they did before, but the weight of it lingers in their thoughts. She keeps the wall between her and Ashton the highest; the inside of his head isn’t something she thinks she can handle at the moment.

It’s not like she can blame any of them for it; it’s only been a month, but they’ve all gone through a lot together, and shared more. Keeping the fact that you’re a Lord’s daughter isn’t the world’s greatest sin, but it’s not insignificant. And, her heart reminds her with a pang, it must seem even worse when stacked against the absolute honesty with which Laudna’d told them about her first death in Whitestone.

Laudna would know what to say to diffuse the growing bomb, if she were here. Everything just makes Imogen miss her more and more.

Getting their journey to Whitestone takes a full day— Keyleth has business to finish up, and the Hells have to get somewhere she can actually reach. They work it out, meeting up with one of Eshteross’ contacts that can get them to a big enough tree in Jrusar.

On their way there, Imogen lingers in the back of the group, a few steps behind Ashton. Despite the harsh words they traded, he’s still carrying Laudna’s body like it’s precious, the same way she demanded he did in the desert. No matter what happened between them the day before, Imogen can’t find it in herself to be any further from him when he’s still got half her heart draped in his arms.

Chatter is stilted, but the others do their best. Orym, Chetney, and Fearne talk about something mindless as they led the way, while F.C.G. and Ashton trade little jokes back and forth. It’s only Imogen who’s quiet, slouching behind the rest of them.

Once they start to near the treescapes, however, he falls a few paces back to join her. She blinks at him in surprise, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead as he speaks.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he says.

It’s not what Imogen expected, and she shakes her head.  “Ashton, it’s okay—”

“It wasn’t,” he replies, cutting her off. “I said some mean shit because I was mad. And I’m not saying I’m happy about you keeping all that from us, but I get it.”

“I didn’t keep it from you because I don’t trust you,” she says. “It’s… I wasn’t sure you guys would understand, if I told you they were my parents. Because they are, but Delilah…”

“Is the monster in the closet,” he finishes. “I get that. She’s kind of fucked up.”

“She’s a lot fucked up,” Imogen says back. She doesn’t swear often, and it still feels strange coming off her tongue— her father may have been more lax about certain etiquette and expectations than his predecessors, but she still learned to view it as improper of her, at least in public. Honestly, the only time she curses aloud at all is usually in relation to Delilah, and often starts with a B.

“That she is,” he says, with a short. “Are your parents going to lose it, when they find out you knew she was hanging onto Laudna and you didn’t tell them?”

That’s the only question where Imogen’s sure of the answer. “Yes.”

“Thought so,” he sighs. The words are followed by a pause. “Can you be honest with me?”

“Yeah,” Imogen says. “I can.”

(She owes him that now, at least.)

“Do you think they’re gonna help?” He asks. “Are we gonna lose Laudna?”

Her breath catches in the throat. “I don’t know,” she answers. “Honestly. I really wish I did. I don’t think…”

I can handle losing her, is the rest of the thought, but she can’t make it come out of her mouth. Not now, with the prospect of Whitestone looming over them. She doesn’t have to, anyway, because Ashton knows what she means.

“Well, you’d know them better than the rest of us,” he says. “And a chance is still a chance, right?”

“Right.”

Ashton glances at her once before tightening his grip on Laudna. “More honesty: I look okay enough to meet royalty?”

“Regency, not royalty,” she corrects, unable to stop the dry laugh that bubbles out of her. “He’s a lord, not a king.”

“You live in a castle.”

“...Fair.”

“Back to the point; am I gonna put them off? I haven’t had the time to fresh up in a while?”

“You’ll be fine,” Imogen assures. “Trust me, I’ve seen my brother look far worse. My father, too, on the occasional tinkering mishap.”

“Well, as look as I look better than them.”

She smiles. “That’s the spirit.”

—

When Keyleth steps through the trunk in the middle of the treescapes, Imogen’s entire body freezes like she’s made of stone. So stiff, in fact, you could strap a few leaves to her head and mistake her for one of the saplings.

It doesn’t feel real. She hasn’t seen hide nor hair of anybody in her family for the past two years. Keyleth might not be blood, but she’s family all the same. The antler circlet on her head and the orange of her hair are as familiar to Imogen as the magic books in Whitestone Castle’s library.

The rest of the Hells are in a similar state, but to be fair to them, they know her as the Tempest. Everything they’ve gleaned of her is through the lens of Orym’s boss, a powerful political figure in Tal’Dorei. None of them have the connection with her Imogen does— this is the woman who would swing her in circles and teach her to weave flowers into crowns whenever she visited.

Orym is the only one who has the wits to react, dropping onto one knee and offering a formal recognition. “Hail to the Tempest,” he says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Keyleth seems more amused than anything, and she offers him a smile. “Well, you and Imogen asked for my help,” she says. “I hadn’t even known you were traveling together. Speaking of—”

She turns her sights onto her niece, and her grin wides. “Hello, Imogen. It’s been a little while.”

“Hi, aunt Keyleth,” Imogen says, something in her chest uncorking like a champagne bottle. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Keyleth replies. “You were vague in your Sending; what’s going on?”

Imogen and Orym trade a look, and he takes over. “One of our friends fell,” he explains. “And… she’s someone special. We were hoping to seek aid from the Lord and Lady of Whitestone, as well as the Champion of the Everlight, to… bring her back.”

“It’s important,” Imogen adds. “She’s important.”

Keyleth nods, her eyes flicking to what she must now recognize as a covered body in Ashton’s arms, before her gaze steadies on Imogen.

“Well, Pike is very talented, and she’s done many resurrections,” she says. “And I’m sure your parents will have anything required to assist in the ritual.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Orym replies. “But we needed the help to get to Whitestone.”

“And that is something I can do,” Keyleth says, lifting the hand she holds her staff with.

Fearne takes a sharp breath. “Are we going to go through a tree?” She asks, in what was a clear attempt at a whisper to F.C.G. they all hear anyway.

“If you’re quick enough. It only stays open for a couple of seconds.”

“Cool.”

“We’re, uh, the Bell’s Hells,” F.C.G. adds. “Like, an adventuring party. Imogen says you’re… familiar with the concept, I suppose.”

“I am,” Keyleth says, and the look on her face is bittersweet. “Very much so. And I’m also familiar with the pain that comes from losing a companion. So are the de Rolos and the Champion, and I’m sure they’ll be as willing to help as I am.”

Imogen isn’t so sure, when she knows what her aunt doesn’t, but she nods like she believes her. She wants to, at least. For now, she needs that hope.

Orym ducks his head. “Thank you, Tempest.”

“Of course,” she replies. “Are you all just going to Whitestone?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Somewhere between them, Ashton snorts. “You call her ma’am?”

“She’s his boss,” Chetney points out, at the same time F.C.G. says, “It’s polite!”

Keyleth either ignores their antics, or isn’t phased by it. She takes a few steps towards them and the tree they were gathered around before she arrived. From here, she’s close enough to Imogen that she can reach out and touch her.

“Come on,” she says, quieter. She must be able to see some of the distress Imogen hasn’t been able to tamp down this past week, because she’s using the same voice she would when she would brush magic over the scrapes on her knees after Imogen would skin them in the garden. “Let’s get you home. Your mother’s been talking about how much she’s missed you for ages, and I know your father feels the same.”

“I miss them, too,” Imogen replies, but it sounds distant even to her own ears. The hand on her shoulder slides around her back, squeezing once before releasing her, and Imogen soaks in the embrace for the moment it lasts. 

When Keyleth moves towards the tree, Orym takes the spot beside Imogen. He looks up at her, and the buzz of his thoughts start to almost… prod in her direction. It takes her a moment to realize he’s trying to signal her to open the connection between her minds. Considering he doesn’t have the ability, it feels almost clumsy, but it’s an effective way of communicating he wants her to.

When she does, his voice floats into her head. You still good?

As good as I can be about this, she replies. But it’s not like we can turn back now, and I don’t want to anyway.

We’ll be right beside you the whole way, he assures her. You won’t do any of this alone.

She nods, slipping out of his head. Just in time, too— there’s a humming tear that rips through the space between them as the portal to Whitestone opens before them, tearing through the bark of the trunk. Through it, she can see the center of Whitestone’s main courtyard. Imogen’s lips fall open in a silent gasp; there’s a distinct difference between knowing you’re going home and really seeing it. The cobblestone streets, the vendors stalls, the clothing people wear, it’s all the same as it was the day she left. It feels like looking into the past. Something must be baking in Slayer’s Cake, because she can smell it all the way from here.

“Before it closes, Imogen,” her aunt reminds her, a grin on the corner of her lips, and Imogen realizes the rest of them have walked through. She’s the only one still in the office, lost in her own head and staring.

With a deep breath, Imogen bites back to well of emotions in chest that threaten to spill out and steps through the tree in the center of her hometown.

Chapter Text

i know forgiveness won’t come easy, not for me/but i’ll try to shut the past behind us, throw out the key/give me one more chance to make you see/prodigal daughter returns like a lamb to the slaughter/looking for something in the water/to wash away the pain/she’s drowning in the pain

‘prodigal daughter’ by aoife o’donovan & allison russell

—

Even after two years, Whitestone is unchanged. Nearly all the vendor stalls are the same, and Imogen recognizes many of the people manning or browsing them. On this side of the portal, she can tell the smell coming from Slayer’s Cake is probably cookies, the ones with thick chunks of chocolate Dan used to get all over his face every time without fail.

Tree-Stepping is far from inconspicuous, and all the eyes in the square are on her the moment she walks through. It’s Keyleth’s preferred method of traveling, so it’s not as strange to see her come into Whitestone this way, but rarely does she have an entire party behind her. Imogen herself probably doesn’t help— it sure is a way to make an entrance.

The change in her head is immediate as the thoughts around her pick up, turning from the low hum of Keyleth and the Hells to a cacophony. Imogen winces, jaw tightening. It takes one long moment and a few deep breaths for her to center herself, stacking the brick wall in her mind a few blocks higher and hoping for relief.

By the time she opens her eyes again, everybody in the vicinity is staring at her. They’ve all stopped in place, whatever they were doing previously abandoned to watch her. On a Sunday morning like this, the courtyard is busy with those doing their shoppings or heading out to visit one of the temples. Dozens of people linger in place, waiting for her next move.

Imogen balks under the pressure and glances to the closest person, which happens to be Chetney. “Should I say something?” She asks.

“I dunno,” he replies with a shrug.

(Well, that’s fair. Why would Chetney know what’s proper for her to do?)

The people of Whitestone make the decision for her before she can further agonize over it. “Welcome home, Imogen!” One of them calls, raising their hand in a wave.

“Thank you,” she shouts back, returning the gesture. After a moment, she adds: “It’s lovely to see you all.”

The person who’d originally spoken offers her a smile, and as the seconds tick by, everybody starts to go back to what they were doing before she arrived. Activity picks up again, even though most of them still glance at Imogen every once and a while.

Ashton lets out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said regency,” he remarks, and Imogen shakes her head.

“No, I wasn’t,” she replies. Maybe she’d have something sarcastic to add, if this were a week ago, but she feels off-balance as it is. The body in his arms, the side-eye looks she’s getting when people think she isn’t looking, the sudden volume in her head— all of it makes her feel unmoored. 

When Keyleth turns to her, however, she remembers she doesn’t have time to get caught up in the heavy swell of her own emotions. She swallows them down, even as they catch on the space where her throat has tightened like a vice.

“Are you ready?” The woman asks.

Imogen nods. “Yes,” she says, because she doesn’t have the option not to be.

—

The long walk up the hill to her childhood home is familiar. A weird sense of deja vu settles into Imogen’s bones, making a home within the hollow spaces that still seem to litter her body. She’s grateful that Keyleth offers to accompany them to Whitestone Castle; everybody is too busy attempting to fill the Tempest in on the weird things they’ve learned that they either don’t notice the anxious twitch to her hands, or they’re too preoccupied to bother her about it.

At least the walk is largely deserted once they make it out of central Whitestone and onto the path that leds to the de Rolo estate in earnest. This early in the morning, there’s never any real business to attend to at the castle. The only people they pass are a handful of guards who must have just gotten off shift; they offer the group a half-bewildered look before it schools into something more professional for their standing. 

Whitestone Castle looms when they come around the final curve, looking the same way it did the day Imogen left. The guards must notice them once they do— Keyleth’s figure is fairly eye-catching, as is the purple of Imogen’s hair— because the gates start to swing open almost immediately.

“Greetings, Tempest,” one of them shouts down as the pass through the outer walls. “And welcome home, Lady Imogen!”

The use of her title causes a small ripple through the Hells. “I thought you said your mother was the Lady of Whitestone,” F.C.G. says.

“She is,” Imogen replies, trying in vain to calm the tense line of her shoulders. “I’m just… my title means I’m addressed as a lady, but my mother is the Lady of Whitestone. It’s— it won’t matter.”

They make a short, mechanical hum that she doesn’t have time to read into, because there’s a figure striding towards them. After a moment, Imogen recognizes the blonde hair and scratchy goatee of Captain Kynan.

“Lady Keyleth and Lady Imogen,” he greets. Imogen’s known him long enough to recognize the surprise he’s attempting to suppress under his guard persona. Some of it slips through anyway, in the way his eyebrows rise onto his forehead. “I have heard that you stepped through the Sun Tree with a group of adventurers this morning. We weren’t told to prepare for your visit; should I summon your family?”

His last sentence is directed at Imogen, and she shakes her head. “Thank you, Captain, but that won’t be necessary,” she says. “Are my parents home?”

“The Lady left early this morning for hunting, and as far as I have been made aware, plans to return later,” he answers. “But I do believe the Lord is in. 

The Lord is in, Imogen’s head echoes. Her heart thumps in her chest. “In his office?”

“Indeed,” Kynan replies, a slight curl to the corner of his lips. “Might I escort you there?”

Imogen almost says no, that she can find her own way, before she remembers the rest of the Hells behind her. Despite Imogen’s presence with them, the laws of Whitestone state that nobody may enter the castle without a guard’s escort unless given direct permission by the Lord or the Lady. She’d almost forgotten, after all this time.

Luckily, Keyleth has not, and she steps up when Imogen blanks. “That would be much appreciated, thank you.”

“Of course, Lady Keyleth,” Kynan says. “It is good to see you, both of you.”

“And you as well, Captain Leore,” Keyleth replies in kind, as he pushes open the large wooden doors to the castle.

The entrance antechamber looks the say way it did the day Imogen left, and it all but takes her breath away to step foot inside. If she closed her eyes, Imogen could probably picture it all over again— how Gwen tucked into Vesper’s side as they disappeared from view, the last glimpse she got of her parents before the doors swung shut between them. Her mother’s sad-eyed smile, her father wrapping his arm around his wife in a way they all knew was more for his comfort than hers.

The rest of Bells Hells seem to be stunned in their own right, for different reasons. Save for Orym, they all look around with wide eyes and unabashed surprise.

“Wow, Imogen, you really live here?” Chetney asks.

“It’s very beautiful,” Fearne adds, a touch softer.

“I did,” Imogen replies. For some reason, claiming current residence feels wrong. She hasn’t been here in two years— is Whitestone Castle still hers to call home?

Will it be after today?

Ashton hums, a discontent little sound as he shifts Laudna’s body closer to his chest. “Anybody else feeling a little exposed?” They ask. “Maybe paranoid?”

“Oh, Ashton, don’t worry!” F.C.G. says. “I’m sure Imogen’s parents are lovely, and they’ll like you well enough!”

“That makes one of us,” Ashton replies, under their breath. It’s too quiet for Letters to hear, but as the person standing beside them, Imogen hears it.

“Don’t worry,” she tells them, low enough that Keyleth and Kynan can’t hear. “If anybody’s going to upset my parents today, I can guarantee it’ll be me.”

“That’s… surprisingly comforting.”

Imogen chuckles, dry and almost humorless. “For one of us.”

“Touche.”

Kynan gives them all a few moments to glance around in wonder before he clears his throat, drawing all the attention back to him. “Shall we continue to the Lord’s study?”

“Yes,” Imogen says, feeling almost sheepish. “Sorry, Captain Leore.”

“No worries,” he assures, before setting off again. The Hells trail after him as he leads them down one of the side passages and up a back staircase. Several of them are still glancing around at their surroundings, taking in the various pieces of expensive decor. Fearne’s eyes flash once or twice, and if Imogen had the presence of mind, she would watch her with a little more care.

As they walk down the long second floor hallway, however, she can feel the way that Orym’s thoughts buzz her way like he’s knocking on the edge of her mind and asking to be let in. It’s as strange as it was the last time, but maybe a little less clumsy.

When she opens to gate, his thoughts flood in. Imogen, I don’t mean to be… but I think there’s something following us?

Following us? Inside the castle?

She can see the way his face twists. Yes. I keep catching a glimpse of a shadow trailing after us.

A shadow? Like—

“Ginny!”

The shout of the nickname snaps Imogen out of Orym’s thoughts, and she turns just in time to see a red and gold figure streaking towards her. She gets about two seconds before the collision to realize it’s Gwen— now fully into her teenage years and several inches taller.

Despite the age difference, though, it seems like she hasn’t outgrown her affinity for hugs. She slams into Imogen the same way she always has, trusting that she’ll catch the brunt of her weight like she’s a feather. The height and muscle she’s gained has made her heavier, but Imogen’s gotten stronger than she was before; even though she stumbles upon impact, she keeps the two of them standing on solid ground.

Imogen gets the feeling she missed when stepped inside the castle earlier— home. The familiar warmth of her sister in her arms brings it rushing back to her.

Maybe they don’t have time for every reunion the walls of this place would hold for her, but she can’t stop herself from falling into this one. Her baby sister comes up to her shoulders now, but she can still tuck her face into the crown of Gwen’s hair and breathe her in the same way she always has, ever since Gwen was a newborn baby whose diaper Imogen changed.

Something deep inside her settles when she inhales and realizes that Gwen’s hair still smells like roses.

Imogen presses her cheek against the cool surface of Gwen’s horns and says: “Hi, little deer.”

When Gwen finally pulls back, her eyes are shining. The smile that stretches her face reveals each one of her shiny white teeth— the gap between her front two is missing now.

“I didn’t know you were coming home today,” she says. “Or at all! Did you tell mom and dad, ‘cause they didn’t tell me, and neither did anybody else!”

“No, nobody kept it from you,” Imogen assures. “Nobody else knew.”

“Was it a surprise?”

“It… wasn’t exactly planned.”

Something in her voice must give her away, because the excitement on Gwen’s face falls away and twists into a frown. “Is… everything okay?”

“It will be,” Imogen says, smoothing her hand over Gwen’s dark hair and swallowing the heavy lump in her throat. She can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes and thoughts across the back of her shoulders. “I just… need to talk to father first, and ask him to help me make things better.”

“And he can fix it?”

“I really, really hope so, Gwennie.”

Gwen’s frown deepens. “Does that mean… should I go?”

The distinct sadness in her sister’s voice makes Imogen’s heart sink, but she’s not exactly in a position to say no. Family reunions can’t be the priority right now, as much as she wants to hold her sister until the downturned corners of her lips curl up again.

“I think I should speak to him myself,” Imogen says, moving her hand down to cup her sister’s cheek. “But I promise I’ll come see you before I leave, okay?”

“Okay,” Gwen replies. “But you really can’t leave without saying goodbye, because I have something for you.”

“You do?”

“Mhmm,” her sister hums, leaning into the palm that still holds her face. “You sent us a bunch of letters, and we wrote you some back, but we’ve been holding onto them because you didn’t get us anywhere to send them.”

“Who is we?”

“Everybody,” Gwen answers. “Mostly me and Vesper, but Wolfe wrote you a bunch, and Leona and Dan did, too.”

Imogen’s heart pangs, and to soothe them both, she ducks her head just enough that she can press a kiss to her sister’s hairline. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll come see you later, and you can give me those letters before I go.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” she assures, even if it feels like half a lie on her tongue. Gwen stares at her, and her eyes seem so much older than they had before Imogen left. There’s a moment where they simply look at each other, before Gwen disappears with a forced little grin.

Imogen’s fingers twitch as she stands there, and the itch under her gloves feel like her scars are cracking open. 

“Your sister?” Ashton says, once she’s out of sight.

“The youngest,” Imogen replies, still watching the corner that Gwen disappeared around. “She’s thirteen. Fourteen soon.”

“You good?”

She takes a moment to clear her throat and turns to face the rest of the group. “I’m good,” she answers, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. “We should go see my father. Captain Leore, if you would?”

“Of course,” Kynan replies. “It’s just up the hall.”

Imogen knows that, but the reminder is comforting. It’s easy to fall into step behind him as he leads them the rest of the short walk to where her father’s office resides and pretend she doesn’t know the way there with her eyes closed.

She wants to be calm about this; if she has to argue her point, she needs keep as cool of a head as she can manage, make sure her emotions don’t get the best of her. But the closer they get to the heavy, hand-carved door she recognizes as the ones that hide her father’s private study, her heart-rate starts to tick up her in her chest. 

By the time they’re standing in front of it, it feels like a horse has taken up shop in her veins.

Kynan, either oblivious to her nerves or choosing to ignore them out of respect, knocks on the wood. “Lord de Rolo?”

Imogen’s breath catches, and then—

“Yes, Captain Kynan?”

Hearing her father’s voice aloud, not attached to a message on her head, punches a little hole in Imogen’s lungs. The air whistles out of it like she’s been shot, and if there was anything around to hold onto for stability, she would reach for it.

“I have guests who wish to speak with you,” he says. “They’ve been escorted to Whitestone by Lady Keyleth, as well as the young Lady Imogen, both of whom are also present.”

“Imogen?” Her father repeats, followed by a thump— more than likely, he stood up too fast and banged his knees against his desk. Her theory seems proven correct when the next thing they hear is the screech of his chair sliding back against the hardwood too fast. “Send them in, please!”

“Yes, sir.”

Imogen has the strange urge to freeze in place as Kynan reaches for the knob. Instead, she forces herself to relax, even when the door swings open with a heavy creak.

Sure enough, the Lord Percival de Rolo— Imogen’s father, the man who taught her how to spell each one of her several names— stands alert on the other side. His white hair looks uncombed, there’s stubble on his cheeks from where he hasn’t shaved in the past few days, and his gaze locks onto Imogen the moment the barrier between them is pulled away.

Most of the de Rolo children, as they got older, grew into calling their parents mother and father. It was simpler that way— in proper company, it was polite to address them with a title that showed you understood both the respect and authority they deserved. After a while, it’s easier to use those as a default; by the time Imogen left home, Gwen was the only one who didn’t stick almost exclusively to mother and father no matter the context.

But when Imogen sees her father standing behind his desk, staring at her with surprise in his wide eyes, what comes out is: “Hi, dad.”

“Imogen,” he breathes. “I— had no idea you were coming.”

“I didn’t either, until I had to,” Imogen says. “But… we really need your help. And Pike’s.”

As if he’s finally noticed there are others present, her father’s eyes flick first to Keyleth, then to the rest of the group. Imogen watches as he finally stops on Ashton, standing just beyond the doorway, and the wrapped figure in his arms.

She watches as he puts the pieces together. “I see,” he says, voice slipping into something more neutral as he flips from her father to a Lord. “How long has it been?”

“Almost a week.”

“A week?” He repeats.

Imogen winces a bit. “It was… complicated,” she says.

“But we performed Gentle Repose on her body right away,” Fresh Cut Grass chimes in. “She’s still— Laudna’s the same as she was before.”

(A nice dance around the subject of her already half-dead state. Imogen could commend him if she had to presence of mind to think about it.)

“Laudna?” Her father repeats. “The woman you’ve been traveling with since you left?”

Imogen nods, her fingers twisting together. “Yes.”

His eyes dart back to the body. “I see,” he says, and turns to Kynan. “Send for Miss Trickfoot at once.” Some of the thick tension, only a little, slips out of Imogen’s chest at the command.

“Right away,” the captain replies with a nod, disappearing from the room with his back straight. His hasty footsteps echo after him as he hurries up the hallway.

As he goes, Imogen’s father steps around his desk. There’s hesitance in the way he walks towards her, like she’s a wounded animal, or something that might disappear when touched. Something about this moment doesn’t seem quite real to her, yet— maybe he feels the same way.

“Come on,” he says, and the hand he places on her shoulder is warm. “This isn’t the place for this. We’ll need more room.”

When he goes to steer her out of the office, though, she reaches up to grab his wrist where he holds her, and he pauses. For the second she can, she wants to pretend this moment is what it is to him, not her; that Delilah Briarwood is nowhere to be found, and her father is here to help her put all the pieces back together again.

“I missed you, dad,” she says.

His face softens, the resolved expression melting into something more fond. “And I have missed you very much, dear.”

Imogen tightens her grip like it’s the last time they’ll speak to each other like this. Maybe it will be, if things don’t go her way; she can’t imagine he’ll look at her the same as he used to if he finds out what she’s brought into his home.

And then she lets him go.

—

While Kynan leaves with a few guards, and Keyleth excuses herself back to Vasselheim, Imogen and the Hells trail after her father as he leads them back the way they came. Conversation is stilted; he asks her a few questions, and she does her best to answer them, but the anxiety she’s been carrying around is starting to crawl up into her throat.

When they come to a stop, he’s brought them right back to the front foyer where they entered.

“This is very open,” Ashton comments.

“We needn’t do it here, if you’d prefer,” Imogen’s father replies. “But it is very spacious, and at the very least, we ought to wait for Pike.”

“And this Pike, she’s a healer?”

“Many things, yes, but a healer is one of them.”

“She bakes, too,” Imogen adds.

Her father offers a small chuckle. “Indeed she does.”

The warmth of his voice is familiar, and the thirteen year old still inside of Imogen preens at the fondness in it. While it’s true that her father was never the physically affectionate one of her parents, his voice always said volumes. He could be quite terrifying when challenged in meetings, and arguing with him always felt like trying to gain footing in loose ground, but the way he speaks to his children has always attested to how he loves them. There’s a softness about it that’s impossible to deny, this indisputable measure of devotion.

Imogen has spent most of her familial yearning focused on her mother and her sisters, but oh, has she missed her father as well.

“She should be along shortly,” he adds. “In the meantime, maybe some introductions would be helpful.”

“Oh, right,” Imogen says, shaking her head. “Sorry. Father, this is Orym of the Air Ashari, Ashton Greymoore, Fearne Calloway, Fresh Cut Grass, and Chetney Pock’O’Pea,” she explains, pointing out each one as she names them.

“Smiley day to you,” F.C.G. adds, as Orym offers a deferential nod of the head and Fearne says, “It’s very lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the man replies, gaze on Fearne. He directs his attention to the group as a whole. “I am Percival de Rolo, the Lord of Whitestone, as well as Imogen’s father.”

“Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Lord de Rolo,” Orym says. “We’ve not met, but I’ve heard many stories. You knew my father— father-in-law, Derrig.”

Imogen’s father studies him for a moment, thinking, before he nods. “Yes, I do believe he accompanied Lady Keyleth at my wedding.”

“He did, yes.”

“He was a good man, and an honor to fight beside. We were very sorry to hear the news of his and his son’s passing.”

Something in Orym’s eyes shudders shut, and Imogen can hear the way his thoughts turn melancholy. “We all were.”

Imogen watches as her father coughs to clear his throat, clearly unsure of what to say next, and her gaze falls to Laudna’s body. At some point, Ashton’s put her down on the floor, still wrapped.

She waffles back and forth for a moment about whether to wait for her aunt before explaining. After all, Pike had been a member of Vox Machina; she’d had her own effigy strung up on the tree, even if she hadn’t been physically present to see it. She’ll need an explanation, too.

But— Delilah Briarwood’s crimes are a beast of her father’s in a way the others don’t quite have. She may have targeted them all, but he was always the first in the crosshair, and the rest of them had the sights set on them because of his proximity. And she’s still the monster from his nightmares. This will mean something different to him, especially when you consider just who Laudna was strung up on that tree to represent.

She takes a deep breath. “Father, before Pike gets here,” she starts. “There’s… something you need to know, about Laudna. She’s… different.”

“Different, how?” He asks.

“This isn’t the first time she’s died,” she explains. “And she’s… been a little dead since then.”

“Dead in what way?”

“It might be better if we just show you. But there’s something else I… haven’t told you. And you should know, before you see her.”

He squints behind his glasses. “Something you haven’t told me?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I— there’s something about Laudna that I didn’t tell you. And I can admit it’s something you would have wanted to know.”

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Laudna’s from Whitestone,” she admits, her stomach tensing when she sees the way his face changes. “The first time she died was about thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years ago? During…”

“The Briarwoods Invasion,” she finishes. The pensive look on he wears flickers, shifting into something more like a mask. “And she didn’t just die. They killed her.”

His expression stiffens further. “What did they kill her for?”

(She thinks he’s already figured out. She gives him the last piece of the puzzle anyway.)

“Dad,” she says. “She was on the Sun Tree.”

The room goes quiet. All of them wait for his response. Imogen’s father, for his part, stares at her like— like Imogen doesn’t even know what. She had twenty years to catalog the various ways he’s looked at her, what each twist of his face means. The one thing she’s never been able to read is this one, where his eyes harden into a wall. The sound of his thoughts, mostly-tuned out, whir into something louder. Even without real words to parse through, they scratch at her like static.

“Who?” He asks, finally.

Her gaze drops to the floor, finally. “Mother.”

There’s a sharp hiss as he inhales, and it takes a long moment for him to speak again. “Imogen,” he says, once he does, and it lacks the warmth from earlier.

“I know,” she replies. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“How could you keep this from us?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Imogen answers. “And I thought, if you knew I was traveling with her, you might… not be comfortable with it. But she’s my best friend, I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to be upset.”

“So you decided to keep it to yourself until when? Forever?”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t… I would have said something. At some point.”

“It should have been a lot sooner than this.”

“I know.”

When she manages to lift her eyes, he’s not looking at her anymore. Instead, he’s pulled his glasses off his face, wiping each lens with a methodical precision. She waits without speaking, watching as he swipes the cloth across across the last one several times before tucking it away.

“This can be… something we talk about later,” he says, once he’s placed the glasses on his face. “For now, you might as well show me want you meant by ‘somewhat dead’ still.”

Imogen nods. Ashton must take that as their cue, because they start bending down to unwrap Laudna, but she stops them with a gentle touch to the shoulder.

“I can do it,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

She swallows. “I’m sure.”

They stop, meet her eyes, and nod once before backing away. Imogen takes their place, slipping down to the ground at Laudna’s side. The cool stone of the floor is cold where the parts of her calves exposed by her dress press against it, the same way Laudna’s skin feels now.

Imogen hesitates for a moment before leaning forward to pull the cloth back, her face first, then her upper body. She looks the same as she had before, pale hands folded over her stomach and her face slack.

It still takes the air out of her lungs.

“Sweet Pelor,” her father mutters.

Imogen leans down closer, reaching out with one hand to tuck Laudna’s hair back behind her ears. The gold of her cuffs catches the sunlight through the windows once she does.

They’re going to bring you back, she thinks, like Laudna can hear it, like she can make that promise. They have to. I’m not losing you yet. Not ever, if I get the choice.

When she sits back on her heels, she can see that her father is still staring down at Laudna’s body; if he hadn’t just taken off his glasses to clean them, she imagines that’s what he’d be doing right now. Instead, he gives the smallest shake of his head.

“And she’s been alive, this whole time?”

“She’s always looked like this, since she came back,” Imogen replies. “But— she’s been alive. She’s been living.”

He doesn’t make any move to respond, so she grabs Laudna’s hand in her own and adds, “What happened to her wasn’t fair, either time. She’s died for everybody’s faults but her own, as a message to you, a message to me. She deserves to keep living.”

That gets his full attention back on her. “A message to you?” He asks. “Who— are you being threatened?”

Imogen winces. She’d let the moment get the best of her; she hadn’t considered the fact that she’d said nothing of her parents about Otohan Thull at all. Even the thought of her makes a wave of something violent crash into the walls of her gut.

“Gods, Imogen, what are you telling your parents every week?” Ashton mutters, earning themselves sharp look from Orym.

“It’s— complicated,” Imogen attempts to explain, after offering Ashton a glare of her own. “And new— I don’t… we don’t really know that much about her, she just… wants something with me. My powers, I think.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Otohan Thull,” she replies. “And she’s the one who killed Laudna, to get to me— it wasn’t fair, and it’s my fault, and I need your help to fix it.”

When he doesn’t give an immediate response, she resorts to begging. “Dad, please.”

He blinks, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “Obviously, there seems to be a lot of things we need to talk about,” he says. “And some things you’ve been keeping to yourself. But… if she’s a friend of yours, and you need my help, of course I will grant it.”

A heavy, relieved sound slips out of Imogen; they’re past the first hurdle. It’s the easiest, convincing her father to help her at face value despite the secret she’s been keeping about Laudna’s past. The who is in Laudna’s head part will be a bigger issue, and possibly a deal breaker, but they might be able to slip through it without mention if Delilah doesn’t find someway to make herself known before they can actually complete the resurrection.

Chetney, apparently, has not managed to put those pieces together. “It was that easy?” He asks. “Then—”

Whatever else he was going to say is cut off when Ashton kicks him— the difference in height and size means their boot lands on his upper thigh, and Chet stumbles. “What the fuck?”

Can you not? Imogen pushes into his brain, before he can say anything else. The problem is Delilah, which he doesn’t know about, and we’re not going to tell him if we don’t have to.

Chetney winces at the intrusion is his thoughts, but he falls silent, looking almost chastised. Imogen’s father offers them all a quizzical look, before he seems to make the decision to ignore whatever antics they’re having. It’s not like he’d have the chance to say anything, anyways, because the front door pushes open.

A few members of the guard push through first, but that’s not what catches Imogen’s attention. Behind them, she can hear a pair of voices overlapping, bickering as they enter.

“You did not, I got two more than you—”

“Of course I got more than you, you’re terrible—”

Wolfe and Leona step into the foyer. They make it several feet into the room, too caught up in picking at each other, before they notice their company. For all that they may have different favorite siblings, they’re still twins— they stop dead in their tracks at the same time, their conversation grinding to a halt.

“Imogen?” Leona says, her voice almost a whisper. The long, thick brown curls she’s always had are sheared off at the shoulder, but the gold-rimmed glasses that match Imogen’s and their father’s are still perched on her nose. Beside her, Wolfe looks almost unchanged, save for the small, thin beard that decorates his jawline.

There’s no time for her to process the sudden appearance of the twins, however, because they aren’t alone. In the newfound stillness of the room, the footsteps that follow them in echo.

“Children, is there a reason we’ve stopped in the middle of the foyer?”

(Neither of them answer, both pairs of eyes trained on their older sister sitting on the floor. What a sight she must be, on her knees in the center of the room with a dead girl’s hand cradled in her own.)

When her words go unanswered, the Lady de Rolo appears, skirting around the statues her children have become with a skeptical expression. It slips away, however, when she sees what they’re looking at.

“Imogen?”

And oh, if Imogen thought the swell of emotion she felt when she saw her father was heavy, she was not prepared for this. She’s never claimed to have a favorite parent in the same way neither of them have claimed to have a favorite child, but there has always been a part of her that’s preferred her mother. Not by a very large margin, really, but enough that this feels different. Imogen has known this entire time that the echo of her mother’s voice in her head has never compared to the real thing, but she hadn’t realized just how sharp the difference was until now.

Her hand, still wrapped around Laudna’s, squeezes. There’s no returned movement; it still hurts even a week in, but it grounds her enough that she resists the desire to run straight into her mother’s arms.

“Hi, mom,” she says instead, sounding quiet even in comparison to the rest of the room’s silence. 

“You’re home,” her mother replies, sounding almost breathless. “When did you—”

The words die on her lips the moment her gaze falls from Imogen to Laudna, and her face changes: first to surprise, then recognition, then caution.

“Imogen,” she says. “Who is that?”

Imogen swallows. “Laudna.”

“Laudna,” the woman repeats. “Your best friend— that’s Laudna?”

“Yes.”

Her mother takes a deep breath, lets out a heavy exhale, and speaks. “Tell me that— tell me she isn’t from Whitestone.”

“I can’t,” Imogen replies. “I’m sorry.”

As gentle as she can, she releases Laudna’s hand, resting it at her side. The silence in the room, markedly different than her father’s shocked line of questioning, unnerves her.

Eventually, her mother speaks. “Wolfe, Leona,” she says, her gaze unmoved from the body. “Go upstairs.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Both twins offer Imogen one last bewildered look before they comply, scurrying up the staircase and nearly tripping over each other like they aren’t each twenty years old. The thump of their feet disappears up the hall, but even after they’re gone, nobody speaks.

Imogen waits for her mother to say something else, anything else, but she does nothing of the sort. Rather, her eyes stay locked on Laudna’s body, even as the rest of the room holds tight for her response.

The idea of simply prying into the surface of her mother’s thoughts comes to Imogen. She holds out for a while, but when the silence continues to drag on, she gives into the urge and pulls a few of the mental bricks in her mind loose. In an instant, several warring minds start to spill into her own, but she drowns most of them out and reaches for her mother’s.

The mix of emotions is thick. Frustration, confusion, sympathy, some anger. There’s different threads of thought attached to each, spinning in different directions and creating a tangled web across her brain. She can’t probe any deeper without her mother feeling the intrusion, so she pushes the wall back into place and waits for her mother to speak.

It takes a full thirty seconds of quiet for her to finally do so. She lifts her gaze, a slow drag of her eyes, from Laudna on the ground to her daughter.

“Are you okay?” She asks.

The question stirs something in Imogen’s chest like the beginnings of a sob, but she swallows it down before it can spill out— if she starts, she won’t be able to stop. “I’m… okay,” she says, even if it feels like a complete lie. “I just really need help.”

“Okay,” her mother replies, and turns to her husband. “Have you called for Pike?”

He nods. “She should be on her way.

“Okay,” she repeats once more, and takes a handful of steps further into the foyer. “That’s good, then.”

With bated breath, Imogen watches as her mother crosses the rest of the room, until she’s standing only a few feet away. In a single, graceful movement, she drops to the floor on her knees much like Imogen had, Laudna’s body in between them.

“As happy as I want to be to see you, darling,” she says. “I think there’s a lot you need to explain to me.”

“There is,” Imogen replies and, as brief as she can, tries to fill in the gaps of her mother’s knowledge she left out over the past two years of their messages. She skirts around any mention of Delilah, holding onto the shred of possibility that the horrid bitch can be a problem for later, not today. Her mother is quiet as she listens.

“I’m sorry,” is how Imogen finishes her explanation. “I… it’s not that I wanted to keep it from you, but I didn’t know how to tell you. And I didn’t know, at first.”

“Did she know who you were?”

“Not until I told her,” she replies. “The same day she told me what happened to her, here.”

Her mother nods, glancing down at Laudna once more. After a beat, she reaches out with a gentle hand, tracing cold arm next to her with a few fingers.

“She doesn’t look as much like me up close as she did,” she says, wistful and mourning.

“Not really,” Imogen agrees. “There’s a resemblance, but I didn’t even notice it until she told me about how she died.”

“It must have been hard.”

“It was. She— she didn’t really get to talk to a lot of people before she met me. People thought… they thought that she was scary.”

“She isn’t so scary. People just don’t like what they don’t understand, what they think is different.”

The tears are starting to well in Imogen’s eyes— the events of the day so far, the gentle, reverent way her mother treats Laudna’s body— even though she’s tried to push them down, everything is catching up to her at once. “I think she’s fun-scary,” she says, her voice wet.

“Scary can be fun.”

“And she’s— she’s so full of life, mom,” Imogen adds. “The brightest. It’s… none of anything that’s happened to her is fair. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Many people don’t deserve their hardships,” her mother replies. “But, lucky for us, we have the ability and the resources to help.”

“I know,” Imogen says, and in a quieter voice, “Thank you.”

The woman smiles, the kind of way she always does at any display of affection her children show her. “Don’t fret, darling; it’ll be okay.”

The next few minutes are quiet while they wait for Pike, in a way that isn’t awkward for Imogen, but probably is for the rest of the Hells. A few, short introductions are exchanged; her mother seems intrigued by Fresh Cut Grass and their capabilities, and expresses her sympathies to Orym for Derrig’s passing. Unlike Imogen’s father had, she seems to recognize him from stories that Keyleth must have told her, because she offers her condolences for Will not as Derrig’s son, but as Orym’s husband.

It doesn’t take too long. When the doors shove open once more, there’s no surprises behind it. Instead, Pike comes bustling in, dressed in casual clothes with her hair pulled up.

“Hey guys, you don’t really ask me to come to the castle this early— Imogen?”

She’s not the first person to be shocked by Imogen’s return, but she takes it in better stride than most of the others had. Pike barely falters in her step as she crosses the room to them, even when she sees the body they’re gathered around. Her eyes widen in shock for just a moment, before she’s clambering down on her knees next to Imogen’s mother.

“Oh, okay, okay, okay,” she says as she lowers herself to the ground. “I see the reason for the early call, poor thing.”

“She looked like this before,” Imogen jumps in. “Before— she’s died, once before, and she’s always looked like… this, since. She was— on the tree, she was—”

Her father clears his throat. “She was on the Sun Tree, Pike.”

“Oh,” Pike breathes, softening. “Oh, no. How long has she been gone?”

“Six days,” Imogen replies.

“But we performed a spell, after she fell,” F.C.G. adds. “To keep her body pure, until we could get some help. And, just so you… know what you’re working with, she wasn’t quite alive, when she died.”

“Not quite alive, not quite dead,” Imogen explains. “But she’s…. She’s still like the rest of us.”

“I see,” Pike says. With a small hand, she tugs the symbol of Saranrae out from under her shirt. 

Imogen’s mother pulls her hand back from where it still rested on Laudna’s arm. “Has it been too long, Pike?”

The cleric shakes her head. “It’s— no resurrection is the same, but it’s not impossible,” she answers. “I mean, it’s harder the longer it’s been, but it’s possible.”

“How possible?” Imogen asks. 

“Very. But I’ll need.. Vex, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Of course,” the woman offers, before Pike can finish. “Whatever you need. Let me see to the treasury.”

She rises from her spot on the ground, and slips out of the room. Before she goes, she bends to drop a lingering kiss on the crown of her daughter’s head, whispering, “I’m glad you’re home, darling,” before she lets go.

After she exits, Pike begins to prepare. With the practiced, steady way she moves, you would have thought she knew the whole time this is what she’d been called to the castle for, not something she discovered mere minutes ago.. Imogen and Orym help shove the few carpets around and out of the way, while Ashton moves Laudna’s body to the center of the room. 

Once the space is empty, Pike fumbles around in her pockets and pulls out a bag of herbs. The aroma that wafts free when she cracks it open is familiar; it smells like practicing magic in the back garden, where Imogen learned to control that crackles that slipped off her fingertips when she got emotional.

The herbs get spread out in a circular sigil on the floor, drawing a wide perimeter around the foyer with Laudna in the middle. Most of the Hells move outside the edge of it as she goes, as does the Lord of the house, but Imogen steps inside without hesitation. When Pike doesn’t stop her, she chances a few more steps forward, almost halfway between the edge of the ring and Laudna herself.

A few moments after, her mother comes rushing back in, passing off a cluster of diamond jewelry to Pike, who takes it with half a smile. Once her hands are empty, she makes the decision to join her daughter inside the circle.

“Are you mad?” Imogen whispers, unable to stop herself, once the woman stands beside her.

Her mother hums, sliding one arm around her shoulder. “Not mad,” she answers, in a quiet voice. “But I do wish you would have told me.”

The contact isn’t enough, all of a sudden. Imogen leans further into her side, pressing the side of her face into the soft fabric of her mother’s blouse. In response, a warm cheek comes to rest against the crown of her head. “We can talk about it, later, dear. This is most important right now.”

“I know,” Imogen replies. “Thank you.”

And then Pike starts the incantation.

There’s a quick false start before she realizes she’s pronounced the words wrong, but on her second attempt, the sigil on the floor alights gold, casting a glowing light across the room. The gems she’s holding in her hands start to flake away into the air as a gentle breeze whirls past, ruffling the stray hairs coming free from the bun atop her head. When she reaches out with her free hand towards the body in front of her, it starts to rise off the ground, limbs hanging as it’s dragged up by the chest.

Imogen’s breath catchers in her throat when, a few seconds in, little streaks of green and black rise up into the air. Laudna.

Oh, Gods, she thinks with a start, because this is the first time she’s truly allowed herself to believe that this could work. Imogen has spent so much of the past seven days debating on whether or not her parents would actually help that she hadn’t stopped to think about what would happen if they did. If this works— if the ritual goes as it should, if her parents manage not to discover the other secret she’s been keeping from them— Laudna will be back.

No sooner than she lets herself consider it does everything start to go wrong.

Another color starts to appear, thick tendrils of violet seeping into the foyer. Whereas Imogen’s own magic is a vibrant shade of true purple, this is deeper, almost malevolent.  It crawls up from the sigil, eating up the golden light and refracting something darker. The glow of Pike’s eyes, which had started in time with the circle on the ground, begin to flicker.

A sinking feeling in Imogen’s stomach answers the question she doesn’t need to ask: Delilah. Whether by choice or the nature of her bond to Laudna, she’s found her way into this ritual. From the way her aunt’s face tightens, she must have realized it, too.

The room crackles, something like a thunderclap bellowing through it, and half of them jump. Pike’s hand tightens further around the emblem she holds, and everybody starts speaking over each other at the same time, their voices overlapping the same way their thoughts do in Imogen’s head.

overlapping.

“Oh, wow—”

“Pike, darling?”

“What the fuck?”

“Dad, I’m sorry—”

“Imogen, wh— Pike, what’s happening?”

“Something’s holding her back,” Pike shouts, and Imogen’s heart crashes into her stomach with a wave of nausea. The uptick in everybody’s thoughts, even with her walls, causes an ache to spring into her temples. When she winces, the pain of it making her jerk forward, her mother’s grip on her shoulder tightens.

“Oh no,” Pike says, and then again, this time frightened. “Oh, no.”

She jolts back like she’s been burned, yanking her hand away from Laudna. The light in the room turns electric blue fright before it blips away. In the wake of it’s disappearance, Laudna hangs in the air for another moment before plummeting the foot or two she was floating.

Imogen breaks free from her mother’s grasp and dives forward in an attempt to catch her, the pain in her head jumping to the backburner. She can’t make it there in time, but she drops to her knees anyways, pulling Laudna’s head to rest on her thighs and trying in vain to brush her hair back away from her face like an apology.

Pike, for her part, scoots another foot from the body. Her chest is heaving, and the hand that isn’t braced against the ground to support her is clutching her symbol so tight it turns her knuckles white. The rest of the room reacts in their own right, even if they don’t take a step— Ashton’s hands twitch for their sledgehammer, Orym stares with wide eyes, and Fearne bounces on the balls of her feet. Each of them waits for someone else to break the ice.

Imogen’s gaze finds Pike, who is already staring at her. “Was she there?” Imogen asks, somewhere between a plea and a demand. “Was she there with her? Is she holding her back?”

“You knew?”

Pike’s reply verges on sounding betrayed. Guilt swirls into Imogen’s stomach; the only thing she can manage is a nod.

“You should’ve said something,” her aunt replies. “This is… Imogen.”

“I know—”

“Know what?” Her father demands. “What is going on?”

Pike glances first at Laudna, before turning to the man standing behind her. His eyes are wide, and between that, the stubble on his cheeks, and his somewhat unkempt hair, he looks half-mad.

“Percy, there’s two souls in there,” she says. “And one of them’s Delilah Briarwood.”

Chapter Text

all of the words i’ve swallowed/all of the sharp things i’ve kept in my mouth/i am always bleeding out/take me to war, honey i dare you/i’ll be the sweetest thing to ever scare you/give me a fight i can’t resist/give me something to break with my fists/take me to war/honey, i dare you

‘take me to war’ by the crane wives

—

Imogen’s father taught her how to dance when she was eight, in preparation for the Winter’s Crest Ball— a grand celebration that, despite the usual celebrations of the holiday held annually, Whitestone only threw once every five years. It wasn’t Imogen’s first, but it was the first she was able to remember, the first she had enough coordination to to dance, even if her movements were still childhood-clumsy.

As such, her father took it upon himself to teach her the steps of a simple waltz, only the two of them in the middle of the castle’s ballroom; Vesper had been seven the last time the ball had been held, and the twins were still six, just young enough that nobody would have expected it of them. Imogen’s status as the second eldest, the one who would be expected to take charge of Whitestone should something befall her older sister, put her in a different light to the eyes of the public and foreign nobles who would be attending.

Not the father framed it that way. Instead, it’s a privilege to be old enough to learn, something to be excited about. Imogen certainly felt that way, wearing the pale blue dress her mother’d had made for the occasion to practice.

At least, she did at first. It turned out, though, that dancing did not come as easily to her as either of them would have hoped. After the sixth, or seventh or maybe eighth, time she flubbed the steps, Imogen dropped her father’s hand as her face twisted into a pout. 

“I don’t get it,” she said; rather than a whine, it came out like resigned self-disappointment that seemed wrong in a girl so young. Her father had frowned, just a moment, before his expression turned more gentle.

“Here, why don’t we try it like this,” he suggested. “You can put your feet on mine, and I’ll do the steps, so you know what they’re supposed to feel like.”

Some of her irritation faded at the prospect. “On your nice shoes?”

“Shoes can be replaced,” he replied. ”Besides, none of my shoes are nicer than you.”

Imogen grinned, the last of her earlier dismay draining away, and she giggled. At her father’s prompting, she climbed up onto the toes of his boots. The balance was strange, but not so hard once the hand he’d had on her back earlier returns.

“Like this,” he said, moving back through the steps he’d been trying to show her. It was easier, Imogen discovered, to simply focus on the way she was supposed to move rather than get caught up trying to put her feet down and follow her father’s lead at the same time.

An hour in, Imogen was dancing on her own two feet and laughing as her father spun her in circles, both of them oblivious to the way her mother watched them from the doorway with a fond smile on her face.

—

Everybody falls silent when Pike makes the revelation. Imogen watches as the blood drains from her father’s face, leaving him even paler than usual. Both her parents stand stock-still where they were before Pike spoke, and the rest of Hells are in a similar state— nobody moves. Imogen clutches for the first thing within reach, which happens to be Laudna’s shoulder in her lap, and waits for the inevitable fallout.

“Shit,” Ashton mutters under their breath, and just like that, the spell over the room breaks. 

Imogen’s mother rears back a few steps before freezing in place, and her father whips his head around. “Delilah Briarwood is in this woman’s body?” He demands, spinning on Imogen. “And you knew?”

“Not at first—“

“You should have left her behind the moment you found out! And you most certainly should have told us Delilah was still around!”

“It isn’t like what you’re thinking!”

“How is it then? Because it rather sounds like you’ve been keeping Delilah Briarwood a secret from this family like we aren’t the very same family she nearly destroyed the last time she had free reign over the mortal coil!”

“She doesn’t have free reign now!” Imogen shouts back, but any anger is drowned out by desperation. “She’s stuck in Laudna’s head, but she doesn’t do anything besides talk— you think I’d stay with her, you think we’d be here otherwise?”

“Frankly, Imogen, I don’t know what to think!” Her father replies, and the rising of his volume speaks to his outrage; he has almost never yelled at his children. “I thought you had sense, and I certainly thought you would tell us about something like this! Delilah’s soul is in her body!”

A flare of shock scratches at her brain, but she ignores it. “And you can blame her for it?” She protests instead. “She isn’t some vessel, she’s haunted! It’s not like this is some happy arrangement for anyone!”

“It sounds quite pleasant for Delilah!”

“Hold on,” her mother says, cutting through the two of them with a sharp tone. “Somebody explain how exactly Delilah Briarwood is tied into Laudna— I don’t care which one of you it is, but I want some answers now.”

Imogen finds herself unable to look at her mother. Her father was different; his barely contained fury had been expected, and she’d prepared for that. In this moment, she realizes she’ll have no idea what she’ll see if she looks up at the woman who raised her, and she’s too afraid to find out what it would be.

When she doesn’t speak, Orym clears his throat. “She’s… a voice in her head, of sorts,” he explains. “Delilah can speak to Laudna, but it doesn’t seem to go much deeper than that as far as any of us, Laudna included, have been aware. There was the single instance with the stone, but it hadn’t happened before then, or since. Laudna theorized that the arcane energy actually within the stone might have helped Delilah seize some sort of control, but it only lasted for a moment.”

“The stone?”

Imogen answers for him, staring down at Laudna to avoid the rest of the room. “Delilah was the one who broke my Sending Stone,” she admits. “It wasn’t an accident.”

The heightened tension in her mother’s words speaks volumes. “And her magic?”

“She was always able to do magic. But it got stronger after she died. It might have been the blast, it might be Delilah. She doesn’t know, either.”

The woman doesn’t answer, and nobody else speaks. As the silence stretches between them, she finally manages to lift her gaze. When she does, her eyes lock onto her mother’s. Her expression is heavy, and there’s no mind-reading required to see the betrayal and the disappointment on her face.

“You should have told us,” she says.

Imogen has to swallow down a scoff. “Well, look how you’re taking it now,” she replies. “Can you blame me?”

“Can we blame you?” Her father repeats. “You’ve been willingly traveling alongside a butcher known for targeting this family!”

“It isn’t Laudna’s fault,” she says, turning to look at him instead. “She wants Delilah there as much as you want her around. The only difference is that you thought you were free of her the last time she died, and Laudna’s lived with her murderer in the back of her head every day since. She deserves to be as free of Delilah as the rest of us have been all the time.”

“And you want me to take that risk? In my home, surrounded by our family— some of whom she’s attempted to kill before, and some of whom are named after the ones she actually got her hands on?”

“It’s not— you’re making this out like Delilah and Laudna are equal partners in there. Can’t we just— bring her back and figure out how to get rid of Delilah after that? It’s not like Laudna will fight you on it— she wants her gone. And what kind of fight will Delilah be able to put up from inside?”

“Clearly some, if she was able to gain control to break your stone which, mind you, was the safest way you had of contacting us!”

“It was a single moment!” Imogen protests. “And it’s the only time she’s ever gotten control of Laudna, in the two years she was with me or the decades she spent alone. It’s not like she’s controlling Laudna every moment. Besides, she’s weak as it is— she couldn’t even do anything to help Laudna come back!”

“You asked Delilah for help?”

Imogen didn’t consider how it sounded until it was in the air, but she can’t take it back now. “I just wanted to see if she knew anything—”

“And you thought that was wise?”

Irritation starts to crawl up her shoulders. “I thought I was running out of options!”

“And to you, Delilah Briarwood was an option before us?”

“Considering I expected you to react like this, yes!”

“Enough!”

He’s almost roaring now, staring down at Imogen like— like she isn’t his daughter, like she’s someone he doesn’t recognize at all. The sharp point of his chin, without a beard to soften it, juts down at her when she tips his head back.

“This crosses the line,” he says. “Every line. You crossed them all when you brought this woman into our home with no warning, and attempted to convince us to resurrect her without telling us the full truth—”

“Dad, please—”

“I will not assist Delilah Briarwood in becoming any sort of threat, and I will allow no-one else to do so within the walls of this city. My answer is no.”

Imogen grits her teeth as the thin barrier holding back the fury in her veins cracks, crashing through her like a wave. It’s unlike almost anything she’s felt before; the only thing that was worse, the only thing that even compares, is the burning rage she felt in Otohan’s direction when Laudna fell. From the corner of her eyes, she can see the way her scars flicker, first purple, then red and white.

The air in the room changes; her father’s angry scowl transitions into something more observant as he studies her skin, and some of the Hells take a step back. She couldn’t blame them, if she even had the mental space to consider them in the moment. After all, the last time she flared red, the town around them crumbled into rubble.

Orym cuts through the unsettled stillness. “Imogen?” He says, in that gentle, even way he talks. Imogen raises her hand in front of her before he can speak another word, interrupting him.

“No,” she replies, far calmer than she feels. “Everybody stop for a moment.”

Her mother tries, this time. “Imogen—”

“Be quiet!”

The lightning crackles again, a few sparks alighting into the air from her arm, and it’s warning enough that the room falls silent.

Without their voices taking up space in her head, and their thoughts as shut away as she can manage, it leaves her with Laudna. Her head still rests on Imogen’s lap, eyes closed and face slack. Death has made her less lively, but it hasn’t been able to rob her of her beauty. Maybe it had to some, the first time she’d passed, but not to Imogen. Never to Imogen.

With a gentle hand, she slides the golden cuff from Laudna’s left ear, runs her finger over the healed edge. It looks far from the natural edge of her own, but the point of the mutilated cartilage is still as slight as ever, just like Imogen’s.

Later, she’ll look back at the moments about to follow and wonder if she was too harsh, because she does love her family. Her parents raised her with ample amounts of affection, and she has never wanted for much. Really, it was charmed. Many had far worse, and there were children out there who dreamed of living the way Imogen had in her youth.

But staring down at the face of a dead girl her father is willing to write off, everything that’s ever lingered below the surface comes rising up. Every moment she felt inferior, every second that she ever felt out of place rears it’s ugly head and fuels the simmering fire in her gut.

“We’ve always matched,” she says, to just herself now, in a little whisper.

Then she stands, turns, and throws the cuff at her mother’s feet.

It skitters across the stone with a clink-ting and lands at the tip of the woman’s boots. “You’re going to do something,” Imogen demands, sharp at edges and alive with electricity. “Because she was murdered in Whitestone, and she was strung up in a tree for you, and I am your daughter!”

Her mother stands still in shock at the display, at the way the purple lightning that now trails up her forearms is starting to pulse. Imogen’s chest heaves with anger, and a dark part of her urges her mother to say something just so she can scream back.

It’s her father who steps up, instead. “Imogen, we need to be reasonable—”

“You need to be compassionate!” She shouts, cutting him off. “I am your daughter! Your child, and I am begging you for help. You would give this to Gwen, or Wolfe, or Vesper, so give it to me! I am asking you for one thing, one fucking thing!”

“It is not one thing,” he replies. “It is a volatile, violent risk you are asking me to take, one which I would not take no matter who asked it of me!”

“You would, but now you won’t, because it’s me asking!”

“This is in no way reflective of anything we feel about you, Imogen,” her mother says, but the hard edge she always carries when they argue is missing.

“It is,” Imogen disagrees. “It is, though. Trust me, I am very aware that I am neither of your favorites. Or Aunt Cass’s, or Whitestone’s, or anybody else in this family, but I am still your daughter, and I’m begging you to do this, because at least I am her favorite. I am Laudna’s favorite, and I don’t need to be anybody else’s. That is the only thing I need from you right now, for you to give me that back!”

The whole room goes silent for a second, and then: “Fuck.”

It’s a barely muttered phrase coming from somewhere above her. When Imogen’s eyes fly up to the stairs to the second floor, she finds all of her siblings standing at the railing, save for Gwen. Each of them watches her with something akin to shock on their faces. She’s got no idea when they got there, what they heard; she made the mistake of assuming that Wolfe and Leona would simply stay gone once they were dismissed, not get the others and return.

That was her own fault, really. She should have known better, even after two years apart.

There’s a moment, when her eyes land on Vesper, that she wants to pause the whole fight in it’s tracks and run up the stairs into her older sister’s arms. It’s been two whole years, and they seem so much longer than they were when she notices the extra inches on Vesper’s white braid. She wants to fall against her sister’s chest crying, trusting she would do everything she could to fix it, the same way Vesper always did.

It’s not important now. Not the way Laudna is.

“Children, go back to your rooms,” Her father says, and his voice is commanding. It’s the way he speaks in meetings, when foreign dignitaries take a step too far over the line, or when one of his children does something too outrageous to be ignored.

Unfortunately, it’s never worked quite as well for him as their mother’s had, especially now that they’ve all grown. None of them move.

“But… Imogen’s here,” Wolfe says.

Imogen is here, yes, and her fists curl up when she thinks about how much she’s missed her siblings. But there isn’t time for that now. After, maybe, if she doesn’t storm out or get tossed through the front gate.

“Imogen is busy at the moment,” she calls up, eyes on her father. He stiffens.

“Yes, she is,” he says. “Asking for favors I will not grant. Asking me to take impossible risks.”

“Asking you to help me!” She shouts back.  “Don’t act like I’m taking advantage of you, I haven’t asked you for anything at all in the past two years!”

“You haven’t been here for the past two years!”

“This is about the fact that I haven’t visited? You told me I should go!”

“This is not about that, this is about your reasoning being predicated upon the fact it’s the first thing you’ve asked for in a long time, when the fact of the matter is that you simply weren’t here to ask for any favors at all!”

“My reasoning is that I am your daughter, asking you to help me! Asking you, to be honest, to do the right thing!”

“The right thing to do is to unleash a murderous beast of a woman back on the town she nearly destroyed?”

“The right thing to do is to help is a citizen of Whitestone! Isn’t that what you always taught me I should do?”

“Helping one citizen should not come at the risk of killing dozens, hundreds of others!”

“So she’s to rot after everything she’s been through? You’re not the only victim of Delilah here; she’s the one who killed Laudna the first time! Mind you, killed her as a message to you for the crime of looking like mother!”

“And I have sympathy for that, but it does not change my stance! Delilah Briarwood is a dangerous woman, and cannot be permitted to keep attachments to the mortal place, no matter what form she’s in or how much you like whoever she’s strung herself onto!”

Imogen’s teeth grit with a strength that causes genuine pain. Her father’s heels have dug in, and his words cut— he’s made his point clear that he has no intent to help, no matter what his own daughter wants or feels.

“I’m done with this,” she declares, throwing a hand up in the air. “Ashton, grab Laudna.”

If they’re confused about what she’s asking, they don’t show it. With what are now practiced movements, Ashton makes quick work of throwing the fabric over Laudna’s body and pulling her over their shoulder. When Imogen starts to walk away, they follow.

Her father shouts after her as she does. “Imogen, where are you going? You can’t just walk away—”

“I am going ,” she spits, turning back to face him. “To the treasury. Because if you won’t give me your help, I will take what I need from this place and go. I am getting what we need for a resurrection ritual and finding someone else who will do it. Some people in Exandria will still care about doing the right thing, even if you don’t.”

“The guards—”

“Will move if I make them. Would you have them stop me, father?”

“For this—”

“Everybody stop.”

The commanding voice of her mother, who has been silent for what feels like several minutes, rings out across the room. While she may have been able to ignore that level of direction from her father, it’s impossible here, and Imogen freezes in place. The rarity with which her mother takes that tone with her children has only made it more effective with time.

She turns her gaze to the upper floor, where the other de Rolo children still linger. “Go,” she orders, and it’s followed by all four of them shuffling out of sight in a matter of seconds. Even Vesper goes in silence, despite now being twenty-six and a grown woman by all accounts.

Once they’ve left, her mother turns back to the Hells. “Would the rest of the room mind giving me a moment with my daughter?” She asks. “There’s a parlor to your left, you’d be more than welcome to wait there while I speak with Imogen.”

The way she speaks is controlled, but edged with steel. Half the Hells move to comply right away, but both Chetney and Ashton hesitate. The latter glances twice between Imogen and Orym, who’s halfway out of the room already.

“Imogen?” He asks. “You want me to stay?”

“I’ll be okay,” she says in response. Connecting her mind to his, she adds: Don’t let anyone touch her without me.

Wouldn’t dream of it, is the reply, and Imogen lets her link into his head crumble as he and the others slip through the door her mother pointed out, Laudna’s re-wrapped body still in his arms.

The rest of the party goes with him, Pike trailing behind them with a few last glances at the three de Rolos. Imogen’s father, however, stays put. When her mother turns her gaze on him, her mouth drawn in a hard line, Imogen realizes the dismissal was for him, too.

“Percival, take a walk.”

He blinks, clearly taken aback. “Vex’ahlia—” he starts.

Her mother starts to lose her hard-won composure. “ Go, Percy!”

The two of them glower at each other for a long moment, something unreadable in each of their eyes, before her father caves. He offers them both one last, hard look before he takes his own leave, glancing back at them several times before disappearing down the hallway. Both Imogen and her mother stare at the space he left through until the sound of a door slamming shut echoes back to them.

Alone in the foyer, there’s nowhere for either of them to look but each other. Imogen hesitates anyway; it seems more unnerving without the rest of her party here, more vulnerable. There’s nobody here to try and save her skin if she says the wrong thing, none of the silent support Orym and Ashton seem to have become so adept at. It’s just her and her mother, and with her father’s mind made up, this is Imogen’s last chance to convince either of her parents to help her. If she screws it up, they’ve lost their best chance. They’ve lost their only chance, really.

When Imogen lifts her gaze, her mother is already watching her. The objective, almost impartial mask her mother perfected long before Imogen was even born is already in place, and Imogen can feel the mental block her mother’s learned to build already between them.

“If you want to keep yelling, keep yelling,” she says. The words would be harsh, if it weren’t for the almost gentle way she says them. “I won’t hold it against you, I know that you’re upset.”

“I don’t want to keep arguing,” Imogen replies, even if there’s a part of her that still itches to throw every slight back at her parents. “I just want you to help me.”

Her mother’s expression turns more placating. “It’s not that we don’t want to help you— Imogen, none of this is about us not loving you, or not wanting you to be happy. But what you’re asking for… darling, it isn’t as simple as wanting to help you.”

“Can’t it be? She’s my best friend.”

“I know, but this is Delilah we’re talking about. You were never around when she posed a threat, or at least one that we were aware of. If your father had known she was still out there, you likely wouldn’t have been born at all. Nothing compares to the things she’s done to him. She murdered almost the entirety of his family when he was younger than you are now, tortured him and your aunt Cassandra for weeks. There’s nothing about that woman that inspires an ounce of trust.”

“Then trust me,” Imogen pleads, climbing to her feet. “It’s been two years, doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I won’t say it doesn’t, but you didn’t say anything at all to us that entire time. And it… makes it harder to trust you truly believe Delilah won’t be a risk when you didn’t feel safe enough to tell us in the first place.”

“Because I knew how father would react,” she says. “You saw him; he didn’t listen to a single word I said once Delilah came into the picture. If he knew she’d been in Laudna’s head, he might have— he wouldn’t have let that go.”

Her mother’s face softens a smidge more, a measure of understanding breaking through the almost detached expression she’d been wearing. “You were afraid he’d hurt her.”

“Wouldn’t you have been?” 

The woman sighs. “Be that as it may,” she says. “Your father, I— he is a very stubborn man, and this is not an ask he takes lightly. Nor do I, for that matter. The things that he saw that woman do, that I saw that woman do… there aren’t words I could use to explain the horror of it to you.”

“I don’t need you to explain the horror of it to me,” Imogen replies. “I understand them— I’ve spent the last two years with a woman who is living proof of them. This isn’t something I’m asking of you because I can’t comprehend the severity of it; it’s something I’m asking because it’s the right thing to do. Because it matters. Not just to me, or our friends, but because it’s what’s right. Laudna deserves another chance.”

“Darling, some would say she had one.”

“Maybe. But would you consider the life she’s had one that’s fair? Living in the woods because nobody trusts the sight of her? Being killed for being my— it’s my fault she’s dead, how is that fair?”

The admission of her own guilt still hurts, tears through her like a blade slashing across her chest. Like the one that had impaled Laudna, driving through her heart the same way she’d watched it slice through the other woman’s middle.

She continues without prompting. “It was my fault, and that makes me responsible for having it fixed. I understand what I’m asking of you, but do you understand what that was like? That horrible woman asked me if she was my favorite, and then I watched as she stabbed Laudna through the chest. Not because Laudna was attacking her, not because Laudna put her in any sort of danger, but because she wanted to watch me lose control. And it worked. Mom, I leveled buildings, and I don’t even remember doing it!

“I am so scared— I have powers that I don’t understand, and I’m involved in matters that I can’t even comprehend anymore. And I’m too into it now to just sit back and let somebody else deal with it. I don’t know how I am ever supposed to handle any of that without Laudna. This entire world is so loud, and she’s the only thing that makes it quiet.”

Her mother takes a few steps forward into the space that separates them. Without Laudna in between them, there’s nothing to stand in her way when she comes to a stop only a few feet in front of her daughter. But when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out.

As she stalls silent, Imogen knows that they’re hitting an impasse. No matter what she’s said, no matter how much her mother is swayed, she knows what the issue is— none of this would be enough to convince her father. It would, if this were anything else, but with Delilah… he’d need a damn good reason.

If they need a reason, Imogen will give them one.

“You have to do this,” she says. “You have to do this for me.”

“Imogen—”

“Not because you love me,” she replies, before her mother can say anything else. “Not because it’s your job to fix what’s my fault. Because if you don’t, I will leave. This… this isn’t something I can forgive, because you know what she means to me. If you don’t do this, I will leave, and you will never see me again. I won’t write, I won’t answer your sendings. I’ll disappear, because I don’t know how I could ever even think about moving past this. Father has decades left to live, and you have another century— could you stand that? If I walked out of here without ever looking back, and you have the spend the rest of your life wondering what’s happened to me? If I’m happy? If I’m safe? If I’m alive?”

It’s an empty threat, not that she knows it. As angry as Imogen is, she has always loved her family, her sisters especially. She could never hold up her end of it all, punishing her siblings for something they had no hand in. The warmth of Vesper’s arms, the light in Gwen’s eyes, the sight of Leona, Dan, and Wolfe all trying to bend over the same book to read it— she would miss them forever, if she walked away. 

And as much as she would begrudge them, the weight of missing her parents isn’t a burden she can bear for the rest of her life. Her mother’s embrace and her father’s calloused hands are the first things she ever learned to trust; that doesn’t just go away.

But in this moment, she means it. 

Her mother nods. Whether she believes it’s true, or she understands that Imogen thinks it is, isn’t clear. But she nods either way.

“I know,” she says. “And the last thing I have ever wanted is to lose you. Your father, too. But you have to understand… you’re asking him to bring back someone who drags with her the woman that took everything from him, once upon a time. Who’s to say we wouldn’t lose you— in such a worse, permanent way— by bringing her back?”

Imogen shakes her head. “Laudna would never hurt me. She’s had my trust since the moment she met me. She’s known I was a de Rolo for a year and a half. If she wanted to strike, she’s had plenty of time. She hasn’t done it yet, and she’d never let Delilah hurt me, either.”

“What about the Sending Stone?”

“It was a single moment,” she insists. “Less than fifteen seconds, and it’s the only time it’s ever happened. And if we bring her back, we don’t have to just accept Delilah as a part of her— we can get rid of her. The last thing any of us— me, Laudna, Orym, Fearne, the rest of us— want is that bitch in her head. Nobody will stop you from figuring out a way to make sure Delilah is gone.”

“What if the only way to do that is to kill her?” Her mother asks.

“There will be another way.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“I’ll make one,” Imogen says. It comes out icy, like a threat in response to one that wasn’t made, and she has to school her tone back into something less dangerous before she continues. “She— Mother, she doesn’t deserve anything that’s happened to her. Delilah killed her thirty years ago as a message to you, mutilated her body and hung her from a tree. And when none of you cut her down, she woke up choking on a noose. She spent almost three decades on the edge of society because everybody took a single look at her and decided she was worthless without taking the chance to even speak to her. Until she met me, the only thing she had for company was the puppet of a dead rat she made herself, because nothing living would give her the time of day. And when she finally made friends, when she finally had the chance to live, somebody killed her as a message to me, yet another de Rolo. She doesn’t— she deserves to live. You have the chance to give it to her. After everything she’s suffered, all of which was in the name of this family, one way or another, hasn’t she earned it? A life?”

The words spill out of Imogen faster than she can think of them, tumbling over one another. She needs to make her mother understand that this is the only thing that’s right for them to do— leaving Laudna to rot after everything she’s been through in service to them is callous, almost as violent and horrific as the fact that she had to suffer it in the first place.

Her mother studies her for a long moment. “There’s still a risk.”

“It’s a risk that’s worth it.”

Imogen waits, heart caught in her throat under the woman’s eyes as her mother stares at her, and then—

“It is.”

All the breath falls out of her lungs in one, stuttering gasp of relief. Her mother’s agreement means… it means everything. She may be the Lady, not the Lord, but her father has never believed in an unequal partnership; Whitestone is hers as much as his. With her mother onboard, it grants not just approval, but a full access to the treasury. And, if she’s both asking and offering official permission, her aunt Pike will certainly help.

It means they can bring Laudna back.

Her mother’s hands shake as they reach for her, but they’re steady once they finally cup her face. When the woman touches the wetness on her cheeks, Imogen realizes that she’s crying. Maybe she has been for a while; she isn’t sure when she’s started.

They both are, now. 

“None of it was fair,” her mother says, thumbs skimming over her skin. “She’s your best friend. And you’re in love with her.”

“I am,” Imogen says back. “I am, I am. Mom, she died.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I know. It hurts.”

Imogen breaks. As the first sob slips free, she falls against her mother like a child, curling into the space between her chin like the rest of the world will hide when she does. A pair of strong arms come up around her back to pull her in tighter, and Imogen shakes as the tears start in earnest. Each noise that falls from her lips is thick with the heavy emotion of it all, and if it weren’t for the woman holding her up, she’d collapse in on herself.

It takes several minutes for her to even begin to calm down— the past week is spilling out of her like a waterfall, and the two extra years of missing her family only builds on it. Her mother holds her the entire time, one hand skimming through her hair while the other presses into her shoulder blades, steady and firm.

When the shaking subsides, and she can manage to pull back far enough to look at her mother, the woman’s hands come up once more to swipe the wet tracks from her cheeks. “Have I ever told you that your father died?” She asks.

Imogen nods; she doesn’t trust herself to speak quite yet. She knows that both her parents have died, but it’s never something they’ve truly talked about. With her father, it’s a shuttered off moment that he keeps private, as if talking about it would spill some of the shadows in his eyes into theirs. For her mother, it’s a reminder of what she lost in service of her own resurrection, her brother’s soul traded for her own without giving her the chance to have her own say in it.

“I… cannot describe to you how awful that felt,” she continues. “And I don’t rather think I need to tell you, anymore; I think you’re aware. At the time, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I hadn’t told him that I loved him. I’d always… had a reason to keep it to myself, with everything we were involved it, but when he was dead… none of them seemed to matter anymore.” 

“What did you do?” Imogen asks, and her voice shakes. “How did you stand it?”

“Well, I must say that I had to stand it for a far shorter time than you have, but I told him that my heart was his, begged him to come back to me. And he did.”

The palms on Imogen’s face press in a little tighter. “I’m sure you’re learning that living the way you are is dangerous, and nothing is promised,” her mother says. “And that truly terrifies me, but I am so incredibly proud of you. Things… situations like this, the risk doesn’t go away. Doing the right thing is rarely easy, and in a life like this, almost never safe. Tomorrow is a thing you cannot always be sure of. Imogen, if you get the chance… darling, don’t let it go.”

“I won’t,” Imogen promises, as the tears bubble up again. “I won’t.”

“I know,” her mother replies, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Her lips brush against her daughter’s forehead when she speaks. “You have always been so very brave.”

Imogen sniffs, hard, but it’s in vain. Another cracked whimper slips out, and she folds back into her mother’s arms. She may be twenty-two, not the child she used to be, but her head still fits in the crook of the woman’s neck. Somehow, it makes the whole world feel bearable for a moment.

She should get the others, tell them that they’ve secured the help they need to bring Laudna back, but she can’t bring herself to move just yet. Instead, she curls further into her mother’s chest and lets her hold her like she’s eight years old again.

Chapter Text

you’re on your knees/you might as well be prayin’/guess what i am sayin’?/if you’re going through hell, keep on going/don’t slow down, if you’re scared don’t show it/you might get out before the devil even knows you’re there/yeah, if you’re going through hell, keep on moving/face that fire, walk right through it/you might get out before the devil even knows you’re there

‘if you’re going through hell (before the devil even knows)’ by rodney atkins

—

When Imogen finally manages to extract herself from her mother’s arms, she beelines for the parlor to tell the rest of the Hells that the woman’s agreed to help. There’s a general level of excitement, but a strangely tampered one, which rises Imogen’s suspicions— especially when she considers the look of almost forced innocence Fearne is wearing. Still, none of them comment on the red that rings her eyes, so she decides to let sleeping bears lie until further notice.

With at least one of the rulers of Whitestone on board, Pike agrees to help, but suggests maybe they should move to her home instead. While Imogen’s mother makes it clear she intends to convince her husband to be on board, or to at least accept that it’s happening, doing it within the walls of the castle might be pushing their luck.

The walk to Pike’s house, now that afternoon is setting over Whitestone in full, feels far worse than their earlier entrance. With almost three times as many people about, there are dozens more eyes that follow them across town. News of her return must have spread with the morning chatter, because nobody seems surprised to see her. They do give her a wide berth, though; she isn’t sure if it’s being escorted through a tree by Keyleth or following Pike back to her home with what is clearly a body wrapped in cloth that wards people off from approaching. Imogen is thankful that, at the very least, her mother is following behind rather than walking with him. The last thing she needs is more attention on them, for louder thoughts to be knocking on the walls she’s built up in her head.

Pike is her saving grace, offering waves and quick greetings to the citizens brave enough to actually speak to them. In between, she makes almost menial conversation with them, as if this were any other trip back to her place— to make muffins or practice simple spells, not perform whatever ritual they’ve going to need to dig Delilah out of Laudna’s head.

(That’s one of the things that reminds her how much she loves about her aunt Pike. Even when things are decidedly not normal, the woman can almost make them feel like they are.)

Her house is as familiar as ever. Imogen may have grown up with a wealth of aunts and uncles, but Pike was one of the only two who ever lived in Whitestone. Growing up, she spent plenty of time reading aged religious texts by the fireplace, or learning to roll dough at the gnome-sized counters when she and Pike had been just about the same height.

Pike is quick to bustle off after they arrive, inviting the rest of them to make themselves at home and pointing out the muffins sitting in the kitchen before disappearing up the stairs to the second floor. The rest of the Hells seem to take her instructions to heart, doing their best to find somewhere to sit or perch while they wait. It’s no trouble for Orym and Chetney, considering the house was built for people of their size, but the rest of them are not so lucky. While there are a few pieces of furniture that were clearly meant for taller guests, they’re still not quite as big as they should be. Despite the turbulent emotions of the past hour, Imogen is rather amused by the way Ashton has to hunch over to fit in one of the armchairs.

Her mother arrives a solid twenty minutes after they did. At the sound of footfalls on the front steps, Imogen jumps to greet her, leaving the rest of the party in the living room with Laudna’s body. The woman is just stepping through the front door when Imogen makes her way there. There’s a handful of diamond that glitters in her mother’s hands, but she doesn’t spare them a glance.

“Did you speak to father?” She asks, despite herself.

“I did.”

“And?”

The woman smiles, honey-warm and bitter-sweet. “While it would be a stretch to say he’s okay with what’s happening, he understands,” she answers. “He’s decided to stay at the castle with your siblings in case anything goes wrong, but he does want you to know that he loves you, and he’s glad you’re home, even if it isn’t under very happy circumstances. And he would like to see you before you leave.”

The last one gives Imogen pause. “I… don’t know,” is what she manages to say, after a few tense moments. “He’s…”

Never yelled at me like that before. Was going to say no to this even though I’ve never cared about anything this much. Looked at me like he didn’t recognize me for a moment.

Didn’t say no when I implied he loved my siblings more than me. Neither did you.

A rush of heavy emotions batter at the door she’s trying to keep them behind, and she shoves them back down. She doesn’t finish her sentence, though, and her mother’s expression shifts. The gentle warmth and love in it don’t fade, but there’s an edge of steel to it.

“I know you’re angry with your father,” she says. “And, I’d imagine, there’s some for me as well. But you can’t forget— this is, in a very literal sense, his worst nightmare. The woman who murdered his entire family has spent the past two years alone with his child, and he’s had no idea. If anything had happened, he would have been powerless to do anything. To lose you, especially to that woman… I can promise you that the pain of that would be something that he would have never recovered from.”

Imogen nods. “I know.”

“Your father has been very brave in his life,” her mother continues. “But he has also been very afraid. And there is nothing that scares him more than the idea that what happened to his family as a child might happen to us. Today… was very frightening for him, and that is only because he loves you so much.”

The warmth starts to well behind Imogen’s eyes. “I know he loves me,” she replies. “It’s just…”

“It doesn’t make it not hurt hat he didn’t want to do this for you, even if it makes sense,” her mother finishes. “I know.”

(That’s the thing about her mom— even after all this time, she knows her children like books, like the back of her hand. She can untangle the way they think that was so frustrating as a teenager trying to get the upper hand in a petty argument, but so comforting and wise when they needed advice.

In this moment, it’s a strange mix of both.)

Imogen almost wants to apologize; it was her that brought the events of today into their home, her who kept the secrets that made it all worse. But she can’t bring herself to do it, really, because she isn’t sorry. Sorry that people were hurt, maybe, and certainly sorry about what happened to Laudna, but not this. If she had to, she’d make all those choices again: staying with Laudna despite the risk, keeping Delilah from her father, bringing her here for a resurrection. Laudna was worth them all.

Instead, she glances down at the diamonds catching the light in her mother’s hand. She expects to see a couple pieces from the family wealth, but it’s clear that’s not where these came one. Each gemstone her mother holds is attached to some sort of jewelry fixture, whether it be earrings, a necklace, or the wrist cuff we wore at the last Winter’s Crest Ball. While the woman’s been a most practical dresser for ladies of her station, she’s always allowed herself nice jewelry,

That’s what’s in her hands right now. Not anything from the treasury, but pieces from her own collection.

“Those are yours,” Imogen breathes.

Her mother’s face twists into a sad smile. “Whitestone owes Laudna their debts, the same as it does to all who suffered under the Briarwoods,” her mother says. “But what I owe Laudna is… more personal. And she’s my daughter’s best friend.”

Something like a sigh, a little punched out noise, pulls free from Imogen’s lips as she lets her head fall forward, resting against her mother’s collarbone. The hand not holding an absurd amount of money’s worth of diamonds comes up to scratch circles across the small of her spine.

When they pull back, the hand on her back slides up to her shoulder. “It’s going to take Pike a while to set up,” her mother says. “It’s a long spell, but in the mean time… there’s somebody here who wants to see you.”

Imogen’s brow furrows. Before she can ask any questions, though, the front door creaks open further. She glances up to see her older sister standing in the frame, and the normal, composed elegance of her face has been replaced with a wide-eyed stare.

“Vesper,” Imogen breathes; her voice cracks on it as tears spring to her eyes. Before they can fall, Vesper is crossing the space between them, their mother slipping further into the house to give them privacy.

This is a different sort of reunion that any she’s had so far. She’d had a moment to catch Gwen before the collision, and Imogen had been the first to collapse in the foyer with her mother. But she finds herself frozen in place as Vesper approaches, like a single movement will shatter the illusion and her sister will disappear.

Somehow, this is the one that Imogen can’t make herself believe.

“Hi,” Vesper says, like she can’t hold it in. Without the Stone in between them, her voice is clear and airy.

“Hi,” Imogen echoes, and finds that nothing else comes out after it. Vesper pauses, only a half foot of space left between them as they stare at each other, before she closes that last gap and throws her arms around Imogen’s back.

It’s the smell of her lotion enveloping them both like a cloud that makes it feel tangible, like something concrete. That mix of lavender and vanilla has followed Vesper everywhere since she got old enough to start caring about the products she used on her skin. It tinges most of Imogen’s memories— weeping in her sister’s arms the first time that searing pain from everyone’s thoughts broke through to her mind, the two of them laying in her bed and passing a bottle of her father’s liquor between them, that last hug goodbye on the day she left. 

And suddenly, Whitestone feels like home in earnest. Not like stepping into the castle, not like holding Gwen, not even like being cradled by her mother as she cried. Home has always hidden itself in the various nooks and crannies of this town, in the places she spent her time and the people that she loves, but it has never been anywhere the way it is with Vesper.

A thick whimper curls in the back of her throat, and Imogen all but lunges into her sister, squeezing out any last inch between them. The grip she gets around Vesper has to be too tight to be comfortable, but neither of them move to loosen it. Instead, they cling to each other like one of them is walking away the moment they let go.

“I have missed you so much,” Vesper says, and Imogen chokes on the agreement that bubbles out of her, repeating Vesper’s words back to her like a prayer.

That’s all they need to say, because it carries everything within it. There isn’t a single thing Imogen could add to explain everything she feels without sounding incoherent. Her own head has been a miserable place to be these past two weeks, and she’s sure anything she could manage to say would sound much the same.

When they finally let each other go, at least a full minute later, Vesper pushes Imogen’s hair away from her face with a watery grin. “Where are your glasses?”

“In my bag, somewhere,” she replies. “I haven’t been wearing them much.”

“You’ll ruin your eyes.”

Imogen laughs, as if the sound will keep her tears at bay. “Who needs those old things?”

“You do, silly,” Vesper says, hands sliding down Imogen’s arms. “Seeing is a skill you’ve had all your life, it would be very difficult for you to adapt to being blind, especially when you—”

She cuts off as her fingers reach the exposed patch of skin above Imogen’s gloves, where the lightning that marrs her arms becomes visible in earnest. Imogen made a very intentional choice to put on a dress with longer sleeves this morning, but she doesn’t own any that go all the way to where her gloves begin— there was no hiding that her scars have grown. She had hoped, however, that they would escape as much notice as possible.

While her parents had been content to ignore them in favor of more pressing matters, at least for the moment, Vesper is not. She pushes Imogen’s sleeves up to reveal the rest of the dull purple webbing across her skin and gasps.

Imogen takes a moment to study them herself. They’ve been growing in a mostly steady pattern over the last two years, but the past week has taken it’s toll. What was just a few centimeters or so past her gloves nine days ago now goes all the way up to her elbow. Just in the time that Laudna's been gone, she's gained at least another inch.

“Oh, Gen,” Vesper breathes, tracing the patterns of them with her fingers. Her voice is still soft, but there’s a distinct note of worry hidden beneath it.

“They’re not so bad,” Imogen says, quick to reassure. “They don’t hurt. Just a little unsightly, maybe.”

Her sister shakes her head. “Not unsightly,” she corrects. “Just different. The boys would tell you they look very cool, but they haven’t made you any less beautiful.”

“You have to say that because you love me.”

“I have to say that because you’re my sister. I wouldn’t lie to you because I love you.”

It’s such a Vesper thing to say that Imogen can’t stop the way her eyes roll, even as her lips curl into an even broader grin. Her sister lets out a soft chuckle, reaching up to cup the side of her sister’s face as she presses their foreheads together for a moment.

“It’s been a long time, Gen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Vesper says. “You were learning.”

“I didn’t do much studying.”

“You were learning about yourself, and the world outside of Whitestone. That is just as important.”

“I still missed you. I should have come back to visit.”

“I don’t begrudge you for living your own life. And you’re here now.”

Imogen nods. Before she has the chance to say anything in response, though, her aunt’s voice rings out from the living room. “Imogen!” Pike calls. “We’ve got a plan, we need you!”

At the sound of her name, Imogen’s head whips around to glance further into the house, where she can hear the other shuffling back and forth. She lingers for a moment before turning back to her sister; there’s so much left to say, and a whole two years of longing she did her best to ignore that rises to the surface.

The hesitation she feels must show on her face, because Vesper’s hands squeeze hers. “Don’t worry, there’ll be time later,” her sister says, but a furrow develops between her brow a moment later. “Won’t there?”

Imogen swallows back the sick thought that there won’t be. “I don’t know,” she answers. “I hope so.”

“There will be. And in the mean time, I’ll be here.”

“You don’t have to stay—”

“I’ll be here,” Vesper repeats. “You just do what you need to do, okay? And I can wait.”

She leans forward to press a kiss against Imogen’s cheek, her grip on the other girl’s wrist tightening as she does, before she lets her go. Imogen lingers for a moment, soaking in the quiet warmth of the air between the two of them, before she turns and follows the sound of her aunt’s voice back into the living room.

—

(As Imogen lays herself down on the floor of the den, folding her hands over her stomach, she glances at Laudna a few feet away. The copper pieces have been placed over her eyes once more, and she rests in the center of the circle that the rest of the Hells have formed around her. Her frame is just as still as it has been the past week, but Imogen watches her for a few moments and reminds herself of what she knows— Pike is one of the strongest clerics in Exandria, and has brought people back many times before. Imogen’s own parents have risen at her hand.

This is going to work. It has to.

She lets her head roll back into place as her aunt begins the ritual, and the edges of her vision tint gold. Her eyes begin to slide shut under the influence of something beyond her control.

In the last few seconds before her consciousness slips into some other plane, she begins to recite the Dawnfather’s prayer, an old habit that’s slipped away from her the longer she’s been traveling. Despite the disuse, the words are no harder to recall than her own name.

Dawnfather, I pray in the hopes you hear me. Guide my feet with the warmth of your light, and may each step I take be blessed by the light that you afford. If I shall fail, I pray you show me the next step in my path with patience, and if I fall, I pray…)

—

When Imogen sees the Sun Tree standing in the distance, bare-branched and stretching up into the gray sky, her insides flip so violently she thinks she might heave up the contents of whatever’s inside her astral stomach. It looks nothing like the proud visage she’s used to, standing tall and strong under the sun, but what it must have looked like when her father reclaimed his home: ashen, half-dead, and foreboding.

She’d thought about it, for a moment when they passed through it to get home, but she looks at it now and remembers in earnest: That is where Laudna was hung. That is where Laudna woke up, dangling in the cold air.

There’s a soft touch on the place where her shoulder meets her back, and she can tell by the gentle, almost delicate feel of it that it’s Fearne. It doesn’t quite snap Imogen from her thoughts, but it tethers her back to the world around her. They don’t have time to waste getting emotional; Launda’s down there somewhere, trapped with the woman who bloodied her ears and put her up like décor.

She’s easy to find, but hard to keep. Imogen chases the faint purple of Laudna’s spirit— always changing, always disappearing, always jumping through time— through the ruined cobblestone streets in this deformed version of their shared hometown. Each moment they catch her feels like water that slips through her fingers, a single minute or two of heartbreaking conversation before the Matilda version of Laudna is fading from view again.

(Don’t go, Imogen pleads with her, like it will do anything to help her, anything to change it all.

Tell her it’s gonna hurt, Ashton says instead, because it’s the only thing of use any of them can say without lying.)

She knows well enough this will all come to a head at the Sun Tree. It’s that kind of innate gut feeling, a truth Imogen is as sure of as her own name or the sound of Laudna’s laugh. Where else in Whitestone would it be?

That doesn’t mean she’ll be ready once they get there.

Tension starts to form between them all as the draw towards the town center. It’s been there the whole time, but it tightens with every step. Imogen can feel it in the vibrations under her skin, see it in the way Chetney twitches and how the line of Ashton’s shoulder grows stiff. Orym and Fearne have both grown deadly silent, drawing closer together as they turn the last corner.

There are ropes strung up from the branches, with bodies tied to the end. Imogen can tell that from far away without having to focus on it. She can’t bring herself to lift her gaze high enough to focus until they’re actually standing within the main square; seeing her best friend, the other half of her soul, mutilated and put on display for them all like a show is something she knows she’ll never erase from her mind.

When Orym takes a sharp breath, however, she gives in to the morbid itch: to look, to see it all, to truly understand the horrors that surround almost everyone she loves in one way or the other. She glances up and expects to see Laudna but—

Oh, gods.

Her mother— her actual mother, not an imitation— hangs from the tree. Maybe a little more youthful, with blue feathers in her hair instead of black, but it’s undeniably the same woman. Her closed eyes are ringed with dark, sallow circles, and she’s splattered with blood. It’s on her cheeks, her cloak, the skin of her exposed upper arms; all of her drips scarlet. None of her is spared the gore. When Imogen stares too long, her visage flickers once, Laudna superimposed on top before it fades back to her mother.

Further to the left is her father. Unlike his wife, he looks far different. His well-groomed white beard is gone, and the shock of white hair on his head is the shortest Imogen has ever seen it. There’s a trickle of red streaming from his lips, and the lenses of his glasses, still affixed to his face, are shattered. His clothes are torn and tattered, and a blooming patch of maroon across the chest of his white shirt draws a sharp contrast between the muted colors of the rest of his attire.

She can point out the other figures— Keyleth, Scanlan, a version of Trinket without gray mixed into his fur. Almost each face is familiar, a childhood hero mutilated and hung up as a show. What her eyes continue to catch on, however, is the black clocked figure at the end of the line with pointed ears like her mother’s and a snake-belt wrapped around his waist. The look on his face is slack with death, and he swings the slightest bit against the breeze.

It’s the first time she’s ever seen her uncle.

Her mouth drops open, but not a single sound comes out. After all, what is there to say? What right way is there to react to this? 

Most of the Hells fall silent beside of her; they must recognize Imogen’s mother, or the Tempest. Maybe even her father, despite the hollow youth to his face. Or, maybe just the horror of it has them stunned.

Only Orym has the courage, or the words, to speak. “Imogen,” he whispers softly, his own voice haunted. Out of the corner of her eyes, she can see the way he yanks his gaze from Keyleth’s dangling form. “It isn’t real.”

She swallows down the bile that rises in her throat. “It’s not,” she agrees, trying to make it come out without shaking. “It’s just Delilah, trying to throw me off.”

Even still, she can’t look away. The image is burning itself onto the back of her brain, another piece of fuel for the storm that haunts her nightmares.

As she’s watching, the ropes all snap at once, and the bodies go plummeting to the ground. Imogen knows they’re not real, but she starts running forward anyways. To catch which one, she doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter— they all hit the dilapidated cobblestone long before she can reach them, and their spectral energy of their forms dissipate the moment they land.

As she jerks to a halt, that same energy coalesces and reforms, turning the shade of malevolent violet that had made itself known during their earlier attempt to resurrect Laudna. Her heart catches in her chest as a figure forms from the feet up, starting with the blurry bottom edge of a formal gown and twisting up into an entire body, complete with the bun of hair that tops its head.

Delilah Briarwood stands before them. She’s far from whole, and every bit of her being seems to shake, making her features hard to see, but Imogen recognizes her like they’ve met at every crossroads in her life.

The woman sighs, almost wistful, at the scene before her. Despite the melancholy sound of it, her lips curve into a razor-sharp grin. 

“What fond memories,” she says.

That same rage Imogen’s been holding onto, the one that snapped as Ashton and roared at her father, flares to life in her veins. Her fingers dig into her palms tight enough to cut half-moons into her skin.

Orym’s thoughts point in her direction before she can say anything, like jagged fragments or a cat scratching. It’s sharp, but if there’s a sting to it, she’s still too angry to feel it.

I can see her, he says, once she opens a path between them. Laudna. She’s in the tree.

The thought of what they came here to do, who they came here for, is enough to pull her focus from Delilah. Imogen glances up. She has to squint to see it, without her glasses, but… the branches in the center of the tree are folded inwards, like a cage whose bars lack any space between them. In the tiniest gaps between pieces of wood, a faint purple glow escapes.

Laudna.

Do you think— can we get to her? She asks.

I can try, Orym replies. This going to come down to a fight?

No other way about it.

“And you.”

She snaps out of Orym’s mind as Delilah’s eyes set on her, something feral and feline in her smile.

“You’re someone I never expected to see,” the woman says. “Percival was always more stubborn than I gave him credit for. Like a weed.”

Imogen’s teeth grind together. “I could say the same about you,” she replies. “How many times have you died?”

“Death means something different for me than most of the mortal coil. It’s rather silly everyone assumed they were finished with me in the first place, really. I’m not known for giving up.”

“Well, neither is my father.”

Delilah, despite her blurry visage, givens Imogen a clear once-over. “I can see that.”

It makes Imogen itch, more of that cold fury sliding up her arms and burrowing into the spaces where the scars split her skin. She’d spent the last two years thinking of Delilah as Laudna’s monster that she’d forgotten just how much she’d hated her before. Maybe hate was a strong word to ascribe to a woman she’d never met, but what other way was there to feel about the person who had done all those things to someone you loved so much? 

She has to school herself into something a little calmer, but she can’t manage much. “What do you want?” She asks, once she’s got the best grip she’ll be able to. “I assume you’re here to try and make some kind of deal.”

“Please, child,” Delilah says. “I know better than to think I might manage any sort of deal with a de Rolo, no matter what you feel for Laudna.”

The bitter tone her voice takes at the end of the sentence makes Imogen’s nostrils flare. “You’re quick to assume.”

“I assure you that I am not. But I am also no fool.”

Maybe you are, Imogen wants to scream. A fool for thinking I wouldn’t do whatever I needed to after everything I’ve done already, or a fool for thinking there is anything you could do to stand in my way again.

“I might surprise you,” she says instead.

Delilah laughs. The timbre of it echoes into the space around them. “You won’t,” she replies. “I’ve had two years to learn you, and I spent much time before that learning the man that made you. I understand you as well as you do yourself.”

“Then you should know what I’m going to do to you.”

“I know what you want to do. I would love to see you try.”

A strange thrill of angry excitement races up Imogen’s spine. “You will,” she promises. “Delilah Briarwood, we’re going to sunder you.”

The sparks in her arms ignite, and she throws the first psychic lance with everything she’s got.

—

(There’s no moon here, but when Imogen reaches for the sky and calls for Ruidis, she feels the red of the moon slice through her and towards Delilah. It stings like a knife carving up her arm, but there’s a strange sort of clarity that comes with it. 

In this moment, she knows it— even as F.C.G. dissipates, even as Orym disappears, she’s going to burn every last bit of Delilah from Laudna’s head until she’s ash.)

—

The Sun Tree splits underneath Imogen’s lightning, a horrible cracking sound that echoes through the town’s center. She watches as each half falls away, a faint glimpse of purple breaking free from the center and drifting away. It floats into the and fades into the gray clouds covering the sky. With it goes Delilah, and her last scream reverberates through the air around them.

There isn’t a moment to process what’s just happened, or message her aunt about what’s happened— the second the last of Delilah’s energy scatters, Imogen’s own vision goes black. It isn’t like falling asleep; it’s more like being grabbed by the back of your shirt and dragged away.

She gasps her way back into Pike’s living room, shooting up so fast she knocks into an arm that hangs above her head, and her hair catches on something that gives a painful tug as she does.

When she blinks, the awareness seeping back in alongside the sting in her scalp, she can make out the familiar warmth of the space around her. Much closer is Vesper, sitting on the ground— her fingers are the things caught in Imogen’s hair. 

A rush of fondness surges through her before the situation floods back in: Laudna (Matilda?) in the weird dreamscape, her parents and family hanging from nooses, the two halves of the Sun Tree crashing to the ground. Her head snaps to the side, where Laudna’s motionless body still lies.

“Did it work?” Vesper asks. She’s always been very measured in the way she speaks, as if every word that comes from her mouth has been well-thought out, but there’s a hopeful note that rushes the syllables together.

“I— yes?” Imogen answers, both desperate to know herself and still half-dazed. “Did it? Where’s Pike?”

“I’m here,” her aunt says, a few feet away. Beside her is Laudna’s body, still and quiet. “How did it go?”

“I think it worked? We didn’t see Laudna get… released, but Delilah— we killed her?”

“It happened so fast,” Fearne says, from somewhere else on the ground.

The rest of the Hells are starting to sit up. Ashton is rubbing at a spot on the back of their shoulder, and Chet blinks like he hasn’t figured out where they are. Orym and F.C.G., who must have woken up already, are crouched beside them.

“You killed her?” Orym asks.

Fearne, who he’s beside, hums. “Well, Imogen killed the tree,” she replies. “And Delilah started screaming.”

With an almost groan as they stretch out their arm, Ashton finishes, “And then she fucking disappeared.”

“She was tied to the Sun Tree there, somehow,” Imogen explains, when Pike and Vesper both offer her confused looks. “When it got hurt, so did she. And Laudna was trapped inside of it. So we cracked it in half.”

“That was mostly you, Mogen,” Chetney says. “Almost a shame, with the wood on that tree.”

“The real tree is still there, Chet.”

“It is?”

Wonder alights in his eyes, and Imogen almost balks. “That doesn’t mean you can take any from it, though.”

He frowns, folding his arms over his chest, but he doesn’t protest. Even still, there’s a curl to the corner of his lips that hasn’t gone away since they’ve all woken up.

“You were in Whitestone?

Imogen stifles a wince at her sister’s words. “In a way,” she answers, careful with how she chooses her words. “It wasn’t… our Whitestone. But it was some version of it.”

“Delilah’s twisted version, maybe,” Ashton says.

Orym hums. “Or Laudna’s.”

The thought makes Imogen’s heart clench. She’s always known that the Whitestone she grew up wasn’t the same one Laudna fled; she’d heard the stories, from Laudna and her father both. But seeing it herself had been it’s own kind of horror. How had her father built this back up from the ground without the memories pulling him into the murky water of its history?

How would Laudna feel, waking up to find that they’d dragged her right back here when that’s how Whitestone still looked in her mind?

“Well, that sounds pretty dead for Delilah,” Pike says, snapping her from her thoughts. “If she didn’t have a corporeal form of her own anymore, breaking whatever tie she had to Laudna might have been enough. It should have at least disconnected her from Laudna. In theory, anyways?”

“Can you check?” Imogen asks. “If she’s still holding her back?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Just give me a moment.”

Pike shuffles back towards Laudna’s body. It hasn’t been moved an inch from where Ashton laid her down on the floor, even after the six of them had journeyed right through her mind. Imogen still hates the sight of it, her so quiet and empty, but the idea that it could be changed soon soothes her.

She watches with her heart in her throat as her aunt grabs her symbol, her other hand hovering in the air over Laudna’s chest. It glows orange for a few seconds before she pulls it back, and her eyes open once more. In the long moment before she speaks, Imogen stares at every plane of her aunt’s face and tries to read whatever she’s found before she has the chance to voice it aloud.

“All clear,” her aunt says. “Whatever force or connection was holding Laudna back earlier is… it’s not all the way gone, really, but it isn’t holding her back anymore.”

“So… you can bring her back?” Imogen asks.

“I should be able to, yeah.”

“Do you trust this?”

The voice of her mother has Imogen whipping her head around— she hasn’t even noticed the woman was here when she woke up. When she turns back to Pike, her aunt is skimming over all of them with her gaze.

“I think it’s worth it, yeah,” she answers. “And… worst case scenario, we’ve beat her plenty of times before, knowing a lot less. And we’ve got a lot of help here, too.”

The two of them— her mother and her aunt— hold each other’s gaze for a moment before they both nod. 

“Well,” her aunt says. “Let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

i really thought i’d lost you/we can plant a memory garden, place a poppy in my hair/there’s no morning glory, it was war, it wasn’t fair/and we will never go back to that/bloodshed, crimson clover/uh huh, the worst was over/my hand was the one you reached for

‘the great war’ by taylor swift

—

Orym is the first to make a contribution. He’s gentle when he asks to go, like he might be rejected, but nobody stops him. Imogen certainly won’t be the one to protest; they’ve all missed Laudna, but Orym’s been the one walking at her side, the two of them shouldering the burden of fault between them whether or not it’s been a fair thing to blame themselves for.

“You deserve to be more than a footnote in Delilah’s story,” he says, when he takes Pike’s hand and kneels at Laudna’s side. “And there are people here who need you.”

When he punctuates the end of his requests by running a hand through his hair, bright red poppies spring up in the places he’s touched. The magic that emanates from it is druidic, but not like Fearne’s. Her magic has always been like a stiff breeze, something exciting on the wind. This is warm, like a crackling fire in the hearth of your home. 

It feels like Keyleth.

He slides away from her body. As he does, a few more petals spring up from the space around Laudna’s head, drifting after Orym like they’re tied to him with string before scattering into a fine red mist. There’s something settled about it, something fitting into place.

On the inverse, the air in the room seems to go cold when Letters takes a turn. The magic of his command spell sparks off Laudna’s skin and singes the air before fizzling away. An indignant rush of anger pulses through Imogen’s chest in time with the spell’s failure; after a life full of her choices being thrust open her, not allowing Laudna choice over her own life or death seems like cruelty. F.C.G.’s good intention does nothing to placate the lightning racing under her skin.

Before she can get the chance to dwell on it, however, it’s her turn. Nobody asks to go third, and nobody offers to go instead. There’s a silent agreement, made without a single word spoken, that the last contribution is Imogen’s to make.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself before settling herself on the floor once more, scooting the few inches left between them until the tips of her knees touch the crown of Laudna’s head. Pike gives her the space to do so, resting her palm on Imogen’s back to keep them connected. 

From here, she only has to lean forward an inch or so to cup the sides of the other woman’s face in her hands. Laudna’s skin is still death-cold under her palms, but there’s a softness to the curve of her cheeks. Imogen skims her thumbs over them with a sad smile— there are so many things she could say, and even more that she wants to. The few minutes she has aren’t enough to explain just how much Laudna means to her, or how changed the world without her would be. Imogen could spend an entire lifetime doing that.

But it isn’t fair to ask her to come back just because it’s what she wants. Laudna’s lived decades of life on the whim of what magic and Delilah Briarwood chose. She deserves to make her own decisions about what she wants.

Imogen takes a deep breath, lets the feeling of her aunt’s hand on the backs of her shoulder blades steady her. “You know you’re my best friend, right?” She says. “If I hadn’t met you in those woods, I don’t know how long I would’ve been able to make it alone. I don’t know how far I could have made it anywhere without you. These last few years have been… everything. And though it all, through all the laughter and the hardships. She was with you. She was choking you, and you never— you never made it anyone’s problem but your own.”

Her throat closes up for a moment, thinking about it all; Laudna suffering all those dark whispers in silence, never treating Delilah as anything more than a nuisance worthy of playing the butt of the joke. For two years, she smiled at Imogen every day as if her own murderer wasn’t whispering in the back of her head, as if Delilah wasn’t shelling out cruelty on both their names.

“If you come back, I don’t know how you’re going to feel,” she continues. “I don’t know if you’ll feel free, or if you’ll feel empty, but I want you to know that whatever… whatever hole she’s leaving, I’ll be there to help fill it, all right? I’ll be there for you. I’m not going to tell you to come back— I’m not going to try to compel you to come back, because that choice is yours, Laud. No one gets to control you anymore, all right?”

She smooths back the stray hairs that have fallen over Laudna’s forehead as she says it, careful not to disturb the poppies. Her mother’s words from their conversation at the castle ring in her head: Imogen, if you get the chance… darling, don’t let it go.

Is this that chance, then? It seems like one, and it was for her parents. After all, it was a moment like this when her mother told her father she loved him, and it had worked. And if Laudna doesn’t choose to come back, it might be the only one Imogen will ever get.

Is that fair for her to do, though? Telling Laudna now might be effective, assuming she either feels the same or cares enough about Imogen’s feelings for it to sway her. But the same reasoning that might make it effective is the same that presents the problem.

If Imogen takes that chance, is it a confession or a manipulation?

She spends a few moments drawn out in agony, pondering it, but she can’t manage a solid decision one way or the other. Even so, she can’t simply leave it all unsaid. Laudna deserves to know that she matters to Imogen, whether or not she wants to return.

“Just know that I love you,” she says instead, like those three words are enough to express the meaning behind them. “I’m here for you. And I’ll be here for you, whatever you need.”

The last sentence is punctuated with pulling Pate from her pocket, and she tucks him in the space over her heart. There’s a little pit there, where her ribs cave in and her chest dips just a bit too far inward to be natural. But Pate looks nestled in the spot, like it was meant just for him to fill it. That only makes Imogen ache more— it’s the same way she feels about Laudna’s arm intertwined with hers.

Loaded silence follows her words. The rest of the Hells are quiet, save for the sound of their breathing and the low mechanical hum that F.C.G. gives off. Imogen can feel it settle over her like a too-thick blanket, and she slides back from the body and her aunt’s touch. The gentle pressure of her sister’s hand comes up to rest against her should a moment later. She leans into the touch like it will take the heavy weight of the empty air off her back, fill that hollow space in the back of her throat.

As she moves away, the sigils traced upon the floor start to flare to life. Her aunt’s eyes do the same, flashing a bright shade of gold. When she reaches a hand out in front of her, all the hair begins to float from her shoulders and drift in the air. Laudna’s body does the same, dragging upwards from the chest and chasing Pike’s hand as it rises. Her arms and legs dangle in the space beneath her, like the limp limbs of a puppet not in use.

Everything suspends itself in place for several long moments. It’s as if the whole world is frozen in place as the balance between life and death is walked. Imogen glances at her aunt, searching the woman’s face for clues, but the blank expression she wears gives nothing away.

A second later, and the spell breaks. The glow dims until the room is lit only by the window’s natural light, and both Pike and Laudna come down from the air. It isn’t like before, when they came crashing down to the floor of Whitestone Castle; they drift back to the ground like feathers, like they’re both something dainty. Each lock of Pike’s hair falls back into place as it had been before when her knees touch the ground.

(Pate, somehow, stays tucked in place the entire time.)

Nobody moves. Imogen herself feels frozen in place. One of her hands has reached back to clasp her sister’s, and they both squeeze the other hard enough to bruise almost any other part of the body. Beside her, Orym stands with baited breath, and the rest of the Hells look to be in a similar state of suspense. 

What’s distressing about it all, though, is that Laudna doesn’t move. There’s no sharp inhale, no sudden twitch to her limbs. Every part of her still form is unmoving as ever. While Imogen attempts to hold onto some semblance of patience, each second that passes without a sign of life makes her heart take up like a racehorse inside her chest.

Pike seems to share her nerves. She leans in to touch Laudna, pressing hard into her shoulders. “Come on,” she urges, with a striking amount of desperation for a person she’s never met. “Come on.”

Imogen’s fingers clench in the fabric of her dress. Vesper lets out a shuddering breath behind her. Ashton makes a quiet noise under their breath.

Nothing answers her aunt’s words, and Laudna stays still.

This can’t have been for nothing, Imogen thinks. We can’t have brought her here just to lose her. She can’t really be leaving me.

Another few seconds tick by in that horrible silence before Pike’s expression starts to change. The worried look she’s been wearing shifts to something much closer to confusion. She squints at Laudna like she’s been taken by surprise.

“Is she a real shallow breather?” She asks.

Imogen startles. “She— she doesn’t breathe at all, most of the time.”

Pike nods, as if she’s digesting the information. Once it seems to have sunk in, she pulls her hand back and licks it. Imogen only has a second to question what she’s doing before she smacks her palm straight across Laudna’s face.

The moment she’s struck, Laudna jolts up like the impact itself brought her to life. Pate tumbles into her lap as she sits up, wide-eyed and blinking and— alive.

Imogen is moving before anybody has the chance to catch their breath. There’s a few feet of distance between them, and she’s still on the ground, but she shoots across the space that separates them in seconds to pull Laudna into her. The angle of it is awkward; Imogen’s too impatient to come all the way around to Laudna’s front, and she has to crane to the right to get her arms around the other woman in earnest. It means that Laudna’s shoulder digs hard into the flesh of her bicep, but it couldn’t matter less— Laudna’s own hands coming up to clutch at her back feel like divination, rebirth, and everything Imogen has ever known to be holy.

She knows, sure as anything, that everything this past week has been worth it. The days of grief, the shouting match in her family’s front foyer, the fight with Delilah… she would do everything all over again just to get to this moment. Each second of it was worth the pain to have this back, Laudna alive and in her arms again.

“Laudna, you’re back!” Letters says, and then adds: “Are you back?”

It’s only then that Imogen pulls back, a cold sort of fear settling in her stomach at F.C.G.’s words. Even with it, though, she can’t manage to lean back enough to actually let Laudna go. “Is it you?” She asks.

Laudna blinks, clearly too taken aback to come up with something to respond, and Chetney takes her moment of silence to add: “Say something only Laudna would know, quick!”

Imogen might remind him that Delilah’s lived in Laudna’s head the entire time they’ve known her, if she had more wits about her; there isn’t anything Laudna knows that they could be sure Delilah didn’t. She can’t speak, though. Her heart has lodged itself in the back of her throat as she waits for a response.

The whole room is still as Laudna glances about between them, that bewildered look still in her eyes. When they settle back on Imogen, though, something in them quiets. “Has your sister been able to send you a new stone?” She asks.

Imogen softens like melting taffy, sliding her hands up from Laudna’s elbows to pull her close again. Laudna is pliable this time, and she folds against her, nose crushed to collarbone as Imogen hooks her chin over the other woman’s shoulder. Nobody else in the room dares to say anything that would interrupt them— in that moment, Imogen is so full of love for everyone in this space she thinks her heart could burst from it.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she says, once she can manage to let Laudna go. She doesn’t go far, one hand still pressed to the back of her shoulder. “Do you remember anything?”

“I do,” Laudna says, and the sound of her voice is a bit weak, but as lovely as ever. “I remember hearing you and I remember seeing you— seeing all of you.”

She slips a little further from Imogen’s grasp as she turns to look at the rest of their party, and Imogen can’t help the way she leans forward to chase after her. It isn’t something she can help; she wants to press her nose into the cool skin of Laudna’s temple and breathe her in, to kiss the soft gray of her cheeks and forget everything else exists. She wants to pull her back into her chest and shut out every sound in her mind that isn’t the music of Laudna’s head.

More than anything, though, she already has what she wants: a living Laudna within arm’s reach, moving and talking like the past week didn’t happen. Anything else is something she can push away.

“I remember all of it,” Laudna finishes, turning back to her. The lilt of her words turns haunted at the end, and she shuffles a bit further into Imogen’s side.

“It’s over now,” Imogen assures, rubbing her hand across the small of the other woman’s back before grabbing one of her hands in both of her own. “Is— is she gone?”

Laudna frowns, shaking her head, but her fingers wrap around Imogen’s with a surprising strength. “I… don’t know,” she answers.

Imogen wants to ask more questions— can you feel her? Is there something missing? Do you feel different? — but Letters cuts in. “Do you need anything?” He asks, pulling their attentions back. “Do you need some water? There’s plenty of water here.”

He gets a few puzzled looks in response, but the door creaks open before anybody can response. Imogen’s mother re-enters the room— again, she hadn’t even noticed when the woman left. Fenthras is knocked and held tight in both her hands, looking as if it was molded to fit her grip despite how little she wields it these days. 

Imogen knows how capable her mother is. Even though the bow slacked, she could have it raised in a second, and it would take her less time than that to aim. Laudna would be dead in a matter of moments if the woman thought something was amiss.

Her stance is passive, but Imogen moves to shield Laudna’s body with her own anyways, covering any vital organ from the sharp end of an arrow. Her mother might not have any intention to fire at the moment, but the idea that something might snatch Laudna from her again makes Imogen’s hackles rise with panic. Her mother must see it, because even if she doesn’t move, the hard look on her face softens.

Laudna is the first to break the silence. “Who are you?

Oh— Imogen managed to forget, in the euphoria of the moment, where they were. Luckily, her mother is quick with an answer before she has to stumble for one. “I think it might be more appropriate to ask who you are, darling. Pike?”

Something like recognition flashes in Laudna’s eyes, and Imogen’s stomach clenches. She stays quiet, however, and Pike steps back up to her side.

“Hi,” she says, raising one hand in a quick wave. “I’m Pike, I just need to check something real fast. Is that okay?”

When she reaches out, Laudna shrinks from the touch, turning to Imogen instead. There’s still fear that lingers in her eyes, and a tremble to her body that Imogen’s never seen from her before.

“It’s okay,” she assures, smoothing down the fabric of her shirt with the hand that still rests on her. “She’s trustworthy.”

“Is she?”

Imogen squeezes the hand she’s still holding. “She’s good,” she answers. “She’s real good. She’s the one who brought you back.”

Laudna glances back and forth between them before the tense line of her shoulder slackens some. Pike takes that as permission enough, because she crosses that last foot of distance between them. Her movements are decidedly gentle, like she’s approaching a wild animal that might lash out if frightened. Laudna stiffens, but she leans further into Imogen’s side instead of backing away.

Pike offers a smile as she reaches out with her magic. A few soft wisps of gold trail our of her palm and into Laudna, curling up her arms and towards her chest. They linger there for a moment, glowing where they slip under the surface, before they slide away and withdraw. With them, Pike pulls away.

“It’s her,” she says. “It’s definitely her.”

Imogen sees her mother tense, and does the same. “Her? Her, Laudna, her?”

“Laudna, yeah, sorry,” Pike replies. “I should’ve specified. That’s on me. Sorry, it’s Laudna. It’s Laudna.”

A heavy breath of relief escapes Imogen, and she slumps against Laudna’s side. Across the room, she can see her mother relax as well, leaning her bow against the wall and stepping away from it.

Laudna, however, leans forward. “Did you see anything else?”

Pike shakes her head. “No, I didn’t— I can check again, if that would help?”

When she gets a fervent nod, she focuses in once more. Her eyes shine orange as she does, but it fades after only a few seconds of staring.

“It’s just you in there,” she says. “Nobody else.”

Just you in there.

A small murmur rises through the rest of the Hells, and Imogen feels her lips split her face in a grin. A startled, happy laugh slips free.

She turns to Laudna, who’s staring down at her lap in something like confused wonder. “It’s just you.”

“Just me,” Laudna echoes, without looking up. “It’s never been just me in thirty years.”

“It is now. It gets to be just you forever now.”

Laudna smiles. It isn’t the big ones she usually wears, the ones that pull her lips so far across her cheeks you can tell something about her isn’t natural. This is smaller, almost delicate with how gentle the curl of mouth is. Witnessing it up close feels like something precious.

She must be too caught in her staring, because her mother clears her throat to draw their attention back. “Laudna,” she says, once she has. “I’m very happy to say welcome back.”

Laudna lifts her head. “Thank you, …?”

Imogen’s mother smiles, but there’s something pained behind it. “Lady Vex’ahlia de Rolo,” she finishes.

The moment she does, Laudna goes still. All the muscles in her body tighten and tense, but she doesn’t make any move to go anywhere or pull away. The only part of her that shifts at all are her eyes; they fly straight to the window, where the Sun Tree stands tall and very visible.

Her voice trembles when she finally speaks. “You brought me to Whitestone?”

As Imogen reaches out to touch her, Laudna jumps like a trapped animal. The frozen look on her face twists to full-on fear as she shrinks away. Imogen hesitates for a moment before reaching out again, placing one hand on Laudna’s shoulder and the other on her knee.

“Why would you bring me here?” Laudna demands, but there’s no force or intimidation behind it. The words shake on their way out.

“We had to,” Imogen replies. “I didn’t— we didn’t have any choice. It was the only way we could bring you back.”

It doesn’t change the way that Laudna’s started to tremble, but Chetney crouches down on her other side before she can react. “It isn’t like what we saw in your head,” he says.

“It’s different here now,” Orym adds.

Laudna glances at the both of them before turning to Imogen once more. Her eyes are still blown wide with unconcealed panic.

“We don’t have to stay,” Imogen says, and the words start to tumble out of her faster than she can track them. “We can leave right this moment, if you want. It’s— it’s not the same here anymore. We saw what it was like for you, and I promise that it isn’t like that now. But we don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to. We only came to bring you back, and there’s nothing stopping us from leaving right now if you want to go.”

That empty look of terror in Laudna’s face finally starts to flicker. “You saw it? In… there?”

“All of it,” Imogen says. “And it was— awful, and I’m so sorry that it’s how you remember this place, and that you have to wake up right here after all of that, but I promise that it’s different. I wouldn’t have let anybody bring you here if I thought anything else.”

She squeezes the hand on Laudna’s knee. “I promise,” she adds. “I would never take you here if I thought you wouldn’t be safe.”

Laudna starts to nod as she finishes the last sentence— slow, like she’s trying to process it all. After a moment, she glances to the strangers in the room once more: Pike first, then Imogen’s mother, before her eyes settle on Vesper. The eldest of the de Rolo children gives her a kind smile, eyes crinkled at the corners and her teeth flashing through, like they’ve been friends all her life.

“Oh,” Laudna says. “We’re in Whitestone.”

It’s the simple truth they’ve been discussing the past few minutes, but Imogen knows what she really means— they’re in Imogen’s Whitestone, not hers. They might have the same hometown on paper, but in two different times, with wildly different experiences. After all, Imogen just got her own first-person look at what Whitestone used to be like; she grew up here, and she could barely recognize the version in Laudna’s head.

But that’s not where they are now. When Laudna turns back to the window, Imogen follows the line of her gaze. The Sun Tree is front and center a few dozen yards in front of the window, and it’s branches are covered in bright green leaves without a single rope in sight. With everybody in the room so quiet at they watch Imogen and Laudna, the sounds of the afternoon marker outside are muffled, but audible; there's a low hum of chatter, and somewhere in the distance, children shouting and laughing.

They’re in Imogen’s Whitestone.

“We’re in Whitestone,” Laudna repeats for the third time, turning to Imogen. “And it’s free?”

“It’s free,” Imogen assures. “And it’s safe. You’re safe.”

The two of them hold eye contact for a moment, both of them squeezing the other’s hands, before Laudna nods. And just for a moment, she smiles.

“I might… like to see some of it,” she says.

—

Once she’s assured that Laudna’s resurrection was successful at both bringing Laudna back and keeping Delilah locked away, Imogen’s mother steps out to call off the various guards assembled around the house. Knowing her father, Imogen feels pretty confident in estimating that there’s at least thirty or forty people gathered. The sound of dozens of guns being disengaged or otherwise put away that follows the shouted conversation her parents have seems to confirm this.

As promised, Imogen sticks herself close to Laudna’s side when they step into the sunlight once the din outside has quieted, their fingers tangled together. The city is alive with life around them. After all, Pike’s house is a stone’s throw from the town center; the sound of the market in the late morning are just around the corner. They could hear it from inside the home, but it’s so much clearer out here. There are people haggling for prices, catching up with each other as they finish their shopping, and otherwise going about their daily business.

The guard is present, too. While they’re relaxed from their defensive positions, they linger outside, like they haven’t quite been told what to do now that the risk of danger has faded. Some of the older, more experienced members seem content to simply hold their position and wait, while their younger counterparts shift back and forth on their feet. The increased guard presence does seem to be catching extra attention, as does Imogen herself when she steps out of the house.

Laudna doesn’t seem to notice any of these things, though. When the guards start to part in front of them, she gasps, a quiet little sound that’s almost lost underneath the noise of the city. Imogen feels herself tense, ready to order the rest of the Riflemen out of the way if necessary, before she realizes what Laudna’s really looking at— the Sun Tree. Without the windows and walls in the way, it looms over them in a way it didn’t from inside. What was just… a tree outside is now something that stands tall in the center of Whitestone, stretching what must be at least seventy feet into the air.

Something with a history as bloody as Whitestone itself faces, really.

Despite it’s past, though, the Sun Tree seems almost unassuming despite it’s size. It ruffles in the breeze, as if content to simply be moved by the world around it, and each one of its thousands of leaves swing like a wave has passed through it.

“Laud?” Imogen asks, after a few moments of silence. “You okay?”

“This doesn’t seem real. Like… it’s not a nightmare anymore, but I’m still trapped in a dream.”

“It’s real,” she assures, squeezing their joined hands together. “This gets to be real now.”

Laudna finally turns to face her, her face twisted in something like disbelief. “Are you sure this isn’t one of her tricks?”

“I’m sure.”

“You promise?”

They’re two simple words, but they crack Imogen’s heart in half. “Cross my heart,” she says, with the most reassuring smile she can manage. When Laudna offers up the pinkie that isn’t tangled with one of Imogen’s, she takes it in her free one, wrapping them together.

Laudna stares at where their fingers are twisted for a moment before she lets go. After a moment, her gaze starts to drift back to the tree. She doesn’t take her eyes off of it, but her voice wavers as she says: “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t go far.”

“I’m right here,” Imogen promises, soft and sure. Laudna lingers in place for a moment, as if she’s frozen, before she starts to drift towards the Sun Tree. 

With the leftover guards starting to disperse, there’s nothing to stand in her way until she’s coming to a shaky stop at the spot where tree trunk meets the edge of the cobblestone. It’s a big tree, but it seems even larger compared to Laudna. She’s always been the taller of the two between her and Imogen, but the Sun Tree makes her seem impossibly small in comparison. The thinner branches that make up the top of the tree are probably still thicker than Laudna’s willowy frame, and she looks like a mere twig from this thing could knock her over.

Despite that, Laudna seems captivated by it. She comes to a stop halfway between the rest of the Hells and the tree itself, but she doesn’t move any further. She just stands there, like she’s waiting.

Whatever quiet serenity the moment might offer is shattered as a gaggle of kids go running past, darting through the space that separates her from Imogen and the others. As they do, the smallest one of them— a young girl with two long, brown braids, clearly no more than six— tries to chase after their footsteps, but she falters in her step when she sees Laudna.

Imogen’s breath catches. They haven’t had the best luck with children; it’s easier for Laudna to be in public when she’s with people who openly and obviously trust her, and while adults might throw her a nasty look, most of them leave her be once they see Imogen with her. Kids, however are a different story. There’s been more than one that’s skittered away with a shout at the sight of her, and plenty beyond that who have clutched at their mother’s skirts or hidden behind their father’s legs.

The little girl doesn’t do any of that, though. When Laudna turns and meets her gaze, her eyes go wonder-wide. After a moment, she gives a quiet, “Hi.”

Laudna stares back for a moment, surprised, before her lips curl into a small smile. “Hello.”

“You’re scary,” the girl says, but she makes no move to leave.

“It’s okay,” Laudna replies. “I’m fun-scary.”

“Yeah.”

The agreement, given freely with a grin, makes Laudna laugh, quiet and almost watery. A similar noise slips out of Imogen— it’s such a simple word, but it might be one of the nicest things she’s ever heard someone outside of their gaggle of misfits say to Laudna. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She glances to her right, where the rest of the Hells are. Fearne and Chetney, two vastly different people, are wearing almost identical smiles. Fresh Cut Grass’s face is as unemotional as ever, but the little dial handing around his neck has been set to happy. The only one who remains impassive is Ashton, but she can see the fond look in his eyes as he watches the scene.

When Orym turns to meet her gaze, Imogen realizes she’s beaming, her lips stretched so wide that it feels foreign after the last week.

“I bet my pet rat would love that.”

Her head snaps back around so fast it’s painful. When it does, she can see that Laudna’s pulled Pate out from her belt, puppeting him in the space in front of her. Imogen tenses for a moment, as if this is going to be the thing that sends the girl running for the hills, but her eyes only stretch wider.

“You have a pet rat? That’s so cool!”

“His name is Pate.”

The little girl brightens further. “Hi Pate!”

“Would you like to hold him?” Laudna offers.

When she gets an excited nod in response, she creeps just a step closer, enough that she can reach forward and deposit Pate in the girl’s open hands. There’s no shock or disgust from the child as Pate lands in the crook of her palms. Instead, she stares at him for a few moments in wonder before she nods, as if settled.

“Okay,” she says. “Bye!”

In a departure that would seem brusque if not for her young age and the smile on her face, the young girl passes Pate back to Laudna before running off in the direction the other kids went. Laudna watches her disappear up the path, and Imogen watches Laudna— her dark lips are curled up at the corners as she waves goodbye, gentle and unguarded. That scared look from earlier has faded in entirely, leaving something softer in it’s place.

After the little girl has slipped from view in entirety, Laudna turns back to the tree. Imogen braces herself when she sees the other woman start to touch it; for what, she doesn’t know. For the rest of Whitestone to sneer at the dead girl in the center of their town? For Laudna to realize in earnest where she is and run screaming, cursing Imogen’s name for daring to bring her here? For ropes to swing down from the branches and scoop her mother and Laudna from the ground, twin reflections of each other like they had been under Delilah Briarwood’s eye?

None of that happens. Instead, when Laudna’s skin comes to rest upon bark, the rest of the world feels… quieter, just a bit. Whitestone moves on around them, but the sound of it dulls against her mind. She’s too caught up in the look on Laudna’s face, reverent and awestruck.

It’s been less than twenty minutes since they woke up on the floor of Pike’s home, but Laudna doesn’t look like she’s fresh from death for the second time in three centuries.

She just looks… peaceful.

The nine of them— the rest of the Hells, Imogen’s mother and sister, Pike— soak that in for a moment. Imogen chances a glance at those not in her adventuring group to find that, while they may not know Laudna as the rest of them do, they wear the same expressions of easy warmth. When Vesper catches her, the soft look in her eye sparks into something mischievous. 

(Imogen can tell, when she looks at her sister, that Vesper knows how she feels. It isn’t a big secret where she figured it out. Imogen might have told her mother with the last seven words of a sending, but she knows that her mother would have held those words like a secret despite the circumstances, at least from the rest of her children. There’s no way she told Vesper. 

But Imogen is pretty sure she didn’t have to; she’s pretty sure she told Vesper herself, long before anyone else. Long before their mother, certainly, and long before Imogen herself had pieced it together.

I think I’m in love with her, she’d said to her mother, with the last seven words of a sending.

I think I’m in love with her, she’d told Vesper, with every single message bearing Laudna’s name passed through the stone.)

The quiet calm of the moment is interrupted by the thud of parading footsteps, and Imogen turns to see the rest of the Rifle Corps approaching them. At the front is her father. There’s a complicated, long-barreled gun thrown over his back that she doesn’t recognize; it must be something her father finished while she’s been away.

That stiff, unsure formality is back in the way he holds himself. For all his practice at diplomacy and politics, it seems the sheer strangeness of this situation has won out over it all. He glances at a few of the Hells, gaze landing on his own daughter several times, before he settles on the only one he hasn’t managed to met yet— alive, at least.

“Hello,” he says, and it comes out almost stilted. “I take it your name is Laudna.”

Laudna stares back at him for a moment. Imogen has drifted over to her side since the guard’s started towards them, and she turns to the other woman now, hesitance in her eyes. 

Imogen takes a moment to relax her own posture. The tension from the earlier argument still lingers, but Laudna was still dead for all of that; she has no idea what’s occurred over the past week. It won’t do her any good to know about the fight that Imogen’s family’d had over her.

And— Laudna needs to be the priority right now, especially while they’re still in Whitestone. Imogen and all her family’s drama can wait for the moment. Instead, she does her best to pull her face into something reassuring and reaches out to place a gentle hand on Laudna’s shoulder.

It’s okay, she thinks, and even if their minds aren’t linked at the moment, she hopes it’s heard anyways.

“I am,” Laudna says, after a solid ten seconds of silence. “And you’re… the Lord of Whitestone.”

“Indeed, that would be me,” he replies. “My name is Percival de Rolo III, but I assume you might know me better as Imogen’s father, these days.”

“Mostly. But I do remember you from… before, if a bit distantly.”

He looks a little surprised by this, but he’s quick to school his expression. “Well, I hope the impression I had left was positive.”

“I don’t quite remember most of my youth with clarity, but I don’t recall anything rather negative. I was more acquainted with Oliver, I suppose. The only time we ever spoke was when you asked me if I’d seen him sneaking off into the Parchwood—”

“And you told me the wrong direction,” Imogen’s father finishes. “You’re the Bradbury’s daughter, Matilda.”

At the name Bradbury, Laudna shudders. It isn’t a huge movement, but Imogen’s only a few inches from her— she can almost feel the way the movement ripples through her. Her head starts to hum, a little less like the lilt of music and a little more like the buzz of bees.

“I guess I was,” she says.

The little, almost fond smile falls off his face. He covers his mouth with his fist and clears his throat before smoothing his hands down the fabric of his jacket. “Laudna… on behalf of the de Rolo family, both living and deceased, we… acknowledge that you have suffered much under the Briarwoods,” he says. “On behalf of the city, and the de Rolo family, I apologize for what befell you and yours here. There’s no way to make up for any of it, and believe me, I have tried. But we’ve done out best. While your memory of Whitestone may not be so fond, this is still your home. That being said, I would like to assure you that you are welcome home wherever you should wish.”

Despite her earlier irritation, which has made a home in the more hollow pits of Imogen’s stomach, her father’s words spark a bit of warmth in her chest. He’s awkward about it, yes, but it’s obvious he’s trying despite it all. With Delilah eliminated from the equation— or maybe due to his recognition of Laudna, her memory of his brother— that indignant anger he wore seems to have whittled down enough to tuck it away.

“Thank you. It is… strange to be back.”

“I imagine it is,” he replies. “I felt… much the same.”

Laudna nods, seemingly at a loss for words. It isn’t like Imogen can blame her— she has no idea what she would say if anyone were to turn their gaze on her in this moment. A short silence starts to drag out between them all as the rest of them wait for Laudna’s response. Imogen watches her hands twitch to her pockets, like she’s reaching for Pate, but she stops. Instead, she glances back to the tree.

“Have you felt it?” She asks. ”The tree?” 

Imogen’s father blinks. “Felt it? In what way?”

“It’s warm.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say in response to that. When he glances back to his wife, she simply nods her head in Laudna’s direction, and he sighs.

“Oh, you’re going to make me do a Keyleth thing, aren’t you?”

As miffed as he might seem about it, he doesn’t protest. Instead, he sidles over to a spot next to Laudna, close enough to touch the tree. The look on his face reminds Imogen of the one he would wear to placate her as a child whenever he would do something for her benefit rather than his own, but he places the palm of his hand against the bark without further protest or preamble.

After a moment, though, his expression changes. The remaining skepticism melts away, and something soft takes it’s place. Her father’s lips curl into a smile, small but genuine.

“You’re right,” he admits. “It is quite warm.”

Laudna huffs a small laugh, in that kind of way people do before they cry, and glances back over her shoulder to meet Imogen’s eye. There’s a question in her eyes, and Imogen is moving to answer it before any words can be spoken, placing her own hand inches beside Laudna’s against the Sun Tree.

They’re right; the bark is sun-warmed beneath her skin, and the knotted wood of the tree’s trunk is steady and whole between it. The brown of it is almost vibrant, a far cry from the dusty gray it had been inside Laudna’s head. 

It’s alive, and so is Laudna, and so is Imogen and all their friends. For the first time in a week, everything is okay.

Chapter Text

ships are launching from my chest/some have names but most do not/if you find one, please let me know what piece i’ve lost/heal the scars from off my back/i don’t need them anymore/you can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars/i’ve come home

‘welcome home, son’ by radical face

—

The Hells part ways with Imogen’s parents and her aunt after their meeting at the Sun Tree, but it’s a bit of a double-edged parting. On one hand, she manages to get them all out of following her parents up to the castle under the guise of showing them the parts of Whitestone they missed their fraught journey up to the castle and down to Pike’s house.

On the other, she can’t manage to get them out of a more formal invitation to dinner that evening. She’s been aiming to keep Laudna out of Whitestone Castle in entirety, but her mother insists. There isn’t a good enough excuse for Imogen to wiggle out of it without questioning, and when she tries anyways, Laudna shoots her a look— the kind that says she knows Imogen’s protesting for her benefit, and she should stop.

Once they’ve managed to get their freedom before dinner, Imogen makes good on her excuse, showing the rest of the Hells a few choice areas of Whitestone. She’s careful to avoid anything she think might be too tainted by the Briarwoods influence, including the farmlands on the southwest path down to the Parchwood where Laudna would have grown up. Some things are safe, like the Slayer’s Cake and The Heart of Whitestone clock tower— they were built after Laudna had fled Whitestone, too new to hold bad memories. Others she takes chances on; they pass a few older shops that are family run, as well as a few small memorials and temples. She must be in a particularly sentimental mood, because she drags them around the Grey Hunt Manor after showing it off and takes them down the Snowdrop Memorial Trail. It’s private, for most citizens of Whitestone, but Imogen is still a de Rolo. 

(And— it’s a trail her aunt built behind her mother’s home in honor of her uncle. Who would turn her away from it?)

She warns the others to be careful where they step as they go. True to it’s name, delicate white flowers line the path to the Altar of the Raven. While surely some of them are new growth, Imogen can almost imagine her aunt Keyleth taking the careful time to grow them all, putting her grief to work in creating something beautiful.

It takes them longer to reach the Greyfield than it would if they’d taken the public path, there’s something more sacred about leading them through this way. It also means they don’t need to cut through the thick of the cemetery. There’s a grave there that bears Laudna’s old name, tucked between her parents and her little brother. Imogen saw it once, long before she had met Laudna, before she knew the dirt beneath that headstone bore no body. Back then, it had just been another sad story in a line of them, another life cut short.

She knows better than that now, though. She’d be just as happy to avoid it even if Laudna weren’t here.

The dirt path gives way to stone as they step out of the trees, and the altar rises from it. It isn’t the showiest in the world, or even within Whitestone; the Altar of the Raven isn’t too much more than a dark marble dais and a few stone pillars inlaid with stained glass. The biggest feature is the squared-off pool of water, and even that’s relatively tame compared to the actually Raven’s Crest temple and it’s communion tub of blood— the only way to be fully submerged at Whitestone’s altar for the Raven Queen is to lay flat on your back.

“This is… quite nice,” F.C.G. says, as they come to a stop at the back of Greyfield. 

“It’s very beautiful,” Fearne adds.

“It’s not much,” Imogen admits. “But the Raven Queen isn’t widely worshiped in Whitestone. Not many people come out here.”

Ashton folds their arms across their chest. “Who was important enough to get this built, then?” They ask. “‘Cause it’s small and everything, but that’s some nice stonework, and there’s an entire private path to get here.”

“My uncle,” Imogen says. “He’s the Raven Queen’s champion.”

That earns her a low whistle. “By the nine hells, Imogen, are you related to every powerful person on this continent? Your parents are the Lord and Lady of Whitestone, your aunt is Orym’s boss, and your uncle is the champion of the Raven Queen? What’s next?”

Imogen throws them a look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Fuck it. Yeah, I actually do.”

“My mother’s the champion of Pellor, and my aunt Pike is the champion of Saranrae. And—”

“The baker?” Ashton says, cutting her off before she can get to Scanlan. “She’s the champion of a god?”

“To be fair, she did bring Laudna back to life,” Fearne points out. “Maybe that should have been a clue.”

“A clue that she was a cleric, not an entire god’s champion!”

Ashton and Fearne start to devolve into bickering over how surprising the revelation should be. Both Chetney and F.C.G. jump in a moment later, one attempting to mediate while the other only eggs the first two on. Imogen takes the moment of distraction to turn to Orym.

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” she says.

Orym seems almost amused, his lips quirking up at the corners. “Most people don’t know the champion of any gods,” he replies. “You just stated that you’re related to several of them, and another two of your relatives rule entire cities .”

“You know Keyleth. Is it really that strange?”

“Imogen,” Orym says, a little more serious. “The Tempest is the most powerful person I know, and she’s my boss. People I loved have died defending her. And to you, she’s your aunt.”

The thinly veiled mention of Will and Derrig is sobering. She’s well-accustomed to the sound of melancholy floating from Orym’s head when he thinks of him. This time they’ve spent chasing the Paragon’s Call has made it ever-present in his mind, as had Laudna’s death. As used to it as she is, however, she often forgets the role Keyleth played. She hadn’t been at fault, of course, but it was her that Will and Derrig had gone down fighting on behalf of.

She was someone people died to protect, and to Imogen, she was the woman who taught her what each of the flowers in the castle’s garden was.

“That’s a fair point,” she admits, soft. 

Orym smiles, almost placating. “It’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Considering everything that’s just happened, bad is the last thing I would call it. But it’s not the experience most people have. You’ve spent your life surrounded by people who could, and have, changed the face of Exandria— people who love you and would do so much just to help you. There’s power in that. For most of the rest of us, right here, right now? This is the most power we’ve ever had, with all of us together.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it like that,” Imogen replies. “I… it was normal to me, growing up. Everyone I knew around my age were my siblings, or children of other people with… status. I didn’t really have a lot of friends in town. And I’ve been away from home so long that I just felt— almost divorced from it, you know? The longer I spent away from home, the more I started to feel like Imogen Temult, not Imogen de Rolo.”

“And that makes a lot of sense,” Orym says. “But you still knew it was here, you still had all of it, and the rest of us had little to no idea. It’s an adjustment.”

“Yeah.”

He must be able to sense the anxiety starting to prickle at her, because he continues. “There’s nothing wrong with it, and there’s absolutely no judgment. It’s just that it’s not normal for us in the way that it is for you, and—”

There’s a splash from behind them that cuts him off, followed by the thick silence that only follows something unexpected. Imogen and Orym whirl around to see Chetney sitting flat on his ass in the pool in front of the altar. It’s only a foot and a half deep, but that’s a lot for Chet’s gnomish frame. The way he’s leaned back means that the water almost comes up to his chest, and only the tips of his knees poke up from the surface. 

All of the other Hells are gathered around, but it’s clear from the poorly concealed grin on Ashton’s face that they’re responsible for whatever just happened. Chet glares up at them as he tries to wipe his face dry.

“Really, Ashton?” Imogen asks, as Orym says: “Real mature, guys.” That only seems to amuse Ashton more, and a few snickers slip out.

Imogen opens her mouth to add something, probably a few scolding words, but then— Laudna laughs. It’s a quiet at first, just a few giggles, but the sound of it stops her dead in her tracks. The others go still at the same time, save for Chetney, who grumbles as he tries to climb to his feet.

Tries being the operative word. He’s halfway up when he grabs the side of the pool to push himself the rest of the way, and his hand slips. There’s a moment where he scrabbles for purchase before he loses it completely and falls again, sending another splash of water spilling over the edge. 

The rest of them crack. Laudna breaks out in full on laughter, and most of them follow. Before too long, Ashton is doubled over while Laudna and Fearne lean into each other to stay upright. Orym snorts, shaking his head despite the smile that crosses his face, and Imogen finds herself doing the same. It’s contagious.

This is a holy site, the back of her brain reminds her. Most people wouldn’t consider this a place to mess around— they’d be pulling Chetney out of the pool, or at least insisting that he get up. Instead, Imogen is standing over him and laughing.

She decides it doesn’t matter. A god doesn’t need to be involved for her to know that this is holy, too.

—

Imogen shuffles them back to Whitestone proper once they get Chetney out, promising them that the late afternoon sunshine has driven many of the morning folk away from the shopping center of town. It takes them a while to backtrack down the trail, but Imogen doesn’t risk taking them through the rest of Greyfield to make it shorter.

Now that the weather’s warmed up, many of the city’s early risers have made back to the cool shade offered by their homes by the time the Hells get . There are still people shuffling about, but nothing that compares to the rush the market would have seen earlier. Most importantly, all of the various vendors and shops are still open, although a few are preparing to close within a few hours— the stalls that sell meat or produce see most of their business by the time the sun is high in the sky, and they don’t stay open much longer than that.

They’re all still a bit subdued, but the mood is lighter now than it had been before. Ashton grumbles about the few people who offer them strange looks out of the corner of their eyes, and Orym tugs Fearne away from a vendor’s stall when she spends too long eyeing a couple of trinkets laid out on the table top. Chetney trudges along with his arms folded, clearly bitter about the remainder of the water in his pants they weren’t able to prestidigitate. Nobody presses Imogen on anything, including what happened with her mother when they all left the room, but Fresh Cut Grass does catch her eye when nobody else looking and points to the ‘supportive’ face on his emotional expression chart.

It’s nice. They’ve been through hell the past week, but it’s comforting that they’re all still them after it.

The lower the sun starts to sink, though, the closer dinner draws near. With dinner comes, of course, the castle and all it’s ghosts. Imogen starts to itch with worry at the thought of it, and she can see that same nervous energy reflected in Laudna; her smiles start to become plastic at the edges the more time passes.

When the evening bell rings, there’s no more time to put it off— they have to start heading to the castle now in time to make it for dinner.

Imogen stalls in place anyway. The others, still caught up in their own conversations despite the loud chime that sounds out across the center of Whitestone, don’t notice. Only Laudna, whose hand is still wrapped tight in one of Imogen’s own, catches it.

She uses the chance to tug Laudna a few feet away from the rest of the group, an attempt to gain some modicum of privacy. “We don’t have to go,” she says, voice lowered. “We can leave now, if you want.”

That cracked open look Laudna’d worn earlier starts to come back. “I… it’s dinner with your family.”

“They’d understand.”

“It’s been two years.”

“I saw some of them today,” Imogen replies. “And, after— you shouldn’t have to go back there.”

Laudna shakes her head. “Imogen, darling,” she says. “I would be lying if I said I desired to stay here any longer than we had to, at least after everything that’s happened. But I would hate to drag you away from here before you got the chance to see your family.”

“I could see—”

“We wouldn’t. Wherever we go from here, we’ll be just as busy as we were before, and they’ll always be a reason not to make time for it. But you’re here now.”

She’s right, but it doesn’t do much to make Imogen feel placated. “You don’t have to go,” she tries again. “Some of us could go ourselves, or just me.”

“Imogen,” Laudna says, placing her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. She stills at the contact, calmed far more than she’d like to admit by it. “I would rather go with you than stay behind, and it would make me feel dreadful if I was the reason you missed time with your family. Let’s just… go to dinner.”

Despite the peace that Laudna’s touch brings, her stomach still churns.  When she searches Laudna’s face for any hesitation, though, she doesn’t find it. There’s warmth, sure, and plenty of vulnerability, but no doubt.

“Okay,” Imogen says, and it comes out like a sigh. “Let’s go to dinner.”

—

If she had thought the walk up to the castle was long when they’d been carrying Laudna’s body up with them, it does not compare to how it feels with Laudna walking up alongside them. Imogen wouldn’t trade having her back for anything, but it had been different knowing that she wasn’t aware of what’s happening. Now, hand in hand and her head alive with thought, Imogen can taste every nerve that wafts off of her.

As much as Whitestone Castle was home to her, as much as she knows her various trinkets and well-worn books still litter her bedroom upstairs, she can’t find it within herself to see the place as anything but the site of Laudna’s slaughter.

The rest of their party does their best to ease the tension, carrying on with a conversation that is obviously forced in how light it is. It doesn’t do much to soothe Imogen— or Laudna, for that matter— but at least she can pretend that everyone isn’t watching the two of them shove down whatever heavy emotions are swirling inside their chests.

After a ten minute walk more akin to something of a grueling journey, they reach the front gates. The guards all offer the same respect in greeting as they had upon Imogen’s first arrival, but unlike before, allow them to pass without any formal escort. Her parents must have given the all clear for them to come in unimpeded— a show of trust from her father, no matter how small it might seem to the outside eye.

A shiver ripples through Laudna’s body as the heavy wooden doors part open before them, allowing her a first look inside the castle after thirty odd years. Imogen squeezes the hand in hers. “Are you okay?” She asks.

Laudna nods, but it’s shaky. “I’m okay,” she says. “I will be.”

“Do you want to turn back?”

“Absolutely not.”

It doesn’t feel honest, but there’s a layer of resolve painted over the anxiety across Laudna’s face. Imogen studies her for a moment, waiting to see if she changes her mind, before taking her first step across the threshold.

Laudna follows at the point they’re still joined, crossing from the cobblestone path to the smooth stone of the foyer floor. A soft noise, half gasp and half sigh, slips out as she does, but she doesn’t falter. As Imogen takes a few steps inside, Laudna follows, and each foot inside seems to eat away some of the tension in her spindly frame.

The others spill in around them, some to the sides and some behind— a flank, covering every point of space around them that Laudna can’t see. The physical presence surrounding her seems to calm her further, and she relaxes into a stance that’s almost normal.

“We all okay here?” Orym asks, from Laudna’s right.

“We’re okay,” she replies. “I’m okay.”

Everyone pauses for a moment, before the silent agreement not to push Laudna settles over them.

“I know I said it before Imogen, but fuck,” Ashton says, filling the void of silence before it can get awkward. “I cannot believe you grew up in a fucking castle.”

F.C.G. hums, a little mechanical sound. “You have a very lovely home Imogen.”

“So lovely,” Fearne agrees. “And I’m sure there’s plenty of things in here that your parents won’t miss too much—”

The words seem to die in Fearne’s throat as soft footsteps come into the foyer, and Imogen’s mother appears. Her hunting clothes from earlier have been replaced with a dark blue dress that’s rather casual for the Lady of Whitestone to wear, but far nicer than anything the Hells have on them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, with a note of cool formality that reminds Imogen of the way her mother spoke to foreign nobles she hadn’t known well— not unkind, but layered with unfamiliarity.

“It’s no bother, Lady de Rolo,” Orym replies. “Thank you for having us.”

“Of course, it’s our pleasure,” she says, offering him a polite smile, before she turns to her daughter. “Imogen, if you would like, your siblings have asked if it would be possible to see you before dinner.”

The suggestion gives her pause, and Imogen feels herself stiffening before she can stop it. Judging by the way her mother’s neutral expression twitches, she’s caught it, too.

It makes sense— they’re all about to be corralled into seats around the same dinner table, surrounded by strangers they’ve never met. Out of all her siblings, Imogen only had a chance to speak to two of them, and a formal dining room isn’t the best place for reunions. Not to mention that the last time most of them saw her, she was standing over a dead body and screaming at her father.

But Laudna is here, standing in Whitestone Castle for the first time since the Briarwoods had control of it. To her, these walls lack the laughter and magic of Imogen’s childhood. All they stand for is untimely death and lives cut short.

When she opens her mouth to decline her mother’s offer, though, the hand still holding hers squeezes. She turns to see Laudna is fixing her with a look. It’s the kind that she needs no words to understand, spoken aloud or otherwise.

“This is… we’re in the Castle,” she says, answering the prompt Laudna’s eyes are giving her. “We’re going to dinner, I don’t want to leave you alone.”

She expects her words to change the placating expression on Laudna’s face, but it doesn’t budge. Laudna’s lips curl into a small, soft smile. “I’ll be fine,” she replies. “You should go, see your siblings. I’ll be fine until dinner.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” Ashton adds. “Promise.”

When Imogen doesn’t budge, Chetney knocks his elbow against her thigh with more force than it really needs. “Go,” he insists.

“We’ll see you at dinner,” Orym adds.

Imogen’s gaze flicks between them all before settling on Laudna once more. The other woman is smiling, quiet and wry.

“I’ll be okay,” she says. “Go see your siblings.”

Laudna squeezes her hand a final time before letting go and drifting a few feet away to plant herself between Fearne and Ashton. Even the few feet of distance sends a pang of anxiety racing up Imogen’s spine, but she forces herself to swallow it down. Instead, she crosses the room to meet her mother and take the arm that’s being offered to her.

“They’re just down in your aunt Cassandra’s parlor,” her mother says as she leads her from the foyer, resolute in ignoring the way her daughter glances over her shoulder to watch Laudna disappear from view. “She sends her regards– she’s desperately sorry to miss you visiting, but she’s off on business is Syngorn, and they would not take kindly to her stepping out on meetings.”

“They wouldn’t,” Imogen agrees, voice soft. Her memories of Syngorn are old and faded, but she can remember how cold the place had seemed. The elves there had stared at her, and even now, she hasn’t forgotten how they stared at the small points of her ears with something she now understands to be contempt.

As a kid born to the royal family of Whitestone, it was the first time she had ever felt like there was something other about her.

“She’ll be home in a little less than a week’s time,” Imogen’s mother continues. “But I imagine you will be gone by then.”

Imogen hums. “Probably.”

The pair of them turn the last corner on their path. Down the hallway, Imogen can see the doors of the parlor are thrown wide open, and an orange glow spills out onto the floor. Without approval, she feels her feet stutter to a stop beneath her.

As she freezes in place, her mother stops, too. Neither of them speak for a long moment, but the look on Imogen’s face must give away what she’s thinking, because–

“They’re not mad at you,” her mother assures.

“Won’t they be?” Imogen replies. “Father is. You are.”

Her mother hesitates for a long second, like she’s chewing over her words. “I will admit that I still feel frustrated by the amount of things you have kept from your father and I,” she says. “And that I wish, at the very least, that you would have trusted me enough to be honest. But I cannot wholly blame you for the reasoning that led you to make the choices you have.”

At some point in her mother’s speech, Imogen turns away, but a hand comes up to cup her cheek and keep her in place as her mother tilts to meet her eyes.

“At the end of the day, you are always my daughter,” she adds. “I will always love you. And that will always come before everything, even when you frustrate me. And it will still come before everything, no matter what anybody else thinks of your decisions– your father included.”

The emotions well, that complicated mix she’s been carrying in the center of her chest for days. “I love you, Mom,” Imogen says, because it’s the only thing her brain can think to say.

Her mother smiles, eyes heavy with quiet affection. “I love you, too,” she says, bending to press a kiss to the crown of her daughter’s head. “I will see you at dinner, darling.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Imogen echoes, and her mother squeezes her arm once before she lets go, taking her leave back the way they’d came.

Now alone, Imogen makes her way further down the hall to the parlor. As she gets closer, the soft hum of their voices reach out to greet her. When she reaches the doorway– a fifteen second walk that feels like it takes minutes– she’s greeted by the sight of them.

All five of her siblings are gathered in the center of the room, standing despite the couches and chairs dotted along the wall. Each of them speaks in hushed tones, or as close as they can manage; Gwen’s voice laps over the others by a significant margin.

“You guys are being weirder about this than you should be,” she insists, her whisper carrying over to where Imogen still stands in the doorway. “It’s just Imogen and dad.”

Wolfe’s face is the only one Imogen can actually see from this angle. She watches as his lips twist into a frown. “Gwen, it’s complicated—”

“You keep saying that, but none of you will say why! I’m not a baby anymore, I’m almost fourteen years old! Why are you guys always keeping things from me!”

The others hesitate, before Dan clears his throat. “Nobody is trying to keep anything from you—”

“No, she’s right,” Leona interrupts. Unlike Gwen and her brothers, she seems to understand the concept of whispering, because Imogen has to actually listen to hear what she’s saying. “She deserves to know things, too. It would be unfair of us to keep insisting she has to think something is weird but not tell her what it is.”

“So what happened?” Gwen asks.

“Father and Imogen had a fight,” Leona replies, as matter-of-fact as ever. “Imogen wanted him to help her with something, and he thought what she was asking of him was dangerous, so he said no. That made Imogen upset, and they had an argument. They were both really angry.”

“If it was so dangerous, why would Imogen want to do it?”

It’s Vesper that answers, reaching out to place a hand on the back of her youngest sister’s shoulder. “Sometimes, when you really care about people, you’ll do a lot of things to help them,” she says. “And sometimes, those things are dangerous.”

Gwen turns toward Vesper, giving Imogen a generous view of her side profile. The line of her eyebrows are drawn in concern, and the line of her jaw moves in a way Imogen recognizes from herself— Gwen is chewing at the inside of her cheek.

“Is Imogen okay?” She asks.

Before any of them can reply, Imogen clears her throat; she'd rather introduce herself now than listen to whatever dissection of her emotional state the others might get into. “I feel okay,” she answers.

At the sound of her voice, five heads snap to look at her. Save for Vesper, they all wear matching expressions caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. For the first time in two years, all six de Rolo siblings are standing in the same room, and none of them seem able to move.

“I missed you guys,” Imogen says, finally, and it breaks the spell. Like strips of metal to a magnet, all five of Imogen’s siblings snap to her side as if they’ve been waiting for years.

(After all, they have.)