Chapter Text
Gelvaan is different in the winter. It’s been a while since Imogen has been back, she tends to avoid it. Too many people who know her, too many people who know about her mom’s death and who still feel for her, even after all those years. Strangers will come up to her and tell her “I’ve known you since you were this high! And how adorable you were! Such a shame about your mom, you must miss her immensely.”
That last part gets worse around the holiday season, yet another reason why she avoids her hometown around this time of year. Unfortunately for her, this year Relvin sent her a letter asking her to come home for Christmas. He didn’t include a reason why, but if he went through the effort of tracking her down and asking her specifically to come home, who is she to deny him that?
She’s been back for a little over two days and she’s already regretting her decision, a full week before Christmas. Spending time with her father has never been high on her list of things she wants to do, and while she knows he means well, she simply cannot take being stuck at home with him any longer. It’s like he forgot they don’t talk, ever.
Constantly being stuck in his mind doesn’t help Imogen; she can hear him mull over things to do together, to spend time with each other and get in the Christmas spirit and—like herself—regret his decision to invite Imogen back home, especially for such a long time. Two days together might have been fine. They could’ve celebrated Christmas Eve and Christmas together, and then she could leave. Ten days is too much.
So, to get away from all of that, Imogen tells her dad she’s going for a stroll around the town. She has to get out of his mind, she needs a break from the constant stream of negative thoughts harassing her.
Imogen aimlessly wanders around town for a bit. Some people have put lanterns in front of their windows or hung garlands. There’s mistletoe around every corner and behind almost every window is a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Relvin had proposed they decorate his together, spend some quality time together, but they’d ended up decorating in silence. Once the tree was half decorated, Imogen excused herself to use the outhouse and didn’t come back. Relvin didn’t go look for her.
Distracted by the beautiful chains of magic-powered lights hanging over the streets, Imogen doesn’t notice the patch of ice that has formed on the sidewalk where a drain pipe leaks the melted snow from the roof onto the street. She slips and falls, cursing out in pain as she hits the cold, hard cobblestone street.
Laudna is huddled over the craft table in her studio—if you can even call it that. It’s a single room on the ground floor of an old, decayed inn owned by the town. It houses a whole array of characters, most of whom Laudna doesn’t know, either because they avoid her or because they don’t stay long enough for her to get to know them. She’s the only resident who has stayed here for over two months. Most people leave as soon as they find a better place to stay, somewhere that doesn’t have mould but has heating instead.
She doesn’t mind. When she first arrived, the mould was the first thing she took care of. With vinegar, clean water and a rag, she managed to get it mostly under control. After that, she collected all the blankets, clothes and other thick fabrics she could find to cover all the places where she’d feel cold air creep in. Once her room was semi livable, she moved around the furniture that came with it. Her desk moved to the big window looking out on the street so she could have daylight while working, the bed moved to the darkest corner of the room, foot end facing the door. Lastly, the shelves (that used to be a closet, judging from the hinges where the doors are missing) were put against the wall between the door and her desk. Part of the shelves are reserved for clothes and basic food supplies, another part is dedicated to her craft materials.
Laudna makes Christmas ornaments for a living. They’re all unique, she doesn’t enjoy making the same things over and over. Next to the metal tankard containing her paint water sits Launda’s very first creation, looking at her as she works. Pâté is always with her—whether she’s working on new stuff, sleeping or selling her collection at one of the many Christmas fairs happening in and around Gelvaan, he’s there.
The project of the day is a small wooden bell, hand-carved by Laudna herself. Ever since she met a small, gnomish old man in a tavern a few months ago and he taught her about the beauty of wood and woodwork, her assortment had expanded with the new knowledge he bestowed upon her. He’d gifted her a set of woodcarving tools, and she’d started practising. Over the past few months, she’d gotten better and better at it. The bell has some intricate details carved in it that she is now painting to make them pop even more.
She looks up from the project before her to dip her paintbrush in the tankard and as she does, she looks out the window. Right then, a purple haired woman slips on an ice patch and falls on the cobblestones. Her face twists in pain and she immediately grabs her elbow. It looks like her funny hit the street at just the right—or wrong, really—angle. Laudna leaves her paintbrush and bell for what they are and runs out the door and onto the street, careful not to slip herself.
“Are you okay?” she asks, kneeling down besides the girl who just fell and extending a hand to help her up.
The girl declines the help and pushes herself up. “I think I’m okay, thank you. Just a little scratch.”
Laudna looks at her bare legs and sees a bleeding surface wound. “I’m Laudna,” she says. “That’s my studio right there. If you want, we’ll get you inside and I’ll take care of that.” She points at the wound.
“Imogen.” She looks down and notices the blood dripping down her leg. “Shit, yeah. I didn’t even notice with, you know…” She gestures all around her own body. “All the other pain.”
“Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up.”
Imogen is still a little shaky from the fall and the unfamiliar feeling of ice underneath her feet. When Laudna offers her a hand for the second time, Imogen doesn’t refuse. They cross the street and make it inside Laudna’s studio safely.
“I’m sorry to be a bother,” Imogen says as Laudna sits her down on the bed. “I didn’t expect an ice patch there. The rest of the town seemed fine.”
“It’s the drain pipe,” Laudna says as she grabs her leather pouch filled with bandages, ointments and potions from the shelf. “Believe me, you’re not the first person I’ve seen slip there.”
“Oh, is this a regular thing for you? Taking people in to tend to their wounds?” Imogen chuckles. It doesn’t last long; as soon as Laudna starts cleaning the wound with a clean rag and some kind of disinfectant fluid, she makes a face and sucks air in through her teeth.
“Sorry, it stings.” Laudna carefully dabs the wound and repeats the process a second time. “It looks like it stopped bleeding already. I wouldn’t bandage it, wounds exposed to the air heal faster.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” She takes Imogen’s gloved hands to inspect if she hurt herself when catching her fall. She immediately notices the purple lightning streaks on them, running up her arms.
Imogen pulls her hands back. “I don’t think so. Think I’ll just bruise.”
Laudna nods and packs up the pouch again. She puts it back on the shelf and rummages through her clothes until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here, I think this is your size.” She holds out a padded, dark blue dress. “You’re soaking wet, wouldn’t want you to get sick.”
Imogen gratefully takes it and turns away from Laudna as she steps out of her cold and wet clothes and swaps them for the warmer dress. “Thank you,” she repeats.
Laudna sits down on the chair by her desk and takes her paintbrush out of the water so it doesn’t lose its shape from leaning on the bristles too long. “To answer your question,” she starts, “I don’t take people in and tend to their wounds that often. I don’t see a lot of people walking around town on their own, I couldn’t just leave you like that.”
Imogen smiles awkwardly. As she notices Laudna put down the paintbrush, she finally seems to see the room she’s in. There’s Christmas decorations everywhere—a cacophony of garlands hanging from the ceiling, ornaments in neat lines on the floor against the wall, mistletoe, spiceberry and holly in a wooden crate next to the desk.
“Wow, you must really love Christmas,” she chuckles.
“I do,” Laudna smiles. “I made all of this myself.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, really! Here, look.” She holds out the half finished ornament she was working on when Imogen slipped. “This is the one I’m currently finishing up.”
Imogen gets up from the bed to take a closer look at it. “It’s beautiful,” she gasps, turning it over in her hands.
“Thank you,” Laudna smiles, a little uncomfortable.
“Do you sell them? People must love these!”
“Well… People aren’t particularly eager to buy stuff from someone like me. Business can be hard. I still do Christmas fairs though.” Imogen gets a certain sadness in her eyes, so Laudna quickly continues. “It’s fine! I really love making these, it’s really not about the money. I don’t even pay rent for this room, so I don’t need that much.”
“Still, this is art. It deserves to be seen and appreciated.” She hands the bell back to Laudna and looks at the other ornaments spread out in the room. There’s everything from stars and hearts to birds and tiny crochet sweaters on tiny wire hangers.
“Well, people don’t really want to buy probably-cursed holiday decorations from the creepy witch staying in the creepy haunted inn. You can’t blame them.” Despite the sadness in the message, Laudna doesn’t seem to be upset about it. Imogen thinks she might be used to it—who knows how many years she’s been living like this, with people purposely avoiding her because they’re scared. Imogen can’t decide if no longer feeling the hurt caused by that makes it better or worse.
After a little beat of consideration, she asks, “What if I help you?”
Laudna sits up straighter, as if to tell Imogen to go on without words.
“I could be there when you have your stand at the Christmas fair, help you seem more approachable?” She immediately catches herself. “Not that—You already are approachable. I could just… be there. As an assistant. Help you sell your stuff. I’m dying to get out of the house anyway.”
Laudna smiles. “I think I’d like that.”