Archive of Our Own

When the archivist first opened the shipment, unfolded the accessions paperwork, and saw Laudna’s journal listed there among the contents, he cleared the rest of his day. The discovery of a new item belonging to a member of Bell’s Hells is far from an everyday occurrence, and as the foremost scholar of Predathos, he has read, cataloged, annotated, and written papers on every relevant document that has made its way to the Rexxentrum archive. To uncover a new primary source more than eight decades after the events of the Ruidian Solstice is unexpected and thrilling.

Several monks have prepared the smallest reading room for him. Gentle magical lights glow in sconces against the wall, bright enough to read by but too dim to do any damage to even the oldest paper. There aren’t many shelves, just those for the most recently replicated documents, and only a few tables. On one of these, his supplies have been laid out: a basket of spell components, a notebook, an archival pen. Carefully, the archivist carefully lifts the journal out of its packing crate. 

Once the book—looking well-loved, but not overly fragile—is securely laid out, he takes four small silver coins from the basket, each polished to a mirror, and places them at its corners. He taps each in turn, and as they flare and disappear, he looks back over his shoulder to where a misty squarish shape has appeared on one of the shelves. 

Satisfied that the replication spell is underway, he returns to the basket for a nub of wax, which he drags across the table. It skips a little over the grooves in the wood, but the circle it forms around the book is unbroken. He studies it for a moment, then takes the wax and pulls it against each finger in turn, making the pads smooth and lightly sticky. Carefully, gingerly, he lays his hands on the cover of the book and speaks the words to waterproof it. The wax disappears.

The archivist sighs, pleased, and with a surreptitious glance around—as though any but the more senior curators would be bold enough to report him for this kind of (harmless, now!) infraction—removes a teacup and flask from his bag. He flicks a Prestidigitation over the flask with his thumb to heat it and pours himself a nice cup. Then he takes a deep breath and, heart speeding slightly, opens the book.

The first thing he notices are blurred words along the pages near the book’s spine, running with water and scarred with soot. An inch or so in from the margin, the damage tapers off, blending into clean, smooth parchment. He has seen this before: Mending can restore paper, but not the words that were once on it. Across that artificially clean page runs writing in a thin, spidery script. 

Dear previous owner of this book:
Hello! It’s so wonderful to be writing to you! You have a beautiful home. I do hope you have no intention to reclaim it as it would be quite nice to stay in one place for a while, but of course if you do I understand. I’ve spent quite a long time fixing everything up and you can hardly tell anymore how horrible it looked when I arrived. Oh, I hope that wasn’t rude. No one ever sets their own home on fire. I’m sure you took beautiful care of it! You don’t mind if I write to you, do you? I’d hoped that there might be words in this book as one really can use some entertainment from time to time but whatever had been here was all burned away and now I’ll use it to write my own. We can create such a story together, you and I.
I’ve picked you a flower from the riverbank! Do you miss this riverbank? It’s very beautiful. I haven’t stayed somewhere so beautiful in quite some time.
Very truly,
Laudna

Under this first entry, a fragile-looking blue flower is pressed between the pages. The archivist touches it, apprehensive that it will crumble, but of course the archival spell holds. 

He lets out his breath. He never met Laudna, but he’s read transcripts of the histories she and the other Hells gave the Cobalt Soul after it brought the remaining Grim Verity researchers under its umbrella. He recognizes her voice on the page, but there’s always something more about reading firsthand narrative—it feels so personal. Depending on the contents, it can be quite moving.

He turns the page.

Dear previous owner of this book:
Here today gone tomorrow I suppose! I did manage to bring several of your cups and saucers with me. They’re the metal ones and I’d cleared nearly all the soot and tarnish from them! Three mementos of this home—no! Four! I forgot to count the flower! It’s nice to have something to keep track of homes by, isn’t it?
Very truly,
Laudna

Dear previous owner of this book:
I found the most wonderful foodsource this afternoon—a bakery well on the outskirts of town that leaves its day-old bread in a basket outside the door, with a pay-what-you-will bucket. People can be so kind. I have left them several of the nicer stones that I took from the river and two copper that I found on the road.

Dear previous owner of this book:
Do you find it odd that we don’t know each other at all despite the fact that I’ve written these several letters to you? I’ll admit I’ve quickly become rather fond of it but if you’d prefer otherwise I can stop. I’ve been thinking of creating a small friend for company but I haven’t found quite the right materials yet. It’s important that he be very special since he will be the only person that I have. An odd little trio we will be, him and D and me. 

There are a few rough sketches below this. They seem to be of various types of skulls. One is recognizably a bird, another some sort of… lizard, maybe? In his notebook, he jots a reminder to ask his husband that evening; nature never has been his strong suit. Its teeth are probably too large to be a lizard, actually. A rodent? In each drawing, several lines extend out from the base of the skull, as though Laudna was trying to assess the best points to anchor it to something else.

In the corner of the page is written what seems to be a to-do list of sorts:

Thread?
Can make and dye—find pastures for gathering stuck wool?
Beetroot?
Locate garden. Carrots?

Tacked on in handwriting that looks excited and hasty: Tinker passes by midweek—source for supplies?

He flips a few more pages.

Dear Pâté:
It’s so wonderful to meet you! I think we are going to love each other. You are already very dashing and I can tell you have quite the sense of humor. I’m not entirely positive you can read so we will have to work on that together if you’re going to be much of a correspondent—although when you aren’t asleep I would truly just as soon talk. It’s such a joy to look forward to someone waking up.
I do hope you aren’t the type to be upset with me about the way I came by some of the supplies I used to make you. I’m confident the tinker will recover from the shock although I suspect we are going to have to find a new home quite soon. That’s all right. I’ve gathered us a flower from this place just in case and the new one will be our first home together!
Very truly,
Laudna

Another pressed flower clings to the thick paper, this one a faded white. The archivist turns a couple more pages, past entries of Laudna relocating from town to town not once but twice in the space of what seems like just a few weeks. He shakes his head as he takes his notes. Knowing what he does about Laudna and her abilities, he can imagine it would’ve been quite easy for her to spook a traveling salesman into abandoning their load—although he’s starting to get the impression that she didn’t need to try in order to inspire that kind of terror. The thought makes him unexpectedly sad.

Dear Pâté:
It’s been a very long time now since D has said anything to me. I’m starting to wonder if she’s gone entirely. That would make it just the two of us, but it’s much less lonely now that you’re here also! Where do you think she goes when she’s not here, do you ever wonder? I’ve asked her so many times and she never wants to tell me anything. I personally think it’s quite unfair of her but then again I suppose it would be foolish to be surprised by that. Anyway, it’s rather fun to imagine being able to check out of one’s own head and go to another location, isn’t it? Where would you go? I like to imagine the seaside. I’ve only ever seen the ocean from quite a distance up in a skyship, but it was magnificent. Perhaps we can go someday.
Very truly,
Laudna

Dear Pâté:
Do you like tic-tac-toe? I can teach you how to play!

Underneath this are several games of tic-tac-toe all in Laudna’s spidery hand. 

Dear Pâté:
I have the most wonderful news. I’ve found a cornfield not too far away that seems to have left some of the crop for gleaners!

The entries continue on in this vein for another page or two before something catches the archivist’s eye.

Dear Matilda:

He leans forward. A new name.

Dear Matilda:
I thought I would try writing you for a change. It feels rather odd, but appropriate, because last night I dreamt of you. Do you remember the way that it used to rain in Whitestone? I dreamt of the way the mud felt between my toes and the way my your the way Mum would smile when she scolded me for tracking it into the house. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt of that mud and not the mud beneath the Sun Tree and the way it stained my clothes when

The next portion is heavily scratched out.

In any event, it made me smile, and I thought. Well. Do you believe that our dreams can hold meaning? I believe it means that something good is coming.

The archivist spends a few minutes peering closely at the scratched-out text. He’s heard rumors about the nature of Laudna’s origins in Whitestone, but no one has ever confirmed anything; how useful it would be to find answers here, how good for his research. However, the ink is thick and the pen has almost gouged into the page, and he strains to make anything out. After a moment and with only a slight hesitation, he extends a hand and calls his dancing lights into the dimly lit chamber. They glow gentle and bright, a warm amber. The documents will be fine; they’re all protected and most are replicas anyway, the originals filed away. Even with the extra light, though, he can’t make out many words, just the outlines of a handful of letters. 

Ah well. Onwards, then. There’s plenty of material to go through. He flicks his fingers to dismiss two of the lights and banishes the others to the far corners of the room where their glow is tempered, then turns the page. There are a few sketches here—a riverbank, a patch of flowers (another is pressed between the pages), a tree—and some little notes and lists:

Repair curtains
Search for sprung traps
Explore tea-party idea
Clothing for Pâté?

The letters continue as well, mostly addressed to Pâté. The archivist skims them until one catches his eye.

Dear Matilda:
I dreamt about the girl last night. 

Hm. He flips back a page, looking for the first reference, and finds it:

Dear Matilda:
The oddest thing happened last night. I almost don’t want to jinx it. Would you believe that I met a girl? I was in the field gleaning, having found that after midnight is the surest time to find solitude there, and someone came riding by. I froze, of course, and did my best to blend into the shadows, which I do tend to be quite skilled at, but she knew I was there all the same—and you’ll never guess how, this is quite remarkable—oh, I should wait until the right point in the story but I have to tell you now: she heard me by my thoughts! I did try to keep my distance so as not to startle her with my appearance but it was so hard to walk away from someone reaching out to start a conversation—and then she approached and I didn’t run and would you believe that she created some lights, purple crackling things that were beautiful and erratic in the air, and when she saw me she smiled?

Purple lights—is this…? The archivist makes a note and turns the page, and yes:

Her name is Imogen.

Eagerly, he returns to the dream entry.

Dear Matilda:
I dreamt about the girl last night. It’s been only two days since I met her and since I extended her an invitation to visit me at my home but I have so many things to do in case she does come. I don’t know if I have enough plates, will we need plates, do you know if I have enough plates? In my dream we were speaking, and she touched my hand. I have so many things to do. I do hope she comes to visit. I need to repair the curtains and Pâté doesn’t have a thing to wear.
Matilda, do you know I can’t remember the last time I saw someone’s eyes like that? That’s such a funny thing. Promise me, darling, that you won’t take those kind of things for granted. I think I may go back to the field and pick a flower from the adjacent meadow, just to remember that look in case all of this stays in the realm of dreams. A look can be quite sustaining. More even than meat. More even than breath. I think I will remember this one for my entire life dea life life.

Pressed underneath this is a pink blossom that looks rather like a peony. 

The rest of the page is, oddly, blank. In a book that has been used so judiciously, each page filled with writing and sketches in a careful ravenous way that speaks of rationing, it stands out. He turns the page.

In a new handwriting, restrained and careful, the pen bearing a little too hard into the paper:

Dear Laudna,
I’m sorry to borrow your book like this. I feel bad, like I’m invading your privacy. I didn’t read anything, just so you know.
I wanted to say thank you for the tea and the conversation. It was really nice. You’ve been very welcoming. I loved meeting Pâté and it was so nice to see your home. I really do think I can find you an extra plate. We don’t have company much anymore so there are lots just gathering dust. I’ll bring it to you soon as I can, if you don’t mind having the company again.
Imogen

The archivist makes another dutiful note and eagerly turns the page. He knows, more or less, what must happen next, but the details will be new. There are a few more entries in Laudna’s hand before Imogen’s next appearance—mostly excited-sounding to-do lists (Tidy shelves; sweep entry; bathe Pâté; brush hair) and small sketches. These have been largely Xed out, but he can see that they’re mostly of a young woman with long hair. In one she has a horse.

Dear Laudna, 
I know you said you would be back soon, and I would rather say goodbye in person, but I just realized how late it’s getting. I need to get back into town and over to Master Faramore’s. I hope you didn’t get lost or anything. I just wanted to say thank you again for having me and that it’s really been a pleasure. I love spending time with you, you know that? It’s just th   I’ve really been  It’s nice to have a friend. I’ll see you next week. Promise.

The archivist’s tea has gone cold. He traces a thumb around the bottom of the cup in another absent-minded Prestidigitation, around and around as he reads the next pages—a few more notes from Imogen scattered amongst Laudna’s letters—until he suddenly realizes it has become too uncomfortably hot to hold. 

Dear Matilda Pâté journal:
Last night I dreamt of yesterday. I suppose that’s to be expected; I often dream of what has happened each new time I’m chased out of a town. It’s almost comforting as far as routines go! Something to lay it all to rest, a way for the mind to sort through what’s important and let the pieces settle out in such a way that you can tidy them and write them down and look at them for later. I don’t need to tell you this, of course, journal! You hold all my dreams! But what I do need to tell you is what made this one different. When this time I dreamt I had been rescued, I awoke and it continued to be real. I am not alone here. There is someone else in this forest with me, and she is asleep right over there. Even when she wakes and returns to town I want to make sure that it’s recorded here so that I can look back upon it later and know that it really truly happened. Imogen put herself between the pitchforks and myself and she is still here.
I can’t believe she’s still here.

There are several more pressed flowers here. They’re labeled in Laudna’s same spidery hand; one is identified as being from the woods near Gelvaan, the others from neighboring villages, slowly fanning out across the Taloned Highlands. 

The entries continue:

Laudna—
I’ve run out to market to find us some eggs! Please don’t worry when you wake. Back soon.
—Imogen

Dear journal:
Last night I dreamt that Imogen and I went fishing off a skyship. Can you imagine!

Dear journal:
Last night I dreamt that Imogen and I were talking and she became cross with me. In reality she’s quite patient, but every now and then she goes quiet in response to some question or other and it does make me worry the smallest bit. Of course she deserves to spend each day comfortable and happy and free from my blunders. But then I also selfishly hope that she will stay with me. Is that terrible? Most often she answers and last time she reached out and touched my hand too. I don’t remember the last time someone touched my hand in that way  It was quite nice and without any slight intended to Pâté I do wish to keep the company for a bit longer. 

Laudna:
I didn’t mean to read this, I’m sorry, but I got out the book to write you a note about the milk being spoiled so that you knew why I threw it out and I saw this anyway and I just wanted to say that you’re my best friend. Is that weird? It’s just that
You know I scratched that out and then realized that of course you can read it anyway. It feels real dumb writing this when I could just talk to you but I thought you might like to see it written down. Anyway, thanks for being here. I like going places with you. I want to keep doing it.

The archivist can’t help but smile at that. The beginnings of the friendship between these two women. He continues reading, turning the pages of Imogen and Laudna’s travels. Scrawled notes and letters and lists weave across the parchment.

Dear Matilda:
I haven’t written to you in quite a while. I hope you don’t mind, things have just been so busy.

Dear journal: 
Last night I dreamt that Pâté grew to the size of an elk and Imogen and I rode him through the streets of Whitestone. We did see the tree, but Imogen took my hand.

Imogen, the bread is for you, please help yourself! I made it while you were out, I hope you enjoy it!

Dear journal:
You know, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I don’t need to write to you quite as often. You won’t be hurt, will you? It’s just that of course you and Matilda never write back and I’m still not entirely certain Pâté can read, and I find myself with less to write you about these days now that I have three people to talk to. D is not usually listening, but Pâté is always around and now there is Imogen. 
Journal, I think that she has nightmares. Will you be terribly upset if I record her dreams as well? If she is willing to tell me? I don’t know if she will be willing to tell me. But I’ve found it so therapeutic writing to you about my own.

A prickle on the back of the archivist’s neck. He sits back, sobered. This interlude of companionship has been so sweet that he nearly forgot what would be coming. He pulls his notebook closer.

In Laudna’s hand:

Imogen, 17th Dualahei, 842PD
DREAM: The dream is of a swirling red storm in Gelvaan. It’s a frequent dream, not always the same distance away, sometimes close, sometimes far. Tonight it was on the horizon but coming fast. Visible lightning but no audible thunder. When it got close enough for the wind to pick up the dream ended. 
NOTES: Imogen’s sleep was restless before she awoke, but she knew where she was right away. A hand to her forehead seemed to soothe her. Water also helpful.

There is also a small sketch of a house under swirling clouds. An addendum is crammed into the margin alongside this entry in Imogen’s steady print, dated a few months ahead:

Laud—
Couldn’t sleep and thought I’d go back through old entries looking for patterns. Let’s keep an eye on the distance of the storm? Do you think that’s anything? 

The archivist turns a few pages, scanning over lists of supplies and notes about travel routes and a few pressed flowers and one very detailed essay about the proper storage orientation for cups until he gets to the next dream.

Imogen, 18th Brussendar, 842 PD
DREAM: As always, in Gelvaan. The storm was close to directly overhead, but oddly muted. The main thing was the feeling of dread that came when Imogen looked up into the clouds. A voice calling in the distance. Couldn’t make out the words, but it’s never been anything other than instructions to run. The voice is her mother.
NOTES: Rapid breathing immediately prior to waking. Some kicking in the bed, which is what woke me. Took a period of minutes to settle back down after waking. Water once again helpful.
 

In the margin, a note from Imogen: Started hearing her maybe 3yrs in? Not in every dream. Maybe one in three. The archivist traces a finger over the word “mother” in Laudna’s entry and heaviness descends further over him. He reads over the entry again and spots something else: a small smiley face beside the words “Water helpful.” It’s a small, sweet thing, but it lifts the corners of his mood, and he smiles too.

Imogen, 27th Quen’pillar, 842PD
DREAM: Storm directly overhead, but Imogen was inside the house for the whole dream, watching the red clouds through the windows.
NOTES: She slept through until morning. Near-perfect recall of the dream nevertheless. Possible reasons for sleeping through vs. waking up—degree of fear? Degree of danger within the setting of the dream? Voluntary? Historically she is unable to choose to wake, but we can run trials for different methods. Pros: Offers Imogen an avenue of escape. Cons: Do these dreams carry elements of foresight or truth? Will something be missed?
Ideas: 
Pinch self
Close eyes
Injury?
Call for me in dream—if this manifests as sleep-talking, can try to wake her?

The archivist continues on, taking notes on each dream. Between those entries, the warmth of companionship continues. It’s easy to get caught up in, and he forgets for pages at a time that Imogen is the woman who will face Predathos. He comes across a few sketches as he reads, mostly of a young woman he assumes must be her. He spends several minutes looking at these. This is far from the type of observation he’s meant to be recording, but there’s such close attention paid to the lines of the face, the eyes and mouth. Laudna clearly spent a lot of time noticing these details.

Dear journal:
I dreamt last night that Imogen and I were picking berries together and our shoes got tangled in the underbrush and we fell together laughing. 

Dear journal: 
I dreamt that Imogen had become one of the most powerful sorcerers in Marquet. She laughed when I told her this but I don’t think it’s so far-fetched! Since Gelvaan we’ve been practicing together, and that same beautiful crackling purple electricity that she was using to light the darkness that first night we met can manifest quite a powerful witch bolt. She is far too humble about it, but she is incredibly capable.

Dear journal:
I dreamt that I was snuggling with Imogen and when I woke I found that I was. I don’t know if it was reality bleeding into the dream or the other way around but either way I hope that it happens again. I wonder whether it could potentially bleed into the storm dreams in a way that is supportive?

Imogen, 6 Misuthar 843PD
DREAM: Storm larger than ever; Imogen’s mother’s voice louder than ever. Imogen says it makes her feel something like comfort and fear all at once. Rode Flora away but was outpaced by storm.
NOTES: Snuggling had no effect on the dream but did seem to be an immediate comfort when Imogen woke.

Well, that’s very sweet. Intimate for friends. The archivist makes a note of it and turns the page.

Laud—
Got you something. I hope you like it.
—Imogen

Below this is a drawing—considerably less skillful than usual, and heavily inscribed against the paper in a way that matches Imogen’s pressured handwriting—is a drawing of who the archivist assumes must be Laudna. Her hair is tied up with a small rock hammer. 

Laudna’s writing continues below.

Dear journal:
I dreamt last night that Imogen and I went to a city. We were wandering around cobbled streets and winding our way towards a library. When I woke, I realized that this could be the solution to finding out about the storm! I did debate whether to share the dream and the idea with Imogen, as I can easily imagine that such a place would be prohibitively hard with so many minds and voices. But she looked thoughtful instead of sad, and said that she’d never been to a city before but it could be worth a try. I can’t help but hope that we might find information about her mother in some book somewhere. Imogen is quite certain that she’s dead, but I have been wondering whether perhaps her continued presence in the dreams means that there’s more to the story after all?

Only a few short pages later—after notes on caravan routes and muddled-looking maps scratched beside pretty drawings of riverbanks and tree-lined roads—is an illustration that stops the archivist short. The spires of Jrusar climb proudly up the page, lofty and historic. 

This is where it began, the archivist thinks eagerly, the excitement of the moment winning out over the heaviness of the story to come. Then he pauses. Is it, really? Who is to say where it began? The group known as Bell’s Hells began in Jrusar. But without Imogen Temult, the Hells would never have encountered the lore of Predathos, let alone prevented its return. And without Laudna, would Imogen ever have made it to Jrusar at all? Did it begin, really, in a sleepy town called Gelvaan in the Taloned Highlands, in the middle of a picked-over cornfield at night?

He looks back down at the page. There, Imogen has printed a name and address in a block of all capital letters, apparently for easy reference:

ZHUDANNA’S HOME
3 DRENSAL LN.
THE WINDOWED WALL
CORE SPIRE (bottom part)

Under this is pressed a tiny blue flower.

Dear journal:
I dreamt last night about the shade creepers Imogen and I fought! Terrible little creatures they were but how magnificent to see Imogen in action. She continues to demur when I tell her, but she is phenomenally capable. It is stunning to watch her take the psychic energy that torments her and twist it to her own defense, to pull a witch bolt from the static in the air. It felt good too to loosen my jaw and release the Dread that has been gathering for some time now, the whole duration of our caravan trip and longer. In my dream, just as the other night, when we had destroyed the last of those little pests, she took my hand and brushed the waving veil gently from my face. Actually, I had a thought—
Dear Matilda:
Do you know that even with all the things we had in Whitestone that I would lose and that would remain yours forever, I was fated to find something all my own?

The archivist sets his teacup back down into its saucer, the ceramic clinking. The friendship between these two women… Perhaps he’s mistaken, but he’s increasingly uncertain of whether friendship was the right word at all.

He turns back to the book.

For Zhudanna
Eggs 
Milk
Leafy greens - 2 bunches
Kurrak fruit (2-3)
Flour (baking)

University archives to try:
Ascension's Rise University 
Starpoint Conservatory
   –POINT OF CONTACT: Geska Eskay Escritorae Cun Kunfi Kunthea 
   –Return in two weeks

Imogen, 9 Brussendar 843PD
DREAM: Imogen dreamt that she and I (!) were in the field where we first met. The sky was blue, then rapidly began to swirl red, and suddenly the storm was upon us. I was gone and Imogen couldn’t find me. (It was only a dream-me; much as I wish I could support Imogen during these dreams, I was not present, and so unharmed.)
NOTES: Imogen woke panicked. Held her and repeated words that seemed to help: I’m here, darling. I’m here.

Dear journal:
An entry with not a dream to be found (unusual these days, I know, please forgive me for my poor correspondence!), but we did have the oddest, most dreamlike day. Would you believe that we engaged in battle with animated, living furniture? And yet let me assure you this next part is even more astonishing—we had a meal and a drink with our fellow brigadiers after the tussle had ended! At a tavern, together, as a group!
 

Could this be—?

We have made plans to meet up again tomorrow but it felt like a moment worth commemorating just in case it does slip away. I have asked Imogen to help me jot down some of the most interesting details about each.
Orim, a halfling, 

It is. The archivist sits up very straight, his heart leaping at the name he recognizes. Bell’s Hells, at last!

Orim, a halfling, is a slight and quiet man whose aptitude with a sword is astonishing. Imogen is telling me to write down that his mind felt calm. A rare and positive attribute, I should note. His friend Dorian is the opposite, a nervous fellow, who travels with a number of musical instruments and is quite carefully pressed and very handsome. I’m not certain I’ve ever met an air genasi previously but I believe he is one. Imogen has the impression that perhaps he’s hiding something but then who isn’t! The two of them travel with a very tall and deerlike woman named Fern whose origin I can only imagine must be fey. Is it rude to ask that sort of thing? Imogen has added that she’s very charming and is now blushing and asking me to cross this out although she is right so I’m not certain why! Imogen adds that she feels unpredictable and perhaps worth keeping an eye on. Not that she seems malicious, Imogen is specifying, but just that it is worth watching our purse strings for a bit. Wise as always!
The group contains a second genasi as well, a rock fellow named Ashton, who carries himself in a breezy punk fashion and seems protective of their traveling companion, a sweet and curious automaton who calls himself Fresh Cut Grass (perhaps also “Letters”?). Lastly, a man named Bertrand Bell. Imogen is scoffing, but he seems kind enough if perhaps a bit pompous. Imogen would like noted that even when there’s no bite, bluster is a whole lot worse than bark if you’re relying on it for much of anything at all. I think he seems like a generous man.
After such a richly social evening, dear Imogen is of course feeling rather overwhelmed, so we’ve retreated to Zhudanna’s for some quiet. 
I can’t wait for tomorrow!

Grinning at these first impressions, he reaches for his notepad.

Dear journal:
I can hardly believe it, but the group remains together and not only that but we have found ourselves a patron! With a mystery to investigate! Truly thrilling. Today we

From there the journal launches into a lengthy explanation of an investigation taking place at a warehouse. The archivist writes it all down, pleased. So many new details on the early days of Bell’s Hells, the way the group came together—and hopefully, further on, the way they moved towards the discoveries that would lead to their greatest triumph. This will make for a fantastic paper. He combs through the next pages of the book carefully, noting details and transcribing full sentences into his pad, pausing occasionally to adjust his glasses. He’s so absorbed that the next entry hits him like a Pulse Wave.

Imogen, 22nd Brussendar 843PD
DREAM: Began not far from Imogen’s home. She was watching horses in the pasture and the storm appeared on the horizon. It moved faster than ever before or perhaps time sped up—regardless  it was suddenly there. Her mother’s voice repeated “Run, Imogen, run.” As she ran, she looked back and saw a man walking into the storm. Bertrand Bell?
NOTES: Never previously seen someone walking into the storm this way. The man felt calm and at peace. Imogen can’t comprehend how someone could be at peace surrounded by that terror. Significance to the presence of a new figure? Could it represent something?

A small break, then on the next line:

Bertrand is dead.

The page falls from between his fingers. So there it is: the moment when Imogen would have first discovered that there was more to her dreams than a simple nightmare. When she would have irrevocably known—when she and Laudna would both have known—that the danger in their futures was real. That Imogen’s terror of the storm was founded. 

This is, of course, what he had hoped the book would contain. And yet in Laudna’s words, it feels so personal, so proximate. Yes, Imogen’s story was a heavy one. He knows this well. He has felt emotional while reading primary source documents before. But his depth of feeling each time he encounters a new detail in this particular journal is surprising, even to him. He flips ahead several pages, apprehensive of what’s coming and hurrying to face it. 

Imogen, 27th Brussendar, 843PD
DREAM: TWINS. The storm began to sunder the earth and fields. Dust storm. The house was locked, so no protection from the flying sand. Once again, as with Bertrand, Imogen saw two shapes, this time two young people holding hands. Heard her mother begging her to run and she did. The ground broke around her. More violent than previous dreams? The storm increased in fury and volume until she woke. She was terrified. Got her water, of course.
NOTES: Were these the Lumas twins? They died some time ago, but seem the likeliest match. What connects Bertrand and the twins? Bertrand and the storm? 
A thought: red storm, red moon. I’ve checked outside. Ruidus is midway in the sky, a few months from its zenith. Catha is below the horizon. Meaningful? Follow up on this?
Attack on twins = similar to attack on Zefra Zephrah—ask Orym about moons at time of attack?
Find Imogen’s mother = answers??

Below this dream entry, printed in Imogen’s writing, a bit shaky:

Reading over this and not sure I have much to add. Just, Laudna, I really don’t know what I’d do without you.
Thank you.

Damn the way he misses things when he skims. The twins, when had they come in? He returns to the previous pages, sliding his eye along each line searching for words like Lumas, Ruidus, Verity, Exaltant, Hellcatch. None occur, but there are a number of noteworthy details to jot down. He adds a list of first references to his notebook: Chetney Pock O’Pea, Nightmare King, Ira. That one is significant, a name he recognizes from his research; he leaves space in his notes to return to the topic and continues on. Fearne’s grandmother Morrigan, that’s more space to leave. A werewolf named Gurge. An ogre named Pretty—a date with an ogre named Pretty. This last entry doesn’t seem particularly relevant, but he reads it closely anyway. If he happens to be searching for details about the relationship between these two powerful witches, that’s significant, is it not? Part of the historical record as much as Imogen’s dreams?

Dear journal:
My first date—our first date—Imogen’s and mine and Fearne’s! With an [inserted via carat: dashingly handsome] ogre by the name of Pretty who works at the Soot and Swill. A dream come true, no? Of course, it wasn’t to be—he told us we are different kinds of people. Imogen assures me he meant it, that we did everything right. How grateful I am that she was there as well. She is wonderful. I really am lucky. 

Well. That certainly raises more questions than answers. The only thing for it is to keep reading.

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH: STARPOINT CONSERVATORY
-  Dream of red storm is shared by many
-  Has been studied by a professor!!!! Name: Kadija Sumal of the Aydinlan Seminary in Yios. Dream frequency seems to increase on 30-year cycle linked to solstices—possibly linked to fiendish influence (seems unlikely to me) or perhaps Ruidus
-  IMOGEN’S MOTHER WAS A PARTICIPANT IN THE RESEARCH (!!!!!)
-  Frustratingly the remaining pages are missing, possibly in the possession of the Lumas twins (late). 

A true victory and a triumph. And yet I worry for Imogen, who seems so apprehensive. There is so much on the precipice, and no way to know where any of it will land. All answers are answers. But I so hope that what we find will bring her relief. 

The hours begin to tick past. The archivist pores over notes on Emoth Kade and Armand Treshi, a ball (a sketch of Imogen in a ballgown) and a first mention of the Paragon’s Call, a farewell to the genasi Dorian Storm.

He adds these details to his notes as he goes, occasionally pausing to realize he’s read three, four, five entries at a time without remembering to write anything down. As engaging as the historical record is itself, it’s challenging not to get drawn into the interpersonal dramas of this group, recounted in bits and pieces in Laudna’s cheerful, chatty writings and the occasional careful addition from Imogen, who seems to have made a habit of going back through the journal when she can’t sleep. 

The archivist wonders what their voices sounded like, the two of them. He wonders when they realized what Imogen would be facing, how Laudna responded. The thought quietly breaks his heart. To watch someone you love go through that…

He keeps reading.

Imogen, 31st Brussendar 843PD
DREAM: The same storm as always, and her mother telling her to run. However! Imogen fell asleep holding onto the purple rock and it was present in the dream as well, where it provided comfort. For the first time, she felt a desire to walk into the storm rather than to flee.
NOTES: This is hopeful! A sign that Imogen is strong enough to face the storm? Of course she has always been capable. Regardless, her mother was still calling out her warning, so Imogen is doubtful that this is the case. 
A useful data point: holding onto the rock as she fell asleep brought it into the dream. Perhaps she can bring people in too? Holding hands = a way to keep her from having to face the storm alone?

Walking into the storm. He makes a note on his pad, and below it, the impulse is strong to write, as if reaching back through time: no, please, no. The foreshadowing of history is clumsy and cruel. As for the purple rock… He isn’t familiar with it, but the Verity’s contribution to the Cobalt Soul archive included an enormous tract of texts on dream-sharing. He jots down the reference numbers of several books he’d like an assistant to pull for him. 

He turns the pages cautiously, expecting the next mention of the storm, the rock. But of course it isn’t that simple. Instead, he reads about the group meeting with Jiana Hexum (there’s a name the archivist wasn’t expecting to see; fascinating the way certain people manage to write themselves out of the narrative). They travel on an errand for her, and in the Heartmoor Hamlet, Laudna has made a sketch of a small house:

Imogen asked me to draw something to remember this place by. I’ve gathered features of some of our favorite little homes that we passed. She says that perhaps we’ll return here one day. She looked so at ease that I couldn’t help but smile and hope so too.

In the drawing, a crooked chimney is stacked above a squat, roundish building. A flourish of flowers blooms in front, spilling from window boxes out into a garden. A lattice runs up one side of the house and vines wind up it. He smiles: Laudna has drawn the door open.

Distracted by this, the next entry catches him by surprise.

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH: RUIDUS
-  Conversation with Roe Estanti
-  The twins were studying Ruidus alongside Estani as well as: Planerider Rin, Ebenold Kai. Twins were struck down by shadow assassins that melt away when killed—similar to Orym’s?
-  Ruidus flares—those born under this light are Ruidusborn—many great and powerful people born under this ruddy light!! (Imogen = very capable!!!)
-  Signs include “strange marks” on the body and nightmares/premonitions!!!
-  OMEN ARCHIVE IN YIOS = Professor Kadija Sumal, author of the aforementioned study, worked here.   
-  Grim Verity = organization studying Ruidus. Led by Ebenold Kai—also in Yios!

The last bullet point has been underlined three times.

-  RUIDUS COVERED IN RED STORMS!!!

The archivist sets his tea down with shaking hands and, carefully, he copies down each word into his notes. 

Imogen, 4th Sydnestar 843PD
DREAM : Instead of running, Imogen walked into the storm. Heard her mother while outside it. Once inside, saw people. An outline of a woman with shadows of others behind her. Felt malevolent. She tried to hear their thoughts but felt nothing and then awoke.
NOTES : It was very brave of Imogen to walk into the storm. Are these shadows the ones that killed the twins? Are the shadows Ruidusborn? 
The markings on Imogen’s hands have grown. Fearne has given us red bracelets so that Imogen has something to look at to ground her. She seems so afraid. How can I help keep her from this fear and pain?

Apprehensively, he turns the page. An entry at the top about a departure for Bassuras, and then:

Dear Imogen:
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry

Dread lances through the archivist’s chest. Is this—it’s far too early for—

He reads quickly onwards, and the feeling shifts from panic to bewilderment.

List of ideas
Prostrate self on spiky rock
New rock???
Horse????
Sculpt horse out of rock
Repair old rock??
Repair old rock with blood
Sacrifice self → Delilah’s magic in soul = soul goes into old rock = repairs rock??
Find Delilah new magic = gives back rock??
Prostrate self on very very spiky rock on the ground in front of her so that she can step on me → forgiveness via pain as I deserve
Give some other chance to take retribution??
Give her my hair?????

Dear Matilda:
Did we know that Delilah could Has she always been able 
Matilda, I couldn’t open my hand.

Dear Imogen:
I promise I’ll make it up to you. Please, I promise I’ll make it up to you.

The rest of the page is covered with line drawings of what the archivist has to assume are broken rocks, and some slightly watery little ink splatters.

He doesn’t… really understand what it is that happened here, but the severity of Laudna’s distress alarms him. He reaches for his notepad again and begins to write a line or two when the connection to Imogen’s dream occurs to him. The rock. The sinister, comforting purple rock.

He turns the page. Even more confusingly, what’s there is not a journal entry at all but instead an intensely embellished drawing of the rat-bird he now recognizes as Pâté and some kind of harlequin doll together in a carved wooden dollhouse.

All right.

He turns the page.

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH: 
-  Imogen looks very beautiful even without hair 
-  I bought her a potholder at Taste of Tal’dorei but it should have been the t-shirt and it’s no wonder that she still won’t speak to me when I keep making these kinds of mistakes
-  She is so brilliant and capable that she was able to Send to Fearne’s parents after Dusk showed her a picture of them
-  (We met someone named Dusk who is nice)
-  Ashton and FCG had no useful apology ideas but I must keep trying

The entire next page is taken up by a blobby drawing—certainly not Laudna’s, and based on the light, wobbly lines, so different from Imogen’s stressed, heavy ones, the archivist doesn’t think hers either—of a woman’s face. The features are sharp and the short hair falls to one side. It could be almost anyone, and yet something about it faintly stirs his memory.

Below the drawing, Laudna has written: 

Imogen had a dream and she gave this journal to FCG to draw the person from the dream (above) but she told me she had a dream(!!!!) which is very good I think! That she told me! Not the dream! I would have done a much better job with the drawing but I don’t mind. We can fix it later. Dream details to come!!

An arrow is drawn from this last sentence around the following line—a simple Can we talk? in Imogen’s handwriting—and on to the next entry. 

Imogen, 4th Sydnestar 843PD
DREAM: At the start of the dream, Imogen was already in the storm. Looked around and saw a woman wearing armor, with grey hair, who looked at Imogen and said “this is interesting.” She was surrounded by dozens of other people, all masked. Lunged at Imogen and Imogen awoke. Outside, Ruidus was flaring and Imogen felt drawn to the flare.
NOTES: If the dream is on Ruidus, are there people on Ruidus? If I hold Imogen’s hand can I go there with her? She wants me to hold her hand to try to go there with her. Can we actually go to the moon?? There can’t be people on the moon. Are there people on the moon? She wants me to hold her hand. I think she’s forgiven me! I think she’s forgiven me.

Below this are seven or eight drawings of rings. Two snakes twining around a ruby. 

Imogen gave this to me!!!

And at the bottom of the page, almost an afterthought: I think Dusk asked me out?

The archivist blinks. Was she not— had Imogen not— the ring—? Hoping for context, he turns the page.

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH:

Below this are many bullet points scratched out.  The archivist squints at the first few, sees the word Unseelie, the words betrayed, boons, kissed my hand??, Imogen. Giving up, he looks further down the page to where Laudna’s spidery cursive returns to legibility.

Apologies for the mess, dear journal! We’ve learned so much today that my notes became a jumble. I’ve tried to better organize the information, below. 
-  Dusk = Yu = Unseelie assassin = here to get Moontide crown back so that Fearne’s parents (in league with the Nightmare King) can’t prevent Ruidus from (the Calloways believe) destroying the Feywild during the solstice
-  Yu is coming back in a month to get the crown and possibly kidnap Fearne’s parents back to the Unseelie court (which is what Fearne’s grandmother who isn’t actually her grandmother has been protecting Fearne from)

He grasps for his pen and scrawls a few words without looking down, reading on, eyes going wide.

-  The woman from Imogen’s dreams is named Otohan Thull and she is in league with the Unseelie
-  Grim Verity member Hondir knew Imogen’s mother!!!! She had Imogen’s same gifts and was in Yios participating in a Grim Verity study only twelve years ago! I must discuss with Imogen.
-  City on Ruidus???

Laudna has continued writing below this, under the same date:

Dear journal:
Pâté and Sashimi have added a third party to their relationship! Her name is Caviar and Chetney has given her to Fearne because she needed someone to talk to about her parents. I have set the three of them—Pâté, Sashimi, and Caviar, that is—up in their little house in order to give them some private time. I must resist the urge to check on them and instead wait until morning to see how they’ve all gotten on. Trust is important in relationships and I have shown cause for so little of that recently. Journal, do you think that untrustworthiness attracts untrustworthiness? Is that why Dusk chose me to feign interest in? I wish I could believe that they meant it in earnest. It was a nice thing to believe for a little while, even if I wasn’t sure that I wanted  if I liked  How do you know if you are intereste  
What does it say about me that I’m the one she chose to target? Am I that empty a slate?

Scribbled below this in hasty handwriting:

ADDENDUM:
SASHIMI HAS GIVEN BIRTH TO A ROCK.

The archivist genuinely doesn’t even know anymore. 

He turns the page, and the handwriting at the top takes him aback. Laudna’s normally consistent, if spidery, cursive has devolved into an urgent scrawl, panic between the lines as they slant across the parchment.

Dear Delilah:
I know you’re in there listening. You’re in there hearing every single thing I say and every single thing I think. If I ever had illusions of privacy I gave them up long ago because unlike Pâté in his dollhouse there is no door I can ever close to keep you out, is there? But today, today I don’t want to keep you out because today you spoke to me and now you are ignoring me and I have questions and I want you to answer them so here they are on paper for you to think about wherever the fuck you are in my head.
I was alive once. Fresh Cut Grass told me today that I was never alive but I was alive once. Imogen told me so and despite what you would want me to think I trust her and always will trust her so don’t you dare even try. I was alive and you stole that from me when you murde murde murdered me and you’ve made me into your puppet and I want to know why. Was I convenient, Delilah, was I a blank slate, was I easy? You told me my friends are going to betray me but it is you who wants to betray me. You want me to betray them and I won’t let you and if you ever hurt Imogen I will find you and hur and and I will 
Please just tell me what it is that you want from me because I don’t know how to give you what you want and keep them all safe from me you whatever darkness is inside whatever it is that I am.

The name Delilah again. This must be the D from earlier. On this too he has heard rumors, ones he has assumed sprang from the fact of Laudna’s origins in Whitestone. There are no interviews or writings in which she references them directly—very few that touch on any personal matters at all—but this… He adds some books on the Cerberus Assembly and on Whitestone to the list of references to have his assistants pull. The world contains stranger things, and if this was indeed Delilah Briarwood, he empathizes with Laudna’s fear. Although, if he’s being honest, he feels for Laudna regardless. The poor woman. Whatever had happened, she didn’t deserve it. 

And, he realizes with a sickening lurch, he knows what happened to Laudna in Bassuras. He’d been so absorbed that he’d stopped paying attention to the timeline, but of course it’s on the horizon. How clear will it be from the entries? A gap in the record, at minimum, certainly. For now, though, Laudna continues on: on the facing page is a sketch of an automaton the archivist recognizes as Fresh Cut Grass. He’d met them, once, briefly. They were kind. In this drawing, a panel is open in FCG’s chest and among the metal plates and pipes within are written runes.

Imahara Joe has explored FCG’s inner workings. When he casts magic, the runes glow. Asked Delilah what they said, but no fucking dice, of course.

And another entry in Imogen’s hand:

Laud—
Just wanted to make sure you know that I meant what I said about you having one of the biggest sparks I’ve ever seen. I know it can be hard to see in yourself sometimes when it feels like Delilah is casting such a shadow, but for the rest of us it's so bright that we can't see that shadow at all. Look back at this whenever you need to remember that, okay? And I’ll tell you as often as you like. Ask me as often as you like and I’ll always tell you.
—Imogen

The archivist looks down at it fondly and reaches for his pen to add a line to the “relationship” section of his notes before continuing on.

A few sentences regarding an infiltration of Paragon’s Call. Some half-hearted but clearly effortful diagrams: lined drawings of parts of the building, a few maps labeled Quokka Fearne intel, and a shaded orb simply labeled The ball. It must be very close, then. When the archivist turns the page and sees only Imogen’s handwriting, his heart stops.

Laud—
We’re going to get you back I promise. I promise. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

Oh, Imogen.

Laud—
Please come back.

Research update:
I feel like I should keep this going. I don’t know. You would’ve will it makes me feel better to think about you thinking about me doing this.
Otohan Thull is an evil bitch.
You Laudna planted our tracking ring on her before she
Paragon’s Call is smuggling supplies. Residuum and some potions that look like whatever’s in Ashton’s head.
Captured Treshi.
I did something big after you  I don’t know what it was.
You’re not here.

Laud—
Pâté misses you.
I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know how to talk to him when you’re not here, I just

Laud—
I’m afraid I’m going to have a nightmare while you’re not here and no one will be there when I wake up. I didn’t realize how much I relied on  I did realize. I did know. I need  Please come back. 
Here’s a flower. I pressed it for you. Hard to find one in Bassuras and I don’t want to remember this place, but you would will  It felt important. A flower for every place we’ve been together.

Research update:
The shadow assassins can keep people from being resurrected. I need you not to have been Please be 
Went into Ashton’s head. Saw a bunch of possibilities. Almost got trapped.
Wonder if there’s a world where you’re
I cast Sending to that bitch in your head. Says she can’t do shit. I don’t believe her. 
Says if she goes, you go.
I would drag her back into this world with my fucking teeth. 

What can I offer Delilah
Anything. Everythi

Laud—
I don’t know what to do without you here It’s better when you’re here. I hate it when you’re not here. I need you  I promise we’re going to get you back and then I won’t have to write down my own stupid fucking dreams. I’m terrified that someday I will see you walk into the

Laud—
We found some people who can help I think. Orym trusts them and I trust Orym. We’re going to come for you and then this journal will be yours again, okay? I need this journal to be yours again. Please.

The archivist exhales a shaky breath when he sees the next entry is in Laudna’s handwriting. He knew that she survived. He knows. So why does he feel so sick with Imogen’s grief? Whatever was between these two women—he thinks of his own spouse and shudders, clenches the hand with his wedding ring on it tightly. They were together again. Thank every god.

Dear Matilda:
It was very dark and very cold and she was laughing and she was laughing and then Imogen was there. Was this a dream? I don’t know which parts are a dream. Pâté is alive now and the Sun Tree is alive and blooming. Imogen is here. We are sleeping under the Sun Tree. Imogen is calling me to come to bed. I think this is not a dream. I’m going to go there now, I think.
Matilda, I’m sorry.

Another dream entry follows. Unusually, this one is in Imogen’s handwriting. The archivist looks back at Laudna’s previous entry to reassure himself before continuing on.

Imogen, 25th Sydenstar 843PD
DREAM: I went back and looked at Laudna’s format for these things. I hope this is right. She hasn’t woken up yet and she just looks so peaceful and after everything I just want to let her sleep. 
Fresh Cut Grass joined me in the dream by means of a spell. We were in the storm and I saw someone walking away into the dust. It was  It looked like  It feels like writing it is going to make it real, but it looked like Lord Eshteross. I tried to reach out to him in the dream, but it didn’t work. When everyone wakes up I’m going to try a Sending.
I was able to fly in the storm. When it died down, the sky was full of stars and then they all blinked out.
NOTES: Everyone’s awake now. Reached out to him. No answer. Doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m afraid that  Will try again.
I felt more in control of the dream than I have before. Wonder if I can reach the city next time. Laudna will want to experiment with this.

ADDENDUM: Lord Eshteross is dead.

The archivist bows his head. So much loss, so quickly. From what he’s read, Ariks Eshteross was a kind man.

Laud—
If you wake up, I’ve just gone above deck to get some fresh air. Couldn’t sleep. Come find me if you want, but I want you to get some rest. You deserve some rest.
A reminder, in case you need to read it: We’re on the Silver Sun. You’re safe. I’m here with you. She’s never gonna bring you back there again. Promise.
—Imogen

Laud—
You mentioned that it felt weird that we didn’t take a flower from Whitestone. I got Orym to Druidcraft one. I wanted it to be a surprise so here it is. I hope you smile when you find it later. 
[heavily crossed out:] You look beautiful when y 

A small, white flower is pressed here. A snowdrop.

Dear Laudna’s journal:
Laudna just had a nightmare and I offered to write some things down for her. She says to tell you that she hopes you don’t mind. She dreamed about the place—we’ve been calling it Darkstone. About the tree, the awful version that was a prison. In the dream—and in Darkstone—it felt like time was going to drag on forever with her trapped inside there. She dreamed about Del  She’s asked me not to write down the name in case D. hears and it brings her back. She says in the dream Darkstone was empty except for her and the tree and the nightmares. She says she isn’t sure what’s real.
You’re here, Laud. Promise. 

Dear journal:
It was sweet of Imogen to write all of that down for me, wasn’t it? She’s told me several times that she doesn’t mind, but she’s already done so much for me and I don’t want to be a trouble on her mind when she already has so many. She’s been so thoughtful and kind. I thought I would never be held while I fell asleep again, except perhaps by the tree’s branches. I’m sure D is probably gone and if she is not then I will cross that bridge when I get to it. I am making a resolution to be strong for Imogen. I’m here, aren’t I?

Dear Pâté:
If you are ever going to learn how to read properly I am going to need you to practice a bit more. Particularly now that you are able to move and speak of your own accord. This will be very useful. See? Here are the letters:

The alphabet is printed several times in Laudna’s neatest hand.

Imogen, 30th Sydenstar 843PD
(A bit of delay before inscribing these details, as quite a lot happened this evening!)
DREAM: A nice dream was interrupted by the storm. I’ve asked Imogen what she was dreaming about and she said “You,” and then her face turned a bit pink and she continued that we were making Eshteross’s cookies. She said the room we were in turned hot and I vanished, and then the storm was suddenly all around her. And in the storm—IMOGEN’S MOTHER! She told Imogen to run and then vanished into the storm. Above them Ruidus was flaring. Imogen was able to cast lightning and to fly, but woke from the dream after the flare ended and she suddenly plummeted to the ground.
AFTER THE DREAM: Imogen awoke and cast Sending to her mother and she responded. She is alive. Where is she? Can Imogen see her? No response to these questions, just that she is a danger. So frustrating—Imogen’s mother, after all this time, and no closer to answers than before. Perhaps we will find her in Yios? We will get Imogen her answers one way or another. 
NOTES: When we went outside, Ruidus was indeed flaring. (n.b. Chetney also lost control as a wolf.) If Ruidus was visible in the dream, is the dream itself not taking place on Ruidus?
I wonder if Liliana has been checking on Imogen somehow. She recognized her voice right away. 

Below this, alarmingly, is a sketch of what the archivist recognizes as matching the description of a Reilora, labeled: 

The aberration which Imogen summoned to help us fight a chimera.

30th Sydenstar. Three weeks out from the solstice. It was drawing nearer so quickly, and yet there still seems to be so little that Bell’s Hells knew, so little that they understood. When the day of Predathos arrived, did they realize what was coming? Did Imogen face her fight with the kind veil of ignorance over her eyes? 

It’s odd, really. The archivist knows how this all ended. He knows that the Hells won, even at what cost. He knows what happened, and how, and when, more or less. So why is he afraid of what will happen next?

Laud—
Stepped outside for some air again. Don’t want you to worry if you wake up and I’m not here.
—Imogen

Dear journal:
As we approach Yios, Imogen seems ever more withdrawn. I worry about her. I understand it must feel like an enormous burden to approach somewhere you may find your missing parent. It feels like something terribly significant is approaching with the solstice. I hope we are able to enjoy the city together on the way.

Here there is a light sketch of Yios as if seen from a skyship, and below:

A PROPOSED PLAN FOR CHEATING AT GAMBLING:
Gambling is so fun and Pâté can fly tomorrow when the guards aren’t watching us invisibly behind people and look at their cards. This is an excellent idea. I think we have won a lot of money and Ashton bought all of us drinks which was the sweetest thing and I think we have won a lot of money. We have also met a guard guide named Landon and he believes that we are a performance troupe which is what I told him and I think it is an excellent idea.  Imogen looks so so beautiful. Don’t you think Imogen looks so so beautiful, journal? I feel amazing this is amazing. I love Yios and we should live here forever.

Laud—
If you wake up before me, drink this water, all right? You’ll feel better. 
—Imogen

Scribbled below, an addendum, as though Imogen had set the pen down and picked it back up before writing it: You’re very beautiful too.

The archivist touches the page.

Names to follow up on at the Aydinlan Seminary
Ebenold Kai (Grim Verity) (have letter of introduction from Roe Estani) 
Kadija Sumal (ran study Liliana Temult participated in)
Vitro Isham (head of automaton studies) (down hall from entryway, up staircase, second floor on the left)

To avoid: 
Judicators
Carolle (should we kill?)

Dear journal:
Today… I don’t even know where to begin.
First things first, I suppose. There have been several MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGHS. In fact in some ways our whole day has been a major research breakthrough. We began with

The archivist sees the words “Planerider Ryn” and his eyes grow wide. So here it is: the information the Hells had lacked. He reads rapidly about Bell’s Hells traveling to Ryn’s home in the Fire Plane, learning about Exultants (his heart hurts), about the Omen Archive. About Predathos—and there it is, finally, on the page.

The danger of Predathos is acute. We must take out at least one of the three devices. We discussed the possibility that Imogen could serve as a double agent among the Hellcatch party, but FCG counseled that perhaps it would be best for her emotionally to stick with the group. Imogen is very capable and would be able to pull anything off admirably. Nevertheless, selfishly I am relieved to have her here.
When we returned to the basement, we nearly avoided a battle with a group called the Ruby Vanguard by pretending to be having an orgy, or possibly filming a pornography.
 

The archivist, who has absentmindedly poured the last of his tea, chokes on his sip. The droplets roll off the waterproofed pages—all right, so maybe he shouldn’t have drinks in here—and he quickly wipes them off with his sleeve. The spellwork holds for years, and the duplicate copy is halfway to done by now anyway. A pornography?

Pâté did a wonderful job as a spider scouting for information and Imogen was so kind to me when I felt motion-sick from it. Ultimately we captured one of the Vanguard members and handed him over to Ryn, although not before discovering that Ludinus Da’leth

Ludinius. The archivist has been waiting for that name to appear. He scribbles some notes furiously and reads on. Encountering Da’leth at the Seminary. The theft of the Omen Archive. 

He also told Imogen that her mother is integral to the Vanguard’s plans, and the look on Imogen’s face when she told me this was distressing. I should have been there. What he did to Professor Sumal is beyond imagining. Ryn believes she can be helped, but that it could have been Imogen makes my blood run colder. Of course she is very capable and can protect herself but I don’t like having her gone from my sight like that. Not when things can go so badly wrong. 
In any event, we’ve finally—finally!—come to rest in the Feywild. Ligament Manor.

The archivist draws a breath and holds it, letting it out slowly. He will need more tea for this. 

Imogen, 8th Fessuran 843PD
DREAM: I went into the dream with Imogen. (This is underlined three times.) FCG and I appeared as orbs and Imogen thought I was cute which of course is irrelevant. There was no storm this time. We traveled through a window-like gateway that may have been Ruidus, down to what looked like the Hellcatch. We could see the excavation, and in it, the Malleus Key, and beside it, Imogen’s mother. She had her hair braided and wore a long coat. She was beautiful. When she realized Imogen was there she sent her back into wakefulness.
NOTES: Imogen can visit people in her dreams even if they are not asleep! So much to study here—if they are asleep as well, is the connection stronger? Can Imogen use magic on them?
Imogen said she was less frightened when I was there. All these years and this is the first time I was ever able to join her. I’m so grateful for it, and I wish I’d been able to hold her hand. Back in the Feywild I was, of course, and I was when we awoke. But a small comfort to know that someone is holding you close from so far away.

Several flowers are pressed in the pages here. Light pink, almost purple, almost peonies. They look familiar.

Orym grew these for Imogen before we went to sleep, to soothe her. I wish that I had thought to gather flowers. I have so many dried flowers in this book but I have never gathered a bouquet specifically for Imogen. I can’t believe the oversight! She deserves so many flowers. The very minute we’re back in Exandria I will gather some just for her.

In Imogen’s handwriting: I like the ones we’ve gathered together. I got you a flower from the Feywild. To press with the others. It’s not one of the ones that move, I think. Fearne said it was okay to pick it for you.

The archivist adds another bullet point to the “relationship” section of his notes. He is almost positive that the two of them weren’t together romantically, and yet… He makes a mental note to pick up flowers for his husband on the way home before continuing on. 

The next entry is in a wide, looping hand that he doesn’t recognize:

Laudna! You left this book out and I flipped through the whole thing and I think Imogen would love if you got her some flowers. You should also probably

The words after this have been aggressively scratched out. The archivist leans close and tries to decipher them through the scribbles. The solstice is, likely, mere pages away, but this is important. 

He manages, gradually, to read:

You should also probably kiss her, because when she asked me about flowers for you she started blushing and I asked if she wanted to—kiss you I mean—

Definitively, then, they were not together. He is oddly disappointed.

—and she turned a shade of pink that was absolutely so beautiful, you should have seen it, and then she said it was complicated, and then she said yes,

(!)

and then she said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But I think if you talk about it with her then maybe she would admit it, because the two of you are so romantic. It’s like a story!

Under this block of scratched-out ink, Imogen has written, very hastily:

Laudna, please ignore all of that. Fearne got a little carried away. 

Then, in Laudna’s cursive, a line that makes him inhale sharply:

Dear Imogen: 
I did see this before you scratched it out.
Can we talk? Later?

He holds his breath and turns the page. He wants to know. More than anything, he wants to know! But the limitations of primary source documents have never been more frustrating. There’s no way to hear the conversation that they had, to see their faces as they spoke. Whatever transpired, all that’s here for him is a note in Imogen’s hand.

Laudna—
It really is fine. Any of it. Whatever you decide, whenever you decide. You’re my most important person, okay? However that means to you is enough for me. I wanted to write that down.
—Imogen

Dear journal:
Last night I dreamt that Imogen kissed me and I

Oh. Oh. The archivist continues on, but the entry cuts off and restarts:

Dear Pâté:
I wanted to talk to you about this, but at the moment you’re out on a recon mission and though I’m still not entirely certain that you know how to read we can think of this as something I can read out loud to you later. Once again, though, please do work on your letters as it would make things so much easier for us both. 
I need your advice. You’ve always been so much better than I with these kinds of things and I’m sure you’ll know what to say. Are you ready, Pâté? It’s quite unbelievable:
Imogen told me that she wanted to kiss me. 
To kiss me. Imogen wants to kiss me. And I—Pâté, I don’t know how to make sense of it all. I feel so overwhelmed at the thought of it, like I can actually feel my heart beating inside my chest. I want very badly to respond to her but Imogen deserves an answer that is well-considered and thorough and resolute and I don’t even know how to begin. I haven’t thought about these things in so long. Imogen wants to kiss me. What does she feel when she imagines kissing me? How do you feel when you are with Sashimi? Does your heart go faster too at the thought of kissing her? Forgive me, Pâté, that was insensitive, I forgot that yours doesn’t beat at all. Does it bother Sashimi, the thought of kissing someone undead? Have you ever discussed it? 
I told Imogen I hadn’t thought about romance in fifty years. Pâté, what if that was a lie? I’ve been looking back through my entries in this book and thinking about Imogen and all the things she means to me, and of course she means everything to me but what does that point to? She’s the only thing I’ve thought about in two days. She is giving me space and keeping a distance, which I don’t like at all. 
On top of all of this, last night I dreamt that she kissed me. What does that mean? I know what you are going to ask me. You are going to ask me if I liked it and the problem is that I don’t remember. When I woke, I was too overcome to register anything for a period of minutes. I watched Imogen’s mouth while she slept and tried to imagine kissing it and I just… Oh, Pâté. What if I was lying to Imogen, about what I’ve wanted this whole time?
Very truly,
Laudna

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH:
-  Pâté has been able to identify several of the weakest junctures through which we can approach the Malleus Key
-  Imogen and Chetney have each been testing their invisibility and we believe that it holds for most Fey creatures—Fearne is unable to see through it of course and her friend Madame Pom-Pom who has joined us is unable to see through it either. Madam Pom-Pom is a sort of massive turtle thing—well, sometimes she is massive and sometimes she is quite small—and the one Unseelie agent we captured and killed was unable to detect Chetney, so we will carefully assume invisibility might provide some small measure of cover while moving. We plan to rely much more heavily upon the cloaks given to us by Nana Morri, which will protect us when stationary.
-  A strong possibility that the machine, tapped into the psychic energy that Imogen shares, is vulnerable to that type of damage

Dear journal:
It has been four days since Imogen and I spoke about the idea of kissing and she has started acting oddly. It was quite sudden. While she’s been keeping a distance, it has reliably felt warm, but then today when we woke up it was like a veil had fallen behind her eyes. She said she hadn’t had any dreams, just a troubling thought. She also said that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I offered to get her water, of course. She leaned into me to be held, then, and journal—I really do think I felt something. She is so good and kind and warm, and her eyes are so very beautiful, and I hate when they are troubled and my best efforts can’t lift it.

Dear journal: 
I’ve looked back at the flowers from all of our travels together. For every single one, I have a memory of her. I’ve reread my entries again and the way I love her… I feel nervous even writing it but I think I am beginning to understand.

Dear Matilda:
I can’t remember what you might have thought about romance, or about finding it. I wish I knew what you would think of Imogen. Do you know, these past two and a half years, when I think of you, it’s not with regret, but rather pity that had you lived, we never would have met her?

MAJOR RESEARCH BREAKTHROUGH:
-  The captain is off watch tomorrow and Fearne has finished putting the pieces in place for Madame Pom-Pom’s family to shift the boundaries of the forest in our favor. Tomorrow is our day.
-  Imogen still seems distant and upset. I’ve reassured her that tomorrow, tomorrow, this will all be over. That if it comes to a fight, she is the most capable person I know and with her we are certain to win. 
-  One thing at a time. Tomorrow, it will be over, and then—can you believe it!—I will tell her how I feel. 

15th Fessuran

Dear Laudna,
I had another dream.
Otohan was there. 
It was a few nights ago. Please forgive me for not telling you sooner. I didn’t know what to do.
The storm was overhead and Laudna, it was terrible, it was so loud and violent and I’ve never felt it like that before, and then Otohan appeared and suddenly it… wasn’t anymore. It was still raging around us but when she spoke everything else went silent.
She told me she knows what we’re doing.
She moved her hand and cast an image of us all, sleeping in the hole right where we tacked it against that rock wall. I could see you next to me.
She told me it’s all right. That we’re helping the Vanguard usher in their glorious new era. That I’m right where I need to be for everything to go according to plan.
She looked at you in the image and I nearly
And then she twisted her hand again and the image changed. She showed me my mother. That device we saw? The key? She was locked against it. The lightning in her hands was locking her to the frame. The scars were up past her neck. Her hair was lifted with the electricity. She looked scared, Laudna. She looked so scared. And she told me to run.
Sometimes it feels like I’ve been running for my whole life. I can’t count the number of nights I’ve spent running from that fucking storm. I can’t count the number of times she’s told me to run.
But I understand now what destiny she’s been warning me away from. What she’s wanted me to run from. I won’t be the reason that the world ends. I won’t be the reason that your world ends. Not again.
You’re what makes the world worth saving, Laud. You and your flowers and your smile and your enthusiasm and the way you see the good in everything. The way you can take some garbage and make it feel look beautiful. You’re music, Laudna, and you’re hope and you’re light and you’re art, and it’s important to me that you remember that. Reread this when you want to remember that. 
Anyone who has you in their life is lucky beyond imagining. I don’t know how it ended up being me for these two and a half years. Whatever your answer would’ve been to me, Laud, know that I love you, and you’re worth it.
Thank you for saving me. It’s my turn to save you.
Go out and live. For me. All right?
Love,
Imogen

Black inky droplets are smudged across the next page. Laudna’s handwriting trembles and the words are smudged and frantic. The archivist’s heart, already crumpling, seizes.

Imogen Dear Imogen my Imogen please Imogen please:
Please come back please don’t do this please. I don’t understand why you would go I don’t know why how did you go? Why did you go why would you leave me I don’t understand. I woke up and your side of the bedroll was cold and I thought you had gone to the bathroom so I checked here for a note and I didn’t think that you would have so then I woke FCG and all you said to their message was “don’t follow” and “I’m sorry” and that doesn’t make sense I don’t understand it doesn’t protect us or save us or help, we need you here and I need you here and I don’t know, Imogen, please, were you kidnapped, are you safe, what are the lies that they’re telling you to make you go away and please tell me how to get her back Delilah tell me how to get her back are you there? Please come back don’t do this I was going to tell you today that please, Imogen, please

Written overtop of some of the dried inkstains, in a slightly steadier hand:

We called Ryn and she said that you had spoken to her. She said that she had taken you to the Hellcatch. She said that she can’t take us today and she’s very sorry and she warned us that some of us might lose our lives. Ashton told me to stop screaming because it was a Sending and she couldn’t hear me anyway and then he held me very tight until I stopped. When I was inside the tree you were suddenly there, and when I faced a mob in Gelvaan you were suddenly there, and when I was so alone in town after town you were there and I wasn’t alone anymore and Imogen, please, I need to tell you. Please. You have to stay safe so that I can tell you how I feel and I can  we can  Please.
Ryn says that we need to finish things here and then she’ll take us to you. Today is the mission and I don’t know how we will do it without you and I don’t know if we can do it without you and Orym says we might need more time. I needed more time. 

A tear falls to the paper and rolls off the archival spellwork. The archivist touches the place where it fell, next to the inkstains, next to what must be Laudna’s tears, what couldn’t be anything else. He sets his pen down and pushes his notebook away and pulls the book into his lap, cradling it as he reads.

We’ve had to delay but we’re coming, we’re coming, I promise we’re coming, please, I promise, I would open my veins if it would save time, I would tear my heart from my chest and give it to you, my heart has been torn from my chest and you are my heart, Imogen, please

I don’t know what to picture of where you are or what you’re doing and I keep imagining the worst, I keep imagining Otohan, I keep imagining you trapped against that giant machine in pain and I can’t 

Ashton is sitting with me while I write this and Orym will be back soon and then we can go, it will be all over and the machine will be broken and everyone is alive again and please be too. We’re coming and I love you and please, please, Imogen, please.

The archivist closes his eyes. Turns the page. 

And there, there, there: Imogen’s handwriting.

Dear Laudna’s journal—
Laudna thinks that writing about it might help. I’ve been having a real hard time. I don’t know how to
The storm caught me. The lightning, it caught me and I couldn’t
Mama
She’s gone. She saved me and
I don’t know that I’m ready to write about this.

He cries. He knew that this was coming and still he cries. To see it play out on the page this way. To have taken this whole journey with them and be there as they come out the other side. To see, really see, that they’re safe. That the world is safe. That the two of them got to return to each other’s arms.

Dear Laudna’s journal—
I keep picturing Mama’s face behind that lattice. I keep picturing the way she looked as the storm wrenched away. I keep picturing her trapped up there. 
After everything, it was her who ran towards me.
I don’t think I’m going to dream anymore. 
I don’t think there’s a way to say thank you.

Dear Laudna’s journal—
I will never be sorry for what I did to Otohan. I will never be sorry for what Predathos did to Da’leth. I will always be sorry about

Dear Laudna’s journal—
I hate that I miss her.

Dear Laudna’s journal Dear Laudna,
When I was trying to hold on, it was you that I thought of.
You’re asleep next to me right now. You fell asleep holding my hand.
Thank you.

The pages turn. The setting changes. The entries grow calmer. Sea-flowers are pressed among the pages. A sketch of Imogen, scars licking up past her shoulders to her neck, looking tired but smiling, sitting on the sand.

Dear journal:
I hope you’ll forgive my absence. I’ve been tending to Imogen, and Imogen has needed you more than I. She’s been healing, slowly. She is brave. Every day is a little better. I see her looking at her arms sometimes, at her scars, and a shadow crosses her face. I tell her she’s beautiful and we don’t discuss anything more. I feel her in my mind and I know that she knows that I’m hers whenever she’s ready.
I’m nervous, of course, that she will have changed her mind. But just to have her here is all I could ever ask.
When I was a girl, I dreamt of seeing the ocean. I saw it from a skyship once, crossing from Tal’dorei, in a glimpse I stole from a porthole in the cargo hold. It made me feel small and whole at once, like the world outside of me was wide enough to cradle me in its arms. When Ashton suggested we find somewhere to go in these weeks after the solstice, when Orym suggested the Bay of Gifts—I wanted to bring Imogen here.
When I saw her see the water, every other moment of my life was worth it.

Laud—
You’re   I’m 
I’d never change my mind. 
Not about you.
Meet me on the beach? Tonight?

The next few words almost shimmer on the page.

Dear journal:
Last night I dreamt that I kissed Imogen.

Dear Laudna,
That wasn’t a dream.

The archivist closes his eyes and holds the book very close. They were. They got to be happy. They got to be together.

-

The entries slow down, after that. The dates grow further apart, the tone of them changes. There are, at long last, once again lists of supplies, now things that the two of them need to furnish a home. A small list of addresses in the Heartmoor, one circled. Grocery lists. Love notes. Flowers.

So many flowers.

He’s turning the pages slowly now. One is neatly torn out, and he touches the rough edge with curiosity. On the adjacent pages is a short list of names, most of which he recognizes. Some sketches of a dress, and on the following page, another, both with measurements and supply lists and determination visible on the page. Drawings of a suit for Pâté. Drawings of a ring, sculpted in bone. And in Laudna’s handwriting: Mrs. Laudna Temult. Mrs. Laudna Temult. Mrs. Laudna Temult.

He smiles.

The pages turn; the years pass, then decades. He has all but given up on taking notes. Imogen and Laudna’s life is a quiet one, punctuated by visits from their friends. A message from Fearne, a note from Orym (signed from him and Dorian both), from Ashton. Some of the pages are messy with children’s fingerprints, wobbly letters thanking the Temults for the candies, the stories, the flowers from the garden. It’s almost a guest book of sorts. He can picture the book sitting on a table by the door. They must have had other sources of paper by then, but this book… this book was their life.

He turns the last pages and then sits for a long, long time.

-

When he arrives in the Heartmoor Hamlet, he’s pointed to a clearing, out past a quiet little house, dusty but clean and full of love—the guest house, now, for anyone passing through who needs a place to stay. Something about the structure is familiar, and he opens the book and traces his fingers across the page, so familiar after completing his many weeks of notes. There it is, the home that Imogen and Laudna had created together, with words and ink, on their first trip here so many years ago. The crooked chimney, the roundish walls. The flowers blooming up the sides and over the windowsills and out into a wild garden. 

He follows that garden around the house and into the back, where it blends into a clearing, the grasses wild and beautiful and joyful with color. And in the center is a tree. 

He sits beside it, opens the book and rereads those last few pages.

Dear Imogen:
It’s hard to believe it’s been another year. Five, now. The time moves quickly and slowly and everywhere I look I see things you would love. I’ve written you letters each place I travel, and it’s so familiar to have this book with me, to write to you. A memento of when we were young, and every decade since. Of having you beside me. 

Dear Imogen: 
I dreamt last night of the first time I embodied the Sun Tree. Of the way you looked at me as I did. I can feel it more than ever, you know, growing within me. Sometimes when I return to visit you here, I change to feel the sun on my leaves, and to remember that look in your eyes.

A final entry.

Imogen, my love:
It’s been a beautiful life, our life.
It’s been a beautiful world with you beside me.
I’ve done my best to live without you. I think you will be proud of me.
My darling, I’m ready.

The archivist stands, traces a hand over the bark. The tree is knotted and twisted, but from its branches grow leaves, broad and green and perennially changing. Dotted here and there are pink-purple flowers that look almost like peonies. They rustle in the wind.

Holding the book in the crook of an arm, the archivist turns the weathered, weatherproofed pages. It will stay like this for as long as the spell holds, and then it will move on with them. The Archive has its copy; his research is done. It’s time.

The journal stays where he nestles it, the branches cradling the covers. He gives the tree one last look before he walks away.

A life is a story, and together, hand in hand and page by page, this one is theirs.