Archive of Our Own ^beta

A golden field of grain, rippling in the breeze like the tide of the Ozmit Sea, stretches out before Imogen. The last rays of dusk refract and reflect off the blades of grass and bulbs of wheat, covering the land in a shimmering haze. It’s beautiful. Too beautiful to be real. A dream, then. Imogen peers about the dreamscape, head barely high enough to peer above the stalks of wheat. From her limited vision, the field appears endless, sprawling out until it meets the sky on the distant horizon line. Miles upon miles of picturesque farmland, interrupted only by a solitary structure: a farmhouse perched upon a small hill.

Imogen’s blood flash freezes in her veins. Her muscles tense, dread pooling in her stomach. She hesitantly tears her gaze upwards, finding only the pastel pinks, blues, and oranges of sunset swirling in a clear sky. Not a storm cloud in sight, no voice calling to her in the wind. The panic slowly subsides into relief; this isn’t her all-too-frequent nightmare.

Stepping closer, Imogen is able to discern that the farmhouse, though similar in design to the one she shared with her father, isn’t quite right. The porch, Imogen’s safe haven in the midst of the storm, is too narrow. The paint adorning the wooden siding, peeling off in palm sized chunks, is a few shades too dark. As she drifts closer and closer, something flashes in the corner of her eye: a flicker of darkness, stark against the amber haze of dusk. Shifting her gaze from the homestead, Imogen sees it again. A flash, a shape, a person. Visible for a moment as the wind parts the sea of grass and grain, and then gone. The cycle repeats, and Imogen creeps closer still.  

As Imogen nearly closes the distance, leaving roughly ten feet between them, details begin to emerge from the shadowy figure as it flickers in and out of view. A young girl kneels in the dirt amongst the crops. Her auburn hair is delicately braided into long pigtails, though wild wisps fly out in every direction. Mud speckles the edges of her faded blue dress, and her stockings are stained brown at the knees. Her face is downturned, looking at something clutched in her small hands: a cornhusk doll, frayed but functional. 

As the wind continues to whip through the field, Imogen watches in flashes as the girl makes the doll dance. The movements are jumpy, staggered between gusts of wind that part the surrounding grasses: a living zoetrope, static images mimicking the flow of movement. 

At this distance, Imogen is just barely able to make out facial features: wide, brown eyes speckled with gold, a slightly crooked nose, and ears that she hasn’t quite grown into yet, poking out from underneath her dark locks. She doesn’t seem to notice Imogen’s approach, her attention remains fixed on the doll, stubby fingers tenderly clutching the handmade toy, humming a lullaby under her breath. 

A loud bang, a door slamming shut, shatters the song and echoes throughout the fields. The girl looks up at the sound with a grin, showcasing a missing front tooth. Imogen follows the girl’s gaze over her shoulder, spotting two figures as they step out of the farmhouse, waving their arms from the too narrow porch. Imogen assumes they’re calling out for the child, but she can’t make out their words. Their voices are garbled and distant, as if spoken underwater. The girl must understand them, though, because she quickly rises, stuffing the doll into a pocket, and darts off into the field towards the homestead.

The grasses rustle and shift as the girl races by, allowing Imogen to track her movement. Driven by curiosity and an unexplainable pull, Imogen gently parts the stalks of grain with gloved hands, scars present even in her dream, and follows her. Retracing the girl’s path with caution, Imogen almost doesn’t notice the swath of torn blue fabric, stark against the yellow stalk it dangles from. Underneath, the doll lies, haphazardly strewn and covered in a layer of dust and dirt. The girl’s pocket must have ripped. 

Imogen reaches forwards and grabs the doll without a second thought, smiling briefly at the clumsy craftsmanship. Visions of the girl playing with the doll filter into Imogen’s mind, the smile on her rosy cheeks and the lilting melody she hummed. She’s overwhelmed with a need to return the doll to its owner, unwilling to let it lay forgotten in a field, to let the girl worry over a toy she clearly cherishes. Doll cradled in hand, Imogen follows the girl’s trail with a newfound urgency. 

With her rapid pace, it’s a matter of seconds before she reaches the farmhouse. The dense vegetation gives way to a yard of short, but tangled grass, overrun with weeds. Imogen lingers along the edge of the field, tucked away and out of sight. From her position, she has a clear view of the family. The girl is currently sandwiched between the two figures in a warm embrace, worn-out shoes dangling a few feet in the air.

Using their preoccupation to her advantage, Imogen carefully inches closer. She makes it within ten feet of the house, five feet. She gently tosses the doll onto the porch with a dull thud, watching it tumble across the wood until it comes to rest at the figures’ feet. 

Satisfied that the doll has been safely returned, Imogen turns to leave, to wander through the flaxen fields in a rare moment of peace. She shoots one final glance over her shoulder at the family as they separate from their embrace, the little girl carefully placed back onto her feet, mere inches from the doll. One of the figures, broad-shouldered and stoic, seems to notice the cornhusk creation. He tilts a head in confusion as he reaches for the toy. As he lifts his head up, scanning the horizon, Imogen’s smile falters as she catches sight of the figure’s face. Or lack thereof. 

Atop the figure’s broad body, is stretched, blank flesh over a large skull. Empty pits for eyes, no nose, no mouth, no ears, only vague insinuations of hair that litter the top of the head, flickering between blonde and brown and back again. Imogen stumbles back, eyes darting from the faceless figure to the little girl, who appears as she was before. She’s clutching onto the other, daintier figure’s hand. The female figure must sense Imogen’s watchful eyes, despite having none herself. Her sunken face tilts in Imogen’s direction, cheeks stretching into what might pass for a smile if she had lips. Imogen takes another stumbling step back. The figure releases the girl’s hand and lunges forward with supernatural speed, the sunken pits where her eyes should be flash with a sickening purple light. 

Imogen shuffles backwards, trying to escape the figure’s reach, but her feet trip on a tangled patch of weeds. 

She falls, 

and falls, 

and falls.

Imogen wakes with a gasp, clutching at her chest. She can feel her heart thundering with the residual panic that’s dug its way into her now conscious form. Instinctively, she scoots backwards. Her head cracks into something firm, something wooden. A muffled curse escapes her lips as her hand clutches at her throbbing head.

“Imogen?” A voice calls out, achingly familiar though raspy with lingering sleep. 

Laudna?

Yes, it’s me, darling. 

As the melodic voice of Laudna fills her mind, the sharp pain in her skull dwindles into a dull ache. Imogen breathes through the panic that’s dug its way into her body: inhaling the scent of stale beer and mold, exhaling slowly. She clenches her fists, clutching onto something soft. A blanket. Threadbare, but warmed by her own body heat. Blinking rapidly, objects seem to materialize from the shadows as her eyes adjust. A bed: blankets strewn haphazardly across the small mattress. A door: closed and locked, hanging from rusted hinges. Another bed, just as narrow and rickety as her own, shoved against the opposite wall. On it, a tangled mass of dark hair splattered against the lumpy pillow underneath a pile of moth-eaten linens. The mound of blankets twitches as the gentle voice fills her mind once more.

Is everything alright?

Imogen sinks into the mattress with a sigh, the residual tension and confusion from the dream dissipating as she reorients herself. She’s in a rundown tavern, having scraped together (stolen) enough coin to rent a room for the night. Whatever she was running from in her dream, hasn’t followed her here. She’s safe with her traveling companion of the past several weeks. And her dead rat. 

Mhmm. I’m fine. 

She must not sound convincing, even telepathically. The blankets rustle, the wooden floor creaks, and the mattress beneath Imogen dips ever so subtly. A cold hand covers her own, white-knuckled and clammy, still gripping the sheets. Imogen looks up from the spindly hand to find Laudna, perched delicately on the edge of the bed. The porcelain skin of her face shimmers faintly against the rest of the shadowed room. Her eyes, dark and kind, reflect Catha’s light as it filters through the cracked window. Her normally wandering mind focuses intently on Imogen, head tilted.

“Another nightmare?” Laudna whispers, brows furrowing in concern. 

“Umm,” Imogen croaks out, voice hoarse with sleep. She clears her throat. “Not exactly? It wasn’t the storm, it was - it was different. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“No need to apologize, dear.” Laudna strokes her thumb delicately against the back of Imogen’s hand, just barely grazing the skin. As if she feared any more pressure would break her. She gives Imogen a rapid once over, scanning her features for any signs of distress. 

Imogen looks down at their joined hands, shifting nervously under Laudna’s undivided attention.

“What about you?” Imogen asks. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead, dear. As per usual.” Laudna hums happily at the fond eye roll Imogen offers in response to her joke. “I did have a dream, actually. A rather lovely one.”

Imogen tries unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, adrenaline swiftly dwindling into fatigue. “Mhmm, that’s nice.”

“Yes, it was.” Laudna sighs out, distant and dreamily. “You should go back to sleep, dear. There’s still a few more hours until first light.” Laudna squeezes Imogen’s hand gently and releases, shifting her weight to stand. 

“Wait!” Imogen calls out, grabbing Laudna’s retreating hand before she can fully rise. 

Laudna halts, tethered in place by Imogen’s firm grip. She scoots closer to Imogen on the bed, furrowing her brows. “What is it?”

“Umm, I just - would you…” Imogen huffs, frustrated at her newfound inability to get words out. She tears her gaze from their intertwined hands to find Laudna staring intently with that look in her eye. The look that says she’d do anything Imogen asked of her. So Imogen swallows her nerves, swallows her pride, and asks, “...stay?”

Doll-like eyes blink rapidly as a quiet gasp echoes throughout the surrounding silence. “Oh.”

“Just - just for a little bit! I’m still a bit…unsettled. From that dream, I mean.” 

Chewing on her bottom lip, chapped from the dry desert air, Laudna’s eyes dart from Imogen, to her own bed across the room, back to Imogen. 

“You don’t have to! I didn’t mean to - you can go back to bed. I’m fine! Really. And I’m sorry, again, ‘bout waking you up. I didn’t -” 

“...Alright.” 

“Alright?”

“Alright.” Laudna punctuates with an assured nod. “I’ll happily stay with you, if that’s what you need.”

Imogen nods, small and frantic bouts of motion that display her poorly hidden desperation. Laudna swings her legs onto the mattress, tucking her bare feet under the strewn covers. They settle underneath the sheets, limbs deftly maneuvered to preserve a modicum of distance in the cramped space. Imogen sighs, sinking into the mattress as she murmurs, “Thank you, Laudna.”

“No need, dear. It’s the least I can do, after everything you’ve done for me.” 

“Laudna, how many times do I have to tell you, you don’t owe me a thing. I’ve dreamt of kickin’ those guys’ asses for about as long as I can remember.”

“And what an impressive display it was.” 

Imogen flushes at the adoration in Laudna’s voice. 

Silence falls over the two sorcerers as they lay side by side, disturbed only by the sound of their own breathing, one more frequent than the other. Aching to preserve the blissful quiet, Imogen tentatively reaches out with her mind.

Laudna?

Yes?

Can you tell me about your dream?

That real nice one you just had?

Of course, dear. 

Laudna recounts her dream, filling Imogen’s mind with flowing descriptions of open fields and a farmhouse, handmade dolls and a loving family. As Imogen’s limbs grow heavy with sleep, eyes drooping shut, she can’t quite shake the feeling that she’s heard this story before.

***

Imogen’s been having a hard time sleeping, lately. Since her nightmares started all those years ago, sleep hasn’t exactly come easy. But for a while there, it hadn’t been so bad. Dreams of the storm came and went, but Laudna was always there when the clouds parted. With a reassuring word, with a cool hand to her sweat-damp forehead, with a glass of water. With Laudna never more than an arm’s length away, the nightmares that had plagued Imogen for years became bearable, even as they grew increasingly complicated. And dangerous. 

She’d even started having the occasional pleasant dream; of horses and vast pastures, of a quaint home, of a quiet life. And Laudna was there for those, too. Smiling at her from across a well-decorated room. Reading by an open window. Tending to an overgrown garden. Sharing a life, sharing a home. These dreams were much like their daily life before the Bell’s Hells, for the most part. Except there were no angry mobs to run from, no stealing to survive, no ducking into alleys or pulling up hoods.

Imogen would wake from these dreams with a sense of peace, a contentment that often eluded her in life. Most of the time.

Some mornings, she woke with a desperate ache in her chest, like someone had shoved their hand in and rearranged her vital organs. If those mornings happened to coincide with dreams of affection beyond their usual display, well, Imogen did her best not to think about it. 

Just like she’s trying not to think about how warm it is in this bed without Laudna acting as her own personal heat sink. Or Laudna sleeping peacefully in the other room, probably wrapped around that all-too-chipper little elf. Like she’s trying not to think of the rock, crushed into dust in the palm of Laudna’s hand. Or her own childish anger in response. Or the god-eating moon, or her mother, or the storm, or her scars. It’s easier in the day, with her mind busy keeping out errant thoughts, focusing on the task at hand. But in the stillness of the night, it’s real hard. 

They’ve got an early morning ahead of them, and Imogen really needs to get some rest. But she can’t, no matter how hard she tries. She’s counted up to a hundred and back down again. She’s counted cracks in the ceiling, imaginary sheep jumping imaginary fences. She’s tried focusing on her breathing, like F.C.G. keeps recommending, but her mind won’t settle. She kicks off the blankets with a huff. Riddled with guilt and a twinge of nervousness at what she might find, Imogen closes her eyes and does what she’s done for the past two years when she couldn’t sleep. Embarrassingly, it’s only a matter of minutes before the familiar, if unusually melancholy melody of thoughts has lulled her to sleep.

The tentative relief Imogen feels at the lack of rolling fields and rickety farmhouse of her usual nightmare vanishes as she glances about the dreamscape. Rather than any particular location, she’s emerged in a voidlike space, surrounded by fractal images and looping conversations. It’s as if the memories of the past few days have been shoved into a glass orb and thrown to the ground, shattering into a million, painful pieces, scattered in every direction. 

The first fractured memory she focuses on is a spectral version of herself, standing atop the deck of the skyship, wind whipping at her hair and billowing her clothes. The light of Catha illuminates her face and shimmers on the surface the gnarl rock clasped in her hand.

Imogen has to stop herself from reaching through the mirage, to stop herself from  handing the rock over to Laudna. She winces as ivory fingers wrap around it, tightening and tightening until it’s crushed into dust in the palm of Laudna’s hand. The branchlike veins of Laudna’s gaunt arm flash with a purple hue, emitting a sickening glow through the nearly translucent skin. 

Confusion flickers across her own face, betrayal and hurt, until only anger remains. Seeing such coldness behind her eyes sends a shiver down her spine. So that’s what Laudna’s been subject to these past few days. 

Imogen turns away, unable to look at herself any longer, only to find a dreamlike visage of Dusk, the one person she hates more than herself. They’re clutching Laudna’s hand, trailing after her like a lost puppy down the sandy streets of Bassuras. Imogen can’t look at it for long, swiftly turning to the next memory, but Dusk is once again the subject: tucking a stray piece of Laudna’s hair behind her ears, caressing the golden cuff, trailing down to clutch at the porcelain skin of her cheeks. Gritting her teeth, Imogen turns, only to be met again with yet another vision of Dusk: staring at Laudna so openly, the want and hope and admiration in their eyes so obvious it turns Imogen’s stomach. Her breath comes quicker, more frantic as she turns and turns again, only to realize she’s entirely surrounded by the flickering reminders of her failure, her pain, her replacement. She can’t escape it, even in sleep.

Imogen buries her face in her hands, digging her knuckles into her eyes, hoping with enough pressure she can scrub away the images that’ve been scorched onto the backs of her eyelids. It doesn’t work, though it is satisfying to give in to the childish urge to channel her emotional pain into physical harm and direct it at the only person who truly deserves it.

The relief is short-lived as a barrage of voices infiltrate her mind.

“You lied.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of it.” 

“Cold hands, warm heart.”

“What did you do?!”

“Child, this is far too dangerous in your hands.”

“I can fix it! We can fix it!”

The voices overlap, repeating over and over in an endless echo, keeping time with an ominous heartbeat thumping in her temples. It’s too much. Imogen’s knees buckle, sending her collapsing in a heap, clutching her head, and nearly hyperventilating. She’s not sure how long she’s like this when something cold clutches her shoulder and a tinny voice cuts through the chaos. 

“Imogen? Are ya alright?”

Imogen doesn’t respond. She can hardly get her body to breathe, much less form words. 

“Imogen! Imogen, you’re havin’ another nightmare. ”

The voice calls out again, more frantic this time. Her shoulder, still chilled from a phantom cold, shakes vigorously.

Nightmare. She’s just having a nightmare. It’s all felt so real, it’s all been so real. She tries to force awareness back into her body, slowing her rapid breathing. She blinks her eyes open, and for a moment she swears she can see two blue lenses peering through the fleeting images.

The voice she now recognizes as F.C.G.’s echoes across the dreamscape once more.

“Alright, I’m gonna have to go in there.”

Through sheer force of will, fueled by the desperate need to keep F.C.G. from seeing this diorama of her ugly, twisted anger, regret, and jealousy, Imogen shrugs off the sleep that’s kept her captive.

“No!” Imogen cries out, wincing as her voice reverberates in the stillness of the room.

“Oh man! It’s alright, it’s just me!” F.C.G. half-whispers, holding his arms up as he slowly wheels backwards, stopping about a foot or so from the edge of Imogen’s bed. “You were havin’ another dream and I was going to -.”

“I wasn’t having another dream, F.C.G..” Imogen mumbles, trying to keep the bite out of her words as she shuffles up into a seated position.

“Oh, no. You definitely were.” F.C.G. replies matter-of-factly. “I was watching you sleep, not in a creepy way. You were tossin’ and turnin’ and making all sorts of pathetic little noises.”

Imogen scoffs, rolling her eyes. “You really shouldn’t - I wasn’t havin’ another nightmare, alright?”

“But your eyes were doin’ that weird thing they always do when you’re havin’ a bad dream!”

“What weird - you know what, never mind.” Imogen questions indignantly, cutting herself off with a pinch to the bridge of her nose. She takes a breath and continues in a much quieter voice, “Look, I wasn’t dreaming about the storm or anything like that. It was just a regular old nightmare.” 

Imogen prays to whatever gods are listening that F.C.G. will hear the pleading in her voice and let the matter go. 

“Did ya wanna talk about it? It sounded pretty distressing.” 

She never was one for religion.

“No, Letters, I don’t wanna talk about it,” she sighs out, rubbing her face, fingers coming away damp.

F.C.G. wheels a bit closer. “Are you sure? It’s not good to keep your feelings all to yourself, y’know.” She can hear the smile in their voice, even if he technically doesn’t have any lips. “You’d be surprised how much better you’ll feel after talking it out with a friend.” 

“Enough, F.C.G.”  Imogen snaps, vitriolic words spilling out like the anger of her dream, overflowing from where it’s taken root in her chest. “I know you’re programmed to “help”, but I said I don’t wanna talk. Just drop it.” She recoils at the harshness of her own voice. “Please,” Imogen chokes out, a half-hearted attempt to mind her manners after her outburst. She tacks on an apologetic smile, nothing more than a forced twitch of her lips, but it’s all she’s capable of right now.

“Yes ma’am,” F.C.G. mutters in that rarely used, quiet tone of voice. “I’m sorry for pryin’.”

“It’s alright.” Imogen huffs, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. “You should go back to sleep - stasis, I guess. I can handle the last watch.”

Their rigid metallic features flicker with the brief urge to argue, but wilts as they catch sight of Imogen’s unflinching stare. “Alright, then. I’ll be over here if you change your mind.” The automaton wheels back to the corner of the room, offering a sheepish wave before powering down.

Free from the pressure of F.C.G.’s rapt attention, Imogen drops her forehead onto her knees. Now that the immediacy of her frustration at Letters has faded, all she’s left with is a bone-deep exhaustion. She almost regrets taking over the final watch, but she can’t risk falling asleep. She knows if she fell right back into that dream, she’d be liable to do a lot worse things than yell at a robot. Imogen heaves a breath, shuddering as her lungs struggle to inflate. Her exhale comes out as more of a wheeze, ribcage crushed by the weight of some unseen force. She repeats this cycle, and repeats it, and repeats it.

“Phew! That was intense.” A voice, hardly more than a whisper, breaks the silence.

“Fucking - shit.” Imogen throws her head up, hand twitching, buzzing with energy. It falters as she locates the source of the sound - a three-foot tall shadowy figure at the end of her bed, knit cap pulled over wild wisps of hair. “Goddamn it, Chet. You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

“Sorry, sorry. Light feet, little body. Didn’t mean to.” Chetney throws his hands up apologetically. “Could I?” He motions towards the empty space on the mattress next to her.

Imogen shrugs at him, trusting his eyes to pick up even the subtlest of movement. The creak of the mattress confirms her trust wasn’t misguided. They sit in silence for a minute or so, a few inches apart.

“So…” The gnome sighs out.

“What, Chet?”

“Well, I was going to ask how you’re doing, but we both know the answer to that.”

Imogen scoffs.

“And then, I was going to ask if you wanted to talk about it but - ”

“But you were afraid I would bite your head off for it?” 

“- but you made it clear you didn’t feel like talking, right now. And that’s okay.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

“Oh.”

“You’ve got…a lot going on. Just wanted to see if you needed some company, is all. Besides, I’m an early riser.”

“Thanks, Chet.” Imogen bumps Chetney affectionately, his shoulder colliding with the knob of her elbow. “We’ve all got a lot goin’ on.” She sighs out, staring into the cracked crystal within Ashton’s head, flickering with light as he sleeps.

“You’re not wrong, things have been fucked lately. But things have been more - ” He pauses, searching for the right word, “ - personal, for you. And not just the stuff with your mom. I noticed you and Laudna have been distant.”

“‘Course you did.”

“These eyes, they don’t miss a thing, baby.” 

Imogen rolls her eyes, lips tugging into a half-smile. “You are a keen old man, Chet. I’ll give you that.”

“Damn right!” Chetney puffs his chest playfully. The hushed tone returns to his voice as he continues, “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. It’s your business, and I respect that! I do. But I’ve been around the block a couple times now.”

“A couple hundred times, you mean.”

“Exactly, I’m wise as fuck! And you and me? We’re not so different.”

Imogen barks out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

“We’re both cool as shit, for one. You can read minds and fry people with your lighting powers! Me, well, you know what I can do.” He flexes his biceps, surprisingly impressive for a man of his age. And stature. “But when you can do all the cool shit that we do, pride can start to get in the way of things.”

Imogen hums in response.

“Whatever happened between you two, just apologize. Kiss and make up.” Chetney winks, then screeches as Imogen flicks his ear. “Too far, my bad! But seriously, I know what it’s like to lose people you care about and regret it. If an awkward conversation and wounded pride is all it takes to get her back, you’d be stupid not to at least try.”

Imogen sighs. “Chet, it’s literally killing me to say this, but you’re right.”

“I know.” Chetney smiles smugly. 

She rubs at her temples. “I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been so awful to her.”

“Just be honest, ‘Mogen. The ladies really dig it when you’re vulnerable.”

Imogen resists the urge to flick his ears again. He does have a point. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Seemingly satisfied with his great-great-great grandfatherly advice, Chetney pulls out a chunk of wood and wordlessly begins whittling, littering his lap with curled scraps of oak. Imogen watches him in silence, surprisingly soothed by the repetitive motion, by the beauty in creation. 

Just as the sun begins to rise, filling the space with an orange hue, there’s a knock at the door.

“Up and at ‘em, guys! We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Orym’s voice calls out, rousing both F.C.G. and Ashton from their slumber.

“Smiley day, everybody!”

Ashton mumbles something unintelligible, but sits up, rubbing at his eyes.

Tucking the chunk of wood away in his belt, Chetney dusts himself off and stands. He offers Imogen a hand, rough from the many years of crafting, but warm and solid. She offers him a smile, genuine, and fixes his hat so it’s no longer lopsided. He accepts it for the thanks that it is, and opens the door for her, bowing dramatically as she passes.

Imogen rolls her eyes and laughs as she crosses the threshold into the hallway, though she nearly chokes at the sight she’s met with. Laudna. Pale, paler than usual. Deep, dark circles frame her eyes, lifeless and tinged with red. 

“Laudna, are you - ” 

“Morning guys!” Dusk looks between the two sorcerers, as if putting together a puzzle. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“Actually - ”

“Not at all, we should get going, shouldn’t we? Busy day, lots to do!” Laudna’s cheeks stretch into a grin, but her eyes are just as dull as before. Imogen reaches out to grab her hand, but Laudna’s already walking away. Imogen lets her hand fall back to her side, staring at Laudna’s rapidly retreating form. 

They go about their day, making plans and backup plans and backup backup plans, but the look on Laudna’s face is never far from the surface of Imogen’s mind. She’s so preoccupied with the sheer amount of pain that she saw there, that she never realizes that there was one voice in the dream that she didn’t recognize, repeating words she’d never heard, in an accent quite similar to Laudna’s.

***

Imogen finds herself in the living area of a small cabin. It’s cozy: well-decorated and clearly lived-in; handcrafted blankets and plush pillows draped across the two sitting chairs, each with a hand-carved side table. A book lies face down on one, pages opened to mark the last page. The other is littered with various crafting materials, strips of fabric and buttons, needles and spools of thread. It’s silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth and a quiet humming coming from the kitchen. 

Turning towards the kitchen, Imogen is greeted by a familiar figure. Laudna, sleeves rolled to the elbow, pressing some sort of pastry into a round tin. She carefully pours the contents of a large mixing bowl into the tin, placing it onto the rack in a small oven. Imogen steps closer to greet her, but freezes in her tracks as the door to the cabin swings open with a creak.

“Laudna, I’m home!” 

It’s Imogen’s voice. Some sort of dream version of herself steps into the cabin, cheeks flushed a dusky rose from the brisk autumn air, wrapped in a knitted shawl, carrying a basket of various vegetables. She kicks off her shoes with a practiced ease, placing them on the wooden rack by the door alongside Laudna’s. 

“Imogen! Perfect timing, dear! I’ve just put the pie in.” 

Dream Imogen steps into the kitchen, placing the basket of vegetables on the flour dusted countertop just as Laudna closes the oven door. Imogen watches with bated breath as the dream version of herself wraps her arms around Laudna’s aproned waist, dropping a kiss onto the back of a knobby shoulder blade.

“Smells delicious, darlin’.”

And it does. The air is warm, heavy with the aromas of baked goods: cinnamon, nutmeg, and apples. It’s almost suffocating, how sweet the air is. Imogen nearly chokes on it as she watches Laudna turn her face, pressing a kiss to dream Imogen’s cheek before the pair untangles.

“Thank you for picking up the groceries, love.”

A pale hand comes to caress the freshly kissed cheek. 

“Happy to, especially now that I got this.” Dream Imogen taps a finger on the circlet framing her forehead. “They were out of carrots, though. I’ll have to try again in the morning, or Flora will never forgive me.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would. That mare loves you almost as much as I do.”

Warmth swirls in the pit of Imogen’s stomach, matching the flush that comes across her dream-self’s features. Something in Imogen’s chest cracks a bit as she stares at the pair, the smile on her own face, so open and unguarded, toothy and red cheeked. The look in her eyes, the obvious love pooling in them. Imogen can only hope she isn’t this transparent with her emotions in her real life, but it’s nice to imagine a world where she doesn’t have to monitor every expression, every reaction. Where her love can be painted all over her face, and Laudna reflects it all back to her. 

“Well, aren’t you the charmer today?”

Laudna fiddles with her hands behind her back. “I’m so glad you think so, dear. Perhaps you will find it easier to forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

A pale hand darts forward, tapping dream Imogen’s nose, leaving a splattering of flour across the freckled skin.

“Laudna! I can’t believe you would - ”

A mysterious puff of flour, moved by some unseen force, erupts between the two sorcerers. Against her pale flesh, it’s hard to tell exactly how much of it has landed on Laudna. Though the white streak in Laudna’s hair has expanded tenfold, and her eyebrows and lashes are heavily dusted with white. 

“I thought we said no mage hand in the kitchen!”

“I was viciously attacked, Laudna. How else am I supposed to defend myself?” 

“Hmm, I suppose…like this!”

Laudna darts a hand out once more, dusting flour across rosy cheeks. The pair erupts into laughter, playfully dodging each other’s attacks until they tire themselves out, leaning against the counter to catch their breath. Imogen’s heart stutters as her dream-self turns, pinning Laudna between her body and the counter. She stretches a hand towards Laudna’s face, delicately wiping the flour from her brow with a thumb. They both lean in, foreheads connecting with a gentle puff of flour, though Imogen hardly notices. She’s too busy marveling at the ease in which their bodies mold together, pale hands clutching the other’s waist, scarred ones tracing sharp cheekbones, tucking a loose strand of hair behind uncuffed ears. Their eyes drift close and Imogen drifts helplessly closer, holding her breath as they -

“Imogen? Your watch is up.”

Orym prods at Imogen’s shoulder gently as he whispers the words, but Imogen can’t bring herself to open her eyes. A moment of silence passes. “Hey, Imogen. Are you - ”

“I’m awake, Orym. I just…need a minute.” Imogen manages to choke out, despite the thundering ache in her chest. 

“Sure thing.”

Her eyes are still closed, but she can feel the halfling’s stare. “You’re reminding me of Letters, watching me like this.”

“Hey, at least you’re awake for it,” Orym jokes, but the cautious concern Imogen’s so used to hearing creeps back into his tone as he continues, “Seriously, though. Everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah. Everything’s just - ” Imogen cuts herself off. If anyone would understand, it’s Orym. “Have you ever had - like, the perfect dream?”

“The perfect dream?”

Imogen peeks at Orym through a half-closed eye, quickly shifting her gaze to the ceiling as she continues, “Yeah, like everything you’ve ever wanted is right there in front of you? And it feels so real that when you wake up, everything just hurts.”

“Yeah,” Orym mutters, clearing his throat. “Almost every night.”

“I’m sorry, Orym,” Imogen sits up, turning to face Orym as he shrugs. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How do you keep goin’, after having everything just…taken away like that? Night after night?”

“Everything was already taken away from me, Imogen. By Otohan, and those fanatics. I keep going because I can’t get back what they’ve taken from me, but I can make sure that they pay for it.”

Her blood simmers in her veins at the mention of Otohan. “They will. We’ll make them pay for it. For all of it.” For Fearne. For Orym and Will. For Laudna.

Orym nods; resigned, exhausted, determined. Imogen offers him a small reassuring smile before she drops her feet over the edge of the bed, pulling on her shoes with a sigh. She stands, reaching overhead to stretch, rolling her shoulders, wincing at the tension in her muscles. Orym turns to leave, to curl up in the crook of Fearne’s legs once more, but he pauses.

“Imogen?”

“Yeah?” 

“I may be overstepping, but I just need to ask,” Orym starts. Imogen holds her breath, “What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t - what do you mean?” Imogen stutters out.

“Your dream, the life you want to have. What’s stopping you from trying?”

Imogen laughs nervously, “I’m scared, Orym. What if I say something, or I do something, and everything falls apart?” Her voice cracks, but she carries on, voice no more than a choked whisper, “I’ve already lost her once. I don’t - I can’t lose her again.”

A small hand clutches her own, squeezes. “You know, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you would. Lose her.”

“Really?”

 “Really. You guys have been through so much, and you’ve stuck by each other.” Orym smiles, dimpled and sincere. “The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. Just…think about it.”

“Yeah, okay.” Imogen nods. “I’ll - I’ll think about it. Thank you, Orym.”

“Anytime. And whatever happens, I’m here.” 

The hand in hers squeezes once more and pulls away.

“G’night, Orym.” 

“Night.”

Imogen settles down for her watch, turning Orym’s words over in her mind and casting glances at Laudna’s sleeping form. She seems peaceful. Imogen’s tempted to dive into her mind, to lose herself in whatever dream has formed from the melody of her mind, but she shouldn’t. Besides, the circlet keeps her from - The circlet. Imogen taps her forehead, finding only skin where the jeweled centerpiece normally sits. She doesn’t sleep in her circlet. Imogen spends the rest of her watch recounting every dream she’s ever had, curious and desperately hopeful.

***

Imogen appears in the eye of a hurricane of flashing images, not unlike the one she dreamt of weeks ago. It’s different though, more complicated, more chaotic. Unfamiliar landscapes and people: cliffs and temples, dwarves and elves, flicker in and out of view. There’s gallows, there’s angels and demons, there’s corpses. One corpse reappears over and over: a young man, lean and lanky, bruised and beaten, totally drained of life. 

Interspersed amongst these visions of pain and suffering, Imogen catches glimpses of herself. Tearing open the twisted, corrupted sun tree. Smiling across the table at Zhudanna’s place. Bargaining with shopkeepers and market vendors. Waving from a balcony on one of their first jobs with Bell’s Hells. Flying over the rails of The Silver Sun. Stepping in front of a crowd, eyes glowing white and hair drifting up atop her shoulders. Holding out a ring, hands shaking and cheeks flushing. Curled atop a fraying bedroll in the Taloned Highlands, sleeping peacefully. 

The more Imogen focuses on these images, these memories, Laudna’s memories, the more they appear. Snippets of conversation, of her voice, filter into her mind.

“You’re my tether, Laudna.”

“What’s your name?”

“You have one of the biggest sparks I’ve ever seen.”

“I love you so much.”

“...hi.”

“Since you came back, I’ve been almost scared to say anything.”

“I got you something, too.”

“We’re gonna - we’re gonna get you home, okay?”

It’s overwhelming. It’s as if every corner of her heart has been ripped out and put on display. All the love she’s tried to contain is evident in the softness of her voice, the fondness in her eyes. Imogen knows it’s a dream, suspects it’s Laudna’s dream. Laudna, who is alive somewhere on Exandria. Laudna, who is in danger in a strange place. Laudna, who was already taken from her once before. Laudna, who dreams of Imogen and the life they have shared together, the life they could share together. 

She needs to get back to her. 

She needs to tell her. 

She needs to wake up. 

She needs to wake up.

Imogen shunts herself from the dream, blinking against the early morning sun. She takes a moment to adjust to the light and catch her breath before reaching over and grabbing the circlet, placing it back atop her head. Around their makeshift camp in the jungle, the others are in the process of rising. Chetney has taken up Orym’s fitness routine, though it mostly consists of stretching his groin and winking exaggeratedly at Deanna as she braids Fearne’s fur. F.R.I.D.A. and F.C.G. are a few yards off, sharing a hushed conversation, hands interlocked. 

Imogen slowly stands, tucking her bedroll into her pack, and dusting herself off. She fetches the staff from where it leans against the trunk of a nearby tree, turning it over in her hands, tracing the etched runes with her thumb. The others wordlessly begin to gather their belongings and join her. Imogen heaves a sigh and clenches the staff tighter in her grasp.

Chetney clears his throat. “Well, ‘Mogen. Try not to fuck it up this time, we gotta get you back to your girl.”

Imogen rolls her eyes, but doesn’t refute his statement. “Alright, let’s try this again.”

***

As the afternoon sun beams down upon the familiar market of Jrusar, Imogen and Laudna wind their way, arm-in-arm amongst the produce stalls. It’s strange, being back. Being back with the Hells. Being back with Laudna. They’ve walked these streets countless times before, but everything’s changed. The other group, they’ve changed, were changed by the circumstances they were flung into. Laudna has changed, she’s more anxious than she’s been in quite some time. And angry.

The city has changed, too. The markets aren’t nearly as crowded as they used to be, but even if they were, it wouldn’t matter. The only thoughts in Imogen’s mind now are her own. It should be more comforting than it is. Right now, all Imogen wants to do is tap into Laudna’s mind and unravel the knots she’s tied herself up in. But she can’t, so she does the next best thing.

“This is not how - how I pictured reuniting would go.” Imogen chuckles nervously.

And it isn’t, what she pictured. During the hours of waiting, Imogen allowed her imagination to run wild. She’d pictured running into a desperate embrace, clinging to each other, promising to never be apart again. She’d pictured tearful confessions: tears of relief, of hope. But all she got was a quick hug and a few whispered words amongst the chaos and tension. There were so many people, with so many different stories to tell, so many different opinions. They didn’t have the space, or the time. A common occurence as of late. But now, as she turns to face Laudna, Imogen’s struck by the realization that for the first time in a long while, they’re totally alone.

“I’m sorry for my outburst,” Laudna murmurs, just as demure and uncertain as she’s been since she walked into the Fire by Spire all those hours ago.

“I’m sorry y’all went through so much.” Laudna’s detailed description of their time apart, the flares of jealousy and rage and desperation that seeped into her words had struck a chord in Imogen’s chest.

“It’s not directed at you or anyone else. I hope you know that.”

The jab about Imogen replacing her echoes in her mind. It had hurt, that Laudna could even think she was capable of it.

“I - I do.” 

Laudna pushes on, “It’s just the circumstances. That's what’s frustrating.”

The circumstances were, as Chetney put it, fucked. And they were only going to get more and more fucked. Acquiring the circlet has been the only bright side in all of this, and even that came with a price.

“It is weird, Laudna.” Imogen fiddles with the vial around her neck. “I can’t hear your thoughts.”

“Even now?”

“Yeah.” 

“Because of your circlet? That’s great.”

Imogen swears there’s something like disappointment in her tone. “Yeah, it’s also…strange. It’s very strange.” 

It’s empty. She’s grown so accustomed to having Laudna’s thoughts as an anchoring point, keeping her sane in the neverending sea of chaos they’ve flung themselves into.

“Does it make crowded environments easier?”

“So much better,” Imogen sighs out.

“That’s good!”

It is good, objectively. But it doesn’t feel good. She can’t help but feel like a petulant child, whining because she lost her favorite blanket. She should be grateful that she can live her life freely now, but she’d found herself a home nestled inside Laudna’s mind.

Laudna looks at her for a moment, as if trying to read her mind. “You know, you don’t have to listen in to get my thoughts.” Maybe Imogen wasn’t far off, maybe her powers had rubbed off on Laudna, too. “I’ll always share them willingly. You can just ask.”

After all this time, even with all the pain she’s clearly in, Laudna still looks at her like she did that night in the dimly lit tavern room. Like she’d do anything Imogen asked of her. And she has. She stayed with her that night, holding her close underneath the ragged blankets. She’d done the same almost every night afterwards. She’s held her hand, in crowded rooms and abandoned shacks. She’s wiped Imogen’s tears and poured her glasses of water. Everything Imogen’s asked of her, Laudna has given happily, and then some. Why not trust her with this?

“The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

She’d always been able to use Laudna’s thoughts as a sounding board, carefully testing the waters of their relationship, backing off at the slightest sense of discomfort. That was gone, and maybe it was for the best. People always say that love is trusting someone to catch you when you fall, and with hands trembling at her side, Imogen jumps in headfirst.

“Can I kiss you? I can't tell if it's alright or not anymore.”

There’s a pause, stretching for what feels like hours, though Imogen reckons it’s only been a few seconds. Surprise flickers across Laudna’s features before settling. “…Alright.”

“Alright?” Her rapidly beating heart stutters her chest.

Laudna nods, wonder in her voice as she repeats more earnestly, “Alright!”

Imogen stretches a hand forward, slowly, still unsure. She cups Laudna’s face in her hand, swiping a thumb along the sharp cheekbones and steps closer. Tearing her gaze from stress-bitten lips, Imogen searches for any trace of doubt on Laudna’s face, but finds none. 

“Alright, I will.” Imogen tilts up onto her toes, smiling to herself as spindly arms wrap around her waist. 

When their lips meet, it’s as if something has clicked into place, replacing the cracking ache in Imogen’s chest with a thudding heartbeat, warm. A lone tear escapes Imogen’s eyes, adding a saltiness to their kiss, as they tangle together, pressed against an unmanned vegetable stand. 

Eventually, they pull away, foreheads knocking together gently as matching grins stretch across their faces. Imogen’s heart stutters in her chest as the Jrusar sun slowly begins to set, casting a shadow across one of Laudna’s front teeth, perfectly recreating the little girl’s toothy grin.

This moment, despite everything that’s still at stake, is better than anything either of them have dreamed up. And it’s only just beginning.