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Chapter Text

Wind bellowed by her ears, both a war bugle and a mourner’s wail at once. The pale dragon lifted her head and tasted the air. On a better day, she might have salivated at the battle-sweet-smell of smoke and blood. Her drought-dried-riverbed-mouth had nothing left to soothe it but the hope of wet gore, a fact that was evidenced in the yellow foam that flaked off the corners as she rasped her tongue over her teeth. In all her too-few years, Ophelia could not have imagined that battle would lose its thrill. The joy of testing herself was lost to the growing fatigue… and a hopelessness she would not admit to.

Her heart’s-keeper-Rist is not so adept at steeling his own will against the old-claw-wound-ache that war had afflicted them with. Still, he goes where they are told to go. He fights as she does. The elders tell him where to sink his white-blade-tooth even knowing that the traitor’s-hawk-shadow may fall over them both for the final time.

”If we survive this.” His thoughts become hers, determination making the ache of her wings feel so much more distant. ”If we survive this, we will fly west as far as we can. Damn the rest.” West . To the sea . Her heart aches for the feel of it again: salt air and the blue-white-dragon-scale-glitter of calm waters beneath them both. Her heart aches just as his does because her Rist lies.

The words are an empty comfort as he lies. Ophelia feels the fatal-love swell in her chest as she hums out her own agreement. They cannot deceive each other but they lie in the hopes that the oath-breaker-promise might make their survival a certainty. There were no guarantees, however. A wailing roar reached them from across the river as wine-maddened-forsworn-dragon wheeled through the sky to throw itself at them again. The purple speck grew in time with Ophelia’s contempt. Each day, the name-banished-traitor lost another piece of itself like a mange-ridden dog shedding its hair.

Grim satisfaction stirred a roar of her own from deep within her chest. Her body might die in this battle but she would never be less than a dragon. Ophelia was her name. Ophelia, partner of the dragon rider, Lord Rist. Ophelia the shining pearl of Teirm. Ophelia , white-tooth -cap-on-salt-waves and pale-cloud-cutting-wing-blade. Her oaths were unbroken, as was her will. As one, she and Rist collided with the crooked-mouth-elf-traitor and his dragon with the full confidence that their power afforded them.

…but long, it could not be.

A confidence that gave way to arrogance. Kialandí’s dragon was not so far gone then that its mind was fully lost. Mad, but cunning in its madness, it was a more worthy foe than Ophelia expected and, as with her order, it was her own pride that became her undoing. The two dragons fell from on high with talons locked as young lovers would hands. Their embrace was close enough for her to smell the smoke and blood on her enemies breath and to hear the snap of its teeth such that the sound still rattled in her skull for ages after. That was all they had become to her: heavy jaws and a thrashing body. So singular was her focus on her enemy that she failed to consider the position of her ally, of Rist upon her back.

Ophelia jerked her head to the side to avoid a snake-necked strike. She beheld the inside of its mouth, slicked with blood that bubbled up from fissures in the dried tissue, for a split second before it passed her by. Then, an eye the color of spring orchids. Iridescent scales sailed past the side of her head over a span of hours or so it seemed to her. 

The pain that blossomed in her chest, Rist’s pain, would linger for years in her heart for years after her enemy’s teeth pierced his own. He screamed. Ophelia screamed. Heart fluttering in his chest. A splatter of discordant thoughts reached her far too late: The mouth. Teeth. Ophelia. TURN OPHELIA. Her rider choked. She gagged on a sound that soon became a keening when Rist’s mind grew dim… disappearing in those century long seconds. 

The white dragon wailed her swan song as her rider’s last thought reaches her.

I love you. It was worth it.

Then, grief turned to a blind rage. Their shared descent forced both dragons to release their death grips on each other even as Ophelia loosed a torrent of white flame upon the world around her. She razed the field beneath the battling dragons as she pulled up from her dive to rise, to meet her nameless foe in battle again. Peat below the surface ignited then. The earth bucked. From it an acrid, yellow smoke surged out to shield the grieving dragon in her final flight.

The sun has set by the time her fight is over and the sky still burns red. Her last moments are immortalized in an ever expanding glow as the wildfires find their roosts along the horizon, leaving behind blackened earth and sickly clouds. Stark against the darkened river waters is a massive body, pale as sun-bleached bone. Slowly, the current carries her with her rider south…

Together they float west… then sink…

Below the surface they continue on, bound together and out of sight of the fishers of Dauth.

Until, finally, Rist and Ophelia find their rest in the arms of the sea.

…

Or at least, it may have been if not for the last, desperate act of rider and dragon.

Her heart’s-keeper, Rist, may have been welcomed into the void but Ophelia received no such respite. The grieving dragon’s awareness moved. No longer was she fighting over the now burning plains as the riders continued to resist their fall, instead, she was in a box. It was a beautiful box, to be sure. She and Rist had fussed over what kind of box would be suited to her eldunari when they agreed that she should disgorge it in the hope that her rider would survive the battle that might kill her body.

 The fantasy of fleeing west, body or not, was suffocated by the velvet that trapped her and the yawning emptiness within her. Alone. Her mind pressed against the seams of her gem-like prison… then recoiled from the feeling of emptiness. Inward she withdrew, more and more. Ophelia was ignorant of the world outside her grief and it, in turn, forgot of her.

In a city by the sea, in a box lined with velvet.

A hundred years of non-existence passed and the dim star of her mind saved her from discovery that would have placed her in a worse prison: the hearts-hoard of that mad king. A hundred years of silence was broken by happenstance.

The patter of small feet echoed through the dimly lit corridor. Evening had just begun to blanket the city of Teirm with its red-wool blanket and only now had the servants begun to light the lanterns scattered along the walls. It made it that much harder for her nursemaids, tutors, and, especially, her uncle to find her. 

She held her breath to keep herself from crying. Cheeks turning red from the effort, she opened the first unfamiliar door she saw and raced down the stairs. Her flight was a clumsy thing. On the third to last step, she knew it to be so because she’d counted, the dark haired girl tripped. Small hands flailed for a railing that was not to be found along the path to the long-forgotten storage room. A gasp. It was by sheer luck that she landed at the bottom of the stairs with only a bruised knee and scuffed palms. A sob . 

Little Immogen, six winters old, sat at the base of the stairs and cried quietly for a long while. Quietly, at first because she did not wish to be chastised, then quietly, because she recognized where she was from the stories the serving boys told her.

Lord Risthart’s estate was beautiful. Teirm’s citadel had a grandeur that rivaled Urû'baen’s own and her uncle’s hall was the gem at its heart. Visits always left her feeling giddy. She would get lost every time with a hand tracing the pale, limestone walls that sheltered her fondest memories. Hours she would spend with her uncle as he pointed out which parts of the city were old, which were new and how their old counterparts were lost to which pirates as they walked along the battlements.

The only dark cloud on the sunshine estate was the ghost that lurked in the store rooms and wine cellars below the building.
“It’s true it is,” Fievel, the cook’s son had told her as Greer nodded along, “Folks’re always tryin’ to find fires that ain’t there cos’ someone swore they smelt the smoke. Wehn’s mumma won’ go down there no more- says she got sick with misery after lingerie too long.”

She had refused their dares to step through the door during her last visit but now, she was here. Immogen sniffled, wiping at her eyes. Either she braved the cellar’s ghosts or walked back up to be scolded for running off and getting herself hurt… the choice was obvious, at least to her. 

Step by step, she inched deeper into the store room with a feeling of dread creeping over her as if it were a living thing. Fingers tangled in her sleeves as she pulled them tight to her skin. Her daring faltered, breath hitching, when she spied a dusty cloak, draped over the leg of an upturned chair. It was far too life-like. Immogen’s mind summoned visions of looming, narrow-headed men that stood far to still and watched her with eyes as hungry as they were solemn. Holding her breath, she skirted around the illusory foe without turning her back to it. 

Something bumped into her leg. The soft peel of wood scraping against wood was followed by the clatter of a falling object. She bit back a shriek. Immogen nearly tripped over her own feet in her rush to escape this newest ‘assailant’. Another mundane monster. The crate her foot had struck had had a stack of books and old boxes on it. They’d been there so long that the film of dust that had covered them was thick enough to form a small cloud that reached her knees. 

“Damn!” 

Immogen cursed, froze, and looked about to make sure no one else was around to hear. The small girl whispered the word again, her fear subsiding in the wake of her newfound freedom. Even without witnesses, however, she was a well-mannered girl. She knelt to tidy up her mess… and then paused. An ornately carved jewelry box sat on the ground, lid half-open after the fall it had taken. Gingerly, Immogen lifted it.

Small hands brushed away a century’s worth of dust. It was a thing of beauty. The wood was dark and the stain that covered it gave it a purplish cast that was unlike anything her young eyes had seen. It was decorated with elegant filigree. Silver was inlaid over a number of unfamiliar runes that curved smoothly together so that they could have been easily mistaken for decoration only. Pearls, divine in quality, marked the four corners.

Holding her breath, Immogen lifted the lid. The velvet interior was seemingly untouched by time. Upon the wine colored fabric sat… a gemstone she failed to recognize. It was large . She curled one of her small hands into a fist for comparison and gaped at the similitude. How long had it been here? Who had found and shaped such a stone? The opaque stone had an asymmetrical cut. There were facets, however, the iridescent, white gem resembled a pearl or opal and neither of those stones took well to the jeweler’s blade.

She found herself looking around again before she reached for the gem. The action felt forbidden. This treasure she had found, forgotten as it was, seemed far too precious for the hands of a child.

The world seemed to tilt when she took hold of it. Something within her moved with it like a pitcher turned on its side so that the water might flow freely. Suddenly, Immogen was aware that she was full of something beyond blood and ichor. 

Suddenly, Immogen was aware that the gem was full of sorrow.

It leaked into her, sticking like her clothes did when they came in contact with a thick morning mist. The feeling welled up. It spilled in the form of tears on her cheeks as she pulled the stone to her chest and pressed it to her heart. Perhaps, if she had been a woman grown, Immogen would have reacted with horror instead of compassion as the alien grief consumed her. As it was, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the sad-stone to its grief.

“I’m sorry.” A light flickered in stone at the sound of her warbling voice. Immogen squeezed it as she would the hand of someone in need of comfort. Was the light a good thing? She could only hope so. “You’ve been alone haven’t you? More alone than me.” Looking around, the young girl spied the dusty cloak again and shuffled over to it. She pulled it from its perch, shaking it clean with her free hand as she clutched the treasure in its twin.  

Pulling her skirt in close, she sat upon the now-clean fabric that she had spread upon the floor and clutched the gemstone close. Deep within its heart she saw a faint stirring of shadows and dimly flickering lights. “Father is an admiral. The king is sending him out to sea again.” Immogen’s mouth trembled. “He’s already gone- left before I woke up and I don’t know if I’ll see him again.” 

The stone stirred as if it heard her, as if it understood, and at the edge of her awareness she felt something latch onto her. Thoughts that were not her own, dark and unhappy, flitted between the memories of her too-few years. “Mother is… she never was. I’m staying with my uncle, Risthart, until-” It is the name that wakes Ophelia up fully. 

‘Rist-heart?’ A flood of sensations nearly overwhelmed the girl and she dropped the stone with sharp gasp. Contact broken, the deluge stops, and Immogen is left with shaking hands and veins full of ice. “Who? Who was that?” Her whole body trembles. She is aware then, that she is not alone in the forgotten store room and thoughts of ghosts have her turning to run… but then…

But then… her eyes latch upon the stone. A storm brews within it. Dark clouds of despair billow and blot out the fractals of light that blink in and out of existence. Alone. Amidst the confused thoughts and feelings, the word stood out.

  Alone.

Immogen, more compassionate than clever, knelt back down to brush her fingers over the stone once it had calmed. “Hello?” The smiling face of a dark haired human man. He grins up at her as she perches on the battlements. ‘Hello? Ophelia? Think you ought to come down now?’ Her fingers tighten around the sorrow-stone in defiance of the impulse to drop it. “My name is Immogen.” This time, instead of a memory, there’s a faltering sense of understanding and Immogen cannot help but smooth her thumb over the stone. 

Could the being within feel it? Ophelia? Thinking the name causes its owner to glow that little bit brighter and it is all the confirmation that the little girl needs. She lets out a quiet breath. A name . Not a stone, but a conscious being with a name . Immogen marvels at it.

She stays there with Ophelia, talking for them both, until hunger forces her to tuck the stone back into its velvet case. A sense of fear leaks from the being’s mind and into hers and she swears, solemn as any child making a promise, to return for her tomorrow. It’s a promise she keeps. 

Her oath is one that changes her over the span of a decade, Ophelia’s influence over their growing connection is no small thing. It does not go unnoticed. The sweet, young girl became a peculiar, young woman. 

This was, however, only a prelude to greater change.

Chapter Text

There were certain rules, unspoken and formally taught, of etiquette and decorum that young women of nobility were meant to build themselves around. A warrior walks upon a knife’s edge. A lady, however, learns quickly that she balanced upon the point of a needle. 

“Have you been to port recently?” Immogen certainly felt the prick of that needle underfoot today. The understanding that she would need friends and allies, no matter how superficial those bonds truly were, didn’t make entertaining her peers anymore palatable. “My father says the Dragon Wing is nearly ready to be stocked for her maiden voyage, it’s been a joy watching it take shape.” ‘Father’, in this case, was the owner of the Blackmoor Shipping Company. Lord Hadr’s business had exploded over the past decade and he, and by extension his family, had since become the darlings of the Imperial Navy. 

“No, not recently.” It was in her best interest to make sure that her guest, Lady Wynn, enjoyed her stay. Unfortunately, garden brunches and tea times such as these never went the way that Immogen wanted. Charitable individuals would call her ‘odd’. Most of her peers, however, went out of their way to ‘coax’ out her strangeness for the sake of a spectacle that might give them a leg up on Lord Risthart’s beloved niece. “Ships have never been of much interest to me.”

A lie. She had visited the port to stare at the slowly forming mass of the galley. It had taken nearly two years for the Dragon Wing to complete its transformation from bare bones to the elegant instrument of war that it was now. Immogen remembered when it was still scaffolding. She hadn’t been sure what it was, at the time, but her father had pointed out each beam and what part of the ship it would become. The rare moment of connection had made the mundane moment into something of significance. Immogen had loved that ship… at least at first.

Wynn feigned surprise. “Is that so? I would have thought you’d take a greater interest in the ship your father meant to captain.” There it was. She forced a tight-lipped smile before lifting her cup to her lips in the hopes that it would protect her true feelings about this newest turn in their conversation. Her ‘companion’ seemed to sharpen. Wynn’s own smile came just a hair quicker now that she’d found a sore spot.

“I don’t see why I would.” Immogen shifted, frustration building beneath her calm exterior. Poor manners though it was, she reached out with a tendril of thought towards the other young woman and found an unguarded mind. This wasn’t Urû'baen. There, education of young nobles always included lessons on how to defend one’s mind from intrusion. Teirm was more lax in this regard and Wynn was the first born daughter of a merchant who had only just clawed his way to equal footing with the older noble families. He had other children besides. 

That thought led her down the road to Wynn’s deeply buried insecurities. She saw them, women only a few years their senior and with young children of their own. Lord Hadr’s children. They lurked in the back of the haughty noble girl’s mind, strangers with half-formed faces and whose names she would never know. A connection that was made of blood and a festering bitterness.

Immogen took a sip of her tea. “The sea is his mistress and I’ve no interest in seeing which brothels he visits.” It was just vague enough to not be an intentional slight. Wynn’s expression puckers all the same. The anger lasted for only a handful of seconds before she managed to fix a facsimile of a smile back on her polished face. 

Turning from Wynn and tilting her head sun-ward, she squinted. “Ah, that time already?” Her cup clutters quietly as she sets it aside. From the corner of her eye, Immogen can see her guest’s shoulders slump with relief now that their tea has finally come to an end. Good. That was what she’d been hoping for. “Let me escort you to the gate, my lady, it’s only proper.”

Without the mire of conversation, the walk back to the gate was significantly quicker than the walk to the estate’s vast garden. She’d waved, sweet as ever, as Wynn was helped into her carriage and stood there the appropriate amount of time before gathering her skirts and making her way to the stable. ‘A lady should not run from place to place like a common page’ or so tutors had told her, chiding, whenever she reached her study breathless from her rush to arrive on time. Better to be tardy than to be a spectacle.

The unhelpful reminder kept her trapped in a brisk walk but she arrived in due time. Greer, who grinned the moment he saw her, stood there leaning against one of the pillars that held the roof of the open-walled stable, more of a pavilion with stalls, steady overhead. He whistled when he sent him a sharp look. “That bad was it?” Immogen made an exasperated sound. That, of course, made Greer laugh and the sound of it forced her to bite back a smile until she’d walked past him.

“I would have rather had to listen to Lady Leliana try to explain tea reading again.” She pulled out some of the pins and ties that kept her dark hair in its neatly plaited updo. The tightness of the strands had begun to give her a headache that was only further exacerbated by her conversation with the Blackmoor girl. “At least, she’d be harmless and easy to please- ‘Of course, Lian, I’ll be sure to avoid forked roads and black cats this week’ .”

“If it’s that bad then I’ll sit in for your next tea party and you can muck the stalls.” Greer’s delight only seemed to grow at her withering look. She continued down the cobbled walkway towards the stall where her horse, a flaxen liver-chestnut gelding called Farshore, would be waiting. His dark head poked out at the sound of her voice, ears perked. Immogen paused when she saw him. The gelding already had his bridle on and, upon further inspection as she put a hand to his velvety nose, the rest of his tack as well.

A knot formed in her throat as she looked back over to Greer, her oldest friend, who only shrugged. Grin still in place. This time, Immogen let him see her own smile despite her still-sour mood. He’d known she’d be unhappy and planned accordingly. 

“I really should speak with Uncle about next year’s budget. The Westeir Family grooms don’t get paid nearly enough for the work they put into our horses.” Her words earned her a laugh as she led Farshore from his stall. 

“Well, I can think of one who would appreciate the bonus even if he ‘forgets’ where Farshore and his lady have gone off too.” A gentleman would have helped her onto her mount. Greer simply passes her a cloak that she kept stashed between sacks of feed for days when she wanted to travel the city without a gaggle of guards and attendants. Her usual destination wasn’t one that Risthart Westeir would have approved of either.

Immogen departed then. The longer she lingered, the more likely it was that someone would come looking for her now that she was no longer acting as hostess and the harder it would be for Greer to have the chance to ‘forget’ where she’d gone off too. Truly, the cloak and dagger wasn’t necessary. Her lord uncle might have been protective of her but he wasn’t an unreasonable man and the places she visited weren’t the dangerous kind.

That did not mean that she would be safe from reproach if he knew how often she visited the home of the disgraced merchant, Jeod Longshanks. There had been a time when she was the ward of his wife, Helen, who had been in a similar situation to her own as a young woman. They were both the daughters of wealthy men who had no children besides, young women who were raised as the unlikely heirs of their wealthy families. The importance of Immogen’s education could not have been overstated. That fact became more and more evident as time went by and Lord Risthart remained childless and unmarried with only his late sister’s niece to serve as a potential heir of Westeir.

Events behind the scenes, Jeod’s failing business among other things, had brought an end to Immogen’s time as Helen’s ward, however, she never allowed her relationship with the Longshanks to dissolve completely. They’d been kind to her and she wouldn’t allow politics to spoil that bond. 

The ride to the estate took no time at all even with the evening crowd. It helped that she was eager. Helen was an acerbic woman and well acquainted with wiles of wealthy merchants after so many years in the wings, watching them bicker. She nearly fell from Farshore in her rush to dismount. Immogen had missed Helen over the past two weeks and it would be good to-

Two unfamiliar horses were stabled at the house. She frowned. The grooms had done a good job of brushing them out but the saddles she found stowed away were travel worn and smoke-scented. “Where did you come from?” Unable to satisfy her curiosity with a cursory glance, and not willing to go through their saddlebags, Immogen approached the two horses. She stroked the neck of the white stallion. It occurred to her that she might be able to peer into the horse’s mind for an answer but abandoned it soon after. Jeod’s guests couldn’t be that interesting.

The sight of Helen’s puffy eyes was almost enough to make her go back to the horses, to learn some unseemly secret of the strangers as recompense for Helen’s unhappiness… assuming they were the cause. No amount of prodding would get the older woman to tell her what had upset her so. If not the strangers then what? Immogen thought of Jeod’s failing business and a pit opened up within her chest. There was nothing she could do to fix that. Lord Risthart would not save their failing business, no matter how dear they were to her and she hadn’t the means to prevent its continued downward slide.

Unsure of what else she could do, she sat and spoke with Helen until late in the evening. Jeod eventually returned with the elder of his two guests and Immogen watched the two men with a hawk-like focus that wrangled a nervous chuckle from Jeod and a quirked eyebrow from a man who introduced himself as ‘Neal’. Late as it was, she wasn’t able to learn of who owned the second horse. Tomorrow.  

She’d slip out in the morning. The plan formed in her mind as she rode back to the citadel. Her morning lessons weren’t of much interest as it was, needlepoint would not improve her understanding of trade routes or how to best invest her coin. 

Immogen intended to speak with Ophelia about her plan. However, the thread of thought she sent seeking the gem-trapped being fizzled out when she reached the stable. Her father was waiting for her there. Not her uncle, Lord Risthart, but her father. Admiral Esburn was a stoic man who kept careful control over himself, calm and cold as the sea itself. He was away more than he was present and, perhaps because of this, her father never seemed to know what to say to her when they were in the same room together. 

It was hard to put to words how she felt about him. “Hello father,” Her greeting lacked much in the way of warmth and so did his. He helped her down. Helped her remove her horse’s saddle and bridle. Part of her expected him to admonish her for returning home so late and without a chaperone but he doesn’t. A shred of her resentment falls away and an ache forms in the yawning chasm that it leaves behind as she watches him pat Farshore along the gelding’s sturdy neck. He’d never been an affectionate man.

“Would you like to have breakfast together before I leave?” Leave. That’s right. He will be leaving again tomorrow. It wasn’t often that Esburn made the effort for his daughter and she almost accepted his offer… then the festering bitterness returns. He always made an effort before he left , as if to set right the wrong of his impending absence. Immogen straightened her shoulders.

“I’m afraid I have plans already.” She doesn’t meet his gaze. She doesn’t actually want to see the way his mouth tightens and the lines on his face deepen as she builds the wall between her either. From the corner of her eye, Immogen can see him nod in understanding before they part ways. “Travel safely, father.” 

The short exchange sapped what energy she had left so Immogen went directly to her apartments for the night. She could feel the faint touch of Ophelia’s mind against her own. They weren’t able to speak every day but she made sure to ‘contact’ her companion before bed each night, assuring her that she wasn’t alone. It was a comfort for them both. The quiet flow of feeling lulled her to sleep and colored her dreams with memories that were not her own.

She woke without remembering the visions that filled her sleeping hours. Immogen’s morning was spent sneaking from her quarters, to the kitchen, and then back out to the stable where she’d need to prep Farshore without being noticed. If any cooks or stablehands had seen here they, at least, pretending that they hadn’t. They’d raised her as much as Lord Risthart had and Immogen could name a dozen cooks who were more like fathers to her than her own father was. 

From there, it was another easy ride. She was pleased to see that one of the two horses was still present at the stable, the bay, and she took the time to prepare herself before she entered the estate.

Immogen was more than a little put-off when Helen informed her that the younger of the two guests was still sleeping . She would have to wait . Up to the study she went to pilfer from Jeod’s collection of books and then back down to the sitting room to wait for his guest to wake. It was nice, in truth. There was something nostalgic about perching there with a book in her lap and the sense of belonging settled the disquiet that hadn’t left her since she’d spoken with her father. The calm was, of course, broken when she heard the butler speaking from the guest hall. 

She sat up, alert, watching as Neal’s young companion finally showed himself. He was young too, perhaps a year younger than herself with messy brown hair and similarly dark eyes. A kind face, if sharp from days of travel. He was nearly at the door when Immogen ‘accidentally’ dropped the book she had been reading. The heavy ‘thud’ of its bulk against the floor made him, and Immogen herself, startle. 

He must not have noticed her before. The young man gave her a wide-eyed look that only seemed to grow wider the longer he looked at her. Clearly, she wasn’t someone he expected to meet. Immogen opened her mouth and had the ‘I’ of ‘I’m sorry’ out when he spoke at nearly the exact same time- seemingly the same words too. She laughed, a soft sound. His ears turned pink. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… startle you,” He crossed the room to pick up the book that she’d dropped, “I wasn’t expecting- Jeod didn’t say anything about…” Unsure of what to call her, he gestured to the whole of her before holding out the book for her to take. 

“No need to apologize, it seems you’re as startled as I was.” Immogen tucked the book into one arm and used the other to wrangle her skirts as she did her best to curtsey the way she was taught. “Immogen… Jeod and Helen are family friends of mine.” Not family. She answered his silent question without voicing it. “And you?”

“E… Evan.” The first vowel sound dragged as if he wasn’t sure what’s meant to come after it. Evan bites back a grimace at the near-slip and his ears somehow grow that little bit more red alongside his cheeks. He has freckles . She makes note of them with a small smile. “My uncle Neal is an old friend of Jeod’s.” That meant something . Jeod was always cagey about his past and an ‘old friend’ of his was bound to be an interesting person.

She sat the book aside, gesturing for the door before escorting him to it. “Something we have in common then,” Almost without thinking, Immogen reached out with her mind towards him and just as quickly a wall formed around his thoughts. He flinched. His eyes darted as if trying to see where the ‘attack’ was coming from and Immogen had to scramble to hide her blunder. “I can show you around Teirm, if you wish.” There was a little furrow between his brows, more thoughtful than agitated.

Hopefully, that was a sign that he was no longer sure that he’d felt what he thought he’d felt. “Not today but- tomorrow? If you’ve the time?” Immogen would make the time. How could she not? Random, ordinary travelers weren’t usually trained to sense a probing mind or defend against it. There was something odd about Evan and his uncle and she was more determined than ever to figure out what it was. 

“Tomorrow then,” She agreed with a small smile before she bid him farewell. If nothing else, this would make good conversation fodder for her next talk with Ophelia.

Chapter Text

Embracing the sorrow-stone’s mind was like dunking her head into the shallows to peer at what lay within. The cold shock of it put a gasp in her lungs. She held her breath, holding fast against the instinct, and forced her eyes open even knowing they would sting. Ophelia’s mind was a morass of timeless hurts. A mire in which she had been petrified, still living, and all her grief had been frozen in time with the whole of her. Immogen was immersed in it, bog as well as sea, and she caught blurry glimpses of who her crystalline companion could have been before she was locked in stone.

A red sky. The smell of the sea. Feelings of loss and love so deeply intertwined that one could not have existed without the other.

Ophelia was more the feelings and blurred memories that slipped between her and Immogen, however, she was a living, conscious being. That fact hadn’t been completely obvious at first. She’d been barely lucid when Immogen found her as a child, talking for hours to the stone as she cupped it in her small hands. Those mundane, one-sided conversations slowly pulled the grief mad being from her daze and, eventually, she’d begun to pitch in a word or two. In those early days, Immogen would catch those scattered glimpses of the life she must have lived in a swarm of sensation that was nearly impossible to parse. Ophelia grew more careful as she regained her wits.

“It was the strangest thing.” The forgotten room that held the sorrow-stone was cleaner now. Immogen had cleaned away the grime that years of neglect had left the cellar with, none of the servants dared trespass therein, and snuck a number of pillows. She lounged on a pile that she laid over a large, oaken table. The detailed carvings on the legs resembled scales as wide as her thumb and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. How had such a beautiful piece been forgotten? How had Ophelia?

“He doesn’t look like nobility so I can’t fathom why he’s been taught to guard himself or by whom.” Her dainty fingers fidgeted with the dimly glowing stone. A facet’s edge pressed to the underside of her thumb and she followed it to the bend to count each side. Five . Warped pentagon flanked by a more amorphous shape. The triangular face came next. “A sorcerer then? A magician?”

It was an idea that stirred unease in Ophelia and the hair on her stood on end in a sympathetic rush of anxiety that’s chased by suspicion.

‘It is not impossible.’ A melancholic tenor fills her mind, echoing off the walls. ‘Be wary then, the mystery is often just as perilous as the truth.’ There was a note to her voice that erred upon the edge of chiding and a faint sense of amusement eddied from her mind to Immogen’s. Never had there been a stone that she could resist turning over. 

“‘Be wary’? So you don’t think I should avoid them altogether for fear of the trouble they might bring me?” ‘I think you will do what your whims demand, regardless of anyone’s sage advice. You are a spiteful little creature when told what you cannot or should not do, magpie.”

Magpie . Immogen was, according to her timeless friend, a ‘talkative little thing’ that never ceased in its squawking. Those complaints were without bite. She could feel Ophelia’s relief whenever she visited the sorrow-stone to fill her in on the day’s events and bring an end to the maddening silence that had once suffocated her. After she’d first used the name, magpie, Immogen had begun bringing trinkets to pile up around the box that held Ophelia within until the clutter forced her to organize the collection. Spiteful little creature . It was true.

They spoke for as long as they could. Immogen’s duties kept her from sitting idle for very long and she would need to put in the time to ensure that her escapades tomorrow would not be interrupted by an unhappy tutor. A promise was given. She would be careful around this ‘Evan’ and his ‘uncle’ as she hunted for the truth of his visit- or as careful as she could bring herself to be.

Ophelia’s mind stuck to her like water. She could feel the drag of it over her arms and the sorrow-stone’s last thoughts stuck to her skin as a myriad of droplets that eventually dispersed as steam. It left her heavy too, as if she’d stood knee-deep in the sea with her dress still on. 

A deep breath helped to dismiss the weight of her heart in her chest. 

It was mid-morning by the time she escaped. Her father was on his way to the docks by then and her uncle had gone with him when Immogen refused to see him off. The frown that Rishart had sent her, so clearly disappointed, made her feel far more guilty than her father’s distant expression as he avoided making eye contact with the both of them. 

That was all he’d ever done . The bitter thought had made her stand a bit straighter even as she faltered. Avoided her- her and Risthart. There was a history between the two men that predated her birth and her mother’s death. All that was left were lingering looks between them that made it clear that they were something once and that it was lost now. She’d watched them leave together for the carriage. She wondered if her mother had been the glue that once kept them together or the force that pushed them apart.

Jeod and Helen’s home felt like a safe haven after that. The tightness behind her eyes lessened as she was guided to the study where Jeod and his guests were currently occupied.

It was, perhaps, not the best time. Evan, Neal, and Jeod all looked up as she rapped her knuckles on the threshold before entering. The two guests were hunkered over a table that was almost completely covered in parchment. Immogen’s brows lifted as the younger of the two, hands smudged with charcoal, flushed with embarrassment- looking as if he’d been caught making a fool of himself.

“Ah, Immogen, I’d had a feeling you’d be stopping by.” Jeod smiled, a wry quirk to his lips, as he took her presence in stride. “Are you here for Helen?” It was a question he already knew the answer to.

“Not today.” Immogen curtsied with the hope that good manners would help to soften any tempers that her imposition might have rankled. “I promised your Evan a tour of the city,” This time she spoke directly to Neal- taking note of the look he sent his nephew.

“Did you now?” He sounded… more amused than annoyed, at least. “I suppose this is as good a time as any for a break.” Now it was Evan's turn to give his uncle a sharp look. It was hard to gauge if he was pleased or upset upon receiving the older man’s permission- hoping for an escape from her or not expecting an escape from whatever task he’d been saddled with. Either way, Neal waved him off. “I trust you’ll keep him out of trouble.” Jeod made a face that she hoped he didn’t see. Out of trouble.  

“I don’t-” Evan began to protest. “Have him back by midday.” Neal interrupted as Immogen opened the door a hair wider. 

With that, she departed with Evan in tow. She wondered if his mood would be soured for the rest of the day but his shoulders began to relax from their petulant hunch by the time that they were back in the sun. His eyes were drawn skyward as she led the way. 

“Did you walk down any of the streets or visit any shops yesterday?” Evan jolted at the sound of her voice. He didn’t seem entirely sure how to act around her- be that because he had little experience with women or because he’d been on the road for some time. Her attire probably didn’t help. Immogen had made sure to select a simpler dress in the hopes that he wouldn’t feel out of place walking beside her, however, there was only so much ‘dressing down’ she could do without buying new clothes entirely. Which felt… excessive- deceitful. 

“I… visited the apothecary next to Jeod’s house.” An uncertain start but a start nonetheless. “The owner is quite the character, have you met her?” Immogen shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard of Miss Angela through a few of my friends- they went for card readings and love potions.” The ‘friends’ were more casual acquaintances. Angela was probably the reason why Leliana had become so obsessed with ‘tea reading’- she went back to the herbalist on a monthly basis now. 

Evan perked up, clearly curious, “Did they work?” Maybe he’d heard mention of something similar during his visit. “Who’s to say?” She shrugged, then smiled. “ I haven’t been invited to any weddings so either I’ve done something to be taken off a guest list or the potions didn’t work as advertised- that might be for the best.”

“Being uninvited or the potions not working?” Her smile turned into a small grin at his question. “Yes.” That earned her a quiet laugh.

The streets began to fill as they walked. Late risers rushed to the market in the hopes of getting their hands on the best of the produce before pickings grew slim. It was a blessing and a curse. Crowds ensured a greater level of anonymity, however, they were also terribly loud and Immogen could already feel her shoulders growing tense. Her tutors had never been understanding of the discomfort. There are worse things. She would just have to bear it.

Immogen glanced over at Evan. He seemed calm, unaffected by the growing number of people on the road. Would he mind?...

Pinching his sleeve, she nodded towards a side street. “Have you ever seen the sea? Visited a coastal city.” When he responded in the negative, Immogen brightened and took hold of his wrist. “Why bother with the city then! Come- Come- I know a shortcut.” Evan sputtered as she began to half-drag, half-guide him down one of the less populated routes towards the western gate. From there, it was easy to see the road that would lead them down to the shipyard, a chaotic sprawl of busy workers, and a road of sand and gravel that eventually split.

Right, they went down the forked road. It had a slight incline that eventually led them to a length of limestone cliffs that overlooked the inlet and the beach that flanked it. Long walk though it was, the view was well worth the effort- especially on days such as this where the sun was warm and the seabreeze was gentle. The morning sun still sent the shadow of the cliff down over the sand and rock below. 

“I’d have taken you down to see the beach properly but it’s too cold this time of year to swim.” Evan had been staring, eyes wide and lips parted as he took it in, when she spoke up. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “This is cold for you?” “In the water? Certainly .” He turned back to the sea, shaking his head even as he smiled.

Taking hold of her skirts, Immogen sat down near the cliff’s edge- far enough back that there was still some sparse grass to cushion them. “You’re from further north then?” The question made him stiffen. There was a moment’s hesitation before he nodded and, though she itched to know more, Immogen bit back further questions. Prying would probably send him running.

“I’ve never left Teirm. Snow is as much a stranger to me as the sea must be to you.” Immogen shifted the conversation, patting the ground in invitation. “That’s… hard to imagine.” He sat, albeit reluctantly, and then stared back out at the glittering waters. 

There was a long pause. She hoped that he was enjoying the scenery and not wishing that he hadn’t agreed to her, the nosy stranger’s, tour. “Did Jeod tell you anything about Teirm’s history?” Immogen watched as he plucked at the grass. Calloused hands. A worker then? A smith or farmer? A miner? He rubbed them on the earth when he noticed the charcoal still clinging to his fingers.

“Neal told me it had a history with pirates- being raided by them anyways.” Evan finally looked at her. He pressed his lips together when he saw her smiling- fighting back his own. “What?” “So he didn’t mention it was founded by them too?” Now, he was invested. He shuffled to face her more fully. “Founded by them?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Immogen smoothed her hands over her dresses, delaying to build up the anticipation, “The Westeirs, that’s Lord Risthart’s family, were founded by a man named Stede. His father was a pirate who called himself Vane the Fury and he-” She went on, embellishing the story that she had been raised on. Family history if you believed the story to be true.

Vane the Fury had invaded the small port city, not yet Teirm, and declared himself its lord- extorting the poor fishers and floundering merchants for what little coin they had. Her uncle claimed that his son, Stede, had been moved by their plight enough to turn against his father. Others claimed it was greed. Either way, Stede had rebelled and that rebellion had failed.

“His father exiled him after burning down half the city to put the fear of his fury back in the people who lived there.” Her voice went low, soft and subdued. “But, ten years later, Stede returned the merchants who had gone into exile with him and a massive galleon that he’d made with his own two hands. It tore through The Fury’s ships. The people rallied with him and, together, they killed the pirates and freed the town.” 

If not for the trouble it would bring her, Immogen would have liked to have taken him to listen to a tavern bard tell the story properly or sing one of the songs. “Then… they began building the walls. Stede died before they were finished but not before naming himself the West Heir .” Evan’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ as he connected the dots. West Heir became Westeir and the small, burnt city became Teirm.

“Is this something that everyone in Teirm just… knows?” Immogen shrugged. Her silent, noncommittal answer was followed by more silence. He fidgeted for a moment. “Are you-” A pause. There was the barest stutter in his question as if he changed his mind midway through it. “-not worried? About staining your dress?”

She looked down at her skirts and the grass that cradled her below and decided not to ask him what it was he’d initially meant to ask. 

“Not particularly, no.”

They departed the cliffs as their shadows began to shrink, the sun reaching its zenith above. Conversation continued at its mild, uncertain pace. Eventually, Evan let it slip that he’d been working to learn his letters when she’d walked in and Immogen was quick to offer her help in his quest. When he’d asked her why , the response he’d been given had startled a short laugh out of him. “I suppose I’m a bit of a bibliophile.” She really had been spending too much time with Jeod.

Immogen was not an uncommon guest at the merchant’s estate, however, she was particularly keen on making an appearance there throughout the week- inviting herself to their daily writing lessons and otherwise making herself useful. It wasn’t an imposition, she’d decided. If they’d decided they didn’t want her there then Jeod or Neal could turn her away. They didn’t.

When not playing the part of teacher’s aid, she became a guide. Once, she coaxed all three men into going riding with her along the coastline before their midday meal. Immogen and Jeod had taken turns pointing out the ships leaving port and making guesses as to which goods they’d be taking where. 

One evening as they sat before a table full of parchment, Evan asked the question that he must have meant to ask on the cliff. “Are you a Westeir?” Are you nobility? Are you doing all of this out of pity? As a game? “Not really.” The answer hadn’t been satisfactory, the smallest furrow formed between his brows, so Immogen continued. “My mother was Lord Risthart’s sister. I didn’t inherit the title.” 

He scratched at the end of the piece of charcoal he held, scattering black dust over the row of ‘w’s that he had been working on. “You could have told me sooner.” Immogen gave him a dry look. “You haven’t been very forthcoming about your own history either- you could be the long lost son of a king for all I know.”

The mysterious young man gave her a small, sheepish smile. “For all you know.” She flicked a piece of paper at him and was surprised to find that she wasn’t actually angry with him for all of his secrecy. Before she left, Evan told her where he’d been born- a small town in Palancar Valley.

He called it Carvahall.

Chapter Text

“You’ve been hard to find this week.” Lord Risthart of Teirm, scion of house Westeir, sat at his desk with his elbows propped on the oaken surface and his posture slouching. She matched his lack of decorum with her own. Immogen slumped in her chair until her knees bent, knocking against the side of the desk, and her dress wrinkled. Doubtless, the dowagers that had devoted years to teaching them proper posture would have been incensed if they saw their charges now. They broke the boundaries set for them by the switch-wielding crones that raised them. Such was their ‘golden rule’. Etiquette wasn’t allowed in any room that lord and niece shared for as long as they shared it- the two made a game of seeing who could make the other laugh first as they sank deeper or hunched further in their chairs. 

It made even her worst days a little better, regardless of if she won or lost. There was less comfort in the game this time. Immogen had secrets for once and the tone of his voice, just a bit too casual to pass for ‘genuinely relaxed’, made it clear that her uncle was prying and that her absence had worried him.

“I’ve been meeting new people- making connections.” A single brow arched up in response to her answer. Below that, was a pair of keen eyes and a wry mouth. “Meeting people? By your own initiative? Uncoerced?” 

She glared at him. “Is that so hard to believe?” Rishart didn’t answer, only smiled- and ducked when the irate teenager took a book from his desk and mimed throwing it at him. “I’m very proactive! It just- It isn’t always tea parties and hawking with members of the court. Sometimes it’s meeting ship captains and merchants while I take a walk near the docks.” 

He hummed. It wasn’t a complete lie. Immogen did spend some of her free hours wandering the shipyard and the market. Her uncle didn’t need to know that her ‘chaperone’ was the strange boy from the village up north or that the rest of her time was spent helping teach him to read. It wasn’t as if Evan and Neal were up to anything nefarious, after all. 

“You’re right, of course, knowing our ships and the men who run them is just as important as being familiar with your peers in the citadel.” Immogen doesn’t quite relax as he concedes the point. It’s a good thing too. The moment that the tension starts to ease from her shoulders, her uncle pulls the rug out from under her again. “I do worry, though. How is Farshore handling docks? Seems a mite bit narrow and crowded for a horse- don’t you think?”

Teirm was a beautiful, shrewd place and it raised up people who were beautiful and shrewd. She should have known better than to lie to the man that had spent the whole of his life maneuvering around sycophants and cheats. Her uncle laughed when she slumped further down, defeated. “Chin up, Jenny,” He grinned, “You’ve won our game for the evening, at least. I’ll give you a reprieve from my ‘fussing’ as a reward for being the funniest young maid in court.” Immogen swatted away his hand when he reached out to pinch her cheeks. Her, already wounded, pride smarted. It was bad enough that he'd caught her in a lie and now he was treating her like a child again. 

A petulant remark about her sixteen winters strained in her throat as she pressed her lips together, keeping it contained. 

There’s a silence that follows that’s more comfortable than the conversation that came before it. Her fingers begin to pick- first as the uneven grain of the old chair where she sat and then at her fingernails. They were already short and ragged from past fidgeting. Over and over, Immogen had been chastised for the nervous tick and no amount of swatted wrists or firm words had ever been able to break her out of the habit. When she chanced a glance at Risthart, she found him watching her with solemn eyes. 

He looked older. His dark hair, the same hair that that she’d inherited from his sister, is streaked with gray at the temples now. Immogen couldn’t remember when the change had started.

“Immogen.” Soft but firm. She sat up straighter, heart suddenly in her throat and pulse quickening. Lord Risthart, for he was Lord Risthart and not Uncle Risthart now, adjusted himself as well- adjusted the papers on his desk in a way that was so clearly meant to delay what he wanted to say. She felt sick. 

“I trust you, Immogen. I trust that you won’t do anything to hurt our family name.” Our family. Cara Westeir might have had a right to carry that name, however, tradition hadn’t let her pass it on to her daughter. Immogen was not born a Westeir even if she lived her whole life with the benefits of one. Her breath caught- shock, understanding, and a third emotion she could not put a name to swelled within her until she knew them as a physical sensation.

Risthart gazed her, searching. It was that understanding he sought, she was sure, and when he inclined his head she was certain that he'd found it. “It wouldn’t have been right for me to offer when you were still a child. I am not your father, and it would have been an insult to officially foster you when you still had a surviving parent.” A cruel thought crossed her mind. Immogen is horrified by it- rejected it immediately- but it still comes to her. Perhaps, it would have been better if she had been orphaned. Esburn, her father, had done everything he could to avoid being her father and her whole life had been spent under the roof of her uncle. She wished he’d adopted her then… but he couldn’t have. That reluctance had less to do with wagging tongues in court and far more to do with the deeply held, terribly fractured bond between the two men that had raised her. 

Immogen startled when he stood and found herself standing too- graceless and with such haste that she nearly knocked over the chair she had been sitting in. The soft click of his shoes as he approached was impossibly loud. A counter beat to the blood roaring in her ears. His hands, when they come to rest on her shoulders, weigh heavy. In her mind’s eye she sees dock workers stooped low from their burdens and she wonders how the sacks of grain and piles of timber compare to this - to a name like Westeir.

“You are sixteen, a woman grown, and no longer your father’s dependent.” The bile filled her again, bitter and resentful. When had he ever been there for her to depend on. “The choice is yours, Immogen… I have bickered with our cousins for these past few months and prepared the paperwork to officially adopt you into our house.”

Lord Risthart looked at her, expectant. She did not need to be told what this would mean for her , what she would become, but she asked regardless. “Would I be?…” There’s a tightness to his face that answered her even before he nodded- before he forced a smile. 

“With no other children in our house’s main line? Yes, you would be the Heir of Westeir - assuming you don’t abdicate or die before you finish signing your name.”

She was certain that that last part was meant to be a jest, however, part of her thought she might drop dead any moment should a fault in her heart give way beneath her racing pulse. Her vision swims. Heir of Westeir . It was what she wanted- it was why she had devoted herself to her studies and to learning all she could about the minutiae of trading in her free time. Risthart had given himself completely to raising a child that was not his own and Immogen had always felt indebted to him for that reason. Their shared blood hadn’t lessened that feeling. 

It had always seemed to her as if the only way to repay him was to be the heir that he needed. She wanted this . Immogen held her breath and blinked the tears away. She wanted this. Lord Risthart would not have to play pretend, secretly miserable, in an unwanted marriage so long as she was there to be his heir. There would be plenty of Westeir cousins, men who were third or fifth in line for her uncle’s seat, that would chafe at the thought of being passed over in favor of her but she would prove herself the best choice.

“Of course, uncle.” Immogen dipped her head, solemn. “It’s what I was raised for, wasn’t it?” The hands on her shoulder turned to arms as her uncle wrapped her in a fierce hug. She felt his beard tickle her forehead and his lips press against her hair and she could hear the tightness in his voice.

“No, Jenny, it really wasn’t.” Knowing that, she let herself cry.

There wasn’t as much paperwork as she thought there would be- a single document to formally adopt her into her mother’s house and change the course of her life forever. It was sealed for storage the moment the ink dried. Later in the week, when her father returned, it would be locked away with the rest of Teirm’s records where it would be safe from tampering and Immogen would have her formal reintroduction as Immogen Westeir . A feast would follow. The court would play lip service and her new house would welcome her. 

Later . The word brought her some relief. Later . Not yet. Later. For now, the only proof of her new name was the scroll in Risthart's study and a broach he gave her with the Westeir sigil engraved upon it with so many flourishes that she could barely distinguish the symbol from the background holding it. Her uncle encouraged her to enjoy the day as she saw fit. Tomorrow she'd be too busy between dress fittings and event planning for leisure. One last day. 

Immogen saw her girlhood dwindling like the final pages of a book. She’d known the end would reach her eventually, however, now that it had become so thin and so clear that it was over it left her feeling both at once heavy and small. The not-quite-girl-not-quite-woman fled the feeling. Perhaps, with what time she had left to be a child, she could continue to play pretend. She returned to the home of the Longshanks- to the strangers- seeking comfort in the familiar as well as the mysterious.

It didn’t take her long to find Evan. For once, he was in the sitting room in lieu of the study and his eyes were on the path from the entryway. Had he been waiting for her? The thought put a smile on her face, however small, that he might have enjoyed her company as much as she had his. The travel-worn youth got to his feet with a slight scramble. There was a moment’s hesitation before he bowed and she had a half second to be mortified by the inherent deference of the gesture. Then, she saw his grin through the scruffy curtain of his unruly locks. 

“Oh you!” The offense in her voice made him glance up and- yes - Evan was grinning and looking more boyish than ever. “Did Jeod tell you to do that? I ought to-” She bent down as if to remove one of her shoes to wield as a cudgel against her conspirators. 

“A lady shouldn’t-” Immogen stopped pretending. Off came the shoe and towards his head it flew. Her victim lifted his hands to ‘protect’ himself even as the shoe sailed so far left of him that it would have had to sprout wings to reach its intended target. 

Now they were both grinning. She limped her way towards a chaise lounge as Evan retrieved her shoe from where it landed. He handed it back without a fuss. Immogen returned the favor by not swatting him when he sat next to her. Nothing was said. His playful greeting was followed by a silence that was heavy with something unspoken- solemn in a way that made her wish she’d continued the game. 

“We’re… leaving tomorrow.” Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Immogen digested what he’d said as she stared at them, calloused from work with a scar on one of his thumbs that she hoped had a mundane source. Leaving tomorrow. It mattered that he’d thought to tell her even if their friendship was a fleeting thing.

 A small comfort. She was surprised by how much the news saddened her- it’d been clear from the start that Evan and Neal were only passing through and the goodbye was inevitable. Perhaps, it had more to do with the coming weeks. Perhaps, she grieved the loss of the distraction more than the company of the boy from Carvahall.

“I see,” She tucked the heel of her foot back into her shoe with a deliberate slowness, “Your ‘business’ in Teirm is done then?” Evan sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing it nervously before he confirmed. Something like a sigh slipped noiselessly from her lips before she nodded. “I won’t ask what it was but… I’m glad you chose to come here for…” 

A quick, small smile was sent her way. “It’s a good place to be.” 

Immogen was stuck. Time wouldn’t be still simply because she has stopped moving but she tries to make the moment last if only so that the impending goodbye will take its time in reaching them. It was Evan who broke them free of those sluggish seconds. He tugged at the cuff of her sleeve, pinching it between his fingers and avoiding skin-to-skin contact in a way that made her want to laugh. “Show me the beach again?”  

She had far fewer reservations. His rough palm pressed into hers as she snatched his hand up to drag him from their shared seat and to the stable.

Evan loved the sky. It was a fact about the odd, young traveler that Immogen had picked up on during their week’s worth of wandering and study. It was one of the few things she knew about him: his name was Evan, he’s from Palancar valley, and his eyes always drifted skyward when they were out in the sun. He gazed at it like a sailor would the sea, with an undisguised longing. His eyes would latch onto birds, little ships in the sky, and she wondered how often he imagined taking wing on the back of one of those distant specks.

She laid in the grass atop the cliff she’d shown him during their first walk around Teirm. The sky above was dotted with clouds. It was an unseasonably warm winter’s day and storms were sure to follow- hopefully the rain wouldn’t hinder his and Neal’s journey too much if it caught them on the road. 

“What would you be doing if you weren’t traveling with your uncle?” Immogen’s question broke the solemn quiet that had settled over the two of them as they stared up at the sea of blue above. She glanced over- sees the slight frown on his face that Evan always has when he’s overthinking what he should, and what he shouldn’t, say. A few blades of grass fall prey to nervous hands.

“I suppose… I’d be in Carvahall with the rest of my family.” My family . She couldn’t help but latch onto certain words and phrases. Immogen’s curiosity had always been her greatest vice and it took all of her meager impulse control to not attempt, once again, to peer into his thoughts. To get the answer of who he was before he left Teirm.

“Your family? Is it large.” “Not particularly, just- me, my uncle, and my cousin.” “Neal’s?” “No.”

Something in his tone makes her stop prying. Short, clipped answers. A heaviness in the air. The cackling cry of a gull draws both of their attentions away from each other.

“It’s mostly just myself and my uncle too,” Immogen offers a piece of herself to make peace, “My father is an admiral of the king’s fleet and is at sea more often than home.” It doesn’t comfort him the way she hopes it might. Evan looks somehow even more on edge now that he’s aware of her father’s place in the military. Cagey about his history. Fearful of the king's soldiers. Were Neal and Evan secretly fugitives? Looking to stow away on one of Jeod’s final ships to escape to Surda?

“No cousins?” The question puts a mischievous grin on her face. “None.” “But your uncle… he’s certainly old enough to?...” Immogen can feel his eyes on her face as she shakes her head, still smiling.

“None, my uncle… he’s a man’s man- so to speak.” Evan's brows pinched. He, very clearly, didn’t understand. “He doesn’t fancy women , Evan, he’s a lover of the sea and the men who sail it.” The shift from confusion to understanding is so sudden and the burst of red across his cheeks is so swift that it reduces her to giggles almost as quickly. 

“He-” Eyes wide, he sputtered and stuttered. “There are men in Teirm who-” She couldn’t help it. The giggle turned to a chortle as Immogen sat up. “I assume it isn’t just Teirm.”

 Grinning down at him, she adopted a teasing tone. “Are there no men in the north who… sword fight?” Impossible as it seemed, his flush deepened further until it was crawling down his neck and coating his ears.

“Don’t say it like that- I’m a sword fighter.” “ Are you now? ” “ Immogen! ” 

Still swept up in her mirth, Immogen patted his arm. “It wouldn’t bother me if you were-” “I’m not. ” “-and it isn’t as uncommon as you might think.” Evan was sitting up now. His arms were crossed, his cheeks were still red, and his mouth had a petulant frown curling down the corners. She had a feeling that his sour expression had more to do with being teased for his ignorance than anything else.

There’s another long pause. It wasn’t an unwelcome one- she had the chance to rein in her giddiness as Evan digested this newest revelation about the world.

“ No cousins then… is that why he raised you?” Immogen shrugged, now it was her turn to pick at the grass by their feet. She thought of what her uncle had said before ‘It really wasn’t’ and she took comfort in the fact that it had been a labor of love rather than the fulfillment of his duty to produce an heir- his own child or not.

“Then your mother…” “I never knew her.” “Another thing we have in common then-” “Did yours die?” “-I’m… not sure. Did yours?” “Yes.”

When she looked at him, Evan was seconds away from apologizing for every small inconvenience he’d ever committed against her and everyone else he had ever known. She just smiled- waved him off. “It isn’t a sore subject.” Immogen pulled her knees up to her chest all the same. There wasn’t any grief in her to spare for a mother that she had never known. Any sorrow she carried was borrowed from her uncle, on days when he looked at her with such grief that she knew he was seeing through her towards someone else. Someone who is gone now.

“Cara Westeir is nothing but a face in a painting to me.” A quiet, smiling face. It and the court’s favorite compliment, ‘ You look just like her ’, haunted her every step through the citadel. Evan’s voice was quiet beside her. “It must be nice- to know what her face looks like, at least.” 

There was a frown on her face as she turned. Why wouldn’t he?... Then, her own ignorance gave way to shame as understanding caught her unawares like a famine at the height of summer. Evan wasn’t the only one who was sheltered. Her privilege wasn’t something that Immogen had reason to think of very often- she was a lady of noble upbringing who spent most of her time with those of a similar status. Poverty was something she experienced at a distance. She saw it in the hard working sailors who went home to their wives with the smell of the sea and offal clinging to their pores. It was a job . A place in Teirm’s ever-turning wheel.

She’d never considered what had and what others had not . Immogen had never thought of boys with dead mothers who would never know the faces of the women who bore them because there was no family painter to make a portrait of her before she was lost to them.

“Evan… I…” Small. The world around her grew and she felt smaller for it. Evan waved her off with a quick, if wan, smile. “It isn’t a sore subject.”

‘I am going to miss him.’ Was all she could think of and for a second she allowed the fantasy of running off to see the world beyond the tiered walls of her home. Then… Immogen set it free. “I’m glad you came to Teirm.” It was the second time she had told him so. She hoped that the repetition of the phrase would make it linger- that he’ll remember he made a stranger’s life just by sharing his time with her.

“I am too. It’s been… almost normal.” What life did he lead to make this week seem ordinary in comparison? Immogen only grinned. “I’ll have to try and become stranger then.”

Later, before they parted ways for the last time, Immogen bought him all manner of treats from the various vendors in the city. They would be seconds from saying their goodbyes and she would remember something he hadn’t tried yet and it would be delayed for another few minutes. Eventually, Immogen ran out of things to share with him. Eventually, the sun ran out of sky- evening had come with its usual rosy hues. Evan had to leave.

“We will walk with you to the citadel.” Jeod’s hand had been on her shoulder as he said this. “I need to retrieve something from my office and it’s far too late in the evening now for a young lady to be walking alone.” If she hadn’t loathed the thought of the coming farewells so much- if she hadn’t been so eager to accept the offer- Immogen might have caught onto the trouble that was brewing. Why would she walk when Farshore was still in Jeod’s stable? Why did the two men who had no business in the merchant apartments need to go with him? What was he retrieving?

However, the questions went unasked. All that was exchanged were well-wishes “ safe travels, be well” as Immogen held herself back from breaking a number of rules in propriety by embracing all three men. They parted. 

The young Lady Westeir walked the last few yards to the estate alone and along the path she thought she saw a massive black cat lurking in the shadows. A second, fruitless glance left her wondering if she had gone mad.

She sleeps and she dreams. When she woke, her cheeks were wet with tears. Immogen cannot remember what the dream had been about- only felt a sensation of loss so complete that it is as if a part of her soul has died. A malaise gripped her. It dragged at her heels and left her slow and sluggish as she went through the motions of her dress fitting. The stiffness that she was left with afterwards, in the wake of so many hours holding still for the seamstress, did little to improve her mood afterwards. 

“-very sorry, sir. Our lady will be quite busy today.” 

A voice reached her ear just as Immogen stepped free of that room. Immogen found herself freezing mid-stride, there was only one ‘lady’ within this estate and she couldn’t fathom who or what would demand her attention that wasn’t already in her schedule.

“I’m afraid it can’t wait.” A man’s voice. There was a clatter- like silverwear clattering together. With each passing second, it grew louder along with the fussing of the maid who was clearly trying to stop him. Plates- armor? Her pulse quickened. The rational part of her mind warred for calm, Immogen had nothing to hide and therefore there was nothing to fear from one of Teirm’s soldiers. Deafening, however, was the fear . It was not just her fear, mouse-like and quiet- it was another’s fear, dangerous as bared teeth and ready for blood. Immogen was not far from the hall that Ophelia haunted. The sorrow-stone’s lonely mind ever-reached for her when she was close enough to be felt by it.

Ophelia could feel her now, it seemed. Ophelia could feel her anxiety and Ophelia responded in kind with a cold, helpless fury that made her want to scramble for the darkest corner she could find for some semblance of sanctuary.

“I only need to ask her a few questions and then- Lady Immogen.” She heard the soldier’s voice behind her as she stepped forward- away- hoping that if he caught her, that he would assume she hadn’t heard him.

‘Come.’ Pressure behind her eyes. His clinking armor summoned the taste of blood to her tongue. 

‘Come, I will shelter you.’

Immogen quickened her step. She could hear her name repeated once again as she opened the door that led down to the long forgotten cellar. Clink. Clink. The clattering was louder, more frantic, as the soldier pursued her. Fear, the frightened animal within her, trembled. Chasing me.

She stumbled down the steps. Skirts gripped in a white-knuckled hand. Chasing me . 

‘Come.’ 

The closer she got to Ophelia’s room, the more it consumed her. Her chest burned as if filled with fire and the world took on a strange contrast. Immogen barely felt the floor below her feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs- sprinted the short distance to the familiar room. 

All the while, the soldier called after her. 

He reached the room just in time to see her tear open the box that held the fist-sized stone. Holding his hands up, he panted. “Easy- easy my lady.” The words were meant to soothe her. A hysterical feeling bubbled in her chest- it sounded like he was trying to coax a horse out of bolting.

His eyes- gray eyes- flick between her face and the stone in her hand. 

“Put the rock down, m’am. I just need to ask you a few questions about those men you were seen with last night.” The men? Jeod and Neal and- Immogen’s mouth went try as she fought to put her harried thoughts in order. Why them? Had something happened? 

Her heart skipped a beat as the man took a small step closer- preparing to wrench or knock the rock from her hands. “ No -” The voice that strains from her mouth was barely recognizable as her own. 

Ophelia was a stone but Immogen is certain that she felt her writhe . Completely mad with her fear and fury- her mind swelled and presseed at the boundaries of her prison- the soldier reached for her- for Immogen- for the living stone-

‘You will not have her.’

Something broke.

A barrier within Immogen shattered just as an alien sensation burst forth from Ophelia. 

Her left palm screamed with agony. Ice and Fire all at once as energy seared itself into her skin and then traveled up the whole of her arm. It summoned emotions not fit the horror of that moment- a memory of a feeling- a memory of a memory of a feeling that belonged to neither Immogen or Ophelia. 

Joy and pride and a blurry white shape on the windowsill.

In that moment he had felt this too.

‘You will not have her.’

Body still searing with pain, Immogen’s vision went black and she knew no more.

Chapter Text

The room was dull before her eyes when she opened them. All was shaped by thin, frail shadows that were born of a flickering sconce. It was similarly muted, dim and red when it should be sun-gold and gilding the room. It was wrong. Everything looked wrong . Everything felt wrong. It took only a moment for her to realize why the world felt so strange to her- what that wrongness was. It was not the too-still soldier at the far wall, slumped as blood trickled from his hair.

Ophelia hissed softly, reality sank in.

The long dead dragon felt the breath tickle her lips after it crawled up her throat. Her lungs deflated. Her heart beat. The darkness-of-flying-above-peaks seeped into the corners of her vision before she finally remembered to inhale once again- her first breath after a century ‘living’ as an eldunarí. Her first breath in borrowed lungs. That thought quickened her already racing heart as she searched herself, body and mind, for the presence of Immogen’s being. She found it quickly.

Immogen was still alive. Her consciousness lay dormant, lost to dream-hollow-slumber at the fringes of Ophelia’s awareness. She feels the girl as she had felt her heart’s-keeper-Rist. Again, however, she feels the wrongness of worlds without and within. There is no ancient pact binding them. Immogen is not her rider. She is a dragon no longer. A parasite. The thought puts bile in her mouth and her revulsion makes the body dry heave.


It is an evil thing that she has done, thoughtlessly binding herself to this child-woman, but there is no helping it now. Ophelia set her gaze upon the dead iron-shelled-soldier that shared the cellar with her. There were more immediate concerns. The dead man would summon more of his kind and with them they would bring questions as well as swords. Immogen could not be here when they came looking, neither of them could be.

Ophelia stood, shakily. Her shoulder muscles bunched as they might have if wings were attached and her back flexed as if to use a non-existent tail as a counterbalance. Arms flailed as she failed to keep her balance upon those thrice damned unfledged-heron-thin-legs- she fell before she took a single step. Sending an apology to the still silent Immogen, she ignored the pain of her bruised elbows and wounded pride.

It was all she could do to keep trying. Rist’s and Immogen’s memories helped to guide her struggle and, while using up precious handfuls of minutes, she managed to walk to the hall. Stumbling like a mead-drunk sailor. Leaning on the wall for balance. There was nothing graceful about her gait or the way she was forced to crawl up the stairs on hands and knees. A hatchling learning to walk . Ophelia growled- jerking when she heard it in Immogen’s voice- felt it rattle in her chest.

It was not a fearsome sound, to be sure. She might have chuckled if not for the terrible consequence that it represented.

In time, Ophelia found the stable. The irony that she, a rider’s dragon, was now seeking out a horse to ride was not lost on her. How she would manage the feat of riding the overgrown-deer-animals that humans favored when walking was such a challenge… was not a question she wished to consider for the moment.

There was no time for it. Only doing, only action , would protect her and her Immogen.

Her neck felt far too short as she turned her head to eye the horses that lined the paddock. It had never occurred to her how close a human’s head was to their shoulders until she tried to slither her, Immogen’s, head forward and found her shoulders swaying forward. The rest of her body followed. She stumbled forward into one of the pillars that marked the wall between two of the stalls- her fingers clawed into the wood.

“Immogen? Are you well?”

The boy . Horse-tender-Greer. In the back of Ophelia’s mind, she felt Immogen stir at the sound of another person’s voice.

“I… Immogen? How about you sit down and I’ll go fetch someone to help you.”

A hand grasped her arm. Try as she might, she could not force this squawking-blunt-toothed-mouth to form words. The action of speaking was far too complex for one who had lived largely mute to master in a moment. There was no amount of memories she borrow from silver-tongued-Rist or clever-word-Immogen that could make her an expert quickly enough to fool anyone.

Greer jerked away as she hissed - half out of frustration and half as a warning. “Did you just-” It seemed doubtful that the stabled-boy would be willing to help her up onto one of the horses. Ophelia jerked her arm to pull him closer and the strength of the action seemed to startle him as much as the hiss had.

In truth, he would probably do as he’d said. He would go get someone in a misguided attempt to help her and, in doing so, doom her and Immogen both. That could not happen . She would not allow it. 

He opened his mouth to say her name- to cry for help- to scream in shock- Ophelia could not know for sure. Whatever sound he had meant to make, however, was cut off with a wet, choking sound as her other hand snapped to his throat. 

As all beings-of-flesh did when facing death, he thrashed. He shoved and kicked. The both of them toppled to the ground in a sprawling mass but her hawk-talon grip did not loosen. The effort hurt almost as much as his flailing limbs did when they collided with her. This body was not made for feats of strength, however, Ophelia’s being forced the power into her soft-from-leisure limbs.

The boy began to grow still- lips turning blue- then-

A sudden panic gripped her. Her heart began to thunder- fear- horror- revulsion- Immogen .

“No!”

Immogen threw herself from the still form of Greer with a panicked sob. What had happened? Where was the soldier? Why and how and who? Ophelia’s presence slithered through her consciousness like a gentle hand through her hair and a snake in the grass all at once. She recoiled from the mental connection.

“What did you do- What-” 

‘What was necessary.’

Immogen wanted to scream. Instead, she scrambled over to her friend and was relieved to see his chest rising and falling. Dark splotches were already beginning to form on his throat from where her hand had squeezed the breath from him.

A shiver ran down her spine at the vague sense of disappointment that drifted to her from across their shared connection. Ophelia would have killed him if she hadn’t woken up. Ophelia would kill him if she granted her a second chance. 

Her arm ached as she lifted it to try and rouse him… when a glimmer caught her eye. Shaking, she turned her hand over to see the smooth, pale stone that was nestled in her palm- the sorrow-stone . Ophelia.

‘I don’t know how it happened.’ She did not regret trying to kill Greer but she did, at least, regret this . The feeling itself was wrapped in so many others. It tangled over itself in a bramble of woe that stung at her consciousness when she reached out to try and make sense of it.

So much. Too much. A hundred old wounds.

A more recent memory was pressed to the forefront of their tethered minds and with it came a sense of urgency. She saw the dead soldier as Ophelia had. She saw the dead soldier and she saw Greer at their feet and she felt the fear that drove her companion to such extremes.

‘We must flee.’ The insistence came with the feeling. It washed over her, swelled up beneath her own fear, and turned it into a terror that urged her to action. They must flee.  

But where?

Ophelia presented her with an image of Farshore. Damnation - He was still at Jeod’s! 

With that in mind, she swiped Greer’s cloak from where he’d tossed it among the saddlery. Immogen donned it as she walked from the stable. The impulse to run was nearly all consuming- it felt to her as if something was at her heels- hungry as it haunted her every step.

It was a wonder that no one stopped her. Not a single guard cared to notice her as she left the Citadel at a practiced amble. No one was bothered by the hasty walk she adopted afterwards or the way she clung to alleys and side streets.

Immogen’s breath caught in her throat. Relief and grief and horror bubbled within her into something like hysteria- she desperately wanted to cry when she reached the stable at Jeod’s house. Farshore knickered at the sight of her. Pleased by her presence. Unaware that everything had changed in an instant. 

“Hello, sweet.” The words wrestled around the knot in her throat as she patted his velvety muzzle. What was she going to do after they fled? It was a thought that haunted her as she saddled the bulky gelding. 

No answers had come to her as she neared the end of her task.

‘Immogen.’ The rumbling, distant thunder of Ophelia’s thoughts reverberated through. She felt something tug within her- an urge to turn her head like the appearance of a too-human shadow in her periphery. Immogen followed the impulse.

And there, perched on the stall door, was a shaggy cat.

‘He can help us.’ Baffled, she stared at the over-large feline. “The cat?” Her early hysteria was stunted, only to return with a quiet, panicked laugh. Were she more angry and less terrified she might have rejected whatever ‘help’ Ophelia thought the cat could offer. As it was, Immogen supposed this may as well happen. 

The cat’s eyes seemed to glimmer with something frighteningly close to amusement as it hopped from its perch. It seemed to beckon to her. It coaxed out of the stable and up the road to the apothecary.

“Are you certain?” Immogen whispered the words as she tethered Farshore to the front of Angela’s shop. ‘Little is certain, magpie, but our hope of escape shrinks with every passing moment. We must take what opportunities are given to us when they are given.’

Feeling rather hopeless after that, she stepped into the shop.

“Solembum what have you-” A woman with a wild mass of curly hair stopped scolding her cat long enough to look at her. The quick, almost bird-like, action had her locks springing about- catching on her lashes and tangling in her fingers as she tried to settle them. This could only be Angela , the fortune teller. 

She flashed Immogen a quick smile. “Well, hello there! I’d offer to pour you some tea but you’ve got me at a poor time. You see-” Angela stopped. Her brow furrowed as she glanced back down at Solembum to meet his strangely insistent gaze. 

That furrowed brow turned into a complete frown. Her lips pursed. A feeling stirred in Immogen as she stared at the older woman’s shifting expression- she had no name for it but it teetered between awkward and impatient. It was the same kind of feeling she had when she saw her father and uncle speaking quietly and she knew that the conversation had something to do with her.

“Should I… go?” She found her voice after a moment. Maybe Ophelia was wrong and they were wasting their time here when they should be running for the hills.

“Oh- of course not,” Angela shook her head… then paused before looking Immogen up and down, “Well… yes actually but that’s the broad yes and not the specific one. You should leave Teirm but you shouldn’t leave my shop just yet.”

She paled, eyes going wide. How had Angela known? What else did Angela know? 

Immogen was considering what she should do next- how she might escape this room- when the feather-light touch of another consciousness touched her own. Curiosity. Amusement . 

Jerking at the feeling, her side collided with a large pot that wobbled precariously at the unintended contact. ‘Peace ,’ Ophelia’s voice rippled through her, ‘He will not harm you.’

He… He? She glanced over at the only ‘him ’ in the room and the tomcat blinked slowly as he met her eyes. Again, she felt the unfamiliar presence and fought against the instinct to close herself off. No ordinary cat’s mind felt like this- none could reach out and touch her thoughts the way that Ophelia could. The discrepancy frightened her.

Immogen tried to imagine the touch of his mind as the touch of a friendly stray’s body upon her legs. 

‘You tremble like a hare in a hawk’s shadow.’ A shiver went down her back. No trick she could play on her mind would make anything that had happened today feel normal. ‘Fear not, little indlvarn, there is no one better to ferret you out of this hole than we.’

It wasn’t until Angela gave Solembum a chiding look that Immogen realized he’d been broadcasting his thoughts to the whole room. 

“You make it seem as if I’m always stealing people from cities- I’m a perfectly legitimate business woman and you’ll ruin my reputation with talk like that.” With that, she bounced her way across the room to gather a few things. “It’s lucky for you that I was already planning on leaving. Having company will complicate things but we’ll make do.” Another toothy grin was sent Immogen’s way and all she could do was stare at her, still reeling from all that had happened that day.

Seemingly recognizing the state of shock that was slowly overtaking Immogen, the herbalist walked over and took her shoulders in both hands. “All will be well, you’ll see. Just give me a moment to-”

Whatever task she’d needed to complete or item she needed to gather was delayed as Immogen burst into tears.

Angela gave her a pair of mismatched gloves, the left one had to be large enough to fit the stone in her palm, and a set of traveling clothes before they left her store. It took time for the older woman to prepare her things. Immogen wondered quietly to herself why she was already planning to leave Teirm but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth puzzling over. Whatever Angela’s reasons, she was thankful.

It was frightening to think of leaving alone.

Roughly an hour passed as Immogen waited beside her horse. She wondered if they had found the soldier yet. Or Greer? No alarms had been sounded and none of the patrolling soldiers had changed their routine in a way that indicated that they might have been called back to the Citadel to investigate. Each crawling second had her pulse quickening. Only a matter of time .

Eventually, Angela returned with a small cart that the two of them loaded with the stock that was too valuable for the herbalist to leave behind and the food that they would need for the first leg of the journey. There was a lot of one sided prattling as they worked. Immogen herself was silent until it was time for them to mount up and make their way out of Teirm.

“I don’t have any money.” 

She wasn’t sure how she could pay her back. She wasn’t sure how she would provide for herself in the days to come. Her skills were that of a noble woman, groomed to take on the governance of a port city. What good would that be away from Teirm?

Angela boosted her onto Farshore’s back before patting her leg. “Money’s no good to me anyhow.” The placid response might have made her laugh on a better day.

They leave the city without incident or fanfare. It takes a force of will to keep from glancing back at the city gates as they begin to shrink. By the time they are small enough to fit on a needlepoint, Immogen thinks she hears a horn blow.

The first few days of travel are a foggy blur. 

She sleeps little. Her nights are haunted by nightmares of war and loss- the smell of fire- the taste of blood in her mouth. Ophelia’s guilt over the night terrors tells her what her stone-bound companion will not: her dreams are not dreams at all but memories. This was something that she lived through. Or, perhaps, what she didn’t live through.

The truth of what Ophelia was comes to her in pieces and with each new piece, Immogen loses a piece of herself. 

First, it's her eye. Immogen sees it in the reflection of a silver mirror that Angela had packed alongside the rest of her belongings. It isn’t her’s. It can’t be. The gilded hazel had been swallowed up by a pool of darkness- a black iris that blots out most of the white. At its center, just barely discernible from the umbral disk, is a slitted pupil that shrinks and sharpens as she stares at it in shock. 

Then, it's her skin. Everything from her palm to her shoulder burns and itches more and more with each passing day and no balm that Angela offers can soothe it. Immogen scratches it till she bleeds and beneath the sores and scabs come pale, glittering scales. The climb their way up to her left cheek- curl around her eye- she has to keep her glove on to keep her now clawed hand from tearing at her face. 

Her hair falls out. It thins and disappears in clumps and Immogen is embarrassed by how bitterly she sobs over the handfuls of dark hair that she clutches to her chest. With everything that had gone wrong, why this? Why is this what breaks her? She remembers the feeling of her uncle brushing a comb through her hair as a girl and she knows .

Immogen will never see him again.

A pale, white fuzz sprouts on her scalp. It grows with unnatural swiftness. Within two days the new hair is long enough that it tickles the new points of her ears. Immogen stares at the strange girl in the mirror and then looks down at her mismatched hands, one clawed and scaled and the other blessedly ordinary.

“You were a dragon.” 

It is understanding. It is an accusation. Her body changed to fit the second soul bound to and it did so without any say on her part. She should hate Ophelia for this. 

She can’t. Neither of them had wanted this.

‘I was a dragon.’