Chapter Text
Imogen rushed along the narrow street, propelled by a vague memory and desperation. She was sweating, her hair disheveled. Wear and tear and dust from the road lodged in the fine fibre matrix of her dress. She frantically wove between groups of people on the street, searching for that nondescript sign, the plain wooden door with unmarked windows.
The press of other people’s thoughts was constant and she caught snippets as she tore through the streets of Jrusar. But they didn’t bother her like they used to. It was so much easier to drown all of it out when she focused on the memory of her music, when the guilt and the shame of not being able to save her, not being able to protect her, left nowhere for the trivialities of others to linger. They just flowed through. She couldn’t stop them, didn’t have the willpower or the reason to build her walls up much anymore.
They didn’t compare to the maelstrom of her loss – couldn’t hold a candle to the fiery vortex of grief that consumed her.
She turned down a skinny alleyway, boots crunching quietly against the well-trodden dirt path. Finally, she could see it, just a few storefronts down. She broke into a sprint, slammed through the door. Her brow was dappled with sweat and it dripped down, soaking into her scarf. Her jaw ached from the tension she’d held for weeks now.
There were only three people in the café when she entered and two of them looked up, startled by her abrupt appearance. The woman on her own at a table didn’t seem to notice her at all, head too deep into her book. She ignored them, walked right up to the counter.
“Please,” she said, already begging. “I need to go back – I need to tell her – you can help, right?”
The woman at the counter stepped back as realisation cleared her questioning look, as she figured out what Imogen so earnestly, cryptically requested.
“I’m Kazu,” the woman said, in a practiced neutral tone. “It is not easy to get there and even harder to come back,” she warned, but there was a softness in her eyes, like she’s seen people as broken as Imogen before, asking for the same thing.
“I’ll do anything,” Imogen promised, would sign on any dotted line on any contract without even reading it first so long as she could see her again.
Kazu looked her up and down and then nodded. “Let’s have a chat first,” she said and pointed Imogen towards the bar stool to her right, beside the other customer openly gawking at her.
“I–” Imogen’s reluctance was palpable, her reticence to lose any time to mundane conversation abundantly clear. Kazu smiled, just a little sadly, knowingly.
“The opportunity to do anything today has passed. Tomorrow is the earliest,” Kazu explained gently. “And there are rules.”
Imogen deflated, sagged against the counter at the thought of having to wait one more day. But she slid into the seat anyway, after another prod from Kazu.
Once Imogen was seated, Kazu disappeared into the back. When she reappeared, she held a steaming mug carefully in both hands.
“This tea is on the house, but any future items will go on your bill,” Kazu said, placing the mug carefully in front of Imogen. The aroma hit Imogen instantly, the steam cradling her face with earthy tones, ginger, allspice, a little clove. It reminded her of an embrace she wanted to feel again. Soon.
The tears flowed out, unbidden, before she could take a sip. She had thought, hoped, that she’d be all cried out by now, didn’t understand how she could possibly have anything left to give. Kazu drifted over to the other woman at the bar and they spoke in a hushed tone for a moment. Imogen couldn’t make out the words and wasn’t bothered enough to try prying, but not-Kazu finally nodded, got up, and left.
Now it was just Imogen, Kazu, and the lady at the table. Kazu came back and stood in front of Imogen, the warm, wooden coffee bar between them.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about what’s brought you here?” She prompted, then seemed to think better of it. “If you want to. If you don’t, that’s fine, too, I can just tell you the rules and you can decide if you want to wait, or come back, or what.”
Imogen swallowed, wrapped her hands around the cup and stared into the depths of the liquid there. She took a deep breath.
“I lost someone,” Imogen started and paused, unable to swallow past the sudden boulder in her throat. Her chest clenched, all the muscles tightening, squeezing, making it hard to breathe. Her hands gripped the cup so tightly. Her knuckles whitened as the fingers flexed and they went numb. She couldn’t look away from the tea.
“I couldn’t save someone,” she amended. The feeling comes back into her fingers with the admission, the responsibility she’s owning.
“I came here once, actually, with her.” She didn’t consciously decide to tell Kazu about it, but the words flowed out of her and she didn’t want to stop them. “We sat in the corner by the window. She ordered an iced tea with fresh berries in it. I had some sort of coffee, I dunno, it doesn’t matter. It was empty, that’s why we came in. I’d been brewing a pretty bad headache and she thought ducking in here for a minute would help until we could get home.”
She traced the lip of the mug with her index finger.
“It was good. Sunny. It came in through the window and lit her face up with such warm golden yellows. She looked full of life.”
Not like the last time she’d seen her. Paler than she’d ever witnessed, skin limp, ichor leaking in delicate trickles from her nail beds. Any slight purpling under her skin leached away as the pool of ichor spread below her.
Her breath changed to gasps and starts, ears echoing with the sickening squelch of Otohan’s blade leaving a hole in that marbled chest, the heavy dripping of blackness to the dirt. Her head felt light as she moved her hands to grip the counter instead of the cup.
Kazu looked alarmed, Imogen could just barely register that. But she didn’t look frightened, she reached out her hands, placed them atop Imogen’s, and got right in Imogen’s face.
“Breathe,” she commanded. And it didn’t sound anything like her, not really. It didn’t have her accent, or the elongated vowels, didn’t have that airy and whimsical quality.
But it felt like her, it was something she’d say, and Imogen breathed, regained mastery over her lungs slowly and stutteringly.
It had been months and it still felt as raw as if it had been yesterday. It still felt like if she tried harder, tried something else, anything else, if she could go back and give in sooner, then maybe, maybe she’d still be alive.
“Anyway,” Imogen said, voice much rougher and lower and haggard. “She enjoyed it, all the people-watching and the quiet. She wanted to come back sometime. I promised her we would.”
Made a lot of promises she wouldn’t be able to keep. Had a lot of dreams she’d never see come true. She was thankful for the small mercy that she’d never said them aloud, never said them to her just to have them all slip through her grasping fingers.
“Couldn’t save her,” Imogen repeated, sounding miserable and angry and sad and lost.
Kazu was still observing her carefully. “I know that it’s expensive and I know that divine magic is a little ruined right now,” she said softly, “but there are ways to bring her back.”
Imogen closed her eyes and the tears streamed quickly down her cheeks. “I tried,” she whispered. She braced her elbows against the counter and took her face in her hands. “I failed at that, too.”
It had been one of the first plans the Hells had thought of, once Orym and Fearne were back with them. Once it was just her, lying there, broken and still, face blank and unnerving.
She’d come back before, she could do it again. She had to. Delilah would make sure of it, right?
She’d been so sure it would work.
They’d fought that Whitestone asshole for just the chance to try, had battled their way through a hellscape of her trauma just for the chance to save her, to bring her back without that bitch haunting her bloodless veins.
She’d knelt on the cold stone floor of that gnome’s house, cradling her head in her lap, gently combing her fingers through her hair. Orym had volunteered to go first, which had surprised Imogen, if she was being honest. She hadn’t really thought that he cared that much about her, truth be told. It had been short, a bit sweet, and the poppies were beautiful.
It hadn’t surprised her as much as FCG rolling in next had. Pike – was that her name? – had said only three offerings could be made, only three were needed, and that was two of their chances – two of her chances gone.
She had tried to put aside her fear that she wouldn’t get to say her piece, that she wasn’t the right person for this hugely important role. Had jumped in for the last slot before anyone else could take her rightful place from her. She had been crying, still, but she’d gotten the words out anyway. Had forced them out, at times, through quivering lips and gritted teeth and aching jaw.
She had leaned down, pressed her forehead against hers and whispered her offering into her white streak of hair.
“You know you saved my life, right?” She had let out one airy, hollow chuckle, breathed in the sweet leafy scent of her hair. “If you hadn’t come into town when you did, I don’t know how long I would’ve lasted.”
Nothing had been getting better. Everyone in Gelvaan had been thinking, for a long time if Imogen’s frank about it, that everyone, including Imogen, would be better off if she died. As time went on, she found it harder and harder to come up with reasons to live. She’d finally caught her dad thinking it. It was an errant thought, he didn’t mean it, not really, but a part of him wondered and that buried the last lick of hope inside of her. That had been about a week before her life changed – a week before she found someone an awful lot like a ghost in the edges of the woods.
“These last few years have been everything,” she had stressed against those familiar, black strands of hair.
The guilt had reared up in her again. “And through it all – through all the laughter and all the hardships, she was with you.” Imogen wasn’t able to stop sniffling. “She was choking you.”
All over again, she wanted to tear Delilah Briarwood limb from limb, wanted to dismantle her into pieces, strip the flesh away from her bones, and give them to the woman in her lap so she could keep making those miserable, horrible things into beautiful works of art. Take the pain and make it into joy.
Gods, she wanted her to come back more than anything. More than anything, except maybe the value of her choices. She should always get – should always have gotten – choices. But she could try to make it easier for her to come back, to return to Imogen, to take up Imogen’s hand and Pâté’s strings once more
“If you come back,” and she’d had to take a second to try and calm her heart, to try and catch her breath. “I don’t know how you’re going to feel. I don’t know if you’ll feel free, or if you’ll feel empty,” she had choked back more tears, more snot.
“But I want you to know – whatever… whatever hole she’s leavin’? I’ll be there to help fill it, alright?”
She had placed a tender, gentle kiss on that cool forehead, felt her lips brush skin that should’ve been just a touch warmer, hardly noticeable to anyone but Imogen. “I’ll be there for you.” She sniffled again.
She’d thought of FCG again, then, and how he’d tried to force her. “I’m not gonna tell you to come back. I’m not gonna try to compel you to come back, because that choice, Laudna, is yours.” Her name felt foreign on her tongue after so many days, after so much time not talking to her or holding her, not escaping into her.
“No one gets to control you anymore, alright?” Imogen had promised, the weight of it settling in the spaces between her ribs, tears splattering against her cheeks. “Just know that I love you and I’m here.”
Had she ever told her she loved her? Had she read it in every handhold, in every smile, in every respite granted on a crowded day? Had she ever said it aloud before now?
She’d unclipped Pâté from her belt and placed him gently on her chest. She’d closed her eyes, hoped, wished, prayed that she would open hers, that the music would come back into her life. She’d listened for it, strained to hear a single note stutter into her open mind.
They’d waited. Pike had asked about her breathing habits and Imogen felt that seed of hope flare. But then Pike had slapped her and Imogen got angry, indignant, protested the action like she’d been slapped herself.
“Wait,” Pike had said softly, staring intently at the chest of the woman Imogen cradled in her lap. They’d watched with bated breath.
And nothing happened.
They’d waited a little longer, she felt them all trading looks with each other, could read the undercurrent of worry in their heads about how they were going to deal with her, with Imogen. She didn’t want to listen in on each of them giving up on her, one by one.
She wanted to ask, but feared the answer. She had to know. “Did it work?” She’d looked to Pike.
Gravely, it was Vex who answered, not Pike. Not Pike, whose eyes were also brimming with tears, who looked down forlornly at the body on the ground, in Imogen’s lap, at the body which was still just a body and not the most important person in Imogen’s life.
Vex, who Imogen couldn’t bear to look up at, couldn’t bear to see the resemblance or the pity or the truth. “She should have woken by now, if it had.”
And oh, how she wished FCG had never volunteered. Her blood boiled as she remembered her fury at that moment, at his choice. Didn’t want to remember the way she’d unleashed it at him, at them, afterwards. Tried not to remember the justified anger mixing with the lashings of hurt and rage and inadequacy from deep within her breast. The way she’d surveyed what she’d done and did the first thing she thought of, the only thing that made sense, with her friends calling after her even as they stumbled to their knees from the force of the storm that enveloped her, capturing them in her radius.
She’d run.
“Drink,” Kazu suggested, once Imogen seemed ready to hear anything outside of her own head. The server gestured at the cup before her, the steam barely visible anymore.
She did. It was spiced and comforting, almost soothing, if she didn’t think about how much she would have loved it. If she didn’t think about how it smelled like her.
Seemingly satisfied, Kazu said, “You should know the rules, before you decide if this is the path you want to tread.”
“I’ll follow whatever rules you need,” Imogen swore at once.
“Wait,” Kazu cautioned. “Then decide.”
Imogen nodded. She caught just enough to tell the flavour of Kazu’s thoughts. The tone wasn’t angry or bitter, but they held a through-note of resignation, of a faint melancholia.
“The first rule is easy. You can only meet with someone who has visited here before and it sounds like she has.”
“Yeah.”
Kazu inclined her head before continuing. “The second rule is often the hardest to accept,” she paused. “While you will be able to go back in time, nothing will change. The present has already been written.”
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “But –”
“She will not be here afterwards. Even if you try to tell her the future so she can change her own fate, it won’t matter.” Kazu straightened her posture and her face turned even more serious. “You will return here and you will be alone.” The words were said gently, but they were firm, and they hurt, clawing deeply into her chest as Imogen processed them.
“So what’s the point?” She asked, hoarse and disappointed.
“That’s really up to you.”
Imogen thought about it. She’d hoped she could change things, but if not, even if she could just see her again, just talk to her again. That would be worth it.
“But I’ll see her? I can talk to her?”
Kazu nodded.
“Okay,” Imogen said, less than a whisper.
“Only one seat will take you back in time, and before I tell you which one it is, the seat cannot be taken by force. You must wait until the time is right.”
Imogen looked at Kazu blankly. “Okay?”
Kazu nodded at the only other woman in the place. She was still focused on her book and sipping a coffee. “Her seat is the only one. She goes to the bathroom once per day. During that time, you can sit there instead.”
“She’s just here all the time?”
“She’s a ghost. The bathroom trip is the only window. It could happen at any point in a 24-hour period. There’s no schedule, no rhyme or reason. You just need to be watching.”
“Don’t y’all close?” Her heart thudded, too fast, wasn’t the slow, persistent beating she ached for.
Kazu shrugged. “If you’re waiting for the seat, you can stay while we’re closed.”
“And that’s the third rule?” Imogen asked.
“No, the rule is that once you get to the past, you cannot move from that chair. Moving from the chair brings you back in a highly unpleasant way.”
Imogen’s half-spun dreams of hugs, of getting on her knees, of sitting in her lap, of crawling into her skin and burrowing into her chest fall apart around her.
Warily, she asked, “Is that all of them?”
Kazu shook her head. “There is one more. You have a time limit. You sit in that chair and I pour you a cup of coffee. The amount of time you get in the past is the amount of time it takes for that coffee to go cold. You have to finish drinking it before it does, otherwise you don’t come back.”
Imogen’s brows raised, perking up visibly. Kazu frowned, reading her clearly. “So I could just stay there? In the past?”
Almost violently, Kazu snapped, “No!” Then she collected herself. “No, if you don’t finish the coffee in time… well,” Kazu gestured at the woman again. “She was the last one who failed to return.”
“I’d become the ghost?” Imogen paled. Being trapped in that woman’s endless loop was nowhere near as enticing as being trapped here, in the past, with her.
Nodding, Kazu said, “It’s imperative you return on time.”
“How do I know when the coffee’s getting cold?”
“Hard to say. You drink some, though, I’d guess,” Kazu shrugged.
Imogen considered the rules for barely a minute. “Okay, I understand your rules. I still need to do it.”
Kazu nodded, like she expected nothing else. “Very well.” She stood there a moment, examining Imogen’s face, calculating something. A shadow passed across her irises and then she sighed, “I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared into the back and returned with something in her hand, metallic, protruding from her closed fist. It was a thin silver cylinder, maybe ten centimetres in length.
“This is an alarm,” Kazu said. “It will help remind you to drink the coffee. Once you hear it, finish it. You’ll almost be out of time.”
Imogen furrowed her brow. “You have an alarm and you don’t give it to everybody?” She didn’t try to keep the judgment from her voice.
Kazu shook her head. “We can’t give it to everyone, it only works so often. We have to save it for those visiting their dead loved ones.” She gave Imogen a tight smile. “We save it for those who are least likely to return.”
Imogen looked over at the woman. “She just went, you said?”
“Yes, a couple of hours ago. It won’t happen until midnight at least, when the clock resets.”
A settled sort of acceptance washed over Imogen’s face. “Alright. And I can come back before you close and stay?”
Again, Kazu nodded. “We close at nine.”
“Okay,” Imogen said, and it wasn’t clear if she was talking to Kazu or just to herself. “I’ll be back.”
She left the rest of the tea in the mug and headed out the door. It’s not that she had anywhere to be. Couldn’t bear the thought of going to visit Zhudanna, of having to tell her what had happened. Her feet took her in the direction of the Windowed Wall anyway.
Instead of Zhudanna’s, she headed for the Vertical Gardens.
On quieter days, back when they’d stayed here together, this place had been a favourite. They’d shared lunches here, on a tattered blanket heldover from their rambling days. She’d been pulled into lying down and cloud watching on more than one occasion by cool, slim fingers and a bubbly smile, sharp canines and big black eyes. She’d held a hand like marble as a voice full of hope described the owl swooping down to capture a mouse in the wisps above them.
She longed to hold it again, hear that voice again, feel that sluggish heartbeat thud under the warm skin of her fingertips. She wanted to draw that beautiful, rare purple hue to the surface, watch it grace the tops of fine cheekbones, and brush fine black hair from a smooth forehead.
The little gate was ajar and she saw a flash of pale, ichor-stained fingers pulling her through by the wrist. The cool touch shivered through her as she stepped through, unaided, and saw a scene largely unchanged. She followed their usual path, down the left of the fork into the trees with the draping branches, providing a curtain from prying eyes and loud minds.
A familiar bench, with rusty flowery vines etched into the metal frame, stood lonely and empty, hidden behind the leaves. The gentle breeze ruffled the skirt of her dress and the wind against her bare calf shunted her back to a few months ago.
There was someone, somewhere in the garden playing a rather chipper tune on a pan flute or some other wind instrument. It hadn’t really registered in Imogen’s mind, too taken up with the gentle swaying of the cellos from her best friend’s thoughts to notice, until her tune started changing to match it.
She had that starry, kind of twinkling look in her eyes, cheekbones higher than usual with her smile widening. She got to her feet, turned back to Imogen and held her hand out so Imogen could take it.
“Darling, will you dance with me?”
Imogen was pleasantly startled by that warm voice like caramel, had been so focused on the melody, on the feeling of comfort and home that it took her by surprise. Added to the fact that she asked for something so clearly, so openly? Imogen was nodding before she fully processed the request.
Dancing wasn’t Imogen’s favourite pastime by any stretch of the imagination and it’s not like she’d gotten a lot of practice. It needed a partner, it needed a head empty of the judgments of everyone around her, and it needed a certain level of bodily coordination. She felt awkward and bumbling, like a dumbass, on the rare occasions that it came up.
But with her smiling at Imogen like that, saying no wasn’t an option. Those bony fingers pulled her up from the bench and there was such youthful joy on that face frozen in time that Imogen smiled, too. Let her hands place Imogen’s over sharp shoulders and around the back of her neck. Felt her place her own hands on Imogen’s waist reassuringly and squeeze comfortingly at the soft skin there.
The music twined together in Imogen’s head, the cello morphing as the flute led. In Imogen’s arms, she started swaying. Something easy and gentle so Imogen could follow along. She leaned forward to rest her head against Imogen’s shoulder and it felt, suddenly, like taking a breath would break the spell of the moment. So Imogen held fast, losing herself in the fresh, grassy scent of the garden, the sweetness of decay beginning to set in.
Imogen closed her eyes, still swaying, trying to hold onto this moment forever. Because everything was easier when she was with her. And Imogen allowed herself to think, briefly, of a future with bright, clear skies and these hands on her waist in a little house. Nothing overly grand, nothing too close to a city or a town. Something close enough to the woods with lots of critters that could eventually be made into art or friends.
And then she needed to breathe and she was gasping and there were worried hands darting all over her, that precious voice asking, “Dear, what’s wrong? Darling? Are you okay?”
Imogen never felt more love than in that moment, had never felt such hope or optimism or bright yearning for a future, let alone a future with someone else.
“I’m fine,” Imogen said, voice thick with something that felt a lot like love. “Got a little too lost in my thoughts,” she explained sheepishly. Imogen grabbed her hands again, tried to put them back. “Keep dancing with me?”
And they did, once enough reassurances were made. Warm hands around her neck, cool hands around Imogen’s waist.
If only it could have lasted forever.
The bench was cold and dull, but Imogen sat on it anyway.
There was no flute today. No music. No dancing. But Imogen managed to lose herself there for a while anyway, chasing the memories of breathy laughs and a poor Cockney accent coming out of a rat-bird puppet. Lingering, shy, and hopeful touches. Imogen pushed the thought away, shaking. It was a dangerous thought, the misremembered fantasies of a broken heart, nothing more.
When she had her fill of fresh air, she got up from the bench. Her knees and hips gave little pops as she rose and she turned on instinct, looking for the undead source before she realised she’d fooled herself once more.
The walk back to the café was dull. She moved on autopilot now, her mind too busy pointing out all of the absences, all of her missing pieces. No hand held in hers, no one pointing out the weird little shops others avoided, no getting pulled by the wrist to a stall to admire some weird and beautiful thing.
Like she didn’t already have the most weird and beautiful thing holding her hand. Or she used to.
Kazu was still there when Imogen stepped back inside the café. She nodded at her from behind the counter, but Imogen barely caught it, already checking for the ghost in the chair. The woman was still there, reading. It was hard to tell if she’d made any progress in her book lying open on the table beside a recently refreshed coffee, steam snaking upward.
Imogen slid onto the bench at the table next to the ghost. Kazu came over, sliding out from behind the counter.
“Did you want to order anything?”
Imogen held her hands in her lap, massaging from the palm down each finger. Like Imogen used to do for her on days where her body didn’t work quite like it was supposed to.
Staring down the barrel of yet another long, sleepless night ahead of her, a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt. “Maybe a coffee, please?”
Kazu nodded and went back behind the counter, bustling around.
There were still several hours, according to Kazu, before she needed to be ready to swoop into the chair. Imogen leaned against the back of the bench, letting her shoulders slump. Even these couple of months later, she found it difficult to rest, let alone sleep. She didn’t deserve a break, shouldn’t be allowed to pause. This wasn’t going to be the solution she’d hoped for, but at least she’d get to see her. Talk to her. Maybe even touch her. A held hand or a hug for the road. But there had to be something else she could do, there had to be another way to save her even if everyone else had given up.
She’d already wasted precious time in the aftermath of her failure to bring her back.
By the time the adrenaline and the fear and the anguish dissipated just enough for Imogen to take in her surroundings, all she could see were trees. Her heart pounded in her chest, she could feel it in her ear canals. She gasped, struggled for breath and all that sound did was remind her of another’s choking gasps as a blade emerged from her gaunt chest.
“No no no no no,” she whimpered, she pleaded, just in case this forest was known for miracles.
She wasn’t sure where she was. She could guess, of course. She couldn’t be that far from Whitestone and she’d heard several stories about the Parchwood. They’d been told in wandering narratives, with little asides as new details were remembered, and grand gestures from arms with torn sleeves and ripped hems. Tales about centaurs and werewolves, though the storyteller had never seen them at the edges of the woods, had never seen them from her family home’s front porch or farmland.
The air was brisk, but crisp, tinged with the scent of the pines all around her. It had been one of her favourite scents, told to Imogen over a low campfire somewhere between Gelvaan and Jrusar.
She let herself go numb in the woods, in the branches of a dying tree.
That’s where she was found, she’s not sure how many days later.
“She’s over here!” FCG shouted out and Imogen heard a wheel rolling over branches as they approached.
“Imogen? Imogen, are you okay?” FCG looked up and found her in the limbs. “Are you stuck?”
“Leave me alone, Letters,” Imogen called down to them.
The others quickly caught up with the automaton. They all started speaking at once, talking over each other, and after however long Imogen had been in the woods alone, the sudden influx of argument and thoughts brought on a headache.
“Go away,” Imogen yelled at them all, slumping further into the branches around her.
“Imogen? Honey? Can I come up there?” Fearne took advantage of the group’s sudden silence.
“No.”
“We’re not gonna just fucking leave you here,” Ashton chimed in and Imogen heard Orym gently suggest that maybe that wasn’t the way to go about this.
Imogen closed her eyes and willed them to leave.
When she opened them again, the concerned eyes of Orym looked back at her.
“Hey,” he said softly. She stared at him. He was where she should be instead, at her side, checking in on her.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay, because I know you’re not.”
She pulled her arms closer around herself.
“What can we do?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head violently.
“Okay,” he said and the patronising tone she heard in it opened the floodgates that had been holding back her pain and vitriol.
“You wanna help, Orym?” The edge of her voice was keen as a freshly sharpened blade.
He looked sad, like he knew what was coming for him, but he nodded anyway.
“Bring. Her. Back.” Each word punctuated with anger, intended to harm without regard for who fell victim.
At a future point in time, Imogen would eventually realise that he didn’t deserve her ire, none of them did. But at that moment, it was all she had. Her heart had been ripped from her chest, the muscle, the sinew, the bones weren’t enough to keep it contained, keep her safe.
“I want to,” Orym finally answered in a whisper and when Imogen actually looked at him, he had tears in his eyes and his jaw was locked tightly. “If I could, I would,” he promised her. “In a heartbeat.”
She hated hearing the pity in his thoughts, the way he thought he saw himself in her after he’d lost Will. She hated being reduced to someone who used to be part of something more. Hated the way in the back of his mind there were threads of a conversation weaving through.
The group had already discussed what to do. With her. With Imogen. The Lady of Whitestone had already agreed to give her a proper funeral with a proper burial. A nice stone with a commemorative epitaph. They’d left her with the de Rolos.
“I’ll find a way,” Imogen promised, to Orym, to her, to whoever was listening.
“Imogen,” his voice broke partway through her name. “I know it’s hard–”
And her fury broke to match him. “You have no idea!” she yelled. His face hardened and she could hear the mantra repeating in his head, could see how he tried not to lose his cool, his empathy. She doesn’t mean it. She knows I know better than most.
Except Imogen didn’t care, wanted to see him hurt, like she did, wanted to make sure someone else was in pain because of how much she ached, how much she suffered, how everything throbbed and stung and burned. “I do mean it, Orym.” Words spoken low and deadly.
“If you’re not gonna help me, then leave me alone.”
She saw the exact moment he gave up. He wanted to give up, to stop trying with her. But he felt bad, felt bad that she was hurting so much, felt bad that he was alive and that meant that she wasn’t. But he was also tired and he was stressed and he had some grief, too, even if it didn’t stack up at all to the oceans of her own.
They’d already hatched a plan, without her. She knew what they would pick.
“We’re gonna stick around for another day,” he said, not looking at her, but looking down through the boughs at the figures of their friends a little ways off. Fearne was pacing and it looked like both Chetney and Ashton were taking turns trying to calm her down.
“– attend the funeral and then we’ve got to go check on Eshteross.”
It didn’t matter that she’d missed the beginning. “No funeral. She’s not staying dead.”
“Imogen–”
“Just go, Orym, and take them with you.”
And he did. She didn’t even have to use her Telekinesis to remove him from the tree, he just took a last long look at her and scrambled down on his own.
She watched as he told the group, as Chetney and Ashton each took hold of Fearne’s arms when she tried to get past them, tried to move towards Imogen. Called out for her. Her mind was so loud, even at this distance, that Imogen could hear her pain, her guilt.
Imogen had a sudden intrusive desire to pry deeply into Fearne’s head, to confirm one way or another whether it was her or the Changebringer to blame for the choice, the death that stayed dead.
She had almost given in to the urge to press below the surface, to rip the truth out, when they finally hauled Fearne far enough away that even Imogen’s mental tendrils couldn’t get her anymore.
It was hard to tell if she was relieved or regretful about missing the chance.
She didn’t know if she would ever see them again.
Kazu set down a cup of coffee in front of her with a little bow of her head.
“Thanks,” Imogen said.
“I’ll start your tab,” Kazu said and slipped back behind the counter. Imogen watched for a couple of minutes as she started cleaning equipment and wiping down the bar.
The coffee was good. It was strong, but roasty, a little bit sweet. Her stomach grumbled once the coffee slid down her throat, like it was reminded of what it was like to have sustenance in it.
“Hey, Kazu?” Imogen asked. Kazu looked up and cocked her head to one side.
“Yes?”
“I don’t suppose y’all have any food left? Literally anything, a sandwich, a muffin, a handful of raisins?”
“Yes, we do. We’re pretty well-stocked. When did you last eat?” Kazu asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
Imogen tried to think back. “Um, yesterday? Maybe?”
Kazu shook her head. “I will bring you something, just give me a moment, please.”
Imogen nodded as Kazu turned away. “Of course, yeah.” Imogen let out a relieved breath. “Oh, um, no nuts in anything though, please. I’m allergic.” She didn’t usually have to remember that part. Usually… well, someone else usually remembered it for her.
“Good to know, thank you. I’ll make sure we don’t accidentally kill you.”
And it’s not like Kazu would’ve known that was the wrong thing to say. There was no way Kazu could have known that a path to reuniting which stank of roasted hazelnuts or tasted like brine and darkness had been crossing Imogen’s mind more and more often. With all of these gods around, there was some sort of afterlife. If Imogen couldn’t fix this on the mortal plane, well, maybe she was the one who needed to try something else.
She’d considered it early on, when the dirt on the grave was still fresh despite the snowdrops and poppies covering the mound. It would’ve been a whole hell of a lot easier to just lie down with her than to keep running herself ragged in the woods of Whitestone, trying to think of a plan that would fix this.
She quickly came to the same conclusion in that café that she’d come to heaped atop the soft young grass and white and red blossoms: this wasn’t about Imogen, it was about what she deserved. And what she deserved was to live a life that was full and her own.
So Imogen had to find a way to bring her back, to make that happen, to find a home for them somewhere it didn’t get too cold and fill cabinets with thread and bones and feathers. She couldn’t just take the easy way out. Even though some nights, without the comforting weight on the other side of whatever makeshift bed, without the warming touch of a cool embrace, she wanted it more than anything.
She’d watched the plants take over the grave. Marked their progress every night when she haunted the place. It helped Imogen feel closer to her, existing in Whitestone like a ghost. Someone at the castle had caught on or spotted her, though, because she started finding offerings left for the living: rations, pastries, a few pieces of fruit.
It wouldn’t be until later, after a Sending from FCG that Eshteross was gone, too – a message she hadn’t needed since she’d watched him walk into the storm during one of her brief, fatigue-induced naps – that she’d spied the note left tucked under the plate.
Imogen,
Just the sight of her name in a spidery script was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes.
I cannot begin to try and understand your loss. I am so sorry that Laudna was taken from you, that we could not bring her back. Your friends are in touch with us and asked me to let you know that they await you, whenever you’re ready. I expressed that it would not be surprising if it took a long time before you were ready, if you ever would be.
You are welcome back at the castle, if you ever want to return, or if you need anything from me. However, I don’t expect to see you anytime soon. If you need a place to recuperate, to mourn, to grieve – to fall apart – I have a hunting cabin that might suit you better than the wilds of the Parchwood. At the very least, it will be much safer and put my mind at ease that a zombie giant will not be hunting you for sport.
Take the east path out from the Greyfield. After about a half-mile you’ll come to a bit of a fork, one trail leading down and one leading up. Take the one going up. When you see a large tree stump, almost as tall as you are, turn south. It’ll be a few minutes, but you should stumble onto a log cabin. The door is unlocked. There are fresh clothes, food, and bathing supplies. Make yourself at home.
Take care. Until we meet again.
Yours,
Vex
Lady Vex’ahlia de Rolo
Baroness of the First House of Whitestone
Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt
Coinmistress of the Tal’Dorei Council
The Lady had triple-struck-through all of the titles at the end, including her full name, but Imogen could still make them out underneath the fresher layers of ink.
Eventually, Imogen did seek out the cabin, once she’d spent several days soaked through her skin in a torrent that wouldn’t let up. She’d received an update from the Hells that they were in Yios now, still trying to figure out the moon business. She was more concerned with how the grave had turned to mud, the flowers drowned under the weight of the skies.
The first night in the cabin had been hard. Excruciatingly so. It was a sparse place, but the wood was warm and there were little hints of a home being made there. A cozy blanket, sturdy clothes, a few knick knacks and hunting trophies on the walls.
She would’ve loved it. She would’ve had no fewer than seven ideas for how to spruce the place up as soon as she walked in, probably starting with the curtains. Maybe adding some ribbons and accessories to the elk head mounted on one of the walls. She would’ve waltzed in here, eyes lighting up and pointing out the mug with a chip in it and how it had character and it must have been loved very much to still be kept. She would’ve admired the mostly even stitching of the afghan on the back of the couch, complimented the craftsperson’s dedication and effort and vision.
If there’d been no wood by the fireplace, she would’ve taken Imogen by the hand and they would’ve gone out into the forest together. They would’ve taken turns picking up damp pieces of logs and branches, prestidigitating them until they were dry enough to burn. A critter would have distracted her at some point, and out would’ve come Pâté to entertain them all for a bit, hanging from black threads and dripping ichor.
That first night, Imogen got inside the door and curled up in a ball on the uneven wooden floors.
“We could fix those,” she heard in her head, a warm and gravelly Whitestone accent.
She sobbed.
Kazu placing a plate down in front of her drew Imogen from her memories. “Enjoy.”
Imogen looked blankly down at the plate, a plain light grey affair with darker grey speckles mixed in throughout. A sandwich, a cup of soup, and a little salad rested there.
“Thanks,” Imogen said, remembering too late to be polite, but Kazu waved her off from behind the counter.
The food was good. She couldn’t really taste it and she hasn’t had much of an appetite since Bassuras. But it filled her up and she felt like she was one step closer to success. She eyed the woman who hadn’t moved except to flip a page. The clock on the wall ticked by like the hands passed through molasses. Eating had taken a decent chunk of time, but there was a long way to go before the café even closed.
Her hand drifted down to her pouch. She felt around inside of it until her fingers grazed the smooth grain of a raven skull. Reaching out to him had become a habit. Whenever Imogen couldn’t reach out to her, she reached out to him instead. It helped, a bit.
They’d left Pâté atop her grave marker, a single poppy looped through his collar. Imogen had pulled the poppy out, placed it back onto the headstone, and tied Pâté to the shoulder strap of her harness instead.
“This is temporary,” she’d whispered into his raven head, gently stroking the fur of his back. Imogen made all the promises she would’ve made to her to him instead.
It took another couple of weeks and the solstice getting underway for Vex to show up at the cabin door. FCG had continued to Send Imogen updates on their progress and now they were trying to tackle a Malleus Key somewhere in the Hellcatch. Imogen couldn’t really find it in herself to care much about what was happening so far removed from Whitestone.
Vex knocked politely while Imogen was curled up tightly under the afghan on the couch, even though she owned the place. She could’ve just walked right in. The presence of another mind was a little jarring, the way it crept into the periphery of Imogen’s head. She poked around, just a little, just to confirm who it was and what they wanted.
Come in. Imogen used the connection she established and then sloppily bricked up the walls of her mind before she could read too much of the reaction.
She looked pointedly away from the door when it opened and Vex stepped through. Imogen could see just enough out of the corner of her eye to track the movement. She inhaled sharply, accosted with the vision of someone similar, but more gangly, more awkward angles and elbows coming through the door instead.
“Hi,” Vex said softly. Imogen merely raised a hand in silent greeting and huddled further under the blanket.
“It’s a nice day out,” Vex commented, still hovering in the entrance of the cabin.
Imogen didn’t like doing it, had spent her whole life trying to avoid doing it, but she slipped into Vex’s head like the door had been left wide open for her. The thoughts were soaked in guilt and remorse, in decades-deep insecurities that Vex had thought she’d dealt with already. And she had, mostly.
“Will you come for a walk with me?”
She almost said no reflexively. She didn’t want to go for a walk, didn’t want to do much of anything.
“You can bring the blanket, if you like.”
There was empathy there, of course, and a presumption of understanding that Imogen didn’t like one bit.
“Just a few minutes, just a little stretch.”
Imogen didn’t move.
“Please?”
The accent was all wrong, the vowels weren’t as rounded as they should’ve been, weren’t as full as they should’ve been. The voice wasn’t airy and ethereal and relentlessly optimistic, but low and serious – steady.
Imogen got up.
“That’s my girl,” Vex said and Imogen’s heart stuttered in her chest, tears rushed into her eyes. But she kept going. Didn’t say a word, but let Vex help tie her boots up and escort her outside. Let Vex lead them on a gentle meander along a winding path.
Vex became a constant in Imogen’s life, showing up day after day and getting Imogen to do something. Sometimes a walk, sometimes eating together, sometimes a menial task around the cabin that Imogen was sure she was just inventing in order to get Imogen to do something other than burrow into the sofa.
On a particularly quiet day where they’d stayed inside the cabin instead of venturing out, Imogen caught more of Vex’s thoughts than she’d intended. She’d been getting better at rebuilding a wall with her coming around every day.
I know I’m not a good stand-in, but I hope it’s helping. I know it doesn’t make up for it.
The first time Imogen bawled into Vex’s shoulder, the loudness of Vex’s thoughts was unignorable. They burst through her measly defenses and permeated every spare centimetre of space in her head. Imogen started crying in the middle of the kitchen, no obvious trigger for it, and Vex came up and placed a hand on her shoulder. Imogen jumped away from the touch, but Vex insisted, going farther and wrapping her arms around Imogen’s shaking frame.
In time, Imogen let herself be held.
It’s like her mother never comforted her. Not a thought Imogen wanted to linger on at all. She threw those bricks back up so she couldn’t hear anymore. She’d survived this long without a mother, she didn’t need this woman’s attempts at comfort and caring.
But Imogen let her anyway. She let Vex hold her when she cried and she didn’t explain why being brought a glass of water after a nightmare during an accidental nap sent her reeling. Vex didn’t ask questions, but she was there and she helped with the big things when Imogen was feeling better and the small stuff when Imogen felt like hell.
And it was nice. Kind of. To have someone else willing to step in and help. With Vex’s help, Imogen found the strength again to keep fighting. She knew Vex thought it a lost cause, but she also saw the thread of admiration that Imogen wasn’t going to give up.
It took Imogen a long time to be able to look at Vex fully, to look at her ears and remember ones shorn crudely and topped with gold and not burst into a new round of wallowing. It was still hard, but it was do-able.
Vex had only been too happy to arrange transport back to Jrusar, once Imogen remembered the silly little tale she’d heard about a café they’d visited, once she had formed enough of a plan that it didn’t sound like it was merely a smattering of unfounded hopes and dreams.
A local druid had answered Vex’s request for transportation and that’s how Imogen ended up in Jrusar, climbing out of a particularly large tree in the Lucent Spire, a little rat-bird tucked safely into her pack.
Kazu refreshed her coffee a couple of times as time ticked on.
“Don’t y’all go home after closing?”
Shrugging, Kazu answered, “Sometimes, but not when there’s someone like you here.”
“Oh,” Imogen said. “I’m sorry.” And she was, to an extent. She was sorry she was keeping them from their families, their homes, their warm beds. But she wasn’t sorry that it was so that she could see her. She’d never be sorry about that.
“Don’t worry about it; comes with the territory.”
“Maybe she won’t keep us waiting too long,” Imogen nodded toward the lady.
And she didn’t. Nowhere near as long as she could have, at least. Imogen was zoned out, the silence holding her down like a heavy blanket, pressing down on every inch of skin. Then she heard it, the papery thud of a book closing. She looked over and the woman was getting up.
“Kazu?” Imogen asked, breathless, standing from her table.
“It’s time?”
The woman moved towards the bathroom. “It’s time!”
Imogen practically launched herself into the empty chair. Her heart pounded quickly in her chest. She was so close. Kazu came out from behind the bar with a tray carrying a coffee press and a large mug. The silver bar rolled around beside them.
“Okay,” Kazu said, the tiredness gradually falling from her voice. “Remember, you only have until the coffee goes cold. If you hear the alarm, finish it quickly. Do not get stuck. Do not move from the chair. Do you understand?”
Imogen nodded briskly.
Kazu took a deep breath and pushed the coffee plunger down. She poured the coffee. As the last drops fell from the spout, she said, “Come back.”
Imogen blinked and the café was suddenly aglow with the warm light of a rising sun, rays combing in through the windows. Her eyes darted around, full of longing, looking for that familiar slender shape, the odd angle to the neck. She didn’t see anyone. She glanced down at the coffee still steaming in front of her, the alarm resting beside the handle of the mug. The little bell on the café door jingled.
“Oh, there you are, Imogen!”
She lifted her head so sharply she put a crick in her neck, tears already welling in her eyes. An ache deep down in her heart opened up to a chasm.
She was here, sweeping towards Imogen’s table with that wide grin on her face, Pâté bumping against her thigh as she slid into the chair across from Imogen.
“Laudna?” her voice choked out the name she hadn’t said in months, gasping.
Laudna’s face turned worried instantly, her hands coming across the table to touch Imogen, wrapping around the hands holding onto the coffee cup.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” and Imogen closed her eyes, with love in her ears and warmth on her fingers, tears overflowing.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Imogen blurted out, and her eyes flew open because she had to drink it all in now, had to recommit every angle of Laudna’s face, every beauty mark, every stripe of those black irises to her brain right this second. Her eyes flitted all over Laudna, who was still looking very much worried.
“I – Darling, it’s only been a few minutes? I picked up that spool of red thread –” Laudna worried her lip between her teeth. “How can I help you?”
Imogen shook her head. “You don’t need to do nothin’, Laudna,” and even just being able to say her name kept the tears coming. “You’re perfect, alright?”
Laudna’s head tilted to the side and she pulled Imogen’s hands off the coffee mug, squeezed them tightly in her long fingers. “Imogen, I don’t understand?”
A thin, watery smile was all Imogen could muster for her. “I know, sweetheart, but it’s okay. I swear, I’m just being a little emotional.” Imogen swallowed tightly and lied, “Everything’s fine.”
Like Laudna wasn’t dead – and how could she be dead, how could she be gone and cold and alone in the ground of the place she hated more than anything when she was right here? When Imogen could touch her, could reach out a hand and gently caress those sharp cheekbones, when her voice filled Imogen up from the inside all the way to the ends of her hair?
The worried line between her eyebrows didn’t leave, but Laudna seemed to accept Imogen’s answer.
“You’ll tell me, won’t you? If there’s something I can do?” Laudna implored, eyes jumping back and forth between each of Imogen’s.
“Of course,” Imogen said, but there was nothing Laudna could do. It was Imogen’s fault; she was the reason it happened. She would find a way to fix it.
Roughly, Imogen took one hand back from Laudna’s grasp to wipe the tears from her face. When she reached back for Laudna, she held both her pale hands in hers, held them tight, held them secure.
The worry deepened on Laudna’s face.
Imogen shook her head. “Listen, I’ve been thinkin’ about us,” she said and then let the sentence trail off. She licked her lips.
“What about us, dear?” Laudna’s attention was focused on Imogen’s face.
“You know I love you, right? I don’t say it near often enough, Laudna, but–” she got choked up, had to fight to take a breath to keep going, “I love you so much!” Her voice broke and the tears roared back with a vengeance.
“Imogen,” Laudna said softly, like she was in pain that Imogen was in pain. “Imogen, I love you more than anything.”
Pain seared through Imogen’s chest, her stomach tightened, everything was tense and taut inside of her.
“What do you want at the end of all this?” Imogen asked, blinking back tears, because she never had while Laudna had been alive, because their time got cut short. She’d thought they’d had all the time in the world.
Laudna’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘I’m not sure that I understand what you mean?”
Imogen felt reckless, felt weightless. “Say we find our answers, when we’re done searching, what do you want to do after that?”
Pursed lips, knitted brow, and just the slightest wrinkle to her nose… she was so heartbreakingly adorable. Imogen ached.
“I don’t know, really, I hadn’t really considered an after?”
“Consider it now, then,” Imogen said, undaunted. “When the stuff we gotta do is done, what do you see yourself doing?”
“Well,” Laudna hedged. “I imagine it would look a lot like before? Probably wandering town to town until I get kicked out and have to move continents.” At Imogen’s heartbroken face, Laudna tried to spin it more positively. “Except wherever you end up, of course. I’ll haunt that place more often, as much as the townsfolk will allow.”
Imogen shook her head. “Don’t worry about anybody else. If you could do anything after, what does that look like for you? What do you want your life to be after, no consideration of anybody else’s wishes?”
Laudna grew quiet. Imogen knew she didn’t have long, but she held onto Laudna’s hands and watched the tiny changes in her face as she worked through the question. She should’ve asked this and so much more before, when they had more time. She made time now.
“I’ll tell you what mine is after,” Imogen promised, trying to be encouraging and open.
“Well, I’d love if we could find a little place,” and Imogen felt like she would spontaneously combust. We. “Nothing too big, but something manageable for the two of us.” Laudna’s voice turned so quiet, so gentle, like what Imogen would use to talk to a spooked animal. “Horses for you, of course. Maybe I could sell furniture or mend broken things at the local market. A shelf of crafting supplies, a little garden so we can grow our own herbs and vegetables. A fireplace with a spot on the mantle for Pâté.” She paused, still thinking. “And we’d have more than two cups for tea, for when our friends visit. Stored with the rims up, of course,” Laudna teased.
“We can store ‘em however you want, honey,” Imogen swore around the grief in her throat. “Even with all that dust in ‘em.”
The worry wasn’t gone from Laudna’s face, but she did smile at that.
“I’m there?” Imogen asked. “After all this, you still want me around?”
And it wasn’t a fair question, because Imogen knew so much more about what still lay ahead for this Laudna, but she had to ask it anyway.
Laudna looked mildly taken aback. “Well, of course! Only if you want to be, but you said not to consider anyone else’s wishes. I don’t imagine you’d actually want to stay with me afterwards, obviously, but I do hope you’ll be amenable to visits.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you there?” It didn’t make any sense. How could Laudna think–?
Laudna smiled sadly. “Darling, at a certain point, you’re probably going to meet someone that you want to spend your life with, settle down with, maybe even have a family with.” Imogen’s mouth dropped open to protest, but Laudna pulled one of her hands from Imogen’s grip and held up a finger.
“And that will be… wonderful for you. If that’s what you want, I support you entirely. But a nightmarish best friend is not exactly what most people are looking for as part of a package deal for a partner.”
Shattered was the only word that even came close to describing how Imogen felt.
“Laudna!” Equal parts horrified, heartbroken, and appalled. Laudna tried to just wave it off.
“It’s quite alright, dear, I know how these things go. I will miss you terribly, but that’s just how it is.”
A hundred rebuttals and retorts rushed through Imogen’s head, but she dismissed all of them. Instead, she asked, “Do you want to know what mine is, Laudna?”
Laudna’s face erupted into a smile. “Yes, please, what do you want more than anything after all this?”
You. The thought was sudden and unbidden. She bit her tongue to keep it from bursting from behind her lips.
“When I dream of the future,” Imogen said, recalling one of her dreams, one of her favourites that didn’t hurt. “I see you and me.” Laudna gasped, her lips opening slightly. “We’ve got this nice little cottage somewhere, maybe in the Heartmoor. The place is fully decked out with stuff you’ve made.”
Tears sprang back to Imogen’s eyes, her voice growing low and warm and soft. “We’re in the kitchen and you’re teaching me how to bake somethin’. There’s flour all over the place that we’ll have to clean up later, but for now we’re smilin’ and there’s nothin’ to worry about.” Imogen took a deep breath. “Just you and me.”
“Imogen,” and her name spilling from those lips cradled in awe and cushioned with love was all she could ever want.
“That’s what I want after all this,” Imogen said, doubling down. “That’s all I want.”
And then Laudna was out of her chair and bending down to wrap her arms around Imogen. She exhaled into the embrace, fell into the comforting cool arms she’d been missing for far too long. Soaked up the clean smell of dirt at the start of a downpour, newly fallen leaves. Buried her face in the long strands of Laudna’s hair.
Imogen grasped at Laudna’s back, feeling for each shoulder blade, every bone, trying to burn the feeling of Laudna under her fingertips into her very DNA. She felt desperate, hungry, and she knew she wasn’t doing anything worth a damn to hide it.
“Imogen?” The question didn’t surprise her. Imogen held on all the tighter.
“I’m fine.”
Imogen realised suddenly that she couldn’t hear the music, couldn’t find Laudna’s mind anywhere. The deep notes with soft edges of melancholy, the high bright notes buzzing with excitement. There was nothing.
“Is there something wrong with your coffee? You can’t have been here too long and it doesn’t look very hot anymore. Do we need to get it warmed up?”
Imogen wished that would fix things, that she could just keep it warm forever and stay here in Laudna’s arms.
Wished she could switch places with her.
“The coffee’s fine,” Imogen said, even though she hadn’t yet taken a sip.
The silver bar started ringing.
Imogen didn’t want to take her hands off Laudna.
“You should drink your coffee, I can hug you more later,” Laudna said, pulling herself away from Imogen’s tear-covered face. Imogen held on tightly with one hand.
Imogen grasped the mug’s handle with her other hand, lifted it to her mouth. She felt the ridges of the lines in Laudna’s skin, across her palms. The coffee was starting to turn that kind of sour bitter when it’s long past its prime.
The alarm increased in volume. She held onto Laudna’s hand even tighter.
Imogen kept her eyes on Laudna as she downed another pained mouthful.
“I love you,” Imogen said again, needing to ensure Laudna knew.
“I love you, too,” Laudna said, eyes wide and heartfelt, smiling softer than Imogen had ever seen before.
Imogen kept drinking, but opened her hand in Laudna's. Interlaced their fingers.
She was gone.