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There have been several times in her life— more so recently— when Imogen Qsarrae wondered if she had incurred the wrath of some god somewhere.
When she left home two months prior she was intending to start her life over. Imogen had never had any control of her own life before; things happened to her, and she just went along with it. So when the opportunity presented itself for her to change things, to forge a new life in a different land, she took it without hesitation.
She’d almost let herself get excited with thoughts about her new life. She spent hours, and days of the sea voyage fantasizing about what she would do, how her life would be. A small house with a garden in a small village somewhere? A lovely, quiet life. What about a dress shop in the city? A famous dress shop where anyone who was anyone important would be found clamouring for her designs. Maybe she would spend her life helping people, healing people— not their physical wounds, there were already plenty of healers and surgeons who did that. But, heal their wounded hearts, their broken spirits. It was something she’d become familiar with, healing broken hearts with touch, with love, affection, and intimacy— using her skills and talents to help others.
And then, whatever god it was that she had crossed decided to punish her for daring to want to have some control over her own life.
The ship had been out to see four weeks when the storm hit— fierce, angry, and green. The dwarven captain shouted to the crew that It was the fiercest storm he’d ever seen. Imogen believed it. From her spot near the porthole she saw the swirling sky, the quick lightning jabbing at the water in continuous spears. She heard thunder so loud she felt it in the pit of her stomach.
It was difficult remembering what happened after that. Memories came only in flashes of sights, sounds, and feelings. She saw waves pounding against the side of the ship— the ship violently lurching with each wave. She heard the desperate shouts and screams of the crew from up top. And then the sickening, splintering crack of a mast, the splash of the sails being plunged into the water. What she felt—
Cold water pressing around her, grabbing at her skirts, her hair, dragging her down. It fills her nose. She can’t breathe. She tries and tries but her lungs won’t work, there’s no air to fill them with. Her arms flail and her feet kick, trying desperately to get to the surface but she keeps getting pulled down. Something wrapped around her ankle pulling, refusing to let her go.
She can’t think. She can’t tell which way is up. It’s too dark, she can’t see in the murky water. But the water is no longer cold. She’s tired now. If she lets herself sleep, will she wake in her soft bed draped in linen sheets, covered in feathered pillows, surrounded by sunlight in her room with her library of books and pretty furniture to find this had all been another nightmare?
Imogen awoke with a start, coughing, crying and gasping for air. Her lungs burned, she was cold again, and the visions from her nightmare still flashed in her head making her question if she really woke or if she was still in the water, dreaming. But there was no water surrounding her. Air. It was the air that made her cold. But she couldn’t remember why the air was so cold. Her hands dug into her blankets and she tried to catch her breath, trying to remember where she was but the dim moonlight didn’t give enough light for her to see her surroundings.
She tried to scramble from her bed— no, not bed...cot— to find a lantern or a candle or something for more light. But the blankets wrapped around her legs, around her feet, grabbing at her, pulling her back into the cold darkness. Her throat began to close, and her chest tightened making her fight harder against the blankets.
“No!” she cried and tried in vain to kick them away. Her hands clawed at the blankets, pulling at them— she needed to get away.
The door to Imogen’s room swung open— no, the tent flap opened— and matron ran in, falling to her knees beside Imogen’s bed— cot.
“Get them off,” Imogen pleaded, still kicking at the blankets. Matron quickly helped untangle Imogen’s feet from the blankets and pushed them to the end of the bed— cot then gathered Imogen in her arms and cradled her tightly to her chest. Imogen clung to matron’s night shirt, afraid that if she let go she would fall back into the cold water. She squeezed her eyes closed and just focused on matron’s soft humming and the feel of her hand through Imogen’s hair.
It seemed like forever until Imogen’s hands stopped shaking, and she was able to breathe without panicked gasps for air. When her sobs subsided, matron gently pulled Imogen away. She cupped Imogen’s face in her hands and asked… she asked… Imogen didn’t know what she asked. Matron’s voice was different. The sound of the words were different, harsh, discordant. Imogen didn’t understand them. Her heart pounded heavy in her chest when she realized this woman wasn’t matron, and Imogen wasn’t home.
Imogen’s breathing quickened again and her tears returned. She scrambled backward on the cot away from the woman. Her eyes darted around the room desperately searching for clues that might tell her where she was. A grey cloak draped over a crate in the corner— her cloak, with the circles and spirals she’d embroidered along the edge. Was it her cloak though? It looked heavy, too heavy for warm weather. Why would she have a heavy warm cloak?
But it wasn’t warm. The air was cold, burning, like the water. It wasn’t the water, there was only air here. Air. She remembered the cold air.
The woman beside her cot shifted into the moonlight coming through the open tent flap. She slowly raised her hand, like one would with a frightened animal, and laid it on top of Imogen’s, her thumb rubbing small, comforting circles along the back of Imogen’s hand. When Imogen didn’t pull away, the woman raised her other hand and brushed the sweat-soaked hair from Imogen’s face. Her stomach twisted, and she almost cried at the motherly gesture.
Was she a mother? Maybe. Her mother? No. Not her mother. Imogen never had a mother. Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to focus but her mind wouldn’t stop racing making it impossible to think!
The woman was talking to her in low, quiet tones, trying to soothe Imogen. But they weren’t soothing. The sounds of her words made her ears hurt. But the gesture--the gesture was reassuring, loving, familiar, and somehow safe.
A memory flashed of Imogen sitting around a campfire with the woman and her family. The memory helped Imogen remember. She was a mother with two daughters, several years apart. The racing in her mind began to slow down.
Imogen opened her eyes and studied the face of the other woman: kind eyes, soft smile, deep worry lines across her forehead. Yes, she recognized her. She remembered that she and her family took Imogen in; they found her when she awoke on the beach, after the storm and the cold and the dark water.
From then on, she traveled with them. They traveled for weeks and Imogen got to see landscapes she’d never seen before— beautiful, breathtaking landscapes. The further they traveled, the more people they met up with, and by the time they’d reached the mountain pass, she remembered counting at least forty people. Three days spent walking the snow-covered mountain pass before they arrived here, in this valley nestled in these unbearably cold mountains, across the ravine of the imposing castle that lived on the other side.
Imogen remembered it all. She was in her small tent in the camp, the mother— Lisa, her name was Lisa— and her family were in the larger tent next to hers. She clasped Lisa’s hands in hers, and closed her eyes. She focused on her breathing and anything about the camp she could remember until the tension in her chest eased and her heart stopped pounding.
The semi-open tent flap fluttered open with a snap from a gust of frosty wind making Imogen’s sweat-coated body shiver violently. Lisa quickly stood and tied the flap closed. When she returned to Imogen’s side, she insisted that Imogen lie back down. Imogen had regained enough of her senses that when Lisa pulled the blankets up and tucked them loosely around her Imogen didn’t protest. She welcomed the warmth.
Imogen turned on her side and watched Lisa grab Imogen’s cloak and wrap it around her before sinking back to the ground next to the cot. She sat there at Imogen’s side the entire night, stroking her hair and humming softly. Imogen closed her eyes, glad it was humming and not singing.
She doesn’t remember when she stopped shivering, or when she fell back asleep that night. But the last thing she remembered was wondering what god she had angered, and how.