Imogen is seeing red.
Vaguely, she’s aware that her hands are shaking. Her head feels just too damn loud, but for once, it’s her own voice pulsing against the temples and ringing in her ears.
Another wave of swirling red. She can hardly tear her eyes away; that red storm haunts her waking days now, too.
Everyone else has gone to bed, curled up nearby on cots or the floor of Lord Eshteross’ brand new… guest… room. Fearne has Orym and Dorian on either side, pulling them in close for safety -- just safety, that’s all. Laudna is stretched out on the floor, too, nearer to Imogen. Imogen’s not sure whether the possibility of more spikes falling from the ceiling or the premonitions of death apparently visiting her dreams keep her from finding rest along with the rest of them.
Probably the spikes.
Her arms wrap around her knees, hugging, hugging, hugging. Everything feels too warm and too cold all at once. Gods, if her head would just be quiet --
“Imogen, darling?”
The voice is cool, familiar, and Imogen wants to fall into it. She doesn’t need to glance over her shoulder to see who it is, even though she hadn’t known she was awake.
I thought you were asleep. Imogen uses her telepathy to say it, too worn out to speak at the moment. Besides, she’s never liked breaking the silence of a room. So few rooms are blessedly still.
Laudna comes to sit beside her, a spindly hand reaching over to grasp her knee. It’s grounding. Imogen has always appreciated Laudna’s ability to do that.
“You’re being awfully hard on yourself.” It’s not admonished. There’s no judgement or patronizing quality to Laudna’s words. She’s merely observing a pattern.
I should’ve gotten to him sooner. Imogen shakes her head. Lavender curls fall forward, and for just a moment, she sees purple instead of red. What good are warning premonitions if they come too late? I could’ve saved him. We could’ve saved him.
In a smooth, gentle movement, Laudna reaches out and tucks the hair back, then grasps Imogen’s chin carefully. “You dreamed it. That’s all. I’ve heard of similar things happening to people who lose family members, oddly enough. A sort of peaceful signal of the departed soul, and all. Maybe that’s all it was.”
“Other people don’t have my power.” Imogen’s voice sounds scratchy when it comes out, but she doesn’t feel right projecting the words. Damn her power. Damn this magic in her veins. It’s strong and loud and useful and just too late.
“I like your power.” Laudna clicks her tongue a little, eyes traveling over Imogen’s face. Her expression is one of deep affection and love, something Imogen’s never gotten quite used to. Maybe she doesn’t wholly believe she deserves Laudna’s unwavering confidence and support. “And maybe it wasn’t a warning at all. Just… a message. We don’t know.”
Imogen squeezes her eyes shut, trying to escape the red. “We don’t know anything. I’ve been looking. I’ve been waiting so long. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s not true,” Laudna continues, her hand coming to rub slow circles into her back. “It’s a slow process, sure, but you’ll get there. And besides, this is more Dorian’s fault than yours. He let Bertie go walking alone while intoxicated. Don’t tell him I said that, though. Seems pretty torn up about it.”
Imogen chuckles weakly, tugging at Laudna’s sleeve. “Closer. Please.”
“Are you sure, darling?” Laudna knows better than anyone that sometimes Imogen doesn’t want too much touch when the noise in her mind is too loud.
“Not that kind of noise tonight.”
And so Laudna complies, a long arm snaking its way around Imogen’s waist and pulling her tense, coiled body in close. She holds her, the other hand reaching up into Imogen’s curls and brushing through them gently -- scratching at the scalp.
“You’re too good,” Imogen sighs out shakily, leaning into her companion. Most days, the lines between her and Laudna are blurred. She doesn’t know where they fall or where Laudna wants them to fall, but she cherishes these moments. Laudna might be the only person in the world whose voice she craves rather than endures. There’s something cool about it, like ice where everything else burns red hot.
“Theoretically, he lived a good life,” Laudna says, her hands continuing their pattern. “Long. Heroic, maybe. A bit far-fetched. Probably heavily embellished. But still. At least he got… caught on the way out, if you know what I mean.”
Imogen nods. The red is starting to fade a little. “What a way to die, though. Alone. Laudna, he was all alone. Bled out on the street with all that alcohol still in his system. It just… eats me up inside.”
She’s afraid of that, she realizes now. Of dying alone. Imogen doesn’t want to go slumped on the floor of an alley, no one there to hold her broken body as she fades. Those people in the Conservatory would hardly give a second thought if she died, so quick to dismiss and forget her essay. In a world of so many voices, where so many people’s thoughts float unfiltered through her mind day in and day out, so few of them would care if her life was snuffed out one random, uneventful evening.
“You won’t die alone.” Laudna sees right through her. “You won’t die on my watch at all, if I do my job right. But, if you do -- if the knife finds your throat -- I’ll be right there. I’m not going anywhere.”
Imogen laughs through a couple wild tears that have started tracing tracks down her cheeks. How odd -- she hadn’t even realized she was crying. “You’ll watch me bleed out, Laud?”
“Every last crimson drop.”
It could be a joke. They’re mostly joking. But there’s a layer of fear, of truth, to the punchlines. They’ve been playing a dangerous game for a while now that’s somehow gotten worse.
“These people… this whole thing,” Imogen sighs. “It could mean the end of days, you know. Of us together. Change life as we know it.”
“Oh, well,” Laudna waves her hand dismissively. “It won’t change us. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
Worried. Oh, Gods, when isn’t Imogen worried?
“Laud?”
“Yes, dear?”
Imogen turns her face to stare right into Laudna’s, suddenly aware of how the back of her neck is tingling with something. Maybe another premonition she’ll be too late to answer. Maybe just pure old-fashioned attraction.
“You know… I care about you, right?” Imogen shakes her head. It sounds so… clumsy in her mouth. She’s never been too good with words. “I don’t want anything to happen to us because of something… dumb. As long as we’ve been traveling together, you’ve had my back. It’s nice.”
“And I plan to continue that,” Laudna says. “That is, if you’ll let me. So, our traveling group has gotten larger. Doesn’t matter much. I’ll still seek you out in a crowd first every time.”
The words run down Imogen’s tired spine like honey. She nods. That, at least, she understands. The need to seek someone out. The way she and Laudna have maintained this… whatever this is… as they’ve traveled out of need.
Imogen wants to continue whatever it is she’s trying to say, to push forward, to make sure Laudna knows exactly how she feels and exactly what she wants (what does she want?), but she can’t. She won’t. The words just tie up in her chest and on her tongue, too muddled to even project into her mind.
Instead, she glances over at the others on the floor. “They’re good people, I think. At least, I hope.”
“You’ve always been good at reading people,” Laudna smiles thinly. “I trust you.”
Imogen tries not to think about Bertrand’s cold and bloodied body lying somewhere below them. He’d trusted her, too. And look where that had gotten him.
First Danas. Then Bertrand. Both people who’d come close to Imogen, who’d interacted with her, before ending up dead.
For a few, brief moments, Imogen wonders whether Danas thought about the insistent, purple-haired customer who just hadn’t been able to let things go as the life was forced from her body. Maybe she’s selfish for thinking she took up enough space in Danas’ mind to color her final thoughts. Lord Eshteross had mentioned the woman had a family, people who must miss her and maybe even loved her. Surely, they were worth Danas’ final thoughts, not Imogen.
Oh, well. That death is still definitely her fault, even if she’s been trying not to dwell on it. She’d come searching. She’d been the reason Danas had confessed to people poking around. Maybe if she’d been better at hiding; maybe if she hadn’t followed Danas so blatantly… or maybe if she’d just learned to leave people the hell alone, perhaps Danas would still be alive. Maybe Bertrand would still be at the tavern tonight, drinking himself into a stupor and stumbling upstairs. Life without Imogen Temult around certainly lasts longer.
“We’ll have to tell the others tomorrow,” Imogen sighs. “Ashton and Letters. I sort of envy them tonight. They’ll get a full night of rest without… this hanging over them.”
Laudna stretches a hand out, extending and closing her fingers as if marveling at the way they move. “We should try and rest as well. I fear we have longer days ahead of us.”
For just a few, blessed moments, Imogen can imagine that they’re somewhere else. On the road, maybe, traveling together through somewhere warm and bright. She’s watching Laudna laugh and pluck a flower, tuck it behind Imogen’s ear.
“Oh, Laudna, this clashes horribly with my hair,” she might say, a flush as pink as the flower itself flaring up across her cheeks.
And Laudna would only tilt her head, as if confused at the idea. “Nonsense, I think you look lovely in anything.”
What Imogen wouldn’t give to visit these moments in her dreams, to find the warm sun and Laudna’s Pâté impressions and travel days spent by her side. She’d rather close her eyes and see the happier moments of her life, instead of the red storm, instead of Bertrand’s cold and empty corpse. But when has her mind ever truly listened to what she wants?
Imogen presses the heel of her palm to her forehead, sliding it across towards her temples. “I suppose you’re right about the sleep thing. I guess I’m just putting off the inevitable.”
“Would you like me to sit with you while you try?” Laudna offers, perhaps sensing Imogen’s hesitations. “You can rest on me like you did the other night when your head was killing you. You know me -- I can find rest anywhere.”
Imogen nods, readjusting her position to lie across Laudna’s lap.
You can keep playing with my hair. If you want.
Laudna laughs ever so slightly above her, the vibrations traveling down her body and into Imogen’s. It’s good -- a reminder that things might be okay, that life waits beyond death, that right here, skin flushed together, is someone who calls Imogen “hers.”
Her girl.
I’ll be your girl, Laudna.
Imogen doesn’t necessarily know if she projected that one into Laudna’s mind. She certainly didn’t try to stop it from going there.
The hands in her hair never cease, continuing their ministrations as if she were the most delicate piece of glass in the world, something to be treated with awe and care and reverence. Imogen’s skin so often feels ready to shatter at the slightest nick, to explode in a thousand shards of crystallized magic, but Laudna isn’t afraid. She handles her gently, but not gingerly. She’s not afraid of Imogen’s power or what she holds inside of her. Sometimes it seems she’s not afraid of anything at all.
And so when others look on in horror at Laudna’s form, gawking and pulling their children away when she gets close, staring in fear as she passes them on the street, Imogen holds onto Laudna with a tight, sure grip. She doesn’t want to let go. Not now, not ever. She’s not afraid of Laudna. Laudna may be draped in shadows and ink, but she’s not the real danger between the two of them. The scariest things are often hiding behind a veil of innocence.
Or, in her case, beneath a head of lilac curls.
As sleep finally finds her again, trickling down from her eyelids and washing over her consciousness like a dark wave, Imogen thinks she hears Laudna’s reply:
You already are my girl, Imogen.
It’s soft, washed out by the tide pulling Imogen under, and maybe it’s all in her head.
But then again, what’s ever not?