Panel 1: Behind the counter of the shop, where she has been given her own space to work, Laudna weaves her mending magic over an astonished customer's broken teapot.
Panel 2: At home, Imogen hangs the commemorative plate over the fireplace with Mage Hand while Laudna watches approvingly. The mantel has been tidied and furnished with other castoff knickknacks from the store.
Panel 3: In the store, Imogen organizes and dusts a display of music boxes, humming along with one that's open.
Panel 4: Laudna and Pâté are spinning a story about an antique rooster-shaped lamp to a prospective family of customers, who are listening avidly.
Laudna:
This handsome fellow will protect and guard your home so long as the flame is burning, but you must be mindful of your manners, and always treat him with respect! Just ask poor Pâté.
Pâté:
A lesson learned the ‘ard way, that was. I wasn't too courteous about my manner of addressin' Mr. Rooster here, and what followed was the worst week of bad luck I've ‘ad in me entire death.
Customer:
Oh no!
Pâté:
First Laudna here dropped me in the mud and I had to have a bath. Then a fox tried to carry me off for a snack. Then I got mixed up in the laundry somehow, earnin' meself a second unwanted bath, and to top it all off Miss Imogen put me through the wringer and me poor bonce popped clean off!
Laudna:
It really was quite dreadful for him. But a guardian lamp with a built-in curse! You can't find that kind of thing just anywhere.
hi! i honestly loved this prompt so much I had at least three other idea for little fics, but ultimately went with this one to finally finish a draft that had been sitting for um. a while. so sorry I'm so incredibly late to answering this, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!
today I offer you 2.2k of canon divergent post-shard c3e78. tomorrow? who knows.
~~~
She ran.
The tunnels of Whitestone welcomed her home with the stench of revolt and rust. The air is stagnant, heavy with the moisture of centuries gone by. It seeps into her skin and dampens her eyelashes.
The roots of the Sun Tree pierce the walls and snag her sleeves. She takes no notice. The echo of leather soles pounding against slick stone floors is harsh against her ears. Water trickles from an unseen source, and she follows it.
The tunnel narrows as she swerves left down an offshoot, toe snagging on a patch of moss. She stumbles, catching herself hard on her hand and sending a lance of pain up her shoulder.
Her vision is clouded, darkness tinging the edges as a mourning veil tangles itself in her hair.
She can’t kill him. She wants to kill them. Her palm presses against her forehead, and she snarls, a raw sound that tears from her throat.
Congealed ink pools in her palm, where the stone has torn a gash through delicate skin. Broken crates line this tunnel, their contents long scavenged. Cobwebs spin from jagged edges as she staggers past.
There is a throbbing behind her eyes and an ache in her chest that threatens to overwhelm her. A fury, a grief, a hunger so strong the force of it nearly sends her to the floor in a wave of dizziness.
She moves on, veering right this time. She wants to kill them. Her tongue itches to feel the hum of his power in her veins. The burn of their flesh against her skin. Delilah seethes within her, demanding, insisting. Bile rises in Laudna’s throat. She screams into the emptiness.
Home.
Down here, deep below the city, she is free to prowl her domain. Free, save those who would chase her out.
The memory stings with the ache of loss. Of having found refuge in the depths with her collection of scavenged oddities. A discarded novel, a chipped crystal vial that still held a wisp of rose perfume. An empty sack of wheat that smelled of her family’s storage cellar. When she closed her eyes, she could see the kind eyes of her father, blood leaking at the corners.
She peels left again, stopping short at a familiar door half-buried in rubble. Lengthened limbs navigate the pile of stone with ease, slipping through the narrow space between the heavy door and the wall. The room beyond is tossed. Broken chairs lay on their sides next to tables with missing legs. Empty feed bags are stacked in the corner, any grain having been consumed by rodents or denizens of the tunnels. A discarded guard’s uniform, stained and moth-bitten, is draped between two overturned tables. Laudna’s wrists weigh heavy with the shackles of betrayal.
Purple flickers behind her eyes.
She keeps moving.
~~
The Parchwood is covered in a layer of frost.
Laudna cannot recall how she got here.
She had wanted to go home, she thinks distantly.
She wants to be warm. She has always wanted to be warm.
Ashton was warm. Scalding, even.
She stalks between skeletal white trees, their barren branches arching skyward. The chill seeps in.
She prowls a familiar path, the rooftops of a changed Whitestone cresting behind her.
Just like old times.
The shadows grow longer.
The hovel is demolished, burned to ash, and its structure is left only partially standing. Light snowfall coats the blackened wood as Laudna tentatively crosses the threshold.
When she wakes, she is cold.
Something tickles her neck, and she grabs for it. Her fingertips come away wet. Residual coxa sticks to her skin. She wipes it on her hair. Her neck aches.
Her hand smells of rot and charcoal. Her nails are embedded with the stuff. Her bed is hard beneath her, and she is sore where her illum pressed against rough wood. She has dried leaves in her hair. They are wet with snowfall. Flurries that drifted through the open window crown her in constellations. A bare shoulder pimples with gooseflesh, and a shiver sets her chest rattling.
She ought to forage. Her supplies are dwindling. Parchwood seasons are harsh, and the frost is settling over the underbrush. She shakes the torpor from her muscles and dusts off her bones.
The bushes have been picked over by man and animal. Bare branches bear no fruit; only withered shells and stems indicate anything was borne at all. Shriveled leaves crunch underfoot. She draws her arms around herself. A stray gust ruffles her skirt and dances between her ankles. Roots catch the gauzy hem.
Travel-weary soles wander deer trails and forgotten paths. Numb toes carve weak grooves into icy mud, and as the sun rises, she ambles, humming, between ancient boughs, filling pockets and pouches with acorns, dried seeds, and pebbles of interesting proportion. The dawn breaks, and a mourning dove coos a lonely vigil. Sun-bright snowmelt glitters in the hollows of the tree roots. The faintest trace of a woodfire drifts past her nose but is lost to the forest. The animals still slumber in their tunnels and burrows, the ground vibrating with the slow life of them.
She wanders, wanders, through the twisting, turning tracks, stopping, starting. She hums old songs, tuneless melodies plucked from memories tucked away to be forgotten in the recesses of a mind burned. They slip from her lips like feathers, soft and drifting on the air, for her to catch with charcoal-and-ash fingers as she walks, weary and aimless, palms pressing against tree trunks.
When the ache in her legs grows too much to bear, she sits in the hole left behind by an uprooted tree with sprawling branches, and she sleeps, warmed, even in the late autumn chill, by sunlight trickling through the canopy and a gentle hand combing through scraggly tresses.
She wakes to the sharp crunch of a branch underfoot, and she freezes. Her body is small, concealed by layers of skirt and dangling roots, and she huddles against the base of the tree, prey quivering. Then:
Something is upon her in a blur. It immobilizes her legs, and she writhes in the damp soil, fear rising like lightning in her throat.
“Wait– ow, just– hold on!” A deep voice grumbles into her skirt. A well-placed kick to the shoulder earns Laudna a grunt of displeasure. “Would you just– Imogen’s gonna fuckin’ kill us if you run off again!”
Pounding footsteps come to a halt beside her, and Laudna stills. A shadow blots the sun. It crouches. Imogen stands over her, breathing hard. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, but her eyes soften when she notices Laudna’s rigidity.
“Let off her, Chet,” she bites.
“Fuckin’– fine,” he grunts, dusting himself off. “Stronger than she looks.” He moves a few paces away.
Laudna? Imogen’s chest heaves. Relief floods off of her in waves.
Laudna’s mind sings, bubbling a discordant note laced with animalistic fear. She shrinks further into the soil at her back, feeling the bite of embedded rocks through her bodice. Sharp nails dig furrows into papery skin, pinpricks of grounding pain, almost pleasant in its predictability.
“Hi, darlin’.” A cocked head and a slight smile that promises sweet nothings. A creased brow and wavering voice betray the weight of concern. “We’ve been lookin’ for you,” Imogen says, “Can you come out?”
It arrives warm, coaxing, like hope brought about by a few days of false spring in Dualahei. It grazes the rough edges of her like lace over a bramble patch. Pieces left fluttering in the breeze or pinned like beetles to a specimen case.
Get me the shard.
No. Laudna thinks resolutely from the safe gloom of her little den amidst the grubs and earthworms. She inches back further and is rewarded with a small shower of dirt. Footsteps shuffle closer, brittle leaves crackling. Her gaze flickers from Imogen to the rest of their friends approaching from the treeline. She lands on the figure in the rear, who creeps closer with hesitant steps.
“How did you find me?” Laudna husks.
“Old Man Bloodhound over here caught your scent.”
Chetney pipes something indistinguishable, and Imogen falls silent a moment before refocusing. She takes in the trembling, mud-dusted form hunched in the dark and frowns. “Let’s get you out of here, huh?” She extends a leather-gloved hand.
Laudna stares at it. A tremor runs through her, and Imogen kneels, warm and steadfast.
“I’m here, honey,” Imogen murmurs, “You’re safe. I promise.”
Laudna, darling, you’re so close. Let me hold it, and I’ll take care of the rest. For us.
“It’s not me,” Laudna husks, “I– she wants me to kill them. I can’t–”
Imogen barks a demand that Laudna doesn’t hear. The veil flickers across her vision, narrowing her focus to Ashton’s cracked face. The thrumming in her chest grows louder.
Laudna warns, “Imogen…”
Imogen snaps again, and Ashton stops, giving a small nod. He reverses his path. The rest of their friends pause, waiting.
Laudna feels Imogen’s inhale, and her fingers come up to grip Imogen’s wrist with lengthened fingertips. Her body shifts, bones fighting for control.
“You’re not her.”
“I know.”
“You’re not.” Imogen searches Laudna’s face. “You can control her.”
For us. Just as it has always been.
“I…” Laudna swallows. She tucks her head into her shoulder, pinching her eyes shut. “She’s… she’s hungry.”
“Hold on to my hand, sweetheart,” Imogen insists softly, “Focus on me. I’m here.”
Laudna does, cracking an eye. She takes in the rosiness of Imogen’s cheeks, the chapped skin of her lips where she’s been worrying at them. The rise and fall of the chiffon draped over her clavicle, the gentle curves of her waist. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and her breath clouds in little puffs. She watches Laudna intensely.
“I don’t want to hurt them.” Her voice comes layered in whispers.
“I know.”
Laudna inhales shakily, wind rattling brittle branches. Her bones settle, and her gums cease their throbbing. She falls into Imogen, whose free hand instinctively moves to cup Laudna’s head against her shoulder. She smells of mildew and earth. The tunnels, Laudna realizes faintly. Blunt fingernails gently scratch her scalp, and she shudders. Imogen holds her all the while, murmuring into her hair.
“That’s it. You’re alright,” Imogen whispers. “We were worried about you. Gave me a scare when you didn’t come back last night.”
Ice grips Laudna’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t– I didn’t mean to make you worry.” She nibbles her bottom lip. Imogen tightens her embrace, soft susurations embedding themselves into Laudna’s skin.
“She’s strong here, huh? Hungry, you said?”
Laudna nods, face still buried in Imogen’s dress. They sit that way, mud chilling Imogen’s knees and worms tickling Laudna’s calves until, at last, Imogen pulls them to their feet.
“C’mon,” she says, tugging gently on their linked hands, “You ready to head back?”
Laudna casts a longing glance toward the thicker part of the woods, back in the direction of the hovel’s crumbling exterior. She thinks of stone castles and vaulted hallways and ghosts that live in woven tapestries. She thinks of pebbles and acorns and blue-tinged toes and a piny breeze that sneaks through the threadbare sleeves of her blouse. She thinks of soft voices like thorns and reassurances and claw-tipped nails in her hair.
Laudna nods minutely. They stand in silence. The pad of Laudna’s thumb worries at her knobby knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” they both blurt, and Laudna ducks her head.
“I’m sorry,” Imogen repeats, “I shouldn’t’ve let you go off on your own. Here, of all places. I should’ve known better.”
The little part of Laudna that still yearns for the aimless, unaccountable roaming of her early decades stings. The greater part of her, the yawning ache of isolation, suns itself in the knowledge that she’s wanted.
“It’s not your responsibility to keep me in check,” Laudna husks, tongue burning.
Imogen tilts her head, considering her words carefully. Laudna rolls an acorn between her fingers, hidden in the folds of her skirt. “No, it isn’t,” Imogen says evenly, and Laudna instinctively braces for the flagellating tail, “but it doesn’t mean you’re on your own.” She plucks a stray twig from Laudna’s hair and tosses it aside.
Laudna’s lips press together. The field of freckles across the bridge of Imogen’s nose creases like wrinkled parchment.
Laudna allows herself to be led into the middle of their group, avoiding their concerned surveillance. Orym offers a reassuring pat on her thigh, Fearne loops an arm through hers, and FCG’s eyes flash brighter when they see her. Ashton has gone ahead. A problem for a later time. Imogen’s arm loops through hers, keeping Laudna pressed against her side. A flicker of shame runs through her, feeling very much like a disobedient child who slipped between the fenceposts.
She waits for the biting comment, the whip-crack remark that will sink her stomach below the layer of plant litter, whispered scathingly from within or sneered sharply from without. But it does not come.
