Work Text:
1.
They get derailed for another day because Ludinus’s staff has the worst timing (just like him, the bastard) and also because Ashton needs to do something with their hammer that they don’t bother to explain to anyone. (Chetney has the impulse to start a bet on whether it’s a sex thing or not, but Fearne and Chetney would both bet yes, and nobody else would take no, and that’s just not how bets work.)
The point is, it leaves them mostly holding their dicks in their hands in the little corner they’ve commandeered at the Spire by Fire, where Orym is even frownier than usual while Fearne keeps offering him more alcohol as if that’ll make him feel better, and FCG sighs when he thinks the others aren’t looking, picking at his new jacket moodily. At least Laudna and Imogen look less antsy, tucked into the farthest reach of the corner and having a whole silent conversation, seemingly back to their old selves.
Chet, he’s just happy to enjoy 24 hours without life-threatening consequences on his plate. He spends the time nursing his ale and absentmindedly whittling a raven with its wings outstretched, occasionally holding it up to the light.
“Still exploring your newfound faith?” Raspy and over-enunciated, Laudna’s voice emanates from closer than he was expecting across the table, and Chetney drops his chisel. Maybe, just a little, lets out a sound of protest—in a very masculine way. When he has the presence of mind to stoop to pick his chisel back up and look at Laudna, he notes that Imogen is gone, no doubt the reason for Laudna’s wandering attention.
“Well,” Chetney says, patting down his jacket and projecting extreme nonchalance to pretend he never jumped, “I’ve always said I’ll try anything once.” Laudna just looks at him. A beat. “Well, maybe twice. Just to be sure.” He waggles his eyebrows, fishing for a reaction. In return, Laudna’s left eyebrow arches and stays arched, until finally his theatrical pretense deflates. “Really, I’m bored, and I’ve had the image on my mind. It was quite the image; you’d understand if you’d seen it. Doesn’t have to mean more than that. Feast your eyes on this display of pure skill.”
Laudna reaches out a bony hand, fingers unfurling dramatically as is her wont, and Chetney drops the little raven (wingtip to wingtip, the size of one of her fingers) in her palm. “Mhmm.”
“You can have it if you want. Well, it still needs some finishing touches, but when I’m done.”
“No, thank you,” Laudna says, soft but certain, as she hands the bauble back to Chetney. “I’ve had some run-ins with the Matron’s followers. It was made quite clear that her guardianship of the dead does not extend to inbetweens like me.”
Chetney shrugs. “Her loss.”
He holds the raven up again, eyeing it critically, before whipping out the bag of holding to swap it for another block of wood. He rifles through his cache of leftover chunks from other projects, considering, until he pulls out a small piece of white cedar—really more a chip than a block, but the right size for what he’s thinking—and immediately begins etching a vague outline into each side.
A few minutes of silence pass, until Laudna breaks it, musing, “What about the Wildmother? That was—the Gorgynei worshipped her, sort of, didn’t they? What did they call her—Serataani?” The line of questioning seems bizarrely insistent, and Chetney squints again at Laudna before grunting, noncommittal.
“I thought you were anti team gods.”
“Well, more neither for nor against, but. I’m just curious about you, you see.” Laudna waits for Chetney look up from his carving, and he does, but only briefly with his eyes, head still bowed so he can look back down when she continues. “About what you said yesterday. You sounded so certain that it wouldn’t matter even if we can’t agree on the gods, that we could still work as a group, and I was wondering… how?”
“How what?”
“How are you certain?”
“We all want to punch Ludinus in the dick, sounds like plenty enough agreement for me.”
Laudna tilts her head, halfway a nod and halfway not, as if she’s not sure she agrees. “I suppose, perhaps.” She lets out an unhappy little hmmph and rests her chin on her fist. “I guess I do still worry. If push comes to shove…”
Chetney still isn’t very clear on what actually happened in Issylra to fuck up his three friends the way it did, beyond the broad strokes, but (and this is despite his aversion to serious talk—life is too short for all that—so he hopes Laudna is appropriately grateful) he straightens up and puts the carving down for one second to lean in over the table closer to Laudna.
“Look, I don’t really care all that much about,” here he waves his hands in a vague circle, “the world or the gods or all that. Not gonna be around all that much longer anyway, you know? Mostly, I’m concerned with living the rest of my life to the fullest, and that means having fun. But you all helped me when you didn’t have to, and I’m gonna remember that. Whatever you all decide to do, I’m good for it, is what I’m saying.” Chetney pauses, then amends his statement slightly: “As long as it still involves punching that fucking elf in the dick. That’s the fun.”
Laudna says nothing for a long moment as she considers and then wrinkles her nose through a confused smile. “I can’t tell if that’s wise or incredibly foolish.”
Chetney sniffs and picks his carving back up. “It’d behoove you to listen to your elders.”
That’s the moment Imogen chooses to reappear, descending into their little space and wrapping around Laudna’s shoulders from behind like she’s always belonged there. Laudna is immediately distracted, beaming face following Imogen (like one of those trees that grow in the shade, straining for whatever pocket of sunlight they can get) as her neck cranes farther than is strictly human. (Sure-fire way to ruin the wood, is the next unfortunate thought that flits through Chetney’s mind, but he shakes it away.)
“Oh, you’re bac—” Laudna starts, but then Imogen is leaning in close to whisper something that cuts her off. Chetney grunts and looks back down at his carving, not needing to pry, but honestly, neither of them is very good at hiding.
“We’re, uh, gonna head out and investigate if Ludinus is giving any more speeches around town,” Imogen announces after a few moments of giggly whispers back and forth.
“We’ll join you for dinner here again though?” Laudna adds, stumbling to her feet just as awkwardly. It’s low effort, but Chetney lets it slide. He doesn’t begrudge them taking some time to enjoy themselves when it’s so clearly there for the taking, especially after their little spat yesterday, although they’re obviously past it.
Their friends nod in acknowledgement, and they’re about to leave, but Chetney raises a hand to stop them. It’ll only take a minute.
“Before you go, since you didn’t want the other one, what about this?” He tosses the carving he’s been working on at Laudna casually. For a moment, it looks like Laudna won’t react in time before it hits her chest, but Imogen is there to grab it mid-air with one hand outstretched.
“What the hell, Chet?” There’s no real ire in Imogen’s voice, but a flash of something like irritation nonetheless. Chetney only wipes his nose, not bothering to vocalize the thought that Laudna needs to stay on her toes better, and Laudna has already plucked the wooden trinket out of the air and turned it over in her hand curiously.
It’s a quick and dirty approximation of a bird skull, a little rough around the edges but more than reasonable for the timeframe he was working on.
Laudna gives him a bemused little smile. “You sure you’re not feeling the siren call of the Duskmaven?”
“No, it’s your rat. Because things can mean what you want them to.”
Laudna’s eyes soften, but she says nothing as she lifts the small carving up closer to her face.
“Chet, that’s so sweet.” Imogen is the one who melts, lifting up on her toes to hook her chin over Laudna’s shoulder for a closer look, and for now he supposes he’s forgiven. He waves her off gruffly and slaps the table as he hauls himself to his feet.
“You two get where you’re getting, then. I’m grabbing another round.”
Wood is just such a warmer material than bone, he thinks to himself later, pleased as punch, when he spies his skull hanging from a red belt. He doesn’t say anything though. Doesn’t feel the need to.
2.
Orym is used to waking first, and today seems no different than usual, at least initially. He blinks in a moment of disorientation at the too-low ceiling, the too-dark surroundings, the too-stale air—until he remembers Baernie. Then, the space around them, though still slightly too small for a group their size, eases from claustrophobic to snug, like a magic trick. Like Maeve pulling a copper from behind Orym’s ear when they were kids and he hadn’t trained enough to see through it yet. Now he’s old enough to know that it’s still magic even if you can see it.
Snug or not, though, it’s impossible to tell the time without the sky, so he has to trust his own body to hope he hasn’t just woken from any lingering pain from last night or the adrenaline that perhaps hasn’t worn off. He disentangles himself from Fearne gingerly, practiced at this art by now and aided by the fact that she sleeps like the dead, and gropes in the shadows towards the edge of the cavern where he remembers shedding his armor and weapons. He almost jumps when he sees Laudna slumped against the wall, eyes seemingly open.
“Laudna?” he whispers, padding closer, and Laudna’s head snaps up, inky black eyes blinking slowly. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
“Oh, not at all,” Laudna says, seemingly belied by the low raspiness of her voice. “I was… thinking.”
Orym looks at her skeptically, but then what Orym had assumed in the low light to be a lumpy blanket shifts—he realizes Imogen’s head is cradled in Laudna’s lap, covers thrown over both of them, and the sound of low, even breathing indicates that at least one of them is unambiguously asleep. Laudna raises a thin finger against a soft smile, head curling like a question, and Orym nods and tries not to shiver at the chill he feels reaching into his mind.
“She had another dream.” It’s still a bit unsettling, even after all this time, the way Laudna’s voice echoes in his head, but he manages not to flinch too visibly, focusing instead on Imogen as concern creases his brow.
“Is she okay?”
“Relatively speaking, yes. At least, she fell asleep again. Perhaps the circlet at least makes it better, if not shielding her completely. Honestly, for once, I’m more worried about her physical well-being.” Laudna’s eyes wander back down from Orym to Imogen, fingers tracing against the fabric covering her shoulder, where Orym knows the curving line of angry teeth marks must still remain hidden. “I really don’t see why she feels it necessary to conserve any healing before we rest, but she’s too selfless for her own good.” The way Laudna sniffs seems almost petulant, and Orym smiles a little as he remembers Imogen trying to shoo FCG and Laudna, twig that she is, bullying FCG into burning a spell for Imogen anyway.
“No valor in suffering,” he agrees easily. If he were to be completely honest, he doesn’t associate selflessness with Imogen so much as stubbornness. There’s no point in arguing with Laudna, though, not when Imogen has always been the apple of her eye. “I’ll make sure she gets more attention in Zephrah, once we make it back.”
“Is it morning?” Laudna asks, looking back up. Orym stretches, and his shoulders crack as if to confirm the time. He wonders if it’s as loud to her as it sounds to him.
“Hard to tell with no light, but probably, or at least soon. Just wanted to get my routine in.”
“And are you okay? You leapt off a fucking tower.” Like everything Laudna does—well, everything Laudna is, really—the unblinking stare as she scans Orym is simultaneously unnerving and oddly warm, and Orym can tell when she catches him grimacing because his ankle twinges the wrong way. It’s really nothing, though. He doesn’t even feel like he needs healing, just some time.
“So did you.” Orym shrugs, and Laudna’s eyes narrow.
“Hardly the same.”
“Respectfully, yeah it is. We all did what we could.”
“Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn is what I did.” Laudna looks down and reaches to brush a stray lock of hair away from Imogen’s forehead, although she hesitates briefly, fingers clenching and unclenching, before she actually does.
It’s such an odd sensation sometimes, talking to her like this, because there’s a second where he isn’t sure if the frustration rattling in his head is Laudna’s or his own.
“We all did what we could,” he repeats, trying to be patient, and he guesses maybe it’s both. “It took all of us to get through that fight, and that includes you, okay? But I’m still pretty tired, so can we skip the ‘oh no, I couldn’t possibly’s and ‘I insist’s and just agree that I’m right on this?”
The quiet laugh he startles out of her ripples through the air instead of in their heads, and behind him, he hears someone—Baernie, he thinks, from the direction and weight—start to stir, even though Imogen only sighs softly and turns to burrow her head into Laudna’s stomach. Laudna freezes for a moment, arms up as if in surrender, until she seems satisfied that Imogen is still asleep.
“Orym,” Laudna whispers out loud, and then trails off as if to rethink whatever she meant to say. “Thank you.”
Orym just nods. “You should try to get some more rest. You could squeeze in another half hour at least.”
She doesn’t take his advice, he knows, because it takes him the better part of an hour to get through one of his forms in the far corner, Seedling whistling in his hands, and he never sees her close her eyes. But then, he supposes he knows the feeling.
3.
Some days are worse than others.
Maybe it’s that Ashton had gotten complacent the last few days, between Zephrah’s unnatural peacefulness and the familiarity, however reluctant, of Bassuras. But the Shattered Teeth—that’s something else. It’s like something in them can sense that they’re not quite on solid earth, puts them perpetually off-kilter. The soundscape is a cacophony of unfamiliar, unsettling things that none of them recognize, and the damp fog seeps into his bones, takes up residence there as that particular low, unrelenting throb.
It’s why Ashton offers himself up for first watch that night, because he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep for hours anyway. They plop down on a rock outcropping outside the tent, elbows on their knees, and look up at Catha, barely a light spot against the ever-present fog, and feel miserable. They shouldn’t. Everyone is here for Ashton—specifically, to help Ashton figure out who he is. He should feel more grateful, probably. It’s just hard, just right now.
Slival makes the passage of time inscrutable, but at some point, the faint trace of the moon in the sky has definitely moved from one side of the surrounding treetops to another, so they pull open the hanging vines that Fearne grew as a makeshift door and kneel next to Laudna, who’s sleeping right next to the entrance, to shake her awake. They don’t bother to be particularly gentle (they never do), but Laudna shoots up like they kicked her, and it makes them reel back as well, catching themself on their heels.
”Sheesh. Don’t worry, I haven’t abducted your girlfriend,” he says drily, clearly a joke, but Laudna jumps again.
“What?”
Explaining the joke would take too many words and is always a failure, anyway, so Ashton just waves their hand dismissively.
“Never mind. Second watch.”
Laudna blinks, black hair falling in a mess in front of her eyes before she pushes it back. “…right. Right.”
Ashton is fine with not making any more conversation than that, is pretty much ready to collapse into the far corner of their tent, but Laudna stops him with the soft, too-serious way she says his name right as he’s pushing himself to his feet. “Ashton.”
“What?”
“I just… we haven’t really had any time to talk, and. Well.” Laudna jerks her head towards the door, and Ashton is so tired, but they roll their eyes and follow her out to join her again on that flat rock, side by side. It’s not like falling asleep is likely any time soon. “I wanted to say I’m… sorry. For before.” Ashton doesn’t even know what that means, and it must show in their face, because Laudna adds, “For accusing you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Ashton had been joking, really, when they brought it up—except Laudna’s stilted apology seems to be in earnest, and that might actually be starting to upset them.
“…what, with Imogen?” Because Ashton had assumed that had been a joke or some weird Laudna bit in the first place, because the alternative didn’t really make a whole lot of sense, even for Laudna, whose bar for weird is real high.
“I was… emotionally compromised.”
And yeah Laudna’s always been weird about Imogen (honestly, Imogen’s always been weird about Laudna right back), doubly so since they were separated, so it’s not that farfetched an explanation, but—
See, normally Ashton would let it go, he really would, but he’s so tired, and Slival is the fucking worst, and they’re all here because of Ashton, and in the morning that will probably feel comforting but right now it just feels fucking heavy, and sometimes he vacillates between wanting so badly to know about his past and wanting nothing less, and maybe he would prefer anger right now, and—
“About Imogen, or about me?” They say, not bothering to moderate any of their testiness, and the apologetic tilt of Laudna’s brow turns a bit more guarded. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you being weird and snippy at me since we came back.” Not that he’d been intending on talking about it, but Laudna’s the one who brought it up.
“What?” Laudna does seem sincerely taken aback now, although it doesn’t stop the squirming feeling in Ashton’s chest or the throbbing building back up in their head.
“Since we came back from that fucked up god continent. I’m just saying, I see you.” They don’t go as far as to point two fingers between their eyes and Laudna’s, but the intent is there in the way they get right up in her face. To her credit, Laudna doesn’t back down and merely frowns.
Ashton has always hated Laudna a little, has even admitted to as much, even if they usually never think about it, just for daring to be happy in spite of… you know, everything. He wonders how much of that is Imogen. He doesn’t know for sure. When in doubt, they can try hitting it with a hammer though. That’s what they do best.
“You’re going to have to forgive me at some point, you know,” Ashton says, and by now Laudna has transitioned fully from looking vaguely guilty to just looking affronted.
“What are you talking about?”
“For seeing you at your worst.” And Ashton smiles like a fucking bitch, eyes gleaming wide, even as Laudna scoffs. “Yeah, the parts of you you try to hide from her.” Her gaze somehow gets even darker, baleful.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, so you told her? All of it?” Ashton leans closer when Laudna doesn’t answer, voice lowering like gravel. “Even the purple on your hands when you killed him?”
Laudna flinches but doesn’t shy away, actually recovers with leaning right back into Ashton like a dare. “As a matter of fact, I have, not that it’s really your business.”
(Honestly, Ashton decides he hates her a little more in that moment.)
They drop the manic grin and affect a bored disinterest instead, shrug, and say, “I don’t know, I watched it happen, kinda makes it at least a little my business.”
It’s not what they meant to say. At all. He meant to say, sure, it’s not his business, and Laudna can fuck right off, he’s so fucking tired. It’s just their fucking contrarian streak that fucks them over, blurting out a rebuttal out of pure fucking habit.
Laudna’s eyes soften slightly, and gods, he hates that even more.
“…you’re wrong, I’ll have you know. I don’t… hide who I am from Imogen.” Laudna looks away, turns to the sky instead. “I wouldn’t be able to, even if I tried.”
And that’s… creepy, probably. Invasive. Not something that he wants at all. Look, if it’s not that, then what the fuck is it, Ashton wants to ask, just to change the subject. Because they’re pretty sure Laudna didn’t look at them like that before. Before when, they’re not really sure, but at some undefined point, they think, it had been different. But the words don’t come out, only get caught on a strangled, “Look,” which is as far as they get. The migraine that is an ever-present constant in his life pounds against his skull so insistently that for a moment he can’t think at all, just wraps his head in his hands, hanging between his knees. Time drips thick like molasses, and they don’t know how long the silence passes until there’s the soft rustle of Laudna inching closer to them, not touching, not reaching, just there.
“I meant what I said, Ashton. Sometimes I am simply wrong. Sometimes I need to ask you to forgive me.”
And Ashton isn’t sure if they believe her, but just for now, they will take it, will raise their head to look at Laudna with blindingly pained eyes to see one pale hand, only dimly visible in the moonlight, extended as if asking permission, and just nod. Laudna’s hand lands on their shoulder, on top of the chaotic tangle of gold scars commemorating just how broken they are, and squeezes, not too gentle, until they stop shaking. He doesn’t know how he feels, that their fucked up week together in Issylra has left both of them knowing, however amorphously, what to do when the other person is falling apart in front of them.
“You really should get some rest,” Laudna says.
Ashton bites out a tired laugh at how much of a fucking understatement that is. “Fuck.”
* * *
It all feels a little ridiculous in the morning light, though, when Ashton’s headache isn’t gone but at least it fades into the background, and FCG’s jaw hangs open in a wide mechanical grin as he points to the firefly-like lights that surround them. And Laudna doesn’t say anything, so neither does Ashton. Who needs conversation when they can choose to simply march forward, towards Ashton’s destiny.
Unfortunately, it also comes back (gods, why do only bad things always come back) several days later.
Ashton is sprawled on their stomach, some thin rags pretending to be a blanket underneath them and their back, still raw and red, bare against the chill of the ship’s air. This pain is sharp and new and weirdly almost pleasant compared to the background noise of his life. He loves it.
“You know, at some point you’re going to have to forgive the world,” Laudna murmurs from behind them, and Ashton is too blissed to bother with turning around, eyes closed and head cradled in the crook of their crossed arms.
“For?”
Laudna laughs softly, ruefully. “That’s a trick question, I think.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.” Come to think of it, Laudna keeps doing that. Bringing things up. Coming back. Ashton isn’t sure how he feels about it.
The ship sways, back and forth, back and forth. Faint on the air, there’s music coming from the deck, and Laudna’s slow, slow breaths, sibilant.
“You asked me if I’ve been… weird about you.” Ashton only hums vaguely. They’d sort of wanted to know, before, but now they feel ambivalent—now in this easy numbness that’s too good to ruin with the truth. “I think…” Laudna’s voice trails off thoughtfully, then comes back softer. “I think, Ashton, that if there is anything that worries me about you… it is that I wish for you to find your identity, but not in or of the earth, and I worry what it might mean if you do.”
That, finally, penetrates the haze and Ashton tenses before clambering heavily up to his feet. When he turns around, Laudna is simply standing there, gaze steady. Solid.
“Since when do you read Primordial?”
“Since she’s been back.” Laudna gestures with a deliberate sort of nonchalance (an oxymoron if Ashton’s ever seen it) to her eyes, flashing momentarily green, and Ashton lets out a slow exhale.
“…my heritage isn’t like the dead lady in your head.”
“I didn’t say it is.”
Then they say nothing, both of them locked in silent stalemate, as Ashton tries to discern what parts of what Laudna just said she actually means. Mostly, he thinks maybe they should both stop thinking they actually understand each other. Because for the first time in Ashton’s life, there’s a chance that the constant pain that defines them isn’t actually meaningless, and it’s utterly fucking baffling that Laudna, of all people, can’t see why that means the world to them.
“Laudna, get your pretty self back up here—you owe me a dance.” Imogen’s voice echoes from the far side of the ship, sounds almost like a song when there’s music accompanying it, and Laudna turns as if commanded, breaking their staring competition, before looking back at Ashton briefly, like a question.
“…I really do want to help you, you know,” she says softly.
“Well.” Ashton grunts as he sits back down, tender skin burning when he leans back against the freezing wooden wall of the ship. “I already said, didn’t I? The world can beg me first, then maybe I’ll think about it.” Their lips curl back in a jagged approximation of a smile.
Laudna’s mouth does something almost the same but not quite, and then she’s gone, and Ashton is alone.
4.
Fearne sits at Laudna’s feet, haunches tucked under her gracefully, and watches over her friends. Imogen, slumped against the cold wooden wall of the cabin, one hand resting gently on Laudna’s head in her lap. FCG, round eyeholes dim and unfocused as he balances precariously on his wheel like a wobbling gyroscope, holding one of Laudna’s hands in his in a gentle sway. Laudna, face drawn but calm in her sleep, her free hand folded on her chest like a parody of death. She reaches over to gently hover a couple fingers over the crushed lavender she sprinkled near Laudna’s gaunt ankles, trying to waft the scent closer to them all, then gets distracted and rubs the cool skin there soothingly, as if it will help.
Watching someone else dream—let alone watching three people dream together—is always a bit strange. The last time she did this, it had been Imogen, and she still remembers how she was so afraid that Imogen might not wake up. She isn’t a stranger to fear; she’s been on this weird and confusing material plane long enough to have faced it often, to have drowned in it once or twice, but it’s still not something she would call familiar, really, the chill that runs down her spine even now. It’s at least comforting, in comparison, to know that Imogen and FCG are both with Laudna, and that she’s at least had the chance to make the space a little more conducive to pleasant dreams.
It’s just that… she loves her friends so much. Of course, she’s had people she loves before, like her Nana, and her parents, and Dr. Nesbitt, but, well, it’s a different kind of feeling with the Hells. She wonders if it’s because of the fear that it’s different—she’s never, ever been afraid of losing her Nana, after all. But she’s not sure.
She wonders what Laudna’s dreams look like. Imogen’s dream, the one time Fearne visited, had been angry and red, and the last time they’d fought Delilah somewhere in Laudna’s soul, it had been a dark, twisted version of Whitestone. Her friends’ faces are all calm, though, peaceful, and she doesn’t think they would look that way if they were in there. She hopes not; if they ever need to fight there again, she rather thinks they all would have to be there.
Laudna is the one to wake first, with almost no change except that her eyes blink open slowly. For a moment, Fearne isn’t sure whether it’s just Laudna sleeping with her eyes open (she does that sometimes) because her breathing is still at the same lethargic pace that, for anyone else, would probably be a legitimate cause for concern. But soon FCG’s eyes brighten and whir, and Imogen gasps back to consciousness, and Fearne leans forward eagerly to grab FCG’s shoulder, making sure he stays upright.
“Anything?” Fearne asks, and after a brief spell of disorientation, FCG droops, the suspension of their wheel sagging in imitation of their humanoid friends.
“I’m sorry.”
Laudna blinks, as if also getting her bearings, before smiling and patting FCG’s hand gently as she husks, “What did you see?”
“Just blurry shapes. Purple. Nothing useful. You?” FCG turns to Imogen hopefully, but Imogen only shakes her head.
“Same.”
“Then we all saw the same thing.” Laudna’s face falls minutely, then promptly brightens again after only a moment. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe she’s weaker than I thought.” Laudna looks up at Imogen and smiles, and, out of nowhere, it occurs to Fearne that they must look upside down to each other. It makes her giggle.
“But you all feel rested at least?” she asks, because the lavender really ought to have been good for something, and Imogen huffs a quiet laugh that Laudna echoes, which she takes as a yes.
FCG suggests that maybe they can try again later, before pulling himself back up straight and wheeling away. Fearne is about to do the same when Imogen lowers her head and murmurs quietly, “Next time, suck my soul.” Fearne isn’t sure she was meant to hear it, but she can’t help it if she has very good hearing and fluffy ears that twitch excitedly when anyone sounds like they’re saying secrets. Although, also to be fair, Imogen did say that before they started, so maybe it’s not really a secret either.
Laudna laughs again, a rare soft, breathy one that Fearne is delighted to catalogue as unfamiliar, even after spending months together, and doesn’t say anything back but instead reaches up to put a hand on Imogen’s cheek. There’s no force behind it, and her hand can’t weigh any more than a feather, really, but Imogen leans down as if drawn and Laudna meets her halfway to gently rest foreheads together.
Something about it makes Fearne’s heart feel odd, like someone’s tickling her inside her chest where she can’t reach to scratch. It’s not a bad feeling, and it’s not the first time she’s ever felt it (after all, Imogen and Laudna have always been affectionate, with each other and sometimes with Fearne too), but in any case, it makes her want to run back towards her friends and grab them in a big hug—and so she does, stooping low to press kisses against both their heads in rapid succession.
Imogen lets out a startled laugh and a questioning, “Fearne?”
“We’ll get that bitch next time,” Fearne says blithely in return, squeezes hard once, and then just as quickly, trots back out of the room to go find FCG and give him a hug too. After that, she figures, she’ll take a stab at finding Chetney’s sword. He is her favorite old man—more than this skeletal captain anyway—so she at least has to try, doesn’t she?
5.
FCG doesn’t really care about getting the tattoo, to be honest. But Orym is so earnest, and everyone else is doing it, and he wouldn’t want to be left out. And there’s also something at least a little bit appealing to the idea of having… well, evidence, tangible and concrete. FCG doesn’t remember getting any of the other lasting marks on their body—not the name that hides behind their face, where it still feels like a stranger’s, nor the blades (that used to be) on their chest that didn’t mean what they thought it did. It’s not a terrible feeling to decide, for once, to define something about himself. And as long as they’re getting it, it might as well be immediately visible, so they point Vendallo right to the largest expanse of smooth metal on the outside of their forearm, where the sleeves of their jacket won’t cover it.
“Very noticeable,” is the observation Laudna offers when she drops by. FCG isn’t sure why she did, but he supposes he has no real reason to object.
“Well, yeah, that was the point.”
Laudna hums thoughtfully but doesn’t otherwise answer. Laudna has yet to get hers, but FCG knows a few others have gotten theirs in places that are more hidden, behind clothing and armor. It’s their choice, of course, but he doesn’t understand why you would go through all the trouble for something other people can’t see.
For a long stretch, the only sound in the room is the clanging tap-tap-tap of Vendallo’s chisel.
“Does it hurt?” Laudna asks eventually.
FCG shakes his head. “Not the way it does for flesh and blood folk.”
(The background noise to their strange conversation stops for a moment as their artist looks up to rasp, “Tragic for you.” Neither of them bothers to acknowledge it.)
“How do you know it’s different?”
“You all showed me, when you let me feel what you feel,” FCG says, bright and matter-of-fact. Ashton hurts the most, all the time, but sometimes Imogen’s stomach twists like it wants to tear itself apart, and Laudna’s brain itches in a way that she wants to claw out. None of that feels at all like this—and they point with their free hand as if to illustrate. “This, I know it’s happening, and I can feel it, but it’s not quite pain.” It’s also probably not like the red haze that covers his mind sometimes, but he doesn’t really feel the need to elaborate on that either. After all, he doesn’t remember.
Laudna seems to consider that again for a good long while, and FCG looks up at her curiously. “Are you afraid it will hurt?”
(“That’s the best part,” Vendallo interjects again, and Laudna only shushes them with a flapping hand.)
“No, not at all, I was just—” Laudna trails off with a small sigh before starting to twist a lock of her own hair around one bony finger.
“Is it about Delilah?” FCG’s need to please and soothe hasn’t gone away, although he resists it now more often than he used to, ever since he found out it was less a calling and really more a death trap. Lies, hiding somewhere in their core, in ways they don’t know how to dig out. Still, the way Laudna keeps hesitating makes him anxious, far more so than any discomfort caused by the skeleton hammering his arm. It’s what keeps driving them to ask.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Do you want me to try scrying on her again?”
“Well, perhaps another time, but I—you said, earlier, that maybe it was better to give in. And I just wanted to ask you why.”
“Well…” FCG draws out, hesitant. Imogen had seemed real mad at him for saying so, you see. Even though she didn’t raise her voice or anything, somehow that had been worse. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to.”
“I just wanted to know why you said it.”
FCG takes a moment to gather their thoughts, frowning a little. The question maybe also feels a bit like a trap. “Well… I didn’t mean you should give in like lose to her. I just thought… I guess I thought maybe you need to face her directly, though, because how can you know what’s in you if you don’t let it to the surface at least once?”
Laudna peers at him intently, milky black eyes opposite white ocular receptors, both unblinking. “Like you.”
FCG’s head tilts to one side. “It’s not really the same, but… maybe? The only reason I know about myself is because of you all. Because you told me, when I couldn’t remember. And now I know, and it hasn’t happened again.” FCG really has tried so hard to make sure it doesn’t happen again.
Laudna’s gaze slides off of FCG as she thinks, two fingers worrying her bottom lip, shoulders hunched.
“And you know, Imogen said it too.” Laudna’s whole head snaps back towards FCG and they hurry to continue. “Not about you, about her. About her dreams, and whether giving in would show her… more.”
“Yes, but we’re not going to let her do that,” Laudna says immediately, her voice low and breathy as usual but somehow so much more forceful.
“Oh, we’re not?” FCG’s head shrinks back, hydraulics hissing softly. Honestly, they’re a bit confused about what Laudna wants from them. At first it seemed like she wanted a push, but now it sounds like the opposite.
“Of course not! She’s far too important to risk.” Laudna leans in closer to tower over FCG, a little manic in the way her eyes grow twice their usual size, and for a moment, FCG wonders if Laudna is actually going to use her form of dread, here, for seemingly no reason.
“Oh. Oh, well, that’s what she said about you too.” At least FCG thinks that’s what Imogen meant, but the way the tension abruptly pops and Laudna visibly deflates, he can’t tell if Laudna agrees or not.
“Yes… I suppose.” Laudna twists the ring on her finger a few times and then steps back. “And that’s what we discussed before, isn’t it? That we are all too important to risk. At least, not in any way that’s too dangerous.” Is that what they eventually said? Sometimes they talk so long and say a lot of things, and then FCG can’t remember where they ended up. But Laudna doesn’t wait for an answer as she takes another couple of steps back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take up so much time. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
(“I don’t have hair,” Vendallo mutters. FCG doesn’t either, although his cables are kind of similar. But it’s not like it matters.)
“That’s alright. Smiley day!” FCG says brightly, for a lack of anything else they can think to.
“Thank you, FCG.” And Laudna smiles at him, a little soft, a little bemused, and then she leaves.
0.
They could stay at the Spire by Fire with the rest of the Hells—and it would be a lie to say Laudna isn’t at least a little bit tempted, once it’s late enough that the desert night gets chillier than is strictly comfortable, and Imogen leaning into her side is a warm weight that makes her want to stay exactly there forever—but they did tell Zhudanna they would be back, and it wouldn’t do to have their old landlady worry. So they take their leave of their companions and walk back to Zhudanna’s holding hands, giggly and a little bit drunk. Laudna doesn’t drink, of course, but is intoxicated all the same on the sheer newness of it all, the way that almost everything they do—except the one thing that they did that afternoon, that they haven’t had the chance to again, but that Laudna is thinking constantly of—is something they have always done but is also utterly changed by juxtaposition to this revelation.
When they reach the Viduun-Devaar, Laudna is almost disappointed. A short walk across the Core Spire isn’t much, but time when they can be truly alone is so rare—and will no doubt be even harder to come by once they’re on the road again. She can’t help that her feet start to drag ever so slightly, and Imogen—dear, sweet, attentive Imogen—slows with her, an unspoken question in her eyes when she turns back to check on her. Laudna’s unspoken answer is to bring Imogen’s knuckles to her lips, while she can, and bask in the radiant smile she gets as a reward.
“It’s so strange,” Imogen whispers, leaning closer, and Laudna is spellbound.
“What is?”
“That I can just… do this now,” she says, accompanied by the same gesture returned to Laudna, warm lips pressed against the back of a cold hand.
“Do you think we can just stay out here all night? Maybe run away from everyone who knows us tomorrow?” Laudna’s eyebrows rise in exaggeration to convey the joke, but there’s a little bit of truth in her voice that she can’t quite hide.
They didn’t actually say they would keep the new part of their relationship hidden, not in so many words. It’s just that Imogen’s face had frozen when Pâté said what he did, and then Laudna had (perhaps) panicked a little, immediately stuffed Pâté back into his house, and frantically changed the subject, which Imogen definitely went along with. Which all seems like a pretty clear indication of what Imogen wants. And it’s fine if it is; Laudna can work with that. Laudna wants to give Imogen what she wants, after all, and if she has to wait a little to act on the (in retrospect not entirely new new, but still gloriously unfamiliar as a conscious idea) irrepressible thoughts of kissing Imogen that she keeps having now, she’ll survive. Probably.
Imogen’s hand on her cheek draws her back from her runaway thoughts, and her eyes feel like they almost cross briefly as they snap into focus on Imogen’s face, closer than it was before.
“Where did that all come from?” Imogen asks, smile dripping off her deepening drawl like honey.
“Oh, I’m just—it was, well mostly, a joke, but. Well, since you didn’t want anyone else to know, right?” Her words trip over each other, jerky, chaotic, and sometimes she wishes she sounded less odd, but then, Laudna has wished for a lot of things in her life, and very few of them have come true. (Imogen standing before her is nothing short of a miracle.)
“I mean… I thought maybe we’d wait a while to tell everyone, yeah. But it’s not because I want to hide you or anything, you know that, right?” Imogen looks up at Laudna, eyes so big and earnest that Laudna’s immediate instinct is to agree unconditionally, but then she hesitates. After all, it is ever so strange, that someone like Imogen would be with someone like Laudna, and maybe she’ll realize it in a few days, and—
“It’s not,” Imogen says firmly, reaching for both of Laudna’s hands now. “I don’t want to hide anything, I just… want you to myself, at least for a little. I love our friends, but they’re… they’re a lot sometimes, you know?” Imogen’s beautiful hands toy with Laudna’s, fingers tracing the lines of her palm, worrying the soft flesh between her fingers, interlocking, weaving, then skittering away to caress a different knuckle. Laudna is rapt with attention, can’t imagine pulling her eyes away.
“Of course. Of course, you’re right.”
“It’s just—Letters would probably want us to talk about our feelings or whatever, and they’d all make so many dirty jokes, and—well, actually now that I say it, maybe I wouldn’t mind it so much, but. Just for a while. Just us.” Imogen carefully, deliberately, threads her fingers with Laudna’s and squeezes gently, and Laudna can only nod. She thinks she can feel her heart beating (sluggishly for anyone else, but racing by her standards) in the exact space where her existence seems to narrow to the warmth and pressure between Imogen’s fingers.
“Alright.” Laudna leans to press her forehead to Imogen’s. “Alright,” she says again, soft like a prayer, a promise.
They stay that way for a long moment, before Imogen leans up to kiss her, although she pauses right before as if to ask permission again, as if Laudna would ever say no, now when the idea has taken up permanent residence in her brain. Or maybe she’s waiting, Laudna isn’t sure, but in any case, the only possible reaction is to meet her halfway.
And later, when Laudna tries to pull her hand away as they approach Zhudanna’s house, Imogen tells her in no uncertain terms that, “We held hands all the time before; I’m not gonna stop holding your hand in front of other people, Laudna,” and sounds so fond and exasperated at the same time, in a way that makes Laudna’s stomach flip uncontrollably, that Laudna is almost too distracted to catch what she mutters under her breath next: “…‘Sides, Zhudanna already thinks we’re dating.”
It takes five whole seconds for Laudna to react. “What?”
Imogen is blushing, for some reason. “She just… kinda always did?” comes out like a question, helplessly. “I didn’t—I mean, it wasn’t like I was prying, she kept thinking it real loud.”
“What?”
“I didn’t encourage it or anything; she just jumped to conclusions. Y’know, ‘cause there’s only one bed…” Imogen rubs the back of her neck awkwardly with her free hand and doesn’t look Laudna in the eye.
“And you knew she thought so?”
“Again, not like I wanted to, but… yeah?”
And there’s still so much that they haven’t talked about that they really, really should, like when Imogen first knew that they could be like this and how long she never bothered to let Laudna know too, but then Imogen tugs impatiently and says, “C’mon, let’s just be us, worry about it later,” and Laudna finds that all she can do is follow.
Just us, she thinks giddily.
It sounds perfect.