Work Text:
I’ve Worn Your Family Crest
Imogen
Wind whipped and tangled lavender hair, but Imogen didn’t notice at all. Despite being terrified of heights, the excitement and novelty of being on a skyship overrode it. Between groups of clouds she could see stretches of sea directly below and the outlines of cities off in the distance. She had an arm hooked in a square of the mast’s boarding net; knuckles white with the grip of her fingers threaded around an intersecting knot. Gods, the ropeburn would kill her later— pressured contact points between the webbing of her fingers and palm, on her bracing bicep, and a stabilizing strip of her shoulder and chest across her right collar bone; all to allow her mind minor reprieve as she leaned over the side, the safety line leaving a red indent across her abdomen— but she didn’t feel any of it at the moment. High enough to see the curve of the atmosphere line, she could still make out the restless ocean’s rippled whitecaps.
In her awe, she didn’t spare a thought for the lack of ink adorning her skin. For almost everyone, there was a spot tattooed on them somewhere, at birth. The mark of a soulmate. When they found something symbolic of the person, even if they’d never met, the dot would grow. For most, an image would form once the couple (or couples on occasion) met. Less often, if it took a long time before meeting, the picture could be recognizable before first encounter. The absence of a mark was most frequently because their match wasn’t born yet. Less often, the lines would lose color and scar if their soulmate died— an incomplete design would complete itself in the raised tissue… so, in rare cases, a scar would appear before a notion of saturation occurred. Due to the (frequent) existence of platonic soulmates, it was almost unheard of for someone to never have a tattoo or scar. But when that happened, it meant the individual didn’t have a soulmate.
Generally, it took until about ten years old for people to be worried about not having anything— At least, older people around the growing child; the child in question would likely worry a lot from the moment their peers’ tattoos started to grow and shape. Worse, was seeing others without one suddenly gain a scar. The moment when they might think: Do I still have a chance, will I get a scar, or will I have no one that connects with me from within my soul? Imogen was into her mid-twenties, no mark to be seen. Disappointment reigned every time sun damage from constant farmwork caused a new freckle that got her hopes up— then the feeling of foolishness from not being worried about fucking skin cancer or something. Nobody really told her when starting to worry was normal (in relation to herself or other’s perceptions,) or when people tended to stop hoping.
Her optimism died when she was in her early teens (she already assumed she wasn’t in the running for a tattoo to appear anymore, but there still were other forms of hope.) She had a crush on another girl that also didn’t have a mark… even though she knew that meant they weren’t soulmates, she thought they could choose each other; that even if it wasn’t fated, they could decide to try. Soulmates still struggled, afterall, interpersonal connections always needed effort and the care to work together. So, if two people without soulmates chose each other… they could do it, right? For a while, she thought her friend felt the same. Then, one day, her friend cried out as a scar bloomed across the side of her neck.
During mourning, she didn’t talk to Imogen at all, but would give a halfhearted smile when they crossed paths. When her friend started to move through the final stage of grief, she wouldn’t even meet Imogen’s eyes. While she still believed that two people without soulmates could choose each other anyway, she decided she didn’t have the heart for it.
She’d make do with herself and acquaintances… though there wouldn’t be a day where the loneliness didn’t haunt her in some way. Imogen wasn’t asexual, but she’d still be beyond happy for a platonic soulmate… anyone who’d be by her side, be willing to put in equal effort into an interpersonal relationship. As for sexuality, there were always going to be non-monogamous people. But Gelvaan didn’t have many options there— and nobody without any mark.
Master Faramore needed a hand for trade in Tal’Dorei. Imogen wanted to go with everything in her being, but she didn’t want to leave her father alone. Her mother left to find answers when she was young; Relvin’s tattoo, while faded, hadn’t scarred, so she knew Liliana was still alive but she didn’t know if that made it better. Either way, it was her father that saw her fighting against the desire to volunteer; it was Relvin that suggested his daughter go. Imogen didn’t know if it was because he wanted to rid himself of the young woman who bore striking resemblance to her mother or if he took the initiative to give her the opportunity. For the sake of her heart, Imogen assumed it was the latter and left it at that (when the former crossed her mind, she immediately busied herself with other thoughts.) Imogen worked hard and kept her head down; with that in mind, (and possibly pity,) Faramore didn’t take more than a second to pick her.
On the road to where the airship docked, Imogen couldn’t suppress the hope that she’d meet someone that she connected to. Hells, as much as she yearned for companionship, she certainly wouldn’t mind a one-night-hookup. A bigger city could grant her that. As much as she tried to dismiss the spark of hope, she couldn’t truly smother it.
—
Matilda
Just months ago, Matilda wished the sun were less relentless on her back as she did yard work. As much as she loved the warmth, her fair skin burned easily. Unlike seemingly everyone else who’s life revolved around outdoor labor, she didn’t tan easily. If she was careful, she would gain enough color to avoid burning by the end of the summer.
It was cold now. Whitestone was usually at its hottest at this time of the season, but clouds had overtaken the sky and refused to budge. Gunmetal gray blanketed the city; dark enough that reading outside strained the eyes. The animals were getting sick, and crops were dying before harvest. The economy was plummeting. Her family was hungry and she was cold. Labor used to be manageable, even fun— she’d get into the rhythm of things and create little stories in her head. Alone in the fields, she’d sometimes monologue or sing. Imagine a world where she had a soulmate. Occasionally, guilty, she’d picture a universe without soulmates at all. She wondered if that would be worse for her— she wouldn’t know to accept that there wasn’t anyone for her.
But she figured, as long as she could have her stories, she’d be okay. The cold and hunger stole that from her; the work exhausted her more than it ever had. Waking meant she had to get through the day so she could just sleep again. Life was hungry and cold. Survival was exhausting. But when she was just about to fall asleep, those plotlines resurfaced; when she woke up in the middle of the night, they comforted her until consciousness left her alone again. Before waking, the stories continued, but were interspersed with dreaded recognitions of the coming day’s approach.
Today, she had to wake earlier than usual. Her father had tasked her with a trip to town to try and barter tanned leathers of anything they needed. He spent his days between gore, tanning, and leatherwork. These days, mostly leatherwork because they didn’t have the livestock to spare, nor did anyone else have any to give for commission. The dried meat of the last cow they had to spare lasted them decently long, but they were running low on it, and even lower on other foods with other required nutrients. She’d been avoiding mirrors… she knew she looked an absolute fright.
—
The town center was busier than it had been in ages. It didn’t take her long of wondering before she saw the skyship roped to mass amounts of cleats just on the outskirts of the main town. Had the Briarwoods commissioned short-term docking necessities for this? Did they bring their own? Gods, how would that work?
She gawked at it, unaware her jaw was agape until something… someone knocked into her shoulder. Matilda stumbled; she tried to play into it and shrink away, hope they didn’t notice or stop her, but the person immediately reached out to stabilize her. “Oh my Gods, ‘m so sorry!” the stranger drawled. Matilda hadn’t heard an accent like that— She found herself caught off guard by how lovely this strange woman’s voice was and couldn’t help but look up, despite her usual precautions. “You okay?” the stranger’s eyes were flooded with worry… and they were the color of blooming lavender with hair to match. That is when she noticed her jaw had been slack the whole time.
Suddenly aware of her ragged clothes, likely-disheveled appearance, and lack of response when the woman’s expression grew more concerned, she squeaked, “I’m fine! Just sorry to have gotten in your way.” Mentally, she prepped to get away and stop bothering the stranger as soon as possible, but strong, warm, leather-gloved hands still held her steady. Matilda couldn’t bear to break the contact just yet… Especially not when she processed just how beautiful the stranger was.
The stranger frowned, “I wasn’t payin’ attention to where I was goin’. That wasn’t your fault.”
Matilda was struck with the need to soothe her worry, and the desire to place her hands over the stranger’s— somewhat just to be able to touch her, and partially the subconscious urge to keep her there a little longer. “Don’t worry yourself on my account,” she smiled, “I wasn’t paying overly close attention to my surroundings, either.”
“I’ll do what I want with my worry,” had it not been for the grin, Matilda would have gone into full panic thinking she’d caused offense. The woman looked her over and the smile faded from her face again, “When was the last time you had somethin’ to eat?”
Matilda flinched, “Recently enough,” (it had to be that way,) “I’m just in town to try and sell or barter my family’s leathers.”
“That ain’t quite what I asked, but I won’t push,” she took a breath, “Can I take a look at what y’have?”
“O– Of course!” Matilda shuffled to open her pack and unfurl the rolled up pieces bound to the bag. Her heart sunk when the woman dropped her hand. Yes, it made sense that she needed to… but gods… what she’d do to have that touch back. She contorted herself awkwardly to hold and show most of what she had on her.
The woman’s gaze drifted to one piece immediately, but with all the things she was holding, Matilda could only deduce the general area of the one she was looking at. Lavender eyes took in everything with consideration to detail— When Matilda was distracted by trying to keep everything balanced, she was the one being observed with care. “Could I take a look at that one?” the stranger pointed at a harness. One that looked very much like the one the woman was already wearing, but hers was long-worn. The buckle holes torn oblong, triple the size that they likely were when they were still circular; the finish had cracked away to a point where only a few chips gave away that it wasn’t just raw leather; the starts of tears at several high tension points. And it looked like it hadn’t even been close to her size, but forced to fit out of necessity. “My name’s Imogen, by the way.”
“I’m Matilda,” she struggled to shift things around to be able to separate the harness from the rest, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She awkwardly managed to pass the requested article to Imogen. Once she had both hands again, it was much easier to shift things to a side and balance herself out.
“Charmed,” Imogen smiled, “The pleasure’s all mine.” She held the harness like it would break if she breathed too hard it would fall apart, or her calloused fingers would scratch the leather— she knew it was sturdier than that, but was careful of the work anyway. Matilda’s heart warmed; she knew how long her father worked on that project. For that moment, she didn’t notice the ache in her hands from the cold or the nauseating feeling of hunger. Matilda couldn’t have prevented the smile on her face if she wanted to (not that she would.) Imogen traced the small imbedded design of the Bradbury family crest, located just above the main waist buckle. It wasn’t even inked in, just indented, and Imogen still noticed; she took a deep breath and started to examine it with more intent— more confident, less fearful of (unlikely) damaging it. After more painfully long seconds in anticipation, Imogen met Matilda’s eyes again, “How much for this?”
Her eyes widened, “Oh, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead…”
Imogen’s face scrunched in thought, “Uh… well, what’dya think would be the best case scenario for you to come home with today?”
“Some food… maybe?”
“How ‘bout I buy you groceries an’ such as somethin’ like a trade rather than tryin’ to work out a price in coin— which, I got a feelin’ you’d undersell,” Imogen rubbed the back of her neck like she was worried that she was overstepping… or about being rejected.
While she wouldn’t have outlived the guilt of hypothetically doing so, she would have agreed to a trade that simply allowed her a little more time with Imogen… “I… Yes, I think that would more than suffice,” she smiled nervously. Imogen’s body noticeably lost a large amount of recently accrued tension.
“Cool, okay,” Imogen chuckled (a little awkwardly,) “I’ve never been here before. Lead the way?”
Matilda started— and struggled— to re-fold and condense the collection of leathers. She fumbled a treated square yard of leather and dropped it; she yelped as she grasped at empty air. Imogen lunged forward and caught it before it hit the ground, simultaneously putting a sturdy hand on Matilda’s waist to prevent her from tumbling in the same direction as the article.
For a moment, time froze for Matilda. The first thing she caught (or didn’t…) was the fabric saved from the muddy ground below, safe in capable hands. Noticing that capable hand struck her with the feeling of the other one gipping her side. Despite still being physically unstable, she felt more grounded than ever before. Then, she noticed the uncomfortable contortion Imogen had taken… bent forward to catch the leather, tilted over to hold the loop of harness on her shoulder so she had the free hand to over-extend to protect Matilda herself, as well. Imogen’s alert eyes set on her to make sure she was okay.
Once Imogen determined that everything was safe, time started again; she took a bracing step forward and stood up straight— Matilda noted that Imogen could have just as easily let go of her and taken a step back instead. Still not breaking the contact, Imogen shrugged her shoulder a few times to move the loop of the harness higher up onto her shoulder to prevent it from dropping to the crook of her elbow; seemingly unconsciously, her thumb soothingly moved back and forth on Matilda’s waist, “You okay? Uh, here… lemme help,” Imogen’s cheeks reddened and she moved her hand to take half of what Matilda had been carrying to help fold, roll, or tie them down. Of course, Matilda let her.
Despite how close Imogen was while helping, it felt natural. With Matilda’s brain focused enough on the task that her brain didn’t flood with anxiety… Imogen’s closeness to her felt normal— like how people who lived together for years could move around a kitchen doing separate tasks without running into each other while not even looking up. Matilda felt an odd itch on her chest, over her heart; she fought not to scratch it, not wanting to interrupt the moment. Eventually, her pack was secure, and they both had two free hands.
—
Imogen
Imogen cringed at how much coin she spent, but monetarily, it was easily a purchase she could defend to her father when she got home. Besides, she’d been storing a percentage of her income away for years, so if worse came to worse, she could replace the cost with almost no detriment to herself— but that would require her father not noticing the replaced harness (very possible,) or lying about how she acquired it. But gods, she would have tripled the cost if the gaunt woman would’ve let her. This or tripled, she wouldn’t take it back for the world. And she really did need the new harness.
Once back to the airship (having been out well into the night to do the work that she was meant to have done during the day,) the desire to bathe consumed her mind. Not because she was dirty in any way, but because—
—Because the way she felt around Matilda today made her need, on a primal level, to search the expanse of her skin. She knew the soulmate marks didn’t work like that… but this… What if this was something entirely new, or just unrecorded? Doubt in her hope seeded heavily in the forefront of her mind, but everything else in her fought for that sliver of hope.
At a crossing, a loud horse and carriage startled Matilda, when she jumped, she hooked a hand around Imogen’s bicep and tucked into her side. As soon as she realized, she froze in embarrassment. Without thinking, Imogen placed her hand over Matilda’s and stood still until the other woman’s breaths steadied again. When Matilda’s grasp lightened, Imogen prepared to release her once she moved to let go… but the hand remained, so Imogen’s did as well.
The sound of streaming water filled the washroom. Usually, she’d wait until the tub was at least half-full to strip down, but the second the knob was turned, she damn near tore her clothes off. She tilted her head right, left, and diagonals; moved her hair and turned to check any spot she may have missed— nothing on her neck. She twisted and stretched her arms in every which way, using the both mirror and direct sight. Nothing. Nothing on her chest or abdomen; not on her ribs, waist, or hips. As she examined her legs, she felt a twinge, a buzz on the upper side of the back of her right shoulder blade. She gasped and whipped around to check the mirror, straining her eyes and pushing her flexibility to it’s limits… a stray, shedded strand of lavender hair stuck to her due to increased condensation. Right where she thought there could be something. She thoroughly, but without heart looked over everywhere she hadn’t looked, then, rechecked everywhere again. Her eyes kept being drawn to the still-empty space on her back shoulder. The tub was about a few inches from flooding by the time she gave up. A half inch from flooding when the volume of her body made it rise. Matilda was just a sweet, awkward girl that she’d never see again. She had to be up early tomorrow to prepare for casting off.
—
Matilda
Excess heaviness on her person had never been such a blessing as this. She trekked back home, slowed by the weight of food! And the kind, beautiful stranger— Imogen— had also made sure that she had a full meal before returning, convinced (accurately,) that she wouldn’t take a reasonable amount for herself before the journey back. She didn’t even notice the nausea that would’ve been expected from having a full meal when her body hadn’t been used to that in ages.
When she reached the doorstep, her parents were already waiting to get the door for her, having heard the rather heavy footsteps of her gait as she approached. Her mother’s eyes widened when she saw the previously empty sacks filled, hung on either side of her to balance out.
“How on Exandria…” a massive, astounded smile overtook her mother’s face, then semi-jokingly added, “You didn’t steal anything did you?”
“No! Of course not, Mama,” Matilda said. Seeing the still-genuine excitement on her mother’s face, she teasingly added, “Do you really think I could steal this much without getting caught? I’m very nearly encumbered, here!”
“Oh, honey, help out our daughter please?” Matilda’s mother scolded her awestruck husband.
“Of course, dear! Sorry, Millie. Here…” he grunted as he shouldered the food sacks, realizing they were secured onto the pack and he had to gather all of it. Matilda shimmied out of the straps to help. It kinda helped. He immediately transferred the pile to the kitchen table, then turned back to his daughter and wife. “So, how in the hells did you manage this?” he laughed.
“There was this woman! She was so beautiful, and kind… Oh, and there was an airship! She came from the airship… from Gelvaan, if I recall. Yes, that’s right— how could I question that with her accent? But I was in sheer awe of this vessel…”
“Where are you going with this, honey?” her mother interrupted when she’d taken a second to remember to breathe.
“Let her tell the story,” her father smiled and rested his head on his wife’s shoulder. Her mother nodded and rested her temple against his hair. “So, the pretty traveler from Gelvaan…?”
“Yes! Well, I was a bit lost in thought, as I often am. And she sort of… pummeled into me,” Matilda skipped past the details of touches and her quiet moments of admiration, “Eventually, she asked me what I was in town for. Skipping ahead a bit, she liked that harness you made, Dad! I sort of… um, well— was completely unable to give her a price when she asked…”
“Sweetie—”
“But, wait! Remember, I said she was kind? She… she asked what the best case scenario for me to leave with. I kind of was only able to think to say food… So, she offered to come with me to pay for groceries as a trade rather than try to figure out coin value… I’m sorry if I was wrong to do that…” Matilda worried the ends of her hair.
“She went with you to buy food?” her mother asked, words breathless in gratitude and shock.
“Yes, she did,” Matilda tried to slow her racing heart. She found herself unable, and her blush gave her away…
“What did it feel like to be around her?” her father asked. She missed her mother tighten her grip on his arm in warning: Don’t give her hope. She’d notice on her own if…
“It… It felt like I’d been around her for years. The way you instinctually take a step when you know someone well enough to know they’re about to be right where you were. Gods, I’m talking nonsense, aren’t I?” That time, Matilda didn’t miss her mother’s nails dig into her father’s forearm.
He cleared his throat, “She sounds like she was lovely. Your mother and I both are grateful to her as well. Will you be able to see her again?”
“Oh… I didn’t ask how long she’d be in Whitestone,” her body chilled down to the marrow, “Could I… could I go back to town tomorrow? Please?”
Before any argument could be had (her father wouldn’t have dissented anyway,) her mother replied, “Of course, honey. Of course. If you catch her, you’ll have to extend a thanks from us, too.”
Her father added, “And don’t worry about bringing the pack with you. Just try and find your girl and enjoy your day, yeah?”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Matilda threw her arms around her parents and barely prevented herself from crying from happiness.
Right when she’d tucked herself into her bed, Matilda’s hand drifted under the collar of her sleep-shirt to rest over her heart. That buzz from earlier returned, and she remembered. She bounded out of bed and lit a candle, moving the cloth out of the way the moment she wasn’t too close to the flame. Was that? She squinted hard, then yanked the shirt over her head so she didn’t have to bother with it. In an attempt to see better, she could feel the heat of the burning wick and wax on her skin, and there… against her pale skin, there were white lines depicting a linework image. It was light like the scars of people whose soulmate’s died, but there was no raised or gauged tissue… Just like ink if it were paper-white. It took her a moment to discern what it was, but suddenly became clear to her… A sprig of lavender.
—
Matilda all but ran to town once the sun rose, more of a fast walk or jog. Lactic acid burned her lungs and throat, the old air made her fingers and joints slow and ache, but she ignored it. Just past the Sun Tree, she scanned the horizon by the town’s edges— the skyship was gone. Then she sprinted. Nothing. The skyship was nowhere to be seen. Imogen was gone. Matilda lowered to her knees. She didn’t notice she’d been crying until the dampness of her cheeks had reached her lips and she tasted the salt. Her hand subconsciously gripped at her shirt, white-knucked fingers rested over her heart.
Her walk back was torturously slow; she paused to stare at the golden leaves of the Sun Tree, starting to dry and curl at the dying edges. Oh, how sluggish her steps must have been for her to have finally reached the first step of her porch as the reddish glow of the sunset went unnoticed to her.
When she didn’t say a word and her parent’s saw her face… they stayed silent. When Matilda locked herself in her room, they held each other and grieved for their daughter’s pain— soulmate or not, the death of hope was a horror they wished to never see strike their daughter’s features. Their child had already seemed to have made peace with her empty skin… while the reality saddened them, they’d been relieved that she’d seemed content, at least. Until tonight. Their gratitude for each other and love for their daughter swelled and ached equally with guilt.
The next morning, Matilda was up early to do her chores. She smiled as she always did, joked and greeted her parents as she always did, and her smile dropped the moment she turned… as it always had, but the weight had changed. She was cold, exhausted, and dreaded when the hunger would return. Her parent’s cooked a substantial dinner, which she ate gratefully, but was overwhelmingly nauseous afterward. Sleep didn’t greet her gracefully.
—
Imogen
The sun was barely peaked from the horizon as they took off for the long journey back. Faint stars still littered the indigo sky… fading and lightening more by the minute. Imogen watched the town until the buildings were barely silhouettes and the Sun Tree was a blot. Then, the city was gone and all that was left was turmoil of the sea below and void of blue atmosphere ahead. The excitement was gone. The height was freighting… she found herself staying as close to the middle of the deck as she could. Eventually, Faramore told her to go down below and rest. Even he sensed something was off with her.
While she’d been unable to sleep the prior night, the second she hit the firm mattress after being dismissed when skybound— she slept like she’d been deprived for days. Even pulling into the dock didn’t wake her. Not the lowering, halt, or the ship’s tilt when ropes were tied and tightened to cleats. A random crewman knocked on the door to her quarters once Faramore realized she wasn’t just being lazy and pretending to still be asleep to avoid helping… She startled awake, the light of the portholes hurt her eyes. She mumbled just loudly enough that she’d be right out. She didn’t register the words, but the person outside the door’s tone seemed to affirm understanding.
She’d fallen asleep without taking any article of clothing off— she still wore her boots, thigh holster, and old harness. The assumption that she’d likely changed into something easier to rest in when she’d missed was what she used as an internal argument to take the time to pack away the old harness, and replace and adjust the new one. The less-worn edges would likely chafe her skin after a day’s work, but certainly less than the overall discomfort of the damaged, ill-fitted one. She brushed her thumb over the design indented into the leather— the Bradbury family crest. Her chest panged with a shot of pain over the woman she’d likely never meet again. Matilda Bradbury. The new harness would be worn daily, eventually the edges would soften like her memories of that sweet girl would fade— the crest would remind her with the start of every day and end of every night but the memory of memories would shift and alter. Even then, she swore to herself she’s never lose them completely.
—
A few years passed; the first months after having met and left Matilda were some of the longest of her life—she mulled over how she couldn’t shake the way the girl struck her, but left no physical mark—after that, she buried herself in labor. Rode and took care of the horses whenever she was lonely and had the time… so, every moment outside of work and sleep. Her favorite horse, Flora, was there for her. A perfect constant. Often in the saddle, her fingers would drift to the crest on the harness— it was starting to fade from how often she found her hand already drawn to the spot.
She kept her head down. A grunt with hauled hay bales, a forced smile through a migraine, bit or bucked from livestock; and ‘congratulations’ given to her peers as they met their match, grew and settled. Through rain or blazing sun, she trudged forward and tried to do so without thought.
Relvin never noticed the replaced harness. He said good morning with an extra cup of coffee for her in the morning, but didn’t notice a damn thing about her. Never brought up the lack of a tattoo. Never talked about his. Imogen could shoulder pleasantries. It hurt her to see such a disconnect from her father, but she knew if he had noticed, had said something… It would have broken her.
—
Time didn’t pass to her in numbers so much as she noticed the change of seasons. She unintentionally counted winters while she lost track of everything else. The cold meant everything was harder. Her body ached doing labor in freezing temperature, crops died, and the sun abandoned her sooner and sooner. It reminded her of the Sun Tree as the leaves started to shrivel far sooner than it should have. It reminded her of Matilda Bradbury, cold and hungry.
It took a day where her hands ached so badly that she had to take reprieve and shelter in the stables for just long enough to warm her hands. Her fine motor skills were wrecked. Shoving her palms under her clothes to borrow heat from her torso only made her hands hurt more and the rest of her shiver. She curled into a ball to prevent excess heat from escaping. Shaking, in a ball crouched on the cobblestone floor of the stable… That was when it all hit her. How many seasons had passed. How lonely she was. What would she do when her body gave up on her and she couldn’t bury her mind in labor? The upper right edge of her shoulder blade itched… just like it did when… Imogen cursed the gods for that reminder happening now. A sob that had been building for ages— likely, much longer than that day— broke loose. She dug her blunt nails into her shoulder— pressed and pulled until the pressure bruised and the movement broke skin. At least, the blood that rose to the surface of her skin there was warm— barely-dotted with blood, and hot. Gods, finally… heat.
—
Imogen had to go to town. Exhausted, after the prior day where she’d had a breakdown in the cold. She rode Flora, that way she had, at least, one grounding point. She hated the way people looked at her when she was around— either with fear or disgust, or pity among the kinder-hearted ones of the town. But once she could see the edges of the main square… everybody’s focus was elsewhere. She could’ve cackled with the full mythical force of a witch they all feared her to be and still not so much as glance in her direction. Her chest filled with black ice.
There was something wrong. A wrong that drove so deeply into her soul that with only impulse driving her; she squeezed her thighs, signaling Flora to quicken her pace forward. Imogen’s head was clouded, yet, chose to focus on specific details— perhaps her mind coming up with anything to keep her present enough to react if needed. If it weren’t for the over-awareness of every hoof-fall, every stuttered breath and tensed muscle… she may have lost herself completely. The closer she got, the louder it got, and the deeper the dread flooded from skin to blood to marrow.
There was a woman, gaunt and pale with long black hair that had a stress-white streak from her temple down the length. Everything about her felt familiar, but she didn’t recognize her. The itch on her shoulder blade from yesterday burned, now. A horde of familiar faces crowded and threatened the woman— who simply looked scared, and confused in a way that also juxtaposed with accepting expectation, though she assumed this would happed but didn’t understand quite why. Imogen didn’t understand either. She especially didn’t understand why, from the depths of her being, she needed to stop this. Empathy, obviously. It was the right thing to do. And she had nothing truly to lose… but there was something else, too.
The mob yelled, chanted, and jabbed sharp tools or various objects set aflame. While she wouldn’t have taken it back, Imogen screamed before she could’ve considered the consequences of doing so, “Stop!” The thunderous yell certainly got their attention, some of them turned to look, a majority simply paused. “What the fuck has she done to deserve this?”
Though on the outside of the mass and not wielding a weapon, it was master Faramore that answered her, “She’s an undead witch, and she’s cursed our land! Leave this alone, Temult.” His look seemed somewhat plea, half pity, and a fraction of false-authority. But it should have been fear.
How could she have ever been cold when so much electricity ran through her veins? The sheer power overroad her… from her ability to suppress and control magic, to her literal features. Static flashes flickered and shot off her skin and scars. Her eyes went as white as the woman she’d die to defend’s shock of streaked hair. “No! Let. Her. Go.” Lightning bounced unpredictably between her fingertips and occasionally bracketed her arms and shoulders… made her hair float with static electricity. The storm ricocheted from finger-to-finger-to-palm, growing less stable by the second— watching the exponentially increasing danger caused more than half of the “normal” residents to flee. Some of the bold and brave remained, and a handful of people who’d gained authority or whose magic could be dismissed as “good” for some reason or another— “good” to a small narrow-minded community. People whose magic was diminished for safety. Just like her… but she never was accepted the same way. And she was in the process of ruining the tolerance extended to her. “Leave! Or I will fuckin’ sunder you,” she growled.
—
Laudna
Fear blundered and froze her body. Whenever she’d been chased out or threatened to leave a town before, she’d been able to run, but now she was surrounded. Ichor overpowered her tear ducts and left rivulets to tail down her cheeks. After everything she’d been through, was this really how she’d end? She’d nothing other than keep to herself and try to help from hidden shadows. What had she done? She’d only tried to help! She stayed out of sight… Fixed broken things among the properties… made little toys for folks… And they still found her a monster. She was going to end here, with so many pieces missing and questions unanswered. So many aspects of who she used to be that would be forever lost to her… No… Please.
A knight… no, a lavender-haired woman on horseback cried out, “Stop!” the surrounding noice diminished greatly, “What the fuck has she done to deserve this?” Someone answered the knight… no, not a knight… this powerful, beautiful woman wasn’t a knight… but, a savior either way. Her savior.
Laudna barely remembered minor snippets of her life before. She didn’t remember the name that had been hers while she was still living. But she always found herself resting her hand over her heart, where white ink depicted a sprig of lavender. She had a deep-rooted feeling that at some point, it used to be seen more easily. A time before she died when it didn’t take bright, direct sunlight and strained eyes. Still, she’d seen it in rare instances, wondered about it, and now, now it burned against her skin. Horrified that this would be the last moment of her unlife, she found her hand settled on the skin over her heart.
The savior cried out in her defense with white eyes, electricity, and hair elevated in the air. Most of the mob ran. But a few stayed. With the righteous power radiating from the lavender witch, Launda almost expected aasimar wings to erupt from her back… none appeared, but the moment a fearless asshole lunged at her, a bolt of lighting struck his chest. There was no warrior-heroic moment in his death— simply, a charred body hitting the half-frozen muck of the earth below. She dismounted her horse and sent the steed on a memorized path to safety. More men ran, recognizing the fate that would befall the fools that stood their grown. Her savior smited every prideful bigot that dared to linger. Once the crowd was diminished to vanished or dead, the woman fell to her knees. Laudna sprinted to her side with the last energy requiring speed she had.
“Are you okay?” Laudna panicked, “Why… why did you save me?”
The woman looked up at her, dazed and smiling. “It was the right thing to do. I know it. Are you hurt?” Something about the drawl and the smile was familiar.
“Yes. Yes, I’m okay, dear. What can I do to help you?” Laudna prayed that the woman would give her any direction at all.
“Jus’ get yourself somewhere safe, yeah?” the woman Laudna felt the dire need to be close to said. Gods, dammit. She needed something to help the woman who saved her, not a command to get herself to safety.
“But what can I do for you,” Laudna begged.
“Get outta here. Somewhere they ain’t gonna catch onto quickly. If it’s what it’ll take t’get you to do it, I’ll come find you, okay? ‘S not like I’ll be able to stay here now, anyway.”
“I can’t just leave you here,” Laudna whispered.
“I’ll be okay… If you really won’t leave without me, then find a way to bring me with you.”
“You… You’d want to come with me?” her heart both burned and froze. Swelled and ceased.
“Yeah. If I had the energy, I’d follow you by myself without any hesitation… So long as you’d want that, too.”
Gods smite her if she didn’t try. May they help if she was close to failure. May they feel fear if anything happened to Imogen along the way that wasn’t caused by her shortcomings.
—
Imogen
Fuck, Imogen’s head hurt. And her shoulder blade itched. She groaned, and gained clearer consciousness tucked into covers on a firm mattress. The room was glowing with warm candlelight, and a cauldron simmered over a mostly red-hot-coal fire. Her shoulder blade was still sensitive, and the feeling had extended to the middle of the nape of her neck and edge of her collar bone. She pulled the side of her dress to the side and saw ink. Poppies flooded most of where it was easier to see. The periphery of her vision was made up of mushroom clusters attached to… She unbuttoned a few notches of her dress to pull the fabric the rest of her shoulder… a cracked skull. Bird or deer, as far as she could see with strained eyes at an awkward angle; it extended to at least the lower edge of her scapula. Holy fucking hell… this woman that she uprooted her life for… hours? …ago… Was she? Imogen’s eyes welled; a sob wracked through her before the first tear fell, then they were unstoppable.
Quick, urgent footsteps approached. Imogen frantically pulled her dress back over her shoulders and made sure her vest hid the new tattoo where it could be seen through the sheer fabric. She didn’t fully think about why she’d hide it— covering up made sense for modesty, but… hiding the tattoo that surely one of two things: a hallucination, or in connection with the woman about to reach her. Logically, it made the most sense that it would be the woman from earlier based on context clues, but she was startled by her certainty of such.
While she had time to obscure her shoulders, Imogen hadn’t thought about the lack of time to rebutton her dress or vest. Just who she assumed it would be… the tall, hauntingly beautiful woman rounded the corner with wide black eyes. The woman wore long, tattered black skirt— a red blouse with gold and black embroidery decoration. Her dark hair was half-up, half-down, held by… a rock chisel? Her complexion wasn’t just deathly pale… but grayed.
At this distance, Imogen could see hints of white lines on her chest, above her breast and over her heart where the neckline of her shirt was low— the color of bone, like scarring. Imogen felt like her ribcage collapsed, punctured her lungs, and killed her heart. She was confused and everything hurt. Her head throbbed and ached, physically and mentally. She didn’t understand what was happening. How could she have a soulmate now? And how could she have been so sure and find marks of the woman to be dead-white? She crossed her left arm over her body to grip her right shoulder, embracing herself. Was it possible to have an unrequited soulmate?
“Are… are you all right, darling?” the woman frowned. She looked Imogen up and down in concern, saw the line of undone buttons, and found a sudden, profound interest in the ceiling.
“Uh, sorry. Yeah, ‘m okay,” she hoped the low light hid her tears. That the strained focus on slowing her panicked breathing wasn’t obvious.
“This is all my fault…” the woman swallowed and her slow inhale stuttered. “Why—” she exhaled, “Why did you save me?”
Imogen guffawed sardonically, “Didn’t I already answer that? I stand by what I said before.” But she second-guessed herself. A double-think cognitive dissonance… She wouldn’t take it back, not for anything, but she’d also just uprooted her entire existence for someone who wasn’t who she thought she was. The reality of what Imogen had done to her own life hit her. Then again, she wasn’t sure how long she would have lasted without something to change things. “Sorry… this is real hard for me. Lotta stuff goin’ on in my head. Are you okay?”
The woman’s hand drifted to where her tattoo was, dipped under her blouse to make full contact. Imogen unknowingly held her breath at the top of her inhale. “To be honest, I’m not sure.”
“You can look at me, y’know?” Imogen paused, “Oh, I guess you’re bein’ polite ‘cause… Lemme get my clothes sorted.” Though her hands trembled, she reassembled how her outfit was meant to be. To the best of her ability. She may have misaligned a button of her dress and only done the middle one of her vest. Harness loosely placed back over her shoulders, the waist buckle barely hanging from the first notch. “You’re safe t’look now.”
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable before. I tried to look away as soon as I could.”
“Huh? Oh! I wasn’t worried ‘bout you seein’ me. I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable with me bein’ exposed an’ all.”
“Why would I be…? You’re beautiful, dear. I’d be lucky to—” her eyes widened, “I mean, with be being like this,” she gestured to herself, “I’ve no right—”
“Now, you stop right there,” Imogen exhaled, then pointed at her, “I’ll unbutton it all over it again jus’ to prove a point, here,” she had no clue what possessed her to say that (she had some idea… but didn’t want to think about it. (She didn’t miss the other woman’s short gasp, either,)) “It’s real easy to read how ‘m feelin’. You’d know if somethin’ was upsettin’ me. And if you’re ever uncertain, you can always ask.”
The woman opened her mouth to argue, saw Imogen’s ‘try me’ face, closed her mouth, scrunched her nose in thought, and said, “All right?” then with more confidence, “All right. What’s bothering you now? If not, well… my unintentional gaze.”
“Well… fuck. I shoulda expected t’be asked right of the bat considerin’ how you rushed in ‘cause of me bein’— I’m stalling,” Imogen attempted a steadying breath and frantically searched her mind for where to start…“Growin’ up, I never had a soulmate tattoo. Stay with me here,” she added when she saw the other woman barely fail to suppress a flinch, “There’s been a few times where I got hopeful and got… crushed.” Imogen pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to directly say what had made her so distraught, but she couldn’t lie to this woman. “Uh, ‘m sorry, could y’tell me your name? I don’t think I can keep talkin’ if I don’t even know—”
“Laudna. My name is Laudna.” She reminded Imogen of Matilda.
“Hi, Laudna,” Imogen smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes, but the gesture itself was genuine. “For a bit I thought… but your tattoo— Fuck. I’m so sorry if ‘m bringin’ up stuff that hurts… I— I can’t. This is so hard,” Imogen’s eyes welled up again.
—
Laudna
“...This is so hard.”
Laudna’s forever-lagging heart panged. She was caught between the relentless desire to hear the rest of what the other woman was trying to explain, and the need to comfort her; to tell her she didn’t have to keep going if it pained her so deeply. That she’d given enough to explain that something triggered her to think about not having a soulmate tattoo (before?) and something about Laudna’s own barely-visible lines added to it.
Lavender eyes closed as the woman dropped her head. A visible teardrop succumbed to gravity and made a darker circle of blue on the sheer dress fabric that covered her thigh. A labor-calloused hand brushed against the leather near a buckle of the waist of her harness; her thumb brushed over a faded signature… no, a sigil? No, a symbol— a family crest.
Why did that feel like it meant something to her— should mean something to her? Laudna knew she was missing something. Cold dread flooded and froze her blood. She’d spent so much time shoving away any curiosity over the memories she couldn’t recall.
The woman choked on her breath, but continued, “You remind me of someone. Someone I thought could have been… But she wasn’t,” several sobs wracked her body before steeled herself and went on, “Then I saw… Sorry, ‘m sorry,” she rubbed at her eyes and Laudna tried to get a better look at the crest, still unsure why it startled her.
She realized she hadn’t replied; this woman’s anxiety was probably going through the roof, “What did you see?” she said so quietly that it went unheard; she steeled herself and asked more clearly, “What was it that you saw?” The familiarity of the crest, partially, clicked into place… the sturdier belt of the ones she wore, the one that everything else hung off of or was connected to, had the same one. The woman’s body slumped in exhaustion and something else. “Wait, actually…” she paused, “If it’s an easier question, where did you get your harness?”
“Well, uh… that question has a similar kinda weight to it, but ‘s easier to answer in a wording way. That woman y’remind me of, she sold it t’me. Her family did leatherwork.”
That crest is of the family of the girl the woman before her said she reminded her of… Laudna didn’t remember her family. She needed to know more, but her heart screamed at her to leave it be, that it would be unsafe to continue. Don’t ask… What was her name? …Don’t… Leave it be… Where was it? …Stop… Why did I remind you of her? … Don’t. Do. It. Don’t ask… If you thought for a moment that she was— and I remind you of her…? “What…” Laudna pressed her lips tight to give herself a moment to potentially back out, but just couldn’t, “What was her name?”
“Matilda.”
“Where?”
“Whitestone,” the woman brushed back some of the lavender hair that had been shielding her. Reddened eyes meeting Laudna’s.
“That’s quite far from here, isn’t it?” she wasn’t sure why the tenor in her voice faltered.
“Yeah… Real far. I was there with my employer for business. I kinda pummeled into the poor girl ‘cause I wasn’t payin’ attention to where I was goin’.”
“What was she like?” Laudna’s voice barely remained above a whisper.
“She was real sweet. Pretty…” she frowned, “and Hungry.”
Laudna felt like she was both draining and flooding; empty and overwhelmed. Missing something. She felt like an astral projection of herself 1/32nd of an inch to the left… off enough to either be only noticeable to her, or enough to throw the structure of everything she’d built. “What… What's your name?”
“Imogen Temult,” Imogen spoke like she was asking a question. Not in her tone, but the way she looked at Laudna. Like she also knew this was leading to something and wasn’t sure what.
—
“I’m Imogen, by the way.”...
“I’m Matilda.” … “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” …
“Charmed,” … “The pleasure’s all mine.” …
—
Laudna remembered that voice, her voice. Imogen. She remembered the buzz over her heart, the bone-white etching lines of— a sprig of lavender. She couldn’t have stopped the ichor from leaking out her eyes, but she hadn’t noticed it start. Heat bloomed where her hand had been rested over that tattoo… nothing on her body had been warm since she could remember. (She dug her sharp nails into her chest as it clicked.) Except… Matilda was warm. She was alive. Laudna was not—
“I died…”
“What?” Imogen rushed to her feet and nearly fell from the weakness that still haunted her body from the mass expelled magic. She blinked away the dizzy black spots and staggered to Laudna’s side. She reached out, but pulled back, unsure if it would be okay to touch her.
“Matilda Bradbury was killed,” Launda was in a daze. The points of her talons broke dots of skin, small beads of blood pooled under some. It was then that Imogen touched her, shifted her palm gently under Laudna’s to pull the hand from her chest. Imogen kept her hand and held it gently, waiting patiently for what Laudna would say next. “Murdered and resurrected, old memories suppressed as a defense,” she focused deeply on Imogen’s warmth and how she was stealing it, “Goodness, my hand must be freezing!”
“‘M always overheated; it feels nice…” Imogen smiled gently, comfortingly, “If you’re okay with it… Please, continue?”
Given permission, Laudna reveled in the warmth. “I suppose, I didn’t die. Matilda did… I was always dead,” she laughed halfheartedly, “I believe I’ve figured out why I remind you of her.”
Imogen’s jaw dropped, as did her gaze. With her free hand, she reached toward the left side of the collar of Laudna’s blouse. She paused short and met Laudna’s eyes for permission. Laudna nodded. At first, Imogen was careful to only touch her shirt, but when the whole of the tattoo was exposed, she traced the sprig’s stem with a fingertip.
Had Laudna not already breathed slowly, there would be no way Imogen wouldn’t have noticed her breath stick and halt. “You. It’s… It is you.” Just before Laudna could panic and break away with a spew of apologies, she saw Imogen smile— she was breathless, too. “From a distance, your tattoo looked like a scar. Before I saw it, I was so sure it was you. But it looked… It looked like the mark of someone who’s soulmate died. That’s why… That’s what I couldn’t say earlier. It woulda been terrible for me t’say I thought you were… and then find out your soulmate was gone. But it’s just the ink,” she shook her head in shocked awe, “It’s white, not a scar. Maybe ‘m gettin’ ahead of myself.” Fear struck Imogen’s face. Launda felt it, but worried it was disappointment. The blanket feeling was so similar in her experience. “Do you think—? Am I… what you wanted?”
Laudna fought the urge to laugh, she didn’t need to spook the poor girl more. “You were beyond what Matilda thought was possible, and she was alive. I don’t quite understand how you are looking at me like I’m… good.” There were so many things she would have replaced ‘good’ with, but she got the feeling Imogen wouldn’t have appreciated that.
“You just saved me from a life I don’t think I woulda survived in for much longer.”
“You’re very capable! I’m sure you would have made it without me.”
“We could argue ourselves in circles with that. How ‘bout instead, think of it this way— I’ve worn your family crest every day since I met you. Against all odds, we’ve found eachother again. Unless you tell me to leave, I ain’t goin’ anywhere unless it’s by your side.”
‘I’ve worn your family crest every day since I met you.’ The words echoed over and over again. “When you met her… me… Did you get the tattoo?”
“No.” Laudna’s face deflated. “No, and I was devastated. ‘Cause I was so full of hope. But, I have a theory: you think of Matilda and Laudna as bein’ separate from each other. I… Mine formed when I met you again, now. That’s, uh,” Imogen blushed, “That’s why I was a bit undressed when you came in. I felt the same feelin’ I felt when I met you the first time, but this time, it was there. I was overwhelmed an’ shocked, but happy. ‘Cause I’d finally found you.”
“And when I came, you thought my tattoo was one that belonged to the dead. I wonder, with my life being split into two… You were always you, so my mark showed, but maybe it was different for me because I wasn’t… complete. I wasn’t fully me, yet. Gods… what on Exandria did I do to get this lucky?”
“You’re a good person. Maybe gettin’ a the chance for a new start also meant you got part of what you shoulda had the whole time. I mean, I think I’ll have t’do a helluva lot to meet all that, but I’d be damned not to try.”
“You exist. You’re here. That’s more than I ever expected.”
“Then I better make sure you get to a point where you know you should be expectin’ so much more. You’ve got me. An’ we’re gonna get you more.”
“You talk a big game, farm girl,” Laudna teased.
“Well, ‘m very capable. You said so yourself.” Imogen pulled her into a hug. Laudna hunched to tuck herself against Imogen’s chest until back hurt; then they shifted so Imogen pressed her face into Laudna’s neck.
“I suppose I did say that, hmm?” Laudna had never felt warmer in her life. She remembered how Matilda— She before— at a time, dreaded the feeling of the sun scorching her back. She remembered the cold from the Briarwood’s reign and how she’d mentally begged (no Gods had ever helped her, she’d once prayed, but grew bitter in doubt,) for the sun to return. The cold burned, too; that was worse. Warmth had always been far and few between— either scalding heat or aching cold—content temperature, comfort, appeared to evade her at every corner of her life and unlife. But here, in Imogen’s arms… homeostasis occurred for potentially the first noticeable time. Imogen’s face was hot against her neck, but Gods, no God could have ever granted her this… and if any one of them could, she’d hate them for their apathy— For not giving this to her, for not giving this to Imogen, whose breaths came out in stutters. How could this wonderful woman be so grateful for the freezing thing that held her now.
Rather than doubt her own placement (for at least a moment,) she pressed her cheek against the crown of Imogen’s head. She held her closer and tighter. She scorned the Gods for making this beautiful woman think that nobody could reach her. Then, the thought hit her:
Does Imogen imagine this connection to be platonic or romantic? Of course, she so direly wanted romanticism, but hells, Imogen’s companionship and friendship was worth everything. Fuck, it would suck if she found herself longing for her, only to find Imogen assuming a platonic connection. She’d so much prefer to know first… She expected the tether to be platonic because hoping otherwise felt like… too much for her to desire. Still, her slow-beating heart betrayed her deep-seeded longing for romanticism like the books she used to read, filled with ballroom dances, dining, flirting, and banter—then declarations of love and passionate kisses.
The feeling of Imogen breathing steadied her; the thought of kissing Imogen made worried she’d lose her balance. “Imogen?”
“Hmm?” she sounded so content.
“How—?” How would you describe how you see me? “Do—?” Do you want us to be romantic or platonic…? “When—? Sorry, I’m struggling to find my words.”
“‘S okay. Take your time, darlin’.”
“When do you think I might be able to see your tattoo?”
“Jeeze, take a girl to dinner first,” Imogen laughed. Laudna tensed and seemed like she might pull away. “Some of it is ‘round my shoulder and collarbone, but most of it goes pretty far down my back. I’d have to basically expose half of my torso.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t want to,” Laudna panicked, “I mean, you’re beautiful!” then panicked some more, “I just wouldn’t—”
“Breathe, Laudna,” Imogen held her tighter. “It’s all right if you don’t see me like that…” she hesitated.
“Like what?”
—
Imogen
… “Like what?” Laudna sounded like she genuinely didn’t know what Imogen meant. Even then, Imogen’s heart seized. Laudna wasn’t goading her, right? No, she wouldn’t. Fuck… Imogen would have to either explain or dodge. She felt more exposed than if she’d just stripped to show Laudna the tattoo without question.
“You know what? Lemme show you the bit that’s just the nape of my neck and the top of my collar bone,” Imogen smiled. The step out of Laudna’s arms felt wrong—like she was burning up without the cool skin of her soulmate. Her hands trembled as she reached for the first button of her dress. Lord, how many times would she have to deal with undoing her dress while she probably wouldn’t be able to hold a full glass of water without some tumbling out the edge.
“You don’t have to.” If it weren’t for the way Laudna’s breath hitched, Imogen may have rambled a string of apologies and have been unable to meet the perfect black eyes of the woman in front of her.
“No, I don’t have to, but I want to. If you wanna see it, still?”
“Yes!” Laudna rushed, then cleared her throat, “I… I would like to. I simply didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or like you were obligated.”
The last few buttons she needed to undo to shimmy her shoulder out were almost easier than breathing (when she wasn’t filled to the brim with nervous energy.) The need to prove that she had no doubt about how she felt about Laudna seeing her reigned far more important than anxieties she had prior. The buckles of the harness were almost no different. Almost, she always held it with care, even when it had been softened and word through the years. She felt Laudna’s gaze— curiosity. No judgement nor noticeable attraction…unless… It felt safe. She pulled the fabric away to reveal the poppies and vines curling over. After confirming the visibility of the lines, she scanned the face of her new companion.
Laudna’s jaw dropped, no breath filled her lungs. She reached forward, then recoiled; her eyes flickered up to Imogen’s, a silent question fully understood. Imogen nodded. Laudna stepped a little closer and hovered her fingers over a flower a few inches above the lines, then looked up at Imogen again. Again, Imogen gave a short nod, followed by a warm smile. Then, Laudna inhaled and gently touched a line with the pad of one finger, careful not to scratch her with her long nails. So light it tickled; chills shot up Imogen’s spine, a short-lived reprieve from feverish temperature before her cheeks burned with embarrassment from her reaction. Laudna didn’t seem to notice or, at least, her expression didn’t shift away from awe.
She mirrored Imogen’s action earlier and traced the lines of the flower, but rather than just the stem, she went over every detail of every petal, then let all of her fingertips settle to drag up to the top of her shoulder. Of course, the fabric had shifted to obscure some of the parts that had been purposefully exposed earlier. Imogen certainly wasn’t about to complain… or even comment on Laudna’s more brazen and continuing exploration (she already knew that if she said anything at all, Laudna would panickedly backtrack.) Laudna stilled when Imogen reached up, but when she saw Imogen struggling to help move the dress back over her shoulder, Laudna helped. Imogen smiled and dropped her hand, allowing Laudna to continue tracing lines— vines and poppies in various stages of bloom. While she’d closed her mouth, Laudna’s eyes hadn’t changed, in fact, they may not have even blinked.
Fingers still trailing—just rotating— Laudna took slow steps around to Imogen’s back. Imogen stayed still, looking head still turned to the side even once she was out of her field of vision. She felt the comforting cold fingers following the ink along the back of the nape of her neck. Before she could second guess herself, she undid another button and shrugged the layers down further, revealing the tops of both shoulders so more of her back would be uncovered. When she felt nails trace the newly offered skin, she looked forward, subconsciously making sure that Laudna didn’t see her eyes flicker closed as she memorized the feeling.
Guiltily, she needed to ingrain the moment, just in case Laudna never touched her with such reverence again. In case this truly was nothing more than curiosity, that Laudna would never wish to touch her gain beyond this, or like this again… She carved every millimeter and fractioned-second into her skull. She suppressed the urge to lean back into the touch; prevented the sigh that pressed against her throat. No, she was displaying a truth. Solidifying and proving the other woman’s place so Laudna would understand that this was real. This ink was for her. Imogen’s skin was lined with proof of Laudna’s place in the design of her soul. Imogen forced her breath steady as she lowered the fabric further, placing an arm over her chest, just in case the threatened exposure followed through. Fuck it… she moved to reveal the remainder of hidden tattoo—
“Im— Imogen, are you sure?”
“Mhmm,” she worried her voice would betray her anxiety, worried it would be read as the wrong kind of uncertainty for her actions. Fuck if she’d have to argue further that Laudna didn’t make her feel pressured or uncomfortable. Her nervousness was her own, dammit. She could be bold despite herself— for Laudna.
—
Laudna
Holy fuckballs. Laudna needed to get her sapphic ass out of the well of suffocating attraction-panic. Gods almighty… this woman and her marked skin was going to permanently end her unlife.
The expanse of tanned, muscled skin bearing designs meant to be representative of her… Poppies overtaking the expanse of her collarbone, the nape of her neck, and drawing down the back— gradually increasing vines with other flowers in various stages of bud and bloom… down to tangle around a skull— some odd cross between deer and raven. Some unnatural creature that managed to look real, safe in it’s oddity. Vines from above originated from the eye sockets and some of the base. Mushrooms and azaleas thrived from the implied decay. Roots extended below the decomposers and regrowth, end-lines curled around the defined edge of her scapula.
Before she could think better of it, Laudna placed the whole flat of her hand against Imogen’s skin, fingers bracketing the skull, holding the roots. She felt Imogen’s breath hitch under her fingers. “Don’t stop,” Imogen whispered, quelling Laudna’s rising urge to flood the prior-silence with apologies and begs for forgiveness.
“Okay,” Laudna replied, just as softly. She rubbed up and down the skin of Imogen’s back where the tattoo spread, then placed her other hand on the opposite shoulder—fingers draped over the curve of the nape of her neck, thumb nestled a few inches to the side of her spine. She rubbed circles there, a balance to the attention given to her right side. A knot in the muscle became evident; Laudna gently pressed into it with the patten she’d already been soothingly making. Imogen sighed, tensed shoulders released and lowered a fraction. Laudna dug in a little deeper on that side, and kept the same slow motion going on the right. That made it impossible for Imogen to not lean into the touch. “Would you like me to keep—”
“Yes,” Imogen exhaled.
“How hard on the knot—?”
“Yes.” Imogen coughed in realization of her unrestrained reply, “Uh… everythin’ you’re doin’ feels amazin’. Harder on the left would be lovely, but what you’re doin’ is also jus’ wonderful. Gods, my back ‘s been so bad for so long I kinda forgot… Forgot what the potential of relief felt like.”
Laudna dug deeper into the muscle. Imogen let out a noise halfway between a hum and a groan. Laudna could barely keep her strength against Imogen’s inverse press into the pressure she’d been putting forth. When her fingers started to ache too much (though it pained her to give up on soothing Imogen’s neglected muscle,) not in the way that she couldn’t push through the strain, but in the way her joints betrayed her. When holding tight to willpower in strength, ‘too much’ for most was when it hurt, but ‘true’ too-much was when her body physically failed…
She practically fell forward into the collapse of herself— then, with little thought, leaned into it. She wrapped an arm over Imogen’s shoulders, forearm resting on her collarbones. Pulled flush against Imogen’s back, she rested her forehead on the inked poppies and vines, permanent on the other woman’s shoulder. A warm, calloused hand immediately clutched own cold one, gripping it tightly— so much so, that Laudna wouldn’t have been surprised (or disappointed) if she’d be completely absorbed. Imogen, with her other hand, reached back to gently tangle in Laudna’s hair. Again, brazenness overtook Laudna—guided by heart rather than thought, just barely having to tilt her chin forward, she pressed her lips to Imogen’s shoulder. Imogen’s breath caught. Laudna didn’t break the kiss for long seconds later; when she did, Imogen’s exhale was rocky.
“Laudna, I— if you don’t feel the same, ‘m more than okay with anythin’ I can be to you… but I really wanna kiss you. I’d really like t’be… I wanna romance you,” she turned, hand still wrapped around Laudna’s arm, but loosely, so the friction wouldn’t hurt her. Lavender eyes were filled with anxiety. Brows scrunched and facial features tense… Imogen waited.
“Please do,” Laudna whispered. “I… I feel the same,” she let out an amused huff, “Am I dreaming?”
“No, you’re not dreamin’,” Imogen smiled, “Kiss me.” Her one had still cradled the back of Laudna’s head, the other dropped to her waist.
Who was Laudna to argue with that? To argue with the woman who’d worn her family crest since the day they’d met. With both of their enthusiastic intent in par with inexperience… it took them a bit to match each other's movements. But the short moments of being out of sync read as assurance— they both needed to fall into place, which made the instant when rhythm slotted into place that much more satisfying. So all consuming that it took Laudna a while to realize… Imogen had been holding her dress to cover her breasts for modesty before. If both her hands were elsewhere… This woman was going to kill her.
Laudna was very quickly aware of the heat of Imogen’s bare skin above where the neckline of her blouse started. She needed to breathe. But she didn’t want to gawk upon pulling her face back— staring at the ceiling didn’t feel right… Instead, she closed her eyes and buried the top half of her face into Imogen’s neck, leaving her nose and mouth somewhat available enough to breathe (she didn’t need that much oxygen, after all.) She barely suppressed the urge to ignore her need for reprieve in favor of kissing Imogen’s neck… She held off long enough that Imogen simply pulled her close and held her warmly—a promise that if she could stay like this forever, she would. But they had so much more life to live. Together.
So, eventually, they both took a (small) step back. Imogen re-covered her upper-half and held Laudna’s hand to drag her to bed so they could sleep. They experienced a lot very quickly. There was no doubt in their hope for the days to come.
