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Imogen’s scars grow a little bit each night. A centimeter or two. Laudna has asked, but Imogen says she doesn’t feel them – says she wouldn’t even notice they were growing, if Laudna didn’t take out that faded, worn-out measuring tape and press it to Imogen’s skin every morning. (Her wrist, first. Then her upper arm. The dip of her clavicle. Eventually, her neck. After that: the freckled curve of her cheeks.) Imogen says they don’t hurt, not really. Imogen says that not a lot hurts her. Not anymore.
Last night they grew a little more than a centimeter; Laudna dutifully marks this down in her journal. When she tilts her head to look at the other side of the bed, she can see Imogen playing with the scry ball: telekinetically moving it over her knuckles, like contact juggling.
“Anything?” Laudna says, her voice still sleep-hoarse.
“No,” Imogen says, “no, I think they’re still on Marquet.”
“Or Orym found the ring.”
“Or Orym found the ring,” Imogen sighs, and telekinetically flings the ball across the black room, towards the black wall; at the second right before impact, the scry ball stops. Wobbles in space. It, like the rest of the world, is perfectly and completely obedient to Imogen – she says go and it flings itself eagerly forward, waiting to break or be saved at her command.
Laudna reaches out and touches those outstretched fingers: static shock.
“Hi, baby,” Imogen says, her voice a little unsteady still. A little choked. Like she thinks she isn’t allowed to say it.
“Hello,” Laudna says, and she catches Imogen’s hand, and she kisses the bright-scarred ridge of Imogen’s knuckles. “You need lotion, your skin’s cracking.”
Imogen huffs out a wry laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, really, I should be calling you ma’am. General.”
“Aw, don’t with the general shit,” Imogen says, but there’s a little bit of a pleased smile tugging up the corner of her mouth; Laudna leans forward and kisses that too, and Imogen laughs pleasure. “Don’t, really, they shouldn’t’a – there’s two General Temults, it’s a whole mess.”
“Really the Vanguard is lucky that we came along,” Laudna says, and rolls over to dig in her bedside table. “They need organizing.”
“And better interior decorating, right?”
“I wasn’t going to say it, I didn’t want to be mean.”
“Too much red.”
“It’s not even the red,” Laudna says, “it’s the shade of it.” She finds the little jar of lotion, waggles it in the air triumphantly, flops back into bed with Imogen. “They could branch out. Maroon is always an option. I love maroon. Where’s the consideration for maroon?”
“Sounds a lot like moon,” Imogen says, and then “No, that’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry, love,” Laudna says, “it’s nothing.”
Imogen winces; Laudna smoothes over the wound she left by taking Imogen’s hands in hers and beginning to work the lotion into her knuckles. The scars really aren’t even that bad. Yes, they’re thick as a briar patch on Imogen’s hands – and yes, it was disconcerting when they started creeping forwards towards her eyes, towards the edges of her mouth. Like they wanted to choke her. But they haven’t choked her. They haven’t hurt her. She’s only gotten stronger – her magic is more powerful, more precise. She seems more confident. Happier. It’s been good. For her. All of this has been good for her. It’s been good for her.
“You’re frowning,” Imogen says quietly.
“We’re running low,” Laudna says. “This is from Jrusar, there was that market stall…”
“We can go to Marquet,” Imogen says. “It’s not like – it’s not illegal for us to – the Call, you know—”
“I know,” Laudna says. “Of course I know. I was only thinking. It feels like ages ago.”
Imogen’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?”
Laudna puts the jar down, takes Imogen’s thrumming warm hands in her own. “I sort of miss it,” she says. “Isn’t that funny? Only…traveling with you. Wandering hither and yon. Looking for answers. Remodeling hovels.”
“Yeah,” Imogen says again. “Laudna? Do you…”
Whatever Imogen’s question will be, Laudna already knows her answer: yes. Yes, I like being here with you. Yes, I think you made the right decision. Yes, I still love you. Imogen, there is nothing in this world or any other that could make me stop loving you: yes. Yes, always yes, always yes. For you, anything, always.
But the rest of the question never comes; Imogen only sighs, leans forward to press her forehead against Laudna’s. “Let’s just run away,” she says. “Just for a little bit. We’ll go back to Marquet. Wander around Jrusar. Maybe we could buy horses, and just…just…”
“It’s a nice thought,” Laudna says. “But I don’t think Ludinus would be too happy if his darling protégé fucked off to go ride horses.”
“Aw,” Imogen sighs, “fuck Ludinus.”
“Please don’t, darling, I get jealous.”
Imogen laughs. “‘sides,” she says, “I’m not his darling protégé. We haven’t even seen him in weeks.”
“Big relief, if I’m being honest.”
“Yeah, he’s a pill.” But Imogen rolls over onto her back, looks up at the velvety black of the ceiling – the occasional white points of light where Laudna had patiently chipped the paint away, to create maps of constellations. From when the sky was still—“Laudna?”
Laudna blinks away her thoughts, hums acknowledgement.
“Do you…”
Yes.
“…hate it here?”
“What?” Laudna says, the word propelling itself from her mouth in a burst of surprise. “What? Of course not. What? Why? Did I—”
“No,” Imogen says, “no, no, I just – it’s – Ludinus, Thull, all of them,” (her mother) “it can’t be – I’m sure it isn’t – we won’t need them forever, I promise, but for now—”
“Imogen,” Laudna says, “I don’t – we aren’t even on the same continent as Thull. I don’t mind. Really, my only complaint is the Vanguard cloaks, I promise. The red.” She’s scrambling. “As long as you want to be here,” she says, “as long as you can learn – can, can flourish – Imogen, all I want is for you to be – do you hate it here?”
“No,” Imogen says. “But that’s just…” She’s still looking up, at Laudna’s memory of the sky. “It’s ‘cause,” she says, voice cracking, “‘cause you’re here. I’d go crazy if you weren’t here. Sorry.”
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” Laudna disentangles one hand, brushes her fingertips lightly over the marks on Imogen’s forehead. Imogen sighs; the knots forming in her brow vanish. “I’m happy,” Laudna says. “You make me happy.”
“Yeah?” Imogen whispers.
“Mmhm.”
“Okay,” Imogen says. Again, stronger: “Okay. But if that changes – if you – we’ll leave again. You left, you left for me. I’d do the same for you, I promise. Pick a place in the world – or, hell, any world – I’ll go with you.”
It’s a sweet and very silly thing to say – there isn’t any place that Laudna wants to go, except the place Imogen already is. Laudna is only and ever another moon, orbiting Imogen, reflecting her light, giving her all of the power and magic and love that she possibly can.
“Well,” Laudna says, “you could go to the bazaar with me. See if anyone in this blasted city actually makes, you know, unguents, or if it’s just potions all the way down.”
“Aw,” Imogen says, “they hate me at the bazaar.” But she’s relaxing into it. Letting herself be unwound.
“Welcome to my life, darling.”
“Any time I step foot in the Quadroads, someone tries to start somethin’.”
“They’ll—” Laudna says, and then: “oh, shit.”
The room is so dark, so black – even with the change of sheets (who needs black sheets?!), the careful carving away of raven skull motifs, the change in curtains. This room collects darkness like a bowl left out overnight collects rain; it tends to pool.
So the flash of light was noticeable. The little spark. From the scry ball that Imogen had telekinetically set down on the bed.
“What?” Imogen says, startled out of her soft sad reverie. “What’s oh shit. What’s wrong?”
Laudna sits up (she doesn’t let go of Imogen’s hand). “The ball,” she says. “The scry ball. It lit up. It lit up. Imogen. They’re—”
Imogen sits bolt upright, extends a hand demandingly and waits for the scry ball to leap to her; she catches it when it slaps into her palm, she pulls it close. Then they can both sit and stare at it, in stunned silence: that little point of light down in the murky dark depths.
They had gambled on Ashton, for the ring. Sitting in their room, murmuring in each other’s minds, picking and discarding friends – Orym notices everything, Fearne – Letters – fuck, they’re all observant – and in the end, it had fallen to Ashton for one stupid, simple reason: they had the most buckles, the most pockets. The most places to hide. So that when…so that after…well, Laudna wanted to know. If they were coming. If they were coming to finish the job.
“Oh, fuck,” she says now, weakly. “It’s all so fucked.”
“We’ll be fine,” says Imogen – practical Imogen, capable Imogen. Her voice already a little bit brisker, a little bit sharper. “We’ve got so much shit between us and—”
“Within a thousand feet, though—”
“That’s a long way. We’re fine. I’m gonna—” and Imogen’s eyes unfocus, her mouth moves soundlessly. A twitch of her brow, a shake of her head; she wades again into someone else’s mind, and then comes back to Laudna. “Guards say everything’s quiet.”
“Yes, well, they’re the fucking Vanguard, they can’t see dick.”
“Yeah, I know, but—” Imogen’s jaw ticks. “Laudna, if it’s them – if it’s them – then they’re comin’ for us. What do we…”
She turns her head, helplessly, and meets Laudna’s eyes. She is so fucking stupidly unbearably fucking young. The skin at the corner of her eyes hasn’t even started to wrinkle yet, and her eyes are so wide. And she is so young. The freckles on the bridge of her nose. The slight bruising of red at the edges of her beautiful eyes. And the question: should we…
Obviously Laudna does not know what to do. Obviously, she has no idea what to do. But Imogen needs her – Imogen needs her to know, to have an answer, to believe in it. To believe in something, anything.
“We can’t just run out there with open arms,” Laudna says, voice strained. “You know we can’t. Maybe they want – maybe they’re here to – oh, Imogen, maybe they’re still our friends. But they probably aren’t.”
“After how we left?” Imogen says with an air of vague hysteria. “No way.”
Her hand twitches; Laudna puts her own hand over it, squeezes. Imogen’s fingers shake and race to twine with Laudna’s, and once they’re interlaced Imogen is able to take a deep breath and let it out.
“I think I should take the circlet off,” she says. “And we’ll – and we’ll wait. And we’ll see. Should I call off the Vanguard? No, obviously I shouldn’t call off the Vanguard, what am I thinking. This is all so stupid. What if we just…” she pulls in a breath. “What if we just kill ‘em? Just, I dunno, drop a building on their heads. Put ‘em out of their misery.”
“If you want to,” Laudna says quietly, “then we can. You know I’ll—”
“Yeah, but do you want to? Laudna?”
What Laudna wants: a little cottage somewhere, a flower garden. She wants to try keeping chickens, because she thinks it would be wonderful to have fresh eggs and it would be fun to break their necks. She wants Imogen there; she wants Imogen’s boots by the door, Imogen’s loose hairs trod into all the carpets. She wants carpets. She doesn’t want Imogen’s feet to get cold.
But this isn’t that world. Instead they are here, and Imogen is General Temult, and the gods are picked-clean bones, and the only person Laudna loves is on this side of the door, and everyone else is outside.
“I want you to be safe,” she says. “So if they’re coming here to hurt you then I’ll explode their fucking bones.”
Imogen laughs wetly. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. So. We’ll – I’ll listen out for them. You watch the ball. If they…I mean, if they won’t…”
“We should get the Vanguard. I mean, they’re useless, but we should have them.”
“Yeah.” Imogen wades back out into the water, and Laudna – in a daze, in a sort of dream – goes to put her shoes on. Really what she wants is to go back to bed, but that isn’t an option, is it?
“Okay,” Imogen says eventually. “I’m sendin’ them…I thought, the pool. Most defensible.”
“How tactical of you.”
“Well,” Imogen says dryly, “that’s why I’m the general.” There’s a crackle of static electricity; the air suddenly goes as dry as a bone, and Imogen gets dressed: a hurricane of magic and cloth. This is why Imogen is the general: because it is effortless for her to bend the world around her, even for something as simple and silly as getting dressed. Buttons do themselves up like soldiers saluting; her laces tie, her shirt tucks in, her duster settles over her shoulders and whips itself smartly into place. By the time Laudna has pulled on both shoes, Imogen has changed herself entirely.
But she waits for Laudna to finish – watching her, sad and sharp and sweet – before offering her the hand that’s not holding the orb. “You ready?”
“I’m ready,” Laudna says, and she lets Imogen pull her through the Dimension Door and away.
Ludinus Da’leth was the one who stationed Imogen in Vasselheim; he said that raw power was all that was needed to keep the ruined city in check, and he was mostly right. What power couldn’t accomplish, they have muddled through together well enough. And the city was theirs, is theirs – the cracked-open warding runes, the bloodstained libraries, the temples with their sparks and shines all eaten up by something red with teeth. What people remained in Vasselheim are theirs. And it isn’t so bad – Imogen hasn’t made it that bad – there are still markets, and flowers, and fresh-baked bread. People can walk on the streets as much as they like; there is still singing and dancing, and no one dies for it. It’s only that there isn’t anyone to pray to anymore. And not everyone understood that, at first, so some of them had to be convinced.
…
All this to say that eventually, Imogen and Laudna had their pick of buildings. And they picked here: the Raven’s Crest, a gigantic black building packed with old tomes (for Imogen) and catacombs (for Laudna). The Vanguard had attempted to redecorate, but Laudna threw a shitfit (which she’s embarrassed about, in retrospect) and so they had managed to keep the building the same. Black, cavernous. Full of deep shadows to hide in, dark lush rooms like velvet boxes where the two of them can safely sleep. Laudna desecrated a lot of holy symbols – just to make them palatable – but there was no one to object: the Raven Queen is gone, and her priests followed her. One way or the other.
So Laudna steps through the Dimension Door and ends up in the Raven Queen’s sanctum, which is now nobody’s sanctum – it’s only a room that sparkles with a shattered rainbow of light, sunlight, sunlight streaming in through the stained glass dome that had taken Laudna weeks to repair. But she fixed it. She Spiderclimbed up the walls and put the panels of glass back in; she drained all the blood out of the pool, she filled the room with sachets of lavender and thyme and filled the pool up with jewel-tone cushions and it is so lovely in here, now, and Imogen is so lovely, and when they step into the room Imogen takes Laudna’s face in the rainbow-light and kisses her.
Laudna hums and kisses her back. Imogen: sunlight: a thousand fractured rainbows. She tastes like their bed and she tastes like every color thrown against the wall at once. Sometimes Laudna is coaxing soaked-in blood out of the carpet or throwing a Fireball at some rogue worshippers of whoever and she thinks to herself: why am I doing this? Why is this what I am? Didn’t I want to be something else? But then Imogen kisses her, and she remembers. Imogen’s kisses are a cottage and a flower garden and a coop built by hand and a chicken, bleeding on the chopping block. Imogen is home, is the only home Laudna wants in all the world. And if this is what Imogen wants, then it’s nothing for Laudna to give it to her.
“Will you promise me something?” Imogen whispers hoarsely.
“Yes,” Laudna says, “I will.” She kisses the corner of Imogen’s mouth, the sweet fractal of scars on her cheek.
“If it,” Imogen says, “if they…promise me you’ll run?”
“I will if you will,” Laudna says reasonably. “Besides, darling, you’re the one with teleporting spells. I’m more of the…” She waves her hands around in the small warm space between them: bleh. “I don’t have as many…options.”
“Yeah,” Imogen says, “but – it’s not—”
Of course Laudna knows what she’s trying to say: it’s not your fault. They’re not here for you. They probably aren’t – Laudna is a word that only exists at the end of Imogen-and-. Imogen is a word that can stand on its own. They are here for Imogen, or Imogen-and. Laudna is only collateral. An accessory. A footnote. (But she’s always been a footnote.)
Laudna takes a step back (she has to steel herself, because the sound Imogen makes is so quiet and so sad) and she looks at Imogen in the dizzying smashed-glass light. Her rainbow, her better life. “I’m staying with you,” she says for the thousandth time. “I made my choice. You’re my choice. You know that, don’t you?”
“I,” Imogen says. Then, in one helpless rush: “Are you sure? Really? Are you—”
And Laudna is, and she has been, and she kisses Imogen again. Tucks some of her hair behind her ear. Says: “Take the circlet off, darling. And we’ll see where they are.”
Imogen swallows, nods, and lets Laudna lead her down into the pool. They curl up together in the pillows – Laudna watches the light in the orb get brighter, and she lets Imogen slowly pull the circlet off. Imogen buries her face against Laudna’s neck, murmurs a stream of comforting nonsense. The light blinks brighter, and brighter, and–
“Laudna,” Imogen says.
“I’m here. Yes.”
“Laudna,” Imogen says, “they don’t…” She hiccups. “They aren’t…”
What makes it easy is her voice – heartbroken, soft, wavering. Of course Laudna would break anything in the world that made Imogen’s voice sound like that. Lex talionis. The world for Imogen’s heart.
“Alright,” she says, “so we’re killing them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I do—”
“Imogen,” Laudna says. “Our…” She clears her throat. “Bells Hells. They’re coming here to kill us. Is that what you heard?”
After a moment: “…yes.”
“Then we’re killing them. It’s fine.”
The light in the scry ball is so bright now. Outside – beyond that thick oak door – she swears she can hear voices.
Imogen lifts her head up from Laudna’s shoulder, looks at her. “You would?” she says. “You…”
Laudna threads her hands through Imogen’s hair. “Imogen,” she says. “My darling. For you? For us? Anything.”
Imogen lets out a soft breath. “I,” she says. “You’re so. I swear, Laudna, I would—”
The doors open; Laudna’s head jerks towards the sound, and there they are. Bells Hells, being escorted in by the Ruby Vanguard: Chetney, and Fearne, and Fresh Cut Grass, and Ashton, and Orym. Orym. His eyes like two swords that cut cleanly even as the light changes them – cherry red, ocean blue, the green of the space where the Wildmother used to be.
“Hi,” he says. “It’s been a whi—”
And Laudna wants to believe in him. Wants to believe in all of them. When Orym doesn’t lunge right for her, when no one sends a spell snapping at her heels – her shoulders lower. She thinks, oh, this isn’t the end of everything. They’re still our friends. It doesn’t just have to be the two of us. We can still have—
But Imogen isn’t as easy to fool. Imogen has never been that naive. Before Orym can finish that word, that one last word, Imogen extends a hand forward and she makes the world explode.
Laudna is sick of the color red. She’ll admit it: she misses when the sky was blue.
But that’s just the way the world is now. Red for the color of Imogen’s Synaptic Static, red for the blood that erupts in geysers; red for the Hells and red for the Ruby Vanguard, reduced to nothing but collateral damage. Red for Ashton’s clothes, for the flickering images around them as they – red for Chetney’s carving tools, red for Fearne’s fire – red for Laudna, as she pulls in a breath and – red for Imogen, now, always. Red red red and a little more red.
By the time it’s over, they’ve repainted the whole room. Ruidus waxing. And Imogen, flying above it all, still lit up in those broken rainbows of light.
Laudna lets herself fall wetly off the wall; she limps from body to body to body, she wordlessly ruins them. Imogen isn’t the only one who has gotten lessons. Laudna has learned from Otohan Thull, from Delilah: she can’t give them the chance to get back up. They’ll ruin everything for her, if she lets them come back to life again.
Fearne. Letters. Chetney. (She hears Imogen landing across the room, the neat tick of her boots hitting the ground.) Orym. Ashton, their ring-bearer. Laid out on the ground.
He slits his eyes open when she gets close enough. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Laudna says. She kneels down in front of them. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
“You should,” Ashton says, and chokes wetly on their own blood. “You should. Know. Someone should…tell, tell you. We didn’t. We didn’t come here to fight. I – I promise, okay? You’re still…oh, fuck. Laudna, you should get ou—”
“I already knew,” Laudna says quietly, and she cups his cheek in her palm and casts Shocking Grasp. Ashton jolts for a few endless seconds, twitching and spasming and fighting to the last; then they shudder and go still. Their face is frozen in an expression of shocked, wounded surprise.
Behind her, Imogen says: “Is he still up?”
“Was,” Laudna says. She keeps patiently pumping magic into him until that stubborn heartbeat finally gives up the ghost, rolls over, and dies. “They’re all down.” She clears her throat, musters levity: “Oh, I need a nap.”
Tick, tick, tick. The sound of Imogen’s footsteps. The warm weight of her hand on Laudna’s shoulder, prickling with static. “We can sleep,” she says. “We’ll – someone can move the…”
“Someone will have to. I can’t lift them.”
“Sorry about all the blood, baby. I know it took you forever to wash it out of that pool.”
“It’s alright,” Laudna says, and she stands. Puts her hand over Imogen’s hand. Turns around. There she is: Imogen: her whole life, lovely and scarred. Her eyes are so wide, so sad, so easy to believe in.
“I wish…” Imogen says. “I wish it had been different, I promise.” When she looks down at the bodies, the light shifts; purple glass becomes blue, and Imogen’s face is empty. When she looks up at Laudna it floods purple and real again. “Let’s—” Imogen says. “We’ll take a nap, or clean, or – or go to the bazaar. Whatever you want. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I will be,” Laudna says. “Will you?”
Imogen reaches for her, thumbs a smear of blood off Laudna’s face. “If you…” she says, and then the rest of her words stumble and peter out.
“I will,” Laudna says. “Yes.” She catches Imogen’s hand in hers and kisses it. Imogen’s palm tastes like the very last of that lotion from Jrusar; underneath that is the real smell of her skin, ozone and magic and a hundred thousand different shades of red.