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It's late into the night and yet so very far away from dawn. Ruidus' glow filters through the opening on the highest part of the dome that works as a laboratory in the Calloway's hideaway, seemingly stronger than Catha's for brief intervals. The ominous hue silhouettes the neck of the snake-like contraption parting the sky in two sets of wide, reddish moonbeams, right down the middle. Laudna frets considering the possibility of a nightmare happening right as she gazes on in a daze, unable to rip her eyes away. Her fingers are loosely clasped in Imogen's hand, Laudna's attention finally settles instead on the rise and fall of her chest for a number of minutes.
Imogen looks peaceful, her breathing deep and unperturbed. Laudna tries as best as her awkward breathing patterns will allow to sync up to them; struggles to relax the atrophied muscles of her legs, her back, her shoulders. It's a fool's errand, there's too much in her mind, she can almost hear Delilah rummaging through her memories and pulling the victories she's acquired through their time together to play behind her eyelids, rejoicing. Every time Laudna lets her eyes close, there's a snapshot of a memory imprinted onto them and she's forced to snap them open.
The first is a recurring one, so overused now she's been desensitized. Laudna regrets all the times she's had that thought; Delilah ought to get more original if she wants to get under my skin, after the events of today. This time, maybe because of these events, it's a disturbing picture. Stacked corpses in a pit, haphazardly thrown around into a grotesque pile as tall as the sky is high, neverending all around her. Most of her body is buried in rot and death that lets out the fumes burning down her throat.
Laudna's memory chooses those two things to focus on; their ashen skin and the pungent smell of their decay.
Her hand is pulled free from between two of the bodies. It's a miracle she isn't retching, or drowning in her own vomit. It's a miracle she can feel the pulse in her veins, faint but certain. It's miracle the beating didn't break her bones and spill her blood, that her skull didn't splinter and give in. It's a miracle she can take a breath, closer to a death rattle, but not truly quite there.
The voice in her head startles her enough to pull her into something resembling a seated position, half-naked and half-frozen to the core as she is. Distantly, Laudna registers that the chill in her marrow doesn't truly bother her and her disjointed hip doesn't incapacitate her with pain, and they probably should. Her attention, however, is pinpointed on the woman speaking to her. "Rise and shine," the seething spite in the voice brings a tremor down Laudna's spine. "It's time to run, child."
Laudna doesn't even consider contradicting her.
A different person, she tells herself, taking pity in the young woman from her memories, alone and desperate and confused. Laudna tries adjusting on her side, her body molded to Imogen's warm skin, the one thing anchoring her to the here and now; tries to be gentle in her movements not to rouse her from sleep. It's a known fact Imogen doesn't get enough restful sleep. The last thing she needs today is to add to the tally of sleep deprived nights in Imogen's dream diary. There's only so much guilt she can shove inside the "for later" box, and her friends need her functional.
The second could pass as a close call. Delilah hums distractedly, Laudna can imagine her tilting her head and considering this one. The horror stricken expression of the young man at the sound of her (own?) laughter, sharp and cold as icicles. The first time Delilah had offered to protect her from the mobs and the pitchforks and the snitches hoarding them towards the poor excuse of a shack they'd found abandoned.
It's the first time in weeks Laudna has been presented with the promise of a shelter after being chased out of every populated area she's reached."It's because of my clothes," had been her first (so innocent, so stupid) theory, looking down at the rags clinging from her body. The remnants of a costume they had put on her for the final show, she vaguely remembers, tries not to delve into that; fails. She thinks of the beatings, of the sharp pain in her ears, of her family and their screams and their agony. Laudna drags the back of her hand against the wetness on her cheeks and pushes on. "That must be it, I look like a nightmare wearing this, some escaped loony, maybe aggressive and even dangerous." The blue fabric of her top has been torn off in multiple places and is barely holding together, same as the soaked through leather of her pants; what had once been a fluffy white fur lining along the curve of her right shoulder is now caked with rotting blood and mud. There's sticky black ichor running down her face and hands and fingers that keeps reappearing no matter how much she tries to wash it off.
Laudna had been naive enough to believe her, that one time, and it had ended in terror and screams before she had regained control of herself for long enough to run away from the situation altogether. Days wandering at the mercy of the elements and with nothing to keep you company will put the wheels in motion, you'll see. Up until then, Laudna had been unable to recognize the voice; she thinks at some point she suppressed the memory of it. It wasn't the voice that sparked recognition, it was the cruelty of her words, the disdain and the anger and the bitterness of it. Delilah Briarwood. The responsible for her--
No. She wasn't listening to her. Never again, she had sworn to herself.
But beggars can't be choosers, can they? Of course it had happened again, of course the next time was worse. And worse. And worse. Laudna feels the oppression in her chest growing as the thought comes unbidden, curls up smaller against Imogen's form at the most recent torment Delilah conjures up for her.
Ichor covered fingertips mercilessly digging into the malleable shape of FCG's head, clawing down at both sides of their face. Dragging, pulling, breaking. The metal gives. Delilah simmers with delight.
"This isn't who you are," she whispers into the darkness, now not so unsure who she's addressing; the uncertainty lays on the facet of herself she speaks of. The ichor wells up in the rim of her eyes, she barely dares to look up. Imogen moves ever so slightly, lets go of her hand for a terrible, heart-wrenching second and chooses to drape her arm over Laudna's middle instead, pulling her closer. Laudna chokes on the smallest sob, keeps herself quiet, tries to bask in the comfort and feels selfish for it. Isn't she supposed to be protecting Imogen?
"You were never alive," they had muttered and her fingers had curled, punctured, blistered. Imogen voice had been the thing to reach her; of course it would be. Sweet, beautiful Imogen; pained and scared.
"Laud?"
"It's very early, darling," she runs her hand down the length of Imogen's arm, threading their fingers back together. "Try to sleep some more."
"Are you cryin'?" Imogen sounds half asleep still, but her free hand catches Laudna's chin and gently lifts her to eye level. "What's wrong, honey?"
"It's... nothing, love. Memories. And today. It's been a lot." She gives Imogen a watery smile, the calloused pad of a thumb wipes the blackness from under her eye away with such care Laudna's heart breaks and mends itself over it.
"We're gonna fix it. She doesn't get to have you," Imogen's forehead presses to her own and Laudna lets her eyes flutter closed. There's no condescending commentary, no throbbing memory or self-deprecating thoughts, not even the ever present freeze-burn of Delilah's abhorrence. Only a muted pang of nostalgia she doesn't recognize as her own that's quickly overpowered by the mollifying presence of Imogen's warmth enveloping her.
Imogen holds her, and Laudna's finally lulled into dreamless sleep.