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You don’t mean to open your eyes to the morning sunlight. The floor of the shack you once called home is a rolling plain of dirt and debris. From the corner of your eye you can see the twisted leg of the doll, abandoned in the night.
You try to turn towards it but you cannot. You blink dust from your eyes without intent. The damp ground has sapped the flicker of warmth that usually fights the chill of your body. You’re so cold, unbearably cold. It sinks in and freezes your marrow. You attempt to push yourself to sitting, but your arm does not move. You attempt to frown at the denial, but your face does not move either.
Sudden inversion, the righting of your vision. A noise of disgust from the back of your throat that you have no cause to make. You try to speak but no sound passes your lips. You call the shadows to your aid, to shade and break whatever hinders you, but they do not come. They have never refused you before.
Only once have you felt your broken body so thoroughly deny you and even then, with the rope tight around your throat, you had at least been able to weep, to scream. Your body kneels, staggers. It fights for breath it does not need.
You had not thought it possible to grow colder, a chill that seeps from your soul and finds nowhere to go. Quietly, shakily, you whisper, Delilah? It falls not from your lips, but from your mind. You have never wanted an answer less.
Don’t worry, she soothes, and you wonder what it would feel like to sink your nails through the hollow of her cheeks. With your mouth she says, “I’ll take it from here.”
You can do nothing as Delilah stands, as she sways, as she cracks your neck and rolls onto the balls of your feet. You can feel her disgust darkening whatever unholy connection yokes you together, revulsion at your body, the feel of it, the lack of it. She lifts your hand and the darkness flocks to her, pools between your fingers like the finest silk. “It’ll do,” she sighs. “For now.”
Control evades you as you try to grasp it, try to claw to the forefront of your mind, push your usurper back where she belongs. Delilah simply bats you away as if you were an especially persistent gnat. Another sigh, one that sounds particularly petulant. It feels like the rope, though you cannot conceive of substantiality enough to suffocate. Please, you say, and though you do not want to beg her, you will if it means reversion.
“This is for the best, darling,” Delilah says.
It does not take her long to get the hang of your gangly legs, moving from a staggering stumble to something approaching your normal swaying gait. She yanks your crude doll from the floor, shadow tight around its neck, holds it in curled fist. Delilah hums thoughtfully, cruelly, then walks your body into the dawn light of the Parchwood.
You can do nothing as she strides through the trees; you cannot move, cannot speak, can see only what she sees, hear only what she hears. There is no one here to help you. Imogen! you scream, hoping that by some miracle she can hear you, that she is out here somewhere, searching for you.
“Less of that, please,” Delilah says. Try as you might to have imitated great ladies, you have never managed to sound so refined, so dismissive. When she speaks you hear yourself but not, too tight, too restrained. “Imogen is not here.” The contempt in your voice as she speaks the name of your heart is enough to jolt you from inertia.
Delilah, you hiss, what the fuck are you doing? This is not part of our deal!
“You asked me to hold you, Laudna. This is me holding you.” The footsteps of your body through the underbrush are light, quiet; you are inconsequential enough that you do not even snap twigs.
You know full well that is not what I meant, you say. Where are you going?
“Home,” she says, and if it is wry, twisted, you have become so accustomed to her that you hear no difference.
You cannot just walk up to Castle Whitestone! You do not know how she managed to turn your demand into an argument with so few words. You are going to get us killed! Again!
“We were there earlier. Why would our invitation be rescinded?” When you realise what she is inferring, it blurs the edges of your awareness; you have no body with which to react.
You— Delilah, you can’t. It won’t work. She makes a dismissive noise, forces your breath through your nose. They will know. And even if— when the de Rolos realise, they will—
“Poor Percival,” she pouts; the mockery fits poorly on your tongue, so unused to disdain. “Dearest Vex’ahlia.”
Stop it, stop it!
“I mean them no ill will,” she says, and even though her soul is sewn from deceit, this lie curdles particularly sharply.
Delilah, you are being a fool, you say. You are unused to scolding her so blatantly; her laugh tastes like thorns in your mouth.
“My, Laudna, assuming the role of sage so soon. Careful, you’ve never particularly lended yourself to wisdom.”
The formation of your retort is halted by the call of your name, shouted through the trees. Delilah turns towards the noise and you see them, all of them, rushing towards you, Chetney at the front, Imogen close behind. When you see Ashton, tentatively bringing up the rear, all you feel is a hollow where your chest should clench. You are furious at them; they have broken your heart. Run, you plead to Delilah. Please, just run. I don’t want them to see me, I don’t want to have to— Please.
You are not sure if she heeds you, or if some of her confidence falters in the face of their onslaught, but she wavers, takes a few steps backwards. Chetney is running before her first step lands, tearing towards you, though she has stopped and is standing steady between the thick trees, just out of sight.
Laudna, stop! Imogen says into your head and you reach for her with the desperation of a rat in a trap.
Imogen, you beg, Imogen, help me. Please—
It is not a chase if you are not fleeing. Chetney looks as if he was prepared to wrestle you to the ground; upon finding you halted between the trees he only wraps a rough hand around your wrist. Delilah shakes him off with strength neither of you possess, a hiss of warning cold between your teeth. “What the fuck are you doing?” he huffs. “You looked like you were about to hoof it like a dead gazelle. Imogen would have murdered us.”
You are not listening. It’s not me, you shout, pushing everything you can feel along the connection to her. Imogen, she tricked me, Imogen, please—
“I’m not running,” Delilah says, and through your own shouting you hear all traces of her scrubbed from your voice. She makes you sound angry, she makes you sound confused, scared. She creates such a convincing facsimile of your voice that it finds concordance with your own silent plea. “Though you should let me if I want to.”
“Laudna,” you hear, soft and gentle, then Imogen’s hands are in yours. You can’t quite feel them, cannot feel that barely perceptible static that thrums from the lightning on her skin. It is like touching her through a veil. “Are you alright?”
Delilah wants to rip those hands from your body. (Imogen!) She wants to dig your nails in and pull all that vitality into you, that burning, screaming power. (Imogen, can you hear me?) “I’m ok,” Delilah says, turning disgust to sweetness in your mouth. (Imogen, please help me!) “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so sorry,” Imogen says, holding you firmly, just the right side of too-tight that she knows will ground you. “I should’ve come after you.”
You already know she cannot hear you. Imogen, you whisper, and your hope cracks on an imagined exhale.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Delilah says, pulling your mouth into a sheepish smile. Imogen is still furiously concerned, but the side of her mouth ticks upwards and she smiles at you so shakily, so fondly, that your mind sobs. She folds you into her arms and you can barely feel it. Delilah thinks about all the ways that she could drain Imogen dry; your fearful whimper makes her hum.
Over Imogen’s shoulder, you can no longer ignore Ashton lingering on the periphery. Your anger swells like the tide, drawn and pushed by your confusion. You do not understand how they could have done this. They are brash but they are not callous. Why would they deceive you? That you cannot scream at them, run from them, even indulge in that shameful part of you that wants to hurt them, makes the helplessness of betrayal all the more constricting.
“Still alive then,” Delilah says, bitterness coating your voice like ink. Ashton was fine when last you saw them, battered and cracked but breathing. You know that is not what she means. “Still here.” Imogen pulls back, nervously looks between you. Her hand rests on your arm, whether in support or warning you are unsure; to you, it is only a phantom.
“Still here,” they say, reassurance rather than defiance. By your hip, Chetney nods. Ashton steps closer.
“Grace you don’t deserve,” she snaps. You are always so ashamed when you agree with her.
“I know.” You can see now the roughness of their reforged arm, the mottling of stone elsewhere. Straightbacked they are not, sore and shamed.
Delilah pushes the doll into their chest with forceful malice. It is impossible for your body to unsteady them, but they rock against your hand. “Here,” she growls. “Because you are a fucking child.”
Ashton cradles the doll as if it were something precious. Your anger wavers. Disgusted, Delilah stalks toward the city with a scoff. The Hells follow in your wake.
“Are you alright?” Imogen asks quietly when she catches up. “You were out here all night, by yourself?”
“I needed the space,” Delilah says. She does not turn to look, so you cannot see Imogen by your side.
“And Delilah? Did you talk to her? Did you—” Imogen does not want to know the answer.
“Quiet,” she lies, and you curse her so vehemently that she hisses at you to silence yourself. “She is strong here, but I think everything that happened yesterday— to manifest herself took a lot of power.” This part you think might be true, but even if it is, she was still strong enough to wrest control. You do not want Imogen to let down her guard.
“Good. That’s good.” The back of her hand brushes against yours, something you only know from the distaste that ripples from Delilah. “I’m sorry, Laudna,” she says, so gentle that you want to close your eyes to it. “I should have come with you. I tried to follow you but— I couldn’t find you.”
“It’s alright,” Delilah says, and it is, even as you buck against her. “You made the right call. I’m ok, I promise.” After Delilah deems there has been an appropriate length of reflective silence she says, without any apparent agenda, “Where is the shard?”
When she glances to the side you are finally allowed to see Imogen, worried and radiant, head cocked consideringly. She says, “I’m not going to tell you that.”
Good, you think. You want desperately to know where it is; you want it hidden from you as far away as possible.
“Good,” Delilah says. The openness of the connection between you is going to be your downfall, you realise. She is going to read your every thought like a script and use it to ruin your life. You should have already realised the need for obfuscation, how essential it is to conceal yourself. There is only one person you have willingly granted access to your mind; you wish Imogen understood that her presence there is not just tolerated.
You walk, or at least your body does. Like a queen reclaiming her throne, Delilah Briarwood ascends the steps of Castle Whitestone. Home sweet home, she says. You know her only purpose is to taunt you.
Yes, you say, determined not to let her rattle you, or at least to pretend, how comforting it is to return to the scene of your crimes.
“Let’s get you warmed up, honey,” Imogen says, and Delilah lets her lead you to the parlour, lets her sit you in an armchair before the fire. You are not warmed.
Assembled, your friends are quiet. “I talked to Lady Allura yesterday,” Imogen says. She does not sit next to you, but hovers nervously by the hearth. She doesn’t take her eyes from you for long. You call her name again, knowing that it is futile. “She said we could take as much time as we need.”
“Is that true?” FCG asks.
“I don’t know,” she admits, “but she seemed to think it was important.”
“We can’t go to Ruidus like this,” Orym says. Standing small by Ashton, you do not know if he is defender or watcher. “We wouldn’t even make it to the Bridge. Time is not on our side.”
“We can’t stay here,” Imogen says. She does not look at you when she speaks, but it is for you she makes the declaration. Always your guardian.
FCG says, “We can’t go there.”
From the sofa, Fearne raises a delicate hand. “I'm going to make a suggestion. If we need a little more time, we could always go to Nana's and make time a little bit longer. If we need it. To get everybody sorted.” Fearne is supposed to be unflappable, you think. She is not supposed to sound shaken, not until it is coaxed from her by Orym’s care, Imogen’s understanding. That Ashton could have broken her artifice rekindles your anger. How dare they. “Just a small suggestion.”
“Does it work that way?” Chetney asks.
“I mean, Nana Morri was able to make sure that time didn't get all wonky when we came back the last time,” Imogen says, chewing on her lip, “so maybe she has more control than we know?”
“So we go there, and we take some time?” FCG says, thoughtfully, placatingly. “To figure this out, and get back to a better place.”
Delilah laughs, a short mocking huff. From your lips the cruelty is stark. “And to think, we only just had that talk about how we were all in it together, how we were a team.”
“I’m sorry,” Ashton croaks, so sincere that you ache. “I promise, I’ll make my way through you all but— I’m trying not to—“
“Your sorry means very little to me,” Delilah says. She feels you try to object, that desperate part of you that wants to hear Ashton explain, wants to hear them tell you that you’ve misunderstood; she tightens the screw and bids you silent. They nod, drop their head. You can feel Imogen watching you, but Delilah does not turn to her.
Chetney pulls a slow breath through his teeth. “So the Feywild, then?”
“If that’s alright?” Fearne says.
“Homesick?” Orym’s mouth pulls up into a sad, understanding smile.
“A little,” she says. You’ve never heard her sound strained before; the delusion that this situation might be fixable crumbles.
“Alright,” Imogen says, “let’s go to Nana Morri’s then.” There is more to say but none of them seem to know where to start. You feel the mist of silence almost as heavily as Delilah’s shackles.
Orym says, “I’ll speak with Lady Allura. Let her know the plan. From what I know, she'll be able to get us there.” He slides his hand into Fearne’s. “Come with? She might need some more information.”
The others beg packing, though you are sure you have mutually ascended to paranoia enough that things are not left out of easy reach. You are equally certain that FCG is more interested in ransacking the kitchens. Then only you and Imogen remain. And Delilah.
There is not enough space for Imogen to sit by your side, though you know in less fraught times that would not have stopped either of you. Instead, she perches on the arm of the chair. “What Ashton did was awful,” she says, “but he did it because he was dumb.”
“It was selfish,” Delilah says. There is no tolerance in your voice.
“Yes.”
“Idiotic. Manipulative.” Imogen tilts her head in disagreement. “They betrayed us.”
“They fucked up,” Imogen says. “They thought they were, I don’t know. Embracing the destiny that their family started. They know they were wrong.”
“The destiny to empower themselves. At our expense.” You do not understand the way Imogen looks at you.
“I looked in their head,” she says. “They weren’t trying to hurt us.” She plucks a twig from your hair, rests her hand along your cheek; Delilah clenches your jaw and sits unnaturally still. “I know that you're upset. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. They think they’re broken.” You knew this. You’ve spoken about it, you and Ashton; you said you’d use your brokenness to give the others an easier life. This has not made life easier for anyone. Still, you ache for them, pity them. You are angry, but with the reassurances of your friends, you lose your certainty that Ashton cannot be forgiven.
Imogen strokes the sharp point of your cheekbone, to you only the suggestion of a touch. She leans down to kiss you; softly, in comfort. Delilah flinches.
Imogen pulls back before your lips touch. You think you see a flash of surprise in her eyes but it’s quickly blinked away; she only looks regretful. “Sorry,” Delilah says quickly, biting into your twitchiness. “I’m sorry. It’s just a lot.”
“No, I know. Yeah. I'm sorry, Laudna.” You wish Delilah would look away from the intensity of Imogen’s attention; it feels like being pulled apart. It is the first time you’ve ever been relieved she has not kissed you. “I shouldn’t have— I should have asked.”
“It’s fine, I’m sorry. Just, you know—“ Delilah spreads your hand wide, waves it around the side of your head.
“Hey, no, there’s never any pressure. We’re still figuring things out,” she says. The side of her mouth pulls into a small, crooked smile that does nothing to temper the piercing gaze.
Imogen, you whisper, resigned. Can you hear me? Imogen, you need to run. It’s not safe. You try to lift your hand but there is nothing to raise; you have been fully severed from your body. This is not just domination; it is an eviction. Delilah very pointedly ignores you, lets you beg and plead into the ether.
Taking Imogen’s hand in yours, Delilah runs a thumb over the ridges of her knuckles; she seems able to suppress her disgust when making a mockery of you. Imogen does not tighten her grasp, lets her hand sit loosely. You think she may be wary of treading on another boundary, afraid of further rejection. If she held you as tightly as she usually does, you think you might even be able to feel it.
At night, when you lie curled up together, in a forest or an inn or wherever you’re forced to hang your metaphorical hat, you like to trace the lightning with the lightest brush of your fingertips. You’ve always found it beautiful, the way it paints the soft skin of her hands; always basked in the way it makes her look at you, as if she can’t quite believe you’re real. More recently, she’s let you kiss them, let you trail your lips across the palm of her hand, the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist, slowly and gently until she is breathless. She makes no move to tangle your fingers together the way you expect. She only rests her hand lightly in yours, turning her head to watch the hearthfire.
There is something almost comical about the incongruity of Delilah Briarwood in a hag-wrought tiki-bar. She sits in her chair uneasily, your limbs unable to fold into her natural desire for elegance. You would be smug about it if it didn’t aid her performance so effectively. The affinity you have found in the sharp edges of the Harrowcall Fens clearly does not translate.
The same cannot be said for Fearne, who practically faints onto the sofa next to you in a cloud of florals and silk. She smiles at you with sharpened teeth, her square-pupilled eyes wide. You love to watch her when she is at home. Delilah wraps your thoughts around her finger, says “Happy to be home?”
”So, so happy,” she sighs. “It’s the best place in the whole world. You know, when I was little, I loved it so much, but I wanted to go out and see everything. I wanted to explore. Now, when the world gets hard, all I want is to come home.” You know exactly what she means. All you’ve ever wanted was a home to call yours, steady when life is cruel. You’ve been lucky enough to find a home that walks by your side, but you cannot deny the yearning you have to sink your gnarled roots into the soil.
Far more averse to sentimentality, Delilah says, “Greener grass?”
Fearne hums, widens the pull of her smile. “Not quite.”
”The world shouldn’t be as hard as it is,” Delilah says. “Ashton should not have done that to you.” You do not understand the nuance of Fearne’s frown. Undeterred, Delilah continues, “They lied to you. Manipulated you.”
“They told me what they were going to do,” Fearne says. Her words are soft, certain but wavering.
Delilah presses. “Did they? Because they hurt you, Fearne.”
“Laudna,” she says; her hand is warm enough that when it covers yours, you feel as if you’ve held it to the sun, “they didn’t hurt me.”
“They walked you away,” Delilah says, “they hid from us. Only if their intentions were malicious would they do so.” It’s nothing that you haven’t thought since last night. You know that your interpretation is the thread from which Delilah has spun the argument. You would never have made it so harsh. You want Fearne to contradict you more than you want almost anything.
“I misunderstood. Ashton thought we had agreed.”
“Why are you trying to take the blame for this?”
“I’m not,” she says, her shrug far too affable in the face of Delilah’s steel.
“Aren’t you angry?” Delilah says, and if for a moment she is goading, Fearne must not hear it.
“Of course I am. They almost died. I can barely look at them, I’m so mad.” The tips of her fingers, blackened and pointed, dig into the back of your hand. “What Ashton did was really fucking dumb.”
“That’s what Imogen said.”
“Well,” Fearne smiles; in the fane of her guardian she is nothing but sharpness, “listening to Imogen is usually the smartest thing we can do, don’t you think?” Delilah has the presence of mind not to argue, even though she disagrees with the whole of her shrivelled heart.
A call from the other side of the room. “Fearne, my love!” Delilah does not turn to look, but you recognise the voice of Fearne’s father. She turns to him, then glances back at you. She squeezes your hand tight enough that you feel it, tight enough that your knuckles clack together, and Delilah hisses.
“Sorry, Laudna,” she says as she stands. “I’ll be more careful.” She presses a fluttering kiss to the back of your hand and leaves with as much flair as she appeared.
As she passes Imogen, she brushes a hand lightly across her forearm; Imogen accepts the touch unquestioningly, without looking. You hadn’t thought it possible to feel relief from within the cage of your own body, but knowing that neither of them are alone, that they will have each other if you cannot dig your way back to the surface, loosens the knot, if only a notch.
You should keep an eye on them, Delilah says and your laugh reverberates along the leash before you can think.
And here you’ve been portraying yourself as the pinnacle of behavioural comprehension, you mock.
Don’t be naive, Laudna. There is only so far that gratitude will take you. Delilah stands; she winces at the click of your hips.
Are you trying to tell me you find Fearne appealing?
Delilah sighs. Must you be so tiresome?
I thought I’d try it as a strategy, you say, given you have stolen my body, you bitch. You push again against her grasp, not that you had ever stopped, try to clench your hand, bite down on your tongue. She tightens her hold.
Let’s have a discussion about this, if you can find it within yourself to act like an adult for more than a second.
A civilised discussion, of course. Just what the situation calls for. Her disdain surrounds yours and drowns it.
There are too many eyes in the room. They follow you as Delilah crosses towards the door. She only turns back to Imogen when you cannot mask your thoughts quickly enough. “I need to walk,” she says. Worry radiates from Imogen, infecting you; Delilah reaches out, wraps a hand around her arm. “It’s too busy.”
”Alright,” she says. Her eyes travel your face, try to unravel the root of your discomfort. She does not find what she is looking for. “Want me to—“
”No, you stay and relax,” Delilah says. “I won't be long.” You do not realise you have braced yourself until Delilah takes it as a cue, brusquely pressing your lips to the top of Imogen’s head before walking you into the dark hallways of Ligament Manor.
By unspoken agreement, you allow her to walk the halls of the tree unaccosted, unsure why you extend her the grace. She takes in everything, every enchantment, every skittering, many-eyed creature that makes their home in the boughs. At the wondrous door of The Collection she pauses, your head cocked in unmistakable interest.
With your lips, she whispers an incantation, draws a sigil in the air with your fingers. If knowledge comes to her she does not share it. “Interesting,” she murmurs. You know what it means for her to sound so covetous.
Delilah, you warn.
You needn’t. “Would you like to come in?” the door asks, bones of its face curving in a wide smile.
Covetous she may be but she is smart enough to recognise a trap when she sees one. “No,” she says, polite, your smile curled viciously. “Thank you.”
She resumes her exploration until she reaches the rooftop garden, the perpetual twilight of the feywild an expansive void above you. Delilah walks the perimeter, the twisting paths. She plucks a leaf from an agonised topiary. You are as good as one of them, caged as you are. You long to feel the breeze on your branches. Once she has ensured you are alone, she says, “I didn’t know you had such patience, Laudna.”
Leave her alone, you say. Stop touching her.
”Really? This is what you want to talk about?” She sighs. “Honestly, I wish I was surprised.”
If you—
“I derive no joy from it,” she says over you. “If you had managed to keep your hands to yourself at all in the past two years we would both be happier for it right now, and I would have had a significantly less painful time.”
Such a shame it's been so hard for you, you spit. She raises your hand in agreement though the acid of your words has not been missed. You’re avoiding Lady Allura, Nana Morri. Surely you should keep your distance from Imogen, as she is the most likely to reveal you. You think nothing of giving her aid in her deception, not if it will confer Imogen even an iota of safety. You will give Delilah the key to your soul if it will ensure Imogen’s safety. You do not know if your efforts to obfuscate the thought are successful, though you are aware she already knows. You are aware she will threaten Imogen to keep you in line.
Delilah hums; it ripples through you, a pebble tossed carelessly along your connection. “Is she?” she says. “She who is so understanding of your struggles. So tolerant of your hardships.”
The second she reads your mind—
“Will she?” You pause, because you do not know. She hasn’t, not since she got the circlet. You can count on one hand the number of times she’s taken it off since you reunited. You hid from her how relieved you were.
The circlet is a revelation. It has brought Imogen more peace than you ever could and you will forever be grateful for it. You would do everything in your power to ensure she can wear it for the rest of her life. “Does she know how much you hate it?” Delilah asks. She does not know how to show sympathy that is not steeped in pity.
I don’t hate it, you say, flatly. I could never hate something that makes her happy. That stops her being in pain.
”You hate that in blocking out the world she blocks you out too.” To this you say nothing. “I know it’s hard. For her to claim to like hearing you—“
She does like hearing me.
“—to only want to kiss you when she didn’t have to listen to you anymore.”
That’s not true, you say, because you know it’s not. When Imogen says she likes the sound of your mind she means it. She would not lie to you, not about this. It made her brave enough, made it possible for her—
“Is that what she said, Laudna?” Her veneer of kindness sounds particularly simpering in your voice. “Darling, I don’t think that’s what she said at all.”
With the memory of Imogen’s hand carding through your hair, when she told you softly that yours was the first mind that didn’t hurt, you say, I understand that someone actually loving me throws a spanner in your relentless ambition to manipulate me. Imogen—
“I don’t want to hear any more about Imogen,” Delilah snaps. “The two of you are insufferable. Mooning around like you’re the only people who have ever fallen in love.”
You say, There is nothing I want to hear less than your awful opinions about love.
“You know what Sylas means to me,” she hisses, as if you have done the impossible and managed to hurt her. “I love him—”
To the exclusion of all else, you say. Including your humanity.
“Alright,” she says, slowly, calmly. Cruelty curls at the side of your mouth. “Fine. Let us talk about Imogen. Let us talk about your friends.” It does not sound like the start of a threat, no more than every other minacious word from her. Warily, you do not interrupt. “You are facing a challenge that you are woefully unskilled and unprepared to meet.” Delilah imparts her insight with gravitas, as if you all haven’t been saying this to each other for weeks. As if it is not your main collective point of fear. “With me in control, you might actually stand a chance of survival.”
Heartening, that thirty years in humiliating obscurity has not taken a dent from your ego.
“I don’t know why you’ve decided to grow an attitude all of a sudden,” she sighs. She plucks another leaf from the topiary.
Maybe I’m following your example, you say, with not a small amount of spite. You are not stronger than the gods, Delilah, nor the forces Ludinus has assembled. Why would your presence make any difference?
She raises your head, regal and arrogant. “Because I am not afraid of power.”
Neither am I, you say, though it sounds too much like a question.
“You cannot lie to me, Laudna. You have squandered every opportunity handed to you.” She snaps a twig as if it were a bone, then says, “You are being left behind.” It feels like your ears should be ringing, like the world should be muffled. If you had anything close to breath it would catch. You do not know what to say to your greatest fear shown to you so bluntly. “Imogen grows stronger the closer you get to Ruidus. Her path also grows more perilous. You cannot protect her.”
Weakly, you say, She doesn’t need me to protect her.
“But you want to. You would give anything to ensure her safety. As you are, you cannot.” Delilah takes a deep breath, softens her tone. You have spent years with her as your council, your confidant; she intends to sound maternal. You wish it weren’t so effective. “Laudna, you and Imogen are not equals. Maybe once, but not anymore. Not unless you do something about it. The kind of love that you crave, darling? You cannot have it if you are incapable of stepping from her shadow. There can be no future if you cannot stand next to her, rather than behind.”
Delilah’s argument falters in a haze of lavender, because you do not mind standing behind Imogen, not if you can watch her shine. You would happily make friends with the shadows, cloak yourself in darkness so she can stand in the light. She deserves to feel the sun on her face. Only yesterday she had cried, when she realised that you might not always be by her side. She had said she didn’t accept it. You say, Imogen wouldn’t want this.
“No,” Delilah concedes. “But if she is to survive, it may be what she needs. You have always been stubborn. For once, let me help you.”
Imogen denied for you an end you thought inevitable; it threads steel into your voice. I don’t need your help. I was perfectly fine before you got your claws into me.
“Fine?” she says, scornful, disbelieving. “You call that growling, feral animal fine?”
I was my own person.
“Laudna, you were not a person at all. When we met—“
Again, you hiss.
“What?”
When we met again, you say. Her acknowledgement of your death has always been upsettingly flippant. The first time we met you destroyed me so completely that—
“The only reason,” Delilah interrupts, “you’ve been able to accomplish anything, mediocre as it has been, is because—“
I don’t need you, you snap. Plaintive, from your forced subordination, I have never needed you. But you have tangled yourself up in me so inextricably that I cannot make you leave.
“If I leave,” she says, “we will both die.”
That is not true. Here, now, you are adamant. You have made a vessel of me but a vessel still exists when it is empty.
“You would be,” Delilah says, with no pity at all. “Empty.”
And you would be dead. You match her callousness and say, As you should be.
“I’m not the one who should be dead, Laudna. Remember that.” When she tilts your head, your neck cracks. You are under no illusion to her intent. “I might need this body, but I do not need you.”
And the shard? you say. That’s what this is about, right? You want the shard.
She hums, says slyly, “It’s certainly a place to start.”
It doesn’t belong to us. You, you correct too late. It’s Fearne’s.
“Fearne refused it. It refused Ashton.”
That doesn’t mean— Delilah spins abruptly; you are thrown off kilter. Nothing stirs in the garden but a frantically fleeing corpse, tattered wings beating far too fast to carry the rest of his skin.
A blast of dark, eldritch magic knocks him from the air; a skeletal hand erupts from the ground to entrap. “Help!” Pâté yells, though the sinews of his throat do not carry far. Delilah growls low in your chest, pulls the mage hand back until it slides over yours like a glove. Your beloved familiar, trapped in the vice of your hand. “Let me go!”
Stop it, you plead frantically, stop it, leave him alone!
“Why, you little rat.”
“Help!” he shouts again. You know him; he is not shouting for himself. Delilah tightens your fist. Strangled, undeterred, he yells, “It’s not her! Imogen! Help!”
Delilah! you shout; she does not even blink. Delilah, let him go!
”Where is she?” Pâté wheezes, legs kicking out frantically and finding no purchase. “Laudna! Where is Laudna?” Your name falters as the breath is squeezed from him. He does not need to breathe, you realise, and fear what has been forced from him is something more vital.
“I have wanted to do this for decades,” Delilah says, gleeful rictus pulled wide across your face. Your nails pierce the rough fur of his body, sink into the viscera beneath. Pâté writhes, shrieks; something primal, animal. You have never heard him make such a sound, because you have never known him as a rat. Not a live one, at least.
Her thrill flows through you, poisons your horror. With everything you have, you will your hand to move, to release, to give him some measure of reprieve. The tingle at the tips of your fingers may well be your imagination. You do not know if the spasm is the result of your efforts or only the force with which she crushes him. Pâté screams like a rat in a trap until his soul is silenced, until he ruptures in your fist like a rotten apple. All that remains is a slick of ichor, staining your fingers, rolling down your wrist. Delilah’s sigh of pleasure is obscene.
Heartbroken, you sob, We have a pact. I don’t— I don’t understand. This must violate our pact, he— you could have just dismissed him, you didn’t need to hurt him, to kill him. You whisper, Pâté.
“Stop wailing.” She flicks the residue of your soul from her hand, splattering the topiary in abhorrence. “An abomination like that, unfortunately, can be brought back. If you can keep him in line.”
Oh gods, you cry.
“As for our pact, I see no conflict. I swore to teach you, to keep you safe.” She prestidigitates your hand clean, smooths back your hair. “You are perfectly capable of learning by example and you cannot in good faith tell me that you have come to harm, neither the physical shell of you nor the soul.”
If you harm my friends, you choke, heaving around tears that cannot exist, if you harm Imogen, that harms me.
“I have no intention of harming them.” You do not believe her, not without the unspoken caveat of your compliance. Didactic, inarguable, she says, “We are going to take the shard. We are going to take every opportunity afforded to us and make our own as well.”
You try to shake your head. You have lost whatever ground you were naive enough to believe you held. To betray them like this—
“They will be better in the long run.” Delilah smiles and the cold knocks you back. “Laudna, help me succeed in this venture and I swear, I will not hurt them. Our motivations do not have to align to achieve a shared goal. And with the knowledge we amass, perhaps we will truly be able to separate. Then you, and I, and your precious Imogen, will all get what we want.”
When Delilah returns you to the bar, the mood has shifted. Scattered around the room, your friends are quiet, rigid. Tension paints the walls as readily as the moss.
Hope lurches as Delilah quirks your fingers, readies a spell on your tongue. “What’s wrong?” she asks, your voice a barb. You cannot read the glances that pass between them.
Imogen smiles at you, wan and fragile. Fearne leans forward, props her chin on her fist. Lightly, she says, “Turns out you can make a Ruidusborn on purpose if you try really, really hard.” Her grin is at odds with the rest of the room.
Delilah glances at Imogen, who does not look away from Fearne. “What do you mean?” Delilah asks. She relaxes your jaw. Your hope is interred.
Fearne brushes her hair behind her shoulder, says, “Birdie likes a bad boy, apparently. Got herself a baby daddy with an agenda.”
“He wanted a fey Ruidusborn,” Imogen explains, and you can tell she does not mean Oleander Calloway. “The unseelie working with Ludinus. Sorrowlord Zathuda.”
Delilah dredges the name from your memory, brushes off the scales. “The guy with the dragon?” she says incredulously. She makes you sound like an idiot. “The one who tried to kill us?”
“Small world,” Orym says, with so much cynicism Delilah cannot help but raise an eyebrow at him. He doesn’t take his gaze from the floor.
“Daddy got his ass handed to him by Nana, though,” Chetney says.
”What does this mean?” Delilah asks. Her mind runs ahead too quickly for you to follow, thoughts of authority and power and discontent.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Fearne shrugs. “I’ve the same number of parents I did this morning. It’s still Nana who raised me. I don’t even know him! Besides, it’s not like it worked.”
“It means we need to be careful,” Imogen says. “It means there are more eyes on us than we thought.” Fearne sighs. She doesn’t want to think about it, you and Imogen can both tell.
“All the more reason for us to get in ship shape!” FCG says. The positivity lands heavily in the fraught weave between you. Blithely, they continue, “We talked about regaining trust. I talked to Fearne’s Nana. We can plan some team building exercises, some workshops, to rebuild those foundations. To work on the honest sharing of our feelings.” Ashton laughs, loud and growling, as if it is the funniest thing they have ever heard.
”Rich, Ashton,” Delilah says, “given that the entire reason we are here is due to your betrayal.” You think that you would have sounded heartbroken had you said those words to them, devastated by the rupture in trust. Delilah barely manages to suppress the glee in your voice.
When Ashton turns to you it is with a look so devoid of care that had you any control of your face you would have recoiled. For the first time in your relationship, you genuinely think that they might hit you. You don’t like it, as a feeling; they are jagged enough to cut but you only realise how safe you’ve felt in their presence when that safety is threatened. That hammer would disintegrate every bone in your body in a single blow. A part of you welcomes it; you will gladly take the hit if it means Delilah gets what's coming to her.
No one jumps to your defence, puts themselves in the line of fire, not that you would expect them to. “Ash,” Orym says softly, but as a warning it is weak.
Imogen is too clever to use her body to such an end; she would crumple only marginally less catastrophically than you. You see her lean forward anyway, before she has the same realisation.
Ashton grumbles, takes a deep breath. That they turn and walk away without a word is the result of a silent rebuke in their mind; you don’t need to see the look they throw to Imogen on their way out to know that. Neither does Delilah. “Thank you, darling,” she says quietly, a simpering mockery of your devotion, and you wish that Ashton had pummeled you into the ground.
“Letters,” Imogen says gently, though she does not manage to mask the tightness of her voice from you, “I appreciate the effort, I do. Just— I don’t think that’s the best plan right now.”
“We need to do something, Imogen,” FCG says. Their desperation slips through.
“I know. I know, and we are. Let’s just talk, ok? All of us, all together. We talk about it, and we talk about what we do.”
Unconvinced, they say, “Alright. Here, or?” They both look around the bar, the oppressiveness of the decor, the sleeping hag in the corner.
“Ashton and I talked earlier,” Orym says. “Down below the tree. We could go there. Fearne?”
“Yeah, ok,” she smiles. “The Undermuck!”
“Great,” Imogen says, and you can tell she hates the name and what it implies instantly. It is a spark of light in your captive darkness. “That sounds— yeah. FCG, can you go find Ashton, take them down there?”
“Sure,” they say. “You’ll be alright?”
“We’ll be fine. Fearne can show us the way.”
“I’ll go with Letters,” Orym says, though he does not sound happy about it. His hands flex at his sides, the corded muscle of his forearms tight.
Quietly, Imogen says, “Thank you, Orym.” They leave you with your witches, with Chetney whittling in the corner. The atmosphere is so taut you wonder how they are able to breathe.
“Gimme a second,” Fearne says. From the corner of your eye, you watch as she folds herself into the sleeping arms of her grandmother, who stirs and stretches at her touch. Nana Morri rests her head on Fearne’s shoulder. You are delighted that she does so by wrapping her elongated neck around the back of Fearne’s head, like a grotesque scarf. Delilah’s reaction is not so gleeful. You cannot hear what Fearne whispers, nor should you.
“I think I should stop wearing the circlet,” Imogen says. Both you and Delilah startle. You had not thought her capable of panic, too composed, too conniving, but that is undoubtedly what mixes with your adrenaline.
“Why would you do that?” Delilah asks. You can hear the edge she cannot smooth from your voice.
“If I hadn’t been wearing it, I would have known,” she says. You cannot argue. “I would have known what Ashton was planning, I would have known when you ran off. I know it’s an invasion, I know that. But one of my strengths is knowing.” She watches you, chews on her lip. “I’m going to take it off.”
“No!” Delilah says, catches Imogen’s hand in yours. “That’s not— Imogen, you shouldn’t have to monitor those around you. Babysit their foolishness. That’s not your responsibility.”
“I know,” she says. “I don’t feel that way, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“They are responsible for their actions, not you.” She has not let go of Imogen’s hand. You worry about how tightly she holds on. “You have strength in knowing, yes, but that knowledge comes at a cost.”
“Maybe it’s worth it,” Imogen says.
“Without the circlet, you would be in pain. You can’t have forgotten that.” You do not say anything, try not to think anything, hope desperately that Delilah mistakes your silence for compliance.
“Of course not.” She sighs, frustrated. You start to build a labyrinth inside your mind, a maze in which to hide yourself.
“You don’t owe them that. Imogen, you cannot give up something that takes away your pain. Something that makes you happy.” To hear your own words turned back on you is not a surprise. You do not allow your fury into the warren; you let Delilah feel it. “Knowledge is vital, but you can use that power as a scalpel against those who deserve it without hurting yourself.”
“Those who deserve it,” she murmurs. Imogen does not meet your eye.
“You know what I mean.” Delilah gathers your softness. “I just don’t want you to be in pain when you don’t have to be.”
After a moment, Imogen says, “No, you’re right.” Her smile does not quite reach her eyes. “You’re right. It’s not worth it. I’ll leave it on.”
“Good.” Imogen is looking at your hand, clamped tightly around hers. You know what it feels like to hold her like that. It is not normally so tinged with fear.
You think, with the knowledge that it would taste like bile on your tongue, that Delilah might be right. That kind, empathetic Imogen is too accepting of your eccentricities, your erraticism. She knows that something is wrong, you can see it clearly in her eyes. She is not going to press, not going to challenge, because she has seen the control you cannot escape and loves you so much that she has overcorrected.
Imogen covers your hand with hers, tenderly touches the ring she placed on your finger. Delilah spies her opening. “There is strength in this too,” she says, a low intimate whisper. Imogen stills. “The strength that this has brought me.”
What are you doing? you say, dread growing cold in whatever form you have. Delilah does not answer.
”I can’t imagine how you feel right now,” Delilah says, “with all of this bearing down on you. I understand why you would want to reach for whatever strength you feel you have. Maybe this can bring you the comfort it has brought me.” She slides the ring from your finger.
No, you say. No, you can’t. Delilah, don’t you dare. Helpless and restrained, you can do nothing as Delilah folds the ring into Imogen’s hand. Imogen looks only at your fingers curled over hers. You both usually relish the sight.
Laudna, Delilah says, with what genuinely might be abashment, I cannot have this ring on my finger. You feel him in her mind, like looking through a clouded window, feel her inescapable love, your terror and revulsion. You know what it is to hold his hand, to kiss him, to touch him. To stand at an altar and pledge the world. To kneel by the same and sunder your own soul. You know what it is to be mutilated by his hand.
It’s not your finger! you protest, with disappointment you know is unreasonable, say, It’s not even a wedding ring.
Delilah only says, There is power in intent.
”Giving me back your ring, huh?” Imogen says. It could be teasing in her voice; you cannot tell with her head dipped, her eyes averted.
“Temporarily,” Delilah says, with pep you think is uncalled for. “I’ll be wanting it back,” she lies.
Imogen slowly opens her hand, gazes down at the ring cradled in her palm. “Alright,” she says. She picks it up, slips it onto the ring finger of her right hand. “I’ll hang onto it for you. Borrow some of that strength.” When she lifts her eyes to yours, you are surprised to see the normal soft purple. You’re not sure why you expected otherwise. She says, “I’ll keep it safe.”
When Fearne leads you into the Undermuck, the others are already there. Delilah clambers down the colossal roots of the manor; Imogen gallantly reaches back a hand to help you down.
From across a bubbling slick of mud, Ashton says, “Ok. Let’s have it out, then.” The call to arms is taken up slowly. They sigh. “Guess I’ll start. I know a lot of us have spoken already but— Look, I’m sorry. What I did was fucking stupid. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, but most people aren’t and still fucking do. I thought— I guess I thought that my crazy cult parents started something, and maybe I could finish it. Maybe it would make me more fucking useful.”
FCG says, “You were told very explicitly that it would kill you, Ashton.”
“It was more implied it would be ill advised,” they reply. “And ok, maybe I thought it was meant to be a trial. Maybe I’ve got a fucking chip on my shoulder.”
“Well,” Delilah sneers, “that quite literal chip lost you an entire arm.” You will not find her funny. You refuse. Especially when she has a sword held to the throat of your friends.
“I think it's less that you tried to absorb it,” Imogen says, “and more that you tried to do it in secret. That’s what feels like a betrayal, Ash. If you’d told us you wanted to try, maybe we would have talked you out of it. Maybe we would have been more prepared to help. You didn’t give us the chance.”
They drop their head, clench their jaw. Shame is not something you are used to seeing on them. Ashton can take up as much space as they want, loud and brash and unapologetic, but in the planes of their averted face their youth shines through. Their life has been hard, cruel, but to see them as a child in this is not entirely inaccurate. You realise that you have already forgiven them.
Ashton says, “I thought if it went wrong, and let me be entirely fucking clear, I knew that it would probably go wrong, then it would be better the less of you there were.” They turn to Fearne, reiterate something you can tell they’ve already said, “I shouldn’t have put that on you. I didn’t think you would— Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m more sorry about that than any of it. Please continue to be mad at me forever, we both deserve it.” Fearne doesn’t reply, but Delilah’s quick glance to the side tells you she is no longer thinking of setting them on fire.
“Alright,” Orym says, crossing his arms. “So what do we do now?”
Delilah, who has no stake in your relationships other than the cracks she can leverage, is dismissive of your forgiveness. To Ashton she says, “Clearly you shouldn’t have touched it. You’re only alive because of their interventions. Fearne doesn’t want it.”
They ask, “Do you?” as if they already know the answer.
“If the other options aren’t feasible,” she says, coolly, logically, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
The harshness returns to their voice. “Because it wouldn’t be going to you, would it? Is it even you that wants it, Laudna?
You don’t know the answer to that question. Do you want the shard, or can you just not tell? “I don’t know how much good it does to talk about separate desires,” Delilah says, your thoughts made hers. “Delilah and I— we are not distinct entities.” You are certain only you can hear the chagrin.
Fearne says, “That’s not true.” You wish you could take her certainty for your own, the twist at the side of her mouth, the relaxed slope of her shoulders. “There’s you, and there’s her. You’re different people.”
“Perhaps that was true, once, a long time ago.” Delilah smiles, tries to make it sympathetic. “But our souls are bound. My magic is her magic.” She gives a small laugh, bitingly bitter; it is the closest she has gotten to emulating you. “She is the reason that I have magic.”
“You’re powerful in your own right,” Imogen says. She is not trying to comfort you, placate you; her tone brokers no argument. “You had your own magic way before you met her.” Delilah has never acknowledged your magic, not really. She never seems to remember that on first acquaintance you came to her for tutelage.
“You’re right, of course,” she says. You don’t know whether she’s trying to make a point to you with her cloying deference. “That’s not what I meant, I just— the kind of magic that is required of us, to even attempt this task. It is more than what is innate.”
“So, what?” Ashton says. “She just gets to feed on it, suck it down like it’s her own personal battery?”
“What do we do with it then?” Delilah snaps. “It rattles around in the hole, going to waste?” She gestures to your friends, who all look at you with guarded eyes. The anger is not unfamiliar to you, the banked fire that burns at your core. The mockery is novel. “Do we make a fiery little ashari, a bonfire werewolf? Is anyone else actually willing to do this?”
“I—“ Fearne says, then stops. She looks helplessly to Imogen, for guidance, for support.
“I know you’re scared,” Imogen says. The kindness of her voice is at odds with whatever snapping malice Delilah embodies for you. “I’m scared too. We’re messing with things that— but I really think you can do this, Fearne.”
“I’ve seen not good versions of me,” she says quietly. You all can hear her, but it is Imogen and Orym she looks between, Chetney who smiles at her. “Corrupted, dark. What if this is what makes me like that?”
Orym says, “She wasn’t real, Fearne.”
“And we’ll be right here. We won’t let it corrupt you.” Imogen smiles, crooked and conspiratorial; it makes you ache even as it warms you. “Hell, I’d be more worried about what you could do to it.”
Delilah feels her plan start to unravel, a wave of fury that washes through you both. To Imogen she says, “Don’t force her.”
Plainly, evenly, she says, “I’m not.”
“I don’t know,” Fearne says. “I don’t know! What if I try to take it and what happens to Ashton happens to me?”
FCG says, “Ashton was told not to because they already had a titan shard.”
”Advised,” Ashton mutters.
“I could be full of titan shards, you don’t know.” You would give anything to be able to catch her eye, or Imogen’s, to smile, laugh.
Delilah loses her patience. “How much more time are we willing to waste? We’re already meant to be on Ruidus.”
Orym, voice hard but steady says, “We need to decide what to do with it together.”
“This group has never reached consensus on anything!” Delilah bites, snarls, and some of her inflection bleeds into yours.
“We did about saving you,” Chetney says, with a calm the rest of them lack. “Bringing you back to life.”
“For all the good it did.” You take advantage of her anger to retreat into your labyrinth, pull into the depths of yourself. “You say that you don’t like Delilah and I being entangled but you have proven that it cannot be undone. You claimed to have separated us in a dread domain and yet we remain enmeshed.” She holds your body too still, looks down at them from the elevated root. “You think if that little cleric couldn’t do it, that we can just wave a hand and be rid of her?”
In a voice that sounds false, Imogen says, “There’s a difference between knowing she’s there, knowing she’s fucking watching us all the time, and actively feeding her.”
“Well, I can’t imagine it’s a picnic for her either.” Delilah takes a deep breath, manages to suppress the spasm it forces from your decayed lungs; she has not quite mastered your breathing. She looks at Imogen, watching you with an unreadable expression, and realises how far she has drifted. Plaintively, like a broken doll, she says, “That’s it, then?” You don’t know whether the deflation is enough to convince them. Another flash of anger, your own, that they cannot see past the mask of your corpse. “You all get to empower yourselves so you stand a chance and I just have to sit back, because someone decided that killing me would be convenient? How is that fair?”
Straightbacked, at attention, Orym says, “What made you think anything about this was fair?”
Delilah rounds on him, retort sharp on your tongue. It is why you are the last to see the creature that bites Chetney on the neck. “Shit, ow, son of a bitch,” he yelps, clapping a hand over the wound. When he pulls it back, it comes away in a slick of red.
You spot them in the air, two, four, ten, only as long as your hand, winged and sharp-toothed and vicious. A swarm. “Shit,” Fearne says. The instigator ends their life on the end of a chisel. It sets the tone.
Orym springs into the air, sword flashing faster than you can follow. His shield protects the exposed skin at the base of his throat whilst also swatting faeries from the air with strength often denied. To his assailants he is a giant.
Delilah backs away from the assault, balancing on the thick root. Feel free to cower impotently, you goad. A dart of fire passes very close over your head. I’m sure that won’t make them suspicious at all.
Insufferable, she mutters. You have no body but you still feel the falling of night, the chill in your core as Delilah pulls the shadows to your hands. She wants to grasp, to drain, to wither. Her excitement brushes against you as she realises that she can.
Darkness spills from your hands. Delilah hooks a puppet string into the lifeblood of every little faerie she can reach. Then elegantly, effortlessly, she pulls. It rushes into you, life, vitality, a mere sliver of what she siphons, scraps tossed to a begging mutt. Normally you spin the energy to whichever of your friends most need it; she only draws it into herself, lets out a shaky breath. A dozen desiccated fey drop into the mud pools like skimmed stones.
A wail sings through the commotion, a song of ruin. In unison, the onslaught clutch at tiny heads, shriek as their minds turn on them. You know Imogen’s handiwork without having to look. They dive after their brethren, stunned and limp.
Imogen cries out. Instinctively, you turn towards her. Awareness of the tilt of your hips, the twist of your neck, before you are slammed into a wall, sensation revoked.
All at once your predicament comes into alignment. This is your body. Whenever Delilah has tried to take control, you have felt her trying to prise the strings from your grasp. This is not a reversal of fortunes.
It is still your body. You are not trying to seize control from a dominant force against the natural order. To keep you restrained is a constant act of will. You feel your buried hope shift some of its grave dirt.
You might be able to wait her out. You just need her distracted. Opportunity unfurls seeking tendrils.
A faerie has tucked itself inside Imogen’s guard, not touching but to slice with pointed fingers, evading her attempts to knock it away. Do something, you snarl. You clutch for that momentary control, try to overpower her. She presses you down. Consideringly, Delilah sparks a roil of eldritch force in your palm. She does not release it.
A spectral fist backhands the faerie, a facsimile of metal and wires. The creature slams into the twisted roots of the tree, no longer moving. Delilah lets go, sending the blast wide over Imogen’s shoulder.
You hear FCG call Imogen’s name in alarm. “I’m fine,” she says, wiping a thin trickle of blood from her cheek. Into your head, she says, A little late there.
I thought I might hit you, Delilah replies.
I know you did, she says. To be frustrated with Imogen is unfamiliar, but that is undoubtedly what you feel.
From the corner of your eye, you see Ashton fade, flicker, dull to grey. The faeries that remain are pulled inextricably into their aura. Such is the density around them that when they swing their hammer in a wide, sweeping arc it resembles nothing so much as a flail. All that remains of their assailants is a dark red smear on the glass.
The air stills, quiets. There is only the shuddering afterimage of magic. Fearne laughs, as shamefacedly as she can manage, which is not very. “I guess we got a little loud,” she says. “I told you. Bitches.”
Orym sheathes his sword, hangs onto his shield. “We still need to—“ He is yanked backwards into the mud, crusted tentacle wrapped tightly around his ankle.
“Orym!” Fearne shouts, high and panicked. She tries to jump in after him, is stopped only by Chetney’s arms locking around her legs.
“Don’t double the problem,” he huffs. Orym does not bob to the surface, stolen to the hidden depths.
Static ionises the air around Imogen. “I can’t find him,” she mutters. “Can’t grab him if I can’t fucking see him—“
Ashton doubles the problem. They sink in up to their chest and you are buoyed by the sight; it’s not that deep, not all consuming. Too deep for Orym, certainly, but— Hope flees when you realise that Imogen is holding Ashton afloat with her mind.
As calmly as you can, impressively evenly, you say, We will not get the shard if he dies. We will get nothing. Save him, and we can still get what we want.
Hideously transparent, Delilah sighs. We both know you’ve never had the stomach for it, Laudna.
Do nothing and you’re fucked, you say honestly. You swallow down your terror and lock it in a box. There is a problem to be solved. You can solve the problem.
You resemble nothing so much as a stopped clock, she says, more resentment than woman, but she raises your hands. In front of your ribs, she slides your palms together, one facing up, the other down, draws a line until all that touches are the tips of your middle fingers. Flaying the neat incision, she tears a hole in the world. From the void leaps your hound, monstrous and malformed, a pestilence of Whitestone in truth. You attempt to slide back into your foxhole, lest she see your acknowledgment of what is unmistakably the casting of a wizard, not a single bone dislodged.
By your will or hers, the hound pounces. It slides into the mud with very little grace, splattering Fearne and Chetney on the bank, pushing the wake up to Ashton’s neck. Find Orym, you command, just in case it still considers you its master. Pull him to the surface, to solid ground.
Warmth reaches you in the depths of your purgatory; rebirth in the wake of cleansing fire. Fearne burns the Undermuck with her aura, the spark of her life tied to Orym’s. Ashton’s hands course through the mud and come up empty.
A second seems a minute seems an hour. The pool lies still. Then, so slowly you think all must be lost, your hound breaks the surface. Clamped in its jaws is a limp, tattooed arm. No, you think, nothing more than a whisper. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The hound tugs, pulls, and out comes a sword, clutched in the hand, then hair, a head, a mouth that coughs and gasps and splutters. You feel Delilah roll her eyes at the relieved groan you press towards her.
Orym is dragged unceremoniously to the bank, dropped like a ragdoll at Fearne’s feet. Her hands are on him before he can catch a proper breath, pulling him into her lap. You cannot hear the low things she murmurs to him, can only see the shaking of her hands as she pushes muddied hair from his eyes.
You hear Imogen’s breath catch, watch from the corner of your eye as she whispers incantation after incantation, the twitching of her fingers cleaning the dirt from Orym’s skin. Ashton heaves themself out of the pool.
Delilah expects the hound to dissipate, as do you, but it does not. Nor is it recalled to you. Instead, it lopes to Imogen’s side, pushes its muzzle into her hand with a low whine. “Hi, baby boy,” she murmurs, running her fingers through the rough fur on its head, matted with mud and gore and who knows what else. “I know. It’s alright.”
Delilah dismisses it with a thought. Imogen’s hand flexes in nothingness.
“Laudna,” Orym says, rasping. Fearne’s arms are still around him when Delilah turns to look. You think he seems confused, troubled. You suppose the oxygen deprivation may have addled him. The intensity with which he looks at you when he utters a rough, “Thank you,” makes you want to call back the hound. Delilah simply nods her acknowledgement.
“We should go,” Ashton says, shaking mud from their coat. “Before someone else decides they want to have some fun.” You glance to the swamp, are thankful to see no encroaching ensnarement. You do not miss the gleam in Chetney’s eye.
You are all halfway inside the manor when Fearne calls out from behind you. “Ok,” she says, and you have never heard her sound so small. When Delilah turns, you see she is still standing on the bank, alone. “Ok, I’ll do it. I’ll take the shard.”
A torrent sweeps through you. Delilah’s rage blazes. “Fearne,” Imogen says softly. The look they share is not for your eyes.
“We can’t even deal with some faeries properly,” Fearne says. “With Mrs Cubble.” Of course the giant tentacle monster has a name. Of course it does. She only looks at Imogen when she says, “What’s the alternative, here,” though you know she is talking about you, about Delilah. Fearne lifts her chin. “I’ll do it.”
They do it in the garden. They fuss around Fearne, casting and soothing, reassuring and warding. Delilah stands in the middle of it all, still and silent as a wraith.
She mainly watches Allura, gracefully pacing, runes sparking in her wake as she builds them a barrier. Delilah whispers, her fingers drawing small dispellments against your leg. She pokes and prods holes in the ward, ruptures you hope will be noticed but fear are not.
You are never left alone, a constant rotation by your side. You bristle, slightly, at your friends appointing themselves your guards. A tiny chain looped through Delilah’s links.
Logically, you know that the shard is probably in the bag swinging on Chetney’s hip. If not there, then in the portable hole stuffed in Ashton’s pocket. The harness swings carelessly from Fearne’s hand; you know you would not need it.
You worry for Fearne, clearly acting against her wishes. You should have left the shard in the mountain, you think, down in the depths. You should have left it at rest, then none of this would have happened. You know better than most the consequences of disturbing a grave.
Chetney helps Fearne into the harness. She cannot be feeling as badly as you thought; her hand darts to Chetney’s pocket, all you see a flash of green. Nana Morri looms over her granddaughter, strokes back her hair. Delilah takes stock of every threat in the garden.
The biggest threat steps to your side, calm before the storm. “How are you doing?” Imogen asks.
”Good,” Delilah says, your eyes trained on Fearne. “Fine.”
”You don’t have to be here for this,” she says lightly. “No one would blame you.”
“That doesn’t quite seem fair now, does it?” she says. The voice she speaks in is low, rough. She adds, “For Fearne, I mean. We promised we’d be here.”
”Right,” Imogen says. She lingers by your side in silence. To stand with her at dusk, lit only by the glow of fireflies and candles, should feel intimate, romantic. You wish that she weren’t standing so close.
Delilah’s anticipation, her apprehension, tastes like blood on your tongue. Is this what it is like for her? Your every thought, every feeling, seeping in at the edge of her awareness? She has been lurking in your head for almost thirty years; the control she must have learned is unprecedented. You know that you cannot find her if she does not want to be found, cannot feel the things she feels. Knowing it is possible to hide helps you to bear it.
You offer no comment as the barrier around you flares, as magic starts to tint the air with potential. You simply retreat into your burrow and let Delilah plot. She must have some semblance of a plan, but you think she might have been caught off guard by the haste. How much easier it would have been, to steal it from under them whilst they slept.
Your friends give Fearne some space; Orym kneels in her eyeline. Neither you or Delilah miss that they station themselves in an arc around you, only Imogen close enough to touch. They are not far enough that they couldn’t lay hands on you if required. The bitterness that twists in you is solely your own.
Using a pair of tongs, Chetney pulls the Shard of Rau’shan from the bag of holding. Want tears through you, Delilah’s hunger, your desperation. You have no body but you still feel that low, pulsing heartbeat, neither yours nor hers entwined as you are. Now, she thinks, and she does not mean for you to hear. The shard spins in the field of the quintessence array. It is the only thing Delilah can focus on.
You give her no warning. From your servitude, you sidestep her, claw at her, throw her into the void of your soul. You feel the breeze in your hair, against the chill of your skin, but it is unsteady. It feels like falling.
“Imogen!” you gasp, clamping your hand so tightly around her wrist that your fingernails draw blood. You feel the heat of her skin under your hand, the static that hums between you. You can feel her.
“Laudna?” Imogen turns to you, eyes wide. You have startled her, scared her. Your name sounds like an invocation.
Delilah wraps her hand around your throat, wrenches you back into the darkness. The burn of Imogen’s skin dissolves in your palm, until all you can feel is the absence. She is lost to you.
A feline smile pulls wide across your mouth. Delilah lets out a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry,” she says, forces a small, harsh laugh. She loosens your hand. “Sorry.” She turns back to Fearne, who is starting to glow, a fire lit from within. “She’s being difficult.”
Imogen wraps an arm around your waist, pulls your body into hers. She turns your head from the ritual, slides a hand into your hair. Delilah tries to resist her, tries to pull towards the shard. Imogen holds you tighter. “I’ve got you,” she whispers against your ear. From your cage, you feel her magic wash over you, a warm bath, a spring sun. You calm.
Delilah stops struggling, her fight weakening. She sags, though still tries to pull away. Imogen does not let you go, says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I won’t let her get it, I swear.” She does not let Delilah turn, does not let her move towards the shard. Her hand in your hair remains gentle but it is with firmness she holds you still. From the fury smothered beneath Imogen’s will, you can tell it is already too late, that the ritual cannot be stopped with the shard recovered. Imogen is always true to her word. Disgust winds through your body at the intimacy of her touch. “Laudna,” she says, barely more than an exhalation, “I promise, it’s going to be ok.”
Delilah stops trying to fight her, a millstone of calm pressing unbearably on her wrath. You can hardly feel Imogen’s hands on you but you know they are there, you know that she is holding you steady. Trying to stop Delilah from overwhelming you, you imagine you can feel her warmth. There is not a single time Imogen has touched you in almost three years that you do not remember. You have been changed by every press of her hands, every brush of her lips, have coveted every mark she has kissed into your skin. You know that she will hold you until she is pulled away.
Your vision is obscured by her hair, your sight a weave of purple. Without Delilah struggling, you can hear your friends out of sight, hear Fearne hissing in pain, Ashton groaning. You are surprised to hear the spinning of a buzz saw, followed by a healthy dose of cursing. “Shit,” Imogen mutters. Even bound, you relish the aftertaste of ozone as her magic pulses.
It is unnervingly hot as your friend immolates. From the corner of your eye, you see the topiaries burned away to reveal bones, the world distorted through the haze. “Laudna,” Imogen says softly, relaxing the vice of her arms. “You’re probably going to want to see this.”
Delilah turns to look, defiance still smothered, in case there is anything she can salvage. Instead, you both watch as Fearne burns, as she floats above the garden, entirely consumed by flame. To you, she is exquisite. To Delilah, the proverbial immovable object.
Fearne blazes. Delilah vitrifies.
“You stupid, incompetent girl,” Delilah snarls. “How can you be this foolish.”
You’re the one in control here, you say, sounding far more confident than you feel. You cling to the memory of your body, now merely an echo.
“You lost us the shard!”
Terrible, isn’t it, you hiss, to have some bitch constantly talking at the back of your mind, taking over your body whenever she fucking feels like it! Delilah stalks the corridors, the skirt of your dress thrown behind her with an audible crack. It’s gone, Delilah.
”For now,” she says. You are not naive enough to mistake it as anything but a threat.
Not for now, you snap. It is done.
”You are very keen to talk of vessels, Laudna. A casket can be smashed to retrieve the treasure within.” You don’t know whether it is your imagination that conjures the image of Fearne being pulled apart or whether Delilah forces it towards you. Whichever it is, you have no desire to understand what the inside of her chest looks like.
You are clever enough to not throw good magic after bad, you say, though it is a poor attempt at flattery. Delilah, why don’t you just leave? Then you wouldn’t need to maintain this facade. What do you gain from this?
Reluctantly, she says, “Though you are typically your own obstruction, you are not without power. Those you surround yourself with, unworthy as they are, have it too.” It is the closest she has ever come to paying you a compliment. You want to say, Have you ever formulated a sentence without a snide caveat, but you hold your metaphorical tongue. “There are things in this world that I find to be of interest,” she continues. There is a crack in her anger, through which shines the glow of ambition. “Ruidus, and what the Martinet is doing there, is interesting to me.”
Delilah, you sigh, not meaning to sound so weary.
“Opportunity,” is all she says. The tightly coiled rage holds you down like an anvil.
Delilah tilts your head, slows her pacing. You feel it too, the sensation of eyes on your back. She turns to look; there is no one here with you. She draws a sigil in the air with your fingers, but there is nothing to detect. You think it might be the tree itself, living, breathing. Watching you. There are eyes everywhere.
You pull her attention, try to sound contrite when you say, If we left, you would not be bound to my deficiencies. You could do whatever you wanted.
”Is that what you want?” she asks, though you both know the answer. “To leave? It seems somewhat out of character, for a girl who acts so much like a barnacle.” Of course you don’t want to leave; you have spent your whole life yearning for companionship. There is only one place that you want to be. “You’re scared for them,” Delilah says. “You should be. I promised not to harm them, and I didn’t. I even saved the windup soldier.” Pity, sickening on your lips; feigned disappointment. “You are the one who has put them in danger, Laudna, all because you do not know when to keep your mouth shut. I know you have not forgotten what happens when people get in my way. You belabour the point often enough.”
Your death, wrapped around the neck of those you love. Delilah, they haven’t—
“Don’t beg. I would say it’s beneath you, but truthfully I find it tedious.” She sighs, put upon, as if she’d be happy if you’d just behave. You’ve never been good at doing what you were told. “It seems only one of us knows how to keep their word. That means, Laudna, that it is far past time I teach you a lesson.” You hear now the poorly hidden delight that you have braced for.
There is nothing you can say to protest. You don’t know why you thought you could fight her.
You assemble in the tiki bar, the mood shifted to one of relief, celebration. Ashton’s betrayal seems forgiven in the smoke of success, if not forgotten. They all seem relaxed.
Delilah circles inside the group, nonchalant, your shoulders relaxed, head canted to the side. She smiles at your friends in turn, accepts the cocktail pressed into your hand. You shudder, on high alert. If you had control, your hands would be shaking.
She says, Tinker, tailor, shifting your attention from one friend to the next, soldier, sailor. FCG makes the mistake of catching your eye; Delilah smiles at him in a way that reminds you only of her husband. Do you remember what it felt like to pierce his face with your hands, Laudna? A warm knife through butter. Shall we see how deep we can go?
You want to hide from her but you don’t, aiming for a stay of execution. That she might prefer to glut herself on your fear rather than your grief. That she might find your terror tantalising. Hmm, she hums, spinning to encapsulate them all. You know I love a banquet.
”Laudna?” FCG asks cautiously. “Is everything alright?” Delilah pats the side of his faceplate, lingering. His expression remains immobile.
“Wonderful,” Delilah says, looming over him. She grins.
”O-ok, then.” He doesn’t sound like he thinks it is ok. You know objecting would make it worse. You say nothing.
A voice from behind you, a hand slipped into yours. “Come sit with me?” Imogen asks. You don’t want her to touch you, want to keep her as far away as possible. Delilah leads her to a low sofa, sits as closely as she can tolerate.
Imogen’s hand rests lightly on your knee. Around you, your friends talk, laugh, tease. Chetney says something that makes Imogen roll her eyes; Fearne flirts in response. They buoy and rise, paper over the cracks that have begun to spread. Powerless in the centre of them, you only sink.
Can they really not tell? You are a lamb inside the wolf that dons their skin yet they dismiss every warning sign they should investigate, wave away every uncharacteristic cruelty. Can they not see the malevolence that wears you like an ill fitting dress?
Does Imogen not know your soul, as you know hers? Are you as good as a stranger when your mind is hidden from her? If you still had your heart there would be nothing left of it to break.
This is what you do, darling, Delilah says, an incising patina of sympathy. You get attached too quickly. You give your heart to people who don’t deserve it. She sighs. It’s always going to hurt like this.
No, you whisper weakly. No, they love me. Imogen loves me.
I’m not saying she doesn’t, Delilah says. But does she love you as much as you love her?
She does. You know she does. No one who walks through hell to bring you home can love so lightly. No one who kisses like you are her salvation. Imogen has always loved you with a devotion that upends your world. Now, she touches the shell of your body with intent. Why doesn’t she know that you are lost to her?
Later, when you retire, all of you jammed into Fearne’s bedroom, your body falls into the blankets beside her. She whispers to you a soft goodnight. She does not try to kiss you.
You just have to wait until she falls asleep. You just have to wait until she is vulnerable, turn her own strategy back on her. You just have to wait. She just has to fall asleep. You just have to wait until she falls asleep.
Delilah wakes deep into the night. You wake with her. Your dying hope extinguishes.
The bed next to you is cold. Imogen is trying unsuccessfully to slip back under the blankets without disturbing you. She sees your eyes open, takes a second to determine whether you are still asleep and staring, as you sometimes do. Delilah blinks.
“Sorry,” Imogen whispers, a rasping drawl in the silence. “I was trying not to wake you.” She slides down next to you, wriggles closer. Her hands are cold.
In the dark you see what Imogen cannot. That Allura is gone. That Fearne and Chetney are too. You know that Imogen knows; so does Delilah.
Imogen takes your hands in hers, unadorned but for the glow of her lightning, folds your fingers together. So trusting, Delilah says. So naive. You do not acknowledge her. Delilah sweeps Imogen’s hair back from her face, your fear making her revulsion worth it. She tucks it behind Imogen’s ear, runs your fingertips along the crest. What do you think? Delilah asks. Shall we make it so you match?
Do you not whimper, though you want to. You cannot scream, though you feel the pressure build. How upsettingly you covet her, Laudna. How much of her could we take before she protested? Imogen presses close though she is still tentative, still unsure. Delilah does not offer resistance, but still Imogen hesitates.
Suspicion like a barb in your chest. Delilah sharpens, her taunting whetted to a point. I think she knows, Delilah says. It is not a question, but a realisation; it is a threat. We shouldn’t forget how well she lies.
She doesn’t know, you say softly, despondent. She couldn’t lie here and—
If she knows, I won’t waste my time. If she knows, I will slit her throat and you will clean up the mess. Imogen lifts her hands to your face, gently cradles your jaw.
Don’t hurt her, you beg, your voice rough, stoppered. Imogen strokes a thumb across the ridge of your cheekbone, eyes lowered. I’ve learned my lesson, you say, because it is what she wants to hear. I won’t fight you, alright? You can go, you can use my body to amass whatever power you want. I swear it. She hums, triumphant. Delilah has lied to you at every turn, over thirty years of deception, of promises broken. You have made a vow that you have no intention of keeping. She has indeed taught you a very important lesson.
But, you continue, if you hurt her, I will tear apart every connecting cell of this body from the inside, every fibre, every bone. I will rend our magic and shatter our souls and throw us into whatever abyss is deep enough and dark enough that we will never be found.
She will still be dead. You do not deign to answer. Well, Delilah says, unaffected, perhaps even proud, you best hope that Imogen is as dense as she seems. Otherwise I will wrap your hands around her throat. I might even let you out, to see what it feels like.
Imogen holds you still, leans in. She presses her lips to yours delicately, chastely. You do not feel the gentle press of her mouth, nor the soft humming of her hands. You only feel Delilah’s disgust, and your own sickness.
“I know things are hard right now,” Imogen whispers, face held close to yours. “Ludinus, Ruidus, Predathos. Delilah.” Her fingers pulse against your jaw. She closes her eyes as she says, “But I just— You know, I’ve been thinking about back when it was just us, in those little shacks? The home that we would make of them, even though it was always only for a little while.” Her voice is thick, wet, but she opens her eyes, looks so deeply into yours that you feel she is unravelling your soul. “I know that it might seem hopeless but— Laudna, I’m never going to let you go.”
She rests her forehead against yours, closes her eyes again. Delilah doesn’t move, so you are allowed to watch her, to count the freckles that dust the curve of her cheeks, to imagine the breath that would mingle with yours. You know what it is to force yourself to breathe unnaturally so that you might entwine. There are small lines around her eyes that do not quite smooth away, a dark tiredness below. Her head touches yours but her mind does not.
Quietly, Delilah says, “Where were you?”
Imogen opens her eyes, furrows her brow. “Allura wanted me to send a message to Keyleth. I didn’t get through. I don’t know whether it was because of being in the feywild, or just the way things have been fucked since the solstice.” She chews on her lip. A familiar gesture; a bad habit. “She’s worried, I think.”
“Were the others with you too?” asks the inquisitor.
A small shake of her head. “I know that Issylra was a shit show, that you—“ The side of her mouth quirks at the purposeful understatement. “At least you didn’t have to hear them going at it in the Savalirwood. If they’re having a reprise somewhere, thank the gods that the bark of this tree is thick.”
You sink deep into the shadows of your mind, as far as you can go, a cosy shack inside a lilac storm. You pray that maybe, between you, Imogen is not the one who has been tricked. It is the only explanation you can bear for why the woman you love is lying to you.
Delilah tosses, turns, your body drifting in and out of consciousness. You do not know if she intends to harm Imogen when you least expect it, or whether she simply refuses to release her stranglehold. Imogen’s breathing deepens, steadies.
The world blurs around you, an almost dreamlike fog. The groaning of the tree, the shifting of sleep, pulling you towards the surface. Exhaustion, not your own, dragging you back down.
At some point, Nana Morri slides soundlessly into the room, something you thought an impossibility; you’ve only ever heard her rumbling, footfalls betraying her gargantuan size. Through your closed eyes, you only know it is her from the taste in the air, Delilah attuned to the magic that permeates the fane. She brings her head down close to yours, to Imogen’s, to each of your friends in turn. You hear the rough movement of her lips. Delilah fights sleep as the rumbling returns, low in the Fatestitcher’s abdomen.
Later, low footsteps, light, unobtrusive. Delilah opens your eyes to the darkness, watches as Allura slips between your sleeping friends, settles in the bed furthest from the door. Fearne and Chetney lie silent and unmoving in the corner. You did not hear them return.
You ride a wave of somnia, your body resting but not. Delilah does not move from under the blankets, dreams of slowly standing your body upright, bringing you to your feet like a marionette. Of carefully padding across the room, your footsteps barely a whisper.
A dwam, a vision, shadows dripping from your fingers like ichor. Delilah stands over the sleeping Allura Vysoren and feels a deep, malignant hatred. They do not know each other well, but it is hostility by proxy. You see flashes that her dreaming mind cannot control, faces you know, some you don’t. The first family of Whitestone, the Voice of the Tempest; the baker who brought you back; a gnome in a jaunty hat. You do not want to look at the goliath, but you must. You don’t know whether it’s worse that you recognise no part of his face.
It is a virulent slick of passion. Sometimes you wish Delilah hated you. Surely it would be better than indifference.
She dreams of silence, of screaming, of machinations against her. She thinks of sinking into Allura’s chest, all the way to the elbow, though it is neither your hand nor hers, but both, the same.
Quietly, evenly, in imitation of something as unfamiliar to Delilah as a conscience, you say, We are guests of this manor. Lady Allura is a guest. Your body lolls slightly, frowns and squirms at your unexpected voice. Hospitality. She is a guest of the Fatesticher, vouchsafed by Fearne. If you break hospitality, Nana Morri will tear us apart.
You try to fray the connection, a stitch unpicked here, a small snip there. You manage to twitch the tip of your fingers before Delilah feels the incursion. Displeasure darkens your connection, instinctual; she does not wake. You pull back, unwilling to let her see how quickly you break your promises.
Imogen sleeps restlessly. Sleep is never kind to her, never calm, but she slumbers next to you with rigidity you can sense even with your distance. The low, thrumming static that spills from her markings charges the air between you, her magic inescapable even when you are turned away. You hope that she is not dreaming of Predathos, that her nightmares do not call to her when you are not there to hold her hand.
Panic still smarts like an exposed nerve but you think of opportunity, of possibility, and fold false calm around it. You obfuscate thoughts of Imogen’s sly smile, her silver tongue, allow your delusion to stand quixotic by not thinking of that gentle kiss.
Rest ebbs before dawn. Imogen is awake and watching you, head pillowed on a crooked arm. “Can’t sleep?” she asks. Her voice always sounds different in the night, rougher, lower, like blunt nails scratching pleasantly against your scalp. Delilah hums her agreement. Imogen says, “Take a walk with me?”
She pulls you to your feet, straightens your clothes where they have creased. Then Imogen takes your hand and leads you from the tree.
She takes the circuitous route, through gnarled corridors, moss grown hallways, seemingly only so you can walk together. When you emerge into the grey light, dawn still impossibly far away, Imogen does not stop. She wanders not into the forest, but down a rock strewn pathway where the trees are thinner, less consuming.
Imogen talks and you listen, of nothing, of everything. Of how she never expected to miss Jrusar so much, how she worries for Zhudanna, how the first time she flew her most pressing thought was bypassing the gondola. Asks if you remember the caravan in which you first crossed the Hellcatch. Tells you more about Uthodurn and the bull, of knitting and toy shops. You want to hear every word she has to say and content yourself in the gentle drawl of her voice.
She doesn’t talk about Ruidus, or her mother; of your cottage; of Delilah. Those intimacies she leaves in the true dark of night.
Relaxed with the certainty that you are no longer fighting, Delilah ignores her and thinks only of how isolated you are. If Imogen were to have an accident after wandering into the wilderness of the Feywild, no one would think anything of it. You muster a convincing enough fear and push it towards her. It is not hard, but your fury and outrage have calcified; thirty years of her threats, her manipulations, means your fear is a spark, protraction difficult. You have become inured.
The forest darkens, draws in closer. Flowers shift towards you when you aren't looking. Creatures skitter in the undergrowth. Imogen eyes the trees warily. “We can go back,” Delilah says, reading the worry from your mind. You are not so far that she cannot act if she wishes to.
“It’s fine,” Imogen says, smiling at you sheepishly. “I get what you meant earlier, about needing space. Needing to breathe. It’s creepy as hell out here, but it's beautiful too. I’m pretty sure we’re still under Nana’s protection.” She squeezes your hand, swings your arm slightly. “Later, we’ll go back to the material plane, and it’ll all be real again. Can we just pretend? Most of my happiest days have been just walking with you in the woods.”
Ahead of you, the path splits at a fork; one path leads deeper into the forest, the other hugs the crest of a ridge, trees falling away along the ascent. From the forest comes a growl, a yawning rumble that shakes something deep in your stomach. The heavy pant of breath, close, too close, though you cannot see the creature it belongs to. A quiet howl that is not animal enough.
Delilah bares your teeth. “Maybe we don’t go that way,” Imogen says, then almost drags you along the ledge.
You walk together in silence that should feel comfortable but does not. You are not sure whether it is your apprehension that taints the peace or the tense set of Imogen’s shoulders, as if she expects the trees to jump out at you. You’re surprised that she doesn’t glance behind, just to check that your path is still there.
You climb until the forest canopy spreads out below you, heights reached in disagreement with the gentle inclination of your path. On your other side the trees grow taller, thicker, loom over you; you feel like you are slowly sliding down a hill, even on level ground.
Rounding a bend, you see a widening of the path, undergrowth disrupted where the stone of the hill has crumbled away. Gnarled trees grow impossibly from fallen boulders; ferns spread over the edge of the ridge.
There is a call, a cry, a shriek of warning. You see only the wide spread of wings as the creature swoops low, banking around you. Imogen curses and leaps back, lightning coiling around her fist. It rustles into the trees ahead of you, high, beyond your reach. In the dim morning light you see wings that might be blue, more likely green, and three sets of eyes blinking in succession. An abomination of a fey bird, who snaps its beak before vanishing into the foliage.
Imogen lets her magic settle but doesn’t release her grip on your hand. Delilah digs in your nails to no effect. You hope she doesn’t notice the way you try and pull your magic away from her grasp, a tiny act of resistance.
Imogen looks back towards Ligament Manor, closer than it should be for the time you have been wandering. “Let’s not push our luck,” Imogen says. Her breath is unsteady. “We should head back but just— Just another minute, alright?”
She steps towards the edge of the crag, far closer than you are comfortable with, not with betrayal holding her hand. She surveys the view, the miles of trees stretched out below you, the deep sky where Ruidus was tethered when last you were here. This morning, only Catha watches her.
“Thank you,” she says, “for indulging me. I know straying into the woods isn’t the smartest thing to do, especially these ones.” She glances to you, silent by her side. Delilah thinks about how close you are to the edge, but you know she will not do something so rash. She is only a cat, toying with a mouse. It is no fun to catch it. Imogen says, “I’m worried about you.”
You ache for her, for her concern, her care. You are far more worried about her than yourself, the way her eyes dart to you then away, the way she seems to fit poorly in her own skin. You hide from Delilah your fear, true fear, because for the first time you realise that something is very wrong with Imogen.
She takes a step away from the edge, then another, guiding you along with her. She pulls something from the pocket of her shorts, then turns from the drop. “I know why you gave this to me,” Imogen says, holding your ring carefully, “but you’re what brings me strength. You, and seeing you wearing this. That’s what makes all of this bearable.” She reaches for you and you cannot help but think no, not now, not to her, before she takes your hand, the right, and even with the force of your denial you are disappointed. Imogen closes the distance between you, close enough to kiss, and whispers, “Close your eyes.”
You would, so Delilah must. The phantom touch of warm hands on yours, the ghost of a breath against your lips. Imogen slides the ring onto your finger.
Light erupts around you, searing even through closed eyes. Imogen tears her hands from yours and vanishes. Your bones crack, bend, and you think for a moment that you are transforming, that Delilah has called the dread and woken you up, but she is just as surprised as you. Your hands are forced behind your back, the pressure around your wrists unbearable were you able to feel it. There is a band of force around your chest that constricts so tightly your body can barely breathe. To you it feels almost like an embrace; you know what it is to be held and feel crackling like this on your skin.
Delilah manages to force open your eyes. Imogen is not gone, but standing on the other side of a translucent wall of magic, shifting with the slightest shimmer of blue. Hand raised towards you, her eyes burn like lightning, the entirety of them a blinding white. Every inch of her touched by those beautiful markings flares a deep purple, her arms, her thighs, forking over the bare skin of her chest, kissing her jaw; her hair floats around her shoulders like a wave. Low, firm, she says, “Bring her back.”
Delilah pushes fear into your voice, shakily says, “Imogen? I—“
”I don’t want to hear it, Delilah!” She flexes her hand and the binding locks around your hips. To be bound is a strange feeling when your captive soul is flying.
She saw; she knew. The relief of being wrong is heady. Imogen, capable Imogen, your honest liar. Who could so easily deceive you but never has.
Only a small part of you is surprised, a part of yourself that you hate, given to doubt things the rest of you knows for certain. It is that rest that has been withering, crushed that Imogen did not see your replacement. You didn’t know trust could be so easily corroded by sorrow.
You should have known. All Imogen has ever done from that very first day is save you, over and over, in every way. Now, she stands on the edge of a cliff with your tormentor chained in her hand. Whilst you want to sob in relief, in joy, you are very aware of what Delilah can do to a woman alone in the woods. Even one as capable as Imogen.
From the ground under your feet erupts a conflagration of vines, barbed, thorned, intertwining like a braid. They wrap around your legs, climb to encircle your waist; they lash around your shoulders like a harness but avoid your neck. Then they pull, and any fight Delilah could conjure is restrained.
Fearne blinks owlishly from the treeline, tricker’s smile pulling at her mouth. She steps to Imogen’s side as something sharp presses against the base of your spine. Delilah tries to glance behind you but cannot turn your head, can only catch sight of the complicated rune etched into the dirt below you, pulsing a pale, cold blue. You do not need to look to know what you would see.
Something slashes across your ankle, sharp but broad, searing like a brand. Chetney steps from invisibility, pulling apart his wolven face to let the old man escape. His chisel burns in his hand.
You don’t quite know what to do with your overwhelm, your relief that Imogen is not alone. They are all here; Ashton stepping from the monstrous boulder in greyscale, hammer aloft; the clicking of machinery, out of sight behind you. How clearly it comes to you, the reminder that Imogen did not walk through your underworld alone. Ashton steps to the edge of the rune and your body is pulled inextricably towards the ground, only the vines stopping you from listing. Imogen says, “I’m not going to ask again.”
Delilah takes them in; no one has ever doubted her intelligence. She sighs, relaxes against her bindings. “I’m sorry,” she says, and almost sounds it. “She’s gone.”
The sword against your back digs in; FCG makes a soft noise of upset, which you find surprisingly touching. Imogen only smiles, harshly, cruelly. She is still magnificent, of course, but it doesn’t quite light her the way her real smile does. “Bullshit. I can hear her.”
Imogen. You whisper her name like a prayer. I’m so sorry, I should have known. I should have seen. She does not speak to you, no gentle voice in your mind. She does nothing but keep her eyes on your stolen body.
Delilah smiles. “Are you sure about that?” The vines tighten around your waist.
”Maybe not her voice,” Imogen says, “the things she’s saying. But I can hear her mind. I can feel her.” Her smile softens slightly into something almost proud. “And she broke through. She grabbed me.”
”Can you hear her screaming?” Delilah asks, so matter-of-factly that Imogen bristles.
You’d do well not to piss her off, you say.
I’m not scared of your little girlfriend, Delilah hisses. You would never describe her as helpless, she is far too wily for that, but you feel her consider and discard plans faster than you catch them.
You should be, you say. She already killed you once.
Something must pass across your face, or maybe only Delilah’s mind; Imogen laughs, short, mocking. “She’s giving you a bitchy little critique, isn’t she.”
“So cocky. You didn’t even notice.” Delilah pouts, an unbecoming expression on your angular face. “A week of—“
“Last night, in the Parchwood,” Imogen says. “Come now, Delilah. All the time we’ve spent together? You should have known better.” She continues to hold your body in place; the storm sparks over her skin. “I’m not going to lie and say you don’t know how to threaten her, and manipulate her. But you’ve been using her for thirty years, and you don’t know her at all.”
Ashton says, “It’s actually pretty fucking sad that you thought we wouldn’t notice.”
The castigation on your ankle burns. Chetney tilts his head, says, “You spend all your time watching from her eyes. You know how she speaks, how she jerks her creepy body. But you don’t really get to see her. You don’t know how she moves her face.”
Fearne says, “You don’t know how to make her smile properly.”
Imogen does not expound on Delilah’s failures which, lifted from your despair, you can see now are myriad. She simply watches the melange of you and Delilah with hard eyes. Under the other voices, quietly enough that you might be the only one to hear her, she says, “You flinched.” Summary and judgement.
Your hands try to flex against your bonds, to scribe runes into the air, but Imogen senses what Delilah is doing. She knows your hands better than anyone, the way they stretch, their unnatural limitations. She splays your fingers to the edge of snapping and immobilises them.
“This body is mine now,” Delilah says, losing patience. Without your hands she is significantly hindered, but the shadows know you both. The light here is dim, poor; the vines block the column of light that surrounds you. Delilah reaches for the weave of darkness that shelters the forest and tries to step into nothingness.
The rune underneath you flares; the shadows scatter. You are still held in place. Your relief tries to spill from your tight grasp, is held back only by the fear of a predator caged. The thoughts that slide down your connection are decidedly reckless.
A small hand tangles in the belts at the base of your spine. “You don’t get to slither away this time,” Orym says. You do not need to see him to hear the guilt in his voice.
Imogen says, “She doesn’t belong to you. Either crawl back into your little hole, or get gone forever. Those are your choices.”
You do not need to breathe much, but the little breath Delilah tries to catch is ragged. In any other circumstance you would have told Fearne she might have overdone it with the thorns. “If I go, she’ll die,” Delilah says. Neither of you are sure that it isn’t true, you realise, no matter how much you protest. “Are you really willing to risk that?”
Imogen says only, “I made her a promise,” but you can tell that she is not.
Delilah manages to tilt your head. Pity curls at the side of your mouth. “You shouldn’t have.” It’s not her fault; you should never have asked her in the first place, but it wasn’t for your sake that you did.
Her grip grows no more gentle, but the cold white of Imogen’s eyes fades. She looks at your body, trussed and bound, the lamented body that she has loved, and kissed, and touched. The arms that hold her at night, the hands that soothe her after a nightmare. The corpse that she cradled in a city she ruined. You can see it now, written on her face, the disgust that it is not you looking back at her.
She holds Delilah’s eye. “Make sure it hurts,” she says, and you don’t understand, not until a cold hand presses against your back.
”I’m sorry, Laudna,” FCG whispers, then there is only pain.
It feels like being set alight from the inside, like a torch taken to your marrow. Your bones burn with radiance as cleansing light races along your spine, spreads through the rest of your body. It feels like boots against your ribs. It feels like a sword through your chest. Delilah screams, a rough, wailing sound from a throat that never fully healed. This time, Imogen is the one to flinch.
You don’t feel it, not really. What surges along your connection is Delilah’s pain, her undoing. The glancing graze of a bone deep wound. The thread that binds you starts to unravel, to slip, and you know you could wrest it from her if you tried. Not unkindly, you say Let go, Delilah. She does not want to, does not want to return to the darkness. Still, the light pushes her back, and she loosens her grasp. You clutch for control with clumsy, shaky will.
The after effect still scorches lightly against your skin as you slump, sagging against the entangling vines. They are the only thing that hold you up, tight and strangling as they may be. You sob as you feel the sharp bite of the thorns, the ache from the unnatural spread of your fingers. It is not a cry of pain, only of solace. You lift your head to an array of anxious and horrified faces. You look at Imogen, her raised hand shaking, and smile.
You don’t see her move, only blink and her arms are around you, steadying you as the vines shrivel into decay. “I’m sorry,” she whispers against your ear. “We’ve got you, I’m sorry. We thought— We were trying to— We’re here, I love you, I’m so sorry. Laudna. Laudna.” She kisses the tears from your cheek, her temple pressed to yours.
Fearne envelops you from the other side, warm arms snaking around your waist. She tucks her face into your neck, your head nestled against the curve of a smooth horn. A heavy jade hand rests firmly between your shoulder blades, a stone forehead presses to the back of yours. Small arms clutch and wrap around both your legs, a cleansing hand curls around your hip. Finally, finally, you are able to take a breath, with the arms of your family around you.