❝ oh, laudna, it's nothin'... ❞ imogen trailed off, once she'd noticed laudna's gaze on her arm. the fabric of her gauzy blue dress had ripped and bloomed with a vibrant spread of red. she barely noticed the sting of her wound; her eyes were too dark, too busy worriedly surveying laudna for her own injuries. it was night time still and otohan's assassins could still be out there –– they'd all but fought to the death, and bell's hells were worse the wear for it.

stepping over a mangled and necroding body, imogen set her fingers upon laudna's arm. ❝ forget me –– are you alright? ❞ concern shone plainly on her face, imogen's face pinched tight with that damning clench between her ribs. this was the reason her father had turned her away, the reason she'd kept the world at arms' length for so long –– love, which left her breathless and aching. but she'd bear it all, bleeding and everything, for laudna. ❝ I thought I saw... for a second, I thought... you looked like her... ❞

forget her — as if such a thing could ever be possible. as if anything truly mattered more than the woman in front of her, the blood on her dress making the whispered fears that plagued laudna day in and day out so much louder for a moment... until imogen's touch pulled her from those thoughts with the same gentleness within her southern drawl. imogen was alive, and so was she, in her own way, and that was all she had the energy to care for in that particular moment.

reaching up, she captured imogen's hand in her own to cling to the warmth therein. "me? i'm fine," she said, drawing out the final word for emphasis. already she could feel the whispers and fears receding to the back of her mind where they belonged. she owned her mind, she was in charge of it.

at least, that's what she told herself, chanting it in her head like a mantra.

i’ll crawl home to her

Hozier (Work Song, Devil), Franz von Stuck (The Kiss of the Sphinx), Egon Schiele (The Embrace), Edvard Munch (Love and Pain)