#laudna

This is a long one (to be confirmed if that’s caus I’m allowing this chapter’s notes extra detail or caus I’m covering previous chapters as well – either way this is gonna be a lot of quotes being red-stringed from all over the fic – so be warned - this is for enthusiasts only haha)

I think titling chapter is like titling a painting or a song; it’s usually obviously tied to its subject matter, sometimes it seems as though nothing to do with it, sometimes part of the unpacking and deciphering is trying to understand why a seemingly unrelated title was given to the work… anyway, make a tally mark for each time you read the word “good” in this chapter caus this is a lot of the first and the latter. And going by my previous naming conventions I gave for this fic, we can either conclude that this chapter is actually from Fearne’s pov (there’s a lot of butterflies lol) or its an acknowledgement not only of the merging of the story-telling POVs in this chapter - but also Fearne’s tendency of being very present in the moment rubbing off on the other two. I’d said Imogen pov chapters are her looking up seemingly important terms and words in the old language in the library, and how this naming convention started before she had access also lends itself as a way of learning from the past to look forward, and Laudna’s are places and dates, both showing their tendencies to be thinking either ahead or behind, archiving and not fully committing to being in the now. It’s such a simple chapter title. It’s also a call back to the chapter before when they kissed lol

Chapter 18:

Are we good? Imogen asks, leaning on her hand and looking down at Laudna, her hair somehow more dishevelled than it usually is from all of the horse riding, lit by the sun shining on her, the squint of her eyes causing creases at their corners, her breath still coming in and leaving just as heavily. That's not for me to decide - but I am well intentioned.

And how that in itself was in reference to a few chapters before-

Chapter 14:

“What’s at the bottom of the lake?” Imogen’s eyes narrow with perhaps scrutiny, perhaps thought. “We don’t know.” Laudna admits, perhaps a little too jovial and enthusiastically. Perhaps the years have made her a little manic. “But it’s bad.” Imogen confirms as a question, surprisingly taking the fairy-tale approach to her pragmatism – fairy-tale or practiced-faith – not that they are far apart.

You can do the maths on that one :) you might wanna wait til the last chapter to tally your result. (I also dk if I mentioned before but Laudna is giving a lot of ‘perhaps’s here and is a mirror of Imogen and all of her ‘maybes’, a little bit of levelling.)

She’s seeing it as it is through Laudna's eyes, and so it is kinda cute - a face only a mother could love.

A lot of implications going on in one paragraph here. We have a woman who is in perpetual grieving of a child she never got to nurture, and another woman who never knew her mother after her dying from giving birth to her, carrying the guilt of killing her. Imogen doesn’t know her mother’s love, Imogen craves and mourns a mother’s love-

Chapter 7:

On the day she left she visited her one last time. She had made her best attempt at re-sharpening the points and removing the chew from the serif of the carved text with her dagger, used her neckerchief to brush off the clumps of moss, and wiped the whole plank down with a rag she had doused in linseed oil. She isn’t sure whether it should be seen as disrespectful that she used the same blade to shuck shells for some noble woman who coulda afforded her momma a headstone made of marble - heck, even a gilded mausoleum; that the same nobility shared in such fruits with her, that Imogen licked its steel length whilst on her knees and before her. She never knew her, so she won’t ever know - clarifying, the arms of the ocean - Imogen never knew her mother and never will. She never knew her, so it shouldn’t matter. 

Chapter 10:

“I never met my mom, she died durin’ childbirth.” “I am so sorry to hear that.” That's an apology Imogen will not accept, instead she wants to trace the shape of Laudna's nose, open the windows and lay on Laudna's other side and close one eye so she may line up its contours with the mountains and know for sure.  “It's alright, can't exactly mourn someone you never knew.” she replies instead.  “No, but you can mourn what you could have had.” Is that why the Lady still wears all black?  In this bed, now, with Imogen she is in white.  Delightful, in this context. 

The face that only a mother could love that Laudna had seen we are to believe was horridly macabre; skin and sludge sloughing off skull and festering over her bedsheets, immaterial liquid before she ever even had the chance to hold it. idk if ive stated as much in the authors notes but I think I make it fairly obvious in the fic that theres a lot of delicious mother/daughter pedestalling and yearning that happens between these two and makes their desires for each other and their loneliness even more tasty (2 me at least. Yay, mummy issues (wait, is that English mummy or do u mean a corpse-? *gunshot*)). It’s also of course just a reference to Laudna in canon and her weird-ass dolls and taxidermy projects, how she makes them with so much love and in times as analogues of people she loves yet we know they make (most) everyone else wince from their appearance and her choice of materials

And it’s not just Laudna’s. this is Fearne and Imogen’s golem child too, not just because Imogen is being influenced by Laudna's thoughts.

The golem feels eager to be of servitude; and so Laudna feels maternal, and so does Imogen

Imogen who has been so eager to sacrifice herself as means of being of use to the people she has come to care for, confused by everything that is going on but aware that there is an incomprehensible power within herself that she is terrified of being realised, believing that the best solution would be to offer herself before whatever is inside her takes over and brings another cataclysm (great or small). I guess it’s obvious to think of anything growing within yourself as being like a child – and Imogen because of her own ancestry and upbringing does not wish to be a mother, doesn’t wish to carry on her own bloodline, feels as though she has been born to be as a means of burden and wishes to end the cycle. She relates to each of their points of view.

The golem turns one of its - their heads over their shoulder

Chapter 14:

“Should your own offspring not be held in such regard?” “Only if it had lived.” It. She hates when he calls them it. It had inhabited her body with her for each of the four seasons, had not only shared her nourishments but syphoned and grew her hopes and wishes. And they all rotted the moment they met fruition. Literally. She birthed something that cycled through each stage of decomposition in seconds before them. And that, of course, was unnatural (like her). (inherited, arguably) (that caused many arguments.) Unnatural. That meant that it must not ever be spoken about again.

This is not about playing with gender based pronouns but continuing the play and malleableness of titles that ive enjoyed throughout this fic – usually (mostly) from Imogen’s POV; her internal changes in how she addresses Laudna as her title, Lady or mistress or her first name, whether that is at Laudna’s command or within the context of the power Laudna has over Imogen in the situation or if Imogen is making a conscious effort to distance herself from becoming familiar. This instance is from Laudna’s perspective, and in contrast to the couple of rare times she refers to Imogen as ‘her stablehand’ instead (likely more as an effort of realising that the station does not in fact put distance between them as opposed to demeaning Imogen because of her position), Laudna refuses to have the life taken from both her born-dead child or the golem that they raised from multiple deaths, and Imogen being in Laudna's head and feeling maternal towards to golem too addresses the golem as well as such, seeing as ‘them’ and not an ‘it’. another merger. This chapter is the full merger in terms of pov, after brief mergers we had over the past couple of chapters, when Laudna was kissing Imogen's hand from Imogen's pov but we saw Laudna's thoughts, and the kiss from Laudna’s pov but we are aware that Imogen is in her head from how she speaks of things Laudna thinks. This chapter we get both of their thoughts , the first scene with the golem being as Imogen hearing them all, the morning after scene being from Laudna's as she wakes up but we know of both, and, caus sapphics love communicating, that middle scene with the horse ride is a full merger of them both with no obvious lead (at least that’s what I intended).

Imogen turns around to focus on Laudna who has stood obediently still and observational behind the fence, happily watching her at work.

Ohhhh here’s a major theme. I am slut for role-reversal. How fun. So much build up. How we learn when we observe. How thematical of a mystery and of learning and yearning. The implications of class and reciprocation and observation with intention- (strap in)

Chapter 1:

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

&

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly)… …the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen. shit. She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

&

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

&

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

Chapter 2:

When she is out on the grounds she continues her observations of the Lady as she continues her own pottering; these times sure to avoid any obvious cases of over-brushing, confidently swapped-out for cleaning hooves and filling water troughs, using what she can of reflections.

 Chapter 3:

The windows in the Lady’s office are alight - have been the entire evening - so Imogen was slightly startled to find her at the stable door when her distant observing had led her to believe that she was doing whatever it is that she usually does at this late hour in her study.

&

What is notably different, however, is the Lady - once Imogen finally observes her for the first time that day.

Chapter 6:

She would like to follow Ms Laudna and Sorcha and the briefcase, and had indeed planned to, but perhaps an accurate mind’s eye visual of a castle’s ruins would be hard to manufacture if the Lady were to pry. Maybe there’s something significantly different about these ruins? Maybe Ms Laudna and her husband had carved their initials into the foundations and this was a test to see how observant and present Imogen really is? Maybe there is a headstone or a sacrificial table by a narrow stream that carves through the old ruins and trickles down the cliff side and to the ocean?

&

This time Imogen decides to offer her assistance, and Ms Laudna accepts it; her bare skin clutching onto Imogen's leathered hand, and Imogen damns that she has to wear it, that the tactile feedback she so highly regards is dulled by a barrier of her own sentencing, the brush of whiskers and the purr that reverberated into her palm earlier in the day that she relished in. Still allows her to feel the pull of the older woman’s weight though; Imogen as confident as the Lady’s tooled saddle that she could hold her, seated comfortably in Imogen’s lap, stand with her ass in her hands and her legs wrapped around her waist- Rock pools. They’re here to look at rock pools. (she’s here to find out if the lady is a murderer, or more importantly – if she is one who uses magic.) Rock pools. Seashells. Seaweed. Focus. Observe. Imogen tries to ignore how a barnacle broken under her foot reminds her of the point of the Lady’s teeth.

&

With their final steps towards a bank sparkling with the small bodies of water, Imogen leans down from the higher surface; extending out the length of her arm for her Lady to climb. “May I?” she genuinely enquires - and Ms Laudna nods, almost timid, allowing herself to be guided by Imogen's arm around the small of her back and her hand at her waist - as she had supported Imogen up the mansion’s staircase - though her touch was delicate and comforting, and Imogen’s is hungry and searching, inquisitive, wanting Focused. Observant. Strange, how even over the brine of the sea and the stagnant waters around them that Imogen can smell the peppermint, the tarnished brass incense and compost - no - bone meal. That is new. Must be the bookkeep.

Chapter 7:

Focus and observation becomes a little too much (that’s probably been the issue all along). Maybe it’s the way Ms Laudna’s hands seem unable to keep still in her lap as she waits maybe not so patiently as Imogen shucks the shells, deciding it presents as less of a ceremony if she deals with them all at once, laying them back down in a freshly-opened row on the embroidered cloth rather than waiting on the Lady one by one and having to observe piously as she tilts her head back to receive the flesh in communion. The point of Imogen’s dagger nicks her first finger, managing to pierce through the leather of her glove.

&

And the Lady is far enough away - Imogen reminds herself as she pulls her shirt over her head, chest bare to the sea air and immediately transmuting her skin into gooseflesh - the Lady is far enough away that she surely can’t really see anything; sat in the long shadow of the cliff, her pale skin remaining fresh-milk white despite the season – Imogen almost thinks that it’s a shame that she is not sitting closer on the sand, with a black lace parasol to match. She ain’t ashamed of her body – didn’t need the courtesies her mistress offered; leaving Imogen alone in her stately bedroom so that she could get changed into her dead husband’s clothes – she should have looked through her dressers or desk drawer when she had the opportunity – maybe she could create another? Focus and observation is hard. Imogen reminds herself that; reminds herself that she ain’t ashamed of her body as she unbuttons the gloves on her hands at the wrist, mindful to keep them in front of herself once they are revealed, the skin underneath where it isn’t blemished and mangled almost as pale as Ms Laudna’s.

&

Mind scattered, maybe not coherent, but some clarification given, at least - that in some frame of mind she really doesn’t care about the danger; when she feels this way, this desperate, she has to stay desperate - because that’s really not that far from focused. Observant. Obsessive.

Chapter 8:

They move to a sofa upholstered in what could easily be a tapestry pattern of berry bushes and rabbits trimmed in red velvet roping and brass rivets. A proper and polite distance apart; Imogen leaning forward with the book open between her spread knees and Laudna delicately perched at the other end, one hand on top of the other across her lap. If Imogen had taken the lead she would have lead them to a table, given herself a fairer chance of focus and observation. To share the same sofa feels so intimate, even if at a distance. Distracting.

Chapter 9:

It’s hours, maybe - Imogen loses track of counting the grandfather clock’s ticks, fully engrossed in staring staring Staring – a familiar activity with the woman she has grown surprisingly familiar with. She’s used to being caught Wants to be.

&

“So she was a redhead as well?” Laudna asks as Imogen props herself up on her elbow, intensely transfixed, staring.  Staring Staring

Chapter 11:

She stares at her, and Laudna stares back; her own eyes likely as dinner-plated as Imogen's are under the opiates, focused, observing, waiting on each other’s next move, for if her hands will fidget again and cast the net they had been knotting and fussing, unable to fully drop it, and Laudna hopes there is at least some satisfaction in a catch of a creature that has laid itself prone on its back.

Chapter 12:

The sinewed hornwort rope that unfurled to hang by her father; the tendril of the plant that attempted to plait itself into her hair and the Lady untangling it as she re-entered her bedroom, the cutting of the hornwort that was wired all the way underground to the cave – the servants’ bell pulley system was truly more complex than Imogen could imagine - She had kept that cutting; had left it forgotten - distracted from and unobserved - drying unceremoniously on the shelf , leaves crumbling and disintegrating to a powder that could be confused for oregano or marjoram - transferred into tinctures. Hallucinating, healing.  Focus and observation. 

& (particularly of note as it is in reference to the appearance of Fearne’s magic (though as a reader we do not yet know) and of course I love bringing her into this equation)

Their confrontation causes her stomach to drop, the levelled stare of a fixed set of pupils mosaicked from tiny tiny scales challenging and alert and observational, forward-facing in predator warpaint.

Chapter 13:

Fearne again, alluding to Imogen's familiarity and observations versus a vague public’s:

Laudna huffed somewhat uncharacteristically (if it was to be observed by someone who didn't truly know her character - which would be most people, so in most senses it was out of character) and laid prone on her back; her fate accepted and body in waiting.

&

the conversation she is currently missing out in, mouths moving but Imogen unable to stop from staring, from translating any light that reflects onto the Lady’s figure as it approaches revealing more of the details; the stitching removed from her cheek, the lacing across her chest intricate like black hairs and how they could only fall and arrange themselves if meticulously unintentionally draped over the bed sheets

& again, this time a Laudna pov but about Fearne, reminding us how these women really see eachother-

for a moment she is irked by something slimy that wraps itself to cling around one of her incisors, wondering what has clambered up her oesophagus from deep in her lungs or the pits of her stomach with tendrils grappling at stalagmite teeth in an attempt to escape- that is until she recalls Fearne apparating mint and borage into her open palm before submerging them to steep into the still water.  considerate and observant in her own way - doe-eyed butterflies instead of crows - Laudna had not even given a second thought to the instinct that lead to collecting the dead winged insect she had stopped to squirrel into a match box in front of Imogen's unabashedly inquisitive eye so early on. 

Chapter 15:

Imogen on Fearne, caus u know im about the coven-

But there’s some sort of ease in reading Fearne’s intentions; how she is both charmingly predictable and disarmingly spontaneous. Imogen hadn’t, however, had this much proximity and space to really observe her goat-eyes before; the two swells joined by a narrow bridge- the nature of identifying which part of such an oddly shaped pupil to focus on seems fitting for how Imogen had just diagnosed her personality.

Chapter 17:

Imogen acknowledging being observed by Laudna-

When Laudna begins to kiss each of Imogen's knuckles she thinks about her gardening before they both went to the library; watching, observing from Imogen’s side as she buried her fingers into the ground, to the knuckle that Laudna's lips now crest over like a gentle tide, her tongue daring to lap out, and so Imogen dares to remember how that when she was doing as such she was imagining that her fingers were buried to the hilt elsewhere.  

Chapter 18

So much for the fourth wall-

“Let us not be too proud to take our own responsibility when needed – we must be observant.” Laudna says, lips attempting to narrow around the grin though her focus certainly intense, ensuring that none of her seam work is caught in a snare of vine and torn, her sewing kit bulging out one of her skirt’s pleats.

Let it be evidenced that I really like to reward my readers’ attention.

Her tinctures had only managed to preserve his shell.

Here’s something a little personal. Over a decade ago now an infection that my dad gets some variant of every few years had finally made its way to his brain before getting on antibitotics. It’s a result of having a large amount of his lungs removed (as well as some ribs in order to access them - older medicine is archaic as fuck and he has been a medical anomaly since he was in his teens and first went into hospital - and everything since has been a clusterfuck of ramifications of the procedure that kept him alive in his teens.) so, they had to operate and remove parts of his brain to keep him alive. He has of course not been the same person since, deteriorates further each time that he gets a new infection and his brain gets diseased again. he also has a fissure on his back from an operation going in between the spine and shoulders and ribs there, it ruptures every couple of days and needs re-dresssing.  Not only has the operation on him left him childlike and completely changed his personality but has also inhibited his ability to commit to long term memory, as well as bring up a lot of memories (and selfishly unfortunately for me, most of what is gone is memories from times I was alive for).

Between this and my own issues with chronic nightmares and a lifetime of bad sleep, I have always had my own problems with committing things to memory (like a lotttttt of my life is just not there in my memory banks haha, only the traumatic stuff. Yay.) as it is sleep that helps us commit events from short term memory and into long term. So, yeah . I got ptsd and sleep issues and I think its fun 4 me to let that inform how I write my blorbos with these issues. My dad went into intensive care in hospital for brain stuff again for 3 months at the end of last year, so writing was a nice little getaway. Gotta keep it personal and all that – if I aint got the experience in an earthshattering romance then I can say I got experience with the horny and the traumatic. yayyy mummy AND daddy issues. So yeah. Sorry, the fissure in the lake is kinda literal and the giving the rib and all is really not that innovative (life imitates scripture ig)

All that is to say that I guess I have lived an adult life hyper aware of trying my best to really live in the present – and I know we all feel this especially due to screen time and social media and that, and I think we can all relate to it a lot without having to have a loved one who is tryna claw memories back from grey matter that is no longer housed within their own skull. It goes back to the chapter title naming conventions – Imogen anxious about the future, Laudna lingering on the past, Fearne being alive and vibrant in the present, always running-

Laudna seems distracted in their comfortable shared silence, touching Imogen's hand at her midriff and comparing her scars to slubs in linen.

For the sake of something visual; a little history in textiles:

I was listening to a historical fashion youtuber (as I often do) whilst drawing and she was saying how pronounced slubs in linen showed class, as finer more expensive linen would be a lot more smooth to the touch as this would have been made from higher grade materials and a more intentional manufacturing process, and theres been an ongoing language within this fic (and within the real world) of how clothing reflects class, how this warps how Imogen regards Laudna and Laudna sees Imogen in turn, comparing the imperfections in her skin to those in linen;

Chapter 1:

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower carpet, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses in for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

Chapter 2:

Imogen had turned her trousers at the cuff, the brush of their cotton at her knees feeling like burlap in comparison to what she imagines of the silks and laces now gaining weight in water behind the Lady. The pebbles under her feet are slightly slimy from the cling of emerald algae (or at least some sorta plant life) - she hopes she does not slip over them, the thought of being submerged even on this fair day being a thought too undesirable, undesirable like her linens in comparison to the Lady’s silks -impractical as they may be- The skin on the inside of her knees says otherwise. She had ‘gotten used to it.’ She had only known it.

&

Imogen lays the items of clothing out over the unmade bed. The fabric is luxurious under her fingertips, high thread count and fanciful embroidery, years old cologne and deep storage mothy musk. A white (actually white) linen shirt with a fancifully frilled collar, duck-egg blue breeches with embroidery in presentational military uniform-like tracks and flourishes that run alongside the outer seams, and a dark navy waistcoat with engraved large gold buttons. These must have been the Lord’s… …The glide of the fine linen on Imogen’s skin is more than she had dared think of at the lake, the Lord’s shirt fitting her fairly well at the shoulders and chest, though loose over her waist before it tightens on her wide hips. She pulls the breeches up one leg at a time, fastening their buttons with shirt tucked, the delicate skin on the inside of her legs indeed revelling in the unbutchered fabric that probably cost more than her year’s wages. She dares look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace - guilt-rotten with the notion that she likes how she looks in his outfitting, that she pictures the Lady’s hands adjusting her collar and leaving them to settle pleasingly over her chest, that she imagines a splattering of his blood dissecting across the mirror as hornwort hands retreat out of the open window.

Chapter 3:

When Imogen shuts the door to the guest room she feels as though she is intruding, her work-ragged linens and scuffed shoes dull and dirty against all of the swatches of master craftsmanship of the hallway, a reality closed off behind the door and the memory of the night before. She will return to the stable and eat rolled oats and boiled water from her wooden bowl. She will continue to watch the Lady from a distance.

Chapter 16:

Where is Fearne? Was this some sort of joke alarm? She prefers the calls of the cockerel. Her arms sting; the fabric of her linen shirt agitates her in its fall its folds its creases as though a bandage wrapped around a burn in the bend of her arm that her skin keeps trying to heal itself into her scars will claim her body clothes and all she put it out she put it out she is still sleep drunk - she can take the moment to acclimatise

Chapter 18:

She has plenty of fabric, plenty to sit on, plenty to separate flesh from the beach stones the herb beds the cave floor, plenty to assert the yards of embroidered silks and ornately patterned laces that her inherited money can afford, plenty to regiment her movements; having to sit with her legs bent out to her side with her back still straight, allowing her underskirt to blanket the grass and the structure of her outer skirts to bunch up around her like bedding, if only Imogen would lay over her rather than besides-

And back to chapter 19:

Laudna thinks of Imogen in a fancy dress - Imogen wishes to play fancy dress with the Lady in her wardrobe; pictures having long silk soft gloves pulled up past her elbows, her hair wrapped and coifed and curled and pinned above her head, Laudna's hands, her lips at the nape of her neck - Laudna pictures their golem in an old-fashioned powdered wig with masculine lead-white courtly make-up, complete with scarlet lips and a manufactured beauty spot-

I particularly enjoy this from a horny pov as we know Laudna had embroidered silk gloves to imitate the feel of Imogen's hands in order to touch herself with, and maybe from this Imogen has some awareness that Laudna had chosen to be decadent and use silk when her hands are clearly more akin to slubbed linen, how Imogen like when her shirt agitates her when flush against her nightmare raw flesh would be much more welcome when under the rose tinted wistful wish of playing fancy dress with her lady.

&

Laudna hadn’t felt many slubs in her linen at all after she was a child, when she was dressed by Delilah, near none when she married. “We used to keep cows when I was a child too – pigs as well…”

Laudna intentionally vocally revealing her lower-class heritage, when she was familiar with the denser linens.

Laudna has so many layers to remove before Imogen can take them to bed and she will admit that she is a bit intimidated by all of them; unfamiliar with the amount of layers the amount of fabric the weave the fancy fastenings all there to impose and form and it worked it works Imogen has been nothing but impressed (at times jealous, at others thinking the fashion gauche) found her Lady even more deserving of her dress the more she knew of her the more she now knows of her every item of her undergarments is dyed black stave petticoats shift it makes sense as these are the fabrics that touch her skin and like scars she will not forget

Imogen speaks in Laudna's head, likely in consideration for the open windows in the lower level of the manor (despite the fact that they’re holding hands. Laudna made it clear that after having Imogen's hand under hers at her midriff for so long that she was rather reluctant to let it go).

Uh yeah I keep mentioning how Imogen's hand is over Laudna's stomach and how much Laudna wants to keep it there – it is meant to make us think of her miscarriage as well as her hunger and who she is soothing that vacancy with…

“You’re sweating.” Laudna teases at Imogen; as she has Laudna pressed against the large masoned stones that form the pillar to one side of the doorway, Imogen's feet flirting precariously with the edge of the highest step.

Damn, a lot of stuff happens in the doorways in this fic-

Chapter 2:

“Imogen?” “Lady Bradbury-” The Lady turns from her position at Foie Gras’ half-opened (the upper-half opened) painted stable door, carrot half in her hand and the other being chewed between the jaws of Foie Gras’ open mouth. “You’re soaked, whatever happened? What am I saying, no time to mind any of that, we must get you dry before you die of cold.”

Chapter 6:

She hurriedly untangles herself from their limbs like the tumbleweed stems in the hanging baskets, releasing her grip on the Lady’s arm and stepping back on her work-beaten shoes into the road. The doorway that the Lady had done such an eloquent job of ducking under now awkwardly bends the angle of her neck, her head tilted, ear pressed to the lintel as if listening for woodworms. One of Imogen’s hands moves for the Lady’s head. “Ya didn’t hit your head, did’you? Lord - I’m so sorry.”

&

The door croaks open and before she can retaliate, Ms Laudna is there; stood in the waxed wooden frame that should be gilded in order to be a match for its subject. “Ah, Imogen, I thought I heard your timbre.” “M’lady…” Imogen slowly lowers her arm to attempt to hide the pillow behind her back.

Chapter 7:

Imogen bolts the doors and latches the windows… …She feels powerful, she feels nauseated. Terrified of what would happen if someone were to ever see her. What use are such powers if they must be hidden behind closed doors?

Chapter 8:

Ms Laudna halts, her hand burying between one of the many pleats of her outer skirt; reappearing with a heavily tarnished key between her forefinger and thumb. “I must admit; I often feel torn between utilising all of the space for something of better function, or just letting the spiders take over - they are such delicate little things their legs can’t handle pushing antiques off of the mantelpieces, unlike Prosciutto-” she says with both softness and gravelled exhaustion, the key turned and the lock clicking as she speaks, visibly struggling a little bit with the weight of the door. “That why ya keep the door locked?” “In part.”

&

She places the book back down with both of her hands, as if handling something as precious as a newborn between the two of them, situating her grip on the lip of the shelf either side of it once it has returned to its resting place, her head rolling down between her shoulders towards the floor, her hair curtaining- The surface jolts, the whole alcove does, anchored on one side and pivoting backwards, unnaturally, not as though the collapsing or breaking away from the wall The alcove opens on a pivot, because it is on the hinges of a door. The alcove is a door.

Chapter 18:

And Laudna smirks.  And fuck. Laudna’s eyes find Imogen's intentionally; hold her there pinned to the door frame before she allows them to close lazily as she inhales deeply, as if Imogen could be as intoxicating as the alcohol making brackish blends in their bloodstreams.  

And back to chapter 19:

"Take me to bed. Please." Laudna prays, whispered against the crown of Imogen's head whilst Imogen's mouth ghosts her lace covered chest. Imogen sleeps on a bed of straw on the old carrier-pigeon mezzanine in the stables. Laudna’s bed is a rich mahogany four-poster excessive in materials decadent rich rich in scent in dress in form masterfully carved meticulous mythical creatures tapestry canopy of fairy-tale tragedy Laudna is her bed Laudna is her bed her bed can be anywhere and perhaps maybe if Laudna's bed knows something other than death knows something other than nightmares then maybe she would have to turn into another piece of furniture instead An armchair, a bookstand- How would they appear? Rotted and splintered, welts in the woodgrain Imogen kisses her softly and takes her by the hand, waits impatiently patient as Laudna forages through one of the many hidden pockets in her outer skirt in order to acquire the key to the library the key to the front door the front door how must it feel to be a door to barricade to welcome to be subject to someone’s push and pull- “I think you can be anythin’ you want to.” Imogen proclaims as the lock turns, and Laudna gives herself wholly to Imogen's push and pull.

Oh doors. Oh precipices. (oh easter egg/shout outs to Push & Pull by @nightphlox) oh foreshadowing of more furniture based form of dread-

Chapter 6:

“I am quite alright; it seems I seriously misjudged how much force you carry.” Ms Laudna removes herself from her hinged-door-hanging positioning and smiles and Imogen berates herself for how she interprets the statement as a compliment.

Chapter 19:

…the sound of how wet Imogen is for Laudna could easily make her a monster. She could grow to the size of the room, her ear to the ceiling and knees and elbows in each corner. She could swallow Imogen whole. “Please-” Imogen gasps “Please what, darling?” Imogen's knees tremble, her hips stutter in their rhythm “Please, I want – I want you like that.”

Nice.

God. This has already got to 6.5k. imma save the rest for the final authors notes on the final chapter. But I’ll leave you with this one to chew on;

The fissure stretches, a yawning chasm, a bloated boil that has ruptured causing the stone to bubble solid stone molten lava set in shimmering festering opal. The bones have transmuted into opal where they touch the fissure’s lips, perhaps tempting other living mortals down to the depths, promising to turn all it touches into shades of precious gems they can’t even comprehend, nevermind process.

&

Had Dafydd in fact enjoyed his weekend celebrations a little too much and ended up at the bottom of the lake? Had he been like the foal climbing over mountains and taking a drink at the lip of its waters? Was he now part of the amorphous and in places opalite graveyard of bones? Had he been so greedy?

&

Imogen continues to lap at her, bodies fully flushed, nerves oversensitive consumed Imogen's tongue is tied with slick to Laudna's cunt, her arousal opalescent glistening her skin from nose to chin.

--'-<@