Chapter Text
Imogen! Run!
Imogen jolts awake. Panting and covered in a sheen of sweat, she scrambles out of bed. The pre-dawn light pouring through her window envelopes the whole room in an eerie red. Drawing open the curtains, Imogen heaves a sigh of relief. No storms on the horizon.
Having no desire to go back to sleep and risk the storm’s return, Imogen resigns herself to yet another early morning. This was her third nightmare in twice as many days. Bone-weary but buzzin’ with an underlying anxiousness that always follows her dreams, she dresses for the day, tying her hair up in a loose knot.
She pauses a moment before reluctantly pulling on her leather gloves. Sometimes she’s tempted to toss ‘em out. Let everyone get a good look at the scars crackling up her forearms. But they do enough starin’ as it is. Besides, her father would have her hide for disobeying his orders.
Keep your gloves on and don’t go poking into people’s heads.
With her father’s words echoing in her mind and her own footfalls echoing in the halls, Imogen makes her way downstairs. She doesn’t bother callin’ out for him. Imogen’s not sure where exactly her father scurries off to, but ever since her nightmares started, she's been alone more often than not in this creaky, old farmhouse. Which is fine. She wasn’t exactly in control of her powers, and everyone deserves their privacy.
Too early to head to town quite yet, Imogen steps out for some fresh air. On the porch, rocking chair squeaking beneath her, she watches the fields of tall grass before her sway with the wind, dew still clinging to the dull green blades. With every creak of the chair, Imogen recites in her mind.
I’m alive.
I’m awake.
I’m in Gelvaan.
That storm’s not real.
My mother’s gone.
The rhythmic creaking and repeated assurances help ground Imogen in reality. She continues as the hauntingly familiar scarlet sky swirls with oranges and yellows, until it finally alights with a bright blue. With the sun now fully risen over the horizon, feeling like she can finally breathe again, Imogen utilizes her early morning to pick up a few supplies before heading to the stables.
***
The market is surprisingly busy despite the early hour, unfortunately. In her mind, she repeats her shopping list, both to remember what she needs and to try to keep any errant thoughts out. Taking a deep breath, Imogen adjusts her gloves, tilts her chin up, and heads into the bustling square.
Apples, carrots, bucket, broom.
Apples, carrots, bucket, broom.
The first stall she sees is filled with freshly harvested vegetables. She grabs a bundle of carrots. As she hands over her coin, the vendor flinches. Her glove must’ve brushed his hand. She plasters on a strained smile and tucks the carrots into her bag.
It’s fine, I should’ve been more careful.
Apples, bucket, broom.
Apples, bucket, broom.
Imogen glances around, relieved to find the fruit stand right next to the vegetables. Grabbing a few apples, she places her coins on the table this time. There’s no flinch, instead there’s a smile. It’s forced and doesn’t quite reach the eyes, but it’s something.
Halfway there.
Bucket, broom.
Bucket, broom.
Fuck.
The general goods store is in the furthest part of the square, separated from Imogen by a swarm of people. She considers just leaving, but the water bucket at the stables sprung a leak yesterday and the broom is missing ’bout half its bristles.
She’s tending the stables alone today, Samuel’s caught some stomach bug, so the work’ll take twice as long without the new supplies. Pretending not to notice the wide berth the people give her, Imogen reluctantly makes her way through the crowd.
Bucket. Broom.
Buc-
There’s that Temult girl.
The overwhelming amount of thoughts is damn near impossible to drown out, snippets of them fill Imogen’s head, but she can see the shop, just a little further. Imogen clenches her fists and keeps moving.
Bucket , Bro-
Here comes that freak from the farm.
She’s made it. Pushing through the door and the other customers, Imogen grabs the first broom she sees, conveniently located right by the entrance. She’s not even sure if it’s for sale or if it belongs to the shop owner. She doesn’t care.
Bucket, bucket, bu-
I have to go to Faramore’s today, hope she’s not working.
Imogen desperately searches for a bucket, pushing further into the store. She can feel a sharp sting behind her right eye, the all-too-familiar sign of a rapidly approaching migraine.
I thought her father didn’t let her out of the house.
Gods, Imogen suddenly longs for the silent safety of that old house.
Wonder what’s wrong with her?
She needs to get out here, but the unshed tears suddenly clouding her vision aren’t exactly helping.
Fuck the bucket, where’s the goddamn door?
With that broom she really looks like a witch.
Her throat keeps tightening, every breath bordering on a wheeze. She’s frozen, shoes filled with lead, trapped in this crowd of awful people.
Poor Relvin. First Liliana, now her.
Maybe it was hearing her mother’s name. Or maybe it was the sheer disgust directed at “her”. But Imogen’s feet are no longer cemented to the ground. They’re carrying her away, almost of their own volition. Throwing a handful of coins at the counter, Imogen uses her freshly purchased broom to part the sea of customers currently blocking the door.
Imogen barges through the store's exit, but her feet don’t stop. She keeps running. Out of the market, winding through the cobblestone streets, until she finds herself in an alleyon the outskirts of the village proper. Despite the distance, the thoughts of the other customers still echo in Imogen's mind.
Temult.
Freak.
Farm.
She slides down the alley wall, crumpling on the stone ground, unable to hold herself upright any longer. Clutching her aching head between her knees, Imogen worries she might actually die. She can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, her throat too tight. Her lungs can’t expand, a rubber band has seemingly wound itself around her chest.
Father. Wrong. Witch. Liliana. Her.
The words repeat, and repeat, and repeat. Overlapping until the words simply become noise, static. Then something creeps into her mind, drowning out the deafening noise. A haunting melody, beautiful but sad. As the song continues, Imogen finds herself subconsciously synching her breathing to its steady rhythm.
For a moment, she’s so relieved that she can finally breathe again, she forgets there wasn’t anyone around to be playing the music. Hoping she isn’t actually goin’ crazy like the town thinks she is, Imogen scans the alley. Still alone. Imogen tries to figure out what direction the music is coming from, but it seems to be coming from everywhere? Nowhere? Directionless and all-consuming, just like the thoughts of those townsfolk. Different though. It’s calming, reassuring, beautiful. Wherever this music is coming from, Imogen is grateful for it.
Realizing that in her panic she’s lost all sense of time, she looks to the sky and finds the sun almost directly overhead. Shit. She was due at the stables hours ago. She picks herself up, wiping her face and dusting herself off. As ready as she’ll ever be, Imogen begins her trek to the stables. At the end of the alleyway, she takes one final glance backwards. She swears she catches the shadows moving. Almost slithering away, just around the corner.
Huh. That’s…odd.