Chapter Text
a place in the clouds, a foundation of stone/many precede and many will follow/a young girl’s dreams no longer hollow/it takes the shape of a place out west/but what it holds for her, she hasn’t yet guessed
‘wide open spaces’ by the chicks
—
The day Imogen leaves her family home, she’s decided she’s more than ready.
She does love her home; Whitestone has been an excellent place to grow up. She spent her days in beautiful hallways, eating mostly delicious food and getting to learn about any subject in the library that she pleased. She learned how to hunt, even if she wasn’t that great, and she studied the ins and outs of almost any magic she wanted to.
Still, Imogen is ready to get out of this place. There’s an entire world outside of the Whitestone walls, and plenty of things for her to learn. Not everywhere works like Whitestone, and she wants to see that. Even moreso, she wants to see a life outside of her family’s eye.
Don’t get her wrong; Imogen knows her family loves her— that’s never been a question. Her childhood is a mirage of sepia toned memories, holding her mother’s wooden bow in her hands for the first time, reading books on the plush rug of her father’s study and smiling to herself about the fond looks he would send her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. But Imogen has also grown up feeling like the family outsider.
See, everybody had favorites. Gwendolyn was her father’s, the family’s youngest darling who got whatever she asked of anybody, Imogen included. For her mother, it was Wolfe. She adored them all, of course, in her very particular way, but she and Wolfe had the same roguish grin— Imogen could never begrudge her mother for that, when she’d spent so long missing the feeling of having someone who had matched her in that way. And everybody adored Vesper: Aunt Cass, the people of the castle, the citizens of Whitestone. Her gentle grace, warm smile, and smart tongue made her the favorite of the town.
Leona and Dan might not have had a particular attachment with the adults in their family, but they had each other. They weren’t the twins of the bunch, and the year-and-a-half difference between them made that clear, but the pair of them had an understanding the others didn’t seem to breach, Wolfe included.
Imogen loves all her siblings, and they love her back in turn.
But Imogen… Imogen is nobody’s favorite.
Still, she is loved, and the first de Rolo child to leave the nest. Vesper was of age, of course, but had elected to stay in Whitestone and continue to study under her father. It was a well-known truth that as the oldest, and the most devoted, she was next in-line to rule Whitestone. Traveling on the road had much knowledge to grant, Vesper said, and maybe she would find it one day, but her duty was to her home until she had learned all she would need to.
When Imogen makes it to the dining room in the morning she sets out, the place is abuzz with emotions. Her youngest two siblings are still missing, but the rest of their family has found their way downstairs already. The five of them are all crowded around the dining table, the smaller one that they only use for family meals, and a buzz of other people's thoughts wash over Imogen as she enters.
Her oldest sister has already taken her seat at their father’s right side, and as she tugs at the end of her braid, Imogen can feel the rise of emotions coming off of Vesper. With time, studying, and the help of her aunts, Imogen’s gotten pretty good at putting up her mental walls— the last thing she needs for her anxiety is a running play-by-play of everything her family thinks about her every movement, nor does she want to hear some of her mother’s more… colorful thoughts. At this point, her norm has reached the level of only sensing the most surface level of thought, usually in tone rather than actual verbiage. It gets harder to keep that level of block up the more overwhelmed she gets, or the more people around. Most days, however, it’s a gentle buzz of noise that doesn’t block out whatever’s going on in her own head.
Vesper’s thoughts are, much like she is, tempered. As the oldest, and the heir to their father’s title, she’s learned to hold herself with a certain dignity and grace some of their siblings haven’t mastered yet. There’s a frayed edge to it, though, that floats off her. Imogen supposes it’s fair; she’s the second oldest, the closest to Vesper in age. They’ve got a good four years between them, the oldest jump in any age save for the distance between Dan and the surprise that was Gwendolyn. With Imogen gone, that will jump to almost six for Vesper and the twins. Being the oldest, at times, has burdens to bear, and Vesper will have to carry them herself now.
Across from her, Leona is swirling the water around her glass in circles. She’s quiet, and so are the thoughts that come from her, but she’s always like that. Beside her, Wolfe is much the same, but that’s the one that’s out of character. Wolfe, at his most core, is a force of nature. Bold and brash, with charming words and a hot temper, Wolfe is always feeling something. Now, though, his head is quiet and a bit morose.
Her father is much like the twins, but Imogen doesn’t need to tap into anything to tell whatever he feels is overshadowing with anxiety. His movements betray him; he’s evolved from simply cleaning his glasses to polishing each of his his unused utensils with a cloth napkin, as if they hadn’t been meticulously cleaned and dried by the staff already.
Her mother is the only one who manages to seem serene, but even with her walls up and tightening, Imogen can feel that same anxiety that skims the top of her brain. From her position at the second head of the table, she’s the first to notice Imogen enter the room, and she smiles.
“Good morning, darling,” she greets, resting her hands on the table. “Are you excited?”
“Very much so,” Imogen replies, stepping into the room. “I finished packing last night.”
Whatever her mother would have said in response is cut off by Wolfe as he climbs to his feet once he notices his sister’s entrance. “Here, Imogen, let me get your chair,” he offers.
It’s clearly a set up for something he’s going to say, but Imogen acquiesces him anyway. Wolfe rounds the table as she reaches her chair, and he pulls it back proper for her, hands on the sides of the backrest. The perfect picture of a Whitestone gentleman, until he leans down to speak to her.
“For you, my darling, electric sister,” he says, wearing that sly grin of his even though the comment earns him their father’s warning gaze.
Imogen only smiles back, eyes glinting as she takes a seat. “Why thank you, my darling, pimpled brother,” she replies, giving a pointed look to the red bump that’s forming on his cheek. The expression on his face turns into a frown, hand coming up to poke at the spot. When he feels it coming up under the skin, he sticks his tongue out at her and shoves her chair under the table. She laughs as he grumbles towards his own spot.
“Dearests,” their mother says, as Wolfe drops back into his spot across from Imogen. “This is our last family meal for what might be a very long time. Can we all make attempts to be kind to each other?”
“Sorry, mother,” both of them chorus at the same time. Despite it, he offers her a stink-eye from across the table, and Imogen fights the urge to snort.
Love you, she projects to him, half-teasing and half-genuine. He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips tells her he’s not mad.
That’s the thing with Wolfe— he gives out hits, and in this family, he had to get used to getting them right back.
Their father sighs, once, at the antics, but he makes no comment. He’s moved back to cleaning his glasses for the moment, but once he props them back onto his face, he turns to Imogen.
“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” He asks. “Did you remember to check your bowstrings?”
Imogen nods. “Yes.”
“And you’ve remembered enough arrows, as well? Just because you can use magic doesn’t mean you don’t need other means of defending yourself.”
“Yes, father.”
“And have you remembered an extra pair of—”
“Percival,” her mother warns from the other end of the table, fond.
“Right,” he says, and he gives a thin smile. “I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”
“Just a bit, dad,” Leona says, matter-of-fact.
Despite it, Imogen smiles. As neurotic as her father could get about these kinds of things, it was always done with a measure of love. He wasn’t the most expressive with words, at times, but it was so clear in almost everything he did that he loved them. Imogen would miss it.
And speaking of another thing Imogen would miss—
Gwen comes into the room bouncing, her cheerful expression already fixed onto her face. She's always been full of energy since the moment she was born, but somewhere between ten and eleven, her movements had gained a certain level of grace. When she entered the dining room, it was almost like she danced to her seat.
“Good morning!” She crows, and brightens even further when they all returned the greeting in turn.
The youngest de Rolo clambers into her spot next to their mother. Once settled, she turns to her sister, and the bright look on her face dims slightly.
“Good morning, Imogen,” she says. Even though her voice has softened, it’s still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. “I am very sad you’re leaving today, I’ll miss you.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss you, little deer,” Imogen replies, reaching out to run a hand over the top of Gwen’s head. Her younger sister giggles, leaning into the touch, before turning to their parents.
“Where’s Dan?” She asks, as if their brother isn’t always the last one to the table.
“Probably fixing his hair for the third time this morning,” Wolfe remarks, and then winces as he is, more than likely, kicked by his twin under the table. It doesn’t go unnoticed; their mother sighs.
“Sorry,” the twins both reply, not unlike Wolfe and Imogen had when they’d been chided less than two minutes ago.
The rest of breakfast is filled by warm, but a bit inane, conversation. Dan slips into the room less than a minute before food is served, and Wolfe’s suspicions were all but confirmed by the glossy, slightly frizzed look it got when he overbrushed it before leaving his room.
Imogen is quiet throughout the affair. She’s never been the most talkative of the bunch, not when there’s Wolfe and Gwendolyn to contend with, but today she speaks less than usual. Not for a lack of interest, however. She’s ready to go, really; she’s excited. But her family, despite her occasional outsider feelings, is the warmest constant she’s ever had. For the last bit of time she gets them all together like this, she wants to soak it in.
They may be a lot to handle, and a right mess to keep organized with so many of them, but they’re Imogen’s family. She’s never loved anything this way before.
—
They all break to do their different things after breakfast, and Imogen’s parents trail up to her room after her.
There’s no heartfelt goodbyes with words, but the next hour and a half feel like one. Her mother checks over her bow, and inspects each of her arrows one by one, just in case anything is flawed. They won’t be— her mother strung the weapon herself, and her father made each arrow. The two of them are thorough in most things they do these days, especially when family is concerned.
Her father is the same with her bag. Imogen has a checklist, but he’s got one of his own. He goes down it as he checks through the contents of her pack, and leaves more than once to fetch something he assures her she’ll need.
For the most part, Imogen sits on her bed, enjoying the comfort of it for what will be the last time in a long while. Besides her family, that’s what she thinks she’ll miss the most. The food is no issue— she’s grown up eating fresh-hunted meat her whole life, and she’s never been picky. She won’t mind the mental peace, either, but she will miss her stack of pillows and her downy blanket.
When her parents have run out of things to check, leaving them with no other viable reason to keep her waiting, they call the whole family to gather in the front entrance.
Saying goodbye is a family affair. She gets hugs from Dan and Leona, and a longer one from Wolfe, who holds on just a few seconds longer than the other two. Gwen is next, and she clings, but Imogen won’t begrudge her. True to character, Gwen has charmed their whole family, and Imogen isn’t immune; she presses her face to the top of her sister’s head, right between the horns, and breathes her in for a long moment.
Vesper is the last one, and her hug is the tightest. Imogen is only half an inch shorter than her, but that gap feels wider as she ducks her head to tuck it in the crook of Vesper’s neck. They stay that way for several long moments, and the warmth behind Imogen’s eyes start to well.
There’s no way she’s making it out of this house without crying.
When they pull back, Vesper doesn’t let her go far, keeping one hand on Imogen’s face. She’s wearing that grin— not the practiced one of politics, or the gentle warmth she uses amongst more familiar company. No, it’s the one reserved for family, that drips with the earnest love Vesper has always afforded them all.
“I have something for you,” she says.
“Please tell me it isn’t another checklist,” Imogen replies. Vesper laughs, wet on the edges. Oh, she’s going to cry, too. Imogen really is leaving in tears.
“No, it’s not,” her sister assures, reaching into her pocket for something. When she finds it, she grabs one of Imogen’s hands in her own and drops what she’s holding into it.
Imogen glances down. It’s a smooth rock, blue-tinted with the sigil of Whitestone carved into it. Beneath that, there’s a V and an I inscribed.
“You got me a Sending Stone?”
“Mother wanted to, but I got mine first,” Vesper says. “Sister privilege wins out sometimes.”
Imogen takes a shaky breath to delay the inevitable. “Vesper,” she breathes, and there’s a sharp pulse of love that passes between them.
“You use this, and you Send me whenever you need me,” her sister says, reaching out once more to wrap Imogen’s fingers around the stone. “Or even if you just want me. And I’ll Send you, too sometimes. To check in.”
Imogen’s next inhale is shaky, and the tears start to slip out. “I’m going to miss you.”
Vesper grins, her own cheeks starting to dampen. “And I’ll miss you,” she replies. “But you are going to go do something important, I know it. And you’re so smart, I know the libraries in Jrusar will be falling over themselves to help you figure out the nightmares.”
It’s the first time anybody’s brought them up today. Funny, considering that they’re half the reason Imogen is setting out in the first place. Whitestone’s libraries, and the libraries around them, have been exhausted trying to discover the connection between her magic, the dreams, and the lightning cracks that web up the skin of her fingers.
“I’ll tell you the second I learn anything, promise.”
“You better.”
Imogen pulls away, finally, with a little laugh. When she turns, the only ones left waiting for her are her parents.
She folds into her father’s arms, first. He smells the way he always does: sandalwood and gunpowder. For half a second, it feels like being six again, when he would carry her to bed after she’d fall asleep in the den. He didn't know, but the movement of him carrying up the stairs always roused her. Imogen would never say anything; it was nice to just be, her and her father, in those moments. This is like that.
“Be safe,” he says into her ear, his arms still wrapped tight around her back. “And smart. Don’t let anybody convince you to do anything you don’t want to, and trust your gut; yours is very smart, and that’s a gift you can’t ignore.”
“I know, dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he tells her, before releasing her into the arms of her mother beside him. Much like his had been, her embrace is familiar. Over the past twenty years, Imogen has hugged her mother thousands of time, but none of them have felt final in the way this one has. The longest she’s ever been apart from her mother is a few weeks, and trips like those were never frequent. But this could be months.
Imogen realizes in that moment that it could be years. It’s a terrifying thought.
Her mother saves all her words until she leans back, eyes skimming her face as she raises one hand to cup her daughter’s cheek.
“I love you so much, darling,” she says, and her voice aches with the truth of the words. “And so does your father, even if he is terrible at saying it aloud in more than three words. You and your siblings are our whole world. So just— be careful. After all, I grew this whole body of yours myself, and I’ll be beside myself if anything happens to it. Or you.”
With one last squeeze that pinches the skin of Imogen’s jaw, she adds: “I am so proud of you.”
Imogen swallows, nods. “I know,” she says, because she does. Her mother is not a perfect being, but she is a wonderful mother, and she has rarely lied. “I love you.”
Her mother breathes out, and Imogen realizes that the woman is crying, too. “Oh, I love you,” she repeats. “I hate seeing you go.”
“I have to—”
“You do,” her mother agrees. “I know you do. I want you to. But I hate the thought of missing you.”
“Me, too.”
Imogen allows her mother to wrap her in another hug, longer than the last. Imogen soaks her in, the way the forest seems to hang off every limb of her mother, the way she holds her children like the rest of the world is nothing to her.
And then she leaves.
Walking out the front door is the hardest part. Her parents don’t follow, and she throws one last look over her shoulder at them as it closes behind her. With it, the emotions that have been flooding off of them all dim, and her head clears until it’s just her own sadness she feels, sitting in her chest.
It gets easier with every step, though. She takes the long walk down to the rest of Whitestone in silence, and lets the quiet soothe her. When she makes it to the town in earnest, she tosses waves and few scattered goodbyes to the citizens she recognizes. Several of them wish her luck; the whole town has been known, since Vesper declared her intent to stay, that Imogen would be the first to set out. It’s just been a matter of when.
When she gets to the wall, the guards are expecting her. The gate is opened without fuss or fanfare, and Imogen watches as the road and the forest stretch out before her. She stares for a moment, at the dirt path and the trees, before she takes her first step.
At twenty years old, Imogen de Rolo steps out of the gates of Whitestone for the last time in two years, and becomes Imogen Temult.