Work Text:
There is something in the way Imogen says her name;
sobs it,
sighs it,
exhales it,
that lingers in her afterwards.
Imogen says her name in a way she’s never known before her; the way Laudna thinks all names should be said, the way her mother warned her the fey and the powerful would use it —
like a secret;
like a tether;
like a calling to some part of her — intrinsic, inescapable, unknown — that only Imogen can see; that only Imogen knows.
(because Laudna let her — because she gave her name — her bond, her life and unlife to Imogen—)
Imogen says her name —
grief-stricken;
heart-broken;
achingly hopeful;
and Laudna reclaims herself.
From the memories.
From her murderer.
From herself.
(Matilda—)
“Laudna?” Imogen whispers.
And Laudna says her name in turn;
sighs it;
sings it;
soughs it;
(a moaning, whistling, rustling — like the wheezing branches and the swinging nooses and the shadows, lamenting, curling around her throat, choking her—)
”Imogen.”