#i actually was going to write the aftermath of the rez but i didn't get to it lmao

[unicyclehippo]

You’ve been nailing it with these last drabbles! If you’re looking for prompts, taste?

'this is the tree?'

orym looks grave. appropriate. or not, seeing as laudna never got one.

the tempest rests her hand against gnarled bark. smiling, she says, 'this is the sun tree. the sign of whitestone and a very old friend. and-'

'- where she was hanged,' imogen interrupts.

orym, at her knee, sends her a look of... it's not reproach. it's gentler than that. disapproval, maybe.

the tempest blinks. beneath her antlers—imogen can't tell if they're growing out of her head or whether it's a headress—her calm expression twists. still calm but weightier, lined with grief, memory.

'it was a different whitestone. the same tree, but,' her fingers stroke gently along the ridged bark. 'you wouldn't recognise it if you had seen it then. it was dying, like everything else here.'

imogen, too close and too frayed to close her mind, is surprised—angry—to catch sorrow in her thoughts. for the tree. laudna had been hanged - had actually died back then but her sorrow is for the tree?

the tempest continues. 'i am sorry for not warning you. my ability requires a certain type of tree - size, mostly, but age and power doesn't hurt - and this is... well. in closest proximity. we are in a hurry, aren't we?'

imogen wants to tell her that this has nothing to do with her. she bites her tongue instead, hard, and recasts a spell to calm her mind.

green eyes catch the subtle motion of her hand and they sharpen, wary, before recognition blooms. she looks like she wants to say something. imogen sets her chin stubbornly; the tempest looks away first.

'from what i understand, you need help bringing a friend back.' she looks sidelong. out of the corner of her eye, imogen sees a bundle of yellow. 'i've sent ahead to my friend - a cleric - who can help with this sort of thing.'

'they've done it before?' FCG asks.

'she has.'

'and she'll help? she's - willing?' orym adds. 'we asked - we asked a lot of people and they all said this kind of thing is a miracle and protected. but you've done it before, for me, tempest -'

'she'll help, if she can,' the tempest says, and then smiles. 'hello, orym.'

orym returns the smile like the moon reflecting the sun. he stands taller, as though a weight has been lifted, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. a little colour returns to his face, wan and drawn as it has been.

'tempest.' he bows low—tries to, at least, but she catches him. curls her fingers around his shoulder and holds him tall.

'you're not my guard anymore, orym—you don't need to bow.'

'you didn't let me bow then, either. if i remember right, you said you'd lose me under everyone.'

the tempest's cheeks flame red.

imogen doesn't like it. it's too - it's too normal a thing for someone who is going to help them perform a miracle.

'that wasn't- you - i did when you were a guard,' she says, nearly splutters. 'that was when you were ten. and it was a legitimate concern back then,' she says with a little laugh, holding her hand down around her knee, and it makes orym smile broaden into a grin, a cheeky expression, light-hearted. rare for him, usually so solemn.

a fire burns in imogen's belly. all week she's been feeding it—fear and anger and guilt and guilt and guilt—and it has kept it all at bay, kept her going when she wanted to curl up in the dark and. stop. but not, they're talking—orym, her friend, laudna's friend and this - this miracle woman, his perfect hero leader - and they're talking and laughing like they haven't a care in the world, like the world isn't fucking broken. the fire flares, crackles in her belly, her chest, her hands.

'this reminiscin' is real swell,' imogen says, tone scorched dry. cracking. 'real fun. but i'd like to do something. now, if that's alright with you. or do we have to wait for everyone to hug and introduce themselves first?'

'imogen—'

'don't. don't try and calm me down because i am already calm, orym. laudna is—' imogen swallows. that word - that awful word - tastes like ash and embers, burns all the way down. 'we have to do something.'

'we are. she brought us here, where laudna's going to have the best chance—' he stops when his tempest touches his shoulder again.

'i should have explained,' the tempest says, and imogen can tell from her intent that it is part apology and part anchor point, weighted steadiness. it might even have been calming, as intended, if not for the fact that it was way too fucking little, way too fucking late. 'my friend isn't in whitestone.' she forestalls six exclamations with a raised hand. 'as soon as she sends back to me that she is ready, i will bring her through.' she pats the tree again.

'how long-'

'once i hear from her, she will arrive as quickly as we did. just a few seconds. after that...' the tempest shakes her head. the gesture dislodges a flower nestled in her antlers; it falls from its perch and drifts to the ground, disappears behind one enormous root of the tree. 'i would only be guessing.'

from where he is perched on a massive knot of roots, chetney says, 'guess, then. you're the awesomely insanely powerful one here, aren't you?'

orym tenses at his tone but the tempest doesn't even blink.

'this afternoon or tomorrow, if all goes well.'

'this afternoon?'

'if all goes well,' the tempest emphasizes.

imogen nods jerkily. 'this afternoon,' she says again under her breath, squeezes her eyes tight. 'this afternoon. this afternoon.' nerves chew at the tight leash she keeps lashed around her control; when it frays—again—imogen twists her hands at her side, lets her power grip her emotions in a tight fist and lock them down. 'this afternoon.'

for a moment, everyone stands still and silent. no one wants to speak; no one wants to break the moment, delicate as spun glass. they hold it, hold their breath, and let themselves think - hope - that by the time sets their little family will be complete once more.

imogen feeds her brimming hope into the fire before it can break her spell.

//

they wait. five minutes. ten minutes. imogen has to step away—her eyes keep returning to the tempest, lingering, searching for any sign of doubt, any sign of disappointment that might come from the other end of her sending—but moving away doesn't help at all because the sun tree looms over them and imogen keeps searching the branches like there will be a - a plaque or something, some sign that this is where it happened. she rubs at her eye, jabs her thumb into the painful spot beneath her brow and presses hard in a vain hope that it'll help ease the mounting pressure.

ashton shoulders up beside imogen; he's light on his feet and she doesn't notice until he says,

'hey.'

'hey, ash.' imogen's eyes dart over to them. 'you alright?'

they snort. 'stole my question.' imogen stares at them, wills herself to say yes, say something. ashton nods. 'yeah. me neither.'

'does your head hurt after last night?' he just looks at her and she qualifies, 'does it hurt any worse than normal?'

'nah.'

'good. good.' imogen rubs at her eye. drops her hand to her side and strokes a finger over pate's beak.

'can i ask you something?'

imogen tilts her head. it's not a nod, because she can't muster one, but close enough.

'what did you mean? about the tree?'

pain flares behind her eyes. imogen squeezes her eyes shut, hisses.

'fuck. shit - are you okay?'

she doesn't answer. 'laudna died. ages ago, decades ago. this is where it happened.'

'fuck.'

'like. this tree.'

'fuck.'

imogen laughs, just a little huff of air out her nose. 'yeah. that about sums it up.' she looks at the tree. looks at the tempest—still waiting. 'she was there.'

'the tempest?'

'mhm.'

ashton pauses to think about it. then says, heartfelt, 'fuck.'

//

they have been waiting close to an hour when the tempest stands to her feet and tilts her head, eyes going glassy in that way imogen often sees when she is speaking into someone's mind. then, she smiles.

'she's ready. stand back, please. watch your feet mister pock-o-pea.'

'better move, chet, or imogen'll shove you,' fearne teases, and the gnome grumbles but scrambles away from the trunk, down and over the roots until he's standing with the rest of them.

the tempest lifts her staff, touches the gnarled top of it to the trunk; again, they all watch as the bark shifts, wood grain buckling and bowing, and it creaks and groans and splits, green light spilling from the oval gateway.

in a matter of seconds, a small figure—blonde, gnomish, armoured—steps through the gate, which buckles at the edges before it slams shut behind them with a hideous groan of wood, like trees contorting in a fierce wind, moments from breaking. imogen doesn't remember that happening when they came through; she cuts a look over at the tempest and finds her leaning hard on her staff, face grey with exhaustion.

'keyleth. you look awful.'

the tempest laughs. immediately stoops to collect the hug offered to her. 'yeah, well, you treestride three times in a day and tell me how you feel after.'

'three times?'

'it was necessary.'

'we've talked about over-exerting yourself-'

'pike,' the tempest interrupts, gently. 'i'm alright. but our guests are not.'

at that, the newcomer—pike—finally looks around herself. she takes them all in and their keen, knowing look in her eyes that is somehow understanding instead of judgemental, assessing.

'oh dear. that's a lot of unhappy faces,' she says, voice sweet. 'hi there, i'm pike. i'm the head cleric of sarenrae, the everlight, here in whitestone. what's going on?'

with a look to imogen, and a gentle smile when the words stick in her throat, unmoving, orym says, tone reverent, 'blessed of the everlight, we have - a problem.'

'a lot of problems,' ashton adds.

chetney grunts, shoots a stern look across the party. 'but one immediate problem, right?'

'right. kind of a - a big problem, and it's - ashton, do you have her?' fearne asks softly.

pike frowns, looking between them all as they talk but don't say anything. then her eyes are on imogen and imogen can't breathe because the cleric is as reassuring as she is powerful—it hangs around her like a heat haze, her power, and it's terrifying because imogen has spent the last week in exhaustion, casting and recasting on herself to stay calm and the very moment this - this cleric, this healer turns up, her calm is gone and she feels—everything. everything. her power wraps around imogen like a warm hug and it's awful because peace ought to be cold, a cold hug, a cold hand on her cheek, a cold kiss against her forehead, and her calm shatters.

imogen cries out, lurches back with hand raised as if to ward off an attack. a shield, weak, fizzles around her even, instinctual.

'imogen?' ashton sounds startled but his hand is already on his hammer, resigned to the fact that this cleric, their best hope, is attacking them.

'it's fine,' she gasps, 'i'm fine, i'm fine.'

pike is still staring but imogen ignores her, fights against the invasive press of eyes on her to recast her calm. it holds but barely, and it makes her stomach lurch when she realises what it feels like. a sheet of glass dividing her mind. her eyes flicker to ashton, unwillingly, but she doesn't stop the spell. she drags in a breath, fortifies herself. then meets pike's eyes.

'our friend is gone. she - we need her back. i - we need her back. i'll do anything. money, a - a favour, anything.'

the cleric nods but doesn't linger long on her vehemence. 'when you say gone,'

'she's dead,' FCG tells her. imogen closes her eyes. 'we couldn't - i revived fearne,'

'and i revived orym,' fearne says, taking his hand. 'but i couldn't - we could only bring one person back.'

the cleric nods again. 'that sounds terrible.' the words are trite but there's so much warmth and understanding again that a part of imogen softens, relents.

it was terrible. it is terrible. and it still hurts, still feels like the world is breaking, broken, but this powerful cleric sees their hurt and somehow it helps, a little. it's a relief. after so many no's, the fact that she hasn't said no is—it's a relief.

'well. i can't do anything here,' pike says, and claps her hands sharply. 'the chapel is prepared for this sort of thing—'

'pike, wait - hold on.' the tempest kneels, whispers in her ear.

'oh.'

'what? what is it?' imogen demands.

pike gestures to ashton and his bundle. 'may i look at her?'

'why?'

the cleric raises her hands in surrender, peace. she steps forward; imogen wavers, not wanting to be caught in the balm of her presence again but unable to abandon lauda. again. she locks her knees in place and stays, breathes out shakily as she is enveloped in that gentle heat.

ashton lays laudna down, cradles her shoulders in one arm and unwraps the cloth with their other hand.

pike stares down at her. 'i see it,' she murmurs, looks across at keyleth with a nod. 'can you send to—'

'i already did. they'll meet us at the chapel.'

imogen's fingers twist in her handkerchief. 'what are you talkin' about? are you - did you bring us all the way here to tell us you won't help?'

'no. i want to help - i will help,' pike assures her. 'but you need to know, your friend - she's undead.'

'she's not—'

'i'm sorry but she is.'

'she's not,' imogen snarls. 'she's wonderful and vibrant and alive, she's more alive than anyone else in the world.' when the cleric just stares at her sadly, the fire in imogen's belly reaches a point where heat turns to power and she reaches out, her hand and her mind, and connects her mind with pike's. not digging in, not delving, but opening her own instead. opening it, pouring it out—glass shattering, calm shattering—so that pike can see - see laudna as she walks, talks, breathes, eats and sleeps. see laudna laugh, mischievous, as they spook a traveller out of their gold. see laudna cry, from hurt, from fear. see laudna at her side, earnest and sweet and good. the images come fast, two years worth of laudna, of a cool balm against her senses, of kindness unconditional, of trust and everything else that imogen cannot, will not, put into words but which pike can see and sense regardless.

pike lifts her hand. with a pulse of magic, the connection is severed. ended, gently.

'please,' imogen says, voice cracking, and drops to her knees next to laudna. takes her cold hand between both of her own. 'please help us. please.'