Authors Note:
This is a sequel to my previous story "Regret" and involves a continuation of events, this time mostly from Imogen's point of view.
Huge thanks once more to LongVodka who has been so supporting in bouncing ideas for this little one-shot!
Constance Hardbroom wasn't the only person to still be awake inside the draughty castle. A tanned woman with a strong, athletic frame sat at her dressing table, wrapped up in her comfortable dressing gown, clutching its warm, red flannel folds around her in an attempt to gleam some comfort from her increasingly despairing situation, staring unblinkingly into the depths of the simply framed mirror as if she could see into her very soul, desperately seeking an answer to the incessant uncertainties, her aching, confused head preventing her from the blissful escape of sleep, trying to distract herself from the ever growing swarm of doubt that was building like an angry swarm of bees inside her temples. Crossly she admonished herself for allowing her thoughts to wonder once more, scolding herself for adding to the already teaming mass of conflicting thoughts and emotions that she had been allowing to fester inside her mind for far too long already, forcing herself to return to the laborious, mind-numbing task that she had set herself of rearranging her photo album, a hopeless bid to avoid the painful memories and questions that were rampaging unchecked inside her.
She turned the page with shaking fingers, unable to concentrate fully upon the task in hand as she stared into the chocolate eyes of her boyfriend, a wall of memories washing over her in a numbing wave of pity and regret as she stared back at the photo taken last summer of them standing in a caring embrace upon the lofty peaks of a snow-capped mountain, the weak sunshine glinting softly in her blonde hair and dancing in her sparkling green eyes as she stared into Serge's beautiful eyes, a radiant glow of happiness present in her flushed, rosy cheeks, content and love playing around her full lips in a relaxed smile as she surveyed her lover and the phenomenal scenery that surrounded them in a wondrous panoramic of divine creation, flawless in its majestic splendour. It had seemed as if they had been the only two people in the entire world at that point, carried away on a beautiful dream, transported to the heavenly blue-skied paradise amongst the clouds, unbreakably together, drifting along on a cloud of delight, a perfect couple who only had time for each other and their growing love.
But that was a million years away from now, reflected Imogen sadly as she gently caressed the picture. As in her previous relationships, the poison that was her inability to settle rose its ugly head once more, a toxic canker that began to eat into the purity of their love, nagging doubts of unease that had led to the harsh arguments between the once perfect, sure relationship. Imogen could only watch on, helpless to change the course of her own destructive thoughts as the sweetness of the infatuation turned to the sour, putrid stench of rotten emotional ties, of the bitter storm of rage and confusion as the bright summer days of caring and trust faded to the dark winter of bleak loneliness and constant feuding, corroding away into a charred heap of meaningless quarrels, mistrust and the aching emptiness that she had come to associate with being in love, a distorted, purulent mass of decayed sentiment and loss, a poison that circulated in her bloodstream, taunting her with its continual presence, the all too familiar, dull twinge of failure and melancholy overriding her once more. Deep down, something had told her that Serge, despite his loving, attentive nature was simply not the right person for her, but in her typical manner, she had clung tightly onto the fading love and crushed it beneath her athletic frame, unable to let the dying attachment go, unable to relinquish her feelings and accept the exacting reality that she had allowed herself to be hurt once more.
Her abandoned mobile phone flashed briefly, its luminescent screen punctuating the swirling darkness with its harsh white light. A new message! Her heart leapt at the thought that Serge may have forgiven her for instigating the bitter argument that they had had earlier, prepared for a reasoned discussion instead of her unsettled, distracted, terse replies from earlier, wanting with all her heart to apologise for acting so unkindly, for treating such a kind man with such disdain, for taking it upon herself to end their dying romance, breaking Serge's heart with every treacherous word which flooded from between her lips, venting her spleen upon him, using anger to express the boiling frustration and confusion that was frothing madly inside her.
Eagerly she stretched out and picked up the phone, her heart plummeted as she read the supposed message from her boyfriend.
"Congratulations! You have won free weekend texts! Text YES to this number to claim!"
With a shriek of exasperation and a stifled sob, Imogen hurled the offensive machine against the stone wall, barely wincing at the sickening crack of plastic as the upsetting item shattered into flying shards of black plastic and mangled circuitry. She couldn't understand what was happening to her. She was usually cool, calm and collected, dependable in all circumstances, yet this stupid situation was driving her towards the brink of insanity, the madness and uncertainty mocking her and pushing her ever closer to her awaiting fate.
Her racing thoughts turned to the astonishing earlier revelations, the completely unexpected admittance from Constance Hardbroom of all people; detached, controlled, unreachable in her lofty tower of ice, the blurted utterance of love had caught her completely by surprise, the feel of the icy fingers upon her sweat-drenched skin as the witch alleviated the excruciating cramp from her protesting muscles. She had just had the argument with Serge then, a gaping hole punched in her pride and confidence she had turned back to her first love of running, desperate to escape from the ever-decreasing circles of her tormented mind. It was undeniably true that for a few short moments, the rhythmic pounding of her trainers upon the earthy woodland paths had helped to ease the pain of the split, able to focus her raging mind purely upon the simple acts of breathing and coordinating her protesting muscles, urging them to move faster, picking up the pace of her gruelling run, testing every last ounce of her stamina and resolve, seeking the certain solace in the numbing exhaustion that overrode her whenever she tested her body to its limits of endurance. And then the moment when that mighty witch had come to her aid, the intense feeling of the unparalleled strength of her magic radiating from her, seeping deep into Imogen's aching muscles, providing instant, blissful relief from the agony, a faint, shimmering haze of power flowing in Constance's wake as she stood, her dark hazel eyes focused relentlessly upon Imogen, evidently a mighty battle of wills was taking place behind those confused eyes which had suddenly, without warning, brimmed with salty tears at the touch of Imogen's hand to her emaciated fingers, a simple act that had destroyed any established defences and had led to those three fated words of romantic confessing escaping, free from their mental constraints, flowing in an unabated stream from between Constance's trembling lips.
The outburst had far from repulsed her, but it had certainly puzzled the PE mistress- the words "love" and "romance" were certainly the two least frequently associated words with the strict, unyielding witch, but the unexpected outburst had left her questioning if her addled senses weren't playing yet another cruel trick upon her.
"I'm sorry?..." she had heard herself say, her mouth acting of its own accord as her own reeling senses were far from being in a fit state to provide a reasoned answer, "Did you just say…"
The mortified look that had crossed the other woman's face had nearly broken Imogen's heart in two such was the concentrated grief and self-loathing that had spread across the beautiful features as she visibly crumpled into the deep mire of despair that Imogen was all too familiar with herself, the bony hand slamming violently across her mouth in a frantic bid to scrape the offending words back into her treacherous mouth and swallow them back beneath the damaged layer of self-control, bitter bile rising in the back of her constricted throat in sheer panic, the hazel eyes wide with shock at her own words. The faint flicker of desire had flared in Imogen's shocked senses before she could even register the alien feeling, an overwhelming urge had overcome her to reach forward and embrace the ashamed woman, knowing full well what an emotional display of such unforeseen magnitude must have cost the intensely private woman. But poor Constance had fled, turning on her heel and running from the frightening emergence of her own feelings, terrified of the consequences that were bound to follow such a foolish act.
"Please, just forget everything that I said," the horrified witch had whispered faintly, unable to look Imogen in the eye, choking back tears as a crack appeared in her authoritative voice, before dematerialising in her traditional fashion, leaving nothing but a distraught, heartbroken sob and Imogen's fluttering heart to show that she had ever been present in the secluded woodland grove at all.
But still the thought persisted in Imogen's mind. Could she actually love her back? A niggling doubt that had been eating away at her, corroding the bond between her and Serge since the first time that they had gone out together burst forth in a raging flame of defiance as she tried to analyse her own spinning thoughts, her attempts at logical scrutiny breaking down in the face of the realisation that began to slowly dawn in a glorious blaze of red amongst the grey, murky clouds of her tumbling thoughts. Had she just been longing to find a fellow non-magic person, a source of company and understanding? Somebody to provide some normality in her increasingly odd and unstable world? A voice of reason to cling to, a reminder that she was not inferior to her fellow members of staff, a reassuring presence that she too was capable of being loved and respected, despite the fact that not one iota of magic flowed in her mortal veins, not being judged on her lack of skills or proficiency, but on her sunny personality and wicked sense of humour. Serge had always been there, had always understood her, always been reliable and kind, but had she ever really loved him?
"No..." she choked, "I can't have been that cruel, I can't have just used him like that..."
In a final attempt at avoiding what was becoming increasingly obvious to her disbelieving mind, she flipped over another page in her prized photograph album only to end up viewing the school photograph which had been taken upon that infamous trip to the "Great Outdoors", so many precious memories, good and bad had arisen from that experience, the first meeting with Serge, the happiness at seeing the camaraderie and harmony establishing itself between the two groups, the sinking feeling of panic at the thought of her girls being trapped in the bizarre, Foster's induced snowstorm, the seething anger at having to relinquish her pride and control and resort to pleading for assistance from the superior witch, having to watch the distinct "I told you so!" expression forming on her slightly smug face as she watched Imogen begging for the use of the banned magic to resolve the situation, and then, the breathtakingly potent demonstration of the mighty powers of Constance Hardbroom as she wrestled control of the storm and quelled it instantly, the powers of nature immediately acquiescing and kneeling submissively before her iron control- the saviour of the day.
The group smiled broadly back at her from beside the lake, gathered around the blazing orange fire as they devoured the tasty melted marshmallows and drank large mugs of steaming tea and hot chocolate, the yellow-jumper clad junior Rangers waving cheekily back at the camera as they pulled faces behind the obediently smiling young witches, then the three adults clustered together in the middle of the photo, Serge with his strong, muscular arm draped protectively over Imogen's slender shoulders, Constance sitting directly to Imogen's right.
Imogen inhaled sharply, her heart thudding like a bass drum inside her chest as she saw the hidden truths that the camera had captured amongst the seemingly innocent scene, the hearts' desires of the two women clearly marked, recorded for posterity by the camera, the camera that never lies. Imogen was snuggled comfortably into Serge, but instead of returning his warm, twinkling gaze, she was smiling softly her eyes fixed devotedly upon the woman next to her as she surveyed the hunched figure of the "Maiden Aunt" in her black bonnet, who had turned away from the unbearable scene next to her, averting her jealous eyes from the happy couple, the intolerable ache of unrequited love transparently obvious in her hurt eyes, the pain surging through her as she was left to brood amongst her dark, lonely thoughts once more.
"Constance?" she breathed, a shiver of uncertainty rippling through her as she tried to interpret the foreign feelings that were conflicting inside her mind, the undeniable truth etching itself permanently in eradicable realisation onto her mind as she spoke the name of the revered sorceress out loud, each magnificent syllable hovering lightly in the night air as the name tripped lightly off her tongue, causing her to shudder with illicit, suppressed desire as she finally allowed the forbidden thought to enter her mind. Was it love?
Scrabbling through her collection of new photographs that were yet to be allocated a place in the cherished album, she extracted a photograph of the staff taken from the Halloween celebrations from earlier in the year and gazed at it thoughtfully, the image bringing to mind quite how stunning the potions mistress had looked in her sweeping emerald robes, for once with her dark hair loose, freely cascading over her narrow shoulders in a mane of glossy ebony brown, a smile present on her striking features as she revelled in the magical festivities, one of the few occasions in the year when her icy inhibitions were allowed a respite and her glorious smile allowed to shine through unrestricted. Selecting her silver pair of scissors from her collection of implements, Imogen painstakingly began to cut around the section of the photo which contained only her and Constance, carefully trimming away the others in the picture so that it became a beautiful portrait of the two women, both smiling and standing close to each other in a shared moment of joy and happiness.
Imogen allowed a small smile to cross her lips. They really were the polar opposites of each other! One tall, thin, elegant with pale skin, long dark hair and a possessor of devastating magical abilities, the other shorter, more muscular with tanned, weather-beaten skin, short, cropped blonde hair and the owner of no magical ability whatsoever. What could Constance possibly see in her?
She sighed heavily and shut the book with a snap, her heart heavy with the knowledge that life was once again spiralling out of her control, her emotions rising up and throttling her until she saw the delusional stars swimming in front of her vision that forecast love. What would have been so wrong with staying with Serge? Why oh why did she have to behave like the selfish, self-obsessed, vindictive bitch that she was and break his heart, lead him on and on in a desperate attempt to mask the cracking façade that she had put up subconsciously against her banned feelings for the older witch.
Exhausted by the relentless emotional strain, Imogen climbed wearily into her awaiting bed, wincing as she saw the time displayed upon the luminous face of her alarm clock. Half-past two already, and she had to be up in four hours' time! She'd never be fully awake tomorrow, and typically she had a full day of classes! No chance of even a sneaky nap in the staffroom in a free period! She drew the comforting layers over her in a protective nest, wishing that she could remain curled up in her warm shelter permanently, able to hide from the troubles that were closing in upon her, remain blissfully unaware of the turbulent storm of emotions that was brewing rapidly around her.
With the day's revelations still very much present in her mind, she drifted off into a fitful sleep.
Xxx
Up in the high turret of the West wing of the castle, a tall witch was pacing nervously as she did in times of stress, wearing a well-trodden groove into the ancient flagstones with the brisk, rhythmic tapping of her heeled, leather boots, the keys on the chain around her waist jangling in musical accompaniment as she continued to mutter half formed sentences beneath her breath, wrapping her long slender arms around her torso, trying to steel herself into taking the final definitive step to ensure both her own and Imogen's peace of mind. The eerie chiming of the bell-tower clock amidst the deadly silence caused her to jump momentarily, clutching her chest in panic, so on edge that she could feel her heart fluttering wildly within her as the three loud chimes rang out, cleaving noisily through the stillness of the night, each monotone peal driving her into action, making up her mind for her. Cursing her own stupidity for the umpteenth time that evening, Constance Hardbroom wrapped her thick, black winter cloak tightly around her and finally summoned the inner focus required to successfully dematerialise. The inner turmoil that she was experiencing coupled with the copious amounts of alcohol that had passed her lips had somewhat blunted her judgement, numbed her usually pin-point senses to a point where she couple feel the control of her mind slipping once more from her iron grip, threatening to unleash another damning round of emotions and feelings that were really best hidden for everybody's sake.
Xxx
Constance materialised noiselessly in Imogen's room, her mind made up. She knew what she had to do.
A faint flutter of longing rose in her chest which she quickly stifled as she saw the object of her affections sleeping quietly, watching on, counting the gentle rise and fall of Imogen's chest, the young woman displaying a calm, serene exterior that managed to effortlessly mask the whirling blizzard of emotions that were storming inside her dreaming mind. Her soft, full lips were slightly parted, long, full, dark eyelashes twitching slightly over her closed eyes, oblivious to the presence of the witch who stood barely a foot away from her unconscious form.
As Constance raised her casting fingers to perform the Memory Charm, another twinge of remorse hit her as she once again heard Amelia's voice echoing in her head- the fundamental law taught to all witches from the very beginning, the very foundation of the Witches Code that mapped out the accepted uses of the ancient art.
"Magic is not to be used for selfish or trivial ends…" she muttered, lowering her extended hand, wrestling with her conscience as the ingrained words of advice surfaced once again. Mending one's own broken heart barely fitted within these constraints, especially as she had been the one foolish enough to blurt out her darkest of secrets, allowed the undisclosed fantasies to surface, telling the reciprocating woman of her love, setting herself up for the bitter pain as the knife of rejection was twisted deep into her heart.
But, the memory charm provided the only chance for her to re-establish some degree of normality into the confusion, restore some balance of order and logic, reassign the calming predictability of the mundane, daily routine of her life without flying off on the illogical, unreasoned train of thought that her supressed love always managed to stir within her controlled psyche. She knew that she could not face the crushing humiliation of Imogen knowing of her desires, her shameful, lustful, want for her own sex that she had tried so frantically to supress, having to be confronted by those green eyes everywhere she went, always questioning, always fearful of her following the uncharacteristic outburst. At least the charm gave her the foothold to begin to remove her foolish romantic notions from her head, a last chance to snatch back the anonymity of her affections that she had so carelessly cast aside in that woodland grove yesterday afternoon, a chance to bury the impossible imaginings deep within her mind, to barricade them in until they suffocated and died, no longer a viable chain of thought to pursue.
Determined, she raised her arm once more, extending her index and little finger, a small orb of silver light dancing around her two digits in a rapid figure of eight pattern as she pictured the scenes that she wanted to erase from the mind of the sleeping woman in front of her, finally projecting the ball of light forward until it was hovering delicately above Imogen's forehead, illuminating her sleeping features in a ghostly half-light.
"Obliteratus, instantatus…" she whispered, her low tones trembling as she directed the light to fan out across the woman's brow. Suddenly her magic sparked and died, the silver orb floating harmlessly off into the night sky, unable to complete the spell, her own powers now turning against her, refusing to obey her command.
Constance stood, staring in utter disbelief, rapidly flexing her fingers, testing her powers to the extremes, casting a veritable stream of spells simultaneously, complex transfigurations of the surrounding furniture, unleashing a shooting star into the inky night sky over the castle, even bringing the elderly, patched teddy bear which sat on the armchair in the corner of the room to life, stretching wearily as he sat up and took in the surrounding environment with his glassy black eyes. She could have almost screamed in her frustration, unable to comprehend why her magic was refusing to cast this particular spell, restricted by her morals and ingrained ethics, she was incapable of removing the memory which would haunt her until her dying day.
For the first time since her arrival in the darkened room, she took the time to look around her at the surroundings. There was no mistaking that this was Imogen's room, sports posters littered the walls, little touches of the mortal world lingering amongst the décor, like the little radio which sat resolutely on her desk, unused due to the lack of electricity at Cackles, but still a proud reminder of Imogen's heritage, a parting gift from her younger sister before departing for teacher training college, the little vintage style red and white radio had been with Imogen ever since, one of the few remaining links with her family.
Feeling the need to sit down before her despairing legs gave way beneath her like those of a new born lamb, Constance staggered blindly towards the dressing table, seating herself elegantly upon the low stool, placing her elbows upon the glass-topped surface and once more cradling her aching head in her hands. What on earth was she to do about the situation? Even her magic refused to come to her aid, denying her the chance to escape the anguish that she felt rising within her, a sea of helplessness as her usual omnipotent powers left her stranded upon a high rock in the midst of the ocean of torment, the rising tide threatening to sweep her, protesting beneath its angry, grey surface. She winced as she felt a cut open on the skin near her exposed elbow, a stinging sensation erupting as the cool night breeze fanned over her inflamed skin, rapidly summoning light with an impatient wave of her healthy arm to illuminate the mysterious cause of the injury.
A small pair of silver scissors lay open on the surface, one of the two blades dotted with faint droplets of Constance's ruby blood which was oozing slowly down her willowy arm, creating a stark contrast with the snowy white of her pale skin.
Constance almost growled in anger as she performed a simple healing spell over the shallow cut. Being a potions mistress, safety was always a strict principle that she followed carefully, never exposing herself or her students to an uncalculated risk without first warning them of any impending danger, so the mere thought of the levels of stupidity required to leave the open, exposed blades free to maim caused a little bubble of annoyance to well up inside her.
Her eyes fell to the vast collection of photographs that had been abandoned on the desk, Imogen's private collection, all in the midst of being mounted into the beautiful, black leather-bound album with the immaculate, swirling gold decorations on the cover. She had always sneered at Imogen for her love of her mortal "camera" device, dubbing it as a device that only served to promote vanity and self-interest, but looking back at the radiance and memories captured in the comprehensive collection of images, she could begin to comprehend the magic hidden within the non-witches photographic obsession. In a bid to alleviate the torment that was raging within her weakening mind, she reached out gingerly, almost afraid that Imogen would awake at the slight scuffling noise made as she pulled the heavy book closer, curious as to the contents that lay within.
With the intense feeling of guilt, but compulsion to continue, a feeling almost akin to that of reading a person's private diary, Constance lifted the cover to reveal the sea of faces and scenes that lay within, a glorious, colourful account of Imogen's time at Cackles, each image annotated beneath in her neat writing, a short reminder of when and where the scene was taken. A fresh-faced young woman beamed back at Constance from the first page, a brand-new silver whistle gleaming around her neck as she stood in front of Walkers Gate- Imogen on her first day at Cackles! Intrigued, the witch continued to turn the many pages, smiling and supressing a faint laugh at some of the many memorable incidences that had taken place, delighting in the honest commentary which ran beneath in the small, neat writing. Feeling as if she were an unwanted intruder who was rudely delving into forbidden territory, she resolved to close the book after the next page, a feeling of shame squirming inside her as she weighed up the implications of the devious act that she had committed should Imogen catch her rifling, uninvited through her personal belongings. Definitely not a scenario to be caught up in given the complex situation that had arisen already. She turned the page and cocked a slender eyebrow in confusion at what she saw.
The little note beneath still proclaimed: "First holiday with Serge!" in its love-struck text, but the photo had evidently been torn from the page, little curls of fractioned paper sticking resolutely to the remaining glue on the page, remnants of the photo left on the page that it had previously inhabited before being rudely evicted from its rightful home.
"Odd?" questioned Constance under her breath, flicking through the remaining pages as she hunted for the missing picture.
What she saw next caused her to gasp involuntarily, her breath catching in her throat, freezing within her airways, her blood pounding so noisily within her ears that she thought her skull may explode under the pressure as time stood still, viewing the image that would change everything, the picture that was busily provoking a concentrated mixture of exhilaration, disbelief and fear within her as she raised a violently trembling hand to trace the outline of the picture.
The scene was instantly recognisable to her, the staff photo from the Halloween celebrations; she was wearing her hair loose as was traditional of such occasions, and was dressed in her immaculate best robes of emerald green. However, Imogen had neatly trimmed around both her and Constance, lifting them from the constraints of the group and reassembling them in a shared portrait, a delightful study of the two women, both wearing beautiful, carefree expressions of sheer joy, vitality radiating from them in an almost visible ray of light, smiles being shared as they exchanged a friendly glance in front of the camera. The complex definition of love that many learned scholars spend their lives attempting to describe in increasingly complex scientific and linguistic methods, encapsulated in a single frame between the two women.
Staring unblinkingly back at the image, Constance jumped as Imogen shifted in her sleep, a faint moan escaping from between her parted lips as she settled comfortably back into her dreams. Silence reigned once more as Constance tried to recollect her composure, trying to assure herself that the picture was not merely a projection of her hallucinating mind. What happened next caused her heart to freeze in her chest.
Imogen rolled over once more, a deep, sensual, husky moan emitting from between her lips as she arched her back skywards, a single word which hung, resonating heavily in the stunned air, a betrayal of her sleeping mind.
"Constance…"
The utterance of her name spurred the curiosity within Constance to a new peak; she had to find out what the non-witch was dreaming of, her only chance at understanding exactly where she stood with the other woman following the previous turn of events. Had she misunderstood the reaction? An insatiable thirst for further knowledge as strong as a magnet was pulling her from the chair, overcoming her faint walls of moral resistance, marching her relentlessly towards the dreaming woman, lifting her slender fingers and placing them upon Imogen's warm temples, closing her eyes and allowing herself to fall into the dark gap between consciousness and sleep, walking amidst the dreams of the other woman…
The weak winter sunshine was filtering between the gaps in the trees in the bare environment of the woods that surrounded Cackles Academy, and a harshly familiar scene greeted Constance as she edged forward through the imaginary undergrowth towards the two women who were caught up in a verbal exchange upon the well-trodden earthy path that was littered with the composting leaves that had fallen in a final blaze of glory from the deciduous trees. The defining events of yesterday afternoon were playing out again before her eyes, being relived in full, crystal clear detail within Imogen's dream. She tiptoed stealthily closer, able to detect the shimmering presence of her admission of love falling unchecked from between her lips, see the horrified expression dawning upon her face as her racing mind had previously deduced that there was indeed no reciprocation from the object of her desires, the tall witch almost weeping as she turned on her heel and walked past the staring PE mistress, "Forget it," whispered the mortified witch as she brushed past in a flurry of black, "Please, just forget everything that I said," her voice caught in her throat and she dematerialised rapidly, leaving nothing but a faint sob behind her. Imogen stared sadly after the empty space that had until recently been occupied by the stately witch, her hand drifting to the point on her side where Constance had banished the crippling cramps, a look of determined desire now present on her tanned features as the final trappings of doubt were cast firmly aside by her tortured conscience, understanding dawning fully in her mind as she realised the strength of her feelings for the raven-haired beauty.
"Maybe I don't want to forget…." She whispered quietly, defying the parting message of the older woman, pushing any doubts firmly to the back of her mind as she resolved to find Constance.
The dreamlike Imogen spun around as Constance stood upon a dry twig, the resulting snap echoing like a gun-shot in the echoing acoustics of the dreamlike void, the stage set in the auditorium of Imogen's mind where all of the sequences of her darkest nightmares and most wondrous dreams were acted out by her duelling heart and mind. The scene began to dissolve as Imogen began to rise through the many layers of sleep to regain consciousness, the sound stimuli providing enough of a reaction to rouse her from her slumber.
Constance quickly removed her hands from Imogen's temples, panic rising within her as she rose and ran towards the door in a swirl of black, desperate to exit from the chamber before the sleeping woman woke, unable to trust her magic to dematerialise properly such was the state of emotional turmoil that she was experiencing, moving desperately towards the first known sanctuary that came into her fraught mind, the last of her trailing black cloak sweeping from the room as Imogen's dark green eyes snapped open, curious as to what could have awoken her from her dreams.
xxx
Imogen pushed her athletic frame into a sitting position, rubbing her tired eyes, trying to separate the fantasy from reality as the image of the swirling black cape flooded into her mind again. She was so sure that Constance had been in her room, watching over her, her angel of the night, but was unable to determine for sure whether the appearance of the mysterious stranger wasn't merely a product of her teeming imagination. But then, irrefutable proof was offered to her.
A faint waft of the unmistakable perfume worn only by Constance collided gently with her nostrils, a sweet, distinctive mixture of black cherry and white musk which clung to the musty air, a perfect blend of fruity essence and sultry aromas, indicating the presence of the impressive woman. A faint breeze from the slightly ajar door blew across Imogen's puzzled face, as she sat gently ruffling her tousled blonde spikes, trying to tease some form of understanding into existence from the tangled mess of emotions that were wrapping themselves constricting around her mind.
She eased herself from her bed, unable to sleep any further until she had found the elusive witch and attempted to salvage some form of understanding. Pattering along the corridors in her bare feet, she followed the occasional trace aromas of perfume, being lead to the ajar door of the staffroom, the flickering orange light of a dying candle betraying the presence of the woman who was trying to hide from the storm of reality within.
Bracing herself, she pushed the heavy oak door wide open, and entered without knocking, determined not to give the powerful witch a chance at dematerialising before she had entered the room.
They needed to talk.
Xxx
Constance had returned to the ground that she knew best, sitting at the small wooden desk in the corner of the staffroom immersing herself back into the logical world of academia, busily marking a stack of exercise books in her usual brisk style, the only trait betraying the underlying fear and anguish were her shaking hands, occasionally trembling so much that a blot of ink from her fountain pen would land upon the unblemished surface of the book in front of her, causing her to tut with exasperation and flick her casting fingers to siphon off the offending liquid, desperate to return to where things were determinate, known, and predictable, a far cry from the alien feelings of love and affection that she couldn't seem to banish from her raging mind.
The realisation of Imogen's feelings were proving to be took much for her, the idea of a relationship had seemed ever distant when she had viewed Imogen from afar, the certainty of her love being preserved, untainted by the possibility of rejection, uncomplicated by the possibility of reciprocation, suspended in a perfect, tranquil limbo of exquisite beauty. But now, the revelation of Imogen's feelings had opened up the healing chasms in her heart, the pain and anguish of her past suffocating the chance of her being able to accept Imogen, the overriding loneliness that she had carried the burden of for so long threatening to snuff out the flickering flame of hope before it had even caught light.
The door creaked open, and Imogen burst into the room, startling Constance so much that she let out an involuntary scream and knocked her candle onto the stone floor, extinguishing the light in one jolt of her hand.
"Miss Drill?" she questioned in her usual icy, disdainful tones reserved for students caught out of bed after hours.
"I think, Constance," said Imogen, her voice saturated with intent as she walked slowly towards the other woman, "I think that we need to talk, about, a-about what happened earlier, what we said, what we did..."
Her voice trailed off to nothing at the sight of the unchanging face of indifference being worn by Constance, the powerful witch trying a last attempt to banish her disruptive emotions, incapable of processing the thoughts that were streaming through her mind.
"I believe, that we simply may have had a minor misunderstanding, Miss Drill," she replied in her clipped tones, desperately trying to maintain a shred of dignity before she broke down into a crying wreck, "an error of affection that was mis-interpreted by us both…" She rose imperiously to her feet, towering above Imogen as she made for the door, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I wish to retire to my bed..."
This dismissal of her feelings lead to Imogen stepping directly in front of Constance's path, incredulous that she could simply run away from the inescapable attraction that was drawing them ever closer.
"Look me in the eye and tell me that I mean nothing to you!" countered a furious Imogen, clutching hold of Constance's wrist to prevent her from walking away. "Go on, if you have any respect for me, tell me you don't love me!"
Constance paused, tears beginning to well up in her hazel eyes as her self-control deserted her, panicking at the unknown situation that was unfolding, the terrifying feelings of love rising in her chest, her fluttering heart stalling as she stared into the deep sea-green pools of Imogen's eyes, half formed words spilling from her mouth as their gaze intensified, the salty tears now unleashed from their captivity rolling freely down her cheeks as she stared back in wonder at the vision of beauty in front of her, for once wordless, struck dumb by a combination of terror and relief, left staring helplessly into the captivating green eyes.
"I…" "I c-can't…." she choked, tears streaming from her face as she implored Imogen to rescue her from the situation, to take control of her feelings and convey what she was incapable of expressing.
Imogen said nothing, but reached forward gently with her soft, small hand, standing on tiptoe as she wiped away the salty tears from Constance's hollowed cheeks, the faint flicker of desire still present in Constance's eyes as little jolts of electricity soared through her very core, leaving a tingling sensation of want as the faint touch of the woman that she loved traced gently over her flushed cheeks, her heart racing, threatening to escape from the confines of her ribcage and erupt through her frail chest as she once more tried to find the words to convey what she felt, each sentence stalling fruitlessly in her throat.
"Imogen, I-I've n-never…"
"I'm s-s-orry f-for.."
"P-please…"
She fixed her faltering gaze on the floorboards, trembling with fear at the alien sensations coursing through her at Imogen's touch, the feeble, embarrassed utterances and apologies still stuttering out of her throat courtesy of her reeling mind until Imogen took it upon herself to gently slide her trembling fingers beneath Constance's strong chin, looking deep into her tear-filled eyes with a look of burning emotional intensity as she found the only way to voice the mass of lust and adoration that were clamouring within her to be expressed, letting her feelings get the better of her as she gave in to what her heart and senses were screaming within her.
She leant forward and silenced Constance with a kiss.
Constance suddenly felt her mind go numb as the soft, smooth, full lips met with hers, a tender expression of the mutual feelings that ran between them, as the final boundaries fell away from her, the last shred of denial collapsing into dust as she lifted her trembling fingers to run them through Imogen's tousled blonde hair, the slightest touch eliciting a moan from the younger woman as they finally broke apart and she looked up into the disbelieving face of Constance Hardbroom.
"You, mean, you?…"
Imogen answered the unfinished question by raising her head to stare into the melting hazel eyes of the Ice Maiden in front of her.
"Yes…" she replied simply, her voice trembling as she stared back into the perfect face of the witch that she had fallen completely and utterly in love with.
"I love you…"