Lore [4/???]

Somewhere deep in their psyche, Jordan is glad they can't get sentimental.

They walk past Vardah's bedside table and, for the tenth time, fail to pick up the loose books there.

It should be easy.

Pick it up. Put it in the cardboard box.

But they're stalling. Their hand hesitates, fingers trembling in a physical response that doesn't match their emotions.

Jordan gives up again.

They go to her dresser, absently tossing clothes into another box. Her closet gets the same rough treatment, garments and shoes alike.

They don't notice the texture of the clothes they touch, the colors, the scent of her perfume in the air.

There is no grief.

There can't be grief.

They pace toward the side table, roughly grabbing the closest book and ending this stupid game they're playing with themaelf.

The dust cover is buttery soft under their fingers. Supple green leather reminds them of her - how she would open the library door to them with a smile and that book in hand.

The feel of her skin beneath theirs. 

Jordan digs their nails into the cover. Their hands want to tear it apart. Rip it until there is no discernable color left. But their mind slips away from that urge, desperate to get this done and over with.

Once it's over with, they can forget. 

They turn to drop the book into a cardboard box, but they freeze when they smell it.

Smell her.

Sugared roses, the most fantastic scent they've ever experienced. 

Their eyes raise to the door. It's open, the light from the library spilling through.

There's a shadow standing in the doorway.

No. 

No, this can't --

They saw --

They saw her go --

They 𝘀⃥ 𝗮⃥ 𝘄⃥

"Vardah?" they breathe.

"Hi, dearest," she says. But her voice... Christ, her voice. 

It's not her voice. It's --

"No."

'Vardah' slips into the large room, closing the door. For a while, Jordan is blinded by the lack of light. They lose track of her in that middle-distant dark.

And then she's standing on the edge of the light pooling from Vardah's bedroom.

Jordan can see her toes - filthy with mud, a little bloody from brambles. Can see her ankles - swollen, discolored.

"I assume I didn't pass the test," Vardah giggles, toes curling into the carpet. "It's the voice, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Jordan replies as if they didn't watch the real Vardah get dragged into the woods. As if this was any normal situation.

"Damn," Vardah sighs. "Well, what can you do? I'm surprised I made it this far so easily."

"You know I can kill you, right?" Jordan asks, voice just as bland as before. "You're not supposed to cross the boundary. It breaks the truce."

"Oh, we are well past that!" she laughs. "But! I am here with a gift for your Headmistress."

"A gift?"

"Yes. And a threat, but just a teeny one. Don't kill the messenger," she adds, stepping fully into the light.

Her smile is too wide.

Her eyes are too wide.

She isn't blinking.

Jordan doesn't recoil, but they do make a face. "Christ, you did a number on her."

"Well, she's dead now, so I'm the one feeling it."

"Hopefully it hurts."

"Boy, do I have good news for you, then!"

"Stop!" they snap so suddenly that it surprises them.

The thief smirks at Jordan through Vardah's brown eyes. The color is muddying, dulling, greying around the edges. "I'm starting to sound more like her, huh?"

Jordan doesn't reply - they pick up their phone and dial Deerly.

The Headmistress answers on the fourth ring, groggy and maybe a little drunk.

"Something wearing Vardah came back, and it has a gift for you," Jordan bites out, glaring at the imposter the entire time.

Deerly is quiet for a long time. Then, she growls, "My office. Bring It, too."

"Alive?" Jordan verifies.

The thing wearing Vardah grins wider.

"Alive," Deerly insists.

Jordan sighs. "Boring." And then hangs up the phone. To her, they gesture. "C'mon."

Not-Vardah traipses out of the room on her bare feet, leaving dirty and bloody marks as she goes.