And it isn’t like a light bulb clicking or a momentary spark. It isn’t a grand moment of understanding. It isn’t anything but a tangled snarl of sickening memories clotting her heart, her mind. The painful reality. The simple, ugly truth— that she’s cold, and she’s wounded, and she’s tired there, shivering in his arms from a hundred little cuts harbored in the shadow of a past she can’t change.
The lights go dim on that scene, and the air is frigid as his fingers, and he continues coursing them on in slowed patters falling down across her head. Her neck. Her shoulders.
“You were there when he died.” Astarion says, like a digging reminder. Like a segue.
no subject
And it isn’t like a light bulb clicking or a momentary spark. It isn’t a grand moment of understanding. It isn’t anything but a tangled snarl of sickening memories clotting her heart, her mind. The painful reality. The simple, ugly truth— that she’s cold, and she’s wounded, and she’s tired there, shivering in his arms from a hundred little cuts harbored in the shadow of a past she can’t change.
The lights go dim on that scene, and the air is frigid as his fingers, and he continues coursing them on in slowed patters falling down across her head. Her neck. Her shoulders.
“You were there when he died.” Astarion says, like a digging reminder. Like a segue.
She was there. She wept. She fought. She pleaded.
And so.
“He knew you cared.”