Sweetness - Chapter 19: Rosamund
A Durge x Astarion Reimagining
It's not about fixing him, or fixing her. It's about being seen. Every part of them, especially the ugly.
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The arc of electric light provides just enough shadow for Rosamund to snake back to the center of the hall unnoticed, closing in on the final guard like a ghost in the fog. She feels her ribs knit together in excitement as she slithers up behind him, inching close enough to smell the nerves of sweat beading on his brow. Every cell of blood sings in her veins as she lunges, her dagger shredding through the rear tendons of his knees. He folds like a rag doll, the pain eliciting an excruciating howl that vibrates through each of Rosamund’s grinding teeth.
Before the young guard can collapse to the floor, she threads her ravenous fingers through his hair and lifts his head. With an uninvited smile creeping across her lips, she pulls her dagger deeply across his throat. Dark, thick blood cascades down his chest, gleaming like rubies as it coats the ridges of his silver armor.
Loosening her grip and allowing the man to fall, Rosamund rises to standing, her limbs unfurling like the reanimation of a corpse. She lifts her gaze to find Astarion staring with amusement, his eyes flitting from her to the man lying flayed at her feet.
“Well, then. There’s that touch of bloodlust that I do adore so much,” he jests, though his mask of twisted admiration slips for no more than a second, revealing a more subtle look of pity beneath. The contradiction in his words and countenance give her pause, just long enough to pull her from her frenzied state.
Panic rises in her throat as the euphoria of bloodlust dissipates as the reminder of what races through her veins becomes violently clear. She tries to wipe to blood coating her hands but her vision blurs again, the edges swimming with a maniacal red static.
This isn't her, this isn't right, this isn’t real.
She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to steady herself, the dark doing little to stop the influx of mania, when a sudden, cold touch wraps itself around her trembling hand.
Her breath stops, but his touch remains. Gently at first, Astarion presses his fingertips into her palm with a steady rhythm, mimicking that of a calming heartbeat– exactly as Gran would.
Her eyes flutter open in confusion as relief blooms in her chest. The cadence of his touch slows to a stop, but his hand never disconnects, the light chill of his skin clearing the haze in her eyes.
Astarion ducks his head to catch her eye line. “Come now, we’re not done yet,” he says in an even voice, shifting his body to conceal their intertwined hands as Wyll and Karlach approach.
written with the support of my friends at @realhousewivesbg3
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