“I want to see you smile. To see you happy.“ ( idk just,,, alksdjf )
“I am happy,” she promises, urgent, for she cannot bear to be the cause of any misunderstanding between them.
Her hands reach for him with a steadiness that is newly acquired because Deirdre has been taught to neither take nor want. But the allure of how they fit together had always been too great to deny herself. Sigurd was too charming and spoke too candidly of the kind of love she thought confined to the realm of fiction.
Sometimes the only smiles she has to offer him are those marred by the harrowing awareness of a prophecy hanging over her head. The one Sigurd had still loved her in spite of. If only her beloved knew that he was the reason she could smile at all.
Affectionately, she nuzzles into the palm of a broad hand, “My happiness is bound up with your own. I am most happy when you are, my love.” Her heart could not possibly hold any more happiness than she already has, she thinks. Not without bursting.












