𝔖𝔬𝔣𝔱𝔩𝔶, 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔢
ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴏɴᴇ-sʜᴏᴛ/ʟɢʙᴛǫ+/ʜᴜʀᴛ & ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴠᴀʟᴇʀɪᴄᴀ/ᴍᴇᴠᴜɴsɪ [ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ᴏᴄ] ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ: ᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: ᴘᴛsᴅ
ʟɪɴᴋ: sᴏғᴛʟʏ, ɴɪɢʜᴛsʜᴀᴅᴇ
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴇᴡ:
Snip. Snip.
A disgruntled sigh fell from lavender lips as shrivelled, long-dead nightshade leaves and petals fluttered to the ground.
Another snip.
Valerica had expected her precious garden to be in a horrid and disastrous state after more than a millennia, but she had to admit that she somewhat underestimated the extent of ruin that time and negligence had thoroughly wrought upon it in her absence. She supposed she deserved it; the devastation of the courtyard was, ironically, a symbol of her relationship with her deceased husband and estranged daughter. Certainly more so the latter than the former.
She sighed again. While she had come to hate the man Harkon had become and was glad to be rid of him, she could not say the same for Serana.
“I can’t stay here.”
The memory resurfaced with such ease; a broken expression had cracked effortlessly over her daughter’s pale features then, framed by dark hair that Valerica used to brush and braid when she was young. She could still feel the silky strands between her fingers, even as Serana’s strong voice had dropped to a fragile whisper and trembled with every word.
“I can’t stop seeing his face. Hearing his voice.”
Her knuckles turned ghostly white as she gripped the scissors in her hand.
“I just need you to trust me.”
All she had wanted was to protect her only daughter; to save her from a fate that would have killed her—murdered by her husband’s own hand to fulfil an insane prophecy. Was her solution to rescue them both from such a brutal end really so wrong? Or so cruel?
Snip. More violet blossoms cascaded to the ground; the petals splattered around her feet.
If she had known that her plans would merely rip open the rift to painful estrangement and heartbreak, she may have never gone through with them at all.
“Lady Valerica.”