where our broken hearts were born; birthing

[leliana]

I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you

She had thought she was alone.

One by one they come, these friends, these loved ones, these protectors (and still, there is more in the shadows, just out of reach, watching over her). It is overwhelming and she wants to shatter beneath her gratitude for their presence. She is so grateful that she doesn’t wilt underneath Cress’ hard stare, doesn’t break with guilt at her friend thinking she was somehow ashamed of her daughter—she wasn’t. She could never feel anything but an outpouring of love. “Of course she’s perfect,” she whispers quietly, watching as her daughter finds her feet and down her side. There is the familiar pull as she finds the milk.

It is a nostalgic feeling, a flood of warmth in her chest, and she closes her eyes against it, lets the strange sensation of motherhood once again wrap her in its embrace. When Khuma comes up her side, plucking at her mane and soothing her, she leans slightly away—wishing that she could accept the physical attention as easily as she once might have. She feels instant shame for the movement. Still, at her reassurances, she just nods. Swallowing back the guilt that she has somehow brought harm to her child and instead just focusing on how glad she is that she is whole and breathing and healthy. That she is alive.

She laughs lightly at Cress' joke but grows somber at Khuma’s offer to find Vulgaris. Her head swims slightly and she feels the wound prick on her wing. It has healed, of natural time instead of her own intervention, and the scar remains. It still feels like it just happened though. It still feels as if his weight was still pressing on her spine, as if his fangs were still sinking into that fleshy joint. She shudders and then shakes her head, exhaustion finding her way into her features once more, bruising her eyes.

“No, that’s okay,” her voice is quiet, and she isn’t sure if she should say more—if she should divulge what has happened. But she doesn’t want to tell his sister of what has happened, what has transpired between them. It feels like a betrayal and she forces herself to smile. “He’s asked for a little space,” because it is the kindest way that she can think of saying what he truly said, what he truly did. “It’s okay.”

Of course it’s not but she doesn’t have the heart to think on it more, to slip back into the tide of her numbness. She fights to hold onto this moment, onto this clarity she feels when she looks at her beautiful daughter. She scrambles for it, clutches at it, holds it close to her chest, the flame flickering dangerously.

“She’s perfect,” she repeats again, watching her daughter’s wings shift. “So perfect.”