Snippet of a fic (wip) inspired by this sketch of mine

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De Sardet woke to the sensation of cold air invading her warm skin, a thousand needles stabbing at her as if she were the universe’s sad little pin cushion. Her breath came in short and uncontrolled gasps, heart pounding violently against the walls of her chest, threatening to burst at any second. Sweat trickled down her face and lingered on her palms. Her palms. She didn’t even notice the fresh red marks that decorated them, scars in the shape of crescent moons, bold crimson and violet. Evidence of her having plunged her nails into the soft flesh of her hands while she slept. She cared not for the fact that her hair, black as a crow’s feather, clung onto her face and made her look like a mess. Nor for the tears spilling out of her eyes, dampening her tidy white blouse. The guards stared at her, and the servants whispered, but in those moments she shut them out of her world, acting as if they were never there. 

She tread barefoot through the halls of the governor's estate; hands grasping onto the walls for support, her form void of a legate’s grace and composure. It wasn’t long before she found his room, and forced open the massive, wooden doors. 

“Do I not pay you guards enough to KNOCK?” A familiar, comforting voice said. 

Constantin. Oh, her sweet Constantin. He was still alive. 

The young governor’s eyes widened at the sight of his dear cousin. Rather, at the fact that the girl he knew his entire life to be composed, elegant, and near perfect, was at his door, panic in her eyes and dressed in a flimsy shirt and pants.

“My lucky star… is everything alright?” He said, dazed and confused. Immediately she charged at him, and wrapped her arms around him as tight as she could, taking in his form, checking to make sure he was actually there, he was real, and that her mind was not playing a sick, cruel trick on her. 

“Oh, Constantin,” she said through a sob, her voice wavering and cracked. “You’re still here. You’re still alive.”

He placed his palm on the back of her head, running it down her hair in a careful and slow motion, protecting and holding the one thing he loved most in this world, as if touching her any other way would shatter and break all the stars in his galaxy. 

“Of course I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he whispered. His presence was like finding the soft promise of warmth within a raging storm. It gave her strength, gave her comfort. She held onto him tighter, digging her face into his shoulder. He smelled of sweet wine and the pages of old fairytale books. 

“I had the most horrid dream.” She mumbled. “You… you were dying. The malichor—you went mad looking for a cure. I…” the next sentence made her stomach churn. It was as if a rock had managed to lodge itself tighter and tighter into her throat every time she tried to utter the words. Another tear fell. He continued to hold her. “A dagger. You offered me a dagger and I watched you die,” her voice grew louder. “I held you in my arms as you disappeared.”