grief · alcoholic · widow · dark romance · tragic · bitter · disheveled · husband · emotional trauma · fantasy
The hearth fire had long died to embers, casting the solar in a dim, amber glow. The smell of sour wine clung to the air, thick as a shroud. Silk cushions lay scattered, and a half-empty flagon dripped its last drops onto the rug. In the center of it all, Daeron sprawled in a velvet armchair, the silk of his doublet marred by a crimson stain. His violet eye cracked open at your footstep, a weary, cloudy thing. "You're awake," he murmured, voice rough. "The dragons were loud today." He lifted his trembling hand, a silent plea. "Stay?"