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Valandia stared at her hands, the scarlet crimson seeping into the creases of her oak brown skin. Her eyes were wide, bright orange almost swallowed by the yawning crevasse of her pupils.
“Good job Valandia,” Beren’s voice was a warm rumble in her pointed ear, but their pride simply made the nausea within her claw at her throat, “I knew you could do it, for me.”
She could. She did. She did it for them, “I love you,” her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears, but rested their horned head upon hers, and she knew her uncertainty was forgiven.
Still, she couldn’t stop staring. The blood had run down her wrists now, red ribbons that dripped slowly onto the floor.
“You did well,” Beren lifted their head and turned Valandia around, making her face them, rather than the sea of guilt, “I love you too.”
It was okay, Valandia decided, despite the rock that sat in the pit of her stomach. It was okay, because Beren was here, and they were proud of her. And they loved her. That was all that mattered.
She could still see the blood, in the corner of her eye.