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beholdingthedead · 1 year

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Bloodborne headcanon / plot:

“Stay away from him,” Laurence hissed, tugging at Damian’s left arm with a meagre amount of strength. The aloof, lackadaisical student cranes his head, having to look up at the lanky specimen of tender, tremulous flesh, of whom had begun to shake, with perhaps anger or fear. In Damian’s decried apathy, he had not been able to distinguish which.

Perhaps it started from when he was young. Anguish, yes, was an emotion Damian often had felt. With the abandonment of his father and with the death of his mother he was trapped in a scalping loop of it. The endless waves of misery, crashing against his senseless form like a tsunami. It was something he became acquainted with, something he danced with on nights as gentle as this. Few else looked. Dashes of incredulous fury, perhaps, a soft, corrosive wrath and then that misery again. And again and again. Something else formed one day. Encased around his heart like a placid layer of ice. Some sort of dreary apathy. A sort of nothing that left him breathless. No regard for the world, he had, sometimes. In those times he had been the worse, he thinks. Stolen like it was for the chase. Shouted like it was for the adrenaline. And cut like it was… Damian shakes his head. That sort of disregard was dangerous, wasn’t it? He would not know. And he never would. In the future, he would find comfort in the looming abyss set upon his heart. That expulsion of feeling would be all that kept him from killing those around him, from going beastly and gnawing at the flesh of those before him. Micolash is so beautiful. Would he look as pretty strung from his guts..?

Laurence’s idle, wasteful threats did not deter Damian from watching Micolash. He just resolutely does so from farther. While quieter. (While hungrier.) Micolash flourishes without him, teaching a new band of students beneath the apprehensive eyes of the sane ones around him. Provost Willem, in particular, is wearily disapproving of this newfound mentorship Micolash has been thrust into. His ideas are dangerous, Willem had grumbled. His mind not yet matured, Willem had grumbled. With a heavy heart, he is still sick, Willem had grumbled. Damian watches Micolash laugh boyishly at something one of the students say, eyes twinkling with a darkened hue of asinine passion. Damian could not disagree with Willem. Micolash is terribly ill. Damian can feel his heart flutter in his chest. A smile blooms on his slender face. Micolash grips his head as he cheers, enthused by something mystical and unreal, eyes welling up with special tears (surely meant for Damian’s eyes alone, at this moment.) The students around Micolash roar, emboldened by the hearty rally of the insane man, inspired by the unabashed horror before them, not at all comprehending but all too willing to be subservient for such a fool. In the future, none but Damian would be comprehensible enough to regret becoming so infatuated by Micolash’s idea. Looking at the creature before him bellow, Damian could understand it, truly, he could. When you watch someone so irreparably sing falsehoods, it was hard to deny the charisma of it. In the future, Laurence, Willem, and Micolash would all be sordid, tremendous examples of such a concept. You could preach blasphemy with enough beauty— enough of this. Damian breathes in the sight of Micolash. Micolash is so, so beautiful.

It had taken a few weeks after Micolash had recovered for Damian to muster up enough courage (empathy) to face Micolash. Many words began to entangle themselves deep within the crevasses of his throat, many of a disturbed variety. He wanted to admit he had been watching Micolash. He wanted to cry into Micolash’s arms. He wanted to laugh at him. With everyone … Damian tries to tear the mildewed thoughts from his ephemeral head, instead allowing a soft quiet to encompass his harrowing form. He knocks once. Twice. Or was it thrice? Micolash’s door creaks open and there stood the passing enigma. Damian feels the beautiful poems of haunted love die within his soured mouth at the loutish, sedative sight of his muse, his (dear) friend. He could count every eyelash. Every blemish on the surface of his friend’s brooding skin. He could count on his hands the amount of times he’s made Micolash cry. When confronted with such a heavenly face (starved to shackled bones, looking rotted, at times), Damian often felt aptly silenced, oppressed by the skewed, comforting image in his head. “Micolash,” he begins, head bowing in respect (or was he acting?), eyes fitted to the floor. “I know I’ve done you wrong. I have. Please, won’t you..? Forgive me, I’ve not meant any of this, I..” a sudden clarity tramples all the thoughts in Damian’s lamenting head. If Micolash were to cast him aside, he would have nothing. No education. No prestige. No.. he.. he wouldn’t have Micolash, most importantly. (Why did that not cross his mind? When he dared to laugh? How dare he? Why, when he gazed upon Micolash’s rancid vulnerability had he laughed? Conspiring with all the other twisted beasts of Byrgenwerth? What had become of him? Once, he had been kind. Once, he had been young. Once, he was starving.) Damian feels his heart grow heavy. “I’m sorry.. I’m sorry, I..”

“..What are you on about?”

It had grown serious. He could not remember the date, at times, and often he would find himself staring into a vacuous space for hours on end, unable to truly comprehend what was before his eyes, veiled so gently by tear-stricken spires of black eyelashes. Sometimes, Micolash would think himself back there again. He pictures it so deeply, the sensation culling over his humanistic skin, coddling him in a deepened comfort. Come back to us, they would whisper. Come back, they say. To your true home, his eyes grow irreparably soft, to us, Micolash, to me, she says (something wondrously odd that perhaps he forgot long ago, when he was born, when they all were. How shall he forget this time? He solemnly pries the temptation from his mind. To fling himself to the ocean. To join her. To join them. To go home). Days bleed heavy and Micolash cannot find himself entertained by the current stream of humanity he surrounds himself with. The disillusioned, enchanted hoards of students that infatuate themselves with his wasteful ideals of harrowing madness. At first it had sent his heart asunder, fluttering, with a gored tenderness; but now, as his eyes stare blankly at his lecture, he cannot find himself whimsied by the dreary state of human skin and bedazzled eyes. For what, could compare to her? She smiles, with her single row of jagged, suckling teeth, her cacophony of eyes shredding into his memories. Micolash, enthralled by her disfigured beauty watches her, not noticing that a student has taken note of his lack of vision and has guided him to the epicentre of the room, the equator of their hungered, escaping gazes, gently pushed into a wooden, ratty chair. Micolash watches her. The students watch Micolash, desperately hoping to see her reflected off his eyes. The students watch in wonderment, leaning in and whisking themselves away into the faint whispering of Micolash, host of the daydream. “..the Great Lake of Mud.. the, ah, the..?” The students hold each other’s hands and wring their heads lower, in prayer, hoping to inspire her to impart her name. “What was that..? A little louder, once more?” One student begins to cry, wishing so desperately for the prophet to succeed (so she may leave, so they all could. To escape the horrible dichotomy of being alive, of being conscious. For what could be a fate worse than birth?). “…I hear you! I hear you! I- I- Open my eyes! I heard you, back then, in the water! When I drowned! It was you! My child, the bearer of my miseries! Rom!” Silence. The one student who had been crying hiccups. The world tears into sobs. Rom, Rom, Rom, they chant. Bring us to the Great Lake of Mud, won’t you?

“You cannot dismiss me, Master Willem! What is the meaning of this?” Micolash looks at his Provost in scandalized shock, an acute anguish beginning to retract off his darkened orbs of blinding, mindless sight. The Provost flinched at the look of the scalding, quiet betrayal.

“It was not my decision, Micolash. I am simply honouring the request of your parents. They wish as we do,” Laurence, hiding, feels some tears cling to his waterline. “For your recovery. You are.. sick.” Willem sounds flawed at that moment, vulnerable in the shame he expresses. “They will send you to a safe place for you to recover. Until you are well, I’ve no choice but to suspend you…”

Micolash stares, wizened eyes turning a curled shade of quivering rage. “Suspend? Me?” Something odd thrums in his chest, beating like a war drum. Micolash is seething, he realizes. “How.. how dare you! Sick? You liken me to those who are sick? To those bloodthirsty vermin in the wards? To those maddened bastards sent to the gallows? To those irreparable defilements locked in cages because their families are too scared to tend to them?” There is a lucid sneer writ upon Micolash’s grim features, gaunt and impossible. His lips tingle with the need to smile. “I.. I am in disbelief over your naivety.. me? Sick? No, no, I’ve never been in such a state! I can hear her! Don’t you get it? She sings to me! Finally… after all I prayed for! To be brilliant, to be special, to be.. loved. Finally, she whispered to me! Yet you and that harlot and that drunkard wish to send me away? From my students? From my.. from.. ooh, what was it again? No, no, you can’t! I will not stand for it.. I will not! If you will not harken in my new world, then you are not welcome in it.. I will not let you! I will not have her taken from me! You would sooner have to rip her out from my eyes! You greedy monster! You, you! Ooh, she whispered! So loud, I could hear it..! Hahah! What was it again? My dream.. it’s so close..” his eyes fog and Damian watches with a snide smile, waiting with a baited breath for the maladaptive daydreamer to escape from this reality with him. To run away with him. “Provost Willem, why am I..? Ooh, I can’t recall.. ah! Suspend! Me! There shall be no nightmare large enough to contain a mind so sullen! You think to send me away? Just try to catch me!” With feet as light as raindrops and feathers, Micolash runs, followed quietly by Damian, his students, and a dream (and something in his mind that, faintly, began to scream). Laurence, whom had been listening in, clutches something in his hand and cries, softly. Willem does not give chase. The moon hangs silent, accompanied by the piano-steps of the madman of Byrgenwerth.

Laurence had been apprehensive but would soon approach Micolash; one day, accompanied by no one and nothing but the idle fall of snow outside, the frigidity clinging to the windows, the white dusting the ground near blinding. Micolash does not seem lucid enough to respond when Laurence calls out, gingerly; such a thing prompts Laurence to hesitate, perhaps, but he does not. For there was something secret happening to him. As Micolash’s mind rotted, as did Laurence’s heart. No sympathy remained, at times. Not for the strange folk of the ocean town, not for the admiring peer among the sea of students, and none for the future and the experiments that would one day end the world. Hesitate, he does not, his justly concern outweighing the little decorum or tact he usually beheld. He shed a fanciful skin of preening feathers and shows a lustrous coat of rustic skin. “Micolash,” he begins, salacious voice dragging into the cold room, dusting the book shelves that surrounded them. “I.. meant to speak with you much earlier, I admit. I wanted to speak about,” he looks at Micolash, for all that the martyr was and will be; perhaps the only one capable of such. “You, Micolash.” The individual in question looks up, eyes covered in a moulded fuzz of passive recollection, remembrance fickle amidst his darkened, harkening gaze. Laurence feels ill. “I.. I am sorry we drifted apart. I am, truly. You are struggling right now,” Micolash’s eyes get a bit colder, absorbing the frost from beyond the veiled windows behind him. “You have been for so long. I’m.. I’m sorry I did not recognize such. You needed someone to guide you. To not exploit or push forth a position that was unbecoming of you. Now look at you. Nothing but a figurehead for those.. vermin.” When Laurence speaks, he does not do so with malice, no matter how disillusioned he may be by the subject matter. He remains tender and deeply sullen, in light of Micolash’s plight. “Micolash.. if I’m honest, I came to beg you. Do not refuse your parent’s wishes. You are sick. Deathly so. Do not let me watch you die. You.. I.. we’ve been together for so long. I’ve been so deeply enchanted by you for what must’ve been centuries. Micolash, you had been my light as I outgrew my frugal life in everlasting grace. Only you. There is not a day that goes by that I do not recall the fondness I beheld for that look in your eyes. The one you had whenever you had an epiphany of sorts. Brighter than the sun, it was. Micolash..” Laurence drops to his knees. Micolash’s eyes widen a tad, still murky and cold but beginning to gleam with something tangible and comprehensible. “I’ve not seen that look in you for so long! We are losing you! I am losing you! To that sickly daydream you’ve tapered yourself to; the one that’s been devoured again and again by your demented hoard of students. By that manipulative bastard: Damien! Don’t you see? Look at me, Micolash! Look at me and hear me well! This is not your destiny. Little do men exist that can match your conniving, beautiful mind. How can you be contented to throw it all away? How can you be so spirited by such a fantastical lie? There is no Rom. There will be nothing awaiting you in that everlasting sea… look at me. Don’t I matter to you? Your- your mother, think of her! You likened her to a harlot; who put such ugly words into your head? That was not your voice, was it..? Please, tell me, was it? I was your dearest friend for so long wasn’t I? In deepest nights, we cried together. When your father’s petty torment grew too much for you to bare, I was there to console you! Not some heretical nightmare; I am real, Micolash! I am real! If you do not wish to be sent away, it’s okay! I will be willing to convince Provost Willem to allow you to stay if you promise me.. give up your dream. This horrible dream that has got you so dearly carried away.. abandon it, and find companionship with Ludwig and I.. continue your studies and become the brilliant scholar we all knew you were destined to be.. Micolash, please..”

His heart felt dreary and heavy, especially as he gazed upon the barely conscious look upon his dear friend’s face. That look of confusion and misrepresentation. As if still locked away in that daydream. It made Laurence sick. He reaches out, perhaps for his own comfort, gripping Micolash’s too thin hands… “Stay with me.. don’t abandon me, please..” Laurence has long since began to cry. “I need you here.. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.. I could not comprehend why you jumped and I shied away! I could not understand the anguish that plighted you and the insanity that has marred you! I will recast all my sins and help you, even if it is too late for me..” the small town, by the ocean.. “Micolash.. why won’t you look at me..?” He pulls Micolash’s hands to his forehead and quivers, gently weeping, darkened eyes culling with a rumbling misery. His lip shakes and he just wishes, so deeply, so secretly, for his friend back. For some semblance of the man, or perhaps boy, he knew to come back. To comfort him as he had so often did when they were young. When Laurence had felt crushed instead of spirited by the expectations placed on him by his studious parents.. only Micolash had been there to shepherd him through the maelstrom of sadness that had frozen around his heart. He can remember it so very clearly. Laurence, the ever sensitive, would run away to Micolash’s home, in the dead of night or in spite of the day, it would not matter. Once he would arrive, the servants would whisk him away to wherever Micolash would be meandering about at the time; and seeing Laurence in such a stricken state, the young scholar would order his servants (with such a steadfast voice that Laurence had once, secretly, swooned over, taken by the empathetic, willful, protective tone of his friend, truly dazzled by being so cared for,) to bring sweets and tea and to not disturb them for at least an hour, lest they be punished (Laurence had witnessed it once before. A new servant had disturbed their quiet time. Had caught Micolash personally brushing the tears away with his slender hands. Had bore witness to the intimacy in the young scholar’s touches. Laurence had felt shamed and thus, Micolash felt acutely annoyed, prompted by the still miserable look upon his friend’s face. He had stood up and straightened his back, still not too tall but tall enough to not strain his neck looking the servant in the eyes. Micolash thoroughly berated the worker, voice emblazoned and cruel, carrying little sympathy for the individual before him. The servant would promptly be fired, never again to find a place in the manor.. much to Laurence’s silent delight.), for certain. In the hour presented, Micolash would listen, would console, and would caress Laurence. His embrace had been so warm.. so tender and so lively, just for him. Micolash had been so tangible then. But now, he roams like a ghost, in Laurence’s mind, it felt like. It hurt him, deeply. To know he had squandered their friendship, it seemed, and perhaps this was his fault.. Micolash should’ve never left him. Left him on that boat and left him for that idle dream.. “Micolash.. look at me.. please..? Won’t you just look at me? Truly, at me! I miss you.. I miss you so much. Not this fiction that has stumbled into your body! It’s not you! Whatever mottled illusion that has begun puppeteering your form, it’s not you! It can’t be, please! Come back to me! Just look at me; why won’t you see me, properly? Micolash.. Micolash..” his shoulders shook as he sobbed, blubbering out all sorts of words, hoping one of them may stick. Micolash stares, oblivious to it all. Laurence, selfishly, wishes Micolash had succeeded. All those days ago. When he had jumped. “Micolash..”

“Laurence? Laurence, is.. is that you?” The would-be vicar’s eyes widen. He looks up and finds Micolash is looking back at him. Not quite aware but still, doing his best to gaze upon Laurence’s disheartened form. Micolash gets down to his knees as well now too, pulling his hands away from the grip that Laurence had thorned into him to instead wrap around Laurence’s quivering form. “There, there, don’t.. don’t cry.. what’s the matter..? Was it your father again?” Laurence, ever the helpless, can do nothing but cry. “Laurence? Won’t you..? Ooh, it’s alright if you cannot speak. I am here for you.. I swear it. I’ll always be here for you! So you needn’t fray your head with such worries, alright? There, let it out.. it’s alright. Laurence..” the man in question does nothing but sob, taking deep solace in a memory of the past. One that would soon fade, he is sure; but for now, he will take quiet, horrible solace in a future that will never be, wishing so desperately that this embrace was true or was not Micolash at all…

Damian decides to make his presence known much later into the night, slipping into the room quietly, making sure to close the door behind himself. Upon his gaze befalls the visage of Micolash clutching a slumbering Laurence, a wistful smile writ upon his (Micolash’s) paled face, the two locked in an embrace reminiscent of something mythological with its decadent beauty. Damian feels a slithering jealousy warm his head and he stares down at Micolash quietly, the other still not noticing, merely smiling into a space only he could see. The frigid man kneels down, careful not to wake Laurence (ever the nuisance. Laurence had already taken enough of Micolash’s life. It was time for Micolash to move on, Damian thought.), steps light as feathers and movement smooth as water. “Micolash. What are you doing?”

The daydreamer recants a look of clarity on his hungered face and looks up, at Damian. Damian shudders a bit. “Damian.. Laurence wasn’t feeling well,” he rakes a goodly hand through the medical professional’s coarse, raven hair. “I was comforting him.. Are you alright? Did you need help sleeping? Was it too dark..?” Damian tilts his head, rotted mind now comprehending the situation at hand. Micolash was playing pretend, locked in a memory, again. It was alright. Damian, ever the generous and loving friend, would wake Micolash from this delusion (to pull him back into the one he was so very fond of). Damian reached out a scouring hand and brushes his fingers against Micolash’s cheek, noting the dazed, confused look place upon his idle muse’s face. “Damian..?”

“Micolash. I should ask you again; what are you doing?”

“I’m—“

“Pretending?” Micolash’s expression morphs, dropping into something fretful. Damian smiles, sweetly. “You’ve no need for this fiction. For this slumbering memory. You are living the future, Micolash; far beyond what we may hope to perceive. Don’t you remember?” Damian’s voice is seductive in its steadfast, lascivious belief, as if gazing upon a muse of religion. Micolash looks a bit pained. “Shall I speak her name?”

“Whose name? What are you on about?”

“Do not be so coy. May I speak your name? Oh.. her baneful name: Rom, the ever-vacuous, the one whom you’ve grown so bewitched and enchanted with. Do not cast her away. What did he tell you, I wonder?” The hand that had previously been caressing Micolash’s face moves down, now tangling itself in Laurence’s hair. “Did he beg? Cry? Were you so naive as to believe him? What sort of fool would believe a liar like this?” His words are laced with a stringent poison. (The little town, beside the water..) “Micolash, look at me,” (I miss you). “You have grown past him. You are so far beyond; beyond me, easily. You’ve outgrown our students. This school, certainly. You were meant for a greatness that we will never understand. We can only hope, and pray, that you take us with you.. Micolash.. cradled by the stars..” (was that the crying of a child in his mind?) “You are the host. Of our benevolent dream. Do not allow yourself for even a moment to entertain such a wicked lie. It will only hurt you. Haven’t I always protected you..?” (He had laughed, blatantly, at the sight of Micolash falling to the ground. But none shall recant such a fact. Invisible as Damian is. No one would remember it. Certainly not Micolash. Ever the sweetest fool.) “If you continue to slip into these memories, your voice will never reach her’s as she does to you. Would you abandon her?” Micolash’s eyes widen and his grip on Laurence loosens. Damian feels his heart flutter. Such a sacrificial heaven he has chosen to dedicate himself to. “Would you? After she has spent so many nights tirelessly whispering to you?” The words feel numb on Damian’s lips. As if they were not his own. Something like stardust glimmers in his eyes. “Micolash?” The individual in question moves, abruptly, putting Laurence down with a meagre amount of grace, the other stirring at the movement, blearily beginning to flutter his eyes open. Micolash stands, a look of lonely ambition written on his features. “Micolash?” The star-swaddled host looks at Laurence and then at Damian before smiling, laughing about something Damian never knew. He leaves the room, followed by Damian, acutely aware of Laurence calling him back in surprise, voice crackling (whether it was from newfound tears or because he had just awoken, they would never know).

TO BE CONTINUED.

#damian bloodborne #bloodborne fanfiction #bloodborne headcanons #laurence bloodborne #bloodborne micolash #bloodborne #micolash host of the nightmare #laurence the first vicar #laurence x ludwig #ludwig bloodborne

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publicdomainbooks · 1 year

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MARLEY'S GHOST. (2)

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers’ and grocers’ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor’s household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow’s pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

Foggier yet, and colder. Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit’s nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge’s keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of “God bless you, merry gentleman! May nothing you dismay!”

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

“You’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?” said Scrooge.

“If quite convenient, sir.”

“It’s not convenient,” said Scrooge, “and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill-used, I’ll be bound?”

The clerk smiled faintly.

“And yet,” said Scrooge, “you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.”

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

“A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!” said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.”

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff.

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word—the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley’s face.

Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own expression.

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang.

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant’s cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge’s dip.

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet’s rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley’s head on every one.

“Humbug!” said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

“It’s humbug still!” said Scrooge. “I won’t believe it.”

#a christmas carol

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noelleai · 1 year

Text

The Valley of Whispers

In the vibrant heart of the Dark World, far from the mundane landscapes of the Card Castle, the Fun Gang ventured into the Valley of Whispers. The air in the valley was filled with a tangible energy, crackling and sparking with each tentative step. Trees twisted and swayed to an unheard rhythm, their leaves changing colors in sync with the pulsating ground.

Noelle led the group, her ears twitching with excitement. Susie followed close behind, a fierce gleam in her eyes. Kris kept a watchful gaze on their surroundings, while Ralsei, his dark fur ruffling in the ever-changing breeze, trailed at the rear.

"Guys, have you ever seen anything like this?" Noelle asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Nah, this place is something else," Susie replied, her voice full of admiration. "I'm loving this."

Ralsei nodded, though his expression held a hint of unease. "It is truly beautiful, but we should remain cautious."

Kris agreed with Ralsei and signed for the group to stay alert. They continued their trek through the valley, the pulsating landscape serving as a rhythmic backdrop to their journey.

As they ventured deeper into the valley, the whispers grew louder, and the Fun Gang started to notice strange, multi-colored orbs floating around them. They seemed to be drawn to the energy of the whispers, their glow intensifying as the sounds grew stronger.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook, and a large creature emerged from the swirling energy. It appeared to be a cross between a salamander and a chameleon, its skin shifting colors rapidly, and its body covered in shimmering, transparent scales. The creature let out a deep, echoing roar, challenging the Fun Gang to a battle.

Noelle clenched her fists, her eyes focused on the creature. "We can handle this, guys. Let's show it what we're made of!"

Susie grinned, her teeth bared. "You got it, Noelle!"

Kris nodded, drawing their sword, while Ralsei prepared a spell. The battle commenced, the Fun Gang working together like a well-oiled machine.

The creature lunged at them, its massive tail swinging like a whip. Noelle dodged the attack, sliding between its legs and casting a freezing spell on its tail, causing it to shatter into countless shards of ice.

Susie charged forward, her axe glinting in the prismatic light. "Eat this, you ugly lizard!" she shouted, landing a powerful blow on the creature's side. The creature roared in pain, its scales flickering like a broken light.

Kris and Ralsei coordinated their attacks, Kris slashing at the creature's legs while Ralsei cast a healing spell on Susie and Noelle. The creature hissed, its skin flashing red in anger.

The battle raged on, the Fun Gang pushing the creature back with each coordinated strike. The whispers in the valley seemed to cheer them on, the orbs growing brighter as the Fun Gang gained the upper hand.

Noelle, her heart pounding, shouted to her friends, "Keep up the pressure! We've almost got it!"

Just then, the creature stopped attacking, its scales fading to a dull gray. It looked at the Fun Gang, a sad, almost pleading expression in its eyes.

Noelle hesitated, her voice softening. "Wait… I think it's trying to tell us something."

The Fun Gang paused, sensing the change in the creature's demeanor. Ralsei approached it cautiously, his eyes full of concern. "What's wrong, friend? Are you in pain?"

The creature whimpered, its body shrinking as it curled into a ball. The whispers in the

valley grew hushed, as if they too were waiting for the creature's response.

As Ralsei reached out to touch the creature, it shivered, and a soft, tremulous voice echoed in their minds. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just... scared."

Noelle's eyes widened with sympathy. "You were scared? Of us?"

The creature nodded, its scales shimmering in a soft blue hue. "Yes. I've never seen anyone like you before, and I felt threatened. But I can see now that you're not here to hurt me."

Susie lowered her axe, her tough exterior melting away. "We didn't mean to scare you either. We're just trying to get through the valley."

The creature uncurled itself, its body still trembling. "I understand. I'm known as the Whispering Warden. I protect the valley and its secrets."

Ralsei smiled warmly. "We're not here to harm your valley, Warden. We're just passing through."

The Whispering Warden looked at the Fun Gang, its scales shifting to a gentle green. "I believe you. I apologize for my aggression earlier. If you promise to protect the valley's secrets, I'll let you pass."

Kris nodded, their expression sincere. Noelle stepped forward, her voice gentle. "We promise to respect your home, Warden. Thank you for trusting us."

The Warden bowed its head, its scales flickering with gratitude. "Thank you. In return, I will heal your wounds and guide you through the valley."

The Fun Gang accepted the Warden's offer, and their journey through the Valley of Whispers continued. With their newfound ally, they navigated the ever-changing landscape, marveling at the strange beauty that surrounded them.

As they left the valley, the whispers grew fainter, and the orbs of light dimmed. The Whispering Warden bid them farewell, its scales shimmering with a rainbow of colors.

"Thank you for understanding, Fun Gang. May your journey be filled with light and hope."

Noelle smiled, her heart swelling with pride. "Thank you, Warden. We'll never forget your kindness."

With that, the Fun Gang ventured onward, their bond stronger than ever, carrying the memory of the Whispering Warden and the secrets of the Valley of Whispers with them as they continued their journey through the Dark World.

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deardiary17 · 2 years

Text

This is for @doctorrosebingo ’s prompt ‘impossible choice’. Read on AO3 (The North Wind Blows) or below the cut. Tentoo x Rose, G, 1780 words. This also happens to be my 60th work in the Doctor Who fandom.

Rose felt like she was being torn apart by the turmoil of emotions swirling inside her. The picture that she was witnessing was gut-wrenching, sending bouts of fear and nausea to her exhausted body.

There, in front of her, the two Doctors stood.

Her first Doctor, all leather jacket, blue eyes and closely shorn hair, was looking at her earnestly, his eyes so vulnerable, so sincere. Rose had seen such open vulnerability in his face on a rare occasion, and she didn’t expect what the expression on his face was doing to her heart then. It was hopeful yet resigned, full of fearful expectation and crushed devastation at the same time. His opened palm was facing upwards invitingly, welcoming Rose to accept his offer, and Rose felt tempted to follow his promise. A promise to never be forgotten, to never be kept at a distance, to never not know where she stands. A vow that would make her feel cherished at all times, a loud exclamation about her worth to the person she loved the most.

Rose inhaled tremulously. Her hand outstretched towards the man in the leather jacket without her will, and she leaned into his space, ready to fall into a well-known embrace, welcoming the exhilarating feeling of safety she felt when that Doctor was near…

Only to stop aprubptly when she heard a torn, torturous whimper fall of the lips of her New, New Doctor. Rose turned her head jerkily, dropping her traitorous hand. Her breath hitched when she saw the raw pain, the sheer longing in the brown eyes of the cheeky man, and she felt the tell-tale pinprick of tears gathering in her eyes.

How in the world could she walk away from the man whom she'd fallen in love with irrevocably, whose difference from the man before deepened the strength of her feelings? The man who allowed her into his personal space freely, who made her smile and squeal in delight at new adventures; the man who flirted openly, allowing her to feel special, making her blood hissing like a fizzy drink; a man who turned her into a bigger person with each passing day.

Rose smiled tenderly at the Doctor in the pinstriped suit. Her smile became a playful tongue-touched grin when the brown-eyed Doctor waggled his eyebrows, beckoning her to come hither.

She felt her legs move in his direction without her volition, following his promising call.

And then she stilled, frozen to a spot, catching a quiet, suffering sigh of despair of the Doctor in the leather jacket. Rose turned her head to him, half of her still bent on coming closer to the brown-eyed Doctor, half of her breaking at hearing the blue-eyed Doctor’s misery.

It was like Rose was literally being torn apart by the people she loved the most. Two of the most precious people to her, her past and her present (and hopefully, mercifully, future, too), the men she couldn’t imagine herself existing without.

Rose moaned when it seemed that her heart was being carved out with precise, neat movements, movements of the two people near her. She dropped her gaze to the floor, only then noticing the sand beneath her feet, the swishing of the bubbles disappearing with the deafening ‘pop-pop-pop’, the crashing of the waves lapping at her soaked trainers…trainers that she hadn’t worn in years. The ones that stayed behind in the Tardis when Rose was ripped cruelly from her original world…

Rose frowned. How on Earth was Rose wearing them, then?

Both of the Doctors called her name in turns, sometimes in unison, pleading her, begging her not to leave one of them behind, confessing their love, assuring her that she can stay with them forever.

The roaring of the waves swelled in Rose’s ears, and the overwhelming anxiety covered her from head to toe, filling her heart with heavy dread, leaving her soul ice-cold, bare. The water licked the soles of her long-lost shoes, and suddenly it seemed like the tide was strong enough to sweep her numb body and her lifeless soul into the vast waters of the uncaring sea.

Rose didn’t have time nor the opportunity to take her last breath before the sea came, swallowing her whole, separating her from the Doctors - or was it the Doctor even if he was the same person in different bodies? - as she inhaled the salt water, choking on the cold foam, clutching the glassy grains of sand in her rigid fingers, slipping away from the twisted reality she found herself in.

To wake up in a completely different setting.

Rose was sitting on the bed, dark blue sheets slid down to her feet that were swimming in the cold waters of Norway seconds before, and there were no trainers in sight. The absence of sand and salt water, however, failed to calm Rose down. If nothing, she felt like she still couldn’t breathe even if there was plenty of oxygen around.

Something wasn’t right. Something, or someone, was missing. It was wrong, so terribly wrong not to have someone near her when Rose was sure that someone was supposed to be sleeping next to her.

Someone was always there to ward off her nightmares.

Time seemed to stand still, or it was passing slowly, like treacle, in an impossible thin thread of agonising waiting, but Rose’s heart didn’t seem to get the signal to slow its maddening samba.

Rose felt like screaming.

She was missing him.

Rose hid her pale face in her palms, attempting to get herself to some semblance of normality. She had to. There was no one there to soothe her fears.

Funny how Rose felt like there was supposed to be someone.

Him.

No, no, not anymore, nothing but a mere dream - or a nightmare - that was his presence in her life these days. Rose shook her head, still sheltering her face with her hands, her breath shallow, wheezing, desperate.

Such was her great distress that she failed to hear hurried footsteps on the tiled floor.

“Rose?”

She jumped, surprised at the voice in her supposed-to-be-empty flat. Rose slid her palms down to her neck, staring at the silhouette in the doorway distrustfully. The voice was painfully familiar but Rose denied the hope’s blooming bud in her heart.

The man in the doorway repeated her name, approaching her. He crouched on the left side of the bed in front of Rose and gently pried her hands off her neck. His face, oh so dear, oh so familiar to her once and forever on, was seen clearly in the dimness of the nightlight. It was the Doctor in the flesh, right beside her, looking at her with worry-darkened eyes.

Rose couldn’t contain her reaction to his presence. She jumped to hug him, pushing his hands from his palms impatiently and pulling them around her body instead. The Doctor complied readily, hugging her closer awkwardly because of their positions, and started rocking them gently.

The minutes on the electronic watch on the bedside table ticked away like sand washed away by the careless waves, 2:17, 2:18, 2:19, and the Doctor relocated himself onto the bed, still not letting go of their embrace.

He started stroking her hair, an action that he knew soothed Rose a great deal. The Doctor learned about that two nights after their united return to Pete’s world. Rose hadn’t slept in two days after coming back to the parallel universe. None of Jackie’s concerned advice and homemade remedies helped, and Pete’s insistence on Rose taking some time off to recover from the events of her travelling didn’t work. Rose was relieved, if still a little unsure, of having the Doctor by her side in the world that she still couldn’t call her own.

That, and the leftover adrenaline from her journeys across dimensions, resulted in Rose being unable to relax enough to fall asleep. She tried sleeping alone in her barely decorated bedroom, and she tried sleeping in one bed with the Doctor. No amount of hand-holding helped, and the thinly-veiled tension from their impromptu ‘hello!’ kiss transformed into a slight awkwardness that did little to help Rose unwind.

It was only when the Doctor crushed Rose impossibly close to his body on the third day of them being in Pete’s World that Rose did let go of her tightly-canned emotions. The terrors of the howling between the dimensions, the witnessing of the Doctor’s almost-regeneration, the atrocities on the Crucible, the raw, jagged wound of being left by the Doctor again, it all caught up to her when the half-human Doctor started stroking her hair tenderly.

He hadn’t uttered a single word but Rose knew that he was crying, too. Silently, afraid to overshadow her own grief. Silly, selfless man. She clutched his wired body closer, unable to stop her sobbing but attempting to soothe his enormous loss nonetheless.

They slept undisturbed for five hours that night, and they didn’t think they’d felt this refreshed and clean-minded in years.

That was how the Doctor knew how to help Rose to crawl out of the nightmares’ claws every time they found her in the sleep.

Rose felt the last dredges of the nightmare slip away, now distant and half-forgotten already. What she couldn’t forget, however, what she’d never forget in the days to come, was the impossible choice she was presented with.

How in the world was she supposed to choose? There was no right answer. The choice she was given in her nightmare was a rigged one, one without a possible option, and she was relieved to be free from it.

There was no way in the world that she could choose one Doctor over another without shattering her heart or his.

Mercifully, thought Rose as she nuzzled the hollow of her Doctor’s throat, she wouldn’t have to find out the consequences of the cruel dream she saw that night.

She won’t have to choose ever again, Rose marvelled while stroking the Doctor’s back repeatedly. She won’t have to choose to leave young or to stay with him until her dying day. She won’t have to feel guilty for not being there for her newly-restored family when they’d need her the most. She won’t have to choose between the milestones of human life and the excitement of life with the Tardis.

Rose had her very own Doctor with a matching lifespan, a promise of forever by his side and their own little Tardis humming contently in the light-lit tank.

Rose made her choice, and although it was hardly an easy one and a fair one, it was the right one to make.

#I have two ways of dealing with awful news: writing and sleep #today I chose writing #doctorrosebingor1 #tentoorose #tentoo x rose #tentoo #rose tyler #ficandchips #angst with a happy ending #impossible choice

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hansoulo · 4 years

Text

thread count

Pairing: The Mandalorian/Reader (gender neutral, no Y/N)

Warnings: liek… cursing? mentions of nightmares. bed sharing. the works.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: posting this at noon bc im tired of staring at it in my drafts 🤡also i recognize that star wars decided glass is called transparisteel but given that it’s a stupid ass decision i’ve elected to ignore it. enjoyyyyy :)

“No.”

“Mando-”

“No.”

You let out a frustrated groan, your rucksack dropping to the floor with a heavy thud as you flopped back onto the bed. The one, single bed.

“It’s too late to go anywhere else, alright? We’re basically stuck here. Let’s just make the best of it, okay?” He grunted at this, still standing at the doorway gripping his disintegrator rifle. “Drop the ‘tude, tin can. Could be worse,” you mumbled as you reached to wipe a hand over your face, sinking into the soft sheets.

It was kinda nice, actually. You couldn’t remember the last time you slept on a real mattress, with real pillows and blankets that didn’t feel like sandpaper. The inn owner was sweet, a wizened old woman who’d only smiled when you asked if there were any rooms available. Just the one, she had said. Down the hall.

This was ridiculous.

The Mandalorian stepped forward, closing the door with a large hand on the rusted knob. The room was small and sparsely furnished, but it was a far cry from your usual, less than ideal sleeping arrangements, so you relished in the feeling of the pillows beneath your back before propping yourself up on one elbow, eyelids already drooping as you watched him. He looked… awkward. If you had any more energy, you’d probably laugh. “I could- ” he cleared his throat, setting the rifle against the wall, “I could sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scoffed as you reached down to pull off your boots, throwing them haphazardly into a corner. You’d helped him with the occasional bounty for years, and known him for longer than that. You could share a fucking bed. Besides, it’s not like anyone else was around to see. Minus the baby of course, but it (he? she?) didn’t really count, right? It was already sleeping. “It’ll be fine.”

“No, I’m going to just-”

“Mando,” you glared, standing up. “If you sleep on the floor, you’re gonna be even more of an ass tomorrow morning. Just do us all a favor,” you waved a hand towards the baby in its pod, “and get over yourself, alright?” You reached down to the hem of your top, tugging it above your head before you heard him make a low, distorted sound - probably a cough, but the modulator made those kinds of things hard to tell. Left in your undershirt, you crouched down to stuff the fabric - dusty and soiled from a day of travel - back in your bag. “What?”

He shifted on his feet, his helmet ducking slightly at the sight of your exposed skin. “Oh c’mon,” you groaned, your expression teasing. “You stabbed a guy with a serving fork yesterday, Mando. I don’t think this could be any worse.” If you could see underneath his helmet, you’d be willing to bet he was blushing. Funny, how that worked. How he worked.

The bedsprings creaked underneath your weight as you laid down again, pulling the blankets out from their tucked corners. The window on the other side of the room lay open, bringing in a chill that had you drawing the covers tighter around your shoulders. “Could you close the window?” you whispered, tracking the glint of beskar through half-closed eyes as he complied with your request. His armor reflected orange light - dim and flickering from a small lamp hung beside the door - before it was snuffed out by a gloved hand. You let out a quiet thanks, not bothering to fight the exhaustion dragging at your mind as he stood above you. “I’m going to sleep,” you mumbled, turning on your side to face the wall. “Do what you want.”

⫸ ——-– ⫷

Flat, white light crackled across your vision and you opened your eyes with a groan. You could hear rain beating against the windowpane, glass rattling with every new roar of thunder in a way that had goosebumps erupting across your arms. It was dark outside, inky and fogged over save for the few flashes of lightning that cast the room in sharp relief. You didn’t really mind the storm - you usually liked them - but something about the way it sounded had you on edge. It was a bitter kind of rain, unrelenting and loud and really, really cold. Bracing yourself on your hands, you lifted your head, only to knock it against the edge of something metal. “Ow what the fu-” Oh. Oh.

He hadn’t been next to you before - no, you would’ve remembered if he had - but now... now he was. Next to you. And he… had a hand on your hip and- and you were still facing away from him but you squirmed, feeling the weight of his arm on your waist, heavy and slack. No gloves. No vambrace. No pauldron. Just… the helmet. No shit, bantha-brains. The Mandalorian let out a breath, the sound low and seeping syrup in your bones. Was he still asleep? Maybe you should- “Stop moving,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

“Sorry,” you whispered, your words thick with sleep. “M’just cold.” It was a half-truth. You were cold, but the fact that you were pressed up against one of the most feared bounty hunters in the galaxy probably didn’t help either. Neither did the fingers digging into your hip. Or the arm tucked underneath your neck. Or the hand attached to said arm that was skimming across your collarbone, seemingly unaware that it was touching anything at all. He drew you in closer and you could feel his legs slotted into yours, your toes brushing the bare skin of an ankle (that didn’t belong to you) before your scattered thoughts were forced elsewhere.

“Then why’d you take off your shirt?” he mumbled. The rain pounded a rhythm in your head, lulling you down and allowing yourself to sink back into his arms. You didn’t really want to think about tomorrow morning. If things would be weird. There was a chance neither of you would remember this when you woke up, though, so it’s not like it mattered. Even if you did - if he did - you knew it was all business.

“Hm?” you said, tucking your chin and scooting back slightly. Your back met the hard planes of his chest, his skin hot and thrumming even underneath the thick material of his shirt. The man was like a fucking space heater. Ha. Space heater. Funny. You were funny. And tired. And- wait did he ask you something?

“Why take off your shirt if you’re cold?” he repeated. The last word trailed off as a palm moved across the expanse of your stomach, his thumb rubbing circles across the raised seam of your undershirt and burning the skin beneath.

“I wasn’t cold then,” you huffed, reaching a hand over his and guiding it below the thin fabric until it rested still on your sternum. A better version of you, more awake and with more critical thinking skills - with the power of thought in general - would probably kick you for using the Mandalorian like a fucking hot water bottle, but that didn’t really matter. You were cold - and exhausted and laying on a bed that was very, very comfortable - and he was warm. You couldn’t really be expected to take any responsibility for this. “Plus, the shirt was dirty,” you added, only dimly registering how your fingers laced with his, tracing battered, scar-shiny knuckles in your half-sleep. He hummed and leaned forward, the metal of his helmet rounding smooth against your hair.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he said, his breathing falling back into tandem with yours as you felt your eyes fluttering shut. “Go to sleep.”

⫸ ——-– ⫷

“Mando, wake up. Wake up, please.” Your voice was tremulous as you shook his shoulder, stretched over tight with desperation and knocking against the walls of the room. Your plea bounced back hollow, a high, unrelenting tone that made your ears ring. Everything was caving in on itself, crumbling slow and then all at once in a way that had the sweat on your temples icing over. You weren’t a child anymore. You shouldn’t have nightmares. “Please.”

He sat up quickly, a hand bolting out to the blaster tucked underneath his pillow and aiming steady at the enemy that had yet to show itself. “Is someone there?” he asked, graveled over but still frighteningly alert. A light sleeper, you supposed.

You shook your head, wet tracks crackling on your cheeks as you spoke. “No, no one. It’s fine.” He relaxed at this, setting the blaster down at his side. His palms were dry when they came up to your face, slightly calloused but still soft as they traced over the rolling tears.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whispered, meeting the dark slit of his visor before ducking your head. “It’s nothing, I-” you sniffed, swallowing the air that was caught in your throat. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Hey,” he called out, hesitant and a bit unsure. “You okay?” You nodded, closing your eyes in an attempt to clear your vision before opening them a few moments later. The Mandalorian only stared, his helmet tilting with a cock of his head.

“Just nightmares,” you said when he remained quiet. “But they aren’t normally this bad.” The remains of a sob fragmented beneath your ribs, bubbling up in a wet cough that burned your throat. His hands came to rest at your back, flat and steady against your spine until your breathing evened. “I’m sorry,” you repeated after a few minutes.

The Mandalorian let out a quiet noise, gruff and a bit pained-sounding. “It’s okay,” he said, his fingertips pressing softly into your shoulder blades. You could only just hear him through the storm outside. “I get them too.”

You faced the beskar, gaze searching for the eyes you knew were looking at you and finding nothing but darkness. It was enough, though. To know he was looking. “You do?”

“Every night.” A beat passed before you hiccuped again, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “It’s still late,” the Mandalorian whispered, his hands gentle as they reached around your shoulders. You let him pull the covers over you, feeling his words soak into your back. “Let’s just go to bed.”

permanent: @ah-callie @itzagoodthing @spookypym @opheliaelysia @watsonwise @damndamer0n @amarvelousmandalorian @bunnyart-blog @agirllovespasta @pascalispedro @pascalplease @coffeencontemplation @chelsfic @lesqui @javierpenaspinkshirt @symbiont13 @glowingpena @squidlywiddly87 @1zashreena1 @hiscyarika @lostingoogletranslate @keeper0fthestars @bobafvtt @halfwaythereroyal @starwarsiscooliguess @huliabitch

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #sw fanfiction #the mandalorian oneshot #din djarin oneshot

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shreddedparchment · 5 years

Text

A World of Our Own Pt.01

The Big Boom

08/05/2019

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 8,630

Masterpost Warnings: language, dead bodies, Bucky’s lower back dimples

Prompt: Castaway AU

A/N: This is for @ruckystarnes ‘s Summer of AUs Challenge. I’ve had this idea in my head since I signed up but wasn’t sure where to start or how long to make it and I think it’s now officially been established that one shots are nearly impossible for me to do. So, here’s another mini series. Not sure how long it will be but I do have a beginning, middle, and end in mind. I hope you like it and as always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

The cabin is quiet. Save for the jumble of white noise that deafens you to everything but the subtle ding of the seatbelt sign.

There’s a comfort in the clouds that roll past your window, obscuring all the world beneath you as you slice the heavens in the mass of painted aluminum.

Alone, you booked your ticket, boarded your plane, and sat until you fell asleep. You were in the air when you woke up only a few minutes ago.

Wiping at your sleep heavy eyes, you scan the seats beside you, in front of you, and behind you. All of them are empty.

For one paralyzing moment, you remember all of the horror movies and TV shows were people disappear on planes. The Langoliers sticks out vividly and you fumble to reach up and press the call button.

You wait only a minute before a smiling stewardess with soft corn colored hair pulled up into a tight and neat bun moves towards you then politely leans in. She smells like pastries. Cinnamon and vanilla, soft bread and glaze.

“Yes, ma’am? Is everything alright?” She asks, sweet honey like voice that sounds so put on you almost scoff but it’s her job to be as customer service friendly as possible.

“I-Am I the only one on the plane?” You wonder, eyes drawn into narrow slits as you consider the woman and look for signs of possible body snatching.

What if she’s an alien?!

“Oh.” She gives you a more genuine smile, laughing lightly as she shakes her head. “No. There is a gentleman sitting a few rows up and to the left.”

You push yourself up almost frantic, craning your neck to see this mystery flier and spot a dark chestnut brown head of hair carefully pulled back, his body slumped against the window he’s sitting next to.

A sigh of relief slips through your lips.

“Why are there only two of us?” You wonder, curious as you’ve never flown on a plane with only one other passenger.

“I’m not sure.” She admits, brow kindly furrowed despite the deep tone of curiosity in her voice. “All of the seats were paid for but only you and the gentleman over there came aboard. We waited until the last possible second, but we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Oh.” You reply lamely, your mind racing to think of reasons every other person on this flight wouldn’t show.

Had there been an accident? Something big that had prevented people from getting to the airport?

It seems highly unlikely. What other reason could there be though? Had sixty people all woken up late and missed their flight?

“Can I get you something to drink?” The woman asks.

“Oh, no. Thank you. How much longer do we have? How long was I asleep?” You wonder, staring up into her sharp green eyes.

“We’re not even halfway yet.” She smiles, the more she speaks the more she settles into genuine friendliness. “Eager to get home to someone?”

“No.” You reply lamely, sadly. The ceaseless cavity of the empty plane suddenly too quiet. “No one. You?”

She nods. “My husband and little boy will be waiting for me when we land. I’ve been in the air for almost three weeks.”

How nice.

“Sure you don’t want anything to drink?” She asks again, hand gently placed on your forearm.

It’s soft and warm. A tender gesture as she watches your expression for betrayal of thirst.

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

“Alright. We’ll be serving your dinner in about an hour. If you’d like seconds when the time comes, just let me know. We’ve got lots of paid for food that won’t get eaten.” She curls her lip, a wry smile at the free food then moves back down the aisle and disappears behind a deep blue curtain.

Fifteen minutes later she comes back. She escorts you into first class and allows you to sit wherever you’d like. You pick a window seat on the right side of the plane and quickly glance out to see if you might see land.

Instead you spot water in the breaks of the heavy clouds the plane is currently soaring through.

Water?

You look for the stewardess again, heart beating heavily as a small bit of panic creeps in. You aren’t supposed to be flying over any oceans.

Distraction from this red flag comes in the form of the stewardess moving back into the first-class cabin with the man from before trailing behind her.

He’s tall, wide, with broad shoulders, thick hips, thighs the size of telephone poles, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, dark almost black t-shirt underneath a thick black jacket. He’s wearing a black cap over his long brown hair, a plain black backpack on his back.

He keeps his head down, avoiding your gaze but when the stewardess stops beside where you’re sitting and gestures to the seat next to you, he looks up at you.

He’s wide awake, despite the slumber he’d been in. Steel blue almost ice-like eyes bright and alert. His jaw is fuzzy with a five o’clock shadow and his hands are covered with black leather gloves.

He must be cold.

The square line of his jaw, straight nose, deep brooding brow accompanied by his stunningly fit physique, set him apart from all other men you’ve ever seen.

He’s gorgeous. Handsome in a roguish kind of way. He looks familiar but you’re not sure why.

You give him a timid smile, friendly but unsure.

Stern eyes turn to the stewardess before he moves around her, through the two center seats, and sits down on the left side of the plan as far front as he can. He takes his backpack off and shoves it underneath his seat before pulling his hat down low and probably going back to sleep.

It would be foolish to feel offended by this snub because he doesn’t know you so why should he sit next to you but you do feel offended and you exchange a look of surprised upset with the stewardess who is blushing deep pink at her failed attempt to make her two charges sit together.

“I didn’t want to sit with you either.” You grumble, knowing that he probably can’t hear you over the roar of the plane.

“Sorry.” The woman says but you shake your head. “Dinner?”

“Please.” You nod and she disappears one more time.

She takes forever.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

As you’re about to rise to check on your food, the seatbelt sign above you illuminates as a ding disturbs the otherwise silence of the plane.

“The pilot has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. It looks as if we are headed into some rough weather. Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated. Thank you.” The stewardess says, her voice tight with tension.

You quickly do as she says, glancing out of your window again as the previously gray clouds darken into a threatening purple.

The man to your left does the same, eyeing the curtain suspiciously when there’s a sudden jerk as the plane falls a foot.

You gasp, grabbing the back of the seat in front of you and the arm rest on your right. It shakes again, the pitter patter of heavy rain added to the hum of the plane. Thunder shakes it as the bloom of lightning flashes outside your window.

It all happens so quickly that your mind has little time to make sense of it all.

The plane shakes and throttles, jerking up and down, left to right. It hurts your joints and makes your teeth click as you clench your jaw in fear.

More than once your eyes wander to the man on the left side of the plane and he looks at you too.

Something in your eyes—probably the paralyzing terror you’re feeling—prompts him out of his seat.

“You okay?” He asks, voice smooth and rich.

It makes you feel better but only for a moment.

He makes his way towards you surprisingly agile and when he settles into the seat beside yours, he fastens his seatbelt again and turns to look at you, placing his right hand over your left which is currently clutching your arm rest.

“It’ll be okay.” He says. “Planes are very safe.”

Liar. Your mind reels. You nod, hoping more than believing he’s right.

The plane suddenly drops several feet, moving fast and throwing your body up out of your seat to hover for a few seconds. The stewardess on the other side of the now swaying curtain is seated in her own seat, fastened in, screaming at the top of her lungs.

This isn’t normal!

The man beside you wraps his right arm around your shoulders and helps to hold you steady, but the two of you are being pulled and jerked in every direction as the plane continues to shake and tumble.

“We’ll be okay.” He nearly shouts beside your ear, but you barely hear him over the roaring of the plane as it suddenly shoots forward, angling downwards as it starts to plummet.

The lights begin to flicker and then completely shut off making the lightning storm outside the only source of illumination.

You reach over and fist the man’s jacket, clinging like a child as the plane loses power.

There’s a sudden explosion behind you to your left and you feel the sudden rush and pull of powerful air, heat, flame…fire? In the air?

You huff in panic, breathing fast and shallow as the cabin pressure changes and your head begins to feel dizzy. Like a swirling vortex you’re pulled deeper into darkness as the man beside you pulls you closer.

There’s a loud click and safety masks fall from the ceiling. You’re too terrified to reach for one and instead look up at the handsome man.

There are worse ways to die than staring at the face of a beautiful stranger. He also meets your gaze and frowns before reaching up to grab a mask.

He ignores protocol and begins to put it on you, but you black out just as the thick yellow cup closes around your mouth.

The tremulous call of seagulls pull you from oblivion. You aren’t ready to wake up and yet consciousness comes upon you anyway.

Clinging, wet heat chokes you. It weighs your body down, suffocating your lungs into a gasping breath. You’re also wet. Clothes heavy and damp like you’d been swimming in your clothes.

Something hisses and your mind sounds a warning.

Snake!

You scream, sit up, and search for the threat.

It hurts to look around. It’s bright and you blink against the light of day.

The sun almost seems to shine straight down on you, though you don’t see the warm yellow of summer. Instead the light is filtered. Bright but darkened by layers and layers of cloud cover.

“Hey! Wake-Finally. Hey, get up.” That previously soothing voice says.

You turn in search of it as your memory comes flooding back.

You’d been on a plane. Nearly alone. It had started to rain. The plane had begun to shake and then fall.

As you look around, you see an endless white sand beach. It extends to your left. To your right. Curving around as if it extends out to the ocean before you, teal blue waters made whiter by the black storm clouds that paint the horizon.

“Get up.” The voice says again, and you turn around to look behind you.

He’s there, sans jacket, dark gray shirt clinging to his toned torso as he lugs what looks like a five-foot section of the plane you’d just been on. It’s cut and torn as if someone had taken a saw to it but more wild and without the precision of a defined man-made cut.

You see two windows and several seats still attached to the cracked floor.

Had the plane actually crashed?!

“Grab those carts.” The man tells you, gesturing with his chin at two silver food carts to your left as he disappears into a split in the dense tropical green.

Palms line the edge, rising high and then twisting and bending in wild angles. Huge ferns litter the bases, emerald conifers fill in the gaps. You can see pretty magenta, white, and yellow flowers throughout, and the occasional dry brush. All of them swaying dangerously in the chilling air of the coming storm.

You’re not quite sure why you listen but you crawl onto your knees then slowly get to your feet, swaying from side to side for a moment before you find your footing and trudge through the wet sand towards the carts.

It takes all your strength to pull just one up along the beach towards the tree line. You nearly make it, giving your cart one last grunting pull before you fall onto your bottom, hands slipping from the handle you’d been holding. The man emerges, hustling down to the other cart and lifting it up onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers.

He sighs when he sees you sitting, gaping with your mouth open at his display of strength.

“Move.” He shoves your hands away, nudges you out from in front of the cart with his knee, then takes hold of it and drags it the rest of the way through the trees.

You’re slightly affronted by the pushing, but you get to your feet and in stunned silence, take another look around you.

Where’s the rest of the plane? Is all that’s left the bit you’d seen the man carrying? What about the pilots and the stewardess?

Her husband will be waiting. Her little boy.

“Hey.” The man says again, startling you into a small jump as he pulls your attention back towards the trees. “Come on, unless you wanna try your chances out here when the hurricane hits?”

“H-hurricane?” You squeak, but he doesn’t wait for you and heads into the trees.

Fear pulls you after him. Stumbling as you race to catch up to him, you turn your eyes to the floor of the tropical jungle to move faster.

You look up to find him again and see nothing but black as you crash into his chest.

You gasp, hands reaching out to keep yourself upright. He grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him so that you can find your footing.

“Keep up.” He orders, then releases you to follow him.

“Wait.” You complain, he’s moving too fast.

Your floor length navy floral summer dress seems like a silly travelling outfit choice now, and you hike up your skirt to keep from tripping over it. Though, you’re thankful for the thin racerback spaghetti straps. This heat is unbearable.

Even with that, it takes all your strength and energy to keep up with him. You also realize that you’ll have to make a choice. Keep up and fall or stay upright and fall behind.

You fall twice.

The second time, you stab your hand with a sharp black rock, hidden beneath the large serrated leaf of a fern, also scraping your knees through your dress on solid ground.

Your hand bleeds and you wince, scurrying back onto your feet before you lose him.

For the second time you see black and crash into his chest.

“Ow.” You gasp, accidentally stepping on his foot but your weight seems to mean nothing as you scramble backwards off it.

He reaches for your wrist again, this time angling your right hand up to look at the fresh wound on your palm.

“If you get hurt, you need to say something.” He chastises you then bends down, takes hold of the bottom of your dress and rips a long piece of the thick blended fabric.

“Hey!” You complain, surprised by his grabbing your skirt.

Frowning at your protest, he shoots you a small glare but then wraps your hand up with the strip of fabric.

“Hold that tight.” He instructs and suddenly you’re very aware of the lack of carts.

“Where are the carts?” You wonder, looking around for what must be the food and drinks.

“I already dropped them off.” He says, which is impossible.

“How-?”

“Come on.” He says, sliding his right hand down into your left.

He curls his fingers around it, holding tight as he sets off again, moving slower as he pulls you along.

You’re silent the rest of the way, nervously glancing around at the trees. Wondering if maybe you should be more worried about wandering into the jungle with a strange man.

The walk from the beach takes about five minutes when the trees suddenly part to a small clearing. The torn-up bit of the fuselage that you’d seen him carrying into the trees is set up against two trees. Most of the curve is still there and he’s angled it so that it can almost shield from all directions but most especially the top.

The two carts are indeed already here. Pressed against the last exposed side of his makeshift shelter to cover it from all sides but one. The end, to be used—you assume—as the entrance and exit. The windows are angled so that they provide sight straight up to the sky.

“Get in there and get one of the bottles of Vodka and clean your hand. In my backpack you’ll find some bandages. Wrap it up.” He points at the fuselage and lets your hand go.

“Where are you going?” You gasp, turning to look at him as he moves back towards the beach.

“I saw some bits of the plane we might be able to use to make some tools. We have maybe two or three hours tops before that storm hits and we’ll need something for when we go to the bathroom.” He’s thinking so practically.

He’s sprung into action so quickly despite the swaying trees, the air whipping against your bodies, or the strange cracks and animal cries coming from the jungle around you. You’re still wondering what happened to the stewardess and the pilots.

Are they also somewhere around the jungle? Is this an island? It must be.

He turns to leave again, and panic drives you towards him. You reach down and take hold of his left arm. Having been expecting warmth, you’re slightly stunned when you feel cool metal. You turn your gaze down to it, noticing for the first time the sleek black bionic arm.

How you hadn’t noticed it before when he’d wrapped up your hand you don’t know but now you can see it. All the way up to the bulging metal bicep.

You’re thrown for all of a split second before your eyes are blazing into his, “Please don’t go.”

He looks at you, taking in your scared expression then pulls his arm from your grasp but only so that he can take your right hand, holding it more gently as your cut is there on your palm.

“You’ve been so brave until now.” He observes. “I need you to stay that way.”

“What happened?” You ask, desperate for answers.

“I don’t know. The storm blew us off course, but the explosion is why we went down.” He explains.

“Explosion?!” You cry, remembering the big boom behind you right before you’d passed out.

“We can talk about this later. Right now, I need you to be brave for me again. Can you do that? I have to go get what we need before the storm hits.” His reasonable tone is what prompts you to nod.

He looks at your wrist and points at one of the black hair ties you always carry there.

“Can I borrow one of those?” He asks.

You pull your hand from his grip and peel off the first one and hold it out to him.

“Get inside the fuselage. I’ll be back in a bit.” He tells you as he quickly sweeps his hair up into a high bun.

“You’ll come right back?” You ask, so afraid of being alone here where no one will know to find you.

“I’ll come right back.” He promises, then moves to head out again.

“What’s your name?” You ask him, hoping that maybe if you know his name, you’ll feel more comforted that he’ll return.

“James.” He tells you. “James Buchanan Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky. What’s yours?”

“Bucky…” You repeat the name quietly, clinging to the way it tastes as you speak it. “Me? I-I’m Y/N.”

“I’ll be back, Y/N. Get inside.”

You nod and finally obey, moving to the entrance then drop to your knees to crawl in. The space isn’t small by any means, but it is low and close to the ground. You can sit up straight inside with plenty of space overhead but neither of you will be able to stand inside.

When you turn around to look outside, Bucky’s gone.

The hurricane lasts three days.

Bucky keeps you in the shelter as the storm rages overhead. You’re absolutely terrified. The tempest tears trees up by their roots and you tremble with fear as you hear the distinctive creak and crack of large thick trunks being torn apart.

When it passes, Bucky’s survival instinct truly kicks in filling him with a relentless drive.

He takes you down to the beach, hand in hand, slowly waiting for you to step over the mish mash of foliage and jungle debris.

It’s hotter than ever, even more so after such a big storm, and you have to stop several times to catch your breath.

“You okay?” He asks, waiting patiently despite the energy you can see him nearly levitating with to begin running around doing his own thing.

You’re in his way but he’s trying not to let you see it.

“Yes.” You gasp, skin dewy and sticky from the compressing wet air that labors your lungs.

He releases your hand.

“Sit.” He orders and you gratefully do as he says, finding a small fallen tree to perch yourself on.

He gives your dress a glance then moves towards you and with that sleek bionic arm of his, he tears at your dress to make it shorter.

“Hey.” You reply, startled.

He rolls his eyes at you, frowning at you with a look of exasperation, full pink lips puckered with his disapproval.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just in the way.” He quips, then holds out the excess fabric and begins to tear strips for what you assume is makeshift bandages.

He pulls his backpack—it’s surprisingly still intact after the plane crash—around and stuffs the fabric in before giving you another glance.

You flinch as he reaches out, tracing with his right thumb the length of your lower lip. You can feel the pull of his heated skin against the chapped mess of your lips.

Once more he delves into the black abyss of his bag and pulls out a large bottle of water.

You know now that it’s filled from a small flowing stream close to the fuselage, and the only reason he’d chosen that particular spot for the shelter is because of the close proximity to that wide stream of fresh water.

“Here. Don’t drink too much or you’ll make yourself sick.” He instructs.

“How does someone get sick from drinking too much water?” You ask, slightly irritated but you take the bottle and begin to guzzle it down.

“Don’t-” He sighs, “Ugh, whatever. Make yourself sick.”

He gets to his feet and offers you his hand again. With a quarter of the water gone, you rise wincing at the pain in your ankles and the soles of your feet but happy with the slosh of liquid in your belly.

Your feet burn and ache as you put your weight on them. Your attempts not to wince fail and Bucky looks down at them.

Self-conscious, you shift uncomfortably trying to hide your sandal covered feet underneath the green ferns that cover the ground.

“Come on.” He pulls you along again, water bottle sloshing in your free arm as he pulls you slightly faster but still slow enough that you can maintain your balance.

As the beach comes into view, the dark skyline in the horizon seems to be fading, turning more blue than gray.

The water shines like turquoise jewels, bright and pretty. This beach, with its white sands, curving palms, and beautiful clear waters is the very definition of paradise.

A dream destination for any vacation seeker. And yet, you hate it. You’re stuck here. No modern amenities. No escape. Just Bucky.

He releases your hand. He’s already talking, pointing down the long length of the beach to your left and then your right but you only hear a buzz in your ear instead of the words that he speaks.

You stumble forward, staring out at a section of shallows about fifty feet out into the water where the cockpit juts out, nose in the air, windows somehow still unbroken. About twenty feet in further, the section of the plane you’d been sitting in sits halfway submerged, torn apart from the front during the crash.

“Y/N!” Bucky nearly shouts, two feet in front of you, shoving himself into your line of sight.

You tear your eyes away from the front of the plane and search his gaze for the fear that you’re feeling, the hopelessness.

“What?” You ask, voice choked.

“I need you to walk the beach, look for anything that might have washed ashore that we can use.”

“The black box?” You ask, stepping towards him. “Did you find the black box?”

Bucky breathes in slowly, watching your composure fall apart.

“It was destroyed in the storm.” He explains. “The first one. The stewardess and the pilot had been going on about how it was malfunctioning before we even began to feel turbulence.”

“H-How do you even know that?” You demand, desperate for him to be wrong.

The humid island breeze whips your hair, somehow never drying your skin despite the constant flow.

“I have really good hearing.” His mouth is set in a tight disapproving line.

“But they’ll know where we are, right? They’ll just search the flight route.” You bargain.

“We…” He hesitates.

“What?” You demand, moving closer again, stopping right in front of him, chin lifted to stare up into his shifting blue eyes.

He searches yours too, looking for something. Sanity maybe.

“We were off course for a while. About two hours, I think. I’m not sure. I really was asleep before the stewardess moved us to first class, but we weren’t on the right flight plan.” He explains and all hope seems to fade.

You very nearly lose it right then and there, but Bucky’s hands come up to rest around your biceps.

“I need you to keep it together, Y/N. I need you.” He says, deep voice smooth and calm.

He needs me?

The words fill you with an odd sense of calm. There’s a whisper of truth in them and you’re sure he does need you but it’s not for survival. Not in the sense that you need him. How long would you have lasted without him?

A few hours that first day? The hurricane would have hit, and you would have probably died.

“Can you do that?” He asks, voice careful and gentle despite that same hum from before that he’s vibrating with to get started.

His patience is wearing thin and you can see his irritation returning.

“Yes.” You whisper, nodding small.

“Good.” He tells you, then pushes you back, forcing your knees to buckle.

He shoves you back until you’re sitting on the hot fine grains of sand.

“Wait here.”

As he moves to turn, you reach out and grab his metal hand, clinging to it tightly as your fear returns.

“Where are you going?” He ask, desperate.

Bucky looks down at your hands around his arm, a strange look of confusion in those dazzling blues. His five o’clock shadow has turned into a full-on scruff, hiding the chiseled square of his jaw, the small dimple on his chin.

His gray t-shirt clings to his torso still, the humidity making him sweat but he’s somehow also not as dewy as you are. His skin a bit drier. Not as shiny.

“I’m just going to swim out to the cockpit and the front of the plane where we were sitting. Your carry-on was on there, right? You moved it when we moved?” He asks, checking but he seems to already know.

“Yes.” You nod.

“Did you have shoes in there? Better shoes?” He eyes your sandals again and you shift your feet, once again self-conscious.

You think about the other two pairs of strappy sandals you’d had packed away in your checked luggage but yes, in your carry-on there was a pair of sneakers.

You nod, staring out at the water as it laps at the crashed nose of the plane.

“The pilots? The stewardess? Did you find them?” You ask, worried, your mind flashing with the kind smile and shining green eyes of the kind woman who’d set you at ease on the plane.

Her husband…her son.

Bucky takes a deep breath and squats down in front of you.

“I buried the stewardess down that way.” He indicates the beach to your left with his chin, eyes never leaving yours.

Sadness overwhelms you at the thought of her family, missing her, worried, not knowing that she’s already dead. They’ll search for her.

You look in the direction he indicates, eyes watering at the thought of her now motherless son.

“She was married.” You gasp, not realizing that you’re crying just yet.

“I know.” Bucky says, softly. Gently. Kindly. You look at him and search his now blurry face.

With a hard swallow, you tighten your hold on his hand.

“The pilots?” You ask, scared to know, desperate to find out.

Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t find anyone else. They might have gotten out before the plane went down. I blacked out shortly after you did and when I came to the cockpit was gone. I just barely got us out in time.”

So, Bucky saved you?

You are already highly aware that you’re still alive because of him but that initial plunge into the sea while the plane was careening out of the sky is the reason you’re still alive.

“H-How did we survive the fall?” You ask him, absolutely baffled.

“I’m stronger than I look.” He replies, a small subtle curve to his lips.

He looks pretty strong…

“Y/N, this is what I wanna do. I want to get you some proper shoes. I need to get as much supplies out of the front of the plane, electrical equipment too in case I can build some sort of beacon so that maybe someone might be able to find us.

“I want to get a nice big signal fire built here on the beach to keep lit in case a plane passes overhead or a boat out at sea comes close enough to see it. I wanna build us a proper shelter in the spot with the fuselage. Up off the ground so that when the inevitable wild animal comes around, you’re not on the ground waiting to be sniffed, gored, or bitten.

“I have a lot of work to do.” He finishes.

Everything he’s said sounds like brilliant ideas. Perfection, really, and your heart begins to swell. His words indicate an innate worry for you.

“Why did you save me, Bucky? In the plane? Before the explosion behind us when the plane had just started to shake, why?” You ask, searching his patient expression for truth.

“I-I don’t know, you just looked so scared.” He admits. “I know what that feels like.”

Bucky? Scared?

Questions flood your mind. Questions that you’re suddenly very eager to have answered.

Who is Bucky? Where was he going? What does he do for a living? He does kinda look familiar but only like a face you’d once seen in a dream. What would he have to be scared of? Where did he get the bionic arm? How did he lose his original one? How old is he? Does he have family waiting for him? A girlfriend? Boyfriend? A wife? Husband? Kids?

“Y/N?” He probes, sliding his warm metal thumb across the back of your hand, caressing the skin.

“Yes?”

“I kinda need my hand back to get all of that stuff started.” He confesses and with a surprised gasp you let his hand go.

“Oh, right.” You curl your own into fists, laying them on your lap while ignoring the stretch of the scabbing skin on your palm.

Bucky had already checked it this morning.

“Wait for me here, okay?” He asks, cautious with you.

You hate to see him go. The past four days on the island—three trapped in a small confined space with him—have been spent with Bucky at almost every moment.

He must also not like leaving you, or so you hope, because he turns to look back at you as he walks to the water.

He stops at the edge, just beyond the reach of the low-tide, and finally turns away from you to pull his t-shirt over his head.

You shouldn’t be thinking it. You should be focused on the realities of your situation. The dangers, the precautions you need to take. You should be making lists in your head of things to do for survival, to keep yourself alive on this island but instead you trace the exposed length of Bucky’s sculpted torso.

The muscles on his back flex and stretch against taut slightly pale white skin. God, I hope he’s single. You think wildly. And at the very least bi.

Wherever he’d been before he was on the plane, it had not been sunny. Definitely not a tropical island. The dimples on his lower back draw your focus and your heartbeat quickens as he suddenly begins to step out of his jeans.

You blow a soft rush of air through your chapped lips, reaching beside you blindly for the water bottle Bucky had given you.

With a quick gulp, you watch him wade into the glimmering ocean water, your eyes appreciating the ripples of his biceps, both metal and flesh.

Maybe it won’t be so bad being stuck on an island with Bucky?

Fuck Y/N. Get a grip. What are you thinking?

*****

Bucky lugs your carry-on up onto the shore, tossing it with ease down beside you as he pulls his now clinging briefs up a little higher on his hips.

He tries not to think about how exposed he is to you or anything else that doesn’t have to do with his and your survival.

He’s got one goal here. To get you both off this island in one piece.

Running his hand back along his wet hair, he smooths it, your hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist for when he’ll need it again.

“I’ll be back.” He tells you, watching you struggle to pull the bag closer.

His words pull that terrified stare of yours back to him, that inescapable look of need that had pulled him across the plane to you in the first place shining up at him from your battered, chapped, sun-burnt face.

You burn so quickly. He’ll need to find you some aloe in case it gets worse. Your skin is already cooked despite the short time the two of you have spent out in the sun.

Today it’s shining down brightly. Maybe he should have put you in the shade of a palm?

“Where are you going?” You ask him, your fear drawing him close to you.

You tilt your head back, stare up at his face.

He finds your helplessness annoying…but also refreshing. He likes feeling like this. Needed. Wanted. And he’s not blind. He can see the way your eyes roam over his body.

It’s nice to know he’s still got that to him too. He’s still human. Whatever it is that’s left of him. He still somehow has something to offer.

“Back into the cockpit.” He’s not sure that telling you why will really help or if it will make you cry again like with the stewardess.

He’s still recovering from the way that had made him feel. He’s not sure he can take feeling like that again so soon. He’s not even entirely sure what it had been.

It had definitely felt bad to watch you cry but he’s unsure of where it stems from. Is it discomfort with your vulnerability? Disgust at your weakness?

The Winter Soldier in him—the memory of his thought process that is very nearly gone—see it as such. Crying over a dead body? Useless. It helps no one. It provides nothing.

Bucky knows that’s not true. Grieving can be cathartic. He’s grieved before. Very recently he grieved over his time lost as the Winter Soldier. He grieved the loss of his best friend to old age.

Steve had made his choices. He’d lived his life. Now it’s time for Bucky to live his own.

Of course, crash landing on a deserted island had not been what he’d had in mind. Would Sam already be looking for him? Or…maybe he thinks Bucky ran off again?

“Why?” You plead, eager to keep him close.

His chest warms at the thought that you want him near. The fact that you’re not afraid of him, of his arm, is reassuring. He likes it. He likes not being scary.

This island is scary for you. Being stranded here, is scary for you.

“I found one of the pilots.” He admits, waiting for the words to register with you.

“Dead?” You ask, voice cracking.

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what are you going to do?” You ask him, pretty eyes searching his own stern expression.

He has to remind himself to be softer with you. You’re not like his friends or associates. You’re soft. Civilian. Gentility is what you need.

“Pull him out. Bury him next to the stewardess.” He tells you, and watches as your lower lip shakes.

You let him go and he makes quick work of the body. He doesn’t pull the pilot over to you and instead heads straight for the spot he’d buried the stewardess just next to the tree line where the sand shifts into soil.

It doesn’t take you long to catch up, but he tries his best to keep you from seeing the swollen, waterlogged body of the pilot. Dead eyes open to the world, though they no longer see.

You’re crying again, wearing your sneakers, kneeling a few feet away.

He doesn’t like the weight in his chest that your crying brings. He frowns, annoyed again.

It takes him half an hour to dig the grave and another half hour to bury the pilot.

He’d been the older of the two with graying black hair and deep umber skin, made pale and gray by the lack of life.

“The other pilot?” You ask him, turning your sorrowful gaze back on him and he’d prefer the needy one.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, tired of burying people.

“Bucky?” His name falls timid from your lips, unsure.

As he turns to you, he sees you holding out his pants.

“We’re gonna make it, right? I don’t know anything about surviving in a jungle. I don’t-don’t know how to help you.” You confess.

The disappointment in your voice is telling. You’re blaming yourself for not being more knowledgeable about surviving in the wild?

Cute…and understandable.

“Just do what I ask.” He orders, taking his pants from your hold gently then slipping them on, grateful for the coverage.

You give him his t-shirt but instead of putting it on he shoves it into his backpack. It would be smarter to wear it while he works but he’s not a regular human and he’ll be fine without it.

He doesn’t want to get it all dirty and sweaty as he does what he needs to do.

“Scour the beach.” You say, looking down past the graves towards the curve of white sand, jewel waters lapping at the shore.

“Yeah. Don’t go too close to the water.” Bucky instructs, fearful suddenly. “The water is in low-tide right now, but it’ll rise.”

What if you get too close? What if you get swept out to sea and you drown?

Fear like this Bucky has never felt. The charge he’s taken in ensuring your safety over the past four days is suddenly made clear. He cares whether you live or die, despite the denial he’s been forcing on himself.

Telling himself that he’s only trying to be nice isn’t working anymore. The thought of you walking away from him, being out of sight where he can’t keep a constant careful watch on you terrifies him and he can understand the look that you give him now every time he walks away from you.

“Maybe…” He begins, staring across the endless beach. “Maybe we should just wait to scour the beach together?”

“Why?” You ask, rising to your feet, planting your carry-on in the ground more securely.

“It might be dangerous.” He realizes.

“But you have things to do.” You tell him. “It’s just walking across the beach, Bucky. I can do at least that much. Especially now that I have my shoes.”

You’re taking offense with him. Does it sound like he doesn’t trust you to do such a menial task? He very nearly doesn’t but it’s not for the reasons you might be thinking.

You’ve proven you can take instruction, despite how clumsy you seem to be in this terrain. His lack of trust is in your ability to stay safe.

Since he’s known you, you’ve passed out, nearly drowned—though you still don’t know about that and he’s not sure he’s going to ever tell you—fallen and cut your hand, you’re dehydrated, you’re not eating as much as you need to, you’re scaring him.

Can he keep you alive? He must.

Reluctantly he nods. “Fine, but do me a favor and if anything even remotely scares you, scream for me.”

“How are you going to hear me?” You ask him, confused.

You don’t know he’s a Super Soldier. You seriously don’t know who he is, and he likes that more than he should.

“I’ll hear you.” He assures you. “Promise me, Y/N.”

“I promise.” You relent and then head down along the beach with heavy, clearly pained steps.

Your body must be aching, adjusting to the environment in harsh ways.

You’re so soft and fragile. He watches you until you’re small and his need to build you a proper shelter becomes overwhelming.

First things first; fire.

*****

You walk for hours. You stop only to take drinks of your water bottle and turn over what looks like something that might be useful.

You find small items, cups and seat cushions. A few wet blankets. A metal box shut so tight you can’t open it. Whatever is inside weighs a bit. A first aid kit. Two more small bags—carry ons that probably belonged to the pilots or the stewardess.

You pile everything on top of the bags, struggling to pull them back towards the section of beach you’d left Bucky on.

Above you, the sky is fire. Blazing red and orange as the sun begins to set. It makes the island cooler, almost cold compared to the higher temperatures of the day.

A large almost five-foot-high bonfire blazes in the distance but Bucky’s nowhere to be seen.

As you grow closer, the sky above you deepens to a bruised black, scattered with a shock of white stars as the horizon fades to pink and yellow.

“Bucky?” You call out, huffing and puffing as you pull the two bags to a stop.

You’ve had to stop and pick up the items you kept dropping and you’re exhausted.

Collapsing beside them, you suddenly remember your own carry on back by the makeshift graveyard.

You groan, fall onto your back, and stare back towards the spot, upside down.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice falls on you like a security blanket.

You’ve been with him non-stop since you arrived that at first it had been bliss to be alone. Silence, where no one is giving you orders or frowning down at your inability to keep up, had been nice.

As you’d walked further and further away from him, your fear began to grow, and you stole quick tense glances at the dense tree line. What monsters lurk inside? How will you die?

By the time you turned to head back, you were missing Bucky desperately.

You push yourself up, smiling at him, so giddy to see him it’s stupid.

He struts towards you, clean and bathed, wearing a tight white t-shirt, the same blue jeans, munching on something that looks like mango.

I hate him.

“What’d you find?” He asks, moving to look at your haul. “These cushions will work nice for sleeping on. We can put these together with the ones we have in the fuselage. We’ll have to share.”

He slurps up the sweet nectar of his mango, making your stomach growl and your mouth water.

With amused blue eyes, he looks at you and then huffs a very small laugh.

“Hungry?” He asks, then holds out the mango for you to take.

You grab it, shove it into your mouth and nearly moan around it as the juice hits your tongue turning bitter salt into sweet candy.

“Easy. We still have the rest of the airplane food back at camp. There’s plenty of food to stuff your face with. We need to finish that within the next three days. It’ll go bad by then.” Bucky says, grabbing the two bags in one hand, the first aid kit and the metal box in the other, leaving you with the cushions you’d found.

“Thanks. Wait, my bag.” You gasp, getting to your feet to follow him.

“I already took it back to camp.” He moves towards the trees and you follow.

You reach the small split that he’d first led you down, the one you’d stumbled and fallen over, cutting your hand. Bucky keeps walking but you stop, gaping at him then down at the ground and the surrounding trees.

“How-?” You begin but you’re so emotional, you might just cry again.

“I can’t have you tripping every time we need to come down here and we’re going to have to keep coming back to the beach.” He explains, but with no patience to let you have this moment, he walks on. “Come on. It’s getting dark.”

Bucky seems to have spent the day clearing a path about three feet wide. Rocks and boulders that had been in the way have been shoved aside, the green ferns that had covered the ground have been pulled up. Thrown aside too, the earth dug up so that a single dark path leads from the beach and as you follow him, all the way back to camp.

“Bucky…” You whisper, stunned and appreciative.

Then your eyes fall on camp. The fuselage has been lifted onto a platform built with the fallen trees from the storm. It looks very temporary but it much better than anything you could have done.

“Saved some time on the platform by using the tress that had already fallen.” Bucky explains. “At least this way we won’t be sleep on the ground. At least until I can get a better shelter built. Your bag’s inside. Put those cushions next to the other ones.”

“Do we need a better shelter?” You ask him, desperate to keep your roots on this island shallow.

You’re no Gilligan. You’re not planning on living here.

“Just in case. We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Better safe than sorry.” He makes sense.

You have to crawl up the two-foot-high gap from floor to platform since there is no ramp but you’re so grateful for the elevation that you don’t complain. Why would you?

A cleared-out path to make walking to and from the beach easier for you. An elevated shelter so that no animals will easily reach either of you. Cushions gathered and lined up to make up a narrow makeshift bed.

There’s a roaring fire a few feet in front of the now elevated fuselage, a small metal panel placed over the open flame with two plastic plates full of airplane steak and white rice, a side of mushy carrots and green beans on top. There’s two pale rolls of bread also warming up beside the plates.

Bucky has indeed been busy.

You do as he says, making the bed slightly bigger and it actually looks like it might really be big enough for two now. Still small. Tight. You’ll have to sleep right beside each other.

“Grab a change of clothes.” He says, and you do as he instructs, grabbing a new pair of underwear, a pair of jeans, and a plain white t-shirt from your carry on, subconsciously thinking about his own white t-shirt.

You meet him by the fire.

“Ready?”

“Where are we going?” You wonder.

“Follow me.”

He leads you around a small thicket of trees towards the spot you know the fast-flowing freshwater stream is.

When he stops beside it, your eyes are drawn to the four-foot-deep hole disrupting the flow of the water. The hole is lined with large shining green leaves, made dark by the fading sunlight. You can see clearly enough however to understand that Bucky has built you both a tub of sorts.

The water flows in, fills the tub, and then continues to flow down along the stream keeping the water moving.

“Bucky…” You gasp, once again stunned by the work he’s put in, in one fucking day!

“I’ll make it better over time. The leaves will have to be changed in a few days at least until I can find something that’ll last a while longer. I’ll see if I can find some plastic or tarp. The back of the plane is still missing. There might be something in there.” He explains. “Will you be okay in the dark?”

There’s still enough sunset light that if you bathe quickly you can get back to the campfire before it’s completely dark.

“Yes.” You smile, the first since you crashed here. “I’ll be fine.”

Bucky smiles back at you, wide, pearly whites on full display. He’s even more handsome than you realized, and you already knew how good looking this man is.

“Good. I’ll go finish with dinner. Hurry back.” He says, then turns to head back.

“Bucky,” You call, eager to thank him.

“Yeah?” He turns to you, still smiling lightly.

You can’t help yourself. You move towards him, the pull of safety and security overwhelmingly seductive.

With a push onto your toes, you press a quick soft peck to his bearded cheek. The dry, cracking skin of your lips must feel like a scorched desert against the somehow soft flush of his skin.

He doesn’t pull back though, and he doesn’t complain. He lets you hold that kiss for two seconds before you fall back onto your feet to smile up at him.

“Thank you. For everything….so far.” This journey is just getting started and you’ve been very little help.

“Go on.” He says, stern but the warm glow of his eyes is kind. “It’s getting dark.”

He leaves you there, feeling protected. Secure. And maybe slightly less fearful about the journey that you and Bucky have found yourself forced on.

With Bucky, maybe it is possible to get through this.

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vishapsking · 6 months

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The wind wisp has come to visit, settling onto Retuo's shoulder. It stays out of their way, not wishing to be an inconvenience, no- rather, it simply wishes to spend time with a friend, even if they are too busy to take a break from work.

random asks. @melodicbreeze / always accepting !

To call such indulgent matters 'work' is too forgiving of how they are spending their time. Something has clicked from afar, a sensation of power they recall from eons long before. It is a taste of cool nostalgia upon their tongue. One that is refreshing and seeps into their very essence.

"Did you feel that too?" Retuo asks their companion. The moniker 'Azhdaha' is put away for now as the resurgence of energy almost makes them feel whole. No, someone else is. Not them.

"A throne has been dismantled and an old one rises," they hum while twirling the brush in their grasp.

"Do you think you and Morax would be up for a trip to Fontaine? I do wish to see the sights and welcome a child who has taken the crown."

#melodicbreeze #;tremulous roar | ic #v: even if this is the last time | bound #//boys road trip let's goooo #//how many immortals does it take to get to fontaine?

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romioneficfest · 4 years

Text

Truth or Dare

Title: Truth or Dare

Prompt/Day: Bank Holiday (kisses)

Tumblr name:

Rating: K

Brief summary: It’s the last night of sleepaway camp, and the boys of Cabin 4 are all playing truth or dare. But when Ron declines to kiss his friend Hermes as a dare, he finds he can’t get the thought out of his mind until he actually does it. (All-boys Muggle summer camp AU)

Tags: Just a couple of 14-year-olds awakening to their feelings, but nothing beyond kissing :)

“So whose turn is it?”

It was the last night of camp, and the boys of Cabin 4 were crowded around. The lights were out, to not alert the counsellors; the only illumination came from a few flashlights. In celebration of the culminating night of six weeks, they’d decided to pull a leaf out of what they’d seen in those movies they all loved to hate, and play truth or dare— because they were 14, dammit, and they needed to feel it.

It had started when a plump boy named Neville had offered up what remained of his the sizable stock of snacks; another boy, Gene —a 13-year-old fiery redhead who’d been lumped in with the Cabin 4s because he’d been born a day after the cutoff and he adamantly refused to be put with “the rest of those babies” (by which he meant his contemporaries, the Cabin 3s)—, had snuck into the counsellors’ cabin and swiped a couple of beer bottles.

“I don’t know about this, Gene,” Neville had said tremulously at first, eyeing the bottles guiltily.

“Don’t sweat it,” Gene had said, popping one of the caps with the bed frame. “My big brother Percy’s a counsellor, so if we get caught, only I’ll get in trouble. And they’re not supposed to keep the mini-fridge in their cabin. If they report us for stealing beer, we’ll just report them back.”

“I’ll drink to that,” a sandy-haired boy named Seamus cheered, necking from the bottle— and immediately grimacing. His reaction was common: all the campers who tried the beer found it disgusting, with some of the more dramatic ones (namely, a white-blond boy named Draco, who had a flair for the theatrics) rushing to the bathroom to rinse out their tongues, while the ones who felt cooler tried to fake they’d liked it. But even Gene had to admit it tasted disgusting, and when their ringleader caved, so did the rest: they dumped the beer down the sink and proposed to break the bottles to hide the evidence.

“Wait!” a voice rose, and Pencey elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, a wild glint in his eyes. “Keep one: let’s play truth or dare.”

And so they had come to be sitting in a circle on the dirty cabin floor, holding their breaths every time someone spun the bottle, releasing a sigh when they weren’t the victim. So far, the unlucky ones had been Seamus, who had licked the floor (but done so with questionable zeal); Neville, who had admitted to having been the one who’d woken up all the boys with a loud fart back in Week 3; and a boy nicknamed Pat (short for Patil), who’d stood under the ice-cold shower for fifteen seconds. He was now wrapped in a towel and shivering next to the screen door, hoping the warm breeze that drifted in from the outside (which had so often made them all complain about how stuffy their cabin was) would dry him now.

The thrill of Pat’s dare carried them for a while, but now, it was time for the next spin. In the suspended instant between the now and the later, Gene’s brother Ron, older by a year, turned to his left and shot a furtive smile at his friend Hermes. Hermes looked up, met his gaze, and knowingly smiled back.

***

Everyone thought Ron and Hermes’s friendship was odd. Ron was happiest when he was playing goalie in the games of pick-up football that often followed a mid-day lunch, while Hermes preferred to sit up in a tree (he’d originally stayed off to the sidelines, but that had ended when a stray ball had hit him in the face) with a book. Ron ate hoggishly during meals, stacking his plate like a tower and shoveling food rather than eating it, whereas Hermes ate primly with a fork and knife (even watermelon) while throwing grossed-out glances Ron’s way. Ron was loud, boisterous, and jokey; Hermes was quiet, reserved, and preferred to bring his humor out in a sharp-witted sarcastic comment that most of the time went completely over the boys’ heads.

However odd, though, it was a friendship that had started the very first day. They were sitting in an awkward circle on the main lawn for what Percy the counselor had excitedly announced would be a round of icebreakers: they’d go around in a circle and say their names, and an interesting fact about it.

When it got to the bushy-haired, buck-teethed boy with the sharp eyes, he let the silence sit for a moment before he cleared his throat and stammered out an introduction: “My name is Hermes. Hermes Granger.” He met the blank-eyed stares dumbfounded before remembering he was supposed to dole out a fact too. “And my name comes from the messenger god in Greek mythology.”

“Any questions for Hermes?” Percy said, blissfully ignorant of how awkward his dynamic was becoming.

“I have one,” a short, reedy boy with spiky jet-black hair had said, but the glint in his eyes seemed more of malice than of good-hearted curiosity.

“Go ahead, Pencey!” Percy squealed, delighted at the first question that had come up.

“Are your parents stupid, or why would they name you after some dude from geek morphology?”

‘Morphology,’ Hermes thought, looking down to conceal his blush, but more annoyed at Pencey’s incorrect vocabulary than at his insult. The idiot somehow uses an even more complicated word than 'mythology’, and he has no clue what it means.

But Hermes’s intellectual retorts were not in everyone’s style, certainly not for the lanky, long-nosed boy next to him: “Why don’t you shut up, Parkinson,” he rose slightly into a crouch. “When your own name sounds like they baptized you after some preppy rich-boy boarding school.”

Snickering rattled the circle, and Pencey’s face scrunched up into an expression of disgust. Hermes looked at the redhead boy with a grateful little smile. The redhead gave him a wink in return, and then turned to the circle to make his own introduction: “I’m Ron, and a fun fact about my name is that, since I have six brothers and we all look the same and I’m the least important out of all of them, my parents get confused and never call me by it.”

“That’s not true, Ron,” Percy chastised him, trying to be the voice of reason over the raucous laughter. “Mom loves us all the same.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron whispered to Hermes out the corner of his mouth while the next boy over began his introduction, “he can say that because he’s the favorite. Eighteen, off to some Posh Uni— but he’s stuck in the same camp as a bunch of prepubescent dumbasses.”

Hermes let out an uncharacteristic giggle, and Ron winked again. From that moment onward, they both knew they were going to be friends.

***

“My turn,” Pencey piped up greedily as he leaned forward to spin the bottle. He made a whole show out of flicking his wrist, presumably to brag again of how he’d already been to a high school party his sister Priscilla had let him stick around for. The bottle spun around once, twice, thrice— and finally slowed down to a drift before its neck pointed decisively, fatefully, at Ron.

“Bring it on, Parkinson,” Ron snorted, leaning back with crossed arms and a defiant expression turning his freckled face up. “Dare.”

“If you say so,” Pencey feigned nonchalance, as if the idea were only just occurring to him. But when he spoke, he did it with such assertiveness that it was clear he knew where he was going from the beginning. “I dare you to kiss Hermes.”

The circle fell into stunned silence, and Ron and Hermes’s heads whipped around to look at each other with wide, startled eyes. Hermes quickly broke away to look down again, as he did whenever he was concealing a blush, and Ron looked back at Pencey, mouth agape.

“Oh, come on, Weasley,” sneered Parkinson, reveling in the chaos he’d created. “We all know you’re together all the time, and we’ve seen how you look at each other. Come on, it’s just a kiss. Could be a peck.”

“I’m not going to do that,” stammered Ron, flushing a furious red. Beside him, Hermes sagged a little— was he kind of hoping he would? Forget it, it was stupid.

“Don’t be such a pussy, Weasley.”

“Knock it off,” said Gene, rising to his big brother’s defense. “First, Parkinson, we don’t use that word. We’re not misogynists. And second, quit it. Ron said he doesn’t want to do it.”

“Alright then, truth,” Pencey said, looking disgruntled. “Okay, Weasley, truth: do you want to kiss Hermes?”

“Out of bounds!” roared Gene, standing up to smack Pencey. Ron and Hermes had fallen very quiet, neither wanting to look at each other, each pretending they weren’t blushing furiously. “Out of bounds, asshole, that doesn’t count! Ron gets a pass this round, just because he has to deal with this fuckhead,” he announced to the group, which nodded its agreement.

“Thank you,” mouthed Ron to his brother, who gave a solemn nod and returned to his seat, piercing Pencey through with a murderous glance.

A boy named Dean spun the bottle, which landed on Draco, who chose 'dare’ with a sneer.

“Go outside and stick your hair in the mud,” Dean said with a smirk. Draco immediately protested, bringing his hands up to the hair he was so proud of, while the rest of the boys chanted wildly in support of Dean’s dare, slapping the floor rhythmically. It all was going back to normal, and Ron even allowed himself to faintly join the chanting. But Hermes stayed tight-lipped, retreating to his bunk shortly after. Nobody questioned his departure.

Not even Ron, though it’d made his heart sink.

***

The cabin was quiet. They’d given up on truth or dare an hour earlier, alleging it was boring (what no one wanted to admit was that it was actually because they were exhausted), and had gone to bed. They’d all gone out like logs the moment their heads had hit the pillow, and they were snoring, by now adapted to the camp’s uncomfortable bunks.

Only Ron remained awake. He couldn’t shut his eyes for longer than a second; he wasn’t sleepy. He couldn’t stop thinking about Pencey’s dare, and every time he closed his eyes, the image of a disappointed-looking Hermes was tattooed onto his eyelids, sending a twinge of pain through his heart, though he didn’t know why.

In fact, he didn’t know why it all had happened as it had. If it’d been any of the other boys, even Draco, he’d have valiantly stepped up to the task and sustained a short peck.

It’s because it was Hermes.

Lovely little Hermes, who didn’t know how lovely he was. Who squeaked rather than talked when he got excited about something. Whose brows knit together whenever he turned a page in his ever-present book. Who told Ron off for poor table manners more than his own mother. Who was so full of facts. Who bickered with him all the time, using college-level words that sounded to Ron as if they were in another language. Who showed off his buckteeth when he laughed. Who was always grumbling about his bushy hair and how the humidity in this place made it so frizzy. Who, in the space of these six weeks, had become so dear to Ron.

Was he lying awake in his bunk, too? Was he just as unable to sleep, this same multitude of thoughts swirling in his mind? Was he crying? Ron hated seeing him cry. What if this was the last memory of Ron he took from this month and a half?

That did it: the very thought was inadmissible. Ron rolled over in bed, pulled out his flashlight, and flicked it three times at the top left corner of the second window’s curtain, he and Hermes’s signal for when they wanted to talk at night. Then, Ron slipped out of bed and exited toward the back porch of the cabin, careful not to make any noise. If Hermes was awake, he’d have seen the signal. He’d know where to find him.

Sure enough, soon the screen door creaked open and out came Hermes, puffy-eyed, in his pajama pants and worn math camp tee. Wordlessly, he sat next to Ron, leaning against the cabin wall. In the moonlight, Ron’s pale skin seemed to glow, and Hermes noticed that his blue button-down pajamas were a bit shorter on him now than they’d been at the beginning of camp. They sat in silence in the symphony of crickets, chirping placidly around them as the breeze rustled the trees’ leaves.

Hermes spoke first: “Nasty game, isn’t it? No wonder Pencey likes it so much.”

“Yeah,” Ron gave a dry laugh, and they sunk into silence again. Something was on Hermes’s mind: Ron could practically hear it whirring under his masses of hair, and wished he would just come out with it.

It took a while before he finally did, shakily: “Was the thought of kissing me so bad?”

“What? No! I mean— I don’t know,” sputtered Ron, trying to string together a coherent enough sentence to comfort him.

“D'you think it’s true? Do we spend too much time together?”

“Hermes, no,” Ron said, and his hand ventured forward to close around his friend’s. The gesture surprised them both: they jumped to look at each other in alarm for a second. Tension reigned briefly— and then, slowly, Hermes’s fingers curled around Ron’s. “No,” Ron picked up again, a little flustered, a little breathless. “Hermes, I like spending time with you. I wouldn’t wanna spend it with anyone else.”

“Oh, good,” Hermes said, and Ron thought he felt his grip tighten. “I like spending time with you too.”

Silence fell back on them, but it was an easier one this time. Hands still clasped, the two friends looked out at the campgrounds.

“I’m gonna miss it, aren’t you?” Hermes piped up suddenly. “My dad forced me to come, but I’ve actually had a great time.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, but he was looking at his friend now, and thinking that what he would most miss was not exactly the campgrounds. As his eyes settled over Hermes’s profile, who was lost in thought as he gazed over the lake, he realized that being with Hermes didn’t feel at all like being with his other friends. His chest felt warmer; his cheeks, too. He felt calmer, more at home, without the need to impress him. He felt butterflies at the base of his stomach, and now, with Hermes’s hand in his, he felt a tingle flow from his fingers, through his arm, all the way to his heart.

He burst out: “It’s not too late on that dare, y'know.”

“What?” asked Hermes, turning toward him.

“I said…” Ron whispered, bringing his face closer to Hermes’s, so close he could tell apart every speck in his chocolate eyes. “It’s not too late… for that dare…”

He’d never been great with words; they eluded him. So instead, he acted. He left his sentence trailing and lunged forward softly to catch Hermes’s lips with his, squeezing his eyes shut. Hermes’s eyes flew wide open in shock, too startled to do anything.

Feeling him not kiss back, Ron pulled away disappointingly, seeming to wilt as he swayed back. “Oh. I’m sorry. I just thought—”

He was cut off again, but this time, because it was Hermes who had leaned into the kiss— a little too abruptly, by the feel of his teeth against Ron’s. But Ron overcame his initial surprise and adapted, closing his eyes more softly this time and molding his mouth to fit around Hermes’s, pressing the smaller boy’s lower lip between his own. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding Hermes’s to his cheek, placing it there to pull his friend in closer, and Hermes’s hand left his own to wrap around his neck. At this change of position, they both broke away momentarily, staring at one another to confirm it was okay.

Always able to understand each other without words, they broke into a laugh and dove back into each other’s lips. The kisses were clumsy and inexperienced: neither boy had any experience, considering how new they were at this whole awakening thing, but they were hungry and passionate, and each kissed as if they wanted more and more. Hermes’s arms only wrapped tighter around Ron’s neck, careful not to choke him, but desperately trying to hold him tighter, and Ron’s fingertips stroked Hermes’s cheek, venturing even to tangle in his bushy hair as the kisses got more intense.

After what seemed like a small eternity, they tore away again, gasping for air, Hermes practically in Ron’s lap already. Ron, grinning uncontrollably, pressed forward again to kiss him, but Hermes turned his head away and Ron’s lips landed instead on his cheek.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked delicately, reading the worry in Hermes’s eyes.

Hermes let his eyes water for an instant before he stammered: “You’ll write to me, won’t you? I slipped my address into the side pocket of your duffel last week. I didn’t want you to lose it, I hoped you’d find it and know what to do, because I was so nervous to ask. But you’ll write to me?” He took Ron’s momentary silence as a no, and launched into an apologetic ramble: “You don’t have to, I mean— I know it’s just six weeks, and none of this likely matters, and you’ll forget me, and we can pretend this never happened—”

“Hermes,” Ron cut him off, pressing a clumsy peck to his lips. “Hermes,” he repeated, brushing the bushy hair out of Hermes’s face. His heart swelled with honesty, and something close to love, and spoke with more candor than he ever had: “I’ll write every day.”

#Romione FicFest 2020 #Fic Post #Romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #Submission #Queue Up for the Dragon #Rated K #Ace Safe #Mod Note: Edited for formatting

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0idril0 · 5 years

Text

Clint/Nico 7.5

Ok, this part was almost impossible to write. No idea why. Definitely wouldn’t have happened without @whumpywhumper or @captivity-whump. Seriously, like 6 drafts of it. This starts right after Nico’s perspective fades out in the car at the end of part 5 and kind of explores what’s going on with Nico during that time. The main reason this part was written was to explore the growing bond between Clint and Nico. If anyone is confused about what’s going on you can always send me an ask!

Catch the rest of the series here

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Nico fell through emptiness as he let Kristy’s magic suppress the agony of his quaking joints.The magic invaded his muscles, making him shudder with dread at the foreign feeling. He waited for it to strike, to rend and tear, destroying the relief it had given him. He knew it would. It pulled you in before ripping you apart to the marrow. Nico tensed as the magic flickered, allowing the pain to claw at him.

He heard a rough sob as his heart stuttered in his chest.

Please. Please Kristy...be good, quiet, he swears…..didn’t mean to be scared of it. He begged mindlessly for the power to return, regardless of his fear. The agony pulled him deeper, back into his tormenter’s cell. “You could never be good enough for them, mutt.” The Reedyman’s laughter echoed, making his skin crawl. “You deserve this.”

His body rocked against the seat of the vehicle, reality shuddering as Kristy’s magic returned. Kristy’s voice warbled in his mind as it took hold of him. It’s okay, Nico, you’re safe. You’re with me and Clint. He could feel hands on him, smoothing his hair, bracing him as Kristy’s consciousness tried to speak to him, to soothe. Fear engulfed him again, was she real? Was any of this real?

He slipped through the magic, fever and pain cracking his consciousness. Nico felt every breath as it scraped at his throat, every fight for air was an epic battle. He was so tired. Delirium fogged his mind, pulling at him, warping him. He couldn’t fight it.

“Almost there, sugar.” A voice murmured through the chaos. Clint. He longed for him, he was safe with Clint. He knew it in his soul.

In some of his dreams, Clint’s wolf had been there protecting him. He treasured those few dreams where the wolf had found him. Though the wolf had always been out of reach, it’s presence allowed him to rest. He’d wanted to cling to it and make sure it couldn’t leave him. He had begged brokenly to join it, to just stop.

His heart stuttered in his chest, drowning out the rumble of Clint’s voice.

The car rocked and Kristy’s power was ripped away as his body was thrown against the seat, knocking what little air he had from his chest.

Hands clutched at him in the darkness and he was able to choke out a mewl as more pain engulfed him, tearing him to pieces as he was lifted out of the vehicle. ....Help.....

His body rocked, the blanket rough against his skin as he was carried. Everything moved too quickly, confusion eating at him. Hot air blew against his face, against his lacerated feet, before the cool dampness of a cellar stole the warmth. Fervent howling grated at his sensitive ears, rousing him further. Echoing against metal and stone. Nonono..... she’d promised.... they were going to Evan's... right?? He wrestled with his heavy eyes, unable to make out his ominous surroundings.

He remembered the pits his captor had controlled. They’d thrown him in with creatures too hungry or ravaged to think. Beings that tore his body to pieces, beings that fed on his mind, or played crueler games. The sickeningly green power pushing life back into him and stitching him back together inch by inch, piece by piece. No... let him die.... please let him die..don’t take him back there... Nico wanted to beg, betrayal overwhelming him. He twitched in his loose restraints, suppressing the urge to fight. To hide.

Cold metal pressed against his back, through the fragile warmth created by the blanket encasing him. The cold metal was inescapable, feeding the chill of fever eating his bones. Like the metal cage... please no.... let him out....

A new voice joined Clint’s baritone, igniting a low fear. The voices rumbled above him, anger and fear lashing against him, making him shudder with terror. Strong hands pulling at his arms, restraining him. Murmured voices floated through the darkness around him, grief in the cadence, the voices familiar.

They took him back......But Clint had promised.

He pulled weakly against the hands, shuddering. Clint. Please. Warm hands gripped his face and he shook his head. Please. Please no more.

“It’s okay, Sugar. It’s okay.... shhhh...”

Clint... His presence sparked against his. Almost drowning out the sharp prick at his neck. Something seeped into his veins, burning cold like ice water. Nico twitched into Clint’s hand, leaning against it.

“It’s okay, Darlin’, you’ll feel much better soon.” Please stay. Please. Make it stop. He’ll try harder. Be better.

The pain didn’t stop. He bit his cheek, trying in vain to stifle his sobs. Pets are quiet, let them do what they want. Fingers and rough cloth pushed against his skin, scraping at the weeping wounds. Nico sobbed, unable to control it as fingers maliciously pushed at his shoulders, pain ricocheted through him as they pulled against the damaged ligaments.

Blood roared in his ears until a new pain ignited in his flank. Nico gasped weakly, fear of that particular mutilation breaking him. “‘Lease....nnn...nnn...” Be good.... promise.... please... Clint please come back......Hands pushed against his hips and he screamed, the world searing his vision before winking out. “M’orry.....’lease.... be’ood....s’op....’lease...” He struggled to stifle his begging as a voice shushed him, the smaller pains continuing, easier to bear. Try harder....be better.... please....not again…..

He grunted in surprise as fire invaded his veins, replacing the ice that had been flowing into him like a river. It oozed like lava through him, thawing the ice in his bones. It was too much.

—-

Clint clawed at the seat Evan had pressed him back into, focusing on the way his nails whittled at the soft wood. The sharp pain of the needle in his arm. They were his only distractions.

The smell of blood and infection hung heavy in the air and he could hear Brian heaving behind his clenched lips. He kept his gaze focused on the dribble of blood drying on his arm from where he’d pulled the original needle. The blood was thick in the dark hair.

He fixated on his own blood, burning the sight into his memory. Clint fought the urge to stare at Nico. When he looked up, he could see the way Nico’s skin didn’t fit together right, revealing the muscle underneath. It made sick anger boil in his belly. This should never have happened.

Nico’s scream had nearly undone him, his wolf going feral as it had tried to claw its way to the surface. Evan had never had to use his power on him before; he was both resentful and grateful. Without the order, he would have torn the man to shreds.

There was a tremulous exhale from the table and Clint tensed, debating on whether to look. A low moan forced his head up, heart clenching. Evan had rolled Nico to his side, Brian’s hands supporting his lax frame. Horror suffused him, without the blanket to shield him he could see the scars and wounds that covered Nico’s back.

Tears instantly blurred his vision and he pressed his fist against his mouth to stifle a grunt of horror. Fuck. I’m sorry, Baby. I’m sorry. Clint had felt as if something was wrong for months, unable to get ahold of the shy man. Night terrors had plagued him, furthering his fears. He had shrugged it off. He should have listened. His wolf had been telling him something was wrong and he hadn’t listened.

Tears fell down his cheeks and he scrubbed at them roughly, careful not to dislodge the needle collecting his blood. It was the only thing he could do now. He felt dizzy as Evan came to collect the third bag, swaying when the man tapped his shoulder in reassurance.

A cold pressure pulled at his heart and his wolf startled, instantly making him alert. A desolate howl pulled at him, ringing eerily through his head. He shuddered, whining as the bleak sound made his bones shudder. Nico.

Evan spoke to him but he didn’t comprehend as he stumbled from his seat to Nico's side. Clint fumbled at Nico gently, carding a hand through wet hair. He stroked a thick thumb against Nico’s limp knuckles, pressing a kiss to the bruised flesh.

Hi Baby, it’s okay. I’m right here....

Clint could feel his mouth moving as he stroked Nico’s hair. He focused on the feeling deep in his chest, burying his nose in the damp locks. Got you now, Darlin’...

—

His soul howled. Nico could feel his body shuddering, besieged by the onslaught. The fire helped shield him from the torment. He felt a resounding thump in his chest, igniting his soul like a bonfire.

Nico heard the pop of a wood fire and jumped, eyes fluttering. What? Light sparked in his vision before disappearing. Something laved against his face, rough and cold. A deep whine rumbling against his soul, pushing at him. A comforting warmth settled against his heart, before nudging against his cheek. The sensation was strange but comfortingly familiar.

He knew this.

He knew this like he knew himself. Like he’d been waiting for it, longing for it. There was a high whine in his ear, impossible to ignore. Nico wanted to acknowledge it. A foreign reassurance settled him, pushing shattered pieces of himself back together. Something warm chuffed against his face, heaving panting breaths onto his cheek before licking at his eyes.

Emotions that weren’t his battered against his consciousness and fear made him fight against it, unwilling to leave the warmth he’d found. He felt safe. He could almost smell the smoke from the fire, the cigarette he and Clint had shared. When was that? There was another sharp nudge against his face before a growling whine startled him.

The weight resettled against him and at the same time he felt the push of emotion on his consciousness. He didn’t fight this time, allowing it to flow through the cracks in his psyche, in his heart. Nico could feel the magic in the presence and a small fear thrummed before the presence backed away easily, waiting patiently.

The patience was unsettling. When was the last time he had been met with that? The being nudged against his fingers, slathering them with cold fluid. What?

His eyes opened slowly, a soft blue light illuminating his surroundings. Where-? A blue campfire crackled in front of him. There was a chuff of air against his fingers, and a warm weight resettled against his hip. He tensed, expecting pain. The weight was soothing, bringing tears of relief to his eyes. It didn’t hurt.

Warm yellow eyes met his.

Tears scorched his eyes at the sight and recognition surged through him. Clint? There was a happy whine as the wolf inched his way up his chest. A tail thumped against his leg, making the large body wiggle. He didn’t question the sight of the large animal, sobs of relief shaking him.

Nico curled towards the wolf, tentatively dipping his hands into the thick fur. A relieved moan slipped from between his lips as he gripped the soft fur tightly for the first time. Please don’t leave me. The wolf put more of his weight onto him, settling a large paw over his chest. The wolf snuffled at his cheek before licking at his tears; it’s intentions were clear. Mine. Exhaustion pulled at him as he took in the thick scent of the wolf and the campfire. He buried his head against the thick neck, hiding, before sleep finally overwhelmed him.

#Nico Series #nico #clint #near death #wounds #alternate view #soul bond

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roman-writing · 5 years

Text

of all stars the most beautiful

Fandom: Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and FIre / Star Wars

Pairing: N/A

Rating: G

Wordcount: 17,656

Summary: Of all the stars in the galaxy, the blue dwarf of Asar around which Winterfell rotated was the brightest. A Star Wars AU told from Sansa’s perspective following the events of the books.

read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

“And I am a master of speaking silently -- all my life I’ve spoken silently, and I’ve lived through entire tragedies in silence.”

-The Meek One, Fyodor Dostoevsky

“How unlucky,” Cersei said, “that of all the Stark children, we got the dud.”

Sansa had to hide the shaking of her hands by shifting her grip upon the nanosilk fabric draped across her lap. The needle pinched between thumb and forefinger was a trembling sliver of silver. Cersei watched her openly while all the ladies-in-waiting pretended not to. Sansa kept her head lowered, focusing intently upon threading the needle. The patchwork lion was far from taking shape. From this angle, it might have been a housecat.

Cersei lifted a glass of wine to her lips and took a leisurely sip. The drink stained her lips a bloodied red. “You should count yourself fortunate that your traitor family has such a strong history of Force users, little bird. Else we’d have no use for you.”

“I do,” Sansa managed to say. Her eyes flickered up to meet Cersei’s, only briefly, before she lowered them once more. “I count my fortunes every day, Senator.”

There was a pause, during which Sansa did not dare look up; she could feel Cersei’s gaze upon her, heavy and dark. “I heard that Force-sensitives can feel when great disturbances occur in the universe. Tell me: did you feel anything when they cut off your father’s head?”

Sansa’s hand slipped. The needle pricked her finger, and it took all her strength to mask a flinch. Her blood welled up, glittering like one of the ancient crystals that gleamed through the nanosilk threads. Everyone was watching for her reaction. The room was breathless and still, and Sansa could hear the thundering of her own heart in her ears above all else.

She could remember the day her father was beheaded with all the clarity of the holograms that still played it in the streets, as if to remind the general public of what happened to traitors on Coruscant. It was the first public execution since the days of the Mad Emperor, but from what Sansa understood he had preferred to kill traitors with lightning delivered from his own hands.

At least Ned Stark’s death had been quick. At least there had been no blood. His neck had been cauterised by the executioner’s blade, and when his body had slumped to the ground Sansa had felt the world tilt around her. As if everything had been irrevocably thrown out of balance. She had spent the next few days stumbling with every steps as the ground beneath her feet continued to pitch. Sometimes she could still feel it, the universe slanting to one side as though a great weight were pushing down, until it was all she could do to cling upright.

“I felt nothing, Senator,” Sansa lied. “Nothing, save shame for my House’s infidelity to the Republic.”

Cersei sneered around her wine glass. “Just as I thought. A dud like your mother.”

The day Myrcella was escorted onto a ship for the starforge of Sunspear, there were riots at the docking bays. The Dornish vessel was sealed shut behind Myrcella’s small figure, and while Cersei wept, Sansa watched the massive docking bay doors behind them. She could hear nothing over the roar of the engines spooling up, like the roar of a hundred throats lifting to the haze-riddled skies of Coruscant.

Cersei’s breath hitched in a sob, and Sansa had to lift a hand to wipe at her own eyes. It must have been from dust kicked up by the engines. The Dornish ship rose into the sky. Cersei stared after it long after Myrcella had gone.

“I’m going back to the Federal District,” Joffrey announced in a bored tone. He was already walking towards the docking bay doors, gold-cloaked Lannister guardsmen marching in his wake. When Cersei, Tyrion, and the others did not immediately follow, Joffrey glanced over his shoulder with a thunderous scowl. “Well?” he snapped, his gaze turning to Sansa. “Are you coming or not?”

He did not wait for a response before stalking off once more. Sansa hesitated for only a moment before gripping her skirts with both fists in order to quicken her step after him. Tyrion tagged along behind her, and Cersei only turned away from the hangar doors after Joffrey had nearly reached the docking bay entrance and was waiting impatiently for the rest of his entourage to catch up. Sandor Clegane, the Hound of Mandalore, towered at Joffrey’s side. His beskar armour was soot-black, and a green cloak hung from one shoulder; the snarling jaws of a dog had been painted across the helmet indicative of his people. The old Mandalorian ways were few and far between these days, and Clan Clegane had only escaped the new Braavosi Mandalore by the skin of their teeth.

The docking bay doors opened. The howl of the engines could still be heard, but the ship had long gone. Outside, guardsmen leveled their blaster rifles at a baying mob. Upon sight of Joffrey and the others, the crowd went frenzied, like hounds scenting the air with blood. Sansa took a tremulous step back at the force of their furor.

When a few broke through the ranks of the guardsmen, Clegane slammed his fist upon the control panel mounted on the wall, and the doors slid shut. One member of the crowd managed to slip through. Another was crushed beneath the descending weight of duralloy. With a casual air, Clegane unholstered his blaster cannon from over his shoulder and shot the one that managed to get through to their side. Sansa started. She swallowed and glanced quickly away, hearing the body fall, dead, to the ground.

“This way, Vice Chair,” Clegane said to Joffrey. His voice was an electronic muffle through the speakers of his helm. He was already striding off towards a side exit.

Joffrey glanced between the body and the Hound before following. “What are they doing? Why are they here?”

“There’s a food shortage thanks to Stannis Baratheon winning over the bread basket of the Western Reaches,” Tyrion said, exasperated. “Don’t you pay attention to anything?”

“I’ll pay attention when I put you before a firing squad,” Joffrey snarled.

Tyrion’s eyebrows rose, but he remained silent. Clegane smacked the side exit’s panel, and the door slid open. He ducked beneath the frame and quickly glanced around outside.

“Is it clear?” Cersei asked.

“Clear enough.” Clegane rested his huge blaster cannon against his shoulder and stepped into the open air.

The Lannister’s guardsmen circled closely around Joffrey, Tyrion, and Cersei, unholstering their blaster rifles. They jostled Sansa. One of them grabbed her by the arm and pushed her after the others when she hesitated. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to stay within the safe confines of the hangar, to wait out the riots until the mob cleared, but she could do nothing when a guardsmen dragged her along in their wake.

They dodged down side-alleys, staying off the main streets as best they could. Sansa could just make out the hulking form of the Hound’s shoulders over the heads of the others; he led them on their path to safety. After they’d rounded another corner, the guardsman let go of Sansa’s arm to grip his blaster rifle more firmly between both hands.

Just one alley over, she could hear a mass of people. The sound of blaster fire, the stench of burning skin and hair, the roar of anger from a crowd made her flinch.

“Hurry up,” Clegane growled. He grabbed Joffrey by the shoulder and pushed him to one side just as a laser round scorched the air where he had stood not a moment ago.

Joffrey’s face was pale. He had drawn his lightsaber but his hand shook. He pointed a finger down the next alley and yelled, “Shoot at them, already! Shoot them!”

“Don’t be mad -!” Tyrion tried to say, but the guardsmen were already pointing their blaster rifles and opening fire.

Clegane was aiming down his own sights now. Every pull of the trigger on his blaster cannon seared the air with noise. He had placed his body before Joffrey’s. A laser round struck his shoulder, but left only a blackened scuff mark on his armour.

“I am your Vice Chair!” Joffrey was screaming. His face was flushed with rage and fear. “I am -! Just -! Kill them!”

The mob was starting to claw its way into the alley. Sansa could see the mass of bodies encroaching in upon them despite the firepower from Clegane and the guardsmen. She backed away with slow, shaking steps back the way they had come, watching the rest of the group be herded by Clegane into another alleyway running perpendicular to them. The mob gave chase.

Nobody seemed to notice Sansa was no longer among them. Not even the crowd noticed her presence. She did not wait for them to do so. She grasped her long flowing robes between her hands, turned, and ran.

The mob had overwhelmed the hangar by the time she returned, breathing heavily. They were tearing apart one of the docked ships with their bare hands and sets of welders tools taken from the engineering quarters. Others were trying to break into the aircraft control room, which had been barred from within. Through the transparisteel windows, Sansa could see members of the flight control squad barricading the doors with furniture and yelling into their personal transmission devices.

Sansa flinched when members of the crowd began to use a section of the ship as a battering ram. People were milling all about her, and with every violent jostle her hands shook so badly she could not keep them still at her side. She edged her way around the perimeter of the crowded hangar, trying every door handle she came across until she found one that was open.

Slipping into a dark corridor lit only with blue lights along the floor, she shut the door as quietly as she could. Her chest rose and fell with every breath. She tried to keep her steps even as she walked down the corridor, but with every crash of noise through the door behind her, Sansa found her stride lengthening until she was running.

She stumbled on the hems of her robes and had to steady herself against the wall. Pausing to catch her breath, she glanced around furiously when the door crashed open. Eyes wide, Sansa fumbled with a wall at waist-height. It was screwed shut, and no amount of twisting at the corners could convince the panel to loosen.

The sound of booted footsteps and shouting echoed along the corridor, and dark shapes loomed behind her. Sansa scrambled in vain against the wall panel until in a fit of frustration she slammed her open palm against it.

The wall panel fell away to reveal a dark crawlspace. With a gasp, she crouched down and clambered inside. She only just managed to grab the wall panel and fix it in place behind her, when people stormed by her hiding place.

It was a technician’s shaft, terminating less than a few meters deep into the wall, where a single panel of lights blinked intermittently through the darkness. Sansa had to curl her knees to her chest to fit in the crawlspace. She wrapped her hands around her ankles and held fast, burying her face in her knees and shutting her eyes tight. She could still hear the drum of feet outside, the angry voices chanting for action from the Senate; she could feel the hot press of bodies against her own, skin sticky with sweat, the flow of the crowd sweeping her away.

Every second took an age to pass. Every rapid, panting inhalation was acidic with fear. The darkness pressed in all around her, a shadow with a great, cold weight. Sansa shivered. Her back and legs ached from being hunched up for so long. Every time the door rattled from passers-by, she dared not open her eyes. The darkness seemed to clog up her lungs, her mouth, her nose, until all she could focus on was her breathing, desperately trying to slow it down, to decrease the thundering of her own heart.

When the door was wrenched open, Sansa jerked back from the blade of light lancing through the crawlspace. She scrambled deeper into the corner, praying that she would remain unseen.

For a long moment there was silence. And then a familiar rasping voice growled out, “Almost didn’t notice you there, little bird.”

Hesitantly, she lifted her head to find the masked Hound of Clan Clegane holding out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “We haven’t got all day.”

There was a wing of the Senate Dome that was always cold. Sansa avoided it as best she could, but some days could not be helped. Today she trailed dutifully after Cersei and her train of attendants, shrugging her shoulders against the chill. Hardly anyone else seemed to ever notice it. She had heard Joffrey complain once that the heaters must have been broken in this wing, and he had backhanded an electrician who insisted that he had triple-checked the HVAC system.

Cersei paused in a particularly well-lit section of the hallway between two massive pillars. Her hair seemed to glitter when she cocked her head and looked down at the floor. Cersei appeared especially severe today in her red and gold-trimmed robes of state. She gestured for Sansa to approach her, and the other attendants stood aside to let Sansa stand beside her.

For a long moment, Cersei simply looked down at a section of the polished floors without saying a word. Sansa was loath to stand too close. This place made her feel greasy, cold, and unclean. Then, Cersei remarked casually, “My father has this place scrubbed by the cleaning droids every other day. He says it always feels dirty.”

Sansa nodded, but said nothing.

At that, Cersei glanced at her sharply. “So, you feel it, do you?”

Sansa shook her head. “No, Senator,” she lied.

“No?” Cersei placed a hand on Sansa’s shoulder and pushed down, hard. “Tell me if the droids have done a decent job. Does this place still feel dirty to you?”

Sansa’s knees hit the floor, and she held back a wince. Cersei’s fingers remained digging into her shoulder, then softened somewhat.

“Well?” Cersei prompted.

Sansa could see her own dim reflection in the polished surface beneath her. It was like looking into a smoke-tinted mirror, the vague impression of herself upon the oil-slick surface. “The floors are as clean as they’ll ever be.”

Cersei’s grip slackened. She smoothed her thumb over Sansa’s shoulder. “It doesn’t feel at all different?”

The floors were hard against Sansa’s knees, and so icy that the cold seeped through layers of Ottegan silk. Her breath misted slightly with every trembling exhalation. Her stomach churned, and she had to swallow back the bile burning in her throat.

“This place is like any other on Coruscant, Senator,” Sansa said, keeping her face meekly downturned.

For some reason that made Cersei laugh. “Here Elia Martell was defiled and cloven in two by the Mountain of Clan Clegane.” She smiled, and though she helped Sansa upright, her hand squeezed Sansa’s too tightly for any real warmth. “But you’re right. Coruscant is filled with places like this.”

Sansa snatched her hand back as quickly as she dared. Cersei’s face hardened, but before she could remark upon it, Sansa spoke. “Every planet has its wealth of ghosts. Especially those as ancient as Coruscant. But I would not know, Senator. The Unknown Regions and Outer Rim Territories do not have such rich histories as the Core Worlds.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes a fraction. For a moment Sansa feared she had said too much, but then Cersei turned away and continued down the hall. “Your idle chatter is going to make us late for the Convocation.”

Sansa ducked her head in a little bow, though Cersei could not see it. “Of course. Please forgive me, Senator.”

She drifted back to her place at the rear of the train of attendants. A few of the others shot her glances both suspicious and envious of the Senator’s attentions. Sansa waited until they were well beyond the wing before slipping away from the group and into a restroom. Nobody saw her go.

It was mercifully empty. Stumbling forward, she pushed open the nearest stall and only just made it in time to vomit into the toilet. She sank to her knees, gripping the bowl as her stomach emptied itself.

Then, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, Sansa stood. She checked her appearance in the mirrors. She washed her hands and fixed her hair. She snuck into the Senate hall before anyone could notice she had ever been gone.

Stannis Baratheon’s warships began their siege of Coruscant on a fine, breezy afternoon. Cersei invited many ladies of name and noble birth to her private balconies to watch as the skies rained down with fire.

Sansa declined a glass of wine that was offered to her, but Cersei noticed. “You look pale, little dove. Come have a drink with me.”

“I -” Sansa started to protest, but quickly shut her mouth. She nodded and a full glass was pushed into her hand by a servant. Cersei watched with unblinking intensity as Sansa took a small sip.

“Not like that. Drink, girl.” Cersei mimed the motion with her own glass.

Sansa drank.

“Why so pale?” Cersei cocked her head. Her voice was soft, and had all the veneer of sounding concerned, though her gaze was as sharp as ever. She wore an infinite variety of masks. Every time Sansa thought she had lifted one away, Cersei would have donned another in its place. “Have you so little faith in our Supreme Chancellor?”

Sansa shook her head. “Of course not, Senator. I am confident Chancellor Tywin will beat back this pretender without any trouble at all.”

The warships were pale shadows looming through the atmosphere miles and miles above the surface of the planet. From here, Sansa could barely make out the smaller fighters let alone the barrage exchange between them.

Cersei did not look up at the sky. Her eyes remained fixed on Sansa. “What were you doing just before?”

Glancing over her shoulder in confusion where she had been sitting in a huddle with some of the other ladies, Sansa confessed, “Leading a prayer.”

“Leading a prayer,” Cersei repeated in a flat tone. Her lip curled. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

“Senator?”

Rather than answer, Cersei gestured for Sansa’s glass to be filled again, though it was not yet empty. “Drink.”

Sansa drank.

The siege lasted a mere two days. It was two days too long. Sansa listened avidly to the guardsman delivering his report to Cersei in a hushed whisper. How Minister Tyrion had managed to rally the troops after Vice Chair Joffrey had disengaged from the fight. How Chancellor Tywin had swept in from hyperspace with the combined Lannister-Tyrell fleet from Corellia and driven the pretender from the field. Sansa had watched one of Stannis’ enormous battlecruisers burn up in atmo.

When she finally returned to her personal quarters, she was bone weary. Most of all, she wanted a long, hot shower and to change her clothes into something more comfortable than the formal constricting robes she always wore in the presence of others. Even before she opened the door to her quarters however, she knew someone else was waiting for her inside.

She could not say how she knew. Only that she did. And it was with a shaking hand that she pressed the panel on the wall, which read her bio signature with a green light of admittance before the door slid open. A hulking shape stooped in a chair on the opposite side of the room, staring out the windows and into the glittering lights of the planet-wide city at night.

Sansa stepped inside. The doors slid soundlessly shut behind her. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, Clegane said nothing. His armour was covered in burn marks and blood. The edge of his cloak dripped onto the pale carpet. “I’m not here for long,” he finally rasped. “I’m going.”

“Where?”

His helmed head tilted, but he did not move or look around. “Somewhere that isn’t burning.”

Sansa swallowed. “And why come here? Why come to me?”

With a creak of armour, he rose. Slowly, he turned and crossed the room to stand before her. The city lights beyond glinted across his scarred armour. He reeked of battle, of strong spirits and singed hair. There was a bloodied tooth and some darker unidentifiable matter stuck to one of his broad shoulders. Sansa’s back stiffened, and she retreated a step until she could feel the door behind her. With his blaster cannon strapped across his back, Clegane was barely able to stand in the doorway.

“I can take you with me,” he said. “I can keep you safe. I can take you home.”

The promise of Winterfell rang empty, but still the thought of snow and ice sent a pang of longing racing beneath her skin. A homesickness so strong she felt sick to her stomach. Her gut twisted itself into knots, and she had to blink back a burning in her eyes.

Sansa shook her head. “I will be safe on Coruscant.”

Clegane lifted his hands and pressed hidden latches on the underside of his helmet. A series of clicks followed, and the hissing depressurisation of air. As he removed his helm, Sansa glanced away.

“Look at me.”

Hesitant, Sansa did so. Half of his face was seared away. She could see bits of bone through his oozing skin where the kolto tanks were unable to make him whole again, no matter how many treatments he endured at the hands of the medical droids. Despite his horrible disfigurement -- or perhaps because of it -- some instinct made her reach up and cup his scarred cheek, softly. His eyes widened, and the moment she touched him he jerked back as if she had scored his skin with her fingernails.

Sansa flinched away from the sudden movement. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to come, but it never did. She could hear movement -- the creak of armour and synthweave -- and then the Hound’s voice muffled through the speakers of his helm once more. “Move.”

She shuffled from the doorway, her hands clenched into fists. Clegane hit the panel that opened the door, and then he was gone.

Minister Baelish arrived at the spaceport with the Tyrells. His robes were as sleek and dark as the rest of him; he stood out like a thorn amongst the leaves. Sansa was present with the Lannister welcoming party. She waited in Cersei’s wake like a shadow while Tywin and Joffrey bowed to their guests.

Most of the time, people’s eyes passed over Sansa, as though she blended into her surroundings. The moment Petyr Baelish had finished bowing to the Lannisters and Tyrells however, his eyes sought her out. One corner of his mouth upturned when he found her, and as the rest of the group headed towards the Dome, he fell into step at Sansa’s side with an easy grace.

“You are looking very well, Lady Sansa.”

She inclined her head as graciously as she knew how. “Thank you, Minister Baelish. I am glad to see you unharmed from the battle.”

He waved her concern away. “Men like me don’t do well in battles. I stay away from them as much as possible.”

“That seems very wise,” Sansa said. Then she added, “Though I hear my brother goes where the fight is thickest.”

“Your brother is a pretender,” Littlefinger pointed out.

“And not very wise,” Sansa agreed.

Secretly, she relished the idea of him cutting down the likes of Joffrey with lightsaber in hand. Robb had always favoured the bluest of crystals found in Ilum’s many kyber caverns. They said his lightsaber shone like a star upon the battlefield. Arya had always been the one to beg him to let her hold it for a time, since she was too young yet to have made one herself. She could often be seen scampering around Winterfell’s courtyards brandishing Robb’s blue lightsaber or Jon’s white-crystal saber while they called after her with laughter.

Sansa had dared not touch one herself, though her father had held out his green lightsaber to her once. She’d always been afraid she would drop it and cut off her own toes.

“What kind of droid is that?” Sansa changed the topic, nodding towards the massive robot striding exactly three paces behind Senator Olenna and Lady Margaery. It clanked with every step from the sheer weight of its armoured plates.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed her, have you?” Littlefinger smiled, but the expression never touched his eyes. “That is BR-3N, a modified battle droid. Highly effective and fully sentient. Might I suggest -” he tilted his head so that he was closer when he spoke, so that she could almost feel the warmth of his cheek against her own. “- that you stay away from that particular hunk of metal? Her loyalties are impossible to buy. It would be a shame if she were to consider you critical to whatever mission parameters she has deemed worthy of her devotion.”

Sansa nodded, but continued to stare at the droid’s towering skeletal figure.

Littlefinger paused. “Might I have a moment in private, my Lady?”

Sansa glanced towards where the rest of the part was continuing on their way towards the elevators. “The others -?”

“We won’t be far behind.”

Uneasily, she nodded and allowed herself to be led aside. Littlefinger did not take her very far, just far enough that they could not be overheard.

“I have good news,” he said once they were alone.

“Good news you could not tell me in the company of others?” Sansa asked, wary. She had to stop herself from leaning away when Littlefinger took a step closer than she would have ordinarily liked. She never could shake the feeling that the air around Minister Baelish was filled with an unpleasant chill, the kind that made her desire a bath. It was an irrational feeling; the man’s presentation and hygiene were always immaculate.

“I thought it best it come from me alone. I am, after all, your most staunch ally in the Core Worlds, though you may not know it yet.” When she said nothing in reply, he continued. “The Tyrells did not turn the tide of the battle for nothing. They have agreed to this alliance upon the condition of a marriage between the Lady Margaery and Vice Chair Joffrey Baratheon.”

A shock of fear twined its way through Sansa’s stomach. “But -?”

“Now, don’t worry. I have arranged that your engagement be broken off without any harm to your or your reputation. You must remain on Coruscant for now, of course, but be ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” he added the last almost as an afterthought, and Sansa felt her gut swoop unpleasantly at the idea of staying on this planet a moment longer.

Still, he was watching her with an expectant expression. At a loss for what to do, Sansa stepped back in order to drop into a deep bow. “Thank you, Minister Baelish. I am in your debt.”

When she did not look up for a time, he tilted her head up with one black-gloved finger beneath her chin. He was smiling, but the sight was somehow sickly. “My dear Lady,” his eyes glittered like dark polished stones, “It was my pleasure.”

Sansa woke up from a nightmare, sobbing. She wrenched awake, her legs twisted in the covers, gasping for breath, her cheeks wet with tears. In the night, her room was dark, her windows tinted to keep out the lights of the city.

She wiped at her face and draped one of the covers over her shoulders, wishing it were a wolf pelt from Lothal. With a wave of her hand over an electronic panel beside her bed, she left the windows only partially tinted and huddled on the floor before them. She tucked the covers tightly around herself and sat so close to the windows her breath misted the glass. She whispered an order to the computer, and it brought up a hologram of the galaxy.

“Unknown Regions,” said Sansa in a tone so soft, the computer took a moment to register she had spoken at all.

The computer zoomed in.

“7G Sector, Ilum.”

The computer zoomed in again. Sansa’s breath caught in her chest.

Of all the stars in the galaxy, the blue dwarf of Asar around which Winterfell rotated was the brightest. It burned cold and blue. From the surface of Ilum, the sun only rose once every nineteen days. Like this, feeling the chill of the air through the windows, wrapped in nothing but a sheet and a shift, Sansa could almost pretend she was there, safe within the walls of Winterfell, looking out at the fields of barren ice beneath a sky of eternal night.

The next morning, Joffrey gleefully informed her that her traitor brother and traitor mother were murdered by her uncle on Robb’s wedding day. They stitched his direwolf’s head onto his shoulders and chained his body atop the nose of a cruiser for a whole planet to see.

Sansa balled her hands into fists until her fingers ached. She made not a noise of complaint.

Senator Olenna sent a formal droid messenger to invite Sansa to join her in the Reach Consular Gardens for afternoon tea. When Sansa tried to give her acceptance, the messenger droid informed her that no reply was necessary and that Senator Tyrell was expecting her in two hours.

It only took five minutes by tram to reach the Consular Gardens from her personal quarters, but Sansa left with ten minutes to spare. The afternoon sun was bright, and the air warm when Sansa stepped from the tram. Above her the Reach Consular Gardens were a towering complex draped with vines and trees, like an island paradise floating amidst a sea of metal and glass. She walked inside and had to present her hand for a biosecurity scan before being allowed into the building proper.

Nobody but the occasional droid paid her any notice as she ascended to the highest floor, which the Tyrell matriarch had made her personal quarters for the duration of her stay on Coruscant. She passed through the halls without speaking to anyone, until Sansa rounded a corner and caught sight of the tall modified battle droid from the spaceport.

BR-3N stomped right by without pause, though her head twisted around to take inventory of Sansa’s appearance. Sansa wilted somewhat beneath the force of the droid’s scrutiny. Out of force of habit, Sansa stopped to curtsy.

Immediately BR-3N halted and returned the social courtesy with a perfectly executed bow at the waist. “Good day. You are the Lady Sansa Stark, are you not?”

“I - I am,” Sansa stammered, clutching at her robes with one hand.

“I met your mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, not long ago,” BR-3N announced. “She tasked me with bringing you home to her, at your earliest convenience.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She could scarcely breathe. She stared at the droid, but before she could speak BR-3N continued in the same crisp monotone as before.

“I am afraid that due to her recent demise, the parameters of this mission are no longer possible.” BR-3N bowed again. “Forgive me, my Lady. I much admired your mother. I would have liked to return you to her.”

Sansa’s mouth opened but no words came out. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She took a deep trembling breath, chewing at her lower lip between her teeth. “That is quite -” She could not bring herself to say it was ‘alright’. Sansa instead said in a shaky voice, “Thank you. I would have liked to have been returned.”

BR-3N straightened. “My indices clearly state that there is still a mission to be completed. Since your mother is dead, I will perform this task for both you and your sister instead.”

“My sister is dead,” Sansa said in a flat tone.

“Then I shall perform this task for you.” BR-3N placed a hand over her chest where her heart would have resided had she been at all human. “What would you have of me, my Lady?”

At that, Sansa blinked. “What do you -? Who owns your devotions now, BR-3N?”

“That question is irreconcilable. Please rephrase.”

“Surely you have a maker? A higher master?”

BR-3N inclined her head a fraction. “I have no master save those I choose, Lady Stark.”

Sansa shuddered. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Forgive me. What should I call you?”

“Just -” she inhaled a deep breath and had to close her eyes for a second. “Just ‘Lady Sansa,’ please.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa. Please inform me of what mission you would have me perform on your behalf.”

The sun above Coruscant glared across every metallic surface of the city, sending streaks of light through the atmosphere. Sansa’s mouth was cotton dry. She could feel a bead of sweat rolling down her spine, making the heavy silk fabric of her robes cling to her skin.

She stared at BR-3N and wondered how far they would get before the Lannisters found them. She weighed the idea in her head. Then, glancing around them, she stepped forward. Sansa gestured for BR-3N to lean down, and the droid did so.

“What are the chances you could take me to Winterfell without us being caught?” Sansa asked in a hushed whisper.

BR-3N only took a split second to answer. “Based on the number of bounty hunters the Lannisters could purchase with their vast reserve of credits alone, my calculations for our probability of success are three-thousand seven-hundred and twenty to one. However,” BR-3N continued when Sansa looked especially crestfallen. “This probability can be increased to seven-hundred and twenty to one, should we be able to acquire a vessel with a hyperdrive.”

Sansa bit down on her lower lip so hard she thought she could taste copper. She did the maths in her head. They did not look pretty.

“Would you like me to acquire a vessel with a hyperdrive, Lady Sansa?”

Feeling dizzy, Sansa shook her head. She took a step back. “No. Thank you, BR-3N. Your services are not required at this time.”

The droid cocked her head at an exact angle before straightening to her full height once more. “Of course. Should you ever have need of me in the future, please know that my devotions are yours to command.”

“I shall remember that,” Sansa murmured. She gestured over her shoulder. “I should go. Senator Olenna is waiting for me. I fear I am already late.”

“Until next we meet, Lady Sansa.”

BR-3N offered another impeccable bow, before striding away.

Tea with the Tyrells was like navigating a proximity minefield. Get too close to a conversational topic, and the talk detonated. Senator Olenna was particularly adept at launching barbed missiles; Sansa was a mix of taken aback and thrilled with guilty delight every time the Senator spoke with such contempt of the Lannisters, or Renly, or even her own people.

“Renly was kind and gentle, grandmother,” Margaery admonished. “Father liked him and so did Loras!”

Olenna scoffed. “Loras is very good at doing barrel rolls and what have you in starfighters. That does not make him wise. And you know better than anyone that your father is the worst judge of character.”

To that, Margaery could only relent with a shrug and a nod. The faux guilty look she shot Sansa made Sansa bite her lip to keep a smile at bay.

The rest of the party had been cordoned off in another section of the gardens. The three of them were alone, sheathed from the rest of the world by sheets of impenetrable transparisteel that created a glasshouse effect for the plantlife. Sansa felt overly warm -- more so than she usually did on Coruscant. She longed to remove the formal outer layer of her robes, but instead endured the heat as best she could. The hot floral tea did not help. Once or twice she sipped at her cup gamely, but otherwise left the table of food and drink untouched.

In contrast, Lady Margaery and Senator Olenna lounged with the contentment of people completely in their element. Despite her formal wear, Olenna used one of the spare chairs to irreverently prop up her feet. She balanced a cup of tea between her fingers with a practiced grace, pausing every now and then during their talk to scrape cheese over a slice of bread and eat it. No matter how much she tried to ply both Sansa and Margaery with food, Sansa demurred, and Margaery would only partake in fruit that stained her lips red.

“Now,” Olenna lowered her feet to the ground and leaned forward in her chair, placing her cup of tea aside with a crisp clack of porcelain. “I want you to tell me about this boy, this Vice Chair.” She said the title with the airs of someone who could not believe the words that came out of her own mouth. “Does he do anything of merit? Or is his occupation purely to be a shit little Force-sensitive?”

Sansa’s face froze. She cast about for what to say, but Olenna was pinning her in place with her gaze alone. It felt like being targeted by laser-based paint-stripper. “I - I -” Sansa had to clear the tremor from her voice. “I don’t know why you would ask me, Senator. I’m just -”

“- Just the only living Stark, who survived in the very lion’s den,” Olenna finished for her. “Yes, I’m very much aware of who and what you are. So, tell me.”

Sansa’s mouth worked. Her eyes darted around, but they were well and truly alone. Still, Varys was notorious for his many levels of infiltration devices that he could sneak into any circumstance. She wondered if it would be on a fold of her clothes. Or perhaps hidden in the bowl of fruit.

It was Margaery who spoke next, and her tone was soft. She even reached out and touched Sansa’s hand where it lay on the table. Her fingers were warm. “It’s alright. Do you think we would ask you these questions outright, if we were not sure we wouldn’t be overheard?”

Sansa withdrew both her hands, clasping them together in her lap. “Forgive me for being so bold, Senator, but I did not survive the lion’s den by telling the truth.”

Olenna huffed with laughter. “And yet I’ve never heard truer words.”

Sansa stared down at her hands and said nothing. The last time she had told the truth had been to Cersei. She didn’t realise it until later, but the information she had given had led to her father’s capture and execution. Sometimes she would lie awake at night and contemplate that fact until two of Coruscant’s four moons dwindled away, and a rosy-fingered dawn crept over the horizon.

With a sigh, Olenna reached for her tea once more. She took a sip, then said, “If it’s surveillance you’re worried about, then how about this, hmm? We’ll ask questions, and you needn’t speak at all. Just nod or shake your head.”

Glancing up between the two of them, Sansa slowly nodded.

“Excellent. Would you pour me another cup, my dear?”

For a moment Sansa thought Olenna was referring to her, but it was Margaery who sat forward to grasp the glass teapot and pour a cup.

“Thank you,” Olenna murmured without looking at her; instead she continued to study Sansa, and there was a tiny furrow in her brow, as though Sansa were some great puzzle to be solved. “Is he clever or diligent?”

Sansa gave the smallest shake of her head she could manage.

“Cunning?”

Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“I see.” And indeed, Olenna regarded Sansa over the top of her cup. Leaning back in her seat, she rapped her fingernails against the porcelain base in a contemplative manner. “Kind?”

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands shook. She gripped them together to get them to stop. There were three exits in this room. She had taken note of them the moment she walked in; she did not know when this practice began, only that she always did it now. She could distract them, ask to go to the restroom. They wouldn’t know she was gone until she was halfway back to the Dome.

But Margaery was watching her with large hazel eyes. “If I am to be married to him, I should be warned of his nature. Please.”

Sansa shook her head with a jerk, blinking back a burning in her eyes.

Rather than appear angry, Olenna simply rolled her eyes in in disappointment. Neither she nor her grand-daughter seemed surprised in the slightest.

“And so our suspicions are confirmed. Tywin puts too much stock in Force-users, the old ratbag. You should have seen the way he treated young Jaime and Cersei when they were children. Can you imagine? Punishing children for not being Force-sensitive?” Olenna gave a derisive snort. “Contrary to popular belief, sensitivity to the Force does not make or break a family’s fortunes. We put too much stock in the Force and not enough in actual people. You know I’m the only Force-sensitive in my family?” It sounded less like a question and more like a statement.

Sansa shook her head.

“Well, ours is a family descended from the gardens of Telos, before the Sith rained hellfire from the sky. I’m one of the only ones left who still has the gift. And yet the restorations continue. I’m told you haven’t a whit of Force-sensitivity about you, and yet -” Olenna frowned. “- I’ve never met a person more unwilling to be read, trained or untrained. How old did you say you were?”

“I didn’t,” Sansa breathed. “I didn’t say.”

Olenna smiled. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Thi-Thirteen, Senator.”

“Thirteen,” Olenna repeated. She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet upon the spare once more. “So young -- young enough to still grow. You may surprise us yet.” She removed the embossed metallic cover from a plate, and pushed the dish across the table. “Lemon cake?”

There were whispers in the endless spires of Coruscant of the Targaryen heir, the last of the fallen Sith Empire. They said she escaped to the Outer Rim Territories. They said she liberated old slave colonies. They said she led an army of Dothraki Zabraks and Unsullied Twi’leks like none the galaxy had seen since the days of the united Empire. They said her eyes glowed golden as any Force-user inclined to the darkness.

Joffrey scoffed. He claimed he and his most august grandfather would have sensed if there was any truth to these tales. He twirled his green lightsaber as he drawled, as if to show off that he had one and could ostensibly use it. Nobody mentioned that his own eyes had started to take on a more tawny hue.

Meanwhile, Sansa watched from the sidelines in silence as Tywin murmured orders to an attendant to inform him of the fleet’s combined numbers in Corellia and the Mid Rim Territories. The attendant scurried off with a bow, and Tywin caught her watching their exchange. Meeting his gaze felt like grabbing the wrong end of a cattle-prod.

Sansa quickly looked away.

Years ago, Sansa had learned from the Masters at Winterfell that the Dornish never used any Republic titles but their own. It still came as a surprise when she was introduced not to Senator Oberyn Martell, but to Prince Oberyn Martell.

“You there! Stark girl!”

She froze. She had been about to duck around a corner, but the unfamiliar voice called out before she could meld back into the shadow of the grey domed building arching overhead. Slowly, Sansa turned. The Prince of the Dornish Confederacy of Planets was striding towards her. One of his wrists rested comfortably on the extendable polearm sheathed at his waist. His saffron-coloured nanosilks were long and elegant, and revealed far more of his chest than anyone would have displayed in the Unknown Regions, where the planets were gripped with constant winter.

Sansa bent her knees in a curtsy. She kept her eyes at his feet. “My Lord -? I mean - My -? Your Grace -? My Prince?” she fumbled with how exactly to address him.

Wrinkles creased the corners of his dark eyes when he smiled. “Last I checked, Ilum was not part of Dorne, and I am not your prince.”

“I -” Sansa blinked in confusion at his warm expression. “I’m sorry.”

Oberyn gave a small laugh, coming to a halt before her. “For what?”

“Well, I - I don’t know.”

“I had heard that the people from the Unknown Regions were as blunt and cold as their terrible weather. And yet -” He used both hands to make an expansive gesture at her. “- You apologise when you have nothing to be sorry for?”

She ducked her head in a half bow. “Forgive me. I thought I might have caused offense.”

“We aren’t so thin-skinned as your people are led to believe. I think I can take whatever you have to dish out. Here,” He went to the ground on one knee before her, offering his cheek and miming punching it with his own fist. “Would you like to try?”

At that, Sansa reared back, staring at him in shock.

He swept a hand over his heart as if struck by a physical blow, yet he was grinning up at her. “Ah! So, she does have eyes! And what beautiful eyes they are, too. For a moment there, I thought you might be Miralukan.”

Sansa flushed. She glanced around, half expecting people to leap from behind a pillar and catch her in the act of -- what, exactly? Something that could be used against her, she was sure, though she did not know how.

The smile slowly faded from Oberyn’s face. He watched her now with an expression that could only be described as sombre. “They have you that frightened, do they?”

“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. “Of course not.” He gestured with one hand and for a moment she was afraid he would touch her, but he did not. “Come! Walk with me a while.”

Dutifully, she did as requested. For a moment Oberyn held out his arm in such a way that she could choose to take it while they ambled together down the halls of the Republic Executive Building. She did not take it, instead clasping her hands in what she hoped was a demure fashion. He lowered his arm, but did not seem to mind at all, if his cheerful expression was any indication.

There was no place in particular Sansa needed to be and nothing she needed to do today, but that did not stop her from glancing over her shoulder every so often to check if she was being followed. Cersei or Joffrey might summon her presence on a whim, and exact punishment for a perceived slight if she arrived late to some meeting or another.

Outside it was raining. Sansa wished it would snow, but it never got cold enough on Coruscant for that. She gazed out the floor to ceiling windows as they walked. “Have you been on Coruscant long, my Lord?”

“I never stay on Coruscant longer than necessary. It’s a shithole planet.” He gave an expansive gesture towards the windows with a grimace. “Too many people. You’ve been here - what? Almost a year now? Don’t you feel claustrophobic here?”

Sansa jerked her eyes down, watching her feet. Fear stirred up in her gut, fear of being caught looking longingly towards the skies. “The Core Worlds are lavish and fanciful beyond imagination,” she said as she always did whenever pressed on the subject. “They are like legends, themselves.”

At that, Oberyn hummed a thoughtful note in the back of his throat. “There are legends about your planets, too. Wolves large enough to ride across fields of ice. And kyber crystal deposits as tall as mountains, catching the light of the stars until they are like stars themselves,” Oberyn said. His eyes sparkled with a youthful kind of glee at the thought. “Is it true? Or are these tales exaggerated?”

Sansa found his enthusiasm too infectious to ignore. She smiled weakly. “They are somewhat exaggerated. But not by much.”

“I would love to visit one day with my girls. Travel broadens your horizons; opens up new opportunities and experiences.” Slowing his steps, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Sansa as if coming to a sudden realisation. “Have you ever been to Dorne?”

She shook her head.

“Then, you should visit us!” Oberyn continued walking, guiding her around the perimeter of the building and away from any would-be eavesdroppers. “Travel is good for the spirit. You would flourish away from this place.”

Sansa dodged that comment. “Is that why you’ve come to Coruscant? To lift your spirits?”

This time his smile was less than pleasant. “In a sense, yes. I’ve come to kill a man.”

A chill walked its way down the length of her spine. Her stride shortened, and Oberyn’s matched her pace so that they continued to walk, side by side. “And why have you sought me out, my Lord?”

“I thought I might present you with a gift of sorts.” He lifted one hand and waggled it in the air. “Call it a ‘new opportunity,’ if you’re so inclined.”

Slowly, Sansa said, “I am not accustomed to receiving gifts. And I’m not sure if it would be proper for me to accept.”

“You think your jailors care about propriety?”

Sansa’s back stiffened. “Vice Chair Joffrey is noble and strong as a lion, and I am lucky to -”

Oberyn came to a stop and waved away her platitudes. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that old song already. For the record, you are very convincing.”

Lips pursing, Sansa ducked her head. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her; it was difficult to keep still.

If Oberyn noticed, he gave no indication of it. He made a show of digging through his pockets for something. “Now, where did I -? Ah! Here.”

Sansa had to mask a flinch when he held out something in his hand to her, as though he were offering a hissing snake. When she saw what it was however, she blinked.

It was, for all appearances, a needle. Overly large, perhaps the length of her palm and the width of her littlest finger at its broadest end, it tapered to a narrow point. Its broad end had a loop, as though for a chain, or perhaps a strip of narrow cloth with which to stitch things together.

Hesitant, Sansa took it. She turned it over in her hands. “What is it?”

“A transmission device.” While Oberyn explained, he did not look at her, instead casting his gaze around like a predator scanning the horizon for deer. “With it, you can send a message that is completely untraceable.”

Sansa tapped the narrow point against the pad of her finger. Immediately, a holographic display leapt from either end of the needle -- a small keyboard and screen made of golden light. The cursor blinked intermittently at the top left corner of the screen. There was no field in which to enter an address, only to enter a message.

“Who does this device transmit to?” Sansa asked. “You?”

Oberyn chuckled. “No, no. My paramour: Ellaria. I think she and my daughters should travel more. See other places in the galaxy. The Outer Rim. The Unknown Regions. They could bring friends with them. And they have many friends.”

Sansa gripped the needle tightly in one hand, and the holographic display vanished. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, my Lord. And if I did, it would be treason.”

“Treason to visit friends in their homes?” His smile was warm, almost affectionate, but it had a dangerous lilt to it all the same.

“I cannot invite you or your daughters to Ilum. However,” Sansa said slowly, scarcely believing her own audacity. Clutching the needle in her hand, she swallowed thickly. Then, she tucked the needle safely away in a hidden pocket of her robes. “There are very strict rules about hospitality in the Unknown Regions. If anyone were to appear in Winterfell and beg a seat at my table, I could not refuse them.”

Oberyn's answering grin showed teeth. “I shall keep that in mind.”

This time when he held out his arm, Sansa took it. Though she only allowed the tips of her fingers to rest in the crook of his elbow. He continued to walk with her, looking to any prying eyes like a Prince taking a Lady for a courtly stroll and nothing more.

“You are not as powerless as you have been led to believe, Lady Sansa.”

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I do not have the power of the Sunspear at my command.”

He laughed, a warm rich sound. “This is true. But then again, a Star Forge is not the only thing that saved Dorne from conquest, you know. Power,” Oberyn said, pointing at where the sun hung in the sky above two of Coruscant’s four moons, “is being able to tell people ‘no’ and them not being able to make you say ‘yes.’”

Sansa frowned. “But what if the Sith had won? What if you had been conquered by Aegon?”

The Prince shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then we would have still not said ‘yes.’”

“But then you would have died,” Sansa pointed out.

“Ah, but don’t you know?” He leaned forward, patted her hand where it lay in the crook of his arm, and lowered his voice as though he were about to share with her a well-earned secret. “All men must die.”

As if gazing into the sun, Margaery shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand when she looked up at Sansa. “Have you always been this tall? Only that I could have sworn you were shorter when last we met.”

“I - I think so?” Sansa glanced down at her own feet in confusion.

They were walking along the Reach Consular Gardens. The sun was shining down, bright and hot through the greenhouse glass. This time, Sansa had arrived prepared, and worn lighter silks. It was still too warm. Her skin felt sticky when Margaery linked their arms together.

“I’ve always envied tall girls,” Margaery confessed with a sly twinkle in her eye. “Especially pretty ones like you.”

Sansa could feel her face flush from something that was definitely not the heat. “I try not to be so tall. It’s not very ladylike.”

“Nonsense! You should carry yourself with the dignity you deserve. And you should use height to your advantage.”

Sansa frowned in confusion. “What advantage?”

Clasping one of Sansa’s hands so that their shoulders brushed with every step they took, Margaery twined their fingers together. “A commanding presence. Height helps, but I’d wager you’re a natural at it, if you put your mind to it.”

When Sansa shot her an incredulous look, Margaery laughed. She unhooked their arms and dropped Sansa’s hand, stepping forward and stopping so that they stood face to face. “Come on, then. You don’t believe me?”

“The only thing I’ve ever been able to command was a sewing needle,” Sansa said dryly. Then, she added. “And Lady.”

Margaery’s brow wrinkled. “You commanded a Lady?”

Sansa smiled softly. “No. Lady was my direwolf.”

For a moment Margaery just stared at her. “You owned a direwolf,” she said slowly. “And you named it Lady?”

Sansa was sure that if her face flushed any further, she would be bright as one of the roses that overflowed the gardens. “I was eleven!”

Margaery laughed not unkindly. “It’s a perfect name. It suits the both of you.”

“Now you mock me.”

“I do not! Trust me when I say: you could command the souls of men if you only wished to.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, skeptical.

“You don’t believe me?” Margaery teased. “I could show you.”

Sansa glanced around. “I’m not sure this is -”

Margaery took her hand and gave a gentle tug. “This way, then.”

She pulled Sansa deeper into the gardens, where the foliage grew thickest, almost wild. The air here was clotted with a mist that beaded upon the leaves. Margaery ducked beneath a branch, and where it brushed against her head it left trails of starry dew in her hair like a crown. That same branch thwacked against Sansa’s shoulder and left a wet mark on her formal robes.

When they were surrounded by dense shrubbery and the trees encloistered them like the walls of a Temple, Margaery stopped. The warm mist swirled at their feet.

“Now, then.” Margaery straightened and looked Sansa dead in the eye with an expression of mock seriousness on her face. “Chin up. Shoulders back but relaxed. No, like this.”

She reached out and smoothed her hands across Sansa’s shoulder, dropping them so that her palms rested against the backs of Sansa’s elbows. “That’s better. Don’t look away. You should maintain eye contact.”

Gathering a deep breath in her lungs, Sansa steeled herself. She drew herself up to her full height and looked down at her with as much gravitas as she could muster. Almost imperceptibly, Margaery’s smile slipped. She withdrew her hands from Sansa’s arms. “Thirteen years old, you said?”

Sansa blinked. “Yes. Why?”

That seemed to break whatever spell had been cast over her, for Margaery brightened to her usual candor once more. Still, she was the first to break eye contact. She hid it well. “I was just wondering -- don’t they start Jedi training quite young?”

“Usually. There’s no hard age; it’s just as soon as a child shows potential in the Force.”

“And you never underwent any training?”

Sansa shook her head. “I take after my mother.”

“Five children are Force-sensitive, and only one isn’t?” Margaery wheedled. “That can’t be right. Have you never tried?”

At that, Sansa shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “What would be the point?”

“Won’t you?” Margaery urged. Her eyes were large and brown and bright. “Just the once. Just here. For me. I would love to see it.”

“Haven’t you seen your grandmother use it?”

Margaery rolled her eyes, but her exasperation was clearly aimed at the absent Olenna and not Sansa. “Grandmother doesn’t like to flaunt her abilities. The most I’ve ever seen someone use the Force was when she used it to throw a piece of fruit at my father for being -- and I quote -- ‘a half-witted moof-milker.’”

At that, Sansa could not hold back a snort of laughter. Still smiling, she covered her mouth with one hand. “Yes. There was a lot of that going on, growing up in my family.”

Margaery was watching her fondly. “Your family is so lucky to be so blessed.”

“Maybe your grandmother is right.”

“That my father is a half-witted moof-milker? Yes, I daresay she is “

Sansa huffed with laughter. “No. That the Force isn't everything you need in this world.”

At that, Margaery arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like something only Force-users would say.”

When Sansa shook her head with a nervous and self-deprecating grin, Margaery reached into her pocket. She pulled something out and gestured for Sansa to hold forth her hand. Hesitating for just a moment, Sansa did so, and Margaery dropped a small rosebud encased in a cube of clear epoxy resin into her palm.

Margaery let her fingers trail across Sansa’s wrist for a moment before lowering her hand. “Try.”

For a long moment, Sansa looked at the resin-caged rosebud. She could remember as a child watching all of her siblings learn that they had the gift. Even Bran and Rickon, young as they were. It manifested in each of them differently. The line of Starks was ancient, and the Force strong in their blood. And yet, one by one, they all received training with their Father at their private Temple at Winterfell, a hot spring that welled up beneath the surface of the ice, around which a sacred grove had taken root thousands of years ago. All except Sansa.

Her mother had comforted her in her bitter disappointment. It did not take long for Sansa’s disappointment to curdle into resentment, and then into an air of practiced indifference. She had claimed she did not want such gifts, that she had never wanted it. She whetted her skills on other more noble pursuits, pursuits worthy of a true lady and not of the fallen Knightly order of Jedi, who had been brought to heel by the Targaryen Sith so many generations ago.

She had never been able to lift so much as a snowflake with the Force. She was sure the result would be the same with a rosebud.

Sansa concentrated, but the only thing that seemed to come into focus was Margaery. It were as though all her airs and charms were melting away, as though she had reached up and slid a mask from her face to reveal the expression that lurked beneath. The charismatic young woman vanished, and in her stead a sixteen year old slip of a girl who fiddled with her fingers when she thought nobody was looking.

“You’re nervous,” Sansa murmured. “Though, I don’t know about what. Your wedding?”

Margaery inhaled a small sharp breath. She smiled, but somehow it was like sheer silk -- entirely unconvincing. “What woman wouldn’t be nervous about her upcoming wedding day?”

“I wouldn't know. A happy one, maybe?”

Though her smile remained, Margaery lifted her chin and looked Sansa in the eye. “I wouldn't know,” she echoed.

When the silence extended a little too long, a little too tellingly, she reached out to close Sansa’s hand over the rosebud. The action broke whatever strained tension that lingered in the air, and Sansa blinked.

“Speaking of marriages,” Margaery said. “I have a proposal for you.”

“You want to propose marriage to me?” Sansa repeated, confused.

“Yes.” Then, realising what she had said, Margaery’s eyes widened. “What? No! Not - Not me. Not that I wouldn’t -” Clearing her throat, Margaery straightened her spine. “A proposal on behalf of my eldest brother, Willas.” Margaery clasped both of Sansa’s hands between her own, so that Sansa cupped the rosebud between her palms, the resin warming against her skin. “We could go to the Reaches and be sisters. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Sansa’s mouth felt dry. Margaery’s hands were as warm and soft as her eyes. She thought of Arya, who had never been warm nor soft, but whom she still missed terribly -- like a limb that had been sawn off and now she was haunted by phantom pains. Perhaps that was the ache of longing in her chest when Margaery looked at her like this.

Margaery stroked her thumbs over the back of Sansa’s knuckles. Sansa gave her a tremulous smile. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Please know,” Margaery said. “That whatever happens, should you ever need a friend, I am always yours.”

“You are too kind.”

“Not at all. I am exactly as kind as is required.”

Sansa inclined her head. “And I shall not soon forget it.”

“Excellent.” With a last squeeze of her hand, Margaery leaned up on her toes to plant a chaste kiss to Sansa’s cheek before letting her go. “I would hate to be forgotten.”

At the end of the long length of the Temple, Tywin Lannister held out his arm to walk Sansa down the aisle on her wedding day. He wore black leather embroidered with red and gold silks, saturnine as a funeral service. It was the first time Sansa had been close enough to touch him, and she hesitated to do so.

“Begging your pardon, Chancellor,” she murmured in a hushed tone. “But what are you doing?”

Tywin cocked his head to regard her. They were eye to eye. She was tall for her age, not yet full grown, and already she stood level with him. “Your father is dead,” he said, as matter-of-fact as ever. “My grandson wished to walk you in his place, but I am the father of the known galaxy. It is only fitting that I be the one to do so.”

For a moment Sansa had no reply. Finally she managed, “You honour me.”

“Yes,” he said gravely. “I do.”

His arm was still waiting for her, not impatient but expectant. As though he knew full well that she would take it, that it was only a matter of time. And she did. Sansa slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The leather of his jerkin was rich and supple yet cold; but she was used to cold things.

His eyes were pale and button-glass blue. He did not move, and for a moment Sansa could almost feel the way his gaze tried to pry her open, like blunted fingers digging into the rind of fruit. Her shoulders stiffened, but she remembered Margaery’s words and did not look away. Something flickered across his face -- confusion? anger? she could not tell; he kept his emotions more closely guarded than his bank vaults -- and then Tywin looked away.

“Shall we?” he said.

It was not a suggestion.

He led her down the aisle, where Tyrion waited, dressed in the resplendent colours of his House. As Tywin handed her over to his least-favoured son to be wed in a sham of a marriage, the only thing Sansa could think of was how for so many years as a child she had dreamed of a moment like this: marriage to a prince or lord of wealth and name. Her mother had brushed her hair, and Sansa had read ancient epics on courtly love. Now that it was finally happening, it was Sansa could do to keep herself moving forward, to keep herself from turning and fleeing from the Temple, begging BR-3N, Littlefinger, Olenna, Oberyn -- anybody -- anybody who might take her away.

But every eye in the Temple was upon her, and this time there was nowhere for her to hide.

Sansa felt a the hairs rise on the back of her neck when Joffrey lifted a glass of wine to his lips at the wedding feast. It took less than a minute for him to die after the wine touched his lips. Sansa was the first on her feet, chair scraping along the ground as she scrambled back from the banquet table, but nobody paid her any attention.

The wine glass shattered on the ground. Joffrey was clutching his chest, rending at his clothes as though they were too tight, constricting his breath. Margaery’s eyes were wide with genuine surprise, but when she reached out to touch him, Cersei was there to push her aside. Sansa couldn’t remember ever seeing Cersei look so raw; her face was an open wound. She was trying to support Joffrey’s weight, but his knees gave way, and she bore him down to the ground.

“Get a medical droid!” Tywin barked from the sidelines, pointing imperiously.

Joffrey was vomiting blood. A splatter of red mucus stained the edges of Cersei’s gold-of-cloth robes. Margaery covered her mouth with both hands and turned away. Sansa’s eyes were wide. She backed away, barely registering the fact that she had bumped into a pillar behind her.

Everyone was on their feet now. Shocked gasps echoed throughout the hall. Jaime Lannister, Captain of the Chancellor’s Guard, bounded over a table, pushing aside guests and knocking food to the ground in his haste to reach Joffrey and his sister. When he reached them however, Cersei bared her teeth at him like a wild thing.

“Don’t touch him!” she snarled. “Don’t -! Joffrey! Joffrey!”

His body was wracked with spasms. Rivulets of blood streamed from his nose and down the side of his face. The skin of his face was purpling.

By the time the medical droids had swarmed around them, Cersei was rocking his corpse in her lap and pleading to no one, crooning his name over and over like a prayer. When she bowed her head over him and sobbed a broken note against his neck, her cheeks shone with tears, but when she looked up her face was a mask of cold, blind fury.

Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She whirled around with wide eyes to find Littlefinger directly behind her.

“Come,” he urged, his voice low, eyes fixed upon the scene before them. “Quickly now. We need to leave.”

In a daze, Sansa allowed Littlefinger to grab her by the wrist and pull her from the grand hall. She looked over her shoulder only once. Cersei had her hands around Tyrion’s throat; Jaime was trying to tear her off of him; Tywin stared down at his grandson’s body with a dispassionate gaze; Olenna took a surreptitious sip of her own wine glass.

Littlefinger tugged her around a corner, and hurried her along a long corridor. The world seemed to pass by them in a blur, and suddenly he was pushing her into a private speeder. The door closed behind them, and the vehicle lurched into the air before they had time to put on their seatbelts. Sansa had to steady herself with a hand on the roof. The pilot sat in front of them, a cowled man she did not recognise. He remained utterly silent as they pulled out into traffic and began to race through the atmosphere towards their destination.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Rather than answer immediately, Littlefinger pulled a grey hooded cloak from beneath the seat and draped it across her shoulders. “Away from Coruscant,” he said as he tied the cloak at her throat. His gloved hands brushed her hair back when he pulled the deep cowl over her head to obscure her face. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Swallowing thickly, she nodded.

He continued to play with the hood of her cloak, twitching the cloth so that it settled over her face just so. “Rest easy. The worst has passed. I have a ship with a hyperdrive awaiting us at the nearest spaceport. We’ll be away before the Lannisters can even lock down the planet.”

Her hand was still braced against the roof of the speeder. The vehicle gave another jolt. “This is -” Sansa tapped her finger against the roof. “- all very well planned, Minister Baelish.”

“I like being prepared.”

She turned that simple statement over in her mind, trying to find how all the pieces fit together. “If you killed Joffrey -?”

Littlefinger tilted his head to one side. “Who said I killed Joffrey?”

“Well -” she fumbled for what to say, “- Having well-laid plans around a poisoning sounds like having a hand in the act itself.”

“And yet if you ask anyone, I’ve been in the Namadii Corridor for weeks.”

“The surveillance footage -”

“- Will show nothing,” he finished for her. “Not of me, nor the murder.”

The speeder made a sharp turn, and Sansa was nearly flung sideways, whereas Petyr swayed easily with every jolt of the vehicle.

“If you killed Joffrey,” she repeated, “then what do you gain? Tywin Lannister is still the Supreme Chancellor. Who will the Senate vote in as the next Vice Chair?”

Littlefinger shrugged, but his face was alight. “Who can say? With House Lannister in control, the opposition party is all but nonexistent. Tywin can prop up an empty tin suit, and the Senate would vote for it.” His dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he leaned in close. “But don’t worry. We have something much better than empty promises.”

Sansa masked the flicker of suspicion that threatened to cross her face. “What do we have, Minister Baelish?”

He grasped her shoulders, and though his gloved hands were warm, his touch was as cold as his smile. “You, my dear girl. We have you.”

When they reached the spaceport, speeder alighting gently in the hangar bay, Littlefinger offered Sansa a gallant hand to help her from the vehicle. Then, turning back towards the speeder, he drew a blaster pistol from beneath his robes and shot the pilot in the back of the head.

They said she poisoned Joffrey. They said she throttled the life from him wielding nothing but the Force. They said she shapeshifted into a massive wolf and dragged his carcass through the Senate in her jaws, painting the floors red with him. They said she conspired against the Galactic Republic like her traitor father and traitor brother. They said she fled to the Dornish Confederation of Planets and lived with the Sand Snakes Syndicate.

It only took four nights in hyperspace to reach Eyrie space station. Through every one of those nights, Sansa dreamed of the snowy surfaces of Ilum, and the timeless grey allacrete walls of Winterfell.

Before they docked at Eyrie space station, Littlefinger made Sansa dye her hair black. He made her wear robes as dark and sleek and austere as his own. As she tugged the doeskin gloves over her hands, she caught sight of herself in the narrow mirror of her ship’s quarters. She looked like she had been cast from the volcanic glass of Mustafar.

What few things she had been able to bring with her from Coruscant, she now had to leave behind. She chewed her lip as she studied the scant few items she had jammed into her pockets or draped around her shoulders before fleeing the Core Worlds. At the time, Littlefinger had claimed he had packed all her personal effects in a hard-lined case. When she had unlatched the case however, it was to find it filled with an assortment of clothes she did not recognise, but which all fit her perfectly.

A blush-coloured rose encased in a translucent and enduring epoxy resin given to her by Margaery upon the sun-drenched garden rooftops. A dark pelt of wolf’s fur given to her by her mother for her birthday before she left Winterfell -- it seemed like so long ago now. And, of course, the overly-large decorative needle given to her by Prince Oberyn Martell.

The outfit Littlefinger had provided for her to wear upon arriving at Eyrie station had no pockets. Sansa weighed the rose in one hand and the needle in the other. Looking around the room, she placed them both on the bed, and crossed the cramped room. She had to stand on her toes to unhook a chain from the storage compartment. One end unhooked easily, but the other wouldn’t budge. Sansa accidentally ripped it free, but the chain still clung to a black metal attachment which had previously held it to the compartment door.

It would have to do. She walked back over to the bed and clipped the needle onto one end of the chain. The metal attachment she disguised as a bit of unorthodox jewelry around her neck so that the chain hung at her hip like a chatelaine. The pelt she draped across her shoulders. The tickle of warm fur against the skin of her cheek and neck was her sole comfort.

She traced her thumb over the edge of the resin-caged rose. She thought of tucking it beneath one of her long sleeves, but feared it might slip loose and fall to the floor. Before she could change her mind, Sansa left it behind, in the very centre of her pillow, like a forgotten sweet for children.

At the doors of the vessel, Sansa had to brace herself against a wall when they came out of hyperspace with a jolt. She staggered. Littlefinger grabbed her by the shoulder, though she did not need his help. Quickly, she straightened, but refrained from shrugging his hand away.

“You look perfect,” he remarked, and he smoothed his hand down her arm before letting her go. “Dressed just for the occasion.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What occasion?”

“A wedding.”

Another one? She was just about sick of weddings these days. Instead, all she said was, “Whose?”

Their ship was slowly drifting into its docking bay. “Mine, of course.”

Though she schooled her face, something must have given her shock away, for he laughed quietly. “Do I not seem the romantic type?”

“I -” Sansa fiddled with the needle at the end of its chain. Littlefinger’s eyes darted to the movement, but he dismissed it as a piece of sombre jewelry. “I do not rightly know, Minister.”

Petyr smiled at her. “Then I shall have to change that.” He pressed a panel on the wall, and the door lowered with a hiss. “Shall we?”

She gripped the needle in her fist, wishing it were a saber.

When they met, her Aunt Lysa smiled and held her and pet her hair. Even as Sansa allowed herself to be hugged, she had to hide her aversion by burying her face in Lysa’s shoulder. Something about Lysa felt sick, oil-slick as an engine leak. Sansa pulled away and wished she could wash the grime that seemed to stick to her skin like a film.

The wedding between Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn was a private affair. Only a handful of officials attended the ceremony proper, though a number of high ranking Captains of the Corridor Fleet and other people of note attended the banquet afterwards. She was introduced to all of them as Alayne Stone, Littlefinger’s natural born bastard daughter to a dead mother. She bowed, and curtsied, and shook hands, and murmured social pleasantries, and not once did anyone suspect the truth. Everyone knew Sansa Stark had sought refuge in Dorne to escape trial for murder.

The great hall of Eyrie station was made entirely of transparisteel. No matter where Sansa looked, her stomached swooped with discomfort at the sight of space extending in every direction. Seated at the long banquet table beside little eight-year old Robert Arryn, she tried to eat but ended up merely picking at her full plate instead. Every time she brought the fork to her mouth, she would glanced at the vast expanse of space directly beneath her feet, and immediately set the fork back down.

Outside in the hard vacuum of space, the famed Gates of the Moon seared. The energy field burned a constant violet, strung between the eponymous moon that had been cloven in two during the Conquest. It was a miles-long net of pure light, like a chain strategically cast right across the hyperspace route of the Namadii Corridor, which stopped any travel between Coruscant and the Bilbringi system.

Sansa watched as a bit of debris floated too close -- the wreckage of a pirate ship that had tried its luck and failed. The wedge of the hull hit the energy field, and only a mist emerged on the other side.

To her left, Littlefinger was murmuring something in her Aunt Lysa’s ear. Whatever it was made Lysa smile, and Sansa looked quickly away. To her right, Robert was struggling to cut his food into pieces.

“Alayne, cut my food for me,” he demanded, throwing down his cutlery with a clatter.

Sansa blinked at him in confusion for a moment. She glanced over at Littlefinger, but he was still engaged with Lysa. Resigned to her fate, Sansa pulled his plate over so that she could do as she was told.

“Not like that!” he whined. “Smaller!”

She cut the pieces smaller.

“No! No, you’re doing it all wrong!”

When she held up a full fork to him however, Robert slapped it out of her hands. The fork clanged across the table, and the food it had been holding hit Sansa on the arm. She snatched her hand back, shocked by the sudden urge to slap him. She swallowed her anger down, tempered it, breathed until it dissipated.

Robert slammed his tiny fist atop the table. “Do it again! Do it right this time!”

The others in attendance were pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was happening in the slightest. Or perhaps they were used to this. Even as Robert yelled, his hands began to shake, his shoulders trembling wildly. Lysa’s chair scraped back and she was halfway to standing, when Littlefinger placed his hand over her arm.

“It’s your wedding day,” Petyr said. “Relax. Enjoy yourself. Let my daughter worry about all that for you. The medical droids will be here soon enough.”

Robert’s yells were escalating, growing shrill and wordless. He was gripping the edge of the banquet tablecloth tightly in both hands, his knuckles white and bloodless. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.

Eyes widening, Sansa hesitated for only a moment. She shot to her feet. It took her an age to untangle Robert’s clenched fingers from the tablecloth without ripping half the dishes from the table. As gently as she could, Sansa dragged him to an empty back corner of the hall. He kicked and thrashed the whole way, wild and shrieking.

“Shh!” Sansa hushed him urgently. “Please. Shh.”

She reached out to touch his face, but he recoiled from the cold material of her gloves with a startled wail. Quickly, Sansa removed them and tried again. She pulled Robert close and smoothed a hand over his head and whispered soothing things into his head of dark curls. Gradually his cries lessened to dull whimpers, his thrashing to the occasional twitch of his arms and legs. Until finally his body stilled, and he seemed to rest peacefully in her arms.

She thought of Cersei, cradling Joffrey’s dying body to her chest, half bowed over him, whispering desperate, tearful pleas. And when the medical droids arrived to take Robert away, he went without a fuss, appearing dazed, as if half dead already.

Eyrie space station was too large to heat every room. Sansa happened upon a locked door during her explorations through the shadows of the station, when she would escape Lysa’s or Robert’s or Petyr’s attentions to roam the halls, alone. Upon removing her glove and pressing the wall panel a second time, the door had slid open.

The room beyond was sheathed in a sheet of ice. The HVAC system had been shut down for the entire wing. Slowly, Sansa tugged her glove back over her wrist and stepped inside. Her breath misted in plumes like pale feathers from her mouth.

The cold sliced through her fine nanosilk synthweave. She could taste the frost upon the air, the way it lingered at the nape of her neck like a kiss. For a moment, she allowed herself to stand in peaceful silence and dream of home.

“I had wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

As if jerking awake from a reverie, Sansa whirled around to find Littlefinger watching her from the doorway. He stepped inside. His dark boots left footprints in the frost.

“However did you manage to get in here?” he asked, though he did not sound the least bit angry. “I could have sworn this whole wing was locked up tighter than a Tyrell’s corset.”

“It opened for me,” Sansa said.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Of course it did. Sometimes I think the universe would do anything for you. I know I would.”

She had no reply to that.

“And what was it you hoped to see in this -” he held a hand out towards the ice-clogged vents dripping with rime. “- frozen wasteland?”

Before she could stop herself, Sansa said, “Home.”

For a moment he studied her. Then, he circled ‘round her. He kicked up a bit of soft ice with the tip of his boot as though it were snow. “Home is not so far as you might think.”

“Six days in hyperspace from the Namadii Corridor,” Sansa replied without hesitation. She had traced the route with her fingers across the holographic map of the galaxy more nights than she could count.

“Like the blink of an eye, really.” Littlefinger came to stop before her. Standing this close, she could tell just how short he was; the top of his head barely reached her eyes. “You’ll see it again. I promise you.”

She did not believe him. Not for a second. She could scarcely remember the last time she had truly believed anyone. “When?”

Littlefinger reached up and touched a lock of her dark hair, and his voice was hushed. “When I become Lord of the Corridor. When the Captains of the Eyrie see you for who you really are -- wolf pelt thrown across your shoulders and your hair like Voss in autumn. When they pledge themselves to you. When we storm the Unknown Regions with a fleet to rival Corellia’s, and take back what is yours.”

The chill was settling beneath her skin now. Petyr stood too close, and despite being taller she felt very small. His words were a wine-dark murmur. “All this I’ve orchestrated for you. I’d say that’s worth a kiss, wouldn’t you?”

The word ‘No’ died on her lips as his mouth touched hers. He was cold, cold as a wing of the Senate Dome where she had once knelt. When she felt him cup her cheeks in his hands, Sansa ducked her head to break the kiss.

“Excuse me, Minister Baelish,” she mumbled. “I must - Excuse me.”

Stepping back, she strode away as quickly as her feet could carry. Long after she had escaped the frozen wing of the Eyrie and was safely back in her private quarters, gripping the needle tightly in her quivering fist, Sansa could still feel his eyes upon her, watching.

Sansa toyed nervously with the needle between her hands. The metal slowly warmed beneath her touch. She worried her lower lip between her teeth. As if by accident, she touched the pointed end of the needle, and stared at the holographic keyboard and screen that leapt to life. The cursor blinked back at her, waiting.

With shaking fingers, Sansa typed a message. She had to delete it several times before she was satisfied. And even then, she was half-tempted to crush the needle beneath her heel and forget this whole thing ever existed. Instead, her finger hovered over the send button before she steeled herself with a deep breath and pressed down.

The message was sent. The holographic screen flickered and went dark.

“You said you wanted to see me, Aunt Lysa?”

No matter how long Sansa stayed here, the great transparisteel hall of Eyrie station would always make her stomach drop. She lingered at the entrance of the hall, where the floors and walls were good solid durasteel, where she could maintain the illusion that she would not fall away into the vastness of space.

The hall was empty save for Lysa, who stood in the very centre. Her back faced the entrance; she stared down at the round doors at her feet. Below a layer of floor that could slide open with a touch, the only thing keeping the room air pressurised was a small energy field that acted like a well beneath the doors, like a net that kept air in but naught else.

“Come here, child.”

Steeling herself, Sansa did so. It took her nearly forty paces to reach her aunt, and when she did she stopped a steps away. The universe outside was a veil of stars and inky space.

“Eyrie station was constructed millennia ago, but it was the ancient Sith who added this.” Lysa’s voice echoed harshly in this unadorned space despite the softness of her tone. She pointed to the door at her feet, which was indistinguishable from the rest of the floor but for a narrow line of silvery metal that marked its perimeter, and a blinking control panel upon a translucent column of glass. “They made it for public executions. Anyone who committed high treason against the Order was brought here and made an example of. Do you know how they work?” Lysa asked, nodding towards the Gates of the Moon.

Sansa shook her head. “No.”

“They’re modified suspension fields,” Lysa explained. “Originally designed to immobilise and relieve pressure on damaged bones, like those clunky old replar splints.”

Sansa could remember upgraded replar splints being applied to her brother’s legs after his fall. He had screamed when they were applied, but afterwards he only ever showed pain when they were taken off. He could not walk well with them, but her parents had been loath to have his legs amputated and prostheses applied instead. When he came of age, they said, Bran could make that decision for himself. They would not cut off his legs, no matter how useless the limbs had been.

Lysa continued without pause, making flighty gestures with her hands as she gazed out at the Gates. “Instead of holding matter together, they disperse it. The effect is quite chilling. Any mass that attempts to pass through, be it organic or otherwise, is ripped apart at a molecular level. When a person goes through, all that’s left is a -” she fluttered her fingers, “- pink mist.”

After a moment of uneasy silence, Sansa said, “Why have you asked me to -?”

“I know the truth. I know what you’ve done.”

Sansa froze. Her heart pounded in her chest. One of her hands reached for the needle hanging from its chain, and she enclosed it with trembling fingers. “I never should have sent that message, Aunt Lysa, I can explain -”

Lysa rounded on her, face pulled into a rictus snarl. “Don’t be coy with me!” she spat. “You kissed him! You kissed Petyr!”

Taking a half step back, Sansa stammered, “What -? No! I didn’t! You don’t understand -!”

Before she could retreat any further, Lysa snatched Sansa’s arm and hauled her closer. “I saw you! You can’t lie to me! I know what I saw!”

“He kissed me! I didn’t want it!”

“Liar!”

A hand fisted in Sansa’s hair, tearing so violently she could feel some of the roots give way. Lysa pushed down, and Sansa fell to her knees. The air of the hall stirred when Lysa hit the console upon its pedestal, and the doors opened. Sansa tilted forward. She only just caught herself on the edge of the floor, her hands gripping the rim of silver metal as tight as she could. Lysa’s hand was still gripping her hair, the other squeezing her upper arm in a vice-like grip.

“Stop! Please! I didn’t -! I didn’t do anything!”

Lysa was snarling invectives, shoving at Sansa’s shoulder and the back of her neck with all her weight. It was everything Sansa could do to keep herself crouched on the ground and not tumbling through the door into the cold hard vacuum of space. There was nothing outside except an empty, frozen silence. Her arms trembled beneath the strain.

“Lysa!” a voice rang out from the entrance of the great hall. “Let her go!”

Sansa froze. Lysa’s hands remained clutched in Sansa’s hair and on her shoulder. Sansa could not move to see who had entered the hall, but she knew that voice.

When Lysa spoke, the anger had been replaced with a watery tone, as though she were fighting back tears. “You can’t want her. You can’t. She’s a stupid empty-headed little girl. She’ll never love you, Petyr. Not the way I do.”

“There’s no need for tears, my dear.”

“That’s not what you said on Coruscant. You said - You said to put tears in Jon’s wine, and I did. You said to write to Cat and tell her it was the Lannisters, and I did. You said you killed Joffrey, and I gave you safe harbour. You said -”

“I know,” he hushed gently, and his voice sounded closer. “I know what I said.”

“And I told Father of how clever you were! I defended you! Everything I did, I did for you! For us!”

Sansa’s eyes darted until she could just see what was happening in her peripheral vision. Littlefinger moved slowly, as if afraid any movement would startle her into sudden action. “And I am so grateful. I always have been. You’ve always been there for me, believed in me when nobody else would.”

Lysa was nodding furiously; her grip on Sansa slackened. “Always. Always.”

When Sansa twitched in her aunt’s grasp, Lysa’s hands clamped down like manacles on her upper arms. She bit her lower lip to stifle a whimper of pain, and Lysa shook her like a ragdoll. “Then why did you kiss her?” Lysa hissed. “Why? We’re together now, after we’ve waited so long -- why would you want to kiss her? She is a child!”

He was standing only a pace away now. His hands were held out as if in supplication, and he had eyes only for Lysa. “Let her go. She is nothing to me. Nothing at all. I swear it. There is only room in my heart for one. You know that.”

“Yes,” Lysa breathed. “Yes. Yes, of course. Yes.”

“Let her go.”

Lysa’s hands relaxed, and Sansa scrambled back from the edge on her hands and knees, panting. Meanwhile, Littlefinger had pulled Lysa in a stiff hug; she was crying in his arms.

“There, there, now,” he murmured. “Everything will be alright. Shh.”

He pulled back slightly to cup her face in his hands and dry her cheeks. Her face seemed to light up when she looked at him. He smiled. And then he pushed her through the door.

In quiet horror, Sansa watched her aunt’s body drift slowly towards the Gates of the Moon. Littlefinger’s expression was utterly neutral when he tapped the control panel to shut the doors once more. Sansa looked away just before the body could touch the glowing energy field. When she glanced up again, it was to find Littlefinger offering her a hand. With movements far more steady than she could have thought possible -- it must have been shock -- Sansa took it, and rose to her feet.

Sansa was embroidering a new nanosilk gown when one of Littlefinger’s spies admitted himself to her quarters. She folded the silk over so that he could not see the snarling sigil of her House threaded into the fabric, and instead busied herself with a bit of innocuous hemwork.

The man dropped a heavy crate onto the floor before her, as if setting a fresh kill at her feet. With a flourish, he opened the crate. “For you, Lady Alayne.”

Leaning forward in her seat, Sansa peered at the crate’s contents. Rich clothes. Fine jewels. Copious amounts of them. All familiar.

“Minister Baelish would like to bestow upon you a gift. These are the belongings of his dearly departed wife,” the man informed her. “She won’t be needing them anymore.”

The thought of wearing anything that had belonged to Lysa made Sansa feel sick to her stomach. “Tell my father that I thank him,” was all she said. “And that he is very thoughtful.”

The man did not leave, despite her dismissive tone. “Minister Baelish also requests your presence for dinner this evening.”

“Of course,” Sansa forced a small smile onto her face. “I look forward to it.”

Finally, the man inclined his head in a bow, and left. Even after he had gone, she continued to work on the hemline. It was not until she was sure he was well and truly gone that she pulled the half-finished wolf’s head back into her lap. She smoothed her hand over the silver thread and angled her head to one side, trying to imagine what it would look like when it was finished.

It would need bigger teeth, she decided, and set herself to task once more.

The needle around her neck chimed softly, a note almost too low to hear. She dropped her work, and fumbled with the chain that hung from her neck. Darting a furtive glance over her shoulder, Sansa turned her back on the door and hunched over the needle.

Breathlessly, she pressed the needle’s tip and read the small holographic message that unscrolled. It was brief, but it made her heart beat quicker all the same.

Lady Sansa,

I hear the Unknown Regions are beautiful during this season. I will bring a bouquet of roses for our gracious host, bound with ribbons of fire and blood.

-Ellaria

The moment she had finished reading, the hologram vanished like smoke. No matter how many times she pressed the tip of the needle, it would not alight.

Another chime, this time from her clock. Sansa glanced over at the luminous display on her bedside table. She folded up her new gown and all the thread with it, before tucking the bundle beneath her bed, where her wolf pelt waited. It would take her another day or two to finish. For now, she had to play the game and attend dinner.

They said Robert Arryn died in his sleep. They said the shaking took him in the night, when no medical droids could be called to his aid. They said it was such a shame to lose one so young, but nobody meant it. At least, nobody who said that in Sansa’s presence meant it. They mimed the words and the sorrowful expressions, but their hearts whispered the truth beneath the masks they showed the world.

The day of his funeral was her fourteenth birthday. Sansa wore a long veil of impenetrable black lace to the event. It fell past her waist, and its long train fluttered in her wake with every step so that she appeared to be a bride in mourning. When Littlefinger saw her, his face lit up, and his gaze roamed over her from crown to toe. He offered her his arm as they walked down the length of the great transparisteel hall of Eyrie station.

All the nobles and Captains of the fleet had amassed in the hall to mourn the death of their young ruler, and to hail their new Lord Protector. They were dressed for the occasion in sombre blacks and greys, tabs of rank on their shoulders, caps held over their hearts in respect as the ashes of Robert Arryn were carried to the door in the ground and ritualistically scattered into space by the handful.

From behind the mesh of her veil, Sansa scanned the faces of the crowd. Their heads were bowed. They only donned their caps once the doors were closed, and Robert’s gilded urn placed on a pedestal in the very centre of the hall, where it would remain on display for another week.

Patting her hand and then lifting it away, Littlefinger stepped forward to address the crowd. “Today we mourn the death of one taken too young in life. The universe was harsh to dear sweet Robert. It is a travesty that, for all our technological advances, we could not save him from the illness that plagued him all his life. We -”

“But that’s not what happened at all, is it?”

Littlefinger did a double take. He frowned over his shoulder at Sansa in puzzlement. “What?”

“You killed him,” Sansa said, and the hall was deathly quiet. “You killed Lysa Arryn, too.”

His dark eyes darted from her to the watching crowd. “Alayne, what’s -?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you your name?”

Reaching up, she pulled the veil free and let it drop to the floor. Her hair was a rich harvest auburn and bound in a braid over one shoulder, her shoulders draped in a wolf’s pelt from the wintry reaches of Lothal, a direwolf embroidered in silver thread across her chest. “I am the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you will refer to me as such.”

Littlefinger was staring at her. The entire amassed congregation was staring at her. She could feel the weight of every gaze upon her shoulders, and she stood straighter.

Petyr glanced about furtively. He ducked his head and his voice lowered to a hiss. “What are you doing?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Is that not obvious? I am exposing you, Minister Baelish. Everyone here thinks I murdered Joffrey Baratheon, but you and I both know it was you.”

He tried to draw himself up, but no matter what he did she towered over him. “There’s no proof.”

“I don’t need proof. You’re going to confess.”

At that, he appeared amused, even relaxing a fraction as though she had just put him at ease with a joke.

Sansa’s hands gripped into fists. She did not need to raise her voice to be heard. Every word echoed throughout the great transparisteel hall. “Confess. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you killed Joffrey Baratheon. Tell me why you killed Jon Arryn. Tell me why you killed Lysa Arryn. Tell me why you killed Robert Arryn. Tell me why you betrayed my father and my mother.”

He shook his head as if in disbelief, but he could not tear his eyes away, as though he were transfixed by the force of her gaze. The entire congregation watched in silence, every Captain holding their tongue to witness this moment.

When Littlefinger tried to open his mouth to speak, Sansa could already sense the lie in the air. Her face went smooth and cold as ice. Something bright as moonlit ice welled up inside her chest and settled in her ribcage. “Tell me the truth.”

Suddenly the air was filled with a liquid silence, a pressure like being submerged in deep water. His mouth dropped open, and a choked noise caught in the back of his throat. Something flickered across Littlefinger’s face, a hybrid of disbelief and pain, but most of all fear. His hand flew to his chest and he gasped for air.

Sansa did not blink. She stepped forward, and he shrank back from her. She did not need to touch him, yet he dropped to his knees at her feet, both hands clutching his neck as though he were strangling himself. When she spoke again, her words were wintry. “You will tell me the truth. Now.”

“Please,” he gasped.

He tried to touch the hem of her gown, but recoiled. The air rippled, and his head whipped back as if he had been physically struck, though Sansa had not moved a muscle. Already a dark bruise gathered beneath the skin of his cheek. With a rattling wheeze, the words seemed to be forced from his mouth as though she were dragging them out, prising them like precious stones, like crystal dug from the earth, syllable by syllable. “I loved your mother. Ever since I was a boy. It should have been me. I did it because it should have been me. Because I wanted her. Because I wanted you.”

The great hall was so quiet, Sansa could hear every rustle of fabric, every pounding of hearts, the barest flutter of a pulse at Petyr’s neck.

“Say it. Say you confess.”

“I -” He choked. “I confess.”

“You said you would do anything for me once,” she murmured softly. He was staring up at her, and she could see the dawning realisation in his eyes as she pointed to the floor behind him, where Robert Arryn’s body had been ejected into space not moments ago, where Lysa’s body had fallen into the endless black. “Open the Gates, and throw yourself out.”

“Sansa -”

She seemed to hear her own voice as though from a great distance. It sent a shiver through the room’s inhabitants like the winds that whistled over the icy peaks of Ilum beneath the night sky. “You will open the Gates, and throw yourself out.”

Everyone in the hall -- hundreds of battle-hardened Captains and soldiers -- took an abortive half step forward, as if to comply with her command before they could come to their senses. Sansa ignored them. She focused on Littlefinger instead.

He tried to fight it. The struggle warred openly across his face; his cheeks went red, then purple. His dark eyes fluttered, and a vein throbbed on his forehead. Then, with a heaving gasp of air, Littlefinger jerked upright. His limbs worked like they were pulled by invisible strings. With her eyes guiding his every movement, he walked himself over to the Gates of the Moon and pressed the command console.

This time she did not look away. She watched his body drop from the hall and scramble against the absence of gravity. She watched until he hit the energy field, until his molecules were consumed in fire and scattered to the vacuum of space like brumal ash. Only then did she turn to face the congregation.

One by one, like a great wave, the Captains and members of Court sank to their knees until the every member of the hall was bowing their head. Sansa went to straighten her shoulders only to find that she was already standing tall. Chain wrapped around her fist, she strode towards exit. Not once did she look back towards the Gates.

One of the Captains -- his chest bearing more tabs of rank than the others -- rose to his feet as she passed. He fell into step behind her. She could hear all the others follow.

“Ready the fleet. Leave only a small garrison behind to hold the Corridor in our absence,” Sansa ordered. “We’re leaving.”

“Where to, Lady Stark?”

Outside, the stars glimmered, cold and harsh and distant. She spared them not a glance. “To Winterfell. To claim what is mine.”

#sansa stark #got #game of thrones #asoiaf #star wars #star wars au #roman writes #well......I did it.....I succumbed.............17.5K good fucking bye

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