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 — » 003 » 005 QUARTERS | THIRD LEVEL SEAMSTRESS | FIFTH LEVEL PETYR'S LIBARY | FIFTH LEVEL DEVICE, IN-PERSON, BY RAVEN |
[ Tommy's expression ripples for a moment, and Tommy feels himself do it but can't manage to keep it from happening, though whether Alayne manages to catch it in her moving about, he can't quite tell. He shouldn't be surprised that people make war wherever they go, and he's not, really. Just look at the ship itself. But he doesn't like that Alayne's had to see it and seen it close enough, whatever she says, to know how it spreads like a cough in a crowded room until it's everywhere . ]
Yeah, we got a war on too. [ He turns his head, looking at nothing particular on the wall to his right. ] I'm sure your pop will keep himself safe. While you're gone. [ Father's are good at that, at least, most of the time. ]
Yeah, we got a war on too. [ He turns his head, looking at nothing particular on the wall to his right. ] I'm sure your pop will keep himself safe. While you're gone. [ Father's are good at that, at least, most of the time. ]
Edited 2012-04-13 14:37 (UTC)
[ He kisses her for a long time.
So long, in fact, that Alayne's hands go from loose at her sides to tiny, balled-up fists to lifted in the space that barely exists between them, hovering just shy of Petyr's chest. Palms flat, fingers splayed, arms trembling; another silent bid of reap quickly, reap mercifully, and be satisfied. But despite the urgency that thrums through her forearms, the impulse that tells her to fly (to fight), Alayne does not push, does not pry the mercy from him. All things — even dye, even a song — have their costs. Her agency is no exception, nor is the illusion that she is loved.
Perhaps, Alayne tries to reason, this is the price of salvation. One more figure added to an already hefty sum. How many had died so that I could live? Chief amongst them had been that red-haired girl from Winterfell, that foolish little bird Sansa Stark. Petyr risked his lfe to salvage me from King's Landing. He promised to return Sansa's bones to the lands that birthed her. Is this not worth such a reward?
It is a reasoning that does not spring from the soil of Alayne's mind; instead, it has been placed there by Littlefinger and his smile in the dark. He had said as much on their last night in the Vale — a night which had been frosted with ice and deepened with snow, a night on which he had used both hands to draw Alayne into his lap and tell her the tale of Sansa's re-inheritance. (As for Alayne's on thoughts on the matter, she has none. Simply a blankness inside herself, a well of blindness that she fills with excuses and Littlefinger's songs. Some truths are too terrible to twist to a perfect light, just as some justifications lie too far beyond one's reach.)
She does not shut her eyes. No, they remain open but unwide, their lids drooped and fluttering, revealing more than a sliver's worth of Riverrun blue. (An accusation, perhaps; a plea of some kind.) When finally he releases her, Alayne is breathless and flushed and there is a horrible feeling insider herself, gathered in a tight knot just below her navel.
This is the true cost. Alayne knows. It is the weight of my shame. ]
So long, in fact, that Alayne's hands go from loose at her sides to tiny, balled-up fists to lifted in the space that barely exists between them, hovering just shy of Petyr's chest. Palms flat, fingers splayed, arms trembling; another silent bid of reap quickly, reap mercifully, and be satisfied. But despite the urgency that thrums through her forearms, the impulse that tells her to fly (to fight), Alayne does not push, does not pry the mercy from him. All things — even dye, even a song — have their costs. Her agency is no exception, nor is the illusion that she is loved.
Perhaps, Alayne tries to reason, this is the price of salvation. One more figure added to an already hefty sum. How many had died so that I could live? Chief amongst them had been that red-haired girl from Winterfell, that foolish little bird Sansa Stark. Petyr risked his lfe to salvage me from King's Landing. He promised to return Sansa's bones to the lands that birthed her. Is this not worth such a reward?
It is a reasoning that does not spring from the soil of Alayne's mind; instead, it has been placed there by Littlefinger and his smile in the dark. He had said as much on their last night in the Vale — a night which had been frosted with ice and deepened with snow, a night on which he had used both hands to draw Alayne into his lap and tell her the tale of Sansa's re-inheritance. (As for Alayne's on thoughts on the matter, she has none. Simply a blankness inside herself, a well of blindness that she fills with excuses and Littlefinger's songs. Some truths are too terrible to twist to a perfect light, just as some justifications lie too far beyond one's reach.)
She does not shut her eyes. No, they remain open but unwide, their lids drooped and fluttering, revealing more than a sliver's worth of Riverrun blue. (An accusation, perhaps; a plea of some kind.) When finally he releases her, Alayne is breathless and flushed and there is a horrible feeling insider herself, gathered in a tight knot just below her navel.
This is the true cost. Alayne knows. It is the weight of my shame. ]
Edited 2012-04-13 18:48 (UTC)
[ Even with her face in profile and her head ducked low, Alayne catches that shift in Tommy's expression — from disgruntled to sad to disgruntled again, all the while couched in an air of discomfort (an uneasiness that Alayne associates with Tommy just as readily as the broadness of his shoulders, the rough manner in which he speaks.) ]
I've no worry for my father's safety, [ she says quietly, moving to brush the hair from her shoulders, baring them. ] He is a wise man and bright and knows how best to keep safe. [ It is my own safety I worry for. I know not where to step without his caution. ] I— [ She pauses in her work as she spoons out a modest portion of food into one bowl and then the next. ] —I would feel better, were I to have his counsel.
He would know what to do.
I've no worry for my father's safety, [ she says quietly, moving to brush the hair from her shoulders, baring them. ] He is a wise man and bright and knows how best to keep safe. [ It is my own safety I worry for. I know not where to step without his caution. ] I— [ She pauses in her work as she spoons out a modest portion of food into one bowl and then the next. ] —I would feel better, were I to have his counsel.
He would know what to do.
[ For everything, there is a cost, a price. For loving too much and too fiercely and too far above his station, Petyr paid the price in blood. For that blood spilt, all of Westeros has paid, one way or another, and this is the way in which he chooses to extract it from Sansa. And yes, perhaps it's his fault that that reasoning exists in her head, but it exists, and that is that. (And yes, he would prefer that she return his affections — if they can be called as such — unbidden, that her hands would rest instead of hover, but at the end of the day, the truth is that he doesn't much care. Maybe that's part of the price he'd paid, so long ago, to lose sight of those parts of the means so long as the end was achieved.)
When he lets her go, he still does not back too far away, brushing her hair back from her face with one hand. Less and less often does he couch these actions in flowered words. They do nothing, after all, to lighten the weight. He can still taste something akin to hesitation upon her tongue. But he smiles, now, the line of his lips harsher than it usually is, and if that is a manifestation of Littlefinger's place within him or a trick of the light, who is to say? ]
We will make the best of what we are given, [ he tells her, and whether that is a comment on the moments just past or their former conversation, he leaves to her to puzzle out. As he speaks, he takes her hands in his, pressing that bud back into her palm before letting go, fingers slipping away like the waning of the tide. ]
When he lets her go, he still does not back too far away, brushing her hair back from her face with one hand. Less and less often does he couch these actions in flowered words. They do nothing, after all, to lighten the weight. He can still taste something akin to hesitation upon her tongue. But he smiles, now, the line of his lips harsher than it usually is, and if that is a manifestation of Littlefinger's place within him or a trick of the light, who is to say? ]
We will make the best of what we are given, [ he tells her, and whether that is a comment on the moments just past or their former conversation, he leaves to her to puzzle out. As he speaks, he takes her hands in his, pressing that bud back into her palm before letting go, fingers slipping away like the waning of the tide. ]
[ Tommy gets, logically, that some kids don't grow up in homes like his. That they have normal relationships with their pop and throw footballs and get grounded for failing math tests and grow up to talk to him sometimes, at least send an email on holidays and his birthday. Tommys gets that, but he can't help pressing his lips together anyway, skeptical. Maybe Alayne's father is everything she says he is and everything he appears to be, but Tommy thinks most likely not.
'Cause Tommy's dad was everything he appeared to be too, back when he was a kid, and look where that ended up. ]
Parent's aren't better at this shi-- stuff. They're just better at pretending to be. [ It sounds to harsh, even to his ears, so he adds, ] You're doing fine. [ For her age. For where she came from. For anyone, really. ]
'Cause Tommy's dad was everything he appeared to be too, back when he was a kid, and look where that ended up. ]
Parent's aren't better at this shi-- stuff. They're just better at pretending to be. [ It sounds to harsh, even to his ears, so he adds, ] You're doing fine. [ For her age. For where she came from. For anyone, really. ]
[ It is a bitter sort of humor that blooms in Alayne's chest then. To pretend was to lie and in that way, yes, Alayne's father is better at pretending. Better than anyone Alayne has ever known, and that was a blessing, wasn't it?
She stops for a moment, considering. ] Perhaps, [ she says quietly and then resumes her work. There is a delicacy to the things that she does, a sliver of Sansa that shines through whatever seams exist in Alayne's otherwise perfected facade. Her hands, pale and white, dance from task to task and all the while remain clean, avoiding this stain and that effortlessly. (She is her father's daughter.) ] I think, perhaps, we are all pretending.
In one way or another, for own sakes. For each others.
She stops for a moment, considering. ] Perhaps, [ she says quietly and then resumes her work. There is a delicacy to the things that she does, a sliver of Sansa that shines through whatever seams exist in Alayne's otherwise perfected facade. Her hands, pale and white, dance from task to task and all the while remain clean, avoiding this stain and that effortlessly. (She is her father's daughter.) ] I think, perhaps, we are all pretending.
In one way or another, for own sakes. For each others.
[ Now, relief finds her as Petyr's (or is it Littlefinger's) shadow slips from her face, her face whose cheeks are still warm and speckled pink with both her own embarrassment and his nearness. The flower is but a whisper of weight in the hollow of her hand but Alayne feels every bit of it threatening to pull her down down into the depths of her shame. Still, despite this sentiment she keeps his gaze; it is the only bravery she knows against Petyr — not to flinch when she is so encumbered, not to cower the way Sansa had with so many of the others. This is the contradiction that lies within her, Alayne's greatest weakness and her saving grace. Her ability to long and to surivive, even in the face of such suffering — to know how to bend and how to yield to such great iniquities, but not to break.
Her fingers close around the bud regiven, forming a pale-barred cage around the bloom, protecting it. She and it are not so different, Alayne thinks: two flowers plucked before their time, removed from the roots that had given them birth, harvested for their beauty. But would Petyr relinquish her as easily as he had given up the blossom which she now carried? No. Alayne is convinced of it. I am dear to him, surely. Why else would he hide me with such care, risking life and limb to whisk me away from the Lannisters' grasp?
At length, she nods, grasping the flower to her breast as if it were a precious gift. ] Yes, father, [ she says, ever dutiful, though her mouth is moist and her eyes are wet. ] We will.
Her fingers close around the bud regiven, forming a pale-barred cage around the bloom, protecting it. She and it are not so different, Alayne thinks: two flowers plucked before their time, removed from the roots that had given them birth, harvested for their beauty. But would Petyr relinquish her as easily as he had given up the blossom which she now carried? No. Alayne is convinced of it. I am dear to him, surely. Why else would he hide me with such care, risking life and limb to whisk me away from the Lannisters' grasp?
At length, she nods, grasping the flower to her breast as if it were a precious gift. ] Yes, father, [ she says, ever dutiful, though her mouth is moist and her eyes are wet. ] We will.
[ All of a sudden, Tommy seems to remember that he's supposed to be here to get food. Maybe it's the talk of pretending that jolts something in his head and reminds him that he's supposed to be. He moves away from the fridge, so he can turn around, get it open, and try to find something inside that he's fine with eating.
While he does, she thinks more about what she said, about games he'd play with Brendan when they were kids (which were always a little too stupid for Brendan's age, maybe, but which he always went along with) and about how mom pretended everything was okay, up until she decided to stop. So maybe she has a point, even if Tommy's not sure how good he is at pretending these days. ]
That's what people want, right? They ask, "How are you?" and all you're ever supposed t'say is, "Fine."
While he does, she thinks more about what she said, about games he'd play with Brendan when they were kids (which were always a little too stupid for Brendan's age, maybe, but which he always went along with) and about how mom pretended everything was okay, up until she decided to stop. So maybe she has a point, even if Tommy's not sure how good he is at pretending these days. ]
That's what people want, right? They ask, "How are you?" and all you're ever supposed t'say is, "Fine."
[ Two bowls, each apportioned with food ready enough to eat for both herself and Bran. Alayne inspects them one last time and then goes about setting them upon a tray before turning to Tommy again, making a motion with her hands as if to ask may I help. It is not something Sansa would have ever asked, but Alayne should be modest and reminds herself that things such as offering oneself was the means to this end.
Her eyebrows are still lifted in silent inquiry when she asks: ] And how are you, Tommy?
Her eyebrows are still lifted in silent inquiry when she asks: ] And how are you, Tommy?
Yes, please, thank you, [ Tommy says, an instant, engrained response to her offer of help. For a moment, his eyes go slightly wide, and it's not pretending exactly, but it's a remainder of what his mom taught him long ago when he was a person who doesn't have a lot in common with the person he is now. He steps back, giving her better access to the fridge, and the moment passes.
He resists the urge to frown at her question. He can't quite tell if it's meant genuinely or as a snappy retort. But either way, his answer wouldn't change much anyway. ]
I'm alive. I've got stuff to eat and somewhere to sleep. Could be worse.
He resists the urge to frown at her question. He can't quite tell if it's meant genuinely or as a snappy retort. But either way, his answer wouldn't change much anyway. ]
I'm alive. I've got stuff to eat and somewhere to sleep. Could be worse.
[ In truth, Alayne does not expect Tommy to accept the offer of assistance. He is a grown man, a warrior of sorts by his own admission and rough about the edges (and unapologetic of that fact). And yet, somehow, he allows her to provide what meager portion of help she can offer. Her eyebrows lifts in genuine surprise before quieting down again, her expression smoothing.
As he steps out of the way, she fills the space left empty with both herself and her skirts. A quick re-estimation of the coolbox's contents later, Alayne is straightening again, another unmarked container held between her hands. She looks at Tommy over the held-open door for a moment before offering it to him. ]
We are all 'fine', then, when measured by such meager estimations. Just as there are degrees between bad and worse, there those that exist between fine and good.
As he steps out of the way, she fills the space left empty with both herself and her skirts. A quick re-estimation of the coolbox's contents later, Alayne is straightening again, another unmarked container held between her hands. She looks at Tommy over the held-open door for a moment before offering it to him. ]
We are all 'fine', then, when measured by such meager estimations. Just as there are degrees between bad and worse, there those that exist between fine and good.
[ Left to his own devices, Tommy will eat just about anything. He's mostly kept to his diet -- as much as possible in the circumstances -- more because the routine is reassuring and it gives him something to think about when he doesn't want to think about other things than because he actually cares.
When he takes the box from Alayne, he gives the contents a quick check and then nods his head in a half-thank you and half-acknowledgement that her choice works for him. He takes a step back to try to find something other than his fingers to eat with (and that, honestly, is just because she's there watching). ]
Yeah, well. When you've been worse, better than worse feels like fine. [ He looks down sullenly at his feet. ]
When he takes the box from Alayne, he gives the contents a quick check and then nods his head in a half-thank you and half-acknowledgement that her choice works for him. He takes a step back to try to find something other than his fingers to eat with (and that, honestly, is just because she's there watching). ]
Yeah, well. When you've been worse, better than worse feels like fine. [ He looks down sullenly at his feet. ]
[ When Tommy withdraws, she does as well, stepping back to shut the door upon the cold and to stop the swirling eddies about her feet. As he goes about looking for a utensil now, Alayne does not try to hide her gaze as she studies him openly, as if it were somehow possible for her to guess just the limits of how bad 'worse' had been for him.
It is a useless exercise, ultimately, because where Tommy is wholly readable in certain places, he is closed off and distant in others. Perhaps the answer lay in the words exchanged until now, but they over no help upon second perusal. Had it been the war that raged through Tommy's world? Or perhaps he had had a parent — a mother or a father — who'd pretended too well.
Regardless, Alayne knows that Tommy is write. Absently she wonders what this says about her, what truth that would reveal about herself upon reflection. But she abandons those thoughts before they see themselves all the way through.
Folding her hands in front of her, she waits until he has foraged himself a fork to ask: ] Are we friends, Tommy? You and I.
It is a useless exercise, ultimately, because where Tommy is wholly readable in certain places, he is closed off and distant in others. Perhaps the answer lay in the words exchanged until now, but they over no help upon second perusal. Had it been the war that raged through Tommy's world? Or perhaps he had had a parent — a mother or a father — who'd pretended too well.
Regardless, Alayne knows that Tommy is write. Absently she wonders what this says about her, what truth that would reveal about herself upon reflection. But she abandons those thoughts before they see themselves all the way through.
Folding her hands in front of her, she waits until he has foraged himself a fork to ask: ] Are we friends, Tommy? You and I.
[ He finds a kind of fork not long after he starts looking -- only so many drawers to sift through and cutlery's still sort of where he expects it, even here in the future -- and digs in. A moment later, he's glad he did because it gives him something to furrow his eyebrows at when she asks her question.
His gut's first impulse is that he hasn't had a friend since Manny died. It's his gut's second impulse too, actually, a one-two punch that makes his jaw tighten and the food he's eating suddenly that much less appealing. His third impulse, though, is that maybe that ain't so true anymore. Tyke and Jenna and Dean and Jim. And Alayne. There are people here he doesn't mind being around so much, and maybe that's what friendship is for him these days.
He doesn't think he'd tell any of the others that, but Alayne's young, and he can't bring himself to shrug her off the way he'd shrug other people off. He stirs the cotents of his container around. ]
Sure. We're friends, [ he says. ] Why you askin'?
His gut's first impulse is that he hasn't had a friend since Manny died. It's his gut's second impulse too, actually, a one-two punch that makes his jaw tighten and the food he's eating suddenly that much less appealing. His third impulse, though, is that maybe that ain't so true anymore. Tyke and Jenna and Dean and Jim. And Alayne. There are people here he doesn't mind being around so much, and maybe that's what friendship is for him these days.
He doesn't think he'd tell any of the others that, but Alayne's young, and he can't bring himself to shrug her off the way he'd shrug other people off. He stirs the cotents of his container around. ]
Sure. We're friends, [ he says. ] Why you askin'?
[ It is a harmless enough question, or at least it appears to be. No question is harmless, truly harmless, for each begs an answer to provide illumination (and so many secrets are loathe to have themselves be shown in the light). Though it is not her intention to deceive any further than is necessary, Alayne's question is perhaps misleading. She has yet to decide whether or not she and the brute with the courtesy whose name is Tommy are friends (there is part of her that would like to be, but that part of her is starved and unruly and Alayne knows better than to allow it much counsel).
She watches silently as he stirs his food. Alayne thinks, if she were to leave the conversation there, he may stare into that modest container indefinitely in an attempt to avoid her gaze. A moment passes, then two, then: ] Then I would never wish for you to pretend for my sake— [ I pretend enough for us both already. ] —friend.
She watches silently as he stirs his food. Alayne thinks, if she were to leave the conversation there, he may stare into that modest container indefinitely in an attempt to avoid her gaze. A moment passes, then two, then: ] Then I would never wish for you to pretend for my sake— [ I pretend enough for us both already. ] —friend.
[ She is not herself, though that is to be expected. Were she a girl with a single heart and a single mind she would not be expected to find herself recovered so simply or so soon. But Alayne Stone has more than one heart, just as she has a second name and a hoary host of ghosts the follow it. (By rights, she should be a ghost too but— she is not.)
She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)
Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.
Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]
She spends the first few hours crying then the hours that follow that sleeping. She does not say a word, she does not let anyone touch her, but if she is left alone for even an instant she rouses from whatever sleep or daze holds her and shrieks as if she were ravaged anew. Her dress, having been torn and stained by the attack, is stripped of her but is kept nearby because, for some reason, she will not let it be put away. Given that the only other clothes are the uniforms provided by the lockers, she spends the day in her small clothes, bundled in blankets and draped loosely with her winter's cloak. The fabric and fur gathered to her, the collar of bruises she wears around her throat are barely visible though those that watch her will catch glimpses of it here and there (angry and ugly, a telling reminder of Magneto's wrath). On her stomach, hidden beneath the covers, there is a terrible grinning scar. Absently, she touches at it through the layers of cloth as she stares at nothing at all. Her red hair, loose and unkept, spills over her shoulders in need of a brushing. Slowly she blinks and slowly she breathes. (No, she is not herself.)
Death changes everyone — those that grieve, those that survive, those that remember and those that forget.
Death changes everyone. But it changes the dead most of all. ]
[ He stays with her as long as Robb allows it.
(There is much to be done, much to be processed, but he does his best to concentrate on what is immediately at hand. At some point he will either have to tell Ned the truth of his relation to Sansa or try to explain away the comment that Robb had made as to being her brother. He'll have to deflect the questions that will inevitably come with Alayne's reappearance, as well. And then there is the matter of caring for the girl herself. He will stay until she has recovered, he thinks. And then he will take his leave. The climate doesn't suit him anymore.
He doesn't like Robb's raised hackles. He doesn't like the way that she had spoken before she'd died. He's seen the scar that she bears, now, one that he supposes is fitting for the mockingbird and his daughter. He doesn't like the weight that she seems to settle in his very blood.)
Still, he sits by the foot of the bed, back against the wall, his fingers threaded through each other like a short patch of latticework.
(He is not himself, either.) ]
(There is much to be done, much to be processed, but he does his best to concentrate on what is immediately at hand. At some point he will either have to tell Ned the truth of his relation to Sansa or try to explain away the comment that Robb had made as to being her brother. He'll have to deflect the questions that will inevitably come with Alayne's reappearance, as well. And then there is the matter of caring for the girl herself. He will stay until she has recovered, he thinks. And then he will take his leave. The climate doesn't suit him anymore.
He doesn't like Robb's raised hackles. He doesn't like the way that she had spoken before she'd died. He's seen the scar that she bears, now, one that he supposes is fitting for the mockingbird and his daughter. He doesn't like the weight that she seems to settle in his very blood.)
Still, he sits by the foot of the bed, back against the wall, his fingers threaded through each other like a short patch of latticework.
(He is not himself, either.) ]
[ She asks for nothing, not by name or notion, only takes what is given to her. Whether it be a kind word or a bowl of soup or another blanket (whether it be silence or company or please, Sansa, speak). It is not within her rights to ask for things, for she is dead and the dead have no desires. Only she is not dead; only she breathes and wakes and wishes to sleep again (wishes for comfort and embrace and more silence). It is a truth so unnatural that it drives Alayne to scrub at her skin with both palm and nails, as if expecting it to peel back from her bones like so much dry bark. She does not know what she expects to find underneath — maggoty worms or rose-red flesh or perhaps someone else, someone who is neither Sansa nor Alayne. A new person, better than the last.
What is dead may never die. Those are the words of the Drowned God. But if that were true, why doesn't she feel feel stronger, why has she not risen harder. Why instead is she full of fear, so much in fact that it drives her to fits of both apathy and hysteria, each alternating the other in wide waxing turns and punctuated by long-suffered silences.
Only at length does she become aware that it is Petyr that sits at the foot of her bed. Not Robb or Bran (no one else is given access). Carefully, she shifts, that hand on her belly still rubbing absently, the other used to hold her cloak closed around her shoulders.
Father, she should say, for Petyr Baelish is Alayne Stone's father and her lord protector. But there is part of her that is no longer Alayne (no, Alayne was torn open by the end of Magento's blade, ripped apart to reveal Sansa underneath, Sansa who is over and done and yet is here now, breathing half of Alayne's breath and giving voice to half of her words).
Father, she should say. Soft and trembling, Alayne says instead: ]
—Petyr.
[ The last words she ever spoke in her previous life had been to Petyr Baelish. Now, in this new life, her first words would be his as well. ]
What is dead may never die. Those are the words of the Drowned God. But if that were true, why doesn't she feel feel stronger, why has she not risen harder. Why instead is she full of fear, so much in fact that it drives her to fits of both apathy and hysteria, each alternating the other in wide waxing turns and punctuated by long-suffered silences.
Only at length does she become aware that it is Petyr that sits at the foot of her bed. Not Robb or Bran (no one else is given access). Carefully, she shifts, that hand on her belly still rubbing absently, the other used to hold her cloak closed around her shoulders.
Father, she should say, for Petyr Baelish is Alayne Stone's father and her lord protector. But there is part of her that is no longer Alayne (no, Alayne was torn open by the end of Magento's blade, ripped apart to reveal Sansa underneath, Sansa who is over and done and yet is here now, breathing half of Alayne's breath and giving voice to half of her words).
Father, she should say. Soft and trembling, Alayne says instead: ]
—Petyr.
[ The last words she ever spoke in her previous life had been to Petyr Baelish. Now, in this new life, her first words would be his as well. ]
Edited 2012-04-29 04:33 (UTC)
[ (He remembers what it was like to die. He hadn't gone over the edge, as she had, but he, too, had spent the ensuing days wondering why it was that he had not simply died. You ought to be grateful, he had been told. But grateful for what? For whatever mercy — Catelyn's, and hadn't that stung — had kept him from being buried? He had nothing. For a while, he had thought that he would rather have died.)
At the sound of his name, Petyr straightens up, raising one hand in an attempt to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. (The time since her death has taken its toll on her, that much is evident. The circles under his eyes have darkened and there is a pallor to his skin, though the most telling evidence lies in the way that he looks at her. It isn't fear, but it isn't total happiness, either.) ]
Sansa, sweetling—
[ He pulls himself closer to the bed, one hand clamped down upon its edge. He doesn't ask how she is. (It's a useless exercise.) Instead, he falls silent, the line of his mouth twitching once before settling back into neutrality. ]
At the sound of his name, Petyr straightens up, raising one hand in an attempt to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. (The time since her death has taken its toll on her, that much is evident. The circles under his eyes have darkened and there is a pallor to his skin, though the most telling evidence lies in the way that he looks at her. It isn't fear, but it isn't total happiness, either.) ]
Sansa, sweetling—
[ He pulls himself closer to the bed, one hand clamped down upon its edge. He doesn't ask how she is. (It's a useless exercise.) Instead, he falls silent, the line of his mouth twitching once before settling back into neutrality. ]
[ Sansa. That is the name that he calls her and inside there is a voice that cries (howls) no no no, you mustn't say that or else they'll see and they'll know I am false.
But there is no one besides themselves to witness such indiscretions, no eyes to see and no ears to hear; and there is a portion of Alayne (who is also Sansa) that is gladdened by that, and another portion which feels the emptiness of the room around them and is made desolate and sad. She does not know that many had cried at her loss, that some had bit back tears of anger while others had bit back tears of rage. Alayne had been at the very cusp of death when Petyr had called out to the other passengers in search for aid, and by the time it had arrived Alayne was gone, having flown up into the skies over some distant and forgotten dream.
(Gone like Sansa and, by rights, should have been buried like Sansa too, only Ned had—)
A phantom pain clenches in Alayne's stomach and she flinches slowly, her shoulders lifting up to her ears in obvious discomfort as she scrambles to gather the cloak to her again in fear that it (or what lies beneath) will suddenly and most certainly be lost without the added effort. (Sometimes she drifts and in that drifting, dreams, and it is never of anything other than the blade and the wink of Magneto's smile through her tears. And whenever dreams she wakes with a start, clutching her stomach and terrified that she is as much alive as she is dead.) Her gaze drops, attention sliding off and away though she continues to shift her weight in his direction by degrees — somehow avoidant and needy at the same time. ]
I—
[ The words do not come. They burn up like spent ashes on her tongue. Hold me, she wishes to say. Don't look at me. Forgive me.
But the dead desire not. ]
But there is no one besides themselves to witness such indiscretions, no eyes to see and no ears to hear; and there is a portion of Alayne (who is also Sansa) that is gladdened by that, and another portion which feels the emptiness of the room around them and is made desolate and sad. She does not know that many had cried at her loss, that some had bit back tears of anger while others had bit back tears of rage. Alayne had been at the very cusp of death when Petyr had called out to the other passengers in search for aid, and by the time it had arrived Alayne was gone, having flown up into the skies over some distant and forgotten dream.
(Gone like Sansa and, by rights, should have been buried like Sansa too, only Ned had—)
A phantom pain clenches in Alayne's stomach and she flinches slowly, her shoulders lifting up to her ears in obvious discomfort as she scrambles to gather the cloak to her again in fear that it (or what lies beneath) will suddenly and most certainly be lost without the added effort. (Sometimes she drifts and in that drifting, dreams, and it is never of anything other than the blade and the wink of Magneto's smile through her tears. And whenever dreams she wakes with a start, clutching her stomach and terrified that she is as much alive as she is dead.) Her gaze drops, attention sliding off and away though she continues to shift her weight in his direction by degrees — somehow avoidant and needy at the same time. ]
I—
[ The words do not come. They burn up like spent ashes on her tongue. Hold me, she wishes to say. Don't look at me. Forgive me.
But the dead desire not. ]
Edited 2012-04-29 05:47 (UTC)
[ Help is on its way, he had said. 'Til then, I shall be brave in your stead. But the help had never arrived. There had been no help nor succor, just the knowledge that something was wrong, that something had been given or taken that shouldn't have. The feeling that one's skin might peel back and reveal the flaw, the mistake. You should be dead. (This is as close as he will get to being sympathetic.)
Slowly, Petyr pushes himself up to perch upon the edge of the bed, careful to still leave some distance between them. (He will not touch her against her wishes, not now. Truth be told, that caution is as much for him as it is for her. When she had opened her eyes once more, for once in his life — for a single instant — he hadn't known what to do.)
He offers up a small smile, one that flickers and dies but is meant as a sort of comfort. He can read her better than even her own brothers, he would like to think, particularly in light of the parallel paths that their lives have chosen to take. (It's a cruel twist of fate, of carelessness.) ]
I know, [ is what he says, the words stripped of any other meaning, bare and frank. It's not an answer to her stammer, but it's the most, he thinks, that he can give her. ]
Slowly, Petyr pushes himself up to perch upon the edge of the bed, careful to still leave some distance between them. (He will not touch her against her wishes, not now. Truth be told, that caution is as much for him as it is for her. When she had opened her eyes once more, for once in his life — for a single instant — he hadn't known what to do.)
He offers up a small smile, one that flickers and dies but is meant as a sort of comfort. He can read her better than even her own brothers, he would like to think, particularly in light of the parallel paths that their lives have chosen to take. (It's a cruel twist of fate, of carelessness.) ]
I know, [ is what he says, the words stripped of any other meaning, bare and frank. It's not an answer to her stammer, but it's the most, he thinks, that he can give her. ]
[ If her brother were older (Sansa's brother — Sansa's brother is my brother too) then perhaps what Petyr thinks would be untrue, for there'd be another who knows her just as well, having tasted a simliar end. Then there would be not two but three among them who'd walked the black sandy shores of death, only to be pulled out to sea where each of them drowned and drowned. But no (no, gods be good), the Young Wolf is green and yet untouched by the seeds sown by such villans as the Freys; he is newly crowned and unwed and still draped in that delicate gauze of innocence and hope that Alayne knows, once wrenched away, can never be had again.
And so it is only Petyr who understands her plight, Petyr alone who gleans the meaning of her look and her tentativeness, and then feels it resonate somewhere inside himself. An ache or a bruise or wound, reopened; a scar which sings years after being forced dumb.
A terrible sort of camaraderie, to be sure, but camaraderie nevertheless. It is what goads Alayne further, her knees making small inching movements forward forward; a hand, then an arm, then an elbow and bare shoulder emerging from all her gathered swaddling to feel along the sheets in his direction. She is a just girl who'd been swallowed up by the sea, now washed ashore in search of dry land a fire to warm herself; she is a foal just newly delivered, still blind and forced to walk only wobbling, uncertain legs.
You know, she thinks and then thinks: yes. (It is only right that someone know, for to live and to die and to live again is too much a weight for one pair of shoulders to bear alone.) Yes, of course. Petyr, father, you always know. There's nothing that escapes you.
A hand, white and delicate, curls around the air between them, fingers closing around nothing at all. A silent plea as the fear threatens to well up once again inside her. (Tell me what to do.) ]
Do you hate me—? Do— do they all—?
[ Am I terrible? Unnatural and most foul? Does it hurt to look at me? ]
And so it is only Petyr who understands her plight, Petyr alone who gleans the meaning of her look and her tentativeness, and then feels it resonate somewhere inside himself. An ache or a bruise or wound, reopened; a scar which sings years after being forced dumb.
A terrible sort of camaraderie, to be sure, but camaraderie nevertheless. It is what goads Alayne further, her knees making small inching movements forward forward; a hand, then an arm, then an elbow and bare shoulder emerging from all her gathered swaddling to feel along the sheets in his direction. She is a just girl who'd been swallowed up by the sea, now washed ashore in search of dry land a fire to warm herself; she is a foal just newly delivered, still blind and forced to walk only wobbling, uncertain legs.
You know, she thinks and then thinks: yes. (It is only right that someone know, for to live and to die and to live again is too much a weight for one pair of shoulders to bear alone.) Yes, of course. Petyr, father, you always know. There's nothing that escapes you.
A hand, white and delicate, curls around the air between them, fingers closing around nothing at all. A silent plea as the fear threatens to well up once again inside her. (Tell me what to do.) ]
Do you hate me—? Do— do they all—?
[ Am I terrible? Unnatural and most foul? Does it hurt to look at me? ]
Edited 2012-04-29 13:13 (UTC)
[ (To live and to die and to live again is much too much, he knows that. After all, it – though admittedly in addition to a myriad of other things — had crushed the Baelish boy underneath its weight, lacking as he was in any sort of confidante.)
He shakes his head almost immediately after she has spoken, brow creasing and then smoothing out again. ]
Of course not, [ he murmurs, a note resonating in his voice that sounds almost like pain. ] You needn't worry about that.
[ It's the truth, meager as it is. He doesn't hate her. He does not think her terrible, unnatural, or any combination. He doesn't know what to think. It had been easier, not caring, or at least telling himself so, but know you're loved, she had said, and then, in coming back, had made it impossible for him to simply pretend it never had happened. And is that not a weight, too? One that can crush, one that can torment. No, he does not hate her. But, gods, it would be the easier path to take.
He keeps the thought, however, to himself, instead offering her his hand (his arm, his shoulder), palm held up toward the ceiling. ]
He shakes his head almost immediately after she has spoken, brow creasing and then smoothing out again. ]
Of course not, [ he murmurs, a note resonating in his voice that sounds almost like pain. ] You needn't worry about that.
[ It's the truth, meager as it is. He doesn't hate her. He does not think her terrible, unnatural, or any combination. He doesn't know what to think. It had been easier, not caring, or at least telling himself so, but know you're loved, she had said, and then, in coming back, had made it impossible for him to simply pretend it never had happened. And is that not a weight, too? One that can crush, one that can torment. No, he does not hate her. But, gods, it would be the easier path to take.
He keeps the thought, however, to himself, instead offering her his hand (his arm, his shoulder), palm held up toward the ceiling. ]
[ Oh, but she does worry. Between the throes of her own nightmares both real and imagined, both remembered and forgotten (both Sansa and Alayne), there is another fear even deeper felt. The fear of unworthiness, of trespasses that can never be repaid — no never, not through truth or lies or the greatest of efforts. (A sister who forsook her own name to survive, a daughter who is not daughter at all and yet is as loyal as one, loyal to a man who has proven faithful to none. A little bird who died.)
For all that she has suffered through death, she imagines that Sansa's brothers and Alayne's father have somehow suffered more. (She knows what it is to live when those you love do not. And perhaps it does not rend to ruin the way a tear to the stomach or the slice of a sword might, but it is an agony that lingers and then festers. It is a pain that does not die.) She wonders as she looks at Petyr now if he regrets whatever pang of emotion he'd felt upon her passing (there is no doubt, he must have felt something, hadn't he); something moves across the features of his face as she watches, like the brief shade of a cloud that momentarily blots out the sun, and Alayne knows (oh gods, she knows) that the love she had offered in her last moments had not made him strong. It had made him weak.
(Love is the poison, the queen had taught her. Why had she not lied in this, just as she'd lied about all the rest?)
The corners of her mouth turn downward in realization and she glares at the hand offered, pulling back again, her slender arm disappearing as she cocoons herself once again in sheets and blankets and robes.
(No, don't touch me. Don't look at me. Don't.) ]
It was better left—
[ Alayne shakes her head and then falls silent again. ]
For all that she has suffered through death, she imagines that Sansa's brothers and Alayne's father have somehow suffered more. (She knows what it is to live when those you love do not. And perhaps it does not rend to ruin the way a tear to the stomach or the slice of a sword might, but it is an agony that lingers and then festers. It is a pain that does not die.) She wonders as she looks at Petyr now if he regrets whatever pang of emotion he'd felt upon her passing (there is no doubt, he must have felt something, hadn't he); something moves across the features of his face as she watches, like the brief shade of a cloud that momentarily blots out the sun, and Alayne knows (oh gods, she knows) that the love she had offered in her last moments had not made him strong. It had made him weak.
(Love is the poison, the queen had taught her. Why had she not lied in this, just as she'd lied about all the rest?)
The corners of her mouth turn downward in realization and she glares at the hand offered, pulling back again, her slender arm disappearing as she cocoons herself once again in sheets and blankets and robes.
(No, don't touch me. Don't look at me. Don't.) ]
It was better left—
[ Alayne shakes her head and then falls silent again. ]
Edited 2012-04-29 20:19 (UTC)
[ And immediately, something blooms in his chest, frustration or anguish or any combination, he doesn't much care. What did you expect? he wants to ask. What do you want? This is a storm that he is not made to weather and, up until this point, had steered clear of with nothing but ease. He feels young again, in the worst sense of the words, once again at the mercy of a girl who spurns what she has coaxed forth, who will not take what he has to offer, who would rather have died than confront the truth that lies sewn over his heart. At the end of day, even with empires brought down and kings disposed of, Petyr Baelish is only a man.
But no, he tells himself. He will never be caught again, not by her, not by anyone. ]
Don't, [ he says, and it is the closest thing to harsh that he has ever been with her. (More negligence, more mistakes. He cannot persist in this.) ] What is done is done. [ And what is said is said. You cannot take it back.
Still, like hers, his fist curls in thin air, dropping back down to the mattress as he turns away. With each moment that passes, there is a slow, insidious fear that grows within him, one that recognizes that he is becoming careless, that she has seen too much already and will see even more if he is not diligent. (He should have known better.)
Quietly, his face still turned away: ]
Do you wish me to leave?
But no, he tells himself. He will never be caught again, not by her, not by anyone. ]
Don't, [ he says, and it is the closest thing to harsh that he has ever been with her. (More negligence, more mistakes. He cannot persist in this.) ] What is done is done. [ And what is said is said. You cannot take it back.
Still, like hers, his fist curls in thin air, dropping back down to the mattress as he turns away. With each moment that passes, there is a slow, insidious fear that grows within him, one that recognizes that he is becoming careless, that she has seen too much already and will see even more if he is not diligent. (He should have known better.)
Quietly, his face still turned away: ]
Do you wish me to leave?
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