[ It isn't a question that he has an answer for. Under other circumstances, he might have had an answer. Power, influence, everything there is. But as he looks at her now, there is only ash upon his tongue. The singer can no longer distinguish where he ends and the song begins. That in itself is another terrible realization, one that he cannot avoid facing. He has made a mistake. He has erred. And with every mistake, there is a price to be paid, whether it be by blood or by coin or by anything else. For mistakes made for the sake of love, that price is all the greater, and he knows he will not survive a second round.
It is that part of him that makes to run when she pulls her hand away, when she asks his forgiveness (when she doesn't repeat the words again, making it that much easier to believe that they might have been a ploy, that they might have been madness inspired by the onset of death). It sits poorly with him to be laid so low, to be stripped so bare. This is more than he has ever wished for anyone to know about him — that had been his greatest deception, after all: convincing everyone that he was true, that he was good. But she — just a girl — had stripped back the veneer and seen what laid underneath. (He would not blame her for eating her words. You cannot love me, not truly.)
But, still, still, he remains. That is his mistake. That is his own foolishness. (That is the part of him that had fought on even when Brandon Stark had opened a dozen wounds upon his body.) Littlefinger loves power and Petyr cannot answer the question. (Petyr cannot believe that the balance would swing in his direction. Blood runs thicker than water, and at the end of the day it is not blood that runs between them, no matter how much hold the name Stone should set in her heart.)
His voice is barely a rasp when he speaks. ]
I no longer remember.
[ He thinks he had known, before her death and resurrection, but no longer. Prior to the events of the past few days, he would not have hesitated to wring some token of affection from her, no matter how cold she should prove, but as things stand, he is afraid even to touch her (despite what appearances might indicate), as if contact might bring the worst truths to light, as if it might destroy him completely.
This is not love as he remembers it.
This is the aftermath — the bitterness that remained, the wound, the scar.
This is the shape that he had learned love took, a death warrant signed and sealed, not good nor kind.
(And yes, that is an admittance. That is the way that he chooses to make it.) ]
( ACTION )
It is that part of him that makes to run when she pulls her hand away, when she asks his forgiveness (when she doesn't repeat the words again, making it that much easier to believe that they might have been a ploy, that they might have been madness inspired by the onset of death). It sits poorly with him to be laid so low, to be stripped so bare. This is more than he has ever wished for anyone to know about him — that had been his greatest deception, after all: convincing everyone that he was true, that he was good. But she — just a girl — had stripped back the veneer and seen what laid underneath. (He would not blame her for eating her words. You cannot love me, not truly.)
But, still, still, he remains. That is his mistake. That is his own foolishness. (That is the part of him that had fought on even when Brandon Stark had opened a dozen wounds upon his body.) Littlefinger loves power and Petyr cannot answer the question. (Petyr cannot believe that the balance would swing in his direction. Blood runs thicker than water, and at the end of the day it is not blood that runs between them, no matter how much hold the name Stone should set in her heart.)
His voice is barely a rasp when he speaks. ]
I no longer remember.
[ He thinks he had known, before her death and resurrection, but no longer. Prior to the events of the past few days, he would not have hesitated to wring some token of affection from her, no matter how cold she should prove, but as things stand, he is afraid even to touch her (despite what appearances might indicate), as if contact might bring the worst truths to light, as if it might destroy him completely.
This is not love as he remembers it.
This is the aftermath — the bitterness that remained, the wound, the scar.
This is the shape that he had learned love took, a death warrant signed and sealed, not good nor kind.
(And yes, that is an admittance. That is the way that he chooses to make it.) ]