Her tone of
voice made him look up from the training schedule he had been working on;
something in her voice spoke to a disappointment deeper than the one he had
felt. He had expected better from her, certainly, but it was all another lesson
in the end. No more than that. Yet her words were laced with a deeper disillusionment
with herself, a lack of belief in her own capabilities. He gestured at her to
take a seat at the long table, his features kinder than a moment before; there
were more ways to teach than through strict disapproval alone.
“ You could
indeed have done better. And you will, next time. The girls are unharmed, are
they not? We are all trying to make do with the resources we have, Sansa. But it is
vital you are honest yourself, and with me. If you cannot handle your group of…
Slayerettes…. you must tell me, and I will have you reassigned. ”
He folded
his hands together, waiting patiently for her reply. He believed in her, but it
would do no good if she did not believe in herself.
Storied surname imposed far more than wealth or recognition upon one so young; with that lone harsh syllable came expectation, the weight of history bearing down on a girl too young to understand all it held. Every failure, no matter how minuscule, felt as though Sansa spat on that legacy most revered. She knew no instructor could ever experience such dissatisfaction over a pupil, knew her anger and self-pity served no useful purpose. Yet time and again the girl returned to them, soothing talismans that offered a sort of perverse comfort on her days of lowest, and highest, achievement.
Reluctantly she joined Giles, sinking into a chair, leather creaking at its studs. Sansa hardly relaxed into its welcoming cushion before every hair prickled with alarm. Reassigned? Was asking his way of setting forth a command, the notion of a gentle let-down all he could offer as she slunk away, defeated, useless?
“I don’t want another assignment,” she bit out between gritted teeth. Another moment, a deep breath, and she found her composure. With great effort, shoulders drawn taut relaxed, hands folding in a mirror of the Watcher’s posture. “I just want to get it right. I hate that we have to make do at the expense of others’ lives…I just wish there was a better way…”
Yes, she DID look like an Alayne, but her surname was a little puzzling. Issues of genealogy weren’t important, not when it came to his sister. All that mattered to her was whether someone was intruding on her home or not.
❝ No. My sister…LUCILLE. She lives here as well. ❞
❝ All those deaths…because of her. ❞
It was in HASTE that he told her under no circumstances to linger long in the Great Room, which was both a parlor, a living room, and a library all at once. That was HER domain, and those who continued to trespass in it ran the risk of angering her. He didn’t know how long Alayne planned on staying there, but he supposed that telling her his sister’s usual HAUNTS would give her a better chance of staying alive.
Thomas didn’t know exactly why he was helping her, but it was partly because he was tired of seeing people die with him being POWERLESS to stop it. Once he was done he leaned back, sighing.
❝ I apologize. You must think me GLOOMY company. ❞
Terminology seemed somewhat misapplied — spirits haunted, lurked, lingered, yet never did they live within walls which sheltered those still mortal. Yet would one not cling to those peculiarities of living that, in death, became trivial? Sansa knew that she would, felt it in her very bones, a primal fear whispering on about the terrifying unknown. Perhaps it was no more frightening than being born. Perhaps it was freeing. Still, standing so near to ghostly form made youthful heart pump stronger, her pulse a tympanic beat promising over and over again: I live. I live. I live.
“Deaths?”
No matter how great the manor appeared, dozens of rooms sprawling out in rickety succession across frigid grounds, to have even one cast off limits imparted a sense of entrapment. Through their relocation Petyr had promised her peace, a quiet sanctuary in which to wait out leonine foes; malevolent spirits already crept within the shadows of her dreams, much less the very real, very threatening shadows of her rooms.
“You must not have many occasions to converse,” Sansa prompted. Proper tenants had not occupied Allerdale for many years, though the agent through Petyr acquired the property had warned of damage from tramps and other wanderers. With neither friend nor lover at one’s side, surely eternity stretched on in a kind of interminable hell. “Nor do I,” the girl admitted. “My father preferred that I not travel far from home and now…here…” A pale hand swept in indication of the empty room, the house all around it. “There may not be many more acquaintances to make, Sir Thomas.”
His former title no longer sounded RIGHT; it had been decades since he even used it. Or did he ever become the proper baronet? Most of his life was spent in the pursuit of a dream that never amounted to anything except for a rusted hulk of a machine. The very MONSTROSITY that now stood outside the hall and was being dismantled. It should have hurt to see his life’s work being stripped away from the land, but it didn’t. He had accepted that his harvester was nothing more but a failure, and his very heart had been burned from him a long time ago.
❝ SHE won’t let you stay here for long. No one hardly stays for more than a week. ❞
There was a soft sigh as he retracted his more solid form, but now his eyes were staring at the wall behind her. He had seen countless owners come and go, passing the house from one family member to another. NONE of them stayed, and those who did left as babbling messes. Lucille’s sadistic streak had only increased since she had died, and her protectiveness of both him and their home was worse. He just hoped that the girl’s aunt wasn’t planning on leaving her here as a way to get rid of her. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something like that happen. Children killing parents, jealous aunts killing nieces…except this time, Lysa Arryn might be banking on the reports of MALEVOLENT spirits to do the killing for her.
Frankly, Thomas was tired of the endless cycle of life and death. He just wanted to rest and leave the world behind. Death now seemed more like hell than heaven, mainly because he was in neither.
❝ Forgive my hastiness. Who are you, my Lady? I should at least know the current lady of the house. ❞
Sharpe. In memory’s recesses she could recall such a name — the former occupants, not in recent days but long ago, when inheritance passed from generation to generation rather than finding itself constantly shuffled about on the auctioneer’s block. How many years since one of their blood walked these halls? Ten? Fifty? One hundred? Though logic dictated still that this must comprise some prank, it was not in Petyr’s nature to be so playful, nor would any from the village distant bother with such trifles.
He was — so much as any ghost could be — real.
“She? I’m afraid I do not understand.” The man introduced as her father held title to this house and its surrounding lands, as well as several smaller parsonages nearby; no one could dare challenge Baelish’s claim, not any of flesh and blood. A bitter skeptic only moments before, Sansa now wondered if there might not be more spirits lurking amongst the tatty draperies and rotted boards. Give it to the Freys, she had told him. Let them suffer a curse. Rumor could not dissuade him however, and, no other recourse left to her, Sansa trailed after in meek silence. Silence which continued, queries of a name tying knots in her tongue. They expected few visitors and fewer questions, but with lies carefully agreed upon nonetheless.
“Alayne. Alayne Stone.” Did spirits know when the living lied? Blue eyes averted themselves as superstitious precaution. “Are you the only one? The— the only…?” Ghost.
“Not motivation, Miss Stark. Information, there’s a difference. In all honesty we care not for the plight of your family, or the men who have wronged them. If you are willing and able to pay us to exact revenge, then that is all the motivation we require. Now. Tell me about these parties, the more we know the better we may help you.”
“Doubtless, then, you will find it unsurprising that accounts of my brother’s death were largely fabricated. Two men — Bolton and Frey — who boasted on their great friendship with our family engineered his murder, as well as that of my mother. Bolton has magnanimously taken control of our interests, unaware that any heirs remained; before his removal, I should like certain guarantees that these holdings will naturally find themselves returned to their rightful owners.”
Her admission did not bring about any smug satisfaction nor rude observations that would have been so easily made. He merely gave a brief nod of his head, as though feigning polite interest in the very subject he brought up. It was enough that his theory was confirmed. Knowing that Baelish had a bastard could prove valuable indeed. But there was no need to punish her for it. She’d done nothing to incite his ill-will.
“Come on then.” Turning with the assurance of one who was used to being followed, he led her to his back room of the Garrison, not wanting any agent of Baelish’s, daughter or no, to know the official base of his operations. Taking his customary seat, he beckoned she do the same in a place of her choosing around the table with a mild, “Sit, please.”
“So you don’t want to commit? Fine. Listen then.” There was no undue firmness in his voice. He did not have to yell and threaten to get what he wanted. His tone remained even and low, a reasonable, easy sound. “Shipments are something I’ve a particular expertise and jurisdiction of. I’ve the means of meeting your father’s demands, but my services are not free.” As well she likely knew.
If not, she did now.
From the beginning of their ruse Alayne had shown a notable sensitivity to the reactions of others over parentage unknown. In pitying looks and fluttering hands she saw her own aversion, that haughty self-assurance rooted once in a birthright believed to be incontrovertible, now erased without a thought. Baelish’s associates cared very little, not like the mothers and sons with whom he hoped to ingratiate her. Lurking along the edges of polite society, slithering through its underbelly, news of bastardy failed to bring forth more than a disinterested shrug from such men.
Perhaps it should have endeared them to her, their nonchalance. Yet wariness remained, an understanding of Petyr’s own menace and his penchant for dealing with those of similar ilk. Men like Shelby, no doubt; chin tilted to one side, a bird whose feathers ruffled at being given commands so blithely, Sansa nonetheless trailed after him. Deliberating for a moment she settled on a seat just beside him, worried that distance might imply a fear to be taken advantage of. Petyr trusted her. She had no cause to worry that any harm would come from a simple conversation.
“Please, don’t misunderstand me. My father has no intention to bandy about; no doubt wasted time would cost the both of you valuable income. I only meant that I’ve been sent as a messenger,” she emphasized, smiling with an underling’s chagrin, “rather than a proxy.” And what a vague message it was — make sure he gets the shipment through. What and even when Sansa knew not, only that the cargo carried enough significance for both men to apparently know of it with a single mention. “Though I have not known him as long as some, Mr. Shelby, I can already assure you that he’s most generous to those with whom he works. Nor is he one to let a debt go unpaid.”
life has almost been
snatched from her too many times for it to be anything other than important. ( when all tries to prise cold and
calloused fingers from whatever’s left in her life, she survives. draws her
feet up, cracks lactic from her knuckles, she
survives. and she will survive. will spit bloody, dislodged teeth from a
chapped and split lip before she surrenders and leaves herself to die. )
why are you
telling me this?( there’s
a wry comment stuck on her tongue that she swallows again—a twisted threat, and
one that ushers the clenching of fingers at her side. there are plenty of men
who’d want to see someone like that dead. plenty of people who’d oblige. only
one of her who’d fight it. ) a part
of her’s still unnerved. she doesn’t invite friendship. she doesn’t anything
sweet. ( she invites only a foul
grope and an unprovoked smack—still, she’s not sure how. it’s her size, maybe.
it’s being a woman. i am
not a victim. )
‘
what do you mean by that? ’ —- that strikes something within her. the first
thing that has gripped her. the first thing tha’ts made her seek
similarities—there’s beauty in what stands before her. ( she’s tall, with a face that people would stop for—with a body
that mimmi would die to be beside, and one that would even entice kalle bastard
blomkvist and bring him to his knees. nothing like hers. ) but there’s a moment of brief considering.
Sharing even the reason for her arrival in such a frigid corner of the world invited more risk than perhaps Sansa should have allowed. Eyes and ears could be purchased all about the world, distance or cost no impediment to those whom she sought. Still, this woman who spoke more in glances than with words seemed not at all the sort to seek such employ; alone for so long herself, Sansa could recognize isolation in others, the preference for solitude over wealth or power.
She did not feel safe — there was a tension, a pulsing, warning chill that emanated from her laconic acquaintance — though she could sense it was not only strangers who were met with such tight-lipped apathy. Perhaps telling a soul who would never care served as reassurance, a sign that her troubles remained but a minuscule ripple across humanity’s great expanse. The world contracted with her drive, vision narrowing until only the task at hand remained in sight; at times, Sansa welcomed those brief brushes with others well beyond such all-consuming hurt.
“I mean— ” For a moment eyes meet, the solitude enforced through carefully cultivated space between them brought to an end, before she offered a confession to that neutral ground. “There are people who hurt my family, who want to hurt me. As a girl I only wanted to hide, thinking they would leave me alone, but it isn’t quite their way. I have to make them stop, in whatever way I can.”
“SPECTRE would be more than happy to lend it’s services to you- all for a fair price, of course. Please, tell me more as to the nature of this problem. One can not guarantee their trademark secrecy or efficiency without the proper intelligence.”
“ — Forgive me, but I fail to understand how one’s motivation might impact your organization’s ability to complete its task. The contract would be a simple one: eliminate certain parties whom I know to have done my family great harm, in exchange for fair compensation. I’ve turned to you because a reputation for success would imply the capability of carrying out such a directive with no other loss of life. The death of innocents lies well beyond my interests.”
Thomas saw no reason to LIE, though his brow furrowed at the sight of red drops of red form on her fingers. Drawing just enough of his energy, he managed to flick a clean cloth in her direction; the white square fluttering near her leg to rest on the mattress. He stayed where he was so that he didn’t ALARM her further, moving only to clasp his hands behind his back.
He knew very little of the family that now owned his home. The older woman – her mother? an aunt? – with the SHRILL voice and young son who still fed from her breast was an unpleasant one. He had heard more than one of her maids grumble about how DIFFICULT she was, and from what he had seen over the years, that was an understatement. Now, there was this new one and that male companion of hers.
It wasn’t his style to bother with the dealings of humans, and he didn’t ask her about him. Instead, he sat down on the chair so that he wouldn’t TOWER over her. His gaze rested briefly on the winter rose in her hand, before finally settling on her face. Now that he could see her better, there were distinct similarities between her and the woman. Lysa Arryn. Possibly an aunt, for they only shared the same nose.
❝ I believe I frightened you earlier. It was not my intent, my Lady. ❞
Fluttering handkerchief frightened more than the mysteriously bequeathed roses; so long as the apparition before her caused no more disturbances, then Sansa might explain its — his — actions as the hallucinations of an exhausted mind. Yet pale as moth’s wings did silken fabric drift, caught up from where it lay upon the mattress and exchanged for her treacherous bloom. She pressed it to injured palm without once looking away from ghostly apparition, taking in the aged clothes, the carefully indulged decorum, the weeping red wound beneath one eye.
His own hand could not possibly have inflicted such grievous injury; was it in poor taste to inquire how it had come about? Rumors swelled around the house and its grounds, though such whispers were always better heard than believed. Any ancient estate surely witnessed its share of deaths throughout the centuries, though murder leant a different sort of color to its dark and moldering halls. Petyr made no mention of such a past, surely an omission more deliberate than not; already poor dreams plagued her sleep, a condition he would not wish to exacerbate.
Only once the spirit sat — or mimicked sitting — did Sansa look away, blotting at minuscule red specks until a faint ache, nothing more, remained of her clumsy fright. She found his eyes again, but could not tell their color. Indeed, most shocking of all were trailing wisps of long-dried blood, crimson banners which drifted in a current which failed to reach her own warm flesh. So many questions filled her throat, choking her, yet only one — the safest — managed to break free.
“You have done no harm,” she promised, uncertain if it was truth or platitude that rolled from her tongue. “Please…what is it you should like to be called?”
Baelish. Yes, that name was quite familiar to him. A powerful man, the sort who looked polished and respectable in appearance, but dealt in all manner of businesses on the sly. Thomas admired him. But, his admiration rarely boded well for those with power. Admiration oft turned to jealousy. And he was the sort of man to take what he wanted, even if it belonged to someone else.
“You know, it’s funny? I didn’t know Baelish had a daughter. –Or any children, now that I think on it.” He spoke with deceptive politeness, like an old friend merely mentioning a new bit of mildly interesting news.
He let the words sit a moment, allowing the pause to stretch on as the world bustled on around them. After a time, he cleared his throat and spoke again, the words low. “If you want to talk business, I think we’d best go somewhere more private. Don’t you think?” Again, he appeared to be the very soul of courtesy with words alone, but his tone and demeanor brooked no argument. If she wanted to deal, she’d do as he asked.
Smile thinned, embarrassment seeping beyond the edges of gentility; though Baelish would handle such statements with greater panache, his daughter had been raised in more demure environs, inclined to discuss matters of parentage with a blush, rather than a chuckle. “Nor did he, I fear, until recently.” Alayne coughed, a muted expulsion of discomfort as the truth came to light. “My mother…was never his wife, nor did they remain in touch for very long. We only had occasion to speak with one another recently.” Even now, self-made men scrabbling about the city like vultures, swooping in to feast on the carrion of old, dead names, the right birth made all the difference. Baelish’s daughter understood that, how she must always look the part, quietly disregarding such unsavory facts.
Petyr said nothing about negotiation. Indeed, she doubted he would have ever considered sending her on such an errand if it necessitate more than the delivery of a message and the carriage of a reply. She could hardly return, however, not lacking any assurance whatsoever that this concern of his lay well-addressed. Father would be proud, she thought, to hear how well I’ve handled myself. “Of course,” the girl agreed. “Only…I cannot promise to commit to any course of action in his stead. My father sent me to convey his wishes, nothing more, sir.”
It wasn’t a matter of whether she FEARED him or not. Frightening a young woman was not his intent, but his sister’s. But Lucille had long retreated into the bowels of the house, snapping only when someone interrupted her personal space and privacy. A few incidents HAD happened where workers were chased off by a screeching spectre, but lately the new owners of Allerdale Hall seemed to be there only a few days each year.
Now, however, it seemed that they were staying longer, which meant that the chances of them waking Lucille were higher. There was only so much that he could do to keep her from harming others, but he seemed to have done an effective job of frightening the girl on his own. It just so happened that the room she was in was his OLD room, which was why he was often there, unseen. But then she’d called out into the darkness, and from the way she spoke, it seemed like he was talking to him.
❝ You should not be, my lady. ❞
His tone came from the shadows in the far corner, and he slowly materialized, stepping into the moonlight. Thomas knew that he looked terrible, with his pale pallor and sunken eyes. Not something anyone should see in the dead of the night. He turned his gaze from her then, though his finger gestured to the flower she held between her fingers. So she’d seen it.
❝ Not of me, at least. ❞
Bran believed in ghost stories; not his elder sister, who ever preferred lace-edged tales of princess and midnight kisses, the glittering balls that always ended in happily ever after. Yet here in Allendale she had no brother, no fairy tale dreams, no memory of bedtime stories shared by a mother who also sometimes longed for the warm evenings and muffled laughter of her youth. Here Sansa must exercise the utmost caution; indeed, Baelish had at last claimed his gifted parcel in no small part thanks to its isolation. Though such insulating distance hindered certain business ventures of his, it guaranteed that she might stay out of sight, tended to only by Petyr and a small cadre of trusted staff who would stay on beyond unpacking.
He had graciously given her the finest room, an honor greeted with more dubiety when Sansa took in pitted floorboards, peeling wallpaper, and grime-coated windows which faced away from the long front drive. Rugs would cover ancient wood planks, furniture and hangings shipped specially from London a brightening influence as well once they arrived, yet even then she doubted the room would ever be rid of its…otherness. And now the rose, cradled lightly in her palm as though made of smoke, seemed to warn that this room, this house, would never fully belong to man or girl.
“Gah— !”
Breaking off a cry, she fumbled with the thorn-studded stem; for a moment it wobbled precariously, before Sansa clutched ghostly offering with a desperate grip. Fleeting pain stung along her hand, crimson dots welling where verdant barbs met flesh. Impossible. The long journey, the isolation, the moldering sense of abandonment which sank into her bones alongside a damp chill…these things had made her hear a voice which could not speak, see a man who could not exist.
Until he spoke again. “And— and was it you, then? Who left this? Or…someone else?”
He was no longer a person; nothing more but a wisp in the BLACK history of Allerdale Hall. Thomas had no idea how she had come to possess his home, but he wondered if she was aware of the unfortunate circumstances in its bloody history. He’d only peeked into her room to see who now owned the home, but seemed to have frightened her as a result.
It wasn’t his intention, and he’d drawn just enough energy to place a red rose on her side table, as his way of an apology.
She hated it here at Allerdale. Aunt Lysa’s estate, for all the frigidity of its mistress, possessed the high, vaulted ceilings and airy sophistication Sansa associated with the embarrassingly wealthy. While the now-widowed Baelish had exorbitant funds of his own, the gift given for loyal service to his sovereign quite clearly demanded its ample use — and soon. Soil like blood leaked through the floors, sky served in place of a glass dome to greet those in the massive front hall; overhead, moths wheeled in flocks through air thick with must.
Nothing beautiful seemed to exist between its crumbling walls — except one crimson rose.
Petyr swore it was not of his doing, though she could see a faint shimmer in celadon that suggested he might try next time. He suggested it was left behind by those who came before — impossible, as the house had stood vacant for months, unsuitable even for drifters. And that face, at her window… Sansa returned to her room, circling about the aged boards with the blossom caught up between slim fingers. “I’m not afraid,” she said softly, as if to convince herself. “I’m not afraid of you.” Repeated louder, to a maddeningly empty room. After all, what monster left behind red roses?
he’s on another assignment entirely·–·mainly,·shut the hell up, sit the fuck down, and let that arm heal,·according to his boss. M’s practically·banned·him from re-entering the country until he’s been away at least a·MONTH,·and a fortnight in & bond’s already·restless.·never a good sign. but he’s hacked into the hotel’s system (wasn’t·too·difficult, considering he’s a·LOYAL PATRON·here & they’ve learned to accept his eccentric nature) and to his surprise, a·miss SANSA STARK·checked in two days ago, into a room three floors above his own.·
“ time to greet the neighbors, ”·he murmurs to himself, snapping shut the laptop with a faint grin. & with a sort of·awkward grace,·one arm in a sling, he dresses himself (casual, no need for his usual suit & tie) before exiting the room (double-checking that it’s·locked,·as he slips the key into the pocket of his trousers.)·
it’s a short walk to the lift, which takes him down to the·kitchens;·a few words with the·head chef·& he strolls out with a·gin & tonic·in one hand and a large cup of·sherbet ice-cream·in the other. then it’s up to her floor, her room number memorized & shortly before him.·
the agent knocks thrice upon the painted door, stepping back in clear view of the hole through which he reckons she’ll check prior to answering. carefully, he sips his drink, and waits.·“ room service, ”·he deadpans,·not·without a cheeky grin. three doors down the corridor, another patron exits, and bond turns to spare the departing figure a measuring glance. he’s not sure·why·she’s here, but with her status (personal & otherwise) he hopes she’s well-protected.·
It was simple, really, traveling under her name — Joff caused too much trouble, hotels mysteriously booked and family friends conveniently absent whenever one sought their hospitality. Once at the front desk, however, it stood all but impossible to refuse a booking; bravery died quickly when bereft of a phone’s comforting buffer. At best he managed a day, possibly two, before fleeing their accommodations, the lists of sites and shops bestowed ·by Mrs. Baratheon, to seek out instead those entertainments more suited to his disposition.·
Sansa entertained herself with television, a hot cup of tea enjoyed from balcony’s shelter. She might have ventured out, were it not for the blue-grey clouds hanging ominously over the streets. Such abandonment had long since lost its shock. Indeed, the girl quite enjoyed her solitude, a rare respite from watchful eyes, whispers unheard but not unnoticed, surveillance carried out in anticipation of one misstep.
Knuckles rapping against wood startled her, the girl expecting no guests or callers during such a lonesome sojourn. Though she knew it would cast a shadow — hardly covert — Sansa peered through her peephole to find a rather unexpected visitor.·“For me?” Sansa beamed, pointedly sweeping away both gin and sherbet.·“Why, Mr. Bond, you shouldn’t have.” Stepping aside, she allowed him entry; as the door latched, one hand extended with the sweating glass, beverage unsampled.·
“Nothing’s the matter is it?” Though she knew little and less of the man’s actual duties, trouble invariably seemed to follow, were his sketchy anecdotes any indication.·“And you’ve hurt your arm! Dear lord, I do hope you’re not expected to do anything in such a state.”
Intelligent, icy eyes swept over her in an analytical appraisal that missed nothing. It was imperative in his line of work to see people for what they were, as opposed to what they pretended to be. He did not know this girl woman, though something did seem familiar about her. Her accent perhaps, it was distinct. Even without being familiar, he knew much about her from that first impression alone. That accent, again, it was proper, educated. So she was from good stock, even if she tried to appear otherwise. And then her hair. The skin beneath the locks at her temples and forehead showed a fading brown stain, easily missed. Still, that didn’t tell him who she was exactly, only that she was hiding.
“I am Thomas. And I might have a moment. Depends on who’s this father of yours?”
Alayne had tried to learn the dialect of others like her — clipped, lazy, letters and entire syllables left out in the interest of expediency —but her father hated the sound, authenticity be damned. Fished from an orphanage in her teens, she ought not know even half of what the society girls did. Any daughter of mine would be so clever, Petyr assured. Most certainly after I had found her. She swallowed her fears and trusted him, incapable of anything else. Baelish’s associates tended toward the gruff, after all, clever when it came to counting their payments but little else beyond. With so much of her time spent cloistered inside, locked away from the grime and disease of what streets lay below, Alayne risked little. Until now. Only her father’s confidence lifted a porcelain chin, tongue chirping out once more those well-bred syllables.
“Petyr Baelish. He has concerns about a shipment — ” Its contents a mystery to her. “ — and the delay in its delivery. He would have come himself, but…” Vaguely, she trailed off, allowing implications of the man’s demanding existence to blossom. “I was told you could remedy these problems.”
she wasn’t
waiting for acceptance. the cigarette was poised between her lips before sansa
even spoke. she lights the tip, now, flicks her thumb over the pad at the flint
and holds ‘til it glows. the carton’s tucked back into her pocket, ice-cold
fingers stretching and flexing from within it, before clenching into a loose
fist. this is only a mild irritation—and she knows how to deal with anger
now. ( she’s been training herself
from a young age—she swaps violence for apathy unless provoked. gives them less
reason to institutionalise her. gives them less reason to look into her; in a
twisted way, she grapples for agency through total unresponsiveness. )
and she only shrugs at the thanks.
she’s been alone—been strapped to a bed and forced into it. sensory
deprivation, as she found out at a later date—she was a thirteen-year-old
prisoner. ( she can still smell
teleborian’s aftershave—that stupid fucking cologne that still makes her seethe
). but she has thought, and thought,
and thought. she only trusts herself now. she’s only ever trusted
herself. but she’s devoured herself—consigned herself to silence, to
deprivation, to listlessness and lethargy before she’d been dragged out of it. ( she was fifteen when she was freed,
and only thanks to holger palmgren. where is he now? dead. the moment
she’d been told he was unlikely to wake up from a coma, she bolted. he was
dead, and she didn’t want to stick around to watch it happen. )
‘ you are not dead.
’ keep talking like that and you
might be, though—when i put my fist through your face. but that’s a wry
comment she keeps to herself ( and
allows to crook the corners of her lips into an infamous not-smile. )
Life seemed terribly important to her companion, a sticking point from which she refused to budge. Sansa knew better, had seen how worthless those in power believed all below their standing to be. In youth such smug assuredness inspired astonishment, anger — as one born into the very fold Lannisters and Tyrells prized, yet ostracized for doing as she thought best, such abandonment rattled the young wolfing to her core. Now she felt only chill determination, an unimpeachable resolve to right past wrongs; not through sheer force, as favored by younger sister, but the inexorable might of their own shadowed faults. Action gave life value, not blood or gold or even its mere dispensation; any fool could be born, tossed about in the storms raised by others, yet the truly capable refused to set any course other than their own.
Further quiet made her wonder if solitude stood as preference or necessity. Long ago Sansa learned that tattoos and piercings, cigarette smoke curling before jet-lined eyes did not always signal animosity, just as pastels and pearl strands hardly guaranteed a genteel welcome. In her search for information, for weakness, the young woman had charmed lawyers and hired muscle with equal success, bolstered by the knowledge they had already established an ability to be bought. Really, she only haggled over price. Among all the masks she saw, however, this one seemed most ingrained; most natural, perhaps, worn so long it overwhelmed whomever had once hidden beneath. She could understand. Sansa felt the same temptation, day after day. And what turned you so cold, hm?
“No.” And when she laughed self-deprecation colored every gust of breath, low, private. If only you knew how many wished just the opposite. “That’s why I’m here, honestly. To keep it that way. Takes more work than I would’ve thought.”
fingers dig
into jean pockets, coiling frigid tips around a crushed carton. fishing a
cigarette from it, she purses it between her lips and rolls her thumb over the
butt. she has had her moments.
blomkvist swims to mind immediately—his kind eyes, for starters, and blonde
hair that’s seen better days. ( he’s
old enough to be her father, as he reminds her, but not nearly as surly. nor vile.
mikael bloody bastard blomkvist had changed something in her that had doused
whatever crooked, shrivelled black mess of her heart that was left, with
gasoline and struck a match. he let her burn with an arm around erika berger
instead. she regrets giving him that power. regrets the anger that flicked the
underside of teeth against the tip of a match and coughed out a flame. )
she doesn’t offer an answer. steps have been retraced into idiocy—and it’s only blomkvist who’s made her act like that.
every decision she’s made has been conscious, stemming back to all the evil.
the decision to bite her tongue around doctors, swallow only silence and spit
it back out in their direction—blankly ignore them, yet offer a strained sense
of conversation with nurses. calculated. to avoid authorities like the plague.
calculated. to live as a difficult woman and pegged as one—not difficult, no. a
socially retarded one.
but even with the smallest, plucked semblance of similarity, there is nothing
alike between them. so lips twitch around her cigarette and she flicks the
lighter. wordlessly offers the carton to her company with a shrug.
Foul habit, smoking. Yet where once she might have coughed, or slipped a sly glare which spoke to how fervently she despised the acrid, winding smoke of tobacco, now Sansa merely glanced away. There were far greater things to feign offense over than a bit of nicotine and tar, and she sensed a fragile truce extending between them in tenuous strands, better kept whole. Was even speaking together idiotic? Reaching back, she tried to remember when last an actual conversation had graced her day; not the inane pleasantries exchanged between server and served, nor the endless to and fro within her own mind as possibilities unfolded, then collapsed back upon themselves. Alayne, I am Alayne. No one cares about a daughter without her father’s name. Moments of doubt, moments of longing, all of them scattered so densely across the years that at last her life resembled a shatter mosaic, hastily patched together with a childish touch.
Time passed and no tell-tale rasp of mechanized flint cut through the silence. Only rustling paper caught averted eye, a few stray cigarettes jostled in silent offer. “Never took it up,” she demurred, one corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile. “But please…” Inclined chin bid the dark-haired woman still indulge, though she hardly seemed the sort to await permission. Indeed, when presented with the old adage, Sansa doubted she would beg forgiveness either. Yet aggression was not that which seemed to radiate out from the slim, hunched figure — only aversion. To whom or what Sansa could not even guess, though a proffered smoke apparently absolved her of any guilt — for the moment.
“Thanks for that, by the way.” Sansa had never thanked a stranger for their insult before. “The mind is a dangerous place to get lost in.”
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
