#*flint covered in blood and dying on the inside* I’m fine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ginazmemeoir · 3 years

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so i was inspired by @h00man-bean and here you go with a fic about Kaz and Inej as the Devil and the Reaper.

tagging @h00man-bean @mango-pickle @carmen-riddle @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @momo-all-the-way @gopikanyari @aadyeah @reddish-green-personality @weird-u @holding-infinity-and-a-book @dragonfairy1231 @totallyforgotyouwerehere @a-dragon-under-the-stars @taareginn

I crash into consciousness. The sound of gurgling water and rustling leaves greets me as I stand up. Strange. The last time I was alive, I had arthritis and was confined to a wheelchair. All Nina could do was slow mine and Inej’s death. I remember the last breath I drew, the last thought I had, the last time I saw Inej smile. And then nothing. Just an empty void, just – not being anymore.

I look at myself, flex my toes. It appears as if death has returned my old skin back to me, but it still doesn’t look like mine. This one is clear as if it was tended to by a Grisha tailor daily, as if the man who bore it had never worked a day. I am wearing the suit I stole from Pekka Rollins, decorated with a genuine gold pin showing a crow with a lion’s head in its claws. My cane lies beside me along with my hat. Either I am in a coma and am dying a slow, painful death as many of my enemies wished, or I have woken from a dream and nothing that I know happened, never really happened. I would rather prefer the first. Then, I see Inej.

She stands there in her captain’s uniform, the teal coat Sturmhond gave her, coupled with breeches and boots. I bet her knives are still tucked there. Her skin, still the same gleaming bronze, is now wrinkle free. Her eyes are kohl rimmed, and her ink black hair spill onto her shoulders. She looks at me with confusion, her eyes searching. “Kaz?” she asks. I move toward her, and then run. Funny how a good leg is almost as useful as a grisha crafted cane.

I clasp her hands in mine, her breath caressing me. “Inej,” I whisper “What are we doing here?”

“You’re both dead actually.” says a voice behind me. I turn around to see a Fjerdan merchant approaching us. He wears a blood red coat with gold lapels. His blonde hair is slicked back, and he walks with the cool confidence of someone who just cracked a deal. The only thing differentiating him from a Kerch businessman that I once looted is that he’s surrounded by floating rocks. Inej immediately kneels beside me, and nudges me. “Sorry but I have a bad leg. Also I don’t bow to animated turkeys.” I say as I go and retrieve my cane and hat. The Fjerdan chuckles and replies in heavily accented Kerch, “I suspect that bad leg excuse is of any use to now, Kaz Brekker. Also, please get up Inej, you look extremely out of place bowing to me in a teal coat.” Inej gets up reluctantly, and when she does, she has… tears in her eyes?

“Sankt Demyan of the Rime, thank you for protecting me.” She says, and hands him one of her knives. “Ah. How poetic.” He says, and pockets the knife. That is when I realize that we, in fact are dead. And Inej’s saints, are in fact, real. Great. There goes my ten thousand kruge. Thankfully the rest of the Crows aren’t here or I would have ended up as quite literally, a bankrupt soul.

“How many times have I told you Demyan to let me welcome the visitors? You’re hardly a gracious host, let alone a good gambler,” says a Shu woman, as she walks in behind Demyan, along with a Suli girl. The Suli girl was surrounded by floating rocks as well. She looked at Inej, and smiled at her. “And now, I would like those gold buttons of yours.” Says the Shu woman.

Inej hastened to remove her own lapel, a dragon and a fox, when the woman stops her. “I’m not talking to you Wraith, I’m talking to Demyan. We had bet that Kaz Brekker would kick him in the balls when he first arrived. I however had gone for a scathing insult. So seems like I won.” She says, and takes the gold buttons that Demyan removed (albeit while grumbling) in her slender hands. “Sankta Yeryin of the Mill, and Sankta Marya of the Rock, I- it’s an honour to meet you.” says Inej, and proceeds to bow more times than she has apologized when she was alive. I am shocked to see the way these so called “saints” milk Inej’s “devotion”. She was the closest thing to a saint that people actually had down in the mortal realm, and I would rather have kicked Demyan in the balls than let Inej bow again. But I restrain myself for the sake of my jaan.

Inej gives two more knives to the women, and stands beside me. She looks like a ridiculous schoolgirl, all giddy as if she had met her favourite aunts, and I catch myself falling in love with her all over again as a dead soul. Demyan soon interrupts my thoughts with that sinuous high-pitched voice, and asks, “I see you’re unusually quite today Dirtyhands. What’s the matter?” “I’m sorry, it’s just I’m wrapping my head around the concept of not existing physically anymore. Also I’ve heard you carry your belongings with you to the afterlife, so where’s all my gold?” I reply. Yeryin chuckles, her slit eyes crinkling while Marya looks at me in disbelief. Her voice, booming like a mountain echo, repeats what she, and countless others back in the mortal world, including my wife, thought each day, “Have you no honour Kaz Brekker?” I just shrug and adjust my hat.

“Anyways, ah, back to the topic at hand.” says Demyan, as he walks towards a tree. No wait, the tree. It could easily be as tall as a mountain. Five springs gush forth from its roots, and a heart is suspended from thorns right in front of a tear in it. The heart with the thorns I remember from the most epic heist of my career, involving legends and the Ravkan monarchy. The tree I do not. Inej asks, “Mind me, O great Saint of the Dead, but could you please acquaint us with our surroundings?” Wow. That’s a lot of vocabulary from a woman whose last sentence, in my memories, is complaining how the medicine she gave me smelled like rat fart. “Oh yup that’s Djel. Or rather his ash tree. Quite popular with my countryfolk.” he says cheerfully. “And we’re here in a mountain in the Sikurzoi, in a different plane of existence. For you, are dead.” he continues, with that ridiculous smile of his. Marya then steps forward, her voice slightly less enthusiastic, giving me the feel that this is all probably quite rehearsed for a while now. “You are a long way from home my loves. Kaz Brekker, you died a natural death. Inej Ghafa, you also died a natural death. Both of you were a hundred and thirteen years old, with Inej dying within a year of your death. The form you have now, is the form you chose to be remembered as.” she says. Yeryin huffs past us, her robes billowing, and hands the buttons over to Demyan, raising up her hand to his face and showing a symbol that quite contradicts with the Saint of Hospitality. “I should have expected such from you, you merchant scum.” she says. She then turns to directly address us and says, “Enough introductions though. The real reason you’ve been brought here is for another reason entirely. You see, the souls of the dead…”

I roll my eyes as the Sankta prepares for another lecture about how our “feeble human brains can’t comprehend the world.” I regret having married Inej in this moment in the afterlife though. Dirtyhands would’ve conned them by now and found a way back to the mortal realm. Kaz Brekker on the other hand, sits on the grass like a five-year old listening a story. Inej sits beside me, her coat now lying beside her in a heap and her hair fluttering open. How I wish I could’ve seen her in the open sea like that.

“…are usually brought to the other sides of the tree.” Yeryin says, waving her hands in an elegant motion to summon up a throne made out of the river pebbles and rocks, confirming that the trio were all, in fact, Fabrikators. “There, they are all assessed in context with their deeds on earth. Everything that they’ve gone through, and everything they’ve done is all taken into account by the Saint of The Book.” She then points to a woman, invisible until this point, sitting near the tree. She bends over a desk, poring over a giant ledger and surrounded by thick books. Her thick blonde hair covered her face, her glasses perched on her wide nose, and her fair, plump skin flushed. “The three of us then decide their fate in the afterlife. Those, who we decide are ‘good’, enjoy the fruits of paradise for a while and then return to the making at the heart of this world. Those, who we deem ‘bad’, are impaled on the thorn wood until they are purged of their sins. They then bathe in one of Djel’s springs, and return back to merzost.”

“Yeah but why are you telling us all of this? We get it, we’re dead, so which way are we going?” I ask the Saints. Inej elbows me once again, scolding me with her eyes. I shrug, and stand up with my cane. “Unless you have something else to tell us, I would like to take your leave. Saints.” I start to walk, when I find myself tripping over. I right myself with my cane just in time, and see that my hands and feet are bound by vines, Demyan’s hands raised up. These saints want a taste of Dirtyhands? Fine. I will show them Dirtyhands.

I see Kaz’s demeanour change. He slips into the familiar garb of Dirtyhands, his eyes cold as flint, lips slightly pursed, standing like the King of the Barrel. I get into a fighting stance, my heavy coat no longer obstructing me. I feel the presence of my remaining knives, regretting handing over the rest. I respect my Saints, but nobody, and I repeat nobody, touches my husband and escapes alive.

Marya stands immovable, her eyes gazing at something in the distance. Yeryin clasps her hands, and states, “You came here at our wish Kaz Brekker. You leave with our wish as well. No need to reach for your knives Wraith they won’t serve you here.” I feel a tug inside me, as if someone is yanking on my leash. Before I know, I am pulled back, my breath knocked out of me, and I crash into a wooden chair. Kaz suffers a similar fate beside me, and I can see his anger barely in check. “Why are you doing this to us?” I ask Marya. She glances at me, her eyes tearful, and replies, “Because we’re tired Inej Ghafa. Because you’re now, the new gods of death.”

Great. We’re the subject of a cruel joke by the Saints and are being tortured for our sins. “We don’t want anything to do with you or your jobs. Just release us and march us over to the thorn wood, I’m ready to answer for my crimes.” “Oh you silly girl, we won’t kill our scapegoats, will we? Isn’t that right my fellow sisters?” Demyan says in his ridiculously cheerful manner. That smile takes me back to the West Stave, Heleen bartering over me with the slavers, her sinuous smile each time I resisted her. I eventually did track my slavers, although only Kaz knows of their fate, for he was the one who insisted on having them. Demyan then comes over to us, and the Saint of Death’s face becomes morose. He kneels in front of us, as if pleading with us, and says, “You see, we’re linked directly with humans and grisha. Death. Hospitality. Pathfinder. Our roles were fundamental to the balance of the world, to the smooth passage of souls and justice in the afterlife. However, seeing the Starless One return back to merzost, seeing Juris merge with the Dragonqueen, has made us realize that we thought impossible, was actually just – improbable. You would certainly know about that, wouldn’t you Dirtyhands?” Demyan glances at Kaz, his eyes moist, while Kaz looks at him unflinchingly. Weren’t the Saints destined to perform their duties? Then why are they looking for scapegoats? Demyan comes back to me, his tone rushed as he blurted out his plan. “We long to be free Inej Ghafa. We too long to return back from where we came. We too long to feel.” Yeryin and Marya then float over to us. “A Saint that dispenses justice, must have suffered injustice to be accurate in his judgements. He should be immovable, yet sensitive to the souls he receives. Kaz Brekker, you have shown us the resilience and fury of a Saint.” Yeryin says. Marya then glances at me, and begins, “Jaan, you’re one of my own people, and so I hold a special place for you. The Saint that is the Reaper, who brings over the souls of the dead, must kill without remorse. Must feel for each soul with all of her heart. She must be indiscriminate in her search.” “And you Inej Ghafa have shown us that heart.” Demyan finishes, clasping my hand. “The part is yours, should you keep it. However, remember, you must take it up with free will, for handling the deceased is a far more tedious and draining task than it sounds.”

I look back at Kaz. His eyes are focussed on the ground, his brain coming up with another wild scheme. I look at the Saints with disbelief. All this time, as I, as millions, prayed to them, honouring their martyrdoms with festivals and prayers, the Saints just longed to be human. Kaz finally speaks after what feels like an eternity. “I have a question. Are the Saints willing to answer that?” “But of course. That is the least we can do for you.” says Yeryin.

“You might’ve come across two souls in your eternal career. Jordie, and Pekka Rollins. What fate awaited them?” I ask hesitantly. I am both excited and afraid of the answer the saints hold for me. Marya looks at the Saint of the Book. She rises, and comes towards us, a small register in her hands. She hands it to Marya, and returns back, giving me a not-so subtle side look. Marya searches for the names I asked, clears her throat, and begins. “Pekka Rollins, the leader of the Dimes, a gang in the streets of Ketterdam, was impaled on the thorn wood. He was purged of all his sins, and then chose to return back to merzost. As for Jordie, your brother, he did not choose to stay for long.” I look back at Marya. “His soul… was tormented. Even though he was healed with the waters of Djel, even though we helped his soul discover his unknown gift as a Grisha Tidemaker, he kept searching this garden for you. In the end, he chose to take a single bite of Djel’s fruit, and returned back to merzost, finally at peace.”

Jordie’s fate stuns me into silence. Pekka Rollins snatched our life on Earth, but even in the gardens of paradise my brother kept searching for me. My vision blurs, my brother’s destiny opening a well of sadness in me, his peaceful return to merzost the only respite offered to him. This was the place where Jordie’s soul searched for me. Where he waited and waited for me, until he dissolved back into the heart of the world. And this is where I would choose to stay for eternity, the only place that holds my brother’s peace. I look at Marya, and nod.

Beside me, Inej grasps my hand, and smiles. She then looks down at Demyan, and says, “We will take up the mantel of your duties, O Revered Saints.” I roll my eyes. It’s as if Sturmhond’s vocabulary worms it’s way into Inej’s brain each time she talks to her saints.

The saints all look at each other, then smile and open their arms. “Our powers, are then yours, Wraith and Dirtyhands.” Golden rays, the colour of sundried wheat and barley emit from Yeryin. Ink black waves surge from Demyan while a shower of dirt erupts from Marya. The three slowly disappear, probably to a much better place. The knives Inej gave to them clatter on the ground.

Inej picks up her coat, dusts it off, and shrugs it on. She picks up her knives, touching them to her forehead, and wipes them on her sleeve. “So what do we now?” she asks me. “Well we’re here for eternity, alone, at least till you go off to bring our souls. Let’s have some fun.” I say and suggestively smirk. The Saint of the Book widens her eyes in horror as she looks at us. “Oh keep it in your pants, you perv.” I say, as I give a big shout and run towards the gentle slope along the riverbank, Inej’s soft padded boots following me, as we both tumble into each other and hurtle to the earth.

#soc #six of crows #kaz #inej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #dirtyhands #the wraith #wraith #leigh bardugo #kanej fic #story time #vasu #sankt demyan of the rime #sankta yeryin of the mill #sankta marya of the rock #grishaverse

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tabikato · 4 years

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Chapter 6 of my #DragonAge fanfic is up!! Time for Alistair and Hue to take the tower! It’s an hour or two before Alistair finds their new warden again. They had carried him to one of the tents to sleep off the Joining, the physical stress almost as bad as the mental. However, when he came to check up on him, the elf was nowhere to be found...blankets tossed to the side and weapons gone. A sinking feeling of losing the third one had him rushing out the tent and scouring the area. He really didn't want to deliver this news to Senior Warden. Hey Duncan, so seems we have NO recruits, why? Well, I do believe the third one just took a permanent vacation away from here. The fear was short-lived when he saw the familiar puff of blonde hair...lone figure sitting rather still as if he’d find some answers in the dancing embers and ash of the campfire. Hue heard the footsteps from behind but didn’t bother to turn around...didn’t feel a need or want to face the other at this moment.

“There you are, thought you made a run for it.” Alistair’s head dropped as soon as he'd stopped talking, really great choice of words there. Solid.

“Would have just killed me like you did Jory.” There was no anger or spite in his tone, only resignation...as if those were merely facts of life and he had come to term with them. It didn’t feel right to hear such a desolate tone from the usually high-energy elf but Alistair supposes the situation was a heavy one. After all...Hue wasn’t entirely wrong so there wasn’t any way the human could dispute those words.

“We lost one in my Joining as well, it was horrible. I doubt I will ever get used to it”, Hue looked sideways as Alistair sat next to him, voice whispering with somber tints, “I’m glad at least one of you made it through.” Brown met red as they looked at each other for a moment, Hue rolling this information around in his head. The Joining was secret because not many people would willingly give up their lives for a chance...yet Gray Wardens are needed to stop the Blight or else everyone dies. Even knowing that he knew, deep down, not many people would see the sacrifice as necessary. Death is scary...dying is scary, he joined in order to escape death and only went through with it because no matter his outcome there would always be death. It didn’t seem fair to anyone involved...but then he thinks of Daveth who was not dying and willingly drank from that cup, knowing his sacrifice meant the world. Of Alistair who also drank, a chance he might die but taking that plunge.

This was making his head hurt.

“I don’t like thinking too much on this complicated stuff”, Hue finally spoke up, piecing together the thoughts he needed to say, “and I don’t think it’s fair but...I know Gray Wardens save people. They sacrifice so they can so I don’t think you guys are bad people. And now I can protect people too.” Blowing some strands of his hair from his face, he turns to glance at the other Warden. Alistair looked in thought but nodded, seeming to accept Hue’s decision.

“I’m glad you’re here to stay with us.”

“So you’re not the junior anymore? Or you’d be lonely?” Barely a beat passed before a smirk made its way onto the elf’s face, lightly punching the human in the arm.

“First off, ow. Second, OW. Why are you always aiming where it hurts?”

“You’re a really big target”, Alistair looked as if he was going to pout, mouth open to remind Hue who was in charge here but...the one who was in charge spoke up to them.

“Alistair. Hue. The King wishes to speak with us, come to the war table when you are able.” Duncan’s voice knocked their jovialness back in line, both men sitting straight up and replying with a “yes, sir”. Watching the older man walk off, Hue stood up to join Duncan before Alistair stopped him.

“Wait. Here…”, he held out a simple pendant; dirty gold with a reddish hue in the open glass and placed it in Hue’s hand, “ we take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us...of those who didn’t make it this far.” Gently he pulls out a similar one from inside his own armor and Hue's eyes widened before he nodded.

“Gotcha.” Slipping it over his head, he buried it within his shirt, cold metal burning into skin with the reminder that his heart was beating. He was still alive.

Odd. That’s about all he could describe that meeting with the King and the man named Loghain. Supposedly they were family...King’s wife being his daughter or something, it didn’t really matter to him. What was odd was how much disdain the two had for each other and neither kept it a secret. Yet nobody said anything about it, ignoring it like it was a mild breeze tossing through their hair. In his clan things were settled if there were disputes, whether by the Keeper or by one of their laws. Everyone was family in a way and they all had to cooperate to survive, to keep the clan running, so petty squabbles disrupting the order were very much frowned upon.

So why did they have to suffer through this? Duncan and Alistair seemed quite used to ignoring it so Hue surmised this was definitely a human thing. Were humans always this petty? Well...okay, maybe not all the humans he met were but some of them had made it really far on the list. Thinking back to the meeting it was also odd that Hue and Alistair were even there; they were juniors and weren’t in any sort of decision-making position. This idea seemed to be shared with Loghain and despite the man’s rather unpleasant scowl, Hue couldn’t help but think he made some fair points. Normally you would not have the clan’s leader out in front, one wrong move and their death was too great of a loss. The Gray Wardens made more sense to fight the darkspawn head on, with the armies as support, but the King refused to listen, wanting to play hero with them.

What an idiot. Oh, they’re arguing again...this is boring.

“They are, your majesty.” Duncan’s voice knocked him out of his self-inflicted daze, noticing that both he and Alistair were being addressed now.

“And this is the recruit I met earlier on the road? I understand congratulations are in order.” Congratulations? Hue squints a little, mouth forming a thin line as he tries to digest those words. The King stood there, waiting for an answer with a stupid smile on his face and Hue almost considered telling him where he could stuff that congratulations until Duncan cleared his throat. Fine.

“Not sure what for? I’m not special.” And he wasn’t, in his mind. True he managed to pass the Joining which apparently did make something special out of him but managing to stay alive when two others died didn’t seem like a skill to him. That was pure luck and luck, to him, didn’t make him special or feel favoured in any way.

“Oh, but you are. Every Gray Warden is needed now more than ever.” Cailin’s puffed up pride was quickly cut down by Loghain. Good thing too because neither man noticed Hue quietly mocking those words which caused a rather funny snort to come from Alistair’s throat.

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailin”, the old man didn’t even hide his annoyance, scolding the King right in his face, “We must attend to reality!”

“Fine. Speak your strategy. The Gray Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?”

“You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover.” Silver and Gold flinted in the candlelight surrounding the map as both men leaned in, metal fingers drawing paths along the lines and symbols. So...they were going to be on the front line, huh? Hue could use a dagger but he worked better with his bow, were there any high spots out in front? Some of the stone facings could be climbed and he’d have enough height for his shots, that way he could cover Duncan, Alistair, and the rest.

“Then we should send our best. Send Alistair and the new Gray Warden to make sure it’s done.” Wait...what? Blinking, he stared back over at the armored men. What were he and Alistair supposedly doing now? Lighting a tower?

“You mean we won’t be fighting in the battle?” His mouth moved on its own, brows creased as he realised exactly what this meant. Should have known...the bottom of the group is always made into errand boys.

“We need the beacon. Without it, Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.” He really wanted to argue that lighting a stupid fire wasn’t what he signed himself up for but then remembered he didn’t exactly sign up in the first place. Oh, whatever. There’d be plenty more darkspawn to fight later he’s sure of it.

“You see? Glory for everyone!” Considering he didn’t want to become a pincushion he kept the thought of wiping that dumb smile off this human’s face to himself. Loghain started in on the King again...Duncan tried to intervene but was shot down by them both and oh look, more humans coming to the argue party. Why is it such a hard concept for them all to work together? Darkspawn or Archdemon, it won’t care who it kills only that it kills and they’re going to make it easier for them to kill if everyone is running around like agitated chickens. No wonder the other hunters always called humans a rightful mess, how do they even manage to get anything done with all this bickering?

“Enough!” Oh finally. “This plan will suffice. The Gray Wardens will light the beacon.” Loghain’s dark eyes met with Hue’s red, the elf staring back with no readable emotion. The old man took this as his cue to turn and leave.

“Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Gray Wardens battle beside the King of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!” Cailin’s head tilted up in pride, chest puffed out as much as one could in heavy armor.

“Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all.”

“You heard the plan. You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit.” Back at the bonfire Duncan reiterated the plan, pointing to both men to ensure they heard it well. These two as individuals tend to run on the reckless side but both together, alone, as a team. Duncan wasn’t sure what the outcome would be but he knew they’d at least follow his orders. Of course he expected them both to complain about it considering their personalities.

“So he needs two Gray Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” There was no hiding the sarcasm in Alistair’s voice. He crossed his arms, cocking a brow in visible annoyance.

“Like he said, we’re better off being in battle! Not babysitting a torch!”

“That is not your choice!” Hue's mouth snapped shut as Duncan’s voice grew firmer, “If King Cailan wishes Gray Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Gray Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn...exciting or no.” Hue wanted to argue the fact that Cailan was no king of his and Gray Wardens should be fighting darkspawn, not falling in line to the whims of royalty.

“I get it. I get it. Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.” Indignant reply forgotten, Hue snorted out a laugh at Alistair’s dry delivery.

“Dunno, that’d be a great distraction.”

“Me shimmying down the darkspawn line? Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing.” Duncan sighed as these two laughed at this ridiculous idea, letting them have a moment to get it out of their system.

“Who says they wouldn’t find you charming?” Hue’s laugh went louder as Alistair huffed out a mixture of disgust at the notion and laughter at how stupid it was.

“Do you think I’d look fetching enough?”

“Why not? Go for a red dress though.”

“Are you two quite done?” Both looked away from each other, like two children being scolded, trying to stifle the grins that refuse to leave their faces and Duncan just sighs once more. “The Tower is on the other side of the gorge from the King’s camp, the way we came when we arrived. We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for. Do not leave this task to join the battle, this is of the utmost importance and I am trusting you two.” With that last bit both men stood up a little straighter, their focus more serious. Seems they were willing to prove they were worthy of that trust.

“What if the Archdemon appears?”

“We soil our drawers, that’s what.” Alistair couldn’t help himself and both men almost fell into laughter again before Duncan's sharp look halted them.

“If it does, leave it to us. I want no heroics from either of you.”

“Never. Heroics is what the King does.” Rubbing his temples, he lets Hue have this one before continuing with his instructions. Alistair only raised an eyebrow on that, thinking to ask Hue later why he was so...aggressive in his speech towards the King. The elf certainly didn’t take that tone with either him or Duncan so maybe something was said...done? Nothing came to mind however.

“There will be plenty of battles for both of you later”, Duncan added on, crossing his arms, he looked over his two juniors, “I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Gray Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.” With a nod he walked down towards his troops, that nagging feeling he has felt for weeks never leaving him but they would be prepared...they had to be. Watching the older man leave, Hue looked from Duncan’s back to the skyline and to the silhouette of the tower they would soon be climbing.

“Well then…”, Alistair’s voice broke through his thoughts, “let’s get on our dancing shoes and go put on a show.” Patting the elf on the back, their grins grew once more as they began their preparations.

Sheer chaos were the only words Hue could think of to perfectly describe the scenes flitting past him. Alistair and him couldn’t stop, running across the bridge and dodging fallen soldiers and rocks smashing against the stone surface. Screams shattered through the sounds of explosions and rock, through the roar of the crowd below and fire engulfing the unlucky bodies of targets found. Adrenaline surged in his veins, letting him make it through the narrow run of the bridge and up into the courtyard where they met with some of Cailan’s men and...darkspawn.

“Darkspawn have taken the tower!”

“How?!”, he could hear Alistair’s shout over the clanging of swords and the tearing of flesh, another creature fell to his blade. One of Hue's arrows sunk deep into the open throat of one charging at them, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

“They flooded in and took the lower chambers!”

“Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!” With a plan set in motion, they fought their way to the entrance of the tower, not stopping to look back even once. Each floor was filled with them, with traps that Hue disarmed in a blink of an eye and soon a path of red followed. At some point he couldn’t tell if the red was from human or darkspawn and really, he’d rather not think about it. The smell itself was a bit distracting but even more so was that the further they went up, the stronger it was instead of less.

“We won? Yay, we won, haha..ow...ow, yay…”, Alistair piped up behind him as they slayed yet another room of creatures with their two nameless companions. His strained cheers were left unanswered, noticing the elf was far too focused on the large doors up the stairs, nose scrunched up in a worried look. “Hue?”

“Why are we fighting more the higher we go?” Eyes went wide with realization, the number of bodies indeed looked way too numerous for how much they’ve climbed.

“Maker’s breath...what are they doing here?”, sheathing his sword he walked up to his companion, stepping over a few shredded corpses in the process, “There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place.”

“Right. Because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about this later.” An elbow on his arm made Hue turn, seeing the serious look on the other’s face, “At any rate, we need to hurry! We need to get up to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time! Teyrn Loghain is waiting!” No disagreement there. Nodding, he makes his way up the stairs, throwing the doors open as they stumble into yet another battle.

Even with his usual stamina Hue was definitely feeling the strain with each wave hitting them harder than the last. What was probably only minutes seemed like an eternity as body after body fell to either his arrows or Alistair’s sword. At least in the midst of this mess the two managed to create some sort of unspoken team work, flawlessly watching the other’s back. No praise or congratulations were to be had though, they had to keep pushing...up until the last door of the tower in which they wasted no time marching through.

Which, Hue would think later on, was probably the worst idea they had all night as they came face to face with a gigantic monster. Hearing their approach, it stopped it’s feast on whatever unlucky corpse it had killed and turned to face them. Horns gnarled and twisting reached to the heavens, skin a sickly gray as it stretched over muscles that seemed to want to burst forth. It’s face was cracked and rough like the bark of an old tree with pearl-colored eyes sunk deep in the sockets. However Hue noticed something far worse about this enormous monstrosity, the large mouth of jagged teeth as it’s roar shook them all to their core. What little armor it had on did nothing to make it less frightening...those teeth and claws more than made up for it.

Jumping back, Hue let loose a few arrows into its chest once it rushed them, grabbing the other warrior that stood beside Alistair in it's giant grip. They could only watch as the human was picked up like a doll, shaken in that clenching fist before another punched him repeatedly. Alistair charged with his sword, swiping at its back and legs but the skin was like rough leather. He wasn’t sure how much damage he was even doing, if he was at all. Throwing the poor swordsman to the side, body skidding across the floor in a lifeless lump, it turned its attention to Alistair who luckily enough managed to jump out of the way. The weariness that had settled in his bones had been replaced, now fear and rage were driving his body, reflexes heightened as he took every vital shot he could get.

Between the arrows, sword, and magic, the beast started to falter. The perfect opportunity presenting itself when its massive body stumbled back, throwing its arms wide open. Hue took it, pulling out his dagger and running up its body to stab it right in the eye. Spit sprayed in his face as it roared, thrashing around with pain but he held on to whatever he could, stabbing into the other eye with a sickening squish. No longer did the beast thrash, instead he could hear the life drain from its throat and crash backwards to the floor. The impact threw him off, rolling him along the smooth stone as blood and spit smeared across his armor and skin. Alistair’s hand grabbed his arm, hoisting him up, panting breaths filling the now silent room before they suddenly remembered why they were even there.

“The beacon!” Both came to the same thought and rushed over, Alistair grabbing the nearby torch and throwing it into the fireplace. Instantly the fire grew and grew, spewing up the chute in a bright column before their very eyes. Thank the gods, they had made it...somehow and now Loghain’s army could move in to turn the tide.

Their muscles only had mere moments to relax before the door burst open but instead of soldiers, darkspawn flooded into the room in a massive hoard. Arrows flew at them, catching them both off guard and he cried out in pain when one embedded itself into his shoulder. Fighting it, he shot off a few of his own but there were too many...too much stamina lost as his muscles felt like liquid at this point. Alistair’s body being thrown across the room distracted him, another arrow sinking into his flesh. Struggle as he might, he ended up on his back, vision blurring, his companion's name a cracked whisper on his lips. Hand reaching out, fingers shakingly clawing at the cool stone. The unholy cacophony of growls and metal sliding against metal drummed through his brain, threatening to swallow him whole. A roar vibrated through his very being...another monster? He was fading too fast to even know, only one thought screaming in his mind through all the noise.

Creators, please don’t let another friend die.

#Dragon Age Origins #Dragon Age #Alistair Theirin #warden mahariel #fanfic #original character #OC #Hue

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orangeflavoryawp · 5 years

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Jonsa - Battle for Winterfell AU - “To Exhale”

Battle for Winterfell AU. Please forgive me for any failings, military strategy is not my forte, but I'm changing it up a bit here. Jon stays on the ground with his troops. The Dothraki aren't decimated in a useless charge. Bran actually tries to warg into Viserion. They build more than one fucking trench.

There is Major Character Death and Graphic Depictions of Violence ahead. This is a tragedy. I'm giving you fair warning now.

“To Exhale”

He looks at her one last time and – and oh – she would walk with him in that godswood, she would cloak him night after night, she would swear her affection into his skin and drink his moans.

She would hold him to her beneath a wolf’s moon and make him a Stark – make him hers.

(Except he already is – and this, perhaps, is the cruelest truth of all.) - Jon and Sansa. To love, to lose.

* * *

To love is to breathe in, to inhale.

She looks around the grey stone walls of a torch-lit Winterfell as she stands amidst the courtyard. She looks at Bran, those fathomless eyes unblinking in the snow as Theon wheels him to the godswood. She looks at Arya, fitting her dragonglass arrows into the quiver along her back, a ready smirk on her lips.

She looks at Jon.

(To love is to breathe in, to inhale.)

Sansa lets it fill her lungs, anchors the air tight, keeps it bundled in her chest.

Jon finally looks to her from across the courtyard.

It is a Long Night stretched out before them.

Her breath stays lodged in her throat –

Choking on the inhale.

* * *

“So, what do you say, Bran? Is there a victory in our future?” Jon asks it on a tremulous chuckle, a wild hope, a desperate distraction from the way his hands sweat inside his gloves and how the wind bites just a bit too harshly along his cheeks and the way his brother (his brother – damn what blood says) is looking at him with hollow eyes.

And then Bran smiles, barely-there and quiet as snow.

Jon stares down at him unblinkingly, his stomach twisting. Bran’s never warged with something dead before, but perhaps there is just enough magic left in this world to try. The weirwood towers above them, red leaves glinting like blood in the darkness.

“Sometimes I see a little girl with red hair.”

Jon sucks in a sharp breath, face falling.

Bran tilts his head, as though in contemplation. “She has your eyes.”

And then it is Sansa, and only Sansa, and always Sansa, and Jon thinks he might not be able to hold it back if he lets it overtake him. So he grips at Longclaw’s hilt, bites his tongue, doesn’t acknowledge the wetness at the corners of his eyes.

Bran’s face is blank again, his eyes drifting over to the heart tree – a face of mourning, if Jon lets himself think too long about it. “But most times I just see nothing at all,” Bran says softly, an imperceptible ring of sorrow to the words.

The noise that catches in Jon’s throat is half-sob, half-growl. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, uncurls his fingers from around his sword hilt. When he opens his eyes, Jon turns to Theon standing just past Bran’s chair. “Protect him.” It’s all he can say. All he’ll allow himself to say.

(Not for us or for Sansa or please.)

Theon nods, one hand already fitted to his bow. “Like a brother,” he affirms.

Jon clenches his jaw, remembers Theon’s cocky laugh when he’d bested him the first time at archery, and the way he’d teased him whenever Jon refused the brothel, and the way he snuck him a pitcher of ale that one night when they got pissed out their gourds and Lady Catelyn found them the next morning passed out in the training yard.

He remembers Theon Greyjoy. And he remembers Theon Stark.

“Like a brother,” Jon says, his voice low and catching. And then he’s leaning down and pressing a kiss to Bran’s forehead, holding it there, eyes squeezed shut, and the night could take him, right there, it could swallow him whole.

But it will not have his brothers.

Jon stalks purposely from the godswood, the last image in his mind a tiny girl with copper hair and wolf eyes – maybe they’ll be Tully blue, maybe Stark grey. He knows her face regardless – he sees it in his dreams, after all.

Jon swallows back the lump in his throat, wet eyes stinging against the cold.

This night may swallow him whole.

But it will not have his pack.

* * *

“I’ll come for you,” Arya tells her, her glass-gilded staff tight in her grip.

Sansa peers past her sister’s shoulder to the Unsullied marching up the stairs to the battlements, the fog of winter settling in heavier all around them. The dead approach, even now.

“No, you won’t,” Sansa says mildly, her eyes shifting back to her sister’s, a quiet, barely-there upturn to her lips. “But it’s a lovely lie.”

Arya reaches for her arm, her gloved fingers wrapping around Sansa’s elbow as she steps into her, peering up with dark, Stark eyes – a shadow on her face Sansa does not recognize, nor thinks she ever will. “Sansa,” and it is as much a plea as it is a denial.

She cups her little sister’s face in her hands, the tears sudden and bright and stinging against her lashes. “Show them what it means to be a Northerner. Show them what it means to be a Stark.”

Arya swallows thickly, her eyes shifting back and forth between Sansa’s, and then she’s nodding, her face still in her sister’s hold, and Sansa leans forward and wraps her arms around her, Arya’s face pressing into her chest, the hand not holding her staff gripping at Sansa’s back, and the kiss she places on the crown of her head is both trembling and true.

“Winter is here,” she breathes against her sister’s hair, and Arya sighs into her embrace. “But so are the wolves.”

“I’ll come for you,” Arya repeats, her fingers digging into her cloak, her breath a rattle against her chest. “No matter what you say, I’ll come for you.”

Sansa holds a hand to the back of her head, breathes her in, and when the time comes to let her go –

She lets her go.

* * *

“Sansa gets out alive, do you understand?” Jon commands Brienne, his eyes fervent, the torchlight casting slants of shadow that flicker threateningly over his features.

Brienne only holds her chin higher, her gaze never wavering from Jon’s. She nods mutely, her hand already fastened to Oathkeeper’s hilt. “I will shield her back, and keep her council, and give my life for hers, if need be.”

Jon heaves a heavy sigh, his face a fallen ruin when he recognizes the words. “The need may be,” he answers hollowly, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Tonight,” he finishes.

“I keep my oaths,” Brienne replies solemnly, titling her head in a final, farewell nod, before she turns from him to join her regiment.

Jon feels something sink inside him – heavy and worn like a drowned stone, falling straight through the current, deep-sought.

* * *

The screams are instant. The light is less so.

Sansa takes in the shadowy collision of the first charge from her position along the battlements, her guard of Stark men at her back. Her chest aches, her terror a tight knot in her belly, her thumb worrying a hole through the glove covering her other palm.

Jon is beside her suddenly, Ghost at his heels. “Sansa.”

She turns to him, and everything falls away.

Outside their walls, the Dothraki wails are as piercing as Daenerys’ ream of dragonfire from the storm-grey sky.

“Get to the crypts.”

“I won’t.”

He huffs a single, impatient breath, his brow angling sharply down. “Sansa, this isn’t – ”

“I won’t,” she says again, shoulders stiffening, her hand reaching for the dragonglass at her belt, curling around the uneven hilt beneath the cover of her cloak.

Jon eyes her steadily, and then he’s shaking his head, his gaze looking out past the wall. He sighs, and it takes all of him. “Ghost will stay,” he says lowly as he begins to stalk away.

Sansa glances out past the ramparts, the battle waging below in fire and shadow, in heartbeats and carrion. “No, you need him. You need Ghost out there.”

Jon stills just a few feet from her. “I need him here. With you.” He doesn’t grant her his gaze when he glances over his shoulder, his eyes instead on the grey stone at her side, the Winterfell around her.

She will not argue, not now. Not here, at the end. So she nods mutely and curls a hand in the scruff along Ghost’s neck, his fur a warmth and comfort she hadn’t thought possible.

Jon leaves her then.

She watches, words dying on her tongue.

(Breathe in – hold it tight to your chest.)

Sometime between Ghost’s howl and the thunderous beat of dragon wings against the stone ramparts, Sansa realizes her hand has stayed fastened to the dragonglass dagger at her hip.

* * *

Jon looks around the courtyard at the open gates, ready to flood the field and reinforce the first wave of their forces already fighting the dead. He looks at the Hornwoods and the Mormonts and the Cerwyns. The Flints and the Karstarks and the Manderlys. The Tallharts, the Dustins, the Dormunds. The Whitehills, the Glenmores, the Forrestors. The staunch and the proud and the Northern.

Jon glances down the line. First left, then right.

Rhaegal screeches in the dark clouds above.

But it’s his brothers, his northmen –

(the heavy lull of their breathing, and the curl of their gloved fists over dragonglass, and the shuffle of their anxious feet in the snow – blaring even over the hoarse screams and clash of battle just past the gates)

Jon knows what it means to fight for home.

(Tully eyes and hair like flame and a mouth that cuts as fine and true as steel)

“For the North!” he yells, Longclaw raised, his chest heaving, eyes wide, the storm bearing down.

For more than the North, he promises – silent, steady, true.

* * *

The first trench lights magnificently, the Northern forces drawing back behind the flames, the Dothraki and wildling archers riddling the dead with dragonglass arrows from atop the battlements. Sansa watches alongside them, Ghost pawing at the snow nervously.

She settles a hand at his nape, and he releases a long whine, glancing up at her. “I know,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving the dead, never leaving the carnage. “I know.”

Because she would be out there with him, if she could.

She would be out there with him, blade in hand, heart at her throat, back to his, if only she could.

But she can’t – and she’s the first to acknowledge what a hindrance she’d be.

She can only be this. She can only be the Lady of Winterfell.

And when she looks out across the line of soldiers manning the wall, her thunderous shouts of “Nock” and “Draw” and “Loose” echoing through the snow-strewn night, she knows this is where she must be.

Still, she lets Ghost howl. She lets him howl for them both.

* * *

Jon cuts them down. One at a time. Sometimes two. Another and then another, until his blade is black-slick and copper-lined. Until the dead squelch beneath his boots like rotted, frostbitten grapes. Until he is panting and ragged and war-torn. Until the men at his back are roaring their rage, their desperation, and he tastes it in the air.

How he’s just so tired. So utterly, incomprehensibly tired.

The dead Viserion releases a chilling screech, barreling into Drogon in the sky above, their wings a beating shadow against Winterfell’s stones, and without warning, Rhaegal crashes into the northeastern wall, blowing rock and mortar and blood-tinged snow through the air, harrowing the men with a rain of debris.

But that unearthly wail, that dragon scream –

His skin lights with the terror.

“Bran,” he breathes beneath the blood. And then he’s sprinting for the fallen wall.

* * *

“No,” Sansa whispers, the snow-blurred sky alight with dragon fire.

The dead push past the first trench, the Unsullied signaling the retreat, and she has lost sight of Jon long ago.

The second trench lights against the darkness. Rhaegal blows straight through the wall, tumbling into the courtyard amidst flame and rubble. The screech of ice and death and far worse fills the air. Up in the clouds above, the two remaining dragons tear at each other. She glances over and sees the white walkers flooding in through the gaping hole that Rhaegal left.

“Bran,” she chokes out, hands bundling in her skirts as she races down the length of the battlements.

“My lady!”

“Hold the line, Ser Davos!” she calls back, never slowing her run, her Stark guard at her heels, Ghost already bounding ahead.

Beneath their walls, the dead are falling, and they are rising.

* * *

He makes it to the overrun training yard when Davos calls to him from above. Jon’s eyes snap up, instantly searching for copper hair amidst the chaos of the battlements, and finding none.

“The godswood!” Davos shouts down in answer – never needing to hear the question.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath, breaking through the horde and dashing into a nearby hall. A clutch of air in his lungs, his legs already aching as he sprints, shadow and dragon fire glinting off the Winterfell stone in equal measure, his sword slicing through a dead man’s open chest cavity, his foot kicking back a jawless, mindless corpse, his grunt of frustration echoing through the halls as he cuts another down, and then another, stumbling back, barreling into someone, his sword raised instantly, eyes locking on grey –

On Stark grey.

And it takes only a moment for him to recognize Arya’s piercing, wide gaze in the shadow of Winterfell’s halls before he’s swinging down on the wight at her back, and she’s plunging the blade end of her staff into the dead at his shoulder.

They stand there, panting, blood seeping over Arya’s right eye, and he reaches for her. She shakes it off, licks her lips, glances down the hallway where he came. The dead are already echoing their presence.

“Bran?” she asks him, chest rising and falling with her labored breaths.

He clamps his jaw shut.

“Sansa?” And this time her voice quakes, her eyes blinking back the wetness.

He has no answer for her.

Arya swallows, twirling the staff in her hand into a low-ready position. “Go,” she tells him, and then she’s dashing past him, back into the fray.

Jon thinks of home, of snow-touched weirwoods and Arya’s laugh. He thinks of Robb’s taunts in the training yard and Bran’s daring climbs atop the rooftops. He thinks of how Rickon used to steal Sansa’s lemon cakes. He thinks of how she used to let him.

He thinks of many things, mostly winter-worn and flame-haired.

He thinks of many things.

And then – when he grips Longclaw to his chest and dashes through the blood splashed hall – he thinks of nothing at all.

‘Go,’ she had told him.

And he does.

He goes until his lungs give out.

* * *

She finds Bran in the godswood still, eyes white, barely breathing, his mouth twitching in something less than words but more than an exhale , the Ironborn fighting off wights and walkers and suddenly Sansa is… Sansa is –

“Oh gods.”

Ghost bounds past her, hurtling into the wight running at her, and she fumbles in her cloak, finds the dragonglass dagger, and everything falls to pieces around her.

Somewhere above, Bran is warging into the dead Viserion, its screeches lighting the air as blindingly as its blue fire, Drogon’s accompanying roars a thunderous rush in their scream-filled wood. Men die at her left. They die at her right.

Sansa staggers toward Bran, just a few feet away, still unmoving and white-gazed. Just a few feet, and then he’s there. He’s right there. Her hand reaches out, her other fist clenched over her dragonglass, and a sweep of snow-feathered wind overtakes her – she lurches back, blinks against the biting wind, her eyes meeting blue, and her breath stalls in her chest, the white walker suddenly there and immediate and there and she falls back just as he swings at her, her elbow jarring against the ground painfully, her hip hitting the snow hard, and then Ghost has his jaws around the walker’s arm, his snarl sharp as he tears at it, and she watches with wide eyes as the walker drags his ice blade up and slices Ghost at the stomach, up and over his hind. Ghost yelps and releases his grip, stumbling back, falling against the snow, pushing up with his failing legs, and when the walker brings his arms up with his blade, ready to strike Ghost with that killing blow, Sansa’s bellow of rage lights her lungs and roars out of her as she scrambles to her knees, thrusting her dragonglass blade up and into its sternum, her grunt of pain locking her elbows, before she heaves, pushing deeper, and the walker stills, mouth open in a soundless cry and the dry cracking of ice fills her ears and it shatters before her, nicking her cheek with the cut of its cold and she falls back, panting, arms aching, clawing at the ground as she pushes herself back amidst the snow, one hand reaching for Ghost.

He’s pushing up from the snow, legs trembling, blood coating his white fur from his chest to his hip and Sansa’s tearful cry tumbles out of her chapped lips. “Oh Ghost, Ghost please,” and then she’s crying, and she’s fumbling in the snow for her dagger and the wind hasn’t stopped and neither have the screams and then her hand lights along her dagger, hobbling to a stand just as she hears the snarl of a wight bearing down on her. And then it’s Theon at her shoulder, his blade slicing the corpse’s head clean off, another wight crashing into him and he falls back against Bran’s chair, the pair of them toppling into the snow at Sansa’s feet.

“Theon!” Her gasp tears from her, the carnage of the wood loud in her ears. And then her eyes flick to Bran. “Oh gods, he’s – Bran, he’s –” Her words lay slaughtered in her throat, her hands bunching in her unmoving brother’s cloak, trying to drag him from the toppled chair.

“Get him out of here!” Theon yells, parrying a swing, pushing the wight off.

“He’s not waking up!” She pulls again, heaves with all her weight through the sludge, tripping on her own snow-logged cloak, and she gasps when she slams into the ground, her vision going white for a terrifyingly long second. A pair of boots enter her vision and she snaps her gaze up, sharp blue eyes wide and terror-tinged.

“Sansa, get up,” Theon urges, panting, reaching for her, his hair matted in blood, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and she can’t control the sob that leaves her.

“Theon.” Her chest tightens, her breath rushing from her in a single, swift exhale.

The glint of ice is sudden, barely-there.

When she looks back, she wonders how she saw it at all.

But she sees it. She sees the ice-blade come down on Theon from behind, splitting him from gullet to gut, his blood spraying out over her face, her eyes blinking back against the onslaught, mouth parted, cry muted.

He drops to his knees, the white walker blue and ice-touched and unmoved behind him.

Theon splits at the cut, falling to pieces at her feet.

Her scream rends the air.

* * *

When he was younger, Jon used to watch her in the morning light. From his window overlooking the courtyard, he could see Sansa walking to the sept at the crack of dawn, her silk gowns fluttering in the wind, her hair like spilled wine.

Go to your prayers, summer child, he used to think. They won’t be answered.

They never have. And Jon isn’t simple enough to think they will be now.

But even still… even still he clutches at his chest, gloves slick with blood along Longclaw’s hilt, the acrid scent of burning flesh stinging his lungs as he runs.

Even still he lets it fill him, that dangerous want, that memory of waiting at the window for the chance that she’d turn, morning light catching her face like a promise.

It’s a useless wish, the wrong kind of wish – for that wine-spilled hair spread along his furs, that silk gown at the foot of his bed, her mouth – her wet and parted mouth (never before parted for him, not like that, at least) – pressed against the hollow of his throat.

When he was younger, things used to be simpler. He never saw the dead rising, he never had to placate a dragon queen, he never panted his desperation through the bloodied halls of his home.

He never used to love his sister-cousin – not the way he does now.

No, their prayers have never been answered before.

He sees no reason that should change now.

* * *

A snap of frigid air, her hand clenched in Ghost’s bloodied fur, her other bunched in Bran’s cloak, and then Brienne’s thunderous shout breaks against the night fog, Oathkeeper swinging into Sansa’s cone of vision – whispering dangerously close to her cheek – as it shatters the ice blade into dozens of pieces, a single shard whistling through the air to bury deep in Sansa’s thigh.

Her howl of pain is not unlike a wolf’s. She barely has the presence of mind to notice Brienne towering over her huddled form, fighting off the white walker. The wights rush through the Ironborn line, and then Ghost bites down on her shoulder and she cries out again, wincing beneath the clench of his teeth through her wool dress as he drags her back in the snow, stumbling in his own blood. The tears are instant and hot on her lids as she grips at her bleeding thigh, flurries of snow blinding her vision. She sees the dark, still form of Bran still laid out several feet away.

“Ghost, no, it’s Bran. It’s Bran, please, I have to – I have to help him, please – ”

Ghost whines at her shoulder, faltering in the sludge of gore and snow beneath his trembling paws even as he keeps dragging her and she chokes on the cry of pain in her throat. The dark shade of the weirwood overtakes them suddenly and she looks up at the blood red leaves, a glint of moonlight shifting through the branches.

All at once, it is simple.

The terror fills her, the biting cold warmed by the blood in the air.

The dawn was never meant for her.

Sansa struggles in the snow, pushing Ghost away at her shoulder, a wet gasp breaking from her chapped and bloody lips when he releases her. She scrambles to her feet, a hand held against the wound at her thigh, limping over to Bran.

Bodies drop around her and distantly she thinks she hears Brienne shouting her name.

No, the dawn was never meant for her, but she’s a Stark. She’ll always be a Stark.

And Starks have never shied away from Winter.

Not even their own.

* * *

Jon breaks into the clearing and stills, eyes wide as they take in the carnage. His throat constricts when he catches sight of Theon bloodying the ground, but he can’t linger on it, swallows it back, tastes the bitterness, eyes sweeping the wood. He catches sight of Sansa’s Northern guard clashing with the wights and walkers alongside the remaining Ironborn, and then a vicious roar catches his ears and he sees Brienne stabbing Oathkeeper through a white walker, the shards of ice breaking over her flagging form, and just past her, there, a bundle of bloodied furs and snow-caught, copper hair – there – Sansa and Ghost are dragging an unconscious, white-eyed Bran back along the snow, toward the courtyard entrance.

Everything fails him at once. His heart, his senses, his instincts.

He liked her songs the best, though he’d never told her.

(He wants to tell her now – tell her how her soft laugh fills his own chest, how her fine-boned fingers make him tremble, how he lies awake at night cursing this desire of his, this need –

He wants to tell her how she can stagger him with but a look – especially the frantic, blood-flecked one she wears now.)

Yes, everything stops. And then it crashes alive again, and he’s bolting to her, lungs aching, head pounding.

“Jon!” she cries, half-wailing, half-panting.

He drops down beside her, Longclaw falling to the snow, his hands gripping at her arms. “What in seven hells are you doing here?” He shakes her – he shakes her, he’s so furious, so panicked. “Why aren’t you in the crypts?” He can’t help the way he yells it. Won’t help it.

“Bran, he’s – he’s not waking up.” Her eyes are wide and salt-sheened, her face splashed with a fine arc of blood. “Jon, he’s not waking up.”

Viserion still wails above them – unearthly screeches ricocheting through the clouds. Around them, the battle still wages.

“I don’t know how long he can hold it,” Sansa sobs.

Ghost huffs beside them, and Jon looks at the direwolf, chest clenching at the bloodied sight of him. But Ghost is looking up, red eyes trained on the clouds through the heavy shade of the weirwood.

And suddenly, Jon understands.

The wind is fire-lit, copper-stained.

(To love is…)

He takes a moment, just a beat – enough to breathe in, to inhale, to hold that pull against his ribs and let it flood his lungs.

“Sansa, we have to go.”

She blinks up at him, mouth parting, but nothing comes.

“Can you run?”

She must see something in his eyes, because she nods mutely, instantly, her hand gripping at her bloodied thigh.

“Brienne!’ he shouts, twisting round in the snow, pulling Sansa up by an elbow, bracing her weight against him when she staggers at the sudden surge.

Another wight falls to the knight before she whips her head around, catching Jon’s gaze amidst the falling snow.

“Your lady has need of you.”

* * *

Sansa limps through the grey halls with Brienne’s arm around her waist, her cloak long-forgotten in the godswood, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, Theon’s blood caking along her cheeks, her own bloody shoulder marring her knight’s chest guard – what isn’t already black and filthy with rot.

Jon’s just behind her with Bran slung across his back as he runs after them, their brother still unconscious. Ghost pads unsteadily ahead of them, leading the way with the two remaining members of Sansa’s guard, a single torch lighting their path.

The stones around them echo with screams in every direction.

A regiment of Vale knights crosses the corridor in front of them, a shout of incomprehensible Dothraki following, archers running up the stairs behind them to the eastern ramparts, and then a blur of black cloaks rushes past.

“Sam!”

They swirl to a stop, Sansa gripping at Brienne’s belt to keep herself upright.

One of the blurs stumbles to a halt at Jon’s shout, and before Sansa’s inking black vision, the outline of a familiar face takes shape.

“Jon!” And then a quick grasp of arms, Jon adjusting the weight of Bran over his back.

Sam’s face crumbles instantly from relief into dread, eyeing the unconscious Stark. “What…”

“Where’s Davos?” Jon asks impatiently, huffing beneath his fatigue.

Sam seems to gather himself, nodding, eyes back to Jon’s. “He’s ordered the retreat back behind the third trench.”

Jon swallows thickly, a minute nod of acknowledgement passing him, and Sansa swears he glances at her beneath his dark brow.

“Here.” He slides Bran from across his back, adjusting him in Sam’s grip, who takes him without hesitation. “I need you to get them out. I’ll signal Davos for the final retreat.” He stops, swallows, doesn’t look at her. “I’ll hold the gate until you make it out.”

“Jon,” she admonishes, breathless, pushing from Brienne.

He ignores her, looks up at their loyal knight. “I’m holding you to your oath, Ser Brienne.”

“Jon.” Sansa’s pleading now, grasping at his arms, fingers curling in the leather of his sleeves. Her voice breaks.

Jon closes his eyes a moment, opens them, doesn’t look at her.

“I won’t fail you, my lord – my king.” And then Brienne nods, eyes glistening, mouth a thin line.

Sansa shakes him, wincing at the ache in her shoulder. “Jon, look at me!”

He swallows thickly, eyes locked to Brienne’s, body rigid. “She’s yours to protect now.”

“I’m not!” Sansa screams, a fist landing on his chest. “I’m not, Jon, I’m not! I’m not anyone’s but yours – please. Please. Just look at me, just – ”

And then he’s kissing her, and it isn’t apologetic, it isn’t even soft. It’s rough and wet and with teeth clacking against each other, his hands gripping at her hair, his breath flooding her mouth and he tastes her sudden sob – her regret as stark as winter on his tongue.

As stark as his own –

(And maybe ‘stark’ should mean something in this moment but it doesn’t – it doesn’t mean anything.)

That regret.

That sudden, biting knowledge that somewhere along the way they’d lost their chance – well and truly lost it, beyond any hope.

Beyond a needful last kiss. Beyond her hands grappling for his tunic and his chest heaving against hers and the modest, knowing way the others turn their gazes for a moment.

For just this single, blinding moment.

He breaks from her, mouth still panting against hers, and then she’s laughing – tear-lined and delirious, her hands shaking as they wind up his chest and into his hair, tangling in the ash and snow lighting his curls.

She thinks this will kill her – maybe not today, not this moment. But sometime in the future when she least expects it – she will linger on this moment and fracture away, crack beneath the weight of irreparable grief, think of his kiss and his desperate pants and his hands framing her face like she’s some precious thing, and she will break.

“You have to go,” he breathes against her mouth, sliding his cheek against hers and nuzzling softly, the break in his voice lost in her hair.

“I can’t.” She hiccups through her cries, her fingertips lighting along his cheeks, feeling his tremulous sigh at her ear. “Not without you.” She’s panting and desperate and shaken. So shaken.

His hands tighten in her hair, the breath rattling from him.

“Still wish we’d gone someplace warm instead?” she asks on a dark exhale, her delirious, rueful laugh clattering painfully through her chest as she shakes against him.

She feels the barest hint of his smile at her ear, and she thinks this might be peace. In some small, immeasurable way – some impermanent way.

“You are my someplace warm,” he says, and she crumbles against him, chest heaving. The raw cry that leaves her reverberates through the hall – a hollow, tear-laced keen.

But then he’s pushing from her, bracing her back against Brienne. His hands linger over her shoulders for one long distressful moment, and then he pulls stiffly from her.

“Jon,” she pleads once more, unable to say anything else.

Because please, gods, no. No. Not him. Not after everything.

He looks at her one last time and – and oh – she would walk with him in that godswood, she would cloak him night after night, she would swear her affection into his skin and drink his moans.

She would hold him to her beneath a wolf’s moon and make him a Stark – make him hers.

(Except he already is – and this, perhaps, is the cruelest truth of all.)

He walks away, back into the shadow-filled corridor, back into the night, back into the screams.

Something anchors between them like a drought – a winter-worn famine.

“Jon, no!” She tries to run after him, but Brienne’s arms lock around her form, and her knee buckles beneath the pain of her gashed thigh, caught in her knight’s hold.

“Jon!” she screams, wails, belts into the night, scratching at her captor’s hold and it’s so tight – this hand at her throat, this clutch at her heart – it’s so blinding and so staggering and she thinks she might collapse in on herself, right here, right here in the halls where she’s meant to feel safe, right here in her home, right here beside the ruined pieces of her heart and she reaches out, struggles against Brienne’s grip, hand grasping, mouth opening, panting, screaming, begging –

“Jon!”

Something strikes her at the base of her skull, thwarting the wail in her throat, breath catching, vision inking slowly black as she stills her struggle. She blinks her suddenly groggy eyes at the shadow that flits before her, catches her sister’s heavy grey gaze staring back from a blood-drenched face, one cheek swelling up with a brutal, purple bruise.

“Arya,” she whispers, slipping into the darkness. Brienne’s grip loosens as she slumps forward into her sister’s open arms.

Sansa’s eyes slip shut.

She’d come for her.

She had.

(Even when she wished she hadn’t.)

* * *

Jon likes to think it matters, in the end.

All of it. Or at least, some of it.

Another thunderous heave against the gate, his feet braced readily on the other side – waiting.

He’s been to the other side before. He’s seen the red dawn.

(A little girl with Sansa’s hair and his eyes. A little girl. A daughter.)

Jon has seen it in his dreams too long to not see it now – in the end, in whatever darkness awaits.

The gate breaks open. The dead swarm through.

Jon takes a breath, holds it firm against his ribs –

* * *

To love is to breathe in, to inhale.

Sansa lets it fill her lungs, anchors the air tight, keeps it bundled in her chest.

“Jon, he…” Arya’s voice falters. She licks her lips, shakes her head, looks ahead as her horse trots beside Sansa’s dilapidated cart, Brienne and Podrick tugging her along.

Bran lays beside her under the furs, his breathing low and uneven. She strokes Ghost’s head in her lap, eyes locked on the smoke-lined horizon where Winterfell used to stand, growing ever smaller in the distance.

It’s a grey dawn, a dawn she hadn’t meant to see.

No dragon wings beat overhead. No banners fly amidst their meager flood of fleeing civilians. No sun makes it through the dark, snow-laden clouds, even as dawn creeps over the North.

“He isn’t coming,” Sansa says softly, hardly expecting any kind of answer.

Arya keeps her eyes fixed to the path – fixed to the South.

Ghost whines lowly into her skirts, tongue flicking out to lick at the gash along her thigh, the ice shard since melted into her flesh, tainting her skin with a permanent freeze, an everlasting cold.

Sansa soothes Ghost back to stillness, calmly, without trembling.

She looks back across the horizon.

She looks back at a lost Winterfell.

She looks back at her last, her only, her greatest regret.

To love is to breathe in, to inhale. Sansa takes a deep, stinging gulp, and then swiftly –

(to lose is to exhale)

– she breathes it out.

#jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #arya stark #bran stark #house stark #stark siblings #jon and sansa #jon x sansa #game of thrones #got #got fanfic

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