shadows of you; they won't let me go
Title: shadows of you; they won't let me go
Pairings: Arya/Gendry
Summary: written for this prompt on the kink meme: Arya/Gendry - Achilles and Penthesilea; Angst. It is said that as Achilles delivered his death blow, he locked eyes with Penthesilea and fell in love with the Amazon.
Warnings: major character death
Disclaimer: none of it is, nor ever will be, mine
A/N: title is from the song Lost In Paradise by Evanescence. So this sort of ran away from me and became less about falling in love with Gendry as Arya recovering her identity, but anyways!
shadows of you; they won’t let me go
She makes no secret of her identity when she enters the inn; makes it clear to the serving girl that she is Lady Arya Stark looking for Ser Gendry Waters. Her old identity that is; the girl she used to be, so angry, so stubborn, so weak. But it’s Arya Stark that the bastard-knight has been waiting for, and so it’s Arya Stark who has come for him. Arya who suggests talking somewhere more quiet and alone, so she could explain everything.
He’s eager, too eager, to leave the inn, his home now, and the same serving girl who’s been scowling at her since she’s arrived. Out in the woods and he’s smiling at her, waiting for her to speak, to say she’s staying for good this time, and that she’s his, now he’s a knight.
She draws Needle instead. It’s too small and too light for her to handle as a sword now, so she mostly uses it as a dagger. She’ll never part from it. It was given to Arya by her brother, another bastard boy. It’s important to Arya. Important to her.
He doesn’t seem scared, just confused; it’s only when she places the tip of the thin blade to his heart that he realises, but he just stares at her. His eyes are very blue in the dying light. She shouldn’t be the one doing this at all. Faceless Men didn’t kill those they knew. But she’d wanted to prove that she was no one, that Arya Stark had no bearing over her anymore.
“I’ve joined the Faceless Men.” She says, although she isn’t sure why.
His eyes slip shut for a moment, then, “Was it Cersei?”
The name brings a flash of anger to Arya.
All she says is, “That’s not how it works.”
The point of Needle is resting against his chest. She’s still shorter than him and can see his heartbeat in his neck speed up as she presses the steel more firmly against his loose shirt, and moves closer to deliver the death blow. She doesn’t know why she’s hesitating.
His hand seeks hers in the increasing darkness. “Do it, Arya.”
Killing comes naturally to her; her movements automatic as she deals death to those who are named. And so now her hand moves on instinct, her muscles tensing, pulling back a little, before using her strength and weight to drive the blade home - the only actions which come more easily than breathing - and blood soaks his shirt. His eyes never leave hers as the life drains from them and he suddenly slumps. She finds herself catching him, lowering him to the ground, Needle still embedded in his chest.
She’s kneeling beside him as she draws out her blade, blood instantly spurting from the wound, the wound she’s inflicted. The wound she, Arya Stark, has inflicted on Gendry Waters, Arya’s oldest friend. She suddenly feels sick as all the memories of Arya and Gendry flood her mind and she turns away as bile rises in her throat. Looking back at the body, she abruptly presses her cheek to his chest, her arms around him. She can feel his warm blood slick on her skin and pain shoots through her as sharp as if she had been the one stabbed, not him. Deep, raw, emotional pain courses through her body and hot tears spring, unbidden, to her eyes.
What has she done?
What has she, Arya, done?
Arya raises her head to look at his face, eyes still open, his lips parted as if he had been on the brink of speaking when she had killed him. A trickle of blood slides from the corner of his mouth and she’s moving before she can think about what she’s doing, kissing away the blood, licking away the evidence of her attack from his face. And then she’s kissing his lips, pressing hers to his in increasingly desperate movements. Her fingers find his face and press into his skin as she wills him to come back to her as she has come back to herself.
But some things can’t be undone so easily, and death is a permanent fixture south of the Wall. She of all people should know that. His body is still warm, though, and she curls into his side with her arms around him and draws his around her.
She thinks about dying in the way of honourable soldiers in the songs sung on feast days in Winterfell; of taking Needle, the only one of her pack still with her, and sinking her full weight onto it. When she was younger she used to want to be those knights, those brave, brave warriors riding into battle. But she’s no honourable soldier. She has no honour left. Only a newly rediscovered name and the body of the only boy she’s ever loved, and a sword wet with his blood. She doesn’t deserve an honourable death.
So when dawn breaks she will stand, wipe Needle clean and stride into the world with her own face and her own name, and vengeance in her heart. But for now she pulls his corpse closer to her, rubs her cheek in his blood and whispers, “Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Queen Cersei. Valar morghulis.”