shadows of you; they won't let me go [2/2]glass_yamApril 11 2012, 22:45:46 UTC
note: curse lj comment limits!
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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 trickled 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.”
Re: shadows of you; they won't let me go [2/2]crogosApril 12 2012, 04:19:06 UTC
Omg I am crying. D: This was so bittersweet. And Gendry was so excited and happy to see her, and then he realized what she needed to do and and and. UGH. I am dead. And then she remembers who she is, as Arya, and--GOD. Thank you for posting this. I mean I should've known it would be tragic from the prompt....but ugh. Lovely. <3v
Re: shadows of you; they won't let me go [2/2]glass_yamApril 12 2012, 17:22:45 UTC
OMG this actually made me cry and i am not an emotional person what so ever. very well done, this is without a doubt the best thing i have ever read in my life. i never thought gendry dying could move me soo much. absoultely loved it
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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 trickled 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.”
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(And, I swear, GoT has made me pull out my rusty skills again. Infectious fandom.)
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Thank you so, so much! I think I should have put a warning on for excessive angst...
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very well done, this is without a doubt the best thing i have ever read in my life.
i never thought gendry dying could move me soo much. absoultely loved it
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