Earth Seemed a Desert
Title: Earth Seemed a Desert
Rating: G
Pairings/Characters: Rickon Stark
Words: 560
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Warnings: just sadness...
Summary: Rickon reminisces about those who are no longer with him; inspired by the quote “All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.”
Note: Written for oximore's fabulous prompt at the ASOIAF Kinkmeme
(Prompt and title are from Charles Lamb’s poem “The Old Familiar Faces”)
The waves crash as he approaches the ruins of the castle, memories upon memories, and he welcomes the distraction from his aching bones and lonely heart. Nature has reclaimed Winterfell for her own - vines crawl along the broken walls, animals burrow in the wreckage, and steam rises from the exposed hot springs - but he can still navigate the halls, meeting ghosts at every corner.
He sees Arya running across the yard, mud splattering in her wake as the air echoes with laughter.
Jon is sad, always sad and serious and separate, his dark hair made even darker by the black cloak he wears.
He sees Bran in the rubble of the crypts, in tendrils of smoke curling lazily, in paw prints in the snow, in the rustling leaves of the Godswood.
Robb is in the stones, so solid and strong, and in the reflection of his sword. He strides purposefully, swathed in furs, trailed by an entourage of solemn-faced men.
He thinks he sees Sansa in an upstairs tower as a rare ray of sunlight peeks through cracks in the stone, head bent over needlework and her sweet clear voice raised in song - or was that Mother?
He does not remember Father, not really, just grey and black and the smell of pine and a scratchy beard and calloused hands.
And it isn’t fair that he can picture the Freys so clearly still, big and little, can hear their mocking japes, when he cannot see his parents or his siblings, when he cannot bear to think of his wolf. Or that he remembers Osha’s embrace but not his mother’s, that he knows Skagos better than this desolate wasteland that should have been his home.
His wrinkled hands brush against the cold stones, caressing them like he would a lover (but he has never had a lover, never trusted another with his wild, broken heart). The wind howls as he enters the ruins of the Great Hall, and he almost expects to see them there, smiling as they sup together, inviting him to join them.
But he will not find them, no. Bran is dead. And Mother, and Robb, and Father, and Jon, and Shaggy. All dead, all gone. He thought he saw Arya once, in White Harbor. He saw a flash of dark hair run through a crowd, mud splattering in her wake, but she was young - too young, to be his sister. The face had been so like hers, and the eyes were defiant and grey and haunting.
And Sansa, sweet Sansa. She had called to him from the Dragon Queen’s side, her pale hand outstretched, her blue eyes cold and harsh and haunted. But he could not forgive the dragons, could find no peace in their fire, the fire that had consumed his family and friends, and so he had turned his back, condemning her to a lonely exile in King’s Landing. He meant to go back, to beg forgiveness, to take her into his arms as she had when he was little, but he delayed too long. The world lies in darkness. And they are all dead, all gone.
A stag breaks the stillness, its breath misting in the cold air, and he sighs, trudging slowly back to his small hut near the castle walls. He is the lord of a broken house; he is the last Stark, the forgotten Stark, but he never forgets.
Rating: G
Pairings/Characters: Rickon Stark
Words: 560
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Warnings: just sadness...
Summary: Rickon reminisces about those who are no longer with him; inspired by the quote “All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.”
Note: Written for oximore's fabulous prompt at the ASOIAF Kinkmeme
(Prompt and title are from Charles Lamb’s poem “The Old Familiar Faces”)
The waves crash as he approaches the ruins of the castle, memories upon memories, and he welcomes the distraction from his aching bones and lonely heart. Nature has reclaimed Winterfell for her own - vines crawl along the broken walls, animals burrow in the wreckage, and steam rises from the exposed hot springs - but he can still navigate the halls, meeting ghosts at every corner.
He sees Arya running across the yard, mud splattering in her wake as the air echoes with laughter.
Jon is sad, always sad and serious and separate, his dark hair made even darker by the black cloak he wears.
He sees Bran in the rubble of the crypts, in tendrils of smoke curling lazily, in paw prints in the snow, in the rustling leaves of the Godswood.
Robb is in the stones, so solid and strong, and in the reflection of his sword. He strides purposefully, swathed in furs, trailed by an entourage of solemn-faced men.
He thinks he sees Sansa in an upstairs tower as a rare ray of sunlight peeks through cracks in the stone, head bent over needlework and her sweet clear voice raised in song - or was that Mother?
He does not remember Father, not really, just grey and black and the smell of pine and a scratchy beard and calloused hands.
And it isn’t fair that he can picture the Freys so clearly still, big and little, can hear their mocking japes, when he cannot see his parents or his siblings, when he cannot bear to think of his wolf. Or that he remembers Osha’s embrace but not his mother’s, that he knows Skagos better than this desolate wasteland that should have been his home.
His wrinkled hands brush against the cold stones, caressing them like he would a lover (but he has never had a lover, never trusted another with his wild, broken heart). The wind howls as he enters the ruins of the Great Hall, and he almost expects to see them there, smiling as they sup together, inviting him to join them.
But he will not find them, no. Bran is dead. And Mother, and Robb, and Father, and Jon, and Shaggy. All dead, all gone. He thought he saw Arya once, in White Harbor. He saw a flash of dark hair run through a crowd, mud splattering in her wake, but she was young - too young, to be his sister. The face had been so like hers, and the eyes were defiant and grey and haunting.
And Sansa, sweet Sansa. She had called to him from the Dragon Queen’s side, her pale hand outstretched, her blue eyes cold and harsh and haunted. But he could not forgive the dragons, could find no peace in their fire, the fire that had consumed his family and friends, and so he had turned his back, condemning her to a lonely exile in King’s Landing. He meant to go back, to beg forgiveness, to take her into his arms as she had when he was little, but he delayed too long. The world lies in darkness. And they are all dead, all gone.
A stag breaks the stillness, its breath misting in the cold air, and he sighs, trudging slowly back to his small hut near the castle walls. He is the lord of a broken house; he is the last Stark, the forgotten Stark, but he never forgets.