[fic: a song of ice and fire]
do not bury your dead
asoiaf. robb x theon. red wedding au. here in the dark, dark forest this is the thing he has wrought. ~970 | r
here in the dark, dark forest this is the thing he has wrought. This body of mismatched limbs and sunken eyes, graveyard mud clinging to the crevices of blood-stained skin. What holds it together, keeps those tenuous limbs from falling back to the earth where it belongs? There is a hand, whittled down to the thinness of a stillborn babe's, white like bleached bones. Sometimes, that hand comes out, curls against the jagged red line that curls into a mockery of smile across his throat. The breath that wheezes carries the sound of rattling bones.
“He cannot speak," Theon is told, “but he remembers.”
here in the dark, dark forest Theon comes upon the thing he has wrought-the dead, blue eyes of the king who had been crowned a wolf.
once he had bent his knee to a boy-but it had been a lie, his bones coiled with the bitter salt of his betrayal; he’d been made to betray this man, had left a little x on his back so he would know where to place his dagger.
now he bends his knee to a corpse, and this is the most truthful he has ever been.
still the body that had once been called Robb Stark does not speak. But he stretches a hand and curls his bony, stillborn-thin fingers around the hilt of Theon Greyjoy’s sword.
here in the dark, dark forest they hang traitors and sinners alike. The corpse who bears the mangled remains of Robb Stark’s face never calls for his and Theon wonders why. What betrayal is greater, he wonders. Does it matter? He has sins, should he not be made to pay for them?
the corpse wears the cracked armor of Beric Dondarrion, and perhaps there is something left of that boy, of that man, of the king, in this husk that he insists on wearing the armor of the man who died to resurrect him.
or perhaps in the end it simply does not matter. What are swords to a body already run through, riddled with arrow holes, beheaded and reattached in gruesome show of power and faith? The red priest says it was R’hllor’s will that saved the knight and R’hllor’s will that allowed his life to be traded for a dead king.
Theon will not pray to the red god, for this is no miracle.
he finds the corpse kneeling on a rock, a derision of the way Robb Stark had once knelt before his weirwood tree, ancient words and ancient blood resting naturally on his shoulders-a son of Winterfell, a scion of the cold winds, a frozen river with a summer heart.
now this corpse only kneels for the legs remember to kneel. Kneel before a tree, but do the eyes not remember-there is no covered face here, there is no blood moving down wooden cheeks.
its cloak lays at its feet, and its shoulders are a networking path of scar tissue, dull and pale. Theon can’t resist-he remembers too. His hand finds the arrow holes and pushes in-there’s no sickening wet squelch of blood and that may be the worst of all. Blood is the source of life, the proof of existence, and there is none in this corpse.
the corpse turns its head and the remains of Robb Stark’s eyes stare out at him. Theon Greyjoy remembers, too, and will always remember-his hot mouth on his and fumbling fingers and the feel of him inside him, around him, the way Robb Stark’s teeth would bite down on his neck and his nails would dig in; the forest had become their haven, where they had learned each other’s bodies before war and grief had burned it away to ash.
this is not that forest. And the corpse’s hand claws at the skin over Theon’s palm, and Theon remembers-the corpse cannot speak but remembers, and remembers more than betrayal and death and the way they had sawed his mother’s hair from her head, leaving her bald and naked-the corpse remembers woods and soft skin and hard hands and laughter, and Theon Greyjoy is alive.
“You are not Robb Stark,” he says.
A hand curls against the corpse’s throat, where they had beheaded him to crown him the wolf king. “No,” he rasps out, voice shaking like nails in a coffin.
in the dark, dark forest Theon Greyjoy looks into the eyes of what he has wrought-and would have wept if the water had not been dried out of him years ago.
from across the narrow sea, the Dragon Queen lands-small but large, resting her pale, milky thighs on the recoiled serpentine neck of the black beast. Into her small, perked ears Theon Greyjoy whispers to her the secrets of the unmerciful dead king in the forest.
she comes in a holy wall of fire, and stands beside the kneeling corpse. Her mouth is sour-she tastes bitter acid in magic, always always always-and she lays a hand upon his unmoving chest. If she rips out his heart, it would not stop him.
instead she sets him alight, melts him away, and there’s something glorious in this way of dying, in the way the corpse becomes a living fire.
and Theon Greyjoy watches, forces himself to not look away. The corpse remembers, but does not speak, and when he meets his eyes for the last time there is not betrayal wedged in those blue eyes-there is only relief.
on an island that was not his home-what is his home; is it this dark, dark forest or another, colder but filled with sunshine and boys’ laughter?-Theon Greyjoy had said, what is dead may never die.
perhaps but, he thinks now, the dead should stay dead.
asoiaf. robb x theon. red wedding au. here in the dark, dark forest this is the thing he has wrought. ~970 | r
here in the dark, dark forest this is the thing he has wrought. This body of mismatched limbs and sunken eyes, graveyard mud clinging to the crevices of blood-stained skin. What holds it together, keeps those tenuous limbs from falling back to the earth where it belongs? There is a hand, whittled down to the thinness of a stillborn babe's, white like bleached bones. Sometimes, that hand comes out, curls against the jagged red line that curls into a mockery of smile across his throat. The breath that wheezes carries the sound of rattling bones.
“He cannot speak," Theon is told, “but he remembers.”
here in the dark, dark forest Theon comes upon the thing he has wrought-the dead, blue eyes of the king who had been crowned a wolf.
once he had bent his knee to a boy-but it had been a lie, his bones coiled with the bitter salt of his betrayal; he’d been made to betray this man, had left a little x on his back so he would know where to place his dagger.
now he bends his knee to a corpse, and this is the most truthful he has ever been.
still the body that had once been called Robb Stark does not speak. But he stretches a hand and curls his bony, stillborn-thin fingers around the hilt of Theon Greyjoy’s sword.
here in the dark, dark forest they hang traitors and sinners alike. The corpse who bears the mangled remains of Robb Stark’s face never calls for his and Theon wonders why. What betrayal is greater, he wonders. Does it matter? He has sins, should he not be made to pay for them?
the corpse wears the cracked armor of Beric Dondarrion, and perhaps there is something left of that boy, of that man, of the king, in this husk that he insists on wearing the armor of the man who died to resurrect him.
or perhaps in the end it simply does not matter. What are swords to a body already run through, riddled with arrow holes, beheaded and reattached in gruesome show of power and faith? The red priest says it was R’hllor’s will that saved the knight and R’hllor’s will that allowed his life to be traded for a dead king.
Theon will not pray to the red god, for this is no miracle.
he finds the corpse kneeling on a rock, a derision of the way Robb Stark had once knelt before his weirwood tree, ancient words and ancient blood resting naturally on his shoulders-a son of Winterfell, a scion of the cold winds, a frozen river with a summer heart.
now this corpse only kneels for the legs remember to kneel. Kneel before a tree, but do the eyes not remember-there is no covered face here, there is no blood moving down wooden cheeks.
its cloak lays at its feet, and its shoulders are a networking path of scar tissue, dull and pale. Theon can’t resist-he remembers too. His hand finds the arrow holes and pushes in-there’s no sickening wet squelch of blood and that may be the worst of all. Blood is the source of life, the proof of existence, and there is none in this corpse.
the corpse turns its head and the remains of Robb Stark’s eyes stare out at him. Theon Greyjoy remembers, too, and will always remember-his hot mouth on his and fumbling fingers and the feel of him inside him, around him, the way Robb Stark’s teeth would bite down on his neck and his nails would dig in; the forest had become their haven, where they had learned each other’s bodies before war and grief had burned it away to ash.
this is not that forest. And the corpse’s hand claws at the skin over Theon’s palm, and Theon remembers-the corpse cannot speak but remembers, and remembers more than betrayal and death and the way they had sawed his mother’s hair from her head, leaving her bald and naked-the corpse remembers woods and soft skin and hard hands and laughter, and Theon Greyjoy is alive.
“You are not Robb Stark,” he says.
A hand curls against the corpse’s throat, where they had beheaded him to crown him the wolf king. “No,” he rasps out, voice shaking like nails in a coffin.
in the dark, dark forest Theon Greyjoy looks into the eyes of what he has wrought-and would have wept if the water had not been dried out of him years ago.
from across the narrow sea, the Dragon Queen lands-small but large, resting her pale, milky thighs on the recoiled serpentine neck of the black beast. Into her small, perked ears Theon Greyjoy whispers to her the secrets of the unmerciful dead king in the forest.
she comes in a holy wall of fire, and stands beside the kneeling corpse. Her mouth is sour-she tastes bitter acid in magic, always always always-and she lays a hand upon his unmoving chest. If she rips out his heart, it would not stop him.
instead she sets him alight, melts him away, and there’s something glorious in this way of dying, in the way the corpse becomes a living fire.
and Theon Greyjoy watches, forces himself to not look away. The corpse remembers, but does not speak, and when he meets his eyes for the last time there is not betrayal wedged in those blue eyes-there is only relief.
on an island that was not his home-what is his home; is it this dark, dark forest or another, colder but filled with sunshine and boys’ laughter?-Theon Greyjoy had said, what is dead may never die.
perhaps but, he thinks now, the dead should stay dead.