FIC: His Little Bird (Sandor) for girloficenfire
Recipient: girloficenfire
Title: His Little Bird
Author: mihnn
Rating: PG13
Character: Sandor Clegane (with mild Sandor/Sansa)
Word Count: 1059
Summary: He saw her the way no one else did.
Warning: A bit of crude language.
The first time he screamed - truly screamed - he was a mere boy. The flames licked his skin, the fire hugging his face like a woman’s teats would hug her babes while the pain seared through him. He felt the struggle leave his body, his fingers curling into the arms of his brother as he screamed. It was fire and flame, all but burning pain. He could hear the crackle of his skin and smell the burning char of his face. Voice rough, breath horse, he screamed. He screamed loudly for help, for safety and hope. He then screamed for death, to end his suffering so that the pain would stop. All he wanted was the pain to stop. It was only the mercy of his brother, or his indifference, that saved him. He was chucked far from the fire, his body covered in soot and his eye closed as he whimpered and curled into himself.
It was only when his brother kicked his legs did he open his one good eye and saw the twisted features of the boy he had looked to for everything. Don’t touch my things, he said. Never touch my things.
Sandor had nodded, closed his eyes and cried. His brother left him on the floor to wallow in his misery and it wasn’t for a while that his mother found him with half his face gone.
Sandor knew then that screaming would serve no purpose. What he needed was a sword, steel so sharp that if his brother ever tried to burn him once again, he would run it through his kin’s heart and twist it until the bigger boy screamed.
No one would hurt him again, he promised himself. And no one would make him scream.
* * * * *
He watched every blow being struck and watched as she didn’t scream. A whimper would pass her lips, a whine when the beating became too much, but she never screamed. He watched her skin become bruised, broken and torn. He watched her hair being pulled, the cut on her lip grow and her gown being ripped to show her white skin and the pain she suffered underneath. Any other woman would have cried and yelled, begging for mercy until their last breaths. But, she never said a word as to what she suffered, she simply smiled and said the dutiful words expected of her, just like a little bird in her cage.
Unlike all others, the little bird wouldn’t shy away from him. Women hid from him, men mocked him, boys treaded carefully with a stick around him, but this little girl thanked him like a pretty little maid too proper for pain. She was dutiful and polite, calling him a knight that he always knew he never was. Before long, he started to believe it, the stupid bastard he was.
While others saw beauty and reverence, Sandor saw strength in a mere girl.
She never screamed; he had to remember that. She never screamed.
* * * * *
There was fire, so much fire, and it was all around him. He stumbled, fell, his armour heavier than what it had ever been, his skin burning from the heat of the flames. It was as if each drop of sweat was burning him from within, each one licking its way down a flaming trail over the rough skin of his face and hands. He had to leave; he knew he had to leave.
He got off his knees, stumbled and fell, then tried again. He had to leave. He knew he had to leave. He avoided the flames; moved right when the flames were left, moved back when the flames came towards him. There were no men, he couldn’t see any. All he saw was dancing fire of yellow and red, a reminder of blinding pain and agonising hatred…and something else; something pretty and trapped with red crowning blue.
His movements were a haze but he made it to where he had wanted to be. He couldn’t save the bloody town, he couldn’t even save the bloody people even if he wanted to, but he could save himself. And he could save the trapped bird locked in a cage before the walls of the castle crumbled and the enemy took everything. They would steal, rape and kill and Sandor knew that the little bird would not survive, not without him.
She was afraid of him, he could see it; big blue eyes that could never lie. He didn’t think she would come with him so he asked her to sing him a song. Maybe he would die that night, maybe she would if she didn’t ask him to protect her, but he had heard her sing and wanted nothing more than to hear her voice lilt once more. Her voice was sweet, sweeter than wine and he closed his eyes and thought to what other men might give her, other men with a whole face and no blood on their hands. His hands were stained with red as deep as her hair and all he could think of was to touch it, touch her and see if she would run away from him.
When he kissed her, his lips were rough, unforgiving, and he knew that she wouldn’t come with him. He wasn’t going to beg. He didn’t need her, or want her, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and nothing more. So he tells her that he would take her away, protect her and provide for her. Had he been a better man, a knight sung in songs he would have worn gleaming armour and promised her love. He would have kissed her palm and given her flowers, words flowing prettily for a pretty maiden and she would have smiled and said, “My knight.”
But, he was an imperfect man with an imperfect face able to give her only an imperfect life.
She was shaking when he asked her, her fingers holding tightly to her gown. “I will go with you,” she said.
And even though his heart sored and his chest felt lighter, he told her curtly, “Come on, then.”
She was a child, he reminded himself. But, one day she will be older, and maybe, she will see him differently by then.
Her brother’s favour would be what he had to strive for.
Title: His Little Bird
Author: mihnn
Rating: PG13
Character: Sandor Clegane (with mild Sandor/Sansa)
Word Count: 1059
Summary: He saw her the way no one else did.
Warning: A bit of crude language.
The first time he screamed - truly screamed - he was a mere boy. The flames licked his skin, the fire hugging his face like a woman’s teats would hug her babes while the pain seared through him. He felt the struggle leave his body, his fingers curling into the arms of his brother as he screamed. It was fire and flame, all but burning pain. He could hear the crackle of his skin and smell the burning char of his face. Voice rough, breath horse, he screamed. He screamed loudly for help, for safety and hope. He then screamed for death, to end his suffering so that the pain would stop. All he wanted was the pain to stop. It was only the mercy of his brother, or his indifference, that saved him. He was chucked far from the fire, his body covered in soot and his eye closed as he whimpered and curled into himself.
It was only when his brother kicked his legs did he open his one good eye and saw the twisted features of the boy he had looked to for everything. Don’t touch my things, he said. Never touch my things.
Sandor had nodded, closed his eyes and cried. His brother left him on the floor to wallow in his misery and it wasn’t for a while that his mother found him with half his face gone.
Sandor knew then that screaming would serve no purpose. What he needed was a sword, steel so sharp that if his brother ever tried to burn him once again, he would run it through his kin’s heart and twist it until the bigger boy screamed.
No one would hurt him again, he promised himself. And no one would make him scream.
* * * * *
He watched every blow being struck and watched as she didn’t scream. A whimper would pass her lips, a whine when the beating became too much, but she never screamed. He watched her skin become bruised, broken and torn. He watched her hair being pulled, the cut on her lip grow and her gown being ripped to show her white skin and the pain she suffered underneath. Any other woman would have cried and yelled, begging for mercy until their last breaths. But, she never said a word as to what she suffered, she simply smiled and said the dutiful words expected of her, just like a little bird in her cage.
Unlike all others, the little bird wouldn’t shy away from him. Women hid from him, men mocked him, boys treaded carefully with a stick around him, but this little girl thanked him like a pretty little maid too proper for pain. She was dutiful and polite, calling him a knight that he always knew he never was. Before long, he started to believe it, the stupid bastard he was.
While others saw beauty and reverence, Sandor saw strength in a mere girl.
She never screamed; he had to remember that. She never screamed.
* * * * *
There was fire, so much fire, and it was all around him. He stumbled, fell, his armour heavier than what it had ever been, his skin burning from the heat of the flames. It was as if each drop of sweat was burning him from within, each one licking its way down a flaming trail over the rough skin of his face and hands. He had to leave; he knew he had to leave.
He got off his knees, stumbled and fell, then tried again. He had to leave. He knew he had to leave. He avoided the flames; moved right when the flames were left, moved back when the flames came towards him. There were no men, he couldn’t see any. All he saw was dancing fire of yellow and red, a reminder of blinding pain and agonising hatred…and something else; something pretty and trapped with red crowning blue.
His movements were a haze but he made it to where he had wanted to be. He couldn’t save the bloody town, he couldn’t even save the bloody people even if he wanted to, but he could save himself. And he could save the trapped bird locked in a cage before the walls of the castle crumbled and the enemy took everything. They would steal, rape and kill and Sandor knew that the little bird would not survive, not without him.
She was afraid of him, he could see it; big blue eyes that could never lie. He didn’t think she would come with him so he asked her to sing him a song. Maybe he would die that night, maybe she would if she didn’t ask him to protect her, but he had heard her sing and wanted nothing more than to hear her voice lilt once more. Her voice was sweet, sweeter than wine and he closed his eyes and thought to what other men might give her, other men with a whole face and no blood on their hands. His hands were stained with red as deep as her hair and all he could think of was to touch it, touch her and see if she would run away from him.
When he kissed her, his lips were rough, unforgiving, and he knew that she wouldn’t come with him. He wasn’t going to beg. He didn’t need her, or want her, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and nothing more. So he tells her that he would take her away, protect her and provide for her. Had he been a better man, a knight sung in songs he would have worn gleaming armour and promised her love. He would have kissed her palm and given her flowers, words flowing prettily for a pretty maiden and she would have smiled and said, “My knight.”
But, he was an imperfect man with an imperfect face able to give her only an imperfect life.
She was shaking when he asked her, her fingers holding tightly to her gown. “I will go with you,” she said.
And even though his heart sored and his chest felt lighter, he told her curtly, “Come on, then.”
She was a child, he reminded himself. But, one day she will be older, and maybe, she will see him differently by then.
Her brother’s favour would be what he had to strive for.