Feb 24, 2008 22:44
Sansa,
I don't believe we've met, and I wish I could be writing under happier circumstances. It's about a mutual friend: Susan Sto Helit. She's unwell, to say the least. I was thinking it might do her some good to see you. Do you have some time free?
Charles Macaulay
Ravenclaw
owl,
charles macaulay,
john ryder,
sansa stark,
mr wednesday,
susan sto helit
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Susan unwell? Of course I have time. Where should I go?
Sansa Stark
Slytherin
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Charles
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They were waiting for Sansa in the hall, just outside Susan's door. Wednesday gave her a small hard smile. "We've met before," he said to the others. "I don't recall whether you can say the same. Gentlemen, this is Sansa Stark. Sansa, this is John Ryder, Susan's former husband; and this is Charles Macaulay, a good friend of hers." He expected to get an eyeroll from Ryder at the reminder of the marriage-that-wasn't; but it wasn't exactitude that mattered at present, it was making it clear to Sansa immediately that these were people legitimately concerned with Susan's well-being.
Charles stepped forward and held out his hand to shake, mindful of manners even in the face of weird catastrophe. "Good of you to come," he said.
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It was odd to know that she should have been terrified, that at an earlier point in her life she would have been terrified. Of the unknown, of the idea that she should need a sword in her own hand to defend herself, of the car... but now what she could muster was a sort of apprehensive tension. "I admit that was my plan. I have never even held a sword before now." After a moment, she asked, "How much luck will I need here, do you think?"
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"Luck is my department." Wednesday finished his array of runes without flourish or fanfare, a workmanlike job. "In the old country, they used to talk about lucky men a certain way. Some men had it and some men didn't." There was, too, the king's luck, a special variety that could rub off onto his chosen. Wednesday didn't feel inclined to explain how that might be analogous. Instead he said merely, "I've got weird luck." Wyrd. "It may work in your favor. You don't know about safety belts, do you? No sense in buckling yours, I suppose."
The car started with a hiccup and a roar.
"You may, however, wish to brace yourself," said Mr. Wednesday, mildly.
And with that, he drove them backstage.
The passage itself was smoother in a car than on a broom, Wednesday reflected as the world broke gently and they broke gently through it. It yielded like the skin on the surface of water. His ( ... )
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Bracing herself had been a good idea, but Sansa rather wished she'd kept her eyes closed. Not that the passage wherever they'd gone had exactly been distressing... except that it had been. Things had rippled, and while they'd gone smooth again, things felt wrong somehow.
Even so, she was grateful that Wednesday didn't offer her a hand down from the car - it would have started things entirely the wrong way if she'd needed help. In the end, Sansa moved the sword outside the car, then hopped out rather than trying to climb. It seemed to work out; she landed on her feet without stabbing anything, and it was possible that her skirts swirled around her ankles in appropriately theatrical fashion.
She followed Wednesday to... yes, it was Susan. Recognizably Susan somehow, but even wronger than the world around them. Not human, not even a little, even not moving, not speaking, not even looking in their direction.
Gods. She's the Stranger. She is. Oh gods. The Stranger's image in the septs was always vague, ( ... )
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