You get used to it. You get used to people appearing out of nowhere. Charlie's carrying his sneakers by their laces and he drops them in the sand as he picks up speed and then he sees the blood.
The boy's accent was flat, something Jon had never heard even after three years on the wall with all sorts from Westeros and across the Narrow Sea ending up there as his brothers and he wondered where he was, where people spoke so strangely. He touched his side and winced when it came away sticky with blood. Ghost watched nearby, assessing but not attacking.
"Down, Ghost. He wants to help." He looked at the boy and realized he was probably of an age with him; the Wall made you grow up fast.
"I'll need a maester to see to them but I think I might be able to walk. Where are we?"
Charlie barely gives the direwolf another glance; he's so used to Honour that he barely registers. He's more concerned about the blood and he offers the guy his hand to help him up.
"Tabula Rasa," he says. "I'll explain that on the way. We can get you help."
Jon took his hand, slightly worried he'd drag him down into the sand along with him but he managed to stand, if only just. The wounds still wept blood and that was no good sign; it wouldn't take long for him to bleed out with the weather so hot.
"A maester, then?" Surely this Southron-seeming island would have maesters, unless he was no longer in Westeros at all. "Is this Dorne?"
He would first see a pair of bare feet, and then Luna bends down, meeting his eyes with her own strange silvery gaze. "Though now that I think of it, that does sound vaguely familiar. It's a lovely name, anyway." She sits down in the sand and surf, not seeming to care if she gets wet.
The girl was young but not so young that Jon thought she wasn't of an age with him. She seemed...well, not panicked came to mind and Jon wondered if she'd noted he was injured. He groaned a little and tried to sit up, hoping this girl could help bind his wounds or find someone who could.
"It's my home," he managed, then touched one of the wounds and came back with blood. "I'm injured. Is there a maester nearby you can show me to?"
"So you are," Luna observes, tipping her head sideways. "Will you be able to walk? And I don't believe we have a maester here, so you'll have to see a doctor."
Jon took her hand and rose to his feet, one hand still touching gingerly at his side. "I can walk. I've lost a lot of blood, more than I usually would because it's so damned hot here. If we walk, we must walk quickly." Urgent, yes, but he hoped the girl would understand.
"Have they stopped making you bleed yet? My sister bled once, forever and ever and Big Brother had to give his blood and then he went pale, paler than normal and he had to stay here too. And everyone stayed here except me," Delirium said rambling away quite happily at the boy-man. She knew him, she knew who he was even if she didn't know him. She wondered if Robb knew, he would be happy or she hoped he would be. She always wanted to make him happy. "Who are you?"
“Jon, Jon Snow,” Jon offered, trying to follow what the strange woman was saying. Her hair was wild, her eyes wilder, and he was oddly reminded of Ygritte in a way. Ygritte. Yet more blood on his hands. “I’m injured...before I came here. That’s why I’m here in this bed.” Ghost was wary but didn’t do anything but watch so while Jon was on his guard, he wasn’t going to move for his dagger. Not yet.
“Who are you, then? Someone who lives here?” Somehow he didn’t think she’d be able to tell him any more about the island than he already knew.
"I know," Delirium said though she didn't elaborate on if she knew his name or the fact that he was injured. She simply smiled, her sister's enigmatic smile and hopped around his bed to his side. Reaching for a glass, she poured some water into it before offering it to him. "Yes. And no. I live in this place but not in this place. I'm just here visiting. I'm... Del of the Endless. You can call me Del for now. You are of the Winter?"
"I guess you could say that," Jon said, rolling her name around in his mind and trying to decide if he'd ever heard it before. It didn't take him long to realize that, no, he hadn't.
"I came here from the Wall, in Westeros. Before that, I lived at Winterfell with my half brothers and sisters."
Edmund prided himself on the fact that he rarely found himself in the clinic. Despite sparring, sailing and exploring Rapture, Ed was a great deal safer than perhaps Charlie would like to admit. But every so often he did have reason to venture into the clinic, usually for something stupid reason, like the one he had today. A more than capable swordsman, he had managed to slice his finger while making himself lunch. The cut wasn't deep, but needed a plaster to keep it from being annoying and bloody
( ... )
It wasn't a man he knew, this one, but he spoke as if he not only knew Jon but knew him well. Ghost didn't seem to be alarmed, his head was pillowed on his paws, and Jon moved to sit up slightly.
"I'm sorry, I don't know you. I wish I could say that I did."
That was sincere, at least, and Jon wondered if this man could at least give him some insight as to where he was and how he arrived here.
"No, of course not," Edmund said quietly. He hadn't even given himself space to hope that Jon would recognize his face; that would have been even stranger perhaps than this meeting. He glanced quickly at Ghost before moving closer to the bed. He was not afraid of the direwolf as some might be, perhaps as he should be, but he knew he had the scent of Honour all over him and was not sure how Ghost might react.
"My name's Edmund. Edmund Pevensie. And you're Jon Snow." Edmund stopped himself and tried to sound less certain. He would have hated to have people assume things of him, especially in such circumstances. "I'm dreadfully sorry. This must sound so strange, but that's the way the odd sort of magic works around here. You've been here before, you see. You wouldn't remember, of course. No one seems to remember this place when they leave, but I did know you once."
It was a lot to process, the idea that he'd been on this island before and apparently made friends with this Edmund Pevensie but Jon didn't want to think about it too much yet. Better to do that later, in private, where he could weigh it out in his mind.
"I suppose that makes you a friend though, doesn't it? I could use one right about now," Jon admitted, unashamed about that need. He'd been betrayed by men he'd thought were friends, after all, and while he shouldn't be inclined to trust so easily, he wanted to.
"As strange as it is to think you knew me before and I don't know you at all, I suppose it's good, in a way."
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He throws up sand as he skids to a halt.
"How bad are you hurt, man?"
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"Down, Ghost. He wants to help." He looked at the boy and realized he was probably of an age with him; the Wall made you grow up fast.
"I'll need a maester to see to them but I think I might be able to walk. Where are we?"
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"Tabula Rasa," he says. "I'll explain that on the way. We can get you help."
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"A maester, then?" Surely this Southron-seeming island would have maesters, unless he was no longer in Westeros at all. "Is this Dorne?"
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He would first see a pair of bare feet, and then Luna bends down, meeting his eyes with her own strange silvery gaze. "Though now that I think of it, that does sound vaguely familiar. It's a lovely name, anyway." She sits down in the sand and surf, not seeming to care if she gets wet.
[July reqs, please!]
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"It's my home," he managed, then touched one of the wounds and came back with blood. "I'm injured. Is there a maester nearby you can show me to?"
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She holds out a hand.
"How badly are you hurt?"
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“Who are you, then? Someone who lives here?” Somehow he didn’t think she’d be able to tell him any more about the island than he already knew.
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"I came here from the Wall, in Westeros. Before that, I lived at Winterfell with my half brothers and sisters."
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"I'm sorry, I don't know you. I wish I could say that I did."
That was sincere, at least, and Jon wondered if this man could at least give him some insight as to where he was and how he arrived here.
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"My name's Edmund. Edmund Pevensie. And you're Jon Snow." Edmund stopped himself and tried to sound less certain. He would have hated to have people assume things of him, especially in such circumstances. "I'm dreadfully sorry. This must sound so strange, but that's the way the odd sort of magic works around here. You've been here before, you see. You wouldn't remember, of course. No one seems to remember this place when they leave, but I did know you once."
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"I suppose that makes you a friend though, doesn't it? I could use one right about now," Jon admitted, unashamed about that need. He'd been betrayed by men he'd thought were friends, after all, and while he shouldn't be inclined to trust so easily, he wanted to.
"As strange as it is to think you knew me before and I don't know you at all, I suppose it's good, in a way."
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