#I wish Scarlet Hollow wasn’t so hard to pitch

[bubblybloob]

So when Pristine cut comes out and everyone has time to soak it all in, you’re all going to go ahead and play Scarlet Hollow, right?

[highqueenofprydain]

While We’re Waiting...

(Prydain fic, circa The High King)

Melynlas snorts when he steps outside, evidence of displeasure at being left saddled and bridled so long.

“I'm sorry," he breathes, sliding a hand beneath the horse's mane, trying not to acknowledge the tremor in his fingers, the fear knotting his gut. "I was in a hurry when we arrived, and…well, after that, I forgot. It's been…an evening full of surprises."

The big silver head knocks him in the chest indignantly and blows a mild reproof before turning to follow him to the stable. His mind churns, darkly, while he unsaddles the horse, rubs him down. He hasn't been in this building in years, but his hands automatically find the hooks even in the darkness, hanging up tack and jingling bits with a foreboding sense that something so familiar should be comforting, but isn't.

When he steps out she is waiting for him, standing by the gate, glowing amidst the shadows of twilight. He is struck, again, with how…no, not different she is; that's just the dress. She doesn't look different, she looks…more. She is more herself; taller, softer, wiser, fiercer; there is more carried in the proud tilt of her head; in the sculpted lines of her neck and shoulders; in the grace of her slender hand resting on the gatepost; in the quiet, serious, steady gaze resting on him.

His mouth goes dry with all the things he wants to say, and finally only the least of them comes out. "I thought you were staying with Gwydion."

She looks weary; he thinks, aching, of the light in her eyes earlier that afternoon, now dimmed. "Dallben's chamber is so small," she murmurs, in a voice just as dark. "There wasn't room for all of us, and Achren won't leave him. It's odd, but somehow…she seems to belong there now, more than I."

“You trust her?"

She meets his gaze sharply. "Of course not." He is silent, and her eyes soften, slowly, as she watches him. "But we haven't much choice, have we?" Her breath is a barely audible sigh; she turns away, and he thinks he hears her mutter, "about anything," but maybe it's just his own thoughts, shouting at him.

“This isn't…" he begins, then falters as she pauses, turning back towards him, and the words how it was supposed to be die in his throat. For a few moments he cannot speak, looking at her, standing there. In this place where she belonged. Where her unbearable absence had driven him out almost three years before, full of questions like goads, one - still unanswered - that he cannot, now, bring himself to ask. Not when so much else hangs over them.

The silence stretches, thin as wire. She stirs suddenly, mouth twitching."You really did cut your own hair with a sword, didn't you?"

He blinks in surprise. "I…well. Yes, but…"

She laughs, an unexpected silver chime in the darkness. "You're a fright. Come on." She motions for him to follow her, marching across the yard determinedly. "There's no use sitting 'round doing nothing but worrying. It's like watching yourself get older."

Pausing at the scullery door, she waves him inside, pulling her golden sphere from some hidden pocket in her long skirts before following. Warm light fills the room as the shadows scurry to hide behind rows of baskets and iron pots, to dive into the mouths of clay jars. He stoops to avoid the bundles of dried herbs dangling from the rafters, the air dusty with fading summer smells of rosemary and dill, sage and mint.

She lays her bauble on the table and looks around, sighing contentedly. "This place hasn't changed any, at least. Sit down. I'm going to cut your hair."

He plunks onto the stool she indicates, dumfounded. "You're what? Now?"

“Who knows when I'll have another chance?" She rummages in a wooden drawer, comes up with a pair of shears and snips at the air briskly. "When the world's on fire, find something practical to do. Teleria's advice, and it's surprisingly good, I find." She steps closer to him, squints at his head, and frowns. "Hm. You know, I can't believe I'm saying this, but…you should wash it first."

He raises an eyebrow. "I seem to remember someone complaining about—"

"Yes, well," she sniffs, leaning back, "it's one thing to be scrubbed down against your will when you don't need it. When you actually could use a good washing, that's something else again." She grins, for the first time since that afternoon; her gaze dances down to his feet and back up again, and his heart pounds. "I daresay, after running the woods for as long as you have, the rest of you needs it just as badly, but I'll settle for hair just now."

Hot water still simmers in a small cauldron over the embers in the scullery hearth; she dips out a large pailful; shoves it and the soft-soap bowl into his hands. "Go wash outside. I'll find a comb. And…" She pauses, staring at him in consternation, and slowly reaches up to touch his rough jawline, running her thumb across its edge as though she's never seen it before. "…And a razor, I suppose? Do you even have one? Does Coll have one you could borrow?"

He laughs, to hide the way her slightest touch twists the breath out of him. "What's the matter? You don't like the beard?"

She pulls a wry face halfway between a scowl and a grin. "Is that what you call it? I thought at first you were just filthy. If it were really a beard, I might. Though it would take some getting used to. You don't look quite like you." Her hand is still on his chin, turning his face thoughtfully as she studies him. "But just now it's not one thing or the other. You're like a sheep shorn by a blind man. Did you clean up at all while you were gone?"

“When Kaw showed up and told me you were coming home," he says, nettled, "I thought only of reaching you as quickly as possible. Would you rather I had stopped to…clean up…first?"

Her lips part in an audible breath that seems not quite brave enough to be a laugh, and he memorizes the freckles scattered across her nose, wishing his arms weren't so full of soap and bucket. "For future reference," she murmurs, leaning toward him, unbearably close, "yes. I would."

Her dancing eyes draw him in and he's about to drop the bucket, water and all, but before he can she pulls him up, off the stool, and pushes him toward the door. "Now, go wash. I'll be back in a moment."

The chill night air he stumbles into is a relief, even after he's stripped off his jacket and shirt to pour hot water over his head. But by the time his wet hair is pouring streams over his shoulders and down his back, his skin is steaming into the air and he's shivering and blowing like a horse fording a river. She's already there when he hurries back into the scullery; after one wild, wide-eyed look at him she tosses him a large hempen towel and turns around to add another log to the fire. And stoke it. Vigorously. A little longer than necessary. Certainly the extra light isn't; her bauble on the table is flaring so bright he can't even look at it directly.

He sits back on the stool, tousling at his hair, watching her with a grin. "All right. I'm ready."

She does not turn, but demands, in a voice higher-pitched than her wont, "Are you mad, going about bare in this cold? Wrap that towel 'round your shoulders before you catch your death."

“Washing was your idea," he reminds her amusedly, suspecting certain things he is not yet confident enough to say; but he hastens to obey the instruction. "And you know how wet clothes keep you even colder. Besides, if you thought my hair was dirty, my shirt—"

“No doubt," she interrupts, jabbing at the fire again, sending sparks flaring up the chimney. When she turns her face is scarlet, lower lip gripped tight between her teeth, eyes dilated and glittering, but she avoids his gaze, focusing instead on his hair with an appraising frown. He tries looking straight ahead, but this means staring directly at the hollow of her throat and the light flashing off the silver crescent nestling beneath it, and he swallows hard and shuts his eyes.

“Tch," she mutters, "what a mess you've made of yourself. Good thing it grows back." Her fingers slide through his hair, lifting it at temples and brow, pushing it away from his face; he finds breathing suddenly laborious. "It's going to have to be shorter than you're used to, to get it all even again."

He keeps his eyes shut, but the space is too small; he can't avoid the lavender-and-rosewater smell of her, the warmth of her next to him. His jaw clenches. "Do whatever you want."

The words seem to hang in the air. Her hands and breath pause for an almost imperceptible instant before continuing on, and she moves around to his side, contemplative. "Llyr. You've got some bits cut halfway up your neck. Are you sure it was a sword? You didn't really use a spoon?"

“Would you just cut it?" She's behind him; it's safe to open his eyes now. He reaches up, exasperated, to rearrange the offending strands, but she pushes his hand away.

“Hang on, it's got to be combed first." Carved-horn teeth bite pleasantly at his scalp, gliding over the crown of his head, tugging gently, alternating with the pressure of her hands, the pull when she has to work a tangle free in her nimble fingers, and he sighs louder than he intends. "It's nice, isn't it," she remarks, "having it done for you? One of the things I did enjoy on Mona. Not the washing, you know, but the combing and braiding and all. There's something soothing about someone else's hands in your hair."

“Mph," he grunts, noncommittal; soothing isn't quite the word he'd use, or nice either, though certainly it's all far from unpleasant. The shears open and close with thin metallic rasps and his shorn hair ends graze his shoulders like a caress; her fingers twist, languid, at the long strands at the back of his neck and he makes a sound even he doesn't quite understand, turning it into a cough at the last moment to mask it.

“Be still," she orders, over a breathless chuckle. She works around to the other side and back to stand in front of him, taking his face in her hands to tilt it up and examine her work; he can't shut his eyes again without being desperately obvious. So he allows himself to stare, sinking into the sight of her until he's drowning in it.

“There," she says. The word comes out hoarse and she clears her throat hastily. "Much better. It can grow out properly now."

“Well, so long as you're satisfied," he mumbles, and she swallows hard, favors him with one moment of searing eye contact before turning to lay down the shears.

“I'm not. But the next bit's up to you." She hands him a razor, borrowed from one of the men in the cottage, though he does have one in his saddlebags, a gift from Hevydd the smith, who had first noticed the need for it. "If you know how. I don't want to be responsible for slicing your throat."

“I do know how, thank you." Hevydd had taught him more than smithing. He takes the blade from her and nods toward the bucket. "Need more hot water, though, would you mind?" She fills it silently and hands it to him, pushes the pile of his discarded shirt and jacket to the side and hoists herself onto the table edge. He snorts. "You're going to watch?"

She shrugs, grinning smugly. "What else is there to do?"

He grunts and goes for the hot water to distract himself from the answers that instantly present themselves, all unacceptable under current conditions. Drat Arawn and his everlasting machinations. He can't decide whether to laugh at or be ashamed of himself for being so personally affronted by the latest evidence of trouble brewing; for wishing, if it had to happen, it could have happened just a few weeks later. It feels small, and selfish; there is so much more at stake than the two of them, and yet…

The copper blade shines like her hair in the light of the bauble as he takes it up, willing his hand not to tremble. She watches him with frank curiosity; he's acutely aware of it, every second, as he manipulates the tool over his face.

“Interesting," she observes, after a few minutes. "Ticklish process, isn't it? Would it be easier with a mirror?"

“You know we've got no mirrors here," he answers, shaking out his stiffening wrist. This task is still a novel one and he tends to grip the blade too hard, anyway; now, with her watching, it's almost impossible not to clench his fist around it.

“Oh, I have one," she says, "actually. A gift from Teleria, if it's survived the journey; I haven't checked yet. But I suppose it's best if you learn to do without, what with how rare and fragile they are. And anyway they make it harder sometimes; having to do everything backwards from what you see. You should see me trying to braid my hair in a mirror. It's like weaving with your hands behind your back."

He has a mental image of her hands twisting into her own bright hair, sliding through the tumbling fiery waves of it, and shakes it off hurriedly. "Be glad you don't have to do this as well, then. Girls have it easier."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Oh, no, women have their own ways of handling such things, as I also learned. You'd be shocked to know how many uses there are for honey and beeswax. At least among the nobility; I'm not sure about the rest."

“But you don't have…" he begins, and stops, seeing her expression; that don't-be-an-idiot look he hasn't seen in years but recognizes instantly.

“We don't have beards," she finishes for him, with a catlike smirk. "Thank goodness, because that implement looks dangerous. But we-"

“I don't want to know," he retorts, his face flaming.

Her smile is arch, mocking him. "Oh! Well, then, never mind." Glancing down, she picks up his shirt and holds it up in two reluctant fingers, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh. Shall I take this to be washed, or just throw it in the fire?"

“I only have one spare."

"Wash, then," she sighs, dropping it to the floor. "You might have made yourself half a dozen, while you were busy weaving that cloak. But you've never been a very sensible creature."

He smothers his grin with the towel, lets it drop back to his shoulders, and rubs at his chin to make sure he hasn't missed anything. "There we are, done. Care to inspect?"

She slides off the table and stands before him again, close, too close. Her hands cradle his face, thumbs sliding over his smooth jawline; his newly-exposed skin burns at the contact and he holds his breath.

“Oh, yes." It's barely more than a whisper, fanning over his face. "There you are again, Taran of Caer Dallben." Her eyes trap his, inescapable. "I've missed you."

He's dizzy, drunk, falling, reaching for anything that might catch him and the closest thing is her; but just as her head is drooping to meet his she bolts upright, suddenly, her whole being alert and tense and distant. The bauble-light in the room, blazing until now, flickers like a candle in the wind, and dims.

He clutches at his knees, baffled and off-balance. "What is it?"

She looks through him, her gaze unfocused; grips his arm as though to anchor herself. "Gwydion. He's awake."

"How do you know?"

Her eyes focus on his face again, filled with an unearthly glow - or, perhaps, merely the firelight reflected in them. "I just know," she says simply. He's had to accept stranger things from her before, and scrambles up from the stool, snatching his jacket from the table and wrestling it on as she retrieves his towel and shirt from the floor with a sigh.

They cross the yard together, not touching, in brooding silence, making for the soft glow in the cottage windows. He pauses at the gate, turns to her suddenly. "You know…this isn't how I imagined today was going to turn out."

She stares at him inscrutably, chews her lower lip. "No. Nor I." A shadow of - regret? frustration? - crosses her face, and she shrugs and laughs a short, bittersweet laugh. "But few things turn out like you think they will, I've noticed. Even you aren't quite what I imagined."

He wants to ask what she imagined, and how he's different, and if she knows how much more she is than he had dreamed even in three years' worth of dreams, and a million other things; most of all he wants to ask her —

But there are voices, urgent and anxious, inside the cottage, and there is no use asking questions that can't be answered with any surety, just now.

Before she moves past him to open the door she touches his cheek once more, wistfully; whispers, "Not yet," and he wonders, not for the first time, if she can read his mind, so succinctly and simultaneously to answer none of his questions….and all of them.

[wokethesleepers]

the sound of the empty | self-para

It had taken one rise of the sun and another rise of the moon for Davos Seaworth to see Lady Melisandre’s face again after she had fled the top of the Wall in a rush. The Onion Knight hadn’t stalled any longer then, returning to the chamber where the former Lord Commander’s body rested, surrounded by three of his close friends and the direwolf who refused to shut its eyes. Since then, they had essentially faced a siege from Alliser Thorne’s forces, broken only when the choir of shouts of the Wildlings kicked the gates down and stormed inside, finally allowing the cornered men to come out of their hiding. Tormund had taken the sight of Jon Snow’s cold and stiff body in a surprising manner, seeming a lot more affected than anyone would have expected from a Wildling faced with the death of a Crow. Just when everyone was about to lose grip on their hope, the Red Woman had shown her face again, muttering words of how the flames had shown Jon Snow in the flames, surrounded by snow in a wide field and by the Stark banners hanging over the walls of Winterfell. Ultimately, everyone present had clung to this last thread of hope, begging her to attempt one last miracle, one last test of her faith.

And the miracle had taken root.

His first breath was the sharpness of the blades twisting in his guts all over again, flooding his lungs like a flurry of flames. Flames, and heat, and fire, flames everywhere, fire in his bones, heat in his limbs, the fracturing of his innards and shredded heart mended by this whirlwind that had turned his blood into ashes. It was a fraction of a second, but it all felt like an eternity, one during which he could have sworn he was bathing in a sea of flames as well. When that second finally vanished, all the feelings and all the sights were swallowed by the morose ceiling of this dimly lit room, his lungs just now starting to let passage for actual oxygen to let blood rush through his veins again, to let his heartbeats drum wildly against his chest. He couldn’t see it, but he was certain the greyness in his skin had immediately faded, washed over by this breath of life that wrapped all around him. For a moment, there was silence, but a hollow silence, one which offered him nothing. He wasn’t absorbed by any thoughts of feelings, a part of him still resting in the pitch darkness he had been pulled out from. But a distant creaking of the floor and the feeling of a wet snout rubbing against his palm finally severed that last tie. And he blinked. He was now aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the sounds of his own pants like an avalanche in the quietness. He also became aware of the numbness in his bones, how strangely rigid he felt. In some thoughtless attempt to seek relief from this strain, he attempted to rise from his position, but he found it much more difficult than he’d thought. It took a great gathering of strength to finally get him to move, to unglue his naked back from the table underneath and to slowly ascend to a sitting position. With these final traces of death removed, humanity bloomed inside of him like a flower in spring.

He became aware of everything: of where he was, of where he’d been lying down, of his bare figure. It launched a number of emotions, starting with confusion. And as his breath settled in, he realized the heavy wheezes whirred through the chamber weren’t his. Darkened by a scowl, his gaze tentatively swiped to his left, capturing the sight of two familiar faces, Davos Seaworth and Melisandre, both of them staring at him in utter shock, their faces pale with a mix of dread and awe. Why were they so frozen and silent? Why were they staring at him like that? In trying to find an answer, he focused on himself again, on the bizarre gaping pit in his stomach and the sudden instinct that called for his gaze to descend toward his torso. And what he saw rendered his mind to an immediate blank state. His stomach was peppered with open wounds, skin torn apart in the rawest of forms. As his fingers moved toward them, he noticed the last one, the most important one, the wound embellishing his chest. Instead, he traced his fingers over that one, not giving it much initial thought. Not until underneath that wound he felt the drumming in his chest, realizing that it rested right above his heart. Like someone had just poured a bucket of icy cold water over his head, a frenzy of memories rained down on him at once, adding the last piece to the puzzle of his rebirth, forcefully stuffing his identity back into what would have otherwise been a hollowed shell. Jon Snow. He was Jon Snow. He remembered everything; his childhood, his vows, his losses, and, most importantly, he remembered why he was there. When his fingers started violently trembling against the wound on his heart, it wasn’t long until an entire wave of panic was rattling his bones. He couldn’t even think properly when he tumbled off the table, luckily being caught by Davos’ arms just in time for his body to not collide with the hard wooden floor. His breathing was erratic, eyes wide like a deer’s faced with an arrow. He didn’t even feel the blanket that wrapped around him or when Melisandre provided him with a chair that he was pushed to sink into. Over and over again, the memories of that night haunted him, the pangs of the daggers twisting in his guts, the frightening feeling of his last breath leaving his lips. A stronger grip to his shoulders summoned him back from that dark pit.

“…Focus, ya hear?” Another squeeze. “Look at me. And take in a deep breath.” Another squeeze and now Jon looked up, finding Davos’ eyes, his bottom lip quivering as his entire frame struggled to come down from the trembles that had splattered small beads of sweat over his skin from the intensity of them.

“I’m dead,” he willed himself to say, still not fully returned to reality, not fully saved from this abyss of despair he was swimming in. His voice was ghostly and raspy, likely due to the freezing over of his vocal chords while he’d laid outside in the snow. Were his eyes blue? Was he about to turn? Was that the beginning of a wight or a White Walker?

“Clearly, you are not,” Davos returned, his voice carrying a calmness that made it easy to cling to as a beacon of stability.

“I’m dead,” Jon repeated, taking one step into reality if only to dig into what little ration he had left to justify his very presence. “I died, I know I did. They murdered me. Why am I here? I’m not supposed to be here. Am I one of them now?” His voice broke on the last question and panic flooded his being again, body immediately tensing up, wishing to do nothing more than get up and run away screaming. A gentler touch on his leg both startled him and soothed this rush of despair.

“You have died,” Melisandre spoke, slowly succumbing to a crouch in front of him and by Davos’ side. He found her eyes and, for the first time in forever, he didn’t see an abyss of destructive flames in her scarlet eyes. There was nothing but the same kind of sparkling fire that had carried him away from the darkness. “You are not wrong about that. But the Lord of Light has brought you back.” There was a genuine emotion in her voice and face, her eyes filled with glistens, staring at him intently, clearly drinking in every edge of his very being as if she was in awe at his mere presence. Who wouldn’t be, truly? Somehow, this helped Jon settle in slowly. He was still silent for a very long moment, processing it, accepting it, trying to find some sort of rein of composure, all while he was gently swaying back and forth in his seat, constantly receiving the soothes of Davos’ hands meekly rubbing at his shoulders. There were still too many questions to be asked, but the simple relief of knowing he wasn’t on the verge of becoming a soldier in the army of the Others was enough for now. And, thus, he crumbled under the weight of this revelation, burying his head in his hands soon after the heaviest sigh of his life – or, apparently, lives – had left him.

“Bring him some water, will you? He’s gone a couple of days without anything to drink,” Jon’s heard Davos say. This prompted for his head to rise from the confinement of his arms, a small furrow of his brows gracing his features.

“It’s been two days?” Davos nodded. Jon didn’t know what to make of this information. It was… just there. He hadn’t even noticed Melisandre return to the room, not until she handed him a goblet of water which suddenly made him hyper aware of just how thirsty he was. Once in his hands, he downed the liquid hastily, not caring about the spillage at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you remember?” Davos suddenly asked and as he wiped at his mouth, Jon realized sensibleness must have kept him from asking this question sooner. He didn’t need to tap into his memories to provide an answer.

“I remember,” he confirmed, his voice abruptly falling into a blanket of sorrow. He could recall every single face and the one that was now causing him the most ache was Bowen Marsh’s, whose dagger he had also felt the most, plunged deep into his chest to silence his heartbeats. Thinking back on that night made another question arise, indicative that steadily and slowly, his mind was starting to thaw. “Where are they now?”

“The Free Folk have stormed the castle and imprisoned them,” Davos replied.

“The Free Folk?” Jon was bewildered. “What have they come here for?”

“For you, I wager. That ginger fellow seemed quite heartbroken.”

Tormund. Suddenly, he became hyper aware of the extensions of his death and his thoughts wandered to all the people that must have sat around his corpse, either weeping, either grinning. And from that crowd, his imagination plucked out Daenerys’ face. Stupidly, perhaps, his head rose, gaze offering a quick swipe to the room. This made him realize that Ghost had silently made his way by his side sometime during all of this, but also that there was no one else in there. It wasn’t easy to see why his thoughts would wander to dark places.

“Where is everyone else?” he asked in a small voice. “Edd, Grenn, Halder… Daenerys.” Oh, gods. Daenerys. He had been gone for two days, hadn’t he? What had Thorne done during this time? His eyes quickly traveled to Davos’ face. “Where is Daenerys?”

“Your friends are well,” the Onion Knight sighed. “Lady Daenerys, I’m afraid I do not know. Last I’d seen of her, she was on her way to pay her final respects.”

His heart stopped once again for a brief second. “Final for me or final for her?”

A moment of hesitance. Still, Davos replied nonetheless, “Both, I imagine. She seemed aware of the fact that Alliser Thorne would send her away.” He sent her away. Another sharp blade to strike him down. There was no room for denial or subtleties anymore. Everything that was thrown at him crashed right into his being at full force, leaking through the tears in the fabric of his soul. With one foot in a pit of despair, it was so simple to let even something as seemingly small as this to give him yet another push over the edge. He didn’t even realize when his head was buried in his hands once again, screams, and sobs, and growls all frozen in his throat, dancing on his tongue, fueled by the shadows waltzing in his head. Slowly, though, this ruthless despair was starting to melt away, the immediate moment he processed the impact of this reality. He had reacted before understanding the reasoning, but now he did. He understood this would have perhaps been easier with his hand in hers. He understood that he wouldn’t have minded falling in her embrace, that he would have maybe started to heal with her head on his shoulder in front of a fire, with amethyst eyes to get lost in, with a warm caress on his cheek.

From that point onward, he had succumbed to numbness. To blankness, to a hollowness that had washed away all feelings, good and bad. By the time Edd, and Grenn, and Tormund, and others were spilling inside of the chamber, there was nothing left of him to leap at the joy of their faces. He had to be reminded to sit up from that chair, to slip in some clothes again, that there was a whole wide world outside of the walls of this chamber. And the whole time, he had nothing but a gaping pit – in his head, in his stomach, in his heart. It didn’t help that his friends were clearly nervous, clearly uncertain of how to behave around him. Whether it was the fragility of his state or the doubt of his very humanity, he couldn’t tell. After some time, he stepped out of that chamber, followed closely by Ghost the entire time. A sea of blurry faces unveiled before him, gasps and whispers, sounds of wonder and quivers of fear. He noticed them all, but they never stuck with him. He had had dreams a lot more vivid than this cold reality where he felt like a wandering spirit with a soul in the faraway skies. The only presence he truly noticed, that he basked in, that soothed him, that was Ghost’s. The direwolf’s warmth reeled off him and the intensity of his gaze was the anchor he needed for every step he took. When he had died, the direwolf had died with him. And now they both wandered among the ruins of their own spirits.

He paid a visit to the mutineers in their cells after that, but none of them wanted to speak. They were terrified, he could see that. Not only was he a dead man walking, but he was also the one who’d pass the sentence to deliver them to the realm of the deceased. What an impossible occurrence, it was. But after that, Jon was very adamant about being given a couple of hours before the execution, retreating to his chamber and locking the door behind. He still hadn’t fully processed what had happened, he was aware of that. He sat in silence in front of the fire, an empty gaze drowning in the flickers, thoughtless and completely void of any energy that might let him come to terms with this bubble inside of him that threatened to burst. Those two hours had drained by like they had been two minutes. A knock on his door made him realize that. Disheartened, he stood up and Longclaw felt in his hand heavier than it had ever been. In the courtyard, plenty of people had gathered, a telling sign that this was an event eagerly awaited by many. Again, Jon climbed the steps toward the six men aligned underneath their nooses completely detached from this episode, his mind still elsewhere, yet void of any thoughts regardless. Looking into their eyes, one by one, all he did was take note of their emotions, ranging from disgust to sheer fear, electing to quickly move past them. All he wanted was to hack at that rope and walk away, return to that chamber and to that fire and be left alone with his emptiness. When he turned his back to the mutineers, Alliser Thorne’s voice rose up.

“Not any last words, Lord Snow?”

Jon wheeled around numbly. “Go on if such is your wish.”

“My wish?” Thorne laughed bitterly. “Such is the custom. I have granted this right to your steward and whore before I sliced their throats.” No, not yet. He still felt empty. This punch was empty. It landed a blow at nothing, for there was nothing inside of him to react. He was still in a dream. None of this was happening. “If you search by the Silent Tower, you will find his body. Sadly, hers is not here to find. We threw her out to the hungry wolves. Whatever there was left of her, at least.” His irises sparked again. Eyes that had been gazing beyond Thorne’s frame focused on his sight again, his words coming now from behind like a whirring arrow. Or, rather, like a knife that sliced at his abdomen with every word, gutting him open. He realized now that he was shaking again, though whether it was the sheer intensity of the realization or the deep rage that boiled into his stomach, he couldn’t tell. It all clashed in a fiery dance of despair and anguish, but there was still a small part left in him that kept him footed, that reminded him of where he was, of how he needed his composure. It wasn’t long before his eyes had contorted into a deep narrow, consumed by a dark hatred that swallowed every humane light sitting in their greyness. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed that his reaction had been enough to warrant a shrieking yelp and a desperate shake from one of the mutineers. In that split of second, Jon wished he could have reached out, clawed his way into Thorne’s chest with his bare fingers, pushed his nails through skin and flesh, crumbled his bones in his fists. Whatever ungodly force had brought him so close to this edge had also brought him back, but even Thorne seemed to be visibly pale as he stared down at him in utter shock.

“Wise last words, Ser,” Jon uttered darkly, realizing the grip on Longclaw’s hilt had turned his knuckles white. “Very fitting of your life.” He didn’t want to hear any more witty remarks, any more cruel words, any more acts of bravery. In one swift swing, he broke the rope that kept the six men tied to life and decided to immediately leave the stage the moment the sounds of their collective chokes and gargles echoed behind him. But as he rushed through the stunned crowds, he could feel how his anger was slowly leaving room for panic and for denial, the one sentiment he hadn’t experienced since he’d taken his first new breath. In other circumstances, he would have celebrated the rise of these emotions, telling that maybe he hadn’t returned as a hollow shell devoid of feel and purpose. He didn’t even realize when he halted by the Silent Tower, his breath stopped in his throat as wide eyes clashed with Satin’s lifeless figure succumbed into the snow painted crimson with his blood. There was barely any time to process this sight, for his thoughts had leaped over the whirlpool of emotions to something that had doubled the panic which now started to rattle his bones, leaving him with shaking fingers and dryness in his throat. Denial only grew. He launched off the spot he had frozen in, not even realizing when his step had broken into a sprint, a sprint toward some stupid and naïve tread of hope, voices in his head scolding him for having the audacity to believe that his path to Daenerys’ room wouldn’t end up the way he thought he would, that she’d be there, that he could claw his way out of this canyon of agony and torment. When he burst through the room, the door quaking in its hinges, nothing that filled it mattered as his gaze desperately searched through every corner through the fierce panting that kept spilling from his lips. Only when her presence did not arise did he finally let this string be cut, arms falling numbly by his sides. The chamber materialized in his sight and he only then observed the chests, the clothes, the belongings. He pushed the door closed slowly, barely sparing a blink as he numbly paced through the room, staring at the objects in his path. There was a book, a hairbrush, and a dragon shaped pin. He stopped there, fingers reaching out toward it, recognizing it as his thumb glossed over the motifs. She had given it to Alys Karstark the night of the wedding, he remembered. And then he remembered when he had seen it before. And with that, he came to remember so much more.

In the silence of her chamber, he could also let the sight of Satin sink in. Thoughtlessly, his hand stuffed the pin into a pocket as his head fell backward, eyes staring at the ceiling in a silent plea for the gods to release him from this bubble that he had just felt pop, starting to flood him with the deep sorrows it had nested while shock had been coiled too tightly around him. It all came crashing down on him at once. His death, the betrayal, that he didn’t belong here anymore. Satin. Oh, gods. Sweet Satin. And Daenerys… The pictures painted by his imagination of all the things Thorne and his men could have done to her threatened to paralyze him completely, so he chose to shun them away by succumbing to the anguish that had been there all this time, cloaked by the emptiness that had served as nothing but a barrage to keep the flood at bay. He turned around, desperately seeking an escape, but he stopped abruptly by the door, where a hand rested on the handle and another pressed into the wood alongside his forehead, stopped by the scent, and the voices, and the memories, and the ghost of touches that had once been of comfort and yet now were only there to torment him with their haunting. His eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of tears that gathered underneath his lids, urged to surface by grief, by guilt, by bitterness, by fear, by the hollowness that had blocked these emotions up to this point. His fingers curled into a fist, which he hammered right into the door, shaking it in the threshold the moment a few stubborn tears made it past his eyelids. And, suddenly, in a moment of clarity amid this chaos, he remembered the root of it all. He remembered the letter, the one that had blanked his ration. Arya. Arya was still alive. She had to be alive. Ramsay Bolton couldn’t even lie about it. He was so desperate to keep this ray of light in his sight that he didn’t think twice before tearing the door open, headed with furious steps toward Edd’s chambers, ignoring the curious glances that undoubtedly noticed the teary trails staining his cheeks and the redness in his eyes as he crossed the yard. He gave a few strong knocks with his fists, waiting not a single moment for Edd to speak before he did.

“I’m leaving,” Jon announced, his voice nothing like what it usually was, shaken to the very core, barely making it past a throat tightened by the still present need of a wail to break through.

Edd’s eye’s widened immediately. “--- What?”

“I’m leaving,” Jon repeated, impatiently.

“Leaving the—the Watch? Jon, you can’t be serious.” As Edd was protesting, Jon was already removing the cloak from his shoulders, hastily dropping it in the other man’s arms. “Hey. Hey! Jon, just wait!”

Jon was already turned on his heel, but turned around nonetheless. “They killed me because I wanted to save my sister,” he spoke simply. “I’m going to save my sister.” She was the last thing he had in that dark moment. He didn’t have Daenerys, he didn’t have Sam, he didn’t even have himself anymore. He didn’t know who he was. Or what he was. But he refused to drown in his emptiness or in his anguish alike. If he had died for a cause, make it so that at least it would see itself fulfilled, make it so that he would have at least one thing left in this godforsaken world, something to keep him from completely sinking to the bottom. He nodded toward the cloak in Edd’s arms, a sniff attempting to break the whirlwind of torture that constantly had him on the edge of simply collapsing to his knees. “I’m leaving you in charge.” Again, he didn’t want to hear anything else. Edd’s protests faded in the background. His next location was the Wildlings positioned outside. They were a lot more lenient and understanding. All it took was for Jon to pose the question of whether they would follow him at this upcoming war and they all agreed to it without any curiosities regarding the morality of his decision. And just as he had been incredibly eager to first set foot in Castle Black, he was equally eager to leave it as he mounted his horse, Ghost steadily following after him, seeming to share the same sudden feeling of liberation that helped him regain his composure.