(no subject)
Still proof'ing the smut, so here's something to hate me for until it's done! :D
Digging a grave is something akin to meditation to him now. The stab, scoop, toss of the shovel as familiar to him now as the swing and slash of a sword. Sandor digs the grave with the rhythm of his breath - in goes his breath and down goes the shovel; out and up with the dirt. He finishes and climbs out. Pauses to wipe his brow. As he looks down he sees that the shroud on the body has come unwrapped near the head. Something compels him to lift the loose corner. To see, for once, the face of one of the nameless souls the Trident has sent.
He flips back the white linen and the wind catches in red hair and twists it around a cold, pale face. A face that he has seen only in dreams and nightmares these past few years.
Sandor does not know he is screaming. He does not associate the wild, animalistic keening with himself. He does not see Elder Brother running towards him as he falls to his knees, sore leg forgotten, and pulls the lifeless body of his Little Bird into his arms.
He rocks and screams and does not realize that he is speaking. Does not know that he wails NoNoNoLittleBirdPleaseGodsNoNoNoLittleBirdLittleBirdLITTLEBIRD.
Elder Brother looks at him oddly. “Why in the name of the Seven are you acting like this? This is what you wanted, Sandor, don’t you remember?”
“Sandor,” and Elder Brother places a hand on his shaking, heaving shoulder, “You told her that if she could not protect herself, she should die.” Elder Brother is as calm as if he were only telling Sandor that the sky is blue, not that he alone has been the ruin of the only thing perfect and beautiful and sweet that he has believed in since Gregor took his sister and his face, and left him only anger and hate…
Sandor gapes at him. Roars in a primal, broken fury. He would kill the man if it did not mean he would have to release his Little Bird…
In a penitent’s cell on the Quiet Isle, the Gravedigger jerks so violently awake that he falls from his cot. He spares a moment to take in his surroundings, to realize that it was only a dream, before he crumples into a heap and begins to sob, as only those truly broken seem able.
Digging a grave is something akin to meditation to him now. The stab, scoop, toss of the shovel as familiar to him now as the swing and slash of a sword. Sandor digs the grave with the rhythm of his breath - in goes his breath and down goes the shovel; out and up with the dirt. He finishes and climbs out. Pauses to wipe his brow. As he looks down he sees that the shroud on the body has come unwrapped near the head. Something compels him to lift the loose corner. To see, for once, the face of one of the nameless souls the Trident has sent.
He flips back the white linen and the wind catches in red hair and twists it around a cold, pale face. A face that he has seen only in dreams and nightmares these past few years.
Sandor does not know he is screaming. He does not associate the wild, animalistic keening with himself. He does not see Elder Brother running towards him as he falls to his knees, sore leg forgotten, and pulls the lifeless body of his Little Bird into his arms.
He rocks and screams and does not realize that he is speaking. Does not know that he wails NoNoNoLittleBirdPleaseGodsNoNoNoLittleBirdLittleBirdLITTLEBIRD.
Elder Brother looks at him oddly. “Why in the name of the Seven are you acting like this? This is what you wanted, Sandor, don’t you remember?”
“Sandor,” and Elder Brother places a hand on his shaking, heaving shoulder, “You told her that if she could not protect herself, she should die.” Elder Brother is as calm as if he were only telling Sandor that the sky is blue, not that he alone has been the ruin of the only thing perfect and beautiful and sweet that he has believed in since Gregor took his sister and his face, and left him only anger and hate…
Sandor gapes at him. Roars in a primal, broken fury. He would kill the man if it did not mean he would have to release his Little Bird…
In a penitent’s cell on the Quiet Isle, the Gravedigger jerks so violently awake that he falls from his cot. He spares a moment to take in his surroundings, to realize that it was only a dream, before he crumples into a heap and begins to sob, as only those truly broken seem able.