fic: it’s violent times for weary feet
Title: it’s violent times for weary feet
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Arya, Gendry {Arya/Gendry}
Summary: Why is your pain worth more than ours? AU, Revolutionary Russia
The machine called the “bourgeois State” broke down in Russia in February, 1917. Its purpose and its activity had always been contrary to the interests and aspirations of the people. Since the latter, for the moment, had become masters of their own destinies, it could not be repaired and put back into working order. For it is the people who make such a machine run - whether under compulsion or freely - and not the governments.- Voline, The Unknown Revolution
~
“What about you?”
He’d grown up on the outskirts of Petrograd. He’d learned to fend for himself and as soon as he was old (strong) enough, he’d made his way to a factory. Then, came the hunger.
~
There’s a small birth mark on the inside of her elbow. He kisses it before she pushes him away.
~
He meets her at some grand palace big enough to house twelve families. She’s a skinny thing, with too big grey eyes, drowning in a scratched, grey coat.
He has a sickle and hammer on his arm and she looks at him with those big grey eyes like she wants to kill him.
~
A world upside down. A world where they could finally be given they had always deserved. And why not?
He didn’t have anything to lose.
~
He woke up to see the strange grey eyed girl above him, holding a knife to his throat.
“It’s your fault.” She whispered.
“I-” He was cut off when the blade nicked the skin under his Adam’s Apple.
“You came and took everything! My home, my father, my brother.”
“You’re… noble?” With her wild hair and wilder eyes, she didn’t look noble.
Something flashed across her eyes and he knew he was right.
“You’re in pain.” Her hand was shaking. He could feel it from where the cold steel vibrated against his throat.
“Yes.” She choked out.
“Why is your pain worth more than ours?” Her eyes widened. “I never did anything to your family.”
“Your red friends.” She spat and he could see her growing angrier.
“And what have your people been doing to the workers for centuries?” Her lips formed a thin line. He reached slowly for her hand and took the knife from her limp grip.
~
She was lurking by the door when he left the next morning.
~
He slept in a lumpy cot in an alcove, hidden by a moth eaten curtain, in the carcass of what had been an imposing hall. He wasn’t given a room like they’d done with the families. He was just one man, cannon fodder of the revolution.
She’d shown up some six months ago, with the name of Cat and not much else, drifting from town to town. She wasn’t rare and she’d been given a small spot under the stairs to sleep.
She’d had a room for herself, a thousand years ago, and a family, a father, a mother, a sister and four brothers. But those memories were becoming terribly blurry, like something made-up, and she couldn’t be sure anymore.
Maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing.
He’d shown up a month later, a bag at his shoulder and was pointed towards the alcove.
Arya shakes his shoulder and his eyes snap open, staring up at her from where she’s crouched above him on the alcove.
“I won’t kill you.”
He nods slowly, his muscles relaxing under her hand.
~
She’s a vicious thing, all teeth and nails and anger.
~
Sometimes she shakes him awake two nights straight and sometimes he only catches glimpses of her for a week.
Some nights she didn’t talk, just sat with her arms wrapped around her and stared at the wall. Others, she told him stories about her father and her half-brother Jon.
“I’m a Stark.” She whispered like it meant something.
“I’m nobody.” He answered.
~
There’s a small courtyard behind the manor. One night, one of the women found her baby dead and couldn’t stop screaming and shaking and crying. Gendry and Cat sat outside on top of a crate, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
“Won’t she shut up?” Her voice was muffled by the coat, pulled up to her nose.
“She lost her son.” He reached for the matches.
“Lots of women lose their sons.” She replied bitterly and stole another cigarette.
~
She kisses him and draws back frowning, like she’s thinking hard.
“What?” He asks, a little breathless.
She reaches forward again.
~
Jon’s her favorite brother, she tells him. Dark haired and grey eyed like her, her father’s one indiscretion. She hasn’t seen him since before the revolution.
“I don’t even know if he’s alive.” There’s snowflakes melting in her hair and she brings the cigarette to her lips with shaking fingers.
~
“What if you had failed?” She asked him out of the blue.
“Failed what?” He inched closer to the stove, Cat half pressed to his side.
“The revolution.” Her whisper was barely heard above Pia’s bustling in the kitchen.
“Don’t know. Gone back to work, most likely.” He shrugged.
“Just like that?”
“Our world doesn’t stop, princess.”
“Mine did. When you killed my father.”
~
“Ten years ago, I’d have gotten a trashing for this.” Her fingers are tugging at his belt.
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been here.” She cuts him off with a hard kiss.
~
He asks around. There’s a Jon Snow stationed with a regiment up North.
~
She didn’t say anything when he told her, just stood up and walked up the stairs.
When he saw her again, she was wrapped in her grey coat, a scarf pulled up to her chin and bag slung over her shoulder.
“I’m going. You can come with me.” Her fingers gripped the scarf more tightly. “Or not. I don’t care.”
He picked up the bag at his feet and followed her out of the door.
He never had anything to lose before.
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Arya, Gendry {Arya/Gendry}
Summary: Why is your pain worth more than ours? AU, Revolutionary Russia
The machine called the “bourgeois State” broke down in Russia in February, 1917. Its purpose and its activity had always been contrary to the interests and aspirations of the people. Since the latter, for the moment, had become masters of their own destinies, it could not be repaired and put back into working order. For it is the people who make such a machine run - whether under compulsion or freely - and not the governments.- Voline, The Unknown Revolution
~
“What about you?”
He’d grown up on the outskirts of Petrograd. He’d learned to fend for himself and as soon as he was old (strong) enough, he’d made his way to a factory. Then, came the hunger.
~
There’s a small birth mark on the inside of her elbow. He kisses it before she pushes him away.
~
He meets her at some grand palace big enough to house twelve families. She’s a skinny thing, with too big grey eyes, drowning in a scratched, grey coat.
He has a sickle and hammer on his arm and she looks at him with those big grey eyes like she wants to kill him.
~
A world upside down. A world where they could finally be given they had always deserved. And why not?
He didn’t have anything to lose.
~
He woke up to see the strange grey eyed girl above him, holding a knife to his throat.
“It’s your fault.” She whispered.
“I-” He was cut off when the blade nicked the skin under his Adam’s Apple.
“You came and took everything! My home, my father, my brother.”
“You’re… noble?” With her wild hair and wilder eyes, she didn’t look noble.
Something flashed across her eyes and he knew he was right.
“You’re in pain.” Her hand was shaking. He could feel it from where the cold steel vibrated against his throat.
“Yes.” She choked out.
“Why is your pain worth more than ours?” Her eyes widened. “I never did anything to your family.”
“Your red friends.” She spat and he could see her growing angrier.
“And what have your people been doing to the workers for centuries?” Her lips formed a thin line. He reached slowly for her hand and took the knife from her limp grip.
~
She was lurking by the door when he left the next morning.
~
He slept in a lumpy cot in an alcove, hidden by a moth eaten curtain, in the carcass of what had been an imposing hall. He wasn’t given a room like they’d done with the families. He was just one man, cannon fodder of the revolution.
She’d shown up some six months ago, with the name of Cat and not much else, drifting from town to town. She wasn’t rare and she’d been given a small spot under the stairs to sleep.
She’d had a room for herself, a thousand years ago, and a family, a father, a mother, a sister and four brothers. But those memories were becoming terribly blurry, like something made-up, and she couldn’t be sure anymore.
Maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing.
He’d shown up a month later, a bag at his shoulder and was pointed towards the alcove.
Arya shakes his shoulder and his eyes snap open, staring up at her from where she’s crouched above him on the alcove.
“I won’t kill you.”
He nods slowly, his muscles relaxing under her hand.
~
She’s a vicious thing, all teeth and nails and anger.
~
Sometimes she shakes him awake two nights straight and sometimes he only catches glimpses of her for a week.
Some nights she didn’t talk, just sat with her arms wrapped around her and stared at the wall. Others, she told him stories about her father and her half-brother Jon.
“I’m a Stark.” She whispered like it meant something.
“I’m nobody.” He answered.
~
There’s a small courtyard behind the manor. One night, one of the women found her baby dead and couldn’t stop screaming and shaking and crying. Gendry and Cat sat outside on top of a crate, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
“Won’t she shut up?” Her voice was muffled by the coat, pulled up to her nose.
“She lost her son.” He reached for the matches.
“Lots of women lose their sons.” She replied bitterly and stole another cigarette.
~
She kisses him and draws back frowning, like she’s thinking hard.
“What?” He asks, a little breathless.
She reaches forward again.
~
Jon’s her favorite brother, she tells him. Dark haired and grey eyed like her, her father’s one indiscretion. She hasn’t seen him since before the revolution.
“I don’t even know if he’s alive.” There’s snowflakes melting in her hair and she brings the cigarette to her lips with shaking fingers.
~
“What if you had failed?” She asked him out of the blue.
“Failed what?” He inched closer to the stove, Cat half pressed to his side.
“The revolution.” Her whisper was barely heard above Pia’s bustling in the kitchen.
“Don’t know. Gone back to work, most likely.” He shrugged.
“Just like that?”
“Our world doesn’t stop, princess.”
“Mine did. When you killed my father.”
~
“Ten years ago, I’d have gotten a trashing for this.” Her fingers are tugging at his belt.
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been here.” She cuts him off with a hard kiss.
~
He asks around. There’s a Jon Snow stationed with a regiment up North.
~
She didn’t say anything when he told her, just stood up and walked up the stairs.
When he saw her again, she was wrapped in her grey coat, a scarf pulled up to her chin and bag slung over her shoulder.
“I’m going. You can come with me.” Her fingers gripped the scarf more tightly. “Or not. I don’t care.”
He picked up the bag at his feet and followed her out of the door.
He never had anything to lose before.