Aphelion
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Aphelion: the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is farthest from the sun.
A/N: Not Jossed yet. Companion to Perihelion. Set in season 6. Jon's resurrection. (Spring Cleaning!)
***
Awake now, and there is the overwhelming knowledge, the absolute certainty that this should not be.
Wrong.
"Gods!" a man nearby whispers in terror.
Heavy breathing, men, a woman, fire and blood, wolf, snow, night.
"Lord Commander," another man says, not calm as it's meant to be. Scared. Brave fools.
"Jon," a third man.
He. He is a man. Too. Was. Is. Lord Commander: doesn't fit well. Jon. Wolf: these fit better. Fire, blood: yes.
Dead.
He. Opens his eyes. Eyes and open mouths from above as he sees from below, from without.
A panting to his left.
Jon turns his head and lifts his arm, palm up. "Ghost," he whispers, blood in his mouth.
"Welcome back, Lord Commander," the Woman speaks.
As Ghost noses his hand, Jon exhales. His eyes stay open.
"By the Seven," someone murmurs.
And Jon scoffs, chokes, coughing up black blood and what was left of. . .
"No," the Red Priestess counters, "by the Grace of the Lord of Light."
"Well, his grace the Lord Commander could do with some water. Any of you gawkers still capable of that much?"
Ser Davos. Jon blinks; his face is taken carefully between a man's hands, one holding his chin while the other wipes at him with a wet cloth.
"Jon," the owner of the hands says. Edd. "Say something, would ya?"
"Crone's teat, Edd!" another man says. Brother. Night's Watch. "Lay off, will ya. He's only just. . . "
Ghost whines, pushing his way past Edd and the Red Woman so he can lay his head on Jon's thigh. And on the inhale, Jon feels pain, deep, in through him and past, lingering and not any one place but everywhere, throughout. He is here, now, prone, and yet he's somewhere else too.
"Rest now, lad," Ser Davos says, his calm voice more believable this time. "No sense rushing what the- the good Lord's seen fit to return ye."
Wise words. Good counsel. And what good does it do.
He pulls his left arm back close, wedging his elbow next to his-side. His left hand he curls around the table's edge, and then he leans that way, rolling and lifting as a shower of "No" and "Now wait a minute there" rains down on him. But he will see. His eyes stay open.
When he's steadied himself up on his left arm and can see the length of this, this body, his body, he slides the right arm over and across until he reaches the middle.
And then a hand grabs his wrist, and Ser Davos says, "I'd think twice before doing that, son. Best let someone else see to it."
Wise words. Kind. But what good will it do.
The hand soon leaves, and Jon curls his right around the laces, the scarred fingers remembering even if he's uncertain what motions to make. Untying, unhooking, he tugs the leather apart, and sees what he knows, what is certain.
Someone gags. Someone whispers, "Holy hells!" Someone gasps. Edd draws back.
He looks down at the ruin that was, is, will now forever be this body, his body, and says, "This is wrong."
"This is God's Will," Melisandre says.
He looks up, and when she is able to only for a split second meet his eyes, he feels-something.
"Water," Ser Davos barks suddenly. "You there, fetch clean water and rags, soap."
"All the thread in Castle Black- " one Brother starts, only to end in a stifled grunt.
They move and swirl in recognizable patterns, coming close and withdrawing, but it is this hand, his hand, that cleans and stitches. He remembers another. And another. Fire. Kiss.
And then: Sam.
There is pain that does not ebb, a knowing into his bones and beyond, out into the night, the dark, the ice and snow, among his brothers dead, his sisters lost, his kin thrown from the world, ever fools they are. Their fate: betrayal.
He is his father's son, his mother's doom.
"Ghost," Jon says, the name now fitting best of all.
Aphelion: the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is farthest from the sun.
A/N: Not Jossed yet. Companion to Perihelion. Set in season 6. Jon's resurrection. (Spring Cleaning!)
***
Awake now, and there is the overwhelming knowledge, the absolute certainty that this should not be.
Wrong.
"Gods!" a man nearby whispers in terror.
Heavy breathing, men, a woman, fire and blood, wolf, snow, night.
"Lord Commander," another man says, not calm as it's meant to be. Scared. Brave fools.
"Jon," a third man.
He. He is a man. Too. Was. Is. Lord Commander: doesn't fit well. Jon. Wolf: these fit better. Fire, blood: yes.
Dead.
He. Opens his eyes. Eyes and open mouths from above as he sees from below, from without.
A panting to his left.
Jon turns his head and lifts his arm, palm up. "Ghost," he whispers, blood in his mouth.
"Welcome back, Lord Commander," the Woman speaks.
As Ghost noses his hand, Jon exhales. His eyes stay open.
"By the Seven," someone murmurs.
And Jon scoffs, chokes, coughing up black blood and what was left of. . .
"No," the Red Priestess counters, "by the Grace of the Lord of Light."
"Well, his grace the Lord Commander could do with some water. Any of you gawkers still capable of that much?"
Ser Davos. Jon blinks; his face is taken carefully between a man's hands, one holding his chin while the other wipes at him with a wet cloth.
"Jon," the owner of the hands says. Edd. "Say something, would ya?"
"Crone's teat, Edd!" another man says. Brother. Night's Watch. "Lay off, will ya. He's only just. . . "
Ghost whines, pushing his way past Edd and the Red Woman so he can lay his head on Jon's thigh. And on the inhale, Jon feels pain, deep, in through him and past, lingering and not any one place but everywhere, throughout. He is here, now, prone, and yet he's somewhere else too.
"Rest now, lad," Ser Davos says, his calm voice more believable this time. "No sense rushing what the- the good Lord's seen fit to return ye."
Wise words. Good counsel. And what good does it do.
He pulls his left arm back close, wedging his elbow next to his-side. His left hand he curls around the table's edge, and then he leans that way, rolling and lifting as a shower of "No" and "Now wait a minute there" rains down on him. But he will see. His eyes stay open.
When he's steadied himself up on his left arm and can see the length of this, this body, his body, he slides the right arm over and across until he reaches the middle.
And then a hand grabs his wrist, and Ser Davos says, "I'd think twice before doing that, son. Best let someone else see to it."
Wise words. Kind. But what good will it do.
The hand soon leaves, and Jon curls his right around the laces, the scarred fingers remembering even if he's uncertain what motions to make. Untying, unhooking, he tugs the leather apart, and sees what he knows, what is certain.
Someone gags. Someone whispers, "Holy hells!" Someone gasps. Edd draws back.
He looks down at the ruin that was, is, will now forever be this body, his body, and says, "This is wrong."
"This is God's Will," Melisandre says.
He looks up, and when she is able to only for a split second meet his eyes, he feels-something.
"Water," Ser Davos barks suddenly. "You there, fetch clean water and rags, soap."
"All the thread in Castle Black- " one Brother starts, only to end in a stifled grunt.
They move and swirl in recognizable patterns, coming close and withdrawing, but it is this hand, his hand, that cleans and stitches. He remembers another. And another. Fire. Kiss.
And then: Sam.
There is pain that does not ebb, a knowing into his bones and beyond, out into the night, the dark, the ice and snow, among his brothers dead, his sisters lost, his kin thrown from the world, ever fools they are. Their fate: betrayal.
He is his father's son, his mother's doom.
"Ghost," Jon says, the name now fitting best of all.
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