farfromthesea (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
farfromthesea) wrote2019-05-05 06:42 pm
farfromthesea) wrote2019-05-05 06:42 pm
[debut]
Theon.
Bodies of those dead and living litter the ground in the godswood, and with Bran’s eyes iced over and distant, Theon knows himself to be alone. His arrows are long gone, and with them the possibility to halting the advance of the Night King’s guard, the Night King himself. Theon’s kept himself and the shell of Bran alive with his spear, but he can feel the Night King arrive even before the second truest monster he’s ever known shows his undead face.
There could never be a monster like the one that’s already met his end in Winterfell, not for Theon Greyjoy.
If he’s honest, the first Theon Greyjoy died under Winterfell too.
If he’s honest, the Theon he is now will die at Winterfell before very long, and though he can think of plenty of ways he might like to live, he can’t think of a better way to die.
You’re a good man.
He hears Bran’s voice and turns, and whatever Bran is now, he knows to give him confirmation of the only question Theon still struggles to answer. Only the heat in his eyes tells him that he cries to be given this benediction; his face has long lost the ability to feel.
Theon lets himself take one last look at the heart tree, with long and white limbs, the fiery red leaves caught in a winter wind. He thinks of another time when he’d stood in front of it, not even a man, let alone a good one.
Thank you.
Only one choice left now, only one more charge.
If it buys Winterfell, if it buys his family, even a few moments, then his life will be worth more than it ever has been. He could not imagine anything mattering more.
The Night King steps forward, his Walkers behind him, and the fire raging through Winterfell behind them. Theon adjusts his hand on his spear, and before he can think a moment longer, he charges forward, screaming into the long night.
He runs for longer than he thinks he will, and then his spear buckles, breaks under the Night King’s hands. More than the pain, he registers the soft punch of the spear going through his middle. He looks up, at dead, malevolent eyes, and when he drops, it’s into darkness.
He wants to look at the heart tree when he dies, see the red against the white limbs, the sky, but it’s dark. Theon falls a long, long way through the darkness, and the moment he realizes he’s only dying, not dead, he realizes he’s no longer in the godswood.
There’s grass under his cheek.
It’s warm.
Bodies of those dead and living litter the ground in the godswood, and with Bran’s eyes iced over and distant, Theon knows himself to be alone. His arrows are long gone, and with them the possibility to halting the advance of the Night King’s guard, the Night King himself. Theon’s kept himself and the shell of Bran alive with his spear, but he can feel the Night King arrive even before the second truest monster he’s ever known shows his undead face.
There could never be a monster like the one that’s already met his end in Winterfell, not for Theon Greyjoy.
If he’s honest, the first Theon Greyjoy died under Winterfell too.
If he’s honest, the Theon he is now will die at Winterfell before very long, and though he can think of plenty of ways he might like to live, he can’t think of a better way to die.
You’re a good man.
He hears Bran’s voice and turns, and whatever Bran is now, he knows to give him confirmation of the only question Theon still struggles to answer. Only the heat in his eyes tells him that he cries to be given this benediction; his face has long lost the ability to feel.
Theon lets himself take one last look at the heart tree, with long and white limbs, the fiery red leaves caught in a winter wind. He thinks of another time when he’d stood in front of it, not even a man, let alone a good one.
Thank you.
Only one choice left now, only one more charge.
If it buys Winterfell, if it buys his family, even a few moments, then his life will be worth more than it ever has been. He could not imagine anything mattering more.
The Night King steps forward, his Walkers behind him, and the fire raging through Winterfell behind them. Theon adjusts his hand on his spear, and before he can think a moment longer, he charges forward, screaming into the long night.
He runs for longer than he thinks he will, and then his spear buckles, breaks under the Night King’s hands. More than the pain, he registers the soft punch of the spear going through his middle. He looks up, at dead, malevolent eyes, and when he drops, it’s into darkness.
He wants to look at the heart tree when he dies, see the red against the white limbs, the sky, but it’s dark. Theon falls a long, long way through the darkness, and the moment he realizes he’s only dying, not dead, he realizes he’s no longer in the godswood.
There’s grass under his cheek.
It’s warm.
no subject
Better to try and eat the icy orange stick. He watches Neil intently, and then copies the motion, too high and too suddenly thirsty to carry that it seems a little strange.
"You're not from here," Theon confirms, sticking out his tongue to see if there's an orange tint to it. Whatever the healer put in his needle, it makes him feel a lot better.
no subject
So, maybe getting him the popsicle wasn't entirely altruistic. Maybe half the fun was watching him try and eat it, petulant and high out of his mind on morphine.
"Hell no," I said, crumpling both wrappers and tossing them into the trash bin by the bed. "I'm from Kansas, which I know means fuck all to you, so."
no subject
His next look at Neil is perplexed, and then he just bites into the damn thing, catching most of it in his mouth.
"I've never heard of any Kansas," he agrees. "Are there more people from places that aren't-- this? Maybe someone knows Westeros. Maybe someone can tell me if everyone is dead."
no subject
"Maybe," I said, reaching over and picking a chunk of orange ice off the collar of his hospital gown and pitching it into the trash can. "I haven't heard anybody mention Westeros, but there are people from all over. Different places, different times. It's not like I know everybody."
no subject
"Then you can help me ask them? You know your way around this place."
Watching where Neil had tossed the orange ice, he flicks his little piece of wood over there as well, watching it sail into the bin.
no subject
I was actually surprised he was still awake, and didn't expect him to remember much of the conversation later.
"Maybe. If I don't have anything better to do," I said, reaching out and straightening the daisy clutched in the Get Well bear's hand. "I think you need to get outta here, first."
Leaning back in my chair, he laced my hands behind my head, giving him a once-over. For somebody nearly dead the day before, he looked— well, he looked like shit, but that was still an improvement.
"So," I said, "Who's Sansa?"
no subject
That's nothing he'd usually be able to ask, and he supposes, with a distant calm, that it's part of whatever is seeping into his blood.
"Sansa?"
He can't hide the absolute stupid lovesick look, even if it's also slightly shame-faced. "Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. I went back to swear myself to her service for the battle. I knew she'd be glad to see me but her smile... and she embraced me..." His head droops against his pillow. "Like a flame against the winter night. If by dying I gave her even a single breath more, it was worth it."
He's drowsy, but at least maybe he'll dream of her now.
no subject
"Right," I said, not because any of what he said sounded familiar, but because I'd heard the waver in his voice, yesterday. The desperation. It didn't sound like he was calling to just a fellow soldier, or a friend. That was the voice of a man calling out to somebody he loved. "Figured as much."