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
"Neil," he repeats, trying to push his attention back to the current moment. "I'm Theon. Who are they?" They appear to be-- healers, of some sort.
"Neil," he says again. "Where am I? This isn't Winterfell." He can taste his own blood, and growing panic. "I fell. The battle was still--" He breaks off as the EMTs begin to get him ready to move.
no subject
I wanted to tell them to back off, to give him room to breathe, to at least give him a second to understand what was going on, but I also knew there wasn't really time for that. They spoke to him clearly, explaining what was happening to him, assuring him they were there to help, but I doubted it would've made a whole lot of sense, even without all the blood loss.
"Fuck off," I hissed, when they told me to step aside, but the firefighter— a huge motherfucker with arms as big around as my head, yanked me up by the elbow. "You need to step aside," he said calmly, pointing me over just a few feet away.
"You're in a place called Darrow," I said, trying to stay where he could see me. It took the two EMTs to hold him still while the firefighter clipped the spear off closer to his body, so it wouldn't get knocked in the ride over. With that over, the two guys rushed to bring over the stretcher, the woman crouching to quickly running an IV line out of the back of Theon's hand and giving him what I fucking hoped was some strong pain killers. "The battle's still going on with out you, man. I'm sorry."
no subject
Before he can struggle, a wave of distant calm washes through him. The pain starts to subside, but he's having a more and more difficult time reaching for thought, for words. "Neil," he calls, his voice wet. "The godswood is undefended now." He's going under the waves again, warm and dark. "The crypts. Sansa."
Then the ocean swallows him.