He chases a shadow through storms of the night. The form should be engulfed by darkness, as its supreme power calls to it each shadow, drawn by its emanating blackness. Still, he sees it, for it emanates a peculiar light, deep from within. It`s as though he knows that whatever he follows stems good, even amidst his turbulent nightmare of a life. As if no matter how dark he is, he will always cherish the light of the vision he still wants to turn into darkness. His night, his illusion, his flicker of fragile illumination.
He runs, stumbles, runs again, faster and faster until he feels out of breath, but he doesn`t need inhaling to keep on chasing, fueled by his utmost desire to walk in line with that shadow. He`s getting closer to it, imagines how the feeble light shines upon the crevices of his face, yet he doesn`t turn his back from the exposure of his scars. He doesn`t know where this courage comes from, probably from the fact that he wants too much. Too much, enough that he couldn`t bear to turn around. Not now, when he is so close.
Suddenly, as he `s creeping closer, his arm extended towards it, the shadows slowly and gently spins on its heels and he finally sees her again. Somehow, he knew all along who the shadow was. So he stares at her, tall and graceful as ever, gentler than he remembers, than she could be after everything she`s been through.
"I am yours. I want you to remember" she commands softly, a demand nonetheless.
"You never were, you never will be" he counters, expecting her to fly away soon.
"Then I want you to believe I will" she whispers, turning to shadow again, a faint and shy smile on her lips.
He stays rooted to the spot, kissed by the pieces of light she left behind. His eyes feel the sad curse of unshed still cannot believe.
When Sandor wakes it`s with the sour taste of a glimmer of hope he should have had the strength to kill a long time ago. Instead, he allows it to live still, to prosper in his wild dreams from nights and days of solitude.
It`s the only thing that keeps him, really. Keeps him alive, though he wishes everyday he weren`t. Keeps him sane, yet at the same time represents the only madness he`s ever allowed to take hold of him and never let go. Keeps him wondering whether he`ll ever succumb to it completely. But that could only happen in her presence and he doesn`t dare to fully hope he is destined to ever see her again.
He knows where he is. It`s a plain, simple, yet oddly serene cottage. He was given a room of his own and remembers an older man tending to his wounds, stitching them and cleaning away the infectious ones. He still feels the pain ingrained deep within his bones, terrible and persistent like his thoughts of Gregor, the brother he might never be able to kill. A whirlwind of suffering though he knows he should be grateful he`s alive, after the Stark girl left him to die from his wounds. Was it mercy, was it cruelty ? He doesn`t pretend to know, to understand that fierce, annoying and fighting pain in the ass.
She was his last connection to Sansa, apart from the memories, the dreams, the remorse he still feels. Nothing more, perhaps a possibility for a bag of gold after all, even though in the end she didn`t prove to be profitable. He tried to help her because of the fatality that will haunt him till the end of his days. He couldn`t make things better for Sansa, no matter how much he wanted to. There were too many enemies, too many traps, too many lies to protect her from.
And then there was himself. But he chooses not to think about it that way in his waking hours. At night, dreams and desires rule and he finds himself ignited by the only fire he`s ever begged to consume his all.
The day dawns with futile rays of sunshine permeating the clouds, passing though the quite large window of his room and electing a few places on his bed, and after some time moving in rhythm with the growing morning towards his face.
The door opens gently and Sandor finds he can now lift his head a little bit more, in order to receive with his cold stare the uninvited guest. But he thinks that the title could greatly apply to him as well. Though someone must have brought him there, after all.
"Good morning, my lord. I hope your sleeping hours gave you at least a few moments of mercy last night. May I inquire ?"
"I`m not a lord, nor am I a ser. Not a knight. Piss on them." He manages to rasp, but there`s a strong pain in his chest when he does and he wonders how long he`s been unconscious. Not a knight. This is what he told her innumerable times, trying to crush her foolish dreams, refusing to be associated with them. How he longs now for a words from her, be it even knight. Or ser. Or lord.
The man seems taken by surprise, perhaps offended. But he lets it pass, unsure how to approach him. He isn`t young, though he isn`t very old either. He`s on the verge of a new time, at that mysterious time in life between strength and wisdom.
"Very well. I don`t know who you are, so my apologies for mistaking you for something you`re not. I am well accustomed with this sort of insult, but I didn`t mean it as such. May I inquire who you are, then ? Or would you rather be told who I am and why you`re here ?"
"Aye, I know that without your help I`d be long dead. You`ve got my attention. Spit it all."
"Quite the language, from what I hear. Perhaps that got you beaten blood within an inch of your life." The man seems to read Sandor`s annoyance, so he makes a soothing gesture with his hand. "I mean no disrespect. Whoever you are, no matter what you did, you surely didn`t deserve what happened to you. I tended to your wounds, so please listen to what I have to say."
Sandor snorted, but nodded notheless.
"My name is Nathan Branford, but you, like everyone else, can call me Nathan. I am nothing more than a peasant from one of the small villages under the control of House Redfort. You are in the Vale, as I`m sure you already know. Perhaps you wonder why I can address myself like this and why I mistook you for a lord. I am the only person in this village and surrounding ones that can teach people how to speak and even write properly. The lords never cared for us much and care less about whether we know how to speak or not, but my father didn`t want me to go through life like a wild beast, so he though me to read and write and left me a couple of books. This is what I thrive to do in our village and it seems there are children who love stories enough to be eager to learn."
"You seem like a dreamy, blubbering fool." Sandor`s words are harsh but his eyes have renounced some of their furry. In a way, this talking pain in the ass reminds him of Sansa. Honest, believing in something he would snort at anytime.
"I gathered you`d think and perhaps say that much by now. You don`t seem like pleasent company, with all due respect. But better unpleasant company than dishonest one, I`ll give you that. As to why I called you my lord, I recall your armour, or what was left of it. It was abused , torn and terribly assaulted, but it was still fit for a lord. Or a knight, a fiercely skilled one at that. Am I wrong ?"
"Then you ought to be afraid, little man", Sandor smiles sardonically, even though he is in no position to make threats.
"You would be dead, but for my help and my skills with the herbs. You would have made a feast for crows, no matter how skilled you have proved yourself on the battlefied."
"Aye, you have a point. But I told you I`m not a knight. Why would you trust my honour ?"
"I trust every man until he gives me a reason not to" Nathan says smiling in turn.
"Then you are a bloody fool."
"I am a fool, but if I hadn`t saved you, I would have been a murderer, for it was in my power to help you or to pass you by. So I chose to trust you. And that`s more than I can say about you, apparently."
"Perhaps I wanted to be dead, after all."
"Have you not a reason to live ?"
He thinks about Sansa. "And what if that reason is killing me ?"
"Then you ought to be like me. You ought to trust it to drive a dagger to your tainted heart, to kill you and bring you back so you can live for it, purer. "
These are the words that break him, finally. He doesn`t know he`s crying until he feels the tears on his good cheek and wonders what would be like to feel their burning saltiness on the other one. But he`ll never know, much like he`ll never know her touch on it, on him, no matter how hard he prays for it.
He thinks Nathan`s words are the truest and most terrifying words he`s ever heard, but he doesn`t tell him because he isn`t one for great statements.
"I am sorry, dear friend, for causing you such pain. I never meant to, though I believe every word I said to you with all my heart. And there was another reason why I thought you were noble and I still believe you are . During the time while I tended to your wounds, you kept tossing in your sleep, breathing rather than whispering a single name. One name, a thousand words and I dare think a thousand thoughts below that heavy brow of yours.
Sansa"
"I thought you were dreaming about Sansa Stark, that noble maid from the North we heard so much about. Words about her murdering the prince and turning into a direwolf and many more like that. I thought you knew her, that you were somehow acquainted with her, because she haunted you like no one else during your suffering."
"So I beg you, friend, when you`re better again and at least a little bit free from your suffering, tell me your story. I won`t harm you, turn on you, judge you or betray your trust. Mayhaps I could help you with your guilt, just like I helped the stranger dying on the road."
My story, Sandor Clegane thinks. Before his eyes flashes an image of his mother with his pretty little sister, once, before... Then Gregor, wilder than ever, years and years of Lannister service gone in a second and then her, Sansa Stark, sweeping away everything else like the northern winds of winter.
