The music was not done.
The good deeds were yet to be finished – the quill still wrote, scrawling away on the pages of tomorrow, even as the Ages rolled and rolled and the great heroes lived and died; even as the greatest ceased to be remembered, and the sun rose on all the graves and cradles known to man – the Elves having long ago sailed to their endless fate over the western waters.
And yet, the will of the One moved in Arda, and in all of Eä, and the grand design of destiny ticked like a clock fixed to eternal gears. There was still much to be completed. There was still much to prepare for – the symphony was approaching its finale, and, somewhere in the farthest north of Creation, a lone horn blew three, successive, lonely notes. The Enemy was crafting his chaos in the dark but his defeat was at hand.
And Eru Ilúvatar spoke, and the sound trembled the threads of existence – the Ainur lifted their golden heads in wonder, the deep waters sang, the foundations of the earth danced, and the dead in their unseen halls stirred.
The music was not done.
There is work yet for you, my son.
He found him in the Gods Eye, wrapped in the nets he had plunged into the water just moments before.
Naked and pale, the man was twisted in a newborn's position, gleaming among the quivering silver fish, and the fisherman, for a mad second, thought that he had just procured the biggest haul in his life. Everyone in the village would burn with jealousy. He and his son would feed for days. But his unexpected catch shivered, and coughed, and something like dread fell into the fisherman's heart.
"Out with you, then," the fisherman muttered, untying the nets and stepping over the fish that spilled onto his boat to grab him. "Can't have this, can I? Not at all."
If anyone were to find him coming back with a naked man in his possession, accusations would come quick and ruthlessly, and no doubt Wal would fish a septon from the bottomless pit that was his arse to condemn him for bestial sins, and get the vengeance he'd always wanted against the best fisherman in the riverlands.
The man coughed again.
Catcher paused.
A low sound of pain arose from the man. His skin, egg-white under moonlight, shone, and his face – it was wet with lake-grime but otherwise clean, and proud and handsome. It was unknown to Catcher how he had ended up in the depths of the Gods Eye, but he could not have come from the sort of place Catcher ate and slept and shit and pissed his days away. The man looked healthy. He looked strong. He looked highborn.
It was very late at night by the time Catcher rowed back ashore, and there were few stars out, and the moon was curtained by thin clouds, giving him ample cover to do what he had decided – stewing thoughtfully by the unconscious man in his boat – not long ago.
His son was sitting by his favorite tree, tearing shards of grass in his hands, when he arrived. He looked up and smiled.
Catcher waved him over. "Come here, son," he whispered, but loud enough to be audible.
The boy frowned. "Why's you whispering, pa?"
"I said get over here, didn't I?"
He complied, rushing ungracefully to the boat. "Good haul, pa," he praised. "Good to eat, good to sell, and…"
His voice trailed off at the sight of the naked man, now wrapped in dark leather canvas.
After a silence: "Who's that?"
"Coin, that's who," Catcher said, smiling, as he swiped at his son's head. "Lots o' coin and fortune for you and I."
"That's a man, though."
Catcher sighed. "Dumb as tin, you are. I know it's a man."
Fear crossed his son's face. "Is he…is he naked, pa?"
Catcher grabbed his son's chin and forced his gaze into his. "Now you listen here don't be gettin' any rude thoughts yeah? I found him in the lake, with the fishies. And I bet you that this naked man here's highborn, son of some piss-all house, and I also bet you that there's some prize to give for him."
The clouds must have moved, for pale silver illuminated the doubt on his boy's face. "I don't know, pa…"
"Look, he's escaped, he has. Run off because of the war. Probably tried crossing the eye by hisself and ended up where he is, yeah?"
Curiosity replaced the misgiving. "You think...you think the Lannisters are after him?"
"Just the one, more like it," he replied. "Waiting in that black castle. Here's what we'll do: we'll carry him up on that tarp there, stick some fishies in, so it'll be like we're carryin' our haul in."
"All the way into the village?"
"It's not that far. And it's dark."
"No it's not."
Catcher rapped him on the head again. "Do as I say."
His son rubbed his head, frowning, but nodded.
He was quite heavy to carry, and just so: Catcher had gotten a good look when he had wrested his body from the net (not too good a look, though). He was tall and well-built, with defined muscles and no traces of excess fat. It was a hard time heaving him out of the boat in the tarp, not to mention navigating the thick brush of the glen that separated the lakeshore from the village. The trees, however, dark and looming, provided them much needed cover to quietly steal into the village.
Or what was left of it, anyway.
They crossed by the ruins of what used to be an inn, avoiding the residences that still housed survivors of the attack – those lucky enough to not have been present when the Mountain rode in. Skirting the fallen and upright beams, blackened and soggy, they made it to their home, at the edge of the village, and miraculously untouched by the scourge. The soldiers had, evidently, acquired their fill of savagery by destroying the small market, and the inn, and all those inside.
"Quickly now," Catcher said, opening the door behind him. It squeaked noisily but no other sound followed. "In, in."
They entered, and his son let out a groan and said, "Where do we put him now?"
"Shut up and make sure the door's closed."
"It's closed already."
"Let's put him on the floor, then."
They slowly dropped him, still covered in leather and fish. A moan escaped the makeshift covering, and Catcher's son froze. "He's alive."
Catcher frowned. "Of course he's alive."
"I thought…I thought you were going to give his dead body to the lord."
"You saw him breathing, didn't you?"
He shook his head.
"Well, he's alive, and I bet that'll fetch a bigger bag of coin. You know what they do to the live ones."
His son stared down at the wet stranger, concern in his eyes. "We're giving him away."
Catcher nodded, wiping his hands. "We are. Come on, help me with the fishies in the boat."
His son continued to keep his eyes on the man, who, by the spare candlelight on the little table they owned, looked calm in slumber, and certainly noble. He's a highborn, all right, Catcher thought, or I'm not my mother's son.
"He looks…kind."
Catcher's frowned deepened. "What's that?"
His son shook his head. "Nothing. It's just…he looks nice, is all."
Catcher reached over and gave his boy a quick slap on the cheek. "Keep that head tight above your shoulders. It's the coin we need, not his kindness."
He nodded slowly. "You're right."
"Come on, you."
And they left to grab their recent catch, leaving the man on the floor, naked, and caught in the peaceful darkness of his mind. It was, no doubt, the last true measure of peace he would have in a long, long time.
A/N: Not dead. Just wasn't expecting to be back. This? Spur of the moment. Don't know how the hell it'll work, or even if it'll last, but here goes nothing.