A/N: Hey people, this is actually something I had written for another fanfic, "Endgame" which I'm co-writing with SeeKay. So, go check it out (it's in chapter 3) and find out how this little ficlet is part of something greater. (Yes, this is indeed shameless advertising, but I promise you won't be disappointed!)
The first and last time Arya had seen her mother collapse before her, it had been snowing. A hundred years had passed but she could still remember as clear as yesterday, though she had been no more than three years old.
Fäolin had already been thirteen. Despite the supposed ten years of additional maturity, it did not prevent him from helping her escape her guards. At three years old, Arya had understood that her guards were her shields, to shadow her tiny footsteps at all times. Her mother had hand-chosen them from her own sentinel division: the swiftest, the bravest and the most skilled in spell casting and swordsmanship alike.
Arya merely pretended they were her shadows, flitting playfully after her childish tumbles, perhaps reflections of what she would become.
She remembered Islanzadí explaining in a gentle, lyrical voice that, 'These are dangerous times child, and you will do well to remember it.' Contemplatively, Arya finds that her own voice now echoes a similar likeness to her mother's then. Albeit it possesses a hardness and weariness that was no doubt forged in the kiln of battle and tempered by the Shade's torture.
Islanzadí had never been more unfortunately correct. Those dangerous times had been enforced and mocked by the broken runner who delivered a message. The message had been a promise of defeat, of agony and of loss.
Arya had been at that time, giving her guards the slip. Fäolin had honed the art of distraction to the extent that even the swift, brave and skilled were not immune to his techniques. It had helped that her guards had been somewhat miffed at their new positions as the protectors of a three year old.
She remembered the rush of running and the sound of her quick and nimble footsteps across the palace grounds. The snow had covered the buildings in pure white armour and left glittering gifts in her hair. She had merely blinked it off her eyelashes in mild annoyance and continued on. Her delight from escaping had made her impervious to even the cold and for a moment, Arya had breathed freedom.
It was then as she had been sneaking pass the throne room, gleefully evading her guards, that she heard an inhuman shriek of pain. It had taken a second for her to identify the voice, another two to freeze in the shock of her revelation, and three more to be at her mother's side.
One, two, three and Islanzadí's wails had faded and abruptly silenced. But it seemed that though her mother's mouth had been closed into a pained, thin line, the whisper of her scream continued to ricochet off the intricate palace walls, and resound in Arya's mind.
Arya had been relieved when Islanzadí had muted her scream and returned to her customary serene state, that she once more was the strong, impenetrable queen and kind mother. She had then realised that the hand she had slipped unknowingly into her mother's in a gesture of unconscious comfort was being crushed.
Before she could cry out in alarm, her mother's hand had loosened and clutched at her heart in a feeble attempt to contain her torment. Then, as though her agony had become too much for her to bear, Queen Islanzadíhad toppled before Arya's eyes and a feather of fear had settled on her heart.
What Arya remembered most clearly about that particular winter's day was the twisted agony on her mother's face and her fear of feeling an identical pain.
It had been days later before someone thought to explain to Arya that her father would not be returning with the battalion of Elven warriors he had left with.
It was a funny thing that when years later, and Fäolin had fallen before her eyes, the feather had fluttered. In the brief lull during her torture at the hands of the Shade, Arya had wondered if her agony and slivers of guilt at Fäolin's passing mirrored her mother's. Perhaps then, it became no surprise that for Arya, love and pain went hand in hand.
Now, as she examines the grey and forlorn skies above, the snow crunching beneath her feet, Arya realises despite all the memories that winter brings, despite the famed strength of Elven memory, she can only remember her father's hands.
Long and slender, they had threaded through her dark hair in elegant, comforting strokes.
Arya glanced at her hands: littered with small scars and pale as snow. They look like her father's and she thinks that maybe, it is acceptable to have forgotten his voice.
Yuki.
fin.