Lights Out
The little boy opened his eyes to a world of darkness and searing pain. A tortured scream sounded all around him, a dreadful noise that he tried to escape by covering his mismatching ears with small hands. Internally the boy begged and pleaded, wishing that whoever it was would just stop. Gods, he couldn't even hear himself think! Suddenly the boy found he was gasping, lungs empty, and he realised that he was alone.
Fighting to stifle the next outburst, Sandor tried to find a way to cope quietly with this new agony of waking up. He chided himself: crying will only make things worse. Gregor's fists had taught him that. Aiming for some semblance of calm, the boy struggled an inhale into his hitching chest, held it, and then breathed out shakily. This he repeated, again and again. And as the minutes passed by, a stream of tears and the occasional sorrowful hiccup became the only outward evidence of the child's misery.
Sandor remembered dying.
It was by his own brother's hand that it happened. After finding Sandor playing with one of his toy knights, without a word Gregor had picked Sandor up under his arm and forced his head into the burning brazier, keeping it there until it melted away into nothing but an ugly red-black stump at the top of his neck.
All children were told stories of Hell, a place of fire and eternal torment that evil people went to as punishment for their sins. That must be where I am now, the child reasoned. Sandor had always known he was a sinful boy. He had spent too much time being jealous of Gregor for the attention his father gave him, and being so full of anger towards those he was supposed to love unconditionally. These were things that all religious teachers warned against. He tried not to be that way, he really did, but he just could never seem to stop his hateful thoughts.
Now I am to pay my penance...
Sandor began trembling in absolute fear. He knew his demonic tormentor would soon make its entrance. From then on, for the rest of eternity, all he will ever know is bite of its slashing knife and fiery whip. He would live this life as he left the old one...burning.
Sandor resented those lucky enough to never know consciousness.
Out in the abyss before him, something made a light clunking sound before clicking into place – a key unlocking a door. The boy's eyes widened with terror and he tried to meld himself into the wall behind him.
A previously unseen door appeared out of the nothingness. As it opened, the widening gap slowly revealed not a torture chamber, but another, all too familiar, room - the infirmary. For a brief moment, all sense of pain ceased to exist as the brightness of daytime hit his light-sensitive eyes as if for the first time. Sandor was alive, and he dared to hope once more.
A silhouette came to stand in the doorway, cutting Sandor's relief short. What if Gregor has come to finish the job?
Stepping over the threshold, the head of House Clegane came into focus, and Sandor relaxed at the sight of his father.
'You're awake,' the elder Clegane stated.
Sandor remained silent, anticipating his father's next words. He knew his father was not good with this sort of thing, but this time he had to: it was too big. In the stretching dead air the boy tried to guess what his father might say: would he try offering some sort of comfort, or perhaps apologize for failing to protect him against Gregor? Maybe it will be something else entirely?
The elder Clegane sat down on the chair next to his child's bed.
During his life the only consistent thing Sandor seemed to receive from his father was his indifference. But in those times when he doubted his father's love, Sandor would remind himself that he was his son and all parents loved their children. He defended that some parents were just better at showing affection than others.
His father reached out and began roughly unravelling the bandage from the scorched half of the Sandor's face. The child whimpered as wounds that had dried into the cloth were reopened.
'Man up!' His father ordered.
The boy bit his bottom lip trying his hardest to obey, but failed to fight the wince as the final piece was pulled away.
The elder Clegane scooped the bloodied cloth into a ball and tossed it into a nearby waste basket. He sighed harshly through his nose as if exasperated. Sandor could see in his body language that his father was finally going to speak, for some reason it made his stomach flutter.
'You should have known better than to take Gregor's things,' the old man started, and Sandor's heart dropped. 'You know how he is yet you still chose to provoke him.' He paused, jaw clenching. 'It was your own stupidity that got you here, nothing else.'
The Head Clegane rose to stand. And then abruptly headed for the door to take his leave.
If he had bothered to look at his child in that moment, Dalorne Clegane would have seen something in the boy break right in front him, like he'd just come to some dreadful realisation. Those with a heart would say that the expression on his face seemed very wrong on a child of so few years.
'Did you even punish Gregor?' Sandor's near-soulless voice asked.
'No.' His father answered, unashamed. 'Why would I? Gregor did nothing cause your disfigurement.' He turned back to face his son, before adding: 'Your bed caught fire during the night. Gregor risked his life to save you, and you'd do well to remember that.'
Dalorne saw betrayal and revulsion contort his son's already grotesque face, but ignored it. He turned to walk out of the room, closing the door shut behind him.
This time Sandor welcomed the darkness.
It was two weeks before the healers deemed Sandor well enough to go outside and play.
Sandor wasn't sure he wanted to.
Stepping outside, familiar sights and sounds stimulated his senses. Familiar but not the same...there was more grey.
Sandor had a specific destination in mind, the small wood up past the Dancing Mare Inn where children his age often went to play, and a place that older boys like Gregor thought themselves above. To get there though, he'd have to walk near Gregor's favourite spot – the barracks. Sandor figured that if he kept his head down and moved through the area with haste he could avoid the attention of his vicious brother. It was likely Gregor wouldn't pay any mind to him anyway. After all, as far as Sandor had heard, Gregor had not tried to come see him once since the burning, so why would he be interested now? Still, though it was unavoidable, Sandor had no desire to be within a hundred feet of his unpredictable big brother ever again.
Upon arriving at the barracks, Sandor stopped to pull his hood low over his head (and calm his fractious nerves), then started forward. The road he had used to get here was scarcely travelled, so he had yet to see anyone except his father and the healers since the "accident". Now society crowded him. Sandor took in his surroundings: several were focused on refining their blade's edge, some merely talked or bantered with one another, while others practiced with bow or sword. That was where he spotted Gregor. He was taking on two of the older boys at the same time, and even to Sandor's unskilled eye it was clear his brother was winning. Everyone seemed preoccupied with their own activities, Sandor noted with a slight smile.
Turning away from the fight, Sandor continued to cross the barracks. Across the yard Gregor let out a thunderous roar of victory, and every muscle in Sandor's body seized up tight. The older boy walking behind him almost collided with his frozen form.
'The fuck you think your doin'?' he complained, shoving smaller boy.
Sandor recognised that voice. It belonged to Dunsen, one of Gregor's friends. Sandor kept his head down and mumbled out an apology.
Dunsen started pulling at his hood. 'Hey, you fuckin' look at me when you talk to...' he trailed off. The sight of the youngest Clegane's scarred face stunned him, but, unfortunately for Sandor, only for a second. Dunsen suddenly let out a barking laugh and called across the courtyard: 'Shit, Gregor, you really did a number on him!'
Gregor looked over, eyes landing on Sandor's form. The younger Clegane saw his brother's scowl deepen to fury at the mere sight of him. Gregor threw his great-sword down into the dirt with a grunt, and marched purposefully towards him. Sandor almost wet himself.
When he was close enough, Gregor reached out and grabbed a handful of Dunsen's collar pulling him close, almost lifting him off the ground one-handed. 'Keep your damn mouth shut or I'll knock your fucking teeth out,' he snarled, raising his other fist to emphasise his point. Now it was Dunsen who looked like he would piss himself, Sandor thought in amusement. Gregor pushed Dunsen away roughly, not really putting much force behind it. Dunsen still fell on his arse. 'Get lost.' Gregor ordered. Sandor watched as Dunsen scrambled away, all sense of pride left behind in the dirt.
Gregor put hand on his brother's shoulder and lead him to an area of the courtyard that was unpopulated and shadowed; Sandor didn't dare refuse him. As they walked, all Sandor could hear was the rapid thudding of his heart beat in his ears. Coming to a stop, Gregor took his brother's chin in a surprisingly gentle grip and turned the younger boy's face to the side. The abuser took a good long look at his handiwork, and for once Sandor desperately wished he could know what his brother was thinking. After a painstakingly long time, Gregor released his hold.
'No one steals what is mine, not even you, brother.' Gregor said.
Sandor's eyes were glued to the floor, too afraid to look anywhere else. 'I-I w-was g...' Sandor started feebly.
Gregor put a finger under the boy's chin and lifted his head up. 'Look people in the eye when you talk to them or you'll spend your whole life getting walked on. Our sister was weak, look where it got her.' Sandor noted the underlying threat in his brother's words. Gregor bent down looming over the boy. 'House Clegane is nobody's bitch.'
Sandor tried to speak again, this time meeting his brother's hard stare, 'I w-was going to put it b-back. I just wanted to p-play with it,' he stammered.
Gregor paused as if he was actually considering his brother's words. 'I believe you,' he decided, stepping back a little to give Sandor some room. 'But how could I have known you weren't trying to steal it? You didn't ask me first. There is a lesson in this. How else would you learn respect me and what's mine?'
Sandor bit back a reply.
Taking the younger boy's silence to mean agreement, Gregor said: 'I forgive you. Now go play.'
Sandor nodded, eyes looking past his brother and towards freedom. He headed for it, keeping a good distance between his brother's massive frame and his own much smaller one. The boy subtly sighed in relief when he once again walked in the sunlight.
'Sandor,' Gregor called, and once again Sandor was rooted to the ground. 'Keep it.' Gregor said a crooked smile curving his lip. Sandor didn't know what confused him more, Gregor's words or Gregor's expression. What he did know was that he wasn't going to stick around trying to figure it out. With an awkward nod, he tried for the second time to leave the barracks and get to the sanctuary of the Dancing Mare Inn.
Unlike the Journey to the barracks, the road he walked to get to the forest was fairly busy. During the whole of his trek he kept getting odd stares; some were of surprise or repulsion, others were of pity. It made him want to return to hiding beneath his hood, but he knew he could not stay there forever.
Nearing the end of his journey, a sudden burst of children's laughter managed to distract Sandor from his discomfort. He smiled, and then broke out into a run, not stopping until a family of wild evergreens embraced him. He forgot about the world outside of its refuge.
Sandor searched the area for someone to play with. He weaved in and out of trees, leaves rustling beneath his feet. He spotted a huddled form up ahead and slowed down to a jog. She had her back to him, but Sandor could tell it was a girl by her long blond hair and slightly muddied purple dress. Upon her head lay a crown of sticks and flowers, and around her wrists and ankles poorly tied rope bound her. There playing knights and monsters, Sandor realised, and she is the captive princess to be rescued! Sandor grabbed a wooden "sword" from the ground, and approached her stealthily.
'Fear not princess,' Sandor began in his best "knight voice". 'I will free you from captivity and slay the beast that took you.'
The girl turned round, her bright face darkened to terror as she took in the large form of the grotesque that stood before her. Sandor failed to see the change, his eyes on her bonds. He took hold of her wrists to start removing the knots.
'Stop it! Get off me!' she begged, struggling as if her life depended on it. Sandor didn't release his grip at first, too shocked by the outburst. 'Help me! HELP!' she started screaming.
Sandor jumped away from her, hands up and defensive. He didn't understand what he had done wrong; he didn't mean to hurt her.
'I'm sorry,' he said, but even he couldn't hear himself over her yelling.
Four boys ran into the area, each had a stick in hand. Her Knights, Sandor figured. The boys looked at the panicked girl first and then to Sandor, their eyes widening at the sight.
'Get away from her, freak,' one of them ordered.
Three of the boys held their sticks out warningly, and moved to put themselves between Sandor and the girl, caging him in. The last boy bent down to help the girl free herself.
'What happened?' The boy who freed her asked. 'Did he try to hurt you?'
She trembled in his arms. 'It grabbed me. I told it to s-stop but it wouldn't...' she cried.
'You like beating on little girls, beast?' The boy in front of Sandor said, eyeing him with disgust. 'Maybe we ought to teach the dog some respect.' He glanced at the other boys for support, they both nodded in agreement.
The boy swung out. On instinct, Sandor grabbed the stick before it could collide with him, dropping his own in the process. The boy tried to pull his stick back, but Sandor's grip was far too strong. The boy to Sandor's left wacked him on the hand, hard, and Sandor's grip went lame, allowing the other boy to pull back his weapon.
Learning from their mistake, the boys moved to better surround their target and all three struck at once. This time there was nothing Sandor could do to stop the blows accept scrunch his body up tight, and put his hands up to protect his head. They wacked him all over with relentless, bruising strikes that made Sandor cry out and his legs weaken.
A simple kick to the back of his knee sent him crumbling down to the ground. His hands went down to break the fall, and one of the boys saw an opportunity. Sandor wailed in pain as the jagged end of a stick was smacked across his face, splintering his cheek and leaving it bloody. Sandor rolled onto his stomach, and returned his hands to cradling his head. He lay there panting and groaning into the dirt while they pummelled him.
They won't stop, Sandor thought in panic.
...I have to stop them.
Drawing strength from some reserve he didn't know existed, Sandor propelled his body forward. He charged the boy who hit his face, knocking him flat on his back. Seeing his window, Sandor stumbled over him, then ran and kept running, not looking back once. He heard them call after him. They shouted cruel things, christened him with inhuman names.
Time drifted away, there was only adrenaline.
Sandor sustained his pace until their voices had long since faded from his ears. He entered a clearing with a pond at its centre, the injured boy lagged before collapsing next to it. He had but a second to catch his breath before the first sob escaped his lips. He tried to cover it with his hands, but traitorous tears began to spill down his cheeks. Now he had started he was powerless stop. The child bawled loud and messy into his hands. Since that day with Gregor it seemed that every good in world, all his hope, had turned its back on him. Sandor felt as if his soul had been flayed. He wept and wept, until the sunny summer's day turned to dusk and the sky clouded over. His eyes felt close to bursting by the time they finally ran out of tears. Now that he could no longer physically cry, his body slowly calmed down.
Sandor leant over the pond and studied the person that stared back at him. He was big, bigger than any boy his age should be. And that face... He appeared as a monster from one of those fairytales he liked to read: malformed and gross...unnatural and tainted... It was no wonder the other children turned on him.
'Please, Mother, let me be as I was before,' Sandor prayed, willing with all his heart for the reflection to change. 'Let me be a child again.'
As if in answer, water droplets fell into the mirror distorting the image further.
I am I crying?
A few more droplets splashed against the top his head.
No, he thought bitterly. Everyone knows that Monsters don't cry.
Sandor sat back on his heels.
He didn't want to look anymore.
He sniffled and dropped his hands into his lap. There was a bump in his left trouser leg. Confused, he looked down at himself. He didn't remember putting anything in his pocket when he left the infirmary this morning. Slipping his hand inside, he clasped a wooden object and pulled it out to see.
Gregor's toy knight.
The boy's eyes widened then narrowed. 'Keep it,' Gregor's voice echoed through his mind.
Sandor's fist tightened around the toy, his grip so fierce it turned his knuckles white. 'Why? Why would he do this?' he demanded aloud, barely controlling the rage inside. Was this stupid fucking toy, the thing that started everything, supposed to be an apology, his repayment for what's been done? Gregor didn't even want it in the first place.
It was a mockery: those noble blue eyes staring up at him.
He wanted to smash the toy, break it up into a million pieces and then burn them as he had been burned. Instead, Sandor put the toy back in his pocket. Clutching it through the materiel of his trousers, he reconsidered the world he lived in: his perception of good and evil, the lie that was justice, and the idiotic notion that good gods existed.
There is only one Hell. I have been living there all my life, I just didn't know it.
Childish illusions shattered, Sandor saw only one option before him. With great effort, he forced himself to his feet and stood tall, body steeled in his awakening. Within him, Sandor's heart became armoured with the coldest stone.
...And the saddest rain fell.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading! This is my very first fanfic so please be gentle with me, I'm sure I have a lot to learn. I really hope to hear what you think and would be very greatful for any sort of feedback, no matter how long or short. I've got plenty of ideas for this fic, especially for when the brothers have grown into adulthood, but I am a little concerned as to whether there is a even audience for this type of story, since I can't seem to find other fics/readers for these characters together. I really hope you are out there and I'm not just talking to myself... *crosses fingers*