Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"), also known as Kintsukuroi (金繕い, "golden repair"), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.
TW: this story will deal with eating disorders (nothing graphic).
Margaery truly believes she can safely say that, at this point in her career, she's seen it all.
Seven years as an accomplished therapist have brought a plethora of broken and damaged souls seeking some form of salvation to the her humble office, people she's had to patiently listen to, observe the minute details of their faces shifting in a flash, notice the trembling of their hands or how their eyes would shift away from her unwavering gaze when unburdening themselves to her felt too overwhelming, learn when to sit beside them and gently give them a tentative touch when needed to and when to keep her distance, when to sit at the desk and when to opt for the little sofa by the large double windows, truly see what lays beyond the broken person they are to their friends and family who just didn't get it and understand where and how the cracks had formed, where the deepest roots of their pain and trauma lay, see those people in their most raw and vulnerable state so as to aid them in working out the damage and rebuilding themselves towards a more fulfilling version of themselves, but this time with better foundations, a helpful hand and constant support along the way they could reach out for if need be.
Its long hours of constant dedication, emotional availability, research, late emails exchanged with Doctor Samwell Tarly who lives at the other side of the country, it's heading out as the dew settles on the leaves of the rose bush in her garden every morning and the old Renault 6 TL letting her know each time that it is on its last legs, it's sharing a coffee and a donut with Brienne as she checks in in the morning –sometimes even asks about how things are going with Jamie, and the flustered look on her colleague's face never ceases to amuse her (it has gone from we're still trying to figure it out to we're getting there and, more recently, we are very well, thank you very much). They've been together for nearly a year now, yet she's still surprised to learn that Brienne hasn't fully adjusted to life with a partner. She's met him a few times, Jamie, he too comes in for therapy sessions since the loss of his hand (unfortunate mechanical accident, apparently, Margaery remembers wincing in sympathy when he'd felt well enough in himself to show her his actual stump the first time), still finds it difficult to eat as she'd seen for herself when Brienne had invited her to share a table with them at the therapy center's canteen, but she says they're getting there. Slowly, at his own pace, but steadily they're getting there.
Those few breaks where she gets to talk with Brienne and Jamie (there are others, but Brienne and Jamie are the two people she likes the most), are moments she has quite possibly learnt to treasure as the most invaluable. Her job as a therapist is, all around a lot of hard work –both on her side and on that of her, at times, emotionally exhausted patients- but Margaery wouldn't give it up for the world. She knows she can oft times come across as asking a lot of them, but ultimately, it's for their own wellbeing- but she takes a certain pride in, more often than not, shaking their hand three weeks or several months later (it all depends on how quickly they recover, and she always makes sure to tell them to go at their own pace, and if that means the process takes time, well that's okay) when their last session rolls around and truly wishing them well, confident that they are once again ready to tackle life, it's hardships and all its unforeseeable impediments as they come, and she ticks off another successful case on her long list of accomplishments. The hugs and tears she gets from those truly special patients, Margaery thinks no words can ever truly encapsulate how much that means to her.
However, that is when the therapy works and proves to be successful on all accounts. For she knows she probably doesn't drastically alter the really timid ones, who barely dare to come out of their shell in her presence to the point where Margaery considers it a feat if she can get an easy-going full conversation up and running by the time they leave her, nor does she truly humble some with far too much ego, entirely reshaping people into what their broader society asks of them is not what she's here for, really, nor does she think that the young man covered in bruises and ashamed of having to mention he'd let himself be hit by his partner she let go last week has come to terms with the fact that it wasn't his fault, it was all his partner's, she shouldn't have hit him under any circumstances, she was wrong but she can only hope that he's in a better place now and will, perhaps one day, understand that he is not, under any circumstances, to blame for what was done to him. All in all, perhaps not every one of her cases may be a hundred percent successful, but Margaery is more of a mind that, as long as those patients feel more confident in themselves and in a better place, mentally speaking, than when they first pass the threshold of her modest consulting room, then she may consider the work she does with them as an accomplishment.
Which is why, after shaking Ser Mormont's hand, wishing him a pleasant end of the week and letting him know she's eagerly awaiting all of the details of his Saturday afternoon with his niece Lyanna next time they've arranged to meet, and turning back to the list of scheduled appointments for the day, patting down the stray strand of hair she can feel is out of place over her left ear (perfect presentation and professionalism is everything in her line of work, one always has to look perfect), she is, in all honestly, more than a little surprised to see the name "Stark" written down in elegant black ink –she really would have to commend Brienne sometime, for she truly is a one of a kind secretary (and in all honesty, she means far more than her assigned job to Margaery), and has, by far, the most refined writing she's come across in a long time. It far surpasses her own completely unreadable scribble (according to her mother, who always has to squint and repeatedly complains that it might even end up ruining her eyesight for good. Margaery still isn't sure whether she actually had meant it when she'd said it, that time she'd gone over to her house for the Christmas holidays, or if she'd merely said so for dramatics, gods knew her mother loved to seize any chance for theatrics), at any rate- at the bottom of the sheet.
Stark is all there is to see really, asides from the time slot he must have picked when initially phoning Brienne (3:15, so she has another few minutes to spare, it would seem). Margaery looks at the name again, frowns, tilts her head in what she is sure is the equivalent of the puzzled puppy look.
She knows Stark. Well, knows is perhaps a little too strong a word, Margaery thinks after a moment. 'Knows of' might be far better suited, for she cannot in all honesty say that they are close friends or anything of the sort, but the Stark name is for sure known throughout the entire town, if not the region. Eddard Stark owns the local family-run bakery downtown, just opposite Tarly's old and dusty library, the one with the two front letters bound to fall off any day now (Brienne has placed bets on it not lasting more than a few weeks at best, whereas Missandei, slightly more optimistic, is generously giving it a month and a half. Margaery can't be sure. She's seen the antique, but honestly has slightly more important matters to attend to than reflecting on the 'what ifs' and 'maybes' of it coming apart), it's a family inheritance, or so she's heard, the men have all been bakers or pâtissiers for generations now.
She's been to Stark's bakery a few times, hops in occasionally on the way back from an excruciatingly long day at work just to pick up something to nibble on on the way home and occasionally brings back a vanilla éclair for her mother when she spends the weekend at her place. It certainly isn't the most luxurious place in town, nor has it ever tried to be, but in spite of the howling wolf painted on the side of the window (why was it there? That is indeed a good question, Margaery has never really managed to figure it out, nor has she really asked, but it is something she occasionally finds herself wondering about) it never fails to have a welcoming atmosphere for everybody, no matter the hour they decide to drop by. Robb Stark, the eldest son of the family, will sometimes even let her pick from the last batch of golden bread freshly out of the oven, saying she may as well make the most of it while it's hot, he's nice like that. And if Catelyn isn't looking, she sometimes even tears off the heel and discreetly gives it to Nymeria, the huge family dog usually found lounging in the corner in her basket, who, of course, never says no to a morsel and makes sure to lap up every crumb in sight to hide any evidence of the crime. If Catelyn ever notices, she never says anything.
As she looks at the name, eyes following the fluid motion of Brienne's hand tracing Eddard's "d", Margaery wonders what could possibly bring one of the Starks –of all people- to her cabinet. Far be it for her to assume they never have any personal problems, but while she may not know them intimately, from what she's both seen and heard of them, they all seem to be rather down to Earth (perhaps even too much so if she is to believe the gossiping that goes around during coffee breaks about Arya, the younger daughter, and, apparently, a real tomboy troublemaker at heart), and she's long ago pinned them as a close-nit family that would rather work through an issue together than seek out a professional psychiatrist for help. Not that Margaery minds them coming to her for help, that is what she's here for, after all, and she'll do what she can. It's merely… A rather unexpected turn of events.
She's just about done reading through the rest of the page, once again thanking her stars for Brienne's neat handwriting, when a faint knock on her door has her look up, said secretary's face peering in through the partially open door. Margaery watches, not without a hint of amusement, as the blonde huffs in annoyance as, probably not for the first time that day, she has to tuck back a rebellious strand of blonde hair behind her ear, before reverting back to her usual calm and poised persona –a real professional, Margaery truly thinks she could not for the world have a better colleague. She's told Brienne repeatedly she doesn't expect her to be prim and proper around the clock, she can afford to slip up from time to time (Margaery is a therapist, she knows more than most how their society's incessant will to make machines out of humans is pure fantasy, finds it most regrettable that Brienne is forever trying to conform to the standard) that she's human and therefore allowed to be imperfect, the other lady always insists, to the point where it's almost become some kind of routine for them.
"Stark, here to see you, Miss." She says eventually, a nice shade of pink beginning to colour her cheeks, and probably to avoid Margaery pointing it out and flustering her further, she turns back to the hallway pretexting a file that needs to urgently be looked at and gestures for her next client to come in on her way out.
It's only then that Margaery turns back to her desk and notices the clutter; paperwork here, a blue pen there, the discarded cap of a red one by her computer, the previous file still open and the phone hidden under a stack of no doubt important folders. Well that simply won't do, will it? She has about thirty seconds to get rid of the mess, and, knowing nothing she does now sill alleviate the Rob Duhon look, she merely pushes the clutter to one side of the desk in a swipe, vowing that she'll look at it all later, as Brienne lets Eddard Stark in.
Stark, as it happens, is far greater up close than when she merely catches a glimpse of him in the back of his bakery, muscles taut and wiping a sweaty brow as he works in front of the sweltering heat of the oven, when she's there buying pastries from his son. But his posture is easy-going enough, if perhaps a little tense, as he introduces himself and offers her a calloused hand to shake –he almost looks out of place in his white shirt, so unlike the stained once-upon-a-time-white apron she usually sees tied around his waist, one strap hanging loosely on his shoulder not yet having had the time to be fixed.
"Mister Stark, a pleasure to meet you." She says, the usual greeting a habitus that rolls almost automatically off her lips. It is only after they exchange formalities, and that the man takes a step in and looks behind him, making a motion with his hand, that Margaery notices that they are, in fact, not alone, and that hovering behind him is a girl –probably a few years younger than her-, long red hair cascading down one shoulder. She doesn't mean to stare, but she finds herself doing so anyway, because she finds herself absolutely transfixed by ice blue eyes, and a face that could have been sculpted by Bernini himself if it isn't perhaps or the massive circles under her eyes and her hollow cheeks.
Margaery doesn't have to look further beyond the collarbones peeking out from under her flowered shirt to assess what the problem is. She had doubted that Stark had booked an appointment for himself, even more so when appraising him merely moments beforehand, he seemed fine to her. Looking at his daughter however is another story –because that is who it had to be, right?- and the issue it is more than evident.
Margaery realizes only too late that she hasn't managed to hold in her taut –pained- smile, and she really hopes it does not come across as pitying, she knows pity tends to be among the most un-useful of all things, despite the underlying sympathy she's trying to convey. Victims and trauma survivors do not look for pity, hate it because it is merely a manifestation of others seeing beyond what they put out there, what they want others to see, it is them being unable to hide the deepest core of their trauma. It is a violation of intimacy, and Margaery is pretty sure both she and the Stark girl are well aware of her infraction as soon as their eyes meet.
She can't help it. Looking beyond the mask, peeling back the pretty picture and taking a look at the ugliness beneath is part of her job, it's why people come to see her (at varying degrees of willingness), it's just that she can feel this patient is somewhat different. Margaery prides herself with being capable of retaining a professional distance towards those in her care, yet the icy glare the young woman across the table gives her cuts her deeper than she'd expected, feels like the thorn of a delicate rose scraped along her insides painfully slowly.
Instead of letting the Stark's gaze affect her so, she instead draws herself back to the case at hand and, scrambling for a few seconds in which she can form a coherent sentence, reads through the first page of the dossier again, despite having done so merely minutes before.
Sansa Stark.
University student, UCL London. European Social and Political Studies.
Part time job at Lannister INC: model.
24.
41kg.
She's seen a plethora of cases, yet ones like these never fail to twist her gut.
Stark's daughter is far from the first patient she's had afflicted by this, yet Margaery knows it's particularly hard because such an ailment delves into far more complexity than a few therapy sessions, off handed meaningful conversations and eating more consistent meals. And judging by Stark's daughter –her name is Sansa, she remembers how the letters sounded on Catelyn's tongue when asking her to keep Nymeria away once, when the giant dog persistently curled around an old lady's feet, hoping perhaps for a piece of the chocolate éclair she'd just bought, Margaery had only caught a glimpse of long auburn hair- she does not look happy to be here in the slightest.
Margaery understands, knows how this must feel for her to be trapped in a small room, caught between her father's -although well meaning- still imposing stature on one side of her and the wall on the other, the desk in front of her and the seat behind, knowing that a most unpleasant conversation is about to happen and she cannot do not a thing to prepare for it safe to hope the blows don't land too hard on her already fragile person.
She shakes her hand, welcomes her with the warmest smile she can muster, doesn't comment anything when Sansa Stark mutters something unintelligible and pointedly avoids looking at her by, firstly, hiding behind her long auburn hair, and then faking a sudden interest in pink flowers on the Klimt rendition she has hanging on the wall. Anything to avoid getting roped into the conversation, it would seem.
(Or perhaps she really does like art, she thinks after a while, for she is looking at the piece with the upmost interest. Perhaps she can ask her if they ever get a conversation going between them and Sansa feels safe enough to unburden a little of herself to her, even if it's just sharing her mundane interests. Margaery finds herself almost surprised that she genuinely wishes to know what Sansa enjoys doing in life).
Eddard Stark, she notices, looks apologetic (bless him), and Margaery immediately puts his fears to rest, that there is no need to feel embarrassed for anything, least of all being a little late, "We've got all the time in the world," she assures him, because she knows this is going to take a while.
"I'm very glad you came", she says instead so as to break the ice, looking at both of them, ease them into the conversation instead of directly tossing them into the intricacies of the job and the complicated jargon she usually uses with Missandei when they share a much-needed coffee at the end of the day and bring up the unusual patients they sometimes have. She knows she'll have to be cautious so as to not lose them both in her explanations, Margaery loves her job, but sometimes knows she can get swept up in the array of terminologies she's used to with people who have no clue, and she would rather not lose her patients mid-sentence because she didn't stop and explain it all to them. Transparency and all that.
"We would have been here earlier, but the family Ford is getting a little old, not the best at this time of the year, you see…" And again, he looks apologetic.
Margaery notices then that the collar on his shirt isn't white like she'd previously assessed, but is greyish, and if she looks closely (trying not to stare), there might even be a stitch or two where the first button lays beneath the collar. Ah, so it has obviously seen better days then, and judging by the rest of his suit, it likely isn't new either. The Starks certainly aren't on the same level as the lavish Lannisters or Targaryens, it would seem. Not that she is one to judge, Margaery is here merely to offer assistance and help, whether the client in need is the janitor for the local pub or the Queen of the Riverlands, she makes no discrimination: at the end of the day, a person in need of help is a person in need of help, regardless of their background, income or social status.
And Sansa is in need of help. Rather urgently too, by the looks of it.
She is here though (whether she's come of her own free will or had needed some rather insistent persuasion, Margaery didn't know, but can hazard a good guess, judging by the constant look of worry etched onto Eddard Stark's face, that he is the one who dragged her along), and it is a start, the first step. Granted, there would be many more to come, and not all of them would be as simple as merely stepping into the therapist's office and taking a seat –actually, there might be setbacks and a few stumbles along the way, unfortunate, but inevitable- but it is a start, at least they can try to go somewhere from here.
"Don't worry about being late, we can all get held up sometimes", speaking from experience, many a folder has caused her delays in her schedule more than once, Margaery isn't going to hold that against them. "So, what are you here for? How can I help you?"
Margaery knows, of course, what they are here for: she's read through the file and even if she hadn't, one look at her client and it is painfully obvious, but this isn't about her, Margaery, this is about Sansa and her father coming to terms with the real issue at hand. They know (or at least, he does, it either hasn't seemed to have dawned on Sansa yet or she's just playing the ostrich for now) that there is a problem, but it's one thing to know there's a problem, it's another thing entirely to be able to put a name on it and accept it as a reality.
Eddard glances at his daughter, but Sansa is obstinately looking away, still transfixed by the Klimt painting and doing just about everything she can to ignore what is going on- denial then? Running away from the problem so as to not have to accept that there was one in the first place?- From the bristling of her father's shoulders as, disappointed that his daughter will not speak as he turns back to her, to her client refusing to even glance their way, she can make out in under a minute that the problem runs beyond a few skipped meals over the past month or so with an unhealthy dose of too much running. It's something that goes far deeper than that, and they will get to it, eventually, Margaery is confident.
Although the non-eating part certainly is the main priority for now, of course.
She'd only caught a glance of her before, but as she lets Eddard find his words, Margaery studies her new client in more detail. Her hands are both on the table, linked together, fingers betraying the anxiety she does not wish to translate into words (and that's fine, they can get to that later if need be) –it's discreet, almost imperceptible, but the movement of a bony wrist catches Margaery's eyes and she's quick to catch on. She does not see beneath the shirt and jeans, does not have to look to know that there she will find jutting hipbones and knees, more of the pasty skin stretched taut over too preeminent ribs, a concave stomach and protuberant elbows. She's seen it all before, helped other patients with the same problem in the past, yet this time she feels something stir deep down in her gut, a kind of empathy that she wishes Sansa Stark could brush with the tips of her fingers without her having to utter a single word. A kind of empathy she's never really felt for anyone else.
"I think it's pretty evident," Eddard says at last, when Sansa still will not speak, the words stumbling out of his mouth. Not one for small talk, is he? Direct and to the point. "She… She's not eating, and-and I, we… I don't know what to do. We're worried, we want to try and fix it. But… We've tried and it hasn't worked, and I'm worried, Bran and Cat and Arya and Rickon and Robb and Jon and we're all-we just don't know what to do." His wavering voice betrays his state, a barely concealed anguish he exposes, giving a voice to the absent members of the family he has just named. He cares, they all do, it's obvious (painfully so), Eddard Stark is not one to shy away from expressing his affection for his children, nor does he shy away from showing how vulnerable their afflictions pain him. Margaery has to admire that, how much of an open book he is, how he just puts it out there, raw and honest.
Sansa remains passive through it all, an emotionless mask painted upon her features, but Margaery does take note of her biting her lip as her father mentions her siblings, the way they've all been feeling. So she is not as immune to their worry as she tries to let on then.
"I understand, and again, I cannot commend you enough for coming. The first step is always the hardest, and you have taken it, that's good." She isn't too sure whether it's Sansa or Eddard she's trying to reassure, but guesses that it can't hurt if both of them feel like they've done the right thing today. Positive reinforcement, she likes to call it. "We can build from here, try and find a path forward to help you get better." She looks at Sansa as she finishes, the other girl's face remains determinedly unreadable.
Eddard nods along, "That's good, that's very good," He laughs –that nervous kind of laughter, where laughter is the only way you can think of dealing with the heavy burden on your shoulders- relieved, looks at his daughter once before his eyes find hers again, "What do you think the best course of action to be? Should we be buying pills? Or maybe increase the share of protein at the table? Make sure Sansa can eat more? Or is it carbohydrates? I'm never certain, I'll read up on it, do what I can!" He's eager, perhaps a little too much even, a light in his grey eyes at the prospect of finally dragging the family out of whatever dark hole this has caused for them, and Margaery almost feels sorry for cutting his enthusiasm short. It's not that she doesn't appreciate his good will –god knows the family, and Sansa especially, is going to need it in the near future- it's just that it's not like that. And so she tells him: perhaps a little bluntly, but honesty is one of the core values she works with, the hard truth is far better than the sweet comfort of a lie, it only hurts more in the end anyway.
"It's not like that…" She says, trying to find the right words, try and ease their understanding.
The rose on her desk sheds a petal, Eddard's wide smile vanishes instantly, the worried crease in his brow returning tenfold.
"Oh…" Is all he can muster, as if her words had just punched him in the stomach, blown all the air out of him so to say.
"No, no, no, it's good that you're showing good will, a lot of what we are going to be going through will rely on mental strength and positivity," She reassures him, lets him know that his optimism truly is appreciated and may play an integral part in his daughter's recovery if he wishes it so, and then turns to Sansa, "But, I am not going to lie, recovery isn't instantaneous. There is no magic solution by which you could go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow… Fixed, for lack of a better word, as if nothing had ever happened. It will take time."
"Looks like Cersei Lannister is going to be absolutely thrilled with all this unnecessary mess." It's the first time Sansa has spoken, and her voice dips with sarcasm, the underlying disdain for both the woman and her current situation absolutely tangible.
"I cannot let you go back there Sansa, you know it…" Eddard sighs, shoulder slumping and every line on his forehead visible, probably tired of having to yet again have the same argument he's already had countless times before. Margaery says nothing, judges it imprudent to step into a topic she clearly has no knowledge of and has no place to insert her own opinions, and so leans back a little, draws herself out of the conversation.
Margaery has always prided herself in her ability to read people, it's what she does, yet as easily as she's pinpointed Sansa's problem (eating disorders, you need to put a name on it to try and find a way to fix it) as soon as she'd stepped out from behind her father's comforting shadow, she is now finding it incredibly hard to estimate what kind of person Sansa really is underneath all the sarcasm and looks. It doesn't happen often, hasn't happened to her in a long time, and yet instead of feeling some sort of frustration simmering beneath her skin, Margaery is actually eager to carefully take down those walls Sansa has enclosed herself behind –and by the looks of it, those are sturdy walls to say the least- and get to the root of the problem, talk it out calmly, patiently, knowing, on the one hand, that it will be hard for Sansa, yet also knowing that she'll be better off once she does come to terms with it. After all that, perhaps some rebuilding could be in order, picking up the scattered pieces, salvaging those worthwhile, even if they're dinged, a little bent or rough around the edges, and make something similar out of them: it would still, ultimately, be Sansa, just not quite the same, yet not entirely foreign either.
She just has to get past the layers of damage first, and Sansa doesn't look like she's about to make it easy –not if the frown, the glare, the withdrawn posture and the skinny arms tightly wrapped around her torso are any indication- but that's okay. Margaery has, after all, never been one known to back down from a challenge, and she doesn't particularly intend to change that trend now.