This chapter really should read Chapter 2.5- it is the first half to her stay. I wanted to post this one individually as something shorter and choppier as a stylistic expression of what Sansa is going through. The next chapter is ready and will be posted tonight- I just wanted to have this one standing alone for the afternoon. Please be warned that there will be, in the next two chapters, graphic depictions of drug use and memories of abuse. I think that it is rather tame, but for the sake of triggers I want to give warning. Please enjoy!
Chapter Two
Medicine Man
Vomit stained the front of her dress; her skin was caked in dirt, blood, dust—her hair was in a tangle, her braid undone, chestnut curls twisted into knots. Her hands were bloodied and raw, bisected with cuts and scrapes. How could this be her? Her hair, her skin—was this his Little Bird? Had she flown to him? She was beyond thin, she was gaunt, hollow and fragmented, a shell. Her once noble cheekbones cut like blades, the bridge of her nose like a sharp rod. He could see that under her cloak and dress that she weighed as much as a small child. Gone was her body burgeoning into healthy womanhood—instead she was like a twig which could easily snapped in two. She was shaking, shivering out of control.
"You're alright, Little Bird." He whispered, ushering her in from the cold. The wind was picking up, knocking the shutters and moaning low across the clearing. The Dog was still going wild—snapping and growling, barking in anger. He'd had to kick him back—it was terrifying her. She flinched when it jumped at her, shielding her face with her hands. He'd kennel the bastard for the night.
And now she shrunk away from him as he offered her his hand. Her jawbone was all the while trembling, her teeth chattering. He led her into his house—it too was freezing. The temperature had taken a dive, thunder began to rumble in the distance.
"Don't be afraid, Little Bird." He told her as he lit candles, scrambled to build a fire, went to gather blankets for her.
Had she flown to him?
Was he still asleep?
"Little Bird…"
"Please, Ser, help me." The tome she kept repeating. Ser. Of course. Her eyes were completely blank, clouded over. They weren't as blue as they had been; they were milky and soiled, like egg shells boiled in indigo dye.
But it was her.
It had to be her.
Chestnut hair, eyes that were as vacant as the sea—
It was her, still. Her, her, her, the maiden fair, the Little Bird.
"Little Bird?"
She shook her head.
"Pretty Bird?"
"Please help me, Ser."
"Sansa?!"
She looked at him as though she'd never heard her name before. "Help me."
"What has happened?" He asked her, his voice rattling. He could hear it in his ears, the way he could hear his prayers when said aloud. Everything seemed as though it were happening externally.
Before she could answer she was doubled over, vomiting again. The bile didn't reach the floor—rather, it dribbled down her chin and onto the lap of her dress. She was heaving and crying, begging for help again. It was her, and it isn't. The unspeakable had occurred, he knew that for certain.
He gathered her up into his arms and shushed her as she tried to squirm away. She was as frightened as a kitten confronted by a pit viper. He carried her to his washroom and laid her out beside his tub while he prepared her a bath.
He undressed her with the care of a Maester, refusing to look down at her soiled body. It wasn't the same body now—it was lacerated, covered in bruises the color of the sky in winter. Her thin arms were more bone than meat; the joints in her elbows and wrists protruded out like stones. Her skin was tender and colored like rotting fruit; her inner arms were deepened by blue bruises criss-crossed by her veins, like discarded embroidery threads. The needle-hole scars were puckered and black, like little wild eyes staring up from her extremities. They were resting on pillows of red flesh that rose off of the palate of her milk skin, the clear sign of infection, disease, failing health. Her covered the bathtub in a sheet while she languished in hot water so that her privacy could be respected. She didn't look at him, but she wasn't wincing away. She was mostly murmuring and vomiting watery bile, looking at nothing in particular.
He was afraid that she'd come to him just to die.
That his penance would be thus; laying her to rest.
"I need my medicine." She begged him—she could communicate that much. Help, medicine, help, medicine. "It is in my bag." She directed him.
She'd drift in and out of consciousness, as a leaf swirls in a tide-pool.
"Do you know me, Little Bird?"
"Yes." He unwittingly smiled when she said that she did, and was crushed when she continued. "You are the Stranger."
It didn't take him long to piece together what was happening as he went through her bag, pulling out bottles. Her satchel was almost completely empty. He'd had to dress her in one of his tunics because she had no other clothing, save for the white cloak, now filthy as well. His heart felt like it had been broken when he pulled it out. It was the only possession that she had in the world—beside her medicine. His cloak.
The bottles—he knew them. Anyone who had lived his life knew them. It was whore's medicine.
Of course there would be Milk of the Poppy, but there were other things. Harsh opiates that dissolved the mind and ruined the body, halcyon for concentration, the nerve killers, the pain medicines made of Gods-know-what. And of course the needles: injections, straight to the blood stream. He was no alchemist, but he knew why they were given: to make women utterly compliant, without protest, without a fight in them. They could be beaten without struggling, fucked and passed around without being fed for the day. It was given to the wenches that were stolen, taken in—they were drugged until they forgot something. Until there was no more spirit left in them.
If they were given the drugs for long enough they died. They'd begin to lose control of their bodily functions, vomiting and shitting and losing their hair—until they were too ugly to be fucked and too hungry eat. They'd waste away.
She was wasting away.
Only the strong ones were given that shit—it was so that they could be broken.
She'd not be broken.
But the bottles would be, underneath his feet: ground into the earth, until the liquid dissolved completely so that it could no longer poison. As he swore he'd do to whoever had methodically dismantled her. But the bottles felt no pain. That wouldn't be replicated.
There would be pain.
"That's it, pretty bird." He rasped as he held the steaming cup to her lips, slowly tilting it so that she could take a sip. His other hand was placed on the back of her head, supporting her as she sat up, guiding her mouth to the lip of the cup. Her head threatened to fall to the side, her neck unable to stay straight. Her arms weren't going to move—her eyelids were heavy, as though made of iron curtains. She was breathing, though—and that was more than enough for the moment. As long as she was breathing she was living. He held the bowl under her chin, helping to support her head as she sipped at the stew. She'd finally stopped crying about needing her medicine. He knew that she was in Hell. He was just trying to get her to swallow some food. He'd had rabbit stew on the fire when she'd arrived, and was grateful for it. She needed something to make her strong again, something that would go down easily.
He'd placed her in his bed, wrapped her in his blankets and furs.
He'd had to help her to use the chamber pot, as she was unable to squat for herself. He had to hold her up while she retched so that she didn't spoil his tunic, now her night shift. Her knees wouldn't stop shaking—her ankles were weak and brittle, her spine didn't want to stay straight.
"Thank you, Ser." She'd grimace as he helped her. He could only imagine how horrified she would have been, a Lady being helped by The Hound to use the chamber pot—
And now he sat by her side as she slept, ready to help her if she woke up needing to vomit.
To comfort her when she woke up screaming.
To give her a wet compress if her head hurt.
To assure her that she wasn't alone.
To fight off the bad things.
To remind her to breathe when she began to panic about her medicine.
She'd been convinced that she was dying.
Yet she'd flown to him.
