A/N: My apologies in advance if this chunk is a bit rough. I'm desperately trying to meet my self-imposed deadline of a chapter a week and I only have a few hours to go before I'll have missed it. I claim the right to come back and do any editing necessary to make it flow better. Don't forget to feed the muse with your comments/reviews! It makes both of us work harder.
These Scars We Wear - 9
A month passes and Elder Brother finds him in the stable one afternoon, mercilessly hacking at his straw-stuffed and silent opponent with a crudely carved wooden sword.
"We've gotten word from the Citadel," he says.
Sandor tosses away the child's weapon and grabs a scrap of cloth hung over the low gate of Stranger's stall. He wipes the sweat from his face and neck and asks, "What news?"
Elder Brother has the scroll in one hand and a long, loosely wrapped bundle in the other. He hands Sandor the scroll. "It is as I thought: a false spring. They cannot say how long it will last. Perhaps half a year, but no longer. If you mean to go, it should be soon."
He looks up from the message and nods. "I'll likely leave on the morrow or the day after, then. Take the ferry across to Saltpans, and north from there."
Elder Brother holds his hand out for the paper and replaces it with the bundle. "You'll be needing this."
As Sandor's hand closes round it, he recognizes the shape and weight of what is wrapped within. Glancing between it and the monk as he works the cloth loose, he swallows hard at the sudden reality of what is ahead of him and the significance of what he's been handed.
The wrapping falls away and he holds a worn leather scabbard in his hands, free of embellishments and with a dull patina that speaks of years of hard use. What the scabbard lacks in beauty, the bastard sword sheathed within makes up for. As he pulls it free, he sees that it is a magnificent weapon, with a thick leather-wrapped grip and an acorn shaped pommel. The guard is wide enough for his massive hand and finely carved. Sandor lifts the blade to eye level and peers down its length, judging it true, and the steel shines in the light streaming through the stable doors. "A gift from the Trident?"
"Aye – one of many. I asked Brother Bryan to choose something out for you, make sure it was cleaned of rust and honed good and sharp. He was a smith before he came to us. I dare say he took great pleasure in the task."
"It's beautiful," Sandor murmurs. "Thank you."
"How is the weight? Is the balance good for your arm?"
Sandor twists away from Elder Brother and swings the blade in a wide arc and then back again. And then again and again, cutting high and low, thrusting and parrying against an invisible enemy. The muscles of his arm, shoulder, and torso sing at the return of the weight of true steel in his hand, and he is nearly overwhelmed with an odd feeling of wholeness, a completeness he has not felt in a very long time.
"Don't kill anyone who doesn't deserve it," Elder Brother admonishes as Sandor sheathes the sword. It slides smoothly into the scabbard with barely a whisper.
"By your gods' judgment or mine?"
"I trust the two are more closely aligned than they once were," the man wryly observes. "Else I have failed in my efforts these past two years."
Sandor snorts. "You think you've turned me into a man worthy of being a true knight?" His jape is only half-meant as such. The rest is tinged with sharp cynicism.
"You have always been worthy, Sandor. You simply lost your way, as many men before you have. As many who will come after are destined to do. I have accepted that you are not a man meant to serve the Seven, as I had hoped. But you are a testament to their mercies and their grace."
"I suppose I am, as much as any of my sort can be."
"You have been here a long while, brother. The world beyond this isle has changed; it is not the world you once knew."
"And I am not the man I was."
They share a long look between them. It is one of respect and friendship and hard-won affection, too. Elder Brother looks away first, his hand circling the air in a vague and slightly uncomfortable gesture. "When you are ready Brother Bryan will help choose out amour to suit you. We've not much plate large enough to fit you properly, but there is mail and boiled leather that will serve. Your robe will conceal what needs stay hidden." He throws a wary glance in Stranger's direction. "Please tell me you plan on taking this abominable creature with you."
Sandor reaches out and scratches down the horse's nose. His mount tolerates it for only so long before raising his head and nipping at his fingers. "I won't leave him behind."
"An answered prayer; he does us little good."
A silence falls and stretches as Elder Brother studies the ground at his feet and Sandor inspects him, in kind. He can feel the hesitancy that gathers and grows and finally has to end it. "Go on, old man" he growls, "just spit it out. Neither of us will have a bloody moment's peace until you do."
"Very well," Elder Brother says gruffly, as if being forced to do something he'd rather not. "You must have given it some thought. What will you do, Sandor, if you find her and she does not-"
"Want to see me or have anything to do with me? Wants my head on a spike? Is that what you want to know? Aye, I've given it plenty of thought. If that's the case, I'll accept it – what else can I do? Might be she'll send me away, or want to see me dead. I'll give up my life gladly if that is the price she demands. But first I will say to her what needs be said. And then … only your gods know what comes after."
"You are always welcome here."
"No, I won't be returning. This is your life, not mine. Might be the Wall is the place I'll end up, if the little bird won't have me. They say once you speak your intent to take the black, all your crimes are forgiven."
"You would take their vows?"
"Maybe." Sandor claps Elder Brother on the arm. "With fingers crossed behind my back."
Laughing, the two men leave the stable together, Sandor's arm slung loosely across Elder Brother's shoulders.
….
The morning Sandor plans to be gone dawns bright and cold. The bells pull him from a dream that leaves him cotton-mouthed and uneasy. He has walked a vast expanse of white as he's slept: snows knee-deep and untouched by man or beast. He is utterly alone and with no destination. There are no landmarks, no trees, no villages or keeps, only snow. And then he begins to see the blood, small spots of it at first and then splashed more heavily in a trail before him. He begins to take longer strides, trying to run as the snow pulls at his legs, reluctant to give up its hold on him. And finally he sees her, lying in the snow. She is wearing a gown of white, whiter even than the snow that cradles her as she rests on her back, hands folded neatly across her chest. Her eyes are closed, her full lips slightly parted, her perfect porcelain face smooth and pale. And the red is all about her: silken waves of hair fanned out around her head, and the deeper, darker scarlet of her blood in a ragged circle surrounding her. He can do nothing but stand and stare at her, his belly in his throat.
Then her eyes come open and she turns her head to look him straight in the face, telling him, "I couldn't protect myself. So I died and got out of the way of those who could."
And Sandor's heart shatters.
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he jerks as a knock comes at his door. Shoving away the tattered remnants of his nightmare, he rises from his pallet and crosses the room to open it. Brother Narbert is standing there, ruddy-faced and impatient looking.
"Elder Brother wishes me to tell you that you needn't hurry - the ferry may be delayed. He sent Brother Marcus across last eventide to fetch Septon Maribald. He brings us another soul seeking refuge this morn, and they'll not arrive until later. Elder Brother will meet you at the dock after prayers and breakfast."
Sandor nods his understanding and shuts the door. He goes to the chamber pot in the corner to piss and then fills a basin with water from a pitcher and washes his face and hands, wishing he could cleanse his mind of the nightmare too.
Just a dream, he thinks. She's alive. I would know it if she was dead.
"What are you now, Clegane," he chides himself aloud, "a fucking wizard, too?"
He slips out of his heavy nightshirt and into breeches, socks and boots, and then a rough-spun tunic. The mail comes next, and the studded leather jerkin. He wraps a belt around his waist, securing his new dagger in its sheath. And over it all he pulls on a clean brown robe, slit to mid-thigh at both sides. His bastard sword he'll strap to his saddle, within easy reach.
His bag has already been packed but he goes through it again and then does a slow circle of his small cell, making sure he hasn't forgotten anything. He steps to the table and his hand hovers over a book laying there, a well-worn copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. Sandor grabs it before he can reconsider and shoves it into the pack, next to a bundle of rolled up papers there, tied tightly with a leather string. They are letters, all of them, painstakingly written over the last year and a half. And all of them to the girl.
Sandor grabs the pack and sets it by the door as he wraps a scarf around his nose and mouth and pulls up the hood of his robe. He retrieves the pack, opens the door, and walks away from his cell. He does not look back.
Slipping into the sept just as morning prayers are ending, he struggles against the flow of monks anxious for their breakfast, sliding around and past him. A few reach out as they go, squeezing his arm or patting his back, as much of a farewell as he can expect. He has lived among these men, worked beside them, shared their food and their worship, but he has never really been a part of them. They are not his friends or his brothers.
In the sudden quiet he lights a candle and places it before the Mother. A second finds its way to the Warrior, a third and final to the Maiden. Sandor pauses before he pushes open the door to leave, and this time he turns back for a last, lingering look.
"I've kept my end of the bargain," he rasps, his voice loud in the stillness. "See that you all keep yours."
He then stops at the kitchens just long enough to collect a pack the brothers have filled for him: salted mutton and fish, brown bread, hard cheese, dried apples and pears. He collects several skins and fills them at the well before making his way to the stable. Stranger spots him as he walks in and begins snorting and kicking in his stall, sensing his owner's intent and eager to be free of his confines.
Several minutes later Sandor leads the stallion from the stable and out into the cool morning. Squinting up at the sky and the gathering clouds there, he takes a deep breath, tasting the air for rain. "Might be we'll have a wet start," he announces to his horse. "Wouldn't be the first time, eh? All right, you black bastard, are you ready? Let's stretch our legs." Stranger snickers at him and Sandor gives a small tug on the reins, leading them around the disappearing piles of snow and onto the path that will take them to the other side of the isle, and to the dock where one journey will end and another begin.
He reaches the crest of the hill above the beach just as the ferry is being tied up. Elder Brother is already there, awaiting the passengers. Sandor watches as he steps onto the flat boat and clasps arms with the septon. Turning away for a few moments, Sandor tightens the straps on his bags, bedroll and sword, and checks the cinches of the saddle a final time. When he turns back, Elder Brother is alone. But then the septon reappears from under the pitched roof of the ferry's enclosure, escorting the newest refugee.
Sandor's breath locks in his chest at the same moment Elder Brother turns and spots him where he stands at the top of the hill. Sandor's gaze flicks to his for the briefest moment, and the monk's eyes are wide and surprised. But there is nothing in them that can tell Sandor what he doesn't already know.
All his preparations have been for naught. For his little bird has found her way to him.
….
