Author's Notes: I did not mean for this update to take so long, but the mechanics of the words just felt off for the longest time. It's weird, having issues with the words, and not the story, rewriting and re-editing to basically say the same thing, just with different wording and phrasing... Anywho, I'm now going to put on my imaginary armor, and hope you all don't have metaphorical armor-piercing weapons. *hides*
No smut. Tiny amount of fluff at the end. Apologies.
WARNINGS: Hella lot of angst. Blood, guts, suicide talks, more blood, troubled past of Sansa.
SANSA
The second night was the worst.
The first night was awful, but there was something to keep her mind occupied at all times, terrible as it was.
The third day most surely would have been the worst, but for the grace of villagers who heard her crying screams, who came to investigate, and who ultimately would help her and her husband.
The second night, however, was the waiting game, fraught with demons and fear, sleeplessness and fatigue.
The first night saw Sansa finding a good place to hide within the woods, near a water source, and tending to Sandor's wounds. A fire was started, though she lacked the means to boil water. No mater, she cleaned his body, taking off more of his sweaty and clammy clothes. Though her eyes stung and blurred and her hands shook, his thigh was eventually reasonably banded and tied, and his shield arm (which she found to be burned) was also wrapped. She had taken the saddle blanket off of Stranger and covered Sandor with it, though it barely covered him.
Soon enough, she couldn't bandage him anymore; her dress was no more, except a corset and rags covering her parts. It was sunset of the second day, and that night was the worst. "Please," she begged, realizing she had no more supplies to use, "please let it work." The thigh wound stopped bleeding, and she breathed a tentative sigh of relief.
She remembered a time when she had left a man to die on the field. He had claim over her for a long while, and she went looking for him one night. Once she found him, she had learned from him how to tie a tourniquet, and bandage other wounds, as he lay there helpless, brusquely giving instructions. He then commanded her to drag him to his tent, demanded that she call for the Maester. He was an officer of some standing, surely he could be helped.
Yes, that could have been done, but something in his tone suggested no amount of humility or thanks; in fact, the man had always been downright abusive when it came to his words. A thread snapped, and she became cold, doing nothing. Anger clouded his eyes, as if he were in any position to punish her. He grabbed her wrist, weakly, and could only stare in horror as she tore away the tourniquet and blood ran freely.
"The North remembers." she had whispered, not really knowing why at the time, for surely she could not deal revenge on such a large scale; she would come to learn of her own personal strengths, regardless of who saw or who benefited.
"I'm sorry." She whispers, now, looking upon Sandor as he raggedly breathes one breath after another labored one. Surely this was a punishment for her ill and murderous deed. Never mind the fact that if anyone would be punished out of the two of them, it would be Sandor, for all his brutal history. To her, however, all she could see was another's angry brown eyes dimming and a harsh hand loosening its grip, blood welling within a cruel mouth.
"Please don't leave me." She begs. "I'm yours, remember?" And a smile tugs at her lips, "And you are mine. I won't let you leave me yet."
She leans over his chest, gently, feeling for his heartbeat, wanting to feel the wisp of his breath out of his mouth, to see his eyes move underneath the lids. He's pale, but other than the fact that his eyes are motionless, her other wishes are met.
The demons of the night soon come. What was she to do if he... if he died? She had once contemplated suicide, she can't remember when exactly, but she had been alone at that time. She came upon a man, a different one, dead upon the field. He had smiled when Death had claimed him, and though his smile was gruesome, flecked with blood, accompanied by sightless eyes, he looked... at peace. Was death an answer for happiness? A way to leave the cruel and uncaring world?
Her thoughts had been of her mother, father, and siblings. She thought of her future, so bleak and different from the one she once fantasized about. She had thought about her situation then, how far degraded she allowed herself to become. What kind of a life was this, to one who had lost so much? To one who had aspired for so high, and now couldn't even see out of the muck.
But, as when she had once considered leaving Sandor, there had been a feeling, an intuition, a guiding pull; "wait" it had said. One day at a time, she told herself, and each day there was a promise for another one to follow, all the way to now.
Grabbing Sandor's dagger, which had survived her frantic desire to rid him of heavy armor and weaponry, she contemplates again. There is nothing within her, now, to sustain life; if Sandor dies, she knows, she will die too. Her body hums with anticipation; not gladly, not resignedly, but deep and assured. Her connection to life, should he die, would thoroughly terminate, and she'd just... go with him, a stab to the heart less painful then losing him...
Sandor coughs, bringing her attention to him. It sounds ugly, like something lodged within his chest, and she leans down upon him, as if to ask what she could do to help him. When he stops coughing, he stops everything else as well.
Panicking, she waits with bated breath, waiting for the surely delayed surge of air to start again. "No.", when nothing happens. "NO!" She pounds his chest, punctuating her disbelief. "NO! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!" As if it was a slight against just her.
She leans her head down, closing her eyes against the sting, and whispering to no one in particular, "Don't take him away from me. Please." She takes a shuddering breath, before continuing to plead to whatever would listen, "You have my family, you have my dignity, and you have my baby... don't... don't to this to me..."
Looking back up to his face, pale and peaceful, "You can't leave." She slaps his chest, "You hear me! Huh? I FORBID IT!" She pounds his chest, pounding her authority to be obeyed, "YOU ARE MINE," she commands him, "COME BACK!" She pounds his chest, "PLEASE! NOOO! COME BACK!"
Sobs wrack her chest now; loud, long sobs, punctuated by her fist making contact with his chest, beating him for daring to try to leave her. As if she would allow it. "No..."
She leans her head on his chest, defeated.
Only to feel it rise.
It is her turn to be breathless. She leans up, and sees it for true, he is breathing again. She sobs again, falling on his chest in relief.
SANDOR
The first thing he sees when awakens is a dual fire. They both shake and shimmer. After a while he knows one to be a real fire, and the other to be Sansa, quietly sobbing across the room from him.
The trial of fire had always been his, and for always he had failed. The Battle of King's Landing was the latest one, and he had finally passed. No longer was that fear in command of him, only the fear to lose Sansa, and for that he had fought long and hard against the very army that brought fire to his face again. Only this time, as an arm that suffered some burns, it was, however, a thigh that suffered worse than the flame, the stabbed injury enough to possibly sever his ties to his Little Bird.
Seeing her cry, facing the window, he hopes it's tears of relief, because he will never leave her now. He remembers pain, blood, screams, fire... and her: his Little Bird telling him in a dream that he belonged to her. He swears he had fought against a tide of blackness, and it was only her voice that had led him home.
She comes running when he coughs her name. He grimaces in pain without meaning to, coming to realize the extent of wounds for the first time. Her smile takes it all away again.
Post Script: Thanks for reading, reviewing, following! 3 This is the last depressing chapter, I promise, and we're coming up on the end of the story.
