Author's Note: I feel so bad, since I always say it won't take so long to update... and then it takes longer to update than I expect. Hopefully I can get back on the once-a-week, chapters-go-up-on-Sunday schedule, though. This chapter is all kinds of angst, but it does include the return of several minor characters and the introduction of another two, so... get excited? As always, thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites!
Chapter Ten
Mom replaced our phones and blocked our Facebooks. Tell Gendry I'm sorry. I have no way to contact him. I didn't want to leave.
You know I'm sorry, too. If it were up to me, I'd have stayed. Sansa probably thinks the same, but it's better for her to have gone.
I'll miss you, Bran, but I'll be home next summer. Give this to Gendry?
Arya
It's a simple enough note. Attached is a simple silver ring, completely plain in all respects other than a tiny leaf branded into the side. A green string is wrapped around it, with a small tag attached: "I suck at shop. I'll leave the metal-working to you from now on."
Bran holds both the note and the ring in his hand, settled neatly into his lap as he stares at Arya's empty room. She and Sansa have only been gone three days. He's read the note hundreds of times, and Catelyn has explained the circumstances to him as many times, but still he struggles to understand how alone he is now. All his brothers save Rickon are gone, and now his sisters are gone as well.
He sets the note back down on Arya's bed and wheels back out into the hallway. It's high time he went and spoke to Gendry.
(four months later)
The hammer clashes against the metal of the sword, sending a loud ringing through the sterile, white shop. Mister Mott pokes his head in and nods appreciatively. "You learn quickly," he says, and Gendry nods grimly. "I keep telling you, you shouldn't wear that while you're working. Could get caught on something." He motions to the chain around Gendry's neck, and Gendry sighs heavily. He doesn't remove the chain, though, simply draws back and tugs it free of his shirt so that he can study the lightly tarnished ring that hangs on the chain.
He hasn't taken it off, other than to sleep, since Bran delivered the note. Arya's brother explained his mother's reasoning as best he could, and Gendry could just imagine Arya's indignation at being sent away for her own protection – "I can protect myself, thank you very much," he can perfectly picture he snapping – but it still took him longer than it should have to grasp that she was gone. Bran handed him the ring with calm, still hands, pressing it into Gendry's course palm as gently as he could.
It was too small for Gendry's large fingers, so he slipped it onto a chain and hung it around his neck instead. It hangs just above his heart, every day, a constant reminder that she exists, that she'll come home – as if he needs reminding.
The ring starts to hang a little heavier, though, when two months after Arya disappears, Bran reappears and says, with a light shake of his head, "She's not coming home this summer." And when Gendry goes to ask "when?" Bran only shakes his head once more.
"There's been an order for several dozen rapiers," Mr. Mott says. "They're making one of those fancy period films with all the sword-fighting, you know? There'll be a lot more work for the two of us coming up."
Gendry smiles weakly and wipes the sweat from his brow. Rapiers.
Hot Pie comes in to watch Gendry work a few days later. He brings him a meatball sandwich and a mug of hot chocolate, but Gendry ignores both and continues whaling away on the thin strip of metal that will soon become a rapier. "I'd say you seem happier," Hot Pie remarks, "but I'd be lying."
Gendry whacks the anvil again, turns the blade, and draws back his hammer once more.
"This job does suit you better, though," Hot Pie adds. "A costume armorer. Who'd have thought?"
Again, Gendry smacks down on the rapier, receiving a satisfying clanging noise in return. He turns the blade on the anvil again and prepares to strike once more.
"You really ought to get out more, though," Hot Pie observes. "You're starting to look like that suit of armor behind you." Gendry pauses to look at the aforementioned suit of armor, and then turns back to Hot Pie, who is doing his level best to mimic the suit's scowling face. "Look, mate," he says gently, "I know you're still upset about it. But she might not ever come home. I know it's tough, but… you really ought to try and move past it. Go out, meet some girls. Get a girlfriend, you know? Live a little."
"Thanks for the sandwich, Hot Pie," says Gendry, and then he strikes the anvil once more.
The rapier, too thin at one point, breaks in two and clatters to the floor.
Gendry thinks a lot about what Hot Pie said. It isn't that he hasn't tried to stop thinking of Arya; on the contrary, he's tried every day for four months to stop thinking of her. But the very act of trying to forget her requires that he remember her, and remember all the fleeting conversations in the rec center, the fights, the wrestling, the kissing, that dance… He can't help but remember it all. There is no escaping her. She's like a shadow, constantly haunting him but completely intangible – for the moment, at least. He believes she will come home. He just doesn't know when.
He's working the desk at the front of Mott's Costume Armory when the girl walks in. She's small, tomboyish, with long brown hair pulled back into a braid. "Can I help you?" he asks, waiting for her to turn towards him so that he can see her face. He wants so badly to believe that it's Arya, but… she turns, and he sees that it's not her. It's a different girl, equally pixie-ish, but this girl's eyes are brown, not grey.
"Yeah," she says, and the voice is completely different, more high-pitched and feminine than Arya's sarcastic drawl, "I know this is a costume shop, basically, but I need a sword. For fencing? Do you guys do that?"
Gendry gestures to the back room, which is filled with weapons. "Left wall, you'll find the rapiers."
"Great," she says, and grins broadly, displaying perfectly straight white teeth. "Thanks!"
Gendry stares after her. The resemblance is, in some aspects, uncanny, but then, in many ways, she's completely different from Arya. For one thing, it's been at least two minutes and they're not arguing. For another, she looks at least two years older than Arya – much closer to his own age.
The girl is pacing in front of the fencing equipment, clearly conflicted, so Gendry walks over to her. "Know what you're looking for?" he asks.
"Not really," she admits. "Well, I mean, I do, I just don't know…"
Gendry reaches over her, pulls a rapier from a rack high up, and hands it to her without a word. She hefts it from hand to hand, and then jabs at the air a few times. Gendry can't help but notice how clumsy her strokes are; clearly the girl doesn't have nearly so much experience with the art of fencing as Arya does. "You're pretty new at this, aren't you?" he asks, and she blushes. "That ought to be a good starter for you, then. Come on, I'll ring you up."
He heads back to the register, with the girl trailing almost meekly behind him. She puts the rapier up on the desk, and Gendry punches in the price, reading it off to her somewhat guiltily. The girl grimaces and hands him a credit card. "Can I get some ID on this?" Gendry requests, setting the card down next to the register. Again, the girl frowns, but pulls out an ID and pushes it across to him. "Willow Heddle?" Gendry reads unsurely, and she nods, finally smiling once again. He runs the card through and hands both back to her.
"And you're… Gendry?" she says, reading off his nametag. He nods, glad that she got the hard G right. Hot Pie's words from earlier ring through his head – Get a girlfriend, you know? Live a little. "Well, Gendry," Willow says, "thank you for all your help."
She turns to go, and is halfway across the store before Gendry manages to find his tongue again. "Hey, Willow," he calls, and she stops almost immediately to look back at him. "I, uh… this is going to sound stupid, but, uh, do you want to go get a drink sometime?"
"I'm only nineteen," she points out, laughing.
"Coffee, then?" Gendry tries hopefully.
"Coffee, yeah," Willow says. "You want my number?" Gendry nods, breathless, and she heads back over to scrawl an almost illegible telephone number on the bottom half of her receipt. "You free on Friday?" she asks, and when Gendry nods, she winks. "I guess I'll see you then!" And with that, she disappears, leaving Gendry to sit and contemplate what exactly he's just done.
(two months later)
Arya stands at the edge of the crowd, hood pulled up over her ears, and watches the swordsmen in the middle of the ring jab and swing wildly at each other. "Do you see, girl?" the man next to her murmurs, "there is no art to it. They attack, like animals."
Arya doesn't comment, just nods. Her companion continues: "See how the large man stumbles after he lunges; he is not balanced. If the little one goes for his ankles, he will fall. If this were a real fight, he would already be dead."
"The little guy won't do that," Arya says. "Look at how he fights – he's so timid. He's just defensive."
"A girl learns well," the man beside her says with a smile, and she looks up at him. "A girl is very observant."
"Does 'a girl' get to see you without your mask on?" Arya asks, but the man merely smirks – or at least she assumes it's a smirk, for she can only see the half of his mouth that is not obscured by the mask. "Come on, Jaqen, I've known you for six months. What could possibly be on your face that I couldn't handle?"
"A girl can handle many things. A man prefers to keep his identity hidden."
"I already know your name," Arya says irritably, "how important could your face possibly be?"
"A girl has no idea," Jaqen says wryly. "Focus on the fight."
Arya turns back to the men fighting in the circle and folds her arms against her chest. "They're not particularly exciting."
"A girl is biased."
"You said it yourself – there's no art to it. One is constantly on a sloppy offense, the other on a clean defense. It's not interesting to watch. I kind of just want it to be over."
"A girl could end it," Jaqen remarks, and Arya grimaces.
"It's not my fight."
"Does it matter?"
"It's not my fight," she repeats, and slouches back against the wall. "I'll let them finish. I'll take the next one."
The fight continues for another ten seconds, and then finally the smaller fencer dips down, throwing the larger fighter off balance, and lands a solid hit to his chest. The large man topples to the ground and rolls away, and the small man grins, revealing a single gold tooth. A man in a top hat steps into the center of the ring and calls out "NEXT" in Braavosi, and Arya glides into the ring, hood still up. Her opponent wanders in, nonchalant and aloof – also hooded, but with parts of his face in the light. Arya sets her jaw and bites back the urge to smile; she's fought this one before, multiple times.
He throws back his hood to reveal dyed-blue hair, cut long and wavy so that it hangs over half of his face. His eyes, which she knows from past experience are actually a strange shade of violet, look almost blue under this light and under his hair. "Griff," Arya says in mock sweetness, and he freezes. The leering smirk fades from his face as she pushes the hood back from her face and a faint gasp spreads through the crowd. Murmurs of 'Cat' and 'Cat of the Canals' ripple outward, all the way to the edge of the crowd, where Jaqen leans casually against the wall, his red hair hiding the half of his face that isn't covered by the white mask. Arya glances at her teacher to see if he's watching, but he's feigning disinterest and is instead inspecting his nails. She turns back to Griff Young, who shifts nervously in front of her and then draws his sword from his belt. Arya pulls hers out, swift as lightning, and settles into an easy fighting stance.
Griff lunges, and Arya easily cuts under him, hitting him once in the shoulder. They both ease back, trying to drown out the roar of the crowd. Griff grimaces, and then goes in, at a different angle this time, but Arya reads him look a book and drops to the floor, rolling in the opposite direction so that she can scoot forward across the floor, pop up behind him, and press the tip of her rapier to the center of his back. He whirls around, fury in those blue-purple eyes, and then spits to the side. Arya grins and taunts him with one finger. The crowd loses it, and Arya dances back and forth on her feet.
Griff feints in the same direction he just went, and Arya makes toward the ground, but Griff cuts her off and locks eyes with her as she moves to block him. For a moment, they look shockingly blue, and she remembers a different pair of striking blue eyes, and forgets where she is for a moment, and then Griff lands a hit just below her collarbone. Arya curses herself silently, but gets up quickly and takes the offense. Griff doesn't have time to react as she slices in toward him, jabbing the rapier into his chest so hard that it bends ever so slightly.
The fight ends as quickly as it began, with Arya standing in front of Griff – easily a foot shorter than he, but seemingly ten times his size. The crowd chants her name – Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat of the Canals – and she bows her head ever so slightly. Griff dips his chin, and she smirks up at him. "Well fought, Cat," he says, putting deliberate emphasis on her name, and Arya glares up at him with steely grey eyes.
"If only I could say the same, Griff," she says with equal emphasis and just a hint of contempt. "That was hardly any fun at all."
"It's no fun fighting you," he says.
"Oh, please," she hisses so that only he can hear. "You love fighting me."
He runs his tongue over his lips and then says, "Later, Cat," before backing away, to the shameful boos of the crowd, and melting into the people around him. Arya goes to the announcer, collects her winnings, and pulls her hood back up as she heads back to Jaqen.
"You let him hit you," he says.
"I did not," Arya argues, "he got a legitimate hit on me that time."
"A girl should have been able to avoid that," Jaqen says, his voice level as ever.
"I know."
"A girl learns from her mistakes," Jaqen says.
"Yes."
"A girl seemed lost for a moment."
"I wasn't lost," Arya lies, but she can't shake those blue eyes from her mind.
She hasn't thought about anyone from home in four months. Ever since she met Jaqen, she's only focused on fighting and fencing. She hardly remembers her family – she's had no contact with any of her siblings or her mother since she got here, and there is no way for her to contact… she can't even think his name. She won't allow herself to think of him.
Arya doesn't need that. She's Cat of the Canals now. She's focused, and driven. She could very easily be lethal, should she ever make the choice to take a life. She doesn't have time to even be thinking of a stupid pizza boy with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid tousled black hair.
"A girl seems distracted," Jaqen notes, mildly amused.
"I'm fine," Arya says through gritted teeth. "It won't happen again."
"As a girl says," Jaqen says, "whatever."
Griff is waiting for her outside. Arya tries her best to pretend she hasn't seen him, but he spots her immediately and moves over to her. "You really kicked my ass this time," he says, "kind of like the first time. Though I like to think I've gotten better since then."
"You haven't," Arya says, and refuses to let herself think of the first time she fought Griff, or of what happened directly afterward.
"Listen, Cat, do you want to…"
"No," Arya says. "Whatever it is, no."
"But-"
"No."
"You can't just- Look, Arya, you know, that night a month ago, I…"
"It was a mistake," Arya says harshly. "I shouldn't have… just. I shouldn't have. Not with you. I have… I don't need you. I don't want you."
"You seemed to need me that night," he drawls, and Arya shoves him out of the way.
"Prick."
Griff darts back in front of her, eyes wide and thankfully much more purple under the moonlight. "Just come out with me for a drink or something. For your win, yeah? Nothing else has to happen, and hey, if it does, I'm not gonna complain..."
Arya narrows her eyes and pushes past him again.
"Why are you so cold, Arya Stark?" Griff laments, and Arya whirls around and delivers a knuckle-bruising punch to his face.
"Two things, Griff," says Arya coldly. "One, I'm from the North. Cold is what we do. And two," she advances on him, grabs him by the balls, and squeezes. "Call me by that name again, and I'll castrate you."
He's gasping for breath when she lets him go and dusts her hands off on her pants.
"Are we clear?" she asks.
"Crystal," he wheezes, and she smiles.
"Well then, Griff Young," she says, still with a cold edge to her voice, "I guess this is goodbye."
He finally catches his breath and manages to scrape "later, Cat" out through gritted teeth. Arya stalks away and then, with one last thing on her mind, turns back towards him on one heel.
"One more thing," she says, and Griff looks up, still clearly very much in pain. "You might want to re-dye your hair soon. Your roots are starting to come in silver."