Chapter 11
The Birdcage,
or,
The Bird's Cage
"No, please, you must wait," she squeaks in a desperate beseech.
The Dog scoffs, and lines on the softer side of his face twist into plain sight.
"Girl, have to go hunt. Can't take ya with m'. Have to get air, too. An' wat'r."
He stares, annoyed. The child grates his stone in many, many ways.
She pouts. She is either angry or sad. Could be both. Oh, fuck….
"The bird begs the dog to piss on her? All over? Huh, it knows better! No! Won't."
Her eyes widen. Doll's eyes. Guilt and shame tussle in them.
The Dog bypasses the little lady and strides on, a soldier, a scavenger. Now, to find a tree….
He had fetched her other things as she asked; straight away, too. Her needles, her cloths, her embroidery pieces. He had to throw the rest of her fruits away as they were no longer good. But….where was the braid? She couldn't have somehow lost it! It was with her other bobbins, threads, and beads and those were all here, every last one. She would have to inquire about the missing token whenever the "Dog" man returned from his hunt. Ohh, that sounded gruesome and barbaric, even for a warrior who calls himself a canine!
How to cure this boredom, how to occupy oneself best in an indefinite situation; that's the thing, isn't it?
Ah, an idea enters her head! She manages to wiggle along to partially sunlit sand—the whiter, prettier type. She begins to trace her fingers in patterns, circles and edges. She is quite skilled at fingering shapes of all sorts. Up, down, over, jagged, half moon, diamond, ropes, waves….
She hums as she traces and sketches, is entirely enveloped in a world of her maidenly muse and musings. She imagines what her wayward companion does while on his quest. Does he, in fact, relieve himself on trees or in shrubbery? Does he bite those who make him cross? Ha, likely he did, indeed! How droll!
She could not figure why he reached for her in the week past; only that he likely viewed her as a weakling stray baby animal of some fluffy or fuzzy sort. He appeared to be the queerest mixture of stubbornness marred with docility—in every way, a paradoxical creature.
In spite of what he said, he did hurt her: with his words; with almost everything he would lance out. Poor sod must've had a very cruel life with wicked parents who evidently beat and even….scorched him. Their own son! It was too awful to imagine let alone accept as the truth! But she knew as her truth that she was beaten for amusement and ravaged for being her sex.
Had he once been a handsome boy? Perhaps. She could well picture a young boy underfoot helping a woman with washing tunics and dresses in hopes of receiving a kind word of thanks, a sweet look of approval. A smile.
Father would've accepted him, she thought. He would've given him a proper name, too. Something for someone brave, gentle and strong. Her father took Theon in; Theon was another member of the family—every bit as good as a blood Stark. And he had even allowed Jon a place at the table and in on some events. Father could find something great in everyone before they even knew what greatness they had in themselves. Tragically, he had died for such principles and gifts.
Mother….mother would've been wary at first. Disapproving and scolding at such a stinging mouth. But, eventually, she would've seen his loyal ways, his want to aid and the desire to win her favor. And who is not swayed by a soul who is readily honest? In the end, she'd be won.
He would stray, but wouldn't run to disappear as Arry did. He would return for meals, kind words, encouragement, and the promise of a family who favored his unusual grin. He would care for her young brothers, lifting them high so they might pick apples off the nearby orchard trees.
And she? What would she do with him in such a circumstance? She'd sew the frequent tears in his tunics, breeches, and any other cloth he seemed to be constantly ripping and tossing aside. She would hold him on his bad days when others were mean to him and would jeer at his scars. If he'd let her, she would lay a hand on his face. That would make him feel better—it would—and he'd smile and hold her in return.
She sighed at her imagination dancing its waltz with her head. No, those dreams could never come true. Her father, mother, and oldest brother Robb were dead, her sister gone, her little brothers missing. Her body was beaten, her maiden parts stolen raw. And the man was burned—Gods knew what else happened his way!
Yet..
They had both survived. They yet breathe, eat, talk, sleep, move—a dozen other actions more.
She looks down. Her drawing is nearly complete. She traces four words at its base to further emphasize its intentions:
TO BRING YOU JOY!