Gods and Monsters

by Supernova Dragon Cat

A few weeks shy of her 18th birthday, Sansa Stark has lived a charmed, quiet life. That is until one fateful night when her life is turned into a nightmare and she becomes entranced by a mysterious man, propelling her into the dark paradise of his world. Pulled deeper into the underworld of the crime syndicate of which he's both god and monster, can Sansa hold onto her innocence?

14. Chapter 14

Gods and Monsters

Chapter 14

"You'll ride towards the sun
As it guides you home
But don't be afraid, little bird
You aren't alone"

-Murder by Death

---

A nightmare had awoken Bronn in the early hours of the morning. The sun had yet to crest over the horizon, and the sky was still the murky color of ink, cast over with ashen wisps of clouds. In his dream, the dead had risen from their sarcophagi and walked among the living. He had searched for Mirabelle, frantically scanning the faces of the corpses swarming around him as they tried to rip flesh from bone. He never found her in his dream and, instead, awoke alone in her bed, the floral scent of her perfume lingering on the pillow next to him and fading with each passing day.

Wide awake at four in the morning, Bronn's stomach lurched at the thought of going back to sleep. He hated the nightmares which had begun to plague him in recent nights and avoided sleep where he could. It had been half past ten when he, Sandor, and the rest of the men finally left the funeral home after answering what questions they could for law enforcement. It was a round-robin of sorts, each man adding carefully contrived details to the story of what had transpired.

Despite a wary sort of reticence on the part of the detectives sent to the scene, it had been made abundantly clear that the men themselves were being scrutinized through mistrustful eyes that bespoke knowledge of their associations. Bronn had exchanged knowing looks with Sandor and Alberto, each man well aware that this would not be the last they heard on the matter. With some reluctance on the part of the police, the men were released from the scene and returned back to Moriarti's well after midnight, each man silently seeking retreat to their respective resting quarters.

After listening to the sound of the wind howling against the windows for only God knows how long, Bronn's body had given in to sheer exhaustion, and his eyes grew heavy before finally succumbing to sleep. For as much as he dreaded the time spent in the throes of all those horrid visions he found in slumber, Bronn loathed his waking hours even more. At least his nightmares offered a bit of a reprieve from endlessly facing the reality that was now his life. A void had been left, and it was growing deeper with each day he had spent without her. Light was leaving him, and he was finding himself in the same murky darkness that birthed the night itself.

Spending his days asleep or awake didn't seem to matter much anymore. He would leave this place soon. It had been a promise made to himself, and he was content to keep it whether Sandor had given his blessing or not. He would soak up the memories of the only woman he thought himself capable of ever truly loving, and then he would be gone. In his lifetime, Bronn had seen enormous amounts of cruelty in the world, many instances of which were committed by his own hand. Yet he could think of nothing more sinister and sadistic than Mirabelle being brought into his life - just long enough for him to know he could not exist without her - before ultimately being snatched away. If the gods existed, they were indeed cruel - monsters, perhaps.

Awake now as he stared up at the ceiling above, Bronn disentangled his limbs from the sheets still damp with sweat and slowly sat up, a dull ache pounding through his temples.

This day was going to come, he told himself, feet dangling off the bed and his face buried in the palms of his hands, which, for days, hadn't stopped trembling, it seemed.

Today would come.

In the past week, there had been a delayed sense of understanding, denial some might call it. He had not seen her body laid out in a satin-lined casket. He did not cast a gaze upon her face one last time before ultimately walking away from her mortal remains, entrusting them into the earth's cold embrace. Some uncontrolled and entirely internal act of self-preservation prevented him from acknowledging that tucked away in that beautiful white casket was his Mirabelle. Only in dreams would he see her face again. Like her scent on the pillow next to him, perhaps even the memory of her face would fade with time, sullied by misremembered details and forgotten features. And that, he knew, would be the more devastating loss - the sharp shock of one day coming up empty handed when trying to recall the sight of her smile and the sound of her laugh.

The day had come, like death itself, sooner than he had hoped, silent and cold with no prospect of turning back. It was here.

It was the day he would bury his girl with the ring on her finger, the one she was meant to wear for the rest of their lives. Bronn had no idea when he purchased the diamond that she would only wear it in death and never in life. Surrounded by their shared family and friends, he would follow her down the aisle but not as man and wife. He would trail after the casket towards her final resting place, his heart shattered and his soul screaming out that it was too soon. They hadn't enough time, and it was all over before it ever really began. All he had now was a lifetime without her, a lifetime to remember that she was gone.

Despite a mere three hours of sleep, Bronn peeled himself out of the bed and began laying out his suit for the day - the fabric immaculately pressed and still in the plastic bag from the cleaners. He polished his shoes until they were supple and shone a glossy black. He showered and shaved, carefully trimming any stray hairs of his goatee, something which Mirabelle had always given him a hard time about. When he quietly retreated to the kitchen for coffee, the house had yet to stir; made men and their families were camped out in various rooms and still fast asleep as Bronn tip-toed around them, wondering if their dreams were as troubling as his had been.

In the kitchen, he gave pause as a pair of chartreuse lights glowed from the coffee maker, the carafe half full. Bronn felt a wan smile pull across his lips. There could be some comfort, however miniscule, in knowing he was not the only one who had suffered from a night of fleeting slumber and grotesque dreams. He poured himself a cup of coffee and ate half of an English muffin, the other half ending up in the trash when his appetite suddenly fled him.

Bronn had thought to watch the sun rise, but that proved to be a dull affair; the sky, although settled from the passing storm of the previous night, was rendered in grays and blacks. It was a dismal sight, and although he hadn't stepped foot outside, Bronn knew it was unseasonably cold. There would be no light today and no warmth either.

Instead, he sipped his coffee in front of the kitchen window and watched crows pick at the desolate earth, upturning stones to no avail before eventually taking to the skies in defeat. When the padding of footfalls sounded out above him, Bronn dumped the remainder of his coffee out in the sink and made for the basement lounge, slipping away before he was seen. Sandor had called a meeting for the administration and caporegimes of the Moriarti - an early and, despite the somber events of the day, entirely necessary meeting. It seemed the worst was far from over. In truth, the storm had only just begun, and all anyone could pray for was a temporary reprieve for today, at least.

As Bronn headed down the stairs, he imagined the basement lounge would be empty, a vacant casing of what it normally was - a place of merriment and camaraderie. Misgivings and doubts about the unsavory path their lives had taken them down were forgotten, at least for a time, as the men drank and gambled. However, they all faced the music sooner or later, forced to look at the life they had made for themselves and deal with the repercussions. None, least of all him, could have anticipated the grievous costs and just how much could be lost. Now, it seemed the charade was over, the music stopped, the laughing ceased, and the sobering truth was all that remained. And it was a truth to be faced on this very day, this day afflicted with insuppressible sorrow that even the skies and the crows and the earth itself seemed to understand.

By the dim orb of light cast about the large, round poker table at the center of the open room, Bronn was surprised to find that he would not be alone in solitude to await the meeting. Seated at the table was Sandor. With brow furrowed, he stared down into a cup of coffee, his hands dwarfing the mug as they clutched it for warmth.

With his hair pulled back from his face, which had been freshly shaven, he looked better than he had in days, a far cry from the drunken mess he had been. Simply dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans, Sandor still somehow looked every bit the part of mafia boss despite the sorrow etched into his demeanor. At his best and at his worst, the man commanded the room, regardless.

"You're awake," Sandor noted flatly, his eyes still fixated in the depths of his cup as if divining some comfort there. When he finally looked up, settling back in his seat with arms crossed over the breadth of his chest, Bronn could see that his eyes no longer held the dullness they had just days before.

Bronn understood Sandor to be a strange creature in that way - falling to pieces and coming undone at the seams one day, only to master his emotions and conjure up composure from an unknown source the next. He never knew whether Sandor had truly vanquished the beast, or if he simply subdued it until its next conjuring.

"I didn't sleep well," Bronn confided as he lowered himself in the seat next to Sandor.

"Me neither," Sandor confessed in return, his voice grave.

Bronn waited for more, for the opportunity to commiserate in the grief they shared. It did not come, though, as Sandor sat in silence next to him, his mind a vault where he was sole proprietor of his own thoughts.

"I hoped I wouldn't wake up today," Sandor finally declared, leaving Bronn to do nothing more than stare disbelievingly as he listened. "You know that guy, Rip Van Winkle? He drinks a fuckton of moonshine and falls asleep for years and years. I thought maybe I could do that. Just wake up after it's all said and done, you know? When I fell asleep, though, the knowledge that she's gone hurt just as bad in my dreams as it does when I'm awake. So I got up." Shrugging his shoulders, Sandor lifted his mug and downed the rest of its tepid contents. "I've got things to live for," he added with the ghost of a smile gracing his lips.

Bronn felt a steady tremble ease its way through him, terminating in his fingers tightly clasped together as to not give away his secret. He too had wished not to wake up today but to a much different end than Sandor.

He had known Sandor for some time, and they had seen each other through many hardships, albeit pale in comparison to this. In Sandor, Bronn found a kindred companion of sorts whose potential for darkness matched his own. There might not be mutual encouragement to be better men, but what he did share with Sandor was an understanding of the intricate struggle with their own personal demons.

'Get on board, or get out of my way,' Sandor had said to him not so many nights ago. Another man would have been hurt by this declaration, but not Bronn. He understood, as he always did, the beast that roamed within Sandor. It was kin to his own. In this way, Bronn was already on board, and strange as it was, he found comfort in knowing that Sandor struggled with Mirabelle's death as painfully and excruciatingly as he did. It had been consuming Sandor as it was consuming Bronn now. They could not save one another, no, but what was left of the light, the goodness, in each of them could perish together - two broken souls existing in the same personal hell of grief and loss.

Something was different about Sandor, though, that much Bronn knew for sure. It wasn't so obvious as to be articulated in a manner of dress or speech. It was a shift in the mood and a change in the energy the man carried with him. When it had happened and how it had happened, Bronn could not say. What he could say for certain was that Sansa was integral to it. Sandor had a reason to live, a reason to fight against the consuming grief and to become a better man because of it. Get on board, or get out of my way. Bronn had had his opportunity to get on board with this - a reason to live and a reason to be a better man - but it was taken from him. Now all he had left to do was get out of the way.

Bronn and Sandor scarcely said much more to one another, only passing comments about the prospects of rain today and other such mindless banter. Alberto arrived not long after; his surprise at seeing the two of them together was evident by the look on his face. The others were not far behind him, each filling in the empty seats, one by one, until every capo associated with the Moriarti family was seated at the table, all eight of them.

Given that Go-Go and Half-Stroke each held territory in Nevada, Bronn worked closely with them as well as Disco who covered Las Vegas. The other capos were spread along the West Coast, from Washington all the way down to Southern California. It had been many months since the caporegimes of the Moriarti were together in the same room at the same time. It was an impressive sight, and as Bronn shifted his eyes to Sandor, he had expected to see a swelling of pride on his face. However, pride had been replaced by a sense of purpose, and beyond that, Sandor appeared impassible and stoic, as ever.

When the men were comfortably settled around the table and the din of greetings and conversation quieted, Sandor began, but not before his eyes fell on each man in turn, holding his stare for a few brief seconds.

"I didn't want to meet today. I thought it was improper to hold a meeting on the day we bury Mirabelle." Sandor furrowed his brow as he gave pause before continuing, staring down at the table for long moments before lifting his eyes again. When he spoke again, his words came languid and unhurried.

"Then I thought about the bastard who did this. I thought about how he's fully aware that today I'm putting my own, and his own, flesh and blood into the ground. I thought about how badly, and with every fiber of my being, I want to make him suffer. I thought about how I want him to beg me to put him out of his miserable existence and how I will deny him of that mercy long enough to watch him suffer. And then I thought about how I don't want to waste another minute putting off finding him and doing what I should've done a long, long time ago."

With each word, determination seemed to sink its claws deeper and deeper into Sandor. As he finished, his jaw set firmly, his breaths seemed to come frantic as his chest heaved. This wasn't unbridled anger rendering him a loose cannon likely to incur more collateral damage than anything else. Sandor's resolve was focused, intent, and promised to be relentless and tireless until the job was done.

His monologue had broken the intrigued silence which had befallen the men. Bronn watched as nods of pride and approval were shared across the table and as smiles broke across each man's face. Whatever concern and disappointment these men had held at seeing Sandor, their fearless leader, come undone mere days before was washed away now. Sandor had reinstated himself as the man these men needed him to be, the man they would follow into battle and possible death.

"So we start planning," Big Johnny broke in, his name a nod to his height, which about matched Sandor's. Sequestered all the way up in Seattle, Big Johnny had taken on the visage of an outdoorsman, it seemed, beard and all. "I'll get the word out for my men to get down here."

"We'll need numbers," Sandor agreed.

"In the mean time, we can be assured that Vegas PD will be up our ass about last night," Disco added in a thick Boston accent. "We got some shit luck with the inspector assigned to the case. He's already contacting our men for more questioning."

Bronn saw annoyance flash across Sandor's face as he bit his bottom lip in thought. They were well acquainted with inspector Malcolm Schroeder. The man had been chomping at the bit to bring a Moriarti lead to his department's doorstep in hopes of an eventual promotion. They had had many run-ins with the man as he tried to shut down the Vegas card rooms. Loop holes in the law had always been their saving grace.

"If Schroeder wants to waste his time getting fifty versions of the same goddamn story, then that's his business," Sandor responded, nonplussed. "Marco showed up dead. Beyond that, there isn't anything else to tell. For once, we don't know much more than that."

"We do know Marco ratted to someone. That was evident," Bronn remarked as the memory of Marco's mangled face emerged in his mind. A man who breaks a vow of silence can expect to have a gun shoved in his mouth. It was this sort of symbolic demise which the mafia families were known for.

The faces around the table seemed to harden at the mention of Marco, in particular AWOL and Bicycle Pete who handled Southern California and Los Angeles territory, respectively. Running the Northern and Central California territory, Marco and Vinny had worked closely with AWOL and Pete, all four of the men in constant communication as they handled the biggest segment of the Moriarti family's domain.

"It sounds as if too much information passed from Marco to Vinny," Alberto commented placidly as he folded his hands against his chest. "If Vinny was as out-of-the-loop as he claimed to be, then that begs the question why he knew so much about Marco's dealings with Gregor."

As Alberto finished, he cast a steady gaze onto Sandor, who slowly nodded his head in reply.

"Unless there was a third man involved that Vinny wasn't telling me about, then Marco himself had to have informed Vinny," Sandor agreed. "Marco's death was retaliatory. Vinny revealed too much to me, but wasn't alive to take the fall for it."

"None of our men have come forward claiming Marco as their work," Half-stroke added. His statement was met with nods by each capo, confirming what had been said as it applied to their group of soldiers.

"I don't think it was one of our men," Sandor replied definitively and with conviction. "A man with half his head blown off can't talk and is, therefore, no use to me. I would have wanted Marco alive, and our men would know that. The ones who didn't would've come forward by now to brag about it."

"It's clear that your brother is well aware of our visit with Vinny," Go-Go affirmed then, voicing what most of the men at the table already implicitly understood. "He probably would have done the job himself if you hadn't. And if Gregor wasn't keeping tabs on us before, he is now. Marco was a demonstration of that."

"We're in agreement, then, that Marco was the work of the Severelli?" Sandor queried as he cast a glance around the table, his stare met with a nod as it came to each man.

Before Sandor could say much more, the sound of Lorenzo Falconi's voice broke in. He was the oldest of the capos, in his late forties, having been a capo since Alberto's days as boss. He had given up the Los Angeles territory in favor of Oregon, which was much easier for the man to handle, save Portland, which was Sal Murdoch's territory.

"Alberto, things like this have happened in the past between the Severelli and Moriarti, am I right?" Lorenzo asked, stroking the salt-and-pepper whiskers of his neatly trimmed beard.

"In my father's day, yes," Alberto confirmed with a nod and a grim frown. The men listened intently as Moriarti spoke. "Gian di Carli's predecessor was quite fond of psychological warfare. It's a wearing-down of one's enemy as a precursor to attack. It was sort of a "burnt earth" tactic, as my father called it. Fear and paranoia would run high, and that, in turn, created a weakness which was then exploited by the Severelli." As Alberto finished, he turned towards Sandor, his voice low as if his words were meant for Sandor's ears alone, although the rest of the men surely heard. "Gregor is calculated. He wants you to know he's watching."

"Sounds about right," Sandor replied with a nod, his jaw visibly tensing now. "That's how Gregor operates."

"What about today?" Murdoch broke in. "Do we think anything is going to happen?"

It was the question the men had been waiting for Sandor to address. Although the men seated at the table were all capable and well trained, Bronn couldn't help but notice the residual traces of fear gleaming in every set of eyes, which were now on Sandor.

"I honestly doubt it," Sandor assured. While some of the men seemed awash with relief, others did not seem so convinced. "If my brother's goal was to do some damage to us, he would have done so last night when we weren't expecting it. He knows we'll be packing tonight in case he shows up again. He is keeping tabs on us though. I don't doubt that."

"The boy has a lead on where your brother and his men are operating out of lately," Bronn informed as he turned to Sandor, watching as he instantaneously seemed to harden like stone, muscles tensing and jaw aligning in a sharp line as his lips pressed together.

"Zulu!" Bicycle Pete cried out with glee. "Where is that little son-of-bitch these days?" Zulu had formerly been one of Pete's soldiers before joining up with Vinny's crew. Regardless, Zulu still held a warm place in Pete's heart.

Despite Pete's outburst, Bronn had kept his eyes on Sandor, studying his reaction and now understanding it was a sore subject to have been brought up.

"Yes, where is Zulu right now, Alberto?" Sandor questioned quietly, although his voice betrayed a fair deal of agitation.

Stiffening, Alberto stared at his age-spotted hands resting gently on the table. His eyes flickered in Sandor's direction before returning back to where they had been.

"I don't keep ledgers of what your men are doing from day to day, Sandor."

The men did not seem to hear the exchange, save for Go-Go and Half-Stroke who swapped grave looks with one another from across the table. It seemed even those two had noticed the time and attention Zulu had been paying Sansa lately and understood the boy was playing with fire. Even goomahs were sacred territory to each made man, the others knowing to keep well enough away. However, Sansa was no goomah, and Sandor was not just a made man.

"A synopsis of what he found would be nice," Sandor grumbled, his voice loud across the table as to hush the side conversations that had begun to ensue amongst the men.

"Before we paid Vinny a visit, Louisa turned over his cell phone to us," Bronn began. "There were frequent calls exchanged between him and another number. It was more than likely Marco, although we can't know for sure at this point given that the phone is registered to an obvious alias. Regardless, the kid traced the calls to a spot near Boulder City."

"That doesn't mean Gregor is there now," Sandor countered. "He won't stay in one place for long. He's essentially the figure head of the disenfranchised Severelli. It's not like he can operate out of one central location, not until he establishes himself at least. He'll stay close and then retreat, most likely sticking with the protection the Caballero cartel provides."

Tension seemed to spread across the table, followed by an unsettling silence.

"I want Zulu looking into known Caballero hotspots in Nevada and Southern California," Sandor commanded, ignoring, for now, the obvious distress written on all the men's faces. "Once we get a location, we'll start planning from there."

For many long moments, the table remained silent as a crypt, each man waiting for another to speak up and voice what was so clearly a shared fear amongst all of them. It was AWOL who finally broke the silence. He had served in the Persian Gulf War, a hero who came back home with a heavy dose of PTSD and a severe distaste for the American government. He deserted his post, going AWOL and joining up with the Moriarti instead.

"Your brother and his crew are one thing, but the Caballero…" AWOL's voice trailed off as he shook his head. "The cartel is some serious shit, Sandor. Once there are shots fired with them, we can't go back."

AWOL's admonition was met with nods from the men around the table, although none said much more. It seemed all their fears were better left unsaid.

"Thank you," Sandor responded with a sardonic laugh. "And here I thought the beheading of Gian di Carli's capos was my brother's idea." Sandor leaned forward in his seat, his body looming closer to the table as he spoke on a voice thick with intensity, his forefinger prodding against the table to emphasize each word. "We're not going to run scared with our tails between our legs. That's not how I handle business, and you all are sitting at this table because I know that's not how you handle business either."

Pacified for now, the men gave silent nods as Sandor turned to Bronn once more.

"Set Zulu on his task, and then I want him to report to me directly the day after tomorrow."

A look of concern flashed across Alberto's face as he stared at Bronn and then at Sandor. Rarely did made men report to Sandor directly. The information they had was passed up through the ranks. Every so often, they would report to the underboss, but Bronn could not remember the last time Sandor requested the presence of a made man specifically.

"I will let him know," Bronn replied quietly, casting a glance towards Alberto as he spoke. The old man was visibly unnerved.

"With Marco and Vinny out of the picture, Northern and Central California territory will need to be temporarily covered," Sandor announced curtly, his readiness at wrapping up the meeting apparent. "Murdoch, I want you to expand down into Northern Cali and take Vinny's old territory and his men. Pete, you'll take over the rest of Southern Cali, and AWOL, you'll take over Marco's territory in Central Cali. It's only until Marco and Vinny are replaced which, after this bullshit with the Severelli is settled, will be our next order of business."

"Is there any other business that needs to be addressed now?" Sandor questioned as he looked around the table, waiting for responses. The table descended into silence once more, each man shaking their head or resigning themselves to hold onto their thoughts for now. "Then I think we're done here, gentlemen."

With that, Sandor pushed himself from the table and headed in long strides towards the door. Bronn moved to speak to Alberto but found that the man had fixed his sight on Sandor. Abruptly excusing himself from the table, Alberto headed upstairs after Sandor.

---

The basement lounge had felt peculiarly claustrophobic to Sandor, as if the walls themselves had shifted and were pressing further in on him. Despite his focus, impatience was threatening the better of him. The exhilaration felt at discussing the steps forward for the organization was short lived when Sandor realized he was tired of talking about what he wanted to do to Gregor. Words were just that - thoughts breathed to life. Actions were the realization of those thoughts, the manifestation of a long awaited opportunity for vengeance.

He had lain awake the past few nights envisioning all the ways in which to murder his brother. When he would finally fall asleep, his dreams were violent and lacquered in crimson, as a slain giant was laid out at his feet alongside a mangled beast with a scarred visage. Fires burned, but in his dreams Sandor was no longer afraid. In fact, he was reborn in those flames, the same ones he had feared for so long.

The air was cool against Sandor's skin as he stepped out onto the back patio and settled in front of the railing. Nestled high on a mountain foot hill, the property overlooked the desert valley below, the earthen colors cast in muted hues for today as the sun refused an appearance. Alberto was not far behind him, the old man wheezing as he caught up to Sandor.

As he drummed his fingers on the railing, Sandor shifted a gaze towards Alberto. He studied the old man's face, watching relief settle in as Alberto pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and patted it against his forehead.

"Sandor," Alberto proceeded as he caught his breath. "Zulu's time spent with Ms. Stark is a result of me requesting he keep a watchful eye on her. You were in rare form following Mirabelle's passing, which was to be expected, and I thought it best for all involved."

"You think I'm going to hurt him." It was not a question. It was clear Alberto had convinced himself on the matter, and only now did the man's concern, evident mere moments ago, seem to make sense. Sandor exhaled a laugh as he shook his head. "No. I won't hurt the kid."

Aware now that Zulu's attentions towards Sansa were not of his own volition, Sandor felt his own relief ripple through him. He relished the satisfaction he found in it. Zulu would not be so foolish as to seek out Sansa's affections. Zulu was not like the other young made men and certainly wasn't cut from the same cloth as E.Z. and some of the others. Truly, Zulu was a capo in the making. He was dutiful and loyal, qualities Sandor had now come to realize he admired in the kid and respected a great deal.

"I understand why you did what you did, Alberto," Sandor added with sincerity and gratefulness. While he may not have understood a week ago, Sandor realized now that Alberto's judgment had been spot on.

The old man gave a warm, although fatigued, smile. Sandor returned his gaze to the view beyond, resting his forearms against the railing as he leaned forward.

"I saw you and Sansa together at Mirabelle's visitation. Are matters mended between the two of you?" Alberto queried.

"No. I need to talk to her," Sandor replied. "I wanted to last night after everything at the funeral home wrapped up. Obviously, Marco shot that plan to shit."

"Peculiar choice of words," Alberto chuckled as his fingers traced the smooth edge of the railing. "Shot to shit."

Sweeping a gaze up to Alberto, Sandor exhaled a laugh in return. A serious and thoughtful man, it wasn't often that Alberto found humor in things, but when he did, it was usually a morbid sort of humor. Regardless, it had been quite some time since Sandor had heard Alberto laugh.

A calm breeze picked up around them, the sensation a caress against Sandor's skin despite the goosebumps forming on his bare arms. Lifting his eyes to the sky, he noticed the clouds beginning to thin and shift, their motions fluid as they moved in steady unison towards the east.

"My father was a courageous man, but he had a violent, catastrophic temper," Alberto quietly reflected. Seldom did he speak of his father, although Sandor knew Alberto cherished the man. Perhaps the memories were too painful to be dredged up. "Believe it or not, I too have a violent temper. For many years, I accepted it as a part of who I was. I made little effort to curb my anger when I felt it rising within me. I used to think that I inherited it from my father, and in a way, I carried it around with a misplaced sense of pride. People are inclined to think that way, you know - that we cannot help certain facets of our demeanor, as if all the deviance of our ancestors is a blood memory we are destined to remember by reliving it.

"It wasn't until years later that I began to realize I had the power of choice when it came to what sort of man I wanted to be. My temper was destroying my marriage, chipping away at the bond I had with Francisca and poisoning her trust in me. I could have taken the coward's path, continued believing that I had reached my potential and was as good of a man as I would ever be. In this way, the burden is on others to accept in us a lesser version of ourselves. There is another choice, though, and the one I ultimately made. I admitted my wrong doing and began on the path towards being something greater than what I was, to change despite being predisposed towards something dark. Francisca would not settle for less and not just because of her own needs but because she saw the man I could become and encouraged me to fight to become that man. It was not easy, but I learned to pacify my instincts towards impatience and ire. I saved a marriage and I saved myself."

Sandor stared down at his hands clasped in front of him. Alberto possessed a peculiar perceptiveness, never failing to precisely intuit Sandor's internal musings. His memories and recollections of Alberto's marriage to Francisca had been heavy on his mind lately. The happiness shared between Francisca and Alberto had been evident, yet it was not an effortless union. Even Sandor could tell the two had endured many battles of the heart to find the peace and love they so badly wanted with one another. The peace was hard-won, it seemed, with a purity of love being the force which saw them through.

"You've always been your own worst enemy, Sandor," Alberto continued when he did not answer. "Destroying the things you don't think you are worthy of but wanting them all the same. You are not your brother, and you never will be. You choose the type of man you wish to be, and don't you ever believe otherwise."

Although softly spoken, Alberto's words held a sort of ferocity to them, the fierceness of hope. Despite his perceptiveness, Alberto did not seem to understand that Sandor had already come to the same conclusion himself. It was part and parcel to his dreams of fire and rebirth, of sanctity through atonement. When he awoke from these dreams, he awoke feeling liberated from hatred and anger, spite and malice. He had decided many nights ago to chase after that liberation in his waking hours until he found it. And he had found it. It was where the path of redemption began.

Standing up to his full height, Sandor turned now towards Alberto, his arms resting gently by his sides as he stared at the man.

"And if I want to be a better man, how am I supposed to do that here?" Sandor nodded his head towards the Moriarti mansion looming above them. He watched as Alberto's brow folded ever so slightly and as the man seemed to settle back on his heels, quite literally taken aback. "You can talk as if you've taken the path to righteousness, but you're a murderer and racketeer just like all the rest of us. You've done some heinous shit too, old man. Don't act like you haven't."

"It's the people we care about-" Alberto began on a thin, disbelieving voice.

"It's the people I care about who are getting hurt," Sandor abruptly interrupted as he leaned forward, his voice carrying loudly across the patio. "Not me, but them. If it were me getting hurt, fine. But not Mirabelle and not Sansa."

With his blood pumping hot through his veins, Sandor found the air outside no longer held the same chill it had just moments before. Alberto's lips sealed shut as the man swallowed hard. Moments of silence passed between them as Sandor waited for the old man to gather his thoughts.

"I remember well the night you were made," Alberto started grimly. "I initiated four of you that night and watched as the flames from the cards licked your hands. Yours burned the longest, do you remember that?"

Sandor nodded vacantly, distinctly recollecting his fear of the flames.

"I knew you were afraid of fire, and I knew why," Alberto continued. "And yet the determination I saw in you was remarkable. The others winced in pain, doubt momentarily fracturing the visage of courage they tried to hold on to. Despite your own fear, you knew what you wanted, what you had to do, and it didn't matter what the sacrifices were. It was vengeance that drove you. This life was the outlet to all your rage, a way to exorcise all the things which would have otherwise eaten you alive. Here, you had routine, discipline, and something to work towards, even if hate was initially your motivator."

Despite the proud nostalgia he saw gleaming in Alberto's eyes and the wistful smile which now graced the old man's lips, Sandor understood the subtext of the words spoken, their meaning hidden in flowery vernacular meant to rest steadily on sentiment. In his younger years, Sandor would listen raptly, hanging on each of Alberto's words, as he found someone worth listening to. Only now did he recognize a subtle sort of manipulation that Alberto wove into his words on imperceptible threads.

"I wasn't working towards this," Sandor countered in defense. "Marco was favored to be your successor, and if I remember correctly, you seemed rather content with him up your ass as he tried to ensure his place next in line."

Sandor leveled a defiant stare towards Alberto. The old man's face flushed red, his eyes widening to the size of saucers at Sandor's accusation as well as all that was being left undeclared.

"You made a blood oath," Alberto seethed on an angry breath, trying in earnest to keep his voice down, although it was apparent the words were meant to be shouted. "It was what you wanted. I did not force your hand."

"I was young and stupid. I didn't have anywhere else to go, and I wanted Mirabelle taken care of. I couldn't have known exactly what I would be getting myself into. I didn't think I had anything to sacrifice then. There was nothing to forsake."

Sandor felt a heavy wave of remorse break upon him, the force tremendous as it left him near breathless. He had failed Mirabelle; time and again, he had failed her. With a sigh, Alberto moved closer towards Sandor, his anger seemingly replaced with his own sense of guilt.

"Francisca wasn't like all the other wives. She was different," Sandor remarked. "She wasn't all hard talk and ball busting. She was gentle and sweet. This life should have broken her, but it didn't."

"She was tougher than you think, Sandor," Alberto replied.

"You never took a goomah, did you?" Sandor asked, although he was almost certain of Alberto's devotion to Francisca. However, he also understood the fucked up code of ethics that many of the Moriarti men held dear. Even the most devoted men jumped on the opportunity to keep a mistress.

"There was no need. I didn't want anyone else," Alberto confessed quietly as he stared at Sandor through narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, his mind working to puzzle out the changing tides of the conversation.

"For all the honorable things you did - subduing your temper and remaining faithful - you can't tell me Francisca was happy in the life, that she enjoyed the fact that she was married to a mob boss, that you could be thrown away in prison or end up dead on your own doorstep."

"The women make many sacrifices. It's unfortunate, but it's true," Alberto acquiesced gravely.

Although he had turned once more to stare out across the desert, Sandor caught the small, knowing smile forming on Alberto's lips as he slowly nodded his head in recognition.

"You want to know how Francisca and I made it work, don't you?" the man prodded. "Well, I have no secret to share on that matter. No formula for success. She was my Queen, and I treated her as such. I know you'll do the same with Sansa. The girl will acclimate with time."

"Acclimate?" Sandor snapped, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. His eyes narrowed towards Alberto as he glared at the man. "Sansa didn't ask for any of this, and I think we can agree she deserves better. And I think you know that Francisca deserved better too. You never did anything though. So what, you never fucked another woman and didn't rage out on her? You don't deserve some gold medal for that."

The words stung, Sandor could tell. The venom they carried was the venom of truth. Alberto took the hit, realizing then that protesting Sandor's claims would be futile. There would be no lies exchanged between them. This was the way of their relationship, however hard it may be. He seemed to have struck a nerve with Alberto, a long forgotten regret which undoubtedly resurfaced every so often only to be buried once more.

Small at first and growing steadily larger with each passing moment, a column of light broke through the clouds, and Sandor squinted against the emerging sun as he faced Alberto.

"You made a choice, Alberto, and I understand why you did. This was your legacy. Francisca understood that too. I can't ask Sansa to do the same though. I can't keep doing this to her. I can't keep fucking up and begging for forgiveness. And that's all I see when I think about the future. It's me constantly on my knees, pleading for her to stay with me and promising things will get better. But they don't get better. I've been around long enough to know that.

"You say I get to choose what sort of man I want to be. Well, I'm making that choice. Just like you made yours. My choice is to be better. For her and for me, I want to be a better man. I want to be worthy of her, and I know I can't do that here. Sansa is strong and capable of acclimating, but that doesn't change the fact that she deserves so much more, and I want to give her that if she'll still have me."

Moriarti's face was impassible, and although Sandor tried to glean whatever information he could by a creasing of the man's lips or a glint to his eyes, he came up empty handed. Only now did Sandor realize what he was asking and that he needed Moriarti's approval - not as his advisor but as a father figure.

Sucking in a breath, Alberto steadied a stare on Sandor, his head tipped up and held high.

"As your consigliere, I would advise you to remember the consequences a made man suffers for walking away," he informed tepidly, his voice even so as not to betray his feelings on the matter but merely his counsel instead. "You took an oath. It was an oath which promises death should you break it. You are not just any made man, though. Our organization has grown significantly since you took over. The men you met with today look up to you. You are their leader, and they will not tolerate well the idea of you walking away."

Sandor had thought Alberto would leave it at that, and he might never know whether he had broken the man's heart by handing back the legacy that Alberto took so much pride in. Before Sandor could speak, Alberto reached up and rested a trembling hand on Sandor's shoulder. This time when he met Sandor's eyes, there was warmth - a warmth which seemed to match that of the sun still bathing them in its light.

"As a man who sees you as his only son, I am proud of you, and I will always be proud of you, even if you do choose to leave. You struggle with whether or not you're a bad man. I think you know now that you aren't, although to be a great man you must do good in this world. Everyone is capable of redemption, and you, Sandor, are no exception to that. You are just as deserving of its blessing as anyone else."

With that, Alberto wrapped his other arm around Sandor, pulling him into a strong embrace.

"Thank you," Sandor murmured, squeezing his arms around Alberto and patting him on the back before releasing his hold.

Although Alberto had spoken truly about the consequences of leaving, Sandor welcomed the relief he felt now.

"I noticed you've stopped drinking," Alberto observed with curiosity as he leaned up against the patio railing.

"It seemed like the best place to start," Sandor replied with a nod. "I haven't had a drink since the night you came after me. And I won't again."

It had taken Sandor two days to reassemble his office. With each shard of glass he swept up, each book placed back on its shelf, each paper returned to its rightful folder, Sandor was presented with a reminder of how far he had let himself go and how much damage he had inflicted, not to his office but to those around him, Sansa chief among them. The shame and disgust he felt with himself had been nearly unbearable. He could not help but associate alcohol with all of this, for surely it had its contribution. The thought of whiskey alone beckoned dry heaves, its smoky taste and dull warmth no longer appealing to him.

"I believe you," Alberto affirmed, and Sandor knew the man spoke truly, that truth meaning more than he could have imagined.

"It's good to talk about things too, though," Alberto continued tentatively. "You play your cards very close to your chest, but discussing what vexes us is liberating, even if those troubles are in our past."

Alberto gave pause before continuing, selecting his words with care, or so it seemed.

"Would you be opposed to discussing these things? You and I can make time however often you want and discuss whatever you want. I would listen and you could talk. No pressure, no awkwardness. Just you talking and me listening."

He understood what Alberto was offering, and although it was true he kept his troubles predominantly to himself, Sandor understood, now, the importance of their release, which was a necessity to healing.

"Yeah, you've got the right of it, and I think that would do me a lot of good," Sandor agreed with a nod of his head. "Right now, though, there's someone else I need to talk to."

Smiling, Alberto clapped Sandor on the back and wished him well before watching as Sandor retreated inside to find Sansa.

---

Sandor knew where to find her. In movements fluid and uninterrupted by doubt, he ascended the stair case, his hand gripping the banister for purchase as he felt his legs conspiring to buckle beneath him. With each step, he heard the faint melodic sounds of the piano, a siren's song beckoning him nearer to her. She didn't need it; surely, he'd follow her to hell and back again if it meant forgiveness.

He pressed forward down the hallway towards the room which housed Alberto's old piano. Sandor had almost forgotten it was there, the thing having collected dust for God knows how many years. Alberto had stopped playing soon after Francisca's death, the room sealed off and silent as a tomb ever since. In their last conversation with one another, Mirabelle had posed the idea to designate the piano room as Sansa's very own piece of the Moriarti mansion.

Sandor remembered well that last conversation he had with his sister in the dark hours just before dawn: the confessed fears they had shared with one another, the reminiscence of their past, the resuscitated solidarity they felt with one another. All their lives Mirabelle had declared time and again how much she needed him, how they only had each other in this life. The mutuality of Mirabelle's declaration had been unspoken on Sandor's part, for he never announced his need for anyone or anything. Pride had been his downfall but more so, the fear that the things in his life designated as needs would be ripped from him and he would end up alone. The bitter and cruel truth of the matter was that he had never told Mirabelle how much he needed her, and despite his superstitions at voicing the truth that he did, in fact, need her, she was taken from him anyway.

As he reached the closed door of Sansa's music room, Sandor found himself doing something he hadn't quite done before. Without pretense and without prompt, he prayed. Not to God, but instead he prayed to his sister. Beneath his breath, he whispered what he should have told her many, many years ago, as soon as she could comprehend the words.

I need you, Mirabelle. I always needed you. My life would have been a wreck without you, and perhaps it is now that you're gone. I don't know where we go after we die, but I can't believe that you're far. I just can't. So, help me now because just as much as I needed you, I need her too.

As soon as the prayer left his lips, Sandor drew in a breath and nudged the door open slowly. With the curtains drawn back, half of the room was aglow in oblong shapes of light cast against the floor as the sun poured through the windows. He could feel the warmth radiating throughout, and in the opposite corner of the room, Sansa was seated behind the piano, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration as she studied the movement of her hands across the keys.

Transfixed as he hovered in the doorway, Sandor watched in silence, his feet rooting him in place. The melody she played was sweet, if not sad - gentle and somber and wholly foreign to him. He remembered how he had mocked her once, calling her a little bird in regards to her apparent love of song and dance. She had been afraid then, though she had tried in earnest to hide it and deny him the satisfaction of her fear. Defeated and broken, she had fought against that fear, drawing on a strength that had, even then, surprised and enraptured him even further, inciting a persistent need to know her better.

He wondered now how much of her he did not truly know: the parts that she had kept hidden for fear and for doubt, the parts suppressed, the parts left undiscovered because he hadn't taken the time. There was shame anew as he watched her blissfully adrift on the notes she played, realizing now that indeed she was a little bird. A little bird captured and caged, taken from all that she had treasured and loved. Wings clipped, she had found what little refuse she could, seeking out shelter against a storm she had not willingly flown in to.

With her eyes softly shut and a delicate smile dancing across her lips as she played, Sansa had found her song again. Serenity and calm began to flourish where pain and isolation had been. There were no secrets here, no doubts and no fear. Just her - unguarded and unfettered as she carved out a place of beauty amongst all the chaos.

Sensing his presence, the notes abruptly stopped, and Sansa's eyes fluttered open, widening as she caught sight of him in the doorway. Guarded once more, she seemed to disappear to the sanctuary she had built within her own heart, that secret place she fled to. He wished he knew the way so that me might follow her there, tell her how sorry he was and beg for forgiveness until she let him off his knees.

"Don't stop," was all he seemed to manage, manifesting on nothing more than a quivering exhale.

"I didn't see you," Sansa replied quietly with an embarrassed smile, cheeks flushing red.

"May I join you?" Sandor questioned, recognizing this space as a haven she had claimed for herself. Unwilling to intrude if she did not want him here, he would not enter until she let him.

"Yes, of course," Sansa acquiesced, scrambling to move sheets of paper off of the piano bench and placing them in orderly stacks on the floor.

Sandor traversed the open expanse of the room as a slow and steady tremble eased its way through his body. When he approached the piano bench, he saw that Sansa had already donned her funeral attire. Garbed in a black lace dress, its sleeves long and neck high despite the fact that it hugged her figure, she had kicked off her black heels, which were resting beside the piano pedals. She had drawn her hair up off of her shoulders in a tight bun resting on the top of her head, the graceful length of her neck showcased. A few wisps of curling hair had come loose at the nape of her neck, streaks of red and gold aflame in the sunlight.

Gazing up at him through her lashes, the flush had yet to disappear from her cheeks, although Sandor could say with a fair bit of certainty it was not residual embarrassment that beckoned the blush to remain. Straddling the piano bench as he faced her now, he was close to her, closer than he had been in days. Ever the proper little lady, she drew her legs up on the bench as she turned towards him, her knees pressed together to preserve her modesty. Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, Sandor lifted his gaze to her.

"You play beautifully," he intoned, his voice still sounding weak to his own ears. "What was the song you were playing?"

If she perceived any weakness in him, Sansa did not show it. Instead, her lips pulled into a bright smile, dissipating the heaviness that had settled between them but not banishing it completely.

"Thank you. It's just something I'm writing," she confessed timidly and with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

Feeling his lips part and words flee him, Sandor knew that he was surely gaping at her as he studied her face in awe. When he had fallen into silence for many moments, Sansa began to shift uncomfortably on the bench, her eyes averted to the lined sheets of paper resting on the music rack of the piano. He followed her eyes and saw scribbles of notes in her handwriting, musical symbols and vocabulary that he could scarcely understand.

"You wrote that?" he finally spoke, incredulous not because he didn't believe, but rather because of the confirmation that he, indeed, hadn't taken the time to know her, truly know her. And all that time had been wasted, thrown to the wind and quickly rendered a thing of the past. With that knowledge, a frenzy set in, desperation at stealing the time back if only to get closer to her. She felt so far away from him now and he from her.

Biting her bottom lip, she gave a small nod, incipient traces of pride surfacing in her eyes, her smile.

"I've never known anyone who can write music or play it like you were playing," Sandor responded, still stunned and finding himself captivated once more.

"Do you know how to play a piano?" Sansa queried, seemingly finding revived intrigue in him as well.

With a half-smile, Sandor turned to the piano keys, searching out the only one he was familiar with and giving it a firm press with his finger until it sounded.

"Middle C. And that's all I know," he answered with a low, grumbling laugh.

"It's a start," she laughed along with him, a soft giggle breaking through her lips which eased away the tension she had been holding in her frame.

Her laughter beckoned his smile to fade then. He had heard her laugh here and there for the past week, catching the sound of it as he walked the halls or heard its echo from somewhere down below as he passed by the staircase. From somewhere underneath the same roof as him, she had been content enough to allow her joy to manifest on laughter, yet it hadn't been him who inspired that happiness. To measure their shared experiences with one another on the scales of joy and sorrow, he had surely caused her more sorrow than anything else.

Yet she still offered smiles to him, allowed him to be close to her despite all the damage he had incurred. She was grace personified, her kindness radiant, her compassion a rare wonder in a world he knew to be equal parts cruel and unjust. To know her was to understand the good he had never believed in before. He had denied its existence, choosing instead to dwell in darkness rather than seek out a purity which might upend his understanding of the world and ultimately shatter his beliefs founded in bitterness and rage. A creature of darkness did not belong in her world of light, and although he did not feel worthy of her, true to Alberto's observation, he wanted her all the same. And rather than destroy that which he did not feel worthy of, Sandor knew it was time to shed the darkness and head down the path towards worthiness. Although he might falter and fall, he would crawl his way towards redemption if he must, coming to her on hands and knees, soiled and broken by the journey.

He was a tormented soul and not someone who was easy to love. The path of redemption would be as arduous as it was long, and perhaps at the end of it there would be no place left in her good graces. She may cast him out to exist in some purgatory between the hell he had clawed his way out of and the divinity of her purity and light.

He would try though. He would fight to become the man she seemed to see in him - the good that existed somewhere beneath his own fortitude of hatred and anger. In the end, she may turn him away, and he would forfeit to a better man if it meant her happiness. Never again, though, did he wish to become the monster she feared lurked within him. It was time to slay the beast once and for all, to cauterize a wound that had festered too long.

With a shuddering breath, Sandor reached out towards her, taking her hands into each of his own and staring down at them. When he finally lifted his eyes to her, Sansa was staring back at him, her forehead creased with concern and her smile faded now.

"You're shaking," she whispered before giving his hands a small squeeze as she scooted closer to him, searching his face as she went.

Nodding his head as he closed his eyes, Sandor slowly lifted her hands, pressing a soft kiss to her fingers. He tried to still his trembling but found with each passing moment of silence, his resolve on that matter deteriorated.

"I've wronged you in so many ways, Sansa," he began, opening his eyes to her once more. "I've taken you away from everything you've ever known, and I've thrown you into my world. I've hurt you and confused you. I've done a lot of things in my life that I'm ashamed of. The things I've done against you top the list, and that's the truth.

"I could've just left the night of the Royce party, let that place burn to the ground and not look back. Since you've come here, I'm sure you've wondered why I didn't, and to be perfectly honest, I don't have an answer for you. I knew you were my brother's target that night, and so I made the decision to spare you from whatever he had planned. It was irrational, and it wasn't planned on my part, but to say I regretted it would be a lie. And I refuse to lie to you.

"What I do regret was how I handled things after that. If I could give you back everything that's been taken from you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. And I know it probably seems like I'm the one who has taken most of those things from you.

"I don't know what I have to do to make things right between us, but I'll do it. If you want me to keep away from you, I'll do it. If you want to go home, I'll take you home, back to your father; I'll do it."

By the irregular rise and fall of her chest, Sandor could tell she was drawing in shaky breaths. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes, threatening to break free at any moment. With his heartbeat loud in his own ears, Sandor waited for her response, each second of silence on her end feeling like an eternity.

"You never asked me before what I wanted, Sandor," she finally spoke, a tear breaking free and trailing down her cheek. "You made assumptions or decided for me. This is the first time you've asked what I want in all of this. You want to know what I want?"

"Yes. Tell me what you want," he urged, something of a plea. "Please. I'll do it for you. Whatever it is, I'll do it."

Despite the desperation fraying his words, Sansa gave an exasperated sigh as a pained expression settled on her face. Yet there was something else, something gaining on the pain and breaking through. He could see it in her eyes, the change in her voice as she spoke. Walls were coming down, and on the other side, he was seeing her for true. It was the strength she spoke with and the conviction she wielded which rendered him into yet another round of silence, words unspoken because he was in utter awe of her.

"You still don't get it. It's been a little over a month since I've been home. I have no idea what is happening with my father, the only family that I have left. I'm supposed to start school in a few weeks, but it looks unlikely that that will happen. I've had no contact with anyone I know. My entire life has been put on hold. I guess it's reasonable to assume that I want to go home; that as soon as it's safe, you can drop me back in Portland, and I'll just pick up where I left off. I'll have an interesting story to tell, but my life will just carry on as it did before. It's true that I do want to go home, but things aren't so simple, Sandor.

"My mother is gone. I still don't know what's happening with my father. I watched one of my best friends die, and I don't know what happened to the other. You took me away from home, but you have to understand that my life will never be the same. I know the things you have done for me, and I know you've saved my life more times than I'm probably even aware of. And I'm thankful for that."

Taking a breath to calm herself, Sansa began again - quieter this time and softer, too.

"I've been with you for a little over a month now. I've made connections to the people in your life, I've figured out when to ask questions and when to leave it alone, I've learned who most of your men are. And I see these people - your men - having families and caring for their wives and children, all of them loving each other as fiercely as any other person loves their family. So tell me why you're the one who has to choose whether or not you get to have that?

"If you take me home and leave it at that, you're taking something else away from me again. You. You're taking you away from me. And me away from you.

"All along, you've thought that I'm the one who isn't convinced, that you know so well what you feel and that you can't imagine I would feel the same. But it's you who has kept me away. You shut me out and tell me nothing. I don't want to be left in the dark anymore. I don't care if the entire world questions it. The entire world doesn't have to understand. But I need you to understand. Of all people, you need to understand.

"You're what I want. You. I want you, and I want my father. I want the people who mean something to me to stay in my life. That's what I want."

With no more room for hesitation or doubt, he released his hold on her hands and reached out for her, arms wrapping around her as he pulled her closer. She came willingly, crawling up into his lap as she snaked her arms around his neck, clinging to him as soundly as he was to her. Pressing his forehead against hers, he cradled her in his arms, each of them trembling like leaves against the breeze of a dying storm.

"I want you too," he breathed. "I would never just drop you back in Portland, tell you to have a nice life, and then leave it at that." Brushing his lips against her cheek, he planted soft kisses there before murmuring in her ear as he spoke. "I'm sorry. For everything that's happened, Sansa, for everything. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for the things I've said and done that have hurt you. I'm sorry for all the things I should have said and the things I should have done but didn't."

With his cheek now pressed against hers, one hand gently clasped at the back of her neck, Sandor could feel her nodding her head. Pulling away slightly so that he could look at her once more, he continued.

"I know I've apologized to you so many times before, and this shit just keeps happening. I don't want to keep telling you how sorry I am. I want to show you, and I know that it isn't easy, but I'll do it. Things are going to be different. I don't…"

He faltered momentarily and not for a lack of truth. Drawing in a deep breath, he persisted, his eyes set against hers as she stared back at him, consuming each of his words as eagerly as he had with hers.

"I don't want to be the Hound anymore, some big fucking murderous asshole, hurting the people who mean the most to me. I don't want it anymore. I don't. I want to be better. For you and for me, I want to be better than that. You deserve better, much better, than what I've shown you. I just want a chance to be the guy who gives that to you. I'm willing to change and to make it right. I just want one more shot with you."

Sansa could not save him, and her eyes alone bore the acknowledgement of that fact; the fear of his failure was lingering through the glinting of her tears. It was then that he knew it wasn't a question of if it could be done, absolution for the sins he had committed against all that mattered to him now. He knew now that it must be done. It was an oath that should be kept at all costs, irrevocable because there could be no resignation of possible failure, even if it meant forsaking the blood oath he had taken so many years ago.

He had once vowed to protect her, and he understood that to save himself was to protect Sansa from what had the most potential to hurt her. For too long, he had oscillated between believing himself to be a good man and manifesting the fear that he was not. Now was the time to finally swing the pendulum towards one side and achieve what she saw in him. It was a leap of faith for them both; she trusting he would come through for her and he trusting that whatever good she saw in him existed for true, enough to be proliferated towards something obtainable.

Sansa nodded her head, tears spilling free and running down her cheeks in continuous streams. Although she was biting her bottom lip, it quivered anyway. Urging its release, Sandor pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss until he felt her lips part for him. He felt a shiver reverberate through her body as she shook against him, sniffling as more tears came. Deepening the kiss and capturing a sigh as it left her lips, Sandor ran his tongue delicately against hers, the give and take effortless as they fell into rhythm with one another.

More sniffles and a tiny whimper came as Sansa broke the kiss, the reluctance evident as she barely pulled away.

"What's wrong?" Sandor queried with brow furrowing, his heart thrumming once again as he saw anguish flood her countenance.

"Your mother's necklace," she barely managed to whisper before a gentle sob broke free from her lips. "Mirabelle told me about your mother…about what happened to her. I knew how much it meant to you, and I feel awful for what I did. I'm sorry, Sandor."

Releasing his breath, Sandor brushed away the tears with the back of his hand before placing a steady rotation of kisses about her lips, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, and her forehead.

"It's okay," he reassured her, unwittingly rocking her in his arms as he laid kisses down the length of her neck. "Don't be sorry. We'll put all of this behind us. All of it."

He felt her hum against him, a contented sigh, and one of her hands delicately resting against his burned cheek, urging his lips back towards hers. No sooner had he obliged than his lips were captured in a kiss, warm and deep and wholly reassuring that she had missed his touch, his embrace, just as much as he had missed hers.

The cadence eventually slowed, their attentions to one another terminating in gentle licks and nips, and when it did, Sandor cupped her cheeks in each of his hands as she rested her own hands on his shoulders.

"Little bird, I don't keep you in the dark because I want to. I hope you know that. I worry that the more I tell you, the more danger I'll put you in. I've seen too many Moriarti women take the fall for their men because they knew too much. I just didn't want that to happen to you."

"I know that now," she nodded in reply before offering him a forlorn smile. "I want to know about my father, though. If you can tell me what happened, that's all I really want to know."

There was fear in her eyes now. He could see the hesitation there, curiosity battling an unwillingness to endure any more heartache.

"Your dad isn't in Portland anymore," Sandor began, brushing loose strands of her hair behind her ear as he spoke. "There are a lot of problems within the Portland police department, a lot of people who are working against him, although he didn't know it. He was told to get out of Dodge, so he did. When I saw him, he had been traveling south and was passing through Crescent City. He's been looking for you."

Tensing in his arms, Sansa leveled a sobered stare towards him, eyes wide and filled with an intensity he hadn't quite seen in her before.

"When you came back that night, you were covered in blood."

"It wasn't his. I didn't hurt him," Sandor divulged. Understanding bloomed across her face as he pointed to the fading bruise across his cheek bone.

"He did that to you?" she asked breathlessly.

Sandor nodded by way of reply.

"He caught me in the nose too, hence all the blood you saw. I'm fairly certain he figured out you're with me."

"How?" Sansa pressed as she shifted on his lap, gripping his shoulders for support.

"Beats the hell out of me," he responded with a shrug of the shoulders. "I tried my best to explain what I could to him: that there's a price on his head within the Severelli, that he needed to quit talking to Portland, and that he needed to fall off the grid. I don't know for certain if he's doing any of that. I've got some ideas of where he is, and I'm planning on sending a group of my men out to keep an eye on him, make sure nothing happens."

Sandor watched as Sansa's mouth dangled open as she drew in a gasping breath, her head shaking as if questioning the words she had just heard.

"You're protecting him," she all but whispered.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sandor replied quietly. "Never in a million fucking years did I ever think I'd see the day where I was protecting Ned Stark," he added with a chuckle.

Fixated on the information he had given her, Sansa did not return his laugh but instead stared at him intently.

"Why are you protecting him when he's the one who's been building a case against you, one which would put your away for the rest of your life?"

Although he had understood the irony in effectually protecting Ned Stark, Sandor hadn't questioned it.

"Because he's your father," he finally replied, returning her gaze and finding reason now where there hadn't been any before. "He's the only family you have left. I know what it feels like to lose the only family you have. And I would never want that for you. I know he means the world to you and you to him. When things with my brother are handled, I'll reach back out to him, and we'll go from there."

"Thank you, Sandor. You have no idea how much that means to me," Sansa murmured as she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his as she pressed a soft kiss there.

"Your brother is the one who did that to Mirabelle, isn't he?" Sansa inquired, unwilling to speak his brother's name or look him in the eye as she asked. Instead, she had rested her cheek against his chest as she curled up in his arms once more.

"Yes," Sandor replied on a rasp, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Whatever discomfort he felt at the turn in the conversation was quickly ushered away as he felt Sansa tracing her fingers slowly against his chest in a figure eight. He remembered now that she did that when her mind was abuzz with questions she was too timid to ask. Squeezing her tighter in his arms, Sandor rested his chin against the top of her head.

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" she whispered against his chest on a fragile breath.

"Yes, I am," he affirmed quietly.

"When?" she asked a moment later.

"Whenever I find out where he is. It could be a couple days from now, weeks, months. I don't know for sure."

Another intercession of silence settled between them before he felt Sansa stir against him, pushing herself up so that she could look upon his face. When he met her stare, he found fear was there once more.

"What if-" she began, her voice succumbing to fear as it quivered from her lips.

"Nowhat ifs," Sandor interrupted with a firm shake of his head. "I will make him pay, and then I will be coming back to you."

She moved to speak again, her lips parting as if to ask another question or voice another concern. Pulling her against him, Sandor seized her mouth once more, silencing any doubts for now as he administered slow, dawdling kisses. With her in his arms, he rose from the seat and felt as Sansa instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips.

After a few measured steps towards the center of the room, Sandor could feel the sunlight warm against the back of his neck. Carefully, he lowered himself to his knees and laid Sansa down before settling gently on top of her. Propping himself up on one elbow, Sandor stared down at her, softly tracing the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckles. She gave a sweet smile as she reached up and cupped his cheek.

He had questioned love before, not understanding how to recognize it and wondering what, if anything, in his life could ever be designated as such. He understood now its features, all the facets it possessed that were wholly unique to its notion: the acceptance, the inherent strength, the forgiveness, the healing, the purity, the light. And with an even more profound understanding, he knew how to designate it now because he was looking at it, at her. All he had left to do was confess this understanding, to breathe it to life.

Leaning into her hand still caressing his cheek, Sandor drew in a breath, resolved to share with her this one last truth, the only thing left unspoken. Before he could speak, though, Sansa had pulled him down against her, arms wrapped around him as she claimed his lips.

How long they stayed like this - rediscovering one another through warm kisses and tentative touches, hearts beating madly in their chests, fingers interlaced, bodies intertwined - he could not say. When they finally came up for a breath, the sun had shifted across the room. Scooting over towards it, Sandor settled on his back with Sansa's head resting against his chest as she draped one arm across his middle. Bathed in the light and the warmth of the sun, he closed his eyes and studied the rhythm of her breathing, feeling as it slowed until finally she had drifted into a soft sleep. He whispered the words to her then, simple and liberating.

"I love you."

With that, Sandor pressed a kiss to Sansa's forehead before following her into sleep.

---

Alberto had been the one to rouse them, standing over them with an amused grin on his face as both she and Sandor stared up at him, bleary-eyed from sleep and still wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

The Moriarti patriarch had chuckled at them as he nudged them awake and made a passing comment about their reunion, although Sansa could not remember his exact words, as lingering traces of sleep had fogged her memory. What she did remember was the genuine, albeit subtle, vestiges of delight that seemed to cling to Alberto's features as he happened upon them.

The room was darker when they awoke, the sun having been cast over once more by a thick mass of storm clouds as they were informed of the time. Sansa had had a half hour to reassemble her hair and touch up her makeup. She grabbed a cardigan, anticipating a chill to the air as she glanced out the window, and opted for black ballet flats instead of the heels she had originally intended on wearing.

Appearing put together once more, Sansa had hurried down the stairs and found Sandor waiting for her in the foyer, gazing up at her appreciatively and extending his hand to her as she approached the bottom landing of the staircase.

His jeans and blue T-shirt had been exchanged for a black, three-piece suit obviously made from quality fabric and well-tailored to fit his form. Beneath his waist coat, he had donned a dark grey dress shirt with a patterned grey tie. He had let his hair down, brushed out in subtle raven-colored waves which fell past his shoulders, and as she approached she could smell his cologne. She remembered the familiar scent of it as she breathed him in, realizing it was something she had thoroughly missed. Funny how the small things seemed to have slipped to the back of her memory in their time apart to resurface little by little, reminders of things forgotten.

Intuitively, she sensed a disconnect within him, one that hadn't been there earlier. Outwardly, he was immaculately put together, the façade of a man who had mastered his emotions and would remain stoic as stone, a god of his own world carved in marble to betray nothing of what stirred beneath. She understood him, though, better than she had before because together they had torn down the walls that stood between them. She had broken through, and beneath the control he exuded over his external world, she had seen vulnerability in him. And now she sensed his pain was beginning to bubble up from waters that had been calmed but still ran deep.

A half smile broke through his stern countenance as she slipped her hand into his. She could feel a black mass of sorrow settling over them, all of them - a collective unconscious filled with grim foreboding as the Moriarti mansion stirred with mourners, each possessing a forlorn glaze over their eyes as they shuffled to cars, umbrellas in hand.

She and Sandor rode together to Las Vegas for the funeral proceedings accompanied by Alberto, who sat opposite to them in the black limo that arrived for the family of the deceased. It occurred to Sansa then that Sandor was the only true family Mirabelle had had left. To call Gregor her flesh and blood would surely be a mockery that even the gods would laugh at until bitter tears fell from the sky as a cold, soaking rain. And indeed they must have found something worthy of mockery, for rain was now upon them, manifesting as a drizzling mist.

They waited for Bronn to join them, and when he did finally appear, it was only long enough to inform them that he would be riding with Zulu today. Locking eyes with Bronn, Sandor only nodded silently at the mention of the boy's name, and Sansa searched his face for affront, any sort of visual indication that he was privy to what transpired last night. Beyond that momentary exchange, nothing more was said, and after Bronn ambled off towards another vehicle, Sandor offered Alberto a tense smile to which the old man gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Long ago, Sansa would have been flattered by Zulu's confession of the affections he felt towards her. She would have blushed graciously after his kiss and doted on the scenario for days to come, dreamily imagining how things might play out between them in the future. Zulu had offered to love her, had offered to take her away, to give her everything he thought she wanted. He had appealed to the whimsies of the girl she used to be. In doing so, he had blinded himself to what she truly wanted when all was said and done.

In their silent moments together this morning, Sansa had wanted to tell Sandor what happened. The words had been on the tip of her tongue, but fear had taken a hold of her then - fear that the quiet contentment they had again found with one another would be ripped from her if she told him. Instead of sullying the moment, she resolved herself to wait until a better time, a time when emotions had calmed and rationality could reign in place of heated upset.

She wondered now if she had been wise in waiting. Surely, she was a hypocrite - going on about being left in the dark and requesting the entirety of truth from him while she held fast to this secret. Ultimately, she would tell Sandor, for she sensed that secrets between them were a slow venom to what they had only just repaired mere hours ago.

She had not seen Zulu today. He hadn't been waiting to escort her downstairs for breakfast as he had every morning since they returned here. When she tiptoed into the hallway at a quarter to nine, she had found it empty. When she headed downstairs to the kitchen bustling with some of the wives making chit chat over cups of coffee, she hadn't found him there either. Perhaps it was for the best, she decided. Either way, she felt a pang of loss. He was her friend after Mirabelle, and now he was likely to keep his distance. She could only hope it was Zulu's preemptive effort at getting into Sandor's good graces and not his disdain at her refusing him anything more than friendship.

Shame flushed across her cheeks as she recalled her missed opportunity to tell Sandor what had happened. It wasn't so simple, a part of her seemed to whisper. She did not wish harm to befall Zulu, and certainly Sandor would take great offense to what had happened. Regardless, today was not the day to burden him with that knowledge. Surely, there was enough for his heart to toil over.

The car ride proceeded in uninterrupted silence. With Sandor pressed up against her - his arm and thigh flush with hers and his hand engulfing her own, fingers entwined, as it rested on his lap - it seemed he could not get close enough; that if it were up to him, she'd be tucked in his arms until he deemed it absolutely necessary to let go. That was something they could agree on. Sansa rested her head against his shoulder, unwittingly nuzzling her check against him to which he responded with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Moriarti seemed to study both her and Sandor for the duration of the trip, the faintest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, or so Sansa could have sworn. When she would catch sight of him doing this, Alberto would simply give a slight nod of the head and then avert his eyes out the window as if to gaze upon the scenery, finding false wonder in a dreadfully dull expanse of gloomy desert.

As she watched the mile markers tick by, Sansa could feel Sandor fidgeting next to her, equal measures restless and uneasy. The reticence that had befallen the three of them was no longer a calm sort of quietude. Instead, it had grown heavy with an anguished anticipation that had quickly turned stifling by the time the limo pulled in front of the church.

When the car came to a stop, the engine humming and the driver waiting for the three of them to exit, Sansa watched as Sandor pulled in a deep breath. Gazing down at their hands still intertwined, he closed his eyes softly as if in prayer, drawing what strength he could before turning to look at the church.

Sansa followed his stare out the window, the church beyond stunning to behold. It boasted a gothic façade: weathered stone, elaborately carved pinnacles and gables, a set of twin bell towers reaching towards the heavens, and nestled amongst it all, circular windows of pieced-together stained glass.

Exchanging austere glances with one another, Alberto and Sandor seemed to simultaneously exhale a sigh before stepping from the vehicle. Once more extending his hand to her, Sandor helped Sansa from the car, shutting the door behind her and stopping momentarily as he stared at the church, jaw tensing as he chewed his bottom lip.

For many moments, he stood where he was, Alberto having flittered off as he greeted individuals gathered outside the church. She felt Sandor's hand beginning to tremble and looked up to find that his brows had drawn together in obvious distress. He doesn't want to go in, she thought to herself, understanding that he knew somewhere inside the walls of the massive stone structure before them was his sister. And despite the beauty she was resting beneath, nothing would assuage the pain now pressing against him.

"It's going to be okay," Sansa offered gently, resting one hand against his chest while giving a small squeeze with her other hand still holding his.

Releasing a breath he had apparently been holding, Sandor began the slow walk towards the steps leading up to the church, greeting others with a silent nod as he passed.

Enchanted by the church and the sheer number of people gathered outside, Sansa hadn't noticed that Sandor stopped moving, something having captured his undivided attention. When she moved to step forward and continue on with the other funeral goers towards the entrance, she was met with some resistance as Sandor had, quite literally, stopped in his tracks. His hand gripped tightly around hers as Sansa turned to see what had become the source of his full attention.

Parked across the street from the church was a black SUV with its windows thickly tinted so that the occupants of the vehicle were completely obscured. A man was perched against the side of the car, arms crossed about his chest as he continued to lock eyes with Sandor. Dressed in a grey suit with a white button down shirt and a blue-striped tie, Sansa couldn't quit puzzle out if he had come to pay his respects. By the way the man was staring daggers at Sandor, who had stilled beside her and was now muttering expletives beneath his breath, Sansa imagined the man was not here for the funeral.

"Who is that?" Sansa inquired, not entirely certain she wanted to know the answer but found herself asking anyway.

"He's an inspector from the Las Vegas Police Department," Sandor replied, his words heavy and seemingly loaded. "He was at the funeral home last night after Marco showed up dead."

As if somehow privy to the words just spoken, the man disentangled his arms from across his chest and rested his hands on his hips. In doing so, he pushed back the sides of his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster with two pistols on either side of his chest.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sandor seethed as he instinctively clasped Sansa's hand tighter. "That goddamned son-of-a-bitch."

The man had roused the attention of others around them, a few of which had shifted their eyes towards Sandor as they evaluated his reaction. Bronn paced over to Sandor, Zulu by his side, all three of them watching and waiting for something to happen. After a few moments, the police inspector flashed a wide grin before hopping into the passenger seat of the vehicle, which then sped off down the street and out of sight.

"Business as usual for him. He's just being a prick," Bronn assured as he patted Sandor on the back and continued on inside the church, Zulu casting a furtive glance towards Sansa before following along.

Sandor did not seem convinced by Bronn's words, as his eyes flickered up and down the street, warily watching as if he expected the SUV to pull up again at any moment. She wanted to ask why the inspector would make an appearance today of all days but bit her tongue instead as she and Sandor went inside the church, hand-in-hand. The vestibule was packed with people gathered in clusters, speaking quietly with one another and many delicately dabbing at tears with handkerchiefs or tissues. Quickly navigating through the crowd, Sandor led the way from the vestibule towards the open expanse of the church beyond.

If the outside was stunning, the inside was surely designed to eclipse the beauty of the exterior, for it was absolutely breathtaking. In her time spent amongst the Italian mothers, Sansa had overheard bits and pieces of their conversation regarding the church that had been reserved for the funeral service. Even in broken English interspersed with Italian words, Sansa had understood it was going to be beautiful, but she could have never dreamed up what was before her eyes.

She marveled at the mosaics which covered the ceiling and extended down archways flanking either side of the open space. Catching the light from large, ornate pendant lights hanging from above, the pieces of mosaic glass glittered in jewel tones - topaz, ruby, azure, emerald, and amethyst - all depicting various biblical scenes Sansa was only vaguely familiar with. Along each wall, marbled columns extended the full height from floor to ceiling, and set in front of each was a tall candleabra with nine white pillar candles, flames dancing.

As they worked their way towards the front, they passed long rows of wooden pews, each filled with mourners dressed in shades of black and grey: men with their wives or perhaps their goomahs, squirming children, old couples looking on and offering sad smiles as she and Sandor passed. Sansa had begun to learn the faces she had seen around the Moriarti mansion, and yet those familiar faces were dispersed amongst a sea of people she did not recognize. She had been to weddings and funerals before, but truly she had never seen a turn out like this.

Sansa caught the scent of flowers as they approached the front row of pews. Sandor's pace had slowed by then, and he stood staring at his sister's white casket set in front of the steps of the altar. Surrounding her casket were the same flowers Sansa had seen at the visitation, and now more had been added to them, each arrangement more beautiful, fragrant, and elaborate than the last.

For many moments, Sandor stayed rooted where he was, his eyes fixed on the casket as disbelief began to fissure his stoicism. It was real to him now. She could see the acknowledgement in his eyes as denial was cast away. He sighed a shuddering breath, which caught in his throat, his eyes now glassy and reflecting the light of the candles burning in ornate brass candleabras on the altar. Sansa stood by his side, running her thumb over the back of his hand in a small gesture of comfort, futile as it might be. She felt him trembling once more, and when the organ sounded behind them with a sorrowful requiem hymn, Sandor wiped his nose with the back of his hand and moved towards the front pew.

Bronn and Alberto scooted down to make room for them, but before she and Sandor could be seated, the congregation of funeral attendees had stood as the priest made his way down the center aisle in a slow dawdle. As the priest ascended the steps of the altar and settled in front of the podium to speak, the rows of attendees seated themselves once more, the church falling silent save for a few echoing coughs and sniffles.

As the priest spoke, arms lifted with the white sleeves of his robe hanging down, his voice booming through the marble and mosaic expanse of the church, Sansa shifted her gaze to Sandor when she heard his breathing becoming louder. Staring at his sister's casket once more, he was paying no mind to the words being spoken. Instead, tears were now gathering in his eyes, which were rimmed in red. He must have noticed she was looking at him because he turned his attention to the priest then, swallowing hard and breathing in deep to stave off the tears.

After the priest introduced the service, he stepped off to the side as Arianne, Mirabelle's friend, approached the podium. With her cheeks stained with tears as she read a passage from the Bible, her voice faltering and cracking with grief, Sansa still thought she looked beautiful and felt her own tears stinging her eyes now.

When she heard a soft sob next to her, Sansa looked to find Bronn, who was seated next to Sandor, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gasped for breaths. Wrapping one arm around his shoulders, Alberto pulled Bronn closer to him, patting his back and whispering words of comfort in his ear.

After Arianne descended from the podium, the priest led the congregation in prayer, half of the room repeating the words along with him while the other half remained silent, perhaps quietly speaking their own prayers, for they did not know the words to the one echoing around them. It was the same for the hymn sung afterwards, even fewer knowing the words to that.

As the priest delivered his sermon - remarking on the bittersweet sorrow to life's end and to the rejoicing at Mirabelle's return to God's kingdom - Sansa could hear more cries breaking out around her - men and women sniffling and gasping for breaths. She had anticipated the same from Sandor, for the release of his anguish to come as it had for those around them, but he had stilled beside her, his breathing quieter, and she could tell he was fighting that release as much as he was fighting the urge to gaze upon Mirabelle's casket. If he looked now, he would come undone, and for some reason Sandor had resolved himself to hold the pieces of his heart together for a little while longer, though Sansa could not say why.

More readings and hymns were spoken and sung, and when the priest returned to the podium, he called forth Alberto, nodding his head towards the man with a grim smile. Silence fell around them once more as Alberto calmly stood and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket before pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. As Alberto Moriarti took to the podium, it seemed as though every set of eyes in the room was on him, and a quick glance over her shoulder all but confirmed this.

Alberto scanned the room as he unfolded the paper and pressed it to the podium, clearing his throat and drawing in a deep breath before speaking. When he did finally begin to speak, the man had rendered the room captivated, his words eloquent and wise as ever, but Sansa was now seeing the man who had invested his whole life into his father's legacy. She saw him perhaps as he was when he was the boss of the organization and others answered to him. There was conviction and a sense of responsibility to people seated before him which incited his passion, resounding through each word spoken as clearly as it echoed through the church.

"'Life is a scoundrel, and it will break your heart,' someone once told me, an admonition of sorts, I suppose. 'Stay on the surface,' is what I believe they were really saying. After all, it's safer that way.

"And it is a truth of humanity that many tend to remain content by blissfully skating along the surfaces of life, forever wondering what lies beneath that surface but too afraid to find out for themselves because, after all, it might hurt.

"Indeed, that may be true, but what is truly gained in a sanctuary of complacency and numbness, forever going through the motions as to be unscathed by life? Instead, we should break through the surface and plumb the depths, unsettling as they may be, choosing instead to experience the fullest heights of elation and plunging nadirs of sorrow."

Sighing as he closed his eyes, Alberto gave pause. When he did, Sansa could hear the sounds of Bronn's vain attempt at quieting his cries. They echoed around him, inspiring tears in the eyes of all who could see and hear how profoundly he was suffering. Sansa felt her own tears spilling down her cheeks, her chest tightening with each breath. With something between a sigh and a moan, Sandor disentangled his hand from hers, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in the palms of his hands. His breathing had become erratic, she could see; he seemed to be taking sharp, short breaths and was now visibly trembling.

"To feel is to be human," Alberto continued shakily. "Your heart may break; lovers, family, friends may come and go and leave your life in ruins, but you are better for it. You lived, loved, breathed, and died knowing what it feels to be human. And when you return to the stars, you will shine brighter and bluer because of that esoteric knowledge of the human heart's struggle, which touches our souls and enriches our lives.

"We imprint one another with love and light, those memories the markings we bear on our soul. Our bodies disintegrate to ash and dust, but our legacy is written in the memories held in the hearts of those we leave behind. Often it is said that those who pass on before us watch from above, perched on some star far away in the heavens. Yet who is to say that they should be so far?

"In dreams, waking visions, fleeting thoughts, resuscitated memories, and shared stories, Mirabelle remains with us. Not in some ambiguous place up above, but here." Lifting his hand, Alberto rested it over his heart.

"Great love can be measured against great sorrow; to know the former, we accept the eventual knowledge of the latter. It is a sacrifice we make upon first breath, and it is a contract between ourselves and those who mean the most to us in this lifetime. We inscribe in each other's hearts words which comfort us in the hour of letting go: 'I'll lose you for a little while,' these words say. 'See me through the rest of this life. Infiltrate my thoughts in the waking hours with the memory of your laughter. Visit me in dreams with conversations we once shared, the silly things you used to say. I would have done…'" As his voice broke, the words caught in Alberto's throat. Staring down at the podium, the man all but choked out the final words of his eulogy as his voice became strained with grief.

"I would have done the same for you. It's only for a little while, only until we meet again. And we'll meet again."

With his head in his hands, Sandor could not see Alberto falling apart on the podium, but surely he could hear that the man was close to unraveling. Sandor's body quivered and quaked as he was wracked with sobs, each shuddering through him with force but hardly a sound. The organ's music began once more as Alberto descended the steps of the altar and sat back down. Just as Sansa reached out to him, Sandor sat back up, his eyes swollen as he drew in breaths to regain his composure.

In the row across from them, six men rose from the pew and headed towards the front, each taking their place in a predetermined formation around Mirabelle's casket. No sooner had he wiped the tears away from his eyes did Sansa see Sandor fighting to maintain his outward reserve. It was a small consolation to losing the last of his true kin - to preserve his composure in front of all those who had gathered. He did not want to come undone in front of them, she understood that now.

As the priest stepped in front of the casket with his Bible clutched close to his chest and the pallbearers began down the center aisle, Sandor's eyes flickered over to her momentarily, a heavy loneliness evident. He had told her that he knew what it felt like to lose the only family he had had left and that he never wished for her to understand that particular pain. He trailed, now, after his sister's casket, alone because he had been her only kin. Passing each row of mourners, the others looked on with pity, watching Sandor as he went. A custom meant to comfort the family of the deceased - to follow them towards their final resting place - now seemed a mockery of his suffering.

Sansa pushed past Bronn, wriggling her arm free as he reached for her and sought to still her. With a resolved inertia moving her body forward in movements automatic and undisputed in her own mind, even despite these contrived funerary customs, Sansa unburdened herself from Bronn's silent protests and stepped out of the pew. In hurried steps padding against the marble floor, she worked her way down the center aisle, leaving a wave of astounded whispers in her wake as she passed each packed row of mourners.

On the left and on the right, they all gawked at her - gaping holes for mouths and wide pools of confusion for eyes. One by one, they gained their words and whispered them to one another. She didn't hear them any more than she really saw them. With her heart pounding a clamorous beat loud in her own ears, Sansa moved down the aisle, her legs carrying her in a jaunt that wasn't quite a run but possessed an urgency that a mere walk couldn't.

She reached him as he passed the last row of pews, her hand reaching out to his and gripping tightly as she wrapped her fingers around his. When he turned to look at her, confusion flooding his face, Sansa could see the tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.

"You're not alone," she exhaled, swiping the tears away from her own cheeks. Stunned, he stared down at her, speechless as his mouth opened but no words came.

"You're not alone, Sandor," she repeated, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face against his chest.

She couldn't say with absolute certainty that these were the words he needed to hear right now, but as she felt one of his arms snake across the small of her back and the other around her shoulders as he held her tightly against him, the understanding passed between them, as silent and unspoken as it ever was. They had accessed a part of one another that it seemed the rest of the world was not privy to. Just as Alberto had spoken not moments earlier, with that access came the potential for great sorrow or for great love, the enormous ability to wound one another or the power to forge a bond that could be rendered unbreakable and transcendent of life itself. Together, they had chosen the latter.

And together they walked, hand-in-hand, the rest of the way out of the church and down the front steps towards the waiting limo, the others following somewhere behind them. Alberto did not return to the limo but instead comforted Bronn as they walked towards a different vehicle.

Wrapping her up in an embrace, Sandor held onto her, pulling her as close to him as he could manage before the limo lurched forward.

"Sansa." Her name rustled from his lips, stirring up the strands of her hair come loose as he whispered against her neck. He had managed a small victory for the day, which was far from over.

The burial service was a small gathering, everyone huddled beneath umbrellas as the rain fell cold and hard. He had said he couldn't do it, gazing out the window as mourners trekked up a small hill to Mirabelle's final resting spot. Taking his hand, she assured him that he could. 'I'll be next to you the entire time. We'll go together,' Sansa had told him.

Seated in the front row next to Mirabelle's grave side, he hadn't let go of her hand. Despite his suit jacket draped over her shoulders, she shivered against him as a peculiar chill set in, the wind picking up steadily and whipping against the mourners all clutching to their umbrellas. After the priest said his final words and offered Sandor his sincerest condolences, those who had gathered passed by Mirabelle's casket one last time before retreating away.

In the end, she, Sandor, and Bronn were the only ones left standing by Mirabelle's grave. The world had fallen silent, all except the gentle pattering of rain drops against the umbrella above them. Sansa had asked Sandor if he wanted to be alone for a moment. Without taking his eyes off of his sister's casket, he had shaken his head and wrapped his arm around her. Before they left, Sandor circled around to the other side of the casket where Bronn was standing with hands in his pockets as he refused to take an umbrella. Sansa watched as Sandor pulled Bronn, who broke down then, into his arms. He clung to Sandor and cried out in anguish, his sobs muffled as he buried his face into Sandor's shoulder.

When they arrived back at the Moriarti mansion, the half-circle drive was filled with vehicles as people gathered for an early dinner. Once more, Sandor had declared to her that he simply couldn't do it. He did not want to go inside, offer forced smiles as he collected condolences, each one driving home the reminder that his sister was now buried in the ground.

She reassured him he could. 'I'll be next to you the entire time. We'll go together.'

And so they did: Sansa staying by his side and carrying on polite conversation so he did not have to feel compelled to do so on his own. She encouraged him to eat something, assuring him that he would feel better if he did. He agreed, and they ate a small meal, sitting down at a table of individuals they hadn't yet spoken with. The conversation was kept light, and at one point, she had even heard Sandor laugh at a story one of the other men at the table had told.

When he turned to look at her, Sansa immediately understood the look in his eyes. Sandor had had enough, had done his duty for the day, and was ready to withdraw. They left the table, exchanging farewells and parting words before quickly stealing away towards the foyer.

He led her by the hand upstairs, stopping in front of the doorway to his bedroom. In the darkness of the hallway, Sansa could feel him shift against her, his hands settling on either side of her face, the pad of his thumb brushing against her bottom lip.

"Will you stay with me?" he murmured softly, gently pressing a kiss to her lips and running his tongue against hers.

With her mouth preoccupied for the moment, Sansa nodded by way of reply. Slowly breaking the kiss, Sandor pushed open his bedroom door, leading her in carefully as he felt for the light switch and flicked on the lights before closing the door behind them.

She had never been inside his bedroom before. It was larger than the one she slept in. In fact, everything was larger in here: the bed, the connected bathroom, the oversized mirror hanging on the opposite wall of the door. Sandor kept it clean too, everything orderly and nothing frivolous about the way it was decorated either. It seemed he had opted for function over aesthetics.

Sansa stood at the center of the room, uncertain what to say or do, if she should sit or stand. Rubbing her arms to drive in warmth, she watched as Sandor took off his watch and tossed it on top of his dresser before digging through one of the drawers. After he had pulled out a black article of clothing, he paced towards Sansa and handed her the long sleeved shirt in his hands.

"I figured this would be more comfortable," he intoned, running one of his hands through his hair. Sansa gave a timid smile as she took the shirt from him.

"Thank you," she all but whispered before retreating to his bathroom to change. She slipped out of her dress, which had become damp in spots and itchy where the lace fabric had been rubbing against her arms. Standing in her bra and underwear, Sansa undid her hair, sighing with a bit of relief as it was freed from the tight bun it had been in and came cascading over her shoulders. She unhooked her bra, setting it and her dress on the granite sink countertop. Pulling Sandor's shirt on, Sansa gave a small giggle as it fell midway down her thighs and the sleeves engulfed her arms with an excess of fabric. It seemed she had exchanged one black dress for another, for surely Sandor's shirt could function as a dress on her.

When she stepped from the bathroom, Sandor was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees and his fingers steepled as he stared down at them. He had removed his suit jacket, waist coat, and shoulder holster, still sporting the twin pistols on either side, all draped over the back of the leather club chair in the corner of the room. The overhead lights were turned off, and instead, the nightstand lamp was feebly casting a dull sphere of light around the bed.

In soft steps, she padded over to the bed, crawling up next to him as she rested one hand on his back, the other on his forearm. Quietly, they stayed like this for many long moments, but as Sansa began to gently run circles over his back with the tips of her fingers, she felt a shudder move through him, and slowly he began to tremble beneath her touch. He was fighting against it again, she knew. Tooth and nail, he was battling the urge to come undone and the intensity of the war he waged against his own sorrow manifested on those trembles, becoming more forceful and violent as the minutes wore on.

Wrapping her arm around him and pressing her cheek against his shoulder as she scooted closer, she whispered quietly to him.

"It's just you and me here," she reassured, planting kisses against his cheek. "You can let go, Sandor. You can let go."

And with those words, he did let go. Burying his face in his hands, Sandor released his grief in sobs that rolled through his body and seemed to steal the air from his lungs as he gasped for breaths in between. Her heart ached for him, with him, and true to her word, she did not leave his side. She was right there with him the entire time, seeing him through with soft touches and gentle words, as he had finally succumbed to his heartache.

When he had quieted and Sansa could hear his breaths coming even, Sandor sat up, his eyes swollen from crying. She helped him out of his shirt, unbuttoning it as he kicked off his shoes. After shucking out of his pants, he crawled back onto the bed, sniffling as he went and pulling Sansa underneath the covers with him as he laid against the pillow.

Wrapping one arm around her as she rested her head against his chest, he had his other arm thrown across his eyes. His tears came quieter now and in steady, silent streams running down his cheeks and over his chin. With her finger tips tracing random shapes against the fabric of his undershirt, Sansa began to hum quietly, unwittingly. Sandor seemed to listen as he twirled strands of her hair between his fingers. Eventually, the sniffling stopped and the rise and fall of his chest became deeper. In soft, whispering breaths at first, Sansa began to sing; it was a song she remembered her mother singing on lazy Sundays while washing dishes in the kitchen or sewing buttons on her father's work shirts. She felt Sandor's fingers curl around her waist as her song continued on, the delicate melody and tender words ushering him off to an eventual sleep.

With her head against his chest and the sound of his heart beating a peaceful rhythm, Sansa continued tracing mindless patterns about his chest. Curled up against him as the rain patted the roof and ran down the window panes in rivulets, she could hear his voice in her head.

I love you.

In a dream, she thought she had heard him say it, only to realize now that it was not in a dream that she had heard those words from him. He had whispered them while she was on the precipice of sleep, his declaration lost somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. She remembered now, and propping herself up on her elbow, Sansa watched as he slept, his arm still thrown over his eyes.

"I love you too," she whispered back to him.

Just as she was about to lay back down next to him, he pulled his arm away from his face and stared up at her. The vulnerability she had sensed in him before was now evident, written in his eyes and the way he gazed at her with wonder.

He shifted towards her, rolling her onto her back as he gently settled down on top of her. One of his hands cupped her cheek while strands of his hair brushed against the other cheek. Leaning down, he claimed her lips, deepening the kiss with a slow, hungry fervor as he rocked his hips against her. The way he regarded her had changed, she had seen it as soon as he came to her this morning. But even the way he administered his touches and kisses had changed too. There was no longer an obsessive need or unbridled desire to possess her as his own. The bond they shared before had been ripped to pieces, burned to ash and dust, perhaps to never be realized again. Yet somehow, sorrow and contrition had been an equalizing force between them, and they had returned to one another to rebuild what they had lost. Piece by piece and side by side, they would do it together as true equals in the partnership they shared.

Pressing one more kiss to her lips, the tip of her nose, and then to her forehead, Sandor laid back down beside her, wrapping her up in his arms as he held her tight against him. Sansa stayed like this through the night and until the morning. No more waking from nightmares with tears streaming down her face, no more sleepless nights spent tossing and turning, no more reaching out to an empty space in the bed beside her. Instead, she found herself in a sweet, dreamless sleep, tucked warm and safe by Sandor's side.

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Mafia dictionary

Administration: The "upper level" of a mafia family which includes the boss, underboss, and consigliere.

Caporegime: Another way of saying capo, which is short for caporegime.

Soldiers: The made men working beneath a capo whose crew is made up of soldiers.

Packing: Armed with guns.

Song List

Ch. 14

"Last Kiss" J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers

"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" Johnny Cash

"Good Morning, Magpie" Murder by Death

"Songbird" Fleetwood Mac

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A/N: Thank you to mendedheart for beta'ing! She is a champion.

This chapter is a huge milestone in this story because the major facets of its content have been planned since last June.

To me, it's the revealing of the wild card. The one I've been holding on to since the very beginning, biting my tongue as some have railed against the dark road I've taken this down or have abandoned it altogether.

This is a story of redemption and one that does not begin as this poor soul emerges victorious after a long journey of healing. Instead, I've driven this tale through loss and pain, ending up at the lowest of lows, the most pitiful place a person can dwell, to take us where we are now: the choice to be better and the realization that even in darkness there is always the promise of light if we choose to open our eyes and see.

And rather than skip the parts where it gets hard and it hurts and it's ugly, I choose to write about all that instead because its part and parcel to the journey towards being something better than what we are.

So I thank you all for sticking through it, for continuing on although it hasn't been all declarations of love and gratuitous affections. I thank you for your support and I have long said that I have the most amazing, thoughtful readers. I believe that wholeheartedly and I cannot thank you enough.

Rest assured, though, this tale is far from over...

I've reevaluated/reorganized my tumblr. I've started a new blog which is more fic related. There you'll find goodies related mostly to this fic as well as Thunderstruck.

Feel free to follow me: supernovas-gods-and-monsters