He couldn't move or speak, but he could hear Arya's voice. The sound of her name had cut through the ice of his unconsciousness as mercilessly as the steel that had sliced through his flesh. His heart was pumping magma instead of blood: magma that boiled out of the wound in his stomach and slowly turned his insides to charred meat and ashes. But he clung to the pain, and he clung to her voice; and he wished that he could hold her fingers tightly and let her know that he could hear her.
She was protesting every word the maester said with a few short words that she repeated the-gods-only-knew how many times: 'but he's strong. No one understands how strong he is.' Once, that might have been true. But. The cold fever was changing to thrashing, shivering heat; he could feel the magma as it pulsed scalding, blistering, atrocious fucking pain to every part of his body; and half of him wanted to pass out again and let it end, and half of him wanted to stay here in the pain and in the agony; and listen to Arya speak; and fight for life until he had no blood left.
'But he's strong,' Arya was yet again insisting, 'No one understands how strong he is.'
I'm not strong, love, Jaime thought, wishing that he could take her in his arms and explain; I'm dying.
In his mind he was drifting in a sea of blood and sinking further and further beneath the surface. The deeper he sank, the less the pain became. And the less the pain became, the softer her voice sounded.
He tried to fight the beauty of the painlessness. He couldn't.
He tried to fight the beauty of her voice. He couldn't.
And Arya was still speaking, and the maester wasn't listening to her; dismissively brushing aside every word she said with talk of covering him in blankets, and 'easing his passing,' and calling a septon to 'speak the words.'
I don't need any fucking blankets, I don't want my passing eased, and I certainly don't want a bloody septon, Jaime thought, if I'm to die, just let me die and be done with it – gods above, what a fuss!
Arya was expressing similar sentiments, and telling the maester that a septon would only have annoyed him had he been conscious enough to listen to one; the maester was accusing her of sacrilege and advising her to keep her mystery religions to herself, and Jaime sorely wished that the old fool would just drop dead and leave him in peace with Arya's voice and Arya's everything. For the sea of blood was growing warmer and calmer; the pain was numbing, further and further, and he knew, somehow, that when it disappeared, he would be in a place where he could never hear her again.
The septon came anyway, and wasted time with his petty rituals, and Jaime could feel the tips of Arya's fingers brushing his wrist, and her heart beating faster and faster as the septon spoke a lot of words that he didn't care to hear, and for a while, he remembered what her heartbeat had felt like when it had thundered hard through his own veins; tasting sweet and hot on his lips. But the septon was still at it; stealing away their time like a Dothraki left alone in a jewellery shop; 'judge our good Lord Jaime justly,' the septon said; blessing him in the Light of the Seven; and Jaime would have snorted had the very thought not been painful enough to make him scream. If the gods did indeed exist, and for some extraordinary reason took it into their heads to 'judge our good Lord Jaime justly', it'd be the deepest of the seven hells for him; no question.
An eternity spent with Father and Cersei, he thought, the gods had better not bloody well exist.
The septon finally went away; leaving him with Arya's fingers clutched between his; and 'not today,' he heard her whisper; her voice like broken glass; 'not today; not today; not today,' and he recognised her scent; a scent of steel that was warm, like earth; and the pain was truly dying now, but was somehow worse than ever; worse than his hand; worse than Brienne; worse than… anything.
He didn't know why he lingered when it hurt so fucking much.
He lingered for himself.
He lingered for her.
Arya's breath was warm on his face, and he felt her lips at his ear; brushing softly against his earlobe and making him shiver.
'If it's not…too much to ask…' he heard her whisper, 'um…could you please just…not die?...If there comes a time when letting go just seems…uh…easier, or…cleaner, or…when leaving wherever you are becomes too hard, just…don't…don't die. Please… I…um…I love you. A lot. And I would…be really… grateful…if you didn't die. Uh…that's…that's all. Please listen. Please.'
I should have married you, he thought, and he saw with eyes that were not his own; saw Arya looking down at him; her grey eyes awash with tears, and her face bruised and swollen; as though she'd been struck again and again by the naked fist of a madman.
I will…kill…him…
He couldn't feel her fingers anymore. His body hit the seabed, and the sand had the texture of scarred flesh. Arya was biting on her teeth and trying to stop the sobs from coming; I never told her how beautiful she is; never told her... he thought. And just behind her, at a place that he was sure she could not see, stood a solitary figure in black; watching her; watching him.