She felt a crushing pain to the back of her head, and the smell of her own blood in her nostrils, and whoever had hit her didn't move her, or touch her, but whispered in her ear as she lost consciousness, 'this is your first ultimatum, Servant. Choose wisely.'
The words chased her across her dreams, from Braavos to Westeros and back again. She heard them as a young girl in the common room of an inn; deciding to repay a debt as she watched Jaime lie to Cersei's face. She heard them in the darkness of the temple and in Jaqen's dead, hazel eyes that had once been full of light. She heard them in the stones of siege after siege as she killed and maimed; across a thousand evenings spent watching Tyrion drinking; through every second that she had ever felt Jaime prising her fingers one by one from the Faceless God's embrace: 'This is your first ultimatum, Servant,' the words said, 'choose wisely.'
'Arya,' a nearby, familiar voice murmured; loudly enough to make the tiniest part of herself murmur back into consciousness, and her head was spinning like the vision of a drowning man, but lying against something soft, and her knees were resting hard on solid ground; so stiff that she could hardly feel them at all; and 'Arya,' she heard once again, and she was yanked out of sleep in brutal completeness as memory drove a stake right through her and didn't let her die; forcing her to remember that she was kneeling on the floor next to Jaime's cot with one of her bruised cheeks resting on the mattress; holding the warm hand of a corpse. The light beyond her eyelids suggested that daylight had come already; the noise and the stench that she was in exactly the same place that she had been before, and grief was pressing in on her and filling her lungs with corruption so filthy that she could hardly bear to breathe at all.
Somebody pulled her hand out of Jaime's and began to play with her hair; a child by the feel of things; its fingers flicking clumsily at the top of her head in order to ensure maximum annoyance; and she opened her eyes to scream at the person to leave her in peace and to ask them what fucking right they had to decide when she should let him go.
Her eyes met Jaime's, and he was staring at her; as though seeing her for the first time; his eyes green, and bright, and…and…
She stared and stared, as she had when Jaqen had died, and felt her breath stop in her chest; her eyes finding both life and death in him and not knowing which one she should cleave to. His fingers were brushing weakly at her hair that had fallen across her cheek, and he was saying her name again, 'Arya,' and looking at her as though she were everything; his silver hair plastered to his forehead in a humid mess of broken fever and his chest slowly rising and falling in what she imagined was some trick of the light, or…hopeful hallucination that her mind had cooked up to protect itself from the all-consuming awareness of his inexistence that was slowly eating her sanity alive.
No one could survive that kind of wound. Not even him.
But then there were the words that she had dreamed, and the blood clotting in her hair from the blow to the back of her head, and he is dead, you stupid little fool, she thought, and he isn't coming back.
But Jaime, or the vision of Jaime, continued to watch her silently; looking at her cautiously, not asking what she was doing; understanding what she was doing as she reached across his bed of blood to touch his lips; even though it didn't make sense; even though her masters wouldn't go to all the trouble of tracking her down mid-battle, only to leave her with nothing but a cracked skull; even though he couldn't be alive…
When her fingers touched Jaime's lips, she felt his breath on them, and his living eyes on her; like a hurricane; like life.
'Jaime?' she choked.
'Arya,' Jaime murmured in reply, 'you're beautiful.'
The breath that rushed back into her lungs was like a blow to the chest that nearly killed her. She felt herself choke, and fall, and cry out as her heart surged with blood and her world surged with it; with her voice seeking out his and being answered; with her fingers that stayed on his lips and his lips that kissed them; his hand encircling her wrist and holding onto it like iron; with his mouth that tasted of life as it opened beneath hers; as she asked the question without needing an answer 'how can you be alive? How are you alive? How are you alive?' and he answered, softly, his lips brushing hers, 'none of the seven hells would take me.'
She pulled rapidly away from him and hit him in his smug Lannister face.
'None of the seven hells would take you?' Arya screeched, clouting him again and relishing the yelp of surprise that escaped him as the blow made his hair stand on end,'is that your idea of a joke?'
'Calm down, girl!' Jaime shouted; seizing hold of one of her wrists while its counterpart punched every part of him that she could reach; stomach wound be damned.
'Why didn't you just do what you'd promised and stopped fighting when you couldn't fight anymore?' Arya yelled; still struggling wildly as Jaime somehow managed to get his hand on both her wrists at once, 'you promised me; you PROMISED me!'
'Have you ever actually seen a battle, Lady Stark?' Jaime scoffed, 'sometimes you can't just pull out whenever you feel like it!'
'You can when you've made a promise!' Arya yelled.
'What happened to your face?' Jaime demanded.
'Aegon happened to my face!' Arya shouted.
Jaime stared at her, then shrugged unconcernedly.
'Well, I hate to say 'I told you so – ''
'Shut up!'
'But I told you so!'
'I'm thrilled my bruises amuse you!'
'All they do is make me want to kill the son of a bitch!'
'How in seven hells are you alive enough to kill him, anyway; have the gods suddenly acquired a sense of humour?'
Arya yanked her hands out of his and set to tearing off his bandages; ignoring his grunts of discomfort and protest as she tossed the blood-soaked poultice aside and pulled the cloth that covered the hole in his stomach away.
Nothing remained of the wound itself save a scar, and an iron coin nestled atop it.
A pause. Silence. Blankness. Denial.
This is your first ultimatum, Servant. Choose wisely.
Understanding. The world turning dark again. Jaime speaking to her. Her not hearing him.
It was magic. It had to be, though she knew nothing of the existence of spells powerful enough to heal such a wound. The Faceless Men took life; they did not give it. But if a healing as extraordinary as this was possible, and a summons left for her at the same time… she didn't need to be Faceless to work out what that meant.
Her masters had much more to gain from Jaime's continued existence than from his death. They would not consider justice to be done to them if they killed her when she already wanted to die. They would merely be doing her a favour, then, and traitors were not indulged at the House of Black and White.
Come to Braavos to face judgment, and he lives, was their message to her, run, and we will find him again, and do far worse than undo what has been done.
This is your first ultimatum, Servant. Choose wisely.
Jaime was staring hard at her; watching each movement and flicker of her eyes as though she were an opponent that he faced in battle: an opponent from whom he would never receive the truth, and that he could only kill – or save – by guessing what they refused to say.
'What does it mean?'Jaime asked.
She immediately tried to control her expression; to turn herself blank as she looked at him, and hurt.
Alive. Hers. Alive.
'It doesn't mean anything,' she said, and slipped the coin into her pocket.
Chapter notes
Please be aware that next week is the final chapter of this particular journey with our two darlings. This one shall endeavour to make it awesome.