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Entry tags:
OPEN | prompt three | PAIN
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prompt three | P A I N dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all. |
[ Sad little familiar is sad because of such horrible talk. ]
Why would you ever say something like that? That's horrible. I don't like it.
Why would you ever say something like that? That's horrible. I don't like it.
T'ain't none a'your business, if I didn't or did.
[ Though, let's be real. Every likelihood was that she did. ]
[ Though, let's be real. Every likelihood was that she did. ]
[ Every likelihood was that Daisy did, but Freddy doesn't prod, one way or the other. If she wants to talk about it, then she will, and if she doesn't, well, Freddy'll wait. That's the way it works — he doesn't push or pull, but he stays, solid and dependable and indisputably in love with her. ]
Well, you ain't dead, so there's that.
[ (He leaves the yet off of the end. It's not the sort of thing he wants to consider.) ]
Well, you ain't dead, so there's that.
[ (He leaves the yet off of the end. It's not the sort of thing he wants to consider.) ]
Are we assuming that there's no escape option?
Depending on who'd be doing the killing, that's an assumption that makes a fair bit of sense.
For the sake of argument I'm almost curious to hear what happens if there is an escape option.
For the sake of argument I'm almost curious to hear what happens if there is an escape option.
Then you build up your immunity and you move on.
[ He speaks with the sort of breezy innocence that suggests that everything's been easy for him so far, that he's never had to suffer. (It's a lie, of course. He's made mistakes in his act, and his own pain aside, there's the fact that his sweetheart swallows glass every night. There's nothing that's been easy for Freddy, no matter how he might make it seem.) ]
[ He speaks with the sort of breezy innocence that suggests that everything's been easy for him so far, that he's never had to suffer. (It's a lie, of course. He's made mistakes in his act, and his own pain aside, there's the fact that his sweetheart swallows glass every night. There's nothing that's been easy for Freddy, no matter how he might make it seem.) ]
[ Copper stares at Noah all the time, but it's not a terrible sort of stare — judgmental or repulsed or fascinated. It is an apologetic stare, but also one tinged with longing, if not for Noah himself (a matter subject to debate) then for his strangeness, his other. A man does not choose to become a monster (even though Noah had volunteered, the terms hadn't been so clear), but to Copper, monsters are lovely, elusive things. (And so, by rights, is Noah.) ]
Wonders are meant to be good.
Wonders are meant to be good.
[ She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, her hands shoved into the pockets of her sweatshirt as she considers the question. ]
Sure, why not. [ Ronnie has a way of being terribly noncommittal, about things both big and small. ] World takes all types, right?
Sure, why not. [ Ronnie has a way of being terribly noncommittal, about things both big and small. ] World takes all types, right?
Sounds to me like you're making sense, Isaac. [ A beat, then dryly: ] A definite rarity.
[ It's actually a compliment. It just....doesn't quite sound like one. ]
[ It's actually a compliment. It just....doesn't quite sound like one. ]
Either way all you might be doing is buying yourself more time until the inevitable happens. It's admirable, I'll admit, but no amount of time is going to change the fact that somehow, one day, you'll be killed or die and your name might be tossed in the mud.
You can't change what's said after you're gone, I'm afraid.
You can't change what's said after you're gone, I'm afraid.
No amount of time? [ The question is posed mildly. They had changed it, hadn't they? Now they sisters had nothing but time. ]
[ Madchen reaches for him, looking to still those hands, fingers curling over his own — pale white fingers, nails blackened with grit. That's all life was, wasn't it? Living and breathing, hoping and dying — all for somebody else's benefit because you loved them too much and yourself not enough. ]
Y'know I'd never do wrong by you, baby. [ Which is to say: I'm sorry. Which is also to say: I have to believe this is right. ]
Y'know I'd never do wrong by you, baby. [ Which is to say: I'm sorry. Which is also to say: I have to believe this is right. ]
[ She counts the days and know what they mean. Even though the science eludes her, the girl in red has an innate understanding of pain. (First her father, then her brothers and sister, then her mother — the strongest and most stubborn — and then there were none left.) By now, she recognizes the signs. The sheen on his brow, the way he clasps his hands to keep them from shaking. It comes off of him in waves, like cold shivers, like fevered dreams.
At night she watches him sleep and wonders whether he will wake if she searches his pockets for the pin-prick pen and presses the nib to his slow-sleeping pulse so that he may know relief.
Over the rounds of both of her knees she peers at him, wordless as ever, as he tries to fashion something of a make-shift bed for her. The girl shakes her head.
No more waiting. It's time now. ]
At night she watches him sleep and wonders whether he will wake if she searches his pockets for the pin-prick pen and presses the nib to his slow-sleeping pulse so that he may know relief.
Over the rounds of both of her knees she peers at him, wordless as ever, as he tries to fashion something of a make-shift bed for her. The girl shakes her head.
No more waiting. It's time now. ]
[ The tunnels are dark and deep. They are accosted just once, and escape mostly unharmed. (Mostly means there is a rip in his clothing stained red and copper, but the bleeding has stopped and the wound is purely surface.)
The man catches her movement in the corner of his eye, and pauses, his hands on the makeshift bedding. He pauses, and then he keeps working, moving aside only once the small patch of rags is done. He sits heavily, hands fumbling through his pockets before producing the needle. (It's been eleven days since the last.) His hands tremble as he presses it into his skin, but steady soon enough. (He doesn't know how much longer he'll last, but he knows enough of pain to last him a lifetime, although he doubts he has that much time left.)
Vaccine tucked away once more, he settles back, simply watching her. His meaning is writ in his features clearly enough.
You should sleep. ]
The man catches her movement in the corner of his eye, and pauses, his hands on the makeshift bedding. He pauses, and then he keeps working, moving aside only once the small patch of rags is done. He sits heavily, hands fumbling through his pockets before producing the needle. (It's been eleven days since the last.) His hands tremble as he presses it into his skin, but steady soon enough. (He doesn't know how much longer he'll last, but he knows enough of pain to last him a lifetime, although he doubts he has that much time left.)
Vaccine tucked away once more, he settles back, simply watching her. His meaning is writ in his features clearly enough.
You should sleep. ]
They'll say you died for a good cause or for the good of the cause. Murdered you because you needed to die to further an agenda.
[ August answers like a man who knows what it's like and like a man who is waiting for the same thing to be said to him. ]
[ August answers like a man who knows what it's like and like a man who is waiting for the same thing to be said to him. ]
[ The Maiden's Tower of the Eyrie is as silent and as still as a crypt. The others are all gone, even Gretchel with them, seeing to the pell-mell that has arisen with Lady Arryn's disastrous fall. Sansa has been questioned by both Petyr and the guard, as well by a council of some of the lords; or rather, they hounded her until Sansa began to cry and Petyr had ordered Gretchel to usher her away so as to deliver his account once more.
As she sits at her window, staring out towards Alyssa's Tears, Sansa absently brushes her hair. Her scalp is tender and complains with each stroke from where her aunt (no, her father's wife) had tore at her up-turned tendrils and wrenched her towards the door. When she looks at her arms she can almost see where Lysa had dug each fingertip into her flesh, the splotches rises in her fair skin. Ugly, terrible reminders, each and every one of them. ]
As she sits at her window, staring out towards Alyssa's Tears, Sansa absently brushes her hair. Her scalp is tender and complains with each stroke from where her aunt (no, her father's wife) had tore at her up-turned tendrils and wrenched her towards the door. When she looks at her arms she can almost see where Lysa had dug each fingertip into her flesh, the splotches rises in her fair skin. Ugly, terrible reminders, each and every one of them. ]
Edited 2012-03-13 19:15 (UTC)
[ They hound Sansa until she begins to cry, and Littlefinger has to admit that he's impressed she lasts so long. He has her sent to the Maiden's Tower and takes care of the rest of the day's inquiries himself, adopting the proper guise of a grieving widower, eventually protesting his own exhaustion and moving to retire. The singer is put away and the Moon Door given a wide berth, and the blanket of night falls over the Eyrie, colored by shock and disquiet.
He makes his way to her quarters once the court has cleared, pausing once he has reached the door, one hand upon the knob as he raises the other to knock gently upon the surface. ]
Alayne?
He makes his way to her quarters once the court has cleared, pausing once he has reached the door, one hand upon the knob as he raises the other to knock gently upon the surface. ]
Alayne?
[ The air in the room — what's left of it; most of it has been gulped down by greedy mouths and greedier lungs — is warm to the touch and lays upon the both of them tangibly. As tangible as skin on skin.
Two fingers pressed together draw a line down the front of Petyr Baelish's chest, following the trajectory of that scar (from collarbone to navel). Alayne watches his expression woflishly behind the tousled curtain of her pitch-dyed hair. The lady of the house will return soon from business and Alayne knows she should not dawdle, but she presses her luck. (Greedy thing; unwilling to share.) ]
Did it hurt?
Two fingers pressed together draw a line down the front of Petyr Baelish's chest, following the trajectory of that scar (from collarbone to navel). Alayne watches his expression woflishly behind the tousled curtain of her pitch-dyed hair. The lady of the house will return soon from business and Alayne knows she should not dawdle, but she presses her luck. (Greedy thing; unwilling to share.) ]
Did it hurt?
[ They should not dawdle, but they do despite the fact. (Both of them know that, one way or the other, by the time his wife returns, there will be nothing to belie their indiscretion.) One of his arms rests about her, his hand splayed on her back. As her fingers trail down his chest, he turns his head to look at her, the shadows cast upon his face making his expression difficult to read (although the tell-tale curve to his lips is there, bright as day). ]
Fortunately, only temporarily.
[ (The answer: yes. On a number of levels.) ]
Fortunately, only temporarily.
[ (The answer: yes. On a number of levels.) ]
[ It is Brandon who strikes Cat, but it is Petyr who is blamed for the blow. After all, he had been the one who so garnered the hot-blooded Stark's anger — having been so forward where everyone could see, going so far as to hold Cat's hand as they walked through the garden after dinner. It was no secret where the affections of the eldest Tully daughter lay, but Hoster had insisted they were nothing but childhood fancies.
Whether or not that is true comes into question as he looks down his nose at his daughter and then at his young ward, sat beside. There is a cut blossoming brightly across the rise of one of her cheeks. He stares at distastefully as he speaks to Petyr. ]
Your willfulness has marred my daughter's face. She will bear the scar forever. What have you to say for yourself, boy? [ Cat opens her mouth as if to speak, but Hoster raises his hand, silencing her immediately. ]
Whether or not that is true comes into question as he looks down his nose at his daughter and then at his young ward, sat beside. There is a cut blossoming brightly across the rise of one of her cheeks. He stares at distastefully as he speaks to Petyr. ]
Your willfulness has marred my daughter's face. She will bear the scar forever. What have you to say for yourself, boy? [ Cat opens her mouth as if to speak, but Hoster raises his hand, silencing her immediately. ]
[ Petyr only just barely meets Hoster Tully's eyes. His head is bowed, the set of his jaw squarer than it has ever been as tries to keep his mouth shut. (The scene hadn't been pretty. The aftermath hasn't yet been, either.) ]
If I could bear the scar in her stead, I would, my lord, [ he says, and that statement, at least, finds itself free of any bitterness. (He means it.) ] But her beauty is no less for the mark. [ There, he suspects, he oversteps his line. But he has always been a bold boy, and he fears nothing in telling the truth. (And besides, he is not the one who ought to have been called before Hoster; Brandon Stark is responsible for the blow. At least Petyr knows to keep that particular fact to himself.) ]
If I could bear the scar in her stead, I would, my lord, [ he says, and that statement, at least, finds itself free of any bitterness. (He means it.) ] But her beauty is no less for the mark. [ There, he suspects, he oversteps his line. But he has always been a bold boy, and he fears nothing in telling the truth. (And besides, he is not the one who ought to have been called before Hoster; Brandon Stark is responsible for the blow. At least Petyr knows to keep that particular fact to himself.) ]
[ He needs stitches, that is the first thing they say once the throngs have parted and Stannis and his opponent are being lead separate ways from the patch of bloodied cardboard and straw matting that was the ring. There is blood in one eye, coating the whole world red and a tear deep enough that he feels the pain echoing through the bones of his skull split down the center of one brow.
Somewhere between here and there, a chair is brought for Stannis to drop down into. Once he does, she is there, hovering, swarming his blood-stained vision. Mouth and hair and eyes all red.
More pain as she handles his face, pinches his wounds only to spread them open wide with her nails to make sure the scars set and the clots flow free once again. I'm telling you— Someone in his retinue is speaking. —he needs— ]
No. [ Melisandre smiles, cradling Stannis' face with blood-stained hands, admiring her work. ] The scars will make him strong. And his enemies will shudder to see them.
Somewhere between here and there, a chair is brought for Stannis to drop down into. Once he does, she is there, hovering, swarming his blood-stained vision. Mouth and hair and eyes all red.
More pain as she handles his face, pinches his wounds only to spread them open wide with her nails to make sure the scars set and the clots flow free once again. I'm telling you— Someone in his retinue is speaking. —he needs— ]
No. [ Melisandre smiles, cradling Stannis' face with blood-stained hands, admiring her work. ] The scars will make him strong. And his enemies will shudder to see them.
[ It had been a good fight. (He isn't the worse off. He is iron in the ring, unstoppable, unbreaking.) Stannis can feel his heart strain against his ribcage, pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. There is blood in one eye and a line of pain drawn clean across his face, but he doesn't flinch when she touches him, doesn't move, just lets the line of his jaw grow taut, teeth ground together, as activity buzzes about him. (Those who follow him are divided into two: one part, those who believe in the purported power of the red woman, and for the other, those who believe her to have bewitched him, to have made him hers.
To be fair, neither is completely true nor false. There is power in fear, and she is the most feared of those who surround him. And nothing cannot be got for free, so he says nothing when her fingers dig into his wounds because there is much worse than to bleed and because he has to give her some ground.)
For an instant, one might be forgiven for thinking that the harsh set of his mouth was almost the curve of a smile. (The taste of sweat and blood are thick on his tongue.) But that indulgence is gone in the flash of an eye, replaced by a sort of pride as he tips his chin up, drawing in a deep breath.
Quietly: ] Would you have me keep all of my scars? [ It isn't complaint. ]
To be fair, neither is completely true nor false. There is power in fear, and she is the most feared of those who surround him. And nothing cannot be got for free, so he says nothing when her fingers dig into his wounds because there is much worse than to bleed and because he has to give her some ground.)
For an instant, one might be forgiven for thinking that the harsh set of his mouth was almost the curve of a smile. (The taste of sweat and blood are thick on his tongue.) But that indulgence is gone in the flash of an eye, replaced by a sort of pride as he tips his chin up, drawing in a deep breath.
Quietly: ] Would you have me keep all of my scars? [ It isn't complaint. ]
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