CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog.

 

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[wont]

[ Once she would have asked will you — the voice of girlish self-consciousness, of lingering doubt. For a long time, Alayne had known nothing but uncertainty, both in herself and in her guardian and their ultimate fate together. But both she and Petyr have been put to the fire, and instead of burn they have made a new amalgam. Brighter than silver, more sure than steel, as beautiful and as precious as gem-studded gold. The crucible of their love served as the most steady forge and even though Alayne's health waxes and wanes, her heart is now steadfast and true. The girl made woman by way of an unexpected child, the very last of her doubts casted off as she becomes a mockingbird through and through.

Her eyes crease sleepily as she smiles up at Petyr, a hand carding his hair. ] I fear sleep, my love. Fear what it will take from me. [ Hours, more preciously spent awake than dozing, half-caught between the waking world and a fever dream. Sometimes, when she dozes, she hears the ghosts of Winterfell and with them in chorus, whispers their unborn child. It is a dreadful vision, more terrible than the worst tortures she ever suffered as Sansa Stark. She never tells Petyr, though she suspects that he knows, given how she cries out in her sleep at night.

Her smile thins and her eyes flutter shut as if bid to sleep against her best wishes. ] I would rather stay here, and look upon your face. [ Demonstrably, she opens her eyes again. They smile, even though her mouth does not. ] Look upon the utter lack of nothingness to you.

[seem]

[ At that, he huffs out a breath, halfway between a quiet oh and a laugh, the resulting smile lingering on his features. ]

I cannot beat back demons that I cannot see, but I will do my best. Sleep, or there will be nothing left of you in waking. [ And fitful though her dreams might sometimes be, proper sleep would do her a little good.

Could he fight the worst of her dreams, there is no question as to if he would, armed with nothing but his bare fists if it was demanded of him. That fervent spark flickers in his eyes, its edges given softness by the adoration that wells there, too, in the grey-green that, for the moment, seems not lively, but bright in the way of the embers of a flame. He is old (old beyond his years, as she is), and though it becomes all too apparent upon occasion (when exhaustion catches up to him and the lines on his face seem sharper than ever), there is still youth in his love for her. ]

Dream of me, [ he tells her, nose wrinkling for an instant. ] Better equipped to fight the worst of your fevers. Perhaps it may come to pass.