CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

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

 

Comments

[deposit]

[ It is said that living is more than a series of biological processes. All organisms exist but not every organism lives — at least not in a meaningful way, in the way that originals do. Sansa had grown up reading stories of real life, of the experiences that (when taken together) formed the weave and the weft of living. And though her teachers and counselors all endeavored to quell any desire or hope for a deeper sort of existence, she had secretly longed to reach out and to touch it — to taste something grander and more profound. (She had wanted so desperately to live and to love and now here was Mr. Baelish — here was Petyr — offering her both with the sweet ply and soft whisper of his mouth.)

I love you, he tells her, over and over again, the words running into one another to form a single, tuneful song. For all that he says it, Sansa says it again only once — pulling back far enough to meet him eye to eye and then announce with the same enthusiastic wonder: ] I love you, Mr. Petyr Baelish. I love you and I'm loved by you.

[ Her eyes crinkle. ]

Thank you for making me the happiest girl on the Estate— no. In the whole wide world.

[grades]

[ Her words sound as if they've been plucked from some storybook, and it is with some wonderment that he tells himself (that he knows) that she means each word from the bottom of her heart. Love on its own is a miracle. That she should love him is another wonder altogether. The smile that he wears — broad and unfettered — says as much. (I owe you, he thinks. I owe you so much.) ]

And my thanks to you—

[ A pause. (He fears his voice might break.) ]

—for giving me my life back.

[ It's a simple song, by most means. A few words strung together. But they mean the world to a man like him, to someone who, for a very long time, had thrown himself body and soul into what he believed to be a greater endeavor in order to forget his own hurt. In her embrace, he breathes for the first time. ]

[deposit]

[ It seems almost too perfect that they should find one another, the match between them made too well. Neither had lived before the other and, for a very long time, they knew only sadness and an aching sort of longing — things that nothing seemed capable of fulfilling (leaving them broken and hollow and alone). If Sansa is Petyr's miracle then she is certainly his in return.

Instead of answer she kisses him again, her mouth growing bold upon his, the touch of her hands as they come to cup his face gentle but urgent with a smoldering enthusiasm. Some children bloom early and others bloom late, while others still bloom not at all. If the way Sansa kisses Petyr now is any indication, she had simply been waiting for him to waken her, his nearness rousing her womanhood through earnest touch and fervent kiss. ]

We saved one another, [ she tells him at length. ]