eswareinmal | in a different skin [OPEN]

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in a different skin [OPEN]

Characters: Sansa Stark, OPEN
Where: In and around Schwanheim and the castle
When: Rebirth 17, evening → night
What: From the touch of a spindle Sansa sleeps, and dreams wolf dreams.
Warnings: Mild violence, blood. It is a wolf after all.

In Schwanheim there is a wolf. Young still; but large even for a pup, with fur the grey of a rainy sky and glowing yellow eyes. She slinks through the castle and town, avoiding any guards; lesser wolves fear men, but she knows yet to be cautious of steel. The world is dulled of color, but the smells - smells of man and stone, rain and mud, damp wood, fire. Each smell should be familiar but is somehow different from what she knows: nothing smells of ice the way she knows. Down an alley and another she stalks and kills a rat, the bones crunching to splinters between her jaws and warm blood flooding her mouth. Her brothers and sister might have been able to catch better prey, larger or quicker, but she is small and has always been the milder.

A new scent catches her nose, and she turns to follow it.

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A single thought is clear in Sif’s countenance, to one who knows her as well as Loki does. What have you been doing?

But the child takes precedence, and she pushes it aside.

“The new girl – Alayne Stone. Something has taken her and I have no answer for it.” She takes a seat beside Alayne, holding the orb to her face, that Loki might get a better look. “I believe her to be here in body only.”

Surely there must be a dozen other sorcerers, he wants to say. Surely you see I am busy.

Instead:

"Where is she?" he asks. "Where are you both?"

None I trust, she wouldn’t answer.

“In the palace. As far as I am aware, she has not left it since her arrival.”

"Hold fast; I will be there in but a moment."

His teleporting abilities failed him far too often here to try, so he merely went to the stables, swung himself up on his horse (the horse that had returned home, in absence of Loki's guidance; it was a good animal) and galloped to the castle.

He handed her off to the groomsmen without another thought (though he may have slipped a sugar cube and a slice of apple under her nose) and he hurried up the stairs to the temporary quarters.

When he finds Sif, she will be pacing the room. She has always done poorly with worry and poorer still with anything resembling a bedside manner. She did not know what, if any, aid to administer.

When Loki enters, the tension in her shoulders does not ebb, but changes into something more productive.

“She has no signs of a fever or pain. Nothing is wrong with her, save that she will not awaken.”

He stops short.

Does not go to the girl's bedside, though his eyes glance, puzzled, on the curve of her cheek. He closes his eyes, and inhales.

...ah.

"Her spirit is safe enough," he says, and now he moves to her, checking her lips, her throat, her exposed hands for signs of enchantment.

There’s something, there. Out of her reach. She looks at him, now, closely.

“What do you know?”

"A secret that is hers to tell."

He feels a delicate spider-web of magical energy; his finger traces invisible filaments through the air, and his fingertips come to rest on a little red pin-prick mark on her hand.

Loki rolls his eyes skyward.

"Of course," he mutters. "I should have expected it."

“But yours to know?”

That is as far as she will press it, though. If the girl has her secrets, they are of no true concern to Sif. Loki’s secrets, however...

There is not enough time in the world.

His expression alarms her – not for something dangerous, but for something ridiculous.

“What?”

"She was pricked by a spindle," says Loki, archly. "And now she is in an enchanted sleep. I suppose we should be grateful thorns aren't overrunning the palace."

He stands, releasing her hand. Gestures for Sif to go to her.

"Go on, my prince," he says.

She visualizes herself kicking him. It is quite pleasant.

“That’s not funny, Loki.”

Arms over her chest, she makes no move whatsoever to be closer to the lady Stone.

"Nor did I speak in jest," counters Loki. "She is a princess, frozen by a spell. You are a prince. Would you leave her to languish, frozen forever?"

He takes a half-step towards the door. "I could always find another, one with baser intentions..."

A bluff. He would never invite abuse onto a child.

“Liar.” To the core of her, she believes he would never do such a thing. But his point remains.

She looks down at the girl, considering all options. There are no younger princes that she knows of, save the mad one who destroyed his quarters.

“Say nothing of this, Loki. She need not be embarrassed.”

She leans down, tensely. She will try the forehead, first. She places her lips to it, quickly, and then pulls back.

Bereft of pack and alone once more, she stalks through the trees. Perhaps if she searches long enough she can find her way home. She chances across a squirrel, hungry again, takes it unawares. Her second kill of the night.

And then - a press of something soft to her brow (Mother? No - Mother is dead) and her eyes flutter open to a light and airy room. She's disoriented at first, for a fractional moment of panic afraid she's back in King's Landing, then realizing no and wondering if she is in the Eyrie, until her eyes settle on Sif, flicker to the man by the door, then back to Sif. She sits dizzily, the taste of hot blood still setting her tongue to tingling even though her mouth is dry.

"My lady...? Is aught amiss?"

"No, wild-girl," murmurs Loki. "No harm has come to you, here. Though I would advise you stay away from spindles."

He takes her hand, and presses two fingers to her palm; there, a little ice-flower forms, ever-so-delicate. It will stay solid for hours, and then melt -- but the whole time, it will smell of ice and wild. The same smell that brought that wolf to his side.

A gift.

He releases her hand. Turns to Sif, and nods his head, once: "My Prince." A tone soaked with irony and as delicate as the flower.

And then he sweeps out of the door and away, leaving the girl for Sif to handle.

The flower is cool in her hand, the white-blue Old Nan used to say was the color of true winter ice. Like a winter rose. The fragrance that emanates from it is like no flower she's ever known; it is, quite simply, the smell of the North. Her eyes burn. "Thank you, ser," she murmurs.

She looks up in time to see him leave, then turns to Sif. "My lady?"

It is a trial not to roll her eyes at his grand display. In some ways, Loki is as loud as his brother. Instead, she returns the nod. Her smile has an edge to it that promises she will seek him out soon enough.

“Thank you, Wizard.”

A role for a role.

Towards the girl, though, there is no edge – only concern.

“You were under a spell. You have been asleep for at least half a day’s time.”

"I was?" Idly, she wonders what the proper address is for a wizard. "I am sorry if I caused any distress."

Stay away from spindles, the man said, and she remembers how she'd come across one. It seems impossible - spells, magic, just like in the tales only that part Sansa had always felt a bit uncertain about those parts if only because Mother and Maester Luwin said they were follow - but if an amethyst can conceal poison, why can't a spindle carry an enchantment? After all, this place brought Lady back to her.

"Lady?" Lady, who isn't here, while the sweet taste of blood still lingers on Sansa's tongue. Sansa's eyes widen, her hands clasping around the delicate flower as something like muted panic makes her heart tighten.

She reaches her hand out hesitantly, placing it on Alayne’s shoulder. That her manners are far above what most common-born children are taught goes without comment.

“Who are you asking for, Alayne?”

Sif has been recognized already, and Loki is not a woman today.

On instinct, Sansa flinches minutely at the touch, at the name. "Have you-" She swallows, afraid, suddenly, to voice it. What if was just a dream? I dreamed I was a wolf, she thinks, and thinks too she must be delirious. Maybe Lady isn't here with her at all; maybe Sansa imagined the entire thing.

The flower in her hand almost feels like courage. "Have you seen a grey wolf?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and there’s a connection – Sif has always been poor at masking when she makes those, for better or worse. It’s another thing to set aside, though, and she shakes her head, getting up from the bed and taking a seat in a nearby armchair.

“I have seen many wolves. The forests near the castle hold their fair share of wild things. Are you looking for one in particular?”

The distance sets her more at ease.

"Lady. A grey direwolf. She came here with me." No- no- Stupid girl, don't say direwolf, you'll give it all away! But Lady Sif has not even heard of Westeros, so perhaps Sansa is still safe despite her blunder.

"I've never heard of a direwolf." There is genuine interest in her tone, but nothing predatory.

"Would you look for your wolf, or do you trust her enough to find her way back to you?"

Edited 2012-04-19 00:13 (UTC)

It's not enough to set Sansa completely at ease; she knows how well people can pretend.

"I trust her. She must have...left to hunt." Blood and bones; the feel of quivering muscle crushing between her jaws - no, no, she mustn't think of it, if she does she'll be ill. "She will return within the day, I am sure."

"Than I shall be sure that the guards have standing orders not to hunt down any wolves, tonight."

She drums her fingers on her knee, considering.

"Really, they ought to have those orders anyway. We've too many wolves of note around here to shoot indiscriminately."

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ladysarmour - 2012-04-21 18:10 (UTC) - Expand

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brosif - 2012-04-22 13:46 (UTC) - Expand

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