eswareinmal | you stepped into these days [OPEN]

He ignores any who try to stop him, carefully avoids places where Thor or Sif's scent is strongest, unless there is no other path. Nudges Faolan along in front of him, making progress towards the castle a game, in and of itself, and once they reach the stairs, he picks Faolan up by teeth in the scruff of the pup's neck and carries him to the upper floors.

He sets Faolan down in front of Sansa's barely-open door and nudges him towards the sliver of sunlight visible. He backs away three steps and flattens himself against the ground, belly to the stone, chin on his paws.

This is a peace offering, of sorts. A way to get himself back in good graces.

Faolan glances back at Loki, making sure this is right. But he trusts Loki, and noses the door further open, entering the room.

He recognizes Sansa from her orb posts and trots over to her, tail wagging.

Oh! She looks sad! He whines in sympathy, ears flattening back in sorrow.

Something sets Lady to growling, Lady who is always gentle and good, and at that Sansa sets her work aside and rises to got to the door. Lady presses into her side as if to divert her course -- Sansa strokes a hand down her wolf's neck. "Shhh, girl," she hushes. She is wary, but she must see what lies without her door. "There, my love."

The door swings open soundlessly; truly these rooms are for a princess's use. The little brown pup waddles in and Sansa breathes out in relief. She smiles. Then she sees the other wolf.

Her stomach drops out in an instant; breath rushes in a gasp. Those eyes. Large and canny, fiercely intelligent, alight even in the sunlight streaming through a near-set window. But Lady does not rush forward to attack, only growls a warning at the black wolf and inches forward to inspect the cub.

He does not move. Breath exhales in a soft whine, that's all; he's shivering again.

This is the prudent action, he reminds himself. He will prevent trouble to himself in the future by gaining her trust now. It is best for him to find somewhere Sif and Thor will not expect him to be.

He was not in control, as the wolf; there is no reason for him to regret.

Faolan leans forward to nuzzle at Lady, muzzle against hers in trust. If Loki had brought him, it must not be anywhere he will get hurt.

He looks up at Sansa again, tail wagging and yapping to try and make her feel better.

The grey wolf whuffs in approval and licks the little pup's ear; Sansa takes that for the approval it is and crouches down to gather him into her arms. Her eyes never leave the great black wolf outside her door, though, and Lady's attention has returned to him too. Lady slinks forward, stops, growls a warning, then approaches again.

The wolf's forepaw is bandaged, disheveled where he has chewed and worried at it. He does not stand, does not force any dominance on Lady. He inches forward, tilts his head up and licks Lady's nose.

Humiliating. His pride strains at doing this. But it is necessary.

There is a frozen moment where Lady sniffs at the larger wolf, and in it Sansa cannot breathe. She remembers how she felt, precisely how she felt, when the queen said, "We have another wolf," and horror had settled deep in Sansa's gut like a hot stone. Sansa holds her breath now, clutching the wolf pup to her breast and praying please, sweet Mother, gentle Mother, loving Maiden--

Then Lady huffs out a breath, nips at the black wolf's ear, and returns to Sansa's side. She has not let her guard down, but it is enough to let Sansa know this creature means her no harm. Not now, at least.

Faolan feels Sansa's heart beating fast. Poor Sansa! Poor Sansa! Faolan will make it better!

He puts his paws up on her shoulders and licks her face. If that doesn't make her feel better, he's sure nothing can.

Loki moves to his feet, then, and pads to Sansa. Braces on his hind legs, and reaches up to give Faolan a lick -- good pup, playing his role just as Loki wanted him to. And he slips past Sansa, into the room, and hops up onto her bed, curling up at the foot like he belongs there.

The pup is a warm comfort in her arms when the great black beast approaches. Sansa screws her eyes shut and clutches him tight, her breathing coming fast and shallow...and then the wolf moves past her and she hears the rustle of sheets. She presses a kiss to the pup's head before setting him gently at Lady's feet, then - hesitantly - approaches the bed.

He's hurt, she realizes. When he'd leapt at her yesterday Lady had interceded, biting him round the leg -- that must be why he limps. "I'm sorry." She keeps her voice low and soothing. "Lady was only trying to protect me. She didn't mean to hurt you."

He looks at her warily, chin flat on the bedclothes.

Of course Lady had meant to hurt him. Hurting was the only way to protect. He wouldn't hate her for it; a loyal dog could not be hated for the love of her mistress.

A shift, bracing himself on his better foreleg; he dips down and takes the scruff of Faolan's neck, lifting him up onto the bed, where he may not be able to jump himself. And Loki settles again, his bandaged leg at an awkward angle from his body.

Faolan cuddles in against Loki, licking at the bandaged leg. He looks up at Sansa, wondering if she can fix Loki's leg.

After a moment, he rises to his feet and toddles unsteadily to the edge of the bed, tail wagging, to bark the question to her.

"Hush now," Sansa says with a gentle touch to Faolan's nose. She understands the sentiment easily enough, though a part of her wonders uneasily at the uncanny intelligence of both creatures. Perhaps they're direwolves like Lady. Wouldn't that be exciting? Now that she thinks of it, the black one does remind her of Rickon's Shaggydog after a fashion -- and the pup could be Summer. Stop it, Sansa. To think that way is more dangerous than you can know.

She turns and goes to her sewing chest, removing from it lengths of white linen that she tears into strips. She carries them back and sets them on the bed before she's even had a chance to consider what she's doing. He could maim me. He could kill me. But with a shaking hand she reaches out and gently touches the loosened, bloody bandages. Her voice is quiet, steady but for a thin quaver. "May I?"

He is still -- the sort of stillness that only comes from tension, from muscles knotted and ready to spring.

Kindness angers him near as much as cruelty does.

He forces himself to relax. And he gives her a little nod, a tip of his head in the affirmative.

Faolan nuzzles against Loki, sensing that he is uneasy with something. It's okay, daddy, his nuzzle says. Sansa will help you and then you'll feel better. He looks up at her trustingly, wanting her to confirm it.

Lady is a comforting presence pressed against her leg. Too clever by half. It should be unnerving, but Sansa's skin is made of steel. She remembers the singer screaming as Ser Ilyn tore out his tongue, and this is nothing in comparison. She takes a breath to steady herself, then carefully begins to unwrap the wolf's bandages so she can examine the wound. It looks shallow... She is no maester, but she has seen her brother's cuts and bruises. Tangled fur matted with drying blood, no hint of bone. Perhaps she should ask for a healer, but Sansa wants to do this herself. Must do it. It was Lady who hurt him.

She goes to the door and asks a servant to fetch a bowl of warm water. They bring it quickly and set it beside her, where Sansa can easily reach to dip a clean linen into the water and ever so gently begin to clean the wound.

He hears soft, whining sounds, and it takes him a terrible, long moment to realize they're coming from his own throat. He paws at his muzzle, as though to stop or muffle the weak, wounded sounds.

It may not be to the bone, but it is on a body not so strong or resilient as his usual. It hurts.

Faolan licks comfortingly at Loki's ear. It's okay, daddy. And you shouldn't move too much while she's trying to heal you.

Song always soothes Sansa, and she thinks perhaps it might do the same for an animal. A children's song, a simple hymn. One she'd fallen asleep to Septa Mordane singing more than once. Fear abates in the wake of compassion as she sets to work, her voice sweet with song.

The Father’s face is stern and strong,
he sits and judges right from wrong.
He weighs our lives, the short and long,
and loves the little children.

The Mother gives the gift of life,
and watches over every wife.
Her gentle smile ends all strife,
and she loves her little children.

Her touch is tender. As she sings she lifts his paw in her hand, marveling at his fur, softer than Lady's, soft as Lady's had been when Theon had first set her in Sansa's arms.

The Warrior stands before the foe,
protecting us where e’er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow,
he guards the little children.

The Crone is very wise and old,
and sees our fates as they unfold.
She lifts her lamp of shining gold,
to lead the little children.

The linen turns pink with blood; she readjusts it to hold a fresh edge, dips that in water, and returns to her work. She's settled into a rhythm of it now: clean, dip, rinse, the touch of her hands as dove-soft as his fur. Her mind has fallen into the lull of her work's rhythm, the song's rhythm, as well. The wound is clean now, or as clean as she can make it while it still lies open.

The Smith, he labors day and night,
to put the world of men to right.
With hammer, plow, and fire bright,
builds for little children.

The Maiden dances through the sky,
she lives in every lover’s sigh,
Her smiles teach the birds to fly,
and give dreams to little children.

She lifts the paw gently and moves to wrapping her torn linen strips around the wound, careful to listen for any indication the bandage is wound too tight. A second strip, a third, a fifth -- six altogether, and that might be overdoing it, but Sansa has never wrapped a wound before.

The Seven Gods who made us all,
are listening if we should call.
So close your eyes, you shall not fall,
they see you, little children,

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,
they see you, little children.

Finished with both work and song, she ties off the bandage and sets his leg back upon the bed. She has the impulse to stroke his ear, kiss the crown of his head, as she would with Lady, but this wolf still did attack her only a day past. Instead she smiles and says, "There. You were very brave."

Edited 2012-05-31 00:08 (UTC)

The singing lulls him. It draws him to the memory of better days, the bitter and the sweet of his dreams that nearly trapped him, dragged him down and kept him there. He is willing to indulge in it, here, now, like this, because no one is here to see his sentiment. No one may understand what it is he sees when his eyes unfocus, past Sansa and Faolan.

His little whines fade, and when she finishes -- a wound well-tended -- he licks her hand, in gratitude.

After licking Loki's ear again to congratulate Loki for being have, Faolan moves forward and raises his own paw. Not that it's hurt. He just wants attention too.

This smile is true: this one reaches Sansa's eyes. Perhaps there is still some wolf inside her after all. She catches the pup's paw in her hand and strokes her thumb along it. "You are a dear thing."

As if sensing Sansa's contentment, Lady circles to the other side of the bed and leaps onto it, padding out a space before settling at Loki's side. Not touching, but only a few fingers' span apart. She lays her head over her paws and licks the pup's ear.

Faolan's tail is wagging like mad. He can't seem to make up his mind between wanting Sansa to pet him, nuzzling against Lady, and cuddling Loki, and he tries to do all three at once.

Loki's goal is accomplished -- and more. He hasn't any idea what to do next.

He bites, experimentally, at the bandage. And then stops himself. A wolf's instincts -- he can't quite seem to get rid of them.

Loki nudges Faolan in between himself and Lady.

"You mustn't do that," she says to the black one, gentle warning in her voice.

She laughs at the pup's antics, finally resting her hand on his head and stroking it down his back.

Faolan is finally convinced to settle between the adult wolves. He leans forward into Sansa's soft touch, eyes closed in contentment. His tail swishes wildly back and forth, probably hitting both of the other wolves as it does so.

Sif walks through the castle, pointedly not searching Loki out. All reports say that he is behaving. She is as angry as Loki is petty, and doesn't expect either of them to break in that.

But Loki is not first in her thoughts, this morning. Instead, she wakes up with thoughts of a clever blonde girl with dirt between her fingernails.

Sif tells herself that it is not these thoughts that lead her to check on Alayne -- on Sansa. The girl is something of a ward, and experienced a trial yesterday. Two of them, though Sif will not bring up the latter one unprompted. Someone ought to see to her.

Her footsteps down the hallway are purposefully loud. Lady Stone has shown that she does not care for surprises. Sif then knocks on the door.

"Lady?"

Edited 2012-05-30 14:04 (UTC)

Loki's head perks up at the sound of Sif's voice. A quiet, unhappy growl, and he moves to his feet, drops off of the bed, and slinks beneath it, settling there instead. Towards the wall, where he is out of easy reach, though still visible to anyone who would care to check.

A tremor runs through Sansa at Sif's voice. Sif knows. The picture comes to her mind: Sansa praying with her father beside the pool beneath the heart tree, Sif coming upon them and bringing with her what she'd known already -- that sweet dreams cannot last. "My name is Sansa Stark," she'd said. "I am all that remains of the blood of Winterfell."

Sif knows. But Sansa would never have let her reach the godswood if she believed Sif would betray her. Her dream had been as much the twisting passages of the Red Keep as it had been the crisp clear purity of Winterfell. Sansa sets her needlework aside and stands to greet Sif, though not without shooting a curious look at the wolf. Perhaps he recognizes Sif from her voice as the one who drove him off, and so fears her? She cannot know, but she won't see him come to harm.

"Please come in, Lady Sif."

When she enters the room, she is trying to keep her face level. She doesn’t know what Sansa remembers of the previous night, and she is hesitant to make the girl relive anything that she may not want to.

“Thank you, Lady.”

Still not sure what to call her. Sif pauses in the doorway. She is not the best hunter in Asgard, but she isn’t far off. She could be the worst the Aesir had to offer and still recognize the smell of one she...of one who had tried to kill her friend not one day ago.

“Are you well, Lady Stone?”

Her eyes scan the room for him.

Edited 2012-05-31 00:38 (UTC)

He is not hiding -- he would be terribly annoyed if anyone insinuated that. He is simply removing himself from this conversation.

And staying removed.

"I am well, my lady, thank you." But still her hands tremble. Before she realizes it she is across the room and closing the door with a snap, breathing hard. It does not even occur to her that Sif might not remember what Sansa does. The image in her mind is both hazy and clear. Like a memory sharp in the center that fades at the edges. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to draw strength from the solid wood of the door before turning to face Sif.

"And thank you for...for using that name. Not the other."

A small shake of her head, as her eyes follow where Loki is hiding. They are not alone, here.

"Of course. We are not yet on a first name basis."

She has no intention of revealing his identity any more than she intends to reveal Sansa’s. But the girl has a right to know that this is not an open place to talk.

The business of keeping secrets suits Sif ill.

If no one disturbs him, he's going back to sleep. He's too tired for secrets.

Her brow knits briefly in confusion, then smooths out. Ah. A smokescreen for any who might overhear?

"You may call me Alayne, if it please you," she says, regaining her calm and crossing back to her table. "I don't...like 'Stone'. Where I am from, it is the name given to bastards of the Vale." Easier to be Alayne than Sansa; harder to be a Stone than a Stark, with all the meaning it carries with it.

A look of very real look of guilt Sif's face. On Asgard, to be without a parent is to be without a name. That she has been referring to Sansa as a bastard with every conversation between them clearly grieves her.

She digs her fingernails into her palm -- a girlhood habit, never quite drilled out of her.

"Lady Alayne, then. My apologies.

Edited 2012-06-02 13:27 (UTC)

"They are not necessary, but I thank you, my lady. I..." There is a new openness to her around Sif, a simplicity. Not that she is ever fully at ease any longer, nor does she instill complete trust, but it is easier now for Sansa to smile shyly and mean it.

She lifts the embroidery frame from the table and smooths her fingers over it, then holds it out. "I'd hoped to have this finished betime we next met, but you are here now." The embroidery is incomplete yet, only simple stitches laying out a pattern of a shield bisected down the center by a sword. "You are a lady, so I thought perhaps a border of flowers... But if you wish for something else, please only say. Your sigil is unknown to me, I'm afraid."

Sif reaches her fingers towards the embroidery, but doesn't touch it. Her hands are still covered with dirt from this morning's practice.

"I don't have one." It is perhaps the most honest she has been with one not of Asgard. Even to Thor, she speaks very little of her family.

"My father did not support my ambition to be a warrior. My mother's sigil is one of her father's, and I find no honor in the amount of descendants already willing to shed blood in his name."

No. Sif fights for Asgard above all else, and the sigil for that is not hers to claim.

She could render it in gold, but Sif is truer than any Lannister Sansa has known, and gold is a Lannister color; so too is red, so though Sif clads herself in that color Sansa cannot bring herself to use it. There are no true knights, but despite that, despite knowing this strange, powerful woman only a week, despite her sex, Sif is the truest knight Sansa has ever known.

"Grey, then, to signify steel?" Grey is a Stark color; grey will tell of her gratitude, if Sif remembers the banners.

She does remember the banners. She can see them displayed – not gilded in pomp and house trappings, but modestly. A byproduct of duty. She takes a moment to answer, clearly balancing what she wants to say with the extra ears in the room.

“If you think I would wear such a color well, then I will be proud to.”

"Oh, you would, my lady." Sansa rushes on ahead. The image of the completed pattern spills out in her mind, perfect and simple. How long has it been since she's had something to so dedicate herself to? "You've a Northern coloring by Westerosi measure, and grey always becomes it well."

"Have I?"

Sif doesn't imagine she would have fit in well anywhere in Sansa's home world. But the north might have held her better than others. There’s a small, tired smile as the comment brings up an old memory.

"You can thank Loki for that." She tugs on her coal-black hair, as her eyes go towards where the wolf sleeps. "I was born with hair as gold as wheat before the harvest. It was quite a waste on me."

Edited 2012-06-05 13:41 (UTC)

"Surely not," she protests. Strange to picture Sif with hair of gold. She won't admit it, but Sansa prefers Sif's hair dark as it is now. "You are beautiful now; you must have been beautiful then.

"Who is Loki?"

Edited 2012-06-05 13:57 (UTC)

Sif barks out a laugh at the thought.

"Beautiful? Goodness, no. I was skin and bones and teeth. Elbows and knees jutting out quicker than the rest of me could keep up with them. We could barely finish altering my dresses in time to keep up with the growth spurts. I was taller than both of the princes for years."

She hadn't even noticed until she had Thor in a hold one day during training and realized that his chin came up to her nose. She'd been distracted enough that he'd managed to break the hold, and then she'd refused to speak to either of them for a week. Thor hadn't understood why. But perhaps Loki...

Loki understands as many things as he doesn't, and rarely in a way that is convenient. For a moment, she wonders if Sansa has lost some of her memories, and then the realization hits: he never gave his name. To Sansa, he is the Sorcerer. The man who woke her from a cursed sleep and gifted her with a magic flower.

"Loki is the man who helped me when you pricked your finger. We grew up together."

A pause.

"He does not always dress like that."

At the first sound of his name, Loki shifts. A twitch-whisper of movement, awakening him against his will. He listens, and the sound of his breath is a hint louder than before. Audible.

"Oh! I never knew his name..." Her cheeks flush a pretty pink in embarrassment at her ignorance and her unintended offense. Now that she knows his name, perhaps she can find him through the orb; she owes him her thanks for breaking the curse that had held her in sleep.

She can ask him about the flower. Perhaps he'll even make her another.

"But what has he to do with the color of your hair?"

"A childhood trick. He cut it off as I slept. My parents were furious."

She fingers some strands of hair, at the memory. In truth, the change hadn't bothered her all that much. But ladies were expected to have long hair, and Sif was expected to be a lady. She'd cried in front of her mother, more out of obligation than remorse.

"To make amends, Loki went to the dwarfs and had them weave new hair, just as golden as what I'd lost. But when I tied it into my old hair, the roots rejected it. Since that day, my hair has grown black."

you stepped into these days [OPEN]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject