you left a light on inside me, my love | a mix for lysa tully, petyr baelish, and the trident
"that was the night i stole up to his bed to give him comfort. i bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. he told me he loved me then, but he called me cat, just before he fell back to sleep."
It all started with a smirk. A smirk, a brush of fingertips against skin, a desk, and that was it. However dangerous it is, however much they've tried to stop, to say this time is the last time, they're tied as tightly as a noose around each other.
They're playing with fire, of course. But they always did like the burn.
Rita isn’t quite sure when it happens, when they stop just fucking and start being them. They were Rita Skeeter and Alecto Carrow, but then it seemed they were Rita and Alecto, and now, after a few weeks, when she thinks of who they are, she has to say it all in one breath. RitaandAlecto. It fills up her chest every time, and sets her to smiling, rather like an idiot. She has to remind herself to scowl at her co-workers to keep them from thinking she’s gone soft.
The bells ringing round always makes her heart stop, just for a moment. There is something eerie about it; the bells of London clanging through the empty city, driven on by their timers, with hardly anyone to listen. She still hasn't got used to it, the streets being so totally deserted, with only the occasional walker ambling by, an easy kill. Ygritte sees hoards every once in a while, out on looting missions, but for the most part, all she sees are the four faces of her companions, grown so familiar to her now that they're all imprinted on the back of her lids when she closes her eyes against the watery sun.
She nearly laughs as she brings the fifth pigeon down, her arrow stuck through its eye, the explosion of blood bright against the bleak London sky. She doesn't know how she feels about calling it London anymore. It doesn't feel the same; it's a London besieged, a London at war.
The war is going badly.
When it is all said and done, and wild Rickon has sunk his teeth into the throats of all the enemies of his blonde, one-eared lion bride, gathering a tenuous, nervous peace around the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa Stark washes Alayne Stone from her auburn hair and Petyr Baelish's screams from the inside of her skull. When she rides for Winterfell the next morning, they are still scraping his skin off the rocks below the Moon Door. Her face is hard as she slows her horse, and snow gathers in halos around her bright head. She does not yield, but clenches her jaw ever tighter. Wolves are not kind to mockingbirds, my lord.
The flat in Camden is excruciatingly tiny, barely big enough for the bed and her desk, let alone the small kitchenette and all of Eoin's things, but it has a big window overlooking the market and it's cozy--warm and nestled among the rafters of the old building. With her books lining the walls and Eoin beside her in bed, she doesn't need anything else.
Well, one thing.
They wander through the gardens on crisp autumn day in the early evening. The air is scented with the deluge of fallen leaves, the crunching beneath their feet is the only sound. They don't speak; they don't need to: being together is enough. As they walk, she breaks flowers from bushes, her deft hands weaving them together until she has a crown of late blooms: asphodel and belladonna, monkshood and nightshade, twined together with dark rosebuds.