driftfleet | 01. Oh not this again.

Entry tags:

01. Oh not this again.

Who: Gendry
Broadcast: Nope
Action: SS Golden, Planetside
When: Today and June/July

The Golden

He hadn't been on the Marsiva all that long, but he had been on the vast ship long enough to come to the conclusion he didn't care for it at all. The food was strange and it all reminded him a little too much of the Station, which he'd never really liked all that much in the first place. More than that, he'd noticed how different things were around here. It reminded him of blood granite, though he didn't really mind that part all that much. All that business with Shards had always been an enormous headache equal only to the amount of times he banged his forehead in the tunnels of Troichean Beinn. Still, he hadn't been prepared for being in space. He hadn't figured out how to deal with that, so he'd made the decision not to.

When he arrived on the Golden to fanfare and annoying bits of confetti, the first thing he did was scowl. The second thing he did was find a direction to glare at and then scowl a little bit more. It was not that Gendry was extremely upset, it was just that brooding was something of an art form for him and he was at his best when boiling in sullen silence. All thanks to a bit of a chip in his head, he now knew exactly what he ought to be doing. So after mumbling his greetings to anyone who just so happened to be about to welcome him, he found himself in the engineering room. There were a few tense moments where he tried to grasp exactly what it is he was looking at, why he seemed to know so much about it, and if that was the sort of thing it was worth getting worried about. In the end, he decided that as long as he had valid reasons for hitting, then he might as well get on with it. There was a valve that he could instinctively see needed a great deal of banging, so he did.

Don't Hug Me I'm Scared

By the time the first native had got around to giving him a reassuring hug, Gendry had concluded that he now knew of three worlds he held a deep contempt for, which coincidentally happened to be all of the ones he'd experienced so far. But it was better than the ship, so he simply took extra care to watch that no one got close enough for any unexpected proximity. After spending a few hours wandering about the market area of one of the primary settlements, Gendry had found exactly where he ought to be. He'd found a smithy and after talking up his own experience (he'd apprenticed with dwarves after all!), he'd found himself gainfully employed and under the incredibly misguided idea that he had simply found a new planet to live on, this was how the rest of his life was going to be, and that he'd better just decide to be happy with it because that's simply how it was.

Rather than engineering as he was supposed to be, Gendry spent quite a lot of time making whatever was required of him, though it generally tended to be of the more mundane tool-like variety. When he wasn't working, he was finding places to buy his meals, trekking back to his private treehouse in an attempt to avoid risky hugs, and not actually paying all that much attention to the forests because he'd only just been in a world chock full of magical forests and this one didn't really seem all that exceptional to him.

(ooc: Gendry will just be here and there, trying to start his life entirely over because this is just the sort of thing that tends to happen to him. Find him at a smith, or out shopping, or trying to shoo little native children from trying to hug his leg because why)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

What a puzzle. Was this some game played by the Atroma? Some fresh test, like when she'd gotten lost in the dreams of other people? Sansa hesitated on activating her talking device -- delaying that, now, for a moment while she tried to pry apart the mystery.

She could have made demands. She could have made claims. But mostly, she was scared and feeling lost inside a mystery. So her voice was small when she asked: "...Do you know me?"

Because she most certainly did not know him -- apart from a passing familiarity with a dead man's face. But that must be mere coincidence.

He stood motionless, repeating that small and simple question in his mind. It was simply not something he was prepared to deal with. There had been times in the Drabwurld where people had gone and vanished, only to return later not remembering things. But those had been such fleeting things and it had never been anyone he'd known well enough to get and well and truly upset about. This was different, though. He was forgotten by someone who shouldn't have forgotten him. He had saved her life! More than once! Where, he had to wonder, might she have ended without him?

The answer was obvious on his face, written in the confused lines along his brow. Without thinking, he did nothing to confirm or deny what he knew, but instead inquired about what he'd heard.

"What?"

She appeared ever so slightly vexed. Standing oh-so-still and begging herself, internally, not to allow a single wobble, Sansa repeated her question. "Do you know me, ser?"

But this time, she said it more slowly -- as though she anticipated some deficiency of sense or intellect might have gotten in the way the first time.

Yes, he might have said. Don't you know me? sprang to mind. How could you forget! he may very well have accused. But what he did was lock his jaw and spend what seemed a gut wrenchingly long time studying her features for the lie. He had gotten so good at spotting them, that he had assumed that she could never fool them.

But he didn't see it. There was no lie and there was no deception. If that was the case, then mayhaps... she'd believe his.

He shook his head at first, but had to lower his head because he wouldn't be able to look her in the eye. "No. Seems not."

Edited 2016-06-26 01:44 (UTC)

She could lie as easily as she breathed! But she could tell, too, that he was rotten at it. The moment he looked aside, looked down, she could see the cracks in what he was trying to say. However bold and idiotic it might have been to call a proper lady stupid on a bustling planet, it had clearly sprang from a place of familiarity. Like how Arya said it. Yes, it struck her very firmly like Arya's taunting.

Sansa was caught between pressing her investigation, and relenting. In the end, she settled for half-measures. "A-are you a passenger in the fleet, then? Another ward of the Atroma?"

The name of Atroma was the sort of thing he had picked up in passing, but had been very much lost in the enormity of all the other things he had been hearing at the same time. It was a meaningless word, tossed against a tapestry of all the other things that were plaguing his thoughts right now. Chiefly, he wanted to leave. But he couldn't well just walk away without giving her some sort of answer. He scowled at the ground.

"I've left the fleet," he explained. "I ain't got no use for iron ships and stars. I'll stay here."

Edited 2016-06-26 01:52 (UTC)

"They won't let you," she cautioned. At first blush, it appeared almost like concern. Scratch the surface, and there's only a selfish desire to take the wind from his sails. He called her stupid. And then failed to adequately hide a secret -- he knew her, somehow, she's certain of it. "They won't let any of us leave. You're stuck."

It was an absurd warning. They had loosed him on an entire planet, with any direction he might travel. While he'd never been able to leave the Drabwurld, he'd been free to go any direction he'd liked. That had been at the hands of strange fairy-god-people who were uncomfortably interested in trying to out-murder one another. He didn't believe her, but only out of reflex.

"They ain't stopped me yet. And if they do, it makes no matter to you." The subtle accusation was present in his voice, even if not in his actions. He was still standing there, seemingly unwilling to just walk away and be done with it. None of this should even matter to him. He'd arrived on this planet not expecting to see any of the people he'd abandoned a year ago, so he shouldn't be at all dismayed if they simply abandoned him back.

He was hurt. Whatever she'd done -- and she cannot fathom what she might have done -- it had stung him. She knew a man's bruised sentiments when she saw them, having learned at Petyr's right hand how to use those bruises to her advantage. Indeed, she'd worked that very magic on the day she met Harry the Heir. But she knew no magic to work on this stranger, and barely knew whether she should make the attempt to assuage whatever insult she'd caused.

"It would matter to me if you somehow dodged their leads and escape them," she countered -- but weakly. Her eyes look over his head, as though looking for someone else in the crowd. Looking for someone safe.

"No one else has."

That was the kind of concern he had absolutely no use for. He resented it for how it meant that the only concern should be the implications of success and what it might mean for her and others. He began to turn, even if it might meant walking back the way he'd come rather than to carry on to his destination.

"Might be I will." He paused, halting his departure if only because there was at least someone he knew he ought to be asking. "Arya. Did they fetch her too?"

Even if she forgot everything about the Drabwurld, she might still at least know him.

"Arya?" Surprised, her eyebrows flew upward. Of course, he knew Arya. And herself, then, by association only. "Yes. She's newly here. And --"

And Jon and Robb and Bran. But her litany of Starks and one Snow was interrupted by the sudden, soft-wet thud against her back. The children from before were back, but had now clambered up to a higher branch -- hanging out the window of a treehouse, they were snickering and clapping each other on the shoulder. The eldest had thrown his half-eaten fruit at her. Not maliciously, he would say if caught and pressed, but because he thought upsetting the young woman with the long copper hair might force her to fall. And if she fell, she might take the grumpy young man's hand. And that, the child thought, would benefit them both.

With a sound of choked horror, she did indeed teeter. Her slippered heel slid on the dry bark, and her foot lost its purchase. Sansa went tumbling downward to the leaves and the detritus and the dirt on the ground below, landing in a heap of blue silk.

For his part, Gendry had not yet mastered the timely and honed Dad reflexes known for their tremendous power of injury prevention. He had only just started to turn back around when she had started to fall. Gravity was quicker than he was, though he did not hesitate to kneel next to her. She might not be the same person he knew, but he was very much unchanged and some instincts don't simply go away.

"Sansa," he said sharply. "Are you hurt?"

She was unharmed. Her sense-of-self might have been ruffled, and she might wake tomorrow with a bruise or three, but no lasting damage was done. Nothing worth too much fuss. And yet the stranger hurried to a knee, and said her name like a friend might. Like family might. It was her name that dazed her more than the fall. Already exhausted (emotionally; not physically), she leaned her head back against the root she'd so recently vacated.

"Yes. No. Not a lot." She only fell. Children fell all the time, and they laughed it off. In fact, she could hear children's laughter floating down from up above, and she eyed their grinning faces with sulky judgement. After a moment, they disappeared. Back into the tree-tops.

"Who are you?" He might be a stranger, but she was a proper lady and she'd taken a tumble. So she held out a stiff hand for help back onto her feet. She wasn't so boldly independent as to try standing all on her own. Doubtless, had she tried, she'd trip and fall again and be even more of a laughing stock.

But, she noticed, he didn't laugh.

He'd given to giving the children a well practiced scowl, up until the moment they'd fled. This hadn't accomplished much, since they'd long proven they didn't seem particularly troubled at his presence. When his attention returned to her, he did so without actually looking at her.

"Gendry." He didn't bother with Ser and certainly made no effort to call himself Baratheon, because that meant so little to him. A year ago he'd stopped trying to elevate himself enough to try and appeal to her, so there seemed little point in starting all over again.

He clasped her hand and stood to hoist her back to her feet.

A funny thing happened. She put her bare hand in his -- felt his callouses -- and felt on some level repulsed by them. But as he helped her up, she might have sworn he smelled like snow. Sansa knew a little about this planet, and about the friendly warnings given about holding hands while on its surface, but it was such a strange phenomenon that she'd hardly paid it any mind. Even now, she was more caught up in turning her head and catching a whiff of freshly fallen snow. How unexpected! It would have been charming, were she not already so wary.

"Gendry," she repeated. And it was clear she did not know the name at all. But when she spoke it, it tasted like mint. It tastes like something else: bitter, sweet, and dark. Like the fake chocolate flavouring back on the Blue Fish. But much much better.

Her hands had always been as soft as silk, but the bracelets was new. His thumb roughly brushed the tip of it and he was struck by what felt like dampness in his eyes. The frantic sounds of ruffling leaves and chirping birds was for a moment drowned out by the dull thumming of a ship's engine. The air he breathed in felt stale and recycled, yet his heart was warmed by something else. By the time she was on her feet, Gendry had snatched his hand away. He touched a knuckle to rub at one eye, but there wasn't anything there to wipe away, so he turned the gesture to rubbing the side of his nose instead and stepped half a pace back.

"You broke your promise." He breathed in again and the air was once more thick with life and the sounds of nature.

He let her go. And she reclaimed her hand quickly -- not as though she'd been burnt, but certainly shocked. "I'm...I'm sorry," she apologized on instinct. The only indication that she might have felt it wasn't her fault -- that someone else was to blame -- came in how she looked quickly over her shoulder. But there was no longer any sign of the children who had precipitated this bizarre interaction.

With a lost look in her eyes, she turns her attention back onto the young man. Gendry. She knew nothing of his name, but when he'd touched her she'd felt a jolt of familiarity course through her body. Sansa wasn't to know that it wasn't her recognition she'd been feeling, but rather his -- hijacked, a moment, by contact.

"Do you know my brothers? My sister?"

Is that why you know my name? She didn't want to trust him, but perhaps she could if he knew her by way of her family.

"Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. Made himself king. Good with a sword, him. Jon Snow, bastard like me. Got himself made Lord Commander up on the wall. Bran Stark. Only ever saw him once, but his legs didn't work. Arya Stark, I met her in Westeros. The both of us made it as far as the Riverlands before she ran off. Didn't ever meet the other brother."

He'd rattled them all of from memories he'd shared with her, from those individuals he'd met or either heard her speak of. He might very well have mentioned the name of Eddard Stark as well, but he knew too well by now it was cruel to speak of that. Very nearly he began to speak again, this time about her. But he silenced himself, knowing it made no matter if he did. She did not know him and it would hardly matter if he claimed she did.

Hmm. He made himself worthy of another incisive look. Her (trembling) hands were now folded tidily against her stomach. And his quick-fire descriptions of her family members bought some measure of comfort, even as she was trying to sort through her feelings. Arya, then. Arya was the point of entry into this little drama. Most importantly, she'd known that Arya hadn't traveled as far as the Riverlands with anyone like him. So, did that mean...?

"When?" Her voice was strained, as though she didn't want to ask the question. And yet ask it she must. "When did you travel with my sister?"

This conversation was familiar. He hadn't only had it with Sansa once before, but he'd been required to do so with Jon Snow, Robb Stark, and most annoyingly with even Arya herself. He felt very tired of having it and grew tight lipped about the whole matter. Why should he bother with all of it all again? In the end, he'd discovered he'd had no place with the Starks. It seemed fruitless to start all over again.

"I did," he said firmly. "She'll remember it. Or not. It makes no matter."

Something moved along her jaw. A flicker, it might be, of frustration. To Sansa, the when made a great deal of matter. For if Arya truly did travel up to the Riverlands, then it must have been in the wake of their Lord Father's death. And if that was true, then mayhaps...

Mayhaps the Lannisters never had her. Mayhaps she never got sent North. Sansa looked prepared to ask again, to defy his deflection, but in the end she relented. Craven.

What did matter, however: "--Did you keep her safe?"

Gendry didn't want to answer, but he was not so stubborn as to try and be cruel about it. It left him scowling, though even he couldn't be certain if it was at her or at himself. But he gave an answer, for whatever it might have been worth.

"She didn't die," he answered. "But it was never on me to keep her safe."

He'd already had to tackle his guilt for having lost track of her a long time ago. Yet somehow it still lingered in the back of his mind, condemning him for having been unwilling to follow her on the last leg of her journey.

Rascally, wild Arya! She could curse her sister for her carelessness. And yet it was all sourced in this strange sad font of concern. Of love, twisted and overgrown in absence. Sansa was at least pleased that this must be how he knows her name. How he knew her to see her -- maybe one of her brothers had described her coppery, Tully hair. Or else they'd pointed her out to him. Common as he appeared, mayhaps he could be relied upon to be decent.

"But are from Westeros, then," she hastened to clarify.

He nodded, slowly.

"King's Landing."

There was a time, at least before he'd spent two years in another land, when his accent was thick enough for anyone to tell. Less so now, but much of it was still there.

"...Oh," her mouth (briefly) formed a perfect circle. The distinct desire to bolt, and to escape, was written so large in her eyes that they didn't need hand-contact to understand one another. It made her uncomfortable to think he was from the lion's den from whence she'd escaped some many months prior.

"How, ah, lovely." She tried to be polite; it failed miserably.

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