❆ | 042 | Video

Aug. 27th, 2014 09:39 am
fearcutsdeeperthanswords: (I am neither walker nor sleeper)
[Private to Polly]

Where are you? I found a good spot. [She's sitting on a pile of pillows, with a blanket (or maybe a dish towel) wrapped around her head like a crown. And she's grinning. Her own smile, not Mercy's pretty little thing: Arya's smiles are big and open, but they have a little bite to it. The wolf blood will always run hot in her, even when she's happy.]

[Private to Riddick]

Will you do something for me?

[Public, later]

[Still seated cross legged on her throne of pillows, Arya stares down at the device in her hands. There's an odd little look on her face, below hair that's terribly messy after she pulled off the towel-crown - like she's confused but not, knows what she wants but doesn't, like she's hovering between two worlds. She feels like she is.]

I graduated.

[The words feel strange: she's never combined them in that order, that conjugation, and the newness is unsettling. But she hasn't been afraid of new things in a long time. She can't be afraid of this.

Reaching off screen, she grabs a cookie, and lifts it up to show the camera: it has a frosting smiley face.]

Do you always get sweets? [She's been here so long, but it feels like the one thing she never fully realized. Instead of waiting for an answer - it doesn't really matter, does it, not now - she takes a bite and tosses the rest back onto it's plate.]

I'm going home. I've been here a long time, three years maybe. And I'm--

[She hasn't grown, except when she returned home. She is twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen all at once, and she can't take the stillness of her existence here anymore.]

I could stay, and make a deal. I could probably kick my inmate to graduating. I could have my family back.

[She chews her lip for a moment, looking off toward the pillow and blanket forts. Finally, she just rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath. That's stupid. She won't do it.]

But I still have family. And I'm going home to find them.

So - goodbye, I guess. This was a good flood.

[She flashes a smile, wolfish and toothsome and pleased, and turns the feed off.]
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❈ | 034 | Video

Feb. 21st, 2014 09:47 am
fearcutsdeeperthanswords: (a girl don't give a shit)
[The girl on the screen is older and taller, though not by much on either account: a few feet, a few inches. Her hair has been allowed to grow out, though it's pinned (messily) at the back of her head. She looks a little less like a child, a little more like the person she could grow into. The surroundings are different, though: gone is the cell from the House of Black and White, with its tiny bed and small chest for clothes. This is a bigger room, enough space for two girls to grow in and live in and fight in. It's the room she shared with Sansa in Winterfell, all old stone with furs on the bed.

She still chews her lip, though. She has a lot on her mind.]

I'm afraid.

[She doesn't sound it, even makes a face and looks a touch angry at saying it out loud. She doesn't like admitting it, she never has, but this feels important. Behind her, Nymeria lounges on the bed, huge and daunting. She is older, bigger, too.]

Not scared - maybe I was the whole time. I hated feeling like a scared little girl, so I stopped. I stopped everything but anger. Anything else hurt.

[She reaches up and touches her chest.] I had a hole, here, after my family died. I didn't think it'd ever heal, so - I stuffed it with other things, till it scabbed over. Anger, and revenge.

[She rubs the spot over her heart, then drops her hand again, tugging at the edge of her shirt.]

But I'm not so angry, anymore. I have pictures, of everyone, [and there is indeed a photo album sitting open behind her on the bed, near Nymeria's paws] and I realized I was forgetting what they looked like. But I remember what all the Lannisters look like. I remember every stupid golden hair. But I don't remember what Rickon looked like. He was only three. Or four - I don't remember anymore.

[Chewing on her lip again, Arya leans back and grabs the photo album, dragging it into her lap. These were gifts, from Christmases past, things she never asked for, never wanted, but needed very badly. She pulls out one picture, holds it up for the camera except pretend he looks younger.]

This is him.

[She gives it a moment, then tucks it away, and closes up the album beside her.] I don't have any pictures of the people who killed him. I don't want any. I think - I'd rather remember what my brother looked like, than the person who killed him.
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When at last she slept, she dreamed of home. The kingsroad wound its way past Winterfell on its way to the Wall, and Yoren had promised he'd leave her there with no one any wiser about who she'd been. She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon...But it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her "little sister." She'd tell him, "I missed you," and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything.
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