05-03-2015, 06:26 PM
I love you. Don't you mind, don't you mind? He pretends that her lips belong to someone else. He pretends that they are made up of all the same atoms, and that he skin is red instead of black and white. He pretends that he voice sounds like someone else’s, that it’s raspy and quiet and sad instead. She asks him if he’s going to get back up, and then the pretending falls short. Margaery would never ask that of him. She would let him disintegrate into the earth. She would let him rot if it suited her. “I’m not waiting,” he says, because waiting would imply that on some level he thought she might come home to him. He isn’t waiting because there is nothing left to wait for. He isn’t waiting because he knows that she will never come back. There is a difference between waiting, and mourning, isn’t there? Waiting means maybe. Mourning means never. “This is my life now,” he says, cheek against dirt. This is his life, the earth and her cells. The sandpaper feels coarse against his skin, but she’ll learn soon enough that he will not be made smooth. He does not come clean; the stains now are well past the surface, they’ve sunk deep into his bones. He is a masterpiece of mess and colour, of stains and scars, of black seas and black skies. He is a compass, and Margaery is north. This is his life. barret ---  |