Eddard Stark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
learned_to_die) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-08-10 11:00 am
learned_to_die) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-08-10 11:00 am
[no amount of remembering the better things will make the bad ones go away]
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: The Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: August 15 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA; feel free to jump in at any point during his halluciations.
WARNINGS: None; will updated as needed
It had started with redness of the skin, first on Ned's hands. It spread like blood-red ink across the paper of his skin, up his arm towards his shoulder, down his back, around his torso. It made decades'-old battles scars scarlet and renewed, the pain of touch excruciating, as though the wounds had only just been made. And then, the heat. At first, he thought it a continued byproduct of the summer temperatures, but it was the absence of perspiration that had drawn his brows together in confusion and realization: he had gotten ill.
Half a fortnight later, having spent the majority of the time bed-ridden and unable to leave the confines of his room, the visions had started.
He’d first seen his siblings’ faces: Brandon, Benjen, Lyanna. He imagined Brandon’s death, simultaneously feeling the constriction of his airways as Brandon tried to rescue their father, and wakes to a coughing fit while gasping for air. Benjen he imagined in black, half-human and half-crow, taking to the skies and soaring back to The Wall. Lyanna, he had seen bloodied and ghostly pale, her trembling hands leaving crimson paintings against his skin with every touch, while the rage and pain and impending loss stormed within him.
Second, Robert’s face - glossy-eyed and slender, the way he’d been when they’d grown alongside each other under the care of Jon Arryn. He imagined them wandering the grounds of the Eyrie, practicing their fighting with one another, Robert daring him to draw closer and closer to the Moon Door. His half of these fabricated conversations are audible to anyone near enough - even through the closed door of his chambers. None of it makes any sense, especially out of context, though it’d be easy enough for someone familiar enough to surmise that Robert was on his mind.
Next, he’d seen visions of Catelyn at their wedding; the hatred and betrayal in her face when he’d revealed to her that he had returned from war with a dark-haired babe in tow, a newly born Robb still in her arms, which she clutched tighter to her breast; the way she’d peer up at him as they lay under their furs and in each other’s arms with only the soft glow of the fire as their audience; when he’d last seen her, outside of Littlefinger’s brothel in King’s Landing, the blue scarf wrapped over her fiery crown. He reaches for her, when he imagines her with him, hands and fingers fumbling in the air for a woman who no longer exists.
Then, he’d seen each of his children at varying stages of their lives, from birth to the last he’d seen of them: Robb at Winterfell, when Ned had left for King’s Landing; Sansa when he’d knelt at the steps of the Great Sept, silently praying for her rescue; Arya when he’d spotted her in the crowd, crouching by Baelor the Blessed, doing the only thing he could to keep her safe by signaling Yoren to take her into his custody; Bran, unconscious in his bed, unsure if he’d ever open his eyes again; Rickon in the yard at Winterfell, too young to understand the weight of the world and his father’s departure beyond a glaring absence; and, though not a child of his own creation, Jon at the crossroads to King’s Landing and The Wall, promising to tell him about his mother upon their next meeting. These memories are strong enough to make a weakened, unwell Ned weep, crying out for the family from which he’d been taken, his feverish mind no longer remembering he has four of them still with him, whether by fate or by the blessings of the Old Gods.
He floats in and out of consciousness, back and forth between the world of Westeros he’d left behind and the world of the village - his second chance - though he cannot seem to convince himself that the latter exists. He wonders if he’s returned to the Children of the Forest, to the Old Gods themselves, to the Weirwood back in the Godswood of Winterfell. All the while, the skin affected by the rash blisters and reddens, leaving smears of blood on the linens underneath - though, if there is one light in the darkness, the intensity of his hallucinations seems to negate the pain from the rash, and he seems blissfully unaware of the sores.
WHERE: The Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: August 15 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA; feel free to jump in at any point during his halluciations.
WARNINGS: None; will updated as needed
It had started with redness of the skin, first on Ned's hands. It spread like blood-red ink across the paper of his skin, up his arm towards his shoulder, down his back, around his torso. It made decades'-old battles scars scarlet and renewed, the pain of touch excruciating, as though the wounds had only just been made. And then, the heat. At first, he thought it a continued byproduct of the summer temperatures, but it was the absence of perspiration that had drawn his brows together in confusion and realization: he had gotten ill.
Half a fortnight later, having spent the majority of the time bed-ridden and unable to leave the confines of his room, the visions had started.
He’d first seen his siblings’ faces: Brandon, Benjen, Lyanna. He imagined Brandon’s death, simultaneously feeling the constriction of his airways as Brandon tried to rescue their father, and wakes to a coughing fit while gasping for air. Benjen he imagined in black, half-human and half-crow, taking to the skies and soaring back to The Wall. Lyanna, he had seen bloodied and ghostly pale, her trembling hands leaving crimson paintings against his skin with every touch, while the rage and pain and impending loss stormed within him.
Second, Robert’s face - glossy-eyed and slender, the way he’d been when they’d grown alongside each other under the care of Jon Arryn. He imagined them wandering the grounds of the Eyrie, practicing their fighting with one another, Robert daring him to draw closer and closer to the Moon Door. His half of these fabricated conversations are audible to anyone near enough - even through the closed door of his chambers. None of it makes any sense, especially out of context, though it’d be easy enough for someone familiar enough to surmise that Robert was on his mind.
Next, he’d seen visions of Catelyn at their wedding; the hatred and betrayal in her face when he’d revealed to her that he had returned from war with a dark-haired babe in tow, a newly born Robb still in her arms, which she clutched tighter to her breast; the way she’d peer up at him as they lay under their furs and in each other’s arms with only the soft glow of the fire as their audience; when he’d last seen her, outside of Littlefinger’s brothel in King’s Landing, the blue scarf wrapped over her fiery crown. He reaches for her, when he imagines her with him, hands and fingers fumbling in the air for a woman who no longer exists.
Then, he’d seen each of his children at varying stages of their lives, from birth to the last he’d seen of them: Robb at Winterfell, when Ned had left for King’s Landing; Sansa when he’d knelt at the steps of the Great Sept, silently praying for her rescue; Arya when he’d spotted her in the crowd, crouching by Baelor the Blessed, doing the only thing he could to keep her safe by signaling Yoren to take her into his custody; Bran, unconscious in his bed, unsure if he’d ever open his eyes again; Rickon in the yard at Winterfell, too young to understand the weight of the world and his father’s departure beyond a glaring absence; and, though not a child of his own creation, Jon at the crossroads to King’s Landing and The Wall, promising to tell him about his mother upon their next meeting. These memories are strong enough to make a weakened, unwell Ned weep, crying out for the family from which he’d been taken, his feverish mind no longer remembering he has four of them still with him, whether by fate or by the blessings of the Old Gods.
He floats in and out of consciousness, back and forth between the world of Westeros he’d left behind and the world of the village - his second chance - though he cannot seem to convince himself that the latter exists. He wonders if he’s returned to the Children of the Forest, to the Old Gods themselves, to the Weirwood back in the Godswood of Winterfell. All the while, the skin affected by the rash blisters and reddens, leaving smears of blood on the linens underneath - though, if there is one light in the darkness, the intensity of his hallucinations seems to negate the pain from the rash, and he seems blissfully unaware of the sores.
no subject
She hadn't been able to save her grandmother, she didn't think there was a way. It had been her time to go but Ned… this didn't feel right, this wasn't his time. Not yet.
"I won't let you leave us. Arya or Robb or anyone behind." Moana felt tears gather in her eyes. It'd been a stressful few weeks and this only made it worse. She couldn't imagine being in this village without Ned. He had become a pillar of strength for her to lean on, like Jax, and he was someone that Moana relied on. Sensing the new tension, Itiiti stood and softly nuzzled against Moana's ankle.
"I believe in you." She whispered to Ned, hoping that her words might reach him. If not a song… maybe a story?
no subject
"How far are we from Winterfell? I wish to be brought into the Godswood, to listen to the fluttering of its leaves and touch the roughness of its bark."
Then, there's something of a spark in Ned's eyes - watery and red-rimmed with the exertion of his coughing fits - but there's recognition in them. It's fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it disappears, but before it diminishes, he whispers:
"Moana? Is it you?"
no subject
Moana reached forward to grab his hands. "Yes. Ned it's me. I'm here. Please don't go." She felt tears gather at the corner of her eyes but she refused to let them fall. "Everyone is waiting for you to get better so please." She begged. "Get better."
She snuffed softly before speaking again. "Once upon a time... that's how stories start... don't they? There was a war between the fish and the birds. The fish wanted the streams and beaches but the birds didn't want to share what was on land. They said it was theirs." Moana felt her voice falter before continuing.
"During the fight a bird called the Gogo died and the fish that killed the Gogo was the Fuga. This fish has a bone in its head... it is exactly the same shape as the bone in the head of the Gogo." She tried to smile at the image but her efforts were futile. "The fighting continued for a long time. Sometimes the fish drove the birds off and the fish made journeys up the rivers and streams and sometimes the birds were successful and drove the fish a long way out to sea. At the end, the birds lost the war. They decided that only the Gogo could catch small fish for food. The others had to go inland and find food elsewhere. The fish that were allowed to use the streams were the smaller fish called the Igaga because they were the strongest fighters... so fight and we'll see the river too... okay?"
no subject
His noises seem to quell at the soothing sound of her voice as she begins to tell the story. His flurried, blurred mind cannot keep up with all of the details she offers, but the very melody of how she speaks calms him. His head turns one way then the other, mouth opening and closing a few times, much like a fish would. Whatever lucidity still left in him is trying to complete the exhausting circuit of thought to mouth to voice to word. After a few failed attempts, he finally manages:
"Where is the river? Where do I go, Moana?"
no subject
She exhaled softly. "You'll be home." Not because he'll be back in Westeros or dead but he'll be with his family and the people that he loved.
"I won't give up. As long as you don't give up." Moana knew that pure will could fight sickness and fever. She'd seen her grandmother keep going out of that will alone and she believed that Ned could too.
no subject
no subject
She turned towards the bowl of water and cloth that was sitting next to the bed. She took the soaked cloth, rung it out, and then placed it lightly on his forehead to clear off the sweat. "I promise I'll be here." She might be asleep but she had no intention of leaving his side. Of course, she'd eventually have too but it would be a begrudgingly.
good to end here? unless you wanna hit 6?
ONE MORE, then End of sad times
yeah this was terribly sad haha