sixthiterationlogs | "I'm Cursed"

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"I'm Cursed"

WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: Bungalow #4
WHEN: First few weeks of Nov.
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Visions, illness, memory loss, pain

The last she could remember was being in the fields during midday. The sun couldn't push away the frost and chill, the harbingers of winter's approach. Despite this, the animals were happy, the newly born nannies bounding over the dried grass. Her cow lulled against the growing wind, filling the day with the noises that brought her a measure of peace and contentment. She could recall a flash of blood, the taste sudden and sharp on her tongue. All at once the world flashed a blinding white as her mind felt as if it was ripping apart at the seams. Then there was nothing at all.

When she woke, she was in bed, the sun apparently rising. The hows of returning home seemed insignificant compared to the question of how many days she had been unconscious. Someone had carried her home and for an unknown amount of time, she had slept. Her mouth tasted sour and a waste can was by the bed, smelling of sick. Though she couldn't remember it, she knew that she had stirred only to empty her stomach and then returned to her sleeping coma. Her head didn't just ache, it hurt. Light, sound and taste all mixed to create an unbearable agony. She moaned softly as she pressed her hands against her head, trying to dislodge the pain.

There was someone else with her, seated by the bed, but their face was unfamiliar and shrouded in early morning shadows. She felt as if she knew them, their name so close at hand but lost among everything else. When she could manage to open her eyes, she stared at the person, uncertain and with no recognition in her eyes. "I...know you?" It was a question, not a statement. Everything had disappeared, only the frightening images that lingered in her head and a pain that was enough to make her wonder why death did not come.

Without another word, she turned to the side of the bed and shuddered as she vomited once more.

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Ned wonders if this was the sight Margaery had to contend with when he'd come down with whatever sickness had plagued much of the village months earlier: the delirium, the confusion, the constant slumber interrupted only by waves of sickness. It wass only that Ned still continues to make a habit of coming to help tend to the animals, continuing to learn husbandry thanks to Margaery's kindness (though he still had no animals of his own) that he'd realized something was amiss that morning when she didn't come to the door.

He'd waited for a time, thinking that perhaps she had gone on a walk or had to fetch something elsewhere. But, after the sun had changed positions rather drastically, he found himself caught in the throes of worry and concern and, despite what his normal propriety would allow, he entered her home without having first been invited.

"Margaery?" he called out, closing the door behind him. There was no sound aside from what could be heard outside, until he'd wound up outside of her bedroom door. He could hear rustling and groaning, and after peeking his head inside to see the state she was in, he'd rushed to his knees and to her side, pressing a palm against her forehead.

He hasn't left the bedside since that morning, except in cases of needing to relieve himself. He's otherwise stayed put, and when she finally seems to stir to some state of wakefulness, he leans forward and brushes some hair from her forehead as gently as he can; he's seen the way she's dug her fingers in, as though there is something scratching to break free from behind her skull.

Her question, however, leaves him feeling a bit breathless - a lump quickly congealing in his throat, unmovable and stubborn. His brows twitch together as he withdraws his hands, not wanting to frighten her if she cannot place his face in her memory.

"Yes, you do," he says softly, patiently. "We'd only heard of each other before we'd arrived here, but we've come to be great friends, you and I."

There was no time to indulge the stab of sorrow Margaery's question wrought — She was ill again almost immediately, and Robb jolted from his seat, reaching now-practiced hands to pull back the weight of her dark hair and better position the bin.

"I've got you," he murmured, having no idea if such a sentiment would be at all comforting if her memory of him had entirely fled. The only help he could give was in simply being here, in doing this — Little comforts he felt ill-equipped to provide, offering answers to the questions she would undoubtedly have. For what felt like the thousandth time, he wished his mother were there.

It's all such a blur, lost behind the images and sounds that appeared in her head and the ache that didn't seem willing to leave. She stared at Ned, unable to form his name or place his face against the myriad of others that had emerged in the visions. He wasn't the figure sacrificed or the person rising from their grave. His voice touched on something, a memory hidden away in the back of her mind, but buried and likely lost. It was too much, all of it was too much.

"I was in the Sept...no..." No, that wasn't right. She was in a field last with her animals, watching her cow. But that wasn't Highgarden or near King's Landing, it was another place, this other world. She knew at least that she was dead and she had been brought here some time ago, but it was nothing more than a feeling, a sense of a memory. There was nothing though, nothing that she could summon to answer the questions she had and return what was apparently lost.

"Why can't I remember?" Hysteria bubbled in her stomach, rising as rapidly as nausea. There was another bolt of pain behind her eyes and another image, causing her to cry out as dug her nails against her brow. Fire beneath their feet, rumbling and pushing from the mouth of a volcano. Was that where they were?

When at last the vision passed and she could breathe again, she looked once more at the stranger, tired and unnerved. "What did the Maester say? Did he give any Milk of the Poppy?" Were there even Maesters here?

His hands were gentle and their was a familiarity about his eyes, something tender stirred in her but could not give voice to why or who he was. She only knew that she felt safe and comfortable with him, the hysteria from the loss of memories seemed to be kept at bay because of his presence. Once her nausea subsided and she fell back against the bed, she reached to take his hand, curling her fingers around his.

She could recall the Sept and the wildfire, she knew she had been in a field not long ago and that she was in an "other" place. All the rest felt torn away, as if it were a page in a book. There was only the lingering pain in her head and the weakness of her body, as if it were failing her and disappearing under the weight of these visions. "Am I dying?" She asked softly, watching him, searching for truth in his face.

Another snap in her mind and another vision rose to the surface, forcing away her memories of her animals, their names and personalities. "Gods, this pain. Please, let it end."

"You're not dying," Robb firmly replied, although in truth, he hardly knew. The healers in this place had provided him what information they could, but it seemed as if they were as bewildered by Margaery's affliction as much as anyone else. There was little to be done but wait it out and pray.

"Lay back and try to relax," he quietly instructed, and reached to dip a cloth in the bowl of cool water that was close to hand. After wringing it out, he laid it gently across Margaery's forehead. He'd been told lavender might ease some of the pain, but it was so late in the season that there were none of the flowers to be found, if there ever were.

"Loras?" She asked, resisting only a moment to ask after her brother. She had died, which meant Loras had as well, but he could still be in this other world. If she was here, he had to have been brought with her. But if he was here, he wouldn't leave her alone like this. Even without him saying anything, she knew that she would be facing disappointment.

Save for the man beside her, she was alone. She pressed her hand against his as he set the cloth to her brow, the cool water contrasting against the fierce pain. "Help me remember? Tell me about this place. Something?" She sighed. "I wish I had written it down."

When Jon had heard that Margaery had fallen ill (news travelled quite quickly in a place like the village, with so few people to spread it among), he made it a priority to come see to her.

He was no maester, to tend the ill, but he hoped a familiar and friendly face would soothe her all the same. He sat at a chair at her bedside, reaching for one of her hands to hold it between both of his. "Margaery? How are you feeling?"

Edited 2017-11-14 19:29 (UTC)

It was difficult to tell whether Margaery was asking after Loras, or if the pain had affected her sight and she thought that he himself was her brother.

"Loras isn't here, I'm sorry," he answered with a slight wince. "I'm Robb. Robb Stark," he clarified instead, leaving out the particulars of their relationship for the moment; it just didn't seem as if would be helpful if she remembered none of it at all.

"This is your house. We live in a small village here. It's odd; no one knows how or why we're here. But life is pleasant enough most days. You have a cow and some sheep that you dote on. We're hoping to raise a proper barn for them before the cold fully arrives."

"There, there, now," Ned attempts to soothe, though it doesn't do much good. He reaches out to steady her by her shoulders, gently removing her hands from her face to prevent any injury she might cause herself. "There are no Maesters here," he begins to explain, helping to settle her back into the bed as best he can. "We are in a village far from our home of Westeros." Part of him wonders whether it best to be so honest with her, or whether going along with her delusions would, at least, alleviate some of her suffering. He isn't one to lie, but the thought of feeding her falsehoods makes him feel ill at ease.

"What is the last thing you can remember?" he asks, one hand gently resting at her wrist, the other on her shoulder. "Perhaps we mightn't put together some of the pieces between the two of us."

"I know that name..." she murmured softly, reaching out to link her hand with his. Even beyond his reputation and brief rule as king, the name was familiar to her, as though it were one that she spoke often. Somewhere, it was engraved on both her mind and heart, yet she could not decide how or why.

The pain was excruciating, but she still managed to smile, trying to imagine herself as a shepherd of any kind. "I know we aren't in Westeros...it's an other world. I died." That was where this life ended and began for her. "'We?' You look after the animals with me?"

There was something more about this, something nagging at the back of her mind. Gripping at the cloth over her eyes, she forced her mind to focus, trying to remember what it was she needed or was searching for subconsciously. As sharply as a vision, it snapped to life in her mind. "I have it written down. I have paper somewhere with memories."

"No, I don't," Robb replied of the animals with a quick shake of his head, glad to have a reason to slip past the topic of Margaery's death. "But I offered to help build the barn. Last winter, they had to shelter in one of the buildings."

He glanced down to where she was gripping his hand, his brow furrowing. It was hard to know whether the instinct which guided her was about what they'd shared or simply because she was always so open with everyone.

"I can look, see if I can find any papers you've tucked away," he suggested.

"The King in the North build a barn?" She managed a smile before flinching against the pain. There were so many pieces missing, a clear idea of what their lives were like or what they shared, if anything. Regardless, she held firm to him for longer than she normally would, needing him to help ground her and offer her this small gesture of comfort.

She shivered as another wave of nausea hit her, causing her to grab her sides in anticipation for becoming sick. When nothing came, she relaxed. Save for the heavy images behind her eyes, she could almost believe that she was getting better or some change had been made.

"Unless you want to help remind me of the important memories?" She hesitated. "I don't know where the papers would be."

She was reluctant to remove her hands from her face, as the lights stung at her eyes. She shivered beneath her blankets, sweat causing her hair to cling to her face. Nausea still rolled through her, the slightest movement making her feel that she would be sick again. Despite all of this, Ned's presence was comforting, even if she couldn't remember him. There was at least the gentle reminder that she wasn't alone.

"Only small moments. I know I died and came to this Other World. I remember being in a field with a cow and then it all went dark." She bundled herself tighter in her blankets. "I think there are others here...but I can't remember their names or faces."

It was clear enough that she was looking for some sort of touchstone, but Robb couldn't help but worry that he was poorly qualified. Were she herself, she might have teased him about such a notion, but the truth was that to his mind, someone like Sansa was much better equipped to remind Margaery of what had happened and what of those had been important.

Robb hardly knew where to begin. So many of his own important memories were painful.

"Well," he began, pressing his lips together as he tried to formulate some sort of strategy. "You and I, we've been... together? I really don't know what you'd call it. They don't exactly go in for formal courting here. We met in a tree." He glanced up to her, hopeful that might stir a memory.

The mind might not remember, but there was no denying the simple effect a presence might have on someone frightened and unwell. She couldn't remember what they shared, but she knew it was strong enough that she felt at ease next to him. It was no small matter and if he knew her as well as she suspected, he would at least understand these gestures and simply reaching for him weren't common for her.

"Lovers then," she said softly. It was at least honest, more honest than what she shared with any of her husbands. "A tree?" It stirred something in her memories. She couldn't picture it, but she felt as if she knew what he was talking about.

"How did we manage that? Did I climb a tree?"

She wished that she could put a name to his face, but it ran together in the sea of so many that had come to visit her. Another dark haired figure that stared down at her in confusion and worry. He was as much a stranger to her as they had been, his name lost in the shadows.

She turned away from the side of the bed, trying to recover from the pulsating pain in her head. He was blurry against the window, causing her to look away once more. "I don't know." She murmured, pressing her hands to her face. "Like death."

Ned glances about the room and finds a basin with some water in it, as well as a clean cloth. He submerges the cloth, wringing out the excess, before returning to her side to press the compress to her forehead, soaking up some of her sweat in the process. He brushes the hair away from her face as best he can, keeping her as still as possible after having seen the shade of green she'd turned at being moved. He unfolds and refolds the cloth in a different way to continue dabbing at her forehead.

What he wouldn't give for a Maester.

"Aye, all of that is true. There are others here, many others in fact, though not all of them are from Westeros. I'm Ned Stark," he explains softly, "I was Lord of Winterfell for many years prior to being Hand of the King to King Robert Baratheon. You were married to his younger brother, Renly Baratheon, for a time. You are the daughter of Mace and Alerie Tyrell, one of the Great Houses of Westeros. Here in the village, my eldest son, Robb, my daughter Sansa, my son Jon, and my sister Lyanna are all here with us. My youngest daughter Arya was, as well, but she's no longer here," he adds, the pain evident in his voice though he does his best to mask it.

"You look very ill," Jon agreed. "But I had hoped you felt at least a little better than you looked. I'm sorry that's not the case." He kept his voice low and soft, not wanting to make her illness that much worse by being too loud. He squeezed her hand lightly.

"Is there anything I might do for you?"

Robb could only nod in confirmation of the label; Margaery had always been infinitely more easy with calling things by their proper names than he was. They were indeed lovers, but part of him still recoiled at it being put so bluntly.

"There was a wolf," he explained. "You said you'd never climbed a tree before, but you did well with a bit of help. We stayed longer in that tree than I think was necessary," he added with a tired smile. "Enjoying each other's company."

There was no answer about what was happening to her or how it began. While she couldn't remember seeing the healers, she suspected that there was nothing that could be done and no clear answer evident. But Gods, what she wouldn't give for Milk of the Poppy. The sweet sleep it brought and the darkness it offered was enticing, even a world away.

Instead, she had to suffer through the pain and illness without aid. Without warning, she turned and vomited once again in the basin, shuddering beneath her blankets. Sweat had collected along her hairline and the sudden shift of her body made her catch the cold air around them.

"Ned Stark." She repeated the name softly beneath her breath. "I know the name." As she knew the others. Robb and Sansa especially. "We know each other well?" It seemed to be so, given his response to her and the tone in his voice. "There are no others here from our world? My brother? My grandmother?" It seemed unlikely. If her grandmother were here, it seemed impossible that she would not be at her bedside, chasing everyone else away.

"I know Sansa, but have I met your sons?"

"What a man you are," she managed before becoming sick again. Even feeling excruciating pain, she still tried to raise the usual guard of flirtation and charm. "You tell a woman she looks as poorly as she feels."

She paused, letting the false bravado fade away. "I...I have forgotten your name. I know you, I think?"

He was a Stark, and while she might not remember him, she could recall how sheltered and modest Sansa was in comparison. Even without looking at him, she had a sense that the simple term was a bit strange. Lovers were natural and expected in Highgarden, but the rest of Westeros was different. She didn't press the topic or further explanation, both to spare him from any embarrassment or discomfort, but because she couldn't focus on one topic for very long.

She gripped her sheets as another bolt of pain rolled through her head. The image of her climbing a tree to escape a wolf was distracting, making her laugh breathlessly as the last of her nausea subsided. "You truly enjoy my company?" It's said with honest amazement, too exhausted to raise her guard or hide behind false bravado. The illness left her feeling weak and broken. While he might not feel capable of comforting someone, just the thought of someone understanding her and enjoying her presence was soothing.

"What did we talk about?" She let out a sharp breath, pressing her hand against her eyes.

Jon laughed a bit at the first; that was typical Margaery, to point out his failings in speaking with a silver tongue to a woman. The latter, though, concerned him. She didn't know who he was? They'd been together in this village for a year and more. How could she have forgotten?

"It's Jon," he said, trying not to let on that he was concerned she had forgotten his name. "Jon Snow. We're friends. I'm Robb's brother."

"Of course I enjoy your company," Robb was quick to reply, but drew up short at Margaery's wince. He reached instinctively for her but drew up short, realizing he had no idea of what to do to help. Gesture aborted, he reached for the cloth instead, to dip it back into the water bowl.

"Don't talk just now," he softly suggested, wringing out the cloth and then gently laying it across her brow. "Just rest. I can make you some tea if you like?" Tea was supposed to help in these situations, wasn't it? And that, at least, he knew he could manage.

It took a moment for the words to sink in and slight recognition to appear in her eyes. She couldn't remember Jon personally, but she recalled his name as well as his brother's. Reputation proceeded them where memory failed. "Lord Stark...Lord Eddard visited me." Another man that she didn't remember and nearly forgot after he left.

"Everything is slipping out of my head. When you leave, I won't remember this. Another image will appear in my head and everything will disappear." She looked up at him hesitantly, afraid for him to see her vulnerability and fear. "What is happening to me?"

She nodded, tired of fighting and struggling to regain a foothold with her memory. The room was still spinning and the pain was overtaking her thoughts. She wouldn't be able to sleep but she wanted to close her eyes, if only to block out the light. Tea. It might not help, but the warmth would soothe her stomach, she hoped.

She fell back against her pillows and held tightly to the cloth that he placed across her brow. It wasn't the tea or even the cloth that helped, it was surrendering herself into the care of someone else, letting the heavy burden of her exhaustion free. She could be weak for once and simply rest, rather than continuously fighting and only making it all worse.

"Yes, thank you. Please don't go far. It helps to see you here when I wake up."

"My lord father came to see you," Jon said quietly. "Because you are friends with our family and dear to us, Margaery. We want to see you well."

Jon didn't know what was happening to her at the moment but he wanted to help her through it in any way that he could. "It's an illness. We'll find the cure, I promise you."

She wished she could remember how and when she had made friends with the Starks, but there was nothing, only an emptiness that loomed over her. It was as sharp and foreboding as the visions that reared up in her mind.

"I see things." She told him, managing to peek at him through her fingers, still trying to shield out the light. "There are just quick images, but I think they are of this place. Things that are happening." Or would happen. Or were they just nightmares. "It hurts my head, but I see things."

"Visions? Margaery, how long has this been happening?"

Jon had a little experience with the idea of seeing something that had not yet occurred. The Red Priestess with Stannis had often spoken of what she'd seen in her fires and spent long hours making sense of those visions and sharing them with Stannis, sometimes to ill effect.

"What do you see?"

"I can't remember." She could remember sharp fear and the ground trembling under her feet, but everything was muted and faded, as if she were trying to peer through gauze. The more she struggled to make it clearer, the more her head started to hurt.

"It's images...they come quickly and disappear. I saw a volcano erupting and a lake running dry after an earthquake. Last night, I saw someone...I don't know who...they were being killed and afterwards, someone pulled themselves out of a grave. I don't know their faces. I remember fear and blood."

"I don't want you to hurt yourself further by trying to remember - I just thought if we could make sense of what you saw, maybe the visions would stop."

Jon had little experience with this sort of thing and he felt helpless, useless. He didn't want to feel that way.

"What did the maesters suggest you do?"

She felt just as helpless and useless, unable to remember anything beyond those visions. How long would it be before she lost who she was? What else would be taken so that these images could take prominence?

"They don't seem to know what to do." She murmured. "No one understands what is happening to me or why it is happening. I don't even know if they believed me." Not for anything they said or did, but only because she knew that she wouldn't believe it as well.

"I wish they would tell me if I am going to die. I think they wonder, but don't want to tell me."

"If the maesters thought you were going to die, I would think they'd be honest with you," Jon said softly. "It's probably that they don't know and they want to hope for the best. We all want to hope for the best."

He didn't want to say falsely that she'd live; Jon tried not to openly lie if he could help it. "None of the rest of us have fallen ill quite like you. It's strange."

"I never trust Maester's with the truth about life and death. They sometimes feel the truth is too terrible or painful to know, so they are slow to say what will happen. But perhaps they are different in this world." She shook her head sadly. "I wish I could say that I don't fear death, but I fear it very much. I don't want to die again."

Yes, it was strange. If she could remember maybe she could make sense of it all. "Do you believe me, about the visions?"

"Aye, I believe you. It's a strange thing but I don't think you'd lie. Not to me, anyway." Margaery might have her reasons to lie to someone but he had no reason to think she'd lie to him or Robb about anything and certainly not this.

"I don't know why you're getting them, though, and I can't really shoot an arrow through a vision. I'm sorry."

This was beyond anything Margaery would have thought up or used as some means of manipulation. It didn't exist in the realm of sense and that was what she preferred. It was unexplainable and out of her control, all of the things that she hated. What was more remarkable was that Jon seemed to believe her when so many others wouldn't. He took her words on faith. "Are we so close that you trust me?"

She nodded, clutching her head. "Does anyone else have this ability?"

"I don't know if anyone else has had a vision," Jon admitted. It wasn't something he'd heard mentioned around the village but he tended to do his hunting, drop it off at the Inn, and spend most of his time with his family. If it hadn't been mentioned among the Starks, he tended not to know much about it.

"But we're close friends, Margaery, and I don't think you'd lie to me. I trust you."

She had friends before this place, but few that she trusted enough to let her guard down around. She couldn't remember Jon or what they shared, how much she might have told him and what he knew of her. But the fact that he expressed that trust meant something to her. How different things had become.

"Thank you." She murmured, smiling at him wanly. "I don't know if you understand how much that means to hear."

"I won't let anything happen to you," Jon assured her again. "And whatever this illness is, I seek to find a cure for it as much as anyone else. I'm no maester or anything like that but I'll do anything I can to help you."

He paused for a moment. "It's my duty, Margaery. It's my duty to you as a friend of mine and a friend of House Stark."

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"I'm Cursed"

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I am so sorry! I missed this!

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