asumofwords - Tumblr blog

asumofwords · 2 months ago

Text

In the Absence - Haymitch Abernathy X OC - Chapter 1

Summary: Haunted by the Games and the ghosts of the people he couldn’t save, Haymitch Abernathy drinks to forget—until a quiet, persistent woman starts showing up with food and eyes full of something he doesn’t want. She’s not her. She never will be. But she stays, and that might be worse.

Warnings: Survivor Guilt, Alcoholism, Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Nightmares, Blood and Gore, Its post Sunrise on the Reaping everyone is sad, Angst, Choking, Slapping, Smut, Hurt No Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Internal Conflict, Suicidal Thoughts

Pairings: Haymitch Abernathy (SOTR) x OC she/her

Notes: Whelp, here we are. I got lost in the sauce that was Sunrise on the Reaping and I still can't stop thinking about it. So I wrote this 5 chapter series because I wanted to suffer more. Enjoy <3

It was the quiet that ruined him the most. The relentless quiet of the Victor’s Village house that was now his own.

Not that it was ever entirely silent.

The television was always on, the flickering light casting shadows against the walls. Ads and news and endless rot from the Capital. The Games played on a loop—tributes fighting, dying, victors crowned, their favourite moments and highlights of children being massacred by each other. Year after year, a fresh batch of kids who would never go home.

But it was the absence of people that gnawed at him the most.

The absence of his Ma humming as she worked. Of Sid’s constant chattering, always filling the space with noise. Of the soft shuffle of feet, the gentle weight of a body beside his.

The absence of her.

His Lenore.

Her scent, her laughter, the warmth of her hands. Gone.

And Haymitch was alone. But then again, not truly alone.

He had the bottle.

He drank from it like water. Like the milk he had stolen from Snow, gulping it down in spite. Like the fresh water in the Arena that had kept him alive.

Like her kisses. Oh how he had drank them greedily.

The liquor burned as it went down, always had and always would, but it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

—

At first, he welcomed the oblivion. He needed it. The sweet, numbing release that blurred the edges of memory, dulled the faces burnt into the backs of his eyelids.

But it didn’t erase them.

Didn’t erase him.

He still saw Ampert’s skeleton, the mass of squirrels atop him like a broken toy. Still saw his sweetheart’s blood pooling beneath her skull. Still saw Lou Lou—small, thin, screaming as blood leaked from her ear. Saw those birds as they stabbed Maysilee over and over again to punish him, watched as she drowned in her own blood. Always because of him.

The faces never faded. They just waited for him in the dark.

So he drank more.

—

Weeks then turned into months, and he drank so often and so violently that eventually he couldn’t tell how long it truly had been. He lost track of the world around him, and the people of District 12 left him alone.

Just like he wanted.

Mostly.

A few people he’d once called friends tried. They had knocked on his door. Left food on his porch, came inside to try and soothe him. Begged him to let them in, to let them help. But he never did. Couldn’t let them in. Not now. Not ever. He couldn’t let anyone in again. Couldn’t care for anyone else again.

Because Snow was watching, always watching, and waiting for him to slip. To let someone in, anyone at all. An old friend, a family he would pass by, someone he had helped with laundry, or bought wares from. He couldn’t do it. To be amongst someone he could care for, someone he had known, or known of. It was a risk. It would always be a risk. And it would be his fault.

He couldn’t let anyone get close, lest they end up like the rest.

Dead.

So he slammed the door in their faces. Snarled at them until they stopped coming. Hurt them. Made them bleed.

He didn’t want their pity.

He didn’t want anything.

Just the next drink.

—

One night, he shattered a bottle against the fireplace, watching the shards scatter across the floor. He swayed on his feet, staring at them, vision swimming.

He thought about picking one up.

Pressing the jagged edge to his skin.

Would it make a difference? Would it change anything?

He thought about it often.

But then he thought of them.

And it would have been for nothing. They would have died for nothing.

His Ma. Sid. Lenore. His sweetheart Louella. Lou Lou. Maysilee. Ampert. The Newcomers he had let die. Let down. They were all gone. And yet, somehow, he was still here. Still breathing.

Rotten luck.

Or maybe not luck at all.

Maybe this was punishment. A life sentence for surviving when they hadn’t. For being the one left standing. For daring to survive even when he hadn’t planned to.

—

The years blurred, slipping away as easily as the days. Haymitch had stopped keeping track. Stopped counting the birthdays that came and went, each one marking another year of sending two more kids to die. Sitting in the train with them as he escorted them to their deaths. Drinking to escape. Just like what they had done to him.

Just new faces to add to the endless supply of those he tried to forget.

But he couldn’t.

He could see himself in them. How scared they were. How unsure. He would watch their widened eyes that were filled with tears, or their shock filled stares, or watch as their violence and defiance would burst from them like animals backed into a corner.

Because that’s what they were; animals. At least, in the eyes of the Capital they were.

The only thing that made it bearable was the bottle in his hand.

But his body never forgot.

His stomach ached constantly, twisting with a pain he knew was deliberate. The scar puckered and long healed, but in a way that spoke of poor craftsmanship. Sloppy work. A haphazard job.

He’d seen firsthand what the Capitol could do to a person’s body, how they could change their appearances to suit the season, saw it each year he came to the Capital, each year he sent those kids to slaughter. He saw each year what the Capital was able to do to those kids in the arena. Had experienced it himself. So that’s how he knew the scar on his stomach and the pain he felt from it was no accident.

The Capital could sew someone up just wrong enough that they felt it forever.

Snow had done it.

Wanted him to remember—even as he desperately tried to forget. But there would be no way to forget it. The arena, or what transpired in the after when he returned. Each time the pain came, his fingers pressed against where the gash in his stomach was, and he would be there again; where he had been trying to hold himself together, trying to hold his insides inside. The moment he should’ve died, but didn’t.

A reminder.

That he belonged to them.

That he would never truly leave the Arena.

—

Haymitch never used to dream much.

Before the Games, sleep had been standard—sure, there were nights he lay awake listening to Sid’s quiet breathing, the hum of his Ma moving about their house, the bird call outside. But sleep had still been his. A refuge. A place to slip away from the harsh reality of District 12.

Now, sleep was a battlefield.

When he closed his eyes, the arena swallowed him whole.

The scent of blood and damp earth clung to his skin. The copper tang in the air. The sound of flesh tearing. The way the other tributes looked at him—desperate, starving, waiting for their chance to kill or die or be saved. The Games had been over for years, but in his dreams, he never left. He was always running, always fighting, always watching the life drain from someone’s eyes and it was always his fault.

And then there were the nights where he wasn’t in the arena.

Those were worse.

Because those nights, he was back home.

The house was warm, fire crackling in the hearth. His Ma sat at the table, rolling out dough with flour-dusted hands. Sid sat beside him, laughing over some joke Haymitch couldn’t quite hear. And Lenore—Lenore was next to him, leaning against his shoulder, her fingers threading through his.

It felt so real he could almost believe it.

Then the dream shifted, and they were laid out in green grass, and there was a gumdrop in his hand. A delicate little thing, blood red.

Lenore smiled at him, trusting, always so trusting of him, and he lifted it to her lips, just as he always did, and dropped into her waiting mouth. Whether in his home that no longer stood, or in the meadow. Or in the arena itself.

It was always the same.

Haymitch would feed her those gumdrops and feed her her death with loving and reverent hands. Hands that had caressed and held her. And hands that had killed her.

He had killed his Lenore Dove.

He had killed her.

Gasping, covered in sweat, the taste of death on his tongue he would wake after she stilled.

It never changed. Night after night, he saw her face, felt her warmth, held the sweet in his palm. And watched as she choked and died in his arms.

Haymitch sat on the edge of his bed, fingers tangled in his hair, the room spinning around him. His head ached, his stomach churned, and his throat was raw from whatever he’d screamed in his sleep.

He reached blindly for the bottle on the nightstand, knocking over various empty ones and other trinkets atop it in the dark. The liquor burned its way down, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Nothing could erase the memories.

Nothing could bring them back.

Would.

Sid. His Ma.

Lenore.

Gone. All of them, gone. And yet he was still here. Living in this too-big house in Victor’s Village, drinking himself into oblivion while their ghosts clung to him like coal dust.

He wished he could say he didn’t know why he drank. That it was something instinctual, something he couldn’t control. That he could blame it on someone else. On Snow. On the Capital. But he did know.

The bottle was a graveyard.

It was the only way he could bury the people he’d lost.

He drank to forget the look on his Ma’s face when he left for the Capitol. The way Sid had cried. The way Lenore had watched him from that hill as the train whipped past. To forget all the people he let die.

It was a slow, miserable kind of suffering. A way to atone for surviving when they didn’t.

Because Haymitch Abernathy wasn’t supposed to be here.

The Capitol had made sure to remind him of that.

They had killed Lenore. They had killed his Ma, his brother. They had taken everything, and yet somehow, he was still here.

Still breathing.

And for what?

So he could sit in this house, night after night, getting so drunk he could barely see? So he could wake up every morning with a pounding skull and the taste of regret in his mouth? So he could see the ghosts that surround him?

Snow had taken everything from him, but he hadn’t needed to pull a trigger to do it.

No, he’d let Haymitch destroy himself.

And Haymitch was doing a damn good job of it.

He took another drink.

It burned, sharp and bitter.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

—

The bottle on the table was almost empty. Haymitch stared at it, fingers drumming against the wood, mind hazy, beside him; a plate of stale bread and jam. He’d have to go into town soon for another. Maybe four. He was getting sick of running out, but the more he drank the more he needed to chase away the shadows that seemed to skirt in his periphery.

Over the short years he had come back from the Games he had aged considerably. The lack of sleep, the alcohol, and lack of any healthy food was one of the reasons for this.

His food was delivered on the same day as it always was every week, and his Victors winnings were given just the same once a month, and almost every single cent of that was spent on booze.

The knock at the door made him flinch.

Right. The food.

He hauled himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he made his way across the room. The room spun around him as he sluggishly made his way over. Empty stomach and booze never made for great travel.

Empty bottles were knocked over and rolled loudly on the hardwood floors. Floors that hadn’t been washed since he moved in.

The Victors houses were decorated with gaudy items that most in the Districts could never dream of, but for Haymitch, it served as a reminder of what he had lost.

Every single surface was covered in trash, or bottles, or little things that he found and then discarded. Empty plates sat in piles on tables or broken in the sink. If his house hadn’t of been burnt down he would live there instead. In fact, it was Burdock who had found him, laid in the ashes a week after, sleeping to try and forget it all, empty bottles scattered around him.

He hadn’t been back since.

When he opened the door, the Peacekeeper barely looked at him. Just handed over the crate and left without a word.

That was fine.

Haymitch didn’t ever feel like talking anyway.

He carried the crate inside, setting it on the table.

Milk. Bread.

Always the same.

That goddamn milk. One of his first mistakes.

Another death sentence.

He took the milk and a loaf, and went back to his meal. Bread and some jam that had been in the back of his cupboard for who knows how long.

The chair groaned beneath him as he sat. A chair that had chips all along its dark wooden legs, and scratches covering every surface. It had taken many beatings over the years, been kicked and thrown and knocked over more times than he could count.

The bread was stale and brittle, and he dropped it against his plate, pushing it away with a huff. He wasn’t going to finish it. Usually never did.

But he could finish his drink. It was halfway down his throat when a knock came again. Haymitch frowned. He set the bottle down, rubbing his temples.

Didn’t I just get the food?

Sometimes he did forget things. Did them twice or not at all.

Another knock.

Usually if he didn’t answer they left it on the front step.

Another knock.

His gut clenched.

Had Snow sent someone?

Haymitch grabbed the nearest knife from the table—just in case—and yanked the door open.

A woman stood there. A woman he didn’t recognise.

And he just gaped at her, swaying on his feet.

She was younger than him, couple of years maybe, hair half braided, holding a small bundle in her hands—bread, he wasn’t sure, more fucking bread, or something wrapped in cloth. She didn’t flinch when she saw him, didn’t take a step back, even though he must have looked like hell. Smelt even worse. He can’t remember the last time he indulged in a cold shower.

Yet there she was, undeterred. Another do-gooder trying to fix the unfixable. Another young girl wishing to be with the Districts Victor. Disgust rolled inside of him.

Haymitch stepped back and slammed the door in her face, turning away from it. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

The knocking began again, but more insistent this time. But Haymitch ignored it, went back to his table, back to his drink, the one lifeline he had and threw down the knife, letting it clatter and fall from the table onto the floor.

He took another swig as he sat back in his chair, waiting for her to grow bored and leave him alone. But she never left. She just kept knocking. Insistent as she was, he was more stubborn and kept to the table as he waited, flicking the crumbs from the table onto the floors that hadn’t been washed in years.

But each time the knocks came, he felt the trickle of a memory surface; the loud bang of canon fire.

Every single one.

It was a while until the knocking stopped, and Haymitch exhaled a long breath, going to take another swig only to find the bottle empty.

It was always empty these days.

Unsteady feet carried him to the fireplace, atop it bottles of all shapes and sizes, the last drops that had been inside captured by his waiting mouth. He then moved to the bookshelves, books half pulled out or long forgotten, barren bottles against their spines.

He looked around the floor.

The buffet table.

All of them dry.

The kitchen was his best bet.

He shuffled through open doors to the kitchen, riffling through endless cupboards emptied or full of rotten food and forgotten china. Cans and bottles fell to the floor or rolled inside the shelves, the sound almost deafening, but drowning out the echo’s of that goddamn cannon fire.

The screams.

Nothing.

Empty.

His skin felt too tight, itched. He needed a drink. Needed it so badly it hurt, made him feel ill, made sweat begun to gather at the back of his neck, the corners of his temples. The room was spinning, seemed to shrink around him until he spied the sink, and there, he could have wept—could have curled on the floor and soaked the world with his tears, was a bottle with a third of clear liquor left. He snatched it and drank deeply. Drank until the last drop melted against his tongue.

It was heaven. It was relief.

It was his only escape.

Behind him there was a noise.

Heart racing and instincts kicking in, he spun around throwing the bottle in his hand at the woman who now stood behind him in the doorway. It smashed against the wall beside her, glittering glass spraying around her. She dodged it with a look of annoyance.

Still not deterred.

Maybe she had been sent by Snow after all.

Maybe this was it.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice came out rough, crackled at the edges. It had been so long since he had used it to talk rather than scream himself awake.

She lifted her chin slightly and gave her name, looking around the mess of the kitchen, bundle still in hand, “I brought you food.”

“I don’t need your charity.” He hissed, eyes narrowed, who the hell did this girl think she was? “I got all the money and food I could ever need.” Arms spread, he gestured to the room in ruins.

As quick as a whip, “Is that why you only get bread and milk?”

“Get out of my house.” The world still spun, and he lightly swayed on his foot.

He loathed the loss of that bottle, he could have gotten one last drop from it. Could have somehow scraped the edges to get it all out.

And loathed her presence even more.

Had the others sent her? The ones he had pushed away all those years ago.

She glanced down at the bundle in her arms, then back up at him, “You need to eat.”

Haymitch let out a short, humourless laugh, “Already got food.” He motioned to the crate behind him, where she had already spied only milk and bread, “Go away.”

She didn’t move.

He bristled, and a rage he had only felt towards himself for years began to surface, “Didn’t y’hear me?”

She was a Newcomer all over again.

Come to him.

For guidance.

Protection.

Company.

She would die like the rest.

He would kill her.

“I heard you.” She still didn’t leave.

Was she Maysilee coming to haunt him?

His hand tightened into fists, stumbling forward to grab a dirtied knife from the kitchen table. It scraped along the surface; another scratch. His paranoia was still thrumming in his skull, drowning out rational thought.

He didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. Didn’t want her here prying and looking at him like that. And right now, that was enough reason to throw the blade towards her, knowing he would miss. A warning.

A threat.

And yet she still didn’t falter.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that.” She raised a brow at him.

In that moment, he decides that he hates her. Truly hates her.

She strode up to the table, opposite him. He could smell whatever was wrapped in the old tattered rag. Could smell her. She smelt of grass and the forest air and fresh laundry. It made him swallow thickly.

She shoved the stale bread and empty glasses aside to place the bundle down, eyes never leaving his before she turned her back to him and walked away, straight out the door, shutting with a click behind her.

Angry, bitter and shamed, he snatched up the bundle and unwrapped it. Fear made him think the worst. Always did. It was poisoned, his mind thought. Poisoned by the Capital. It was time he thought.

But it wasn’t.

It was a freshly baked pie.

—

Days passed and once again the food delivery came. He unpacked it in silence, unsteady on his feet.

Milk and bread.

Always fucking milk and bread.

And that night, the knock came again.

She came again.

Haymitch ignored it, had made sure he locked the door this time. All the doors, and the windows too for good measure. It made the house stuffy, and the smell of rotten food and unwashed clothes melted against his skin.

But it came again the next night.

And the next.

And each time, he pretended not to hear it. Pretended not to smell the fresh food that seeped beneath the door. Her rapping against the wood or the tread of her foot on the gravel outside.

By the fifth day she didn’t bother knocking, just came at the same time, dropped off the food and left. And he left the food at the door, right where she had left it.

But she wasn’t just at his door anymore.

One afternoon, when he finally forced himself into town—stumbling through the dusty streets, ignoring the glances he got—he saw her.

She was standing outside the market, arms crossed, watching him as he approached Hattie. Like she had known he would come.

Hattie had looked more worn of late, and when Haymitch had first come back, she had attempted to console him, but just like the others he pushed her away. At first she had given him pleading looks, then looks of pity. Eventually it turned to anger, and then worse; indifference.

The indifference was more agonising than the anger. He was just another drunk.

His stomach twisted.

Haymitch ignored the woman who seemed to follow him like a shadow. Walked straight past her, grabbing the bottles of white liquor that he had bought, shoving them into whatever pockets he had, holding the rest in his arms. He didn’t have time to shove them in a crate, didn’t think to do it, only one thing on his mind; get away from her.

She didn’t take the hint.

“You look like shit.” She said, little to no emotion present. It was merely a statement of fact; an observation. Sterile.

Haymitch snorted, “Yeah? Well, you look like someone who should mind their own damn business.”

She didn’t so much as blink, “You’re killing yourself.”

“That’s the idea.”

The woman frowned, stepping in his path, blocking him from his escape. “You think Snow didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he let you live?” Her voice was sharper now, quieter, “He didn’t have to put a bullet in you, Haymitch. He knew you’d do it yourself.”

Something inside him clenched.

He tried to shove past her, glass bottles clinking. She didn’t budge, stepping into his path again.

“You don’t know a damn thing.” He growled.

“I know you look like shit.”

“So you’ve told me.” He huffed, stepping around her impatiently, this time she let him, but trailed behind him.

Always like a shadow.

“You ever think about drinking something that won’t pickle your insides? Surely you have water in that fancy Victors house?"

Water.

His hands cupping the clear water, so clear he could see the bottom, bringing it up to his lips. The taste so crisp. So clean. So fresh.

Then the rabbit.

Dead.

The bitter taste of the tablet, the chunks that stuck in his teeth, the taste of yesterdays food passing through his lips the wrong way.

He just wanted to forget. To get away from her. "I’ll get right onto that. Maybe after I throw myself down a mine shaft."

"Long way down.” She mused.

It was like she had every response ready to go before he had opened his mouth. A retort to come back at his own. A way to snap back at him without even snapping.

Haymitch tried to speed up, but she kept up effortlessly.

"I don’t have the energy for this." Haymitch huffed, and sped as fast as he could towards the Victors village, the clanking of bottles loud, the people in town watching the lone District 12 Victor speeding away from a young woman who trailed after him. He just wanted to get back to that damn village.

Population: One.

She continued on beside him, and for one heart stopping moment, she reminded him of Lou Lou.

Following.

Watching.

Trailing along.

“Go back to your family.” He snapped, voice carrying behind him.

Without a pause, without even so much as an inkling of emotion, “Dad died a year ago from Miners Lung, ma went to a mine shaft to be with him. I got nowhere else to be.”

Haymitch stopped walking suddenly, feet scuffing against the dirt floor. He didn’t want to hear about her losses, didn’t want to hear about her life or her grief, he had enough of his own.

She almost crashed into him.

He spun around to face her, though not as gracefully as he would have liked. He felt so sick that it made him think about the poisoned water again from the Arena. How sick he had felt. How he had laid half hidden in those bushes thinking he might die.

“I don’t care.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the weight and shape of each bottle pressed against his body. It excited him knowing they were there. But still she didn’t budge. She didn’t even look mildly offended by what he had said.

But the longer he stared, the more familiar she became. The slope of her nose, the shape and colour of her eyes.

“You’re Silton’s girl. Your ma…” Haymitch trailed off trying to think of her name.

Delae? Deline?

“Delphinia.” She nodded in confirmation.

Then it came to him, the fog parting for the first time in years.

“You and your Ma would come with laundry.”

She smirked, and it looked like triumph, “It was my favourite day of the month.”

The conversation seemed to sober him. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to think about his Ma, or Sid. Or how her Ma would come to him, younger her in tow to give their laundry. Always watching him. Always there.

He wanted to forget.

Haymitch turned around, “Nice reunion. Now get lost.”

All he wanted was a drink. Needed to taste it. To feel it on his tongue. But his hands were too full of bottles to take the cork out of one to drink. Too shaky to be able to balance them all to drag one up to his lips and rip the cork out with his teeth.

Haymitch needed a drink so badly that he felt that he might die.

He just needed to get home.

Needed to forget.

Needed a damn drink.

“You snuck me candy once.” She breathed from behind him, and he felt it all come back. Ice ran down his spine.

The gumdrops.

Blood red.

Feeding them into the lips he loved to press his own against.

Her smile as she laughed as he fed her another.

The fear as he yelled at her to sick them up.

Her eyes when she realised she couldn’t.

“I did the same to Lenore Dove.”

Her name felt like ash in his mouth.

Lenore Dove.

I love you like all-fire. Always will.

His fault.

He stalked away, stomach beginning to ache. But she didn’t relent. She wouldn’t let go. She was his shadow. And he wished the sun would disappear so that she would too.

“Did you eat the pies?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Go away.”

“It’s wasteful.”

“Finally you’re learning. Now scram.”

“The Mellark boy made ‘em. They got meat inside.”

“Still don’t care.”

Up ahead he could see the beginnings of it. The Victors Village. His sanctuary and his prison. His pace quickened.

“I’m just gonna keep bringin’ ‘em.”

Haymitch let out a frustrated growl, “Do whatever the hell y’want.” He called over his shoulder.

He moved through the centre, up the stairs to his home, his full hands wrangling with the door, the rattling of bottles louder than his struggling kick to fling it open. It crashed against the wall and he stepped inside, using his heel to kick it shut behind him, not bothering to look back to see that she had stopped at the stoop of his steps.

He needed a drink.

He needed-

He knew you’d do it yourself.

Damn her.

Damn her for being right.

—

The rain was coming down hard, hammering against the roof, turning the world outside into a blurry, grey mess. Haymitch sat slumped on his dirtied couch, the half-empty bottle resting between his legs, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness.

A knock at the door broke a bubbling thought. It was seeping into the back of his mind. Something Plutarch had said to him. Something he wished to forget.

He ignored it.

The knock came again.

Haymitch groaned, head rolling back against the dirtied couch.

"Go away.”

She was so persistent. So utterly stubborn in her way. She reminded him of Maysilee in that respect, and it made him sick.

Another knock, more forceful this time. He hoped that this was her growing tired of this, that she would soon leave him alone. Grow just as irritated as he was and give up. But instead of silence, he heard a faint scratching at the door. His head flopped forward as he looked out of the lounge room towards the hallway.

Then—

A sound.

A scrape.

His body tensed instantly, muscles locking up before his brain even had time to catch up.

Something was outside.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He strained his ears, listening. The wind howled, but underneath it—there. A creak on the porch.

Someone was at his door and they were trying to get in.

His heart pounded in his chest.

Not again. Not again.

His fingers fumbled for the closest thing to a weapon—a fire poker, heavy and cold in his grip. His breaths came sharp and fast as he stood, keeping to the shadows, every inch of him screaming that this was a trap.

It’s Snow. It’s another test. They let you live before, but not this time. They’re here to finish it.

The doorknob rattled.

His grip tightened on the poker.

Knock, knock.

His mind twisted violently, dragging him back, back, back. To the Arena. Panache. To the Capitol. To the nights when the door wasn’t a door—it was a beautiful landscape, and the knock wasn’t a knock—it was a warning before the pain.

His throat dried up. His stomach clenched.

Move, move, move.

He raised the fire poker, ready to swing.

And then—

“Haymitch?”

The voice cut through the fog like a blade.

Not them. Not the Arena. Not Panache. Not Snow.

Her.

Standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her hair, eyes wide she took in the sight of him—chest heaving, shoulders locked up with tension, a goddamn fire poker likely worth more than she has ever owned in her life gripped tight in his hands like he was ready to use it.

She looked at the weapon, then back at him, “What the hell?”

Haymitch couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

He dropped the poker. It hit the ground with a hollow clang, rolling slightly before stopping. His hands were shaking. His breath was ragged. His entire body felt like it was on fire.

And then the anger hit.

Hot. Furious. Drowning out the fear.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She blinked at him and it only made him angrier.

He snapped, stepping toward her, "What the hell do you think you're doing, breaking into my goddamn house? Sneaking up on me like that?"

She crossed her arms, her jaw tightening, "I knocked."

“How many times do I gotta spell it out for you. I don’t want you here.”

Her eyes flicked down to his shaking hands, then back to his eyes. A flash of recognition bloomed across her face, “Jesus, Haymitch,” She muttered, “You thought I was—?”

“Get out of my house.” He cut her off, voice rough. His blood was boiling. His skin too tight, “Leave."

She didn’t move.

"Haymitch—"

“Get the fuck out.”

Still, she stayed planted right where she was, searching his face. He hated that. Hated the look in her eyes. Pity. Understanding. Like she got it. Like she could see every broken, twisted thing inside him.

That made it worse.

"I’m not going to hurt you.” She said quietly.

“You don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

She let out a sharp laugh, “Right. Because this is ‘well enough.’”

His eyes snapped to hers, “Get out.”

She didn’t.

“You stupid or something? I said get out.”

She studied him. He hated that. Hated how she observed his every move, his every gesture. He swiped up a bottle and downed the drink, setting the glass down harder than necessary.

Silence stretched between them.

Then she sighed, shaking her head, “You’re angry at the wrong person.”

Haymitch barked out a humourless laugh, “That so?”

“Yup.”

Everything about her pissed him off. The way she wore her braids. The way she wore a dress that was heavily patched and hung against the tops of her knees. The way she smelt like grass and earth. Always like the earth. Hated the way she looked at him. And right now, he hated that she popped the P as she spoke.

The woman dropped another bundle, smaller than the days before onto he table, half wrapped in a faded handkerchief. The smell came quickly. Fresh pastry, and meat and something else.

"Eat.” She said simply, nodding to the sandwich as she looked him over again.

The alcohol burned as he drank again, "Fuck off."

She just sighed and moved toward the door, ”I’ll be back."

Haymitch scoffed, already looking for another bottle to begin, “‘Course you will."

Then she left.

And Haymitch drank.

#haymitch abernathy #sotr haymitch #haymitch fanfic #young haymitch #haymitch x oc #sunrise on the reaping #Haymitch Abernathy fanfic #Haymitch Abernathy x oc #young haymitch abernathy x oc

31 notes · View notes

asumofwords · 3 months ago

Text

Arghhhh! Thank you so much! I’m so glad you enjoyed reading this.

I really am a sucker for writing aemond as a feral asshole, I can’t stop!!

Watercress - Chapter 5

Warnings: She/her pronouns, graphic descriptions of blood and gore, grief, loss, depression, suicidal ideation, pining, fighting, yearning.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Words Count: 9k oops

Notes: Hello my angels, it's me again, your resident yearner. Thanks again for all your kind words, I'm so glad you're all enjoying this! <3

The energy in the cottage had changed. Shifted into something thicker, more palpable. And although Aemond hadn’t stopped his snarky comments, they had become fewer and farther between. He no longer snapped at her when she checked his dressings, or handed him food. It was almost as if he had grown accustomed to their new and strange routine, and Gods was she thankful for it.

It was exhausting to constantly be on guard around him, be ready for his sharp words and narrowed eye. Add to this that she still slept on the floor and tended to those coming to her, her resolve was growing so thin that she genuinely considered slipping him milk of the poppy to quiet and subdue him. But she had ruled that it would be more hassle than it’s worth.

The cottage was small, but no longer suffocating. Aemond had long since grown used to the tight space, the walls no longer feeling like they were closing in on him. It made him bitter to think of his ease and compliance to his situation, but begrudgingly had to admit that it was much better than being dead.

Sometimes.

The home was built of sturdy wood and stone, the scent of earth and dried herbs clinging to the air. It smelled of damp soil after the rain, of pine and firewood, of bitter medicine and dried fish and freshly cut cloth. Aemond had learnt its sounds—the soft creak of the door, the steady bubbling of a simmering pot, the occasional rustle of wind through the trees just outside the door, and the ever constant grind of her mortar and pestle. Over and over again.

He hated it.

Hated the way time slowed in this place, the way his limbs ached uselessly beneath the weight of his own body. Hated the quiet routine of his days, the endless monotony of waking, eating, and watching her move about her work.

And he hated her most of all.

Or at least that’s what he continued to tell himself.

The healer had made it clear from the beginning that she did not fear him. At first, he had tried to tear through her with words, with biting threats and promises of vengeance. Had even attempted to take her life with his sword, but he could barely stand on his own. Could barely bathe himself, could only just feed himself and could barely stand up unassisted.

He knew that the only way to divert his attention from his failures was to focus on hers.

He had lashed out at her again as she tried to give him a herbal tea to help with his pain, but in a lazier drawl than usual, as though his insults were becoming tiresome to even him.

And they were.

She had only blinked at him, unimpressed, holding the tea out to him to take.

He had knocked the cup from her grasp. The tea, boiling hot, had spilled across the floor, and to his surprised worry, her hand. She had hissed and drawn her hand back away from him, shaking it quickly to flick the hot liquid from her skin.

It was the first time he had felt true guilt for his actions.

Aemond had to physically stop himself from leaning forward and grabbing her to see the injury, to grasp her hand and inspect her in the way she had done to him many times before, but the look she had given him was scathing. Worse than any other time she had ever looked at him before, and it made him shrink back into the furs, averting his gaze elsewhere as if bored.

He wouldn’t admit it, but that look made him nervous.

It was familiar, and it was not.

It was familiar in the way his mother had looked at him. The way his half-sister had looked at him. His sister.

It was a look of anger, disappointment, and hate.

It was a look he had never seen from her. And it was a look he never wished to see again.

The wound on his side healed slowly, a cruel reminder of how far he had fallen. His leg however, would always be wrong. Aemond was used to pain, had lived with it for many years, but this was something else entirely.

This was helplessness.

But even despite the burn on her hand, despite the way he treated her, she still helped him each day to stand. Fed him that evening despite what he had done. Helped pull him from the bed, no matter how exhausted she seemed to be after nights of caring for people or days of toil, and held his weight up to help him gain his strength. It was agony, but each day, each time he stood, it got easier, just as she said it would

But it didn’t change the real issue.

The world had moved on without him.

And now, he was here. Trapped in this small, suffocating life, reduced to nothing more than a broken man in a stranger’s home. He hated it. Hated her. Told himself he did every day like a mantra.

And yet…

He could not stop watching her.

Not because he had softened, not because he had lost the fire in his blood—but because it was exhausting. His anger, his threats, his endless attempts to assert himself in this wretched place… they had no effect. She would not break. He didn’t think she even had a breaking point.

So instead, he watched.

He watched her as she gathered herbs from the small wooden shelves, grinding them down with practiced ease. He watched as she greeted the villagers who came to her door—no longer bothering to hide him away, having some sort of unspoken agreement with them all—old women with aching joints, hunters with deep gashes, mothers with sick children.

She took what coin they could offer. More often than not, she took nothing at all or the goods they could offer. Clothes, or food, or cloth, or bowl. They came to her and she would do what she did best, and they would give the best that they could back.

One morning, after watching a hunched old man shuffle away with a bundle of herbs he had not paid for, Aemond exhaled sharply.

“You’re too giving." He muttered from his place on the bed.

The healer only laughed, the sound light but knowing, “I’m a woman."

"You ask for nothing. Take nothing. Have nothing.” He always voiced this, as though her generosity grieved him, offended him, ”Do you truly have no sense? Do you know how much gold would you have if you took your dues?" Aemond looked around her home in disgust.

“I don’t need anything but this.” There was something softer in her voice this time, something that unsettled him.

She always unsettled him.

Said and did things that had no rhyme or reason to him. That made no sense to him. Had no logic. It was not weakness—no, he had seen her sharpened edges too many times to mistake it for that.

It was something else.

And Aemond Targaryen did not understand it.

The water was cold, and she reflected on how strange it was to be in the same place she had been when she first found Aemond again. The net was slowly dragged back into shore towards her, her dress rolled up as much as possible, sleeves pulled up her arms to stave away the cold chill.

What would have happened if she never went fishing that day? Would she have found his corpse instead? Would someone else have found him?

There was so many ‘what ifs’ that it made her head spin. In some ways she wished that she hadn’t found him. So far he had been much more hassle than what he was worth, but she could empathise with him. He had lost everything, including his ability to care for himself. Yet despite this, she didn’t want to think too hard about what would happen when he healed, where he would go. What he would do. The havoc he may reap. She only hoped that no innocents would be affected by him. That they would not face the anger she pushed him to daily.

The blame could quite easily then be shifted towards her.

She returned just before dusk, her boots and dress damp with water and a net slung over her shoulder. The scent of fresh fish clung to her clothes, mingling with the crisp evening air as she pushed open the cottage door.

Aemond barely spared her a glance at first. He had been sleeping—or pretending to—but the second the unmistakable sound of fish slapping against wood reached his ears, his eye flicked up sharply.

His stomach twisted in immediate, visceral irritation.

"Fish again.”

She ignored him, untying the net with practiced ease before dumping her catch onto the worn wooden table. Silver scales gleamed under the candlelight, the fish still slick with water. She reached for a knife, humming under her breath as she began to gut them, utterly unconcerned by Aemond’s growing displeasure.

He watched her, expression tight with irritation, "Do you ever get tired of eating the same thing over and over?”

She didn’t pause, quick as a whip, ”Do you ever get tired of complaining?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, "It reeks, no matter how well you cook it.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, “Reeks, you say?”

“Like the fish mongers and whores at docks." He wrinkled his nose, "It’s unbearable. The monotony of it. Picking through the bones, chewing it, swallowing.”

She snorted, “That’s usually how people eat food.”

He shot back, “Don’t be obtuse.”

"I’m sure you had fish in the Red Keep." She lifted an eyebrow at him before gutting the next fish with a swift, practiced movement.

Aemond didn’t answer, because he had.

Of course he had.

She continued, ”If you’d prefer to not eat, I’m amenable to that. Saves me the trouble. Unless of course you'd like to start hunting for yourself?”

Aemond exhaled sharply, looking away. He knew she had him cornered.

She smirked at his silence, "I’ll get you a bow and some arrows and you can kill us a nice, large deer. I don’t mind venison, though it’s more tedious to prepare than fish. Fish are small, easy to clean.” She cut the head off of one for show, “Have you ever tried to prepare a whole deer? Skin it, gut it, clean it.”

After a long pause, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, "I’ve been on hunts.”

Unspoken words lingered in the air.

I’ve killed men too.

“Sure. But have you prepped them? Cooked them? Stored what was left?”

Aemond blinked, then quickly, “Why don’t you just buy the meat? Surely you can afford it. Definitely could if you took payment.”

The healer hummed noncommittally, "Good meats hard to come by these days, too expensive for what little there is. So until then, you’ll eat what I put in front of you.”

Aemond scowled, watching as she continued cleaning the fish. “Surely your traps can collect more rabbits, a badger even. Or at least do something to make it taste like food instead of Flea Bottom slop.”

Her voice became higher, "Would you like me to roast it over the fire, m’lord? Is spiced wine from Dorne with your meal tonight good, m’lord? Oh, please, m’lord, I live to serve you and only you.”

Aemond sighed, glancing at the fish again with poorly concealed distaste, "You truly enjoy this, don’t you?”

She shrugged, a small smirk on her lips, “It is a pleasure to watch you suffer, forcing you to eat Flea Bottom slop and all other things you’ve accused me of.”

He sneered, “I’m surprised I haven’t been poisoned by it.”

“I’m still deliberating on that.” She smiled.

Aemond’s eye narrowed.

She shrugged, "Cook your own meals then.”

With a reluctant sigh, he muttered, almost relived for the grace she had permitted him, "Like it's hard. I’ll learn.”

She grinned, victorious, "Now that, I'd like to see.”

His eye flicked up to her, the soft glow of the fire catching the curve of her smirk, the teasing glint in her eye. It sent something hot curling in his gut, something he didn’t want to name.

He looked away, jaw tightening.

He had spoken without thinking.

He had let himself slip—had let her glimpse something he had no right to feel. The unspoken thought that he would still be here, long after he had healed. That he would choose to stay.

The realisation made his stomach twist, and suddenly, the warmth of their exchange soured into something bitter.

His fingers curled into a fist against his knee.

"I won't be here forever." He said sharply, the words coming out harsher than he intended, "Don't get used to this.”

She stilled for a fraction of a second, her knife poised over the fish, before she resumed her work, cold mask slipping into place.

"I never do."

Her voice was unreadable, but something in it made his irritation flare hotter.

He didn’t know what he wanted from her. A retort, a fight, some sharp-edged remark to push him further into the anger that felt safer than whatever had passed between them just moments ago.

But she gave him nothing.

Just the steady, rhythmic sound of her knife scraping away scales and intestines, as if his words meant nothing at all.

And Aemond hated that most of all.

The pounding of hooves shattered the evenings quiet.

The healer had been asleep on her makeshift cot in front of the fire when she heard it—hoofbeats and the shrill call of her name, fast and urgent, tearing through the trees like a storm. Her eyes blinked away the sleep rapidly as she sat up, looking over to Aemond who too began to wake. She had worried for a brief moment that he had been the one to call for her.

She could tell just from the sound that whoever was coming was desperate.

Outside the cottage the hooves scuffed at the forest floor and a horse whinnied. The voice called out her name again, over and over as it came closer, metal jangling and footsteps racing towards her home.

She was already rising when the rider bashed against her door rapidly, fist beating against it as her heart raced in her chest, the wood thunking and rattling at its joints. The man outside called her name in a panic again, and as she swiftly moved towards the door in her chemise she glanced over to Aemond.

to her utter surprise, Aemond looked ready to rise. Ready to act. Ready to protect her from whatever danger he perceived lurking at the door.

But she recognised the voice. Had known it for many years.

Erik.

One of the farmers' sons from the village.

The door swung open as she brushed her long unbraided hair away from her cheeks. His face was pale, sweat beading at his temple. She let her eyes drift lower, looking him over for sign of injury. Upon his clothes, large dark patches of blood.

"You have to come. Now." His voice was raw, breathless, eyes glancing behind her to look at the man who now stood beside her bed, furs clutched against his waist.

Aemond was poised and ready. For what, he did not know.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, "What happened?”

"Ana," He gasped, "She was attacked.”

Her heart clenched.

Ana.

She didn’t hesitate.

"Help me.” She ordered, rushing to snatch her supplies as she threw them into a soft leather pouch hidden by the door.

Erik stepped inside, wary of Aemond who watched him with a narrowed eye, and began to help her collect her things. She didn’t even spare Aemond a second glance as she raced out the door, pulling on a cloak atop her chemise, hurling herself atop the horse as she waited for Erik to mount behind her. The large chestnut shuffled impatiently as she swayed atop it, securing the leather pouch against her chest for the ride, reins already in hand.

Erik slammed the door shut, and Aemond’s view of the healer and the man was ended. Hooves pounded outside, and Aemond listened to the sound of it until it slowly faded from existence. He was still standing when the cottage became silent again, the longest he had stood by himself so far, furs tightly clutched against him, heart racing in his chest.

It was eerily quiet without her.

He didn’t even have a chance to see if she was going to be safe.

The ride into town was brutal. The saddle was hard beneath her hips, Erik pressed tightly against her back, trying to fill her in on what had happened as they went. The wind bit at her face as the horse tore down the narrow forest path, its hooves drumming against the frozen ground, puffs of breath dissipating from before her.

The trees blurred, branches whipping past, but all she could think about was Ana—bleeding, unconscious, slipping away with every passing second. This was a woman she had known for years. Had helped through her first and second births.

A friend.

Her mind was already racing ahead, cataloging what she had in her satchel, what she might need when she arrived. Hot water. More cloth. Dried fish skin.

By the time they reached the village, a small crowd had gathered, their faces drawn and anxious. Three men stood by the cottage, all sporting small wounds that were being tended to by the people around them. Hands wiping away blood and inspecting the damage.

They parted quickly as she slid down from the horse, barely catching her breath before pushing through the door of the house.

The moment she saw Ana, her stomach clenched.

She raced to her side.The young woman lay on the bed, her dress soaked through with blood. Her skin had an ashen tint to it that the healer had never seen on her, not even during her two births, lips slightly parted as she took in slow, ragged breaths.

“Ana," The healer whispered, pulling off the satchel as she looked over her, “I’m here.”

Ana’s mother, an older woman with grey hair stood nearby, wringing her hands, "She’s barely awake since we found her. Please. Please. Fix her.”

The healer didn’t waste time responding.

She moved quickly, pulling her satchel open and looking down at Ana’s body. Along her stomach and base of her hip blood bloomed beneath the sun bleached lilac dress. She could feel Erik’s presence behind her and looked sideways at him, “Help me undress her.”

Erik faltered, and behind him the shuffling of curious towns people watched on by the door.

“Get them away.”

Pulling a blade from the satchel as she slipped it down the centre of Ana’s dress ripping it apart, revealing the two deep wounds that continued to bleed profusely. From behind her came the bark of Ana’s brother, and the slam of the door, leaving her inside with Erik, her mother, and Ana’s older brother, who sported an injury of his own to his upper arm.

“I need water.” Her hands moved to grab some strips of clean linen from her satchel to one of the wounds, and then the other, gradually stuffing them with her fingertips inside to staunch the bleeding.

Ana moaned weakly, which to the healer was a good sign.

She was still alive.

But then she looked at the damage, over Ana’s bare torso, shredded dress pushed to the sides and felt fear rise inside of her. The gash was deep, stretching across Ana’s stomach.

Too deep.

“Erik, the water.” She snapped, and finally he sprung into action behind her, gathering the pail from beside the fireplace.

It wasn’t boiled, but she didn’t have time.

She dipped her hands inside and scrubbed viciously at her fingers, head turning towards Ana’s brother, “D'you have ale?”

The bloodied man nodded, and rummaged by the bench, coming over to uncork a flagon. She took it from him and poured it over her hands, and then atop the wounds.

Ana screamed, eyes shooting open as she looked up at the healer.

“Shh, it will be over soon.” The healer tried to console her, wiping the back of her hand across the top of Ana’s scalp, trying to soothe the woman.

“You’re here.” Ana breathed, voice quiet and broken, the edges of her lips tinged red with her own blood.

“I am.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I? Like your father.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a small hum of a laugh passing through her nose as she smiled dreamily.

The healer blanched, blinking at Ana. Her skin was so grey that she already looked dead, dark circles beneath her eyes and the tell tale sign of delirium sinking in that came with too much blood loss. When the body was at the end of its tether and began to slip.

She grasped strips of clean cloth and leant over her body, pressing them down into the wounds to staunch the bleeding.

Ana cried out in pain.

“No. You’re going to live.” She tried to assure her friend, but it felt hollow.

Felt emptier still as she began to press the cloth into the open wounds tightly, stuffing it inside, trying to stem the bleeding. Ana wailed and cringed as the healers fingers pushed more and more cloth into the wound trying to stem the bleeding. It slowed, but not enough, the cloths immediately soaking through.

“Stop.” The woman wheezed, hands trying to push away the healers.

“Be brave f'me. Let me do what I do best.”

Hands in her satchel again she rummaged until she found the needle and thread, her hands shaking as she tried to thread it to begin. Erik stood beside her watching as Ana’s mother and brother stood at the end of the bed, the mothers eyes full of tears as the brother held her.

Each time she tried to thread the thread through the needle, it wouldn’t go, slipping just to the side avoiding it.

“Give it t'me.” Erik held his hand out.

Frustration boiled over her, “I can do it.” The healer snapped, she tried thrice more until finally she was able to thread it, hands covered in blood, leaning forward towards Ana, “Hold her.”

The farmers son jerked forth and pressed two gentle hands against Ana’s shoulders, one covered in blood briefly coming up to brush the hair away from her face.

“Where are the children?” Ana wheezed, blinking languidly up at her partner.

Erik cleared his throat, as his hands moved to her shoulders again, stroking gently back and forth with his calloused fingers, watching in his periphery as the healer moved towards the larger of the wounds, “With Myra. They’ll come see you when you’re cleaned up.”

Her tongue brushed against her bottom lip again, smearing fresh blood against it, “Good.” She said weakly, “Don’t let 'em see. They shouldn’t see.”

The healer swallowed the panic that continued to rise steadily in her throat, willing a cool calm to wash over her. She looked up at Erik and whispered a ‘ready?’ at him, watching his worried nod, and with swift and almost uncaring hands, she pulled the cloth from within the largest wound, fresh blood spilling over her hands making it hard for her to see what she was doing.

Ana cried out beneath her writhing, her head thrown back as the healer tried to squeeze the wound together, held down only by Erik who cooed at her to stay still, and that it would be over soon.

Her hands were so wet with the blood that continued to ooze that she could scarcely hold the needle steady in her grip, it slipped and shifted unsteadily in her hand as she made the first stitch. And then the second, closing the wound in her friend as quickly as she could, looking at the way Ana’s diaphragm weakened as she went.

But the wound was too big.

She knew it was too big.

She worked in silence, listening as Erik continued to talk to Ana, tried to reassure her and comfort her the best that he could, the mothers soft sobs being equally consoled by her son.

The healer pushed it all away, her hands becoming steadier even as her chest tightened.

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It was so deep, so much deeper than a flesh wound. It had hurt her organs. Important organs. And as she worked she tried to press the cloth down to stop the bleeding of the other wound with her arm, making it harder to work as she went, and knowing that someone else would only get in the way. But no matter how much she pressed down atop it, no matter how tightly she stitched her body, it just kept seeping through.

“Ana, stay awake.” Erik’s voice wavered, “Look at me. Keep your eyes open.”

The healer didn’t have the strength to look up, to watch what was happening. Didn’t think that she would be able to hold her resolve if she could. But she could tell it was happening.

It was happening right before their eyes and there was nothing she could do.

Nothing they could do.

Nothing.

Ana’s chest barely rose anymore, stunted, weak and inconsistent breaths beneath her as the healer hurriedly worked to save her friend. But it was never ending, happening so quickly yet so agonisingly slow that it felt that it would never be done. Her hands were soaked with blood and she could scarcely see or discern a thing anymore, her hands constantly trying to wipe away the blood as it came to see what she was doing. To see what needed to be done.

“We’re almost there.” She urged regardless, her voice quiet, "Just a little longer, Ana.”

“Good.” Was all that Ana could say.

She knew it was coming.

She could feel it.

She had seen it before.

Felt it before.

Had seen it with her father.

Felt it with her father.

The way that Ana’s body cooled beneath her hands. The way her breath came slower. Shallower. Her light eyes kept fluttering shut, the hand that had been weakly holding Erik’s loosened, and the telltale rattle of her lungs signalled the end.

Erik’s reassuring words became more and more panicked. More and more desperate as he watched his wife slowly slip away. So she tried to worked faster, her heart hammering, her movements almost frantic now, her work was not as precise. She was working to get it closed. To stop the bleeding.

She had saved people from worse.

She had seen men survive wounds that should have killed them.

She could save her still.

She had to.

The healer swallowed, her throat tight.

The first wound was finally sewn shut, and she moved to the second, blood soaked rags lost to the floor beneath her and the sheets that Ana lay upon.

Erik whispered Ana’s name in question from beside her.

The healer didn’t look up, didn’t register what was happening as she continued.

The gasping sob of Ana’s mother was ignored, the sorrowful whispers of Ana’s name that came from Erik growing louder beside her, and yet she didn’t stop. Her hands kept moving, the blood no longer pulsing beneath her.

She kept on.

And on.

Her hands beginning to shake again as the world crashed atop her, the needle slipping more than once into her own skin, though she couldn’t feel it. She ignored the hollowed cry of the older woman as she collapsed beside the bed, beside where the healer continued, her hands grasping her daughter tightly as she wept.

She didn’t stop.

Couldn't.

Wouldn’t.

She would save her.

She would live.

She would-

The healers name was whispered beside her, two large hands reaching to grasp her own hands. She shook them off, needle still poised as she moved to the next stitch.

Her name was spoken again, this time, her shoulders were grasped and pulled back, and she struggled against it, stitch being pulled free.

“Stop. I need to-“

“Enough.” The voice was deep, crackled with exhaustion, “She’s gone.”

The sounds that followed were unbearable.

The healer sat back slowly, her bloodstained hands falling to her lap. As she finally let herself gaze upon her friend. She felt the weight of it press down on her—failure, grief, exhaustion. Ana’s mother let out another choked sob, as Erik sunk to his knees beside Ana, bloodied hands brushing against her hair as he looked down at her.

Her eyes were open.

She did not blink.

Did not breathe.

She was gone.

The healer stared, hands shaking slightly as she wiped them against her skirts. The blood was thick, clinging to her skin. It made her feel sick. Made her want to claw at her skin. To tear it away violently with a blade. She had seen death before. She had watched men gasp their last breath, had pressed her hands to open wounds she could not close, had listened to the quiet, rattling end of those too sick to save.

But Ana’s death—this felt different.

She had known her. Been with her before. Shared smiles and wine with her. Meals.

But it hadn’t been enough.

It was too late.

She had been too late.

And then the wailing started.

It was the kind of sound that cracked through bone, that settled into the skin like frostbite, that would haunt the healer for days to come.

The mother had reached for Ana’s body again, pulling her closer as if she could shake her back to life. Eriks hands kept brushing against Ana's face, eyes wide with shock, face streaked with silent tears.

And the healer could do nothing.

Say nothing.

She knelt there, blood soaking her hands, her skirts, her arms, her chest—her own breath coming in shallow gasps. The smell was suffocating, the irony stench that lingered upon skin like fish. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to say something. Anything.

But there were no words.

Nothing could fix this.

She felt the brothers gaze on her then. When she finally lifted her eyes away from Ana, his expression was hollow, empty in a way she had seen before.

“Go." He said, voice flat, distant.

She hated it.

She had failed.

She didn’t move.

“Go.” He gruffed, “Take the horse, he knows his way home.”

So she did.

She stood, and she moved, and she took her satchel with her. She took the blood covering her with her.

The grief with her.

The loss with her.

The sorrow.

The failure.

The ride home was slow, the exit from the home unbearable as she emerged to find the townsfolk waiting, watching as she exited covered in blood, the wails and sobs of grief behind her. She said nothing as they watched her. Said nothing as she mounted their horse and guided it away from the home.

The horse’s hooves crunched against the forest floor, she did not trot, did not canter, she simply trailed towards her home, deeper and further away from everyone. Back into solitude. The solitude that she knew and loved, and lived and breathed. The cold bit at her blood-soaked clothes, but she barely felt it. Didn’t want to let herself feel.

Didn’t want to come to terms with what had just happened.

With Ana.

Ana.

Her fingers ached from gripping the reins too tightly, the blood beginning to dry against her skin. Grief settled deep in her gut, an unrelenting weight. She had lost people before. She had told herself she would lose them again. Had known that she would.

But this time—this time it had been someone she knew. Someone she cared for.

A friend.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if she could bear it.

It had been hours since she had left, and Aemond had sat rod straight at the side of the bed, watching the door, listening for the sound of hooves, the sound of anything that wasn’t the howling wind outside. He waited, and waited, and waited for her, a million thoughts racing through his head. He wondered what had happened. He wondered if she was in danger.

He wondered if she would come back.

And for the first time in a long time, Aemond Targaryen let himself care.

The wind whipped through the trees as she approached the cottage, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her breath visible in the cold night air. Snow would come soon. It flowered before her lips, briefly warming her face before the cold would nip at her again. Ana’s blood had dried in thick, stiff patches across her clothes and body, crusting beneath her fingernails, streaking up her arms where she had pushed so hard, pressed so desperately, tried so hopelessly to hold life inside a body that could no longer contain it.

She stumbled as she dismounted the horse, legs numb beneath her feet. She let the reins go, and turned away from the horse, leaving it where it was. Her fingers barely worked as she fumbled with the door, the weight of it unfamiliar, as though she had forgotten how to move through her own home. When she stepped inside, the warmth of the fire did nothing to touch the ice lodged beneath her skin.

She did not look at Aemond.

Did not acknowledge his presence where he sat, his head lifting to attention the moment she entered.

She felt his eye on her, sharp and searching as she moved towards the washbasin in the corner of the room. Her hands shook as she poured the water, dark red swirling and staining the surface. She unclasped her cloak and placed it upon a hook.

There was so much of it.

So much blood.

She began to scrub.

And Aemond watched silently.

She scrubbed harder.

And harder.

But the blood would not leave.

Would not wash away from her skin.

The rag in her grip was soaked, and still, she scrubbed, the motion mechanical, hollow. She could not feel the temperature of the water, could not register the rawness of her skin beneath it.

Aemond uttered her name.

She had lost people before.

He called her name again.

She had held the dying before.

So why—why did it feel like this?

The bed creaked behind her. A soft, uneven step followed.

Why was the blood not coming off?

Why was it so thick?

The water in the basin was so dark with it, it looked like it had been filled with it. The thick acrid smelling life force that she had seen so often. That she had touched so often. But it was too much.

Why was there so much of it?

Surely there hasn’t been this much.

Behind her, her name again, and the uneven steps of an injured man, followed by a shifting of a chair by the table, like weight had been leant against it.

But why wasn’t it coming off?

She would need to go down to the lake, to collect some more water.

Perhaps she could dive beneath the murky depths and bathe in its iciness. Let the numb of the cold take over from the numbness of grief that she felt now.

More shuffling behind her, more utterance of her name, more concerned questions. But she didn’t register it. Didn’t answer it.

Didn’t turn towards him despite knowing that he was up.

She did not want to see him.

Did not want to see pity.

Or anger. Or disgust. Or a sneer.

Did not want to see the look of disappointment at her failure.

How had she been able to save him, but not Ana?

How was he still living?

His limp was more pronounced now, but she could hear him moving closer. She did not stop washing her hands. Over and over she scrubbed, becoming more erratic with the cloth that merely smeared the red across her skin.

“Stop.” His voice was low, rough, edged with something unnameable.

She didn’t.

She kept scrubbing.

His hand came to her wrist—not forceful, not cruel, just enough to still her. The healer’s breath hitched at the contact. It was the first time in so long that someone had touched her, not out of desperation, not out of grief or sickness, but simply to stop her from falling apart.

Her fists tightened beneath his grip, hand still clutching the cloth as she stared down at the water.

His eye flickered over her, lingering on the blood, the way it had seeped through the fabric of her sleeves, dark and clotted and the front of her chemise. How it streaked up her arms and was smeared on her face.

Could feel how the muscles in her hands tightened, coiled, ready to move again, to continue the incessant scrubbing which didn’t work. His own responded by tightening just slightly around her wrist, as if he could tether her back to herself. To signal that he could feel her. Predict her.

Knew her.

“What happened?” His voice was quieter now, careful.

Had never been so careful.

She did not speak, eyes still trained to the water. With a jerky move, she attempted to pull her hand away from his, but his grip was unrelenting.

“Are you hurt?”

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak past the lump in her throat, “She’s dead.”

Aemond’s gaze did not waver, nor did his grip. He did not offer her empty condolences. Did not tell her she had done all she could.

Instead, he asked, “Who was she?”

Her throat tightened, “A friend.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched.

She had never looked so small before.

She had always been a force—unyielding in her stubbornness, sharp-tongued, quick-witted, infuriatingly kind despite his cruelty. But now… now she looked lost.

And Aemond hated it.

He shifted his grip, his thumb pressing just slightly against the inside of her wrist. Not a comfort. Not really. But an anchor. A piece of pressure she could focus on.

The healer closed her eyes, forcing her breath to steady. Her exhaustion clawed at her, dragging her downward, threatening to pull her beneath the weight of everything she could not fix.

“Sit.” Aemond said, quieter now, but insistent.

It was ironic really.

The pain in his side and leg had begun to creep into his senses, and he should really sit with her, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

She shook her head, finally looking at him, “I—”

“You’ll collapse if you don’t.”

A pause.

Such a long pause.

It seemed to stretch on forever.

Then, with a broken kind of reluctance, she let him guide her to the chair by the fire. It was a slow guidance, and he couldn’t help but notice as her eyes roamed over him, inspecting him for injury, watching as he struggled. But she did not argue. Did not resist. Did not do anything but sit herself down as Aemond still held her, limping by her side. Pushing through the agony. The furs that he had wrapped around his body tucked in tightly.

Aemond watched as she sank down, her body curling inward as if she could fold herself away from the grief.

He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he could do. But he felt an urge to do something. To repay her in some way. He wasn’t like the others that came to her home. He wouldn’t take, and take, and take from her without giving back. He would repay her.

He would.

He just didn’t know how.

Once he was certain she wouldn’t move, he limped back to the wash basin. It took him some time, hand seeking out furniture for support—the chairs, the bed, the table, the edges of the cabin as he shuffled forward, pausing to catch his breath. It took him more time than he would care to admit to empty the basin out the window and refill it with clean water from a bucket. He didn’t even want to think about how he looked, pale and agonised as he moved towards her, his balance impeded by his now lack of hands.

By the time he made it back to her, tears had begun to fall from her eyes as she stared into the flames. She didn’t look up at him as he came to her side, not even when he slowly dragged the other chair beside her.

The fire crackled softly, filling the heavy silence between them. She sat slumped, her body rigid with exhaustion, her hands curled in her lap as if she no longer knew what to do with them. Her skin was cold beneath the dried blood, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but still—still, she tried to hold herself together.

Aemond could see it, the way she clenched her jaw, the way her fingers twitched as though she might force herself to stand and keep moving, as if sheer willpower alone could push away the weight of her grief.

“Go back to bed.” She said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “You need to rest.”

Aemond scoffed, shifting his weight onto his uninjured leg. His body ached with the effort, but he refused to let himself falter, refused to let her push him away the way he had done to her.

“I think you forget,” He said dryly, “That I am not so weak anymore.”

“You’ll only injure yourself—”

“I am perfectly capable of standing in this moment.” He cut in, stepping closer, “Besides, a healer told me that I should stand to gain my strength.”

Her eyes lifted to his, sharp despite her exhaustion.

Aemond’s lips curled into something between amusement and frustration, “You are covered in blood.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

She looked away, and back into the fire, “It isn’t mine.”

“As if that makes a difference.”

“It makes all the difference.”

Aemond exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning toward the washbasin he had placed on the chair. He picked up a clean cloth, dipping it into the cool water before grasping her hand from her lap. She protested at first, attempted to grasp the cloth from his hands, pulling away from him.

“I can do it.” She murmured, “Go to bed.”

His eye narrowed.

“I’m not a child.”

She was watching him now, tired but wary.

“Let me.” He said, as cooly as she had once spoken to him a she tended to his side.

“I can wash myself.”

His jaw tightened. Was this how she felt when she tended to him?

“Quiet.”

Aemond sighed, and then grunted, the pulse of his blood through his leg making his teeth clench, and what little patience he had dwindled. He lowered himself onto the seat beside her, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face, washbasin in his lap. He lifted the cloth, reaching for her hand again.

This time, she did not stop him.

His fingers brushed against her wrist, gentle despite their roughness. He pressed the damp cloth against her skin, wiping away the dried streaks of blood, revealing the flesh beneath, watching as the liquid darkened with the remnants of her failed attempt to scrub herself clean.

The silence between them shifted—not tense, not uncomfortable, just… something different.

Something unfamiliar.

It had been building for days. Weeks.

She watched him carefully as he worked, his movements steady, methodical. Aemond had always been methodical. Always been calculative and precise. He did not speak, did not offer any words to fill the quiet. He simply cleaned her hands, her arms, her face, wiping away the remnants of a battle she could not win with detached coolness.

Methodical.

By the time he was finished, the cloth was stained deep red. Aemond set it aside, his gaze flicking over her, taking in the way her shoulders had finally begun to droop, the exhaustion settling heavier now that she had allowed herself to stop. Let someone else take care of her the way that she tirelessly took care of others.

It was the first time Aemond had witnessed her stop. The first time Aemond had witness her be still.

He leaned back slightly, his eye grazing over her. She was still covered in blood, her clothes having dried with it. Her unbraided hair needed to be brushed, knotted and tangled from the wind, but he doubted she would allow him to do that, let alone herself. She looked so empty, so hollow that he worried she may collapse then and there.

Aemond’s chest tightened.

He had never seen her like this.

She was always sharp, always biting, always moving with purpose—whether it was to tend to him, to fetch herbs, to argue with him. But now… now she was something else entirely. Something fractured.

He hated it.

Hated that he did not know what to do to fix it.

Aemond grit his teeth.

Why did he care?

She was nothing to him.

Nothing.

And yet, when he dropped the cloth he had been holding, when her breath hitched as though she might shatter, he found himself moving without thought, pushing himself up again despite the pain in his ribs and leg, moving the wash basin to the seat.

“You need to rest.” He said, his voice lower than he intended, rough with something he did not understand.

“You did your best. Now you must rest.”

She looked up into his gaze.

And Aemond wished she hadn’t.

Because her eyes—gods, her eyes—were filled with something he could not bear to see.

Grief.

Failure.

A hollowness that made his stomach twist, made his pulse quicken with something close to panic.

He had not thought her capable of breaking.

And yet, here she was—cracked open before him, bleeding out in a way that had nothing to do with wounds or war.

Aemond swallowed hard, his fingers reaching and flexing around her wrist again. He did not know what to say, did not know how to drag her back from whatever abyss she was teetering on the edge of.

And that infuriated him.

He should not care.

And yet, the thought of her fading into that emptiness, of her never coming back to the infuriating, sharp-witted woman who had forced him to live when all he had wanted was to die—he could not stand it.

His jaw clenched. His grip did not loosen.

She was not allowed to fall apart.

Not like this.

Not in front of him.

“Sleep.” He tried to pull her hand towards him, to get her to stand, but even with this new found strength his wound would not allow it.

She blinked at him, as if he had just spoken a language she did not understand.

“I will.” She muttered, glancing toward the mound of blankets and fur on the floor beside the fireplace, though they both knew it was a poor excuse for a place to rest.

Aemond’s expression darkened, “You are not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“No.”

There was something final in the way he said it, something that left little room for argument.

Her mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, she simply stared at him, tired and frayed, but still stubborn.

Aemond clenched his jaw, leaning forward slightly, “You saved my life,” He said, voice quiet but firm, “Let me return the favour, if only for one night.”

Something in her gaze wavered.

For a long moment, she did not move.

“I’m not going to die.”

He ignored her, voice gruff, “Get up.”

She blinked again up at him, emotion flickering across her eyes. But he could tell she was tired.

Gods she was so so tired. She just wanted to sleep. To forget what had happened. To not be present in that moment.

Aemond spoke her name, and in a strange way it grounded her. It was rough, and commanding, and demanding in its tone. It was every inch the man she had known these past weeks. Stubborn, sharp, quick-witted. But this time it wasn’t to poke and prod at her.

This time was different, and she found she didn’t have the energy to argue.

Slowly—reluctantly—she stood.

She moved toward the bed as though unsure of her own steps, pausing just before it, her back to him.

Aemond watched as she numbly pulled the bloodied chemise over her head and onto the floor, leaving herself bare before him.

Aemond blanched.

Not once in his time here had he seen her in the way she had seen him. His eye roamed over her body, even though he knew that it shouldn’t. Aemond knew that he shouldn’t gaze upon her now at her most vulnerable. At her most broken. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his eye away from the soft slope of her hips of the curve of her breasts from the side. Couldn’t tear his gaze away from the roundness of her ass, or the soft skin of her back and legs.

She didn’t seem to notice his gaze, or didn’t care as she pulled back the furs of the bed and crawled inside, sliding to the opposite side, her back facing him as she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders.

If Aemond was anything like his brother he would have sought this moment to take advantage of her. To hurt her. It was a naked woman, in a bed he would be sharing. But instead of any urge to roll her onto her back or stomach, he felt a nervousness he hadn’t felt before. A nervousness to be around her that he had never felt.

His heart raced in his chest as he looked at her, gazed at her with a new intrigue,

She was beautiful.

She was perfect.

She was—her.

So very her.

The bed was small. Too small.

He limped and shifted and struggled to lay back down but managed it all the same, the bed dipping beneath him. It took him some time to get his broken leg beneath the furs comfortably as he lay on his back. She was close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her body, but far enough that she might as well have been a world away.

Aemond stared at the ceiling, his eye adjusting to the dim flicker of firelight. He had not thought this through. Had not considered what it would mean to share a bed with her. Not just the physical proximity, but the weight of it—of allowing her into his space, of stepping into hers.

Of her within his.

It was different from when she had tended to him, different from when she had pressed cool hands against fevered skin, from when she had helped him stand, from when she had argued with him over fish.

This was something else entirely.

She was fragile now. And he hated it.

He hated so many things, but most of all, he hated this.

He hated the way it made something inside him tighten uncomfortably, the way it made his chest ache. He was not meant to feel this way. Not for her. Not for anyone.

And yet, she had looked so small when she finally climbed into the bed. So lost.

He exhaled slowly, willing the unfamiliar sensation away.

She did not speak.

And neither did he.

For a long time, there was only silence, punctuated by the occasional flicker of the fire and the slow, unsteady rhythm of her breath.

She smelled like the thick scent of iron and something uniquely her. He wondered if the scent of blood was just in his mind or if it still lingered on her skin, or perhaps it was on his now. He had tried to scrub it away with a cloth, had watched as the water in the basin turned red. But some things did not wash off so easily.

He, more than anyone, knew that.

She shifted slightly, the movement small, hesitant. He felt the way her muscles tensed, as if she were fighting the instinct to move closer. Trying to escape the ever haunting feeling that crashed over her.

Aemond knew what it was to be haunted.

He knew what it was to lie awake with ghosts pressed into his skin, to feel the weight of failure like chains around his throat. He had felt it after losing his eye. After the war. After his fall. His time spent in this very bed.

But he had not expected to recognise it in her.

He had not expected to care.

And yet, as he lay there, listening to the sound of her breathing, feeling the slight tremor in her limbs, something dark and unbidden curled inside him.

He turned his head slightly, his eye tracing the outline of her in the dim light. Over the slope of her shoulder, her tangled hair that lay messily upon the pillow. The curves of her body beneath the furs.

“Sleep.” He murmured, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

She did not answer right away. But when she did, her voice was raw, as if she had spent all of it on grief.

“I can’t.”

Aemond hesitated. He was not good at comfort. He was good at pain, at rage, at control. He was good at killing, and fighting, and burning. At threatening those around him when needed. At the training yard with his sword. At politics, and history and philosophy. He was good at war. He was good at taking. But this was something else.

This he did not know how to do.

Still, before he could stop himself, his hand moved—slow, deliberate—until his fingers brushed against her shoulder. Just barely. Just enough to remind her that she was not alone. She tensed beneath his touch at first, stiffening as she held her breath, but as the warmth of his hand seeped into her skin, she relaxed.

Did not pull away.

And neither did he.

He did not sleep that night.

Not because of pain.

Not because of nightmares.

But because of her.

He would not say it aloud, but he knew.

Tonight, she needed this.

And for some reason he could not quite name—so did he.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @misspinkonmars @aelora-mills-targaryens @nina2697 @dahlias-and-marigolds @callsigncrushx @fivefeetsnark @sarcasticwitch11 @aemondtargaryenwifey @lynnbell @adurnat01-blog @livmondcole @sillylittlepenguin181818 @misfitbimbosblog @blackswxnn @idontwanttoloveanymore @missmischief11 @m-riaa @shygardengalaxy-blog @ladylokianna @dielgonacoffee @mariaenchanted

160 notes · View notes