CARPE NOCTEM, jon snow

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀thirty eight

⠀⠀⠀Orrell. A curious one. He had loathed her, tried to kill her. He loathed her so much he was willing to choke the life out of her with his bare hands. His bare, stinking, filthy hands. Just for a moment, he had wrapped those fingers about her throat. He was so intent on her death, his nails dug in so far that crescent-moon mauve marks lay carved there now. And then she had knocked him, tackled him, and shoved her knife into his stomach. A screech of an eagle, claws raking down her face, and it was over.

⠀⠀⠀Last of all came herself. Ceria Sargen. The words were bitter, like chewing copper. When had Ceria truly died? Had it been the day Roahn died? Surely not. The day she fled her home? Still she was alive. When she killed Rogon, when she killed Qhorin Halfhand, when she fell in love with the wildling girl kissed by fire? No, and no, and never had her soul burned brighter than then.

⠀⠀⠀The day Ceria Sargen died was the day she dropped the cerialis in the lake.

⠀⠀⠀She remembered watching it disappear. Under a thick layer of ice, the water was black and churning and spitting, cold drops lilting up to sear her skin. She held the flower between thumb and forefinger, eyes roving over every curve of petal, every splotch of violet that discoloured the mallow-pink. When she dropped it, the water whisked it away in a moment. A glimmer of purple, and gone. She wondered where it must be now. Drowned and rotted, at the bottom of the lake, buried beneath sand and pebbles. She felt weighed down with the contents of that lake. Black water roared and stampeded inside her head, her stomach weighed down with rocks, her lungs full of silt. Unable to breath. Choking her, ice choking her, and throwing it up, feeling it rise in a cold, glittering arc like an explosion of frozen glass...

⠀⠀⠀Carsen twitched awake.

⠀⠀⠀For half a second, there was only darkness, black as pitch. And then the soft blurs of ivory melted into view. Moonlight, falling like liquid silver on her hands. The ceiling above her was blackwood, not pelt. A few seconds later, sound returned. The clangs of steel-on-steel, grunts, thuds, shouts. Footsteps. Breathing. Not her own, surely.

⠀⠀⠀Carsen blinked, and her vision cleared. She was in Castle Black. Never had she been in this room, lined with iron pallets at either wall which she assumed was some form of sick wing. A thick quilt blanketed her, and her body was lacquered in cold sweat. She threw off the covers, and winced as her waist protested sharply. Easing herself back, she yanked down her outskin. A red pucker of a wound haloed by an ugly mesh of purple and yellow and blue, bruises like crushed flowers discolouring her pale skin. She dropped her outskin abruptly and edged herself into a sitting position.

⠀⠀⠀Gathering herself, she swung her legs out of bed. Bare feet touched the cold stone flags that made up the floor, and she shivered. She rose slowly; stars crowded her eyes, and she stumbled, grabbing for empty air to steady herself. She lurched, then found her feet. Her throat was dry as ash, her stomach heavy with hunger. Her eyes found the window, clouded with dust and grime. The night was dark and clear, and the moon hung, a silver coin, in the sky.

⠀⠀⠀She made for the door at the end of the room, each step slow and deliberate to keep from falling. Her legs felt like water, and shuddered with exhaustion from each movement. She reached out with a numb hand to grasp the door handle - and it flew open, her fingertips glancing off empty air. The shock made her instinctively jump back in fright, stumble, lurch violently, and collapse. She landed on her side, and her wound cursed.

⠀⠀⠀"Carsen?"

⠀⠀⠀She felt the breath halt in her throat as tears sprung to her eyes. All her pain was forgotten, gone in an instant, because Samwell Tarly hovered above her, pale eyes alight with concern.