the getaway | closed to myrcella, jaime, edmure, brienne
“Jaime…” He groans a little at the sound of his name but allows himself a private smile as she corrects herself; a zombie apocalypse was apparently not the time for informalities. Her voice makes it a little easier to concentrate, to resist the urge to shut his eyes and black out; he focuses on it and has to open his mouth a couple of times before sound comes out. The stench of blood makes it almost painful to form words and he can see Edmure giving him sideways glances as he drives.
“Still - here.” Incoherent and half a whisper but at least his brain is working that much. He lifts his head a little and meets Brienne’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. It strikes him again how easy it is to communicate with her, no words necessary. Thank you. I’ll make it. I’ll try. “Not - going - to get rid of me - that easy.” His breathing is broken and weezy but he manages one more word. “Wench.” Edmure snorts beside him and he can see Brienne rolling her eyes but that’s good, he’s fooled them, they won’t realise the fever’s kicked in and the black veins are hidden under the bandage.
His eyes shift from Brienne to Myrcella and the terror still hasn’t died there; it’s almost as painful as his arm having to meet the hurt and the accusation staring back at him. He shifts awkwardly in his seat and offers a (whole) hand, palm up, a peace offering; Brienne seems to be smiling. “Hey, kiddo.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t bring her hand to meet his but she doesn’t break eye contact either. For a moment there’s silence and he knows he deserves it (for this, for being a piss poor uncle and an even worse father, for everything). But she does reply, eventually, sounding more cat than lion.
“Hey.” Dad. Daddy. Why wasn’t it you who saved me? Sometimes he gets a sick thrill out of torturing himself, imagining words that aren’t there. Her palm surprises him and he squeezes once, as tight as he can (which isn’t much and what if she feels the fever?). He pulls back quickly and turns in his seat, never one to handle emotional displays. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself to make one more sardonic comment.
“So, how likely is it that we get to that freaking hospital without anymore casualties, Edmure?”
“Hey.” She holds out her hand. She wants to feel that he’s there, that he’s really alive. He squeezes her hand for a second, too tightly and it hurts and then he’s gone, turned away. He’s making some stupid sarcastic comment with a smile and he’s not looking at her. He didn’t come for her. She’d thought he was dead or worse, thought that if all else failed at least blood was blood and Lannisters were Lannisters. Apparently she’d been wrong.
She remembers once, when she was small, the entire extended family had taken a trip to the London Eye, some PR thing trying to paint Robert as a family man. Cersei had been tight-lipped and unsmiling and Tommen had fussed and cried and Joffery had pinched at her arms but Jaime bought them cotton candy, Jaime swung her high up on his shoulders. When they were at the top of the Ferris wheel she’d pointed out and said ‘Look at everyone so far below us,’ and Jaime had given her a secret smile, like he was trying to hide pride.
Her family is, it seems, was an endless light show, mirrors and smoke set up to convince the world of their happiness, their perfection. Everything is a show, every movement an act, every word a carefully scripted line. Myrcella wonders what honesty would look like on a Lannister. She can’t imagine it.
She buries her face in Trystane’s shoulder. He smells like sweat and blood and other bad things but he’s warm and there, and he lets her do it.
(Source: the-doe-eyed)
the getaway | closed to myrcella, jaime, edmure, brienne
Where a window pane once cut off the inside from the outside is merely a pile of shattered glass scattered over the floor, errant bullets taking out as much furniture as there were bodies. Jaime’s work, she supposes, because he’s the only man she knows reckless enough to fire into a crowd with the wrong hand. Brienne’s not entirely ungrateful; the path from structure to getaway vehicle seems devoid of any movement. Nevertheless, she treads carefully through the lobby, sweeping her focus back and forth ahead of her.
It’s a massacre outside the doors. She’s not sure she’s ever seen so much carnage in her life: a spray of crimson paints the pavement, organs decorate a rubbish bin, bodies lay staggered on the sidewalk. They’ve fallen like dominoes against the hail of bullets. Across the street and under the faint gleam of a street lamp, Brienne catches the silhouettes of the two men framed by the van’s door.
Judging by the alarm in the way they sit up and hastily aim their barrels her way, it seems they’ve seen her, too. In spite of the pain that shoots up her wrist (but she won’t complain about it, because it’s still in tact, at least), Brienne manages to lift her gun and hold it out in gesture of surrender. “Don’t shoot! It’s me!” she yells, under the impression that it’s become safe to make a little noise. “I’ve got them!”
Only after she’s said it does she realise that the pronoun must seem wrong; the boy wasn’t part of the deal, but she has him, anyway. Brienne tilts her hulking body slightly, stepping out of the way so they can actually see what she’s recovered. The motion turns out to be a fortunate decision. As soon as she’s spun around, the situation degrades with remarkable speed.
It was empty, Brienne thinks, darting between the children (they are children, still, to her) and the slumping creature that meanders toward them from within the building. She’s already putting two rounds in the thing’s skull when she notices the line of shadows cast on the back wall, jutting from the floor like a row of jagged, black teeth. There’s more. I didn’t even see them. No wonder the upper floor had been so desolate; the congregation was waiting right below. A chorus of moans and guttural growls charges the air, sets the hair on her neck on end.
She doesn’t need to say it, because the boy’s already grabbing for Myrcella’s hand, but Brienne shouts, anyway, “Run for it!”
Myrcella has been used to taking orders her whole life. Stand up straighter. Smile for the cameras. Cross your legs. Assemble. Pirouette. Hold the reins tighter. Breathe.
In that instant, she’s never been more grateful for it. She doesn’t think, doesn’t stumble as Trystane grabs her hand. There’s the sharp rush of adrenaline as she registers what the lurching black shapes are, and then she’s flying along the pavement behind Trystane.
Don’t trip, she thinks. Light on your feet. Walking on balloons. Don’t think. Just like dance. Only in dance, her life never depended on it.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the van. Jaime’s in the van. Or so she hopes, Brienne had been unnervingly vague about him. Daddy. She’d never called him that, never called anybody that. Robert was Father. Jaime was Uncle. Tywin was Grandfather. There was no room for informality in her life.
And maybe it’s the stress or the trauma or just the dehydration but right now Myrcella wants nothing more than to scream for her daddy, or her mommy, or some omnipotent caring figure that will swoop in and save and protect her like in all her books. The savior she never had. But Myrcella’s life doesn’t work like that, and even if it once did that time is long gone, and there’s a horde of zombies on their heels and they’re going to eat her alive. So she doesn’t think, she just runs.
(Source: the-doe-eyed)
the ballerina and the zombie | closed to jaime, brienne, edmure
The girl that steps into view is slight, (but who isn’t, standing next to a giantess such as herself?), yet vaguely familiar. Not just because she’s an echo of her mother, even a little of Jaime, oddly enough. They’ve met before, at some event of her late father’s, extended an invitation as Lord Tarth’s daughter and Renly’s friend. She doesn’t remember me, she thinks, though that’s not such a shock. She’s no good at social functions. Her best friends at a party are a glass of water and a dark corner.
There’s blood all over Myrcella, face and hands and hair, but she doesn’t ask where it’s from. At a glance, neither look to be injured, just filthy, though there’s no point in checking. They’re all leaving this building, bitten or not, because Brienne made a promise.
When the girl asks her question, Brienne struggles to summon a smile; she wants to be reassuring, wants to say that everything from here on out will be smooth sailing, but that’s a total lie and everyone’s always told her she’s got no face for poker. “Your uncle… He’s…” Lost his hand to infection. About to lose more blood. Probably doing something absolutely stupid and reckless right now. A rapid burst of gunshots outside seem to confirm this thought. There has to be more than one weapon discharging by now. Tully. The enabler. “Downstairs, waiting for you. He would’ve come himself, only—”
Shut up, Brienne. Her mouth clamps down tightly, teeth barely missing her own tongue. There’s no use scaring the girl now, she’ll see it for herself when we get there. She exhales. “He’s trying to clear an exit for us. Come on. We probably don’t have much more time. You,” she nods at the boy, and points at the weapon she’d disposed of on the ground, “Pick up the pipe, keep an eye on our rear. Myrcella, stay between us. I’ll take point.”
Her arm still aches, and she’s sure something’s been fractured, but Brienne’s faced worse pain before. She doesn’t let them ask any other questions, marching back to the staircase, glock gripped tightly in both hands.
Myrcella wraps her arms around herself and follows, Trystane behind her. They’re protecting her, she thinks. They’re in formation like she’s a prize or royalty or someone important. She’s not, but it feels good to relax a miniscule amount, to know that someone else is looking out for her, an adult she can trust.
Still. She narrows her eyes the woman’s back. Blood is blood, Myrcella knows that and it’s more important than anything else. Jaime should have come for her. If he ever loved her, he would be here. She tries not to feel the sting of disappointment low in her gut.
She reach back and twines her fingers together with Trystane’s as they head down the stairs. He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“We’re going to be fine.” He says quietly. Hope is back in his voice. Myrcella doesn’t turn around. The first floor of the building is all broken glass and dented steel. Myrcella thinks she sees a hand peeking out from beneath the overturned receptionist’s desk. It’s been gnawed on, and she can see the bone gleaming white in the dim room.
She forces herself to look at the middle of Brienne’s back, at the square of her shoulders, at the hand thats holding the gun.
(Source: the-doe-eyed)
the ballerina and the zombie | closed to jaime, brienne, edmure
The pipe comes down, but Brienne’s head is much higher than his swing, and she’s been trained far too well in self-defence that she manages to block the strike with her arm. Still, there’s enough force in the blow to leave a mark or worse where it hits the bone and slides down her wrist. But her broad hand catches the rest of it, wrapping it in her fingers and yanking it from the boy’s grip.
It comes free easily, if only because of how shocked he still is at the sight (or is it just the height?) of her, and she lets the makeshift weapon fall to the ground with a ringing thunk.
“STOP!” Brienne yells directly into his face, with the full authority of a trained police woman used to this kind of abuse from young delinquents. “I’m here to help!”
And if the words aren’t enough, the shining badge she points to on her chest and the rest of her standard gear (men’s wear, technically; women’s didn’t come in a size for her) should be enough to convince. The boy with a mop of dark hair and dark skin, someone she thinks she should recognize from some other wealthy family or other, swallows and nods.
“You’re not— Where’s Myrcella?” she asks, not seeing the girl just behind the door.
Myrcella steps out from behind the door. Trystane glances at her in worry. He brushes his hand against the back of her wrist. They’re getting out of here. They’re not going to die here. Myrcella thinks she’s supposed to feel happy, or at least relieved and grateful. Mostly she feels a little angry- family is supposed to protect her, but they never have. And tired, she feels tired, like she’s turned into an old woman in the space of a day.
“I’m here.” She says hoarsely. She has so many questions- How are they getting out of here? Who is this woman? Where are they going? Is her mother okay? But only one of them was important right now.
“Where’s my- uncle? Where’s Jaime?”
(Source: the-doe-eyed)
the ballerina and the zombie | closed to jaime, brienne, edmure
Brienne travels about as light on her feet as she looks: which is to say, not at all. But what she lacks in stealth, she at least makes up for in speed, reaching the front door of the dated building before anything catches up to her. She’s halfway up the first flight of stairs when shots ring out behind her, but Brienne doesn’t stop, doesn’t so much as flinch at the sound.
Between her breathless huffing and pounding feet, her echoing cacophony is practically a thunderstorm when she makes it to the studio’s level. There’s all sorts of doors here; Brienne pushes into each, but finds them all vacant and nearly pitch black. Hers is the only voice that bounces back at her when she shouts, “MYRCELLA! MYRCELLA BARATHEON!”
Ugly thoughts slip into her mind with each empty space uncovered. What if we’re too late? What if we’ve failed? What if I’ve failed him?
The notion of returning empty handed is devastating and unbearable.
But Brienne is nothing if not persistent. She reaches the end of the long hall, nearly stretching into oblivion, and there’s just one last room out here. Her pace has slowed to a near tiptoe, soft enough to hear muffled voices from within.
Brienne presses an ear to the door, hears two different breathing patterns. Someone is crying. A little girl.
Then it stops, because they’ve heard her now, and there’s desperation in the way they try to hush each other.
“Myrcella?” she calls, trying the knob, but it’s locked from inside and rattles uselessly in her hand. Glancing at the flimsy frame, she could break down the door easily, but there’s no point in scaring the occupants further. “Myrcella, it’s Brienne Tarth, of the London Metro Police. I work with your uncle, Jaime. He’s sent me to get you.”
Myrcella lets out the breath she’s been holding.
“They can’t talk, can they?” She whispers to Trystane.
“I don’t know.” Trystane whispers back. Myrcella stands up.
She gestures at the pipe, and Trystane picks it up. If it’s not Jaime, it could be a trick. Blood comes for blood. Lannisters protect Lannisters. That’s how it works.
She looks down at herself- in her bloody-splattered leotard she looks something like a monster herself. She goes and presses her ear against the door. She can hear someone out there.
“Open the door.” She tells Trystane. He grips the pipe tightly and raises it high, ready to kill if necessary.
He looks back at her for reassurance and she nods at him. He throws the door open.
(Source: the-doe-eyed)
the ballerina and the zombie | closed to jaime, brienne, edmure
Arys groans and stirs and Myrcella’s grip on the pipe tightens. Trystane stands up and take a hesitant step towards him. Arys mumbles something.
“I think he wants water.” Says Trystane, moving closer to kneel by him. Arys coughs and grabs at Trystane’s arm.
“What is it?” Trystane says, leaning in. Arys opens his eyes.
They are a bright opaque blue.
“Shit.” Trystane shouts, jerking away, but Arys has him by the arm.
Arys snarls and brings the limb to his mouth and Trystane kicks him between the legs. Arys howls and doubles over but doesn’t let go, dragging Trystane down onto the floor with him. Myrcella lurches forward and half-raises the pipe, but freezes. Arys shoves Trystane’s head back, exposing his tanned sinewy neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing rapidly. Arys opens his bloody mouth and leans down.
“Myrcella.” Trystane gasps.
Arys is going to eat him, and then he’s going to eat her. All her life people have been eating little bits of Myrcella. Joffery ate up her tears and her screams. Her mother ate up her affection and her imperfections. Robert ate up her innocence and Jaime ate up her idea of family. There’s never been much left for Myrcella to hold on to and call her own, not much besides books and horses and ballet and this boy. Those are hers, her quiet spaces, her little homes. And the world might consume the rest of her, might chew up trust and love and spit them right back in her face, but the world will not take this.
She swings the pipe in a gentle arc. It’s heavy enough that she doesn’t even have to use much force, like hitting a baseball. She’s reminded of hitting a pinata at her sixth birthday party, everyone laughing and clapping around her in the sunshine, her mother in a white dress with a big white hat. But this time the pinata sounds like she’s hitting a melon, and Arys slumps sideways.
His arm twitches so she hits him again, and blood sprays everywhere. She closes her eyes and keeping hitting him, again and again and-
“Myrcella, stop.” Someone shouts, shaking her shoulders. “Stop it, he’s dead!”
The pipe is wrestled from her hand and she falls to her knees shaking.
“Don’t open your eyes.” Trystane says gently. “You’ve got blood all over your face.”
Cloth rustles and then warm cotton that smells like sweat is dabbing gently at her eyelids, her lips, her nose.
“Okay.” Says Trystane. “You’re okay.”
She opens her eyes. Trystane’s worried face is very close to hers.
“Hi.” He says softly.
She lets out an ugly sob that sounds like a hiccup, and then another one, and he presses her face down onto his shoulder. He cards a hand through her hair.
“You’re okay.” He says. “We’re okay.”
Myrcella wraps her arms around his neck and cries without tears.
TEXT MESSAGE
sent: 3:00 pm
to: MOM, DAD JAIME
message: help
TEXT MESSAGE
sent: 3:00pm
to: DAD JAIME
message: pls pls huy im scaed ays is
the ballerina and the zombie | open
The trapdoor is hard to open- she has to shove at it with her all before it gives way in a cloud of dust that leaves her coughing. Below her, Trystane sneezes and sways and Myrcella clutches at the edge of the ceiling. Her hands get covered with dust too.
“There’s no light.” She says uncertainly.
“Use the phone.” Trystane says, grunting as he shoves her legs up. Myrcella takes a deep breath. Joffery locked her in a cupboard with his pet tarantula once and sat outside to listen to her cry. It’d been two hours before she got out. She really hates the dark.
It’s cooler in the attic. It smells like mildew and age and damp and the dark presses in from all sides. Myrcella shivers and holds the phone out, squinting in the dim light.
“I can’t see anything.” She calls down.
“Use your hands!” Trystane tells her, and Myrcella closes her eyes tightly and grimaces. She crawls forward along the floor, her hand stretched out in front of her. What if there’s something in the dark up here? She remembers the feeling of the tarantula skittering over her shoe. What if her hand touches something dangerous? She feels sick to her stomach. She hopes the crawlspace is empty. Only she doesn’t, because if it is then they’ve got nothing, and if Arys turns… She saw the news reports, the pictures on the internet, and she will not die like that.
Her hand touches something cold and she shrieks and recoils. Below her she hears Trystane swear and shout her name.
“Are you okay?” He yells, and his voice cracks on the last syllable. Myrcella sits frozen where she is for a moment, listening to her own rapid heartbeat. Nothing happens.
“I’m fine.” She replies hesitantly. She reaches out again more slowly this time, flinches as her hand touches cold metal but she doesn’t pull away.
“What’s going on?”
“I found something.” She says, feeling at the shape. A long metal cylinder. “I think it’s a pipe.”
“Yeah?” Trystane sounds excited.
She tugs at it. It barely wiggles. She pulls at it again and it moves a little more. She wraps both her hands around it and heaves, and it comes loose in her hands as she stumbles backwards out the trapdoor. Right onto Trystane. He squawks as they crash to the floor.
The ceiling spins in front of her eyes for a moment. She scrambles off Trystane who is looking rather dazed.
“Oh my god.” Her hands dart out to grab at him then pull away unsure. “Trystane I’m sorry, are you okay?”
He coughs and sits up slowly, putting a hand to the back of his skull.
“I told you I wouldn’t let you get hurt.” He says, grinning lopsidedly at her. She flushes deep red.
“I’m so sorry.” She says, touching the lump rising on his head. His hair is soft and thick like fur. He winces.
“I’ll live.” He says, getting to his feet. He hoists her up to hers as well.
“Well,” Says Myrcella. “We have a pipe.”
“You should keep it.” Trystane says firmly. “I can use my fists.”
“I’d rather you had it.” Myrcella hefts it. It’s heavy and a little too big for her hand.
“I won’t take it.” Trystane shakes his head. “You need it.”
“No, I don’t.” Myrcella says, but she knows he’s right. He shrugs.
“Whatever. I’m not taking it.”
A flash of dizziness sweeps over Myrcella and she sinks to her knees. Water, they need water.
“Are you okay?” Trystane kneels by her. “Myrcella!”
“I’m fine.” She says, clutching at his shoulder. “I’m just- exercise, you know? And I’m so thirsty.”
“Your uncle will be here soon.” Trystane doesn’t sound convinced. The phone flashes where it fell on the floor. Low battery.
“It’s dying.” Myrcella picks it up.
Across the room, Arys gives a low groan.
doesn't everyone just want to go home?
