An ocean of blood lapped at her feet, the light that had been in her was completely gone. There was nothing left of it. Her eyes were glazed, her skin had grown an unhealthy parlour. Ashara could feel her ribs almost jutting through her skin as she stood there, listening to the ever present sound of bells.
They hadn't once stopped, not since Myles had died. The Usurper had killed him, slew him in that small village that would haunt her dreams for the rest of what life she had left.
Her eyes fell down to the flower on her front leg, a crystalized-frozen version of her lover's house. It was-now-the only thing she had left of him.
Once it had been a fling, hot dornish passions flaring into dancing flame until they themselves entwined in an ancient dance. Then there were whispers that they let drift between the stars, thoughts of a future when the war was past.
He had said, he would take her to the Water Gardens and he would let his sword rust from disuse. He would never fight again, but bask in the ethereal light of her and the family they made together. They would be happy and carefree in a place untouched by time or war or disease or sorrow.
But he had died. And the foal. And Rhaegar, her Prince, and Elia her princess. The little princess and princess gone too. And the Mad King, Everything gone in a tidal wave of blood and she was left alone to weather it.
The days were long. Each morning she waited for news. Each night, she listened for the sound of hoofbeats. Surely now would come the death knell. She waited for it's heavy blow, knowing that her brother Arthur would not outlive his King.
She had not understood why he was not with Rhaegar. At first she thought it'd been a mistake. But no news came. So for awhile in her mind at least, he lived still.
Dark wings, dark words.
For once the bells stopped ringing. For once the waves of blood stopped crashing. There was silence and it was terrible, perhaps the most terrible of all the things she'd heard.
Ashara's eyes burned and she screamed but no sound came. Others came to her, but she could not hear them. She could hear nothing but the everlasting sound of silence.
Arthur was dead. They had shared a womb together. She had promised him that she would be all their happiness when he had told her that he had more than enough honor for the both of them. No one could shame her before him, no one. She had thought that had meant that Arthur would live a long life, happy life of service while she gave him nieces and nephews to spoil.
But all was naught.
There was no happiness left and with it there was no honor to be found. The silence ate at her, broke her to pieces as rivers of tears fell down her face.
What could she do now? What was there left to do? It seemed as all her purpose had been neatly taken away.
What was she going to do?
Ashara had thought the bells were bad, but this silence was truly unbearable. Others stopped speaking to her, there was no point. She could not hear them.
Everyday for a week she stood at the bottom of the Palestone Sword, and let the waters break over her chest. She didn't know what to do with herslf, but to stand there. All she could was stand.
After a while--a day, an hour, a week, she became aware of a presence beside her. A soft, kind voice seeping in where other sounds had been unable. Still it took a long time for her to hear him, to turn her bleary haunted eyes at the stallion who had come so far to tell speak with her.
This was a delusion, a fever dream. It was not real. She knew that. She looked at someone once a friend, who would have been her sworn enemy now as he spoke softly, gently telling her things that could not possibly be true.
From across his back, he unsheathed the Greatsword Dawn and drove it into the surf before her. He said her name softly again, until her eyes were torn from the blade before her back to his eyes.
Simple words really. Words she had dreamed of hearing and so she feared that she heard them only because she wanted. Somehow she focused, she was needed. She had to leave. She could never come back. No one could think she was alive when she went to him.
Arthur Dayne, her brother was alive and he needed her.
The moonlight was gone as a storm came roiling in. She tossed down one of her scarves into the surf and did not look back, the great sword clasped to her own back as she followed.
She did not speak, for words were not needed. Ashara was past speaking. Grief had made her a wraith. Silently, she stole through the night. They would find her scarf, his scarf on the rocks below her Palestone tower. They would think possibly that she had finally had enough. Or maybe they would think she walked into the sea, as if she could find him there. Maybe they would think she had simply left, she did not know or care. She only cared that they would think her past caring, that whether she was gone when they found the scarf or somewhere wasting away as a ghost floating through life without any purpose. It made no difference. They would assume that if she was not gone yet from this world that she soon would be.
They would assume her dead.
She moved at night, still not much herself. The bells within her ears rang ever louder until she thought her skull might burst. The only thing that kept her going was the thought that at the end of this long, careful journey Arthur would be alive.
She had lost her mate and her foal before it had even taken it's first breath, but Arthur was alive. It was the only thought that helped to drown out the bells in her head some. Grief consumed her, but Arthur was alive at least for now. If she could make this journey and reach him undetected then she could perhaps keep him alive. She could....
Her mind wandered lost in the dark fog that sometimes claimed her.
Arthur, Arthur! He was alive but injured terribly. With careful healing, she might be able to save him-- if the news of all that had happened was something he could survive. He would think that he had failed his prince, betrayed his king, and lost what his prince wanted protected above all things. But hopefully, she would be enough to keep him fighting, to keep him breathing. He would not be Arthur anymore, it would be too dangerous for that. What happened at the Tower of Joy would go down in history as the ceasing of House Dayne. The Great Sword of the Morning would be dead, gone and the Light of Starfall snuffed out. They would tell their sad tales. They would say how Arthur Dayne had been defeated in combat by Ned Stark.
It took days, that seemed like years that seemed like minutes to reach him. It was hot, so very hot where he lay. The blood was thick on his skin and the rot of infection was setting in. Ned had returned to Winterfell long since and she had made most of this journey alone, hoping beyond hope that Arthur still breathed.
What she found was a wretched thing. He was delirious and bloody, his mind lost to memories in which he was trapped. She could tell from his fretful manner that he dreamed he still fought. She worked hard to heal him, little though she knew. It was a fight of flesh and mind against fever and blood. If she did not save him would he be lost in the seven hells forever trapped in this eternal fight? Would he belief himself only a failure?
She would not allow it, they had already lost so much. The days passed slowly as she trickled honey water into his mouth and gave him the herbs and concoctions to fight infection. She poured her will into everything she did for him, constantly trying to drown out the litany of the bells by telling him over and over to live. To live. Dammit live!
His fever grew worse, then better. She did not sleep. She could not sleep. She fought for his soul and his body. She fought for hers as well. Slowly day by day, she beat it back until finally the fever seemed to lessen some. He seemed to rest at times and though there was not much change, she knew that he would live the day he opened up his eye and said her name softly.
The litany of the bells ceased.
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