𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

31 | Deviation

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
D E V I A T I O N

-

At first, it was only a whisper. She almost mistook it for the howling wind.

But then it crept in on her.

The sound leaks past her and through her, enveloping her body and clouding her senses. It resounds in the air above, thick with unmovable weight.

Most nights, she's free to stay like this forever; slumped against the edge of her bed, her knees drawn to her chin.

Other nights, the whisper returns from the dark.

She has tried to cover her ears, but the voice always finds its way in.

"Sister."

At first, it frightens her, the sudden eruption of silence cold and callous against her trembling skin.

But when her eyes find the source of the voice— when her eyes find him— only mirth pools in her chest.

Her brother has the kindest of eyes. Even now. Sweet and sly and warm. Viserra approaches him slowly and reaches forward, feeling the heat of blood as she places her hand on his cheek.

Only a little of him remains. Barely even that.

She cups his burning flesh— carefully, tentatively— but when her fingers reach him, his skin begins to shift, distorting and melting, leaving only bone and sinew in its stead. Her hand retrieves, smeared in black blood.

"Sweet sister, how full of sorrow you are," he whispers, though his mouth does not move. "What terrible things you have done to yourself. What terrible things you must do."

He speaks so serenely. As though he weren't withering away. As though he weren't turning to char, standing before her. He is perfectly undisturbed by the growing storm. Serene and silver.

There is a striking malleability in this image painted before her. Though plagued by bitter dreams, the visions of Luke never succeeded in frightening her. She revels in his presence, however gruesome, and drinks desperately in the sight of him.

Viserra feels his presence, even when half gone; her sufferer, her tormentor and look-alike.

She'd like to reach for him once more. She no longer minds the blood or gristle, as long as he returns to her. But she is afraid he might crumble and succumb beneath the weight of her hand.

"Will you tell me what to do?" she asks then, not truly knowing what it is she seeks.

Favour perhaps? Cohesion? Finality?

"There is a song," he answers, voice thrumming with quiet promise. "Dragon song."

Viserra has tired of this endless reiteration. It has been said to her so many times, and yet it never offers any more clarity. The dead have sought her out, even when she did not want it. They found her in the midst of sleep and spoke of a song of divinatory grace.

"You have seen it. A red star bleeding in the sky," he continues. "We tremble on the cusp of remembrance, of wonders and terrors, of half-remembered prophecies..."

It does not sound like him. His words are not his own. They belong to a thing far greater than she could ever comprehend.

She is filled with so much strain that she cannot weep. Instead, she caresses his withering young flesh once more as it tears and bleeds and bleeds. As though she might find the real him hiding somewhere behind all this burning tissue. As though she might release him from this curse, drain off all the smoke and ash, and turn him into her brother once more.