ataraxioff | THE MOTHERFUCKING TEST DRIVE MEME RIDES AGAIN.

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THE MOTHERFUCKING TEST DRIVE MEME RIDES AGAIN.

TEST DRIVE MEME

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I'm not dead.

[He corrects her, quickly--but she is inviting him over, and if she is some dream of the ship, then he will take it, and gladly, even if that dream should sour.

So he goes to her side, and tries to sit--awkwardly, with his legs out before him, too stiff in the braces to bend. He is nearly on the floor when he overbalances a little, and falls--but Arya is there, and he grabs onto her shoulder without thinking. And she is warm, she is real--no dream could ever be so warm, and then it doesn't matter if Bran is sitting down or falling or standing, he puts his arms around her shoulders and pulls himself close to her, his breath suddenly tight in his chest and that stupid hot feeling behind his eyes, like he's some baby and not Lord of Winterfell and prince of the north.

But he isn't. He's only Bran, and this is his sister, and he tightens his grip on her a little more.]

[ You died so you're dead. She swallows the argument as she notices his difficulty. He cannot walk, she realizes. Not alone. He needs those other legs. That's mean. The least the Many-Faced God ought have done was give him back his legs as they were.

She would say something to that effect except he grabs her and her skin breaks out into gooseprickles. A bubble of panic begins to swell in her breast. ]

Get off! [ She shoves him. ] Don't!

[He doesn't cling to her, he does as he's told--she shoves him off and he falls back, against the wall. And he half-expected it--Arya would shove him even if she was Arya; the girl with many names wouldn't have let him hug her, either--but it still hurts, and Bran wills himself not to be a stupid child, and bites at his lip.]

Sorry.

[And he is sorry, because he only wants his sister--she is still his sister, no matter what she says--but he must show her. It's the same as it was before. He must be slow, and careful, and then she will see.]

I thought you might be a dream.

[ She scoffs. ]

You're the dream. I'm real.

[ But that's not right. Her dreams have always been as real as waking, but she always had four legs not two. She raced through trees not steel walls. And Bran was never there.

Still water. I must be still water. See. ]

Where are we?

[I'm not, the words are on his lips, as if this is just some other stupid fight at Winterfell, as if they are little children again. Perhaps Bran is a child, but Arya is fiercer, and older, he can see it in her face. So he bites at his lip instead.]

We are on a ship that travels through the stars. A space ship, they call it. And it might seem a dream, but it isn't, it's for true. They call it the Tranquility.

And Robb is here, with Grey Wind, and Jon and Ghost, too. They will be glad to see you. [It isn't a lie, but it tastes like one--only because Arya will not be glad to see them. She will run away again.]

Jon can't be here. He has to stay at the Wall.

[ She focuses on the one aspect of the explanation she can digest. A ship floating through stars is ridiculous. It sounds like one of those stories stupid girls would sigh about. ]

This ship pulls us away from everything. We haven't a choice.

[He touches his fingertips against his knee, tugging gently at the rough fabric of the jumpsuit. He still wears his cloak from home, trimmed with fur, but it is getting to be too short. Soon he will have outgrown it. Perhaps he is as big as Arya now. If she were standing, would they be of height?]

But time at home does not move. It's like a story. Everything stands still. When we return, it will be as if we never left. So no one will know that Jon has been here.

That doesn't make sense. Nothing stops. [ When everything should have, the world continued.

Arya glares at her feet. She sneaks glances at Bran out of the corner of her eye. Lifting her hand, she hesitates before putting it on his head. She tugs on his hair like they were both children still. It's soft. Tears prick her eyes.

He can't be real. None of this can be real. She has to wake up at some point.

(Another part, the one that sounds like a Braavosi swordsman she had known once, tells her to see. She already knows.)

She snatches her hand back and hugs her knees to her chest. ]

[Her touch is a surprise--Bran is still fiddling with his jumpsuit, but he looks up at the weight of Arya's hand, and he smiles a little when he feels her tug at his hair. It makes him think of Winterfell, of chasing her around the yard, up and down stairs and towers, across roofs and through stables--laughing, or shouting, it doesn't matter which, he still loved her, and even when she made him angry he loved her anyways--and instead of hugs or kisses, like Sansa always wanted to give, she'd shove his shoulder or pull at his hair. But it meant the same thing, and he knew it, even if he sometimes complained.

It hurts less when she pulls away from him. Bran watches her, quietly, just for a moment. Then he reaches out and takes hold of her sleeve--just a little pinch, just his fingertips pressed to her arm. It's a light touch, but it's real, and he can feel the real warmth of Arya beneath, and if he were wearing Summer's skin, he would be able to smell Arya, no matter what she says or what mask she wears or how hard she shoves him.]

I promise that it is real.

[I swear might have more weight. Promises are for Winterfell too--the stuff of children, but important, here.]

I promise that it is real, Arya. And I'm glad-- [He feels that stupid hot feeling behind his eyes, and he struggles not to put his arms around her again, to only hold gently to her arm.] I'm glad you're here.

[ Her eyes flit to his fingers. Arya. She cannot be Arya anymore. When he goes again, she will be alone and she will truly have no one. It is better to be no one. No one doesn't hurt. ]

That's not me.

[ She rolls her shoulder to break the contact. ]

[But Bran expected her to say that, so it hurts less. And he doesn't let go of her arm, but holds on, stubbornly.]

That's what you said before. What name will you use? We were wolves together, for a little while.

[He could call her a wolf name. It would be harder to call her something else, though he knew she had used other names.]

My name is Cat. [ A Cat who sailed into Braavos on a ship called Nymeria.

As if sensing she is being called, Nymeria comes to her. She runs her hand through the wolf's scruff, trying to ignore Bran's grip on her arm. The fur, once kept clean and shiny, clumps together from mud and dirt. Around her muzzle, it has a russet tinge. ]

I'm not a wolf. [ To Nymeria: ] You need a bath.

That's a stupid name.

[They're wolves, not cats. Cats are cowardly and easy to catch. Cats don't have packs, and they don't hunt. I could wear a cat's skin, but I wouldn't be a cat--he isn't a direwolf, either, not for true, but he could be.

But he's determined to be helpful, so Arya will remember who she really is. She remembers now, he knows she does, but she must say it so it becomes true. I will help her.]

You can wash her at the showers. They don't mind if we bring the direwolves in to wash them. [And he lets go of Arya's sleeve, if only so he can touch the side of Nymeria's face, carefully.] Will you stay with her?

That's my mother's name.

[ She has a half a mind to push him again. She doesn't, but the desire remains.

The question draws her up short. She's not supposed to keep anything. They're not thieves and they have nothing theirs. She keeps her hand on Nymeria's face and for the briefest moment she thinks she is looking at herself. The wolf is angry—and alone. ]

She's mine [ she says finally. It's quiet, testing how the words feel. The second time she is sure. ] She's mine. I'll keep her.

Cat is Arya Stark's mother.

[He corrects her, stubbornly, but he drops his hand as he watches her study Nymeria. What does she see when she looks at her direwolf? How quickly could she learn to wear Nymeria's skin?]

There is a garden with places to hide--only it's larger than a garden, so large it's nearly like a forest, but indoors. My friend Nill and I might make a godswood. Nymeria would like it there--you could keep her there. I won't tell anyone.

[ That earns him another hair pull. Sharply this time. ]

…What's there to hunt?

[He pulls a face at her as he tries to twist away.]

You have to be careful. There are only insects that naturally live on this ship. The animals all belong to people, and they are very protective. Even the chickens.

She has to eat.

There is meat in the kitchens that anyone can take, even for direwolves. When they grow restless, we let them chase one another.

But they cannot hunt. We must be careful.

You try telling her to stop.

[Summer flicks an ear, as if he knows just what they're saying, and Bran smiles over at him.]

Summer could stop her.

[ Even Nymeria snorts in disbelief. ]

Summer is a stupid name.

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