abraxaslogs | Mᴀᴅᴇ ᴍᴇ sᴇᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ I'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ( closed )

Another thing Wrench will probably never admit: this line of communication, while obviously convenient, feels impersonal. He misses the physicality of his own, the way that shaping words gave them life. Simply having to think his message blunts it in ways he doesn't always appreciate. But the upside of the brain texting? Sandor can't simply walk away from it. Wrench doesn't have to ensure the man is facing him before he starts snarking back.

You weren't saying that when I was saving your life.

All right, he probably didn't save Sandor's life, but Wrench knows he helped the man from an unnecessary amount of pain. Without stopping to think, he'd proven he has the other man's back. That counts for something, he thinks. Even if he knows better than to try to make Sandor admit it, even jokingly.

The weight of the blade in his hand feels unnatural, and Wrench doesn't know what to do with a weapon that's so much larger than his usual buck knives, yet requires him to be in near-constant contact with his sparring partner. Inside the abandoned goat pen he weighs the thing and wobbles it back and forth like he's watched one too many pirate films where the swashbuckling lead thought that they were fencing instead.

It's no great leap of guesswork too assume Sandor's not likely to take the time to learn Sign for Wrench, unfortunately. It's nothing personal, he just fucking hates everyone and is reluctant to communicate in general through the means already available to him. Tolerating Wrench's presence is already a significant step up from the norm, let alone now dragging him out to teach him something of his own volition. It would take some great act of persuasion or a real convincing argument of practicality for him to bother.

You weren't saying that when I was saving your life; his lip curls, a derisive, judgmental sort of sneer. That's a fucking stretch. Might've saved him from a flesh wound or another broken bone at worst, but he'd bet his other leg that fucking boar wouldn't have been the death of him.

He's tempted to let the fucker spar with that little ax against Sandor's sword just to prove his point, but that's a waste of time and energy he doesn't feel like indulging.

Wrench Mucks around with his grip, fanciful and impractical. Sandor swats him painfully on the knuckles with the flat of his blade. If it swats the weapon out of Wrench's grip entirely, all the better to prove his point.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? DON'T HOLD IT LIKE THAT, YOU BLOODY GIRL.

With as little as Wrench does to avoid things that would cause him pain, a person might be forgiven for thinking he actually enjoys it. Winter fashions make a great disguise for the more prominent of his scars, but the full picture points to a man who's been shot, stabbed, opened up, and hastily stitched back together more times than anyone could count. It's not that he likes the agony, though. Rather, avoiding things that cause him harm has never been a motivation of Wrench's.

As far as he's concerned, he is as his name suggests: a tool for others' use. He's designed to absorb impact so the people he serves don't have to. And frankly, there's no reason to try to keep himself pristine. It's not like he's likely to find another use for himself by now anyway.

Still, it fucking hurts to be rapped across the knuckles with a solid piece of iron. Reflexively, he opens his hand, and the sword tumbles to the ground. Wrench doesn't reach for it. He doesn't take his eyes off Sandor as he flexes out his fingers and glowers in momentary silence. He's not going to put his head down and wait for it to get chopped from his shoulders as he's bent to the ground. Fuck that.

Bet if I handed you a gun you'd shoot yourself in the foot immediately.

Show me how, then.

He's annoyed, but not angry. And obviously still willing to watch the man and learn something new.

When they first met, Wrench certainly had the upper hand on the Hidden Knowledge that was guns. As it stands now, his immediate answer is a more confident:

I'LL TAKE THAT FUCKING BET.

For the winter holidays, Claire got him a book on more modernized weapons. In it, a few dedicated chapters on firearms. He's never fired one himself, but he's got a rudimentary understanding on how they work now. Their purpose, the principal behind their function. Certainly he'd not be as good of a shot as anyone with any experience, but he's got enough of an idea not to fucking shoot himself. They are, as far as he can tell, the next stage that comes after a hand crossbow — but packed with black powder like a canon, firing projectiles at a similar scale.

He respects their killing power, but not necessarily the cowards that would elect to depend on them over a sword.

Rude as he is, he's no intention of swatting the poor bastard as he reaches for his dropped weapon. He indicates to it lazily with the tip of his own, nodding Wrench on. Pick it up, by your leave, he'll strike no blows for it.

Once Wrench has it in his hand, Sandor holds his own out to demonstrate.

LIKE THIS. FIRM GRIP. DON'T GO WAVING IT AROUND LIKE A DANCING RIBBON, OR LIKE A BOY CLACKING STICKS PLAYING KNIGHT. AT YOUR SIZE, YOU'RE LOOKING FOR POWER AND LEVERAGE, BUT YOU'RE STILL SPRY ENOUGH TO BE QUICK ABOUT IT.

At one time, Wrench might've mistakenly defended the man who raised him as someone with honor. He was one of the last to have known him before he transformed everything about himself - his name, his story, even his own face. Hanzee had been one kind of man, and Moses had been a very different one. As it stands now, Wrench doesn't know anyone for whom it could fairly be said that they fight with honor.

Honor doesn't have much of a place when you're trying to stay alive at any cost.

Maybe in time he'll come to see the difference with Sandor. Right now, there's nothing riding on their success here. The satisfaction of a job well done and the knowledge that there's one more man in Solvunn with the skills to defend against an attack, if swords are the only means available. But neither one is risking their life to stand here with the other one, so fighting with honor is much less of a sacrifice.

He studies Sandor's grip with the quiet contemplation of a man who really wants to do something right, and adjusts his own to be similar. Wrench knows he's still got to swing the thing eventually, so he tries again. This time, it's less of the wobbling and jabbing and more of the arcing motions he hopes might cut off another person's swing or stall a sword in midair. Just testing the weight of the thing.

Do you spear them by the end or slash with the edge?

Don't get it twisted, Wrench — Sandor neither believes he has any honor, nor advocates for it on the battlefield. You don't fight for honor, you fight to kill — or you die. His disdain for guns is like his disdain for crossbows; they're for cowards who hide behind walls, they're a nance weapon for men without balls. It's as simple as that. Probably smarter for some folks, sure, but fuck them.

When Wrench learns to wield the thing well enough to not accidentally chop his own cock off in a duel, Sandor will let go of all semblance of restraint that might be confused with honor. They'll spar properly then. As it stands, no good will come from wounding the man too badly to learn the basics yet.

WHICHEVER WILL KILL THEM FASTER AT THE TIME.

Comes his blunt answer. Usually spearing, running them through, but if all you can get in is a slash at an exposed space between bits of armor, take what you can fucking get. His glance at Wrench's grip seems close enough to approval; it'll do. At least he won't be dropping the first second steel meets steel. Alright, now — the only way to learn is by learning. He's not a fan of words, he certainly doesn't teach with them. This will be hands-on practical training.

COME ON, THEN. HIT ME.

Wrench doesn't mind abandoning words for action. This is how he's learned most things in his life. At times, perhaps, with a bit more observation, but that hasn't always been the case. Even if he'd like to watch Sandor strike a few blows himself so he can see the man's technique, Wrench doesn't know of anyone around who might willingly stand themselves in front of the tall and brutal man for target practice. He might as well learn from the feel of it. Pain might not be a deterrent, but it's a great motivator to ensure he doesn't make the same mistake twice.

Besides, it's kind of nice learning when there's nothing on the line. Sandor isn't threatening to kill him if he doesn't comply. Yet, at least. Wrench treats himself to a little smirk as he imagines how he'll get through the man and manage what he's been encouraged to do. He doesn't want to put too much force into it all at once. He's damn sure Sandor is going to block whatever he throws at him, and if Wrench has put his whole weight behind the first hit he's going to be too off balance to defend himself back when the time comes.

He makes an arcing swipe towards the man's left side, around hip level. Might as well get the feel for what it's like when metal reverberates against cold metal.

The answer to what it feels like: not great. It's exactly what you might imagine, swinging a metal object full-force at another metal object coming just as swiftly back at you. It rattles the bones a bit; it's going to take some getting used to, and the development of a few muscle groups folks unfamiliar with the practice are unlikely to already have.

The next forty minutes go largely as such, with Wrench taking his swings and Sandor largely swatting them away with brutal efficiency. He doesn't seem so inclined to go on the offensive yet, though he does toss out a few lazy swings for Wrench to try and defend on the rebound of his own blows.

Are there better teachers who improve their students with the added benefit of better articulated instruction? Absolutely. Sandor does little more than the mental-text equivalent of barking out raise your arm or not like that, like this or stop being so fucking obvious when you swing. Still, he's perhaps a better instructor than one might imagine if they only saw him in passing. Steady, not particularly temperamental, patient enough.

Wrench will not learn in a day. If he means to progress, this will have to become a habit.

By the time they've finished, he'll have gotten a good and sweaty workout, and Sandor with grace him with a slow, scrutinizing glance. The ultimate declaration as he lowers his sword for the final time is:

YOU'RE SHIT, BUT YOU'RE NOT THE WORST MAN I'VE EVER TAUGHT.

Followed by a nod to the training sword Wrench is clutching.

KEEP THAT. YOU'RE GOING TO NEED IT.

Sandor may have his reasons for thinking ranged weapons are cowardly, but all the practice reinforces to Wrench why he doesn't particularly like fighting up close. It's a new set of muscles that are being exercised, sure. Wielding the sword, learning to swing it, feeling what it's like to absorb a hit... those are all things he has no real frame of reference for. But as they continue to clank swords in a badly choreographed dance around the goat pen, Wrench realizes something else entirely.

He'd be fucked if this were one against two. And he'd be totally obliterated if it were one against any others.

If he's going to manage this, he's going to have to climb outside of his own tunnel vision. This close up, he can't see everything at once. There's too much threatening to pull his attention at any given time. The sights, the sensations, the anticipation and reaction... He's damn good at surveying a whole landscape and taking everything in. At zoning in on a target and steadying his breath. Bringing everything to a quiet, calm center so he can line up his shot perfectly. This doesn't give him the time for that. This demands he be everywhere at once, and that means Wrench has no goddamned clue what's going on behind his back.

For the first time in maybe a long time, he feels really, really alone.

By the time they call it quits he's shed half his furs over the fence and he's still sweating. Wrench wipes his brow and nods at Sandor's offered gift. He can practice his swing on something inanimate in the meantime. That's good.

He still feels like his body is humming from absorbing the clank of so much metal, so it's a good thing he only has to think the words, rather than write them down.

Buy you a drink for your trouble?

That's the truth of it, isn't it, Wrench? All men die alone. If they're lucky, they'll have someone at their backs helping to procrastinate that time a little. Sandor, for the moment, has nobody there. Used to be when he was a Lannister man, he had gold cloaks by the dozen. Even after, he had that little Stark girl as a spare set of eyes. Later in his life, he'll have Thoros and Dondarrion — who he may not agree with ethically, but who nevertheless he trusts well enough in a battle and, in turn, makes himself trustworthy by being their shield.

Here, now, he has no man he relies upon as such. The friends he's made have largely been women, have been charges he means to protect from battle. Not folks he'd depend on in the heat of one. Wrench is competent enough to suit the position, and so really, in some ways Sandor is benefiting himself by training the man. Things have gone awry in Solvunn before, undoubtedly they will again.

When the time comes, he and Wrench may have an understanding. A bond among soldiers equates to survival. What that means to Wrench is his own business.

He answers even as he turns to stalk off toward the tavern.

AYE. BUY ME TWO, THIS IS GOING TO TAKE A WHILE.

It must be evident to anyone who watches the two men who's being led and who's doing the leading. Wrench doesn't seem to care. The brain texting might remove all tone from the words shared between them, but he snaps to attention every time the taller man seemingly barks an order. When they walk, Wrench follows at least a half-step behind Sandor without ever trying to get out ahead or lead them on their way. He seems to follow the man's command without questioning or demanding acknowledgment for himself.

Even inside the tavern, Wrench doesn't argue about footing the bill for two rounds. He doesn't have money to his name, really, but he's seen few circumstances where as much is necessary around Solvunn. Most people seem willing to accept trade, and most are willing to let Wrench make good on the promise of fish or slabs of preserved meat or the pelts of whatever he's felled. He gets them both a drink, having well and truly worked off his breakfast, and sits across from Sandor.

You killing people with swords every day, back home?

A dog though he may be at heart, Sandor seems just as comfortable giving orders as he is receiving them. He's as used to wearing a leash as he is commanding a battlefield, and in this case he seems to spare no second thought to issuing them out to Wrench either. It's not a matter of ego, or of control — he just knows what needs to be done, and how best to do it. If Wrench is willing to listen to him on certain points, he's smarter for it. Let the other man issue his own orders when he knows how to wield the weapon. Until then, Sandor will take point — but not relish in it the way some other men might.

It could be worse. There are men who seek to own other men, and use them. For all his faults, that isn't on Sandor's lengthy list.

They take up a table at the back, in a corner, angled to see the whole of the room. Part antisocial behavior, part paranoid habit. He takes his drink without so much as a thanks, and is two swallows in before he answers.

NEAR ENOUGH. YOU KILLING PEOPLE WITH GUNS EVERY DAY AT YOURS?

Were Sandor to flex those muscles, he might be surprised to see how fast Wrench folds. It would be a relief to know there's nothing in particular motivating the other man. No desire to wield power for any particular purpose. If he did and if Wrench were capable, he'd probably give it to him. It's not thanks to any particular loyalty, though Wrench is indeed loyal to a fault. He's simply been taught to follow, and the absence of anyone for whom to do so has left him upended and drifting.

There are few people Wrench has spoken to about where he comes from and what that place was like. It's been easier than he imagined to keep that story close to his chest. The truth is, he's found few who really care. It's been easy to redirect most everyone with questions back to their own stories. But the direct question leaves Wrench shrugging.

Not for years, no. The people I worked for and with are all gone now.

Good luck redirecting back to Sandor — getting him to confess the details of his life is a little bit like pulling teeth. He's divulged a fair amount, perhaps, to Wanda and Claire — but not nearly so much as either might like, and they rarely make it more than a few questions in before Sandor himself is redirecting. Claire only knows as much as she does thanks to those fucking birds in that shithole dragon volcano. Fuck that place.

AYE, YOU MENTIONED.

Moses, was it? He remembers.

SO YOUR MASTER KICKED THE BUCKET AND YOU DID FUCK-ALL UNTIL YOU GOT HERE AND FOUND A GOD TO WORK FOR? IS THAT IT?

Because he can't see how a killer could just stop killing and do anything else with himself. Sandor's drifted from one charge to another, always finding someone to kill for, always finding people or beasts who deserved to die on their behalf. The longest he's gone since putting his sword through something must've been weeks at best.

Yes, that's it.

Not a bad summary at all, Wrench thinks. He sips his own drink, trying to imagine from Sandor's perspective how that must sound. Wrench doesn't need to read between many lines. He can tell the man must think it's a wasted life. Truth be told, he's not sure he'd disagree with that assessment. Wrench sets down his glass and tries to imagine how to explain anything more to a man whose own timeline puts him far enough back that he doesn't know what a gun is.

I was on the run for a long time. Found once, and almost imprisoned once, but I escaped. Shot with a crossbow and stabbed and nearly died in the process, but I escaped that too.

Is this interesting to the other man? Wrench doubts as much, and he isn't sure how to best explain the latter part, even if he wanted to. That he didn't just escape; that he was spared. For what, he still hasn't figured out.

It isn't not interesting, as far as conversation over drinks goes. Could be worse. If he had no patience and less interest in it, Wrench would surely know — he'd make no illusions otherwise. The fact that he's carrying it on should say enough.

He reclines back in a chair that seems faintly dubious in its job at holding up his mass, creaking beneath him as his shoulders hit the wall behind their table. From that comfortable lean, he studies Wrench's expression, his countenance. Weighing, considering.

At length, he admits:

SPENT THE BETTER PART OF MY LAST YEARS ON THE RUN MYSELF. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TELL A KING TO FUCK OFF. I WAS ALL BUT DEAD WHEN THOSE WRINKLY OLD CUNTS PULLED ME THROUGH.

In other words, he can relate perhaps better than Wrench might have been expecting.

That almost inspires a laugh out of Wrench. It's as close as anyone seems to have gotten since he's been here, at least. The short burst of air through his nose seems suddenly amused, though his expression barely changes. Maybe there's a little bit more light behind his pale green eyes, but he's not quick to go drawing any parallels that might make Sandor balk. He can already imagine the other man's firm insistence that the two of them are nothing alike, and the pile of evidence he'd no doubt hurl to prove how less Wrench is by comparison.

He'd never, for example, have had the wherewithal to tell Tripoli to fuck off. But living vicariously through Sandor's own story is an unexpected delight. Wrench leans forward even as the other man is leaning back, posting both elbows on the table and falling straight into the tale.

All but dead thanks to the king? Did he send men after you to bring you back?

AYE, HE DID. BUT IT WASN'T THE KING'S MEN THAT DID ME IN.

Though gods know they tried — and maybe had a hand in it, if you want to be technical about it. That gaping wound at the juncture of his shoulder surely festering did not help his case in his battle with Breanne.

This, he thinks, is likely to amuse the fucker. He could keep it to himself, but fuck it, why not give the Deaf Cunt a laugh:

IT WAS A WOMAN. GIANT BITCH TALLER THAN YOU ARE. WE FOUGHT, AND SHE PUNCHED ME OFF A FUCKING CLIFF.

Just as Sandor is expecting, Wrench does exactly that. It startles out of him with a note of uncontrolled surprise, less truly amused than he is shocked at the story he's being told and the fact that the man across him is willingly giving it up. It's enough, for a second, to erase the fears that had plagued him earlier. The creeping realization that he's well and truly alone, and has been for a lot longer than he'd care to admit.

The involuntary sound is a lot less deep than someone might expect based on Wrench's stature alone. It's a soft tenor that manages, for half a second at least, to make him seem a lot younger and a lot less troubled by what he's been through than he really is. Then the sound is gone and Wrench is cradling his glass.

Punched off a cliff? And that's the last thing you remember before you woke up here? What'd you do to her to deserve that?

It is with perhaps a bit more force and a slightly more severe look than Wrench may have expected that he sharply answers:

I DIDN'T DO A FUCKING THING TO HER.

He is not his brother; probably best to leave it at that. Wrench didn't necessarily imply anything untoward, but he takes it that way all the same and resents even the hint of association. He won't linger on it, though — instead, he offers an abridged version of the truth.

SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD DO A BETTER JOB PROTECTING A GIRL I WAS LOOKING AFTER. I DISAGREED.

Another truth he won't correct: falling off that cliff is not the last thing he remembers. The last he recalls was lying broken at the bottom of the hill, bleeding, in pain, a bone in his leg jutting out from his trousers. Arya Stark, the cold little bitch, squatting in the distance and watching him bleed.

Begging her to kill him. To end it. Ready for death.

But that's his own fucking business.

She killed you to prove she could do your job better?

Never mind it may not be quite accurate. If Sandor isn't going to bother correcting the assumption he came directly here from a fall off a cliff, Wrench is going to go with what works. He's sure there isn't a person here who hasn't contemplated their own mortality. Apart, perhaps, from the ones claiming to be angels, who never had any mortality to begin with. It seems easier to simply assume that most of them found their way here on the verge of death. That this place is either a grand shared hallucination, or some kind of purgatory as they await whatever's next.

The way Wrench frowns thoughtfully into his glass makes the rest evident as well: if she managed to kill Sandor in the process, then she was probably right in her assertion. A fight to the death over the chance to defend a girl. Must have been some girl.

I wish she were here.
That's who I need teaching me to fight.

If you ask him, she did his job about a hundred times worse. The girl bloody took off. Arya Stark went from having one protector to zero, which is in all ways doing the exact opposite of the job. Fucking stupid, the entire thing. Not that he knows firsthand, only what he's heard from Snow and Sansa.

Despite his ill humor a moment prior, Wrench does earn himself a singular snort of something adjacent to laughter at that last little comment. Fuck off.

AND WHAT EXACTLY MAKES YOU THINK SHE'D WANT TO TEACH YOU?

He could defend himself. Admit to being wounded before their fight even started. Why bother? She'd been formidable enough regardless, and his ego's not so fragile as to need that on record.

Because I'm a fucking good student.

Look at that, Sandor. You managed to startle some self-confidence out of Wrench. He's still smiling to himself without a single hint of malice or offense, despite knowing this very well may not be the going theory. Wrench was never particularly successful in school, nor were his teachers particularly interested in ensuring that he would be. But if their midmorning swordplay is any indication, Wrench wants to learn, and he's glad enough to put the effort into learning as much as he can.

And I do what I'm told.

The addendum is perhaps more telling. Wrench means it to be half-humorous, because the moment he's said it he pitches back what's left of his drink and heads back up to the bar to get them the second round. Sandor said two drinks, and so they'll have two drinks.

Truth is, Wrench is dutiful to a fault. It's hard to tell what order he may willingly defy when so many of the ones he's been given in the past have put him solidly in the line of fire. Clearly the risk of his own imminent death isn't enough to make him say no.

He comes back a few moments later and plunks Sandor's glass down in front of him before swirling the liquid in his own.

A fucking good student is debatable, but they've only had the one lesson. He'll let that declaration linger unremarked upon for a few more yet, and they'll see how well Wrench's dedication to learning holds up. Particularly once Sandor starts striking him back properly, and he goes limping away with fresh bruises every time.

I do what I'm told, on the other hand? Well.

TRUE ENOUGH.

Nobody could doubt that. Particularly when Wrench comes back to top him off with a second drink; Sandor only smirks in wry amusement. It isn't every man that's willing to brag about how well he takes orders like a loyal dog — and, as it so happens, he's boasting about it to one of the few other men who do the same.

And so it goes, the pair of them sit drinking until the second round is gone — after which point Sandor will stand, grace Wrench with a relatively companionable slap to the shoulder, and then see himself out to wash up.

All things considered, a successful first lesson.

Mᴀᴅᴇ ᴍᴇ sᴇᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ I'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ( closed )

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we're just gonna pretend i spelled brienne right, she deserves better

honestly, we stan brienne 4ever

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