bakerstreet | Soulmates

"I'm from Westeros," Sansa says, as if that would be absolutely obvious. Everyone is from Westeros unless they are from Essos, and her accent is obviously Westerosi even if it has the tells of the North in it. There's no disputing it. His accent is strange to her ears, almost as if it has a lilt to it that means he's strayed from Westeros for a while and she wonders how one would pick up such an accent. It's a curiosity.

"If I smell of trees, it is because I came from a weirwood grove, not a grove of trees that speak." She looks at the treant and hesitantly gives his name. "Ser Gorswartch, as it were. Our trees may have faces but they are not in the habit of actually speaking."

Sansa presses her lips together. "I am Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. This is not the North and I wish to know where I have wound up."

"Not a place I'm familiar with, so that solves that." Queen in the North, mm? Oh, that would go over like a lead balloon here. "You may be a Queen somewhere, dove, but it's not here, and if talking trees are enough to throw you, then what the rest of them could do might be something you don't quite survive. And I have a keen feeling that you do want to survive, aye?"

Rue sat by his feet, tail curled around Rowan's as he looked up at both Sansa and Rowan. There was that tug again, and Rowan scowled down at the fox. "This is not the North, no, though you're closer to the Winter Court than the Summer one. You're in Underhill, land of the fair folk, fairy, sidhe, and all things magical. Perhaps it's a dream, but perhaps it's not. It's been awhile since a wanderer has found their way here independently. Most of the open doors were closed. Which begs the question of which door you came through."

"I didn't come through a door," Sansa insists. "I followed that fox," she says, giving the animal a pointed look, "and suddenly all the trees changed. I was at home in my Godswood before the fox showed up. I don't know why I followed him. I just felt a strange desire to do so. It isn't in my nature to go traipsing off into the woods."

Of the Starks, she's the least likely to have done so, actually.

"I very much wish to survive. I have survived this long and I wish to continue doing so. What I really want to know is how I got here and how I get back. Do I simply walk back the other way and wind up back in my weirwood grove? Your fox led me on quite the chase if I ended up somewhere else entirely."

It's absolutely ridiculous to believe it but in order to even begin to tackle this logically, she does have to accept the idea of her not being in Westeros any longer being a basic fact to build upon. If she is not in Westeros and this man does not lie, then there is a door she came through as he insinuates. That means she could go back through the door, presumably, and wind up back at home.

"I'm not one to believe in imaginary things but I think I'm going to have to if I'm meant to find a way out of this particular situation."

Edited 2025-05-26 05:30 (UTC)

"Oh, you most definitely came through a door, just not one you'd likely recognize." He glanced down at Rue, looking at the fox who was pretending he hadn't just lured someone into Underhill against their will. A young lady from a land none of them had heard of. Or, at least none he'd heard of, and he was one of the more travelled fae.

Queen or not, he expected that she'd want to get home, as any sane person would. Which begged which door to go through, and if time would do what it sometimes did when one came to Underhill for those not of the magically inclined. A day could be a year, or a century. Or a second. Time was a rather human construct, and Underhill liked to remind everyone about it.

"Rue apologizes for leading you astray, don't you?" He glared down at the fox, and his familiar answered by curling up and hiding his nose in his tail. "Perhaps he'll make good on that apology by helping find the way back to where you came from..." The fox, for his part, was looking as if he might just take a nap. Which Rowan was inclined to believe meant 'No, you can deal with her on your own, thank you. I brought you a present and you're being rude about it'. Or maybe that was just the bond they had. He sighed.

"Well, Ms. Stark- ah, Lady Stark, I should at least ask if you're all right. Any missteps or injuries to tend to before we attempt to figure this out?" Lady. He'd spent too long among the humans and knew it when he had to work to remember how to speak cordially.

"No, no new injuries. Just the old ones I already had," Sansa says. She's never kept that a particular secret and everyone in the North knows her tragic history so it doesn't occur to her to conceal it from this man who is decidedly not from Westeros. What would be the point? It doesn't change the fact that the injuries exist.

"Confusion, I suppose, but that is natural when one starts in one place and winds up in another. You did not give me your name, my lord."

He has the advantage on her, having her name and title, and she'd learned the tree's name before the man. She even knows the fox's name, Rue, and thinks said fox looks very content with himself at the moment. Oh, to be that fox! Sansa would like to be so comfortable as to be able to settle in for a nice nap.

"Old ones?" That has his interest flaring, and that power of his makes itself known in his blood, humming quietly. But her comment has him reminded of his lack of manners in all things old and courtly, and he sighs, hand rubbing over his face before he smiles at her.

"You're right, Lady, and I can only beg your forgiveness for such an egregious misstep. My name in any world is Rowan O'Cleary. In this world, it has a Lord or Prince before it, but I prefer neither. In the other land that I spend more time in, Doctor is my moniker and preferred profession. You're welcome to merely call me Rowan, no titles needed, as neither of us are beholden to each other's lands and lords. You mentioned injuries. Perhaps that's something I can assist with, but...," he glances over at the tree, then down at Rue, gesturing for the fox to precede them in the direction they needed to go, to at least have less ears around them, "it's best not done here under watching eyes."

He heard a harrumph from Gorswartch, but it was hardly an insult and the tree had better things to do than be involved in the activities of warmbloods.

"I don't think you can heal these," Sansa says. "my lor--Rowan. They're quite old and established at this particular point and the time in which they could have healed clean is done and gone. We wouldn't be able to look at them here anyway - they're not in polite places."

Doctor is a word that she doesn't know and she tilts her head curiously. If he's a healer, he's likely a maester, and perhaps that's the word for it in this version of the world.

"You're a maester, then? Maesters are healers," she explains. "We don't use the word you just used - doctor. That's not one that I know. If you are a maester, you can look at them if you want to, but you'll be just as unsuccessful as my own maester was in healing them. They were executed quite professionally, I'm afraid."

"Maester might be true. Physician is another one you may know. Healer, though, seems to be universal. So, my dear lostling, why don't we try to find the tear you came through and see if we can't find your way back home? This is no place for a human to wander untended, and I now find myself in place of your protector."

So far, there'd been no touching. No skin to skin contact. A plucked twig from hair, but nothing else to put them together. Rue was apparently getting tired of that, making that high pitched grunting that foxes made when they were annoyed. "We'll see about what can and can't be done when we find a place to see to such things. Now, shall we?"

He held his arm out to escort her, trying to mentally shove Rue towards the direction he'd snagged her from.

Sansa goes to take his arm but her sleeve slips upward as she does, her bare skin brushing against his. That was...strange. For some reason, touching him made her feel safe, somehow, and that was not something Sansa normally felt around strange men. It was enough to startle her and have her pull her arm away only to reach out and touch his hand again - same sensation.

"What in the seven hells is that?" Sansa asks. "That feeling. It feels strange when I touch you. Why would that be?"

Rue seems to be interested in this and Sansa has no idea why the fox would be interested in who his master did or did not touch but she's already established that this fox is not a normal fox and has some sort of intelligence outside of what a fox would normally have.

"Your fox reminds me of a direwolf. My brother's direwolf acts strange like that sometimes. Mine did too, sometimes, but she's long passed."

"Shit." He shouldn't have said that, but as soon as her skin touched his, he felt that strange twist over himself that he felt when he either set or removed his glamour. But normally he was in control of that scenario. He'd all but mastered his ability to fit in among the humans almost before he was ready to leave Underhill.

He felt that magic stripped away from him, and that would leave him laid bare. Not an odd sight for any fae or treant or even Rue. But certainly, having the man escorting you suddenly start to look as if he was made of glittering strands of something might be a little... unusual. His hair was now laced with strands of gold and bronze, and his eyes seemed to be glittering with bronze and copper. His skin would seem like it was dusted with gold, and he blinked and stared down at Rue, then over at Sansa.

"Oh Fates." Well, he'd been thinking about it earlier, hadn't he? Seemed like maybe Rue had picked up on that and decided enough was enough. It made him wonder if the fox had always known where she was, or if he'd been waiting until she was ready for a mate. The mention of private wounds and hurts made him think that things hadn't been beneficial for her in that area. Which suddenly and irrationally pissed him off. "He's my familiar. You should have one too, but it seems... odd. That you don't. Did you have one and it was taken from you?" That would make more sense, but if she came from a world without familiars, it made him wonder just how different everything about that world and its inhabitants were. And how that would work with being bonded to one.

Sansa has no idea what to do with the shimmering illusion of the man now, the way that he glitters and shines. She's never seen anything like this before in her life but it is mesmerizing in a way that she thinks is very, very dangerous. She could look at this man for a thousand years and never have her fill of it; Sansa has never felt that way about anyone or anything.

It startles her for a moment when he asks about a familiar and she frowns at his question.

"Like your fox, you mean? I had a direwolf when I was a girl. She was killed. All of us Starks had a direwolf. Only my brother still has his with him - the rest of us lost ours over the years. Lady was not even a year old when she died."

"Not the same, but I'm sorry you lost her. Familiars are... well. Bonded to us almost immediately after birth. They're a piece of us. And this one, sorry sod that he is, seems to have made up his mind that you're... mine. Ours, I suppose."

It took him a minute, two, then an almost pained breath before he managed to settle his glamour back over himself. He'd lost it before, but that was usually during a moment of him using an inordinate amount of power, or when he coupled with another powerful being and let himself let it all go. This? This had never happened, and he felt as if he should apologize, though that seemed equally foolish. "I wonder what that says about your world. Does it have magic?" Seemed a sound question. The human world had it, though it was muted. Still, it had enough for him to work his own and to keep alive those magical creatures that lived out among it. Enough to have familiars. Perhaps her world was void of it.

"Only a Red Priestess has magic as far as I know," Sansa says. "I've seen one raise the dead and light a field afire. There isn't anything else magical in my world but I think there were sorcerors in Old Valyria. Those ways are all lost to us now."

Magic? It would explain talking trees and men who looked like beautiful visions. Sansa has always been wary of beautiful men since Ramsay but she wonders if she touches Rowan again if he'll transform into that glittering creature once more. She finds herself craving it, honestly, and she balls her hands up to keep from touching him.

"What do you mean...yours, exactly? You don't intend on keeping me here, do you? I'm a queen, I cannot go off into the woods with a fox and a man who looks as if sunlight made him. It's all a bit too fanciful and I am long past the dreams of a young girl. Life is not full of songs and maiden dreams."

Sansa wants to touch him again, though, and wants to see if he'll transform again. No. She mustn't.

Priestess. So there was something full of magic in her world. It made him a little curious about what sort of world it was in general. Her attire spoke of something older. Her voice spoke of it as well. Maesters instead of doctors. Queens. Lords. He had an image in his mind of what sort of world she came from.

He saw her curl her hands into fists and glanced down at his arm. "I think I have it under control now. I'm guessing that it was the Fate's way of taking a bat to my head to let me know what they wanted me to know. As for what I mean?"

He sighed. Glancing around, he slid his arm around to let his hand rest at the small of her back. "It seems we need to talk. I have a tent I can set up if it goes overlong, but why not make camp to let you rest from your travel and to let us acquaint ourselves with this new reality, mm?"

Rue nudged him, then went over with a wagging tail to Sansa, shifting onto his side and yipping at her. "See? Rue agrees."

"We might as well make camp. If my journey back home is going to take longer than the journey here, I'll need the rest."

If this man were going to hurt her, he would have already had plenty of opportunities and it was clear that he is something other than a man and likely more than capable of doing it. Perhaps she is a fool for trusting him - all men are poison and lies - but the little fox is far more convincing. He reminds her of Ghost, pure white as snow, and she feels safe with him around.

"My brother's direwolf is white as snow like your Rue here. They fight as one on the battlefield. It is almost as if they know what the other is thinking. I've never seen anything like it, truly, but this little fox reminds me of Ghost in some way."

Perhaps that is what he means by familiar. Sansa never had a relationship with Lady quite like that even if she felt her loss keenly but perhaps she would have been able to have one if Lady had lived. If only! So much of her life is full of ifs and what could bes.

"Am I the first person you've ever found lost in your woods before?"

He was going to lead her away from the treant and towards a less encounterable area. There was a clearing, and Rue let him know it was relatively safe- as safe as any place in fairyland could be. He went over to a rock and pressed power into it, using small magic to turn it into a seat for her before he gestured for her to sit. When and if she did, he'd start making a circle around them, a wide space that he could set a tent and ward to shield them from passersby and anything of a mind to bother them. As he set the magic, he thought about what she said. A bond with a wolf- a direwolf no less. Perhaps not the same, but similar. And she'd lost hers. Pity.

"No," he answered, giving her a small smile as he finished the warding, then unslung his pack to pull out the tent to start setting it up. It was a modern bit of equipment, so it was one of the nylon ones that had long poles to prop it up. Only he'd gotten this at an open Night Market, and it had been magicked to be larger on the inside. To have a bed, settings, and almost be something of a traveling home, if he activated the magic. Wouldn't do to have that pop up out in Yellowstone. "Humans wander into Underhill now and then, but they've mostly seemed to come from one particular realm that we're tied to. This... Westeros, Essos... it seems like an entirely new realm that we've not known about. Until now. Which comes with its own complications. New humans to find themselves at risk stumbling in here." He'd have to bring it up to one of the member of Court at some point. Just... not yet.

Sansa watches with fascination as he turns a rock into a soft seat and pulls out a tent of the likes she's never seen before. Everything about this man is unbelievable, some sort of maiden's fantasy, and she feels as if she blinks he'll disappear. She feels as if she'll wake up in her bed after this long, elegant fantasy and be cold and alone with the fire burned out and frost on the glass panes of her window.

"I have never heard of your Underhill, so we are equals in that regard. The only thing I can say for it is that it is quite a bit warmer than Winterfell and I think I've dressed incorrectly."

Sansa's dress is a thick velvet meant for keeping out a winter's chill but she thinks she could almost wear the lighter dresses she wore in King's Landing in this place. It isn't hot, by any means, but it is no Winterfell either. At some point, she'd lost her cloak, and she rues the loss; it had been one of her finer ones.

"What...are you a man? Or some sort of god? I rather think you must be one of the Old Gods, looking as you did for that brief moment. You are no mere maester, that's for certain."

"I am no god, not by any stretch of the imagination, and don't let any of those you find in here tell you otherwise about myself or them. We are fae. The Daoine Sidhe, to be specific. Fae incorporate a wide variety, such as the treant you met earlier. We, those like myself, are the high fae of this land. The rest fall somewhere on their own scale of power and ability under that. We are not mortal, but we are not gods. Neither old nor new." He wanted to quash that idea before it took root. Too many old, old fae still held old names that claimed power, and they were bitter at humanity for refusing to call them by it anymore.

With the wards also including a quieting spell, he glanced up at her as he knelt by the opening of the tent. "I'm a healer. But I'd like that to stay between us. There's physical healing, which is what I assume your maesters do, and then there's healing of the kind that requires power, and that is not something I want known or shared." So why was he sharing it with her? Because everything was pointing to her being his mate, and he couldn't keep that kind of thing from her.

"I suppose the second is not something one would use very often." Privately, Sansa still thinks he must be some sort of god because that is the only explanation she can think of for a man to become a glittering, stunning creature as Rowan had become for that brief moment but if he doesn't want to be referred to as such, she'll keep it to herself. He had made a big deal about them not using titles - his nor hers - so she will respect that request.

"I have nothing extraordinary about myself other than being a beauty, which has brought me more pain than glory. If I had my life to do over again, I would wish to be a plain girl who brought no attention to herself and slipped through life subtle as a mouse. It would have made my life so much easier to not be who I am."

Sansa is proud to be a Stark and always will be but if she'd been some farmer's daughter, she likely wouldn't have been twice married and widowed and treated horribly for years. Her name and her claim would have meant nothing and she could go traipsing through the woods as much as she liked without anyone missing her.

"Being beautiful is a curse in Westeros. It was for me."

He sat down on the ground beside the seat he'd made for her, glancing up at her, then down at Rue, who sat between them. "And yet you're still a beauty, for all the hardship you've been through. And no, dove, that's not me mocking you or dismissing your pain. The places I've been, the things I've seen... people can do such horrors to one another. To themselves."

Rowan had the strongest urge to just lean over and rest his head on her knee. To relax. To be close. It was bad enough he had the fae's natural desire to touch and be touched, but humans always took things the worst way. Sensual was sexual, and close was intimate. They rarely touched just to touch, and it was one of the pains he had to deal with when he was among them. Still he wanted to, but her words let him know that there was too much pain there to prod too quickly. "I meant what I said. I might be able to heal your wounds, old though they might be. The body has a natural tell to it. It wants to be whole. I would very much like to do what I can to take some of that pain away from you."

"If you would like to look, I would allow it. I would like to go inside the tent first, however, because my wounds are in places that I would not like other people to see. It is fine enough for a healer to see them - you're used to looking at bodies - but I do not want to be caught with my dress off in front of others."

Sansa normally wouldn't allow anyone to see her scars but she trusts that he's a healer - she feels it from him somehow - and he seems concerned about her injuries. Ramsay had left his mark on her, that's for certain, and she thinks she'll wear those marks forever even if this...god has magic. Magic cannot erase everything, can it?

"I'm certain you can understand my reticence in this matter? I am a proper lady, after all."

"Aye, that you are. Inside, if you please." And inside would look something like a modern day cottage, complete with bedroom, bathroom, and sitting area with a fireplace, small kitchenette, and all the comforts of home. "I can get you a robe to change into, to make you more comfortable."

That she was willing to show him soothed some part of him that was already angry over her wounds. He may be a healer, but he was a sidhe, and no sidhe was shy of fighting for what they wanted or laying claim to it. Nor in spilling blood when needed. It helped him plenty in the human world, as he found he could make decisions more easily without being weighed down by the guilt of death and injury that came with catering to them. He'd ended more than one life in his long one, and they were usually the lives that took joy in harming others. It weighed as light as a feather on his conscience.

Sansa gasps when she goes inside the tent and it is rather more like a cottage than what she's expecting. She looks at Rowan, shocked, and then realizes she should probably stop feeling that way. He has magic, after all, and this is just another manifestation of something she already knows. He offers her a robe and she gives him a peculiar look.

"You won't be able to see anything if I have a robe on," she points out to him. "My wounds are beneath my clothes and a robe would obscure them, as kind as the gesture is. He made sure to keep my face and hands clear of any harm. It would not do well to have the Lady of Winterfell walking about scarred and broken."

Sansa hardly thinks he can do anything about the scars she's acquired from Ramsay but if he thinks that he can, she is more than happy to show them to him and let him determine it for himself. It isn't as if she's ever had a magical maester look at them before, after all.

"Wherever it is easiest to examine me, I will disrobe and show you what my wounds are."

That left him in a dilemma. The bedroom was the obvious answer, but he didn't want her to think he had ulterior motives- even if he realized he might. Oh, he'd treat her entirely like his patient while she showed him her marks. He'd do his best to show nothing on his face if she disrobed. But he, and Rue, were well aware that he'd be a messy tangle of things inside. Rage, fury, pity, heartbreak, and want would be all wrapped up.

"Here, if you'd like. The door's closed," and locked, though that didn't matter so much with the warding circle up. "We'll not be interrupted. If you need help disrobing, I'm capable of that much." And he hoped that he'd be capable of healing her. He hadn't met anything he couldn't fix yet, well, other than death. But he also didn't often offer to do anything so long past the healing stage. He didn't want to promise and be foresworn, so he was leaving it open.

Sansa goes through the door and finds a bedroom with one bed as expected of a man who isn't intending to have a lost queen end up in his woods. It's a suitable enough place to be examined, though, and she's glad that she's long given up on wearing dresses that require maids to help her in and out of - it is highly inconvenient for someone who values their privacy.

Sansa unties the front of her dress and slips it off. The worst of Ramsay's work is on her back so her chemise is going to have to come off along with her corset and it doesn't take her long to deal with either of them, practiced fingers working the laces loose and pulling away the fabric. She hadn't expected to walk into someone else's woods and wind up in nothing but her silken smallclothes but one never knows what might happen when she wakes up in the morning, she thinks.

"You may see," she says. "The most of it is on my back and my thighs but he liked to use his knife a bit of everywhere so long as it was covered. The scars didn't all heal clean. If you intend to attack me while I'm vulnerable, I have no weapon but I do know how to bite."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(would you like him to be able to heal them? I don't want to overstep)

oh he absolutely can! she'd love them gone