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Over the pounding and the hissing, Hodor realizes two things in rapid succession: First, Bran left him, like a bow string drawn too far, snapping back into his own body and leaving Hodor alone in his. Second, Hodor is dying.
Hodor doesn’t begrudge Bran and Meera his life. Stableboys weren’t meant for heroic destinies. A finger jams into Hodor’s side, and twists, breaking off to leave bone buried deep inside him. Hodor aches at the loss of the Children of the Forest, and the passing of something rich and magical from this world. He hopes Nan’s stories were right, and some yet live in the line of House Reed.
The jaws of a walker crushes his foot.
Shh, Willas. Peace now. There’s still time to remember. Lyanna’s smile, bright and sharp as a fine steel sword. Hodor howled, far away, as his hand was torn from the end of his wrist. Ned and Bran clashing in the yard, and Willas, currying Lord Rickard’s horse to the beat of the slashes and blocks. His good foot keeps time in the world, but Hodor is not there. Hold the door, Meera said. So he does, and he remembers.
Bathing in the pond beneath the weirwood, and seeing it’s leaves all wavey red and gold from below. Oiling tack with Robb and Theon, feeling good just listening to them talk like dogs butting chests in play. A lemon cake, fresh from the kitchen, that Sansa split with him one fine evening on the balcony when he brought her some wood. Sundogs in winter. The clap of a raven’s wings as it took flight from the aerie.
Another walker snatches a fistful of muscle and blood from his shoulder.
Threads of white like veins in Lady Catelyn’s hair. The soft white fur of a direwolf’s shoulder as Jon held the pup for Hodor to pet. Scratchy wool against his cheek as his mother holds him close. The bow of a dwarf, like acknowledging like, in a world meant for able men. Rickon, filthy to his eyeballs, after falling into the privy heap.
A door cracks open, spilling out the upper body of a walker. Another door in the distance swings wide, its silvery light on the snow almost too bright to bear.
Willas, you’ve done well.
Broken wood scores Hodor’s back as he slumps to his knees in the wet, red snow.
I held.
Hands reach out for his neck, scrabbling at the skin and stubble.
It’s time to come home, Willas.
Blue roses in the garden, the scent of summer sky.
I can…still hold…
Just a little longer.
We're holding the door open for you, Willas. Come home, your task is done.
The final shards of the door burst apart, splintering over Hodor. Bony feet press his face deep into the muddy churned ground. Some few walkers stop to feast. But the shell is empty. Willas is home, in the summer sky.