For a long time, it seemed doubtful that his passenger would wake at all. He hadn't stirred since passing out back in the clearing where he'd been found, and then only barely, rolling his eyes over to stare at him, feverish and bloodshot as he slurred, "Fuck it, just kill me already," and then moaned, plaintively.
Of course, it had been immediately apparent to him that the man was gravely wounded and would not live without aid. However, now his purpose was divided – to fulfill the man's wishes, or to bring him back and attempt a healing.
There was no real debate, after all, and the burned man – the septon refused to refer to him as 'the Hound' – passed out when he first tried to touch the septic wound in his thigh and hadn't stirred since. He shifted, occasionally, muttering restlessly, flesh burning from within.
However, now he was stirring more purposefully. "Damn – damn-" He coughed, weakly, raggedly, and started to roll over as though to stand, or try. The septon knew there was no chance of him getting close, but pushed him back down anyway.
"Hold still. You will not help yourself that way."
The man fought one eye open through the bleary muck of fever and looked at the septon for several moments, seemingly not comprehending. Then he made a queer noise that seemed to be something like a laugh. "A septon. You've got to be fucking jesting," he said, blurrily, and closed his eye again. "Is this hell?"
The septon winced, pained at his charge's roughness. "No, it is not. You live still."
"Really? Damn. Get it over with already."
He sighed, wearily, disappointed. "Are you so weary of living, my friend?"
"Fucking hurts. Shut up and let me get back to dying. Hells can't be any worse than this, burning already."
Then he fell silent again, and whether or not he was pretending to rest was not clear, but he didn't speak. The septon felt his forehead and frowned for the heat there, knowing that a man's brains could cook with a fever like that, and while the gods had plans for everyone, he didn't think that this man was quite done with living a full life yet. But the Isle was too far to reach in one day, still, and pushing on would be wise for none of them. Perhaps he could do some simple tending here.
His patient moaned again, woke and struggled when the septon dragged him down from the cart. Less gently than would have been best, perhaps, but it would be necessary to have the fire nearby, and he couldn't do that in the wagon. "Fuck you," said the burned man, coherently, before slipping back into unconsciousness as the septon, ignoring him, built a fire. His patient stirred more, moved his head from side to side restlessly as he did this, but didn't wake for some time.
When he did, it was screaming, eyes gone wide and wild, trying to struggle away from the fire with uncooperative limbs, breathing too hard. Startled, the septon hurried around the other side of the fire.
"No," panted his patient, almost in a whine, "No, I won't, I won't, take it away…"
"Take what?" The septon asked, curious and worried, but the body had gone limp again, shuddering one last time with the effort it had taken, and he settled for starting work on the man's leg, the wound that had gone bad, starting by squeezing at the edges, trying to get some of the foulness in the wound out of it, and was rewarded by a gush of black blood and a distinctly pained noise from his patient.
"Get – off…" Faintly, and the septon chose to ignore it, continuing his work on draining the wound, frowning. He could feel his patient's body tense, though, and then relax, so he was aware. "Don't – want – fire."
Or perhaps not.
"The fire won't touch you," he attempted to soothe, poking deeper in the wound, wishing he were more experienced with this type of thing.
"Touches everything," his patient said, blearily, "Already burning…" But if he had been fully conscious at all, a moment later he wasn't. The septon shook his head slightly, finished doing what he could for the wound, bound it back up, and lay down across the small fire.
They could move on tomorrow, and if traveling went well perhaps reach the Isle by midday.
The septon woke halfway through the night to find his patient struggling to rise, breathing heavily. "What are you doing, my friend?"
He snarled, incoherently. "Don't – need this." He could see, dimly, one hand digging into the bandage on his thigh, the stain of blood, his gritted teeth. "Not…living. A fucking cripple."
"You live, despite all odds," the septon said, knowing that his patient would in no case be able to rise, but prepared to catch him if he fell or looked to hurt himself any more than he already was. "The gods have some purpose for you."
The man who had been the Hound hissed. "Don't talk to me about gods. Fucking useless…damn you."
"It is the only option, is it not? If it weren't for the gods…"
"If it weren't for you, meddling idiot – ready to die. Done with this. Fuck you." But he was fading again, and fast, slipping back down into unconsciousness. "Not gods. Never gods. A lie. Fucking lie like the goddamn song…" He coughed, roughly.
Delirious, the septon concluded, and far more of a danger to himself than others. It looked to have been the right choice; this man was clearly in need of guidance. "Lie down. Rest. Perhaps your purpose will be clearer than the morning."
It took him a moment to realize that the rasping cough in his patient's throat was supposed to be a laugh. "Purpose. Purpose. My purpose is dead." More laughter, wilder, nearly hysterical. "My purpose is dead. Like me."
"You're not dead yet," the septon offered helpfully, and the man who had been the Hound laughed harder, body shaking with the bitter, terrible sound.
"And isn't that a pity. Isn't that a pity." The laughter died in a moan.
"Gods…gods. Tell your gods to end it, then. Tell your gods to fucking have a little mercy."
"This is mercy," the septon said gently, frowning slightly. "You will find mercy."
"This isn't mercy," the man hissed, blearily, "This is life. Life is the least merciful thing there is."