The battle had been over before it really began. Clegane's men had been laying in wait for them. A coward's tactic nobody had expected from the Mountain; a man so bold in his brutality, it seemed almost unreal. The detachment the crown had sent to bring him to justice had been cut in half, literally. Clegane's men had driven them apart into two groups; one fewer in numbers and none of them had survived. The rest had fought valiantly, but to no avail. When the dust had settled, only two dozen or so were still alive and most were so battered, the Mountain didn't even bother to pursue. He had been victorious and seemingly just wanted to get back to his bloody business; murdering men, women and children in the settlements of the Riverlands, slaughter them, rape them, leave their mangled bodies exposed as gruesome milestones on the way.
It was a morbid thought, but Clegane's eagerness to return to the slaughter of civilians had been a blessing. When all seemed lost, when Thoros saw his commander – and friend – dead in the dirt, after the lance had pierced his chest, the Mountain had been gone. He hadn't been there to witness the twist of fate; the Red God meddling with the affairs of men and allowing Thoros' mumbled prayer to channel his power. To bring Beric back from death.
Only a handful of their own men had witnessed it; most had been busy searching signs of life among the corpses of comrades and friends. But they all had heard Beric's cough when he opened his eyes, spitting blood and stale air. They all had seen him sit up, with Thoros' help, had seen him stare into the distance, through his surroundings, slowly realizing he was alive. Against all odds alive.
They didn't have the men to even consider retreating. Many were wounded and wouldn't have made it far, even if they hadn't been trapped behind enemy lines, with Tywin's Mad Dog and his army between them and their homes. Beric was in no condition to give any commands; his body was warm again, but his mind was still clouded by darkness and death. Everyone's eyes had been on him and Thoros, so Thoros took command. Led the remaining men to an abandoned farm, abandoned because Clegane had already passed through this region and left no survivors, not even the pigs or the yard dog.
Inside, they had found the mutilated corpses of the farmers; a couple and a young son. They had taken them outside, to bury them later with those who wouldn't make it through the night. The men had spread out across the house, found their own corners to suffer or tend to a suffering comrade. Beric had been their commander, but that was not the sole reason why the men agreed upon letting him have a private room. Nobody had said it out loud, but Thoros had seen it in their eyes. Some of the men were afraid after what they witnessed. Afraid of their fallen commander who was drawing breath again. And afraid of Thoros and the powers he had summoned. Some hadn't even known he was an actual priest until this day. They had heard him mumble a prayer here and there, had seen his fiery sword, ignited with parlour tricks and flammable oils. But they had believed Beric called him 'priest' as a monicker, the way the Clegane brothers were known as Mountain and Hound.
Thoros had brought Beric into a small chamber, perhaps the maid's room, or a farmhand's quarter, and put him down on the simple bed. He had lit a candle, as night was falling, and was about to return to the main room to talk to the men. Whether they were afraid of a foreign god's priest or not, he was the commander for the time being. But then he heard a coarse whisper and turned away from the door. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned over his commander to hear him repeat the words. "Don't go. I can't stay alone in the darkness." And Thoros stayed. He reached over, under Beric's neck, to lift his head just enough to rest it on his arm.
He saw the light of the candle reflect in Beric's eyes when he looked up, eyes filled with agony and confusion and questions he could not put in words yet. And there was something else when Thoros pulled him closer. Gratitude. "You won't be alone, in darkness or light," Thoros replied. Not a promise; a fact. The Red God had made the choice for them. No matter where the path would lead them, from now on, they would walk it together, to the very end. When they had left King's Landing, neither of them had believed in the Lord of Light. Now, there was no shadow of a doubt. There was only light, even if Beric couldn't see it yet. He would, in time, when his wound would have healed.
"Don't let it burn down," Beric whispered, not a request; a desperate plea, his eyes fixed on the candle next to the bed. Thoros nodded quietly and Beric sighed with relief when he closed his eyes. Thoros didn't have to make that promise. He knew the flame would always burn, with certainty he had never felt before. A candle, a hearth, a campfire in the woods, a forest fire, the entire world in flames; all in them, together, in this moment and all moments to come. He managed to find enough room on the bed to rest next to Beric, Beric's head on Thoros' shoulder, Thoros' arm over him and his fingers running through the golden hair, calming his friend's troubled thoughts enough to let him drift to sleep.
"Dream of fire, my lord," Thoros whispered, kissed Beric's forehead and then closed his eyes.
He hadn't addressed Beric by his title. Back in that night, neither of them had known that or had the mind to give it any thought. But over the years, unclouded by the shadows of death, Thoros had used 'my lord' as substitute for many things and Beric had understood them, like a secret language nobody but the two of them spoke. Thoros said it in a mocking tone to mean 'you fool'. He said it with a soft voice as a term of endearment. He said it in anger instead of 'you fucking idiot' and he said it under tears when Beric died; 'my everything'. That night, he had said it to put something into words that had no word for it. A word for a man who had given him back his faith in the Lord of Light. A man who had died and been reborn under his touch and hollow words. A man who would always be by his side, from this day to his last day.
It made no difference if Thoros spoke in anger or affection. When he called Beric 'my lord' in the years to follow, it brought back this memory. Beric could almost physically feel it. Like phantom pain, but it wasn't the aching wound in his chest. It was Thoros' hand running through his hair, the echo of a touch, like a kiss through a veil. Even in their most heated arguments, these two simple words had the power to remind Beric that Thoros would always be with him to keep the darkness away, would keep the fire burning.
That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of flaming swords cutting away the night. Of dragons soaring through a burning sky. Of hearts ablaze, forging a divine bond that would burn hotter and brighter than dragonfire in the years to come.
When the sun came up in the morning, it felt colder and weaker than the day before. Thoros knew it was not because winter was coming. Here in the Riverlands, winter was still a distant memory; the forests were green, the farms around the settlements were ready for harvest and the winds nothing but a gentle breeze. When winter would approach, the leaves would turn brown and fall, the fields would no longer be golden and the winds would blow colder, and all of it was still months away. Thoros knew, the sun had not become colder. It was something in him that had changed. He had felt a greater fire and nothing else would ever feel as warm as before. A man who had lived by a lake all his life would never think of it as vast again once he had caught sight of the sea.
Beric had still been sleeping and Thoros covered him with a fur before he went to look after the men. Beric had seen the darkness. He had felt the cold. He didn't need to feel the sun's lost warmth when he woke up. The candle, now a shapeless blob of molten wax, was still burning; a tiny flame in the hot puddle bravely soldiering on. There was no need to light a new one, not with the daylight falling through the narrow window, but Thoros did it anyway. Not for warmth, not for light, but so R'hllor would watch over Beric while he was with their men.
There were men waiting outside; some still looking fearful, others leery. All demanded answers, and Thoros had none to give, not yet. He told them what he knew, as little as it was. That yes, their commander was alive, but would need more rest. That no, he hadn't had the power to bring people back from death until that day. That his prayers had been as hollow as they thought, that he had not truly believed in the Lord of Light for a very long time and that now, he did, with all his heart. When the men realized that Thoros could not give them the answers they wanted, they went quiet for a moment. Thoros asked them to stay quiet, then opened the door to Beric's room, let the soldiers see he was breathing. That was the only answer he had and it was enough to brush away their doubts for now.
They asked Thoros to speak to the rest of them; the wounded and those too afraid to approach. To speak to them as acting commander, tell them what to do, as many were young and had not seen many battles, if any at all. Thoros did. He sent out scouts to look for signs of a returning Mountain. He told those able to work to bury the dead; the family they had found and the three soldiers who had succumbed to their injuries in the night. He had the men with minor injuries gather the food they could find around the farm house. It was all he could do; all he felt he had a right to tell them. He was not their commander. It was not his place. He looked after Beric, changed his bandages, washed the blood away. He fed him the stew the men had made. He tried to answer the same questions the soldiers had asked before. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed when Beric drifted away to sleep. He lay next to him at night, kept the candle burning, told him the flame would never die. That was his place. By Beric's side, not anywhere else in the world.
On the third day, Beric had recovered enough to speak to his men when they came to his room. He was still weak, the wound still too fresh, but his mind was clear now. He had no more answers than Thoros to the questions about his resurrection, but he tried. He told the soldiers that the Lord of Light had brought him back, that they still had a mission and the Red God wanted them to keep fighting, that their cause was not lost. He never once mentioned the darkness he had seen. When asked directly, he claimed to remember only the pain when the lance pierced his chest and nothing else. The men accepted it. They did not notice that Beric reached for Thoros' sleeve when they asked, to request water or help to sit up. Thoros noticed. And he would never ask for the truth, ask what Beric had seen. He knew his lord would tell him, when he was strong enough to speak of it.
In the evening, the first three men approached Thoros and asked him how they could convert; abandon the Seven and pledge their souls to the Red God. Thoros had to dig deep to remember, to recall the words that had to be said. The men said them and it did not matter if the oaths were phrased the way they were in temples. Thoros knew the Red God would welcome the converts either way. He had taken him back, a drunk who never even meant the words he said. The Lord of Light would not turn the men who followed him away. And when the sun set on the fifth day, all but a handful of the soldiers had converted. Thoros did not ask the remaining men why they did not say the words. They didn't need to follow him or his foreign god. They would follow Beric, their commander, and he had been touched by fire.