DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the original ASOIAF characters or of the original MBotF characters. They belong to GRRM and Steven Erikson respectively.
Short ficlet starring poor Rhulad Sengar and a quite shocked Beric Dondarrion. Those two are just made to have a chat about life and, especially, death. Spoilers for Midnight Tides ahoy!
Flame me all you want, I'm fireproof.
Enjoy!
P.S. This fic has already appeared on the Valyrian Forged subcommunity of Westeros Sorting LJ community. Yep, sereq ieh dashret is me.
Ser Beric Dondarrion stared hard at the bizarre figure that was before him.
The stranger was tall and broad, wrapped in a bear fur, but apart from that sorely underdressed (boots and a loincloth did not amount to be properly dressed, in his book) and his skin was grey and crusted with what looked like coins, studded deep in the flesh.
Long, unkempt, brown hair fell on a youthful, if ravaged, face.
The stranger stared back at him with wild, red-rimmed eyes, keeping a death grip on a big two-handed sword.
"You have come back as well." the stranger said in a raspy voice.
"As well? From where?" repeated sir Beric, quirking an eyebrow.
"From death." the stranger clarified.
Ah, that explained a lot of things, Beric thought. Poor boy, to have been tortured like that.
"I should have imagined. Grey skin is a tell-tale sign." sir Beric commented, looking wistfully at his own unhealthy-looking, bloodless, greyish hands.
The stranger looked at him with a perplexed expression. "I was grey to begin with." he replied.
Ser Beric's lone remaining eye widened in amazement.
"Nevermind. – he said – How did it happen? Not that I want to pry…" he enquired, curious. There were few things that could stir him now, after all the times he had been brought back from the threshold, but meeting a fellow in this strange plight couldn't help but move him.
"The sword. – the stranger replied, his voice breaking, as if he was on the verge of tears – It is cursed. It brings me back every time."
"How many times?" asked Dondarrion.
"Five already, but there will be more, I know." the stranger replied with more than a hint of desperation and histeria in his voice.
Dondarrion closed the distance between them and squeezed his shoulder in what was supposed to be a reassuring gesture. "Come, there is wine, food and a fire in our cave. You need to rest." he offered.
The young man stared at him wide-eyed for a second, but followed meekly through the woods.
"How many times?" he asked suddenly.
"Six." Dondarrion replied. Five too many for his taste.