A/N: My deepest apologies for taking so long to get this up. Real life has been an absolute bitch lately. I'll try to get the next bit published in a more expediant manner, but I make no promises. Comments are food for the muse.

These Scars We Wear - 2

Strong hands clutch his shoulders, lifting, shifting, and he rouses enough to reach for the dagger at his waist. But he is so weak, and those same hands move to stop him.

"You won't be needing that, brother; I'm not here to harm you."

"Bugger your brother," he croaks and tries to focus on the face of the man who insists on lifting him higher against the tree trunk he rests upon. He blinks and struggles and a sudden jolt of agony in his leg wrenches a scream from his lips. Blackness swallows him whole.

….

"You must drink. It does no good if it dribbles down your chin."

Sandor is suddenly aware of the spice of wine upon his lips and tongue and grabs at the flagon, filling his mouth with the honeyed nectar of his prayers.

"Not too much, now. Just to wet your throat. That's good."

The flagon is taken from his hands and he watches the robed man set it aside and lift a dagger from a leather bag there.

"A throat doesn't need wet down before it's cut. If it's-" He breaks off, coughing, wincing as pain shoots through him. "-if it's mercy you mean to grant me, go for the heart."

"That sort of mercy is not mine to give. Not anymore. But there are other mercies. I mean to cut away your breeches so I can get a look at that leg of yours. It stinks of mortification."

"Does it? I hadn't noticed," he slurs, leaning far enough to the edge of the tree to draw close the flagon of wine. The man glances up as he cuts his way through the leg of Sandor's breeches, giving him a sour look as Sandor pulls out the cork with his teeth and takes a long swallow. His hand is shaking and more wine spills down his chin. "You're not a maester."

"Not a maester," the man agrees, his eyes cast down at his work. "I serve the Seven. I am Elder Brother at a septry not far from here. On the Quiet Isle."

"And I'm a deserter from King's Landing. With a price on my head, no doubt. A smarter man would take it off my shoulders and claim his gold."

"A smarter man would have kept going after he saw your helm lying there, ignored your cries. But I serve the Gods, not the boy who sits the Iron Throne. And we are all children of the Seven. Even you." The Elder Brother glances up at him and then back at his task.

Breeches slit and pulled back, he cuts through the strips of cloth glued to Sandor's thigh and abruptly peels them away. Sandor hisses and then the smell hits him, stronger and more foul than it was masked. He rolls his head, teeth clenched. He cannot make himself look at the wound. He doesn't need to. The stench tells him all.

"You know who I am?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Aye, I know you were Joffrey's hound. But who are you now? Just another man dying on the banks of the Trident. The blood still flows red from the wound, that's a good sign. But my Gods, it reeks."

"My sincerest apologies," Sandor retorts, and raises the flagon back to his lips. It is snatched away.

"Enough of that. I need to give you milk of the poppy; just enough to get you on your feet and into the wagon. You're too bloody big to carry, brother."

"I'm not your brother. And what kind of holy man curses anyway?"

"One who has been exactly where you find yourself now."

It is with more effort than it should take that Sandor raises his open hands, shrugs, and peers at his surroundings. "Here?"

The robed man makes a fist and pokes it hard into Sandor's chest, over his heart. "Here. And dying, too. Should I leave you to do it, with all that poison flowing through your veins? Is that how you want to die? Or would you do it under the roof of a humble septry instead, clean and warm and well-attended to? The choice is yours. Who are you now, brother?"

Sandor studies him for a long time; maps the broad, square face and the sharp eyes, the stubble that covers his cheeks and jaw and head. "I'm dying for certain then? You can't heal me?"

"Mayhaps I can, mayhaps I can't. Only the Mother can decide your fate. But I will do all that I can to mend your wounds. Healing the rest … that is up to you."

There is something in him that wants to curse this man in his rough-spun robe, chase him away with the rage that is all that he has known for as long as he can remember. Sandor is weak and feverish and desperate with the need to be left alone to die. He is tired, more tired than he has ever been. And yet …

There is something besides the rage and the exhaustion. A small thing, an ember burning within him that makes him ache even in its infancy. A hope he thought long dead, a dream he'd forgotten how to remember. He closes his eyes and recalls her hand cupping his cheek and how her skin had felt against his, like butterfly wings, silky and delicate.

"Give me milk of the poppy and I'll make my way to your wagon," he says. "My horse comes, too. I won't leave him behind."

Something like a smile flickers on the man's face before it's gone just as quickly. "The horse, too, brother."

"Sandor," he says as he takes the small vial from the man and chokes down the bitter milky fluid within it. "My name is Sandor. And I'm not your fucking brother."

….