They rode fast like lightning and with the fury of thunder; the fiery autumn leaves a flurry of red and brown to their left and their right. Thoros shook the reins; pushing the exhausted horse to go faster. Beric, in front of him, slumped against his shoulder, axe wielding pursuers somewhere behind. It hadn't been Thoros' plan when he grabbed Beric's arm to pull him up to his horse, because Thoros hadn't had any plans. Now it felt like a blessing, not hinderance, that Beric was where he was. His arm was still hanging on Thoros' shoulder, somehow, but too weak to cling on. If it hadn't been for Thoros' arm around his waist, Beric would surely have fallen out of the saddle by now.
Clegane had left the walls of Harrenhal, just like that, leaving nothing but death and despair to haunt the blackened ruins. It would have been good, it could have been good, it could have meant an end to fights and deceptions, a moment to breathe between battles and blood. But no. The Young Wolf was still weeks away, and the Riverlands were teeming with every last bandit and tribesman daring to come out from the hole he was hiding in. Was there even anything left to pillage? The hill tribes seemed to think so, and without the strong presence of lions, they grew ever more ferocious when they left their mountains and forests for raids.
This was not an enemy the Brotherhood had expected to fight. The Mountain's sudden departure from Harrenhal had come without warning, making the weeks seem quiet at first, as they had been between battles before. Robb Stark had hurt the Lannisters deeply; rumors said the Northern armies had captured the Kingslayer, and it seemed unlikely the enemy would abandon a stronghold after the loss of their general. News from the capital were sparse and the Brotherhood had nothing but hearsay to go by; contradicting tales colored by travelers in taverns with every allegiance under the sun.
The hill tribes didn't give a damn about any of this. They came for the late harvests, the scraggy live stock left on the pastures, the little peace the smallfolk still had after wolves and lions finished their feasts.
Thoros didn't know who gave pursuit, if it was Burned Men or Stone Crows, Moon Brothers or Redsmiths, and it didn't matter who they were. What mattered was Beric, the wound in his side and time running short. The axe had cut deep and the blood was seeping through his tunic, soaking Thoros' sleeve and dripping down on the saddle. Horses, that was the one thing the hill tribes had not stolen, because no farmer or breeder had had any left on his yard.
Right after the tribesmen had attacked, with war cries and reckless abandon, it had felt like a blessing to at least have the means for a quick retreat. But right now, with Beric barely concious in front of him, Thoros didn't feel blessed. The escape had been hasty and with no regard for direction; being outnumbered twenty to one had that effect. Now he found himself on a path that looked like all others, without a hint where the Hollow Hill might be, realizing no matter which route he took, it would take too long.
Thoros pulled the reins, holding them with one hand, to tell the horse to stand still on a crossing, Beric heavy in his other arm. He caught his breath, then looked around, to listen to the forest's song, just to make sure he had shaken off the tribesmen for now. Not even a bird sang, just a mild wind rustled the leaves.
"Beric?" Thoros slightly shook him, with a vague hope he could tell him what direction to take even in his state. Beric didn't react. His head was hanging to his shoulder, his eyes were closed, the blood had stopped flowing from his side. And Thoros knew there was no answer but this being the loneliest place a man could find on Earth. But before the harsh reality could begin to sink in, the forest's eerie silence was broken. The cries of Burned Men or Stone Crows, Moon Brothers or Redsmiths carried over from the near distance and Thoros' head spun around. The mob wasn't in sight yet, but soon, they would be. He had to go, whichever direction, just away.
But not like this.
He looked back down to Beric, lifeless and pale. Why would the Lord of Light have answered three times, just to let it end like this, he thought. Not the most mysterious of all ways could have ended right here. He took a deep breath, whispered a rushed prayer and pulled the dead body closer, then kissed him with life. For the first time, it carried a hint of confidence and trust in R'hllor and it was not misplaced. The moment their lips parted, Beric began coughing, splattered both Thoros' and his face with blood, and half opened his eyes. Thoros had no time to think; ten, maybe more tribesmen were visible now, and he had no more reason to wait. He tightened his grip on the reins and on Beric, then gave spurs, with no thought to direction.
Maybe it had been the Lord's guidance, maybe just luck. With either or both, Thoros had reached the Hollow Hill, a few hours ago. Not all of the men he had left with had returned, and some never would. Those that got away from the hill tribes now found their way home, one by one, or in pairs. Some were sitting around the fire, exhausted and bandaged and without much to say, and when Thoros came back from his cavern, dried blood in his beard, but unharmed, they barely looked up. "Beric?" one of them asked, monotone; the shock of the afternoon still in his voice.
"Aye," Thoros answered, then scuffled steps from behind him made the men lift their heads, after all.
Beric was still shaky on his legs, but he could stand. Wrapped tightly in Thoros' crimson cloak, he slowly made his way to the fire; shivering like a leaf, as he always did when he returned from beyond. He waited for his priest to follow and sit on one of the logs, then Beric slumped down between Thoros' legs, resting arms and head on his thigh. Thoros gently put his hand on Beric's head and reached for the wine with the other. It needed no words anymore. The men, as dark as the fading day had been, knew all they needed to know to keep up their hope. Lances of Mountains, arrows of wolves, daggers of lions, axes of tribesmen; it meant nothing at all. The Red God would not have it so. The Red God would have his champion here, among his brothers, among the living, and his priest's lips wet with wine.
The Young Wolf came, took residence in Harrenhal, and with more wolves out in the forests, the tribes crawled back into their hidden holes. The calm after the storm was welcome, but for the Riverlands, it came too late. While Beric recovered, the lands did not. Fields had been burned down, trees cut and cattle slain, not slaughtered for food. Many settlements had been abandoned, the ruins of houses now claimed only by ghosts. The more Beric heard of the devastation, the more the idea of failure clouded his mind. In the main room by the fire, the men saw him grow stronger, the more his wound turned into yet another scar. But when he was alone with Thoros, the doubts came out to cast a shadow Thoros' words could not chase away. The Lord of Light had brought him back another time, and Thoros would not let it be for doubt nor vain endeavours. What Beric needed was a ray of light. So Thoros rode one morning, with one man and three horses, to find his friend a pocket sized sun.
"Where are we going?" his companion, an archer called Anguy, asked, not recognizing their way.
"To the Crossroads Inn," Thoros gave back, padding the empty saddlebag of his horse. "We'll need more wine and ale for tonight."
Anguy pulled his horse closer to Thoros', the reins of the third in his hand. "And why would that be?" He chuckled. "Did you already deplete all our supplies?"
Thoros answered with a smirk and a shake of his head. "It's Beric's name day," he claimed, but earned only laughter.
"It is not," Anguy gave back, with more confidence than Thoros had thought. "I've known Lord Beric since I was a boy. His name day is only a few weeks after mine."
Thoros shrugged and took a swig from his flask. "Well, it's mine then," he said and once more, Anguy laughed.
"Didn't you say it's not custom in Myr to celebrate such a thing? I recall you told me you never knew yours when the subject came up."
Now Thoros looked over, with an indifferent smile. "Then it's the anniversary of our betrothal," he said with a shrug. "Since when do tired soldiers need a reason to drink?"
They returned in the afternoon, with food, wine and ale, and by the time they unloaded the horses outside the cavern, the story had changed yet again. When the men asked what owed them such spoils, some truth had slipped in. "Tonight will be the year's last victory of light," Thoros explained. "The last night to be shorter than the following day." It was as true as it was coincidence he knew that, and it was a reason as good as any to drink. "So we'll honor the light, with our moods bright as the summer, and with bellies full of its harvest." It sounded true enough, after all.
For long months, Thoros had told these men the tales of R'hllor; the seeds of faith finally falling on fertile ground for the first time in his life. Yet this was the night that made Thoros feel as a priest more than any other, when he fed the men roast and wine and not words. Spirits shone bright in the cave inside the Hollow Hill, song and laughter filled the air. Yet Beric stayed apart from the light. He leaned against the wall by the entrance, ale in his hand, not joining his men and just watching, with a thoughtful expression instead of the smile Thoros sought.
"It will not last," he said, when Thoros came to him, like an admirer sneaking away from the dance to have a moment with his secret love. It was melancholy that echoed; a deep, mild sadness and Thoros wanted it gone, just gone.
"Tonight, it does," he said and took the ale from Beric's hand to drink it. He got no reaction, none at all, and put his wine flask in the empty hand. Beric gave it a brief look, but did not drink. His eyes still lingered on the fire, roaring high among his merry men, seeking answers, guidance, hope. Thoros leaned his arm against the wall and with his free hand, reached for Beric's chin. "Look at me," he demanded. "Tonight, the Red God wants us to be free of troubles. Don't refuse him." Beric's glance met his only when Thoros gently forced his head to turn.
"The Red God wants us drunk?" There was a doubtful chuckle in his voice and Thoros nodded.
"He does," he declared and the wine added a more grandiose claim. "Come, I'll show you." He nodded to the fire. "You'll see the Lord approves of this." Beric skeptically raised his eyebrows, but he followed, too curious to not give it a try.
They sat down by the fire, among their men, their laughter and songs. And the Red God answered, mysterious as always, to confirm Thoros' claim. Showed Beric visions, clearer than ever before, unguided by Thoros, who could see them as well. There were green meadows and forests, rays of light breaking through the crowns of tall trees. There was the first day of spring, the colors of flowers breaking the last white of snow. There were scents of the summer rain and a warm day by the shore, the walls of Blackhaven glistening in sunlight; and there were Beric and Thoros, side by side on a hilltop, against a glorious dawn.
When Beric finally raised the flask to his lips, the visions faded; slowly and gently until they were nothing but flames. After a long swig, he let the flask sink and looked back to Thoros, with disbelief and the smile that he owed. "Never thought the Lord would be in on your joke," he said and Thoros had trouble to keep a straight face.
The hour was late when the drunk men retreated, as merry as their god had them be. Beric got up from the log he had sat on, leaving Thoros the last bottle of ale when he went to their cavern. Thoros finished the drink and was about to follow, but when he reached the tunnel, Beric returned. "You are not tired?" Thoros asked, then he noticed the furs and their cloaks over Beric's arm.
"I am," Beric gave back, though he sounded nothing like it with surprising ease in his voice. "But we'll sleep outside tonight, on top of the hill." Now it was Thoros' turn to raise his eyebrows.
"We do?" he asked, glancing out to the night. Beric's answer was a quick nod, then he went to the entrance of the large cave.
"The Lord of Light wills it so," he explained as he waited there. "You've seen it, you and I and the dawn."
Thoros nodded, still not convinced, but he followed. Maybe this dawn would be the comfort the Lord knew Beric sought.
And then they sat on top of their hill, covered in cloaks and furs to stay warm in the chill of the night, under the sparkles of a million brilliant stars. "We can make a fire," Thoros offered, pulling Beric closer in his arm, but Beric shook his head.
"Not tonight," he said and sounded certain. "Tonight, we shine bright. No shadow will dare to come close." He pushed Thoros down to lie beside him, no hint of a doubt, no fear of the dark.
"We spoke of my past life a lot," Beric thoughtfully said, his head on Thoros' shoulder, his gaze lost in the endless sky. "Of my childhood, my home, my title. And yet it seems so far removed from the life I do remember clearly." Thoros didn't answer, he just nodded. He was glad to see Beric's mood had shifted, farther into the light than he thought it could earlier that day. "There's one memory missing from the life I have now though," Beric continued, with a hint of regret in his voice.
"What memory is that?" Thoros asked, his eyes still filled with stars like Beric's.
"The day we met," came a quiet answer. Now Thoros turned to look at Beric.
"That won't stay lost," he said. "I do remember and I won't let you forget."
He felt Beric nod on his shoulder. "Tell me."
Thoros took a deep breath of cool night air and pulled Beric closer. "It was after I returned to the Stormlands from the Battle of Pyke," he began and immediately, Beric skeptically furrowed his brow.
"I was twelve when that battle was fought," he interjected. "That much, I remember."
Thoros chuckled and leaned closer to kiss Beric's head. "It is a long way, if you stop at each tavern," he said, jokingly serious and Beric smirked back. "I had been on the horse for several days," Thoros continued. "My throat was dry and ached for wine, as my ass ached for a softer chair. Finally, I saw an inn to end my longing and so it did, in more ways than I expected. As I walk through the door, ordering a drink before it falls shut, I find the room crowded, with nobles and lords. Not so uncommon, right after fighting shoulder to shoulder with knights..." Beric chuckled at the repeated claim to have returned from Pyke, but he didn't interrupt.
"Some seem to recognize me, though I had no recollection of them," Thoros picked up his tale. "I was relieved to have less whinny company, and gladly accepted the offer to share their feast and their wine. And as I sit with them, drinking and talking, my tired eyes catch sight of glory. A pretty young lord, dressed in the finest fabrics, his eyes the summer sky, his hair the gold of wheat..." Again, Beric looked skeptical, but he chuckled. This 'memory' would not match what really happened, but he'd take it all the same. "I could not believe my luck when his eyes caught mine and he came over," Thoros continued, in all seriousness he could muster after all the ale and wine. "We spoke of battles, titles, lands; how could he take interest in a tired swordsman like me, I wondered?"
"How could he not? Young lords love the tales of very recent battles," Beric grinned and played along.
"That's what I learned that day." Thoros nodded earnestly. "And when the day grew old, the lord looked deeply in my eyes and asked if he could buy another cup of wine for me." He wistfully sighed and added: "The sweetest words to worn out warriors, so I agreed and we kept drinking far into the night. So much, the wine ran out, and in the end, we shared the last cup." He sighed again and ran his hand through Beric's hair. "And I think that's when I fell a little in love with him."
Beric laughed and gave Thoros a nudge; the tale maybe held truth, but it was grossly embellished. "What happened then?" he asked. "Did your lordly love ask for your hand?" Again, Thoros nodded, holding back chuckles.
"You almost guessed it," he said. "It was love at first sight, and both of us knew it, and I promised my lord to wed him, buy him the finest of gowns if only he ran away with me, to live happily ever after in a distant land."
Beric's mouth twitched at the mention of a gown, settling for something between a frown and a smile. "And the promise of gowns won him over?" he asked, half laughing. "Sounds a bit far fetched to me." Thoros shrugged with an innocent smile.
"What else could I offer?" he said. "Having no lands and no titles to impress such a man?" Then, all of a sudden, he found himself under Beric, nose to nose with him, a daring spark in his eyes.
"I begin to suspect how this tale might end," Beric said. "And I can tell you for certain that the wedding night you dream of would be dark and full of terrors. But me in a gown, that wouldn't be one of them."
Thoros laughed and slung his arms around him, one hand reached up to Beric's hair, as gold as wheat, to gently force his head down. Beric did not resist, let his head sink to Thoros' shoulder and heard him quietly laugh against his neck.
"Is the thought of me in gowns that funny?" he asked, trying to sound not too amused.
"No, it's not that." Thoros was shaking with laughter now and Beric had to know why.
"What is it then? You know your betrothed won't sleep tonight if you withhold the happy ending."
Thoros took a deep breath to stop laughing, failed at first try, then caught himself. "Betrothed, you say," he began. "That's only what you think. After tradition of Myr, I wed you years ago and just never told you."
Beric lifted his head, paused for a moment, then shrugged, now amused. "That's fine with me then," he said. "Clearly no gowns were needed for it."
Then they lay side by side, sprinkled with starlight, close like lovers who could see god in each other's eyes. "Never let me forget this night," Beric whispered. "If all other memories fade, this is the one I ask you to hold on to for me. Except for the gown part. That, darkness can have."
Thoros nodded and put his arm over Beric. "You look better in armor anyway, my pretty young lord," he replied.
It didn't take long until sleep took them, two souls as one, shining bright in the night.
That night, Thoros dreamt of light. Of neverending days of glory, warm breezes across fertile lands. Of a promised spring that brushed away the snows of winter, welcomed life back into the world. Of sunbeams on a clear blue sky of summer, caressing endless fields of gold.
When the fading sun woke them, Thoros and Beric opened their eyes to a dawn like they had never seen one before, the sky as fiery as the flames had promised. The morning was cold, but Thoros and Beric remained on the hill for some longer, side to side against the glorious sky. Held onto each other and the morning light for some longer, a fortitude of fire and light against the cold nights to come. This was R'hllor's gift, his comfort for the long winter, and deep inside, both knew they'd never see a dawn like this again.