THOROS

The day greeted the red priest Thoros of Myr with a dazzling flourish. When he rose and lifted the flap of his tent, the golden bars of sunshine slanting down through the trees looked like the fiery lances of the Lord of Light himself. Thoros breathed deeply, smiled.

He was moving to draw the day's first horn of ale when one of his Brothers came jogging through the forest, his tunic askew. Thoros saw the man coming and sighed. He poured quickly, and drank quicker. He already knew what was the matter.

"Thoros," the man said breathlessly when he'd reached the red priest's tent. Thoros came out and put his hand on his Brother's shoulder.

"Where?" he asked kindly.

It wasn't far. They found Lord Beric sprawled at the base of a large tree. His legs were splayed in a limp V shape, and his arms dangled at his waist. He was hung by the neck from a long belt looped over a branch. His ringmail and boiled leather garments were flung unceremoniously to the side, and his bare penis lay against one thigh like a tired snake. Lord Beric's surviving eye bulged from a face which was very much dead.

"Who did this?" Thoros demanded.

"Lord Beric did it," the young Brother told him awkwardly.

"He committed suicide?"

"Well…" The man shuffled. "Not on purpose, I think."

Thoros took a step back and covered his face with one hand.

"It looks like he may have been... choking the chicken."

"Feeling the eel," Thoros replied with pained resignation.

"Spinning some records."

"Polishing his longsword."

The young man shook his head sadly. "Clasping the cucumber."

"Drilling for oil."

"Scratching Yoda behind his ears."

"Celebrating 'Palm Sunday'."

"Shaking hands with the milkman."

Thoros shook his head in disgust. "Please, Brother—tell no one of this."

Later, when Thoros had gotten Lord Beric back on his feet and redressed, the two shared a horn in Thoros' tent.

"Dude, it was amaaaaazing," said Beric, leaning back and holding his palms about two feet apart, perhaps trying to convey the size of the fatal orgasm. "That's the best invention ever. I mean—"

"My lord!" Thoros cried, and put his cup down with a hard thack. "It is not appropriate to waste R'hllor's gifts like this!"

"I'm not wasting anything!" Beric shouted. Then he grinned. "Except for that load last night."

"Oh? Let's recap," Thoros said. "In the past fortnight, I've had to bring you back nine different times. Do you think the Lord of Light found much amusement in your third recent death, when you got drunk as fuck with the men and one of them tried to shoot that onion off your head at thirty paces?"

"But that was hilarious!" Beric protested. "Everyone laughed."

"Or what about two nights later, when you died trying to do the splits?"

Beric shuddered. "Okay," he admitted, "that was a bad one. I'm definitely never trying to do the splits again, no matter how many of our Brothers dare me."

"Your last words that time were, 'I think one of my acorns just popped.'"

"Enough," Beric said, holding up his hands. "Don't remind me."

"Your first deaths were noble, and even quite badass," Thoros admitted. "A hanging and a couple variations of 'chopped-in-half,' including that time you died in single combat against the Hound. The Lord of Light loved those ones."

"But…?"

"But," Thoros said seriously, meeting Lord Beric's eyes, "his gifts may run out if you keep wasting them. Do you understand?"

Beric swirled his ale and looked dejectedly downward. "Are you telling me I can't shuck anymore corn while strangling myself?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, my lord."

"Well, to hell with that," Lord Beric said merrily. "I'm switching religions if that's the case."

Thoros wordlessly took the flagon of ale in his hands and chugged for thirty unbroken seconds. When the flagon was empty, he loosed a ringing belch, stood, and left his lordship alone in the tent.