Archive of Our Own ^beta

He lies in the grass and thinks of failure paid in blood.

The Lannisters had caught them completely unawares. He should have sent more scouts… but no, they’d have only been killed like the others. A third of Beric’s men had been in the river when the attack came, sitting ducks for the archers. The rest had been trapped on either side of the river. Divided, they couldn’t even retreat properly.

The river ran red and slow as the corpses piled up. Everywhere he looked was death, and all of it his fault. They had followed him on Lord Stark’s orders to bring justice, and for their trouble they spilled their guts upon the ground for a green commander who’d never been north of Storm’s End, who knew naught of the Riverlands, who had no business leading an army because all the good intentions in the world did not make up for experience. Good intentions could not stop arrows. Good intentions could not bring down Gregor Clegane, as the Dornish knew so well, because fifteen years of petitions and promises had gotten them nothing.

Then a clear path opened between him and the Mountain That Rides, and Beric had charged. One man’s death in exchange for scores more would never be fair, but at least the survivors could call it success. “Victory at a heavy cost” was a slight step above ruin. Beric spurred his horse on. Yes, Clegane would fall, the Riverlands would have some respite, and they all would have died for something.

And he had wondered as he lowered his lance what Allyria would hear about it after, if the Martells would be pleased that a house bound to Starfall had avenged them, or think that a Marcher lord had no business taking their vengeance—

It was no matter. The Mountain’s lance skewered him to its midpoint before it snapped. Beric hadn’t even scratched him.

There is no healing from that. By all rights he should have died on the field. Now it is well past nightfall, and still he lingers. Thoros is checking his bandages. Beric wants to tell him not to bother, and add that if he’s in a priestly mood, then he would do well to ask the Stranger to stop dallying. But Edric is there too, still watching over him even though he should be resting, and Beric doesn’t want to give up in front of him after all Edric has done for him today. Besides, he’s too weak to talk.

There’s nothing to do but remember and wait.

- - - -

Thoros and Edric’s eyes are wide with shock.

“What?” Beric asks. He gulps down air to cool his burning lungs.

Then he realizes that he is sitting up.

Edric forgets his manners and flings his arms about Beric’s neck. Pain jolts through him. “Oof, take care. There’s a hole in my chest, remember.” Yet even as he says it, the pain spiking from the wound lessens, eaten by the blaze beneath his ribs.

Edric lets go gingerly. “I thought—we all thought you were dead,” he says. “Thoros even gave you last rites, in his god’s way. But then…”

He looks to Thoros. The red priest hangs back as though he wants to flee. “You rose,” he says weakly. “I swallowed fire and gave you the last kiss, and there you were.” He clears his throat and smiles. “I must be a much better healer than I give myself credit for.”

Beric grins sideways. “Or a better kisser.”

They all laugh, but Beric sees the fear in Thoros’ eyes. Rose. Not woke, but rose. He touches his bandages and feels no blood, only heat.

He is alive, and something is very wrong.

This time, their now-bannerless forces are on the right side of the ambush. And this time, when Beric charges at Gregor Clegane, he does so when Clegane isn’t looking. It’s not a chivalrous way to fight, perhaps, but Beric is more than willing to make an exception for a man who would kill a babe in front of its mother.

The Mountain manages to get his shield down in time, but the blow still unhorses him. Beric draws his sword as Clegane lurches to his feet. As he swings, Clegane grabs his surcoat and hauls him from the saddle. Beric scrambles to regain his balance and get his sword up because he did not get a second chance only to die so soon. Surely Thoros’ god would not have brought him back only to meet the exact same fate. There had to be a purpose to it, because otherwise why?

The visor of his helm flips open, and now he’s looking at Gregor Clegane face to face. Clegane’s eyes widen, and he mouths something that might have been "How?"

Then he roars and drives a blade through Beric’s eye.

- - - -

This time, Thoros looks more perplexed than terrified. And this time, Beric doesn’t need to ask what happened. He remembers the moment his vision exploded in red and black.

Instead, he asks, “Does the Lord of Light make a habit of resurrecting people?”

“There are legends of it, but nothing more,” Thoros replies. “And of those legends, I don’t believe anybody has ever come back more than once. Of course, I was never that studious, so please take my recollections with a grain of salt.”

“Why me, then? Or why you? Which of us is it?”

“Both, I think,” he says. “I’ve tried it on some of the other men who died in one piece. You are the only one who has woken up. As to the why… well, when R’hllor tells me, I shall pass it on. How is your wound?”

“Fine, all things considered.” Like last time, the pain from the injury is drowned out by the burning centered in his chest. That doesn’t change the fact that his eye is gone. Explaining to Allyria when he gets home will be interesting. He can just imagine: You go on one trip and you manage to stick my nephew on a battlefield, die twice, and lose an eye? What on earth goes on in the north?

…But he can’t just imagine. He can think of the words Allyria would say, but her voice and face do not come into his mind’s eye. He thinks harder, and her white-blonde hair and violet eyes fade into view. Why hadn’t he been able to right away? Where had the knowledge gone?

“Are you alright?” Thoros asks.

“I think so.” He swiftly changes the subject. “You know, I think the Mountain was afraid of me. I saw it in his eyes for a moment, before he took mine. That is almost an accomplishment.”

Thoros is silent for a moment, thoughtful. “I think that may be why R’hllor is keeping you here, my friend.”

“To frighten Gregor Clegane?” Beric calls Allyria back into his mind to make sure she is still there.

“In a word. We fight men who take what they like because killing is the final say to everything. Imagine what would happen if suddenly, a dead man did not stay that way.”

“They would not know what to do with themselves.” He remembers charred villages and ashen faces. “And the smallfolk might think they have a fighting chance.”

It’s very hard not to smile as the noose tightens around his neck.

Burton Crakehall, determined to make a name for himself by succeeding where the Mountain failed, had threatened to hang two hostages if Beric did not offer himself in their place. He is more than happy to do so. The captive beekeeper and his wife will go home and tell everyone how the Lightning Lord gave himself up for their sake, and it will be hailed as a miracle when Beric reappears mere hours later.

Selfless and undying. One could do worse for a champion.

The Brotherhood’s support will grow, the Lannisters will gnash their teeth, and the Riverlands will be that much closer to safety—no thanks to their own soldiers, who remain at Riverrun or follow the King in the North on his campaigns. How sad for them, when a Marcher lord and a Myrish priest are the only ones who bother to care.

“Thank you, my lord,” the beekeeper tells Beric, his voice shaking. On Beric’s other side, the man’s wife weeps with relief. “We’ll never forget this, either of us.”

“It’s only just,” Beric says. “I am the one they’re after, not you.”

“You are a man of honor, Lord Dondarrion,” Ser Crakehall says. “We agreed that I would let these poor sods go if you surrendered, and so you have.”

“Release them while I still live,” Beric demands. Even if Crakehall turns and puts the town to the torch, the pair will at least have a head start.

“As you will.” He nods at the solders standing at the gallows. “Let them go.”

And the beekeeper and his wife are yanked off their feet.

They gasp like fish, faces purpling, thrashing and kicking as they swing, and Beric’s voice goes hoarse from screaming “No!” before he follows them into the air and the rope closes his throat.

- - - -

The first thing he remembers when he wakes is the faces of the two people who’d hanged beside him.

The second is that he never learned their names.

Ignoring Thoros and Edric’s protests, he uses a broken lance to brace himself and staggers to the center of the camp. All eyes turn to the black ring around his neck. “I need twenty-five men with me to pursue Ser Crakehall’s band. If we leave within the hour, we shall overtake him before dusk.”

The choking sounds echo in his ears. He grits his teeth. “See if you can get Crakehall himself to yield. He should be tried and punished for his crimes.” Death in battle is too good.

When the Brotherhood had learned that Tywin Lannister was using foreign mercenaries, they’d taken it to mean that his own troops were so depleted that he’d needed to buy them from across the Narrow Sea. That was before they saw what the so-called Brave Companions could do.

Beric has done enough fighting to know that the Bloody Mummers are disjointed, with none of the collective discipline they’ve seen in the Lannister forces. They’re such a motley assortment that the Brotherhood looks uniform by comparison. But they’re making up for it in viciousness, and Beric wishes today had not been the day he allowed Edric to come back to the front lines with him. He’s about to tell his squire to fall back until the battle is done when an arrow sinks into his neck.

He stumbles, but he can still breathe. Perhaps it missed anything vital, and Thoros’ healing really will be just that, for once. Then blood arcs from the wound.

He covers it with his shield hand, but the blood spurts between his fingers in time with his heartbeat. He struggles to stay on his feet as the world begins to sway. One of the Mummers, a Lyseni with a glaive, rushes him from the side. Suddenly his legs buckle, the backs of his knees cleanly slashed by Edric Dayne’s blade. Beric gets his fiery sword up enough to slit the Lyseni’s throat before he collapses.

Edric is there, holding out the dead Mummer’s glaive. “My lord, use this to stand with.”

Beric tries telling him to leave and run, but Edric keeps trying to hold him up, even though Beric’s twice his size and halfway to being dead weight and the blood won’t stop and can’t he see how useless it is?

“Just leave it, Ned. I’m past saving. I’ll come back. R’hllor never lets me go far…”

- - - -

Edric is sitting across the tent, his tunic stained a murky red. Dried blood encrusts the side of his face. Beric sits up in alarm. “Are you hurt?”

“No, my lord. It’s… this is all yours.”

He recalls little, but he feels the stiff bandage on his neck and can guess what happened. “I’m sorry, Ned. You should not have had to see that.”

Edric looks at the ground. “It’s no matter. I’ve seen you die before.”

“I know.” There are flashes of Edric standing guard above him as he waits far too long to die, back before they knew he would come back. “That is why I’m sorry.”

Neither of them speaks for a few minutes. Finally, Edric says softly, “Why can’t we go home?”

“I have a duty to fulfill. I cannot leave until I’ve seen it through.”

“But King Robert and the Lord Hand are dead! The men we’re meant to be hunting hold the Iron Throne, and no Baratheon or Stark does anything to aid us!” Edric stops, surprised at himself for his outburst. “Forgive me, my lord. I shouldn’t have spoken so.”

“Speak so all you like. None of them are to hear it,” Beric says. “My duty is to the smallfolk, not to any king, no matter what I tell the men. The Lord of Light wants me to fight, and so I must. I speak only of myself, however. If you wish to return to Starfall, I will send Anguy to escort you. It’s probably best.”

Edric shakes his head. “No, thank you, my lord. I don’t want to go back without you.”

“You’ll have to, one day.” Beric speaks the words without thinking.

Edric looks at him. “What do you mean?”

“All of this is wrong, Ned. You and Thoros both know as well as I that this isn’t proper life. I am sustained by fire, not food. How can I return to your aunt like this?” He lets the truth of it come rushing out. “My place is here until I die for the last time.”

“But Beric…” Edric sounds very small. “Please, don’t you want to go back?”

“I do,” he whispers. He thinks Allyria and cannot find a face. “More than anything, I do. I want to see it all again, because perhaps then I will remember it.”

He’s never seen Amory Lorch before, but a wisp of memory links the man to a murdered child. That is enough for Beric. He is stronger and more skilled, but none of that matters when Lorch gets in one good swing with his mace. Beric’s helm cracks like an egg.

- - - -

Fire.

Justice.

He knows not where he is.

There is a face above him, haggard but kindly, that he knows must be familiar. The shield on the ground next to him bears a bolt of lightning against a black field.

The Lightning Lord.

Yes, that’s it.

His name is Beric Dondarrion.

He is the lord of a place to which he has never been. There was a girl, once, but now she is gone.

Or he is gone.

Who can say?

R’hllor.

His duty now is to protect. Forever and ever, until his work or his body is finished.

“Beric?”

The face has a voice. Its bearer’s name is Thoros.

A second name. He is not alone.

“How are you feeling, my friend?”

“It burns,” he says, then frowns. This Thoros who is his friend needs a better answer. He sits up to check himself. He reaches to remove whatever covers his eye, and finds nothing there. The dull skin on his hands is stretched tight over the bones. Above his good eye it is scabbed and sticky and the shape is wrong. He can tell by his shadow on the wall that part of his head is gone.

“I’ve been hurt in the fighting.” He does not remember fighting, but what else would it be?

Fighting is all he does.

“Thoros, what happened to me?”

Thoros does not answer. He looks at him for a long while before closing his eyes. “Oh, R’hllor,” he sighs. “What is it you are doing?”

It has been a long time since last he died, or so Thoros tells him. When the Hound’s sword cleaves through his shoulder, the feeling is almost new.

The last thing he hears is Arya Stark screaming.

- - - -

She is still screaming when he wakes.

The girl shakes with rage, cursing Lem for taking away her knife, and sending Sandor Clegane to hell in the name of a murdered boy. When she sees Beric standing there, she is stunned to silence only for a moment. “Why did you lose?”

“R’hllor willed it so,” he answers.

Her eyes narrow accusingly. “He’s a killer too. He’s as bad as the rest of them! Your god is stupid.”

Harwin takes her arm and gently leads her away. Thoros helps Beric to sit down against the wall. “You’ll be needing a new gambeson,” the red priest says, picking up the rotted pieces of quilting that fell from his breastplate. “I fear this one has seen its last days.”

Beric’s sword lies extinguished in the dust. “The Lord of Light let me die so that the Hound may live.”

“He… chose to spare Sandor, yes.” Thoros looks uncomfortable.

“We have been fighting Lannisters as long as I can remember,” Beric says. He looks across the cave to where Melly tends Sandor’s burned arm. “Why would R’hllor grant life to one of their worst? Does that make him innocent? Are they all innocent in god’s eyes?”

“Not innocent, but perhaps redeemable. He must have a purpose in mind for him as well.” It almost sounds reasonable. Thoros retrieves a blanket and puts it over Beric’s gaunt shoulders. “R’hllor is not finished with you yet, either.”

“No,” Beric agrees heavily. “Because I am still here, though I cannot fathom why.”

Lady Catelyn Stark’s body lies mangled and torn on the riverbank. Her daughter and the Hound are nowhere to be found. Edric breathes a sigh of relief at that. All Beric can think is that the Freys have made him an oathbreaker. He had promised Arya Stark that he would return her to her mother. Now…

Harwin pleads for Thoros to give Lady Stark the last kiss, but he refuses. “I am sorry, Harwin, but she’s been gone too long. R’hllor have mercy, she deserved far better than this.” He turns to Beric. “Shall we try and take her to the Silent Sisters, or dig her grave ourselves?”

He had promised her on his honor as a knight.

And he remembers that.

And it is he who has the fire inside him now.

“No.”

“No to which?”

“Either.”

Thoros frowns. “Lord Beric, what—”

“I am leaving, my friend. I am leaving at last.”

He attempts goodbyes, or they will not let him go: a salute for the Brotherhood, an almost-hug and an entreaty to go home for Edric, his best attempt at a smile for Thoros. At last he drops to his knees beside Lady Stark’s body.

Forgive me, he tells her silently, for he knows what it means to rise again.

He puts his lips to hers and breathes his last.