thearena | and I won't die alone and be left there

Who| Asha and Maximus
What| mutual deaths~
Where| Around frontierland somewhere
When| Sometime during week whatever we're on idek
Warnings/Notes| standard bloody dying thread!

The longer she drew this battle out, the more likely it was that Stannis had already had his justice, that her uncle had smashed the Ironborn more than the wolves or lions could ever hope to. She needed to end this and get back home, and for that, she needed a better weapon.

Not that she was dissatisfied with the whip, and the fish hook had multiple people's blood dried on it; they did her well. But she was no Dornishman, nor any of the fighters from the East; she could prod a horse forward, but trying to use the whip as it was meant to be use would more likely than not just lash her instead. When no more gifts from the sky were forthcoming, she decided to return to where she had found it; perhaps there she would find something more suited to her talents.

Still, she keeps an eye out for anyone she passes; after all, there was no better weapon than one taken from a fallen foe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bruised, beaten and bloody, Maximus was in need of one thing more than any other - water. Having scrounged an old, empty tin can from the Main street, he tucked it under his arm as he headed back to the river. He'd need to boil it of course, but his throat was parched and the wound in his shoulder was beginning to smell slightly - a bad sign. His pickaxe was still gripped tightly in his left hand, the wound in his right shoulder making his sword-arm unusable. The tin can was tucked in against his elbow, his missing ear unbandaged and open to the world.

He looked, in short, a mess, and an easy target. But this Gladiator would not be going down without a fight.

She sees the pickax first; it's not exactly the same as what she's used to, but compared to the whip, it's like a homecoming. The man holding it is barely a consideration; he might have been strong, once, but this 'game' had worn him down. She's all to familiar with the smell of wounds gone bad, missing body parts left untreated. She could be a mercy to him.

She doesn't offer this one his death, as she doubts he'll take it-- that, and the ax would be less sweet if she didn't do this the Iron Way. Instead, she lunges, barreling in with the hook at the ready, right hand ready to grab his left, confident that she could hold off a swing.

He didn't see her. He didn't even hear her, lunging at him from his deaf side, until it was too late. The tin can clattered to the ground as he wrenched himself around, his weary muscles reacting long before his mind had a chance to. Even the pain in his shoulder went unnoticed and unheeded as his body flew into battle mode. His ripped the axe away from her reaching grasp, swinging it around hard even as it compromised his balance.

She wasn't expecting him to still move that quickly-- even in the middle of the battle, she had to admire that, clearly a warrior back home. It was her fault for assuming, and she knew as soon as his hand drew back.

The ax hits, a sudden puncture in her stomach in a spot that would be armored if this were a normal fight; the rush of pain will come in a moment, but her face twisted in rage with the adrenaline as she smashed her elbow into the side of his face, grabbing the pickax hard and wrenching it out of his hand to drive it forward even as they lose their balance.

It was, in retrospect, over before it had begun. He was already falling when she wrenched the axe from his arm, and he did not have the strength to hold onto it as the pain lanced through his jaw (he swore he felt a tooth come loose). He didn't even have time to register it, however, as the sharp end of the pickaxe drove home into his stomach and with a low grunt continued falling until he was a broken heap on the floor.

He flailed once, he pain so incredible it blocked out almost everything else - pushing himself across the dirt to get away from tangled body he had fallen with.

The pain set in when they fell, her deed accomplished; her free hand went futilely to the wound, pressing heavily on instinct though she knew the reality of the situation. She had seen many wounds like this one-- caused more than a handful herself-- and it was beyond both her priests and the green Maesters to fix.

She cursed the man next to her without any real venom; he was dying too, she had made sure of that, and now was just getting in her way. She held on tight to the pickax herself as she tried to roll off of him, intent on keeping her prize as was her right, for all the good that it did her. There was water nearby, she could barely remember, and liked to think the white noise in her ears was from that.

She slowly tried to crawl forward, giving out a cry as the movement stretched things that shouldn't have been and she collapsed down onto her forearm; still, she grit her teeth and tried to force herself forward again.

He took in a deep breath, flat on his back with his eyes to the sky, the pain slowly subsiding into pure shock.

He could see her, out of the corner of her eye, trying to move, and he looked to where she was going. Water. Why?

"Hardly... the river Styx..." He said, his voice hoarse.

He wanted to keep fighting. He didn't want to go down like this. But his legs weren't answering his call. He raised a shaking hand to his stomach to find little there but mush and seeping, gushing, blackened blood.

She grit her teeth, hand tightening in what was left of the fabric over what was left of her stomach. "Quiet," she growled, squinting an eye closed to try and ignore it for just that little bit longer. So close, to make it so easy.

She would see her father again, and the uncles she had never met, and her father's fathers and her mother's, too, and if she was unlucky-- of course she was, damn it, she had spent too long here-- she would see her younger brother sitting with the older ones. If he even made it to the water, instead of burning to death to stop the bloody snow for a group of angry northerners so they could save their precious lord. Theon would be ashes by now. If God is good-- which he isn't-- he'll mix with the snow as it buries Stannis's entire precious army and the rest of the leagues to Winterfell.

She inched forward, each movement agonizing, and mourned her brother. We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return, kicking and screaming. Theon is dead, and Asha too, and none will come again as your nuncle will lead them all to their deaths, you stupid fool." She realized at some point that she was speaking aloud, as if it mattered anymore.

She dared to squint up, and the distance to the water had never seen further.

She was speaking, he realised, though it wasn't for him. He turned his head, watching her, his hand still upon his chest, as he could feel the life ebb from him.

She was so angry, he thought to himself as he watched her vainly try to reach the water. He started to chuckle, despite himself, a low, hollow sound that caused his torn body to shake. He remembered feeling so angry, when he was younger. When his blood boiled every time he stepped into a battle. But it had been a long time since he entered the fray with anger now. Now, even while he lay here, dying, he wondered if he was finally done. If he would be allowed to join his family, if his wife would be there waiting for him--

The chuckles died away and his hand found the earth, grasping the dirt until his fingers were covered.

She heard him laughing, and couldn't imagine it could be for anyone but her. Her rage should fuel her, drive her to finish or at least quiet him-- but it doesn't, not enough to override the pain locking up her muscles. It's a sign of how far gone she's come, that she can't even force herself to close the last distance.

She grit her teeth in frustration, digging her fingers into the dirt to try and force herself forward, but her head just drops to smack against the ground instead. The most she could do was try and reach out, fingers clumsily groping against the empty air as if searching for a lifeline, but they didn't find anything. Of course.

She collapsed completely, no more strength to even pretend at holding herself up, in dirt that was too dry. A cannon boomed, but she was beyond the point of hearing it.

He doesn't hear the cannon.

He's floating, his body refusing to sit still, floating until he opens his eyes and he's in a field - wide, and ready for harvest, his house on the horizon. There, just there, his wife standing, with his son at her side -

And then it is gone, suddenly. Ashes, and dust, and darkness.

And a second cannon sounds.

and I won't die alone and be left there

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject