i remember justice

we'll run like we're awesome, totally genius || thoros & jon, september 3rd

jon-nutten-blog

So there he was, his hands in his pockets as he stepped off the train and started the walk from there to work at a time that was too early for Jon. At least he hadn’t gone out, last night - that would have been awful. His head was ducked down as he walked quickly; it was slightly chilly and it would be nice to sit down at his desk in the warmth of the office.

When he finally arrived, he was wondering if waking up this early was really worth it. He sipped at the coffee he’d brought the moment he stepped inside the building and made his way to Thoros’ office (and, he supposed, it was kind of his office too - his desk and computer were in the corner).

He poked his head around the door when he got there, and when he saw Thoros in there, he stepped inside and cleared his throat. “Hey, boss," he greeted, closing the door behind him and heading over to his desk. He dumped his satchel onto his desk but kept his coffee in his left hand, then turned his chair towards Thoros and took a seat. “How’s your morning been?" He wonders if Thoros will comment on him being earlier than usual (earlier than usual meaning on time) but he’s not bothered about it, really.

#ch: jon o'nutten #ch: we'll run like we're awesome totally genius

Jon doesn’t knock, the rascal never bothers to, he just opens the door and walks in as if he’d own the office. Thoros closes the file, leaves it on his desk and looks up at the clock. Did the boy take him seriously when he told him to be on time for the meeting this morning or is it just a coincidence? After all, ever since he’s known him, Thoros can’t remember to have seen Jon be on time for anything.

He ignores the question, appreciates that the boy bothered to ask, but ignores it completely. Instead, he asks, with just the hint of a smile on his face, “Tell me now, how many alarm clocks did you need to wake up? And don’t tell me one, I know you’d be lying.” There are two mugs on the table, he keeps one for himself, gives Jon the other. “Pour yourself some coffee, I want you wide awake, not half-asleep in your seat.”

There’s a very interesting thing about the boy, something that probably drew Thoros’ attention in the first place. He can do anything; anything he’s asked of him he’s done without a problem. He may be taking his tasks seriously, or he might just really be a genius; whichever it might be, Thoros can’t afford to take anyone in the Brotherhood. He’s thought it through and through for the past weeks, made lists of pros and cons of why Jon O’Nutten should or shouldn’t be accepted in the Brotherhood, but the real decisions lies with Jon himself. He knows though, Thoros knows he can’t just blatantly welcome him to the Brotherhood as if it were some simple job. Oh, hey, well done you, welcome to the Brotherhood. Oh, it’s okay if you decline the offer and know who the members are. It’s just silly, he can’t do that. So, he’s going to test him. A final test, just to assure himself Jon will follow him in the Brotherhood.

He leans back in his chair, clears his throat. “Is this what you want to do with your life, Jon?” Fiddles with a pen, looks the boy straight in the eyes. “Work for a Philosophy Professor? Don’t you feel like it’s wasted potential? I’m not saying it is, I’m asking what you think.” He drops the pen on the table, takes his mug, blows into the steaming coffee. “I’m pleased with your work, you probably know that already. You’ve been a pain in the ass quite often too, but your work is, I must admit, remarkable.” True words they are. He’s never bothered to throw irrelevant flattery at everyone, always considered it a waste of words and time. “Working for me … what good will it bring you?”

lester-morrigen

We'll find you something small to use (Thoros Myrel and Lester Morrigen; September 19th, 2012)

It’s entirely possible that Mr. Myrel has nothing to do with any of this, Lester reminds himself as he heads to the man’s office. He wonders if he should have called ahead, made an appointment, but no, he reminds himself, if he is a part of this that could make this entire situation so much more dangerous. Varys is trying so hard to protect him that it would be such a waste to ignore his efforts.

He reaches the man’s office and knocks once and, receiving no answer, twice in a row. He hears a chair push out on the other side of the door and he opens it, peering inside the room. Myrel looks younger than he is; he’s almost fifty is Lester remembers his research correctly and Lester gives him a small smile that he thinks probably isn’t genuine.

"Mr. Myrel. My name is Lester Morrigen. Can I come in? I have a few things to ask you about. Do you think you could spare the time?"

#ch: lester morrigen #th: we'll find you something small to use

Beric warns him; he doesn’t make it sound important, but he does warn him. Thoros takes it seriously, to some degree. He doesn’t worry too much, though, they have nothing on him, nothing to prove he’s part of the Brotherhood. But if it comes to it, he won’t lie about his motives.

He’s never actually it through all that much. Being part of the Brotherhood seemed natural. He had his reasons and he saw the potential, not only in the idea of the Brotherhood, but Beric himself; he saw the potential in Beric from the first moment he’s heard him talk. The boy just needed someone to shape him a bit, little touch up here and there and he will have more potential to rule a country than all those fools calling themselves politicians.

There’s a stack of paper he has to go through, but he ignores them. He pours himself some coffee, sighs when he realises he’s go no more milk left and leaves the coffee on the table, without drinking a single drop. Milkless coffee is just a waste of coffee.

Sophocles once said that, “If I do not reveal my views on justice in words, I do so by my conduct”, and Thoros very much relies to that. Even as an ambassador he’s never done anything to get the attention. He’s kept it all to himself: his views on politics, on the injustice that still ruled over today’s Britain, and the only one who has ever been able to see through that was Beric.

Is the Brotherhood that much of a threat? To the politicians, yes, but not to the people. It was never meant to be a threat to the people; from the very start its objectives were to fight for the people, in the name of the people, because all those who were part of the actual Brotherhood, were but simple people, who had seen the ugly face of politics and in how far politics could harm a nation.

He stirred dully in his coffee, somehow awaiting a cup of milk to appear out of nowhere. A knock on the door follows, awaking him from his train of thought. He doesn't respond at once, a student, he thinks, but a second knock follows. He pushes himself up from the chair and the door opens. A man peers in, quite young, and Thoros knows at once who he is. Lester Morrigen is on cue, he thinks and he has to restrain a laughter. The irony of it all makes it more amusing.

“Come in, Mr. Morrigen, though I have to apology for the mess that is my office.” He looks down at the papers on the tables, all essays he has to scan through, and thinks Morrigen’s questions will be more fun than essays. “I’ve a window right now, and I’ve nothing better to do, so … what can I help you with? Are you here for some questions on Metaphysics? I can’t remember seeing you in my class before, are you knew?” It’s almost amusing, but he knows the undersecretary is not a fool. He should keep mockery to himself; still, he can’t help himself.

And this, is how I kept you alive | | thoros & beric, september 18th

He has missed him indeed and how foolish of him to come here tonight - every sentiment, every thin thread of moral weakness becomes stronger in the other’s presence. His resolution to ignore his conscience and to do whatever it takes no matter the measures, no matter what he hurts in the process - everything is put to question when Thoros is nearby, and Beric becomes the student again.

He opens his mouth to answer the question but no answer comes out of it. Instead, he lets Thoros continue and purses his lips, trying to follow his words and finding the answer at the same time. He doesn’t know. Why did he text him?. Because he needs him, he knows, he needs his comfort, his reassurance - he needs to be a young man again and ask for help and have someone taking the weight off his shoulders, if only for a moment - have him. Beric only trusts Thoros, truly.

He nods faintly and looks at the bottle, reaching out for it, following the other’s petition but he turns around instead. “Thoros", Beric interrupts, no more than a whisper but it is enough to silence the room. He lets out the gulp of air he had been holding before closing the distance between himself and his friend and rushing to embrace him without thinking twice about it. Thoros is taller than him and he has been losing too much weight as of late so he feels his body encase around him. And for the first time in weeks he feels like breathing again. “I’m so sorry", Beric mutters after a moment, breaking apart.

#ch: beric dondarrion #th: and this is how i kept you alive

Beric’s behaviour takes him by surprise; the suddenness of it, and maybe the act in itself too. Unwillingly, Thoros keeps comparing Beric to a child who has done something stupid and seeks forgiveness. He can’t help but wonder: is this what Beric is doing? The call, the visit, everything; is it an apology or a simple need of forgiveness from someone he considers a friend, someone he trusts? Or maybe both?

What is Beric apologizing for? His absence or whatever he’s done? But then again, isn’t the first a consequence of the second? Thoros knows him too well to not see through it. He’s known the meaning of his absence from its very beginning; it was Beric’s way of dealing with the gravity of his decisions, he was pulling away from Thoros, far away, fearing his judgement. How is he to judge anything if he doesn’t know what this is even about?

He ignores his frustration and wraps his hands around Beric’s shoulder. He seems smaller, thinner, almost fragile, as if he’s slowly disintegrating. “It’s alright, my friend.” Thoros pats him slowly on the shoulder, reassuring, trying to comfort. Beric’s apology rings in his years like a bell. He’s known him for years, seen him grow before his eyes, yet he cannot remember ever seeing him like this. What have they done to you, friend?

He draws Beric closer, ruffles his hair. “C’mon, have a seat. I’ll open the bottle.” From the very beginning he had decided he won’t admonish him about it. He doesn’t need another person to judge his decisions, he needs his friends. “When I was a child I killed a bird, a sparrow,” he says, pouring wine in the glasses on the table. “It was an accident, of course, I wasn’t aware of the consequences of my actions. The details aren’t that important, but the outcome is. I came home and cried myself to sleep that night. I felt dirty, I couldn’t stand looking at myself. I cried and wailed, and no one stopped me. I didn’t tell my parents what I had done, I felt as if they would judge me, look at me the way I was looking at myself.” He occupies the other seat at the table, keeps a glass to himself and gives Beric the other. “A few days after the incident, my mother comes to me one night and she had that look on her face. I thought she was gonna ask me about what I’ve done, but she didn’t. She just sat there and looked at me and I cried. Please, remember I was no older than eight years old. I kept crying and apologising.” He strikes his chin, the stubble tickles his fingers. He needs a shave. “I remember how afraid I was. I wanted to tell her, but at the same time I was afraid she would send me away from home. Silly child, I was. She tells me: ‘Whatever you’ve done, Thoros, it’s done and you can’t make it go away, unless you share the burden with someone. Tell me what’s wrong. It’ll be easier if you share the demons.’”

He takes a gulp of the wine, strong yet sweet on his lips, and looks at Beric. There’s no need for him to know the story is just a story, a pure figment of his imagination; he just needs to understand the point of it. Don’t fight the demons on your own, my friend. He raises his glass, smiles. “To our friendship,” and takes another gulp.

we'll run like we're awesome, totally genius || thoros & jon, september 3rd

He stubs his cigarette in an abandoned polysterene coffee cup and pulls his jacket a little closer around himself. Nasty old habit keeping him outside in the cold. He's tried to give up smoking a few times, but it was never one of his priorities. It's a sin to smoke those things, his mother used to say and, you're playing with fire, ruining the life that God has given you. She has probably thought throwing God at him will make him feel bad about his actions, but in fact it only railroaded him into smoking more, just piss off God a little more.

The day is cold. Too bloody cold for early September. He looks at his wristwatch and just the sight of the time makes him yawn. Too bloody early too. But he has a job to do, and tells himself it will eventually pay off some time in the future.

The morning fogs are rising over London as he enters the university. The building is empty, just some caretakers, cleaning classrooms with their headphones on. He takes a turn to the left, then to the right, then left again. His office is at the end of the floor. A caretaker walks past him. "You need to organise your desk, Professor," the old lady tells him. "It's all a mess. In my whole career, I never had the chance to see such a mess of an office! You must do something about it, sir." Same old story. He smiles, promises to clean his desk right away, and breaks his promise seconds after walking into his office. In fact, he disorganises things a little more.

However messy things would look for an outsider, Thoros knows exactly where everything is. He takes an old crumpled folder out of a stack of papers. He opens it. Jon O'Nutten, reads the name. In movies files look really neat, with a fitting picture of the respective person clammed next to the file. O'Nutten's file is anything but neat. It's scribbled down in Thoros's messy writing and the ink's run dry at the end of the page. Jon's name is, however, underlined in red ink.

Thoros likes to think the boy's ready. Genius boy, who ended up unvoluntarily working for him somehow; he can't recall the circumstances of their first meeting, just that the boy made an impression, proved to be worty of something. He will prove his worth today, if he bothers to wake up for the meeting. The clock on the wall ticks.

#ch: jon o'nutten #th: we'll run like we're awesome totally genius

bloodandglory-rp

character: thoros of myr → thorosm anonymous brotherhood JAMES PUREFOY

There is a fire stirring up in me and no one can simmer it down,” a thirteen-year-old Thoros tells himself one starless night, when the only sound that perturbs the silence is his roommate’s soft snoring.

Even at the fragile age of thirteen, Thoros is a philosopher, curious and perceptive, with a thirst to answer questions most adults still dwell on. He dislikes his classmates and abhors his teachers. “They’re shallow,” he’d tell his parents. “They’re puppets. They never look around themselves, they never see, they never ask themselves questions, they just do.” His parents never reply, and Thoros knows his parents are just as shallow as his classmates or his teachers or all the other people he will meet in his life and be disappointed with, but he never tells them that; he loves them and never has the heart to spill those words in front of them.

The truth is, Thoros spends a good time of his teenage years looking for something, or rather someone that would be just like him, someone who’d see the world the way he does: tri dimensional. Later, he realises that his perception of life is what makes him unique, but the feeling of loneliness is still there at the back of his mind and nags at his brains every now and then, when the taste of brandy is still sweet on the tip of his tongue and his thoughts engulf him.

His teachers tell him he’s a catastrophe, the guy he works for at the age of seventeen tells him he’s a pussy, his mother brushes away the tears from her eyes, trying to hide away her own disappointment in her son, probably believing he can’t see the rushed, pitiful glances she throws him when she thinks he’s not looking. And maybe he should feel ashamed of himself, if not for his teachers and his boss, at least for his mother, but he doesn’t. He tries so hard, he whispers promises in his pillow at night, at the church, under the protecting branches of the great orchard in his garden, but he never follows those promises, mainly because he doesn’t believe in them.

“Life is questions,” he attempts to explain his father once, “and questions are philosophy, so how can you live without philosophy, without asking yourself questions and wishing to answer them.” His father is weak and tired, Thoros knows that, but for all his imperfections, he is the only one to trust Thoros; he never understands him, but he trusts him and for that Thoros respects his father. “Go boy,” his father tells him, “show them your questions are more valuable than their expensive zoot suits.” Thoros smiles, works his way through secondary school and ends up studying philosophy at St. Andrew’s, but he never tells his father zoot suits haven’t been a fade since the 1940’s.

College isn’t any different from elementary school or high school. His professors tell him he thinks too deep, his mates tell him he tries to prove something no one cares about, but he is both stubborn and ambitious and ignores their empty words. There is a longing in him, a longing for someone he could share all his questions and answers with, a longing that’s slowly starting to show. (He goes through his university years and doesn’t find anyone ripe enough to open up to.)

He travels for a while, meets a lot of people, many of whom he’ll never meet again, and gains enough experience to get his doctorate in philosophy. When he breaks the news that he’s going to teach at the City University London, his mother sheds tears of joy and his father pats him on the shoulder. “I told you your questions were more important, boy,” he tells him. His mother doesn’t say anything discernible, but there is pride glowing in her tears and that is enough to him.

He spends the rest of his years lecturing; he lectures all sorts of people: youngsters, fresh from high school, women in their mid-thirties, old men who like to attend philosophy classes, even a poor boy with big combat boots who never utters a word in his class. Thoros likes his job and likes to think he’s good at what he does.

But one day he is asked to do something else other than lecture - he is asked to advise someone. And not anyone, a politician. Soon, he learns that politicians aren’t as smart as they like to appear and often need counsel before they take a decision. Like many other politicians, this one needs counsel too, which Thoros offers him, and that’s how things slowly start working. “You are really good,” the politician tells him. Thoros can’t remember his name, it’s too ingrained in time to stand out. After that one, there comes another politician and so it goes for a while and he watches the Targaeryens fall into ashes and sees Robert rise in glory. Somewhere on the way he gains the title of “Special Advisor”. He doesn’t care much for the title and seldom uses it. He advises Robert best he can, but the man is as stubborn as a rock and simple-minded and doesn’t seem to care about politics all that much, so Thoros slowly returns to lecturing.

In 1996, and he remembers the day well enough, he lectures at Harvard; the flame in him stirs, burns his insides as he holds the lecture and then, it happens. Someone dares to contradict him. Someone stands up and says “I disagree”, and Thoros’s big ego shatters to pieces, but the boy, Beric, has courage and Thoros cherishes courage, especially courage to contradict someone. (He spends days and nights that seem endless contradicting and being contradicted by Beric Dondarrion, and for once Thoros doesn’t run away from friendship.)

It takes Robert twenty years to fall and shatter to pieces, but when he does he leaves chaos behind. “Robert never fixed anything, he just came and hid the truth behind smiles and jokes and now that he’s gone, it all comes to light,” Thoros tells Beric once, as they sip on their drinks in a dimly lightened pub. Robert’s demise leaves uncertainty, uncertainty and sheer panic. People stir. “Like the fire inside me,” he thinks. And how do you simmer down such a flame?, he’d wonder late in the night.

Only several days later does he find the answer: “You use the flame in your favour, you make it your strength, your personal God, and use it to rectify what is wrong.”

And this, is how I kept you alive | | thoros & beric, september 18th

Disengagement has become his speciality, or so he tells himself. He can shrug off Sam’s protests and pretend convincingly enough that he doesn’t care about whatever Edric is doing with his life. But he always knew that he wouldn’t be able to cheat Thoros so easily and he wouldn’t be able to walk away, not really. Thoros has always been the one equation he can never discern, even after all these years. Beric has every constant and sometimes he thinks he has every variable too, but when he tries to put the pieces together, Thoros changes his whole world and he’s back to understanding Beric completely and Beric, to wonder how to break apart.

Perhaps those texts meant his unavoidable defeat because if he allows Thoros inside his head, he is lost. He doesn’t want him there, he doesn’t want to let him enter the dark thoughts he is keeping inside. Even if he always knew they were meant to do this together and to fall together as well. It doesn’t mean he hasn’t been trying to avoid such outcome, he has, for the past two weeks and how easily has he given up trying, from the first text he sent to this moment as he is about to knock on his door.

It’s almost 8 pm when he arrives. He’s always kept a copy of this apartment’s keys, he remembers, and he reaches out to open the door. Bottle on one hand and a rushed of adrenaline that tells him that there is still time to walk away. But ever since they know each other, they have never cancelled their meetings. Such is the way of this mentor and his protégé. “Thoros?”, Beric raises his voice as he invites himself into the living room. And now it is too late indeed.

#th: and this is how i kept you alive #ch: beric dondarrion

Over the years Thoros has made a routine out of switching places. He has never lived in a house more than two years, he has never grown fond of them, and before they could start feeling like a proper homes, he would move out. Back in the years when he was still an ambassador, it was even worse. He was moving places every few months; all of his residences have been fancy, yet cold and unwelcoming. His current apartment isn’t particularly welcoming either, nor does it feel like “home”, but it has a certain familiarity to it, a familiarity Thoros has grown accustomed to.

He sits in his living room; it’s not small and it’s not big either, it’s just about enough space to store his many books, stacks of paper cluttering, dirty ashtrays laden with smoked cigarettes, empty bottles of whisky, and maps. There are maps everywhere, on the walls, cluttered on the only table, abandoned on the floor, waiting to be picked, new maps and maps dark with age. On the mantel of the fireplace is a glass of water with dead daisies – a gift from one of his students. None of these are objects of sentimental value – except for the daisies, but they are long dead, which probably clogs them with even more sentimentality.

He likes to think his apartment isn’t necessarily untidy, though it verges on being so. The housemaid would disagree, in fact she did. Though not sure, Thoros believes the reason why she hasn’t showed up in a while must be the turmoil of his apartment, which apparently drove her insane, to the point where she chided him daily.

Around 7:48 pm he realizes he’s not focusing on his crossword anymore, in fact his thoughts are travelling somewhere else. He wonders what it would be like, he wonders how much this past month had changed Beric – or perhaps it didn’t change him at all, though that’s just white hope. He conflicted and he needs time to sort it out; cutting me off was his way of telling me he is a man grown – a man who tries to prove himself. He sits up and pushes his glasses up by the bridge. You don’t have to prove anything, my friend. Just do the right thing, like you always did.

He ambles to the kitchen, tumbler in hand. He searches for the wine glasses, opening and closing cabinets noisily. Muffled footsteps in the distance, and by the time the key moves in the latch, Thoros finds the glasses. Footsteps again, heavy, unsure, thump-thump.

Thoros walks out of the kitchen shortly after Beric’s arrival. He heard him speak his name, yet he hasn’t answered.

He’s in the living room, bottle in hand, clothes hanging unnaturally on him, as if they belong to someone else. Thoros doesn’t fail to observe he grew thin (does he even eat) or the dark circles under his eyes, which stand proof for the nights he lost working (or worrying?). He looks at Beric and imagines this is what Atlas must’ve looked like, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders; he doesn’t say anything about it, though, doesn’t want to mention it. Instead, he smiles, avoids the cliché you look like shit phrase, and walks up to him, putting his hand around his shoulders. “Giving up on that fancy drink for your old friend, Dondarrion?” He laughs, pats him on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back in my humble apartment. Even those dead daisies smile now that you are here.” When he looks again at the daisies, they really seem less withering. “Tell me, what made you text me tonight? Perhaps you thought of me, pitied me for sitting here all alone with my books and maps,” he says, pushing aside a stack of papers to make space for the glasses. “I should buy a fish to keep me company when you don’t. I’d name it Beric. Though perhaps that’s too pretentious a name for a fish, so I’d end up naming it Arthur. When I buy him. If I buy him.” He looks at the bottle. “Would you do the honour of opening it?”

He talks too much, rambles, really, and perhaps he has been alone for too long a time. But he's alone no more. He smiles.

nothing-short-of-thankful

theonlypresident-deactivated201

Will they find our hiding place? || thoros & beric, flashback 1996

Quiet enough but not introvert, he didn’t dare to display such lack of attention, in an ambient that required every effort to be more than just social. He had to speak out, to share and be part of a community that was already his community. That was the way of studying politics. And it didn’t worry him at all, he knew how to talk to people and how to express himself, that was one of his two greatest strengths.

Only a few months had passed since his first day at Harvart and the whole thing was much different than what he had envisioned. In his arrogant youth, he thought he had learned all there was to be learned about american society, or at least the one he had been incorporated into. He had already spent a few years in the country, after all; and somehow his memories and customs that came with him from England, were fading away and favouring adaptation.

He liked the place, America, in fact he loved it. After living in a constant haste of deliberate change, after losing a sister to the violence and a life to the insurrection, America seemed to be, if not like the promised eden he had anticipated at sixteen, the everything he wanted his own country to be. He didn’t know if he was interested in politics because he came from a background fill with them or if he was interested in american policy. The mere concept and practice of a democratic republic fascinated him and it had convinced him of its supremacy.

He had promised himself to go back one day, to help his country be restored, but the truth was that his heart was already too far away from that idea and he couldn’t picture himself leaving this place. And yet he didn’t forget who he was and where he came from. How could he? The reason he was in Harvard in the first place was because his family could afford it. He wasn’t a genius, though his abilities were not something to be ashamed of at all, his best trait was his skill to focus and be absorbed by whatever required his attention, he was a hard worker in extreme measures, that was his other strength. It had always been.

And so, upon entering the university, he decided to rely on his aptitudes and in order to keep up, he had to join in every activity time allowed him to. Conferences were interesting enough although not his favourite thing to do. He liked to listen to those who possessed the favour of experience, but he didn’t like it when there was no room for questions, he liked debating more than he liked anything else and when he couldn’t do it, it annoyed him greatly as befit of his name and pride.

This one was interesting enough as it came from the british ambassador himself. Myrel was the name. In the past two years, Beric had witnessed presentations of compatriots, it wasn’t odd. The restoration of England included them trying to convince America that they remained a strong country and that there was nothing to worry about, negotiations should be reinstated, he heard an advisor said once in some programme. He couldn’t be sure, he was a foreign witnesser at this point and how could things have changed so radically? All they did was giving another party the power. What did that have to do with change and revolution?

He leaned against his seat and waited, tapping the point of his pen against the notebook as he thought of ways to start the essay that would follow. What was the impact of the British insurrection on the US was the topic of the conference. Beric was the son of a pair of activists and special advisors to Robert Baratheon and he wondered if this man would know his name or his parents.

When he stepped up, Beric noticed how young he truly was. He spoke with smiles and interluded jokes that made him sound too endearing even when he began explaining the need for America to support and help the United Kingdom, that insurrections were necessary, as the government had violated the people’s rights, and that they proven to be strong enough, the people of England.

Beric bit his lip to avoid smiling, he was impressed and bothered both and confliction was like an addiction, he found out. He didn’t want this and he didn’t want to stop listening to the ambassador.

And when the time came for questions (and he was glad it was one of those types of forums), he stood up, “Quoting Marquis the Lafayette is pretentious enough”, he rised his tone in a renewed thick southern accent, if only to make sure the other knew he was British as well, any nervousness gone in the heat of the moment, “But when you said people - you mean Robert Baratheon and Labour, right? I won’t believe you represent the people because I’m sure they are not -“, he paused before licking his lips and remembering his sister’s grave, “After everything that happened, they are not back on their feet, not yet”.

#ch: beric dondarrion #th: will they find our hiding place

The way everyone saw it, Thoros’s life started when he was born. The way he sees it, his life began at the age of five, when he started talking - and hadn’t shut ever since.

For five years his parents had quarrelled and cried and looked at their son with sadness in their eyes, wondering “is he really incapable of speaking”. It took them five years to find out the answer and when they finally did, when the little boy with dark brown hair that fell over his eyes finally opened his mouth and spoke his first words, they realised he had a lot to say. So they let him speak.

“The boy was silent for five years. He needs to make up for the time he’s lost,” his father would say. And Thoros would take his opportunity and speak. He would speak about anything, about how the colour of his room resembled the orchard behind their house, when twilight soaked it in bright shades of gold, about how he didn’t like one book or another, about his mother’s food and how much he enjoyed it, about the beauty of the lightning when it illuminated the leaden sky. Soon, the problem wasn’t how to make him talk, but how to make him not talk.

(“He speaks alone.” “He’ll quiet down with age.”)

He didn’t.

He spit words as if his life depended on it and at some point, he made it depend on it. He grew up and started talking about other things; he didn't talk about the colour of his room anymore, he talked about ontology and ethics and politics. He debated, spoke in front of audiences, argued epistemology in pubs when he had a drink too much and everyone seemed to listen to him.

By the time he reached adulthood he came to realise he knew so many words and had no one to share them with. Yes, people were listening to him when he was talking, but were they listening really? Were they valuing his words in any way possible? Were they keeping in mind his words and thinking them over and over again until they understood their deeper meaning. What good do these words do me if no one understands them?

Words were his shield and he shielded himself often.

As an ambassador he had to speak. And he liked it. Damn, he loved it. He did not only talk to people, but also convinced them. He joked, he smiled, he held his ground, argued, laughed and then went on with his argument. And that was exactly what he was doing today at Harvard. A sea of politics students was staring at him and he was convincing them with his only weapon, his words.

He didn't just talk. He told them stories, laughed with them, convinced them to ask themselves questions, to think beyond the void, and all to explain the impact the British rebellion had had on the US.

When he breathed his last words and finished his speech, he asked himself the same question he was always mulling over, But do they really understand what I'm telling them? He sighed and pushed the thought at the back of his mind. "Has anyone got questions?"

Surprisingly, someone did. A boy from the audience stood up. Show e, boy, did you understand what I've been trying to tell you? He spoke in a thick British accent, presumably trying to draw his attention. When he finished his point, Thoros couldn't help but smile.

He pointed at the boy. "Good question," he said, clapping his hands together. "Who do I really represent? Do I represent Robert Baratheon and Labour or the people? Or, perhaps, both?" He shifted from one leg to the other. "You say," Thoros went on, waving his hands dramatically, "it's fairly impossible I represent the people, because there's no way they are back on their feet yet. Did I get that right? I think I did." He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. "But don't you think that's the exact reason why I am representing the people? Because when you have something as beautiful as a nation, that has suffered drastic changes, you do your best to mend it, don't you? You are a part of those 'people' you represent them, so you look up to their expectations and yours. And let me tell you, my expectations are that the British will get back on their feet, and I represent them because I try and mend the damage that's been done to them. And so does Robert Baratheon and Labour."

He ended his speech with a sigh and took a gulp of water. After everything that happened, they are not back on their feet, not yet, the words seemed stuck in his head, so when he put the glass of water down, he said, "But allow me to ask you a question, Mr. Good Question. You seem sure of yourself when you say the people are not back on their feet yet. Why do you think they are still not bloody on their feet yet? After all this time? Tell me."

nothing-short-of-thankful

text → beric / thoros, september 18th

The word disappointed is the one he dreaded the most and it’s there; Thoros is also one of the two persons in this entire country of perdition that he wants to protect, that he can’t imagine hurting. And just like with Allyria, that is exactly what he’s been doing. He’s not surprised and he shouldn’t feel guilty about it, he did what he had to do and he’s finally seeing results and yet he can’t avoid it. His emotions are still there and he’s still the person he used to be, at least part of it.

message: I’m sorry, I never meant to stay away for so long but I’ve found myself and others things I never meant to find. I’ll buy you a bottle and we can talk about your old lady. I have plenty to tell you about and some things I wish I didn’t but we are about to do things right for once, right?

message: I had help. From you and Allyria both and I still require that aid, even now.

message: So, shall I pay you a visit?

Don't feel guilty, boy, he wants to tell him. Guilt eats at you until it kills your insides and takes over your mind. Don't do that to yourself, Beric, he almost types, but the guilt is his fault and maybe a cruel part of him wants Beric to feel guilty for abandoning him for so long. Whatever his reasons, he has good intentions; he always did. He fiddles with his pen for a mere second, "we are about to do things right for once" echoing in his head over and over again.

message: You're always welcome here.

message: Don't get the cheap scotch. You know how I dread it.

message: If you come, leave the apologises behind. No need to trouble your mind with that, good friend.

text → beric / thoros, september 18th

Although the condescendence seems obvious, he sighs, deciding not to focus on that. He knows Thoros better than that and he knows they respect each other and they understand each other far too well to allow themselves to fall for cheap tactics like condescendence itself. If anything he knows that in the span of a few lines and a couple of texts, his friend has got everything Beric hasn’t told him yet and it amazes him, how well they fit each other, he couldn’t choose a better partner to accompany him to hell.

But Thoros knew him, he hasn’t seen whatever Beric’s been doing and becoming these days and he’s reluctant to show him. Out of pride and arrogance and out of fear too. Fear of his judgement.

message: I’m fine. No need for that. You created something strong enough, Thoros.

message: Or not, I don’t know anymore. But you are right, it’s been long enough. I would like that. I thought you were mad at me, you know?.

Thoros pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and takes another sip of his drink. His friend is troubled, nervous and afraid. Afraid to show his fears or afraid of the consequences of his actions? Whichever it is, he cannot guess, but he will not push Beric either. Let the boy have his way.

message: Mad? No. Maybe disappointed, which later proved to be a light form of loneliness. I had this student come up with a funny theory. I told the neighbour about it but you know her, she's an old lady, doesn't seem to care about any other philosophy than the philosophy of her life slowly fading away.

He pauses for a second. Loneliness leaves marks on you, Thoros.

message: I never created you, Beric. You created yourself. You were a sculpture, that I, as the sculptor took the liberty of emending.

text → beric / thoros, september 18th

message: Maybe you like to see me begging.

message: I can drink on my own, thanks for the concern.

Help is an interesting word. The admission is far from his grasp and that is something he won’t say. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Perhaps if Thoros were to take the decisions for the Brotherhood, everything would be less messy - but he hasn’t, by Beric’s own obstination.

Still, that same persistant stubbornness follows him everywhere and it is here this time. He doesn’t need help, he needs his friend, that is all. It is natural, it is what he is used to and it doesn’t make him weak. He has to tell this to himself and stand his ground.

message: Always the big man but I have to say I have everything under control and I do not need help and I am not shy.

message: I do not want your company only for you to fix my mistakes.

There are thousands of words crossing his mind as he runs his fingers over the keyboard of his cell phone, words that could sting, words that could heal, words that could set Beric against him, words that could bore him and words that could soothe him. But he doesn't write any of those words, for they would all have the same effect on him - they would hurt him, and the boy is hurt enough.

message: I don't doubt your power to control things and I'm sure that if anything were to intervene in your business you would be able to handle it.

message: I'm just asking myself how much burden you can carry on your shoulders. If you are to fall due to its weight, at least don't fall alone.

message: I'm just worried about you, boy.

message: Drinking on your own is no fun, boy. You've been drinking on your own for a month now. We've both been.

But the words he sends hurt too. Any words would hurt now. At least they are the truth.

text → beric / thoros, september 18th

He wants to be annoyed and he wants to deny his assumption but Beric laughs instead because he hasn’t been able to win against Thoros since he has memory and he is in no mood to try again this time.

message: If you prefer it so, you can ignore these messages.

message: But before you do, you must know that you underestimate yourself. It is quite enjoyable to drink with you.

message: And if I am in trouble? Do I still have your support?

He smiles faintly at the messages, and the glass clink against the metal frame of the desk as he sets it down. He tries to imagine Beric typing these messages, furrowing at the phone, probably laughing by himself, and the thought of it makes him laugh too. The boy's always been three parts bastard one part good, which was probably why Thoros liked to keep him around.

message: If I wanted to ignore these messages, do you think I would've bothered to answer to begin with?

message: Too bad, then for you. Since I am here having a good old scotch, and you're there, scotchless.

message: If you're in trouble, you have to fix things. If you don't know how to fix things, ask for help. If you're too shy to ask for help, then you've got one more trouble to add to the list.

text → beric / thoros, september 18th

Staring at his phone is becoming rather stressful. He reaches out for it only to scroll down and up without any particular thought in mind, waiting for a call that might not come at all.

He’s been avoiding him for almost a month now, he knows he can’t just play and make demands and suddenly act like nothing’s happened, like the child he was when they first met and just because of his idled luxury.

And yet it seems like a common pattern, that every time things are too much, he has the physical and mental need for Thoros’ guidance, or even for his mere present.

message: I have to be honest. Almost a month avoiding you is extremely exhausting.

He spends his evening mulling over a cross-word, with a tumbler of scotch to make the words come easier to him. He spends quite a good amount of his evenings in this fashion lately, but he is used to it already, so when he hears the phone beep it almost feels like something is trying to perturb his routine.

He knows it's a message from Beric, who else could be so intrusive?

The phone is in his inner pocket, where he always keeps it, but he doesn't reach out for it immediately. Instead, he takes his pen and writes down the remaining unsolved words. If he waited a month, he can wait three more minutes.

Only after he scribbles down the last word (steer) he takes the phone out of his pocket and reads the message.

message: I'm surprised you managed to stay away for that long.

message: What brings you back, though?

message: If you say you missed my presence, you're lying. If you say you missed having a drink with me, you might be lying as well. If you say you're in trouble, you're telling the truth.