PM to join With Death Looming (Anthoni)

[Baelin Holt]

3, Winter 521 AV

In... out... In... out... Baelin breathed carefully, concentrating intently on maintaining even, measured breaths.

With the majority of his focus devoted to simply breathing, it was easier to ignore the rest. Easier to pretend that his chest didn't flare with agony anytime he was jostled. Easier to ignore the sharp sting from his side and the throbbing along his back. The increasing ache from his bare feet. The everything.

If Baelin dared to take his focus off of breathing, then he'd be forced to acknowledge how his body had become little more than an overwhelming encasement of agony. How every motion stirred up some hurt. How even the smallest of things made his body feel wrong.

And so he didn't. Baelin kept his mind to task. And kept moving. One foot in front of the other. It didn't have to be pretty, so long as it kept him moving. Primal instinct had won out over logic, and all Baelin could be sure of was that he had to keep moving. Dimly, he realized that the route he took was meandering at best, but Baelin couldn't find within him the ability to do better.

So long as it was away. Anywhere had to be better than there.

It wasn't until his foot sunk into the soft lower bank of the Mudway that he even realized he had made it to the river. Baelin yanked his foot free―the effort costing him his balance and sending him stumbling forward. He fell on a knee and white hot agony surged from the impact. Baelin groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he became all too aware of just how deeply his body hurt. Pain eclipsed reason and a surge of desperation consumed him, its intensity forcing his eyes to wet.

He didn't want to be here.

He wanted to go home.

Baelin struggled back to his feet and splashed into the Mudway, limbs flailing as he tried to force his unwilling body to swim. In a rational part of his mind, Baelin was certain that he knew how to swim. But like walking and breathing, even this seemed to have become arduous. He threw an arm forward and kicked off the ground, only to find himself sinking more than swimming. Baelin jerked his head back up and sputtered, gasping for air, a groan hissing through clenched teeth as salt invaded the places where his skin had split.

And yet. Baelin had trouble processing anything beyond an all-consuming, single-minded desperation to be on the other side of this river. Awkwardly, he threw his arm forward again, dragged it through night-chilled water, and kicked furiously.

Time drew out, the world coalescing down to nothing more than the effort needed to drive his body through water. Whether it was a bell or a chime, Baelin couldn't know. But, as all things do, this too ended. His toes found purchase on soft ground again, and he was finally able to crawl out.

Staggering to his feet, Baelin suddenly felt a thrill of fear. His shirt and pants were sodden through. A cool breeze bit into him, its teeth now much sharper than when he’d been dry. The last time he'd been so stupid in seawater, he'd nearly died. And while the Mudway wasn’t as cold as the Suvan had been during Morwen’s influence, it still couldn't be a good idea to stay drenched in the chill of the night. Forgoing modesty and any semblance of sanity, Baelin peeled his clothes off. Once free of them, he attempted to somewhat wring them out, hoping vainly that they could dry fast enough. Baelin couldn't bear to lose these too. Then he'd really have nothing left.

The garments tightly clasped in hand, Baelin stumbled forward once again, his destination clear. He staggered past the long length of Tall Johnny’s, not daring to stop until he could finally feel the welcome reprieve of the Dust Bed.

Baelin lurched deeper into the far-reaching graveyard until he finally found a spot relatively free of rock, then collapsed. He curled around himself. Drew his damp clothes close. His eyes slipped shut. Inhaled deeply.

And then he let go.

[Anthoni Cole]

Anthoni cried alone in the dust bed before the two tombstones. His eyes had poured forth every emotion, his nose flowed freely with snot and bile, hands shook uncontrollably. It's been three days and nights since he buried his little sister Keiyara but they all seemed to roll together in Anthoni's mind. He'd visted Tall Johnny's everyday since the burial, and besides the price for the stone which carved out her name Anthoni had spent a large sum on liquor. Almost an equal sum to the cost of the stone name plate.

He didn't care about the money, had no reason to, as a dull mind seemed to offer him better comfort than a sack full of Mizas. And dull his mind was. Reaching for the tankard of Ale placed by his side Anthoni raised it to his lips and took a large swig. Some liqued ran down his face and beard until it splattered on his clothes. Lazily wiping his face Anthoni shuffled himself closer to the stones.

Erica Cole ~ Keiyara Cole

The names were imprinted on the stone and nothing else. Not the dates of their passing nor any kind words which usually followed. Instead he was left alone in the world to remember their lives and more importantly, their deaths. It was an unshakable feeling which Anthoni tried to drown out, the knowledge of knowing he could have done more but didn't. He failed them and now he was alone.

He reached up to the moon, his only companion for the night, and mouthed some vain words to Dira. Another swig of ale. The thought of returning home crossed his mind but after shaking his head Anthoni knew he wouldn't return to that place. He didn't want to remind himself that she was gone. So Anthoni prepared himself to sleep under the night sky, the moon and stars, in plain view of his patron Goddess.

"I'm sorry," he'd breathe quietly, his voice seemigly vaporized as it hit the night air. He spoke to no one in particular, just projected his pathetic words towards the two stones. As if they could hear. Propping himself up once again Anthoni took another long swig of ale, and this seemingly was the straw which broke his back. His head began to spin, as if the ground itself shook and twirled around him.

"Ya," he'd say to no one. "Ya."

Suddenly a small breeze came in to the dustbed. It flowed across the back of his neck in a soft kinda way, brushing against his hair. A vivid memory became firm in his minds eye, Erica, his mother, tussled her hand through his boyish black hair. Then as soon as it came the breeze left him alone again, although a smile formed on his lips.

His head jostled up when he heard a loud thud up ahead. To loud to be natural, he knew for sure, but he wondered what exactly it could've been. In a drunken haze Anthoni wobbled up to his feet, using the grave stones of strangers to balence himself. Before he walked to the strange sound he rubbed his hands across his mother and sisters name plate. Then he wiped his eyes and raised his hood to fend off the chill.

Anthoni's feet seemingly remembered the origin place of the sound, rather than his aching mind. He studder stepped his way along, gravestones being his hand rail and only defense against falling in the dirt face first.

A wiff of death traced itself through his nostrils, courtusy of being an Eiyon Anthoni could almost taste death in the night air. It was a strange gift Dira had blessed him with, yet he knew it was never wrong. Death was looming, but where? Another few feet of drunken steps Anthoni grabbed a gravestone for balence and was brought before another human.

The man was laid about the ground as if he fell from the sky direct. Wet clothes were raggedly strewn about his body, they offered much to be revealed in the man before him, as they clung tightly to his body. As if they were a cocoon for him to die in. Anthoni smiled, rather uncontrolably, as the man seemingly found the right place to quit life. The dust bed.

"You've the look of a man with one foot in the grave," he said loudly, perhaps to loud, but remembering he was drunk he tried to lower his voice. "You ain't planning on meeting Dira early are you mister?" He'd say to him before Anthoni himself collapsed to the ground. He pressed his back against a gravestone and reached for his tankard of ale, but then remembered he'd left it behind. Biting his tongue hard in frustration Anthoni kicked the strangers foot. It wasn't a hard kick, just hard enough to stir him from his slumber.

"Stay up," Anthoni'd say as he scanned the stranger. His drunkeness pressured him to continue talking whilst a sober Anthoni may have ignored this situation entirely.

[Baelin Holt]

Unconsciousness weighed down on him, heavy and unyielding. He thought that there might be someone nearby, but couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. Awake or asleep? Through a haze of murky awareness, he couldn't be sure.

The look of a man with a foot in the grave. The words weaved in his mind, beckoning.

Yes. Always. Just alive, but never any more than that. Couldn't he let it end here? Hadn't he let things drag on for long enough already?

He'd tried, hadn't he? Or, at least, had failed for long enough. Couldn't that be enough?

He was tired. So tired.

Baelin let out a soft sound, breath ragged against chapped lips.

Meeting Dira early?

Gods yes, could that be an option? Would it be too indulgent to take the out? He was too stupid; he couldn't figure out how to live this life. Maybe his next turn through the cycle would be cleverer and more useful.

A jolt of sensation shot from his foot. Baelin chuffed. One foot in the grave... Was this how it started?

It was almost disturbing, how sudden and forceful the eagerness that surged within him was. Gods, please. He could do better in his next life. Couldn't this one just be over with already? It wasn't too selfish to hope for, right?

"Stay up."

Baelin exhaled harshly. Petch.

That sounded real.

He peeled an eye open. It felt heavy—hard to keep lifted. He only managed a tick or two before it sank shut again. But it was enough to see the bleary form of someone sitting nearby.

Baelin's voice didn't seem to want to obey him. It took several tries—nothing more then wheezed air—before he managed to push out, "Go 'way."

He curled in on himself more tightly, drawing his arms up and tucking his head in. When he pressed the bridge of his nose against his forearm, he realized how close his marked palm was to his cheek. Curling his fingers into a fist, Baelin tucked his right hand in close as well.

With consciousness dancing around the periphery, Baelin could feel the buzz of ghostly presence. The dust bed always tingled with it, especially when Leth held his purview in the skies.

With a pang of dismay, Baelin realized he didn't even have his knife anymore. It had undoubtedly been a gift. And yet now it too was gone.

Baelin clenched his fist more tightly, lest anyone try to peel the skin off his palm and try to take his mark away too.

Ah. Right. There was someone here, wasn't there? Baelin peeled an eye open and squinted. With a force of will, he managed to concentrate long enough to see what looked like a scar across one side of the stranger's face. The general boniness that spoke to most Sunberthers' living conditions.

And eyes so blue that—even in the dim of night—they seemed to shine.

But... it was dulled. Not as bright as Baelin instinctively felt it should be.

When the scent of ale finally registered, Baelin figured he could guess why they seemed dulled.

A drunkard. Baelin sneered. Petching drunks. Anger surging, the haze he was under cleared and sharp indignation rushed him towards a crystal-clear focus. It was the sort of clear focus that might only last a brief tick—nothing more than sheer rage kept it going—but it was enough to hiss, "The petch you want?"