Cold upon the mountain

[hlif]

WHO: Asher Hardie; open (npc appearances by The Boneflayers)
WHAT: Asher's fever returns and his crew drag him to the healing tents, knowing it's the end
WHEN: Last week of Solace - mid-whatever August is called
WHERE: Skyhold, healing tents
NOTES: eventual character death; language, discussions about death, violence, faith. Discussions about Asher's childhood. Other warnings in subject headers. Feel free to make your own threads and have them open or closed, the death thread will go up closer to the time! Related ooc post

Asher has known for longer than he's cared to admit so he hasn't admitted it. He's shrugged it off the way he shrugs off pretty much everything else in his life until three nights passed of him coughing and coughing and coughing, keeping his crew awake with it. His chest has been rattling since they brought him back until blood started coming up with it. And now there are wounds cracking open; little cuts that weep for days on end, ugly wounds from the Storm Coast or sparring that feel hot to the touch. (They smell, Amalia had hissed as she'd pressed her hands to his chest over the burn scars to try to force the fever out. Melisende had sworn.)

So they bring him to the healers tents, the sweat rolling off him as he staggers; two dwarves and a Rivaini to help him, his hound with him as ever. The mage in her red leathers explains what she can with a slight elven woman, and the elfblooded one brings up the rear with a hand to his back. They're a constant from that first day to the last, a different combination each time at least one will always be there, stepping out for privacy or finally curling up to sleep.

And Asher...Asher isn't good with this. This isn't how it's meant to be as he presses his fingers into the festering gash over one hip from where a sword bit deep through his armour but the pain only makes him swoon, makes him cough and bite his lip. Doesn't make him focus, doesn't make him want to fight. This isn't how it was supposed to be and for the first time since his mother put him out the house twelve years ago, Asher Hardie is afraid.

It makes him a rather difficult patient, to put it politely.

Comments

[aintwejust]

"Pick a song." He don't care which. "You name it and I'll start sing'n, here and now."

No bullshit. Not a goddamn lick of a joke right there, not with Asher so pale in ways that don't speak to bloodloss (which is normal) or gett'n dumped in freezing water (which is how he cleans off WHEN he cleans off because he's a savage). Not now when it counts. He twists enough to press his forehead against Asher's temple just. Breathing. It smells like death. Like rot. Like sick. Like the plauge fields and the burning mass pyres after Denerim.

Like Ostagar.

Malcolm swallows past the twinge in his chest and breathes again, ignoring all that. Finds the sweat and dirt and whatever it is Asher put in his beard (not much.) Rubs his own worry grown stubble against the side of Asher's head cuz, shit, fair is fair. "Right over my heart. Or ass. Wherever you wanna be more."

[hlif]

"Please don't sing, you sound like a goose farting in the fog." Asher doesn't have the breath to explain the joke. "Someone'll come in and shoot you in the arse and then where will Korrin be? Dragging me up there with you over her shoulder, whinging like a lass stood up by her swineherd?"

(Wow can you tell Asher grew up on a farm? And he shouldn't make himself laugh, it's not worth it now, it hurts too much, it makes the world swim too dark, like he's drowning, and he can't claw his way to the surface, this weight on his chest that he can't seem to lift.)

"Both of you...look out for each other?" Seriousness slides into his tone, the way he does before a battle and in some ways it's not too far off because you never know. They've lived that sort of life for so long where they take those mad risks, where they kill for coin, tramping from one end of Thedas to the other for the thrill, the glory, blood on their hands and under their nails. "You and your girl, Korrin, and you and Merrill, Mal? We don't...fuck--"

He blinks. Sniffs. He's going to get this out. "This wasn't how this was meant to fucking go, it was meant to be some big fight, or something mad but-- but you do right by each other. By the people that love you. Look out for my family," and they know that Asher means the people I love, not just his flesh and blood, so that means plenty of people in Skyhold too that he's just taken under his wing as well as the Boneflayers and Aura. "Tell my sister I love her?"

Bronson hops up, licks Asher's face. "She'll love you. You know that. But I'm...I'm going to go now, is that okay lad?"

What is it they say about mabari? Smart enough to speak but wise enough not to? Whatever look is in Bronson's eyes is enough for Asher as his breathing tapers off, going still, the hound letting out a mournful howl when the life finally leaves Asher's body.

[gatheringstorm]

The joke would have made Korrin snicker endlessly earlier, but not now, not when she's taking in every moment as though it will be the end. When even the attempt at jesting slides away, Korrin nods to Asher's request, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Of course we will, Asher. I promise, to all of that. Don't you worry, we'll all take care of each other."

If only they had been able to give him a better end. Wardens go down fighting and that's not a bad example to follow. Perhaps if they'd realized earlier, they could have ensured that Asher would have that much at least. It would still hurt, but it would be what he'd wanted, none of this slow dwindling.

And as he speaks to Bronson, her throat closes in. She listens to the slowed breathing until it stills, and then her heart breaks. As Bronson howl's, she slowers her head, shoulders trembling as the sobs she was holding back all this time finally overtake her.