"I will murder my way..."

                       “Hate to tell you, but that wasn’t luck.”

Send me “You are my sunshine” for my muse’s reaction to yours dying in their arms

Fervent kisses are peppered along his the man’s cheeks, trailing along to kiss what he can; as lips press against the skin in such a cordial manner it nearly goes unnoticed that with each peck the skin beneath grows colder-- foreboding. Tears fall freely and it holds no surprise, as shaking hands bring the body of his uncle closer to him a hand resting to hold his head in place so it does not loll back, that Asher’s face has dampened considerably. With no eyes to watch him, he felt it imperative to cry; Beskha did not sit besides him, she had not cared for his uncle in the slightest, and perhaps she held understanding he needed to be left alone.

He’s cursed his mind for wandering to stories told oft when he was sick and unmoving in bed; how Malcolm came and took hold of his hand, fingers running through a curled mop of blonde hair, and he whispered softly the stories he could. When Asher groaned and pleaded to go spar, he spoke of old war stories which easily grabbed the boy's attention, and not long did he enter a dream where he was that mighty warrior defeating his enemies. Other times they were far more simple stories, perhaps complex in their own right, these came when his mind was too fevered and each movement caused retaliation. Malcolm had kissed his forehead and always spoke in a self-assured manner Asher was soon to mimic.

There are none to witness his sorrow, there is nothing felt within him but the heavy weight of guilt, and the spiritless body of Malcolm Branfield cradled in his arms. Nicked fingers tugged gently through mattered brown locks, fear that if he were to pull hard his head would loll backwards and he would burst into sobs; how long could he howl and moan over a corpse?

Asher tilted his head back and released a laugh far too bright and cheerful for such an intrusive question. As it comes to an end, his lips tug back into a smug grin and he offered a wink to the grey-face. “One kiss in the stables, we were boys, and I was rather curious; nothing more than that.”

His face is flushed at the memory, an embarrassing secret he hadn’t told anyone before; one part out of fear and two parts because the moment seemed too personal to be shared. “Ah! You should have seen the way his face reddened when it ended, couldn’t look at me without gaining a blush for weeks.”

Duncan had been concerned then– that Asher had harmed Gared. He could clearly remember the fight which proceeded between Royland and Duncan the night the castellan accused him of harming his nephew. 

“It’s not a simple debt, nor is it your business,” Father said sternly. “For your information, when my son escaped last night, he stole a man’s cloak for a disguise. We found the man dead this morning.” “Dead?” Brielle repeated, horrified. 

“You believe your son to have killed this man simple because he wears his cloak? There’s a foolishness in that thinking; nothing but a lust-stricken fool more likely to get in debts--” Asher motioned back towards the gambler. “--than kill a man.”  A hope he isn’t wrong with his words, looking considerably more lax than he should. Dead men didn’t bother him. 

He couldn’t help but smile at the name Quiver. It wasn’t that long ago that Rodrik had addressed him by the same name only to be corrected as he was name a man. The nickname his father had given him at a young age still haunted him to this day but couldn’t bring himself to correct Asher. There was a fondness when Asher addressed him with this nickname. A fondness that he could greatly appreciate even more so in his current situation. 

“I would love some water. Thank you.” he took up Asher on his offer for water as his throat had been extremely dry. Clearing it he couldn’t help but speak up again regardless of the pain coming from the dryness.

“Four years? Has it really been that long?” he said half to Asher himself and half aloud taking in the realization that he had gone so long without seeing or even hearing from his friend. 

“You look a lot different.” he commented with a soft chuckle giving his full attention to his friends features. Asher was just a boy of seventeen went he had left for Essos and now he had returned as a man. “I see you finally have that beard you’ve been wanting so badly.”

A pang of sadness suddenly hit him as a different kind of pain took over. Four years..four long years his friend went without his family and missed watching his siblings grow. His friend never had the chance to redeem himself in front of his father. It had been four years since their last interaction and here he sat without a moments hesitation at the bedside of someone who had been severely beaten and left for dead. 

“I’ve missed you, friend.” he couldn’t help but spit out as the heartache became almost unbearable. His friend had lived such a tough life when he had everything going for him. “I’m glad your home.” 

As he’s told Arthur could in fact use water, he gave the man's hand a gentle squeeze before rising to retrieve the aforementioned liquid. Returning with a cup of tepid water, nothing cold to shock his throat, lips were drawn taut as he positioned himself in order to help him drink. “Sit up a bit, like that.” He muttered softly, placing a hand behind Arthur’s head to pivot him up slowly; bringing the cup closer so he could drink. He smiled, and he hoped he didn’t look too weird smiling at someone drinking water!

“I’ve heard a lot of what you’ve done; commander of an elite guard, growing rather handsome as well. A skilled bowman, always knew you’d excel at that.” Asher jested, hoping a overall more cheerful conversation would clear away the atmosphere. Was it something uncomfortable, four years was an awful lot of time; there had been attempts to communicate, but it appeared they had failed more oft than the letters to his own family.

“Finally noticing how attractive I am? Took you long enough.” When noticing he had kept his hand pivoting Arthur up, he slowly removed it, and turned away to place the cup of water down nearby. If Arthur requested water during their talk, Asher really didn’t want to travel to get it. “Thanks for noticing the beard, suits me quite well.” He chuckled, facing the other once more with a soft grin.

Laying on the spare bed at Ironrath, he had desperately attempted to sleep after the horror which left him damaged. The deeper his sleep went the harsher the nightmares became as the reality continued to replay in his head over and over again. Despite being asleep, the wounds on his chest continued to burn playing a part in the nightmares. The more uncomfortable his body became the more he began to stir awake. 

“uhh” he managed to say quietly awakening from his milk of the poppy induced sleep. 

His eyes adjusted to the light after laying in darkness for so long. Fully opening his eyes he scanned the room unsure of where he was at first only to be quickly reminded by his condition. Turning his head slightly he noticed Asher sitting at his bedside not wearing his famous grin. Admiring him for a few moments, he couldn’t help but feel relieved by Asher’s presence. His childhood friend had always been a sort of protector and wild card. 

“Asher…” he choked out in a raspy voice still consumed by the tiredness. “How are you?” he asked with a small smile trying to lighten the clearly thick atmosphere. 

There’s apprehensiveness in staying where he sat as Arthur stirred, it is accompanied by an eagerness to comfort the pain the Glenmore had experience; perhaps telling stories of his travels until the man fell back into a much more peaceful slumber. There’s a deep sorrow, heavy in his chest, Asher did not have to imagine the pain of nightmares which surely followed Arthur into slumber-- he’d experienced enough of that darkness to know it is like a burning hell, never welcoming but always inviting one back. Eyebrows scrunched together, he focused intently as the injured man began to awake.

The milk of the poppy held a weak grasp on him, perhaps he would need more later? Asher would find no trouble in retrieving it.

A smile of relief passed across his lips as Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, quickly reaching out to take hold of his hand. Briefly he ran his thumb across the rope burned wrist; how long had Arthur struggled until he realized it was futile? Giving a gentle squeeze, trying to assure his old friend he was neither a ghost or hallucination. Quite a handsome hallucination he’d be-- the thought caused his smile to widen.

ahs: murder house sentence starters

“What would his debt be?” Brielle asked the man, lifting an eyebrow.  “Whatever his debt is, he’ll serve it at the Wall.” Brielle spun at the familiar voice.  “Father!” 

Asher released a small huff at the sudden addition, turning away from the gambler to look over the new man. There’s curiosity in his gaze, and a wish to not  insult Brielle’s father, but it’s hardened when realizing he’s meant to send Elmar to the Wall.