"I can keep my head above water," he says, and immediately regrets it as Guts throws him over the side. He has exactly three seconds to really feel that regret before he hits the water side-on and all the breath knocks out of his body.
The water is cold, colder than he expected. His lungs seize and he begins to choke, icy water filling his mouth and nose as he struggles in his sodden robes. They're faded velvet and wool, practical for a man who catches colds in high summer but the last thing he wants to be wearing when, and he cannot stress this enough, thrown bodily into an ice-cold lake.
His fingers brush mud. His eyes are closed but even that is narrowing, purpling around the edges with the blackness of a sleep that doesn't end. Somehow he gets his legs under him and pushes off the muddy bottom, straining.
He breaks surface. That air's never tasted so sweet. He only gets a mouthful before the water drags him back down, greedy fingers pulling at his clothes. But not so deep, this time. He surfaces again, gasps another breath, manages to see where the shore is, and, slowly, start to make his way towards it. It's slow going. He finds a pattern: paddle, gasp, paddle, gasp.
And when he does finally haul himself on shore, dripping wet, robes nearly black with water in the moonlights, he has breath enough to say one thing, and one thing only. He says it rarely, but the occasion warrants.
no subject
The water is cold, colder than he expected. His lungs seize and he begins to choke, icy water filling his mouth and nose as he struggles in his sodden robes. They're faded velvet and wool, practical for a man who catches colds in high summer but the last thing he wants to be wearing when, and he cannot stress this enough, thrown bodily into an ice-cold lake.
His fingers brush mud. His eyes are closed but even that is narrowing, purpling around the edges with the blackness of a sleep that doesn't end. Somehow he gets his legs under him and pushes off the muddy bottom, straining.
He breaks surface. That air's never tasted so sweet. He only gets a mouthful before the water drags him back down, greedy fingers pulling at his clothes. But not so deep, this time. He surfaces again, gasps another breath, manages to see where the shore is, and, slowly, start to make his way towards it. It's slow going. He finds a pattern: paddle, gasp, paddle, gasp.
And when he does finally haul himself on shore, dripping wet, robes nearly black with water in the moonlights, he has breath enough to say one thing, and one thing only. He says it rarely, but the occasion warrants.
"Fuck."