Grylock and I had our chat today. Same format as yesterday. I'm still too exhausted for this descriptive shit. We're huddled in the dark, periodically moving from building to building to avoid a big fucking machine, so it's not like much has changed.
Me: "Hey. How you feeling?"
Grylock: "Probably the same as I look. How do I look?"
Grylock: "Ahh, I like an honest man. Guess I'd best not go lookin' for a mirror. Where's the royal ponce?"
Me: "Sitting on the roof. Wouldn't surprise me if he's trying to wave down the Nothing. Maybe that'd be for the best."
Grylock: "Don't you fucking start - "
Me: "Sorry, sorry. No, I don't wanna die. Better?"
Grylock: "... a little. Gods know I'd rather not get smushed."
Me: "I doubt it would hurt, the size of that thing."
Grylock: "Probably. Pain ain't the point, though. Gettin' squished... it's such a pussy way te die. You know? One minute upright, the next a pancake. No dignity te the act."
Me: "Didn't know you worried about dignity, the number of times you've pissed on me."
Grylock: "Ahhh, that was just a bit o' fun. Haven't pissed on ye... lately.. good I don't, or yer clothes'd be stained nice 'n... nice 'n red. Ahem."
Me: "You okay? Need some water?"
Grylock: "I'm fine. Just... a wee bit tired. I'm fuckin' old. Haven't ye noticed?"
Me: "And sick."
Grylock: "And sick. Don't... I doubt I'm gonna make it outta here, Mr. Mayor. Truth... truth be told."
Grylock: "Heh. Glad ye're not tryin' te coddle me. I hate coddlers. Piss me off. Honesty, eheh, that's the key."
Me: "Yeah. Honesty. I kinda suck at that, sometimes."
Grylock: "Ehh, we all do... ahem... at times. Important thing is... when... ye're honest. 'n when you hide shit. Pick and choose, kid, 'n do it wisely. Else life is hell."
Me: "That almost sounds like advice. Since when do you offer advice that doesn't involve shankin' someone with your poisonheart?"
Grylock: "Heh! Good... good call. Ahh, ol' buddy poisonheart... the best gift anyone's e'er... e'er given me, ye know? Even if it was a last minute thing. Heh... wonder if Pagan... misses... misses his..."
Me: "... what...?"
Grylock: "I'm... nay stupid, Mr. Mayor... I know yer son nicked this from 'im... read all about... it... mmm. Still... still the finest thing... I've e'er received. Even if it... might've... killed me..."
Me: "Here. Sit up. C'mon. Spit that shit out of your lungs. You'll choke to death on phlegm. How would that be for... dignity... there you go."
Grylock: "Ack... poisoned... straight through the damned... sheath... heheh, guess there's nay a person who was stupid enough te... keep it on 'em all the time... liked it... that much, ye know...? Finest... gift."
Grylock: "All the red's... run outta yer cheeks..."
Me: "That's... is that why you're sick...? Because you're always carrying around that stupid sword...?"
Grylock: "That'd be... my... best guess... hack..."
Me: "... I'm sorry I gave it to you. I... fuck, I practically killed you."
Grylock: "Eh... s'not so bad... and I'm not dead yet... have breath, can fight... I just need... te... rest... a bit longer... let me s... sleep..."
Grylock's rest is fitful. Almost panicky. He coughs constantly. I might be exhausted, but listening to his death throes, I couldn't possibly close my eyes. The nightmares with his coughing thrown in would be far too much to bear.