Chapter Text
The messenger doesn't meet any of their eyes. The eight of them pause as he enters and the momentary silence twists tight in Erskine's gut. Hopeless grasps his shoulder quick in solidarity and Larrikin rolls out from the bunk behind them. The wind flaps the tent walls. The Dead Men have stopped speaking, and this messenger looks at them all as if searching for something. It's only when he has eye contact with Erskine that he opens his mouth. Erskine's own is drying, and he has no energy to prompt.
"Commander Crow wishes to speak with you, Erskine Ravel, sir!"
Erskine leans back, momentarily, into Hopeless' space. The fear-mage nudges him, gentle. "When did she want to talk to me?" Erskine asks, his face neutral.
The messenger hesitates, and Erskine wonders what this particular person feels about the Dead Men. Is it admiration or fear, tongue-tying someone paid to speak? "Now, sir. In her tent."
"Alright, thank you," Erskine rises. He grabs his blue coat from the chair he left it on and the others stand too.
"Just Mr Ravel, sirs and - uh - Hopeless," stammers the messenger.
Erskine doesn't like that, but it isn't unexpected. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back," he says, and he looks at the frowning faces of his comrades and can't shake the blankness off his own. "We - we've probably guessed what this is about, anyway."
"Alright." Dexter says. Ghastly slaps him on the back. Erskine pulls his coat on, straightens, and follows the messenger out of the Dead Men's tent into the bustle of camp. It's like it usually is. People are everywhere. Perhaps a third are visibly injured, others are sitting in corners between tents, heads hidden in hands. A woman is playing the guitar not too far away, voice high and sweet. The tents just stretch out, hitting the forest to Erskine's left and ending halfway up a hill on his right. On that distant hill the pyre is still burning. The wind is blowing it away from camp. Erskine refuses to look at the plume of smoke directly. The messenger keeps glancing at it, jerkily.
Morwenna Crow, the only remaining leader of Meritorious' army, has a tent right in the middle of camp. That is where the two head, and Erskine says nothing to the stranger accompanying him. He doesn't even bother to say that he already knows where he's going. Straight back, eyes ahead. A woman waves and Erskine returns the gesture. A person in healers' attire greets him by name. A bulky man Erskine had a drink with once grins with sharp broken teeth, and Erskine calls out his name with a smile. All this makes the messenger look at Erskine with bigger and bigger eyes.
"What's your name?" Erskine manages, pushing down this thing bubbling in his chest.
"Baldrick, sir,"
"You don't need to call me sir, Baldrick, we're all fighting this war together."
This makes Baldrick's eyes even larger, but thankfully they've reached Morwenna's tent before he could verbally respond. Erskine heads toward the tent flap and halts Baldrick before he barges ahead.
"It's alright, you don't need to announce me, we know each other," and Erskine smiles. "Thanks for your help."
"Oh - alright," Baldrick says, starry-eyed. "Th-Thanks sir Erskine."
Erskine waits for him to head off. What a toady. It irks him sometimes, to be called honorifics like that when he was, after all, originally a mortal busker and then a low-level spy. He's no noble, certainly no sir, and no leader either.
Speaking of, Erskine enters the tent loudly. Morwenna is sitting on a chair close to the opening flap, dark hair out today, elbows leaning on the table in front of her. There's an empty chair opposite. She's smiling, as if that will even out the lines under her eyes. The room is well lit - almost too bright.
"Hello Commander," Erskine says as he scans the room. "You wanted to talk to me?"
Morwenna nods. "I did, thanks for coming."
"Of course," Erskine says, and he allows himself to frown. "I assumed it would have to be somewhat urgent for you to call, right now."
Morwenna's smile shifts. "You're right. It is urgent. Please sit, this conversation may take a while."
"It's nothing bad I hope," Erskine says, sitting in the fold out wooden chair. He settles his elbows on the table, unconsciously mirroring Morwenna's pose.
"Depends on your perspective."
Erskine raises an eyebrow.
"I'm going to ask you to run to be leader of the army." Morwenna says, swift and emotionless.
Erskine blinks. It's not unexpected, in the sense that his comrades had wondered if this would occur. The speechlessness comes back, pervades. He doesn't move. Morwenna takes this as a chance to elaborate.
"I honestly think you're the best person available for the job. You've known Meritorious and Corrival since before the war even started, you've organised large scale action before, and successfully. You're immensely popular. You've got a mind for strategy and the capacity to make hard decisions. As there's no clear successor, you're in for a good chance of being elected."
Erskine inhales, exhales. He does not grasp his hands together, he does not bounce his knee. “You’re one of our highest-ranking leaders left, why aren’t you doing this instead?”
Morwenna smiles, “A necromancer in charge? Heaven forbid.”
“You’re already in charge, the army respects you.”
“It’ll put off new recruits,” Morwenna says, so firm that Erskine reflexively closes his mouth. “And it’ll give Mevolent ammunition for his propaganda.”
Erskine pauses. “Surely you won’t let that deter you.”
Morwenna shrugs. “We cannot afford any weakness, and I can recognise when I’m not the best person for the job. I wouldn’t be able to be … objective, after what has happened. I never wanted to be the leader anyway, I’m much better at negotiating than leading, I’m not one for speeches.”
Erskine doesn’t entirely buy her argument but he recognises that he won’t have any success dissuading her. “Why me, then?”
“I’ve already said – you’re popular, you’re experienced, you’re more than capable. Who else? Guild? He may be on our side, but he isn’t a man I trust to make any sort of moral decision.”
“Ciara, then?” Erskine says, hoping Ghastly won’t stab him for throwing his mother into the line of fire, as it were.
“She said no before I even thought of asking her.”
“Dexter? He’s popular, he’s powerful, he’s a great leader.”
“And take a powerful energy-thrower off of the Dead Men?”
Erskine is a powerful sorcerer in his own right, and the insinuation that Dexter is more valuable than him on field throws him for a moment. He tries to recognise and dispel the sharp feeling that rises in response. It’s not really that he cares for other people’s opinions of his capacity – other people who aren’t the Dead Men, that is – but this is Morwenna Crow. If she genuinely thinks him incapable, then perhaps there’s something he’s been doing wrong. Erskine can’t afford to make mistakes.
“Skulduggery then?” Erskine offers, to cover up the pause.
“Skulduggery would burn everything to the ground, including us, with that sort of power,” Morwenna says, and speaks over Erskine’s interjection. “I respect the man, Erskine, and I am joking a little, but he’s never been a stable or reliable person – not since, well, his resurrection.”
Erskine sighs and sinks a little in his chair. Morwenna looks at him straight on. “Do you want me to list why your colleagues aren’t here instead of you? Larrikin is too powerful a healer to take off field, Anton too deadly, Saracen is too unreliable for this responsibility, Hopeless too reserved. Ghastly would despise this work – he’s never been one for the spotlight. And outside your group, Sagacious is unprepared, Bliss too disliked …”
“I understand,” Erskine grinds out.
“So what, exactly, is your objection to my proposition?”
Erskine looks up to the ceiling – if you were generous – of the tent. Morwenna’s eyes are boring into him still, but he supposes she is at the end of her list of available people, and the army does need a leader. He looks up at the darkened blue fabric that moves, gently, with the outside wind, and considers it. He’d have to leave the Dead Men unit, there was no working around that. He couldn’t command an army, and organise the treaties and alliances and decisions associated, and be part of a suicide group constantly in action. No man is that capable, and the last thing the army needs is to lose another leader so soon after the previous ones. And that means leaving Hopeless and Dexter and Ghastly and the rest. Indeed, with Corrival also … gone, it is quite possible that Erskine might need to direct the Dead Men from the safety of camp, send them on missions. Even that idea is enough to make Erskine feel ill. It was one thing to participate, quite another to send his friends into danger without a similar risk to himself. But that is what he’ll be doing, all round, isn’t it? Sending people into danger, making speeches, and choosing the lesser of two evils again and again, but on a massive scale. Is this all something he is capable of?
Erskine recalls life prior to the official start of the war. He had been a spy, for Corrival and Meritorious, but he had also sat at the table at meetings aiming to collect more allies. He had been quite young, and more mortal than mage by upbringing, but he had thrived in those spaces. He had made speeches which convinced and belittled and confused. He had planned interactions so as to get the exact desired response. He had worked undercover in the houses of worshippers of the Faceless without detection. Something in him, which remains still, was very capable at this kind of politics.
And Morwenna is right, isn’t she?
The issue is, simply, that Erskine doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want this power, this responsibility. He isn’t selfless enough to stand up into this position. He doesn’t want to leave the Dead Men. He doesn’t want this sort of blood on his hands. But does that excuse his refusal? Surely, his priority should be working to end this war as swiftly as possible, and the army would not suffer under his leadership. Could he say the same for anyone else that would run?
The sick feeling in Erskine’s stomach is growing, and there’s a part of his mind screaming to get away. Instead he looks down, at Morwenna.
“How long do I have to decide?”
“Three days, technically. The vote will be on Thursday, though - unless I’m very mistaken - if you’re running it’ll be basically a formality.”
“I’m going to talk to my – to my friends, before I make a decision.”
From Morwenna’s eyes it’s clear she thinks that’s a ‘yes’, but all she does is smile. “Of course.”
Erskine stands to leave but before he goes she calls out to him.
“Yes?” He says.
“I’m sorry about Deuce,” it’s the softest she’s sounded this entire conversation.
Erskine nods and swallows. “I’m sorry about Meritorious, too,” he responds, and leaves his Acting Commander as she blinks away tears.
When Erskine steps outside the wind has changed. He coughs on a mouthful of bitter smoke. The smell of burning flesh clings to the inside of his mouth and nose as he walks back towards his tent.
Hopeless is waiting at the entrance for him. The other six are playing cards in the middle of the tent. Erskine pushes down the anger that comes with seeing their trivial behaviour. Hopeless is sitting at the right side of the flap, legs flat in front of them. They haven’t stopped wearing armour since the last engagement with the enemy. Erskine looks down at them, they look up.
“Good news?” They ask, as if they can’t read the intricacies of his negative emotions, the anxiety stemming from the ramifications of the meeting.
“Morwenna wants me to be the Commander.” Erskine says.
“What did you say?” Dexter calls.
“I said I’d want to talk to you all first.”
“Why?” Skulduggery says.
Erskine feels a hand slip into his, and he doesn’t even glance at Hopeless as they pull on his arm to stand up. He doesn’t drop their hand when they are on their feet, and they don’t move away from his side. The others either ignore this behaviour or are simply desensitised to it by now – they’re all waiting for his answer.
“Well. I wouldn’t want to abandon you all,” Erskine says, though it sounds like a small statement in comparison with his feelings.
“You wouldn’t be,” Saracen says, frowning. Erskine and Hopeless sit with the rest.
“I couldn’t just assume that, though.”
“I think you should do it,” Anton says. He hasn’t looked up from his cards, but it’s rare enough for him to state an opinion that everyone stops and listens. “You’d be good.”
Erskine puts his free hand to the short hair on the back of his neck, lowers his gaze. “That’s what Morwenna said.”
“What do you think?” Larrikin asks, eyes on the deck as he counts out a new hand. Erskine shakes his head when it’s offered to him – he’s nowhere near comfortable enough to play. Larrikin pouts at him.
“I – I suppose she’s right.” Erskine says. “It didn’t sound like there were many other options.”
“Hey!” Larrikin says, loud with exaggerated hand movements. “What about me?”
“You hate politics,” Dexter shoots back. “The moment anyone, anyone starts making a speech you’re all ‘Dex, Dex, this is boring, Dex, Dex, let’s sneak out’.”
“So? It’d be nice to be considered,” Larrikin isn’t even trying to hide his grin.
“So you want to do this?” Hopeless murmurs, under the bickering.
Erskine glances at them. “It doesn’t seem like there’s really another option.”
“There are always options.”
“No good ones, at least.”
“Hmm,” Hopeless doesn’t press nearly as much as they would usually. It’s been a long week,
“Larrikin, Morwenna didn’t want you off field – you’re too good of a healer, apparently.”
“Oh, you’ve gone and done it now,” Dexter says, smiling, as Larrikin puffs up like pigeon.
“I knew Morwenna liked me!”
“Yeah,” Erskine overcuts what would have become a boastful monologue. “All of you – according to Morwenna – can’t be taken off the unit.”
“What about you?” Ghastly says.
“Apparently I can.”
“It’d just be because of your leadership skills, nothing about you as a fighter,” Saracen says carefully.
“Well it is something about me as a fighter, though, isn’t it?” Erskine contradicts. “Else she’d want me on the field.”
“I’m just saying, don’t take it as criticism. We worked without you for a year and it was dreadful man, you’d definitely be missed. Even if she does think that, she’s not been on any of our missions, she doesn’t really qualify to make a judgement – no offense to the Commander.”
Erskine is self-aware enough to know that Saracen means well, in saying this, but it only blackens his mood further. He focuses on his hands and is a little surprised to see that his fists are pale from being clenched too hard. That year mightn’t have been positive for his comrades in the sense that they lacked a team member, but for him it had been the worst year of his life.
“Sure, Saracen,” Erskine manages. “I’m going to step out.”
Saracen smiles at him and lets him go. He walks back out the tent and regrets it but being inside had been stifling. The bustle has lessened now that the smoke has been blown back their way, but there are still a handful of people around. Erskine ducks his head and walks around the edge of the tent, boots crunching on dry ground and rocks. He sits at the back of the tent, knees tucked to his chest, and now he looks out at the hill. Corrival, he thinks, Meritorious. He wonders if he’ll cry about this, at all. Hopeless has. The others probably have as well, he thinks. What does it mean, that he hasn’t cried? Does a part of him just … not care enough?
“Do you mind me being here?”
“Jesus Ghastly!” Erskine yelps. “Give a man a warning.”
“I was trying to,” Ghastly says. He’s standing by the corner of the tent, shifting on his feet. He must have forgotten his hat, as for once his face is unshadowed, bright in the sun. Erskine hesitates, then places a palm beside him. Ghastly is quiet and tactful, and the two have known each other for a very long time. There’s no need to send him away.
“The conversation ended before I could say this, and I’m assuming you left to avoid the topic. But. Well. Erskine, anything you choose, I’ll support you. We all will. Whether you want to stay with us or lead.” Ghastly puts a scarred hand on Erskine’s shoulder, squeezes, lets go. “Knowing you, I’d say you feel like there’s a 'right and moral' option that you should follow regardless of how you personally feel. But it’s important we have a leader who wants to lead, too. It’s not selfish to choose what you need.”
“You’re making me out to be a martyr,” Erskine scoffs.
“Eh,” Ghastly makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “In situations like this, I think it’s a reasonable description.”
“So you’re saying choose the option I want to choose?” Erskine says. “Wow, I hadn’t thought about it like that before.”
“I thought you mightn’t’ve,” Ghastly nods.
“I was being sarcastic,” Erskine grumbles, quieter.
Ghastly hums. “What do you need right now?”
“... If you were me, what would you do?”
“I’d consider all the positive and negative aspects of each option and make a decision based on that.” Ghastly says.
“You’re helpful.”
“I’m trying,” Ghastly says, unbothered by Erskine’s petulance.
“I know,” Erskine sighs, and he lays his head on Ghastly’s shoulder as the two watch the pyre burn. “Thank you. But there are more factors to consider than just my preference.”
“I know,” Ghastly says. “But make sure it’s worth it.”
“God,” Erskine says, because he returns to his father’s deity in times of stress, “I hope it is. I really, really do.”
That night Hopeless has another nightmare. This time, at least, Erskine is expecting it, so when they cry out, distorted and terrified, he’s already shuffling his bedroll closer to theirs. He watches them carefully in the half-light, as they blink and look around, and when they see Erskine something in their shadowed face changes and they lie back down. He doesn’t move as they curl closer, their shoulder against his side, and he waits for them to settle before he relaxes again. Their hair has been growing out and it tickles his arm, and sometime later Hopeless’ inaudible, shaking sobs peter out and they close their eyes. Erskine does end up sleeping, but it’s in places, shaken awake by the most obscure things, and he knows the rings beneath his eyes will only be darker tomorrow.
Erskine knows he isn’t immortal, he is very much well aware of this fact, and he’d been brought up in a mortal world full of death and joined the army before his first century had even ticked over. But despite all that, this is the moment that he properly feels time passing, feels the drag and stretch of it, like something physical.
“Stop fidgeting a moment,” Hopeless reprimands, softly, hands resting on his collarbone. “If you don’t stay still I’m not going to fix your tie.”
“I’m not fidgeting,” Erskine says, leg tapping.
“Uh huh,” Hopeless says.
“You alright?” Erskine asks with a frown, standing still now.
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” Hopeless says, softly, and they focus on tying his tie.
“You’ve been acting – really off,” Erskine realises out loud. “More than usual.”
“Well, yeah,” Hopeless looks into Erskine’s eyes, and it’s dreadful seeing the lack of any sort of mirth in their grey eyes. “I knew them too.”
“Shit, yeah, I know, that wasn’t what I meant …”
“Erskine, breathe. I’m not annoyed,” they finish with his tie and step back.
“It’s just, usually you talk about this stuff.”
“Oh,” Hopeless shrugs, glancing at the crowd around them. “Don’t worry, I am. You just seemed quite – you’ve had a lot on, is all.”
It’s perhaps just more evidence of how unkind Erskine has become, this week, this year, that his immediate response is a chill in his gut. Hopeless usually goes to him when they want to talk about their worries, and it’s good that they have other people to talk to as well, but he’d always been under the impression that he was their favourite person to go to, for this sort of stuff. Not that he’s been talking to them about … everything, this week.
“You can always talk to me, though,” he asserts, trying to sound nonchalant, as if his friend isn’t a fear-mage and thus has an intimate window into his deepest insecurities as they crop up, blow by blow. Gods Erskine is tired.
“Thanks, you too,” they say. Their eyes narrow and they lean closer, quieter even than they usually are. “If you need, we can just leave. This whole mess isn’t your responsibility.”
“And leave Crow to ‘clean up’ after me?” Erskine demands.
“Or someone,” Hopeless agrees, they’re very sincere.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I … know you won’t, at least,” Hopeless acquiesces. They sigh and put their hands on Erskine’s shoulders. Despite his peripheral annoyance, he lets them, and they lean forward to press their forehead against his. “I love you.”
It’s so ridiculously affectionate, and in the middle of a crowd of sorcerers too, that Erskine can’t help but smile. His shoulders loosen, just a little. “I love you too.”
“Speech time,” they reply, stepping back, and it must be, because everyone is turning to look at him. Erskine has always liked attention, used to play violin in taverns for the thrill of it alone, but right now it’s making him feel like he’s a snake on the verge of shedding its skin and sneaking away. He puts his smile on, the pretty one with danger behind the eyes, and he walks through the crowd toward the podium.
“Friends,” he starts when he’s up onstage. “Fellow soldiers and healers and allies. The last thing I ever wanted was for this to be necessary, but it has become vital that I step into Meritorious’ place as leader of our army. The assassinations of Corrival Deuce and Eachan Meritorious, alongside the indiscriminate murders of two hundred of our teleporters and healers and non-violent workers, was a disgusting and cowardly act by Mevolent and his army. Deuce and Meritorious were my friends, and I mourn for them and all of our people that were murdered, and I am eager to bring Mevolent and his ilk to justice …”
It's a clunky speech, a little too formal, stilted, but Erskine knows his voice sells it – he couldn’t say these words without emotion. His eyes do not water but his throat thickens, and he meets the eyes of his comrades, his fellow soldiers, tries to be sincere, genuine, and steps off the podium certain he succeeded. He nods to all those who approach him, exchanges polite and careful words, but he has one direction in mind and when he reaches the other Dead Men they close in a circle around him and leave. Hopeless’ hand slips into his and he glances to see that they are crying, silently, and the flash of irritation – or perhaps jealousy – is present, but easily suppressed. He squeezes their hand, tries to express support, hopes their magic didn’t pick up the mess going on in his head right now.
That night the results of the vote are announced – magic speeding up the process of counting – and it’s as expected. Erskine is now Commander Ravel, effective immediately. Erskine almost goes straight to the Commander’s tent – Morwenna will give him a briefing in the morning, but it wouldn’t hurt to go through the records. Dexter catches him, and Larrikin makes his stay by pinning him to his bedspread and pretending to fall asleep there. When Erskine awakes the next day he has no idea how much sleep he got, but he’s awake and standing and his mind feels sharply clear, in an off-putting sort of way.
Hopeless waylays him before he leaves. When they’re particularly worried about a friend they tend to hover, and because Erskine understands why it’s only a little annoying. They’d already wandered down to the baker’s tent and grabbed currant buns, and there are two for Erskine and one for the others. Skulduggery isn’t in the tent, Larrikin seems to have already left to work in the healers’ section, and Saracen is fast asleep. Anton is never around in the mornings. The rest are uncharacteristically quiet. Erskine eats quickly. He doesn’t ask Hopeless to walk with him, because he’s a grown man capable of walking across a campsite, and if he asked then Hopeless would know how little he wants to do this right now.
“Have a good first day, Commander,” Dexter calls, a little teasingly, as he leaves for the first day in what will be the rest of his life.