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For his whole life, Saracen Rue knew that one day he would die. Not that it was impressive, most people with a good grasp on their mortality knew that. Death was beginning to grow commonplace, it was disheartening to see. Good soldiers, wives, children, left slaughtered by the war which tore across the continents. Teleporters moved them around every couple of days as ironic as it was for a group called The Dead Men, they were always moving.
The sudden stasis was quite the shock to Saracen. There'd always been fights, always been travelling, two-day camps before they moved to the next one. Such was war, you'd never stay in one spot for too long.
And none of the dead men were liking Russia, it was far too cold for any of them, not even Anton was putting up with it.
But they all stayed and waited for Saracen to heal. Ravel had assigned himself the post of looking after Saracen's health which left the others to hunt and stay on lookout. When Saracen felt like he could speak, everyone was allowed a little time with him. They shared stories around Saracen's bed and laughed as if trying to forget that his condition was worsening.
Saracen knew what they were seeing in him. The face they saw when they looked down at him, the one that haunted their nights: Hopeless' scared expression as Mevolent's forces destroyed him.
That once pessimistic, stubborn, apathetic man. Hopeless got on so well with Skulduggery and Anton, never really much of a friend to Saracen but they did have their moments, then he died. Face contorted in terrified agony.
Was that what they were seeing in him?
"How bad do I look?" Saracen asked Ravel the next day.
Ravel had been spending a lot of time by Saracen's bedside. Because of that, the way he acted around the dying Dead Man was different to the others. There was an anxiety about him, there was anxiety about all of them, but also a sense of shame. Ravel had his head hung low which Saracen thought was quite the shame. If Ravel was going to be the last person he saw before he died, the fates should've at least let it be that he got to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful, golden eyes.
"What kind of answer do you want?" Ravel asked.
"Honest, but don't be an arse."
Ravel nodded. "You could be looking better."
"Is it how pale I'm getting? My hands are getting really pale. No don't bring me a mirror, if I see my face I'll end up hanging myself before the sickness gets me."
"Right. Well your face isn't all bad."
"It is a nice face…"
"If you do end up dying it'll be a sad day for all the women of Ireland," Ravel chuckled softly. "And the men."
"Just Ireland?" Saracen coughed.
"Oh, it'll be a sad day for the world, for all of us."
"It better be."
Ravel handed him the half-filled whiskey bottle they were sharing. Saracen took a hearty sip.
"You know," Saracen said, handing the bottle back to Ravel, "I never thought it'd end like this."
"Like what?"
"On a bed, next to you, coughing my lungs up."
"How did you think it would end?"
"Gallantly!" Saracen said, with a surge of volume and humour which he quickly regretted as he settled into another coughing fit. Ravel waited patiently for him to continue, frowning. "You know? In battle, fighting, killing the other guy and then succumbing to my mortal wounds, being cradled in the arms of some lassie. Like Hopeless did."
"I don't recall anyone cradling Hopeless."
"I was, in spirit."
Neither man laughed, they just looked down together at the floor. Rain was hitting against the roof of the little cabin they'd found. The windows drizzled, the gutters fighting a war of their own.
"Well, at least if you die you'll get a proper funeral."
"I'll look forward to that then," Saracen said. It hurt to laugh but he smiled still.
Silence after that, until Ravel sat down by Saracen's leg, the two of them staring out the window. Looking into the darkness of the forest. Ravel's eyes were shining. Saracen pretended not to notice.
"Do you have any regrets?"
Saracen was taken aback by the question. It was very final, Ravel might've well have told him: 'this is the end.'
"No," he shrugged. "I don't think so, anyway. I don't regret joining The Dead Men. I don't regret fighting for my country, for the world. I don't regret Dexter. I don't regret anything."
Ravel wiped his eyes and Saracen smiled at him.
"What about you? Do you have any regrets?"
Ravel considered the question, nodding deeply but saying nothing. Finally, surprisingly, he laughed.
"I regret taking so long to find you all."
"We thought Mevolent had killed you. Ghastly nearly cried."
"He didn't!"
"He did, I was the one to tell him you were strong, that you'd make it out."
Ravel frowned. "And you were right."
Like the plates of the earth shifting apart, silenced welled between them. There was a poet inside of Saracen now, some evil bastard poet who kept talking in metaphors and symbolism. Some poet crying about the oncoming reaper, finding meaning in every pause, trying to sustain itself on little things.
Then, Ravel asked his question.
"What do you know?"
"Huh?"
"'Saracen Rue knows things.' Like what?"
"Things."
Saracen liked the mystery that surrounded him. The mystique, as he called it. It helped him with his charm, it boosted his character, uplifted his coolness. He wasn't the only person who was doing it, Skulduggery would get all quiet and mysterious, Saracen had probably picked it up from him. However, a person like Ravel was quite the opposite. Ravel was honest with his friends, always, he never once kept secrets just to be cool and his charm was more friendly than it was mysterious, which stopped him from getting girls but helped with his friends.
"Come on. You don't want to take your discipline to the grave." Ravel pried gently. It dawned on Saracen that he was desperate to hear the answer.
"It's embarrassing," Saracen said.
"I won't tell anyone. I promise."
"You promise? Even if they ask?"
"Especially if they ask."
And for that, Saracen laughed. Coughing shortly after, banging his fist down against the bed, but it was worth it to see Ravel's small smile.
"Look at you, Erskine Ravel, keeping secrets. You dog, Goldie."
Ravel chuckled. Underneath, the irony was crushing him.
"Come on?"
"Fine," Saracen said, blushing despite his pale skin. "I'm… I'm a Lynceus. I see through walls."
Ravel's eyebrows arched. There was a clear disappointment and deeper down, a relief.
"Walls?"
"Yeah, walls."
"What about that time where you knew the guy had a knife in his pocket?"
Saracen winced. "Intuition?"
And then, Ravel laughed. It was good to laugh like that, in the company of friends, a real true laugh.
"You see through clothes, don't you?"
Saracen's pallid complexion was almost entirely negated by the blush which overcame him.
"I…" He stammered.
Ravel clicked his tongue.
"Saracen…"
"Shush. Just shush."
"You chose it to see through clothes?"
"I'm a dying man, shut up."
"You better wish you die."
"Don't say that, Erskine."
Ravel's face was still bright though, disregarding Saracen's worries about his mortality.
"You'll tell everyone, won't you?"
"No, no," Ravel said. "I promise not to."
"I'll trust you not to break a promise."
"Never." Ravel scooted closer and made a show of placing his hand on Saracen's forehead. "Your fever is getting better. Hopefully you'll recover."
"Don't give me false hope, Erskine. And please don't tell anyone. I don't want Dexter to think I'm some pervert."
"Dexter knows you're a pervert," Ravel said. "I think everyone knows that."
"I don't use it for that." Saracen crossed his arms, neck tilted up and insistent. "I promise. The clothes mush everything up, you can't really get a good—"
"I don't want to hear that."
Saracen nodded, understanding.
Ravel thought about the antidote in his backpack. Tonight, Saracen Rue would make a miraculous recovery. It brought him a smile to imagine the happy looks on everyone's faces but it took the smile right away to remember what they were celebrating. Ravel had done this to his friend. Such betrayal like that was unforgivable, he didn't think he had the stomach for it. But it had to be done. It was the right thing, it was—
"Ravel," Saracen said. "Thanks for being with me, while I'm dying here. It's boring but, you're kind for doing it."
Ravel returned to himself. "No problem. You're my friend."
"I love you," Saracen told him. "In like a friendly way."
"Not a Dexter way?" Ravel smirked. "Yeah, I love you too. Pervert."
"Shut up, Erskine. We're all evil when we're teenagers."
"Some people are kind when they're kids and then evil as adults."
"Like who?"
Ravel considered this.
"I don't know."