Archive of Our Own ^beta

The cold’s setting heavily in, into the houses and the people. It seeps, dancing and horrible, and as it comes people die. The landscape that rises and falls away from the village glistens with dew, darkened in night. The river freezes. The city walls do little to block out the wind. The stones radiate cold, and people set fires and find rugs and still freeze, slowly, as if from the inside out. Eyes, set in hard faces, become dark and haunted, and if winter does not end everyone shall die.

“I dislike winter,” Erskine Ravel tells his companion, leaning on a rusting railing on the circular city wall.

His companion looks at him. He’s a step back from the edge, with a hand on Erskine’s sleeve as if that would be enough to haul him up from falling should the railing crumple away. His eyes are a still grey, and Erskine is a little taken back at the smile on his face. They’d met centuries before; Hopeless had smiled at Erskine then too, a young woman in a household determined to crush her independence.

“I hadn’t guessed,” Hopeless says. His teeth are chattering. “It isn’t as if you are projecting waves of despair.”

Erskine considers the notion, and then he attempts to hold himself in what he thinks is a happier poise. This regresses to slumped shoulders when it begins to snow. The fireball in Erskine’s hand splutters. He groans. Hopeless tilts his head at him, a pose of Skulduggery’s they’d all picked up. Erskine’s heart falls at the thought of the name, a natural reaction to a reminder of a friend dead for five years, then picks up again at the realisation that Skulduggery is back, and though alive isn’t the adjective, and talking isn’t either, existing is good enough.

“Is there a reason we’re standing here?” Erskine asks.

“… Yes. We’re supposed to be guarding this wall.” Hopeless says.

“Why? If we don’t will it suddenly run off? Shall it topple over if we’re not standing here? Shall it become sentient and tell children vaguely rude stories …” he stops, because Hopeless has a hand over his mouth and is laughing. When Hopeless removes his hand the smile’s back. It’s a little sharper than before, and surprised.

“Those are all distinct possibilities.”

Erskine opens his mouth to say something then frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just realised we should probably not be standing with our backs to the outside of the wall,” Erskine says.

“Technically true,” Hopeless says, “but no-one’s out there.”

“Because you know things?” Erskine asks, and turns to look down the right way, anyway. He knows Hopeless’ skillset now, but they’d teased Hopeless about the vagueness of his powers for long enough for it to be a natural statement.

“I know many things,” Hopeless says. His shoulders are less tight now that Erskine’s leaning against something relatively stable. Another gust of wind hits the two of them, and Hopeless tries to hide behind Erskine as if he’s a windbreak. From Hopeless’ shiver, Erskine supposes it doesn’t work. He lets the fire in his palm grow as much as it possibly can. He’s too tired to try and hold the wind off, though. Hopeless blows on his hands. “Also, I was watching.”

“Am I really projecting waves of despair?” Erskine asks conversationally.

“Less now than usual,” Hopeless says. “Not many people would notice. I think we all do, to some extent.”

“Why are you despairing?” Erskine asks. “Mevolent is very dead. The war’s almost over.”

Neither of them references their involvement in Mevolent’s demise. They are all avoiding the subject. That time when the Dead Men had gone rogue had been the worst of their lives. In a war there’s a line, that’s less visible as the years progress, between what is acceptable and what is monstrous. They’d all stepped across that line sometime in this war, but they’d leapt over it the weeks before, and they don’t know if it’s possible to go back. That could be enough to make Hopeless depressed, but Erskine doesn’t think that’s it. Call it intuition, or the fact that Erskine has known Hopeless for a very long time.

“Two things,” Hopeless says. “One I cannot tell you.”

Erskine looks at Hopeless. His eyes are on the fields below, on the distant shadowed forest, on this beautiful and deadly Prussian landscape. Erskine feels a memory flicker, in which Hopeless says, we should have died here. Erskine lets it pass, though it bites at him as it does. In reality Hopeless is saying nothing at all.

“The second?” Erskine prompts.

Hopeless sighs. “Why are you associated with the children of the spider?”

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean. We’ve spoken in passing, that’s all.”

Hopeless stills and all of Erskine’s fears come to the forefront of his mind. They clamour and yell and possess him, and he doesn’t know if it’s him or Hopeless. He steps away.

“Stop it,” he says.

“Sorry,” Hopeless says.

Things quieten. Hopeless’ knuckles are white, clenching the rusty iron of the railing. His breath is plumes of white air.

“Hmm.” Erskine says, looking at his friend, who looks back at him.

“Don’t lie to me,” Hopeless says. “We’re better friends than that.”

Erskine’s heart is beating fast and now his fears are his own creation. He’s always lived with a quiet self that tells him he’s unworthy, unlovable, wrong, unable to connect with people, and this piece of himself is screaming now, as he looks into the night and onto the plain, that he’s broken, ruined, trapped, despicable, hated, hated, and betrayed.

Hopeless inhales, “Whatever’s going in there, stop it.”

“What do you know?” He asks.

“That they’ve contacted you, and you’re worried, and you aren’t planning to ask us for help,” Hopeless says.

Erskine runs a hand through his hair, and flinches when Hopeless puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m here,” Hopeless says. “I shan’t judge. I’ve kept my secrets; I will keep yours.”

Those words are enough to assuage Erskine’s fear; he breathes again. He trusts his brothers to tell him the truth, and Hopeless says this promise like it means nothing at all. He inhales slowly, and shudders only from the cold. After several sharp moments his shoulders relax. Hopeless’ hand remains where it is; he focuses on the contact, and looks down at it. It’s whitened by the cold. Hopeless removes his hand, but Erskine takes it and squeezes it. Hopeless steps closer and leans against him, cheek on Erskine’s shoulder.

“If I tell, will you hate me?” Erskine asks. His words sound far away.

Hopeless puts an arm around Erskine’s waist, possibly just as an attempt to get warmer. At the moment Hopeless is a little shorter than Erskine. Erskine looks at his friend, whose face is turned away from him, towards the night.

“I really don’t think that’s a possibility, Erskine,” he says. “I doubt your exploits will compare to what others have done, and I don’t hate them.”

Erskine frowns. “Who are you talking about?”

Hopeless sighs heavily. “That was the first thing I’m worried about. The thing I can’t tell you.”

“Do you need help?” Erskine asks.

Hopeless smiles a little, with teeth bared. “No. This is something I need to work out on my own.”

“… Alright.” Erskine says. “Can I tell you what’s going on later?”

“Only as long as you promise,” Hopeless says. He glances around, then removes his pocket watch to check the time in the firelight. “Our shift’s over. Let’s get out of the snow, before I genuinely get frostbite.”

They walk together along the wall, past the two women who’re relieving their watch. Erskine puts a smile on his face, and the two of them let go of each other as they reach the steps which lead to the street. They walk past comrades and strangers, until they reach the tiny townhouse assigned to the Dead Men, and enter the warmth and safety of their temporary home. The others, excluding Skulduggery and Ghastly, are talking in the drawing room. The two of them are welcomed with grins. Erskine smiles at them properly, and sits beside Dexter on the raggedy couch. Hopeless shakes the snow out of his hair and steals Saracen’s coffee, sitting closer to the fire than is humanly safe. Larrikin is half asleep with his head on Shudder’s lap and his feet on Saracen’s, but he manages to wave limply at them. The three of them are on the second couch, and fit easily.

“It’s freezing out there,” Hopeless says. “Why did we get the night shift, again?”

“You drew the short straw,” Saracen says, “please give me back my coffee.”

Erskine frowns. “You have another next to you, is that for me?”

Saracen sighs, and throws up his hands. “No. It’s mine.”

“Favouritism,” Erskine says. “How’s Skulduggery?”

Shudder stirs. “He’s talking with Ghastly.”

“That’s good,” Erskine murmurs. “How are the repairs going?”

Shudder’s hotel had been damaged in the last battle. As far as Erskine knows it is still unusable.

Larrikin opens his green eyes to grin. “We’ll be able to teleport the hotel again by next week.”

“We need to improve some of the sigil-work,” Shudder says. “But there’s work less to do than we thought.”

“And after it’s repaired?” Erskine asks.

“We wait until the war ends,” Shudder says.

“And travel the world,” Larrikin finishes, eyes closing. “You all should come.”

Dexter shrugs, “Sounds good to me.”

“Dead Men stick together,” Saracen says, and Erskine nods, infinitesimally.

They all turn to Hopeless, who’s staring into the fire. The moment extends until Hopeless turns his head to look at them. He looks incredibly small for a moment.

“You would want me to come?” He asks.

“Of course, idiot,” Dexter says, and Hopeless scowls when Dexter rubs the top of his head, as if Dexter were his older brother. Hopeless is in fact the elder of the two, but the face he’s wearing at the moment appears younger.

“We need you and Ghastly to keep us relatively reigned in,” Saracen says.

“I feel overlooked,” Shudder says, and it might just be the firelight but there seems to be a tiny smile on his face.

“You’d just advise us which house to set alight,” Larrikin dismisses, with a lazy wave of his hand. “Ghastly and Hopeless would try and avoid all arson altogether.”

Hopeless laughs, and grabs Dexter’s arm before he can pull him into another hug or a headlock.

“Dexter, stop acting like Larrikin. Yes, I’ll come. I can’t have you setting people’s houses on fire.”

“You’ve already replaced me,” Larrikin says, with shut eyes and a frown. “I’m hurt Hopeless. If this pillow wasn’t so comfortable I’d give you a piece of my mind.”

“That’s Mr Pillow to you,” Shudder says.

Saracen makes a retching sound. “Stop flirting, that’s mine and Dexter’s job.”

Larrikin scoffs. “Mine and Dexter’s actually.”

Dexter stills for a moment. Erskine’s eyes are half closed, and his thoughts are floating lazily, but he’s close enough to notice.

Hopeless sighs. “And yet, I’m the only one of us with a partner. If anyone should be boasting, it’s me. And Shudder, if he’s going to ever reveal what’s going on in his love life.”

“Fat chance of that,” Saracen says.

“You’re not going to boast about that, Hopeless.” Dexter says. “Also Saracen, shouldn’t you know what Shudder’s hiding from us?”

“I reserve my right to boast, though,” Hopeless says. “Any more coffee?”

“I’m not telling you my power, Dexter,” Saracen says, then to Hopeless. “If you have more coffee you’re never going to get to sleep.”

“I’m not going to sleep anyway; I may as well be warm.”

“Erskine’s falling asleep,” Dexter says.

“I’m not,” Erskine protests, even though he’s leaning against Dexter’s side with his eyes closed.

“Aw,” Larrikin says, then yawns.

“Shut up,” Erskine replies.

“Oh, by the way Hopeless,” Dexter says. “Did you read that booklet I gave you? Admissions can be entered next month …”

Erskine listens to the soft conversation of his friends. Something within him calms. These people haven’t betrayed him, not really, not even if he wakes up at night with a feeling of abandonment and the taste of blood in his mouth. Hopeless will help him with the predicament he is in, and perhaps that will be enough for the feeling of guilt and anger to fade. The war is just about over. For the first time, they’re all truly considering what to do after. They’ve all survived.

Deep in Prussia, wrapped with quiet hope, Erskine Ravel falls asleep, expecting a better future.