Brothers of the Bolt
- O -
(Author's Note: This story basically came about when I entertained the idea of GBA-style Supports between the two ballisticians and decided to frame a narrative around that. I'm unfamiliar with the canon and characters of Archanea-verse, so errors probably abound. My apologies in advance.)
- O -
There was only one other ballistician in Prince Marth's army when Beck joined up. The prince often deployed them together and sent them in pairs to provide support from the rear for the knights and mercenaries at the van when laying siege to a castle. And so, the ballisticians found themselves side-by-side during the war, ratcheting their bolts and stones almost in tandem, and usually in complete silence. Ultimately, despite their shared nationality and shared profession, they were only soldiers, and Beck spent most of his spare moments mind-numbingly bored, inspecting his ballista again and again and ensuring his bolts were not chipped or bent. For his part, Jake was himself incredibly dedicated to his craft, only stopping occasionally to watch one of the dame soldiers pass by.
It was in-between battles, and they marched on the road to Castle Altea quietly, wheeling their ballistae along behind them. Everywhere Beck looked there was destruction—blackened husks of homes, their timbers toppled in; razed farmland, most of it scorched and deadened or blanketed in bitter salts; even an abandoned parish church, its doors broken down, pews toppled, relics stolen or smashed apart on the bema. Grust wasn't in the best of shape either—and there were myriad rumors that the state of affairs was worse than it seemed—but its wreckage was nothing like the scars Gra and Dolhr had carved into the Altean countryside.
Somewhere along the way, lagging behind the rest of the army as they usually did, Beck finally decided to break the lull.
"Oi, Jake," he said, turning to his right and slapping a hand on his fellow ballistician's shoulder.
Jake didn't seem to notice, so Beck repeated himself. He could hear Jake sigh, but Beck assumed that the occasional discursions of the cold north wind had swallowed his greetings, so this time Beck yelled.
"Jake!"
"What?" Jake said at last, shrugging Beck's hand off, turning towards him with a look of irritation.
"Reckon we have ourselves a bit of a challenge, if you're game. Make this a bit more interesting." Beck pointed off in the distance. "Next clash we've with the enemy, we'll keep a count of heads. Whoe'er claims th' most wins. Fancy yerself man enough?"
The other man eyed Beck curiously, then laughed. "Why not? It'll stave off the monotony, at least. What's the wager?"
"Er..." Beck reached deep into his pockets, fishing deep, fingers scrabbling for anything of worth. "Two copper crowns...no, three."
"Grustian crowns?"
"The only sort I've got."
Jake chuckled loudly and Beck wondered if his new partner wasn't just a little bit daft. "Now that I'm flying Archanea's standard, those coins probably won't be worth nothin' once the war's over. Grust's finished."
"What do you mean?"
He rolled his eyes. "Grust's emptying its coffers to feed money into Dolhr's war machine, and it doesn't seem to be doing much good, not against Prince Marth and the rest of us. And whate'er money they don't blow on their glimmering silver weapons, our boys will 'requisition' when Grust's army gives in. Probably soon. Won't be anyone left in Archanea t'want Grust coinage."
"Jake, you're from Grust too, in'tcha?"
"Aye."
"I see..."
Beck was left to wonder what would happen to Grust after the war if Marth and Nyna's army (his army, now) emerged triumphant. Would King Ludwig's little heirs rise to claim the throne? Or would his homeland become part of a greater Archanean empire, another casualty of the rising spirit of imperialism that seemed to be all the rage since Dolhr began to flex its muscles.
Before the war began, Beck had never given more than a brief thought to Archanean politics. Now, he reckoned the war had forcefully made the affairs or kings and commanders his business. He'd not yet begun musing on his country's fate and what little shaping he could possibly have when someone at the vanguard sounded the call to arms and it was off to fight again.
Marth's army had emerged victorious from their last battle, but Beck walked away humbled—a feeling he was all too familiar with. It wasn't what he'd imagined being a career soldier to be. Not being dead was only a slight consolation to him at that moment.
After the engagement with their enemy had ended, Jake approached Beck with a suitably shite-eating grin, a giddy "ho!" and a hard slap on the back that sent Beck stumbling awkwardly forward.
"Don't feel so good about your shooting now, do you?" he said. "I claimed ten men that battle alone. What for you?"
"Three," Beck muttered. "You're a better shot than I pegged you as bein'."
"Of course! I've been doin' this for a while." Jake shook a thumb in the direction of his war machine. "Women fancy the ballistaman, wot? Guess I'm the winner, then?"
"Aye. I'm a loser," said Beck bitterly. "So why don't ya kill me? Not like I can hit a damned thing."
"Pay up, mate. Whether at dice or at war, a wager is a wager."
Muttering unintelligible curses under his breath, Beck fished out his three coppers and dropped them grudgingly in Jake's palm.
Jake had turned away when Beck called out.
"What, Jake! Hold a moment!"
"Hm?"
Beck knew that for all his best efforts, he was still a rank amateur. General Zharov had seen through his bravado and when he'd inquired to General Grigas about joining the Wooden Cavalry, he'd laughed so loud and so long that Beck had wondered if he were ill. Watching Jake at his ballista only made him remember how inept he'd been at first, watching his coils go loose and snap, seeing his stones flung feet in front of him or watching his bolts jam halfway up the chamber.
"I—well, I was just wonderin' how you can operate your ballista as well as you do. I watched you in our last battle—every single bolt you fired hit true! I don't know if I could ever aim as good as you do. I fought in the battle at Castle Deil, and, ah—well I wasn't nearly as successful as you've been."
Jake laughed. "Not so much of a hotshot now, are ye? Y'don't get this good overnight. Y'ave to work at it."
"Really? Ah...how long does it usually take, then?"
"Heh. Well, I've been an operator for at least five years now. After a while, ratcheting the payload in just becomes natural. I bet you could pick it up quicker if you wanted to."
"Ah. I see. A man like me—well, in my village, e'en the boys took up axes to cleave lumber before they came of age. But I never took to the axe and I couldn't well swing a sword without hurtin' meself. Then General Grigas came by to recruit every able youth and told me iff'n I couldn't ride a horse or fight in armor I could work the siege weapons."
"Do you think you could show me how you work next time we make camp? Every time I hoist up stones, I never seem to hit anything," Beck said, and sighed. "I promised Prince Marth I'd pull my weight in 'is army. I made a damn fool of m'self, I reckon. 'Bout the only thing I can seem to hit with is a Thunderbolt. Though I'd put coin that I'm the best at shootin' with one'a them."
Jake laughed again and slapped Beck on the back so hard he coughed. "Heh, shows how much you know about ballistae. Hoisting up stones isn't nearly as accurate as shooting down a merc with lightning or a flier with a bolt. See, stones don't always fly as fast or as straight as a bolt or a fletched arrow. You have to take that to account when launching them. And magic shots—they fly like lightning, so you have to aim it right at the enemy. But you probably know that at least, because, you know—you're the only one I know who has one of those."
"Oi, that's right. Reckon you're right." Beck grinned stupidly. Despite his assertions that he'd fought in the battle at Castle Deil, he'd not actually been deployed—no ballisticians had, in fact, because General Zharov had named them all incompetent. In fact, that was the only reason his magic bolts had all been intact when the young prince arrived at his village's gate—he had never actually used any of them. As it was, he'd wasted half of them mowing down the Wooden Cavalry one by one and swore to save the rest for later.
"Just keep working at it. And I'll tell you whenever you fail," added Jake helpfully.
"Aye—thanks kindly," Beck said. "I reckon I mayn't be the best ballistician e'er lived, but I'll be damned if I don't pull my weight out there."
"That's a good way to look at it," Jake agreed, nodding.
For the first time in a while, his carroballista felt light to move and Beck had a reason to feel optimistic about the coming battle.
- O -
"Tch, that's not the way you work it. The power of a ballista—or any bow, come to think of it—is in the tension, man! Make sure the ropes are all taut. Make sure when the bolt's ratcheted in that it's in straight, otherwise it'll fly astray."
The next battle, the two ballisticians had both been deployed again, and to Beck's surprise and somewhat dismay, Jake had turned his attention partially away from his own engine to watch Beck work his. The novice operator was both thankful for his ally's sudden concern and a bit embarrassed. Compared to Jake, he reckoned himself looking much the amateur, his fingers slipping as he tried to draw the twisted strings back. Over the past few weeks, Beck had redoubled his effort, practicing arming his ballista (finding relatively straight tree branches to load into the groove worked well enough, and distant trees proved suitable targets) and firing in one fluid motion. He didn't think he could match Jake—one time the Grustian ballistician had fired off six bolts in one minute—but of one thing he was right: the more he practiced, the more mechanical the process became.
"All right, when firing bolts or javelins make sure to aim a little high. There's a bit of a tailwind so you might not have aim quite so lofty. Always watch the wind. Now, with the heavy stones you don't have that problem, but, oi, good luck hittin' your mark a quarter-league off with those." Jake launched an arrow at a distant cavalier near Castle Altea, barely grazing his horse. After, he turned back to Beck. "Now that I think about it, Prince Marth didn't supply you with any bolts, did 'e? He just stuck you with the stone-hoister, huh?"
Jake broke into laughter as Beck launched a stone that just missed braining a distant mercenary.
"No wonder you can't hit a damn thing, huh? Guess that solves that mystery, then. I don't know one operator can hit a damn thing with that. You'd think the best engineers could come up with somethin' a little better than a trebuchet, right?"
"I guess so," Beck said, twisting up his face. "Well, they say it's hard to find a good ballista maker, and even harder to find good ammunition—especially back home."
"I hear there's a good armory in Macedon that sells them," Jake mused. "But that's a long way from here. So in the meantime, don't waste any shot. Especially of that Thunderbolt!"
"Right," Beck said, a bit irritated. He took particular pride in his judicious use of his ensorcelled bolts, but his conservation was apparently lost on Jake, who took an almost gleeful satisfaction in firing arrows off like rushing water, free and wild.
After the battle had been won and General Holstadt lay dead and defeated at the gates, Prince Marth chose a few select soldiers to charge inside and retake his throne as they always were during indoor skirmishes, Jake and Beck remained outside as the members of the army not deployed made a bivouac and settled down on the green. There, Astram sat with Midia, hands interlaced, whispering something to each other. Jagen had gone out hunting (Beck had only ever seen him foraging or keeping watch, which he found odd seeing that the old man was a knight) and the footknights in their comically large armor sat together and told stories.
Beck sat by his ballista, deep in thought, when Jake returned from flirting with Talysian beauty Caeda and quiet Linde, the mage who preferred to keep to herself.
"Oi, Beck," Jake said.
"Halloa, Jake," Beck replied as he came by and sat down near him.
"Keeping yourself occupied?"
"Reckon there isn't much to do," Beck said, shrugging. "But I wanted to ask...d'you have a lover waiting for you back home?"
At this, Jake broke into a huge grin and rubbed his chin contentedly. "That I do. My Anna. We've been together a while now. She's my sweetie. She's waiting for me right now...hope she's waiting for me, at least. Who knows what the lasses get up to when the men are away?"
"Is she back home in Grust?"
Jake shrugged. "I...don't really know where she is right now, actually. Last I saw her was in Knorda Market. She runs a number of, uh—'business enterprises' across the entire Archanean continent. I'm not supposed to talk about it, though. She'd kill me if I let that slip. Only very important people get to know about her line of work."
Beck could only assume that meant Anna was a prostitute, so he was about to change the subject when Jake continued:
"She's really a great girl, though. We grew up in the same little town. I didn't get to see her a lot though. Even as a little lass she really got around—er, and by that I mean she's the traveling sort, not that she's, you know...never mind."
"Must be nice," Beck said sullenly, looking up at the sky, his hand resting on the end of his ballista. "Must be real nice, hm?"
"So what about you? You got a girl back home?"
"Me?" Beck asked.
Jake looked around. "No one else here."
"Nah," he replied quietly. "Never really had anybody. Reckon I ne'er had the nerve. I mean, I didn't have any talents or naught, and—"
"So you've never been with a girl in your life?"
Beck had the graces to hide his sullenness, but did a darn poor job of it. "Uhh, well—"
"Come on, man! Hope you haven't been leaning too much on this thing," Jake said, tapping his ballista. "Ballistae are great for breaking a siege—for breaking the ice, not so much. You have to find something to talk about first."
"Really?" said Beck. He sat back on the grass, his head resting on his hand. For the first time since he left, he thought about his village, which thankfully hadn't met the same fate as much of Altea. All of the men of fighting age and most of the boys had been drafted into the Grustian army, but luckily the war had never found its way past the gates. As a child he'd always loathed living on a small hill away from the bigger settlements and the rest of the world, but as it was wont do to, the war changed his opinions forever. From that moment forward he would have liked nothing more than to live in happy mediocrity, wanting perhaps in food or water but never in companionship.
Maybe it was unrealistic to think that now, Beck could only muse. His king had sounded the call to arms, and it was a shameful man who couldn't or wouldn't answer that call. Ludwig had a way of making his good men stay good and loyal, even if it meant driving a wedge between the people and the military, the flesh and the iron. No one spoke ill of the king and none gave the first thought to stand against him, but the more the war trundled on the less praise the folk found for their regent. But even the ebbing tides of opinion couldn't save Beck. Not in Grust, not in Altea, not anywhere.
And Beck had to admit there was something about war, fighting tooth and claw for your life, that drove him harder onward. The Wooden Cavalry had come calling long ago, their rhetoric spilling hot oil in the streets, lighting fire in the hearts of all the red-blooded men in his village, each who lusted, shallowly or deep in their souls, for the glory of war. They told the old tale everyone knew, of the old fort on the sea breached by a wooden horse, and how honor fell on those who hid within. But their wooden horses could breathe bolts and kick rocks and they didn't rely on tricks or legerdemain: they fought like men, killed like bravos, and won like heroes. Their hooves were the thunder and their javelins the lightning. But only the best saddled up and rode with them; cast-offs like Beck were relegated to lesser battalions, away from the valor of the flesh cavalry and the mystique of the wooden one.
But he never gave up. He'd been humiliated in his first skirmish, and hadn't even been deployed at Castle Deil; since then he'd chomped violent at the bit, eager for any opportunity to redeem himself, any chance to prove he wasn't the weak boy he'd been years before. Every wing clipped by a fired bolt, any pate buffeted by a hoisted stone was just another notch in his belt—it wasn't like back home, where folks knew who you were by the sound of your footfalls. Here you were your own king, and you played gods with the lives of your brothers—toy soldiers in a tin-and-wood parade.
Beck had figured out very quickly that to a career soldier, war was less an obligation than it was an inevitability, and your peers and superiors recognized you by your deeds, not your words. In the barracks the Grustians threw dice and downed their day's ration of drink in one gulp and wagered on who'd lop the most heads, who'd make the most widows, who'd win the most glory. Even in Prince Marth's ranks, the faceless soldiers groped and pawed desperately at the skirts of praise from their young lord, who was young and impressionable enough that one great battle might win them a knighthood and a plot of land, a flock and a wife, enough for even two meals a day.
"Oi, Beck!" Jake said, snapping his fingers. "You keep? Breathe, man! Look alive!"
Beck started and looked up again. "Eh, what? Beggin' your pardon. I-I inn't goin't have a girl waitin' for me."
"You don't know that, mate!"
Beck shook his head, his lips twisted up. "When I went back to my town, all the doors were closed up. Most of the lasses're already promised to me mates, so when they get back—if they get back—they'll have some'ne for them. And me, well—I went back t' lick me wounds after the battle at Castle Deil, and no one was waiting for me then. They expected me to be among the Wooden Cavalry standin' victorious, I'm sure. And they right well aren't expectin' me back now."
"No love for a ballistician, hm?"
He shrugged. "Not a rank-and-file like me. Back home we just called 'em shooters. See foes, shoot at 'em."
Jake laughed again. "Sounds like something a churl would say. Doesn't matter what anyone says—there's somethin' sophisticated about workin' a ballista. See, I grew up in the city, and everyone called us artillerymen 'ballisticians'. There's something cultured about the word? Women don't fall in love with 'shooters'. They fall for 'ballisticians'."
'Ballisticians,'—he'd said it with a flourish, and waved his hands in the air as if the word itself had some mystical power.
Beck sighed. He needed a tall drink about this point in the conversation, but the small beer the lordlings rationed out to the soldiers wasn't fit to intoxicate a flea, and there was no time for merrymaking in alehouses when there were castles to reclaim.
"When all this is over," Jake said, "You ought to go back home and show them how sharp you've gotten. Then maybe they'dn't take you so lightly, hm?
Beck didn't reply. He tried his best not to scowl or give the slightest hint as to his feelings but his clenched fists belied what he truly felt about his hometown. A stronger man than him might have been able to forgive, Beck knew. He couldn't say if he wanted to be that strong.
The two ballisticians shared a moment of silence, then Jake sprung to his feet, deftly brushing the dirt from his breeches.
"Well then. I've decided. A bloke should at least not want for a few good lines to spin on the ladies. Even if I don't anticipate you aspiring to be the greatest rake in Grust. So, your lessons start now."
"Rake?" Beck said, and rose. "And—lessons?"
"Aye, lessons! How to silver your tongue up a li'l bit. If you have the right things to say and the right kind of girl, you're guaranteed to come out on top."
"'Right kind of girl'? Like the sort wot you find on the streets of Port Warren?"
"Oh, would you just hush! Just listen to me for a few minutes and you'll be ten times the man to any woman you talk to. They won't be able to keep their hands on you!—or off you. Now shut up and listen."
Despite Beck's protestations, Jake spent the rest of the afternoon detailing the finer points of chasing skirts and innocuous philandering. Most of his advice was either complete rubbish, amusingly puerile, or utterly unscrupulous (plying girls with drinks seemed to be Jake's most favored tactic). His conversations drew a few assorted spectators, including, interestingly enough, Merric, who wandered around, pricking his ears to listen in discreetly whenever he could (the rumors were, the young mage fancied older women).
That night, mind swarmed with florid metaphors (how did Jake come up with some of these lines?) and general advice, Beck lay down to sleep and hoped for pleasant dreams and warm company.
Instead he dreamt of fire and stone raining from the sky, and a great metal gate shut to him forever.
- O -
As tough as Beck tried to make himself seem, he couldn't hide his exhaustion. When Marth and his elites stormed the Fane of Raman, he again remained back with the other artillerymen and the reserves, leaving him plenty of time to think, something Beck didn't care to have.
It wasn't until the final confrontation with the Sable Order and its dashing leader Camus that Jake approached Beck again.
"Oi! That was a nice shot there."
Beck shook his head and turned to him. "Huh? Beggin' your pardon, I was thinking about sommat else again."
"Your aim's got a lot better, mate," Jake said. "I saw those last few shots you took. When you brained that paladin yon? Dead on! I dunnae why you were so down on yourself; you're a born shooter! So I guess that apprenticeship worked out well for you?"
"Oh—aye, indeed."
Beck wouldn't have called it an apprenticeship, but then again the idea of being Jake's pupil in anything made him want to mash his head against a wall. His lessons in the art of courtship, after all, gave Beck the impression that he knew absolutely nothing about courtship and got by on a combination of looks and charisma alone. Since Beck had never fancied himself well-equipped in either regard, it made that advice utterly useless to him.
The only recourse left to him was to take Jake's pointers on ballista operation to heart. He'd spent three weeks launching javelins, practicing quickly loading his payloads and aiming based on the appropriate ammunition, every day after waking ensuring that the cords were taut and the ratcheting mechanism was in working order. That advice was rudimentary at best, the same sort of things General Grigas told Grustian recruits who strove for siege operation, the same things Beck had heard hundreds of times before when his unit took their drills. Nevertheless, every day Beck had felt a little stronger, a little bit sharper, his aim a little bit truer, and he couldn't say exactly why, but he wasn't about to question it. He'd memorized the names of everyone in Prince Marth's personal cadre, and what was more, most of them remembered his as well. The prince himself had even complimented him personally on his shooting, and Beck took his strangely sincere-sounding encouragement and used it to fuel himself.
The battlefield was vast and surprisingly open as they wheeled their ballistae along. Already Marth and his cavaliers had annihilated most of the Sable Order's roster and were slowly working through the forest past the northern mountains, towards Sir Camus and his armored ally. As usual, they trailed far behind across the plain of bodies and pikes broken in the grass. Knowing his luck, Beck half expected the ballisticians two to be ambushed from one of the southern fortresses and immediately torn to shreds by the horsemen and their silver arms. They'd not enough manpower to blockade every fort, and the speed at which their foe's reinforcements charged into battle was enough to catch even the most veteran knights in their regiment unawares.
"Hey, Jake," Beck said to his ally when they'd crossed halfway the open field. Jake gazed off into the distance, not looking at anything in particular but surveying the sky.
"What?" he said disinterestedly.
"What are you going to do when all this's done?"
"See Anna," Jake said immediately, and the smile returned to his face. "When this war's dead and buried, me and her are going to get together, maybe go traveling. She always wanted to see what's past the south sea; kept going on about 'other worlds' past the ocean. Maybe I'll take her there someday."
"I never much had'n interest in crossing the sea. Even port towns seem to do ill for me." Beck chuckled weakly. "Reckon a churl like me'd rather drink at the town pub and cut wood f'r all his life's days."
"If that's where your life draws you, mate, go with it." Jake said, oblivious to Beck's bitterness. He clamped his hand down hard on Beck's shoulder and the brunet flinched. "Hey, don't let anything I or any other bloody scamp says turn you from that."
"I never amounted to much of anything back home...almost like it better that way. Not having to fight e'ery bloody day. It's—taxing."
"Then why did you come back?"
"Huh?" Beck stopped wheeling his ballista forward. "W-What d'you mean?"
"If you didn't want to get involved, why didn't you just stay at your village? You said you fought at Castle Deil, right? Should've considered yourself lucky to get away from that with only your pride wounded."
"I couldn't stay," Beck said, his anger returning. He put his head down and drove the ballista forward hard, wheels rolling so fast that Jake could barely keep pace.
"What? Why not?"
All Beck could hear was the voices, the cries of "craven," "weakling," "deserter." The old men, the veterans who'd spent their youth training and grinding themselves to the bone and the gut waiting for the war that wouldn't come, screamed the loudest. When he'd left, the metal gate closed behind him and when he looked back, he could see the eyes of the people he'd known since he was a boy following him out.
"I'm not welcome back," he spat. "Not after I turned my coat."
Beck's furious pace slowed and finally stopped when they'd crossed the bridge. Off in the distance they heard the clamor of fighting and watched Sir Camus and his paladins rush forward, spears catching splinters of the sun in their argent edges. And as always, they were far away, too far away for Beck to concern himself with. Jake laid a hand again on his fellow's shoulder.
"Really? That's what you name yourself? A traitor, then?"
"That's what my friends, my brothers named me," Beck replied, struggling for breath. "A coward. Ungrateful to th' king. I'm naught but a blackguard, looking to profit from Grust's downfall."
Beck clenched his teeth and balled his fist, chest heaving.
"Bloody war...lasting Gods know how long...and still no one a'home says a single bloody word against him! No one curses th' king for the blood shed on our soil. But every night they lay down and say a prayer for him, and not a single bloody word for any a'the men he sent to die!
"I ne'er laid eyes on King Ludwig. But Prince Marth, he came to our gates hi'self and told me he was fighting for all Archanea. He wasn't but a wee lad, a spoiled little princeling—but he had conviction in his eyes an' he din't look away or look down when he talked to me. He looked like he was fightin' f'r somethin' important! I'd rather throw my dice in with a man who meets me like a man than a king who wouldn't look you in the eyes if you held 'im down. Tell me I'm wrong! Tell me!"
For a while, they stood motionless in the field, Beck's eyes afire and Jake watching in silent contemplation. Finally Jake shrugged.
"Let me be honest with you, then," he said. "See, I was born in Grust, too. Difference is, I wouldn't give a single crown who I w's fightin' for. As it happens, my Anna'd rather have me fighting for Archanea and their allied army than beating them while they're down, so here I am. It's like you said: What did the king e'er do for you? So why does it matter? You must've joined up with us for a reason. Doesn't matter what that reason is. If you've one, and you believe in it, hell, y'know...what does it matter what people think of it, right?"
Beck looked upwards. Were the gods watching over him? he wondered. And if they were, would they forgive him for his vindictiveness? No one had ever expected him to play the part of a career soldier—least of all himself.
"I can't go back now," Beck reiterated, more to himself and to the ground than to Jake himself. "Can't go back home."
"Then don't!" Jake said, laughing exasperatedly. "What's the problem?"
"Problem is I don't bloody well have anywheres else to go! I'm not cut out to be a palace guard or a merc and I don't have any friends in high places. I'm no merchant and I sure as hell inn't a statesman."
"Maybe not," Jake said, and he extended his hand. "But as long as we both work the ballista and fly the same standard and shed the same blood, we're brothers. And you have a place on this battlefield."
Beck regarded his friend's hand for a moment. "Brothers? Me?"
"We fight together and kill together—maybe die together. Far as I'm concerned, that makes us brothers."
Now it was Beck's turn to laugh. He didn't expect to hear such words of solidarity from a cocksure braggadocio like Jake, but damned if he didn't appreciate it.
"Brothers."