"From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."

William Shakespeare

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Not for the first time in his life, Ghastly wished he'd followed his father's advice and left the fighting to his mother. It might have meant a few more jeers from the already disdainful townsfolk, but at least then his life would be quieter; his days spent picking out fabrics and sewing together seams instead of picking off Mevolent's soldiers and sewing shut wounds.

It was too late to change his mind now though, sat in a cell awaiting his execution or rescue. He was hoping for the latter – Erskine had promised him they'd have him out in no time – but he was beginning to think the former was more likely.

He was also beginning to think he shouldn't trust Erskine.

Still, if anyone had a reason to save him it was Erskine. He'd been captured before himself, and knew the cruelties of Mevolent's followers better than any of them, save for Skulduggery. In fact, Ghastly was willing to bet that those footsteps he could hear coming towards him belonged to Erskine. He'd taken his time but he'd pulled through in the end. The door began to open, and Ghastly jumped to his feet, ready to embrace his friend the moment his handsome, golden-eyed face appeared.

The door opened. It wasn't Erskine.

Instead, a heavyset redhead with a cruel face stood in the doorway, a callous grin on his face. "Ready to die, Dead Man?" He asked. Ghastly backed away slowly, wondering how he could fight this man off with his hands shackled behind his back. The redhead man lumbered into the room as Ghastly retreated, raising his fist and baring his teeth wickedly. Before the blow could land, a small man with a receding hairline crept into the room and muttered something quietly to the redhead.

"What? Speak up, man!" The small man gestured for the redhead to come closer, and whispered in his ear.

A look of shock passed over the redhead man's face. His mouth fell open in horror as he looked down at his stomach. The small man withdrew a bloody knife from the other man's belly and stood up straighter as the redhead fell to the floor. No, not just straighter: taller. The man was growing taller by the second, as he grew his hair did too, and his features changed, morphing into a face that was completely unremarkable except for its exceptionally long eyelashes. A familiar face.

"Hopeless!" Ghastly cried, running towards his friend. Hopeless, never one to live up to his name, slipped behind Ghastly and unlocked his shackles before using the knife to finish gutting the dying man with brutal efficiency.

"You could have just slit his throat, you know," Ghastly reproached. Hopeless shrugged and began leading Ghastly out of the maze of cells and cellars towards the castle exit. Why was it that Mevolent's supporters always seemed to have castles while most of their side made do with pokey houses and cramped apartments?

"I'm having this castle when we're finished," Ghastly told Hopeless as they ran up another flight of stairs. "It's about time one of our lot got a grand abode, don't you think? I could settle down here, once the war is over. Marry some English lady and spend my days hunting game and reading The Odyssey in the original Latin, or whatever it is rich lords do."

"The Odyssey is Greek," said Hopeless, "and you won't want this castle by the time we're through with it." At that moment, Dexter Vex dropped down from a platform above them with a shouted greeting.

"All set," he announced brightly. "Just need to get ourselves out of here and then the festivities can start!"

"What festivities?" Asked Ghastly, but neither Hopeless nor Dexter answered him. The three of them made it through the castle gate but didn't stop running until they were almost a quarter of a mile away. When they finally stopped Ghastly doubled over, panting. He glared enviously at his companions when he noticed that neither of them seemed to have any trouble catching their breath. In fact, Dexter was stood up straight, his hand stretched into the sky.

"You think we're far enough?" He asked Hopeless. Hopeless nodded and Dexter shot an energy stream into the sky. A few seconds later there was an answer – a ball of fire shot into the sky about a mile away, letting them know that the signal had been received. For a few moments, the three men stood next to one another, listening to the sounds of the birds and the wind.

Then the castle blew up.

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The Dead Men reunited just over a mile away from the wreck that was once a castle. There was plenty of cheering and back-slapping as everybody celebrated their victory and fussed over Ghastly.

"It's nothing. I'm fine, really," he said for perhaps the hundredth time.

"Are you sure?" Asked Anton, also for the hundredth time. "Mevolent's acolytes are not known for their care and compassion towards prisoners."

"I've told you: I'm fine. They basically just hit me over the head and chucked me in a cell. As soon as the lump on my head goes down, there'll be no sign I was ever captured."

"Well that's not fair!" said Erskine, moving aside so that Anton could inspect the lump on Ghastly's head. "Why didn't you get tortured? Why do you never get tortured? All the rest of us do – you're the only one who gets away scot-free every time!"

"He's not the only one," Saracen contradicted "I've never been tortured, have I?"

"What are you talking about?" Questioned Anton, puzzled. "You were tortured by the Butcher. He had you for more than three days!"

"Oh," said Saracen, glancing down guiltily. "Oh, yes. I… I think I must have repressed that memory." Ghastly snorted, but managed to pass it off as a pained sound. Anton stopped poking at his scarred head with a look of concern.

"Time to go," said Skulduggery – the first words he'd spoken since Ghastly's return.

"Nice to see you too, old friend." Ghastly smiled. Skulduggery, of course, was always smiling, but his voice stayed harsh and curt.

"Time to go," he repeated, and this time everyone set about gathering their things. Only Skulduggery knew where they were going, but no one dared to question him while he was so clearly in a bad mood.

They walked for several hours, the six troops joking and laughing while their leader guided them in irritable silence. Predictably, it was Dexter who pushed it too far.

"Stop sulking, Skulduggery, come and have a laugh with us! There's nothing to mope about. Ghastly's rescued, Mevolent's lost a loyal soldier and an important castle, and we get to enjoy this lovely walk through the woods!"

Skulduggery rounded on him.

"Do you think this is a game, Vex? Ghastly could have died today and not one of you is showing the slightest bit of concern."

"He's alright though, isn't he? We're all fine and dandy so there's no reason to be grumpy."

"You have no idea how close we came today, do you? You have no idea how lucky we were that Ghastly isn't dead or worse."

"Skulduggery, I'm fine," soothed Ghastly, reaching out to him. "I'm not dead. I'm not even hurt. Everything's alright." Skulduggery jerked away from Ghastly's hand.

"You have no idea, none of you," he muttered. "No respect for the dangers we face. No inkling of what it's like to wait, helpless and alone, knowing that the end is near. You don't know what it's like to die. If you did, you wouldn't be so carefree."

The Dead Men stood together, mute and guilty in the wake of Skulduggery's words. Dexter mumbled an apology and after a few minutes Skulduggery turned and began leading them through the trees once again. After a few more minutes had passed, Skulduggery broke the tension with a joke about how nice it was to be able to go for two minutes without hearing one of Saracen's far-fetched tales of heroic escapades and daring fights. Saracen gave an indignant response and launched into an amusing story about the time he'd – allegedly – managed to defeat five vampires using only an empty beer barrel and his left shoe.

By the time they'd set up camp for the night everyone was in good spirits. Since it seemed they hadn't been followed, it was agreed that there was no need for extra sentries so the rest of them could get some sleep while Skulduggery guarded the camp.

Dexter unrolled his blanket from his pack and settled down on the leafy ground. They hadn't had any supper – on account of them not having any food – but Skulduggery assured them that they would be meeting up with a teleporter by the following evening, and the Dead Men were used to going without food for that long. All-in-all, it had turned out to be quite a pleasant day. There was one thing still playing on Dexter's mind, though.

"Skulduggery?" He whispered.

"Yes, Dexter?"

"Does… does dying hurt?"

"Yes," answered Skulduggery shortly.

"Oh."

"It hurts a lot."

"I see."

"In fact it's agonising."

"Right. Thanks, Skulduggery. I just wanted to know."

"I'd probably even say it's the most excruciating experience one could ever be expected to endure."

"But would you say it five times fast?" mumbled Saracen from where he was resting.

"It's horrific," continued Skulduggery gleefully. "You're right to be worried, Dexter, because I can guarantee that it's more terrible than anything you've ever experienced. It's distressing, it's depressing, it's earth-shatteringly, unbearable painful."

"Alright, alright! You can stop now, Skulduggery, Jesus!" Dexter's unusually high-pitched voice cut through the still night. Saracen was sniggering into his blanket and it may have just been a trick of the dark, but Dexter was sure he could see a smile on Anton's face.

"Well you asked," said Skulduggery, turning back to survey the woods for approaching danger. Everyone lapsed into silence. Dexter's heart was still beating fast from Skulduggery's vivid descriptions.

Dexter tried to sleep, burrowing into the non-existent warmth he imagined he could feel under his blanket. Every noise from the trees and nocturnal creatures shocked him into alertness. The sky grew darker and one-by-one his fellow Dead Men fell into light slumbers.

Owls hooted from the branches and mice skittered in the undergrowth. Dexter pulled his blanket over his head to try and drown them out, focusing on the twin sounds of his own heartbeat and Skulduggery's leisurely footsteps as he patrolled the edge of the camp. Eventually the footsteps stopped near Dexter's head, and Dexter heard the gentle rustle of leaves as Skulduggery knelt down next to him.

"Dexter?"

"Mm-hm?"

"It doesn't hurt."

"Hmm?"

"Death. It doesn't hurt. It's just like falling asleep."

"Oh," said Dexter. He heard Skulduggery stand up and begin his circle of the camp once more, but by the time he passed by again, Dexter was sound asleep.

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I wrote this story very quickly so it's not my best work but I'm thinking of expanding it into a series of one-shots about the Dead Men. Let me know if you think I should and, if so, what kinds of stories I should write.

Please review! I love constructive criticism and I love blind praise even more!

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