AN: I had this idea after crying buckets for Ghastly and Shudder's deaths. I think I might still shed a tear or two every now and again. All thanks to Derek, and the black hole where his compassion should be. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to emotionally prepare myself for the final book.
The Grief of Dexter Vex . . .
Dexter Vex had been on many adventures in his life time, many more than the average sorcerer. He'd dared to venture into unforgiving enviroments, battled countless magical monsters and enemies and found himself spitting in the ugly face of death more times than he'd like to admit. Now, as he sits on the edge of the mattress, finally releasing a sigh as heavy as all the burdens on his soul, he has never felt more defeated. He'd lived a life of remarkable bravery and peril and exploration for the past hundreds of years, truly comparable to no other. Even as he peels his jacket off and pulls the shirt over his head, all the scars on his body are reminders of each adventure he'd wondered off on and of each time he almost didn't come home. He'd fought in the war all those years ago and celebrated when it had been won. As one would assume, that kind of life is paid with great experience and power and wisdom. But he doesn't feel wise and he did not feel powerful. He feels tired and feels like a fool.
Vex had seen many people gasp their last breath and choke out their last words. Some of them had been his enemies and some of them had been his comrades. Some of them had been innocent mortals who'd had no business having their lives snuffed out in conflicts that nothing to do with them. He would mourn them when the fighting was done and them enemy had fallen; he remembered the times they had been comrades, on and off the battlefield. He remembered those who'd had families; wives and husbands, children and parents, brothers and sisters. He mourned for them. And then when the mourning was over, he'd move on and fight the next fight that needed to be fought.
As he looked up now and out the window, he felt more defeated than he'd ever felt in his entire life. He'd never felt emptier either. Yes, he'd lived a long life and had his fair share of pain and sorrow and grief but never anything like what he feels at this moment. His body and mind are bruised and battered and he wonders if they might ever be mended. As for his spirit, though, it felt as though it had been damaged beyond repair. Shattered.
After all, three of his closest friends died all in one moment.
He'd watched as Anton Shudder's head had been taken from his shoulders. He'd witnessed as a blade pierced through Ghastly Bespoke's back. He looked on as Erskine Ravel became a treacherous murderer.
Though he still had air in his lungs and blood in his veins, Ravel was dead. He had died when Shudder's heart stopped beating, when betrayal flickered into Ghastly's eyes and was replaced by lifelessness just a second later. When he'd plunged that blade into Ghastly's flesh, he had murdered himself. That is the only was Vex sees it in his head. There is no longer an Erskine Ravel. The man who now wore the robes of the Irish Grand Mage is not the man he knew. From now on, that is how it will always be. Three bother's dead with one treacherous jab of a knife.
As he lies back on the mattress and stares up at the grey ceiling, Vex allowed himself one last moment to mourn the brotherhood that used to be the Dead Men. And when that moment was done, he pulled on a clean shirt and his jacket (a small reminder of Ghastly itself) and did what he always did. There is a war raging outside, so he goes on to fight the next fight that needed to be fought. This time however, he fights for the honour of his two fallen brothers and the fantasy of the brother he'd thought he'd had.