The night before they leave for their mission, Owain tries to form a pact.
"If I die," he says seriously (not dramatically—seriously), "take my head with you."
"What the heck, Owain?"
"That way, you know. They can't make a Risen out of me."
Inigo knows very well what he means-they've both struck down enough of their... their—not their friends. Their friends' mindless bodies weeping for what they were being forced to do.
Inigo knows very well and denies it with a smile. "Come on, you're not going to die. This is our last night with everyone before we leave. Let's enjoy it. —Beer?"
Owain frowns at the offer. Just frowns, until Inigo awkwardly retracts his outstretched arm and sips a little himself. It's horrible beer, watered down so there would be enough for everyone.
"We're running straight into Plegia."
"I know," Inigo murmurs.
"It's our most dangerous mission yet."
Inigo hides his faltering expression behind his mug. When he surfaces, Owain is still looking at him with that grave stare of a man with no age.
"All right," Inigo says quietly. "What should I do?"
"Make sure they don't get enough of my body."
"I can't promise that." Owain raises his eyebrows. "I can't promise that I'll be—able."
"Don't talk like you're going to die," Owain says. Inigo almost laughs.
"I'm not," he says. "I'm just making sure you know."
Owain plays with the leather peeling off his scabbard, nods a little to himself, and says, "All right."
"And you owe me too."
"Yeah. I promise."
Inigo claps him on the back and they never speak of it again.