Mild Violence and Language. I'm also awful at finding my own mistakes, I haven't written in ages, so hopefully it will get better. Also, I had intended to involve my OC (Ezra) in all of these but let me know if you'd rather I didn't. Also, if there's any prompts or scenes or anything you want done just let me know and I'll get on that! This one is a sad one, but I'll make thw next one happy! Enjoy!
Ghastly sat with Skulduggery's broken corpse on his lap, weeping. He didn't care who heard him. They had tortured Skulduggery in every way they could think of. Then killed him. Then tied his body up to be a warning to the others. So the Dead Men took it upon themselves to take Skulduggery's body down and give him a proper funeral.
On paper, that was a lot easier. Ghastly didn't know all that they had done to his brother. He didn't know that he would struggle so much to face it. To face him.
Skulduggery's eyes were closed. His legs and arms were broken. He was missing finger nails and toe nails. Bruises, burns and lacerations covered him, head to toe. He had been naked, but Ghastly covered him with his jacket. He looked up when he heard an inhumane cry.
Ezra.
She was standing next to Erskine and Anton, obvious signs of a hard fight clear on all of them. Anton's face twisted into one of anger, but he said nothing. Erskine looked repulsed at the swollen body on Ghastly's lap. Ezra's hands were at her face as she took cautious steps towards the two men. She crumpled beside his body, across from Ghastly. She was weeping, her hands trembling as she touched her brother's face. Her older brother, who always protected her and made her laugh and dried her tears was just... Gone. Anton and Erskine kneeled beside her. Erskine cried. Anton vibrated with rage.
"How could someone- I just don't understand- it just doesn't make- why?" Ezra squeaked inbetween sobs. Her whole body shook, her cries becoming louder, more shocked, more desperate.
Dexter and Saracen abruptly burst through the door and just as abuptly stopped when they saw.
"Shit." Dexter breathed, taking a tentative step forward. He sat down, his eyes wide and glassy. Saracen put his hand on Ezra's shoulder as he passed. He too sat down.
"What was the point?" Anton asked quietly. Ezra lost any composure she had left and threw herself onto Skulduggery's chest, an awful mixture of sobs and screams escaping her mouth.
They stayed there for a long time. As long as they could. But then shouts and bangs drew them back to reality. Ghastly, Dexter and Saracen gently carried Skulduggery out, Ezra, Erskine and Anton covering them.
It was only the six of them at the funeral. They wore their black uniform. Their battle gear. Few words were spoken. Skulduggery was the talker. When he left, so did their words it seemed. Ezra hadn't stopped crying. She feared she never would. They dug his grave and buried him themseleves. Right next to his child and wife.
A year later and their sadness turned to ugly, bitter rage as the full impact of a world without Skulduggery Pleasant fully sank in. They became ruthless. They became dangerous and reckless, not caring anymore. If they could lose one they could lose another, so they threw themselves into stupidly suicidal missions. They became feared and reveared. They cut themselves off from other sections, other battlions. They took orders, ate, slept, fought and repeated. Day in, day out. It didn't stop, not really. Not until after the war. The only thing, they agreed, that would come close to closure was doing to Malevolent what his men did to Skulduggery.
Years passed. A decade. Two decades. And then Malevolent was dead. The war was over. They had won.
That's when the cold isolation and emptiness wrapped itself around them. They had been in their own angry little world, living and breathing as one with one sole goal. No one ever questioned what happened after. But now it was after and they didn't feel better. Now they just felt an unspeakable anger and nowhere to direct it. They all drifted apart. They thought they were bad for each other, fueling each other's fury, each other's obsession, each other's mania.
Years passed. A decade. Two decades. A century passed without a word to each other. Six letters were sent out. The six brothers met at Skulduggery's grave. Only there wasn't a third grave there anymore. There sat two headstones with fresh flowers at each and a tall thin man in a nice suit. He turned around, a walking, talking, living skeleton. The Dead Men were ready for a fight, fireballs and energy at the ready. But instead the Skeleton said, in a velvety voice; "I've missed you."