Chapter Text
The atmosphere was tense.
That wasn't normal. Not, particularly, for this room, which Skulduggery didn't care about; he’d never seen it before, and he’d never see it again. But a tense atmosphere outside of a battle wasn't normal for any room with these seven people in it. The atmosphere was usually tense before the Dead Men entered a room. War had that effect. But lighthearted banter and jokes and insinuations, to keep one's sanity and distract oneself from approaching danger, were the Dead Men's specialty. Rover Larrikin and Dexter Vex had once gotten married in the middle of a battle camp, for no reason other than the wedding party they threw afterwards to boost everyone's morale and make everyone laugh.
This tense atmosphere wasn't normal, and it certainly wasn't helping.
No one had said a word yet. Most of them walked in and collapsed on various pieces of furniture in front of the fire, barely making the effort to peel off drenched articles of clothing before they did. The bedrolls in the corner were completely ignored. Skulduggery suspected they wouldn't even be used.
“What are we doing tomorrow?”
Erskine was the one who had asked the question, leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, nearly the only Dead Man who was still upright.
“Dying,” came Dexter’s groaned and muffled response. He’d collapsed on the couch the minute they walked into the room, face buried in one of the cushions. “Erskine, rub my feet.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because I’m dying, you’re not, and I asked you to. Why else?”
Erskine walked over, took hold of both of Dexter’s ankles, and hoisted him up until he was nearly off the couch, swinging in the air. Then he dropped them, and Dexter landed with a yelp in an unceremonious heap back on the sofa with no idea which way was up or how to untangle himself. Erskine walked calmly back to the fireplace and resumed his earlier position without another word.
Dexter scowled at him through his legs. “That was mean.”
“Was it?” Erskine tipped his head back against the wall. “I didn't notice.”
Everyone was a little irritated. That part, at least, was normal. It happened during a war. It happened, specifically, when the Dead Men failed a mission, and there wasn't even anything to joke over. At least with the entitled mortal baron they'd dealt with a few years back, Skulduggery managed to trick the man into his wife’s clothes before they ran away, severely hampering the furious man’s attempts to chase the trespassers. They’d laughed over that for days, despite the mission falling through.
This was different. A failure they couldn't turn into a joke. Erskine and Dexter would both get over it, as they always did, and the others probably already had. The problem – the reason this wasn't normal – was that Skulduggery couldn't quite say the same for himself.
“Gentlemen.” Rover almost sounded bored, lying on his back on the carpet beside the sofa. “Stop it. You’re both gorgeous. There’s no reason to sabotage each other.”
“We’re both gorgeous?” Dexter flipped himself over and put his chin into his hands. “Should I be jealous, oh dear husband of mine?”
“Face it, Dex. You are not the only gorgeous man in my life. If you’re going to get jealous over every pretty young thing I so much as glance at, we may as well call this whole faux-marriage thing off now.”
“Pretty young thing?” Erskine muttered. “I’m too old for you, Rover, if anything.”
Dexter gasped. It was a very dramatic gasp. “Our faux-marriage? Darling, have you been toying with me all this time?”
Rover grinned and reached up for a pillow off the couch. “Only the best for you, my dear.” He playfully bounced the pillow off Dexter’s face, and then threw it towards Anton. “You. Gist-user. Get over here and massage Dex’s feet before he complains us all to death.”
“Me?” Anton, who had taken the room’s only armchair, didn't even bother moving to avoid the weak-handed throw of the cushion. It landed somewhere at his feet, totally and completely harmless in every sense of the word. “I’d rather not.”
“Erskine won’t do it, Descry’s never done it, Skul’s got bones for hands, and I’m on the floor. You’re the only one left.” Rover frowned and sat up. “Speaking of, where’s Ghastly? He'd probably do it, if Dexter asked him nicely.”
“He said something about grabbing a drink. Dexter, I mean no offence, but right now, I’d rather get up and juggle than touch your feet.”
Dexter muttered something under his breath, but it was a good-natured mutter. His earlier irritation was completely forgotten. Rover Larrikin had that effect on the Dead Men; no matter how terrible a situation got, he was usually ready with a joke or a light comment to ease the atmosphere. Even Erskine, over by the fireplace, was grinning.
To be technical, Skulduggery was grinning too. But then, he was pretty much always grinning. His skull made it difficult not to. For all intents and purposes, he was just as lighthearted as everyone else was. But he stayed quiet, and he stayed by the door of the room, motionless.
“Could we see this juggling, then?” Descry asked with a sudden smirk.
“Again, I’d rather not. No one's so much as given me the choice yet.”
“You can assume I’m speaking for everyone when I say we’re all giving you the choice right now.”
Anton fixed Descry Hopeless with a steady look. “Then you can tell everyone that they’re going to be sorely disappointed. I said I’d rather juggle. I didn't say I was any good at it.”
Descry sighed. “He’s telling the truth, I’m afraid.”
“I know you’re not any good,” Rover insisted, twisting around on the floor so he was facing Anton. “I've seen you. I want to see you again. I could use a laugh. I think we all could. Skulduggery could, couldn't you, Skulduggery?”
When Skulduggery didn't say anything, they all turned to look at him. Descry’s brow was furrowed slightly, in that way he had whenever he was trying to read the skeleton's thoughts, despite the result always remaining the same. Skulduggery was the only person Descry had ever come across whose mind he couldn't read. The Adept liked to say it was refreshing, being around Skulduggery, being absolutely certain that his mind was his own, but sometimes he seemed more frustrated than anything else. This was one of those times. The rest of the Dead Men were all looking at him with various levels of anticipation and confusion.
This, Skulduggery couldn't exactly ignore to stew in his own thoughts. He'd been asked a direct question. “I’m fine, actually.” When that didn't quite seem enough, he added: “You’re off the hook, Anton.”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” said Rover. “We don’t have juggling balls. The closest thing we have to juggling balls are your finger bones. Or perhaps your feet.”
“You’re not using my finger bones.”
The sharpness of Skulduggery’s tone surprised them all, and none more than Rover. He physically recoiled from it, eyes wide with surprise. “Relax. I was joking.”
“It was a joke in poor taste.”
“Skulduggery?” Erskine had stepped forward now, all of his earlier annoyance replaced with concern. “We lost one. It doesn't mean you were wrong, or that you’re any less intelligent than you normally are.”
That was the problem. It did. The others weren't aware of it, but Skulduggery wasn’t thinking very clearly these days. He couldn't, over the heat of the near-constant anger he felt. The very fact that he was looking on his closest friends now with what could only be described as passive malice was testament to that. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Skulduggery hadn't wanted to believe it, had been putting off doing anything about it - or even so much as mentioning it - but this was getting out of hand. The Dead Men deserved much better than what he could currently offer them.
Skulduggery straightened up before he could change his mind. “I need a walk.”
“Want anyone to come with you?”
“No.” He hesitated, consciously removed the sharpness from his voice, and tried again. “I’ll find Ghastly. Good night.”
And he left them looking even more confused than they had before.
~~
“Skulduggery.”
The word came out before Ghastly could stop it, but he didn't resent his own tongue for it. He’d agonised over this conversation for months, but now that it looked like it might actually happen, he felt surprisingly calm.
The skeleton turned at the sound of his name, and that was it. Didn't make an attempt to leave again, but didn't give any indication that he’d even seen Ghastly, let alone that he was willing to stay and talk. Of course, he must have seen Ghastly. Skulduggery had probably known that Ghastly was there from the moment he walked into the hall. He just hadn't cared enough to say so. That might have hurt, if it hadn't become the skeleton's new attitude recently.
With barely a breath, Ghastly stepped out of the shadows. “Where are you going?”
Silence. Then, “I’m not sure yet.”
“But you were going to leave anyway? Not a word, not a note, not anything, just… leave?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Skulduggery didn't answer, but he didn't need to. The casual observer might have accused him of deserting the war, abandoning his comrades right when they most needed him. But Ghastly knew Skulduggery; he knew how much the skeleton sorcerer had invested in the war. Skulduggery would never up and leave one day without a compelling reason.
And that, Ghastly realised with a sharp intake of breath, was the problem. Before this, before the Dead Men, before even Skulduggery’s death, Ghastly might have referenced Skulduggery’s loyalty as the main reason why he wouldn't abandon his friends, not some unhealthy determination. It was a loyalty Skulduggery still had, to some extent, and if there was any group of people in the world he still felt anything for, it was the Dead Men. And yet, slowly but surely, everything that made Skulduggery the man Ghastly thought he knew was vanishing.
His resolve firmed. “Let us help you.”
“Help with what?”
“This. Whatever this is. Is it Liliya?" Skulduggery had mentioned his wife's name once since his death, and he'd very quickly cut off when he realised what he'd said. "Your daughter? Have you even grieved yet?"
"No."
The word was much too flat. It wasn't the answer itself that worried Ghastly; it was how Skulduggery didn't even seem to care about hiding his lack of emotion anymore. There was a time when appearances meant everything to the detective, when he solved puzzles and explained mysteries as much for the satisfaction of others' awed reactions as for the puzzles and mysteries themselves. That time, it seemed, was long gone. "Please," Ghastly tried. "Don’t just leave and tackle things on your own.”
A noise that could have been laughter, but… wasn’t. It was something else, something Ghastly couldn't quite pinpoint – or wanted to. “What do you think is wrong?”
“Don't. Don’t do that. Don’t round this back on me.” Ghastly took a deep breath. “Skulduggery, you should be dead. Everyone knows that, and nobody talks about it, because you’re still you and no one can really understand why. You don’t understand, either. This is magic no one has ever touched, magic that shouldn't exist. The closest Necromancers have ever gotten is creating shuffling zombies, for God’s sake. And you’re honestly going to stand there and try to tell me nothing’s wrong?”
“Why are you only saying this now? You were the one who vouched for me when Meritorious raised the same questions.”
“I know I did. And I still stand behind that. But you’re getting worse.”
Skulduggery’s head tilted slightly. Ghastly tried to ignore the pang of guilt the familiar action induced, as well as the uncomfortable silence that followed. When it became clear Skulduggery wasn’t going to say anything, Ghastly cleared his throat to break it.
“I don’t know if you've noticed, but you hardly joke anymore. You barely even laugh.”
“We’re in the middle of a war.”
“And that’s never stopped you before.”
“I've never watched my family getting murdered before.”
There was a hard edge to the words. Ghastly had to fight not to back down, like he had every time before, and shook his head. “You're not getting off that easily. This is recent, Skul. You’re slipping. Slipping on more than just misplaced grief.” Skulduggery had a lot of adjusting to do when he was finally found, half-mad with the pain of being tortured, killed, and then forced to pull himself back together. But he’d gotten through it, just as Ghastly had known he would. Started joking about his new state of being, once he’d satisfied himself that his jaw wouldn't fall off.
And even then, there’d been... something. Ghastly had dismissed it, because you dismissed a lot when your best friend was killed and brought back as a living skeleton right after watching his family being tortured to death. Ghastly didn't begrudge not noticing anything then. He did begrudge not doing something about all this sooner.
“I want to help.” His voice had grown softer now. “We all do. I trust you, Skulduggery. Do you?”
“Ghastly.” The skull shook itself from side to side. “I've trusted you since the moment you got us both off that pirate ship.”
“No. I meant do you trust yourself?”
He had no answer to that, just as Ghastly suspected. Skulduggery had admitted freely to not trusting himself right when he was first resurrected – there was no telling if he was under someone else’s control. The fact that he felt he had to hide it now...
Ghastly took a step forward. “Come on, Skulduggery. Let us help.”
For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved. Against all of his better judgment, Ghastly felt a sliver of hope lift its unwanted head. It warmed him slowly from the inside.
Skulduggery shifted. “Thank you. I appreciate it. But…”
The warming hope dashed itself on freezing rocks.
“… but I think I’m beyond help.”
No, Ghastly wanted to say. You’re not. You hesitated. You’re still thinking about this.
But he said nothing out loud, because Skulduggery would not be convinced through mere words. In fact, words and baseless pleas to stop and think would only cement his decision. The best chance any of them had now was to let Skulduggery do what he thought was best, and just… hope that it would eventually turn into what was the best.
Skulduggery turned and started walking out. Ghastly was gripped with the urge to run and drag him back, but the urge came and went. Instead, Ghastly folded his arms against a sudden chill in the stone corridor. “We have a meeting in the morning. Don’t forget that.”
There was no response, and Skulduggery didn't slow down. Ghastly watched him disappear around the corner, and listened to his unnaturally quiet footsteps slowly fading away.
That last conversation, in the stone hallway, Ghastly would replay in his mind every day for the next five years, trying to decide what he should have done differently or why he hadn't gotten through to his oldest friend. Skulduggery wasn’t at the meeting in the morning. Corrival didn't ask why, and didn't even seem curious about where the skeleton was. It wasn’t until a few days later, without any sign of Skulduggery’s return or any form of contact, that the Dead Men decided to assign themselves their newest mission – tracking him down.