Slimestain! Hellsnake! Two-knifed cunt! Thirteen did not see his life flicker before his eyes as he plummeted, as was promised by some. There were no nostalgic images of his father, a Reaper before him who'd died at the hands of ylfs and not a treacherous fellow man. Thirteen saw not his own proud misdeeds in those his last moments. The Reaper thought nothing of atonement or penance or god. He only saw a fantasmal revenge play out against his sudden killer as the wind whipped him like a waster's lash. Thirteen imagined his hands at Blacwin's throat, his thumbs in his popping eyes. The doomed faller play-acted himself resurrected, as Scratch had been, so that his body may carry out punitive slaughter after his coming demise on the rocks which seemed to career at him from above rather than the other way around. The world fell toward him like an anvil as Father Death threw wide his tattered cloak. Delirious, spinning, drunk on numb fatalism, Thirteen had mere seconds of life left. Sick truth, awful reckoning, the rude and ultimate answer of what comes next, was to come in sheer nothings. Of all things, killed by a fellow Reaper, a so-called brother, a gutfucked dog of a—

— • —

"Thirteen's dead," Blacwin said, feigning shock as his teammates helped him up to the cliff's ledge. The half-ylf had trouble abseiling the rope up the escarpment, his hands were trembling so. Nervous energy coursed through the halfblood in the wake of the murder just committed. Blacwin was astonished with himself. It was as if another man had raised his boot to Thirteen's back and shoved him from that edge, not him, whose tracks he now must cover.

"Dead?" said Nail. The words made no kind of sense. The bandits had all been killed, their lair cleared of traps. The danger had seemingly already passed. "Dead, how?"

Blacwin panted, hands on his knees. "Slipped and fell from the ledge." He said this loudly enough for the Witness to hear, that young woman without expression who had joined the huddle of other saved souls further away from the precipice under the guard of Jasha and Riddle. Blacwin needed no words to convey his feelings. His bloodletting eyes were enough. The Witness kept her own eyes down and said nothing about what she had seen—for now.

"Djemona's third tit," said Jasha as he and the others peered over the cliff's edge. "The poor blood can't have survived that."

"He didn't," said Blacwin. "I saw his body dashed on the stones. He's done."

"And your eyes I trust," said Nail.

"And I trust mine own ears," said Vulture. "Heard Thirteen's scream and knew right away that weren't no animal." His eyes switched to Blacwin with menace, reflecting twin blades of moonlight. "Sounded like your name on the wind, them last words he sung."

"A cry for my help," said Blacwin. "But there was nothing I could do to save him."

Vulture sneered and looked back out into the yawning nothing that had swallowed his comrade. Though they'd had their differences, Thirteen had been the closest in spirit to the animalist. He and Vulture were partners in mayhem, each a king and jester in this theater of blood. Vulture turned and walked off past the gathered women. "I hope you wenches was worth it," he grumbled as he went.

Time hung as the remaining commandos reckoned with Thirteen's rude departure and the hole it would leave in their team. The madcap Reaper had always made himself known, for better or worse, and his absence would be felt by all. Jasha was in fact glad to see the troll gone but gave no voice to his secret thoughts. Riddle was a riddle on his feelings on the man, as on most matters of emotion. Nail rubbed his tired eyes, dried of tears long ago. Scratch and Mouth were dead and gone. Rooster and Jinx had been called to Camshire in the name of duty. Shroomer had been called to Stowerling for the same. Halo had fallen from the edge of the world, and now Thirteen had done so in brutally literal fashion. Thus went the last of Team 3's previous roster except for Nail himself. He was more certain than ever that it would soon be his own turn. And was glad for it. He realized that as leader he should say something but Jasha saved him the trouble by starting the first refrains of a too-familiar prayer and soon all the others joined in:

"Reapers in the fields

Scythes swinging

Chaff on the soil

Reapers in the fields

Swords swinging

Blood in the soil

True Reaper, take him home to the stars

Shine high, o brother, son of the Nation

Your blood has mingled with our own

Forever will you fight at our side"

Throughout the recitation of those stanzas Vulture's eyes remained fixed on Blacwin like tenacious dogs. His cold stare unbroken by a single blink. Damnable beams of suspicion and judgement.

"What of the body?" asked Riddle. "Dare we attempt to retrieve it?"

"The animals will see to it," said Nail. This did not sit well with him but he had come to a compromise with his own code in the sheer face of numb futility. He had certainly gone to extraordinarly lengths to see his dear fallen friend Scratch's body home and instead had been forced to watch it burn to nothing in the Fort by that same name before the cadaver had the chance to complete its journey to his fallen comrade's birthplace. That hasty manner of disposal had been ordained by the Nation's brass to prevent the spread of rot and sorcery and secrets. But Nail had been raised to believe there was no rest in fire, that it was better to lie under the cold earth in silence near your other resting kin. The lifeless body a steadfast anchor to the world, a conduit to the heavenbound soul and a lingering connection to the loved ones who remained behind. So your mortal leavings would remain until you were nothing but dust, by which time your grandchildren would be at your side as well, together beneath the soil from which we all came and to which we all would return. Hand-in-hand their souls would rise to live on together in the faraway stars. A nice thought, anyway, even if it was all hogshit.

— • —