There's a touch more blood than he's used to, the bitter smell of gunshot, and a lot of people complaining. It's late evening or early morning in Mourningwood, and the Prince thinks it's appalling that he can't remember which. But it doesn't matter, not really, because he's got cuts on his hands from the sharp bits of his gun, and he thinks some little shards of Hollow Man might be stuck in there, but at least he's not dead like a few of the army boys. The blood in his head is still thrumming, despite it having been more than an hour since the last shots were fired. Is that a Will thing? He doesn't know. He'd accidentally set his sleeve on fire the day previous, because he forgot he had his gauntlets on. Will discipline is a habit you should develop quickly.

Shaking some mud off his pistol, he goes to see what he can do. In the centre of the fort, amidst broken wood and bone, Ben Finn is standing over a few prone figures, murmuring something or other to the Major. The Prince supposes they know what they're doing, and doesn't fancy traipsing over to look at the dead. Wasn't he supposed to be stopping this sort of thing? Losing half of the people you were asking for help within about two hours of meeting them isn't a success in anyone's books.

Ben looks up and gives him a little nod. What with all the commotion of the Hollow Legion paying a surprise visit, he hadn't had chance to talk to any of the Swift Brigade properly, but the captain seemed alright. He had let him use the mortar with minimal training and no health and safety briefing. He'd also been the last one to regain consciousness after Simmons had become a bit upset about being dead and knocked them all out. Ben had promptly cornered the Prince upon waking and apologised for being useless.

Maybe he's in over his head, too.

The Prince finds a bit of outlying fort looking out over the burial grounds and sits down on a fallen stone. Stagnant, cold, wet air, the atmospheric equivalent of being slapped with a pair of wet trousers, but it's better than watching them tally the dead and pop dislocated limbs back in. If anyone asks, he's making sure that the perimeter's clear. Technically someone should actually have been doing this, but the Swift Brigade is a little understaffed at present, so he won't mention it. With nothing on the horizon demanding his immediate attention, he takes to inspecting his wounds. Definitely a bit of bone splinter in there, as well as quite a lot of grime and mud. He hopes he won't have to have his hands cut off, because that would somewhat put a dampener on his glorious revolutionary career. Best not to think about it.

'Hope you're not planning on wandering out into the swamp,' says Ben Finn, from behind him. 'Because I'm not going after you.'

Ben leans against a bit of wall and crosses his arms. He looks reasonably intact, save for messy hair and a slight coating of bone dust. There is, however, a rather large welt on his cheek.

'I wasn't planning on it,' says the Prince.

'Good, because it's a real problem in this neck of the woods. Do you know why Mourningwood never has a problem with overpopulation? Half the village sinks into the ground every six months.'

'Really? Nothing to do with the smell?'

Ben laughs. 'Oh, you noticed? Yeah, the faint aroma of dead people and broken spirits doesn't help.'

'And the Hollow Men?'

'Bloody nuisances. And rude to boot. Just because you were rubbish at life doesn't mean you're allowed to try and make everyone miserable when you're dead.'

The Prince isn't quite sure if that's how Hollow Men work.

'What happened to your face?' says the Prince. He wasn't going to mention it in fear of sounding rude, but Ben seemed alright. Besides, he was at the level of tiredness where his willingness to respect social boundaries had gone out of the window.

Ben grimaces. 'Er, well, it was hard to tell in the scuffle but I think one of the lads got a bit over enthusiastic swinging his elbows around. Not a scratch by Hollow Men,' he says, lifting his arms to show his uniform hadn't taken any damage.

Well.

'You've got red on you.'

'I know,' Ben picks at the sleeve of his shirt. 'That's been there for ages. And I think it's mine. My point remains.'

'You're lucky,' says the Prince.

Ben grins. 'I'm good. You'll not find a finer shot or a sharper wit in fifty miles.'

The Prince laughs. 'We'll see about that. I mean, I'm not sure if you've heard, but I am a Hero.'

'You say that, but you looked bloody terrified when the ground started shaking.'

'At least I managed to stay conscious throughout.'

'Yeah, must have been nice being out of harm's way over in the corner. I saw you backing away like a twit.'

'I did no such thing. By the way, it's incredibly reassuring to see the people who are supposed to be helping me stage a revolution passed out on the floor. Really good.'

'Shut it, you. We haven't even said we'll help yet, so wouldn't be giving me cheek if I were you.' says Ben. He shoulders the Prince along the stone slab so he can sit down next to him.

'You're not going to say no, though?'

Ben shrugs. 'That's Swiftie's decision. The rest of the Brigade seem to think you're alright.'

'Including you?'

'I'm a trusting person, which upon reflection is probably why people try to rob me all the time. I think you'll be fine. Granted, 'the Brigade' as of now consists of about five blokes, but, there you go. Tick had a dog we used to dress up, but he buggered off after we tried to put him in a helmet.'

A little blue wisp coasts lazily through the air, pulling for a target. Ben spots it first. They watch it plunge into the ground a good distance away, and then there's a stir and a rather laboured groan from beneath the soil. A straggler. Ben gestures towards the Prince.

'I'll let you have this one.'

The Prince loads his pistol. He hasn't practiced much with this one and it's a brass-worn flintlock with a creaky barrel and a scratchy handle. He's very aware that Ben is watching him with a sharpshooter's eye, so he tries hard not to miss.
Patiently, they wait for the Hollow Man to drag itself through topsoil, shake the mud out of its ribcage, and start shambling towards them. From the corner of his eye he sees Ben lean forward a little to judge his aim. Right then.

The shot splinters through naked bone and right into the Hollow Man's forehead, hitting his helmet on the far side and dropping down through its ribs with a plink. Perfect, if the Prince says so 's a pleasing puff of bone dust as it judders to a halt, looks as surprised as a reanimated skeleton can, then drops to the floor and gives up entirely.

The Prince shrugs at Ben to let him know how effortless the affair was, and gets a smirk in return. They watch for any more activity, but it seems as though the Hollow Legion has got the idea. Ben runs through the 'Mourningwood Cremation Program For The Inconveniencing Of Hollow Men' he's been devising. The Prince hadn't asked to hear it.

'Are you not upset?' says the Prince after Ben's finished speaking, more quickly than he probably should have.

'What?' says Ben. By this time he's shrugged off his rifle and is messing with the firing mechanism.

'You just lost about half of your company men,' says the Prince. 'Are you not upset?'

Ben stops what he's doing. A hint of a frown crosses his face.

'Only a matter of time for some of them, wasn't it? I mean, if you will insist on fighting with a lute.'

'Doesn't it bother you?' Well, there we go, no going back now. The Prince thinks he should stop, but he doesn't. He's travelled too far on too little sleep, and he's fought for the favour of people he doesn't know on the word of one of the only men he can trust and he is not used to this.

'Of course it bothers me, bastard never finished reading my manuscript.'

'What about your mate? What's his-'

'Jammy?'

'Yeah.'

Ben looks at him, and the Prince regrets opening his mouth.

'You know, I heard about that little debacle at Saker's camp. You, I mean, wiping out half his mercs. Did you ask him the same?'

For a moment the Prince doesn't know what Ben's talking about. Alright, Saker had come around eventually but not before throwing a good chunk of his men at him and it was hardly his fault-

'I didn't have a choice there,' he says quickly.

'I didn't say you did. Not used to killing things yet, are you?' Ben says, looking over the marsh. 'Hadn't killed anyone before you left the castle, I bet.'

'No.' Not directly. Not on purpose. Not his fault.

'Well, try not to think about it too much, you might upset yourself. Because you asked so elegantly, then, yeah, it doesn't feel fantastic. I'd known Jammy a while. Daft sod. Bet me his collection of fancy cutlery that he could out-drink me after we'd finished killing dead things out here. I didn't want it or anything but he'd maim himself with a spoon every week or so when he was showing it off.' He leans backwards, shifting his weight onto his hands.

'Listen, I know you're a soft royal-type but you're going to have to get used to this, yeah? I don't want to come off all grim but it's bloody likely you'll see a lot of your friends die on your way to getting your arse on that throne, and you can't break down over it.'

'Sorry,' the Prince says. He picks at a piece of skin that's threatening to abandon his finger.

'That's alright, I know you didn't intend to come off as a wanker. You did, though, so maybe have a bit of a practice. And don't go into the funeral business.'

'I'll keep that in mind.'

'Oh cheer up,' Ben says, clapping him on the back. 'We won! At least there's some of us left to tell everyone else what happened. It'd be downright embarrassing if someone came to see us and we were all dead and Hollow Men were using us as chairs.'

'Thanks, I'm cheered.'

'You are welcome. Right, mate, my arse is getting numb so I'm going to find some food. Coming?'

'I'm alright, thanks.'

Ben hops to his feet and shoulders his rifle.

'Don't stay out here too long, your legs will snap off. I'm not carrying you to Bowerstone.'

'Assuming you're coming to Bowerstone. I haven't even spoken to Major Swift.'

'Have you heard him and Walter go on? He's on board. Besides, if I have to spend another week in Mourningwood I might just lie down and wait for the moss to cover me.'

'We don't want that.'

'We don't. So don't catch a chill and die.'

'I won't.'

Ben trundles off to the centre of the fort, where a couple of the lads have rebuilt the fire. Every so often one of them will toss a bit of Hollow Man into the flames, an act accompanied by a lot of cheering and swearing. Spending months on end outside will do that to you, apparently.
But it's not the time to worry about that. The last of the light has buggered off (it was evening after all). The Prince is on the wrong side of exhausted. And there is still so much to do.

A/N: Reshuffled the chapters. I'm sorry about the long wait between updates, that's something I'm working on. Many thanks to those who have followed, favourited and reviewed so far!