Deep in the darkest cave of the forest, which wasn’t of particular note (there was only one cave), there had once been a terrible battle. A band of the nastiest, crudest, and most despicable mercenaries had been cornered by the king’s royal guard. The bloodbath that had followed left no survivors. It had been nearly a century and a half ago, however, so they wouldn’t have likely been remembered anyway.

The vengeful spirits trapped where they’d fallen eventually became bored vengeful spirits. Then just bored. After about fifty years together, cursing each other’s ghostly forms, being run through by spectral swords and daggers again and again, there was nothing left to do.

“Take this, knave!” Captain Braggart bellowed, though his heart really wasn’t in it as he brought his ax down upon the head of a ghostly mercenary. Blue smoke split in two, and the mercenary fell to his ghostly knees.

“Curse you!” He spat between both halves of his head.

The Captain drew back, lowering his ax with a scowl, “now you know damned well you didn’t say that or anything else when it happened,” he scolded.

One half of the mercenary’s head rolled its eye and he pressed both sides together, glaring at the captain. The seam down the middle of his skull was eternally visible. It added character, he liked to think.

“I thought I’d add some flair,” he replied, slowly lowering his hands just in case his head didn’t want to stay together. Sometimes it could be a little difficult.

“Leave off him, Braggart,” another mercenary ghost called from where he’d perched on a large rock, calmly whittling away at a piece of soapstone.

“Watch your tone with the captain, scum!” A soldier doing battle with another mercenary shouted, falling back when an arrow went through his eye.

“I wasn’t ready for that!” He complained, wrapping a hand around the shaft of the arrow.

“Sort of the point, Anders,” the soap chiseling mercenary pointed out.

“Richard, get off your ass and help me,” the mercenary with the split head called out.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Terry. You see, I think that’s the problem here. There’s four of us, right? There used to be forty, but then the rest of them eventually wandered off and let all this go. Maybe they’re haunting another place, maybe they’ve moved on, but it’s a lot better than reliving the glory days of getting the business every night on the wrong end of a spear.”

“You can leave if you want,” Anders grumbled, tugging at the arrow fruitlessly. Once it was in, he never could get the thing out unless someone else helped. Even then, the arrow always seemed to find its home again in his skull. The ghost of the man who’d originally shot it had long since disappeared.

Captain Braggart hefted his ax up, pondering whether he could hit Richard between the eyes from where he was standing. He shrugged the thought off, his bravado withering a little now that the spirit of the fight was broken.

“I don’t know what’s out there,” he said, taking a deep breath and tossing his ax to the ground before letting it out again. “I’m not sure I want to. We’ve been at this for so very long. It’s all I’ve come to know.”

“Touching,” Terry remarked dryly, just as his head split in two again, “oh for the love of–” he cut himself off, just barely. They’d all resolved decades ago that they were reformed ghosts. Cursing would only add to the undetermined number of centuries they were cursed to roam the earth—well, cave. It was better safe than sorry.

Richard lowered his soapstone, examining it closely and running a dagger along the side to catch any signs of rough edges. “I think this is my best one yet,” he proclaimed with no small sense of pride. It was a cat. A cat with a very charming hat. Sometimes Richard wondered if he had only been this good at whittling in life, he could’ve avoided the whole nasty mess of politics and war.

Having given up on the arrow, Anders sat down on the cave floor and leaned back on his elbows, tipping his head towards the ceiling. “You know what I miss?” He asked no one in particular.

“Women?” Terry suggested, joining Anders on the ground whilst keeping both hands firmly on both sides of his head to hold it together. Eternal battle aside, they really had grown to sort of like each other in-between the empty bloodshed.

“Well, that,” Anders agreed, “but more than that. I miss sunlight. I miss soft beds.”

“I miss wood,” Richard threw out, tossing his soapstone on a pile behind him. A rather large pile by now. From a distance one could mistake the hundreds of meticulously-crafted pieces for skulls.

“I miss my liege,” Captain Braggart added, drawing a fist to his chest and bowing his head in respect for his (by now) long dead king. There was one part of the act he could never drop. He was funny like that.

Anders turned his head towards the entrance of the cave, or the general direction of it anyway. They’d died far away from the entrance, and even in light had only torchlight to accompany them.

Then, he gripped the arrow again, and with one violent pull, yanked it from his eye socket, accompanied by his ghostly eye. This jostled another thought, which made him grin, “Food! I miss food! Just once, I wish I could have a good meal. Or a meal. I’m not picky.”

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Terry nodded, with no small measure of awkward effort, “I was half-starved when we were cornered back here. Feels like the last thing I had was some moldy bread and river water half a day ago. I’d kill–” he paused, “--I’d sell the clothes off my back for something to eat.”

The group warmed to the idea, eventually settling together into a small circle and tossing ideas back and forth about the perfect feast they’d have if they could be alive again for just a day. A whole roast boar with a fat apple in its great mouth. Grilled, skewered eel, slathered in sauce. Fat potatoes, salted and fried in a river of butter. Fresh bread baked to perfection. Capon pie. A mountain of bacon. Maybe even a few greens if they had room left in their stomachs to spare.

“Now hold on a minute,” Terry interrupted their fantasy, “Richard can carve.”

“If your suggestion is that we eat rocks, I’ll chop that head in quarters this time!” Captain Braggart snapped, his stoked hunger putting him on edge.

Terry resisted the urge to flinch. He had his dignity. “That wasn’t what I meant, Braggart.” Of the four of them, the Captain was the only one who still insisted on going by his surname.

“I mean,” Terry went on, nervously lowering his hands, prepared to slap them to his head again if it threatened to split down the middle, “if we can get some food in here, somehow, who’s to say we can’t eat?”

It was a nice fantasy.

“There’s a problem there,” Richard pointed out, waving his dagger for emphasis. What had been a weapon in life was more of a handy tool for hobbies now.

“One of us has to leave to get the food,” Anders said with a sigh.

“One of us has to leave,” Richard agreed, nodding solemnly.

“And we don’t know if we can come back once we step outside,” Terry realized with a start.

Captain Braggart climbed to his feet, raising his sword and holding it to his chest with the hilt pointed downwards, “comrades, men at arms, I think it is only right that I go.”

The other three agreed, Terry most of all.

“Bring back a feast fit for the gods, captain!” Anders cheered him on.

“Drinks, too, don’t forget the drinks. See if they have one,” Richard suggested. Who ‘they’ were wasn’t quite clear. At this point, it didn’t really matter.

Terry nodded slowly, carefully. Not because he was afraid of being too eager, just -- well, he was afraid of the consequences of what effect it might have on his head. “Take your time, Captain. No rush.”

Stoically, gallantly, Captain Braggart strode away from the trio and began his long trek towards the entrance of the cave. His ghostly metal boots clanked and rattled on packed soil. “In the days of the king,” he began, singing an old war song, “when justice was won, and truth shone through darkness and light! Twas a great storm and blight that did show with such might…”

His voice faded in the distance, warbling and booming at the same time.

Terry glanced at Richard, “you think he’ll be back?”

Richard shook his head, scratching at the spot on his chest where a spear normally went, “not a chance.”

----------------------------------------

Go away.

“Now, now, you can’t blame me for this. I’ve no reason to come down here most days.”

Months.

“Actually, if you want to be precise, one year and six months,” Sir Fishbits replied, looking down at Book. The cat had only now found it on the old writing desk in the cellar, and he wasn’t going to pretend he had been looking. Neither would he pretend he did this on purpose.

You aren’t making a good case for yourself. I was alone. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.

Sir Fishbits prodded the title page of the book where its text was acting up, “what’s wrong with you?”

You and Gertrudis abandoned me. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Without so much as a candle down here to keep me company? You can see in the dark. I can’t!

“I did not abandon you. You’re a grown book by now, well old enough to make your own decisions. You could have gone upstairs.”

No. I can’t.

“Really?” Sir Fishbits blinked several times, surprised, “I had no idea.”

I’m a book.

“Yes. You are. A magic book. I thought you could move on your own, at the very least,” Sir Fishbits said, a note of cajoling in his tone, “and Gertrudis left without even telling me. I promise, I thought she was coming back. One night she simply walked outside to gather fairy rings and she was gone. Now that I know you can’t fly or walk, I’ll go get the wand and bring you upstairs. Introduce you two.”

Two? Introduce?

Now he had him. Sir Fishbits curled up his tail, a feline instinct taking over to cajole and persuade, “as I tried to tell you. There’s a new witch and she’s most anxious to meet you. I told her all about the wonderful spellbook behind Gertrudis’ great magic. She’s got so much to learn, and you’re so very good at teaching.”

Well…

Book fluttered his pages, a tinge of pink running along his binding.

If you really mean it. I really am good.

“The best,” Sir Fishbits purred, crawling behind Book and letting his tail drift over Book’s pages, “there’s no better teacher than you.” If he played his cards right, he’d be able to spend most of his time relaxing, while the spellbook did most of the work. What a delightful find.

I haven’t agreed to anything yet.

“Of course!” The cat agreed, nodding his head, “I wouldn’t dare assume that you, the most powerful being in the forest would rush so quickly into such a big decision. It takes time. Thought. I’ll come back for you later, when you’ve–

I’ll do it! Take me upstairs! Lonely!

Sir Fishbits grinned, leaping from the writing table to the ground, “yes, I thought you’d say that. I won’t be a moment, my friend. By the way, I’m not certain if this one can read, but that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

He didn’t linger to read the spellbook’s response, but he could feel the sting of magic on his fur. Well, too late to take it back now. They had an agreement.