Never turn your back on an opponent. Ben Wade's word is law. They're simple enough rules. Maybe a trifle too simple, if he listens to the ghost-voice of his father in his head. But Charlie doesn't mind simple these days. The life he has – the life he's chosen – is best suited to it. In this gang of small-minded cutthroats and thieves that roam and destroy at will across an unforgiving land, complex is a concept best left unspoken.
That's it? Trust me, son, complicated ain't the way to get things done out here. You might wanna remember that.
He would snuggle close, lose himself in the stories of old – in the exploits of Tristan, Arthur and Merlin, Achilles and Patroclus and Hector and Aeneas, Alexander the Great and his faithful Hephaestion. The heroes of his youth had traveled to far-off lands, met adventure head-on, and weren't afraid of anything. They were brave and bold, loyal to each other. Brothers unto death and beyond. They were men who wrestled life to the ground and took what they wanted. For them, consequence was a word for other people. Lesser people. The heroes of Charlie's stories were remembered long after their deaths. Charlie couldn't think of anything worse than to be forgotten.
No, sir. Most men I meet are all alike. I ain't most men. Well, we'll see about that.
Now, Charlie only cares about the truth. Pure, plain, simple truth. And the truth is, all that matters is the corporeal. He only believes in what he can see and taste and touch – his quick wit and a quick draw and Ben's uncompromising intellect. Faber est quisque fortunae suae. Every man is the artisan of his own fortune. Charlie's made damn sure that the only road before him is the one he can see with his own eyes.
Begging your pardon, sir, but maybe it ain't your gratitude I'm after. Then what are you after? A job.
War itself hadn't been the hell the poets wrote about, either. But then, what did the poets ever know about war? Charlie'd liked the fighting, the down and dirty combat, pitting his intellect against his fellow man and always coming out on top. He'd grown to love the smell of sulfur and gunpowder mixed with blood, the symphony of screams and bombs and gunfire, the sight of silver glinting in the sun when the bugles called formation. War hadn't been Hell, not even a little bit. No, the true hell had been in the living after. Surviving in the bitter aftermath of the ashes of a civilization razed to the ground, with nothing to show for it except a tattered pride that matched his tattering clothing. There had been no training for what had come next. The military had honed him into a razor-sharp weapon of destruction and terror, then set him loose when the fighting was done, a hungry wolf roaming at will amongst the sheep. And everyone knows, in the wild, it's every man or beast for himself. Charlie had gone back to Georgia just the once. Had seen the burnt remains of the plantation and outbuildings, the scorched fields that had once blossomed with cotton, and the unmarked graves that now housed his family. There had been nothing left, not a token, not his mother's Bible, not his father's pocketwatch. Nothing of the Prince family had remained except the man standing over their graves with murder in his heart and wild vengeance in his eyes. The entire world could burn, and Charlie would happily strike the first match.
Well, now, last I looked, we lost, so I wouldn't exactly call myself a hero. Good. 'Cause there ain't no such things as heroes in this world.
Velle est posse. Where there is a will, there is a way. And there is always a way. Ben Wade is the only person that Charlie's ever met who could come close to matching the great generals and warriors of the past. Most men – even the ones history has named as great – are too caught up in outdated concepts like honor and nobility to get the job done. But, not Ben. For Ben, no obstacle is too big, no challenge too impossible. Ben lives to pit his wits and wiles against the world, lives to spit upon Fate and make it his own. Ben is everything his mama's stories had promised – brave and strong and ruthless. The most ruthless warrior Charlie has ever known. And, like every great warrior, Ben needs the perfect weapon. Arthur'd had Excalibur, Achilles'd had his armor, Heracles his bow. Ben has two – the right hand of God, and Charlie.
I can't afford to relax. Life's about more than diligence. Take what pleasures you can, because there ain't too many in this world. Not all of us want the same pleasures as you. I have all I need.
Charlie has his own gift, one that's also just as rare – he knows how to make himself invaluable, trusted, necessary. And the finest, most delicate piece to the art of being indispensable – of being the perfect second in command – is the art of being invisible. Charlie's never minded playing dumb when he had to. Ben values his brain; he knows this. Charlie knows who he is. And everything he is belongs to Ben. Hesperus is Phosphorus. Two sides of the same coin. Bringer of light, and bringer of darkness.
Yessir. I like that in a man. As long as it benefits me. Always, boss. Always.
Charlie isn't a killer. Killers deal in nothing more than brute strength and brute force. No, Charlie's an artist, albeit one in the art of death. And, like all artists, he knows his creation is in the eye of the beholder. Historians and scholars and critics could say what they wanted, but art is like beauty, like love. It just is. He knows it because he sees it. And like art, like beauty, love is absolute. Inviolate. It's the one true axiom that binds everything together. If one loved, then they did it without reservation, or it wasn't love. Love is loyal, without reason, the truest leap of faith.
Cover to cover. Why? You can learn a lot about man's nature from reading the Bible. Man's nature only exists to conquer and multiply. Exactly. But it tends to sound a lot more palatable if it's spun into some sort of morality tale. You ain't gotta worry about me on that. Somehow I didn't think morals were high on your list, Charlie.
Well, he knows better now. The world isn't a mysterious and miraculous place of wonder and grace. Mankind doesn't have some sort of Heavenly father figure waiting in the wings with open arms and a kind voice. There is no salvation at the end of it all, no quick cure for the evils of the world and the depravity that men inflict on each other every single minute of every single day. The only truth in this sorry world is that everyone is doomed. And they're all marching towards it with open arms.
So teach me. Get rid of the books. Out here, a man's only as good as his draw. Then I aim to be the best. Not while I'm still breathing.
Even in his dreams, Charlie finds a way to outwit his foes. Fate leads him who follows it, and drags him who resists. It's about the only thing his father had taught him that had stuck. He spends most of his nights watching over Ben, a warrior angel protecting his charge, a buffer holding everyone else at bay. He is Hephaestion to Ben's Alexander, Patroclus to his Achilles. The most trusted, bravest, and truest of Ben's posse. In truth, however, it's not that hard. Ben chooses his hired guns for the accuracy of their aim and their greed, not for their smarts. They're loyal because Ben makes it profitable for them to be loyal. They have no idea what true loyalty is, what true brotherhood and love means. They're savages, honed to a razor-sharp edge, kept in line by fear and gluttony. Even lawless men need boundaries, and that's what Ben provides.
I just don't. Neither do you. True, but leaders should have a little bit of mystery to them. There's nothing to tell. Somehow I doubt that.
The local authorities had blamed his death on 'accidental drowning'. Charlie can still hear the man's surprised gurgles for breath, for help, when Charlie had pushed him into the murky water, his pleas washing away with the current. Murder is easy. But Charlie still prefers to look men in the eyes when he kills them. He likes knowing that their last sight is of him – God, Devil, Fate – standing with aloof judgment until their final breath rattles out.
Hebrews 1:11. But it don't mean nothing. As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead. James 2:26. You really don't believe in much, do you, Charlie? I believe in my gun. That's a cold statement from a man with as much fire in his belly as you. From you, boss, I'll take that as a compliment.
Come hell or highwater or the end of the fucking world, Charlie is never feeling helpless again. Helplessness is for the victims of this world, for the puny and decaying men who cry out for a savior when the only strength they need comes from within. Ben Wade had taught him that. And together, they are unstoppable. A force of nature, leaving death and destruction behind, marking the world one blazing trail at a time. They are poetry written in the screams and blood of the fallen. They need no one else.
I'll come for you, boss, don't you worry. Sure as God's fucking vengeance. I will come for you. I know you will, Charlie. I know.
But he believes in Ben Wade.
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