He recognised the accent before he knew the voice. As he woke, the words faltered for a moment, then stopped completely. That was a shame. There was something about those words, something hypnotic about their rhythm, the voice that spoke them; if he'd had words to speak and a voice to speak with Nathan would have asked it to continue. "Nathan?" The same voice, closer now, heavy with anxiety. He closed his eyes. When woke again the shadows had moved. How long had he been asleep? "You with us, brother?" Another voice, not the one that had pulled him back before, back from wherever he'd drifted. "Josiah." He wasn't sure he said the name till there was movement beside him. Josiah was there, one large hand coming to test the warmth of Nathan's forehead. "What..?" And he was asleep again before the question could be finished, let alone before any answer came. This time when he woke, the only light in the clinic was the yellow of his lamp, a small circle round the head of the bed and the man who sat beside it, head tipped back as he slept. The book he'd been reading earlier lay spreadeagled across Ezra's thigh, his hand resting possessively on its pages. Hard to tell from this angle if it were poetry or prose; chances were it was the former. Vin was the acknowledged poet among them, now Mary Travis had taught him his letters, but Ezra was the one with the secret vice. More than one secret vice, if Nathan was right, but the one he'd admitted to publicly was a love of verse. Hard to hide when, laid up in the clinic and sending Inez to pick up books, there had not been a novel among them. "And nothing by that hack," Ezra had stated, though JD would have been willing to lend him every volume he had by Jock Steele, if only Ezra would ask. "I'd rather expire from boredom than do anything to support the idea his endeavours had one iota of literary value." He'd been right, it had been Ezra's voice the first time he woke, that all-too-familiar accent winding words around Nathan's brain. Talking though he couldn't be certain of an audience, the way his voice croaked less familiar. How long had he been reading out loud to make that sound? Nathan turned his head slightly on the pillow, eyes intent on Ezra's sleeping face. He knew from patrols together Ezra slept lightly, the slightest noise enough to wake him, his hand on his pistol or derringer springing into his palm; this time he didn't stir. There was darkness under Ezra's eyes, unmistakeable even in the light of the oil lamp. He moved a little as Nathan watched, wondering if Ezra felt the weight of his gaze, knowing somehow even in his sleep he was being watched. Nothing would surprise him about Ezra. Not any more. Once he'd thought he knew the measure of the man, that where he came from and the accent with which he spoke were enough to tell him everything. Nathan knew better now. "The only thing I know is that I know nothing," Nathan whispered, the words a sibilant hiss in the stillness of the room. Of all the things he'd ever read, those words said more about Ezra than anyone else he knew. They were also enough to make Ezra wake at last, an immediate air of wariness dropping on the other man even as Nathan watched, long before he opened his eyes. To anyone else the slight stiffening of Ezra's body might have been imperceptible; not to someone who knew what little anyone was permitted to know of one Ezra Standish. "What was that you were reading, Ezra?" Nathan's throat ached, his voice rasping in his ears as he spoke. Ezra straightened in the chair, collecting himself and recovering the book that had slid a little further from his lap. His fingers were busy on its cover, flickering down the edges of its pages, then stilling with the volume in his grasp. "Gray," Ezra replied, once he had the book in order. "A particular favourite of mine." Nathan turned his gaze to the cracked ceiling and said nothing. "I find as I grow older, Mr Jackson, I grow more melancholy." The words were spoken lightly but Nathan could hear the reality behind them. They were all getting older, even JD; nothing lasted forever, but it went unspoken between them. "Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth," Ezra read. "A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own." Nathan heard the book close, turned his head, caught the look on Ezra's face before he could shutter it away. "Should I be worrying?" Nathan asked, wanting more than anything to chase away what he'd seen. "Wake to find a man sitting by my bed, talking 'bout death..." "I was thinking about what happens after. Not for us, for the ones we leave behind." The lamp guttered and Ezra leaned over to attend to it. "I expected to be cast into potter's field, with the life I chose," he continued, fiddling with the lamp. "Remember how I first met Chris and Vin?" Nathan asked. He heard the undercurrent of anger in his voice, took a deep breath to push it back down. He'd been sure it was his time, hemp rough around his throat, surrounded by hate; none of it Ezra's fault. "Always had a feeling things would go that way." "It would seem we were both mistaken," Ezra said, turning back, task accomplished. "About our fates, I mean." The familiar half-mocking expression was firmly back in place. "Life ain't over yet," Nathan said. "But I'm sure we won't be forgotten. Not even you, Ezra." Nathan closed his eyes. After a moment, he heard the sound of pages rustling, before Ezra began to read out loud again. ~fin~ The title and what Ezra reads come from 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard' by Thomas Gray. Written for the Livejournal community picfor1000 2009 challenge.

Disclaimer : The Magnificent Seven is owned by a bunch of folks including MGM. In other words, not me! The stories contained on this site are for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story-lines are the property of the author. These stories are not to be archived elsewhere without permission of the author.