The Divine Comedy

Tragedy strikes the mercenaries.

A close-up of two faces, pressed together before a campfire. The light bleeds between.

They separate. Stubble catches in stubble.

“Ramirez,” sighs Edwards. “Our love… is an impossible love.”

Ramirez scowls. “No!” he says, his voice tight with supressed emotion. “I refuse to accept that. Love… can find a way!”

They are alone with the night. In the distance, on the other side of the camp, someone — perhaps it is the so-tuneful Cooper — begins to play a guitar. The sweet notes carry into the desert, their song plaintive and lost beneath the moon.

“It cannot be,” says Edwards. “It must not be. Our life… is too uncertain for love. We could, either one of us… die… at any moment. I could not hurt you like that.”

Ramirez turns away from the fire, his bandoliers clinking and chiming. He stares into the desert, his face unreadable in the dark. “Then we must seize the moments as they come! Love… is now! Love… is not thinking of tomorrow!”

Edwards grabs Ramirez, pulls him around, stares into his eyes. “I am not strong,” he whispers huskily. “I could not face losing you. Love… is dangerous, angel. But when I am close to you… oh, every part of me longs to fall into your embrace!”

Their faces press together again. Edward closes his eyes; Ramirez stares past him, eyes dry. In the distance a coyote howls.