Jenkins was only able to jerk his sword out of its scabbard before something smashed into his elbow from behind, jarring his nerves and deadening his arm. His sword fell to the ground, useless. Jenkins cursed and rolled to his feet just in time to avoid another blow from a club. His attacker glared at him through slitted eyes, more cautious now that he had recovered from the initial blow. Knights. How wonderful.

He squinted at the light reflecting off the polished armour, trying to shake some feeling back into his sword arm as he awkwardly fumbled the sword with his right. The soldier in front of him grinned, pulling the club back for a final blow on the injured bandit leader. That is, until the grin melted into a general look of confusion after Jenkins ducked behind and slammed the hilt of his sword into the knight's skull.

Being ambidextrous can be quite convenient at times.

Jenkins approached his camp cautiously. Now that he was more aware that there was more happening in the clearing than just his fellow bandits wasting their time, the sounds of clashing swords seemed deafening. The edge of the clearing was mere meters away, but Jenkins circled the camp in case that scouts, like the one he had just killed, were still in the area. During this time, he noticed with growing unease the dwindling sounds of swords were replaced with cries of pain. He caught glimpses of a tall figure, a sword in each hand, whirling around the battlefield with ease. Man after man fell under the blows of the blades; the figure seemed invincible. And, unfortunately, very familiar.

Sean O'Brien was a force to be reckoned with while he was fighting. The world seemed a blur of red and more red as his sword danced with a mind of its own. The minor wounds he sustained didn't feel like anything at all. There seemed like an aura of death around him, especially with the bodies of the ones he's taken down littering the ground around him. His reddened eyes reflected the stained ground, like he had gone into what Skandians would call "berserker" mode. It was terrifying to watch him in action as the remaining bandits circled warily, unwilling to sacrifice themselves first. Even the remaining knights and guards were unwilling to step in and help for fear of being injured themselves.

Halt couldn't help but be impressed at how Sean was fighting. While drunk, no less. It had been quite the chore actually getting him to the camp, but once he had a target there was no stopping him from getting his revenge. Halt calmly readied another arrow for a bandit who stepped to strike Sean from behind. The man never had a chance before he collapsed with a strangled cry with two arrows to his leg. Halt readied another shot.

All of a sudden, two bandits broke away from the group. They seemed to have picked up Halt's location from behind the trees and decided that attacking him was less of a death wish than fighting the berserker traitor. Time to prove then wrong. Halt aimed his last arrow at one of the men, armed with an ax.

Within the space of a millisecond, the arrow on its way to the axman's heart was deflected. Halt recoiled in surprise. The other bandit, armed with a sword and shield, had lightning fast reflexes. The arrow clattered uselessly on the ground behind the two.

Crap.

The ranger pulled out his saxe and throwing knife, suddenly acutely aware of the lack of Gilan's presence by his side. And Gilan's sword. That would be helpful right about now.

The more bandits killed by O'Brien, the less money he'll have to share with the survivors. Jenkins followed this line of reasoning as he watched his "friends" attack the traitor. Two of them moved away from the fight and towards the side of the clearing; Jenkins frowned as he watched them advance on a tree. The pair stopped fifteen meters away as a flash shot out from behind the tree, only to be deflected by the one with a shield. Must be the ranger. Jenkins mused. A ranger named Abelard, or so O'Brien had told him in his report of the interrogation. Of course, there was every chance the traitor had lied about that piece of information as well, but that is of no importance right now. Jenkins was relatively certain the archer would be easily taken care of by the axman. He was however glad for distraction offered by the two men, since it frees up a time where O'Brien would have to watch out for his own back. With the right timing and any sort of luck, no opponent was infallible forever. Especially since O'Brien had finished off the last of the bandits near him and had his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Jenkins wore a grim smile of satisfaction as he approached the former bandit from behind. The cover of invincibility had left O'Brien, leaving a tired, bloodied man in its wake. Jenkins raised his sword over his head, victory already playing out in his mind…

"BEHIND YOU!"

Sean O'Brien turned around in time for the sword, aimed at the back of his head, to instead sink deep into his unprotected left side. His knees suddenly gave out. His face was half planted in the ground now. Grass was tickling his nose. Why did everything seem red?

He suddenly felt himself being roughly turned onto his back. The extra pain had brought tears in his eyes. The hostile gaze of Jenkins stared into his own as the blade bore down, positioned precisely between his ribs. He felt himself jerk once again, though he couldn't really feel anything anymore. It was all just a constant feeling of burning pain everywhere.

"NO!"

Who was that? Sean wondered. It was a young voice. Like Clarke's. Was Clarke here? Sean stared up at the sky, vaguely registering Jenkins collapsing beside him. An arrowhead stuck out of the bandit leader's throat, another three sticking out of his torso. Well, guess I get to keep your sword now, Sean mused at the sword hilt just at the bottom his peripheral vision.

A dark mass suddenly obstructed his view of the clouds. "Hang in there. Halt's on his way. Hold on." The voice muttered over and over again. The boy seemed at a loss as to what to do.

Gilan saw with horrific clarity the moment O'Brien was struck down from behind. It kept repeating itself over and over in his mind's eye, from the second he called out the warning to the way Jenkins had rolled O'Brien over for the second strike. Everything. The worst part was how he felt nothing but pure fury after the bandit leader stood over the mortally wounded man with undisguised victory, how his bow and arrow seemed to fly into his hands, and forgetting his injuries in the heat of the moment, Gilan Davidson had purposely fired a killing shot.

"Hold on, don't die yet." Gilan said quietly. He knelt beside O'Brien, unsure what to do. Removing the sword would mean less suffering for the man, and yet… "Clarke still needs you, remember? Don't leave yet."

O'Brien shifted his wandering gaze to focus on the young apprentice. With a voice of almost incredulous wonder, he whispered, "I'm going to go see my son again."

"That's right. You are."

Silence.

"You are! Don't go yet!" Gilan watched the last breath leave the former adversary. He sat there numbly. O'Brien didn't look dead, not really. Gilan had anticipated there would be some injury and possible death as part of being a ranger, but it seemed wrong, the image in front of him. O'Brien could have been peacefully sleeping for all he knew, except with a sword in his chest and a growing pool of blood surrounding him.

Wrong, all wrong.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Halt. He couldn't tear his gaze from the body to face his mentor. A few minutes after Jenkins arrived, that's when Blaze had found the clearing. Those few crucial minutes for which Gilan was too late, for which he had caused his friend to lose the final member of his family.

"Gil." Halt's voice was laced with a concern that doesn't reveal itself too often. "You're still hurt."

Oh, really. Gilan hadn't noticed when his long torso wound had opened back up; it was probably from drawing his bow. He shook his head but remained quiet.

"It's getting late." Halt eventually said after a long period of silence. The knights and soldiers around had finished piling the remaining bodies in the clearing and had left with their own casualties at Halt's incessant glare whenever they approached O'Brien. "We should bury him before it gets dark."

Gilan accepted the small shovel Halt offered with a sense of finality. O'Brien was, indeed, dead. The rectangular mound of earth was indicated by a headstone in which Halt carved with his saxe. A Father and a Good Man.

"Clarke should've been here too." Gilan said suddenly. His friend, whom he hasn't seen for three days now. He saw Halt stand still for a moment.

"Yes." was the terse reply. Halt resumed retrieving his arrows.

"He's gone. Isn't he, Halt? That's what O'Brien meant by seeing Clarke again. They're both gone."