Title: Less Messy

Author: Elfpen

Summary: He looked down at his foot, and then back towards his fate – the last thing he would ever see. Gilan gulped. Well, at least it would be less messy this way.

Author's note: This story was half inspired by IsebellaLynnette's story, 'Loss of a Dear Friend' and half inspired by my sister, who said it would make an interesting story if Gilan found himself in the situation proposed by Will in 'The Burning Bridge'

Excerpt from 'The Burning Bridge' by John Flanagan

"What about an axman?" he said. Gilan looked at him, nonplussed for a moment.

"An axman?" he asked.

"Yes," said Horace, warming to his theme, "What about if you're facing an enemy with a battleax? Do your knives work then?"

Gilan hesitated. "I wouldn't advise anyone to face a battleax with just two knives." He said carefully.

"So what should I do?" Will joined in. Gilan glared from one boy to the other. He had the feeling he was being set up.

"Shoot him," he said shortly. Will shook his head, grinning.

"Can't," he said. "My bowstring's broken."

"Then run and hide," said Gilan, between gritted teeth.

"But there's a cliff," Horace pointed out. "A sheer drop behind him and an angry axman coming at him."

"What do I do?" prompted Will.

Gilan took a deep breath and looked them both in the eye, one after the other.

"Jump off the cliff. It'll be less messy that way."

It was cruel fate, he was convinced. A mixture of fate, failure, and morbid irony. A bead of sweat ran down his brow as his eyes cast around for a solution to his current situation – and a precarious situation it was.

His poor bow, mangled and broken without any hope of an intact string, lay sprawled somewhere near the sparse bushes several metres to his left. His sword… Well, Gilan wasn't precisely sure where his sword was. It had gone flying after the axe knocked it out of his hands – Gilan was positive that he'd gotten a broken wrist for the trouble of trying to keep the weapon in hand. He had his two knives with him, but with his throwing arm already swelling up from the broken bone and refusing to even twitch properly, he was left with his less-practiced left arm to compensate. With only one arm, any ideas of a block or close-range counter attack were tossed to the wind. Had he had his bow or his right arm intact, Gilan was pretty sure he could nail the slit in the axman's visor without too much of a squabble, but with his left arm? He was far from ambidextrous, but it seemed like his only hope.

Carefully, Gilan reached awkwardly down to his double scabbard and pulled out his throwing dagger. He measured the distance carefully. The axman was coming at him quickly, weaving through the corpses of his fallen comrades. To steady out the distance, Gilan unconsciously took a step backwards. Rock crumbled beneath his heel and echoed as it slid down the sheer cliff face that trapped him. He grit his teeth and set eyes back on his target, weighing the knife in an unfamiliarly difficult way, drew back, and threw.

He knew it was bad as soon as it left his hand. He'd willed himself into believing that the plan would work, and now that it hadn't, Gilan's heart took a deep fall. The knife barely scratched the axman's armor, and he was still gaining quickly. Shaking, Gilan took out his saxe knife. Last chance. Breathing heavily and trying desperately to remain calm, he drew back and threw the knife again, cursing his broken wrist and the fact that he hardly ever practiced with his left arm.

For one wonderful, fleeting moment, it looked as if by some miracle the knife would fly true to its target between the man's eyes. But then, with a disgusting ease, the huge battle ax swung in an arc to deflect Gilan's trusted saxe knife as if it were nothing more than a splinter.

Something inside Gilan fell, froze, and died there. His eyes glazed over. His mind was beginning to force his body into a numbed state, preparing him for what he now knew was inevitable.

Seven metres. Six. Gilan looked down at his foot, then back at the edge. So this was it, then. He turned around and glanced fearfully down at the fatal drop that awaited him. It was the last thing he'd ever see: stone. It had seemed like such a nice lookout over the landscape the day before. Now it seemed much darker and menacing, and strangely monotonous. A boring thing to look at as you die, Gilan thought.

Five. Four. He could hear the warrior's enraged cry growing closer. He braced himself and took a step closer to the edge. The situation had been nagging at his mind for a while now. It was sickly familiar to him, though it didn't seem quite as comical as it had all those years ago, back in Celtica, in the smiling company of Will and Horace. Now, it stared him in the face with a harrowing reality, and Gilan couldn't help but feel as though he was currently the victim of a practical joke gone too far – far enough to kill. It was such a pathetic way to die, really, committing suicide in the face of a practical joke gone terribly wrong. Halt would be disappointed, he thought. Gilan felt a pang of regret. It really shouldn't have to end like this.

Three. Two. He took another step towards the edge, causing a few pebbles to tumble down, tracing out the path that he would be taking in a few moments. His stomach clenched in on itself. He sensed the axman gaining quickly, and forced himself to imagine the sharpness of the rounded steel. He gulped and closed his eyes as he prepared himself for the last step. Well, at least it would be less messy this way. He lifted his foot –

"Gilan, don't!"

His eyes snapped back open in surprise at the voice, and turned just in time to see a blur of whirling blade to ram into the charging axman, knocking him off course. But the man recovered quickly, and while the swordsman, helpless to his own momentum, spun off to one side, the ax-wielder resumed his course. He lifted his weapon, now frighteningly close, but as he did so, something changed in his stance. It was awkward, now, and the axe slowly fell, almost floated from the man's grip as his body contorted unnaturally and jerked a bit before he tripped over his own feet and fell to the dust.

Beyond the three grey-shafted arrows that jutted out of the man's back, the archer lowered his longbow to look past his fallen target to the man beyond.

Stillness and silence took over. Gilan's ears were ringing, and he could taste bile rising in his throat. His vision began to swim with tears and dizziness. Suddenly, he wasn't quite sure if his legs could support him anymore.

"Oh, no you don't." A familiar voice said next to his ear. Horace grabbed Gilan's shoulder before he could fall and dragged him away from the cliff edge, to safety. Gilan could not but comply, his face still frozen in a picture of fear. It didn't take long for Will to make his way over. Gilan gaped at them both, his eyes still wide and unbelieving. Where had they come from? When did they get here? He glanced over at the cliff that he had been planning to jump off of. His throat closed up.

"Your bowstring's broken, you're up against a cliff, and an axman's coming at you." Will summarized. "Two knives won't do you much good. But two friends will." He said steadily. Gilan looked back at him, and Will's face, though covered in dust and blood from doing who knew what, was genuine.

He tried to say something – anything – of gratitude or relief or surprise or any one of the many emotions running through him at that moment, but Gilan quickly found that he'd lost control over his mouth. He stuttered and fumbled for a moment, but before he knew it, with tears of pure relief streaming down his face and with shaking, numb hands, he was bringing Will into a tight embrace, clinging on to the man with every ounce of gratitude and relief that he couldn't express with words.

Will wrapped his arms firmly around the other man's shoulders in a secure way, and the quivering in Gilan's muscles intensified as the realization hit home that he was safe; that it was all over.

Horace looked on with understanding. He knew that when delivered from a hopeless situation, even the most stone-faced warriors faced a tidal wave of debilitating emotions. First, the adrenaline crash that drained all energy and sent the body into fits of shivering. Then, the sickening, dizzying realization of just how close death had been. And finally, the overwhelming, tear-inducing wave of pure, utter relief that reduced the bravest men into mumbling, bumbling heaps. In Gilan's case, the reaction was made all the stronger by the fact that up to this point, the ranger had been under the impression that he was facing his last battle alone.

Horace remembered discussing the situation with Gilan and Will in Celtica some years back, and remembered that the only practical solution Gilan could come up with was to jump off the cliff. The knight glanced over at the cliff face that he'd just dragged his friend away from. It seemed that that plan had come to fruition in Gilan's mind. He and Will had arrived just in time.

Horace smiled grimly to himself as he looked back over at his two embracing friends. Bowstrings, knives, swords, and even geographical formations may forsake a man, but the loyalty of friends should never be underestimated.

"Next time," Horace told Gilan once the man was in a slightly more coherent state, "remember that we've always got your back." He winked at the ranger. "It might end up a bit less messy that way."

Tears still drying on his cheeks, Gilan couldn't help but laugh. Will joined in, and soon all three friends where laughing.

"Yes," Gilan said shakily, "Less messy indeed."

~fin~