The shlick of a sword. The groan of pain. The dull thump of a body.
The cry of loss echoes in the air.
The druid turns, his sword dripping with crimson, royal blood. He meets wild blue eyes with angry grey.
A flash of gold and he is on the floor, heaving for breath.
He can hear choked sobs, heart wrenching and terrible. Muttered pleas, desperate and bereft.
But hope is gone. Heart has failed.
As he struggles to his knees, a shadow blots the light.
Calm grey meets stricken blue. Terrible and avenging. Mad and lost.
A pale shaking hand is raised, and the druid knows.
He waits.
The fist is clenched. The eyes flash gold. The air is ripped away.
The rasp of strangled breath. The passing of life. The traitor dies.
Only the harsh breaths of loss, alone of a field of blood are left.