Note: Thank you for your reviews. Wonderful author Pilyarquitect, my beautiful Filosofie, Lonely Wolf, and Talvec with the fellow-guest. It means more than you know.

"Lift… that's it… careful. Easy does it, you may be strong, but you can still get burned if you don't watch out!"

Under the druid's watchful eye, Obelix emptied the giant cauldron of magic potion into two massive wooden barrels, then hammered them shut. Getafix poured the healing elixir into a large gourd. "Here we go."

Obelix lifted the barrel into a two-wheeled cart that had been used for hay, and donned the yoke. As he climbed into the cart alongside the druid and the actress, Caius Insidius was shocked to feel himself catching residual wisps of pained thought from Obelix. Only good for being an ox to pull a cart… Hardly human at all… He winced. How could he have done this to another human being? And then another wave of pain. Asterix.

He blinked. The druid Getafix was speaking to him. "…coming with us?"

Caius set his jaw. "It will be shown to me how to make amends," he said firmly, "and I'm doing it."

Settled in the bed of the cart, the druid said to the tiny dog, "Point, Dogmatix." The dog pointed like a toy bloodhound, the druid said, "Go towards the east, Obelix," and they were on their way.

"What?"

"The Gauls have escaped!"

"What?" The centurion jerked up from his sleeping-pallet. "Does the Inspector-General know?"

"No, sir, we thought it was only proper to have you tell him…"

"Get out of my sight!" Callus flung the covers aside. "That's just what I need. He'll have my guts for garters." He dressed, thinking furiously. He could order the legionaries out now, in the night, to search for the Gauls, but that meant they would have to risk the wolves and bandits and other creatures in these Jupiter-forsaken forests. Or he could wait till morning, but if the Inspector-General heard that he had waited, he'd—

"CALLUS! WHAT'S THIS I HEAR ABOUT THE PRISONERS ESCAPING?"

The centurion passed a hand over his face. "Oh, great."

It was funny. Asterix wasn't feeling that much pain anymore.

He was dimly aware that they were escaping through the forest. There was jostling, and movement. Someone was carrying him. By the faint smell of stale fish, it was probably Unhygienix.

Escaping. Good. Good…

The day had been an absolute blur. He hadn't even slept, so in a way it felt like one impossibly long day. Ever since the insane morning with the fires – Toutatis, had it only been today? It felt like years – and then the Romans, and then getting those idiots get the better of him… Only now was he regaining the ability to think. With poignant clarity, he could tell he wasn't going to live much longer. It made him sad to think about it.

Things were fading in and out. He closed his eyes, but jerked awake. He wasn't sure when each time awake would be his last.

He tried to collect himself, taking a breath that tore at his insides. Bringing the pain back made him feel alive. Yes, he might die in the next few hours, but he'd remain who he was till the end. And if he died giving his friends a chance to save themselves… well, at least then he'd have fulfilled his purpose.

But he didn't want to die. Grief filled him at the thought of leaving this world. Life was sweet: the air, the sunshine, the trees. The village, the clear, sharp mornings.

His friends.

Such sadness surged up through Asterix that his pain returned, and he groaned. "Asterix?" The voice was the chief's. "Are we hurting you?"

"N… no," Asterix managed to say. He could tell he was bleeding. "Is…" The maybe-Unhygienix carrying him slowed, and Vitalstatistix leaned closer. He supposed his voice must be pretty low. "Is the blood leaving a trail?" He had to gasp for breath. "You don't want to be found." It hurt his chest to say it, but he must. "It might be wiser to leave me behind. They'll be looking." He hated the thought, but after all, he would die soon, he could feel it, and leaving a trail of blood was just plain stupid. Also, leaving behind an already dying man was prudent in the circumstances.

Dying. He was dying.

It suddenly struck him with unexpected force that this time, he wasn't going to see Obelix come back after getting over a fight, or a love affair. There would be no tearful apologies, no reconciliation. He had seen Obelix in the village for the last time. And they hadn't even said a proper goodbye.

On his way to Rome thanks to our plans. Asterix would never know the details of those plans now. Poor old Obelix. Time to cut ties. It was cold comfort to Asterix to know that it had all been a ruse: if Obelix ever found out, he would be crushed. Dear gods, his tenderhearted friend finding out he had caused Asterix's death? It would destroy him.

Asterix was shifted in maybe-Unhygienix's arms. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. Something was wrapped around him. In a moment, he felt warmer, less as though his life was leaching away into the cold of the night. "Wh…" he whispered.

"We all donated clothing. So don't worry about, erm, leaving a trail." Vitalstatistix sounded as if he hated what he was saying. "And I'm sure you could do with a bit of warm."

"Yes… thanks, O Chief…" Asterix breathed.

The warmth surrounded him like a cocoon. The pain was drifting away. He relaxed back into the arms holding him. He was so warm and comfortable, it was almost like being with his best friend—

He reached for the pain, found it. It gave him strength. "O Ch—" he choked.

"Save your breath."

Asterix realized it was Unhygienix carrying him – it was his gruff voice that had issued the injunction. He thought of thanking him, but couldn't manage to find the words. "O Chief. Tell—tell Obelix… if you see him…"

Vitalstatistix was close now, judging by his voice. "Asterix, don't…"

But Asterix couldn't not say this. These past few spaces of wakefulness, he'd never been quite sure if this was when he was going to be awake for the last time. "Please give my best to Getafix. And as for Obelix…" He had to get this said. "Tell him… don't blame yourself. Not… his fault."

Vitalstatistix opened his mouth to say something, but Asterix was unconscious again.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. This was no time to break down. Asterix had always been a beacon of inspiration to the villagers. Now that he was unable, it was time for Vitalstatistix to take over his role, to provide them with that spark.

But he couldn't. The best he could do was rearrange the marching order to try to hide the sight from the children.

"FALL IN! NOW!"

"But Inspector-General, sir, it's dark…"

"The Roman Army, afraid of the dark?! Don't darken my door, or you'll be in my black books sure enough!"

The legionaries lined up, the centurion bellowing at them. "Form a loose phalanx and get out there and find them! Or you'll all find yourselves—IN THE CIRCUS WITH THE LIONS!"

The legionaries moved out.

Asterix was fading.

Vitalstatistix didn't know how long he would last. They could all see it, could see the life leaving him. The last few times he woke up, he seemed unable to even breathe properly. But he'd been out cold for quite a while now.

They walked on, afraid to make a sound. Even the children understood how bad it was, and kept quiet. There were no complaints, no-one saying they were hungry. Everyone was trying their best for Asterix's sacrifice not to be for nothing.

Latraviata was clinging to the railing of the small cart with all her might. Obelix was running through the trees faster than some of the horse-drawn carriages she'd been in. The druid was holding the barrels in place with superhuman strength, preventing them from bouncing off the wooden bed. The little dog was yapping.

"We're close," Caesar's shaman muttered. His face was screwed up, as if he was in pain.

They were climbing an incline. As they rose, the trees thinned out, and they crested a small hill. There was a grassy plain, and a view for miles around.

And Gauls. A cluster of forlorn villagers, shambling forward, clinging to hope when they clearly had none left.

The cart screeched to a halt. Latraviata was thrown to the floor of the cart, nearly cracking her head open on the front railing. Around her was what she could only describe as hushed pandemonium. Excited little cries and whispers filled the night air, soft and urgent.

She picked herself up and looked over the lip of the cart, not quite wanting to step out. She could see over the heads of most of the Gauls, thanks to the high construction of the conveyance. The chief embraced the druid, who was hugging him back. Everyone was clustering around Getafix, the village milling about like the flow of water, every face wreathed in smiles of welcome and relief.

Two figures broke through the crowd, each bearing a person. One of them was the big blacksmith, crouched over their bard, whose tunic was stained with blood. The other was a big fellow she wasn't familiar with, carrying—

"Asterix!"