Khalad sat, the desert wind tugging at him, ruffling his hair, but he was still. The whole world – apart from the wind – had frozen as he watched Berit's eyes slip closed. There was nothing else in existence worthy of note apart from the struggling breaths of his friend, his pale face, the horrendous wound from which Khalad was trying to stop the flow of blood.
"Please" He whispered as Berit's breathing slowed and then stopped. "Please." He didn't shout, he didn't scream, he didn't beg: there was no one listening. He just sat with hands still pressed against Berit's stomach as he watched life leave.
It didn't feel real, this couldn't be happening. How had they allowed this to happen? Even in a line of work as dangerous as that of a Church Knight, and with the death of his father a few years before, he still felt as if this couldn't happen to him.
Not to him and not to Berit. One of the few noblemen who didn't look down on the son of a squire. One of the few that wasn't so full of his own self importance that he couldn't admit when he was wrong. He took his duties seriously, would never break his word and Khalad was always filled with confidence when Berit had his back. They had come to compliment each other: they worked well as a pair – Khalad's practicality and Berit's education getting them out of a tight spot on more than one occasion.
Now gone. Emptiness clutched at his heart as the sun beat down on his back. He couldn't look away from his friend, somehow hoping this was just a pause, that another breath would follow soon. He didn't know how long he sat there waiting, empty, still, when there was a commotion amongst the surrounding horsemen.
"Let me through" a gruff voice yelled, and a familiar broken-nosed face skidded to a stop at his side. By which ever magical means Sparhawk had most of the journey the last two hundred feet or so must have been at a sprint by the look of his red face.
"How bad is it?" He asked of Khalad "Damn that's a lot of blood. Talk me through what you need from me Khalad. Khalad?"
Khalad looked his lord in the eye and dredged up the courage to say it, to make his nightmare a solid reality.
"You're too late" he was surprised at the control in his voice. He expected more emotion when he announced the death of his best friend. "He's gone."
It was only then that Sparhawk seemed to take a real look at their brother-in-arms lying still in front of them.
"No" gasped Sparhawk, disbelief plain on his face.
"I …. I couldn't stop the bleeding." Khalad admitted, guilt flaring in him.
"No" Sparhawk said again shocked. "No" This time the word was different – defiant. "No, I refuse to lose a brother today."
Sparhawk put one hand on his fallen friend, the other to the pouch on his belt that Khalad knew held the Bhelliom. "You'd better get back, I'm not sure how this is going to go."
Khalad at last moved his hand from where he had been futilely applying pressure to the wound, unsure what Sparhawk was going to do. Berit was dead. He sat back on his heels and returned to waiting as Sparhawk's eyes became unfocused as he... did whatever he did when he silently communed with the Bhelliom. All was still again, just the wind gusting between the two men and their departed friend.