Thanks for that tidbit of information, Jack. Never would've guessed…

Okay, I'm making Jack predictable instead of that evil guy whose throat you want to rip out… It's just that I've got an old best friend name Jack, and it's already hard enough not to type "Watson" (his nickname) instead Jack, let alone make him uber-evil. Deal with it.

Oh, but I am doing something pretty evil with Jack. I can't take credit for anything I write, but this one especially: it's mostly a scene from the TV show Crusoe (and the TV show Merlin, which reminded me of this brilliant scenario I could use for fanfictions).

And forgive the muffled language spelled out, but I wanted to demonstrate that I learned something besides "never give up the location of the matches and pixy sticks to your two best friends while your mom isn't home, even if they've tied you up" when my best friends tied me up with my own scarf collection.

Yes, I'm done rambling now. I know you're waiting for me to hurry up and write this so I can pass it over to Willow Battlegale to become the high-demand slash version.

"How about you hurry up and kill us if you're going to?" I asked. Well, it came out as "How abow 'oo 'urry u' an' 'ill uth if urr goin' 'oo?" since I was gagged.

"Hurry up and kill you? Tempting, but I want you to remember how the world really works before you die."

That didn't sound good.

"'Tis you who needs to learn how the world works." Mike tried to say.

Apparently I speak gagged-Michael. That might come in handy again someday, as much as I hate to say it.

Jack ignored him. "Untie the lunatic and his keeper."

That really didn't sound good.

"Call me a lunatic if you will, but at least have to good graces not to call Fisk my keeper."

"Michael? Shut up." I said as I was guided rather forcefully out into the yard.

There was a ditch out there, a big pit that had been dug quite recently. I'd wondered about its use and it seemed I was about to find out.

"Put them in the ditch and then move the women out here. I want them to watch. But for the gods' sake, keep them gagged. The neighbours might hear."

This was a farm house—not the three-generations-working-in-the-fields-just-to-scrape-a-living kind of farmhouse—but the kind Michael was from. The nearest neighbours were out of the hearing range of a magica guard dog, let alone humans.

That didn't sound good at all.

Before I could use a few choice words, I was shoved into the ditch. Michael stumbled in too, but a foot from the ground his motion stopped. Thank the gods that Cecil wasn't out yet. He panicked and fell.

I hurried over to him and helped him up. "Are you alright, Michael?"

"No." He said. "Did… Did you see that?"

"See what? Come on, Noble Sir, we have three damsels in distress to rescue. What's the plan?"

"I was hoping you'd have one."

I sighed. "Think we can climb up?" I asked, looking up the steep dirt slope.

"You can't, not before we shoot you." Jack said. The guards had taken their posts around the ditch and had crossbows armed and waiting.

"So what's your plan?" I demanded. "Bury us alive? Kill us in our grave? What?"

"Nothing that unoriginal. It's quite simple, really. One of you comes out alive, one of you dies in the pit, and two swords go in with you. Nothing more or less than an easy choice. Oh, and if you commit suicide, I'll shoot the other myself."

As he spoke, one of the guards kicked two swords into the pit—the arena. We both processed that for a moment, staring at the swords and then at each other.

"So, if I want to live…" Michael began.

I nodded. "Yes."

"I have to…"

"Yes."

"No!"

"You should be the one to live. You can find an indebted con-artist to be your squire anywhere."

"'Twas a stroke of luck that I got a real squire like that. You're one of a kind."

"A knight doesn't need a squire, but a squire needs a knight."

"You could get another job."

"Like what?"

Michael grinned tautly. "Tailoring."

"I am not becoming a tailor. You can go back to that one town and be a bouncer again, or join Makejoye's troupe."

"I've lived longer, and I'm unredeemed. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"Cecil's right there, all tied up and ready to be dragged to your father. Work hard and maybe your brother will let you go when he takes over the estate."

Cecil squeaked in protest. I ignored her. She was still barely above Jack on my list.

"We'll never make a decision this way," Michael pointed out, "So why don't we draw straws?"

I shook my head. "Michael, think about that. Would you really kill me just because I picked the shorter straw?" I asked.

"No." He sighed.

"You could always fight it out. Fair's fair." Judith suggested.

How had she—never mind. She'd been tying herself up to practice getting out of knots since she was a child. Of course she was free of her gag.

"As long as you fight with your left hand, it'll be fair." I admitted. I had a plan. Of course, it involved me dying and Michael living, but that was the whole point. "Come on, Michael. It's just like a ballad. You're the wrongfully disliked hero and I'm the criminal."

"I heard why you started criminal behaviour from your sisters. You're no criminal and you never really were." He said quietly, handing me one of the swords.

If Michael believed I was fighting as hard as possible, this would work a lot better. So I moved first, before he'd readied his own sword, and swung the blade.

But he was a natural. I knew almost nothing about sword-fighting. He stopped the blow instantly, and I jumped back with an aching wrist for my troubles. A sidestep and another sweep that was met with a quick parry, and then I tried to lunge.

The edges of the swords' blades scraped, and soon the crosspieces were locked.

"My turn to be the hero, Noble Sir." I said, dropping my sword.

Michael had been putting pressure on it, instinctively trying to keep the blade away from him, and now that force drove the weapon at least an inch into my heart, maybe more.