[Even two steps from death, Trevor's contrariness threatens to rear its head. Adrian says: You can't move, and that rebellious little part of Trevor's mind replies: Make me. But it takes every last dreg of his strength to remain upright against the -- frankly soggy -- tree stump, and he can't quite find the breath to argue when the order's given.

So he stays quiet (for once), limp and useless and quite sure this damned forest is going to be his final resting place. And that's-- That's all right, he supposes. There are worse places he could imagine (Dracula's castle is the top of that list), and if nothing else, he's gone down fighting. Maybe he's made Adrian and Sypha's jobs just a tad easier, taking so many of the creatures out as his dying act.

Will they miss him? Probably be better off, but--]

Adrian... [His voice is small, breathless, but Adrian would hear it in the stillness of the clearing.] Thank you for coming. If I don't make it, don't blame yourself. Give Sypha my love. Get a dog and name it after me. Something big. Like one of those wolf-hounds.