"NO!"

More of the grasping dead pressed in, drawn by those not-quite-dead in their midst, drawn by whatever it was Daisy was doing to Fenris from this side. They surged forwards in greater numbers now, as if realizing their prey could not be brought down any other way. 

Semyon met them head on. He had to. There was no choice.

Grasping arms were batted away or broken by the Wight's own. Lunging forms were deflected, defeated, and cast into the waters whenever the opportunity raised its head. Snapping blocks, brutal limb breaks, and vicious throws proved able weapons, and he put them to tireless use against the horde. They pressed forwards, he pressed back, centuries of combat experience pitted against a mass of primal hunger.

And then Max was charging Daisy.

He caught it from the corner of his eye- and froze, for a moment stilled into fatal inaction. It was everything he feared, the possibility that he could very well be stranded here, that one of his [i]own comrades[/i], who he bore a duty to protect, would kill him. The dead creatures took advantage of the pause, bearing down on his form, locking him in place and driving him to kneel into the chilling waters, while Max drove closer to the Reaper.

His comrade had all-but betrayed him, his charge was in danger and it appeared the entire world of the dead was set on breaking him.

But Semyon had to keep standing. He [i]had[/i] to. There was no choice.

For ones like him, there was never a choice.

[i][["Dimitritch, our hero, failed. But we succeeded."]][/i] Semyon drove against the pressing mass, breaking free long enough to fall back, out of the water and fully upon his feet once more. Those legs rooted themselves to the ground, words flowing freely as he concentrated solely on defending himself with an upraised arm. His other arm, left to instinct, separated from the mind that would undoubtedly cause him to fail, raised itself as he fought and spoke, reaching out behind the embattled Wight.

[i][["His Sergeyevna was lost, but I have eternity to find mine."]][/i] A weighty snubnosed revolver pulled itself from beneath the cuff of Semyon's leg, held tightly in that forgotten arm as it centered on target. A short-cut sigh managed to escape his lips, the smallest flinch as he couldn't completely lock away what he was doing. What he [i]had[/i] to do.

[i][["I will not die here..."

"...I am sorry."]][/i]

With the dead still pressing him from the front. Semyon had no option but to aim the revolver to the center of Max's back, and drive the trigger home until the chambers spun empty.

(( [i][[ <- being spoken in Russian-> ]][/i] ))