Adrian turned suddenly from his mourning at the side of his fallen friend and caught the attention of Anton and Viktor, both blessedly unharmed. Adrian roused himself into some semblance of action, knowing in his heart that sitting around wasn’t going to help anyone, nor answer any of his burning questions. He took a slow breath.

The tavern had grown more populous while he had been indisposed, he spotted Vasily and Tjasa with a cursory glance, though there were obviously more in the crowds, and some were even shaking themselves from their grief like Adrian and turning to help. Though fear for his mother and father still shook him, the young man forced himself to his feet and walked over to Anton, about to query as to Grigory’s health. The farm-hand was bleeding profusely from his wounded leg, slumped as white as virgin snow on one of the few standing chairs. 

Anton looked at him blankly, as if shock had finally seized him, and Viktor seemed to be obeying the commands of Chiudka and carefully moving those he could closer to the fire, while clearing space by forcing any offending tables to one side. The tavern was starting to look like a warzone.

“Chiudka.” Adrian said simply to get her attention from an obviously dying man. “Grigory is hurt, he’ll bleed to death.” He relayed the information clinically, as he knew his father would, he drew strength from it. 

Vasily was trying to coax Oskar into some semblance of sanity in the corner of the room, and more people were flooding the tavern. There was only so much that could be done, and with a painful shudder Adrian had to sit himself down on the floor, his back to an upturned table. He reached back and brushed a hand across his shoulder, turning away from the sudden pain with shock. He sat there with his hand in front of his face, watching the blood drip from his fingers.