Well as usual I have waited until nearly the last possible moment to respond to the Gang of Five Prompt Challenge. There are still several crack fic ideas that I will probably complete at a later date, but with my inspiration in the crack fic idea waning I decided to instead pursue the first prompt that involved a character death. What follows is a departure from my usual style - an experiment with writing in the first-person perspective. I understand if the result is not everyone's cup of tea, and to be honest I was surprised by the resulting brutality of the words when I was writing in this perspective, but I am pleased with how the experiment turned out. Sometimes when inspiration is lacking, the best thing to do is to step outside one's comfort zone. As always, I look forward to your reviews and critiques. (:

A response to the second April/May Gang of Five Prompt: "Write a story in which one of the Gang of Five or an OC is killed, and the rest of the gang must deal with the loss."

Three Friends

"You hang in there, Chomper! You're… you're going to be okay!"

The oddest part about dying was that it doesn't upset me at all. Not really. Years of trying to maintain control… years of finding just enough fish and snapping shells to keep healthy… years of becoming the predator that I had to be… and now several terrifying moments of being out of control…

It's a relief really. A lifelong burden I will no longer have to carry. A small perk of being dead.

The longneck's desperate face hangs over me now, eclipsing the Bright Circle behind him which seems to beckon to me. Heh… maybe Petrie was right about the Bright Circle nonsense after all. I would tell him if I could speak right now.

Urgh… blood doesn't taste as good when it is your own.

"Please don't go…"

The longneck's face is beginning to distort now as the light gets brighter. A distant, yet silent roar seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. I suppose that my parents are calling me home. At least we avenged them before I… before I nearly threw it all away. My friend's face, gashed with fresh flowing blood, represents my last folly.

And his. He should have fled once he saw my crazed look. When he saw that I was no longer reachable by reason. But as my friend's forlorn hope had created this encounter it was only right that he be the one to finally kill it. The predator that I am, I must respect that.

I struggle to stare at my friend as sensation begins to leave my body and my heart begins to beats erratically. Soon I will merely be cold meat for the sharpteeth of the ravine. A territory that used to be my own. A territory that I will never leave.

Well, I did owe Thud a meal for his help with Redclaw. Though Littlefoot will not permit me to be that meal. Littlefoot will know what to do.

I force myself to smile in a gesture that only my friends would recognize as friendly. That only they would recognize as a silent apology and farewell.

Goodbye, my friend.

I don't need to see his face to know his fate or to hear the words of the distant longneck. As soon as I hear Littlefoot's cries and the hoarse gasping of another dinosaur, I know instantly what had happened. A threehorn's intuition is a horrifying thing sometimes.

But that didn't make this any easier.

I begin running past my friend, a process that takes much longer than it once did when we were younger. Back when all we had to worry about were the occasional adventures outside of the valley and trying to undo the mistakes of the adults. Back when the valley could be accepting of everyone. Back before the Time of Great Growing.

But those times were long since past.

After what seems like an eternity I finally arrive at my friend's side. Struggling to lift my head so that I can finally see a good look at his face and elongated neck, I finally get to observe the damage. A deep gash runs along his right eye, somehow missing the orb in the process, but leaving a deep and gushing wound. Despite the horror of the scene I can't help but think that Littlefoot would soon have the same scar as his childhood hero, Doc.

I hesitate to look away as I know what lay at the longneck's feet. But eventually I force myself to do so. I owe it to my friends, both the living one… and the dead.

Loose purple skin hangs over the lifeless corpse in a scene reminiscent of an insect molting its skin. Only the now-twitching muscles prevent the purple sharptooth from looking like a walking skeleton, temporarily giving him the appearance of life as the body convulses in the spasms of death. Despite the unsettled and agitated body, the eyes, now cold and lifeless, seem to have an odd peace and tranquility to them. And the sharptooth's teeth…

I have to look away. Only Chomper would try to smile in his final moments. Only Chomper would try to be the friendly sharptooth one last time for the sake of his lifelong friend.

Damn you, Chomper! You just couldn't stay hunger crazed, could you? If he had killed a vicious sharptooth he could live with that, but I don't know if he can live with killing his friend.

I look at Littlefoot again. Ultimately, it was his fault. No one finds hope in the face of certain despair like he does. He always tries to find a solution or middle ground, no matter the problem. Time and time again through his words and actions he would lead himself and others into the face of doubt only to snatch victory from its hungry jaws.

But not today.

Chomper leaving the valley was something that ultimately had to happen, but Littlefoot just had to check on him. He just had to find a solution one last time despite even nature itself being against him. Now one of my friends was injured and one lay dead. The only consolation that I had was that at least Chomper did not have to die alone.

"We need to get you to a healer, Littlefoot," I assert quietly in the hopes of rousing his attention to the matter at hand. When in times of crisis it is best to focus on action and not to dwell on what cannot be changed.

But such is threehorn logic. Hearing no response from Littlefoot, I nudge his massive front leg. "We need to get you fixed up, Littlefoot. That's a nasty wound."

The longneck's eyes appear to be glazed over as if he had gone to the same place that Chomper now was. It took a few moments before anything audible could be heard from the longneck.

"He's dead."

Ultimately I have to admit that I have no idea how to react to that. I cannot truly accept what has happened because once I do then I know I will lose it as well. It was hard enough telling Chomper that it was time to leave two seasons ago and forcing myself to think of him as "dead" so that I could do what was necessary if I ever encountered him again… but Littlefoot had just done what was necessary and I know that he had never considered his friend "dead" in his eyes. Littlefoot was too honest for any self-deception besides his usual overabundance of hope. He knew full well that he had just killed his friend, and no amount of wordplay on my part would free him from the mental torment he would impose on himself. Even five Cold Times of banishment would be a lesser punishment.

No one pushes like Littlefoot. No one tries harder to lean on the impossible until it finally gives way. Well, today reality refused to yield. And I fear that it might break my friend.

Chomper was dead.

I force myself to swallow despite my dry throat. It is a hint of the emotional turmoil that is to come. But I have to maintain my composure for now. Someone has to be the pragmatic one.

And I hate that duty no more than I do today.

"If I had just stayed in the valley… if I had just…" the longneck shook his head in regret, "…none of this would have happened, would it?"

"No," I answer. Sometimes a hard truth is a greater mercy than an easy lie, but that doesn't make me feel like any less of a jerk for saying it.

I don't have to look at Littlefoot to know how he is reacting, but I do anyway. The neck begins to shake, the tail begins to sag, and the eyes begin to shimmer with the mistiness of tears. I don't have to look at my reflection to know that I look no better.

So much for holding it together.

"At least… at least he is free now," I choke out, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, "He died with one of his friends. He didn't go alone."

A stifled sob greets my ears as Littlefoot tries to regain his composure. He is no stranger to death or tragedy, but that doesn't make it any easier. Hesitant, and for once unsure of myself, I continue.

"He got to see his friends grow up… He got to see Ruby start a family… He got to be a hero for the…"

"But he is not here anymore, is he?!"

The silence that follows is deafening. Littlefoot seldom yells, always being the one in control. Despite how much I hate to admit it he was often the one keeping calm when I gave into emotion when I was younger. That was why he was the leader.

The crying, when it comes, is not unexpected.

I allow him his time to mourn as I lean against his leg, for a moment allowing my own tears to be shed. Ultimately Littlefoot has learned what Chomper learned two seasons ago; a person cannot hide from their fate. They can hide from it and be buried under its weight, face it head-on and be crushed, or run away from it to be taken from behind. Littlefoot, in the end, faced Chomper's fate with the composure of one who denied it until the last possible moment.

"He… we talked about this the last time we met, you know?"

I look up at my friend with a confused expression. I assume that Chomper and him did not have a chat about trying to kill one another.

"He said that times were getting rougher and that I should stay away." He sighs as he recalled the memory. A sigh that is bittersweet, but that conveys some genuine peace. "But he knew that I wouldn't let him deal with this alone. I think… I think he knew how this would end."

What in the heck is that longneck talking about? "Littlefoot?"

"I saw the way that he was dragging his tail. The slight tremor in his arms. I asked him if he had eaten any of the Old Ones that have the mind-disease, but he didn't answer my question." His eyes gleam as he looks down at me, contemplation replacing the usual disgust that would color conversation of Chomper's diet. "I don't think he knew what he was doing until I hit him."

I freeze as the information forces itself through my thick threehorn skull. The mind-sickness that comes with old age. Chomper's obvious eating habits. His preference for eating those who would not have a chance anyway so that the young would have a chance… did… did the damn longneck come out here to put Chomper out of his misery?

"If I had known for sure then I would have told you."

I glare at him. At his frustratingly high-in-the-sky neck that made him literally have to talk down to everyone. At the lack of concern for his own safety. But most of all for his damn willingness to put honor before reason.

Yes, we threehorns are capable of irony.

I force myself to look down once more at the fallen form of our friend. The purple sharptooth that would never again rise. He would now be food for the insects and worms, returning to the bottom of the circle of life what he took from its top. But his memories would remain in his friends and his stories would remain for generations to come. A final legacy to the friendly sharptooth.

"You did the right thing," I mutter as now the longneck's actions at least make much more sense, "But you're an idiot for doing this alone. You could have at least told us."

"And then have all of you risk everything as well? Just for a hunch? I asked every healer for a possible solution and heard nothing. I couldn't risk all of you." Littlefoot tilts his head in the irritating way that he does.

I nod indignantly. "It's what we do."

He simply smiles a sad smile. "I know. That is why I chose to be an idiot about this."

I can only "hmrph" in response as I look away, but I have no venom in my recoil. As much as I hate to admit it the longneck is mostly right. He is wrong about one thing though. He still should have told me.

Silence reigns for several moments as we both look down at our friend and contemplate the loss in our own way. It was no longer a death imposed in my mind, but rather a death hastened. And, in those final moments as Chomper closed in, Littlefoot had decided if he could not save his friend's life then at least he could save his dignity. The final smile was a sign that Chomper understood.

Ultimately though, I know that I will have to be the one to get the longneck moving. Chomper would not want us to dwell on his ending, but on his overall story. And to tell that story we would have to eventually continue the story of our own.

And a certain longneck would need to get his wound treated.

Without a word I begin to run my feet into the hard earth. At first it does not give to my advances, but as soon as I begin to make some headway the soil turns soft and pliable. Littlefoot, only now understanding what I am doing, begins to do the same. We cannot risk the head sickness to spread to some other sharptooth. As Chomper taught us long ago, they are dinosaurs just the same as us. They live, they eat, they mate, and they die. And, for a lucky few, they live on in their tales.

Our feet tap down on the last of the displaced dirt, finishing the entombment of the friendly sharptooth. Consigning him to the fertile ground where life would again arise in the Wet Season.

Goodbye, my friend.