"Again," the giant rasped, blood pouring down his face. "Again."
Gawain pushed himself up, shaking his head, trying to clear the ringing.
"Again," he agreed.
They moved toward each other.
One last time.
The smoke had cleared enough to see them now two figures in the center of a crater, surrounded by broken rock .They were no longer the polished warriors who had begun this fight. They were something else. Something reduced.
Gawain's armor hung in tatters. Blood matted his hair, his beard, his skin. His great sword trembled in his grip not from fear, but from exhaustion. The muscles in his arms screamed with every movement. His lungs burned with every breath.
Across from him, the giant was a ruin. One eye gone, the socket a dark, weeping hole. His chest wore Gawain's signature that X-shaped wound, deep enough to see bone. His leg barely held him, the sliced muscle refusing to cooperate. But he stood. He fought.
Their eyes met.
And in those eyes, only one thing remained.
Tired.
Both of them. Completely, utterly, finally tired.
Gawain's grip tightened on his great sword. He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to focus.
"Twelve strikes," he whispered to himself. "Full. Full."
He moved.
Not with the explosive speed of before. Not with the overwhelming power. This was something else something desperate. His body remembered what his muscles had forgotten.
One. His blade came down the giant's sword rose to meet it. CLANG!
Two. A thrust to the chest deflected at the last moment. CLANG!
Three. Low, toward the ruined leg blocked. CLANG!
Four. High, toward the neck blocked. CLANG!
Five. CLANG!
Six. CLANG!
Seven. CLANG!
Eight. CLANG!
Nine. CLANG!
Ten. CLANG!
Eleven. CLANG!
Twelve.
The final strike never landed.
Gawain's shoulder popped a sickening sound, loud in the sudden silence. His arm gave, the great sword slipping from fingers that had held it for centuries. The blade fell, point-first, and embedded itself in the ground.
Gawain stared at his empty hand. At the sword, just out of reach. At the giant, still standing, still alive.
"Hell no," he breathed.
His left hand moved. The mithril blade still there, still sharp stabbed into his own shoulder. Into the joint. Into the pain.
His eyes dilated. His body screamed. But his right hand closed on the great sword's hilt again.
He pulled it free.
The giant watched him do all of this. Watched him hurt himself to keep fighting. And in his remaining eye, something flickered. Not pity. Not fear. Respect.
His hand went to his quiver.
Twenty arrows left.
He pulled one out. Held it up so Gawain could see.
Gawain looked at the arrow. Looked at the giant's ruined face. And smiled.
The giant smiled back.
So this is how it feels, Gawain thought, and the thought was calm, peaceful almost. This feeling… it's stronger than anything I've ever felt.
He took a step forward. His legs shook. His vision blurred. But he moved.
Honestly, I feel like dying right now.
Another step. The giant nocked an arrow.
I can't even strike him right anymore. My body is finished. My strength is gone.
Another step. The giant drew.
But I'm happy.
Their eyes met again. And in that moment, Gawain remembered.
He was young. A boy still, barely a knight. Training in the courtyard of Camelot, his sword heavy in hands not yet calloused. An older knight Sir Ector, maybe, or Sir Kay stood nearby, watching.
"Gawain. Come here."
He'd gone, obedient. The older knight pointed to the training ground's edge, where a stranger sat. A big man, bearded, with wild eyes and a sword across his knees. A foreigner.
"Watch."
The foreigner rose. Challenged a passing knight Sir Bors, maybe, or Sir Bedivere. The knight accepted, amused. They fought.
It was beautiful.
The foreigner moved like water, like wind, like death. Every strike was poetry. Every block was prayer. He lost, in the end they all lost to Camelot's finest but as he lay dying on the training ground, his eyes found the sky and his lips smiled.
"The gods," he whispered, his voice carrying in the sudden silence, "shall grant me a bouquet of battle in Valhalla."
He was a Viking. Gawain learned that later. A raider, a killer, a warrior. And in his final moment, he hadn't mourned. Hadn't feared. Had only hoped.
The gods shall grant me a bouquet of battle in Valhalla.
The present.
Gawain blinked, and the memory faded.
My sword, he thought. I can't feel it.
He looked down at his hand. It still gripped the hilt. But the feeling the familiar weight, the hum of connection was gone.
I can't feel anything in my body anymore.
He looked at the giant. At the arrow nocked and drawn. At the eye that held his gaze.
Is that the same for you, my friend? His lips moved, but no sound came out. Can you still feel anything?
The giant released.
FWIP!
Gawain's body moved not by command, but by memory. His great sword came up. DING! The arrow deflected.
The giant already had another nocked.
FWIP! DING!
FWIP! DING!
FWIP! DING!
They fell into rhythm. Arrow after arrow, block after block. No thought. No strategy. Just this. Just the dance.
A warrior does not talk on the battlefield, Gawain thought, and the thought was joy. Instead, they have something much greater than words. Something even greater than sex itself.
He laughed a breathless, bloody sound.
Refreshing. Satisfying. Beautiful.
Across from him, the giant's thoughts moved along the same path.
All my life, he thought, I trained for battle. I was loyal to Caesar. Even in death, I was loyal to Caesar. Another arrow. Another block. But I can't remember… what did it feel like? Dying?
He watched Gawain move that ruined, broken, beautiful movement.
Is this what I'm feeling now? He released another arrow. No. It's greater than that. Much greater. More exciting.
He thought of his life. The battles. The victories. The endless, meaningless service.
There was no meaning in my life. Even in Valhalla, there was no meaning. Just fighting. Just serving. Just existing.
He looked at Gawain at the knight who had carved his chest open, who had taken his eye, who had given as good as he got.
Perhaps this is what brings meaning. Perhaps this is something I can cherish.
They clashed again arrow against blade, will against will, soul against soul.
Above them, Darlington watched.
He saw two brutes beating each other to death. Saw two warriors too stubborn to fall. Saw a fight that, in the grand scheme of Valhalla, meant nothing.
But beside him, Lancelot stirred.
His eyes those calm, calculating eyes that had tracked every spark, every movement, every breath began to widen.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"No," he whispered.
Darlington looked at him, confused.
"No no no no no no NO."
Lancelot's entire body went cold. His skin paled. His breath stopped.
He was looking at Gawain.
At the smile on Gawain's face.
At the way Gawain's eyes found his found him, hidden in the shadows and softened.
Gawain smiled at him.
Not the grin of battle. Not the joy of combat. Something else. Something final.
Goodbye, old friend.
Lancelot's tears overflowed.
"This isn't" His voice cracked. Broke. "This isn't how I saw it. This isn't how I planned it!"
His hands gripped the rocks in front of him, knuckles white, nails tearing.
"You were just supposed to defend! Just until I recovered! Just until " A sob tore from his throat. "We were supposed to be victorious!"
Below, the battle continued.
Gawain blocked another arrow. Then another. Then another. His movements grew slower, sloppier, more desperate. But he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
The giant's quiver emptied.
Twenty arrows. All fired. All blocked.
They stood there, facing each other across the crater. No weapons left the giant's bow empty, Gawain's sword barely held. Just two men. Two warriors. Two friends, in a way that only those who have tried to kill each other can understand.
Gawain's legs buckled.
He fell to his knees.
The giant swayed.
And then slowly, peacefully, perfectly they both stopped.
Gawain knelt in the center of the crater, his great sword point down in the ground, holding him upright. His head was bowed. His eyes were closed. But on his face that ruined, bloody, beautiful face was a smile.
The giant stood across from him, feet planted, back straight. His remaining eye was open, fixed on Gawain. And on his face that terrible, ruined face was the same smile.
They looked like two friends who had just shared a joke. Two brothers who had finished a conversation. Two men who had found exactly what they were looking for.
They stood there, dying while standing, smiles reflecting each other.
And then they were still.
Darlington looked at them. At the smiles. At the peace. At the beauty of it.
And for the first time since the park since the pops since the white void he understood.
Two friends.
He looked at their faces, frozen in joy.
Hyacinth.
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Hyacinth is truly dead.
He had known it. Of course he had known it. He had watched it happen. But knowing and knowing were different things. Knowing was facts. Knowing was data. Knowing was what was happening now in his chest, in his heart, in the place where Hyacinth used to live.
He's gone. Really gone. Not coming back.
He looked at the smiling warriors below.
Just like them.
Beside him, Lancelot fell.
His knees hit the ground. His hands covered his face. And from his throat came a sound that was not quite human a keening, a wailing, a scream of everything he couldn't hold inside anymore.
Gawain's body was covered in arrows. Dozens of them. The ones he'd blocked, the ones he'd taken in the final exchange. They stuck out from his armor, his flesh, his everything.
But he was smiling.
And Lancelot was broken.
It wasn't just sadness. It was everything. Rage at the Romans, at Caesar, at the gods who made this place. Powerlessness the horrible, crushing weight of being unable to save anyone, to protect anything. Happiness for Gawain because that smile, that beautiful smile, meant he had found what he was looking for. Loneliness because Gawain was gone, and Lancelot was still here, still alone.
He was lost.
Completely, utterly, finally lost.
The chapter ended there in the space between the smiling dead and the weeping living, between the peace of warriors and the agony of those left behind.
Darlington looked at Lancelot, and for a moment just a moment he saw himself.
Then he looked away.
There was work to do.