Sir Galahad sat on the sand, his body still vibrating from the force of his return to life. His hands shook. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. But he was alive. And beside him, General Titus's blood continued to pool across the battlefield, dark and endless, a testament to the impossible wound that had finally brought him down.
Tristan and Percival rushed to him.
Tristan reached him first. His hand slapped against Galahad's back not hard, but firm, the kind of hit that said you scared us, you bastard.
"That was close, you know." Tristan's voice was rough, but there was warmth beneath it. "You almost had us there. We thought you were dead."
Sir Galahad looked at his hands still shaking, still trembling and managed a small smile.
"Well." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "On a day like this... being dead is not the craziest thing that can be offered."
Percival's eyes still bleeding, still strained moved to General Titus's corpse. The body lay in two halves, separated by a cut that had no edge, no explanation. The blood continued to pour, defying the limits of biology, of reason.
"So it's over?" Percival's voice was quiet, almost uncertain. "Right now?"
He looked at Galahad.
"We won the war. And the battle."
Galahad nodded slowly, deliberately. His affirmation was not triumphant. It was tired.
"Yes." His voice was soft. "We've won it."
He looked at the bodies around them at Sir Kay, collapsed and unconscious; at Lancelot, still bleeding, still still; at the fallen knights who would never rise again.
"And we didn't need to sacrifice our king to do so."
Tristan's jaw tightened.
"This is what a king's men should be all about." Galahad's voice grew stronger. "Let us carry our king for once. Just as he has always carried us."
They looked at each other Tristan, Percival, Galahad. Three knights who had survived. Three knights who had fought. Three knights who had lost brothers, friends, pieces of themselves.
And then they laughed.
Not a small laugh. Not a quiet chuckle. A big laugh loud and raucous and uncontrolled. It burst from them like water from a broken dam, like life from a dying man.
The laughter did not originate from any form of joy or happiness.
It came from a heart filled with pain.
The loss of their comrades one after another, after another. The weight of every death. The screams that still echoed in their ears. The faces of the fallen that would haunt them forever.
The laughter arose from their desire for peace.
For even in the afterlife in Valhalla, the great hall of heroes, the reward for a warrior's death peace was merely a lie. Promised to all of them. Delivered to none.
They laughed because they were still alive.
And that was the most terrible joke of all.
Sir Leodegrance regained consciousness.
His eye just one, the other still swollen shut, still bleeding cracked open. The world was blurry, a swirl of grey and red and shapes he could not identify.
He could not speak. His throat was dry, his tongue was swollen, his jaw was locked. The pain throughout his body was a roar a constant, overwhelming presence that refused to let him forget.
But he could see.
He saw them Tristan, Percival, Galahad. Standing together. Laughing together. Their bodies were broken. Their faces were hollow. But they were alive.
He could not help but join their celebration.
In his mind in the only place that still worked he envisioned himself standing with them. His hands his missing hands were there. His body his whole body was there. He stood among his comrades, laughing, celebrating, believing that the battle was over.
It was no moment of happiness.
It was a moment of true sadness.
Because in that vision, his hands were still attached. In that vision, his brothers were still alive. In that vision, the battlefield was empty of the dead.
His eye blinked.
Once. Twice. Three times.
And then a memory.
Arthur's son.
The thought hit him like a blade between the ribs. Mordred. The traitor. The kidnapper. Sir Tor had been taken dragged from the battlefield, carried toward the second front, toward the golden light where Arthur still fought.
Leodegrance's body shook.
Not from cold. Not from pain. From fear.
They don't know, he thought, his mind racing. They don't know about Mordred. They don't know about Tor. They think the battle is over but it's NOT.
He tried to speak. His mouth opened but only a rasp emerged. A dry, useless sound that could not form words.
His body was paralysed.
The wounds Titus had given him the chest stomp, the severed hands, the crushing force that had broken his spine had left him still. His open eye was the only part of him that worked.
He blinked.
Over and over.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
A desperate signal. A warning that no one could see.
Please, he thought, please look at me. Please understand. Something is wrong. Something is STILL wrong.
He forced himself to move.
Even if it was just his finger. Even if it was just a twitch. Something needed to move. He needed to express himself somehow, someway.
His hand the stump where his hand used to be twitched.
The movement was tiny. Almost imperceptible.
But it was something.
Tristan did not see it.
His attention was on Galahad, on the victory, on the question that had been burning in his mind since the moment Titus fell.
"Yeah, by the way." His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "What was that you used at the end?"
He gestured at Titus's body at the impossible wound, at the blood that still poured, at the invincible soldier who had finally been killed.
"Because this guy he's taken a lot of attacks. And none of us were able to kill him." Tristan's brow furrowed. "Though everything we threw at him was lethal... it was like throwing rocks into a bottomless pond."
He looked at Galahad.
"But you took him down."
Percival leaned forward, his bleeding eyes curious. This was the nature of human beings curiosity. Even in the midst of victory, even surrounded by the bodies of the fallen, they needed to understand.
"How did you do it?" Percival's voice was quiet. "How did you kill him?"
Sir Galahad shook.
His body was still vibrating not from the cold, not from fear, but from the memory of what he had become. The Death Sword was not something that could be used without cost. He had been dead. Truly dead. And returning from that state had left something behind.
He took a breath.
"I took..."
His voice cracked.
"I took him down using..."
Galahad's lips moved.
But no sound came out.
The weight of what he had done the impossibility of it pressed down on him like a physical force.
And somewhere across the battlefield, Leodegrance's eye blinked.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
A warning that no one heard