Sir Bors turned to Sir Gareth. His voice was quiet, almost gentle, carrying a weight that had nothing to do with the battle around them.
"For this battle," he said, "I want you to do this friend of yours a favour."
Sir Gareth's jaw tightened.
He understood what Bors was asking. What he was implying. What he was sacrificing. Without a word, he stabbed his sword into the earth the blade sinking deep, embedding itself in the blood-soaked sand. His hands clenched around the hilt, gripping it so hard that his palms tore, that blood dripped between his fingers, that his knuckles went white.
"You idiot," he said.
The word was not an insult. It was an acknowledgement. A grief. A goodbye.
Bors smiled.
"Then, as an idiot that doesn't understand..." He met Gareth's eyes. "Grant this wish, will you?"
Gareth said nothing. Just nodded.
Bors turned to face Mordred.
They ran at each other.
Bors and Mordred. Teacher and student. Uncle and nephew. This was now a true duel a duel that would decide everything for Bors, and for Mordred. Not the outcome of the war. Not the fate of Camelot. Something deeper.
This was a way of cutting his emotions once and for all.
The reason why the way of the sword exists, Bors thought, his feet pounding against the sand, his blade raised, his eyes fixed on the young man rushing toward him. Isn't purely for battle.
The way of the sword is a way of understanding.
It is a way of reaching enlightenment.
And a way of passing emotions from one to another.
By clashing your blade with another, it is nearly as intimate as having sex. His grip tightened on his sword. Hence why I was able to understand our king.
Truly speaking... I never crossed swords with you on the battlefield. Only as your teacher.
He watched Mordred's form the way he held his two Roman blades, the way his feet planted, the way his body moved. It was different from before. Calmer. More controlled.
I want to understand you, Mordred. I need to understand why.
CLANG!
Their blades crashed together.
Mordred attacked from above both swords descending like striking serpents, their edges gleaming, their paths intertwined. Bors blocked from underneath his single blade meeting both of his opponent's, the force of the impact shaking his arms, rattling his bones.
He held.
Then he pushed.
His body dropped low, low, lower pressing against the ground, using the sand to balance his form. His blade extended forward, stabbing toward Mordred's exposed torso.
Mordred backflipped.
His body spun through the air graceful, controlled, impossible for a man of his size. He landed lightly, already moving, already attacking.
A slash from the left his Roman sword cutting across Bors's guard.
A stab from the right his other blade thrusting toward Bors's heart.
Bors blocked the left with his sword CLANG! and caught the right with his bare hand.
SHLIK!
The blade cut his palm a shallow wound, nothing more. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the sand.
He's relearning everything, Bors thought, his eyes fixed on Mordred's form. The basics of swordsmanship. He studied the young man's movements the way his feet grounded into the earth, the way his hips generated power, the way his blades extended from his core.
He's no longer doing close-range combat. He's no longer using his high-level sword technique or his natural talent for fighting.
A smile crossed his face.
So this is the man you have become, Mordred. You have become... still. Like water.
He blocked another strike, countered, pressed forward.
You have changed. His brow furrowed. Can death change this? No. After everything we have seen in life and in death... everyone remains the same.
He looked at Mordred's face at the calm stillness there, at the absence of the rage that had once consumed him.
So why have you changed?
Mordred fell back.
His feet scraped across the sand, creating distance, creating space. His left hand opened, releasing one of the Roman swords. The blade clattered to the ground, useless now, forgotten.
His right hand raised the remaining sword holding it straight in front of him, his arm extended, his grip firm.
"From your words, Master." His voice was calm. Controlled. Certain.
He looked at Bors.
"The first rule of swordsmanship is balance." His feet shifted, settling into a stance Bors recognized. "One must use the ground. And conduct the force from it."
Bors's eyes widened.
"Try and block this."
Mordred directed a great amount of killing intent toward Bors.
Not the wild, chaotic killing intent of before. Not the overwhelming force that had frozen lesser men. Something refined. Something focused. Something terrible.
It flowed from him like water, like light, like nothing.
Bors raised his blade to block the attack.
And then he felt it.
The killing intent was not just an emotion. Not just a pressure. It was a condensation not of the sword, but of infinity. As if Mordred had poured everything he was, everything he had learned, everything he had become into a single strike.
An attack that embodied everything was coming toward him.
This attack...
This attack spells the word DEATH.
Bors looked at the incoming blade at the certainty of his own demise and smiled.
He did not smile in the face of death.
Contrary to what the stories said, contrary to what poets wrote, Bors did not find joy in his ending. He smiled for many reasons.
He smiled in regret of his death. For all the things he would never do. All the battles he would never fight. All the moments he would never share with his comrades again.
He smiled because he was proud. Proud that his student the boy they had called the stupid genius had finally learned his lesson. Had finally understood.
And he smiled as a swordsman. For he had the chance the rare, precious chance to face an attack like this.
His lips moved.
"So this..."
The sword crossed the distance between them.
"...is the true sword."
SHLIK!
The blade passed through him.
Not through his guard his guard had failed. Not through his armor his armor had split. Through him. Through his chest, through his heart, through his life.
His blood came out like water from a rock pushing with great force, spraying across the sand, painting the grey ground red.
He fell.
His body crumpled to the earth, his sword still held in his arm, his hand still gripping the hilt. He landed on his side, facing the grey sky, his eyes still open.
A smile remained on his face.
Not a joyful death. Not a painful death.
Death was simply death.
And Sir Bors teacher, uncle, knight of the Round Table was gone.
Sir Gareth stood frozen.
His hands were still wrapped around the hilt of his sword the one he had stabbed into the earth, the one he had used to anchor himself, to keep from intervening.
He had watched everything.
The duel. The final strike. The death.
"Bors," he whispered.
The name hung in the air like a prayer.
But no answer came.
Mordred stood over Bors's body, his sword still raised, his face unreadable.
And Gareth he bore great hate and anger in his heart