They say when a man slowly descends into death, there will be nothing in his mind. It will simply be like infinite darkness with nothing to remember, nothing to feel, as one falls into the cold embrace of the end.
Everyone in Valhalla has felt death. Everyone in Valhalla has died.
But even that death the one they all experienced, the one that brought them to this eternal battlefield they could not explain how it felt. It was a mystery. A silence. A void that words could not touch.
As Bors died, it was not the same for him.
He felt a sense of fulfilment. As well as a rush of emotions a flood of images, memories, moments that had been buried beneath centuries of war.
A long-distance memory came to him.
It happened after his battle with Arthur at the waterfall.
The duel that had nearly killed them both the one that had restored the king's will, that had reforged Camelot's purpose, that had reminded everyone why Arthur Pendragon was worth following.
Bors stood in the courtyard of Camelot, his body still aching from the fight, his hands still trembling from the exertion. Around him, the castle was in chaos not from battle, but from celebration.
The queen was giving birth.
Arthur's wife Guinevere was in labor, and the entire kingdom held its breath. Servants rushed through the halls. Healers carried water and cloth and prayers. Knights stood in groups, whispering, hoping.
Bors did not join them.
He stood apart at the edge of the courtyard, near the stables, far from the noise. He did not feel worthy of the celebration. Did not feel worthy of the joy.
Then a cry.
Not of pain. Not of grief.
Of life.
A baby's first breath loud, piercing, beautiful. It cut through the chaos like a blade, and for a moment, everything stopped.
The servants froze.
The healers paused.
The knights turned.
And then the shouting.
"A boy! It's a boy!"
The celebration erupted. Laughter. Cheers. The clapping of hands and the clashing of cups. Bors stood at the edge of it all, a small smile on his face, but he did not move.
He did not believe he deserved to be part of this.
Time passed.
The sun rose and set. The celebration continued through the night, through the next day, through the week. Messengers were sent to every corner of Britain, bearing the news: Camelot has an heir.
And then the event came to him.
Bors was in his quarters a small room in the castle's western tower, sparse and unadorned. A sword on the wall. A bed in the corner. A window that looked out over the training grounds.
He heard the footsteps before he saw them.
Many footsteps. Heavy footsteps. The footsteps of knights in full armor, moving in formation.
His door opened.
Arthur stood in the doorway.
The king's hair was still wet fresh from a bath, perhaps, or from the tears that had fallen during the birth. His beard was untrimmed. His eyes were red.
But he was smiling.
Behind him stood the other knights Gawain, Kay, Bedivere, all of them. They filled the hallway, their armor gleaming, their faces bright.
And in Arthur's arms, wrapped in a blanket of white and gold, was the child.
Mordred.
Arthur stepped forward.
He did not speak. Did not explain. He simply held out his son offering him to Bors, trusting him with the most precious thing in all of Camelot.
Bors stared at the child.
The boy was smaller than he had expected. Fragile. His face was red and wrinkled, his eyes were closed, his tiny fists were curled.
He was perfect.
Bors's hands the hands that had held a sword for decades, that had killed more men than he could count trembled as he reached out. His fingers touched the blanket. Felt the warmth of the child beneath.
He took the boy.
Mordred stirred a small twitch, a sound somewhere between a breath and a cry. Then he settled, relaxing into Bors's arms as if he had always belonged there.
Bors looked at Arthur.
Arthur's smile widened.
"He is yours now," the king said quietly. "To guide. To teach. To protect."
The other knights nodded solemn, respectful, approving.
"Raise him well, Bors." Arthur's voice cracked. "Raise him to be better than us."
Bors looked down at the child at the boy who would one day destroy everything he loved and felt something open in his chest.
A title he could never have dreamed of.
Teacher.
The memory shifted.
Bors stood in the training yard the same place where he had first crossed swords with the boy, where he had kicked his leg and thrown him to the ground. Mordred was twelve now taller, stronger, his face already beginning to harden.
They held wooden swords.
"Again," Bors said.
Mordred charged.
His strikes were faster now. Sharper. More controlled than they had been when he was younger. He no longer attacked with wild rage but with calculated fury.
Bors blocked. Countered. Pressed.
The boy fell.
But he rose faster than before. Angrier than before. His eyes burned with the same fire that had always consumed him.
"Again," Bors said.
And Mordred attacked.
This was the bond between them the bond of teacher and student. Bors pushed the boy to his limits, and the boy pushed back. They learned from each other. Grew with each other.
And slowly, invisibly, something deeper formed.
The other knights began to notice.
They saw the way Mordred followed Bors through the castle not as a prince following a guardian, but as a student following a master. They saw the way Bors spoke of the boy not with duty, but with pride.
"The father of Mordred," they whispered.
Even though Mordred already had a father.
Even though Arthur was right there.
Bors heard the whispers. But he did not correct them. Because in his heart in the place where titles and duties and loyalties lived he was the boy's father.
Perhaps that was why he lost the battle.
In his final duel with the man Mordred had become, Bors still saw his student not an enemy. Not a traitor. Not the destroyer of Camelot.
Just the boy he had raised.
The boy he had loved.
There are many types of bonds in this world.
The bond between lovers. The bond between brothers. The bond between king and knight, parent and child, comrade and comrade.
But one of the greatest bonds one of the deepest is the bond between a teacher and a student.
This bond has its limits.
It is not infinite. It does not transcend all things. A teacher can only teach what they know. A student can only learn what they are ready to receive.
But within those limits, Bors went deeper.
He gave everything he had.
He held nothing back.
Until there was nothing left to give.
To him to Bors, the man who had grown without a father, who had made the battlefield his love, who had made death his companion this was truly a beautiful end.
He felt no regret.
He felt no pain.
He looked at Mordred at the man who had just killed him and saw only his student.
And even in death, like a true teacher would, he supported the ambitions of his rebel student.
No he was not a rebel.
He was a true student.
And Bors's end was as beautiful as the bringing of a new life into the world. As beautiful as the first time he had held the boy in his arms, in the courtyard of Camelot, with the king's smile and the knights' approval and the sun shining down on all of them.
This was an ending fit for a man like Bors.
The man once known as the ROUGH SWORD.
Mordred sat down.
He crossed his legs settling into the sand beside his master's body, his hands resting on his knees, his back straight, his eyes closed.
The Roman swords lay discarded nearby. His own black blade was still sheathed at his hip. He had not used it. Had not needed to.
This moment was not about weapons.
It was about respect.
He sat beside the man who had raised him the man who had taught him to hold a sword, to stand when he fell, to fight when everything seemed hopeless and began to pay his last respects.
The man he truly loved.
More than his own father.
More than anyone.
Sir Gareth stood afar.
His hands were still wrapped around the hilt of his sword the one he had pulled from the earth, the one he had used to anchor himself during the duel. The blade was free now.
Killing intent came from his body like a wave of forceful waters pressing outward, filling the air, crushing everything in its path. It was not directed at Mordred. Not yet.
It was simply... there.
A promise.
A warning.
A certainty.
Gareth did not attack. He waited. Waited for the student to finish paying his last respects to his master. Waited for the proper moment.
Because even in war even in Valhalla, where honor was a joke and death was cheap some things demanded respect.
He waited.
Gareth stood still.
Mordred sat still.
And the grey sky watched.