As Gareth and Lamorak ran forward, they began to see the close silhouette of Galahad and the rest. A larger smile appeared on Gareth's face not the thin, tired expression he had worn throughout the battle, but something wider, something warmer, something that had not touched his features in a very long time.
This was a very great excitement to him.
In his mind, he said, Yeah.
He repeated it, as if the word itself could hold the weight of everything he felt. Yeah. Yeah, they are alive.
Even Gareth the devil, the man who had pulled a dagger from his own forehead, who had been strangled and stabbed and broken felt a sense of relief in his heart. Seeing the silhouette brought peace to him. It was proof that not everything had been lost. Proof that Camelot still had life in it.
On the other end, Galahad and the rest were all resting.
Leodegrance sat near a boulder his body still broken, his arms still severed, his eyes still haunted by everything he had seen. Beside him, on a flat stretch of rock, lay Lancelot and Sir Kay.
Sir Kay had now regained consciousness.
His eyes were open bloodshot, tired, aware. His body was far too weakened to even get himself involved in a fight. He could not stand. Could not hold a sword. Could not do anything except lie there as his body slowly recovered.
He rose his gaze up into the grey sky.
"This is bad." His voice was a dry croak. "Really bad."
He looked at his hands at the hands that had spun the dragon spiral, that had protected Lancelot's unconscious body, that had pushed themselves beyond the limits of human endurance.
"I'm weak." The words tasted like ash. "How are we supposed to conquer this place... if I'm this weak?"
His fingers twitched trying to clench, trying to grip, trying to remember what strength felt like.
"I'm not even strong enough to stand by my king."
He closed his eyes.
"Is it because I put so much faith into my strength?" He opened them. "Or is it because my opponent was too strong?"
He gripped his fist tightly struggling to even maintain a correct and strong grip. His knuckles went white. His tendons strained. But the grip was weak. Pathetic. A shadow of what it had been.
Is my opponent's strength really an excuse? The thought circled in his mind like a vulture. This is Valhalla. A world of endless battles.
His jaw tightened.
What if the opponent next time was far stronger than this one was?
He looked at his hands again.
My little strength... would not even matter.
There was a hole building up within his heart.
A doubt. A distrust of the strength he possessed. He no longer saw that strength as his peak. Instead, it was minute. Too small to survive in this world.
When a warrior is confronted with this type of challenge, their mind will collapse. This is the beginning of their death.
But this was not just his death.
Truly, this marked the beginning of the death of Sir Kay.
But with death...
Brings a new beginning.
And he was not the only one who felt it.
From Sir Galahad to Sir Tristan to Sir Percival they all felt it.
The need for strength.
They all wanted new strengths. Because with what they had, it felt empty to them. They felt lacking. Severely.
And the worst was the knight Galahad.
For Galahad, it was not that he wanted great power to stand by his king. He had that great power. He had always had it.
But he lacked the ability to use it.
He whispered to himself, silently, his voice barely a breath.
"The Death Sword."
He touched the hilt of the Sword of David the blade that had cut through space, that had killed General Titus, that had brought him to the edge of death and back.
"The sword style that he has..." He shook his head. "The greatest sword style to ever exist."
He looked at his hands at the hands that had wielded that power, that had become death itself for a single, terrible moment.
"This that I could only learn because of my king." His voice cracked. "This was the true power that I needed. This was the power that will help me destroy the people who are against Camelot."
He paused.
"But this power..." His voice dropped. "...is death itself. In the form of a sword."
He held his face together his palms pressing against his temples, his forehead, his eyes.
"How can I control death?" The question was a prayer, a plea, a cry into the void. "How can I make the power of death mine... without falling into its arms?"
The holy mind of Sir Galahad had now been stained. Like a white canvas, a black paint had been dropped upon it spreading, seeping, changing everything it touched.
As he pondered on it, Tristan remained calm.
Not a single thought crossed his mind. He was still and at peace almost as if it was an acceptance of fate. His eyes were closed. His breathing was steady. His body was still.
He had fought. Had bled. Had watched his comrades fall. And now, in this moment of rest, he simply... was.
No yearning.
No doubt.
No fear.
Just peace.
And there was Percival.
He sat in the sand, his legs crossed, his eyes still bleeding, still strained staring at nothing. His spear lay across his knees, its blade gleaming in the grey light.
He yearned for greater power.
What he had was not enough. It had never been enough. His eyes his precious, damaged eyes had carried him through battle after battle. But there was a limit. There was always a limit.
If he pushed his ability forward, it would result in blindness.
Permanent. Absolute. Final.
He touched his eyes feeling the warmth of the blood that still trickled from them, feeling the strain of muscles that had been pushed too far, too hard, too long.
What do I do? The question circled in his mind. How do I become stronger... without losing myself?
As he sat there, he saw two people approaching them.
His eyes still sharp, still working caught the movement. Two silhouettes, running toward their position, their forms blurred by the distance but familiar.
He immediately alerted the rest.
"Galahad." His voice was sharp, urgent. "Tristan."
The knights stirred.
Leodegrance rose slowly, painfully, his stumps pressing against the boulder for support. Galahad's hand closed around the Sword of David. Tristan's eyes opened calm, ready, aware.
Even Sir Kay who could not control his body, who could barely move forced himself to sit up, his eyes scanning the horizon.
They were on guard.
Then they heard a familiar voice.
Gareth pulled up, his face breaking into a grin.
"I'm happy you guys are alive."
Behind him stood Lamorak a warm smile on his face, his silver blade Storm Cutter humming softly at his side.
Galahad saw this.
And he dropped his sword.
The Sword of David clattered against the ground unheeded, unnoticed, unimportant. He stepped forward his body trembling, his eyes wet, his heart pounding.
Him. Percival. Tristan. Leodegrance. Sir Kay.
All of them felt a warmth in their hearts.
It was a sense of relief. The feeling amongst them was like that of a family that had been separated for a long time, finally converging together. No words were needed. No explanations. Just the simple, profound knowledge that they were not alone.
They were together.
Then Lamorak's face changed.
The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by something sharper. Something urgent.
"Incoming." His voice was low, tense. "I can feel it. The winds."
He looked at the others.
"Kiroto is coming here."
As he finished his statement
From above, she landed.
Her body dropped from the sky silent, graceful, terrible landing about the length of a long rope from where they stood. Her head was bowed. Her shoulders were slumped. Her entire posture radiated defeat.
Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"Please..."
Tears dropped from her eyes.
"Please, help me."
The knights stood together.
And the woman who served Mordred wept.