The darkness covered his body.
It spread across his skin like a living thing flowing, consuming, becoming. He turned black completely, darker than the blackest night sky, a void given form, a shadow made flesh.
Gareth immediately went unconscious.
His body collapsed to the deck a pitch-black figure lying among the wreckage, his breath shallow, his heart barely beating. The blade Arondight pulsed beside him, its blood-red glow casting strange shadows across his form.
And then, within his own mind, he became conscious.
He opened his eyes within his own mental plane. The place was vast a world created by his mental and spiritual energy combined. In short, it was his true intent manifested into a world.
The sand beneath his feet was as red as blood. It stretched to every horizon, endless and still, reflecting a sky that had no color. The air was thick with the weight of centuries, the presence of everything he had ever been.
He sat on a rock carved into a throne.
It was not a simple stone it was crafted, shaped, honed by the force of his will. The throne rose from the blood-red sand like a mountain, its surface smooth, its edges sharp, its presence undeniable.
He wore a clean knight's armor.
Not the torn, bloodstained armor of Valhalla. Something purer. Something that had existed before the chaos, before the battle, before the darkness had claimed him. It gleamed in the colorless light of his mental plane.
He sat there for a moment, taking in the world around him.
Then he realized what had happened.
He got up from the rock seat the glamorous throne that had held him for so long. As he stood, it turned to dust, crumbling beneath his feet, scattering across the blood-red sand like a memory that had finally been released.
A dark smoke descended from the sky.
It came from nowhere condensing, forming, taking shape right in the centre of this world. It came together, being pulled into a centre point, and then it took the form of Lancelot.
Gareth, as he saw Lancelot, did not doubt if it was the real Lancelot that was in front of him. He knew this was the real Lancelot. He could sense the pure intent that poured out of him the essence of the man he had carried on his back, the presence of the knight he had fought beside.
No one could deceive a devil like Gareth. For the devil himself is a master of deception.
Gareth spoke.
"Lancelot." His voice was calm, steady, certain. "So you're here."
Lancelot smiled a thin, tired expression that held no warmth, but also no malice.
"Your cold as usual." He shook his head. "No emotion."
He paused.
"Well, let me cut to the chase." His voice hardened. "I have been enlightened."
He spread his arms.
"By malice. This entire world of Valhalla is filled with malice constantly producing it. And I serve as a vessel for it." He looked at Gareth. "I'm seeing all that is going on, but I can't help you directly from the world I'm in."
He paused.
"And that god..." His voice dropped. "...might not be able to help you."
Gareth's brow furrowed.
"That god?" He repeated. "Which god do you speak of?"
Lancelot met his eyes.
"I'm talking about the god of tactics and warfare." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Darlington."
He paused.
"He's a fallen god that helped me during the Romans assault."
He took a step closer.
"What I'm going to do is very simple, actually." He looked at Gareth at the darkness that covered his body, at the transformation that had taken place. "Once you're healed up by the power of the blade, I'll leave a large portion of my essence in you."
He paused.
"That way, the god should be able to communicate with you." He tilted his head. "It's a theory that I came to a conclusion while in that world."
Gareth was quiet for a moment.
His eyes still cold, still calculating studied Lancelot's form. He saw the weariness in his stance, the weight of whatever he had experienced.
"Lancelot." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "There is something going on, isn't there?"
He stepped closer.
"Which world are you in?"
Lancelot was silent for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"It is a realm darkest of all." His voice was barely a whisper. "Evil in this realm will be like a sweet thing."
He looked at Gareth.
"The reason I'm relieved..." He paused. "...is because I was able to break free for just a fraction of a second."
He smiled a thin, tired expression.
"But after this..." His voice dropped. "...I will return there."
Gareth opened his mouth to ask another question.
But Lancelot interrupted him.
"Also..." His voice hardened. "...be careful."
He met Gareth's eyes.
"Of him." He paused. "Even I still don't trust that god."
His voice dropped.
"Darlington."
in the space between the warning and the silence, between the mental plane and the realm that waited for Lancelot.
Gareth stood on the blood-red sand.
Lancelot's form began to fade.
And the darkness waited.