Tristan stood among the bodies and smiled.
Five more Romans lay dead at his feet their necks broken, their skulls cracked, their lives ended by shield and sword and bare hands. The pile of corpses around him had grown into a small mountain, a testament to the battle that had raged for what felt like hours.
Twenty-three remained.
They circled him warily, their weapons raised, their eyes wide with something they had never expected to feel in Valhalla.
Fear.
Tristan held his ground shield in one hand, long sword in the other and planted his feet like a man about to rage into war. His body screamed at him. His muscles had been pushed far beyond their limits, beyond what flesh should be able to endure. But his will remained unbroken.
He opened his mouth.
And he shouted.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It was not any normal cry on the battlefield. This was something else entirely. His throat used every bit of energy it had left every ounce of strength, every spark of life, every piece of his soul. The sound tore from him like a living thing, raw and primal and victorious.
It was a cry of victory.
A cry that dominates its opponents.
The sound washed over the remaining Roman soldiers like a wave, and something inside them broke. The fear that had been growing in their hearts the quiet terror that had been building since they first saw this man fight began to boil.
Like water placed in a clay pot on fire, it heated and heated and heated until it could no longer be contained.
Their hands shook.
Their weapons wavered.
Their legs gave.
There was no trump card left for them. No strategy. No reinforcements. No hope.
The battle had been won.
Not just a victory domination.
Above them, Darlington watched with something like reverence in his eyes.
"If he was alive," Darlington murmured, "and he performed such a feat, his name would have spread throughout history. He would have been a god to people who hear of him."
He watched Tristan stand among the corpses, still screaming, still dominating.
"Perhaps that is why he is in Valhalla."
Darlington's analytical mind began to dissect what he was seeing.
"Such raw, domineering will. Even when there is little to no chance of winning the battle, he pushes on. He puts the enemy in a state of despair." Darlington shook his head in wonder. "He is no miracle general. Instead, this is what you call a man of war."
But even as he admired Tristan's victory, a note of worry crept into his thoughts.
Even though he has gained dominating fear over them, Darlington thought, his body, when you look at it, tells a different story.
He studied Tristan's form the way his arms trembled slightly, the way his chest heaved with each breath, the way his legs barely held him upright.
His muscles have been pushed to their absolute limit. If he truly goes in and they don't resist, there might be a chance for him to kill them all. But...
His eyes narrowed.
A man who is facing fear will definitely show resistance. Especially when they know the consequence of that fear is death.
Darlington covered his mouth with his hand, a gesture of deep thought.
The human primary will is to survive. Humans will do anything necessary to survive and live on. This is their primary nature. Even when it feels like there's nothing left for them in this world anymore.
He looked at the twenty-three soldiers terrified, yes, but still alive. Still breathing. Still capable of fighting back if pushed.
I wonder which it will be.
A smile crept across his face.
This is truly interesting. The human heart is unpredictable. I wonder what might happen.
He laughed softly.
It's giving me real goosebumps, ya know.
Below, Tristan moved.
His long sword flew from his hand not thrown wildly, but aimed with the precision of a hunter. It spun through the air and stabbed into the neck of a soldier who had been edging toward the rear, thinking of escape.
The man gurgled once and fell.
Tristan rushed forward, closing the distance in seconds. He pulled the sword from the dying man's throat and spun in the same motion, bringing the shield up.
CRACK!
The shield's sharp edge split another soldier's skull open like a melon. Brain and bone and blood sprayed across Tristan's face, but he didn't flinch. Didn't stop. Didn't hesitate.
An elbow came from the side a soldier trying to flank him, trying to use his distraction against him. Tristan's elbow met it with brutal force.
CRUNCH!
Bones broke. The soldier screamed and fell back, his arm hanging at a wrong angle.
Then movement below.
A soldier had dropped to the ground, crawling under Tristan's guard, reaching for his legs with desperate, grasping hands. He wanted to pull him down. To trap him.
Tristan looked down and smiled.
He grabbed the soldier by the neck one hand, fingers finding throat—and jumped.
Not away. Not over. Up.
He rose into the air, the soldier dangling from his grip like a doll, and then he came down.
WHAM!
He landed with full force all his weight, all his momentum, all his intent driving the soldier into the ground. The man's neck snapped with a sound like breaking wood. His body went limp instantly.
Tristan stood over him, breathing hard, and smiled.
Then
SWOOSH!
A blade passed by his face.
Inches. Barely inches. It cut a small strand of his hair just a few threads, floating down to the ground like dark feathers.
Tristan's eyes widened.
He had dodged purely on instinct, on reflexes honed by centuries of battle. If he had been a heartbeat slower, that blade would have taken his head.
He turned to face his attacker.
A soldier stood there one of the twenty-three, but different from the others. His hands still shook. His eyes still held fear. But beneath that fear, something else burned.
Survival.
He had attacked. Despite the terror. Despite the odds. Despite everything.
He had chosen to fight.
Above them, Darlington burst into laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"
He slapped his knee an invisible gesture, meaningless in his formless state, but satisfying.
"What did I say?!" He laughed harder, tears streaming down his face. "It's wonderful to be right! WONDERFUL!"
He watched the soldier the one who had dared to attack, who had chosen survival over submission and felt something like pride.
"What a wonderful creature we humans are! Even in the face of uncertainty, death, and despair, we can still never give up on staying alive!" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Hanging on to this little thread we call life!"
He laughed again, the sound echoing across the battlefield though no one could hear it.
"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"
Tristan raised his sword to strike the soldier down to end the threat, to continue his bloody work, to survive.
Then he heard it.
A voice. Clear and strong and familiar.
"WE, THE KNIGHTS OF CAMELOT, HAVE ARRIVED!"
Tristan's head snapped up.
A figure descended from above dropping from the sky like a meteor, like a judgment, like salvation. He landed on one of the Roman soldiers with devastating force, his weight crushing the man into the ground.
Sir Galahad.
The purest knight of the Round Table straightened, his sword in one hand, his lance and shield strapped to his back. His armor was incomplete worn deliberately that way for freedom of movement, for speed, for dominance. He moved like water, like wind, like grace.
"We have arrived, Tristan." Galahad's voice was calm, certain, absolute. "There is no need to fear anymore."
Tristan stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly he smiled.
Fear? He hadn't felt fear. Not once. Not ever.
But relief?
That was something else entirely.
Another figure emerged from the smoke and dust Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, his face hard and his eyes harder. He walked toward Tristan holding something in each hand.
He tossed them to the ground.
Three heads. Roman soldiers. Their eyes still wide with the shock of death.
Kay looked at the remaining Romans the ones still standing, still shaking, still alive and smiled a smile that held no warmth.
"Tristan," he said simply. "You've had your fun. Leave some for us."
Tristan looked at his fellow knights. At the reinforcements that had finally arrived. At the tide of battle that had just turned completely.
He laughed a genuine laugh, tired and relieved and joyful.
"Gladly," he said.
And above them all, Darlington watched and laughed and learned.
The human heart was unpredictable.
And that was beautiful.