Mordred looked up to the sky.
He had just finished gagging Lamorak the cloth tight around the knight's mouth, his hands still bound behind his back, his body pinned to the sand. The traitor's son stood over him for a moment, catching his breath, letting the weight of the battle settle on his shoulders.
He used his hand to wipe the sweat off his face.
Then he pulled out his sword.
The black blade came free from its sheath curved at the tip, forged from metal that had never seen the sun, gleaming in the grey light. He stretched it out before him, pointing it at the sky, at the nothing that watched them all.
There's something I want to confirm, he thought. By myself.
He looked at Gareth at the man who should have been dead, who should have stopped moving, who should have accepted his end.
"You're a really dangerous warrior." His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "Even during the time we were all alive."
He lowered his sword.
"What did they call you?"
He tilted his head.
"The devil amongst angels." A pause. "A man who is undying. Who will never stop even if death is in his face. The man who was said to have one of the greatest potentials out of all the knights."
He smiled.
"But he accepted his place."
His eyes narrowed.
"He did not want to hold destiny in his hands. He did not want to climb higher." His voice dropped. "Just like the devil who lived in hell..."
He looked at Gareth at the knight who stood before him, broken and bleeding and somehow still alive.
"...he chose to dwell in hell."
Behind him, Gareth moved.
The man who Mordred had taught to be dead the man whose neck had been crushed, whose fingers had been severed, whose head had been stabbed with a dagger stood up.
His body rose from the sand slowly, painfully, impossibly. His hand reached up and pulled the dagger from his forehead.
SCHLIK.
The blade came free.
Blood poured from the wound rushing down his face, covering his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It dripped from his chin, his jaw, his neck.
His eyes were pure red.
Not from blood. From rage.
He stood there, looking at Mordred.
Mordred turned around.
"Wow." His voice was light, almost cheerful. "This is really something, you know?"
He studied Gareth's form the way he stood, the way he bled, the way he refused to fall.
"I didn't expect you to be alive." He shrugged. "I mean, it's not like that. I truly expected you to put up a fight." A pause. "And without fail, you did just that."
He sighed.
"It was boring. Like a story that has nothing to offer." His eyes lit up. "But with your look now..." He smiled. "You look like you have a good story to tell."
He raised his sword.
"Is this your last story for me?" His voice was almost eager. "Shall I receive it... with my blade?"
Gareth coughed.
Blood thick, dark, congealed sprayed from his mouth, spattering across the sand. He stared deep into Mordred into the eyes of the man who had killed his friend, who had strangled him, who had stabbed him in the head.
Mordred felt something coming toward him.
Not a blade. Not a projectile. Not anything physical. Something deeper. Something that crawled into his chest and squeezed.
It felt like a killing attack.
If I do not move, he thought, his body already reacting, I will die.
His instincts screamed.
He turned his body spinning, his sword rising, his guard snapping into place to block an attack that was already coming.
He raised his blade.
And saw
Sir Gareth.
Still standing far away from him.
His sword was not raised. His body had not moved. He stood exactly where he had been bloody, broken, but still.
Mordred's face froze.
"What's this?" His voice was barely a whisper. "But he just attacked me. Right now." His brow furrowed. "I felt the hit. Everything was real."
He turned his head slowly, carefully and scanned the battlefield around him.
Nothing.
No enemy. No attacker. No source of the killing intent that had nearly made him defend himself.
Then a sound.
A small squeak.
Mordred's head snapped toward the noise.
Lamorak.
The bound knight lay on the floor, his body twisted, his face distorted behind the gag. He was trying to speak trying to make a sound trying to communicate something.
But it was not the sound itself that caught Mordred's attention.
It was the expression.
It was hard to put together his face was mangled by the gag, by the teeth he had broken, by the blood that still poured from his mouth. But the shape of his features, the angle of his lips, the light in his eyes...
It was clear what that expression was.
A smile.
To Mordred's intelligence, to his understanding of human emotion, that smile said one thing.
Fuck you.
Gareth spoke.
His voice was calm steady, despite the blood, despite the hole in his head, despite the impossibility of his continued existence.
"You're still as soft as ever." His eyes pure red, burning fixed on Mordred's face. "Underestimating your opponent."
He took a step forward.
"It's dangerous. Especially against me."
Lamorak's thoughts raced.
Inside his mind behind the gag, behind the pain, behind the blood that filled his mouth he laughed.
What a fool, he thought. Guess he never saw this version of Gareth.
His eyes tear-filled, bloodshot, strained watched the scene before him.
The devil.
The man who brought fear into the hearts of his fellow knights.
The devil is more than what one sees. He schemes. He plots.
He felt something like hope stir in his chest.
You cannot win against the devil.
Mordred was shocked.
His mind that brilliant, calculating engine that had served him through centuries of battle struggled to process what was happening. He put his first leg forward, his muscles coiling, his body preparing to blitz toward Gareth's position.
He wanted to attack.
To end this.
To kill the man who refused to die.
He blitz forward his body shooting across the sand, his sword raised, his eyes fixed on his target.
He got closer.
And closer.
And closer.
And then he felt it.
Wrong.
Something was wrong.
He could make the attack. Could kill him here. His blade was already moving, already descending, already aimed at Gareth's heart.
But why?
Why am I hesitating?
Why?
He looked at himself.
Since the time he had put the gag on Lamorak since the moment he had turned away from the bound knight and faced Gareth Mordred had not taken a single step from where he stood.
His legs had not moved.
His body had not moved.
He was exactly where he had been.
Exactly.
It was such a bizarre experience.
Above them, Darlington watched.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was open. His mind that brilliant, overclocked engine was racing.
"Wow." His voice was barely a whisper. "Nice."
He pointed at Sir Gareth.
"Honestly? Not gonna lie I like this."
His finger trembled with excitement.
"Yes. You." He pointed more firmly. "You need to kill that bastard of a son."
He paused.
"Or even if you don't survive..." His eyes narrowed. "The strongest must survive. To aid Lancelot. To be of aid to me."
He shook his head in wonder.
"I can't believe something like this can be used in a place like this."
He broke into laughter.
"HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!"
The sound echoed across the battlefield, heard by no one but himself.
Gareth stood still.
Mordred stood still.
And the grey sky watched.