It was a matter of survival, nothing else. There was nothing tragic or poetic about the way the sword pierced the man's body. There were no great minds present to witness the magnificent occurrence; no one there to write about the way the man fell to the earth, his life bleeding out through his wound. No one was there to hear the last words of the man as he begged for his wife, for his youngest child to hold just once more. No one was there except for Lancelot, the man who took the other one's life.
Arthur had warned of death when he had first reached his post. "Death is not all glory and songs, little warrior," he said wisely, clapping a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. The young knight had not heeded Arthur's words, though. He had heard all about death from the fairytale stories his mother used to tell him. She told him of the chivalrous deeds the knights had committed, killing those who were a danger to freedom. She had made death sound beautiful.
He had made it through the first battle without ever hurting another. His brotherhood had protected his life and his innocence. Lancelot had stood on the side, and watch his heroes kill those who opposed them. He was far off enough so that he did not have to hear the screams of the dying, the silence of the dead. It wasn't until the next fight when Lancelot had to finally draw sword against another living man.
There was little doubt of his skills, for Lancelot had already bested many seasoned knights in training spars. The battle was going quite well until a member of the other side clashed into Lancelot's path. Seeking the acclaim that he so greatly thirsted for, Lancelot accepted the challenge. He met the other's sword blow for blow, until he sensed the man's weakness. With several hard, quick strokes, Lancelot had embedded his sword in the hot flesh of the other man, piercing his abdomen.
The stories never told about the wails of the dying. They never told Lancelot how to pull his sword from the other's flesh. They never told him how to accept the cries and the pleas without shedding a tear, as he had seen his heroes do. Lancelot had had to stumble away, blinded by the ache that encased his mind. It was not until Arthur came up to him that he finally felt comfort.
"This first time you kill is always the worst, young Lancelot. With time you will learn to silence the grief in your mind, and go about your task with honor and ease. You did well today, boy. You have proven yourself to be a great knight. You have done nothing dishonorable. You have learned to survive." He wrapped an arm around the boy and shook him. "Swallow your sadness. Tomorrow is another day."
And so it was, and every like day after that.