Long Live the King

By Soar318

Large, black crows flew over a snowy battlefield, surprisingly clear of any blood. In the distance, tall flags, full and clear, rose over the snowy ground, while among them raged a fire. Here, a single pool of ruby blood gradually thickened.

The source lay within the puddle of vital liquid: a blue knight, dressed in shining gold armor stained by his own blood. This armor was the same one that the knight of the wind had wore when he had battled a friend: the Dark Queen; known as Merlina.

But at that time the knight had won. He had defeated the twisted queen and made her see that the things she wanted were as twisted as her transformed self. He had forgiven her, and became the king of Camelot, (no) thanks to his sword, Caliburn.

But all that was in the past, far before this battle. The knight knew that around him lay the bloodied swords of the Knights of the Round Table, he knew that the flag of Camelot was tattered and torn, he knew that his armor had a large, open hole right over the heart, and that blood was pouring out. He knew that this was his final hour.

But Sonic the Hedgehog also knew that next to him, supporting him so that his head did not lay in the freezing snow, is Sir Lancelot, knight of the lake, the most loyal of all his knights, the one he knew would fight to death for him without a single moment of hesitation or doubt.

And it was Sir Lancelot who still held aloft the flag of Camelot: torn, ripped, but still proudly waving in the chilly, snow-filled wind.

King Sonic sighed, his mind gradually being swallowed up by a world of black, and thought about all the friends he had left behind, and all the adventures he had. The Death Egg, Metal Sonic, the Biolizard, Perfect Chaos, and Dark Gaia were just a few enemies he had faced off against and won. But not this time.

He closed his eyes, his breath becoming more and more shallower, his head laying on the armored shadow of Lancelot, and silently thanked that at least one loyal knight stands, who will carry on the spirit of Camelot.

And the spirit of himself…

Sir Lancelot felt his leader's body sag in his arms, as his last breath was carried away by the icy wind. He bowed his head, and whispered in a voice that seemed to carry to another world, to the ears of a not-so-small two-tailed fox that was currently repairing a sleek, modern jet plane:

"The king is dead. Long live the king…"

End

I just had to make a story for Saku66's "Deceased's Lyric Poem". Best picture ever!