Copyright infringement not intended.
Warnings: Hinted character death.
A/N: The knights' perspective of when their king dies (either Uther back in his golden days or Arthur in the future).
: You May Have Won the Battle:
And if I fall here
At least you know, my dear,
That I would die for you
Promise you won't ever feel a thing.
: it'sbettertoburnoutthanfadeaway :
For all intents and purposes, it is indeed over.
No one fights anymore. Weapons are thrown haphazardly or clutched in clammy hands, bodies still trembling and pumping adrenaline as if it were blood.
The wounded sit silently, an air of disbelief and mourning hovering just above them. No one talks, for they have no idea what to say.
They won the battle.
Their opponents are dead, never to bother them again. They won!
Shouldn't they be happy? Over joyed? Estatic?
Why aren't they?
Why do they sit so solemnly, looking as if they had lost all they held dear? Why do they not meet each other's eyes, fixing conflicted eyes on the blood-slickened, trampled turf? Why do some of the weaker men weep quietly, their shoulders shaking as their bodies are wracked with sobs, while their stronger comrades remain tough and resilliant - yet broken?
It is a testament to their understanding and undying loyalty that they do not jump to their feet when a man emerges from the tent they are all sitting about, not brandishing swords that are dyed a rusty red.
His eyes are bloodshot and face a little too red, his jaw working and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows fiercely. He does not look at one man for too long, as if he fears that he will break if he does not do something.
`He-ยด
He does not get a chance to finish the sentence, unsaid words weighing his conscious and tongue and soul. A broad-shouldered man that is nearly twice his height throws his sword with a strength many do not have after such a battle, his eyes wide and watery and so broken it hurts for the others to look at him. He shouts something unintelligible, more likely just a noise than actual words.
The newcomer does not need to speak now, the broad man's shout and sudden action was all the answer they needed. The confirmation. The truth.
The newcomer does not linger long - which is all very good, seeing as he is not a fighter - and retreats back into the tent without another word, but with an expression his face that could melt the hardest of hearts and reduce the strongest man to tears. The silence that accompanies his departure is not a welcomed one.
Now, it does not matter if one is the mightiest warrior - all are crying. Yet, there is still no sound. Tears stream down strong, masculine faces silently.
They do not move for what feels like months but is probably a few hours at the most and when they do, their limbs are stiff and sore and they feel like they have been to Hell and back.
They take down the tent, not bothered at the newcomer's disappearance when none saw him leave, and gather their weapons. They do this without talking, without thinking. Every awkward and stiff movement is mechanical, automatic.
They are on auto-pilot, the shock, grief and pain numbing them to everything but their physical injuries and surroundings.
They mount the remaining horses and prepare for the lengthy journey to their castle, to the place that was once their home but is now not (home is where the heart is, is it not?). Their home is dead.
They won the battle.
But, they have most certainly lost the war.
: But You've Lost the War :
Hope you've enjoyed. (:
Revieww, please!
Until next time,
I'm Just Another One.