Chapter 4:
The Numeral of the Saint
The clash had been continuing unrelentlessly for three grueling hours so far. On the first pass, with their lances lowered and their hearts ablaze, the two knights had struck each other which such monstrous force that each had had broken the other steed's spine. Wordlessly, the two had dismounted from their now deceased companions and drew their swords.
Lancelot's swordsmanship was unparalleled, every knight knew this undeniable truth either by gossip or firsthand experience. At first Lancelot thought his superior skill and technique would be more than enough to overcome Gawain's immense strength, as it had in all his past tournament battles. However, something was different about his opponent.
As the sun gradually rose across the morning sky, Lancelot was shocked to notice Gawain's strength steadily grow. Rather than draining his opponent's fortitude, each well placed slash and blow to his body would instead be returned with an even stronger parry or counterattack.
Gawain seldom tapped into this latent ability of his. Though it was a miracle he contrived from the blessing of the priest who baptized him, he considered it an unfair advantage in an honorable bout. But there was no honor in this fight, only the burning flames of vengeance. The sun was now directly overhead, shining upon the field where the two were embroiled in their duel. Feeling both his vitality and tenacity boil, Gawain prepared himself for an onslaught. His sword Galatine felt lighter and warmer in his hand, and he watched as the edges grew sharper.
Leaping forward with a swift downward stroke, Gawain struck Lancelot's pauldron before he could lift Arondight to parry and ran Galatine down through his breastplate. It was the first effective injury Lancelot had received in years.
He quickly recovered and prepared himself to receive the next strike. Gawain immediately followed up with a horizontal slash from the opposite direction. Lancelot saw how telegraphed Gawain's movement was and positioned himself to bind his opponent's blade. Lancelot met Galatine from below and attempted to divert the momentum to the upper-outside line. This would have positioned Arondight above Gawain's guard for a clear strike to his collar, however Lancelot found he was unable to lift Galatine even an inch, despite having a favorable fulcrum. His armor dented and cracked from the impact and Lancelot winced and withdrew.
Within the small amount of time allotted by breaking distance, Lancelot switched his strategy to a purely defensive style. Arondight was a holy sword as well and had the ability to receive limitless blows without damage, and this fight quickly became one of the few occasions where that quality was imperative. Lancelot reflected, diverted, and avoided each strike Gawain made for the next three hours until he noticed his inhuman strength fully wane.
In this instant Lancelot immediately resumed the offensive, catching Gawain off-guard amongst his ferocious haste. Lancelot quickly closed the distance in the middle of Gawain's large windup and swiftly thrusted Arondight into the side of his forehead. Gawain crumpled to the ground.
The wound was not mortally deep, Lancelot had been sure to hold back. He turned around and began to walk back to Castle Benwick.
"Why do you retreat?" Gawain groaned as he lay on the ground, his fatigue finally catching up with him.
"I won." Said Lancelot, still turned around, unwilling to see his old friend in such a state.
"No, you haven't won yet. I'm still breathing. And as long as I draw breath, this fight will not end. So get back here and end it, or next time we meet I will!" Gawain bleated and realized he was now unable to stand.
"I never smite a felled knight." Lancelot said achingly and resumed walking back to Castle Benwick.
None of Artoria's men dared speak or move as he walked passed them. The tumult of the siege had faded during their duel, and now the sun was setting. He walked passed Artoria, her expression hollow and her eyes struggling to focus on the scene in front of her.
"Please, return home. You see now that there is nothing you can do." Lancelot said to his former king and left. None could see the tears under the dark purple helm.