Wash It Away
They had seen the beach as they rode by earlier. Then the Woads attacked, like the blue wave of the ocean crashing upon them. But now it was over. Lancelot had ridden back here again with no explanation, he just went. His whole body was covered in blood, nearly none was his own.
From below the cliff, on the smallest strip of sand, he could no longer hear the cries of the wounded, nor the voices of his brothers-in-arms searching for their friends. Just the sound of the crashing surf upon the rocky cliff at the end of the sand where he sat on his horse. He slid off, his feet sinking slightly in the wet sand.
The battle had suddenly come upon them, not even Tristan had warning. This had all happened before, it was nothing new. But what made his hands shake now? What made him…afraid? Was he afraid, or was this something else.
In a moment, his armour was off, his twin swords thrown aside with it unceremoniously. There was a hast to his movements, he felt a sudden need to be rid of it until he stood there in the sand, in only his dark tunic and leather trousers. Wind from the sea raced by him and Lancelot closed his eyes for only a moment. It was cold, freezing even.
In the cold, darkness of his mind he saw it again. He saw the faces…their faces. A boy, he had been not much older than their youngest, Galahad. His body lay in the grass on the cliff above him, staining the earth red. It could have been Galahad instead of a nameless Woad. It could have been Gawain or Bors or…
Lancelot's dark eyes suddenly opened. His breath came in short gasps, as if he had been running. The faces of the death didn't leave his eyes. Looking down at his hands, he could see the blood of the boy he had killed. He breathed harder, a feeling of panic and dread rose in his chest. He had to get it off, all of it off.
The ocean water made his hands go numb as he frantically scrubbed at the red stained skin. Another wave broke, coming even higher, up over his ankles and soaking the bottom of his trousers. Lancelot scrubbed harder, it wouldn't wash off. It was just a boy, a Woad; he had killed many of them before. What suddenly made this different.
Above, the clouds that swelled there let down their burden in a wash of water. It weighted down Lancelot's dark curly hair and streaked down the blood and dirt on his cheeks.
In the salty water, the blood from his hands had washed away, but he continued to scrub as fast as he could, as if it was still there. Finally, he stopped. Lancelot lifted his hands out of the water and looked at them. He clenched them into fists and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, lifting his face to the sky. He let the rain and the ocean wash it away.