Sparks flew as metal struck metal, tolling a like a dread bell. Steam rose as blood and sweat met the cold air. As far as the eye could see men struggled, locked in bitter combat. Grimaces of hate or pain contorted each face, distorted them, made them something less than human. Quarter was asked but never given, too much was at stake. A nation�s future. A man�s pride. Later a man wondered why he ever fought. To safeguard a dream long ago? He wondered and remembered�.
He was snatched from his reverie. For a moment he could not focus, his eyes still saw into the past.
�Sire. Arthur.� It was Bedivere. Who else lived? Who? Suddenly he was frenzied.
�Who else�?�
�None.� The answer cut through him, another wound. This one would finish him if not the other.
�Lie still. Mordred has wounded you gravely. Lie still.� Bedivere wept. A grown man who has fought countless battles wept. He saw the embodiment of a dream lying crushed and broken. He knew an era ended, saw darkness descend on Britain. His mouth moved, finally he gave voice.
�Bedivere, faithful vassal. Take my sword. Take it. Throw it into the water.�
�Sire, no. We must help you. Help. HELP!� Bedivere cried out despairingly but dead men could make no reply. The tears broke into his voice. But his liege would hear no refusal. When he was gone Arthur let his mind leave the shattered cage of his body. He remembered��..
This time it was harder for him to return to the present. Ghosts stood before him, solid. They spoke to him clearly. Bedivere was blurred, his voice was muffled. He was more in their world than this one. Finally he made out the words, he tried to reply but the words were thick and heavy. He had to force them from his mouth yet they still stumbled limply out to collapse onto his chest. He asked Bedivere what he saw. Nothing. That was wrong. It tore him back.
�Oh untrue loyalty,� he moaned, �Bedivere give it up. It ends. Do as I ask.� Both men slipped away. Arthur saw the father he had never met beckon to him. But he could not join him yet, he must see it done. Once more it occurred, once more he sent him away. Once more he was dragged back into the world of misery and suffering.
If only men could be taught to fly, then they would see the folly of the lines they draw across the earth. But men cannot fly. They can only fall, no matter what heights they may reach. And the heights matter not once others see their fall. Then they make no difference, for memories have no power over the fickle hearts of men. It makes no end what men may do. Each blade of grass, though it be lush, green and tall, is but one among millions in the field and is of no consequence overall. No one man can change the world we live in, and even the most virtuous can but balance out the worst. Arthur had killed Mordred but his own life was ended too.
Bedivere had done it. He could not hear the words but he could see it in his eyes. Rest at last. While one man slipped away the other remained with him.
* * *
A company of knights pick their way through piles of flesh, indistinguishable as individual bodies. In death all men are equal. They are too late. Only three bodies can be discerned. One lies unheeded, except by the countless carrion. Of the other two, one lies cradled in the other�s arms. These lie untouched. The knights slowly turn and leave, their own lands will need them. One stays long enough to murmur:
�Farewell, king who was and will be.�