Sir Bedivere felt the weight of the coming war long before any spell was cast or blade drawn. It settled across his shoulders as naturally as armor, familiar and unwelcome all at once. This would be the first time he would march beside his king into true war again.
He was both equal parts excited and nervous; he honestly wished that his king wouldn't go to battle at all, that he would stay within Camelot, but he understood that it wasn't possible; if his king stayed back, he wouldn't be his king.
Still, given how the last great battle he fought alongside his king ended, was it any wonder he was nervous?
He let out a sigh as he looked around the room he had been given inside the castle. The room was simple and orderly, much like the knight who occupied it. A narrow bed. A polished table. His armor rested upon a stand, gleaming faintly in the morning light that filtered through tall windows.
And on the far wall, dominating the otherwise austere space, hung a painting.
It had been a gift—one he had tried to refuse. He had never cared for adornment, nor for praise disguised as sentiment. Yet he had not been able to reject this particular offering.
The canvas depicted the Round Table as they once were.
Younger and unburdened by the events that would come later, there were no scars in their eyes, no hidden regret, no trace of the things that once tore the Round Table apart.
And at their center stood not the divine monarch of Albion, not the radiant figure who carried the weight of gods and realms, but the king they had first sworn themselves to—a young sovereign with determined eyes, clad in steel rather than divinity.
No Holy Grail.
No sacred spear.
No aura of myth.
Only a sword, a wizard, and a dream.
Bedivere stepped closer, boots silent against the polished stone floor.
He remembered that dream.
A fair kingdom. A just kingdom. A place where the strong did not trample the weak.
He also remembered how it ended.
Camlann.
The name alone tightened something in his chest.
He could still hear it if he allowed himself—the clash of steel against steel, not in triumph but in betrayal. The screams of men who had once shared bread and laughter. The sky dark with smoke and ash as brother turned upon brother.
And at the center of it all, standing tall, with no doubt on his face, no hesitation in his arm, head held high and sword swinging true.
His king.
The king whom he couldn't protect during the last battle, the king he couldn't help at the battle of Camlann. He had knelt in the mud beside him, hands slick with blood that was not his own. The king who entrusted Excalibur to his hands.
And even there, he failed.
He had hesitated; time and time again he had been unable to do it, unable to return the sword to the lake, unable to allow his king to rest, and finally, it had been too late.
Bedivere lifted his hand unconsciously, fingers brushing the smooth skin of his arm. The flesh was whole now, warm and living, indistinguishable from the rest of him. No silver gleam. No divine construct. No visible reminder of the man who had once borne a weapon in place of a limb.
He had never asked her why she restored it. Whether it had been forgiveness, or mercy, or simply practicality.
Part of him believed he did not deserve it.
The arm had even been his Noble Phantasm, the ability to strike with Excalibur itself, and while he couldn't bring out its true power, it had still been mighty, yet now, even that had changed, by the grace of his king.
Still, despite his might not being diminished, he still felt unworthy of the king's kindness. Yet if even Mordred could be forgiven, then why not him?
"So much for being bold," he murmured quietly, a faint exhale of sound in the otherwise silent chamber. As he stood there before the grand painting, his head hung low.
Then again, he had never once borne the title, "the Bold."
No, that title had never suited him; that description fit others far better than it fit him.
He was not the brightest star among the Round Table. Not the strongest blade. Not the most radiant champion.
He was loyalty itself.
And loyalty did not require brilliance.
He turned from the painting and moved toward his armor. The metal was cool beneath his fingertips as he lifted the breastplate and secured it against his torso with practiced ease. Each buckle fastened smoothly. Each strap pulled taut.
It was simple work, and work that was made far easier by using a squire to help, but he liked doing it alone, like in those first days as a knight, before they made a name for themselves; it steadied him.
War was coming for them, and Hell itself would open before them, and they would face demons older than kingdoms, evils greater than the great vile dragon Vortigern.
If he were honest with himself, he wished his king would remain in Camelot's towers, safe within walls that even darkness struggled to touch. He wished the burden would not always fall upon their shoulders.
But he understood that if he were willing to remain behind while others marched in his name, then he wouldn't be the king he had sworn to follow.
Bedivere returned his gaze to the painting one final time.
The younger king looked back at him, eyes fierce with impossible hope.
"I will not hesitate," he said quietly, the words meant for no one else.
This time, when steel met steel and the world trembled beneath their feet, he would be at his king's side.
He would give his life to ensure his king wasn't hurt.
"This time, I will be by your side, and I won't fail you again," he vowed to the depiction of his king.
Hell awaited.
And Sir Bedivere, Knight of Loyalty, would walk into it without pause.
-----
The great castle of Camelot, home of Arthuria Pendragon, also housed a small chapel; it wasn't much, yet as part of the great castle, it was still a place of serene beauty, a place of pious peace.
Subtle touches of gold and silver lined the walls, and a small marble altar sat beneath a beautiful stained-glass window depicting the Holy Grail ascending to the heavens, carried in the hands of a knight.
That Grail was real, the power of a miracle, the essence of a divine spirit, a God. Something beyond mere Magecraft.
And the knight depicted in the glass was no myth either.
Before that altar knelt the very man whose legend had been captured in colored light.
Sir Galahad the Pure.
His hair, white as untouched snow, fell neatly about his shoulders. His armor, deep violet and polished to a muted sheen, reflected the shifting hues of the stained glass above. Around his neck hung a simple golden cross, resting against steel rather than flesh.
To his right lay a slender sword, sheathed and undrawn, for he would not bare steel upon sacred ground. To his left rested a great shield shaped in the form of a cross, broad and unyielding, its surface unmarred and solemn.
He had always preferred the shield.
Others sought glory in the stroke of a blade, in decisive strikes and victorious duels. Galahad had sought something quieter—endurance, protection, the strength to stand firm when others faltered. To him, defense was not passivity. It was conviction made manifest.
Long ago, when Britain had withered beneath drought and famine, when fields had turned barren and hunger stalked the land, the king of knights had sent his finest upon a quest for salvation. The Holy Grail had been their hope—a divine miracle capable of restoring what was lost.
Galahad had been among them.
He had been young then, untested but unwavering, already known for his piety and his unyielding virtue. Many had called him the model of a knight, a standard to which others were measured. He had believed with absolute certainty that God's will guided his steps.
And it had.
Of all the knights who journeyed eastward, he had been the one to behold the Grail in its fullness.
He had been the one worthy.
But he had not returned with it.
When Heaven had called, he had answered.
He had ascended with the Grail rather than bringing it back to Camelot. He had chosen divine command over earthly duty, and in doing so he had left his king and brothers to return home without the miracle they had sought.
The quest had failed.
Britain had not been saved by divine intervention.
And upon their return, they had found rebellion waiting—Mordred's banner raised in defiance, brother against brother, loyalty fractured by ambition and resentment. Camlann had followed, and with it, the fall of the king and the scattering of the Round Table.
Galahad had not been there to stand beside them.
He had been in Heaven.
To claim that he bore no regret would have been false. His faith had never wavered, but faith did not erase consequence. In honoring one duty, he had neglected another. In answering Heaven, he had failed his king.
When he had been summoned from the Throne of Heroes and granted flesh once more, he had understood it not as coincidence, but as grace.
A second chance was not something a man demanded.
It was something he accepted with humility.
Now he knelt once more in Camelot, no longer a legend trapped in stained glass, but a knight of living steel and breath. His king stood again upon the world. His brothers stood beside him. Even Mordred walked these halls not as a traitor, but as a son, an heir reclaimed.
Redemption was not a right.
It was a privilege.
He had not walked through the gates of Lyon. He had not witnessed the abyss with his own eyes. Yet he had listened as Mordred spoke of demons swarming the streets, of corruption clawing at the city's heart. He had watched the footage in silence, the horrors not shaking him, but settling into him like a familiar truth.
Evil was real.
And now, it was trying to step out of the shadows; it was gathering not merely to corrupt, but to destroy, and when evil rose, so did heroes, knights, and kings.
His task would not be to strike at Mephisto or clash blades with Satannish. His king had given him a different burden. He was to stand against Nightmare—a lord of dreams, a predator of the sleeping mind.
Others would face fire and fang.
He would face fear.
He would be the wall between darkness and the minds of his companions. He would be the shield not only of flesh, but of spirit. Where Nightmare sought cracks in resolve, he would stand against the demon, he would face him head-on, and ensure he learned to fear God.
It was a heavy responsibility, yet he did not resent it. Protection had always suited him more than conquest.
If Hell sought entry through dream and doubt, then it would find him waiting.
Galahad bowed his head lower before the altar, fingers laced together, breath steady. His prayer was not desperate, nor was it dramatic. He did not ask for victory. He did not ask for glory.
Nor did he ask for strength, because his king had already bestowed upon him great powers; his very legend was the source of his power. What he asked for was not for himself, but for the others; he prayed that they would all return.
When he finally rose, the chapel felt unchanged—quiet, serene, untouched by the storm gathering beyond its walls. Yet within him there was no hesitation.
Sir Galahad, Knight of Heaven, would walk into Hell not in fury, but in unwavering faith.
And this time, he would not ascend away from the battlefield.
He would remain.