Sir Galahad turned to Sir Bors, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Are you serious?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of the hallway. "Will you really do this? I mean isn't this too much? At least, something else should be done. Something different."
Bors looked at him with calm, steady eyes. The eyes of a man who had already made his decision and would not be moved from it.
"No."
The word was simple. Final.
"It needs to be done." Bors's voice carried the weight of centuries. "It's what one would call a necessary evil."
He looked past Galahad to the broken figure of Arthur still slumped on the marble floor, still staring at nothing, still absent.
"After all, we can't be led by a man who can't lead himself."
Galahad's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. Wanted to protest. But the words wouldn't come.
Bors stepped forward, his boots echoing on the marble. He stopped before Arthur, looking down at his king with an expression that held no anger only a deep, profound sadness.
"Until he leads himself, I will not call you my king." His voice was quiet but carried through the empty hallway. "Until you remember how you were once my king... I reject it."
He raised his weapon.
His long sword came up first, its blade catching the light from somewhere. Attached to it was his dagger a secondary blade, a tool for close quarters, for finishing. Both weapons gleamed with deadly promise.
"Arthur Pendragon of Camelot." Bors's voice rose, taking on a formal tone. "King of the Knights of the Round Table."
He pointed his sword directly at Arthur's heart.
"I challenge you to a duel."
Galahad's breath caught.
In Camelot, there was a tradition an ancient law that governed the conduct of knights. A duel could not be called for lightly. It could only be called for on the basis of damage to the one the duel was requested to. Damage to honor. Damage to duty. Damage to kingship.
Galahad knew this law. Had studied it, respected it, believed in it.
And he knew what was about to happen.
He knew that once a challenge was issued, it could not be withdrawn. Knew that once blades crossed, only one would walk away. Knew that this this was the final option. The last resort. The necessary evil Bors had spoken of.
He should stop it.
A voice in his head screamed at him to intervene, to do something, to prevent this madness.
But even if he wanted to stop it
No.
He didn't want to stop it.
Even if he could, he wouldn't.
Because somewhere deep in his heart, Galahad knew this had to be done. It was something both he and Bors equally agreed upon. The only difference was that Bors had voiced his own challenge, while Galahad... Galahad could not.
It was impossible for him.
He was too close. Too invested. His anger at Lancelot, his disappointment in Arthur, his own broken heart they would cloud his judgment, make him unfair, make him wrong.
So Bors would do what he could not.
Galahad closed his eyes.
For a moment, he allowed himself to think to really think about what was happening. Was this the best possible outcome? Was there another way? A better way?
He opened his eyes.
"At least," he said quietly, "let's not use here."
He looked around at the marble hallway, at the tapestries, at the golden strip curtains that hid so much shame.
"This place will be put to trash if we battle here. Let's move it to another location."
Bors nodded slowly, considering.
"A training ground?" He suggested. "We could use the underground one."
He was about to continue, to propose details and arrangements, when
"No."
The voice was quiet. Broken. But it was Arthur's.
Both knights turned to look at their king. Arthur had risen from the floor slowly, painfully, like an old man climbing to his feet. He stood there, swaying slightly, his eyes still hollow but focused now. Focused on them.
"No." He repeated. "Let's take this outside."
Galahad opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur raised a hand.
"There's no need to drag off such a fight here." His voice gained a little strength. "I don't really see a reason to cause visible destruction right here, ya know?"
It was such a small thing such a human thing to worry about the beauty of a place when his world was crumbling. But something about it, something about that small concern, made Bors's jaw tighten with renewed anger.
"Fine." Bors's voice was cold. "Then let's take it outside, shall we? So that we can settle this now."
The scene changed.
A waterfall. Massive and powerful, its waters crashing down from heights that seemed to touch the sky. Below it, a lake spread out like liquid glass, its surface disturbed only by the constant impact of falling water.
The lake was shaped strangely like three snakes tangled together in eternal combat. Their stone forms rose from the water in places, worn smooth by centuries of flow.
Arthur stood on the left.
Bors stood on the right.
Between them, the lake stretched like a battlefield waiting for blood.
Galahad positioned himself in the center, but far away far enough to be safe, close enough to witness. He looked at the two men his king and his brother and felt his heart crack.
This, he thought. This I know.
This is how it already ends.
He raised his hand.
For a moment, he held it there suspended between past and future, between hope and despair, between the men they had been and the men they would become.
Then he swung it down.
The duel began.
The waterfall roared its eternal song.
And two men prepared to fight.