General Titus stood over the bodies of Sir Gaheris and Sir Palamedes and sighed.
The sound was long, slow, exhausted. Not the exhaustion of battle he had barely expended any effort but something deeper. Something that had been gnawing at him for centuries.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing the spittle Palamedes had left there. Then he looked up at the sky.
The grey expanse of Valhalla stretched endlessly above him, indifferent to the carnage below. But from this side of the battlefield, he could hear them.
The cries of his men.
They were being slaughtered. King Arthur's golden light was carving through them like a scythe through wheat. The knights who had followed the Pendragon the strong ones, the real ones were cutting his soldiers down by the dozen.
Titus listened to the screams and felt nothing.
He sat back down.
Cross-legged. Relaxed. As if he were settling in for a long wait rather than commanding a battle.
"Though my men are dying," he said to no one in particular, "another shall rise to take their place. Their death is a sign of loyalty to our emperor. Because without him, they would not be the men they are now."
He picked up a handful of sand, let it run through his fingers.
"But alas." He watched the grains fall. "I feel disappointed."
He looked at the bodies beside him Gaheris, broken and bleeding; Palamedes, neck twisted at an impossible angle.
"I jumped down from my seat to sit on this battlefield because I thought I would be able to enjoy the thrill." He shook his head slowly. "It was almost thrilling, I won't lie."
His eyes lingered on Palamedes's corpse.
"When this one came..."
He trailed off, remembering the moment. The void. The absence of all senses. The second time in his existence that he had experienced such a thing.
"Almost thrilling," he repeated.
He looked at the remaining knights Sir Leodegrance, Sir Tor, Sir Dagonet, Sir Ywain. Four warriors who had watched two of their brothers die and could do nothing. Four men whose hands trembled with rage and grief and helplessness.
"These ones remaining..." Titus sighed. "Their death will be quick. I can't even feel any level of thrill from them."
He began to list names, counting on his fingers.
"King Arthur." One finger went up. "Lancelot." Another. "Percival." A third. "Tristan." A fourth. "Sir Galahad." A fifth.
He stared at his open palm, as if weighing the names in his hand.
"Should I go and fight them?" He considered it, turning the idea over in his mind. "Yeah. Maybe if I do, it will be much better than this. Yeah that's the right thing."
He paused.
"But..."
The word hung in the air.
He yawned wide, long, utterly unconcerned and looked up at the grey sky.
"Perhaps this war is not a good one."
He lay back, settling his body on the sand, his hands folded across his chest, his eyes closing. He looked like a man settling in for a nap rather than a general on a battlefield.
"My soldiers." His voice was calm, unhurried. "Take over."
He shifted slightly, finding a comfortable position.
"Finish this battle. So that I may face those who will give me thrill on the battlefield."
He closed his eyes.
And waited.
Around him, the five Roman soldiers who had descended with him the cloaked ones, the ones who had fallen to the ground at his command rose.
Their movements were synchronized. Perfect. Inhuman. They rose as one, their dark cloaks settling around their armored forms, their faces still hidden in shadow.
Each of them drew their sword.
The blades gleamed in the grey light Roman steel, worn by centuries, sharpened by purpose.
One of them spoke. His voice was rough, emotionless, the voice of a man who had long since forgotten what it meant to want.
"Well," he said, "let's finish this up, shall we?"
The other four said nothing. They simply raised their blades.
And turned to face the remaining knights.
Four knights stood against five shadows.
The battle was far from over.
But for General Titus, it had already become boring.