General Titus lay on the sand.
His heart that organ which had pumped blood through years of battle, through poison, through wounds that should have killed any other man beat slowly. Each pulse was weaker than the last. Each breath was shallower.
Thump...
Thump...
Thump...
Then nothing.
His heart came to a stop.
He could no longer speak. Could no longer move. Could no longer do anything. His blood dark, thick, seemingly endless continued to pour from the wound that was not a wound. It pooled around his broken body, spreading across the sand, covering a large area.
Sir Tristan saw the amount of blood and was shocked.
A normal human being could not have this much blood in their entire body. Not even two normal humans. Not even ten. The pool stretched wider and wider, defying biology, defying reason.
Tristan smirked a tired, satisfied expression that did not reach his eyes.
"Oh well." His voice was dry. "I guess your blood is equivalent to the sins you have committed. In Valhalla and in your life."
He looked at the spreading pool.
"No wonder your blood is so much."
Sir Galahad fell to the floor.
The Sword of David clattered from his grip. His body still, empty, lifeless crumpled onto the sand. He lay there, face down, arms sprawled, not moving.
Percival's eyes went wide.
He untied the rope that connected him to Tristan yanking at the knots, his fingers trembling, his breath catching and rushed to Sir Galahad's side.
He touched his body.
It was cold.
Not the cold of someone who had just fallen the cold of someone who had been dead for hours. The flesh was stiff. The skin was pale. The chest did not rise.
He was dead.
Percival's heart shattered.
Then
In a single split second
Sir Galahad's entire body shook.
It was violent uncontrolled as if something was trying to reassemble itself from the inside. His limbs jerked. His back arched. His mouth opened.
And he sneezed.
"AH CHOO!"
The sound was loud, sudden, completely absurd. And with that sneeze he became alive.
His eyes opened. His chest rose. His heart beat.
He sat up.
His entire body was vibrating not from fear, not from cold, but from the force of his return to life. He shook like a frog thrown into boiling water, his muscles twitching, his nerves firing, his soul struggling to settle back into his flesh.
He looked at his hands.
They were shaking.
"So..." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "It's possible."
He stared at his trembling fingers.
"I used it." He swallowed. "The Death Sword."
A pause.
"For a moment..." His eyes grew distant. "I truly became dead."
Galahad sat on the sand, vibrating.
And beside him, General Titus's blood continued to pool.