Mordred was on top of Gareth, actively strangling his neck.
His fingers pressed deep into the flesh finding the windpipe, crushing it, sealing it. No air passed through. No breath escaped. Gareth's body convulsed beneath him, legs kicking, arms flailing, chest heaving against the impossibility of survival.
His airway was completely blocked.
Gareth could not breathe. Could not speak. Could not do anything except exist in the space between life and death, hanging on by a thread that grew thinner with each passing second.
But he did not stop fighting.
His teeth bit down on his tongue not to break free, not to escape. That instinct the human instinct for survival no longer existed in him. It had been replaced. Burned away by hate, by rage, by the single-minded need to kill the man who had murdered his friend.
He bit through.
CRUNCH.
His tongue severed a chunk of flesh coming loose, flooding his mouth with blood. He sucked in a huge amount of the crimson liquid, filling his cheeks, filling his throat, filling every space that air should have occupied.
And he spat.
SPLAT!
A great wave of blood thick, dark, warm erupted from his mouth and splashed across Mordred's face. It covered his eyes, his nose, his lips. It dripped down his chin, his neck, his armor.
Mordred did not flinch.
He sat there, covered in his uncle's blood, and smiled.
"Now you paint my face red, uncle." His voice was calm, almost gentle. "It's truly pathetic."
He tightened his grip.
"Your death is now here."
He continued to strangle him.
Gareth's eyes turned completely red blood vessels bursting from the pressure, from the lack of oxygen, from the strain of holding onto life. The flesh around his neck slowly turned pale blue the color of bruising, of death, of finality.
Gareth looked up at him.
His vision was fading. The world was growing dark. His consciousness that fragile, precious thing was slipping away like water through fingers.
But is it possible for a human to function without oxygen?
Is it possible that his one desire the need to kill had made him near immortal?
Of course not. Even after a person has died, immediately after the heart stops and the lungs fail, there are still traces of life in them. Flickers. Echoes. The body does not surrender all at once it clings, it fights, it refuses to accept the end.
As Gareth was dying, Mordred watched his eyes grow dimmer.
"Finally," he said quietly. "You're dead."
But Gareth defied the very thought of death itself.
Even when there was no oxygen reaching his brain even when his heart had slowed to a halt, even when his body had begun the process of shutting down his brain continued to run. Neurons fired. Synapses sparked. The machine of his consciousness, stripped of fuel, of life, of hope, continued to operate.
He continued to stay alive.
Above them, Darlington watched.
His eyes those observer's eyes that had seen so much were fixed on Gareth's frozen form. On the body that should have been dead. On the will that refused to die.
He smiled.
"Like a zombie," he murmured. "He doesn't nearly give up at all."
He tilted his head.
"At first, it was Tor who displayed the rage of a wild beast. Acting on pure instinct, consumed by the need to survive." His eyes shifted to Gareth. "But this... this is something else."
Mordred raised his hand.
Gareth's arm the one that should have been useless, the one with the severed fingers and the broken wrist moved. It rose from the sand, trembling, shaking, but moving.
Mordred's eyes widened.
"You can move your arm?" His brow furrowed. "Oh well."
He reached down toward his leg, toward the small dagger strapped to his calf. His fingers closed around the hilt.
"If that's the case... I'll put an end to this quickly."
He looked at Gareth at the man who had been his uncle, who had fought beside his teacher, who had loved the boy he used to be.
"I wanted to respect the bond you shared with my teacher. To give you the honor of a good death in battle." His voice hardened. "But I hate when there are inconveniences."
He stabbed the dagger into Gareth's head.
SHLIK!
The blade pierced through flesh, through bone, through the brain beneath. Blood erupted from the wound dark, thick, final pooling around the dagger's hilt, spreading across Gareth's face.
Mordred stood up.
He watched.
Across the battlefield, Sir Lamorak broke the gag in his mouth.
His teeth crushed the cloth chewing, tearing, destroying the material that had silenced him for so long. The chunks fell from his lips, tumbling down his chin, scattering across the sand.
But the damage was done.
His teeth the ones he had used to break the gag were destroyed. Fragments of enamel, of bone, of nerve pierced along his entire mouth. His tongue was torn, shredded by the sharp edges, bleeding freely.
He ignored the pain.
His voice raw, broken, barely understandable called out.
"Y-you... bastard."
Tears followed his eyes streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the blood, diluting the evidence of his suffering.
"Why... are you doing this?"
He looked at Mordred at the son of Arthur, at the traitor, at the monster standing over Gareth's body.
"What did Camelot ever do to you? What goal could you possibly have? To betray everyone not just in life, but in death?"
His voice cracked.
"Does it feel good to you? To kill everyone who loved you? Everyone who raised you as a child?"
He took a ragged breath.
"The first murder you committed was your own mother. Then you took over the nation. Brought ruin to us." His eyes burned. "Your sins will not be forgiven."
Mordred laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh. Not a cruel laugh. Something lighter almost genuine.
"Sins?" He spread his arms. "Have I truly sinned?"
He looked at Lamorak at the knight who had been bound, who had been gagged, who had been forced to watch his comrades die.
"I have not sinned. I am simply doing what must be done." His voice hardened. "To achieve my goal. The grand plan that I have always had in my mind. Since the beginning."
Lamorak's face twisted.
"What's the use of that in this place?" Tears continued to fall. "Look around you!"
He gestured at the battlefield at the bodies, at the blood, at the carnage.
"This is a world of death! Only the dead live here!" His voice rose. "What can you possibly gain? Your goal is not even in sight!"
He gasped for breath.
"Is it the immortality? The thing the gods claim to reward us with at the end?"
Mordred's smile did not waver.
"My goals are not in sight." His voice was quiet. "Valhalla. This world filled with all legends, warriors, and men who have died from the beginning of the world to wherever the world of the living is at this current time..."
He paused.
"...is just my stepping stool."
Lamorak's eyes widened.
"Immortality?" Mordred shrugged. "Well, that's just one gift I shall attain."
He looked at the grey sky at the nothing that stretched above them.
"All will see. In time."
Mordred reached into one of the compartments in his cloth a small pouch, hidden, unnoticed and pulled out another gag.
Clean. Fresh. Ready.
He walked toward Lamorak.
The bound knight struggled pulling at his restraints, twisting his body, trying to escape. But he could not move. Could not fight. Could only watch as Mordred approached.
Mordred held him down.
His hand pressed against Lamorak's chest pinning him, trapping him, forcing him to be still. His other hand wrapped the gag around his mouth tight, secure, inescapable.
He leaned close.
His lips brushed Lamorak's ear.
"You will live long enough," he whispered, "for a hint of the great future."
He tied the gag.
And stepped back.
Above them, Darlington watched.
His expression had changed. The amusement the detached curiosity was gone. In its place was something darker. Something more.
Not anger.
Familiarity.
The feeling was not the same as he had felt with Leodegrance that shared grief, that resonance of loss. This was something he could not explain. Something that troubled him.
This one, he thought, his eyes fixed on Mordred. Will not die quickly.
He is really dangerous.
His brow furrowed.
I don't think he truly has loyalty to the one he pledges loyalty to. He thought of the previous General Titus of the man who had loved Caesar, who had died for that love. I wonder... what did he think about him?
He frowned.
Then he turned his attention elsewhere.
"Lancelot." His mental voice was urgent, desperate. "Come on. I need you to wake up."
He watched the unconscious knight still being carried by Tristan, still bleeding, still still.
"You can't keep sleeping like this. Come on. Wake up."
His voice cracked.
"We need to kill this person. Before he makes any move."
He paused.
"This is urgent."
But Lancelot was still unconscious.
He could not hear him.
On the other front of the battlefield, the survivors moved.
Sir Galahad carried Sir Kay on his back. The knight was still unconscious, his body limp, his breath shallow but alive. Galahad's legs trembled with exhaustion, but he did not stop. Could not stop.
Sir Tristan carried Lancelot.
The transformed knight's body was heavy denser than it should have been, changed by the malice that had consumed him. But Tristan held him. Carried him. Would not let him fall.
Percival and Leodegrance walked together.
The old knight's arms the stumps where his hands had been swung at his sides. His eyes were fixed ahead, on the distant golden light where Arthur still fought.
Sir Galahad spoke.
"We have to advance now." His voice was tired, but firm. "To the center. That's where King Arthur is."
He looked at the others.
"We have to reach him. Before anything happens."
The survivors moved toward the light.
And somewhere in the distance, a son walked toward his father but not yet.