"Dead."

He took off at a run, thick dark hair like a whirlwind around his head as he glanced over his shoulder. He wove through the mass of men, blades striking wildly, clanging loudly in the melee. The rest of the knights stood their ground, battling with swift, clean strokes to clash with the steady, overbearing weight of the swords the Romans bore.

It was a game to Lancelot. He ran and he fought, sweat beading on his skin when he stood still long enough for the sun to beat down on him. His hair was wild disarray, his chest heaving with exertion and exhilaration. He didn't wait for the Romans to plod toward him, instead running full tilt at them, sending them stuttering and sprawling away from his direct charge.

It was a false sense of freedom, but he relished it, tossing his head like a colt, tumbling and dodging blow after blow, skating past the fall of swords. He heard howls of outrage in his wake, but didn't care, didn't stop to listen, preferring to plunge ahead and meet fate head on.

He hit the solid wall of flesh and felt himself fall forward, caught in mid-air by a heavy hand. He could feel the calloused fingers against the scruff of his neck and stared down at the man on the ground, lying in slow-drying mud, smelling of horse dung and worse. His swords were still clenched in his fists, and he twirled them on instinct, letting the tips rest against the exposed throat of the man at his feet.

"Dead."

The Centurion flung Lancelot aside, letting him land in his own pile of muck, though he faired far better than the creature he'd sent crashing to the mud. He sheathed both his swords and stood, sending a spray of mud from his wild tangle of curls as he shook his head.

"Against the rules, old man," he snarled at the guard as he helped the other man to his feet. "He's dead. He's down."

"Shut it, whelp." The guard took off the thick burgundy cape the other man wore and used the fabric to wipe away the worst of the mud. Lancelot watched in quiet fury as his kill was cleaned off with something akin to reverence.

"He's down."

The sword pressed hard to Lancelot's throat, the tip threatening to pierce the skin. "Shut it."

Lancelot unleashed a low snarl, the sound reverberating in the crisp air. "He's my kill."

"And you, boy," the guard turned and faced Lancelot directly, his spittle landing on Lancelot's face, "are about to be mine."

"Leave him."

Both the Roman and Lancelot glanced at the other man. The Roman's sword wavered long enough for Lancelot to grab it and wrench it from his grip, turning the point to the Roman's neck. "You're dead."

Lancelot dropped the sword in the mud and turned to the other young man. "Don't interfere again."

"This is your new Commander, boy," the Roman hissed at him.

"No. Right now, by the rules of your game, Roman," he turned the word into a curse, "he's dead. So he's nothing to me." He let his eyes roam over the other man - from his mud encrusted hair to his fine Roman clothes - gauging him, sizing him up. "And from the looks of things, I don't expect that to change."