He lifts the sword free, the sound of blood and flesh ripping from its moorings, from the new brace of the metal filling the air even as the sound of battle rages on around him. It is fading now, dying as men die, as men surrender. It fades until there's nothing left but this moment, this man at his feet. He feels nothing of the hands that touch him, the pleading words that try to drag him from this spot. He feels nothing at all until he plunges the sword in again, letting it tear a new hole in the flesh, letting the rending of the flesh make a new sound in the world, letting it cry out his mourning.

Smoke roils across the burned and bloody grass, churned to mud from men and horses, from weapons and war. He reaches down and grasps the hilt of the other sword and pulls it free of the thick neck, letting the head fall, the body fall. He turns and stops, darkness falling on the edges of his vision, blackness sweeping in from the hills.

Guinevere lays across his body, stroking and touching the cold flesh. She whispers to his corpse, words Arthur does not understand, does not hear. Arthur does not need to touch him to know he is dead, does not need to feel him to make it true. He can see the undertone of death, see the blankness in the usually flashing eyes. There is no spark, so he will light the fire that will set his soldier, his friend, his lover to burning once again.