Sir Lamorak created gale wind around himself and Sir Gareth.
The air moved in a continuous cycle rushing outward, circulating, then pouring back in. It was not a simple dome of protection, not a static barrier that would weaken and fall. Lamorak had shaped the wind to renew with the environment, to breathe with the battlefield itself.
As it circulated them, it poured out.
And came in again.
Cool. Constant. Alive.
Sir Gareth exhaled, feeling the relief spread through his overheated body.
"I really appreciate it." His voice was quiet, genuine. "But this isn't going to make us go any faster toward them."
Lamorak smiled.
"The wind is fast, Gareth." His voice carried a note of something pride, perhaps, or amusement. "Please do not underestimate the wind."
Sir Gareth noticed it then.
A lightness in his limbs. A ease in his movements that had not been there moments before. It was as if half of his body weight had completely vanished as if the wind had lifted him, carried him, made him more than he was.
"So that's why..." He looked at Lamorak at the knight who commanded the storms, at the power that flowed through his silver blade. "...Lancelot always goes out with him when they are in battle."
He nodded slowly.
"He's a great supporter." A pause. "Not just a fighter."
The power of the wind.
For a second, Gareth smiled.
It was a small thing a flicker of expression on a face that had seen too much, lost too much, endured too much. But it was there.
Dammit, he thought, his inner voice carrying a note of something almost like longing. I'm kind of jealous, you know.
He watched Lamorak run beside him the silver blade humming, the winds obeying, the power flowing through him like water through a river.
Everyone has powers. Something that makes them all special. Sword and abilities.
His smile faded.
And here I am. A man who barely mastered the sword. Who became very diversified in combat.
He looked at his hands at the hands that had held a blade for centuries, that had killed more men than he could count, that had failed and succeeded and failed again.
It's kind of cold, honestly.
He looked at the battlefield at the bodies, at the blood, at the carnage that surrounded them.
But I guess that's what makes me the devil.
His eyes hardened.
I have no advantage as other men do. Hence... I have to devour everything on my side and rise to the top.
From birth, he thought, I was born with nothing.
The memory came unbidden not sharp, not painful, just... present. Like a scar that had healed but would never fade.
A waste. A piece of filth on the street. Destined for death.
He had been a child small, weak, hungry. The other children had ignored him. The adults had kicked him. The world had moved on without him.
Not even fate could save me.
He thought of the Fate Seekers the blind men who saw the threads of destiny, who prophesied the futures of kings and heroes. They had never come for him. Had never seen him.
Weak physical body. Everything was gone. Heaven and the world rejected me.
His jaw tightened.
So I rejected them.
I became a monster. The thought was calm, accepting, final. A monster that preys on others. A man who never saw anything as good.
He remembered his brother the one he had been born with, the one who had shared the same womb, the same hunger, the same desperation.
I ate him. Because I was hungry.
There was no guilt in the memory. No regret. Just fact. The hunger had been a living thing a fire in his belly that would not be denied. And his brother had been there.
Every person that I ever called a friend... I betrayed them.
He thought of the companions he had gathered over the years the ones who had trusted him, who had fought beside him, who had believed he was something other than what he was.
And I felt no sympathy at all. He paused. In fact... rather than sympathy, I felt an odd satisfaction.
But meeting him was different.
The thought came unbidden unforced, unexpected, unwelcome. Gareth's stride faltered for just a moment.
He was the first person that I betrayed... who saw no wrong in my actions.
He saw Arthur's face in his mind the king's eyes, understanding, accepting, forgiving. Even after the betrayal. Even after the pain.
It was as if he understood me. Down to the bone.
His brow furrowed.
But how is that possible? How can you understand the pain of someone else's suffering... when you yourself did not experience that pain?
He shook his head.
It was annoying. Suffocating.
His jaw tightened.
I did not understand. So I fell into hate.
He paused.
And then... he saved me from that.
That man. Gareth's inner voice was soft, almost reverent. He brought me a devil who is not worthy and made me worthy.
He looked at the blazing figure in the distance the sun of Camelot, the king who had forgiven him, who had accepted him, who had loved him despite everything he had done.
This is a shock. He smiled a thin, tired expression. I'm deeply shocked. I'm shaking in my boots.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
I shall save you, my king.
Lamorak's voice cut through his thoughts.
"We're almost there." The knight's breathing was steady despite the exertion, his silver blade still humming, his winds still circulating. "How's your body holding up, Gareth?"
He looked at the devil at the man who had pulled a dagger from his own forehead, who had strangled and been strangled, who had died and refused to stay dead.
"You may hide it..." Lamorak's voice was gentle. "...but your body is really damaged."
He paused.
"Your will is what is holding you together."
Gareth was quiet for a moment.
Then he spoke.
"It's not just will." His voice was calm, steady, certain. "This is my natural state."
He looked at his hands at the hands that had killed, that had betrayed, that had saved.
"I am weak. Naturally." His voice hardened. "I have always been weak."
He looked at the blazing sun at the king who walked toward his son, toward his judgment, toward his destiny.
"And in this weakness..." He smiled. "...I will draw the greatest of strength."
Gareth ran toward the survivors.
Lamorak's winds carried them forward.
And the sun of Camelot burned.