All his life, since he was only an orphan child, had he practiced his sword craft. The tricks and turns he had mastered came flooding back to him, and his hands and fingers remembered their skill. Arthur was the best swordsman in Camelot---perhaps even in the world. The prince's skill had been carefully fostered since he could walk. Now, in his prime, Arthur was most undoubtedly the deadliest human foe he would ever face in combat.
Lancelot must prove himself worthy. Not only to the once and future king of Camelot, or even his friends who stood nervously on the sidelines, watching with anxious eyes, but to himself---that he could do what he'd always aspired to.
From inside his helmet, Lancelot could hear every sword stroke as the two weapons of metal met in the air. The sounds reminded one of music from a warning bell, ringing "danger" and "injury" at every toll. Lancelot did his best to hold his ground and keep his head, even under the rain of Arthur's blows. In combat, the two of them were like animals, feeling for each other's weaknesses, never giving in, never holding up, and never backing down. In a brief wave overwhelming disorientation, Lancelot lost his balance, and swung wildly at Arthur's head. He thought it to be his doom, but fate laughed and Arthur held back. The two circled.
And they continued.
Lancelot didn't know for how long.
Have you ever noticed how impossible to tell time when pouring out everything you are or ever hope to be?
Lancelot didn't know for how long.
Have you ever noticed how impossible to tell time when pouring out everything you are or ever hope to be?
In reality, it was only a few seconds before his downfall. With a backhanded blow from his right gauntlet, Arthur had struck Lancelot directly in the face. Onto the ground he went as his helmet flew off and his mind darkened...
...But the thing you most desire, if in your grasp, will not---should not---be given up on without a fight.
