The glint of gold caught the King's gaze as he reverently folded Ser Gwain's hands over his sword. His oldest friend deserved to be imortalized in stone for his bravery this day. Though he had lost many knights the invaders had been pushed back into the sea, their dead and dying left to rot upon the jagged cliffs of England's unforgiving shores. The King wiped the tear roughly away as he pulled the golden chain from the dented and bloody gauntlet of his fallen friend.

It was a delicately forged necklace of sorts, so dainty it must have been forged for the neck of a woman. No wonder it barely fit around the dead man's thick wrist. He unclasped the cool metal and turned the chain and tiny locket over in his hands. He wiped away crusted blood as he opened the clasp, inside was the portrait of a woman. A breathtakingly beautiful woman with hair like spun fire and ceurealan eyes that seemed to see into his very soul. He felt a pull towards the lovely creature, a feeling of need and desire that had no place on the battlefield.

He rose from the muck and turned from his friends body. His fingers shook as he shoved the locket into his chargers saddlebags. Gathering the reins he thrust his foot into the stirrup and hauled himself painfully into the saddle. The weight of his armor caused his muscles to strain in protest and his legs and arms shook with fatigue. His body was tired, his heart was heavy. So many men lost. So many good men, good friends cut down. But he was The King of England, he could show no weakness.

His stallion arched his dapple grey neck and snorted as he picked his way gingerly over the bodies of the slain. His ears pricked forward and his nostrils flared as he took in the smoke and copper stench of blood that pervaded the air. The King held himself erect in the saddle, through sheer force of will he concealed the wound at his side and the fatigue that threatened to send him toppling from his horse and into the stinking mess of blood and shit that seemed to ooze from the churned earth.

He needed rest. But he knew that each hour he tarried with creature comforts his friends body would begin to rot. The once handsome man would decay and his eyes would cloud and his limbs stiffen. He wanted more for Sir Gwain. He wished him interred in stone among his ancestors, not rolled in a ditch with the rest of the slain men and horses. He nodded his head with finality, the decision made. He would take his friend  home. He touched the saddle bag at his knee. The gold chain within seemed to call to him. Come to me. It whispered.