Though the bed was large enough for two, Sir Bedivere was the sole occupant. He lay on his side, cradling a sword in a plain, old scabbard. His arms were wrapped around it in the way that a man might embrace his sleeping wife. His hands however, clutched the handle to the point of turning white.
There was a crash somewhere else in the castle. He coiled around the sword, covering it with his body. His lips rested involuntarily on the pommel. Despite being well-used, the exquisite detail hadn’t faded. Gradually, he relaxed, and eventually rolled back onto his side.