Dying light gleamed on still water. He stood in the mud by the lake’s edge, feeling it creep over his boots.
In his hand, the sword glowed red, catching the sun. Blood dripped onto his hand: his lord’s or his enemy’s, he did not know.
Bedwyr breathed and raised his hand to hurl his dying lord’s sword into the deep waters. Flashes of memory danced across his eyes, the faces of friends: Gawain, Lancelot, Galahad, Balin, Balan, Sagremor.
Bedwyr’s hand fell and he turned away from the waters. Excalibur was all that was left. He would not throw it away.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Roger Bultot for providing the prompt photo!