It's the Red Falcon, who is lying in the water in a ridiculous posture, surrounded by approaching Demons.
At this moment, words were unnecessary between the two; the Plague Doctor wanted to utterly defeat Lancelot, to have him watch with his own eyes as the Red Falcon was devoured by Demons, just as they often said, being eaten all over, with entrails and bones shattered across the ground.
However, at this moment, Lancelot laughed. No one knew what he was thinking, not even any damn psychological description was needed. He clenched his fist for the last time, broken glass pierced into his palm, with crimson blood dripping down.
"I am... Lancelot."
He murmured softly.
The Plague Doctor smelled it, and all the Demons smelled it too, that hot blood, boiling blood, blood filled with miracles.
The Demons, trying to attack survivors and prepare to feast on the Red Falcon, stopped in their tracks, and then their hideous heads turned towards the Plague Doctor.
