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Entry tags:
Merlin - Memories
Finally remembering to post this. Slightly cleaned up from the original posting, which can be found here.
Title: Memories
Genre: Slash/Pre-Slash, Lancelot/Leon
Rating: PG
Length: 765 words
Spoilers: 2.13
Synopsis: Leon in the aftermath.
Author’s Notes: Written for the party over at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
camelot_fleet this past weekend. The challenge was to write for a character or pairing you have never written for before.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was, of all people, the supposed traitor to the crown that found him. Leon had just dug his way free of things even a hardened knight like himself never wished to see again, crawled as far away from the still smouldering bodies as he could, and laid upon the singed grass to try to catch his breath, when a shadow cast by the full moon high above crossed his path.
“Dear god, you’re alive!” Lancelot exclaimed as he fell to his knees beside Leon’s tired body. He slung a bulky leather bag to the ground and grabbed for the waterskin that was attached. He propped Leon up when the knight discovered he could not manage even that simple action on his own, and held the skin while Leon let the blessed wetness ease his parched throat.
“Thank you,” Leon sighed when he felt he had enough. He blinked against the bright moonlight; nearly let his eyes drift closed completely, but had to ask, “What are you doing here?”
Lancelot looked over to the scorched bodies, and then up to the moon, before finally letting his gaze fall on Leon once more. “I heard about the attacks and thought maybe I could help,” he finally admitted.
Leon grunted, he had thought as much. He had trained with Lancelot, knew him to be a better warrior than most, felt the sorrow when he had all but been banned from ever setting foot in Camelot again. It was a testament to his character that, even after that, he wanted to do the right thing, wanted to help those who had cast him aside.
“The dragon seems to have been taken care of,” he said instead. He thought back to the darkness, to the way his heated armour pressed against his skin under the pile of his comrades, to the echoing voice he was fairly certain he did not hallucinate order the thing away and then, softer, grant the credit to the prince himself. “Arthur and Merlin,” he replied to Lancelot’s unspoken question.
There was a light to Lancelot’s eyes at his words, and the way the man quickly looked away told Leon the would-be knight likely suspected the supposedly simple manservant of far more assistance than holding a lance. To speak of it would be treason though, for all involved, and Leon could not bring himself to thank his saviours in such a way.
He was starting to drift again, his exhaustion and the ache in his muscles and very bones starting to get the better of him. He felt himself being adjusted against the grass, hands tugging on his gauntlets and the likely soldered shut buckles of his gear. He forced his eyes back open to ask, “What -?”
Lancelot hushed him with a cool hand to his brow, pushed his sweaty hair back from his face and returned to his task with soot-covered fingers. “Let’s get you out of this so you’re more comfortable, then I can check you over for any major injuries,” he explained.
Leon left him to his task, remembered the way he had done the same after an unfortunate training accident had left him on the sidelines, callused but soft hands ghosting over his arms and fingers as they sought out damage unseen by the eye. He remembered the drinks that followed where they shared their tales of far worse fates. He remembered leaning against a door to say goodnight, wine and ale warm within him, but a warmer hand on his forearm, a flushed cheek beneath his fingers.
He tried to shake himself away from what might have been, but his body must have taken that request too literally as he heard the clanking of metal against metal, the cool hand cupping his cheek now as Lancelot asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Memories,” he replied, not wishing to say anything further.
Lancelot looked back to the bodies, for he knew they were nothing more than that, and nodded in what he guessed to be understanding. “I’m sure there are plenty of those,” he said, consolingly. His focus was back on Leon though when he whispered his next words, a promise to be taken more seriously than any vow the knight had taken in all his years, “Perhaps, when you are better, we can find a way for the good to outweigh the bad?”
If Leon had any doubts from the hands that had been clutching desperately at him the moment he had first been found, the gentle touch of lips to his forehead erased them all. “Perhaps we can,” he smiled back.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: Memories
Genre: Slash/Pre-Slash, Lancelot/Leon
Rating: PG
Length: 765 words
Spoilers: 2.13
Synopsis: Leon in the aftermath.
Author’s Notes: Written for the party over at
camelot_fleet this past weekend. The challenge was to write for a character or pairing you have never written for before.Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was, of all people, the supposed traitor to the crown that found him. Leon had just dug his way free of things even a hardened knight like himself never wished to see again, crawled as far away from the still smouldering bodies as he could, and laid upon the singed grass to try to catch his breath, when a shadow cast by the full moon high above crossed his path.
“Dear god, you’re alive!” Lancelot exclaimed as he fell to his knees beside Leon’s tired body. He slung a bulky leather bag to the ground and grabbed for the waterskin that was attached. He propped Leon up when the knight discovered he could not manage even that simple action on his own, and held the skin while Leon let the blessed wetness ease his parched throat.
“Thank you,” Leon sighed when he felt he had enough. He blinked against the bright moonlight; nearly let his eyes drift closed completely, but had to ask, “What are you doing here?”
Lancelot looked over to the scorched bodies, and then up to the moon, before finally letting his gaze fall on Leon once more. “I heard about the attacks and thought maybe I could help,” he finally admitted.
Leon grunted, he had thought as much. He had trained with Lancelot, knew him to be a better warrior than most, felt the sorrow when he had all but been banned from ever setting foot in Camelot again. It was a testament to his character that, even after that, he wanted to do the right thing, wanted to help those who had cast him aside.
“The dragon seems to have been taken care of,” he said instead. He thought back to the darkness, to the way his heated armour pressed against his skin under the pile of his comrades, to the echoing voice he was fairly certain he did not hallucinate order the thing away and then, softer, grant the credit to the prince himself. “Arthur and Merlin,” he replied to Lancelot’s unspoken question.
There was a light to Lancelot’s eyes at his words, and the way the man quickly looked away told Leon the would-be knight likely suspected the supposedly simple manservant of far more assistance than holding a lance. To speak of it would be treason though, for all involved, and Leon could not bring himself to thank his saviours in such a way.
He was starting to drift again, his exhaustion and the ache in his muscles and very bones starting to get the better of him. He felt himself being adjusted against the grass, hands tugging on his gauntlets and the likely soldered shut buckles of his gear. He forced his eyes back open to ask, “What -?”
Lancelot hushed him with a cool hand to his brow, pushed his sweaty hair back from his face and returned to his task with soot-covered fingers. “Let’s get you out of this so you’re more comfortable, then I can check you over for any major injuries,” he explained.
Leon left him to his task, remembered the way he had done the same after an unfortunate training accident had left him on the sidelines, callused but soft hands ghosting over his arms and fingers as they sought out damage unseen by the eye. He remembered the drinks that followed where they shared their tales of far worse fates. He remembered leaning against a door to say goodnight, wine and ale warm within him, but a warmer hand on his forearm, a flushed cheek beneath his fingers.
He tried to shake himself away from what might have been, but his body must have taken that request too literally as he heard the clanking of metal against metal, the cool hand cupping his cheek now as Lancelot asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Memories,” he replied, not wishing to say anything further.
Lancelot looked back to the bodies, for he knew they were nothing more than that, and nodded in what he guessed to be understanding. “I’m sure there are plenty of those,” he said, consolingly. His focus was back on Leon though when he whispered his next words, a promise to be taken more seriously than any vow the knight had taken in all his years, “Perhaps, when you are better, we can find a way for the good to outweigh the bad?”
If Leon had any doubts from the hands that had been clutching desperately at him the moment he had first been found, the gentle touch of lips to his forehead erased them all. “Perhaps we can,” he smiled back.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
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EEEEEEEEEEE \O/\O/\O/
LAST 3 PARAGRAPHS ARE MADE OF LOVE ♥♥♥
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