Weakness
A little oneshot inspired by a prompt given by equine 14.
Warnings: Rather tragic.
Prompt: Sir Percival in a moment when he faces death, his thoughts on it, and what happens when he is weak for the first time in his life.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.
He had always been strong.
Even as a young boy, amongst his peers his strength was unmatched. It only grew as he did. He worked, hard, as everyone in his village did, to help his family make a living, and his strength and size gave him an edge against the crueler parts of the world.
The only person he knew who was bigger and stronger was his own father. Not that the older man's strength had done him much good when Cenred's men came.
He had always been brave. Maybe it was his sheer physical power that made him willing to stand up to a fight, any fight, and win. If he had been in his village the day Cenred's army came to slaughter and pillage, he would have fought. Perhaps he would've died. But he'd been away, and he'd lived. And he became more determined than ever not to run from a fight.
He didn't even have the option of running this time.
He had always been kind. Where he came from, if you were kind, other people…not everyone, but many…would return the kindness, and you never knew when that might save your life. His mother had told him that; she'd also told him that being kind was simply the right thing to do, and he tried to do the right thing wherever he was.
Kindness would not save him now.
He had always been quiet. He'd never cared much for unnecessary words. Words were not necessary for understanding. No one in his family spoke much. Eventually, he made friends with people who did talk a lot, and he would answer when he needed to.
Neither silence nor words would make a difference in this situation.
It was ironic that a person of his size and endurance would be struck down not by a sword or spear but by an illness that usually preyed on the old and weak. He had met his match at last; not in a living opponent but in something much quieter and more sinister.
He could not speak to the people who came to his bedside every so often. Every breath was a struggle now. His body was wracked with pain. He hardly had the strength to open his eyes.
And yet he was calm.
If this is the end…
He had much to live for. And he would rather die in battle than fade away in a bed.
Though perhaps I will see my family again…
Life might be a journey that must end, but he wasn't quite prepared for that end yet.
The choice may not be mine.
He was not used to being weak.
Sir Percival would not welcome death.
But if this was his time, he wouldn't try to fight it, either.
This little piece is complete. The ending is open to interpretation.
Reviews are appreciated.