ooc; I wanted to write a story about how Percival and Lancelot met, and what happened before they came to Arthur's rescue. This story is not slash and never will be, however, I think Lancival could be a fun slash pairing, so I am willing to write a second version of this story that is slash, if anyone is interested.
The night Lancelot met Percival was in all ways but one a good one. It was good because it was a mild summer night, slightly warm with a gentle cool breeze wafting in from the north. It bright, the sky clear and full of stars, the moon three quarters full. Lancelot had just passed through a _ village where he'd had a fine meal and a mug of good ale in the local tavern. There had been no beds available but Lancelot was accustomed to sleeping under the stars, and it was a good night for it. So after he'd paid for his food and left a tip for the cheery middle-aged barmaid, he'd headed off into the evening. He had no horse, couldn't afford one, but he was fit and in his prime, and was willing to walk any distance. He walked until night was fully upon him, and then he'd found a stream a short distance from the road, settled down beside it, a drifted off into sleep. In all those way, it was a fine night.
The one reason the night was not fine, was the bandits. They snuck up on Lancelot as he slept, and only his years of training allowed him to wake quickly enough to draw his sword and face them. He knew immediately that he stood little chance; he was an excellent swordsman, but there had to be twenty men circling him, and even Prince Arthur himself couldn't take twenty men single-handedly. He sighed inwardly and slowly edged himself toward a nearby tree, intent on putting his back to it. One of his opponents beat him to it though, and Lancelot was forced to stand with his back exposed. He scanned the men, looking for their leader, and found him standing to his right, a chain of gold medallions around his neck. A prize from an early attack, no doubt. Lancelot nodded his head toward the man, acknowledging his status.
"I have nothing of value, and only a few coins. Take them and leave me in peace."
The man roared with laughter, and stomped closer to the lone swordsman. "You're mistaken, lad, you have a fine sword and chainmail. We'll be taking your coins and those too, if you please."
Well of course Lancelot didn't please, and he raised his sword in preparation for the fight; he didn't wish to lose his life, but he was not the kind of man who would roll over for scum like this. And without his sword he would likely die anyway, having no other skills to use to earn his bread. Better a sword through the gut than slow starvation. So when the bandits threw themselves at him, he fought back with everything he could, and everything considered, was doing rather well, taking three out effortlessly and holding the rest at bay. It didn't last long through; there were too many swords coming from too many directions, and he could feel some of them hitting home. All of his wounds were superficial, but they stung, and they reminded him sharply that he couldn't hold out for long; cold fear gripped him, but he gritted his teeth and let nothing show in his face.
A blow to his ribs made him gasp with pain, and he fell to his knees. He raised his sword above his head to block the swords coming down on him, but he couldn't get back up, they were pressing to close to him. He heard cold laughter, and felt the point of a blade pressing into his back; a voice growled at him to drop his sword, and with no options to escape, he laid it down beside him. The sword point dug further into his back, and he steeled himself against the thrust that would come, his breathing rough from exhaustion. He tried to convince himself that he was ready to die, but he was terrified, and he prayed that it didn't show; the last thing he wanted was for these people to see his fear. To calm himself, he thought of Gwen, and told himself it had been right to leave her, that someday she and Arthur would be happy together.
There was a thump from somewhere nearby, a splash, and suddenly the men around him began shouting angrily. The human circle surrounding Lancelot started to disperse, and he looked toward the stream, where a towering figure was making quick work of the bandits. Lancelot felt hope come back to him, and he snatched up his sword, threw himself forward in a roll, and came up with his sword swinging. The fight was short, and ended with ten corpses and a pack of fleeing cowards, Lancelot and the giant stranger standing among the dead. When the last of the bandits had vanished, the two men met each other's eyes, and Lancelot took a few weary steps toward the stranger.
"I believe I owe you my life," he said, holding his free hand out, "I'm Lancelot."
The man looked at Lancelot's hand for a moment before grasping it with one of his own, and giving it a shake. "Percival." The man looked familiar to Lancelot, and as he studied him, he realized he had seen him in the tavern he'd visited earlier. Percival must have left some time after Lancelot and been following the same route.
Lancelot cast his eyes around the corpses once more before starting to walk along the bank of the stream. Percival fell into step beside him without a word, and Lancelot was too tired to break the silence. They walked for an hour before finding a place they felt was far enough from Lancelot's last camp and covered enough to conceal them from prying eyes. They settled down and Lancelot laid awake for hours, overly aware of the stranger sleeping, or perhaps also laying awake, only six feet away, and replaying the night's events over and over in his mind. Lancelot knew very well that he would had been dead had Percival not chosen to intervene, and he thanked his lucky stars a thousand times over for Percival's compassion.