Title: Sir Percival's Choices
Fandom: Merlin
Category: Het (Canon AU/some divergence from canon)
Characters: Percival/Fleur (OC), Rion (OC), Gwaine, Merlin, Leon, Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere Pendragon
Rating/Warnings: T (occasional language, brief violence, sexual references)
Summary: On Camelot's castle training field, a young boy accosts Sir Percival and all but demands sword fighting lessons. Little does Percival know this boy will change his life in many wonderful ways.
A/N: A moment in the Merlin series that really touched me occurred during season four, episode one, The Darkest Hour, when Percival steps in and saves those three terrified little children from the Dorocha. I found that scene to be a defining moment for Percival, one where his selflessness and gentle heart became apparent.
As the show went on, I often wondered, "What happened to those children?" This story features one of the children, Rion (I gave him that name, and have decided to make him a little older for the purpose of this tale). Little Rion is about to take Percival on an unexpected journey, one full of heartbreak and hope, and eventually, love.
This story – focusing on Sir Percival and told from his perspective – begins roughly nine months after the Dorocha laid siege to Camelot, in between seasons four and five, or what I refer to as the lost years.
Further, just so you are aware, this story contains several OCs, some of them as main characters. I know that's not for everyone, so I wanted to make sure you knew.
Lastly, this story will be about 70-75k words long, or, about 25-ish chapters. Then again, I have been known to run over. And the plan is to post chapters once or twice weekly. Plans, of course, can change. :)
Sir Percival's Choices
Chapter 1 – I'm Here!
"Sir Percival, Sir Percival, I'm here, I'm here! I have my own sword and everything!"
On a stifling summer morning in Camelot, Sir Percival turned and saw a little boy, about age five or six, bounding toward him. The young boy's shaggy brown hair bounced as he raced forward, and his cheeks were flushed bright pink due to exertion.
Only a few paces away from Percival now, the little boy tripped over the too-large sword he carried, and the weapon went sailing into the air. Percival was forced to duck to avoid the flying projectile. Meanwhile, the child stumbled forward and collapsed on the castle training field face first at Percival's feet.
"Friend of yours?" asked Sir Gwaine, Percival's best mate and fellow Knight of Camelot. He shucked off his sweaty padded gambeson and chuckled. The rest of the knights had retreated into the castle after quarterstaff training, but Percival and Gwaine lingered beneath the shade of a tall oak tree.
"The boy seems a little dangerous with that flying sword and all," added Gwaine with a grin.
Percival ignored Gwaine and helped the boy up. Sir Percival towered above most people, and this child barely came up to Percival's hip.
"Hello." Percival took a knee on the grass so he was closer to eye level with the wild–haired child. There was something familiar about the boy. "What brings you here?"
The child's face fell. "You don't remember me, Sir Percival?"
Percival tried to recall where he might have seen the boy, but nothing came to mind. Meanwhile, the little boy's chin wobbled with distress and his dark brown eyes reddened. Percival had to come up with something.
"I believe we met in the market once." Percival hoped that would suffice. After all, everyone in Camelot went to the market at one time or another, and children often approached the knights to ask questions or touch the men's cloaks and chainmail.
The little boy smiled and his head bobbed up and down with enthusiasm. "Yes! I didn't know you saw me there. But the first time we met was when you saved me, my sister, and neighbor from the Dorocha. Do you remember that?" The boy puffed out his chest and stood up taller. "But I'm bigger now and ready to learn to use the sword."
Now Percival recognized the child before him. This past Samhain, the deadly Dorocha – spirits from the Other World – laid siege to the kingdom of Camelot after the High Priestess Morgana had torn a hole in the veil between the world of the dead and the world of the living. A single, glancing touch from the Dorocha was fatal. Percival recalled that night.
XXXX
Percival had been out on patrol during a late-night Dorocha attack and found three small children hiding behind a barrel, wide-eyed, terrified expressions etched on their round little faces. If he left them, they stood no chance of survival. So he dropped the only weapon that kept the ghostly Dorocha at bay – a lit torch. The Dorocha couldn't tolerate the warmth of fire. However, that left Percival completely defenseless against these airborne spirits, and he knew he'd have to run faster than he ever had in his life. With three children wrapped in his arms, racing to safety would be no easy task. Even so, he grabbed up the little ones and ran like the wind.
But the Dorocha flew through the air faster than lightning. Percival did not turn to look at their gaunt, skeleton-like faces, but their bone-chilling shrieks met his ears, and their cold presence bore down on him.
These spirits killed by freezing people with blasts of hazy, frigid breath. Percival wondered what it would be like to die in such a way. Would it be instantaneous, or would he and the children suffer? He hoped the former.
The little children in his arms began to weep for their mothers. He didn't blame the poor things. If his mother had still been alive, Percival would have been crying for her, too. Instead, it appeared as if he was about to join her forthwith.
"Don't worry, we'll get to your mum," panted Percival to the children. He realized that was an outright lie, but these little ones deserved to be comforted in their final moments.
Summoning his final reserve of energy, Percival hurtled ahead. Perhaps if he moved with more speed, something else would catch the Dorochas' attention and he and the children would be safe. This notion was a fantasy, probably, but he clung to the idea. It was all he had left.
The Dorochas' blood-curdling shrieks grew louder, right in Percival's ear now, and the sharp cold gnawed at his very bones. He braced himself for death and chastised himself for not protecting these innocent children better. He only hoped that their travel to the Other Word would be easy. He'd guide the little ones, he would...
Yet death did not arrive.
With great speed and determination, Sir Elyan, Queen Guinevere's brother, rushed forth and waved his blazing torch at the Dorocha; the spirits fled.
The knights exchanged no words right then. Elyan collected one child from Percival's arms and Percival followed his comrade. Clearly, Elyan knew where these little ones lived. Following a quick jog, Percival and Elyan kicked open a cottage door, and the children's parents screamed with relief, their arms open wide and ready to receive their precious little ones.
Once the children were locked safely in their parents' embraces, Percival faced Elyan and smiled. No words seemed adequate, so he settled on something simple: "Thank you."
"Couldn't let you have all the glory, could I?" said Elyan with a playful smirk.
Percival would never be able to thank Elyan enough.
XXXX
"Uh, Percival?"
Gwaine's words snapped Percival out of his contemplative state.
"Oh, sorry about that," said Percival, still down on his knee before the little boy.
"You DO remember that night with the Dorocha, don't you, Sir Percival?" asked the boy, his eyes wide and eager.
"Yes, of course I do. It's just you've grown so much and are so big and strong, I didn't recognize you right away." He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. "You're Rion, right?"
Rion hopped up and down. "Yes! Yes, I am. You DO remember me! Mum said you wouldn't and that I should leave you alone, but I told her you would."
"I remember you and your neighbor and sister. How are they doing?"
"They're fine. My sister's a pest, but fine."
"And your mum and father? They were so happy to have you home safe."
Rion peered down at the grass. "Mum's good. But Father... he died. He died a month ago."
What terrible news. Having been orphaned when he was a boy, Percival understood the pain of losing a parent, or in his case, both. He pulled Rion into a hug.
"I'm sorry, little mate. What happened to your father?"
"He got a bad fever, and it didn't go away and he died. Mum's very sad." Rion stepped back from the embrace and lifted his chin. "But I'm the oldest and I must protect the family now. That's why I'm here. I'll be seven soon and I need to learn to defend them. You can teach me." Rion rummaged in his belt pouch while chewing on his lip in concentration. He withdrew an old, bent coin, one that hadn't been used as currency in Camelot for ages, and held it out to Percival. "I can even pay you!"
Percival tried not to smile. "And where did you get that coin?"
"I sold two cabbages from the garden. And a carrot."
The poor little boy had been swindled. What kind of man would do such a thing to a desperate child?
"To whom did you sell your vegetables?" asked Percival, planning to give this buyer a stern talking-to.
"The neighbor girl. She's five, I think."
Percival relaxed after hearing this. No foul play, then, just children trying their best. But the fact that children here in the "Golden City" of Camelot struggled had to be taken into consideration. Percival would speak with King Arthur.
"I have an idea," said Percival. "Why don't we trade coins and I'll give you three sword lessons. Does that sound good to you?"
"Hey, wait just a moment!" Gwaine offered with feigned annoyance, stepping forward, brushing a lock of wavy dark hair out of his eyes. "I want in on this, too. I am one of the king's finest swordsmen, you realize."
The little boy's mouth dropped open and he pointed. "I know who you are! You're Sir Gwaine, and you are the best with the sword! I saw you at a tournament and you brought down two men at once. Father took me to watch that day. He said you're a ladies' man, but I don't understand what that means. Is that good?"
Unable to suppress his laugh, Percival turned to face his friend and asked, "Yes, Gwaine, is that good?"
Gwaine, not normally one to become flustered, blushed a fierce shade of red beneath his beard.
"Well, um, it's all really… Never mind about that!" insisted Gwaine. "Let's talk about the sword instead."
"Sir Gwaine," said Rion, his tone serious, "I like you very much, but I need Sir Percival to train me. On the night he saved us from the Dorocha, he promised me he'd teach me to be a warrior, and that's what I want. Sir Percival remembers. Right, Sir Percival?"
Percival didn't recall saying any such thing. However, he'd been so relieved to survive and save those innocent children, he might have promised Rion a castle of pure gold for all he could remember. And this little boy wouldn't make up such a thing. Percival must have alluded to some type of training, but the word "warrior" seemed a little extreme.
Still, Rion gave off an air of kindness and exuberance. The little boy wanted nothing more than to defend his family. Three sword lessons was insufficient; it was Percival's duty to train this boy.
"Yes, yes, I remember talking about warrior training," fibbed Percival. "And three sword lessons will not do. You must train with me for one year, and if you're committed and do your very best, we can extend training. How does that sound?"
Rion hopped up and down like a manic mountain hare and turned red in the face. "I have to pee." He crossed his legs. "When I get excited, it happens."
"On second thought, he's all yours, Percival," said Gwaine with a laugh.
Flustered, Percival stood up. "Ah, all right, I'll walk you over to the woods and you can take care of your business there."
"I have to pee real, read bad." Rion grabbed Percival's hand and nearly dragged him toward the woods.
While Percival and the little boy raced off to the trees, Gwaine cackled with amusement in the background. Several feet away from the actual woods, it appeared as if Rion could no longer wait, because he pulled at the knots securing his trousers, but they wouldn't loosen.
"I can't get them undone," whined Rion with frustration.
What was Percival to do? Allow this little boy to piss himself? He bent down and fussed with Rion's trouser ties, but they were knotted up like he'd never seen.
"Who helped you dress this morning?" Percival fumbled with the tight knots, hoping Rion could hold it for at least another moment.
"I dressed myself. I tried to tie up my trousers nice and tight…"
By the time Percival untangled the last knot, it was too late. Rion, no longer able to wait, wet himself. With a gasp or horror and tears, Rion spun around and fled the training field.
"Rion, wait!" Percival called out, then started to jog after him. Gwaine caught up.
"What in the demon is going on here?" asked Gwaine.
"The boy, um, wet himself."
"What's the problem? I think I wet myself last week after a long night of drinking at the tavern…"
"That goes to show a boy of six has more self-respect than you."
Fast on his feet, Rion was already halfway down Main Road when Percival called out: "Rion, stop!"
"No, Sir Percival!" The boy would not slow down. "I'm disgraced!"
Gwaine started laughing again as he ran alongside Percival. "He's disgraced, he says. The poor boy."
Percival slowed to a walk and encouraged Gwaine to do the same. On Percival's first day of training as one of King Arthur's knights, Gwaine had accidentally hit Percival over the head with a mace. Percival had been knocked out cold, and when he came to, apparently, he'd babbled a bunch of nonsense about a fluffy pink blanket.
He'd rather have pissed himself, because years later, the men never let him live that one down. Yes, Percival understood what it was to endure public humiliation, and to make a fool of oneself in front of respected men.
"I'll call on him at home later," Percival told Gwaine. "Let him get changed and cleaned up first. I'll make sure he knows it's all right."
"Tell him I pissed myself last week!" said Gwaine cheerfully. "If Camelot's best swordsman can wet himself, a six-year-old can without shame. Or tell him about your fluffy pink blanket. If a giant, strapping warrior like you has a pink blanket…"
"Forever the pink blanket," Percival muttered under his breath.
"Easy there, tall one. I'm only fooling around. Don't get all upset with me. And besides, why are you doing this? You don't have to train the boy. I mean, be nice and give him a lesson or two, but to commit to a year's training and beyond's a little mad."
Percival turned and headed back toward the castle; Gwaine followed.
"I realize I don't have to," said Percival, his voice tight, "but perhaps I want to. The boy's father just died. Rion needs a man in his life to show him how things are done."
"Like Owen did for you?"
There was no malice in Gwaine's voice, but the words still stung. Owen (now deceased) had been Percival's foster father. After Percival's parents and sister had been murdered by the merciless King Cenred's men, Owen sheltered and cared for Percival. Old Owen did his best, but the man was already feeble and slow by the time he took in eight-year-old Percival, and could not give Percival the one thing he craved – lessons on how to be a fighter. After his family's death, he often felt all alone in the world, and believed becoming skilled in combat would give him an edge and keep him safe.
But Owen had taught Percival much: reading, writing, mathematics, and farming. Yet Percival still had to learn fighting skills on his own, and at a much older age than he would have liked. By the time he summoned the nerve to ask for fighting lessons from the various ne'er-do-wells who frequented the village tavern, Percival was already twelve years old, and most boys had started grappling at age eight or nine.
However, since Percival was already so tall and muscular at that point, the tavern-men got a kick out of teaching him to fight, and watching him take on men three times his age. Often, the drunkards made bets on the fights, which Percival typically won. He didn't like it, and had never been over fond of being the center of attention, but it was the only way to learn.
"Owen tried, Gwaine. He really did. And besides, he was the only one willing to take me in. What if he hadn't?"
"I'd be running about with a different best mate, probably, maybe one who'd channel a few more women my way…"
Gwaine gave Percival a good-natured shove as they walked, and Percival smiled.
"You have plenty of women. You don't need my help there."
"But more would be nice."
"More mead and women and you'll be dead," said Percival.
"But what a way to go!"
Both men chuckled as they approached the castle; Percival faced Gwaine at the foot of the tall stone staircase.
"And about Rion… I will train the boy, Gwaine, because it's the right and honorable thing to do."
