Non-prompt drabble. A HUGE thank you to LadyHeatherlly for looking it over for me. I'll probably also come up with a better title than the one I have now.
Leon's pov.
Standing high on a precipice of rock, Leon gazed out over the starlit plain.
Although the area looked peaceful enough, the smell of ash and death was still in the wind, nearly a week after the last throes of battle.
He was a knight, a warrior, trained for fighting since he was able to hold a sword in small hands. As a boy, he'd dreamed every night about the glory he'd gain as a knight and the honors he'd earn, tournaments that he'd win. But a boyhood dream was nothing compared to the reality. Horses and men alike screaming in fear, pain, and rage, swinging weapons wildly for survival, glory near the last thing on any man's mind.
And the recent battle had been one of the worst. Countless men had fallen on both sides, and the knight had lost some of his closest friends. Both Percival and Gwaine had fallen at the Saxons' hands, and his king was dead. Even Leon himself hadn't come out unscathed, as the pain from a pulled wound reminded him.
But there would be time for his grief and sorrow later. For now, there were men to lead and supplies to gather, a queen to console, and other battles to fight. Yes, there were far more important things to worry about than his troubled emotions.
And so as the first rays of dawn rose over the great plain of Camlann, the sunlight touched a bare cliff with a gleaming sword driven into the ground- the lone figure who'd stood there the night before was already long gone.
Sir Leon the loyal and immortal, indeed.
