Leon blinked awake, his head throbbing and full of cotton. Morgana peered down at him serenely. She raised an eyebrow while he straightened himself up and looked around in confusion. He was standing in the corridor to the throne room. He couldn't have fallen asleep here, Surely?
"My, my," said Morgana, waiting—patiently, it appeared—until she had his attention. She smiled dubiously at him with rather too many teeth involved. "Back with us, my knight?" she asked, her voice deceivingly gentle.
"Don't call me that." Now Leon noticed the looming figure of one of her undead soldiers at her side. "Did I—was I—?" Leon blurted out in disbelief. "I'm sorry, Lady Morgana. I don't know how I—"
"Fell asleep on guard duty? Believe me, we are all astonished at your ability to muck up even this simple task." She shot the skeleton an exasperated glance. Leon felt shame knot in his throat, gulping it down and looking away.
"I apologize. I should have remained vigilant."
Morgana sighed, looking him up and down with a grimace. Her gaze lingered for a second too long on the left half of his face before bouncing away. "Sir Leon, the bed in that room I gave you is not just for decoration. It does have a purpose, you know."
"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind," Leon replied sharply, feeling inexplicably raw and exposed. In front of an enemy, no less.
"See that you do. I cannot afford to keep taking it easy on you because of your neglectful habits, Sir Leon." She frowned. "Speaking of, I need you to take care of something for me. A druid emissary reached out to me to request the return of a few stolen artifacts still locked up in Uther's wretched vaults. Travel to their settlement and return the items," Morgana explained, going into further detail about the directions to the settlement and who to seek out.
Leon recognized the name, a pit appearing in his stomach. Memories from his brief stint with death distracted him momentarily. It had all felt like a dreadful nap, from the second his heart stopped to the moment he'd surged back to life in that druid's arms, cup of life pressed to his lips. He shook the memory off with a shudder. Sometimes, it still felt like the scent of death clung to him. Like he would never be rid of it.
Morgana, noticing, narrowed her eyes curiously. But instead of asking, she said, "You will set out first thing tomorrow morning. Is everything clear?"
"Perfectly." Leon nodded curtly. "I'll see it done."
"You're dismissed for now," she said with a small indication of her head. "You'll notice, unlike you and I, the dead have no use for sleep." She grinned roguishly. Leon's gaze shifted to the undead knight at her side, returning her smile grimly.
"I imagine they don't." He dipped his head. "Thank you, Lady Morgana."
She gave him a meaningful stare. "Get some rest, Sir Leon."
Leon hid a wince, retreating to his chambers. The skeletal knight took his post.
It shouldn't be so hard, he mused, if he inadvertently managed to do it standing up. He slid under layers of soft, silk sheets and fur-lined blankets, closing his eyes. His body ached. His face itched.
Sleep did not come easy.
The sun was sinking as I wandered an expanse of grassy plains. I couldn't glimpse an end to it, leaving a vast open sky above with no cover in any direction. The wind howled in my ears, creating the sensory illusion of distant screaming. I felt myself shudder as something in the noise struck a familiar chord. I turned towards the wind, eyes trained on the distance, searching. In the next inhale, I breathed in the sharp scent of metal and decay.
There was a black mass of moving, twisting shadows blocking the horizon. The tiny shapes seemed to split apart and then fuse together, swirling, crashing, darting, covering the sky like an ominous cloud. The scent of blood grew overwhelming, so pungent I could almost taste it. I willed myself to run toward it, every instinct in me screaming. My heart battered against my breastbone and my throat constricted, causing me to gasp for air as I tore across the plains.
The horrible, overlapping sounds of the swarming vultures filled my ears as I gained ground. Guttural hisses parted from their underdeveloped throats as they fought each other for their meal, bloody talons tearing and clawing for purchase.
"Stop!" I cried. "Leave them be!"
I felt my breath leave me as their hungry eyes turned on me, gleaming, insatiable. They descended, too many of them to count. Something sharp tore into my back, another burying its bloody beak into my shoulder and pulling at my flesh until it got a tasty chunk. I screamed, losing my footing. I impacted the ground hard, the remaining air punching from my lungs. I curled my gritty nails into the grass, clawing fruitlessly as terror pulsed just behind my eyes and dread settled heavily in my stomach. Just a little farther…
And then I saw them, in the center of the swarm. A stag and a doe, carcasses picked apart and bloody.
Dead. Too late. I was too late.
Leon woke with a scream in his throat. Drenched in sweat and panting, he rolled over and gasped quietly into his pillow until the tremors subsided. It felt like an eternity. Once the panic seizing his body had finally ebbed, Leon lay there feeling quite small and silly. He hadn't felt so insignificant since he was a page, following his betters around like a lost duckling and polishing their armor and weapons until his blisters broke and bled.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He traced his fingers across the scarred half of his face gingerly. The responding throb of agony made his stomach turn with nausea. He withdrew regretfully, glancing fleetingly at the line of empty vials and remedies arranged neatly across his nightstand before averting his eyes. He would be fine. The thought of going there again, facing Gaius, facing her… He winced, aborting the thought frantically—that mortifyingly panicky haze on the brink of resurfacing.
On his way to retrieve the items from Morgana, Leon blinked away a few minor dizzy spells and pressed on, steadying himself against the wall as needed while descending staircases and crossing corridors.
"Good morning, Sir Leon," Morgana greeted him slowly, eying him up and down just as yesterday. "You look bloody exhausted. Are you up for this?" she said, brow creasing in something like concern.
"Good morning, Lady Morgana. Are those the artifacts?" Leon asked.
Morgana surrendered the satchel she was holding to him dubiously. "Yes. Handle them with care." she pressed her lips together in annoyance. "If I had any other choice, I would do this myself." She sighed.
"You can't do everything yourself," Leon said. Morgana seemed to visibly bristle at that, suppressing a sneer. "It's just impossible." Leon smiled tiredly. "Even for you," he admitted if only to assuage the defensive look in her eyes. Morgana's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she seemed uncomfortable.
"Just take them and go," she said with a pained expression. "I have a meeting to arrange." With that, she turned and stalked away.
Leon didn't linger, however much his body ached to rest.
Nobody looked at him twice as he rode through town on horseback, dressed in traveler's clothes with his sword concealed below his cloak. Despite the safety of his disguise, he kept his head ducked, his shoulders tight with tension. It wasn't until he was alone and far from the gates of Camelot that he released the breath he'd been holding.
He breathed in the fresh air with a small sigh, feeling horrible for indulging in such things when the stale air of the dungeon and the smell of festering wounds was still fresh in his mind, but unable to help himself.
As he traveled, Leon's mind kept drifting. He felt itchy like he was being watched. Even so far out into the woods, the feeling didn't leave. Leaves rustled overhead, making him cast his eyes to the sky. But it was just the wind through the canopy.
He tried to focus on the route, but it was becoming increasingly hard to focus on anything as the day progressed. He clutched Ja Lor's neck, trying to remain steady. After a few days without Gaius's remedies, Leon had fallen into a pattern. The pain steadily ramped up the longer he remained upright—while he steadfastly ignored it. It wasn't pleasant, but it was nothing in comparison to the living hell he experienced in Morgana's captivity. Days spent in an agonized haze, barely conscious enough to notice the passing of time. And still, when the time came, he stood tall in her presence, refusing her the satisfaction of letting on the extent of what she'd done to him.
This pain should be nothing. This pain should be insignificant.
He was deep in the forest, Ja Lor trotting on mostly of her own accord as he alternated between out of it to suddenly jerking alert. His body ached, a jaggedly healing wound on his side pulling uncomfortably with the repetitive strain of riding. This is nothing. This is nothing.
The settlement was not far, merely half a day's journey. If Leon were a good knight worth his salt, he would have delivered the artifacts and returned to Camelot by nightfall. If he were a good knight, he wouldn't need to take a break before reaching his destination.
What does this make me? Leon wondered as he finally urged Ja Lor to stop. He dismounted shakily, blinking away spots. After tying up his horse, he found a tree to gracelessly collapse under, clutching the pommel of his sword protectively. He just needed a moment to collect himself. Only a moment to rest, then I'll start moving again.
It wasn't comfy. It wasn't ideal. It was about the furthest away he could have gotten from the soft, fur-lined bed in the castle. So then, it was concerning how quickly Leon let his guard down.
The soreness and hurt lessened to a dull throb, and it became almost easy to distance himself from it. His eyes grew heavier the further away he drifted from it. It was growing tiresome to keep forcing them back open after every slow blink, so he kept them shut. Only for a moment.
Slowly, his tight grip on the weapon loosened, and his posture slackened.
The sky was black with giant, pink-headed birds, and I was in the thick of it. Their ragged, hissing screams pierced my eardrums. A few grunted and squealed like hungry pigs, fighting for their pick of the meal.
It wasn't deer they were fighting over—ripping their bloody beaks into—but people. Barely breathing, and no longer with energy to struggle. I shouted as I recognized something in them. In the bloodied, eviscerated remains of them. Lady Morgana's dark, silk gown and Gaius' disheveled, white hair. Morgana tried to open her eyes at the sound of my voice, I thought, her body shuddering with the effort. Gaius's fingers curled weakly, and that was all.
I was scared. I was scared. A flicker of memory took my breath away and made me hold back. But I couldn't. I couldn't leave them. I ran, Countless eager black eyes turning in my direction. They squealed in delight, diving and scrambling and fighting each other to get to me. I wanted to scream with the anticipation of it, even before the beaks tore into my flesh. So when they actually did, it was almost worse than I imagined. I shut my eyes and grit my teeth, clamping down on the scream. This is nothing, this is nothing. I'm nearly there. I can save them.
Something collided with the side of my head, heavy enough to bowl me over. Sharp claws embedded in my skin. I cried out, grabbing the left side of my face as my breaths came too quick—quick enough to blacken the edges of my vision. Blood drooled between my fingers, blinding me. I crawled away in a pitiful heap as the thing followed, digging my nails into the dirt until they bled and broke.
My hand brushed against something sturdy and slick. I felt around to get a better idea of what was in front of me, wiping the blood away from my vision desperately. I almost wished I hadn't.
There were two sets of skeletons lying in the grass, scraps of meat and cloth still clinging stubbornly to jutting bones. Everything identifiable to me had been plucked away, false images flashing before my eyes as my mind blocked out the truth—desperate grasps for recognition. The thin scar framing Morgana's jawline. Gaius' all-knowing gaze. The black amethyst earrings Morgana favored. Gaius' gnarled but experienced hands patching me up. The way the skin around Morgana's eyes pinched when she tried to hide her frustration. One by one, the memories turned to dust—leaving me alone in a field with the scant remains of two sorcerers.
But they were sorcerers, after all. That alone sentenced them to this gruesome end, didn't it?
As Leon jerked awake, the scream trapped between his jaws finally parted from him. It was barely human, the noise that left him. He felt it had come from somewhere else, something else entirely.
His heart thundered in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He looked around, disoriented. Something was—
His sword! Where was his sword?
Leon jumped to his feet. A freezing bucket of ice water could not have as effectively woken him up as the sight that greeted him. A man stood a few paces away, his eyes wild as he raised the sharp point of Leon's sword to his throat. Leon gulped carefully.
"There it is," said Leon. He deserved this for being such a—what would Merlin call him? Ah. A dunderhead.
The druid's sack was clutched tightly in the man's other hand. A thief. And soon to be a killer, if Leon didn't think of a way out of this quickly.
Except, the man didn't seem too invested in finishing him off. He kept the blade extended in warning—wide eyes never leaving Leon's—but his feet were shifting backward. Leon must have spooked him when he'd woken up so suddenly, prompting a defensive reaction. But it was clear now what he truly wanted. To get away. With Morgana's bag.
Leon couldn't let that happen. Not after he'd already screwed up so monumentally.
"Where're you going with that, kid?" Leon asked, voice low and dangerous.
"Away." The man lifted his chin, sneering. "Don't try and stop me. I've got your sword, ugly." He crinkled his nose in disgust as he spat out that word. The heat of his gaze on the left side of Leon's face burned as if it were tangible.
Leon narrowed his eyes. The man—barely old enough to be called that—wasn't even holding the sword properly. His stance was all wrong. The tiniest nudge would crumple him like a flimsy house of cards.
Leon took a slow step after him. The man gritted his teeth. "Are you demented? Don't. Move."
"A knight always keeps a dagger concealed at his thigh," said Leon, calmly. In the next breath, he was twisting forward like a snake, drawing the dagger—his fang—in one fluid motion. He avoided the heavy, telegraphed swing that followed by the skin of his teeth, swiping with his own weapon. The blade sliced through fabric as the man easily pulled out of range, bearing his teeth in frustration.
Damn! Too slow. Clumsy.
Despite Leon's state, the revelation of just who the thief had chosen to pick a fight with seemed to rattle him some. His eyes, jumpy, darted from Leon to the safety of the forest behind him. The opportunity for escape was slim, if any. He set his jaw, gripping the sword tight. He wouldn't run. Not until Leon could chase no more.
Leon caught his breath, trying to maintain his balance as the world seemed to tilt and spin around him. The thief was approaching him, gait heavy and intent. Leon blinked twice, shaking his head. The world realigned enough for Leon to raise his dagger, ready to receive his opponent. Metal scraped against metal, sending sparks flying. Leon dodged only narrowly, huffing and gasping as each near miss grew nearer. The man used the sword more like a club than a finesse weapon. His power and relentless brute force kept Leon on his toes. Until Leon finally ran out of luck.
Leon leaned out of the way of one attack, before another, slow, easy to avoid, rained down from above. Except his body didn't move as he willed it to. It felt like everything sped up around him as he remained in slow motion. Before he knew it, the flat end of the sword was slamming against his side. He felt the wind whoosh out of him, the impact shuddering through his entire frame. Though unskilled, the sheer force behind the blow was brutal.
Leon stumbled and winced, wheezing and clutching his side where the wound there had split open and began to bleed. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees. His vision doubled, one opponent morphing into two. Both men stared at Leon, eyes gleaming with the realization of their opportunity. They clutched twin swords, ready to finish him off. All Leon could do was watch. He felt the hum of the metal against his skin, a twitch of a muscle away from savaging his throat. A knight of Camelot, offed by his own sword. Truly pathetic. Death breathed down his neck, cold and clammy and giddy with anticipation. Are you satisfied, thought Leon. At last, I'm yours. You're overdue.
But Death would have to wait a little longer, for in the breathless moment before the man dirtied his hands with Leon's blood, a giant shadow engulfed the clearing. Something huge loomed over them, something that crashed down from the treetops and flung itself towards the two men below. It struck as quickly as a pouncing viper—a flash of white streaking out and taking Leon's would-be killer to the ground in an instant. Leon watched Morgana's bag land a few feet away, and not gently. He braced his trembling arms against the ground, struggling to keep his head raised. His vision swam. What had—
A white dragon. Morgana's white dragon. She held the man pinned in her claws, their faces mere inches apart. Her mighty jaws parted to emit an ear-splitting roar, displaying an array of needle-sharp teeth. She was furious. Leon was half-convinced he had died and this was all some—post-mortem hallucination. Or simply a malfunction of his dying brain as he bled out onto the forest floor.
Finally, Leon lost the battle of keeping himself upright. His arms gave out underneath him, and he crashed to the ground with a whimper. The dragon, as if called, abandoned her terrified quarry and was at his side in an instant. She licked his cheek, eyes wide and anxious. Meanwhile, Leon felt the vibrations of rapidly retreating footsteps. He couldn't remember exactly why, but he thought that was a good thing.
The dragon stayed with him only a moment before her ears flew back and she perked up. She sniffed the air, ears twisting to pick up whatever noise had caught her attention. Even Leon could hear it now. The rustling of bushes and the sound of muffled voices approaching.
The skittish dragon flinched, scrambling away in a flash of wings and tail. She retreated unceremoniously into the dusky sky, throwing Leon to the wolves.
His vision swam with black, and his mind soared. Numbly, his fingers dug into the fabric of his tunic to find it wet and sticky.
"Not now..."
Leon blinked heavily, locating the satchel only a few paces from him, and his sword a few paces from that. But he couldn't move. He could only sit there and fight unconsciousness as blood pooled around his sticky fingers.
Something moved in his line of sight: beat-up boots, the ends of long, worn cloaks dragging across the grass. It managed to snap him out of his daze long enough to snarl out a warning. "Stop! Get away!"
Leon struggled ineffectually, agony splitting up his side and leaving him cold and shaky.
Someone leaned over and retrieved the satchel, peeking under the flap to examine its contents. Another figure approached him calmly. Leon hissed and spat like a feral cat, hand tightening into a fist in want of his sword.
"You fought valiantly, Leon," said a comforting voice. "You can stand down now."
He knelt at Leon's side: a man with wild gray hair, unkempt stubble, and eccentric clothing all askew. His slight stature was swallowed by a long, distinctive cloak. He smiled warmly down at him. Iseldir. Leon was overwhelmed with relief at the familiar sight.
The druids had found him, and they were going to save him. Just like before.
Without really realizing it, Leon slipped away.