* LOYAL / BOUND.

                              “——But you do know something,” he insists in a tone subdued but firm. Politics is merely a game of risk, played only by those intelligent and cunning enough to navigate through the courts with a careful precision. A game with intricate ( and more often than not, twisted ) rules Merlin has had no choice but to learn rather quickly. A game Leon has been playing for much longer. “You would tell me if it was serious, wouldn’t you?”

EYES  SOFTENED  just  a  touch  &  a  little  breath  smoothed  over  his  lips.   ❛   it’s  not  for  me  to  say,   ❜   come  the  words  again.  an  answer,  as  best  as  he  could  give  honestly.  some  things  were  best  kept  close  to  his  chest,  hand  hidden  from  view.  it  was  easier  to  move  in  the  shadows.  &  then               a  change  of  direction.   ❛   this  kingdom  has  many  defenses  in  place.  we’re  the  unfortunate  ones  who  are  first  in  line.   ❜

FOR ALL  that arthur prefers the simplicity of military pursuits,  he knows that court and politics and all they entail are inescapable.   leon’s better at it than him ;  better at holding his tongue and better at taking a distant view of all the intrigue that finds its way to camelot’s doorstep.   more often than not,  arthur finds himself helplessly embroiled in it himself  —  either as a result of his own foolish impulsivity,  or because whoever’s started it this time has taken particular interest in him.   he fixes leon with a skeptical stare  —  he might be better than arthur at keeping out of such affairs,  but arthur’s sure that leon always knows more than he lets on.   even if leon can’t always tell him what he knows.   ( arthur understands that,  too ;  they all have their duties,  after all. ) 

              ❛   d’you know——  i’m not sure i  believe  that.   ❜   there’s no bite to the accusation, though.   whatever leon may know,  he clearly does regret that he can’t pass it along to arthur.   so there’s that,  at least.    ❛   but if you  really  can’t say———   ❜

IT  WAS  rather  isolating  at  times.  even  if  he  was  a  knight,  he  found  himself  at  the  king’s  right  hand  more  than  once  &  while  it  had  never  been  made  official,  everyone  in  camelot  knew  (  *  &  oh, there  were  days  when  he’d  glance  outside  the  window  &  linger  on  the  other  men  dressed  in  pendragon  red  ).  he’d  never  asked  to  be  placed  in  this  position.  he  just  happened  to  be  very  good  at  what  he  did.  he  could  keep  his  head,  could  pick  apart  the  subtle  meanings  &  messages  being  broadcasted  with  every  word  spoken  &  gesture  made.  uther  once  said  it  was  better  to  have  a  snake  in  the  shadows  than  to  have  one  in  the  grass.  (  *  leon’s  lips  can’t  help  but  twist  at  the  thought.  )

     his name is percival – he can hear lamorak’s caustic voice biting through the otherwise banal sounds of this gathering ( percival has cast his gaze to the floor, near refusing to look up unless he is required ). but a sharp elbow to the side has his head jerking upright, his gaze locking with that of an older man, who wears the sigil of camelot. eye contact is fleeting - percival’s head turns slowly to the right until he’s staring at a bit of crumbling brick, mouth absent of any form of smile. ‘as  my brother said, i am percival. prince of the isles and champion of the northern lands.’ his brute strength has been good for something. // @firstknighted

TAKE  CARE  of  the  princes                uther  had  told  him  with  no  small  amount  of  gravity.  it  was  ...  certainly  going  to  be  a  task.  leon  himself  was  not  unfamiliar  with  the  isles  up  north,  but  he  admitted  that  it  often  fell  from  his  notice  &  attention.  leon  bowed  respectfully,  head  tipping  towards  each  respective  prince.

HEADCANONS ╱ accepting.@etfuturus

one.

leon  never  really  thought  much  of  the  prince,  at  first.  he  was  taught  to  keep  his  head  down  &  do  as  he  was  told.  that  he  was  just  a  nameless  face  among  hundreds  of  other  knights  whose  only  duty  was  the  serve,  to  obey  &  to  die.  arthur  changed  that.  arthur  was  pretty  much  shoved  over  to  leon,  one  of  the  young  squires  who  had  built  a  reputation  for  being  an  infinite  well  of  patience.  leon,  barely  fourteen  summers  suddenly  finding  himself  with  a  small  child,  the  prince  no  less,  in  his  care  because  none  of  the  other  knights  can  handle  this  bundle  of  questions  &  hyperactivity.  arthur  was  pretty  much  leon’s  first  real  friend.  leon  was  that  kid  who  excelled  at  everything  &  was  always  being  heaped  upon  with  praise  from  the  masters  &  tutors.  no  one  wanted  to  talk  to  leon,  but  arthur  did.

two.

leon  acts  as  an  adviser  first  &  foremost.  he’s  always  honest  with  his  thoughts,  never  sugarcoating  his  opinions  &  unafraid  to  call  arthur  out  on  his  less  than  clever  plans.  it’s  actually  quite  a  good  show  of  faith  because  leon  would  never  be  as  cavalier  as  he  is  with  uther.  him  being  forthright  is  one  of  the  highest  honours  leon  can  ever  bestow  upon  a  person.  still                leon  would  follow  arthur  anywhere.  he’d  make  arthur  justify  his  decision,  but  even  without  that,  he’d  still  believe  in  him.  leon  just  has  so  much  faith  &  trust  in  arthur.  some  might  call  in  blind,  but  it’s  never  been  that.  leon’s  seen  arthur  grow  from  a  boy  into  a  man.  he  knows  how  arthur’s  mind  words.  he’s  seen  how  he’s  evolved.  he  knows  arthur  so  thoroughly  &  knowing  him,  he’d  gladly  ride  into  the  mouth  of  hell.

three.

oh,  you  better  bet  leon  has  an  entire  compendium  of  stories  from  where  arthur  would  come  to  him  in  private  &  effectively  ask  leon  to  bail  him  out  after  he  fucked  up  in  some  manner  or  another.  &  you  can  bet  that  leon  has  just  poignantly  closed  the  door  in  arthur’s  face  more  than  a  few  times  because  he’s  a  knight  of  the  realm,  not  arthur’s  personal  damage  control.  some  mistakes  the  prince  must  make  for  himself.

four.

CONCERN ╱ accepting.@opusregina

IT  WAS  only  her  voice  that  made  her  stop.  some  moments  later,  the  words  filtered  through  the  cotton  weave  collapsing  in  his  mind,  sticking  until  he  could  finally  make  sense  of  what  she  was  saying.  leon  blinked,  seemingly  surprised  at  the  news.  his  hand  touched  the  side  of  his  head,  eyes  glancing  at  the  dry  glove  that  pulled  away.  the  other  side,  she  said  &  he  dutifully  pressed  his  fingers  there.  he  heard  the  thin  squelch  &  felt  the  soft  slide  of  leather  ‘gainst  the  trickle  of  blood.

a  faint  memory:  a  very,  very  angry  warrior  with  more  fur  than  skin  &  bone  for  claws  wedged  between  a  rock  &  a  semi  -  circle  of  armoured  knights.  he  remembered  him  tearing  deeply  into  pale  flesh  with  thrashing  limbs  &  tensile  wire  tendons.  the  warrior  pummeled  into  them  all  &  a  rippling  snarl  echoed  in  his  head.

it  slipped  away.  he  felt  like  he  was  walking  in  thick  wades  of  mud,  boats  slick  &  desperately  scrabbling  for  purchase  with  every  step.  idly,  he  was  aware  of  his  torn  cloak.  the  fabric  had  caught  on  a  wayward  branch  &  his  clumsy  fingers  fumbled  with  it  before  sir  kay  freed  him.  kay  fell  years  ago  &  leon  remembered  seeing  him  fall.  (  *  his  head  swam,  colours  bleeding  into  sepia  &  apathetic  stone  grey.  )

           ❛   oh,  ❜   he  murmured,  voice  soft  &  pallid.  cerulean  eyes  blinked  again  a  few  times,  staring  with  a  strange  fascination  at  the  scarlet  smear  across  his  fingertips. he  had  become  so  used  to  injuries,  over  his  years  of  service.  it  was  easy  to  push  past  meaningless  flesh  wounds  &  even  easier  to  give  into  that  twanging  -  energy  that  prickled  much  stronger  than  pain.  he’d  walked  off  worse  &  let  even  more  terrible  wounds  fester  until  it  was  almost  too  late.  such  …   sensations  were  distant  on  his  skin.  they  felt  faraway,  as  if  they  existed  on  his  person  but  just  a  little  to  the  left.  somewhere  along  the  line,  the  blossoming  &  piercing  sorts  of  pain  just  blurred  in  normality.  which,  he  supposed,  wasn’t  an  entirely  good  development.  he  touched  the  wound,  feeling  the  sticky  wells  of  blood  in  the  claw  -  gouges  ranked  deep  into  his  head.  gaius  might  have  said  something  about  how  blows  to  the  head  often  bled  more.  

❝i haven’t done anything yet.❞ her voice is hoarse, more a whisper than anything else.  something about trauma to the vocal cords; that’s what they’d told her.  her torso still aches, too, from the ribs still healing.  her concussion is all but gone, only headaches remaining as a reminder.  her arm’s still in a cast, but that’ll be gone in just over a month.  apparently her wrist’s healing quite nicely.  ❝arthur offered to help, but i didn’t - i couldn’t accept that.  not for this.❞ gwen shakes her head, tugs on a stray strand of hair.  ❝i still can’t get in touch with elyan, either.❞ // @firstknighted & sc.

KIND  EYES  avert  his  gaze,  allowing  her  some  modicum  of  privacy  as  he  shuffles  around  her  kitchen,  pulling  together  some  ingredients.  he  allows  her  time  to  decompress,  to  sit  down  &  simply  be  without  scrutiny,  despite  his  presence  being  impossible  to  ignore.

     ‘yeah – but gwaine always looks a bit bored whenever he’s stuck at the table. you know he’d always rather be on the move.’

what a simple question; a simple question, with no conceivable answer.  gwen needs everything, and nothing.  more than anything she wants elyan here - wants her brother, wants to speak with him and shake him and scream at him for not being here.  she doesn’t want to tell leon; sweet, humble leon that she’s known for as long as she can remember.  she doesn’t want to tell him about her father - their father - and the tears still threatening to choke her convince her that she might not be able to regardless.  but he tilts her chin up and she steels herself, bites back childlike gasps for air until she can form words.

❝i just want to go home.❞ as though that might whispered plea might solve everything.  except the home she yearns for no longer exists.  the home of warmth and light, where food was carefully rationed to ensure enough for herself and her father; where she would wake up to the sounds of him preparing for work.  that home no longer exists, and it can never exist again, and gwen’s not sure how to put all those thoughts in to words.  she’s tired of waking up alone and cold, to a quiet empty house.  

it’s then that she pulls away from him, out of comforting hands until she’s standing on her own, hands at her sides, twisted into her dress.  ❝leon, i’m sorry.  father - father was being held in the dungeons for conspiring with a sorcerer.❞ her voice has gone almost clinical, as though recounting events that happened a thousand miles aways.  ❝he tried to escape and -❞ she breaks off there, looking anywhere but at him, and though no more tears come, her breath shudders in the air.  ❝i’m so sorry.  i thought you knew.❞

LOSS  IS  no  unfamiliar  emotion  in  his  heart.  he  aches  at  the  sudden  hollowness  that  bleeds  inside  his  chest.  somehow,  it  is  even  worse  than  most  of  the  others  before.  such  a  ferocious  absence  in  his  heart               warmth  that  once  dwelled  now  gone  as  the  man  he  might  have  called  father  no  longer  inhabits  it.  his  mind  is  already  spinning  with  the  wash  of  details  &  facts  of  an  event  he  should  have  known  about.  he  falters  for  a  second,  hands  chasing  after  her  own  (  *  ignores  the  bristle  of  discomfort  /  he  is  reaching  his  limit  of  how  much  contact  he  can    tolerate  )  &  pulling  them  once  more  into  his.  his  hands  are  larger  than  hers,  rough  &  calloused  but  in  different  places.  his  hands               soldier’s  hands,  knight’s  hands,  a  tougher  &  more  scarred  cousin  of  the  small  palms  that  once  cradled  hers  in  more  innocent  times.

     ‘you do not need to.’ but he has not sent leon away before – he won’t exactly begin such a tradition now. his wrists are still bruised and chaffed from his bondage to the tree - it doesn’t help that his fingers keep encircling his skin, rubbing at already raw skin until the wounds re-alight themselves. pain, it would seem, is a better salve for grief than anything else. the ache in the soles of his feet, the crook in his spine and twinge in his neck – distractions he holds onto more fiercely than anything else. a hard swallow before percival attempts to change the subject. ‘gwen – i have not had the chance to see her.’ he can’t be blamed ( percy found himself holding gwaine’s body in his arms in one heartbeat, before being clad in an unstained robe by a specter eyed servant before he was rushed into the coronation ). ‘she – she still breathes?’

A  LONG  time  ago,  he  had  resolved  to  no  longer  torment  himself.  it  was  easy  to  get  caught  up  in  speculations,  drowning  in  endless  questions  &  repetitions  of  scenarios.  he’d  seen  many  a  men  rot  away  in  guilt  &  sorrow  as  their  minds  replayed  the  same  demons  that  would  eventually  take  him.  he  had  enough  conviction  inside  him  to  keep  himself  standing.  enough  will  to  pull  away  from  the  edge  &  the  what  ifs  that  danced  on  his  nerves.