#leonbbc

[whiteboicuckie]

How many loads would you drain from my balls each day as my live in sissy slut?

SIR, as a modern whiteboi sissy slut I would wake you up by sucking your BBC morning wood til you blow your cream in my sissy mouth. I would clean your superior body in the shower. Suck your BBC hard with my eager wet sissy mouth during your lunch break and be ready in the evening when you whistle with my mouth or lubed up boi pussy. 3 or 4 load per day is what I would hope for SIR LeomBBC

[rubiedmoon]

Not A Pawn

The rain in Camelot always seemed to carry a specific kind of weight. It wasn't just water falling from the sky; it was a gray, relentless sheet that turned the training grounds into a sludge of mud and misery, soaking through cloak, tunic, and mail until the cold settled deep in your marrow. 

I stood under the archway of the armory, watching the recruits run drills. They were slipping, sliding, shouting over the roar of the downpour. And in the thick of it, as she so often was, was YN. 

She wasn’t a knight—tradition and Uther’s laws held firm on that account—but she was a fixture in the citadel that few dared to question. She fought with a ferocity that rivaled Gwaine’s on his best days and possessed a tactical mind that Arthur had quietly come to rely on. But looking at her now, trudging through the ankle-deep muck, parrying a blow from a heavy-handed new recruit, she looked less like a warrior and more like a candle burned down to the wick. 

I frowned, crossing my arms over my chest. I knew that posture; I knew the slight delay in her recovery after a swing. She was favoring her left side. She hadn't slept properly in three days—not since the beast sightings near the Darkling Woods had put the citadel on high alert. 

"She’s going to drop," I muttered to myself. 

Gwaine, who had been leaning against a crate of apples and tossing one into the air, caught it with a snap of his wrist. "She’s stubborn, Leon. You know that better than anyone. If you tell her to stop, she’ll just train harder to spite you." 

"It’s not about spite," I said, though I knew he was partially right. "It’s about endurance. We have a patrol scheduled for dawn. The Northern Borders. If she goes out in this state, she’ll be a liability." 

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "Careful. If she hears you call her a liability, you’ll be the one favoring your ribs." 

I didn't smile. I couldn't. The bond I shared with YN wasn't like the one I shared with the other knights. With Arthur, it was duty and destiny; with Elyan, it was camaraderie; with Gwaine, it was usually damage control. But with YN, it was something quieter. It was a grounding force. We were the sensible ones. The ones who cleaned up the mess after the magic settled and the heroes had their glory. I looked out for her, and she, in her own sharp-tongued way, looked out for me. 

But right now, looking at the gray pallor of her skin through the rain, I felt a surge of protective instinct that overrode my better judgment. 

I waited until the drill was called to a halt. As the recruits groaned and limped toward the barracks, YN remained, wiping mud from her blade with a rag that was equally dirty. She was breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm that was too jagged. 

I didn't approach her then. If I did, Gwaine was right—she would bristle. Instead, I turned on my heel and headed for the Council Chambers. 

The decision had felt simple at the time. Rational, even. 

Arthur was poring over a map of the outlying villages, tracing the route for the dawn patrol. The Northern Borders were rugged terrain, full of rocky inclines and prone to bandits this time of year. It was a ride that rattled the teeth and bruised the bones. 

"I've got the roster here," Arthur said without looking up. "I’m taking Merlin, obviously. Gwaine, Percival, and YN. She knows the terrain better than Percival." 

I stepped forward, the lie forming on my tongue with practiced ease. It wasn't a malicious lie; it was a white lie, a shield raised to deflect a blow. 

"Sire," I said, keeping my voice even. "I spoke with YN earlier." 

Arthur looked up, quill hovering over the parchment. "Oh?" 

"She mentioned… a previous injury flaring up. The shoulder she took a hit to last month." I clasped my hands behind my back, the very picture of the First Knight: reliable, honest Leon. "She wouldn't say it to you, of course. She’s too proud. But I believe the Northern ride might put her out of commission for weeks if she pushes it now." 

Arthur frowned, concern immediately softening his features. "She didn't say anything during the briefing." 

"She wouldn't," I reiterated. "But I saw her struggling in the yard. It might be best to swap her out. Give her two days of light duty in the citadel to recover." 

Arthur sighed, scratching his jaw. "Right. Well, we can’t have her incapacitated. Who do you suggest?" 

"I’ll take her place," I offered immediately. "And perhaps put Elyan on the perimeter watch." 

Arthur nodded, crossing out a name on his list. "Done. Tell her to rest. That’s an order." 

"Yes, Sire." 

Walking out of the chambers, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had solved the problem. YN would get the rest she desperately needed, she wouldn't have to admit weakness to Arthur, and I would take the burden of the freezing rain and the rocky terrain. It was a sound tactical maneuver. 

I didn't realize until much later that in maneuvering the pieces, I had forgotten that YN wasn't a pawn to be moved for her own safety. She was a queen, and she did not take kindly to being removed from the board. 

The fallout didn't happen immediately. The rest of the afternoon passed in a quiet lull. I spent my time overseeing the preparation of the horses and checking the inventory for the patrol. I avoided the mess hall, grabbing a hunk of bread and cheese from the kitchens, assuming YN was likely sleeping off her exhaustion. 

It wasn't until the evening bells rang, signaling the end of the working day, that the atmosphere shifted. 

I was in the armory again, this time alone. The rain had stopped, but the air remained damp and heavy. The torches flickered against the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows across the racks of spears and swords. I was tightening the straps on my gauntlets, ensuring everything was ready for dawn, when the heavy oak door creaked open. 

I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The footsteps were light but deliberate—the stride of someone who walked with purpose. 

"Leon." 

Her voice was low, devoid of its usual warmth. It wasn't a greeting; it was a summons. 

I turned slowly, setting the gauntlet down on the bench. YN stood in the doorway, still in her training leathers, though she had cleaned off the mud. Her hair was damp, plastered to her forehead, and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. But it was her eyes that pinned me in place. They were dark, flashing with a mixture of hurt and cold fury. 

"YN," I said, offering a small, tentative smile. "You should be resting. Arthur said—" 

"I know what Arthur said," she cut in, her voice sharp as a whip crack. She stepped into the room, the door thumping shut behind her. "I just came from the physician’s quarters. I ran into Merlin. He asked me how my shoulder was." 

My stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. "Ah." 

"Yes. 'Ah,'" she mimicked, her expression unyielding. "Imagine my surprise, Leon. Especially considering my shoulder is perfectly fine. In fact, I haven't injured my shoulder in six months." 

I sighed, shifting my weight. "I know. I… I improvised." 

"You lied," she corrected, taking another step closer. "You lied to the King. You told him I was unfit for duty." 

"I told him you needed rest," I argued, my own defensiveness rising. I had done this for her. Why couldn't she see that? "I watched you in the yard today, YN. You were lagging. You were exhausted. If you had gone out on that patrol tomorrow, in this weather, against bandits..." 

"That is my call to make!" Her voice echoed off the stone walls, loud enough to make the torchlight tremble. "Not yours. You don't get to decide what I can and cannot handle." 

"Someone had to!" I snapped back, the frustration of the day bubbling over. "You never stop. You run yourself into the ground until you collapse, and then you get up and do it again. You think because you don't wear the crest that you have to prove yourself twice as hard every single day. I see it, YN. Everyone sees it." 

She flinched, just slightly, as if I had struck her. The anger didn't leave her eyes, but it was joined by something more fragile—humiliation. 

"So you decided to speak for me?" she asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You decided to go behind my back and tell Arthur that I am weak?" 

"I didn't say you were weak," I pleaded, stepping toward her. "I said you were injured. It’s different." 

"To a knight, maybe. To me? It’s the same thing." She backed away, refusing to let me close the distance. "I have fought tooth and nail to be in those briefings, Leon. I have bled more than half the men in this castle to earn my spot on that roster. And you just... erased it. With one conversation." 

"I was trying to help," I insisted, spreading my hands. "I was trying to protect you." 

"I don't need a protector, Leon!" she shouted, the raw emotion cracking her voice. "I need a partner. I need a friend who respects me enough to tell me to my face if he thinks I’m screwing up. I don't need a handler." 

She stared at me for a long moment, her chest heaving. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I wanted to reach out, to grab her shoulder and shake some sense into her, to make her understand that I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her hurt. But the look on her face stopped me cold. It was a look of betrayal. 

"You took my voice," she said softly. "That’s what you did. You didn't take my burden. You took my voice." 

She turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the flickering torchlight with my polished armor and my good intentions. 

I didn't sleep that night. I sat by the window in my chambers, watching the moon struggle to break through the storm clouds. The castle was quiet, save for the changing of the guards, but my mind was a chaotic storm of regret and self-justification. 

I had been right about her exhaustion. I knew I was. Physically, she needed the break. But logically being right felt remarkably hollow when set against the look in her eyes. 

I had treated her like a child. Like a damsel. Two things she had spent her entire life proving she was not. 

The dawn patrol was grueling, just as I had predicted. The mud was slick, the wind was biting, and the bandits we encountered near the ridge were desperate and vicious. We handled them, of course. I fought with a mechanical precision, my mind elsewhere. Every time I deflected a blow, I imagined YN there, how she would have ducked under the swing, how she would have made a joke about the bandit’s poor hygiene. 

Her absence was a physical weight in the formation. 

When we returned to Camelot three days later, battered and soaked, the first thing I looked for was her. She wasn't in the courtyard to greet us. She wasn't in the stables. 

I found her that evening on the battlements. 

The sky had finally cleared, leaving a wash of vibrant purple and orange across the horizon. She was sitting on the stone ledge, legs dangling over the side—a habit that always gave me vertigo, though she claimed it helped her think. She was whittling a piece of wood, the shavings falling into the abyss below. 

I hesitated at the top of the stairs. My armor felt heavy, encrusted with three days of grime. I probably smelled like wet horse and old sweat. 

"I can hear you breathing, Leon," she said without turning around. 

I exhaled, a small cloud of mist forming in the chill air. I walked over and sat down next to her, though I kept my feet firmly planted on the walkway side of the wall. I wasn't as fond of heights as she was. 

We sat in silence for a long time. The only sound was the scrape of her knife against the wood. 

"The patrol went well," I said eventually. It was a weak opening. 

"I heard," she replied. "Merlin told me you took a mace to the shield. Said it nearly took your arm off." 

I rubbed my left arm subconsciously. It was bruised, stiff, and aching. "Merlin exaggerates. It was a glancing blow." 

"Still." She paused, blowing a wood shaving off her thumb. "Could have been me." 

"It could have," I agreed. "But you’re faster than I am. You probably would have dodged it." 

She stopped whittling. She turned her head slowly to look at me. Her eyes were no longer furious, just tired. "Is that an admission that I’m a better fighter than the First Knight of Camelot?" 

"Let’s not get carried away," I said, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "I said faster. Not better." 

She snorted, a sound that broke the tension just enough for me to breathe again. She went back to the wood, carving a long, thin curve. 

"I'm sorry," I said. The words felt inadequate, but they were necessary. 

She didn't respond immediately. She focused on the knife, her movements precise. "For what, specifically? Being an overbearing mother hen? Or lying to the King?" 

"Both," I said. "But mostly for not coming to you first." 

I leaned back against the stone merlon, looking up at the darkening sky. 

"I thought I was making things easier," I admitted, the words tasting like ash. "I looked at you, and I saw my friend hurting. I saw you pushing yourself past the breaking point, and I just wanted to… fix it. I wanted to give you a moment to breathe without you having to fight for it." 

"I know," she said quietly. 

"I didn't think about the politics of it," I continued, needing her to understand the root of it. "I didn't think about how it looked to Arthur or the others. I just thought… if I can carry this for her, I should. That’s what we do, isn't it? We carry the shield for each other." 

YN stopped whittling. She set the wood and the knife down on the stone beside her. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. 

"The thing is, Leon," she said, her voice soft, carried away by the wind. "When you carry the shield for me without asking, you’re not just taking the weight. You’re taking the choice. You’re telling me that you don't trust me to know my own limits." 

"I trust you with my life," I said instantly. "You know that." 

"I do. On the battlefield, I know you do." She rested her chin on her knees, looking out at the horizon where the sun had just dipped below the trees. "But here? In the castle? It’s different. I have to fight for every scrap of respect I get. I’m not a noble. I’m not a man. I’m just YN. When you step in and 'handle' things, it reinforces the idea that I need handling." 

I closed my eyes, the truth of her words stinging more than the bruise on my arm. "I didn't see it that way. But I see it now." 

She nudged my shoulder with hers. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a peace treaty. 

"I was tired," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I was exhausted, Leon. If you had asked me, I might have even admitted it. Maybe. Probably not." 

I chuckled dryly. "Definitely not." 

She smiled, a real smile this time. "Okay, definitely not. But I would have grumbled about it, and then I would have gone anyway. And I would have been miserable." 

"And I would have worried the entire time," I added. 

"Exactly." She sighed, dropping her legs back over the edge of the wall. "You have a savior complex, Sir Leon. It’s your fatal flaw. You want to save everyone, even from themselves." 

"Someone has to save you from yourself," I countered gently. "You have a habit of running into fires without checking if you have water." 

"That’s why I have you," she said simply. 

The words hung in the air, warm and solid. That was it, wasn't it? The core of us. I was the shield, and she was the sword. I was the caution, and she was the spark. We didn't work because we were the same; we worked because we balanced the scales. 

I reached out and picked up the piece of wood she had been carving. It was rough, unfinished, but I could see the shape of a horse’s head emerging from the grain. 

"Next time," I said, turning the wood over in my fingers, "I’ll talk to you. If I think you’re going to drop dead from exhaustion, I will tell you to your face. And if you refuse to stand down, I will…" 

"You will what?" she challenged, raising an eyebrow. 

"I will trip you during training so you have a legitimate excuse to go to the physician," I said with a straight face. 

YN laughed, a bright, clear sound that chased away the lingering gloom of the last three days. "You wouldn't dare. That’s unknightly conduct." 

"I’m willing to bend the code for the greater good," I said solemnly. 

She shook her head, leaning back on her hands. "You’re an idiot, Leon." 

"I’m your friend, YN." 

She looked at me then, her expression softening into something deeply affectionate. There was no romance in it, no complicated tangle of unrequited feelings. It was just the profound, unshakable knowledge that we were two people who had seen the worst of the world and decided to face it standing next to each other. 

"Yeah," she said. "You are." 

She reached over and punched me lightly on my bruised arm. 

I hissed, clutching the spot. "Ow! What was that for?" 

"That," she said, picking up her knife again, "was for lying to the King. Next time you lie to Arthur, make sure it’s a better lie. 'Shoulder injury' is lazy writing." 

"I panicked," I defended. "I’m not as practiced at deception as Merlin seems to be." 

"True. You have a terrible poker face." She stood up, brushing wood shavings from her trousers. "Come on. I saved you some stew. It’s probably cold, but it’s better than whatever travel rations you’ve been eating." 

I stood up, groaning slightly as my stiff joints protested. "Stew sounds perfect." 

We walked back toward the tower door together. The tension was gone, replaced by the easy rhythm of our footsteps falling in sync. 

"Leon?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Thank you," she said, not looking at me. "For the thought. Even if the execution was terrible." 

I smiled, holding the door open for her. "I’ll work on the execution." 

"You better," she said, ducking under my arm. "Because next week is the Solstice tournament, and if you try to get me out of the melee, I will actually stab you." 

"Duly noted," I said, following her into the warmth of the castle. 

I was still tired, and my arm still throbbed, and the politics of Camelot were as complicated as ever. But as I walked beside her, listening to her complain about the quality of the fletching on the new arrows, the weight in my chest lifted. 

I hadn't made things easier, not really. But I had learned that making things easier wasn't the point. Walking through the hard things together—that was the point. And that was a lesson I wouldn't soon forget. 

[rubiedmoon]

Plausible Deniability

The rain in Camelot does not simply fall; it assaults. It is a relentless, driving force that seeks out every gap in one’s armour, every loose stitch in one’s cloak, until the cold settles deep in the marrow of your bones. 

I trudged forward, my boots sinking into the sodden earth with a squelch that had become the only rhythm of the last three hours. Behind me, the horses huffed, their breath pluming in the grey twilight, equally miserable. And beside me, wrapped in a cloak that was three sizes too big and currently weighed down by roughly four pounds of water, walked YN. 

She wasn't complaining. That was the thing about Gaius’s daughter. She had inherited her father’s stoicism, that specific eyebrow-raised endurance that suggested she knew more than you did and was simply waiting for you to catch up. 

"We should stop," I said, shouting slightly over the roar of the wind in the trees. "The ravine is flooding. If we try to cross the ridge tonight, we’ll lose a horse. Or an ankle." 

YN looked up. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, but her eyes were sharp, scanning the treeline. "There’s a overhang near the Devil’s Tooth. About half a mile east. Merlin and I… we found it once. Gathering herbs." 

I didn't ask why she and Merlin were gathering herbs near a rock formation named 'Devil’s Tooth', nor did I ask what sort of trouble they had undoubtedly found there. I had learned, over my many years serving the Pendragons, that plausible deniability was the cornerstone of a knight’s sanity. 

"Lead the way," I said, shifting my grip on the reins. "But if there are spiders, you are dealing with them." 

She offered a small, tired smirk. "Deal." 

The overhang was more of a shallow cave, dry enough to start a fire but open enough to keep watch. It wasn't the warmth of the Rising Sun tavern, but as I stripped the tack off the horses and watched YN efficiently arrange a circle of stones for a fire, I felt the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly. 

This wasn't supposed to be a survival mission. It was supposed to be a simple escort. Gaius had needed rare roots from the skirmish lines near the northern border—supplies to restock the citadel’s dwindling fever remedies—and Arthur had insisted I accompany YN to retrieve them. 

“Leon will go with her,” the King had said, clapping me on the shoulder. “He’s the only one responsible enough to make sure she doesn't accidentally wander into a bandit camp because she saw a rare fungus or whatever may catch her eye.” 

Arthur wasn't entirely wrong. 

I settled down against the cave wall, my chainmail rattling softly. I watched as YN coaxed a flame from damp tinder, her hands steady. She had surgeon’s hands, just like her father. Precise. Careful. 

"You're staring, Sir Leon," she said, not looking up from the growing flicker of light. 

"I'm keeping watch," I corrected, though I leaned my head back against the stone. "There is a difference." 

"You're wondering if we're going to get shouted at when we return a day late," she countered, finally sitting back on her heels as the fire caught, casting long, dancing shadows against the rock. 

"I am a Knight of the Round Table," I said with mock dignity. "I do not get 'shouted at'. I receive 'spirited tactical debriefings'." 

YN laughed, a bright sound that cut through the gloom. She moved to her pack, rummaging through the satchels of herbs we had spent three days collecting. She pulled out two strips of dried meat and a slightly squashed loaf of bread. 

"I have known Arthur Pendragon my entire life, Leon. He yells. Loudly." She confessed and tossed a portion to me. 

I caught it one-handed. "My gratitude, my lady." 

We ate in companionable silence for a while. It was a silence earned through years of proximity. I had known YN since she was a gangly child tripping over the hem of her skirts in the lower town, running messages for her father. I had watched her grow into a woman who could splint a broken leg under arrow fire and talk back to Gwaine without blinking. She was not a warrior in the traditional sense, but she was of Camelot. She had the steel in her spine. 

"The fever in the lower town," I said eventually, breaking the quiet. "Is it bad?" 

YN tore a piece of bread, her expression sobering. "It’s manageable. But we were running low on Grave’s Root. Without it, the fever breaks the mind before the body heals. That’s why I had to come. Father is… he’s getting older, Leon. He can’t make these treks anymore. And Merlin is glued to Arthur’s hip, if you haven’t already noticed." 

"Merlin is usually glued to Arthur’s boot, tripping him," I muttered. 

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She was staring into the fire, her fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on her knee. I recognized that look. It was the same look Merlin wore when he was trying to figure out how to explain a destroyed vase or a mysteriously unlocked dungeon cell. 

"What is it?" I asked, my voice dropping into the register I used for tactical assessments. 

"What is what?" 

"You’re tapping your knee. You only do that when you’re calculating something. Or hiding something." 

YN stopped tapping immediately. She looked at me, feigning innocence. "I'm just cold, Leon. And tired. It’s a long walk back." 

I narrowed my eyes. "YN." 

"Leon." 

"We are alone in the woods, near the border of Cenred’s old kingdom, carrying valuable medical supplies. If there is something I need to know, tell me." 

She sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "It’s not… definite. It’s just a feeling. I saw tracks yesterday. Near the river crossing." 

I sat up straighter, the exhaustion vanishing instantly. "What kind of tracks?" 

"Boots. Heavy ones. But not a patrol. They were dragging their feet, like they were exhausted, or…" 

"Or carrying something heavy," I finished for her. "Why didn't you mention this when we were at the river?" 

"Because you would have made us turn back," she said matter-of-factly. "And I needed the root, Leon. Little Tom, the baker’s son? He’s burning up. If we don’t get back with this, he won't last the week. He doesn’t deserve that nor do any of the people who have come down with the fever. I couldn't risk you engaging 'Protection Mode' and aborting the mission." 

I ran a hand down my face, groaning. "My 'Protection Mode' keeps you alive. It is a very useful mode." 

"I know," she said softly. "And I appreciate it. But I took a calculated risk. The tracks were old. At least two days. I figured we could get in and out before they doubled back." 

"And now?" 

She gestured to the curtain of rain outside. "Now, we’re stationary targets. If they are out there, and if they have trackers... the rain hides our scent, but it also deafens us." 

I stood up, moving to the edge of the cave. The darkness was absolute, save for the occasional flash of lightning. I rested my hand on the hilt of my sword. 

"Get some sleep," I told her, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I’ll take the first watch. If the rain breaks, we move immediately. I don't care what time it is." 

"Leon..." 

"Sleep, YN." 

She hesitated, then nodded, wrapping her damp cloak tighter around herself. She curled up near the fire, but I noticed she kept her dagger—a small, nasty little thing Gwaine had given her—close to her hand. 

The attack didn't come during the night. It came at first light, in that deceptive grey hour when the world looks soft and harmless. 

The rain had stopped, leaving behind a dripping, misty silence. We were packing up, the horses skittish and eager to leave. I was tightening the girth on my mare when the birds suddenly stopped singing. 

I froze. 

"YN," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Mount up." 

She didn't ask questions. She threw the saddlebags over her horse’s back. But before she could get a foot in the stirrup, an arrow hissed through the air and thudded into the trunk of the tree, inches from her head. 

"Down!" I roared. 

I tackled her, sending us both into the mud behind the cover of the rocks just as a volley of arrows clattered against the stone where we had been standing. 

"Bandits?" she gasped, wiping mud from her eyes. 

"Too organized," I gritted out, drawing my sword. "Mercenaries." 

I risked a glance over the rock. Four men were emerging from the mist, clad in mismatched leather and chainmail, weapons drawn. They moved with the silent coordination of professionals. They weren't here for coin; they were here for the supplies, or perhaps for ransom. 

"We can't outrun them," I said, assessing the terrain. "Not with the horses spooked." Indeed, our mounts had bolted at the first sign of trouble, disappearing into the tree line. 

"There's a narrow pass up the ridge," YN said, pointing behind us. "Through the rocks. They can't follow us two-abreast." 

"Go," I ordered. "I'll hold the entrance." 

"Leon—" 

"Go!" 

She scrambled up the scree slope, slipping on the wet rocks. I stepped out from cover, my sword raised, placing myself between her and the advancing men. 

"Camelot acts in the name of the King!" I shouted, the standard challenge. It rarely worked, but it bought time. 

The leader, a scarred man with a war hammer, laughed. "The King is far away, Knight. And you look tired." 

He swung. I parried, the clash of steel ringing through the valley. The impact jarred my teeth. He was strong, unnaturally so. I sidestepped a thrust from a second attacker, kicking him in the knee, but a third was circling around. 

I fought with the muscle memory of a thousand sparring sessions. Block, parry, thrust, pivot. But the ground was slick, and I was outnumbered. I managed to slice the arm of the hammer-wielder, but a mace caught me in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me. 

I stumbled back, gasping. They were closing in. 

"Leon! Duck!" 

The scream came from above. 

I didn't think. I didn't look. I trusted the voice that belonged to the girl who had stitched my wounds and scolded me for not eating my vegetables. I dropped to my knees, covering my head with my shield. 

There was a shattering sound, like glass breaking against stone, followed instantly by a thump and a blinding flash of white light. 

A cloud of purple smoke exploded outward, thick and acrid. It engulfed the mercenaries instantly. 

Screams erupted—not of pain, but of confusion and violent coughing. The men were flailing, clutching their eyes and throats, stumbling over each other in the dense, unnatural fog. 

"Move! Now!" 

YN was suddenly there, grabbing the back of my cloak and hauling me up. I was coughing too, the smoke stinging my eyes, but she seemed to have a cloth pressed over her face. 

We scrambled up the rocks, away from the chaos. We didn't stop until we had crested the ridge and put a solid mile of dense forest between us and the ambush site. 

I collapsed against a tree, my lungs burning, my ribs throbbing in a way that suggested a deep bruise or a fracture. YN slid down beside me, her chest heaving. 

Silence stretched between us for a long minute, broken only by our ragged breathing. 

I wiped soot and rain from my face. I looked at her. She was covered in mud, her hair a disaster, looking utterly triumphant. 

"What," I wheezed, pointing a finger at her, "was that?" 

She grinned, though her hands were shaking slightly. "Modified sleeping draught. Concentrated Valerian, mixed with powdered sulfur and a bit of... well, something Merlin suggested might create a rapid dispersal agent." 

"You threw a sleep bomb," I stated. 

"Technically, it’s an asphyxiating irritant that induces drowsiness. But yes. A sleep bomb." 

I stared at her. I thought about the fight. I thought about the moment I was sure I was going to be overwhelmed. I thought about the glass vial she must have been carrying in her pocket the entire time. A glass vial. In a fight. While climbing rocks. 

"You had that in your pocket," I said. "Next to the bread." 

"Well, I didn't want it to break in the saddlebags." 

"YN." 

"Yes, Leon?" 

I took a deep breath, winced as my ribs protested, and looked her dead in the eye. 

"A heads up would have been nice." 

She blinked. Then, a laugh bubbled up out of her, hysterical and relieved. "I was a little busy! You were doing the whole 'noble sacrifice' routine!" 

"I was holding the line!" I argued, though I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "If I had known you had a chemical weapon in your pocket, I might have fought differently. Or perhaps just run away immediately." 

"Next time," she promised, patting my armoured shoulder. "Next time, I'll tell you before I blow up the enemy." 

"Next time," I groaned, leaning my head back against the bark, "we are bringing Percival. He can carry the explosives." 

The walk back to Camelot was grueling. Without the horses, it took us another full day. My ribs were a constant, dull fire, and YN was limping slightly from a twisted ankle she’d sustained on the ridge. 

But the mood had shifted. The tension of the unknown was gone, replaced by the grim determination of survival. 

We talked to keep our minds off the pain. We talked about everything and nothing. 

"Do you think Arthur will be angry about the horses?" she asked as we trudged through a muddy paddock about five miles from the city gates. 

"Arthur is always angry about something," I dismissed. "He’ll be relieved you have his fever root. And he’ll be relieved we aren’t dead." 

"Mostly the root, though," she mused. 

"Mostly the root," I agreed. 

I looked at her sideways. "You did well back there, YN." 

She looked down at her boots. "I was terrified. I thought... when that man hit you with the mace, I thought that was it." 

"It takes more than a mace to put me down," I said, channeling a confidence I didn't entirely feel. "But your quick thinking saved us. Gaius would be proud. Horrified that you weaponized his medicine, but proud." 

"Merlin will just be jealous he didn't get to see the purple smoke," she chuckled. 

"Let’s not tell Merlin," I suggested quickly. "If he finds out we can make explosives out of common herbs, the citadel won't be standing by Yule." 

"Agreed. Our secret." 

The sun was setting by the time the spires of Camelot came into view. To a weary traveller, there is no sight more beautiful than the white stone of the citadel turning gold in the evening light. 

We limped across the drawbridge, a sorry sight. My cape was torn, my armour dented and covered in soot. YN looked as though she had rolled down a hill, which she technically had. 

The guards at the gate stiffened as we approached, then relaxed as they recognized us. 

"Sir Leon! My Lady!" one called out. "We were expecting you yesterday!" 

"Scenic detour," I grunted, waving them down. 

We made it into the courtyard just as Arthur and Merlin were descending the main steps. They stopped dead. 

Arthur’s eyes widened. He took in my limp, the soot, the missing horses, and YN’s dishevelled state. 

"Leon?" Arthur asked, his voice pitching up slightly. "What happened? Where are the horses?" 

I opened my mouth to give a formal report—to speak of mercenaries, tactical retreats, and the preservation of the King’s supplies. 

But YN beat me to it. She hefted the satchel of herbs, holding it up like a trophy. 

"We got the roots, Sire," she announced cheerfully. "And Leon got into a fistfight with a war hammer." 

Arthur looked at me, horror and amusement warring on his face. "You... what?" 

"It was a tactical engagement," I said stiffly. 

Merlin, however, was sniffing the air. He stepped closer to me, wrinkling his nose. "Is that... sulfur? And Valerian?" He looked at YN, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Why do you two smell like you exploded a sleeping potion?" 

I exchanged a glance with YN. A small, secret smile passed between us. 

"We encountered some resistance," I said smoothly. "YN handled it." 

"Handled it?" Arthur asked, looking between us. "How?" 

I placed a hand on YN’s shoulder, squeezing gently. It was a gesture of thanks, of pride, and of a bond forged in the mud and rain. 

"Let's just say," I replied, "that she believes in the element of surprise. Even for her allies." 

YN beamed. "I'm very effective." 

"She is that," I agreed, steering her toward the physician’s chambers. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, Sire. I need Gaius to look at my ribs, and YN needs to deliver these roots before she decides to blow anything else up." 

"Wait," Arthur called out as we walked away. "I want a full report!" 

"Tomorrow!" I called back, not stopping. 

As we reached the dark oak door of the physician's quarters, I paused. The familiar scent of dried herbs and old parchment wafted out, promising safety and rest. 

"YN," I said quietly. 

She stopped, hand on the latch. "Yeah?" 

"Next time we go on patrol..." 

"Yeah?" 

"I'm checking your pockets before we leave." 

She grinned, pushing the door open. "You can try, Sir Leon. You can certainly try." 

I followed her inside, shaking my head. The chaos of Camelot never ended, and the people I protected were frequently the cause of my grey hairs. But as YN embraced her father, safe and sound, and I sank into a chair to finally rest my aching bones, I knew I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Though, truly, a heads up really would have been nice. 

[rubiedmoon]

Put Back Together

The stone corridors of Camelot were never truly silent, even in the deepest trenches of the night. There was always the distant echo of a sentry’s boot against flagstone, the whistle of wind through the arrow slits, or the settling of the ancient masonry. But tonight, the silence outside the physician’s chambers was heavy, a suffocating blanket woven from anxiety and the smell of wet iron. 

Sir Leon stood with his back pressed against the rough-hewn wall, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak door that separated him from the chaos inside. He was still in his armor, though he had discarded his sodden red cloak hours ago. The chainmail weighed on his shoulders, a physical manifestation of the guilt that was currently eating him alive. 

It had been a routine patrol. It was always a routine patrol until it wasn’t. 

The door creaked open, and a sliver of candlelight spilled into the dim hallway. YN slipped out, her silhouette framed by the golden glow before the door clicked shut again. She looked exhausted. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and there were dark smudges—blood, mixed with charcoal and crushed herbs—staining her apron. 

She didn’t see him at first. She leaned back against the door, tipping her head up toward the ceiling and exhaling a long, trembling breath. She ran a hand through her hair, pulling strands loose from her braid. 

Leon pushed himself off the wall. The clatter of his scabbard against his greaves gave him away. 

YN jumped, her eyes snapping open. When she saw it was him, her shoulders dropped, though the tension didn’t fully leave her frame. 

"Leon," she breathed, her voice raspy. "I thought you went to the armory." 

"I couldn't," he admitted, his voice sounding like gravel in his own ears. He took a step closer, searching her face for a sign, a verdict. "How is he?" 

YN offered a small, tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She walked over to the stone bench opposite him and sat down heavily, patting the space beside her. Leon hesitated, then joined her, though he sat on the edge, ready to spring up at a moment's notice. 

"Gaius has stopped the bleeding," she said quietly. " The arrow missed the lung, but only just. He’s lost a lot of blood, Leon. And the fever is already setting in." 

Leon closed his eyes, his gloved hands gripping his knees so hard the leather creaked. "It was an ambush. We didn't see them until the first volley. Gwaine... he rode back. He rode back to pull Percival clear." 

"I know," YN said softly. She reached out, her hand hovering over his arm before settling gently on the cold metal of his bracer. "Percival told us while we were cleaning his cuts. He said Gwaine was laughing as he did it." 

"He's a fool," Leon muttered, though there was no heat in it, only a profound, aching affection. "A brave, reckless fool." 

"He's a knight," YN corrected. "Just like you." 

Leon shook his head, staring at the floor. "I should have seen the ridge. I should have known that terrain was perfect for archers. I’m the First Knight. It’s my duty to see what others miss." 

"You are a man, Leon, not a seer," YN said firmly. She shifted, turning her body toward him. The movement brought the scent of lavender and antiseptic alcohol to him, cutting through the metallic smell of the armor. "You got them all home. That is what matters." 

"Gwaine might not wake up." 

YN squeezed his arm. "I'm sure he'll be fine." 

The words hung in the air between them. It was a phrase spoken in infirmaries and battlefields a thousand times over, a talisman against the dark. But tonight, it felt fragile to Leon. 

He turned to look at her, really look at her. YN was not a warrior of the sword, but she fought battles in that physician's room that would break most men. She had been working in the castle for three years, assisting Gaius, and in that time, she had stitched up every knight of the Round Table at least twice. She knew the map of Leon’s scars better than he did. 

"You don't know that," Leon said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He wasn't trying to be cruel; he was just terrified of hope. "I have seen men die from less. A fever takes hold, and the strength just... leaves them." 

YN didn't recoil. Instead, she began to undo the straps of his bracer. Her fingers were deft and practiced. "I don't know it," she admitted, her eyes focused on the buckles. "But I know Gwaine. He is stubborn. He is too fond of ale and too fond of annoying Arthur and the rest of you to let an arrow best him." 

She pulled the metal guard free and set it on the bench. Then she started on the padded gambeson beneath, peeling back the layers of his defense. 

"And," she continued, her voice softer now, "I know Gaius. And I know myself. We have done everything. The wound is clean. The poultice is strong. Now, we wait. And while we wait, we do not bury him." 

Leon watched her hands. They were stained, shaking slightly from fatigue, yet they moved with such purpose. She found a bruise blooming on his forearm—a nasty purple welt where a shield had slammed into him—and hissed sympathetically. 

"You're hurt," she noted. 

"It's nothing," Leon dismissed. "Just a bruise." 

"It's not nothing." She stood up. "Stay there. I’m going to get some arnica and a cloth." 

"YN, you need rest. You’ve been on your feet for six hours." 

"And you’ve been in that armor for twelve," she countered, pointing a finger at him. "Stay." 

She disappeared back into the infirmary. Leon leaned his head back against the stone wall. The adrenaline that had sustained him since the ambush was finally draining away, leaving a hollow exhaustion in its wake. He felt old. It was a strange thing to feel at thirty, but the years in Camelot were measured in battles, not seasons. He had survived the Great Dragon, the witchfinder, the immortal army, and Morgana’s betrayal. Sometimes, he felt like he was merely enduring, waiting for the one blow he wouldn’t see coming. 

YN returned with a small jar and a basin of warm water. She knelt in front of him, ignoring his attempt to pull her up to the bench. 

"This is easier," she murmured, dipping the cloth into the water. She began to wipe the grime and dried mud from his arm. The water was warm, and the sensation was so startlingly gentle that Leon felt a lump form in his throat. 

"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly. 

YN paused, the cloth hovering over his skin. "Clean your wounds?" 

"Stay," he said. "Here. In Camelot. You could be a healer in a quiet village in the lower towns. You could have a life where you aren't waking up to bells and screaming men in the middle of the night." 

She resumed her work, applying the salve to the bruise with cool, circular motions. "I suppose I could. But the quiet villages don't have a library like the one here. They don't have Gaius to learn from." She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. "And they don't have you." 

Leon’s breath hitched. The air in the corridor seemed to shift, charging with a sudden, quiet intensity. 

"YN..." 

"I stay because I am needed," she said, her voice steady, though a faint flush rose on her cheeks. "And because... when the bells ring and the screaming starts, I want to be the one who makes sure you’re put back together." 

Leon reached out with his free hand, his fingers brushing against her cheek. Her skin was soft, a stark contrast to the calloused roughness of his palm. She leaned into the touch, just slightly, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. 

"I am not easy to put back together," Leon murmured. "There are parts of me... memories... that don't heal like skin does." 

"I know," she whispered. She covered his hand on her cheek with her own. "I see them in your eyes when you think no one is looking. You carry the weight of the fallen, Leon. You carry it with such dignity, but it is heavy." 

"I fear one day it will crush me," he confessed. It was a truth he had never spoken aloud, not even to Arthur. "I fear that I will be the last one standing, surrounded by ghosts." 

"You won't be," YN said fiercely. She turned her face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand. "Because as long as I have breath in my body, I will be standing right beside you. You are not alone, Leon. You never have to be alone." 

The wall inside him, the one he had built brick by brick to survive the losses of the past years, developed a hairline fracture. He looked at this woman—this fierce, tired, beautiful woman kneeling on the cold stone floor for him—and felt a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly knocked the wind out of him. 

He gripped her hand and gently pulled her up. She rose, her knees cracking slightly, and he made room for her between his armored legs. She stepped in, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder where the metal pauldron had been removed. 

Leon wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of herbs and rain. He held her as if she were the only solid thing in a world that was constantly shifting beneath his feet. 

"Thank you," he whispered into her hair. 

"For what?" she mumbled against his tunic. 

" For being here." 

They stayed like that for a long time, the silence of the corridor now companionable rather than oppressive. The storm outside had begun to break; the relentless hammering of the rain softening to a gentle patter. 

Suddenly, a crash echoed from inside the infirmary, followed by a loud, familiar groan. 

"Gaius! By the gods, tell me that isn't turnip stew I smell. A man comes back from the dead, he deserves at least a watered-down wine!" 

Leon froze, his head snapping up. YN pulled back, her eyes wide, but a brilliant, genuine smile broke across her face. 

"Gwaine," they said in unison. 

"I told you," YN laughed, the sound bubbling up filled with relief. She wiped a sudden tear from the corner of her eye. "I told you he'd be fine." 

Leon let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. The tension in his chest uncoiled, leaving him light-headed. "So you did." 

YN moved to head back inside, but Leon caught her hand. She turned back, questioning. 

He stood up, his joints protesting, but he ignored them. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a reverence usually reserved for royalty. 

"Go," he said softly. "Save Gaius from him. I'll... I'll be here when you're done." 

"You should sleep, Leon." 

"I will," he promised. "But I’ll wait for you first. I don't want to walk back to the barracks alone tonight." 

YN smiled, a soft, intimate expression that made Leon’s heart hammer against his ribs. "Alright. Give me ten minutes to settle him down." 

She slipped back into the room. As the door opened, Leon caught a glimpse of Gwaine trying to sit up, pale as a sheet but grinning crookedly, while Gaius looked ready to hit him with a spoon. 

The door clicked shut. 

Leon leaned back against the wall again. The exhaustion was still there, but the despair was gone. He looked at the bandage on his arm, the neat, careful work of YN’s hands. 

She had been right. And as Leon stood in the quiet corridor, listening to the muffled voices of his friends and the woman he was rapidly realizing he couldn't live without, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, they would all be fine. 

The sun was trying to break through the gray cloud cover of Camelot, casting pale, watery beams of light across the training grounds. The air was crisp, washed clean by the storm, smelling of wet earth and horse feed. 

Leon sat on a wooden crate near the stables, a mug of herbal tea in his hands. He hated the stuff—he preferred strong tea or coffee—but YN had pressed it into his hands before heading to the markets to replenish her stocks, claiming it would help with the bruising. He wasn't about to argue. 

"You look like a man who spent the night standing guard over a ghost," a voice boomed. 

Leon looked up to see Arthur striding toward him. The King looked tired as well; the circles under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night waiting for news. But his step was light. 

"Sire," Leon moved to stand, but Arthur waved him down. 

"Sit, Leon. You've earned a rest." Arthur leaned against the stable post, crossing his arms. "Gaius tells me Gwaine is demanding pork for breakfast. I assume that means he's going to live." 

"It seems so," Leon smiled into his cup. "Though Gaius might poison him if he doesn't stop complaining about the gruel." 

Arthur chuckled, but the sound faded quickly. He looked at Leon with a serious expression. "I heard you were outside the infirmary all night." 

"I couldn't leave until I knew." 

"I know," Arthur nodded. He looked out over the training grounds, where the squires were beginning their drills. "You take too much on yourself, Leon. You always have." 

"Someone has to worry about them, Arthur. You have a kingdom to run." 

"And you think that means you have to carry the safety of the knights alone?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I saw YN leaving the citadel this morning. She looked... happier than usual." 

Leon felt the heat rise up the back of his neck. He took a long sip of the terrible tea to hide his face. "She was helpful last night. She kept me sane." 

"She's a good woman," Arthur said, his tone softening. "And she's right, you know." 

Leon looked up. "About what?" 

"That you aren't alone." Arthur pushed off the post and clapped a hand on Leon's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Go get some actual sleep, Leon. That's an order. Percival and Elyan can handle the morning drills." 

"Yes, Sire." 

As Arthur walked away, heading toward the castle steps, Leon watched him go. He looked down at his arm, flexing the muscles. The ache was duller now. 

He drained the tea, grimacing at the taste, and stood up. He wasn't going to the barracks. He knew exactly where he was going. 

The lower town was bustling. Merchants were shouting their wares, carts were rattling over cobblestones, and the smell of baking bread was filling the air. Leon moved through the crowd, his red tunic marking him out, parting the sea of people. 

He found her at the apothecary’s stall, inspecting a bundle of dried rosemary. She was arguing good-naturedly with the merchant about the freshness of the stems. 

"It rained for three days, Miller, don't tell me these were sun-dried yesterday," she was saying, shaking her head. 

"YN." 

She turned, startled, and the bundle of rosemary dropped from her hand. Leon caught it before it hit the ground. 

"Leon?" She looked him over, her eyes scanning for injury out of habit. "What's wrong? Is Gwaine—" 

"Gwaine is complaining about breakfast," Leon assured her, handing the herbs back. "He's fine." 

"Then what are you doing here? Arthur will have your head if you're shirking duties." 

"Arthur ordered me to sleep," Leon said. He stepped closer, ignoring the interested look the merchant was giving them. "But I found I couldn't sleep in the barracks. It was too quiet." 

YN’s expression softened. The bustle of the market seemed to fade into the background. "And what did you have in mind, Sir Leon?" 

"I was hoping," Leon started, feeling a nervousness that no battlefield had ever induced, "that perhaps you might join me for a walk? A quiet one. Away from the castle." 

YN smiled, and it was like the sun finally breaking through the clouds. She tossed a few coins to the merchant and took the rosemary. 

"I think I can manage that," she said. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his. It was a bold move in the middle of the market, but Leon found he didn't care who saw. 

"Lead the way," she said. 

Leon squeezed her hand. "I know a place by the river. It's peaceful." 

"Peaceful sounds perfect." 

As they walked away from the noise of the market, toward the treeline where the air was cool and the world was quiet, Leon glanced at the woman beside him. He thought of Gwaine recovering in his bed, of Arthur on the throne, and of the long, uncertain road that lay ahead for Camelot. 

There would be more battles. There would be more wounds to stitch and more long nights of waiting. But as YN’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, grounding him in the present, Leon realized that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't just surviving. He was living. 

And he was sure, quite sure, that he would be fine.