CHAPTER TEN

Taste, Part III: The Cup of Life (Sir Leon)

Does life tastes sweeter when it's your second chance at it?

He didn't really remember much from that night the Druids brought him back to life. Which no one could blame him for, as he was at least half dead at the time. One thing he did recall, though, was the taste of the water from the shining goblet they called the Cup of Life: cool and light, yet somehow sweet with the sweetness of spring, of rebirth, of the season's first fruits, of one's first kiss. For whatever reason, since that strange, magical revival, everything he ate or drank had a mysterious savor – the wine crisper and more intoxicating, the bread richer tasting and somehow heartier.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth, though, when he was dragged before Morgana, queen and usurper. Why, he asked himself, astonished, was she doing this? Uther's cherished ward, loved by the king beyond anybody in the kingdom, with the possible exception of his son. Once so warm-hearted towards those below her station, kind to servants, generous to the townspeople. Caring. So beautiful, eminently desirable; he himself had always admired her, even harbored a secret, um, passion for her. Many nights, alone on his narrow pallet, he had even fantasized…his imagination running wild, his hand supplying added stimulus. He, the most disciplined of the prince's knights. It was…oh well, it was better not to think about it.

This cold woman, seated on Uther's throne, demanding the allegiance of Camelot's knights, was a stranger to him. She had thrown the king into the dungeon, sent a party of that witch Morgause's soldiers to the forest to hunt Prince Arthur down, like a stag. Why so much hatred? Because Uther had never told her he was her father? (It had come as a shock to Leon, too, but royal bastards were hardly a rarity in most kingdoms of Albion.) Because of the many executions of people gifted (or cursed) with magic? Everybody knew that Uther was almost fanatical when it came to his persecution of those unfortunate souls, and in his heart of hearts Leon believed that it blinded him to reason. But he was the king's man, and he stood by him, even though he felt him to be wrong about such things. He knew that Arthur, when he took the throne, would be fair in his judgment of accused sorcerers. He had been raised to fear magic, but this fear would not make him unreasonable or cruel, as it had his father. As for Leon himself, he had become less wary of sorcery since his rescue by the Druids, who (even knowing him for a knight of Camelot) had treated him with kindness and saved him from the grave.

Morgana had ordered him taken away, the salt taste of his own blood on his lips.

His imprisonment had tasted of ashes, and so the bread Guinevere had brought to him in his cell had seemed miraculously delicious, deprived as he had been of food. How sweet she was, as sweet as the honey she had surreptitiously spread on the rough slices. They had grown up together, so to speak, her mother having been a servant in his father's household. He remembered the time in his childhood, when his father had whipped him for disobedience, and little Gwen had come across him afterwards in the garden, and had put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. It was easy to understand why the prince was fond of her, if rumors were to be believed.

Then they were running through the forest, and he was dressed in a woman's gown, for pity's sake, and it was so bloody embarrassing that he didn't know what to think. He could almost taste the embarrassment, and was relieved beyond measure when they stopped so he could change his clothing. It was a relief, too, to find that Arthur was safe and well, in hiding with Gaius, his servant, Merlin, and that irrepressible fellow Gwaine. When they were joined by Lancelot – a man whose fighting skills Leon could honestly appreciate – his stalwart-looking friend Percival, and Gwen's brother, Elian, the meager meal they shared in the old, deserted fortress tasted of hope.

Then Arthur knighted Lancelot, Gwaine, and Elian. (Not Merlin, though. No surprise there. The lad was loyal to the core, and clever, in spite of his lowly station, but not particularly stellar when it came to handling a sword, or any other kind of weapon for that matter.)

Leon had never admired anybody the way he admired his golden-haired prince, and his decision to make knights of those three young men – whether Uther would approve of it or not (and he probably wouldn't) – made him look up to Arthur all the more. Gaius was smiling approvingly as well, Gwen was glowing, and young Merlin was looking at the prince with wide, shining eyes.

The next day they prepared for battle with grim haste. Leon finished arming himself before the new knights were more than halfway into their chain mail, and went to get his orders from Arthur. It took a while to find him – the old fortress was dark, the arrangement of chambers and hallways unfamiliar – but he heard Arthur's voice, with that unmistakable ring of command, and followed the sound.

The prince was standing in a window embrasure in a dimly lit hall, his fair head gilded by the single shaft of sunlight, and Merlin was fastening his hauberk, then handing him his gauntlets. Before he put them on, Arthur spoke, too quietly for Leon to make out the words, and put one hand on Merlin's hollow cheek. The young man raised his eyes, solemnly, and they leaned forward and kissed.

Oh!

It wasn't exactly a passionate kiss – this hardly being the time and place for such things – but there was a sweetness and tenderness to their embrace that Leon could sense even from his discreet distance. Arthur put his other hand into Merlin's dark hair and the boy (no, one really couldn't call him a boy any longer) murmured against his mouth and slid his own arms round Arthur's mail-clad waist. Leon backed away silently, thanking whatever gods there were that he hadn't been seen, and not knowing whether to be shocked, or horrified, or glad, to see that the prince had a love of such depth in his life.

And when it was all over, the battle for Camelot, the seemingly immortal enemy soldiers vanquished, Morgause mysteriously destroyed (the gods only knew how), and the taste of victory and mead in his mouth, Leon had seen the prince and Merlin sitting, tired but smiling, on the steps below the castle's main portal. There was the ease and camaraderie that he had always sensed between the two, but Leon knew, now…well, who was he to judge them? In this embattled world, any kind of affection was good. He would be happy for them. They deserved whatever happiness they could get.

Somebody (Lancelot) put another goblet of mead into his hand, and he drank a toast to their triumph over evil. His mouth formed to words, "To Camelot!" along with everyone else, but he was really toasting his own joy in living, their escape from the fate their enemies had planned for them, and the hidden feelings between Arthur and his young servant. And it seemed to him, as he drank, that the honey wine had never tasted richer, sweeter, or more envigorating.