ANNOUNCEMENT: I DO NOT OWN THE IMAGE I HAVE USED FOR THIS STORY. I CONSIDERED IT PERFECT, SO I JUST SNIPPED IT OUT. I DON'T OWN IT. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM. :)

Merlinian fans, forgive the intrusion! I've watched almost nothing of Merlin! I've only seen a few episodes over my sisters' shoulders! I know nothing about what I've written...but I had to write it. Because I learned Sir Leon was named after Leodegrance, father of Guinevere and original ruler of Camelot. Leon's apparent immortality, the Druids saving him. My sister told me Uther conquered Camelot, and the rest was born! Enjoy it if you can, forgive my mistakes, and please review! :)

Long Live the King

"Merlin, what's that?" Arthur asked, pointing at some random object in the room. Actually it was nothing like a question. More like an order, really, the kind you gave your horse or dog.

From where he was squatting over a crate of dusty old books, Merlin straightened slowly, rolling his eyes towards the dim, low ceiling above and giving off a long-suffering sigh of patience the prince would be sure to hear. Arthur was being literally unbearable. He'd been sick for a month now, only recently recovered enough to walk the castle grounds.

It had started with a fever, which Arthur only saw fit to reveal by collapsing at supper in front of everybody. Huge panic. Whispering courtiers giving birth to a month's worth of gossip. Everyone rushing the prince to his bedroom, Uther shouting at Gaius to cure his son immediately, Gaius trying to make the king understand it was just a simple cold, Morgana switching between her favorite masks of overjoyed gloating and deep sisterly concern.

Merlin knew better than to be concerned. It wasn't like his best friend was ill or anything. Wasn't like he'd raced up the stairs, breathless, blood pounding in his ears, tripping over things in his hurry to turn back the sheets on Arthur's bed. He was so unconcerned, in fact, that he'd done nothing but stand by and watch as the royal horror of Camelot was safely stowed into the bed he was always messing up and breaking. And no, his dark blue eyes had certainly not been intense with worry, mouth certainly not tight with a hidden empathy he dared not show, least of all to Arthur himself.

Of course, once the fever broke, there was even less cause for Merlin to care how Arthur was. Perhaps the only good thing about having the prince of Camelot as a patient was that it was easy to estimate the speed of his recovery by how hard he threw things at you…boots, sick pans, pillows, empty medicine bottles, the lot. As he got healthier his throwing arm got stronger, and as his throat cleared up his screams got a lot louder.

Merlin almost longed for those first days of peacefully taking care of a comatose prince. He wished Arthur would go comatose right now…plenty of ways to make it happen. Anyway, now that Arthur was partially recovered, he'd run out of things to do. Since he couldn't go out and cut his knights to ribbons on the training grounds, he was bored to pieces. And a bored Arthur was like a big, noisy bullmastiff with nothing to do but chew at you.

Dutifully, Merlin turned to where his master pointed. "It's a box."

"Well, aren't you a clever boy?" Arthur's replied in a friendly tone that meant, would-you-like-a-good-kick-to-the-backside? "What's inside it?"

Oh. He wanted it opened for him. How silly of Merlin.

A hidden chamber had recently been 'discovered' when Merlin was caught trying to get into it to retrieve a book for Gaius. Realizing he'd been spotted by Alwis, Arthur's old tutor, Merlin did the smart thing; pretended he'd leaned against the wall like an oaf and that it had suddenly swung inwards, spilling him to the floor. Arthur liked that explanation, especially the last part. You could tell by the smirk. So, Arthur spoke to Uther and Uther ordered the contents of the room cleaned out and burned.

And guess who was doing the cleaning-out?

Merlin bent over the chest and pulled back the dusty clasps that held down the lid. Raising it, he saw something thin and wooden, draped in cloth. It was about two feet long and a foot wide. He pulled it out, letting the covering slide off. It was a painting, done in the beautiful, realistic style of the ancient druids. The old art, when kings would pay talented sorcerers to produce works of beauty for their halls. "A portrait," he said over his shoulder, turning slightly so the torches could shed some light on it.

Arthur scuffed his feet against the floor as he stood up and went over to stand by Merlin. His broad chest and shoulders invaded Merlin's personal space with his usual, terrifying ignorance of respect. He peered at the painting, his brow furrowed. "It's the old king, Leodegrance…the one my father deposed."

Intrigued, Merlin pulled the portrait closer to his face. The colors weren't the brightest, but it was set in a well-lit room. The king stood with his hand upon his sword, the other resting on a stone figure upon a table…a lion rising, teeth bared, paws outstretched as if it was trying to claw into Leodegrance's side, held back only by the firm hand upon its head.

Leodegrance himself was tall. You could tell by comparing him to the dimensions of the room he was standing in. Merlin had stood there himself countless times…it was the throne room, twenty, maybe thirty years ago.

The king had a noble, aquiline nose and deep brown eyes. He seemed to stare at you from a great distance, as if, despite how above everyone he was both in stature and position, he could always see you, always be involved in your life as ruler, protector, or enemy. His brown curls were flattened by a golden crown, and no smile graced his strong, stern mouth.

"Hmm." Arthur said at last.

"Huh," Merlin added, shaking off the feeling that the portrait was quite alive and aware of their presence. Instead, he focused on lighter thoughts, such as who the king reminded him of, here in Camelot. "He's even skinnier than…than Sir Leon."

Arthur smiled, his fancy tickled. "No one's skinnier than Leon…" he cut himself short, as if remembering just who he was speaking to. He drew in a short, sharp breath through his nose, straightening up and stepping away from Merlin dramatically. Merlin automatically turned to look at him, to see what it was he wanted. Arthur frowned. "Mind your place, Merlin," he said pointedly, as if 'Merlin' and 'Slave' were interchangeable words that meant the same thing.

"Right then, I will!" Merlin said smartly, "I'll get back to cleaning up, and you get back to…lollygagging, gawking, making messes…all in a lordly manner, of course." He promptly dumped the portrait into Arthur's arms and walked off quickly, letting the insult hang stinging in the air. He wasn't sure whether Arthur would react with his brain and just stare after him with a dumfounded look, or react with his muscles and throw the portrait at his head.

He made it to the door in safety. When he came back a few minutes later with a wheelbarrow for the books, however, Arthur was still staring at the portrait. The prince dragged a careless finger across the old paint and muttered to himself, "The hair and the nose look a lot like him…interesting."

Not even bothering to hide his amused smile, Merlin snatched it out of his fingers and dropped it into the wheelbarrow. "Thank you, sire," he said, as if 'Sire and 'Idiot' were interchangeable words that meant the same thing.

The portrait of the tall, skinny king with the guardian lion burned in the courtyard fire along with several dozen tomes from the ancient times, both sorcery and history perishing together, with no one to care which was which.

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Journal of Marcus Telgeren, Former Steward of Camelot. Eighth Week of Summer, Year of the Burning Wood

The war was won. Camelot's white walls were blackened by fire and bruised by trebuchets, but the city was sound and strong. She could be repaired and, in time, would become a great stronghold, the seat of Uther the Conqueror.

Even now, Uther sat in the high halls upon the throne he had won, still clad in battle-mail, his face grimy with sweat and filth. His tired sword arm hung limp over the scabbard where his blade rested and his blue eyes roved over the assembly with sharp interest, dulled only by fatigue. He was holding court.

Leodegrance, former king of Camelot, died honorably in battle. He led his men from the front row until the bitter end; a flaming star of courage and hope for his knights, urging them to do the impossible and drive back the invading army. And his men loved him and listened to him and did all he asked or died trying, until Uther's sword caught Leodegrance's neck in the final combat.

Now the widow of Leodegrance, Laudine, stood before him. She bore the loss of her kingdom and her family with a courage equal to her husband's. Her long, rippling brown hair for which she was famous hung loose and wild down her back. Her blue eyes and sweet lips were wet with tears but hard and bright with defiance. Her hands pressed against her swollen belly, as if protecting the life within.

She was a young wife for Leodegrance, wedded to him in a far country and only brought to Camelot recently, with the news of her pregnancy. She had made no public appearance due to being so late with child and she had met few of the nobles, being shy of their customs and timid without her husband to introduce her, since he had gone to war against Uther's approaching army.

Now she stood before Uther and saw what a young king he really was. He wore a boyish face with a jaw of iron and eyes like lightning across blue skies. It was said he had a ladylove back in his homeland, a princess he'd vowed to wed once he procured a throne for her. It was with this rumor in mind that Laudine made her appeal.

"Hail, Uther, King of Camelot by right of the sword! Welcome to my husband's halls. Sit upon his throne, deface his crest, enjoy his wealth. Help yourself to all that once was his, but spare this…" she ran a gentle hand across her stomach, whispering to it as she did so. "Spare my child, my first and only-born. It is all I have left of my beloved king."

Uther's heart was softened by her words, and the memory of the fair Igraine who awaited news of his victory. He thought of his own child, the one that might soon grow within the woman he adored. He stood and gestured sharply with his hand. Within moments, the room was emptied of all save himself and Laudine.

He strode towards her and she faced him proudly, for she was a tall woman, as tall as most men. Leodegrance alone could look down on her from his high height. Uther's head barely overshadowed hers as he addressed her. "Laudine, once mistress of Camelot…your child is of royal blood and forfeit to me and my heirs, for we have conquered your kingdom."

"But I will spare it, on one condition. You will go into seclusion, living a solitary but secure life…have no fear, you will be provided for. But you must forget the world outside and, if your child is a maiden, you will raise her to do the same. If a boy, you will send him here to be a page in the service of the city that was once his. I will do him as much honor as it is in my power. But my condition is this," he drew his sword forth, a sliver of sharp steel. "You shall, upon this blade that took your true love's life…you will swear that the tale of who the child is and who its ancestors were will never pass your lips again."

Laudine faced the Conqueror boldly, swallowing back her fear and her hatred for the sake of her child. She promised. "So it will be." And she swore upon the blade, sealing her vow with a kiss upon the pommel.

"The day you break this oath, Lady Laudine…that is the day the House of Leodegrance is wiped off the face of the earth, forever."

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Leon checked the stirrups on his horse, pulling her in as a rabbit raced across the trail. Thankfully, the animal wasn't spooked. He patted her neck gently before pressing his heels into her side, causing her to move on with a low nicker.

He knew he shouldn't be riding alone, not this far from Camelot, not without telling anyone where he was going. But he had a lot to think about. He needed to think about what he'd always thought of, even from his earliest days of knighthood: Camelot and her future. Leon loved his city. He owed utter and complete fealty to its king, Uther, and its prince, Arthur. No responsibility that had fallen on his shoulders since he became the King's Champion wasn't welcomed and whole-heartedly embraced. He was eager to serve her in any way possible, her and her monarchs.

But her monarchs were in trouble. Uther was failing. Ever since Morgana, his own Ward…ever since she betrayed him and sunk her claws into the fair city of Camelot…he had never been the same. Uther had been a powerful man with a heart as cold and true as steel and a will stronger than iron. A hard master to serve, an easy king to obey. Few things were harder to procure and more precious than Uther's approval, Uther's trust, even respect. No one knew that better than his son, Arthur.

And now the man of iron with the heart of steel was sitting in his room, staring out the window with eyes gone foggy, as if his mind was trapped in a horrible, broken-hearted nightmare he could never escape from, couldn't even cry. He just had to sit in that chair, day after day, had to keep breathing and blinking and living as if there was something in life strong enough to keep him there. He hardly had the will to eat, to sleep, let alone the energy to talk. Leon had done his best to hold the kingdom together but he was not the king. It just didn't feel right.

Therefore Arthur had been forced to step up and become Regent. Leon had never been prouder of the Prince he'd watched grow up than when Arthur acknowledged Uther's failing health and sanity, acknowledged that something in his own father might be broken that could never be fixed. He had shouldered the great burden of Camelot but not the crown, accepting the heavy load without all the trappings of honor and prestige and glory for the simple reason that it was for Camelot's sake, not his own. The heart of a true king beat within the young man's breast and Leon, remembering the boy he had been and the man he now was, knew he would be honored to serve him until his dying breath.

Just then, however, a tree branch interrupted his thoughts.

Literally.

He heard a loud, sharp snap somewhere before him, felt the muscles in his horse's back as they jolted with fright, heard the low whistle as the now-flying branch zoomed towards him through the air. He felt the pain as it crashed into his skull, barely felt the gentle tug as his boots were torn out of the stirrups and, for a moment, he was weightless.

And then, from nowhere, the floor slammed into his face, hard. Roaring blackness drowned his senses and he fell unconscious, not even knowing what had happened.

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Leon swatted at his cloak, sending clouds of travel dust into the air before the fire. He scraped his boots on the fender and straightened out his jerkin. He was well aware that no amount of primping would change the kind of man Uther believed him to be, but that it was a gesture of respect and honor that he had taken time and actually prepared himself to meet the King of Camelot.

A wooden door creaked open and an older man with a funny looking face popped his head out. "Leon of House Thalguard? Uther, King of Camelot, awaits you."

With all the dignity of a boy trying to be a man, Leon took a deep breath, quieting the sudden, rapid beating of his heart as he turned and strode through the doors. Uther was a dark legend among the country folk, the ones who frequented Leon's home with wild tales of a man most of them had never seen.

It was said that the death of his wife and the Great Purge had left him a dark, cold man who would execute you on the slightest suspicion, no matter what the crime. He showed no affection, his heart was never softened, not even for the little Lady Morgana, his ward, or Arthur, his prince and heir.

And as Leon approached the throne through the long hall, his footsteps echoing with a hiss through the cold marble floor, he could well believe it of the man he saw.

Uther was clad completely in black leather and cloth. Even his hands were gloved and his body draped in a black cape. His thinning hair was grey as iron, his face hard as granite. The only color came from the dull, brazen gold of his crown, and the electric, sky blue of his eyes.

Leon halted at the appropriate distance. He bowed with the appropriate timing. He made the appropriate introduction, wincing as his childish voice echoed through the hall. "Leon of House Thalguard, Sire, here to pledge you his service as promised before he was born of woman."

At first, Uther made no reply. He pressed his gloved fingers to his mouth and stared at Leon thoughtfully. The throne room was suspiciously empty save for a wooden knight that lay half-hidden under the king's throne. Instantly, it came to Leon that it belonged to the boy-prince, Arthur. He would be two years old by this time.

"Welcome, Leon of Thalguard. You wish to take service with Camelot's Long Table?"

Without his permission, Leon's mouth pulled into a smile of excitement. He had come so far and waited so long to hear those words, dreamed about it since he was old enough to lean against his mother's knees as she told him stories by the fire. "I do, Sire. Right forth and willingly."

"How old are you, Leon of Thalguard?"

Leon's face flashed with surprise. This wasn't a routine question…all pages began their duties at the young age of eight or even seven years old. Leon was ten. He would have entered service as soon as he was able to, but his mother had kept him with her for as long as possible. Leon was grateful for her affections but wished they weren't quite so strong and clingy. "I am nine years since spring, Sire," he answered politely, standing straight and tall, his voice clear.

"And you wish to become my page?"

Page to the king? Leon's head flew up. "Yes, sire!"

The ghost of a smile pulled at Uther's frowning mouth. He stood and came down the steps, his boots thumping on the flagstones until he stood right in front of the boy, looking down at him. "Then I accept your pledge, Leon. Go to the guardhouse and you will be prepared for your Oath tomorrow."

"Yes, sire!" Leon bowed a little too quickly as he turned to step briskly out the door and enter the beginning of a new life. But then he turned to Uther as the King returned to the dais and stood before the stained-glass windows. "Sire…forgive me, but I forgot…" he swallowed his embarrassment, "I had a message…from my mother."

Lightning flashed through Uther's eyes. A surge of power seemed to rush through him, the power to fight and kill and break if he had to. He seemed to suddenly grow taller, and his frown, tolerable before, now deepened dangerously. "What is it?"

Stunned by the abrupt reply, Leon stammered, "she…she sends you her f-favor, Sire…that is all."

A moment of silence. An odd twist in Uther's face…was it rage? Regret? Sorrow? It was gone before Leon could decipher quite what it was. Uther folded his arms and turned his back towards the boy, gazing stonily out the window. "Very well, Leon. You may go."

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Wham. Wham. WHAM! At first, Leon thought he heard banging, that he was trapped in a mine or a mill where something was being continuously pounded. Then he realized the sound was pain, and it was his head that was being pounded. A headache flared through his brain as if every nerve in it was folding in upon and crushing itself.

He blinked. He saw rock walls, illuminated a bright orange by what could only have been a hundred torches. He heard a low humming that seemed to rise from the floor he lay upon and thrill up through the air, carrying him away with it. He realized it was human chanting. He remembered that sound from once before. Druids.

With a cry, he sat up, one hand violently grabbing at his hip for a sword that wasn't there. His eyes darted wildly around for a weapon. But all he saw was ten or twelve druids, all of them facing a hole in the rock where the last red rays of the sun were pouring through. It was later afternoon and the Druids were saying goodbye to a time that would always come again, but never the same way.

Leon saw a sturdy looking log sitting just outside of the fire pit. It would make a good club if worst came to the worst. He pushed himself out of the sheepskin bed and began to rush towards it.

"Leon de Grance."

The voice stopped him more than the words. It was a woman's voice, deep and calm like underground water; strong as the flow that carves entire caverns out of the earth's stone belly. Besides, surprise was ruined now. The other Druids turned to him in one unsettling, unified motion.

The speaker was a Druid woman. Wrapped in dark blue robes with a gown of silver-grey, her raven hair fell in dark waves down her back. Her eyes were so blue they were almost black, a welling fountain of night that was constantly pushing back the bright sky blue that hovered near the edges. She smiled at him and gestured for him to sit.

The other Druids stepped closer. They made no threats, but Leon felt the threat in their approach just the same. And he could hardly blame them. After all, hadn't he assisted in more than a dozen executions? Arrested several sorcerers, enforced Uther's rule throughout Camelot? By all rights, he was these peoples' enemy…and yet, once, they had saved him.

"You are awake." The woman said as Leon crossed his legs and sat on the sheepskin again, ready to spring up and sell his life dearly if any hostile move was made.

Leon gazed at her, measuring her ability, her control, her charisma. Who she was and what she could do but, more importantly, what she knew she could do. This was the way he had learned to size up rivals on the jousting fields during his days as a squire. The talent had served him well ever since. He put a finger to his head, gingerly prodding the egg-sized lump there. "And you put me to sleep, I suppose?"

She nodded, admitting it. "We didn't think asking you nicely would actually get you to come into our nice, dark, secret caves in the middle of nowhere."

She was trying to be humorous. Leon brushed past it. "And why did you want me at all, if not to kill me? What do the Druids want with a knight of Camelot?"

"A knight?" cried a man standing just behind the woman. He was broad and burly with eyes that glowed yellow, as if he had been corrupted by the magic he wielded, "is that what you think you are?"

"What else could I be?" Leon had no time for word games. He addressed himself to the woman, ignoring the man whom he judged to be a blusterer, one who opened his mouth before he was certain of himself. "What is it that you want of me." He held no grudge against these people, these strange sorcerers who had saved his life…but he didn't trust them.

"Who was your father?" the woman asked. She interlaced her fingers and closed her eyes a moment, as if she was gathering her thoughts from far away, collecting herself in preparation for a great struggle.

"Sir Leod Thalguard," Leon said warily. He looked from one Druid's face to the other and found them all blank. It frustrated him. What could they possibly want with his father's history, a history that was faint and vague as it was?

"And how did he die?" The man pressed. The woman shot him an impatient look.

Leon held his head up a little…proud, perhaps, yet not too proud to show it. "He fell in the service of the King and Camelot. His great valor on the battlefield prompted the king to grant him a sizeable land in the country by the Liel River."

"No." The woman said suddenly. Leon looked at her, never believing her for a moment and yet madly curious as to where this all was going. She didn't pause once during her explanation, didn't add any dramatic inflection, as if it was important that Leon simply hear what she had to say. "Your father's name was Leodegrance, the Lion of Camelot. He was that fair city's king. Uther's throne was his throne, Uther's crown was his crown, and Arthur's place is your place as heir to the throne."

Leon paused a moment at this ludicrous fable that really didn't make any sense. Determined to show them he would not play any of their games, his eyes narrowed. "You're a poor storyteller, Druid, but also a fool. You think anyone would be deceived by this charade? That you could pull anyone off the road and tell them they were the dispossessed heirs of Camelot? What, you think that, even if they did believe you, they would go on a hopeless quest to uproot the House of Pendragon and take the throne for themselves?" Cold anger lit up his blue eyes and his hand clenched at where his sword pommel would have been. "You dishonor the memory of my father. Keep your lies to yourselves, live them if you really want to…but leave my father out of your sordid affairs."

"But it's all true! We saved you, you idiot, so you could reclaim the throne, with our help!" The man took a hasty, furious step forward. He looked like he wished with all his heart that Leon would stand up and fight him, give him an excuse to blast him into shreds.

"Be silent, Uthgor!" the woman snapped suddenly. A golden tinge, like ancient, burning stars, shimmered in her eyes threateningly. The man quieted down, giving Leon one glance of rage before he turned and shoved through the crowd.

She turned to Leon and her eyes were dark and quiet again. "I don't expect you to believe it on faith," she said, moving aside her robes to reveal a small wooden chest. "I have proof."

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"I shall be a knight, Mama. I will serve the king, Mama. I'll protect Camelot, won't I Mama?"

Laudine smiled, not even looking up from her embroidery as her son twirled around her, hacking at the bushes with his wooden sword, tripping over his own feet as he grew dizzy. Still lying on his back in the grass, he sliced through the blue sky above, chanting aloud about all the wonderful things he would someday do.

Suddenly, Laudine heard giggling from behind her and she turned sharply to look. A dark pair of heads ducked as one behind the tree she sat under. Ah, she realized who it was. Elyan and Gwen, was it? The scullery maid's children? A family from a kingdom not too far from Camelot, Uther had considerately sent them to join her household. People she did not know to serve the woman who must never be known again.

Children who didn't belong to be friends for her little lion in exile. It was only fitting. "Children, don't be afraid. Come out, and tell me why you are laughing at my son."

Elyan came out first. He was seven years old, the same age as Leon. His clothes were simple, coarse homespun, but they were neat and clean. His chocolate eyes gazed on Leon with interest, eating up the spectacle of the lion-haired boy rolling in the grass without a care in the world. Clinging to his hand was his little sister, Gwen. She was six, and timidly hid her mouth behind her hand, trying to stifle her giggles.

Leon, meanwhile, had noticed the intruders. He stood up quickly, breathing hard, his wild, unruly hair dotted with blades of grass. He pointed rudely at them with his sword. "Who are they, Mama? And what…" he saw Elyan's grin, "What's so funny?!"

"You can't be a knight," Elyan's face was full of the heartless cruelty of children, "you can't fight, your sword's wooden…you won't be a man for ages and ages! So you just play in the grass and look like a silly monkey."

"Who's playing?" Leon barked, his face red, "I have an extra sword…I'll defeat you!"

"Won't!"

"I will. Come with me. Who's she?" He pointed his sword at Gwen, who sucked her thumb nervously.

Elyan glanced dismissively at her. "Oh, that's my sister, Gwen. She's really little."

"Fine. She'll be the lady fair, and she'll say who wins!" Leon proclaimed importantly. He turned and raced towards the manor hall. Tugging Gwen along as her luxurious black curls bounced behind her, Elyan followed.

Completely forgotten, Laudine smiled again over her embroidery. Playing with servant children, her little lion knight running through the long grass…she had the sudden, strangest feeling that Leodegrance wouldn't have cared, that if he could see his unborn baby now, he'd even be proud.

A small spot sprouted from the tapestry where a solitary tear had darkened it.

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Leon could barely breathe as he stared at the contents of the box, spread before him, each item carefully and completely described by this woman, this enemy in name and utter stranger in reality. An ancient parchment with the line of the kings of Camelot written upon it in black ink. A small seal with an engraved lion guarding Camelot while the date of its creation was raised in iron on the back. And yet, most telling of all, a letter. A letter written from his mother, dead more than fifteen years.

She died soon after Leon left her to become Uther's page. It was only then, once it was too late, that Leon understood why she kept him by her side for so long. She'd wanted to say farewell before she died, to hold her lion close to her, but even that final comfort failed her and she passed from this life into the next alone. No one held her hand or kissed her cheek or reminded her of the glory awaiting. No one but old servants and uncaring doctors and a son who wasn't there. It was the greatest regret of his life, and these…these Druids dared to make up falsehoods and forge letters and…and…!

"Witchcraft, sorcery!" Leon snarled, slapping the box away. It flew into a rock with a crack of snapping wood. Papers went flying. The engraving bounced along the floor between the feet of the Druids with a dull echo.

The woman didn't blink.

"How dare you!" he snapped, wishing she would show some reaction, some proof that she was human, not an unfeeling creature sent to torture him with memories of the past, to mock his sorrow with fantastic lies. He stood suddenly and she stood with him. "You've played with me long enough. I'm leaving now…don't try and stop me!"

She did. She did more than that. Even as Leon began to move into that ferocious charge that would surely have gotten him killed, she lifted out her palm towards him, fingers spread wide, and cried out in a deep, layered voice.

He didn't know what the words were, but they hit him in the chest like a bag of ice, knocking the breath out of him, pinning him to the wall of the cave. The woman came towards him slowly. Paralyzed, he refused to show the fear he felt. "Is this how you fight?" he growled, "Holding a man down while you kill him?" He pulled on his arms, hard. His fingers merely twitched against the spell. He was firmly imprisoned.

The woman's hand came closer to his chest. Panic and adrenalin surged through his system, screaming, away, away! Fight! Fight or die!

Suddenly, she lunged. Leon threw back his head, waiting for the agonizing pain of his heart being torn from his chest. Instead, he heard a sharp ripping sound. His skin felt significantly cooler.

Panting, he looked down. She'd torn his shirt open. There, on his exposed chest, she pushed a dark, round, cold, wet, stone. A tingling feeling ran through his body and Leon stared at her, not knowing whether to be terrified or…trusting. Because something about this just felt…right, normal, a thing that must be.

She saw that look and a slow, small smile crept over her face. Her eyes shone with grim pride and approval. "Proof, proof that you would never be able to deny."

A golden glow blossomed from the stone…or his skin, or both. With a sharp cry, she yanked it away and Leon, unable to help himself, gasped at what he saw. His skin was shining. Lines of it, so brightly that it reflected off of the stone she held in a perfect pattern. It was the roaring mouth of a lion.

Not a dragon, the dragon of House Pendragon. A lion.

"You have seen this mark before, on old papers, old books, old walls of stone, the seal of the original ruler of Camelot. This mark has been passed down through your family since the days of Old Bleys, the sorcerer, and remains in you, long after all magic has drained from your bloodline." The woman smiled sadly at him as he stared at what she held with wide, vulnerable eyes. "You remember it, don't you?" she said at last, holding it closer, "the Lion Stone. Your mother gave it to me." She hesitated, "Your mother, Laudine."

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Laudine threw her head back on the pillows, swallowing her final scream. A maid dried her face as another one bathed the squalling, pink little thing Laudine had just brought into the world.

Breathing heavily, she lifted herself up upon the pillows, ignoring the maids' protests. "Bring him to me!"

"My lady…" the one who held the baby protested, "How do you…"

"The way he kicked, the way he cried. I know my husband's son. I know a…" she had been about to say, "a prince of men when I hear one," but her oath silenced her. Instead, she lay back weakly and gestured with her hands, as if gathering the child into her arms. "Bring me my son."

They did. Laudine brushed the brown curls away from a pair of black little slits. With one finger, she gingerly opened one and saw a stunned blue orb moving to stare back at her. With a sigh of contentment, she freed his face and wrapped the bundle tenderly in her sheets. "My eyes, his hair, my baby boy…" Then, with lips dried by heavy breathing, she kissed his moist, soft forehead, treasuring the warmth, the life that lay within. "Oh, my little lion…" she bent closer and whispered tenderly into a tiny ear she knew would never remember, "Lion of the House of Leodegrance!"

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His ripped shirt tucked into his belt, his armor and bright red cloak wrapped around him, his sword once more hanging by his side, Leon stood fully clothed outside the Druid's cave. He was staring out at the starry night that covered the valley below, and in his hand was the Lion Stone.

He rubbed his thumb over it, again and again. With each rub, more memories seemed to come back to him. Half-forgotten moments, surprised tears, strange looks and words that a child couldn't understand, but Sir Leon could.

My mother sends her favor.

A single tear.

Little lion-knight.

Soundless footsteps beside him. He stared out into the darkness, and there was something cold, dark, and alien in his eyes. "Uther. Uther...killed my father, didn't he?"

"Yes," she watched him carefully with her eyes, eyes that perfectly reflected the dark night sky above them, "he slit his throat in battle."

"He…robbed me", something eager trembled in Leon's tone, "of my name, and my past, and bound my mother's tongue." At the word, 'mother's', his voice broke ever so slightly, full of regret, of what he would have done for her, how he would have fought to regain her honor and her rightful place, her home. He would have given her the throne his father once sat upon, the man she loved so much. He would still give it to her.

"Yes."

"I," a new strength crept into his voice, a new resolve wrapped its steel around his heart, a heart that had been soft and warm, "am the rightful king of Camelot."

"Yes," something changed in her calculating gaze. She took a step towards him, dangerously close to his sword as she stared eagerly into his face. "But, you know…you know Arthur is not his father. You know he would never have allowed this to be done to you…that he would repay you, if he could."

Silence.

"I am not Arthur's friend," Leon replied finally, his fist tightening around the lion stone, "He has no love for me in his heart, not like he does for Merlin, or Lancelot, or the others..."

A hand touched his armor. The armor of a man with no family, few friends, and a constant, crushing burden of responsibility to keep safe the city of Camelot. The city he loved. A man who, though he was no king, did the duties of a king. A man who was, in short, very, very much alone.

The hand was hers. He turned to look down at her, his light blue eyes meeting her dark, starry ones. She looked earnest, her fine eyebrows drawn down ever so slightly, sad and worried in the darkness. Finally, she spoke.

"He doesn't love you as deeply as others, yes, but he…he trusts you. He respects you. He honors you."

Trust. Respect. Honor.

For the first time since his capture, Leon smiled at her. It was a beautiful smile, like that of a man whose burden doesn't feel heavy anymore, not because he has thrown it away, but because he has made up his mind to carry it always, for the sake of those he loves. "I know" he said finally, "Arthur is good, strong, just. He will be a great king, someday. And I…I may not be his friend, but I always have been, and always will be, his good servant."

With that, he pulled his arm back suddenly and let fly. For a moment, the Lion Rock glinted in the moonlight as it twirled over the side of the cliff, turning and turning like the last struggles of an evil, abandoned thought, rebelling against gravity itself before it fell, growing smaller and smaller until it was swallowed by the rushing river below.

She sighed and swayed slightly on her feet as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Concerned despite himself, Leon held out an arm to catch her if she fell. "They knew it," she said finally, her voice warm with pride, "They all knew it. Knew it the minute they saw you and what you had become. You were too honorable, too devoted a man to falter in your duty, no matter how horrible the lie you've been living all these years."

Leon smirked, for some reason absurdly pleased that the Druids had a good opinion of him. "I've fought walking skeletons and maidens who change into serpents by night. Nothing horrible surprises me anymore."

She lifted her eyebrows at him. It was astonishing how ethereal and friendly and human she'd become. "Morgana might. You must never tell her!"

Suddenly, Leon realized something. He shook his head at her. "Why…why did you call me here, if you knew I wouldn't serve your purpose?"

Again, that beautiful smile spread across her face. "It wasn't my purpose. It was theirs. They wanted to steal you as a baby and raise you as a weapon, but I argued we'd had enough of those. Enough hatred. Lucky for us both, they listened. No, I just wanted to fulfill your sweet mother's dearest wish," she stood taller suddenly and reached up with one careful, gentle hand. Before Leon had realized it, she was touching his cheek. Her fingers were warm. He closed his eyes as that touch, her touch, thrilled through him. "That you know who you are."

It was utterly quiet out on that hill under the bright stars as Leon took her hand in his. Now, it was into her face that he gazed, looking for something that, after a moment, he seemed to find. He squeezed her hand. "Will I see you again?"

She pulled away from him, tugging the cloak tighter about her shoulders as she backed away towards the cave entrance. He watched her go, his face begging her not to. At that sight, of the tall, impressive knight begging like a lovesick puppy, she had to smile. "Perhaps."

She stepped across the rocky threshold. Her eyes began to glow.

"Wait!" Leon darted forward, "I don't even know your name!"

"Illiara," She whispered softly, her voice flying towards him like a kiss born on the wind. Then, with a dull roar and rumble, the cave disappeared, leaving only a wall of stone as smooth as the side of the mountain in its place.

Leon took a deep breath, turned, and began striding down the hill. To say the day had been eventful was an understatement. His whole world had been turned upside down and shaken about but, luckily, he'd ended right side up again.

As the moon reached its highest point in the sky and midnight was born, he could have sworn he heard the trumpets of Camelot, humming dimly towards the East. Arthur would be worried about him. He'd clap him on the shoulder, glad to see him back, ask him where he'd been. There were many different kinds of friends and, whatever he might be to Arthur, Leon realized he was a close one. As his boots finally met the road and the last call from the trumpets died away, shimmering, through the cold night air under a sky as dark as Illiara's eyes, Leon smiled. Steam curled up from between his lips as he laughed slowly. "Long live the King," he whispered.

FINIS