Sir Percival: A Fictional Narrative

“Sir Percival, Sir Percival, I’m here, I’m here! I have my own sword and everything!”

Sir Percival turned and saw a little boy, no older than five, bounding toward him. The young boy’s shaggy brown hair bounced as he raced forward, and his cheeks were flushed pink with exertion. The child ran and ran until he tripped over the too-large sword he carried – the weapon went flying across the training field – and collapsed on the castle training field at Percival’s feet.

“Friend of yours?” asked Sir Gwaine, Percival’s best mate and fellow Knight of Camelot. “He seems a little dangerous with that projectile sword and all.”

Percival ignored Gwaine and helped the boy up. Sir Percival towered above most people, and this child barely came up to Percival’s

After all, everyone in Camelot went to the market at one time or another, and children often approached the knights to ask questions or touch the men’s capes and chainmail.

The little boy smiled and his head bobbed up and down with enthusiasm. “Yes! I didn’t know you saw me there. But the first time we met was when you saved me, my sister, and cousin from the Dorocha. Do you remember that? It happened the year before last when I was four.” The boy puffed out his chest. “But I’m six now and ready to learn to use the sword.”

Now Percival recognized the child before him. The autumn before last, the deadly Dorocha – spirits from the Other World – lay siege to the kingdom of Camelot after the High Priestess Morgana had torn a hole in the veil between the world of the dead and this one. A single, glancing touch from the Dorocha was fatal. Percival recalled that night.

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“Uh, Percival?”

Gwaine’s words snapped Percival out of his contemplative state.

“Oh, sorry about that,” said Percival, still down on his knee before the little boy.

“You DO remember that night with the Dorocha, don’t you Sir Percival?” asked the boy, his eyes wide and eager.

“Yes, of course I do. It’s just you’ve grown so much and are so big and strong, I didn’t recognize you right away.” He reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. “You’re Rion, right?”

Rion hopped up and down. “Yes! Yes, I am. You DO remember me! Mum said you wouldn’t and that I should leave you alone, but I told her you would.”

“Yes, I remember you and your cousin and sister. How are they doing?”

“They’re fine. My sister’s a pest, but fine.”

“And your mum and father? They were so happy to have you home safe.”

Rion peered down at the grass. “Mum’s good. But Father... he died. Last week.”

What terrible news. As an orphan himself, Percival understood the pain of losing a parent, or in his case, both. He pulled Rion into a hug.

“I’m sorry, little mate,” said Percival. “What happened to