A/N: As someone who loves backstories, I've always wanted to know more about how Lancelot and Percival met. Here is my version of how they met and how their friendship started. This brief tale is three chapters long.

Chapter One

"Packin' up for the night, sir?" the friendly, gray-haired barkeep asked Lancelot, as he collected dirty plates and empty flagons from the neighboring table.

"I'm afraid so. In fact, I'm packing up for good this time. A friend sent word that he needs my help, so I'll be off at sunrise."

Lancelot gulped down the dregs of his second tankard of ale and handed over his coins. The barkeep accepted the money with a quick nod.

"We'll miss ye 'round these parts. Too bad yer leavin'. Not often we get the friendly, quiet type who's not interested in startin' brawls every night. Safe travels to ye, man. If ye ever find yerself back here, be sure ta stop in an' say hello."

"I will," said Lancelot as he stood. "I appreciated the fine food and conversation. Take care of yourself." He patted the barkeep's arm, gathered his cloak and heavy satchel, and strode out into the darkness. He had a lot on his mind.

The previous evening in his tiny, windowless room at the local inn, Lancelot had settled into bed for the night when he heard a manic banging on his door. Late-night knocks rarely brought good news, so he picked up his sword before answering. He opened the door a crack and saw a boy, no older than twelve years, breathless and sweaty, bearing a letter.

"Are you Lancelot?" the boy asked, panting, shoving his sweat-soaked hair out of his face.

Lancelot opened the door wider. "Yes, I am. How can I help you?"

"It's a long story and I have to head back home as soon as possible, but Merlin, Arthur's manservant, sent me." The boy thrust the wrinkled letter into Lancelot's hands. "I don't know what it says, but Merlin told me it's important. I know there's no seal, but I swear to you, I didn't open it." He paused to take a breath. "I've been racing all over this village trying to find you, but I HAVE to go now. Good evening to you."

"But wait!" Lancelot called out.

It was no use. The boy dashed off.

Lancelot hadn't heard from Merlin in some time, so this letter had to be important. He closed his door, leaned his sword against the wall, and unfolded the parchment. Merlin's note was brief:

Lancelot,

Prince Arthur needs you.

I need you.

Come to Camelot as soon as you can.

Or sooner.

– Merlin

That's all Lancelot needed to know. If Prince Arthur needed him, if Merlin needed him, Lancelot would go to their aid. Though Lancelot had lived in Camelot for only a short time, he'd forged a strong bond with both Arthur and Merlin. There was Guinevere, too, but Lancelot put thoughts of his lost love from his mind. She was Arthur's now, and that was that. No point in dwelling on the woman.

Lancelot wondered if Prince Arthur knew of Merlin's magical abilities yet. Merlin wasn't just a servant, he was a powerful warlock. Revealing one had magic in a kingdom where its use was outlawed was a risky proposition for anyone, but especially for the prince's manservant. Lancelot was one of the few who knew of Merlin's magic skills. Somehow, Lancelot doubted Merlin had shared his closely-guarded secret with anyone else at this point. Perhaps in time, he would.

Lancelot shook off the memories of the previous night at the inn and pulled his cloak around him more tightly as he approached the path to the forest. The evening air was crisp; it smelled like winter was on the way. He needed to start a fire and make camp in the woods for before leaving for Camelot at sunup. He'd forgone staying at the inn tonight, figuring he needed to save up his money for the journey to Camelot. It would take him two, possibly three days to reach the city border, and who knew what he'd find once he made it there? He didn't even know where to find Merlin and Arthur. Lancelot doubted he'd find the two men lounging around at the palace; Merlin's short note rang with desperation. If all had been well, Merlin would have offered up more information. It was funny how one could communicate so much by saying so little.

Of course, this could be a complicated trap, a ruse of some sort to lure Lancelot back to Camelot. But either way, Lancelot felt it in his bones that he was needed. And he wanted to be needed, to be useful. His ambition had always been to become a knight, but that dream had not come to pass. Oh, well. If nothing else, he could still be a loyal and devoted friend.

The dark-haired Lancelot adjusted the strap of his satchel and was just about to step under the thick canopy of trees when the sound of a muffled sniffle met his ears. He paused and listened, but was met with silence. Perhaps it had been a trick of the wind. Yet with his next step, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone crying, albeit quietly.

Lancelot sighed. He could have wandered off with ease, ignoring the sobs, and most men would have done exactly that. Involving oneself with a stranger was risky. And perhaps this person wanted to be left alone. Based on the sounds, Lancelot assumed it was a man crying. He'd check on the man, make sure he wasn't hurt or sick, then move along.

But in the dim light, it was impossible to make out more than shadows and the outline of trees. A crisp breeze blew and the sky was mostly clear, except the moon was half-obscured by wispy autumn clouds. Lancelot had no torch with him, so he stood still for a few moments and allowed his eyes to adjust to the low light. And that's when he saw a figure in the distance, the shape of a tall, muscular young man seated upon the ground, his back leaning against a towering oak tree, his head buried in his hands.

Lancelot hated seeing people in pain; his instinct was to help, always. Yet more than once, men had called him soft. Perhaps he was. Or maybe he was just human.

Lancelot drew closer, but the man didn't look up. The young man wore chainmail, but his thick, solid arms were bare, which was strange in this chill. However, the stranger's biceps were so enormous, perhaps he couldn't find mail that fit properly. Lancelot announced his presence before stepping closer.

"Hey, there. Are you all right?"

The young man's head whipped up. His eyes were swollen from crying and his frown gave away that he was embarrassed about being caught in such a state. He wiped away a stray tear and cleared his throat.

"Sorry, I, ah... I came here for some privacy. I didn't think anyone would hear me."

The young man's voice was deep, but raspy from crying. And as Lancelot's eyes better adjusted to the dark, he took in the man's formidable size. Lancelot did not want to tangle with a man who looked like he could crush a boulder with his fist. Then again, this giant with shaved, light-brown hair looked quite young, perhaps eighteen years. He had that fresh-faced look of youth about him. However, man was armed with a sword. Lancelot needed to tread lightly.

"I can understand wanting privacy," said Lancelot, daring to step even closer. "But sometimes, a friendly ear can help. Mind if I take a seat?"

The young man stared up at Lancelot for a long moment. "I suppose."

Lancelot settled next to the man, resting his own back against the tree. He offered his forearm in greeting. "I'm Lancelot."

"Percival," said the strapping young man, accepting Lancelot's arm and giving it a bone-crushing shake.

Lancelot winced. Damn, this kid was strong.