Editing Leape (section)

== '''9''' ==
''In which Penn looks in a mirror, but it’s not a mirror, and they’re flirting!?''

Penn was quite pleased by the fact that he did not find himself smashed face-first into the ground. Lethia bounced on her toes, curly blonde hair fluffing up, as if triggered by excitement.

“Chapter two,” she said with a grin, looking around at everything. ''Chapter two!?'' Penn thought with a panic. ''WHY ARE WE ONLY ON CHAPTER TWO, I’VE BEEN IN HERE FOR LIKE A WEEK!?''

The semi-soothing voice of the twelve-year-old narrator filled Penn’s mind. '''‘Lax, bro.''' Penn blinked.

''I thought we were in Medievalland?'' A tsk came from the narrator, and Penn could feel her mentally rolling her eyes.

<nowiki>**</nowiki>Nope. Well, yes, but actually no. ''You’re'' in Medievalland, ''I’m'' in your head. Now focus. **They seemed to be at the outskirts of a medieval town, the white-washed walls of the buildings stretching up two or three stories, the expanses of white intermittently broken up by black beams of wood cutting across them. The thatched roofs reached up to the cerulean sky, where an outcropping of clouds hung dramatically over the small city. Plains stretched out beyond the large town, clusters of wanna-be forests dotting the large expanse of grass. Fields lined the long, dirt path that wound throughout the bright green plains, their pale gold heads catching the sun perfectly to turn them gold.

Lethia brushed off her skirt—which had changed between stories—and stalked forward through the streets. They were bustling with activity, with random people, horses, and varying farm animals traveling along the cobbled roads. Vendors hawked their goods, children played games in the streets, and animals brayed loudly, all combining into an orchestra of chaotic cacophony.

Penn hadn’t walked ten minutes before Lethia once more grabbed his arm—''Not again,'' he thought with despair—and with ninja-like stealth dove behind a few barrels.

“Wha—” he began before his moody companion clasped her hand over his mouth, hissing almost silently about guards.

Penn peeked up from where he had been thrown in the mud behind the barrels to catch a glimpse of said guards. The Narrator’s voice filled his mind.

'''LANCELOT!!!!1!1!1!11!''' she cried in his brain, the word followed by about a thousand exclamation marks following it. With a final squeak of excitement, the Narrator quieted down, an exhilarated buzz filling his mind as he watched the two guards, eyes darting from one to the other.

He realized with a start that they weren’t merely guards—they were ''knights'', each half-armored, seemingly looking for something.

There were two of them, one wearing a light green tunic with dark brown leggings, a hose Penn’s mind helpfully informed him—or was it the Narrator?—, a sword in his scabbard, carrying a deep blue shield with a silvery boar on it in his left hand. His arctic blue eyes searched over the streets, hawkish in nature, and he rubbed his stubble-covered chin as if in deep thought.

The other, who was slightly shorter, wore a pale red tunic with a similar hose to his friend’s, but carried a different shield. The Narrator in Penn’s mind gave another excited squeal, and Penn could imagine her jumping up and down in her excitement. The second knight’s shield was a dark blue as well, although its tone was cooler, with a golden spotted cat on it. Its claws reached up into the air as if to snatch a bird down, a fierce and determined look about it that Penn could imagine on the auburn-haired knight when in the midst of battle.

The duo’s gazes flitted about, going from house to house, from barrel to barrel, from— “You there! Show yourself!” the red-tuniced one called, dramatically looking to the barrels from which Penn and Lethia peeked out from behind. His voice had a distinct French accent, however faint, a juxtaposition ot Lethia’s British one. It made him all the more intimidating. With a sinking feeling, Penn gave a start as beside him, Lethia, who had somehow changed clothes, once again, and wore a white-and-green dress outfit, stood sheepishly up.

“Hiii…” she trailed off, giving Penn a quick look that roughly translated to ''get your face up here.'' Penn slowly rose, a small shock of surprise coursing through him when he realized the knights said nothing about his eighteenth-century clothes. A quick glance down, however, revealed an odd, glitch-like quality to his clothes, going from mostly eighteenth-century clothing to a quickly-fleeting flash of whatever-time-King-Arthur-was clothes.

<nowiki>*</nowiki>Huh… that must be what the book people see—*he was cut off, however, by the Narrator’s dry voice informing him of the time period.

'''Mid-1300s.'''

''Huh?''

'''The time period? Mid-1300s.'''

''… Oh.'' Unable to think of what else to say, Penn looked up from his flashing clothes and to the two knights. To his surprise, all the tension had left their faces.

The green-clad one—the one the Narrator jovially declared was Lancelot— “Finnian!” he exclaimed, the tension easing from his face. It took Penn a moment to regain himself, surprise lacing the tome-traveller’s features. The silence stretched on until Lethia sharply stomped on his foot.

“GREETINGS,” Penn said, a little loudly, refraining from elbowing Lethia even though he ''really'' wanted to. He tried again: “Uh. Hi?”

The red-wearing one—who the Narrator informed him was a knight called ''Bors'', who was supposedly from France—gave an amused smile, running a hand through his chin-length, ebony, hair. “Who is this fair maiden you’ve come across?” he asked, the slightly amused look on his face as he watched Penn’s trying-to-make-sense-of-life facial expressions.

Lethia took the opportunity to introduce herself, curtsying in proper medieval manner. “Lady Lethia,” she spoke clearly, a smile gracing her face. “And you are?”

The knight laughed, throwing his head back. “You must not attend many tournaments! I am Sir Bors de Gannes of the Round Table!” A squirming feeling filled Penn’s stomach and his eyes darted to Lethia, who had a very happy smile on her face.

Lethia’s face calmed down, a slight smile still upon it. “Indeed, I do not. However, I tend to do so in the future,” and with that, Penn figured out why his stomach felt weird. The two were ''flirting.''

''Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew,'' he thought, desperately trying to get away from the thought. ''They’re'' flirting!?

The two’s faces glowed as Penn and Lancelot stood there, the former more awkward than the latter. Finally, the smiles died down to only a flicker of a grin, and Lancelot addressed Penn.

“Finnian!” he spoke, as dramatic as a theatre kid, “We have business to attend.” Penn had nary a clue what business this was, but he did ''not'' want to take part in it. He was, in short, totally against the idea of being lanced to death on a horse with armor and a thousand people watching. He desperately tried to think his way out of the situation… to no avail. Plus, Lethia wasn’t helping, she was smashing the life out of his foot.

Squeezing his way out from behind the barrel, Penn followed behind Lancelot and Bors, who led the way. Suddenly, Bors made a declaration: “We shall have to see Lady Lethia at another time!” Penn’s brows furrowed in uncertainty. ''Are you just gonna… y’know… leave it at that?'' he wondered, watching the young knight with deep confusion.

Lagging back behind the two, Penn cast a look back at Lethia, who shooed him onward, rolling her eyes at his concerned facial expressions. ''I’ll be fine,'' she seemed to say as she turned her back to him, making her way into a crowd of people.

''… I’m so dead,'' thought Penn as he followed the two knights. Upon coming up closer to the two, he could make out more details about their faces. Lancelot was older than Bors, clearly, as evidenced by the few silver strands of hair mixed in with his otherwise reddish-brown head of hair. Lancelot’s face, also, looked older than Bors’, as if he had seen more battles, despite the distinctive scar that went over Bors’ left eye (which, it should be noted, that although Penn thought it looked ''sick'', it probably hurt).

Walking on throughout the cobbled streets, Penn found they were getting closer and closer to the city’s center. Of course, he wasn’t really sure if it ''were'' a city, but by the buildings that got fancier and fancier as they got closer to the illusive center of the city, where Penn had read there was a huge castle, where ''the'' King Arthur lived.

As they neared, Penn took in everything, from the colorful-topped towers to the neatly-stacked stones that created the castle’s outer walls. ''Dude,'' thought he, brushing a shock of his dark hair out of his face, eyes wide with awe, ''they have a wall''… inside ''of another wall!?''

Penn had changed in many ways since his librarian’s assistant days, yet this was not one of them.

A moat surrounded the cerulean-roofed castle, dark, greenish-blue water settled calmly in the deep trench. Peering over the side of the drawbridge as he walked across, Penn could have sworn he saw some sort of water dragon leaping in the small waves, but chalked it up to his imagination when it disappeared.

Camelot’s castle—or, more accurately, King Arthur’s castle—was just as magnificent on the inside as it was on the out. Everything looked like it was a fairytale world, from the lush green lawns of the estate to the multi-colored tapestries on the wall.

'''GREAT SCOTT!''' The Narrator exclaimed in I’ve-just-had-an-amazing-idea, the sound of her voice echoing through Penn’s head.

''W-what? Do I'' want ''to know your ide—''

'''YOU HAVE TO ASK WHERE THE ROUND TABLE IS, PLEASEEEEEE''' the Narrator’s voice chimed in once again.

''I—maybe. And since when was ‘great scott’ an old English thing?'' Receiving no answer from the usually-loud Narrator, Penn sighed. “Um,” he began, catching the attention of Bors, who dropped back some. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the round table is, would you—?”

Bors grinned. “Finnian, you’ve been down there before! Granted, it was just once, but you went down there! And even for your usually very reserved nature, you were ''really into it''.”

Penn blinked. “Uhhh,” he managed to say right as Sir Lancelot turned around. A great ''whoosing'' came from his cloak as it moved around with him, the Knight’s ''absolute epicness'' amplified by the great structure the trio stood in.

“Finnian!” said he, the sound of his feet hitting the carpet drowned out by his booming voice. ''Why is he so loud!?'' Penn wondered before his new knight-master-jedi-person spoke once more. “I believe it is time for your Latin lessons! Of course, the reason we’re here is due to the King—” he moved his hand so it was resting over his heart at the mention of Arthur “—whose library has several scrolls Joyous Gard does not.” Penn nodded slowly, realizing Joyous Gard was probably Lancelot’s castle after a moment of intense thinking.

As Penn walked into the huge, looming, library, he was reminded of his own at home. ''Home…'' the word sounded odd, even just in Penn’s brain.

'''You know,''' said the Narrator as Penn took in the blue-and-gold color-schemed library, looking at the tomes and thickly-bound leather volumes, '''if you can complete this whole… story thing, you can go home.'''

''And?'' Penn thought back, walking slowly over to a huge, oaken, table, where a book was laid out, presumably for him to read.

'''If it takes less time for you to complete it, the less time it’ll take for you to get home.'''

Realization dawned. ''So you’re saying… if I can get this book done in less time than it’s actually supposed to take… then I can get home sooner?''

The Narrator stayed silent, which Penn took for an affirmative answer. He sat down at the table, settling in for a few long and confusing hours. Since that brief phase when he was twelve when he had decided, for however short a time that was, to be an archaeologist, he hadn’t tried reading or studying Latin.

He stared down at the book in confusion, when out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Slowly looking up, he saw himself. Dark brown, nearly black, hair, curly yet well-kept as ever, and brown eyes that could change whenever they wanted to, to a shade slightly lighter, to a green one might see an olive sporting. A few freckles dotted his round face, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He wore a blue tunic, a sword at his side. ''Wait… I don’t have a sword, so who’s that—''

“Hi,” said the mirror-image, giving a little wave, voice a similar tone to his own. And that’s when Penn realized that this wasn’t a mirror.