Someone called her name — Percival. She wobbled, and grabbed at the stone, heart pounding. Falling was different from jumping. Jumping was a choice.
“What is it, Percival?” Her voice trembled, forced through an aching throat.
“Gods, that’s a long drop. I hate heights.” Percival looked back up at Summer. “Not really anything. Gwaine and I and and a few others are going on a picnic and we wanted to invite you. Can we speak elsewhere? I’m going to soil myself, watching you stand on the edge like that.”
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. Now, /now/, they think of her, when she’s finally decided she can’t take it any more, when she’s ready for there not to be any more pain, any more anything?
She dropped to sit on the edge, arms shaking, and just stared at Percival. “A picnic,” she said, finally. She choked on a hysterical laugh. “Don’t play, Percival. Sir Knight.”