The Reincarnated King (ManxManxMan)

Chapter One: A Normal Job

~Chapter One: A Normal Job~

"I see you all came ready for battle," I comment dryly, speaking around a poorly-stifled yawn while I regard the other occupants of the tent, who all but two are only half dressed in only their trousers, loose tunics, and boots. They should all be in their chainmail and armed for battle, but it would seem the reason they were called here was forgotten in their rush.

Or mayhaps they're in so much pain from their overindulgence of ale last night that they'd sooner welcome death.

Bedwyr Bedrydant, the only warrior who, in addition to forgetting his chainmail and weaponry, is missing a tunic, scoffs and makes an offensive gesture with his only hand. "Respectfully, Arthur, when I said wake me if something happened, I was thinking that nothing would actually happen."

There is a murmur of agreement from some and chuckling from others, and someone - likely Cai - asks, "Pissed off the gods recently, Bedwyr?"

Bedwyr scowls and snaps back, "If anything's pissing off the gods, it's your ugly face."

It would be a more impressive insult if he actually knew who he was talking to, as it seems like he is just addressing the general direction the comment came from.

"Enough," I say, before any further insults can be traded. Were we back home, this would be far funnier, and I would be happy to let the idiots trade curses for as long as they could come up with insults, but this is not a peaceful day at court; this is war. "The Saxons were-"

The tent flap is shoved aside, making some of the man shuffle away and grumble at the cold air that is let in, and a young boy stumbles into the tent. The boy stiffens when he realizes that he is in the presence of not just the tent's commander but the entire command party, but he still manages to stutter out, through chattering teeth, "More Saxons. By boats."

The already-dour mood plummets further, and those who are underdressed seem to be itching to make a run back for their tents to properly dress for battle, complaining about the Saxons not attacking at a decent time. However, then this gods-damned screeching drowns it all out, and it is only for the fact that I recognize the noise that I know to roll over and slap blindly at the small table beside the too-soft bed. The noise-making box - must be one of the Old Man's contraptions with how loud and obnoxious and stubborn it is - does not cease for another few minutes as I bat at it, but eventually, I must hit the correct compressible space, as it falls silent.

Once my ears are no longer being assaulted by the shrieking box, I bury my face in the too-soft pillow and take a moment to just be. After all, though I distinctly remember being on the verge of fighting in battle, I am now here, in a room I know to be far from any fight or blood-starved Saxon. For the moment, I am safe, even if I might very well be dreaming.

Though, the more time I spend here, the more I begin to wonder - is this truly a dream?

I have known dreams to feel real before, but never before have they felt this real or continued night after night, month after month. Never have I dreamed of waking up. It is such an odd thing, and never can I remember to mention it to the Old Man when I see him. I am always preoccupied, thinking of other things and only remembering this place when I dream.

If it even is a dream.

As I reluctantly roll over and sit up, though, I am hit by a brief wave of dizziness that leaves me disoriented and gripping the edge of the mattress. And when I look up at the ceiling, it is of my own bedroom because I am Jasper, not a fictional king from a dream sequence that has continued for too long. I am Jasper, and the only court I am part of is a court of animals at the zoo - a court that I am about to be late for.