The Once and Future King

The Eye of the Phoenix

        'Twas the day after the next when Merlin and Arthur spoke. Merlin felt that Arthur only needed a day to process Merlin's information, and hopefully rein in his emotions. 

        Arthur, as expected, had many questions. He'd had two memory-dreams: One of the Knights of Camelot, the second of his sister, named Morgana. Merlin did his best to answer his questions as they walked. 

        They came across a shephard, tending to Angelsey's sheep. The shephard turned around, eyes wide.

        "Merlin!?" Merlin took no notice and continued walking. "Merlin!" The man called again. Merlin looked around and saw an old friend, a familiar face, beaming at him. Merlin ran towards him, a surprised grin spreading across his face,

        "Lancelot!? Is that truly you?!"

        "Born again, I guess." Lancelot said with a shrug, still grinning broadly. "What about you? Another time for you, too?"

        "Alas, no. Been living this whole while. Where've you been!?"

        "I was only born seventeen years ago, mate! But... A whole lot's changed in Albion, hasn't it?"

        "Speaking of change..." Merlin gestured to Arthur, standing a few paces away. "There's your king. We have old memories, he has none." They walked over to Arthur, Lancelot with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Arthur, speaking of your round table knights, here is the best of the best, honorable in more ways than one. Arthur, Lancelot. Lancelot, Arthur."

        Suddenly, there was a grunt from Arthur's direction. He was down on one knee, fingers at his temple. He managed out one word: "memory," before the darkness stole away his vision. 

        Arthur threw the broom to Lancelot.

        "But first," he said, "I want you to kill me."  Arthur wielded his own stick. "Come on. Don't pretend you don't want to. If I were you, I'd want to." Lancelot tugged the brush of the broom off the end, then charged Arthur. Fwoosh, fwoosh, the sticks sang through the air. Arthur blocked easily. 

        "Come on, Lancelot. You're not beating a carpet," Arthur spun his stick, smirking slightly. Lancelot lunged again- stomach, shoulders, head, side, anywhere he could reach. They both froze for a moment, panting slightly, before Arthur attacked, backing Lancelot into a cart filled with hay.

        As Arthur drove his stick towards Lancelot's chest, he rolled aside and spun in front of him. Arthur poked Lancelot's chest playfully, but he backed away. Arthur's blows came quickly, more aggressively, faster and faster until Lancelot got a good sticking to the stomach. He stumbled back, the wind knocked out of him. 

        "Congratulations, Lancelot," Arthur said, smirking. "You've just made basic training." 

        As Arthur was unconscious, Merlin took the liberty to explain what was happening to Lancelot. He told him about the spell, about the memory-dreams, and about what Arthur did and didn't remember. 

        "But he hasn't quite yet blacked out midday like this..." Merlin trailed off, puzzled. "Maybe if he meets someone with ties to the past, he remembers, I reckon. So, technically this is your fault!" He finishes cheerfully. 

        "It's not my fault, you're the one who brought him here!"

        "You're the one who greeted us!"

        "Well you'd have walked away if I hadn't, and it's been so-"

        Arthur cut him off. "Stop bickering, you two. You're worse than three-hundred year olds. Oh wait, you are." He gestures to Merlin. "Someone get me a Gatorade or something, we're so stuck in the past." Lancelot grins broadly and Merlin rolls his eyes, mouthing a sarcastic thank you.

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        In a different part of Wales, a perfectly healthy man dies, causes unknown. He was found dead by his wife. She described him as "terribly pale, his veins sticking out against his skin!" He was fine just yesterday, but was visibly paler the next day, when he died. Nothing else on the case is known at the moment.