I'll spend all christmas day sobbing because we have to wait for a whole year for the next season...
-O-^-O-
He could almost pretend it began during the months leading up to his twentieth birthday, because that was when the dreams started. But then he would find himself asking what else could have pushed him to visit his uncle in Wales every summer without fail. Why else would a ten year old city boy, who bemoaned the walk to school, set out through the forests behind his uncles stone farmhouse, in the early hours of the morning?
He could remember that day vividly. He had had no idea where, or why he was walking, he just followed where his feet lead him. The morning passed, then midday, then the afternoon. By evening it was raining hard, as it often does in Wales, and as the dreamy regularity of his footfalls faltered, he realised, quite suddenly, that he had no idea where he was except that he was far, far from home.
When they finally found him, sobbing in the mud under a dead tree, his punishment had been a week long cold which had kept him confined to his bed.
But the tug had been around much, much longer than the dreams.
He had always felt the tug.
But it had tuned into more than just a tug, then more than just a fascination, then more than an obsession. It was crazy. Yet he believed it.
It was when he was four, round his friend Ben's house, that he first watched that stupid Disney film. Something kicked out inside him then, and he was sent home with a stomach ache in a foul temper.
Somehow there had always been that ghost, sitting just out of reach in his mind, whenever the great magician was mentioned. Bright, keen eyes and mischievous smile clashing unexpectedly with the silver beard and pointy blue hat.
The dreams had been something altogether new though. The fist mornings he could remember only the silhouette of a skinny man, short raven hair, and laughing blue eyes.
The first few months he had been able to write them off as a bizarre and rather persistent subconscious message. That luxury had been cut short when Ben had mentioned, in passing, the unfortunate demise of the wizard Merlin in "some cave". He had been surprised, interested, excited even. He began to "look into" (read: research relentlessly) the stories and legends. And that, as it were, had been the beginning of the end.
The dreams had soon turned to memories, and before long he was sure he knew more about this figment of his imagination than any one of his real friends, or relatives. Or Carrie. Then the happy memories seemed to run out, and most nights he was confronted with a pleading or angry boy, and then worst of all were the nights when the boy knelt in front of him, jet black head bowed, and merely said "Arthur, please." as his own hands played with something heavy and cold resting on his left hip.
And then the day had come that the alternating dreams of caves and scarf wearing young men eventually merged into one, single dream that plagued him night to night. One where a man screamed as the light was cut from his world and his cries were trapped inside the cold prison with him. But it was that one final whimper that sent him back to wakefulness, the broken hope haunting his waking hours. The frantic sobs would fade to silence for a moment, he can feel him listening, before the quavering voice reaches out to him,
"Arthur?"
He was scared of what would happen when he found the stone doesn't budge. He's scared of what will happen when he manages, somehow, to wrench the stone from it's resting place and sees only an empty cave.
He's sure he will go quite mad.
If he wasn't already, that is.
He could leave now. No one would be any the wiser. He could pretend nothing had ever happened. He could ignore the pull of the cave, he could forget the nightmares that only got more and more frequent. He could forget the raven haired boy with laughing warm eyes.
He could go back home and live a boring life just like any normal human being.
But that wasn't true. Carrie knew. Carrie would never forgive him. His fiancée, his ex-fiancée, thought he was mad. He had laughed when she accused him of having some sort of hero complex. So had she, the first time.
She wouldn't tell anyone though, she had run home to Mammy and Dada in Washington.
He couldn't blame her.
In the anger and numb agony of her departure, he had grabbed his coat and slammed the front door. He had bought a single train ticket with the money in his pocket, not wanting to think about the fact that he knew exactly where he was heading, and even less about the fact he wasn't completely sure he had a choice.
That had been yesterday morning.
It hadn't escaped his notice that he was going out in the bitter wind to look for some historical, nay fictional character who would, supposedly, have been left alone in a cave for over a thousand years.
Well if there was some mouldering old man in there, at least he wouldn't have to suffer insanity alone. Small blessings, and all that.
He almost turned around and left. He almost left him to rot.
But he had nothing to lose. And after all, he told himself, if he just got this over with maybe he could move on from this insane fixation.
The stone was rounded and smooth. From the inside, it would be near impossible to get a hold on the reddish brown granite. From the outside, you could easily push on one corner. The problem was that a large disk shaped boulder that had been in place for hundreds of years was unlikely to shift with ten men behind it, let alone some mentally damaged blond guy.
But as he trailed his fingers over the cold surface, the tips began to tingle, and he knew that somehow, he could, would, get it to move. It was destined to be moved, and it was only right that it should be moved by him.
He braced his two hands against the side of the great circular surface, then pushed, barely surprised when the rock began to roll as easy as if it were made of wood. It was magic that made it light, and it recognised his touch.
The pink evening light barely penetrated the darkness, but it was enough to see the lonely silhouette.
The dark haired figure lay perfectly still against the wall of the cave, hands resting on the ground, palms facing upwards, knees bent up to the chest, head drooping between them, and for a heart stopping moment, Arthur thought he may be too late. Then, slowly, the shadowy head turned and looked at Arthur, his eyes hungrily drinking in every detail, from his mud encrusted trainers, right up to the stunned blue eyes.
"I do believe I said five hundred years, not fifteen."
And then he cracked a smile.