It takes me about a minute to swallow down my coffee, burning my tongue and tasting none of it before I flee into the street. I need more answers, but now is not the time. Tomorrow, I resolve. I'll return tomorrow and talk to her again.
By now it is early afternoon, and I have nothing to do until the Arthurian lecture at 4:30. The lecture will be given by a Dr. Rupert Penn, a visiting professor whose work I have found to be eerily accurate. He's an expert on Arthurian literature and medieval history, and he seems to pour a great deal of his attention into the years before Arthur's rule. He is fascinated by the idea of magic and its connection to the legends, and has even postulated that certain types of magic were possible at that point in history. He is one of the only historians I've read who truly believes that the legends were based on real events, and is working on proving Arthur's existence and identity.
Though I have never attended any of his lectures before, I think he's a brilliant author. Normally the Arthurian legends either make me laugh or make me angry (who decided that Merlin was an old man?), but Dr. Penn's theories are refreshing and- frankly- closer to the truth than I have heard anyone else get.
It is early fall and I am without a jacket, but the coffee I have just inhaled and the long sleeves of my faded blue shirt are enough to keep me warm if I stay in the sun. My book is still in my hand, and I consider finding a bench somewhere and reading in the sunlight, but I am too anxious for that. There are too many questions that need answering, and if I don't force myself to do something else I know my mind will return to them.
So I go to the University two hours early and wander the halls, letting myself blend into the groups of students hurrying to their classes. I've taken a couple of classes here over the years- never more than three years in a row- but it's been a few decades since I've been back. It's always a risk, returning to a school where the professors might still recognize me. Usually I keep to myself and try to remain anonymous, but invariably I will write or say something that is "too wise for my young age", forgetting that I must act as the twenty-something-year-old boy I appear to be and not the two thousand-something-year-old I am, and earn the attention of my professors. Occasionally I have even taught at this university, when I became bored of taking notes from men who could barely grasp the concepts on which they were lecturing, but it has been years since I've done that. When I looked over the list of faculty a few days ago I found I did not recognize a single name, and knew I would be safe to return again.
Though I told myself I didn't want to read, I find myself wandering unthinkingly toward the campus library. Libraries are a kind of haven to me, though I don't particularly enjoy reading for its own sake. Being surrounded by aisles of history makes me feel more at home than I ever could with people. Books make no demands of me, do not care if I grew old or don't grow old, or whether I forget which name I was going by. Books remember what other people forget, like I do. Books are cherished and used and shelved and forgotten, like I am. People move on, but books remain the same, and I love them for it.
So I drop myself into a chair by a window where I can watch the passing of the sun (I have gotten very good at telling the time without needing to wear a watch), and do what I thought I did not want to do. I read, and I think about Guinevere.
And I fall asleep.
In my dreams I wander the shores of Avalon, making the trek I have walked nearly every night since Arthur's death. I watch the ancient, motionless waters and wonder if Gwen's reappearance in my life means anything more than the coincidence it seems. A gentle breeze ruffles the scarf on my neck, the scarf I had thrown away ages ago but which I am always wearing in these dreams. I make sure to look exactly the way I did that day, so that Arthur will recognize me when he comes out of the water.
But it doesn't happen. It never happens. Night after night I visit the silent lake, walking endlessly its taunting banks, but I am always the only thing that moves. And when I wake up, jerking to consciousness just before I slide out of my chair, I am left with the feeling that my memory spell must be failing. Gwen is not Guinevere, and her presence does not mean that Arthur is coming back. After everything I have lived through- invasions and battles and World Wars- if those weren't enough to bring him back, then I can't imagine anything will be. Albion's greatest need, Kilgharrah had told me. That Arthur would return when Albion's need was greatest. But Albion is gone now. I failed the kingdom just like I failed its king, and nothing will ever change it.
Shaking my head to clear it of the vision of the lake, I look out the window and wince. I'm going to be late for the lecture. Punctuality is not something I normally pay much attention to, but I really had wanted to hear what Dr. Penn had to say. I still do. Besides, it's not like I have anything else to do tonight.
With a sigh, I heave myself out of the chair like the old man I am and take a slow, sleepy breath. Maybe attending a lecture on Arthurian literature is not the best idea, given my present mood, but I don't know how long Dr. Penn will be visiting and I don't want to miss the chance to hear him speak. So I straighten my back and tug the wrinkles out of my shirt, yawning away my last bit of tiredness and forcing myself to look like a bright-eyed, eager student as I shuffle toward the lecture hall.
I've already missed half of it. I can hear the muffled, microphone-garbled sound of his voice bleeding through the closed doors, which are guarded by two bored-looking campus security officers. I flash them an old student ID, which they barely glance at before opening the doors just wide enough for me to slip through.
The room is packed, so I edge along the wall and stand in the back with the other late-comers. "You see," Dr. Penn is saying, and I look toward the stage as his voice tugs suddenly at my memory. "Many medieval people believed in magic the way we believe in science; it explained the way the world worked to them, and who are we to know for sure that they were wrong?"
And then I see him, and receive my second shock of the day. King Uther is standing in the center of the stage, holding a microphone and gesturing wildly as he speaks. He is wearing a brown tweed suit and wire-rimmed glasses that almost keep me from recognizing him, but his voice is unmistakable. Uther Pendragon, semi-tyrannical ruler of Camelot and persecutor of the supernatural, is giving a lecture on magic. It would be laughable if it wasn't also terrifying. I feel as if my world is being systematically torn through the veil of my memories, distorted and shredded until nothing is left but confused chaos. Once again I wonder if there's something wrong with my spell, resulting in false memories that my brain is now using current faces to cover up. It's certainly possible: once I became a professor of psychology to research that very chance. But magic is not an exact science (if one can call it science at all), and in the end I was forced to simply conclude that it hadn't happened yet. Perhaps now it has.
Professor Penn is still talking, but I have long since retreated into my own thoughts and lost track of what he's been saying. Something about ancient people misunderstanding science as magic. He obviously didn't know Gaius- Gaius never stood for people misunderstanding science, and he certainly knew the difference between the two. That thought makes me pause and fills me with mixed apprehension and hope. If Guinevere and Uther are here, is it possible that Gaius is as well? Or Gwaine? Percival? There are several religions which advocate the idea of reincarnation; perhaps it is possible after all. Perhaps something is happening that is gathering together the souls of my past, like a magnet slowly pulling paperclips toward the center of a table. Perhaps it hasn't happened yet, but fate is gathering us together again to defeat it.
Perhaps Albion's greatest need is upon us after all.