Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic.

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Three

He stared at himself in the looking glass—or mirror, as Megan had termed it—and at his current attire with distaste as he fingered it. He wondered why he couldn't just wear his clothes, instead of this: tan breeches made of some odd material that stopped at his knees in a raggedy hem, and a bright, vibrant yellow tunic that buttoned down in the front, and that had odd little trees and scantily clad girls dressed in grass skirts all over it. Never in his life had he seen anything like it, and the fact that he was wearing it now… It didn't please him, but Megan had told him in an apologetic tone that that was all she had for him to wear, and so it was only that that kept him from commenting on the objectionable clothing.

The young woman had also been nothing but kind to him, while he had been less than… chivalrous or pleasant. It would have been wrong of him to complain or grumble to the lady Megan—or just Megan as she had requested earlier—when she was offering both her help and home to him until the riddle and puzzle that was suddenly his life was figured out. So he was resolved to curb whatever anger or frustration that wished to express itself over the circumstances, and he would admit that it was abundant. The whole situation was just so perplexing, and as Megan had pointed out, complete madness—insanity. If he had not been living it, he would have thought it not possible and the person utterly deranged… just like Megan had.

That realization caused him to wince, and guilt at exploding at the woman earlier to find its way in his being. He had already regretted frightening her, and he knew he had because of the way she had stared at him wide-eyed, a scared and careful glint in the depths. And now that he realized just how all of this must appear to her, it weighed on him and made him regret his earlier outburst. The whole situation had just weighed so heavily upon him, was just so confusing and frustrating. He hadn't known anything, didn't know how he had come to be in this strange new age that, he would admit, was overwhelming. And, also, the event preceding this one—the Saxons, his freedom, the battle, his death—it had all weighed on him as well, and twisted with the current situation, leaving him feeling scorned and confused and angry and frustrated because he didn't understand any of it.

"I'll have to apologize to her," he said to himself, his course of action set in his mind. She was just as clueless as he was, and it wasn't fair that he had vented his anger out on her. He sighed, and looked at himself in the looking—mirror, once again, frowning.

A knock on the open door caused him to look up at Megan. She stood in the doorway smiling slightly, and waited for an invitation.

"Hi," she said. "I just wanted to give you these so you wouldn't have to walk around barefoot or anything." She held out a pair of shoes—a sort of sandal, but different than the ones the Romans and others wore. Again he wondered why he couldn't wear his own clothes and shoes, and Megan must have saw something on his face because she explained, "They're flip-flops. It's the only thing Carson left behind last time he stayed…"

"What about my clothes?" Lancelot asked, accepting the flip-flops and dropping them to the floor. He slipped his feet in, and wiggled his toes, hating them already.

Megan shrugged. "They'd draw attention, and they're a little dirty and stuff," she informed him. "But if you're ready, and if you're absolutely sure you're up to going out because I know you just woke up and stuff—"

"I'm fine," Lancelot interrupted her abruptly, but then managed a tense, brief smile, slightly sardonic, bitter. "I've had worse."

Megan nodded her head slowly, bit her lip, then said, "Of course you have. Well, then, we should probably go. Fel and Aiden are already downstairs, so if you're absolutely sure…"

"My weapons first, please," he requested.

Megan blinked, frowned. "Sorry, no can do. See, people can't carry weapons around in broad daylight, not without a permit anyways. Otherwise the police would arrest them."

He frowned. What kind of world didn't allow men to carry weapons? How would he defend himself? And what where these police she spoke of?

He asked her, and she responded. "Policemen are… well, they're the ones that carry out the law, and protect the people… um, like knights, I guess…"

"Then they will understand why I must have my weapons," he insisted.

She bit her lip, frowning more, and making a sound that wasn't exactly a sigh. "Lancelot, no, they wouldn't. They'd probably shoot first, and then ask questions. And then when you did tell them your story, they'd think you were crazy," she explained. "You don't need weapons, okay. You'll be safe. Just trust me, okay?"

Lancelot continued to frown, not happy at all about the situation. However, Megan had said he would not need weapons, that he would be safe—though he was scarcely worried about his safety when two women and a child would be accompanying him. She had said to trust her, but what if it was all a trap. An ambush of enemies waiting to seize him, torture him, kill him, and she was just following orders. But, no, as much as he would like to keep his suspicion alive, because suspicion helped a man survive, he could not believe that about the woman in front of him. If she said it was safe, and that he should trust her, than he would—if grudgingly.

Finally, though, he consented, and she flashed him a quick smile. "Good, then if ready…"

Lancelot nodded, and walked over to Megan, resolutely not looking at himself in the mirror again. Megan turned, and he followed her small figure down the hallway and stairs. At the bottom he saw Megan's sister, Felicia, and Megan's nephew, Aiden. Felicia was fussing with the child's hair and jacket, fiddling with the buttons on it, while the small, dark red-gold colored dog they called Ruddy was anxiously prancing around their feet, wagging his tail and begging for attention. When the little animal spotted Megan, he rushed over to her, and Megan laughed amusedly, bending and scratching the dog's head. When Lancelot reached the bottom landing, standing close behind Megan, Ruddy looked at him warily and sniffed around his feet and legs. Lancelot let him, looking at him for a brief moment before looking elsewhere and ignoring him.

Felicia had glanced up when they had reached the bottom. She stared at Lancelot with a raised eyebrow, an appraising look on her face, and he knew she thought he looked ridiculous.

"Nice outfit," she said, and glanced at Megan before turning to her son.

Megan glanced over her shoulder at him, and told him, "Ignore Felicia, you look fine." Lancelot didn't say anything, only followed the two women and the child out of the house, stopping when Megan did when she halted to lock the front door and walking again when she started to.

Outside the weather was nice, a bit nippy, and the yard was well kept, and Lancelot knew her house was in a remote location from the surrounding landscape. He could tell by the dense forest that edged the boundary of her immaculate yard and the dirt road that led away from her house. The house itself was a modest two-story, white with a large, roofed wrap-around porch in front. A wicker chair that rocked set in the corner of the porch that was closed off and didn't wrap around with other matching furniture setting stylishly around it. A bench of sorts that was hung up by chains was off to the other side and overlooking the large expanse of open front yard. Odd toys—at least Lancelot supposed they were toys—laid here and there in the yard, and off to one side were two large, peculiar looking… machines, he supposed, that gleamed when sunlight hit them.

One of them was a dark purple and the other a dark green. Megan was walking toward the green machine, while Felicia and Aiden went to the purple one. What the machines purpose were, Lancelot did not know, but he frowned, wary of it.

Megan hit a button on a device that was connected to her keys. A beeping noise sounded for a second, coming from the green machine, lights flashing from the front of it and the rear of it. He stopped, body tensing, reading to go into stance as he looked at it through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Perhaps it was a monster instead of a machine; he wished he had some weapon to protect himself.

Megan opened a door, exposing the inside of the beast, and then glanced back and then away from him. Then, though, she turned back to him, and raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. "Lancelot, come on, get in." He looked at her, then the beast, and heard Felicia chuckle.

"It's okay, Lancelot. It's a vehicle," Felicia informed him, then directed her attention to her sister as he pondered what she had said. A vehicle? "Might want to explain it to him, Meg. Your knight looks like he's about to attack it. Anyways, I'll see you in town."

"You're not coming with us?" Megan asked, and still keeping the "vehicle" in his sight, he watched the sisters interact.

Felicia shook her head, helping Aiden in the back of the large, long vehicle. "No, I'm going to take the mini van. More room for groceries and stuff than you're Liberty, especially since you have your own shopping to do," she explained, though Lancelot had a suspicion that it was more than just grocery shopping that made her take the other vehicle. From Megan's little frown as she stared at her sister, he supposed she knew as well.

"Okay, then. We'll see you in town, or back here," she said. "Be safe." Then she turned back to him, eyes meeting. "This is vehicle, as Fel told you. It's how we get around nowadays."

He frowned, like a carriage or wagon, but then… "And the horses?"

Megan arched an eyebrow. "No horses. Technology's come a long way since your time, Lancelot. This is powered all by its self. And it's faster than horses, too. So come on, get in," she told him.

He still wasn't convinced, though. "And this "vehicle" is safe?" he asked, stressing the word vehicle, testing it on his tongue, and retaining his frown. By the time all of this was said and done, the frown marring his face would have turned permanent, he was sure of it.

Megan shrugged. "Mostly. Like horses accidents can happen." He didn't move, though, and she must have seen his reluctance and doubt. "Look, just trust me, okay? You'll be fine, promise. Scouts Honor, even," she said, attempting a joke.

His brow furrowed. "Scouts honor? You are a scout? Tristan was—"

"N-no, never mind. It was just a reference," she explained. "We better go." And she pulled herself up into the high vehicle, turned, and beckoned him to go around and get in the other side.

Still frowning Lancelot slowly, warily, made his way to the other side of the vehicle. He got in, the leather of the seats cool against exposed flesh. The inside of it was comprised of buttons, a large glass window in front of them spanning from one side of the vehicle to the other, and windows on each of the doors and in the very back; a wheel was directly in front of Megan with a slot on the side of it where Megan was currently sliding in a key, turning it.

The vehicle came to life, voices shouting with loud noises in the background filling the car along with an incessant beeping noise, startling him. It took Megan grabbing his arm and reassuring him that it was okay for him not to jump out. Megan reached for one of the knobs, turned it, and immediately the screaming voices went away. However, the beeping didn't, and his nerves were still wired, his heart still pounding.

"Close the door," Megan said. He listened, and the beeping went away. He looked around astonished, wide-eyed, and heard a small sound of amusement escape the woman beside him. He turned to her, and she was fighting a smile, a sparkle in her eyes. "It beeps unless you close the door; everything's okay."

He wasn't satisfied. "And the voices? Are they trapped in this—this vehicle as you call it?"

She raised an arched brow, and said, smiling gently, "No, it was just the radio."

He narrowed his eyes. "Radio?" he said, trying the word out like he did vehicle.

She nodded. "Yeah. It's a form of entertainment—a way for people all over the nation to listen to music and talk shows. It was just music, promise."

Music. That had been music? It had sounding nothing like any music he had ever heard before. It was nothing like Vanora's sweet songs, or even of some of the songs the chore of Christians had sung that he had heard on an occasion or two, or even of the songs sung by his fellow knights or other patrons of the tavern.

He expressed his thoughts, and Megan only shrugged, turning away from him as she did something with the vehicle. He watched her turn in her seat, look behind her, and then the vehicle was moving and he was grabbing whatever to hold himself.

"Time's change. There's all type of music now. That was just a little bit of metal." She glanced at him. "Buckle up." And she pointed to the strap hanging next to him. He frowned, reached for it, pulled it, and under her instructions finally figured out how to buckle himself in. Then he was back to holding to the door, and the seat as Megan continued to drive the vehicle down the dirt road away from her house.

As they continued their journey, Lancelot tenser than he had ever been in his life and watching as trees flew by swiftly, he noticed Megan. She was frowning slightly as she watched the road that had turned from dirt to some kind of smooth, dark stone with a yellow line painted in the middle, and he knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was because of him that she frowned now, and he regretted to admit that he did not like that idea very much. All ready he had raged at the lady; he would feel worse if he found he had upset her again.

"Something bothers you," he stated, no question to it.

She glanced at him. "Huh, oh, no. I'm fine."

She was lying, and he knew it. "You lie. Have I done something to offend or upset you?" he asked.

He saw an eyebrow arch, and she glanced quickly at him again out of the corner of her eye. "No, Lancelot, you haven't done anything."

"What troubles you then?" he questioned.

"Nothing," she insisted, and he looked at her unrelentingly, firmly, intently, and she sighed. "I was just wondering if this is all too soon for you. I mean really thinking," she confessed. "I mean you don't know the first thing about this century, and I saw how you reacted to the car. There's going to be a lot of cultural shock, and I haven't done the first thing to prepare you for it. Hell, Fel was the one that had to tell you it was a car for heavens sake." And he could sense that she was irritated with herself.

He wished to reach out and touch her to reassure her that she was doing a fine job, but quelled the impulse. "You have told me that this century holds many surprises. I do not think even if you had a fortnight to prepare me, that I would not have this cultural shock, as you called it," he told her.

"Yeah, I know. However, I could have let you rest at least. Let you absorb everything instead of whisking you to town where there's going to be a lot more people to deal with, and a lot more things."

"Megan," he said, "rest would not have prepared me, and I am fine." Then after a moment, said, "And quite frankly I do not relish these clothing."

She glanced at him, a smile on her face. "You do look kind of funny in them." It caused both of them to smile, and have a small laugh before lapsing into silence.

After several long minutes, however, it was broken by Lancelot. "I apologize for earlier," he said softly.

Her brow furrowed, and she asked confused, "For what?"

"For frightening you, for yelling when you were only trying to help," he told her. "And I am sorry."

She shrugged, kept her eyes on the road. "Don't worry about it. I'm a teacher for Christ sakes," she said. "Kids lose their cool all the time. Don't sweat it."

Eyebrow raised, he questioned, "Sweat it?"

"It's an idiom, meaning like don't worry about it. Sorry, I'll try to hold back my American twenty-first century slang," she joked.

His brow furrowed. "American."

Megan sighed, and said, "Oh, boy." And she continued to drive.

-8-8-8-

After a very long conversation about America, the states, and the one Lancelot was currently in, a still-befuddled Lancelot and Megan arrived into town. So not only had he skipped centuries and risen back from the dead, but he had also switched continents and countries as well. Again if he hadn't been living it, he wouldn't have believed it, and that was probably the only thing keeping his frustration in check, because he had no wish to rave at Megan again for something she had little control over. And there again was the inkling of suspicion that maybe she did, however he quickly pushed it aside—no, that just wasn't possible. But perhaps her sister…

You've become paranoid from all your long years of fighting, Lancelot. The woman's a mother, and obviously doesn't trust you around her or her child. So why would she possibly want you to come to their time? She wouldn't.

He was sure of it. He did not get the feelings of almost absolute trust like he did with Megan, but logic alone helped him reach the deduction. No mother in her right mind would possibly do something that would endanger her children, and Lancelot knew that if it had been Felicia's choice and her house that she wouldn't have taken him in. Felicia didn't trust him, maybe didn't even like him, and so therefore couldn't possibly know anything as to why he was here. Unless of course she wasn't in her right mind…But, no…

However, Megan's willingness to help him, to keep him close, it could all be because she was the reason for his being here. It would fit, and she had no children to protect, only a sister and a nephew, but he knew she had nothing to do with this freak occurrence. She was as dumbfounded as him, and they swam in the dark together.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. A headache was starting to form from all this thinking. He half wished he were at the tavern with the knights, a pretty girl in his lap, or in his room in his own bed sleeping even, or even just sitting around the camp fire with the other knights on one of their assignments. Only awake for a few hours, and he already wished he were back home—

Home.

Funny, he had never considered it home as much as he did just then. Amazing what getting stuck in a different century and coming back from the dead would do to ones outlook. Just bloody amazing…

"I know it's all a lot to take in, but it'll be okay," Megan spoke.

He glanced at her sidelong, and forced the frustrated, sarcastic retort back. It wasn't the young woman's fault, and she was trying to help him; he kept making himself remember that so he wouldn't snap at her.

"You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that," he said to her. "Call me a pessimist if you will."

He saw her bite her lip, glance at him. "I guess you have every right to be," she replied, then added, "We're here."

Megan pulled the vehicle into a lot with many other vehicles of various sizes, and after a few minutes turned the vehicle before stopping it. A large building, long in length, and made of stone—white and rather nondescript—dominated the lot. It was not anything spectacular, though he would have said the size of it if he had not seen large manors belonging to noble Romans before on his and the knights many quests and assignments. However, as it was, it wasn't anything special or awe inspiring.

"What is this place?" Lancelot asked.

Megan unbuckled, and Lancelot followed her example. She looked up at the building, then glanced at him, hair falling from behind one ear where she had brushed it back. "It's the mall. Biggest thing Halls has, and besides the scenery, the only tourist attraction, too. Makes me wonder if we can have a mall, why not a hospital," she said, added, "Guess vanity and the like's more important than people's health."

Lancelot didn't comment, frowned, but didn't comment, and then looked back up at the building, this "mall." What exactly was a mall, though? He asked Megan, and she replied, "A big shopping complex that has all different types of stores in it—kind of like one big, big market place that sells different things. Halls' Mall isn't that big, but it's mostly clothing and shoe stores, so we're good."

Lancelot nodded, and when Megan opened her door after reaching in the back for something, he followed her example. Ears strained, senses alert, he was vigilant and ready for anything, scanning the surrounding area for any possible threat. Megan walked straight toward the building, oblivious to any danger there might have been, and it bugged Lancelot that she seemed confident all was well and safe. No, it wasn't quite her attitude that bugged him, but that she walked ahead of him where she would be the first to intercept an attack if there was going to be one. It was his responsibility to protect her.

"Megan," he said, and she glanced back at him. "You should stay behind me in case of attack. I do not know—"

A smile tugged her lips, and she interrupted him, saying, "As sweet as that is, don't worry about it. We're safe, and I don't need to be protected." He went to protest, but she continued on, tugged at his arm a little with her warm hand. "Come on. If it makes you feel better, I'll walk beside you."

It was the best he was going to get, he knew, so he consented, and they were off, reaching the mall in less than a minute. They reached the doors, and Lancelot raised a brow. There were four double doors, separated by a black barrier, but all connected. Why did they need so many doors? And as Megan opened one, held it open for him, and he followed her through, he saw a second set like the first. A weird, lighted machine with strange words and strange looking—jugs, he supposed—set at the far wall. He looked at it with a quizzical expression, and Megan whispered something about it being a pop machine, whatever that was supposed to mean. What exactly was pop?

"It's a carbonated drink with different flavors. I'll let you try it sometime," she told him. "Fel and I personally don't drink it, same with Aiden, but you might like it." She shrugged, smiled, and grabbed his hand, pulling him along as a weird sensation went through him starting at his hand.

As Lancelot entered the mall, he saw it was crowded with people. They were dressed oddly—like himself and Megan, he determined, though still odd to him—and came in a variety of skin shades and hair colors—hair colors he had never even seen before on people. Besides the abnormal hair coloring on some of the people, though, the most shocking were the women. Well, not really shocking, he just found no other word to describe it.

Almost all of them were dressed like men: in breeches and tunics. He had only seen Woad women dress like that, like a cross-dresser, and the women and girls that weren't wearing breeches, quite a few of them were wearing dresses/skirts so short—even Lancelot that was used to the wenches that worked in the taverns thought it indecent and appalling. And some of the females that wore such clothing looked to have seen only thirteen or so winters. It was appalling! And where were their men? Did they honestly allow their women to dress like that, to be seen in such garb? Quite a few of them, he noticed, seemed to be here alone, carrying on and whatnot. Their men, father or brother or husband or whatever male in charge of them, seemed to be absent. And the men that were around, some of them seemed to be submissive to their woman, while others just didn't seem to care, and others…

The future had apparently turned into a world lacking modesty and decency and chivalry, and was replaced by harlots and whores and the like. Even he, the wanton knight that enjoyed the company of a woman, found it to be indecent and disgusting.

And then his eyes fell on the most disturbing sight of all: a man dressed in a short dress some pale pink shade and that exposed much of his body, his hair styled into delicate curls and his face painted up—like a woman!

His countenance must have expressed his disgust and astonishment, because Megan spoke to him, saying and looking at him almost expressionlessly, "It's a different time, Lancelot. Things that wouldn't be acceptable in your time are in this one."

He looked down at her, found her standing in front of him, looking up. "Acceptable?" he asked, obviously appalled. "It is—"

"A good way to offend people, and start a fight," she said, warning in her voice. "The people here are nice, but can be judgmental, especially since most of the citizens are elderly. If they can accept it, then you can, too."

He took a deep breath, glanced again at the people. "It's just cultural shock, I get that, but others won't. Just because they're different and not what you're used to, that doesn't make them bad people," she told him. "Look at me—I'm dressed similar to them, and you don't have a problem with me. Fel, too. She's dressed like everyone else, and you don't have a problem with her."

He looked at Megan. She wasn't quite dressed like them. The flowy skirt billowed to her ankles, just scraping the floor, and the blue sweater that was a few shades paler than the vibrant, flower-patterned skirt covered much of her. Her outfit, though different than the attire he was used to women of his time wearing, he could overlook. Felicia's… He had overlooked it merely because it was one woman wearing it, not many, and he had had other things that occupied his mind than the odd dressing habits of Megan's sister. However, now, being in a building surrounded by the same dressing trend, it was more difficult to overlook.

She must have read his thoughts, because she told him, "I just got off work teaching hormonal teenagers not long ago, and I'm not a teenager anymore. I can't quite get away with dressing as teenager-ish anymore, but I still dress much the same way. It's just the way things are."

Lancelot was willing to try and accept that because he knew what she said was truth, as hard as it was. However, there was one thing he just couldn't bring himself to accept… "And the man that dresses like a woman? I suppose that is part of how things are now as well?"

Megan shrugged. "There have always been people like that. The only difference between my time and yours is that people are more open and accepting about it," she informed him, saw his shocked and disgusted expression. "People are free to dress like they want here, unlike your time. I mean can you imagine what would happen if someone tried. Prosecution."

He still didn't seem to be giving in, and she sighed, said, "Can you at least try?" And then shrugged. "Or if you would prefer you can continue wearing that."

Lancelot grimaced, and Megan smiled. "What I thought. Come on." And she grabbed his hand, and began to pull him further into the mall.

Lancelot let her drag him to wherever. He could only look with fascination and that ever-present repulsion as she continued to lead him by the hand. Truly he was trying not to be as repulsed by the new customs and dress of the twenty-first century, however he was finding it hard. Megan seemed to understand, but she still urged him to try. And try he did, though more so for the girl than himself.

Finally, though, Megan pulled him into an entrance of some store, and around him were all sorts of garments of all sorts of colors, sizes, style, look—it was a giant variety, and he was utterly amazed. Never had he seen so many clothes before, at least not at once, and most certainly not like this. When Megan pulled on his hand, he glanced at her and saw her smiling, and then she was leading him away again to some place within the large store.

"Here we are," she announced, pulling him into the array of clothing. "The men's department." There were so many articles of clothing; it was almost overwhelming. "Just pick out anything, and then we'll get you to try it on and see what you like."

Lancelot, though, didn't know where to start, and as Megan fingered through clothes hanging on metal constructions, he only stood there looking around. None of this was what he was used to, and he didn't know what to pick up. After several minutes, Megan glanced up at him, and upon seeing his confused, distressed face, must have figured out his dilemma.

He looked at her, she at him, and she smiled at him in amusement, asking, "Need help?"

And all he said was, "Please."

Megan walked over to him, and together they began their search for clothes for Lancelot. Megan insisted on a little of everything, mostly attire that edged along the line of casual sophistication, saying she could see him in it, and it wouldn't be too dressy. Finally, arms loaded full of clothes, she sent him in the direction of the fitting rooms, telling him if he wanted to show her to just walk out and model for her. He, however, only stopped and searched for this supposed sign that said fitting rooms. A minute passed, and Megan noticed he was still standing there, looking around with that befuddled look adopted on his face again.

"Lancelot?" she questioned, and he turned to her. "Fitting rooms, right there. See that sign?" she asked.

He looked at the sign, saw the letters, frowned, and couldn't figure out how Megan got fitting rooms out of it. He knew how to read and write, something Arthur had taught him himself and that had helped bond them closer, and knew how to spell both fit and room, and that looked nothing like it.

He frowned, Megan frowned, and he said, "I think you are mistaken, my lady. That does not say fitting room."

She looked up at the sign, back at him, asked, tone careful, "Lancelot, can you… uh… I mean… do you know how to read? I know most of the people didn't then, so it's nothing to be ashamed of, I was just… well, that is most definitely "fitting rooms,"" she said.

He looked shocked, outraged almost, and sputtered, "Yes, I know how to read." It was a touchy subject for him for some reason, and the implication… It irked him. "And that most definitely is not fitting rooms."

They frowned and looked intently at each other, trying to figure it out. After several long minutes, she titled her head slightly, and said suspiciously, "Lancelot, spell fitting rooms." Though confused, he did as she asked, and when he was finished a tense grimace crossed Megan's face. "Of course. I'd been wondering about that. Now it explains it… and yet doesn't."

"What?"

She sighed, looked at him. "During the Dark Ages, the vernacular of that time period was Latin," she explained. He raised an eyebrow, she continued on. "Now, though, there are thousands of languages all across the world. The most common in America is English, followed closely by Spanish, but never mind that." She waved her hand as if to brush it away.

He had a sneaky suspicion, but he asked anyways. "And?"

"And the whole time you've been here, except a few times when you were comatose, you've been speaking English—perfectly!" she exclaimed, and Lancelot blinked, surprised. "I started thinking about it on the drive here, and couldn't figure it out because if you really were from the Dark Ages, obviously you wouldn't know English. However, it seems I got my answer," said Megan.

Slowly, Lancelot asked, "Which would be?"

"You can speak English, but you can't read it or spell it, and that doesn't really making sense at all," she mumbled, and after several seconds of muttering looked up at Lancelot, and said, "Go try those clothes on. Go on, shoo, while I think."

Lancelot raised both eyebrows at the word "shoo," and she shrugged, smiling sheepishly. He went though, knowing where the fitting rooms were now. And whether it was because he had so much on his plate already, and was numb to any other shocking news, the fact he knew a language that apparently he shouldn't did not faze him. He was not sure if that was good or bad, but for the moment, took it as a blessing for he could not handle anymore "surprises." His head still pounded, and his frustration still simmered right beneath the surface.

No, it was better if he did not focus too hard or too long on this odd occurrence. He had come back from the dead, been sent centuries into the future, and was in a completely different country than the one he had died in. Why should being able to speak, yet not read or write, a new language surprise him? If he hadn't been a battle-hardened knight, and just Lancelot in general, he swore he would have laughed insanely, hysterically by now, because surely he couldn't be sane.

He sighed wearily, shook his pounding head, and began to try on the clothes that he would "model" for Megan.

Focus on one thing at a time, Lancelot. One thing at a time.

He wished it were that simple.

A/N—Would have kept going, but I thought this was long enough. People have lives, so they don't want to waste it on enormously long chapters, yeah… As always, forgive for any remaining typos—it's late, I'm a wee bit tires, you know the drill. Any questions, then ask. I'll try to answer the best I can. Constructive criticism welcomed. And thank you for the reviews—always appreciated.

SatiricalPhilosophy