AN: Also known as The Beginning of the End;) One thing: Make sure to notice that dates at the start of every scene, because they're not always in order.
Changes: Little things.
Clues
The Once and Future King, in the Attic, with the Photo Album
August, 2007
"This is a bad idea."
"What are you, chicken?"
"No. I just don't want to make Father angry."
"Is poor Wart scared of his Daddy?"
"Miri . . ."
Miriam Caswell laughed in his face. "Come on, Arthur," she begged him, still grinning. "I want to see what's up there."
Arthur Peterson sighed long-sufferingly, glanced quickly downstairs, then brushed past his best friend and up the ladder.
"Hurry up," he hissed down, "Dad'll be home soon, and he won't be happy if he finds us here."
"Yessir." Miri was already following.
The attic of the Peterson household would perhaps remind one of a yard sale; almost nothing was interrelated. Boxes of old books were stacked against the far wall, while closer at hand sat a few relics from Arthur's childhood. The two surveyed the room, not sure what to look at first. Sunlight, made weak by the clouds that half-covered the Welsh sky, streamed in from a small round window across the way.
Miri scampered towards a box and opened it. "Come on!" she urged. "You said you wanted to hurry, so hurry!"
Arthur rolled his eyes at her stubborn determination to break every rule his father had ever set, but he moved forward to inspect another box.
Most of the stuff was hardly worth mentioning; luggage, fans, technical manuals, a binky, and other such nonsense. Arthur was thoroughly disappointed - not that he showed it.
"Hey, Arthur!" Miri hissed. "Come here!"
She sounded excited, so he went over to where she was crouched in front of an old locked trunk. Wordlessly, she pointed at a pair of initials by the lock.
YLD.
Without really knowing what he was doing, Arthur ran his finger along the raised letters and whispered, "Yasmin Loriane Debufort."
Miri watched his face carefully as he said this. She knew her friend missed his mother terribly, which may have seemed strange to most people, since he had never actually met her. Ever since he could remember, though, he had felt a strange sort of connection to her. Now, his face showed that longing in the far-away expression and sad eyes. Anyone that didn't know Arthur might not have seen the signs, but Miri knew Arthur very well.
"Let's open it," she suggested, elbowing him lightly. He raised an eyebrow.
"It's locked," he told her, but she just snorted, pulled out one of her hairpins, and started picking the lock. In no time, it clicked in a satisfying way and popped open.
Eagerly, the two pulled the lock off and the trunk open.
Immediately, there assaulted their eyes a strange sight: a flat cardboard piece that Arthur vaguely recognized as a record holder. On it was a dark-haired man, holding a guitar. His mouth was open and his face was contorted like he was screaming. The title read simply 'Elvis Presley'.
"Is he singing?" Miri asked incredulously as she picked the record up. "He looks like he's in pain."
"Then he must have been singing about it," Arthur replied, trying not to laugh. "Mum loved Elvis, Uncle Taylor told me. Dad can't stand to listen to it now."
There were a few other Elvis records in the trunk, along with some other singers and bands. Miri commented on the lack of Beatles. There were concert tickets and old dolls, E. Nesbit and LordoftheRings, and what looked like love letters tied with pink ribbon.
"Look," Miri said, smirking as she held up a book. It was TheSwordintheStone.
Arthur scowled and snatched it away. "Shut up."
"I'm telling you, that's where she got the name!" Miri chortled. He ignored her, having spotted something interesting.
"A photo album!" He dived to pick it up and dust it off. "Lovely. Wedding pictures, 70's hairstyles, and ridiculous shenanigans, here we come!"
He opened it.
The album was all he had dared hope for and more. An inscription in the front cover told him his grandmother had put it together as a wedding present. It seemed to be chronicling her life, starting with the normal drooling-baby pictures, to gap-toothed childhood frames, then the teenage years. He and Miri almost passed out from laughter when they saw a picture of Yasmin with cardboard cutout of Elvis.
He stopped rather abruptly at a certain picture that was taken when Yasmin was (by the date) about sixteen. Almost as one, he and Miri leaned in to examine it.
It wasn't actually that different from the other pictures; it had Yasmin in it, of course. But it wasn't Yasmin they were staring at. Her arm was around a man next to her, a man with pitch-black hair, blue eyes, and a wide, friendly smile.
Arthur felt something stir within him, in the region of his heart that he liked to think of as 'My Mum', because it seemed to ache with every thought of her. But this was not the normal feeling. It seemed to draw at something in that place that was buried deep, deeper than even Arthur knew.
He looked at Miri. She looked at him. And he realized she felt that deepness too.
"Who is he?" she whispered, her voice almost reverent.
He peered at the script, then frowned. "It doesn't say," he told her, trying to hide his own disappointment. "It just has the date and where they were."
"They were in Cardiff," Miri observed. "Maybe he lived here."
Carefully, Arthur pulled the photo out of the album. He felt like he was holding the most valuable possession in the world.
"What're you going to do with it?" Miri questioned. "Ask your dad about him?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, that would raise a lot of questions, and he'd just get angry that I was up here. No, I'll ask Granmama, or maybe Uncle Taylor. Dad didn't even know Mum when she was sixteen, so he's not likely to know anyway."
Below them, the front door opened and slammed. Ulric Peterson was home.
The two teenagers leapt to their feet, hearts pounding. Miri grinned. "D'you think we can get downstairs without him noticing?" she asked.
Arthur didn't answer, just went for the ladder.
After they had closed the trapdoor, they still had to try and brush the revealing dust off their clothing - and Ulric was yelling for his son.
"How do I look?" Miri asked breathlessly as they tried to hurry downstairs.
"Fine," Arthur grunted. He hoped his father wasn't in a bad mood.
Finally, they came to a stop in front of the tall, imposing man. Arthur tried to smile naturally, feeling like the photo was burning a hole in his pocket. "Hello, Father," he said. "Had a good day?"
Rupert Leal, the elder Peterson's bodyguard, raised an eyebrow at Arthur's strange behavior.
Even Ulric seemed to notice something was a little off. "It was fine," he said, eyeing the two. "What were you doing upstairs?"
Arthur hesitated. "Oh, we just in my bedroom."
"Talking," supplied Miri.
Ulric took in their disheveled clothes, flushed faces, and guilty expressions. "Talking?" he repeated. "So that's what they're calling it these days." He turned away. "Don't get into too much trouble."
The partners in crime breathed double sighs of relief.
November, 2011
Glen was brushing his hair. The process only took two minutes, as opposed to the five his girlfriend always accused him of. Styling it, on the other hand, took ten.
His task complete, he went out into the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast. His roommate Jim was sitting at the table, watching television and drinking orange juice right out of the carton.
"You going to have breakfast?" Glen asked, planning on making toast. "Or is that all?"
Jim shook his head vaguely. Glen paused, confused; which question was he answering?
He shrugged; Jim could fend for himself, just as long as it didn't interfere with his favorite shows.
A letter on the countertop caught his attention. It was addressed to him.
"Jim, when did this come?" he asked. Jim didn't seem to hear, so Glen repeated himself louder.
"Oh, um, yesterday, I think," Jim replied vaguely.
"And I wasn't told . . . why?"
Jim shrugged. "Life on Mars reruns were on, what did you expect me to do, miss the gripping plots for a letter?" He turned away again.
Glen rolled his eyes and hoped the letter didn't have any information he should have known yesterday. With his job, you really never knew. As he opened it, he noted the lack of return address.
The paper was almost blank; all it contained was a date and an address. Glen frowned at it. The date was tomorrow; the address was in London. It had been written by - he would bet his life on it - a real typewriter. He almost laughed at the fact that every E was a little bit too far to the right. Unique typewriter.
"How mysterious," he muttered, and turned to the phone.
August 2007 Again
Most people couldn't believe it when they found out Arthur was Ulric's son. It made sense, of course; Arthur took almost entirely after his mother, with his fair hair and blue eyes. He'd even gotten a Welsh accent from living in Cardiff all his life. But what really surprised everyone was when they heard that Arthur and Miriam weren't related. For some reason that always blew people away.
Maybe it was because they bickered like siblings, or how they spent so much time in each other's company, Arthur didn't know. He imagined having Miri as an actual, blood-related sister; she practically was anyway, but for some reason this thought made him shudder.
Nobody ever bothered to find out about any of his other relatives. When he mentioned he was going to visit her that afternoon, most of his friends expressed a belief that his grandmother was dead.
He declined to respond to that.
His grandmother lived in a house that had been in her deceased husband's family for generations, one not unlike Arthur's; big, echo-y halls and plenty of servants. Most people found these houses too big and empty, but there was something about them Arthur liked, something familiar in the ground or walls that had been walked on and handled by so many of his ancestors. It felt like home.
His grandmother's arthritis was so bad, she couldn't even hug him, but she clutched his hand tightly as he sat beside her, and also greeted Miriam with enthusiasm. After the usual inquiry about her health, chat about school, work, girls, and friends, Mrs. Debufort got down to business.
"Your heart isn't in this discussion, Arthur," she said, giving his hand a few little squeezes. "What is it you came here for?"
Arthur considered denying it, but not very seriously. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the photograph. His grandmother took it, looking rather anxious. He watched with some surprise as her face went through several interesting gyrations at seeing it. Glancing at Miri, he knew she was just as interested by the reaction.
Slowly, his grandmother spoke. "You took this out of the wedding album . . . didn't you?"
Arthur nodded. "It didn't say who he was, and we wondered."
She didn't seem surprised. "I haven't seen this man since your mother's funeral," she said simply. "But oh, how his face brings back so many memories! If you'd looked a bit further in the album, you have seen more of him. He and your mother were thick as thieves, especially when she was a teenager. They went everywhere together, did everything together . . . sometimes you couldn't tell where Yasmin ended and Mervin began."
Arthur leaned forward. "Mervin?" he asked, keenly interested.
"That was his name," said Arthur's grandmother. "Mervin Eggleston. I know, what a name! But what a man!"
She sighed. "They both adored music and Elvis. Especially Elvis. I've never seen such an obsession. That's how they met, at one of his concerts. And then, there was no going back for either of them."
"Were they . . ." Miri hesitated under their eyes. ". . . romantically involved?"
"No," said Arthur's grandmother firmly. "I only ever saw a small crush on Yasmin's side (that didn't last very long), and friendship on his. He was like another older brother, in a way.
"Did you know that your parents wouldn't have met if it weren't for Mervin?"
"Dad told me they met at a party for ol' David McCarthy."
"Did he mention that Yasmin was Mervin's plus one?"
Miri looked impressed. "This Mervin got an invite to one of David McCarthy's parties? He must have been something."
"Yes, an old friend, I believe. But Mrs. McCarthy introduced Yasmin and Ulric, and that was that."
For a moment silence reigned. Then- "What happened to him?" asked Arthur.
His grandmother sighed. "After your mother died, he left. I understand there was a massive disagreement between him and Ulric, and he just up and went. I don't know where. He probably left Britain entirely."
"And that was the last you heard of him?" Miri asked, frowning. Arthur's grandmother nodded.
"He was a good man, Mervin, but he was so sad when Yasmin died. I almost feel like it would have done him good to see you grow up, Arthur, but he and Ulric are both stubborn beasts. I'm sorry I have so little to give you; I know how you would want to talk to him about your mother."
Arthur met her tear-filled eyes, and was shocked to discover that that had not been his intention at all. He was asking about Mervin for an entirely different reason . . .
What that reason was remained to be discovered.
The three jumped when Arthur's cellphone rang. It was his father, asking where he was.
"I've got to go," he said, standing up and gripping his grandmother's shoulder. "Thank you so much for what you've told me, Grandmother."
Looking up into his deep blue eyes, his grandmother was almost struck speechless by what she saw. Standing so tall and straight above her, he might have been a king.
When they reached the sidewalk outside and started for home, Arthur said decisively, "I'm going to find him. I'm going to find Mervin Eggleston."
Miri bumped shoulders with him. "I'll help," she said. "There's just something about him . . ."
"I know what you mean," he admitted. "I can't explain it, though, and Dad isn't going to like this. We've got to keep it a secret from him."
His friend nodded firmly. "I understand."
They went to cross the street, and it happened so fast that Arthur's brain felt like a out-of-sync recording. One moment he was stepping out from between the cars (having looked both ways, thank you very much), and the next moment he was lying half-way across the next lane with Miri sprawled next to him. For a moment he didn't understand as a car he hadn't seen screamed to halt some feet away. The driver, a hysterical teenager probably younger than he was, jumped out, asking if they were alright. Then he understood. Miri had pushed him out of the way. He turned to her, his eyes wide.
"You saved my life," he said breathlessly. Miri, resembling a deer in the headlights, only gaped for a moment. Something seemed to have robbed her of the power of speech.
"Um," she said, "yeah. I guess I did." She shook her head. "I don't know how . . . I didn't even see the car coming! It just . . . sort of happened."
An odd sense of foreboding entered deep into Arthur's heart, but, just as with the situation with Mervin Eggleston, he didn't know why.
They weren't sure where to start. Well, actually, they did; first, they tried the Internet. But after that turned up absolutely nothing, the two investigators had to search for other alternatives.
"So what, you two are Clark Kent and Lois Lane now?" asked Arthur's Uncle Taylor when he was bombarded for information. "Look, I hardly knew Mervin. I went over to his house a few times with Yasmin. He-"
"His house?" Arthur interrupted, interested. "Where?"
The current owners, though friendly and forthcoming, were not able to tell them anything of importance.
"Why would they think the basement smelling weird had anything to do with Mervin?" Miri sniggered as they walked away.
It took almost a month, but not long after his seventeenth birthday the two realized another name that might be useful.
The invitation came in the mail. It was for a party being held in the honor of Regina McCarthy's sixtieth birthday.
"Ah, Mrs. McCarthy, I remember her well - such a sweet lady," said Ulric, as he perused the letter over dinner. "You'll remember that it was at one of her husband's galas that your mother and I met."
Arthur felt like he'd been hit by a lightning bolt. There was one other person he could ask - David McCarthy! Hadn't his grandmother said he and Mervin had been old friends?
"Can Miri come with us, Father?" he asked, trying to sound unaffected. "You know how boring those parties can be."
Ulric gave his son a disapproving glance, but agreed. Sometimes Arthur wasn't sure what his father thought of Miri.
The McCarthys lived in London, in a townhouse that was fairly enormous even by Peterson standards. David McCarthy stood at the door, greeting all of his guests with a cheerful, booming voice that seemed to shake the ground with sheer loudness. Even though he was in his late sixties, he stood as tall, straight, and strong as someone thirty years his junior. Though not exactly muscular anymore, he certainly gave the impression that he was.
He seemed absolutely delighted when Ulric introduced his son and friend, almost taking out the eardrums of anyone within a mile expressing his pleasure.
"So this is Arthur!" he cried, clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Yes, I can see that; you look a great deal like your mother."
Arthur knew this of course, having been told it by many people over the course of his life; it got a little tiring after a while. He was inclined to think of the older man as a bit of a headache-inducer. But he soon discovered that David McCarthy was so cheerful and good-natured that it was almost impossible not to like him.
Neither he nor Miri had any chance to talk to the man alone until the party was in full-swing. Arthur saw him sitting alone by the side of the room, watching everyone with a very contented expression. Without a word, the young man grabbed Miri's arm and dragged her over.
"Mr. McCarthy?" he asked politely. "May we sit here?"
David McCarthy returned Arthur's smile. "Of course you may! I've been wanting to talk to you, as a matter of fact."
They sat down and looked at him curiously. "What is it, sir?" Arthur asked. What could David McCarthy have to say to him?
"First off, none of this 'sir' nonsense; just call me David. I insist!" This said, the man turned in his seat to face Arthur, his expression strangely serious. "I have a question for you. It may be a strange question, but I'd appreciate it if you answered as truthfully as possible, alright?"
Confused, Arthur nodded. "Of course, sir, uh, David."
David fixed him with two searching eyes; there was no joking in his now. "Arthur, is there . . . have you . . . that is, do you sometimes feel like . . . like your mother is . . . well, not alive, obviously, but still here, in a way?"
Miri stared at David as if he were absolutely mad. She turned to Arthur to exchange an incredulous look, but stopped short.
Arthur didn't look confused at all, just surprised. After a few seconds, he gasped, "How - how did you know?" shocking Miri.
David smiled a little, relieved. "As soon as I saw you, I knew. You don't just look like her; I saw her in your face."
Then the old man shook his head. "That's all I wanted to know; I don't know how or why, and I doubt you do either, but what it feels like, how you know she's there - that's your business.
"Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Arthur looked at him with wide eyes, his brain struggling to catch up with what was going on, but he comprehended enough to pull the photograph out of his pocket and show it to David.
David blinked and his shoulders straightened a little as he saw the smiling faces. The two heard him draw in a quick little breath. For a moment he didn't speak, just looked at the photo.
"Where did you find this?" he asked. His voice had gotten even quieter. He did not sound angry; on the contrary, he looked to be holding back a smile.
"Photo album," Arthur said. "We heard you were friends with this man, Mervin Eggleston, and wondered if you could tell us about him."
David chuckled. "Why am I even surprised? Of course you would want to know about Mervin . . ." He sighed. "Mervin's a mystery, and yet, at the same time, he's an open book. Always surprising you, while managing to be completely predictable. I met him when I was nineteen years old, and we've been good friends ever since. He taught me so much, and confused me so much too. But, I'm glad to say that I believe I annoyed him just as much as he exasperated me!"
David McCarthy smiled fondly. "Oh, he was such a good friend! To everyone! Loyal to the end; you know the type. And he was so different, as well. You know, he told me once that the reason he was such a great fan of Elvis was not because of his singing - although that was not bad - or his style - which was not to be laughed at - or anything like that, but because Elvis showed Mervin (and others, too!) that you can be great no matter what you're great at. He said that Elvis had showed him that you didn't need to rule a country to be a king."
Arthur and Miri blinked in confusion. David almost laughed, nodding. "Yes, that's what he said. You know that Elvis was called the King of Rock'N'Roll. He said that there were people out there that didn't have a drop of royal blood in their veins, but that they were still kings and queens because of what they did. Elvis was the king of the stage, he told me, and others were monarchs of art and science and good-will, rising up and holding a standard that others could see, setting an example. People that were great. People that did great things. He truly believed that, you know."
Arthur thought he understood what David meant. Mervin had believed in becoming the best you could be, no matter the circumstances. Well, he could respect that.
Miri spoke. "He sounds like a wonderful man," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the clamor around them.
David laughed wholeheartedly, and it echoed around the walls. "Quite right, Miriam! Sometimes I thought he must be something more than a man, even!"
The ex-politician put the photo back into Arthur's hands. "I don't know where Mervin is now," he said regretfully. "We don't communicate much. That may seem odd to you, but if you knew Mervin . . . well, you'll understand if you ever meet him. Last I heard, he was in the Mediterranean area, but I couldn't tell you if he was still there."
Slowly, David rose to his feet. "I have neglected my other guests for too long," he said, and held out his hand to both of them in turn. "Arthur, Miriam," he said, then winked conspicuously. "Don't be strangers now," and walked away.
Miri turned to her friend, grinning. "Well, I suppose we know a little more about the mysterious Mr. Eggleston!" she said. "Let's go find that grandson of David's again, I liked him . . ."
But as Miri pulled him through the crowd, Arthur could not shake the suspicion that something very important had been said in this interview . . . and that he had missed it.
December, 2010
He and Miri took David McCarthy at his word and visited often. Arthur sometimes felt like David was about to tell him that something else about Mervin that he had left out, but the man never did. Arthur wondered what it was . . . and felt at the same time that he already knew, which was strange.
All his searches, no matter how careful or discreet, turned up nothing on Mervin Eggleston. So Arthur was forced to move on with his life. After they had graduated, Miri tried to get him to go with her to Imperial College in London, but he decided to stay in Cardiff; he didn't want the commute. But something happened not long after his twentieth birthday that made him wish he had a good excuse to visit or even live in London.
When Regina McCarthy passed away, Arthur took the train to London to offer his condolences. Always the kind to avoid awkward emotional scenes, he might not have done it if Miri hadn't threatened to steal his collection of bottle caps and melt them down.
Besides, he told himself, David wasn't really the emotional type anyway, so there was little chance of there being an awkward scene.
The former politician met him in the library; Arthur had never seen him more tired.
"I'm almost glad she's gone," David said, his voice unusually subdued. "She suffered a lot, but now she's at rest, and that's all I can ask for."
Arthur nodded. He didn't know what to say. He wished the "My Mum' part of him, the part where he liked to think his mother still lived, would give him an idea, as it sometimes did.
"We weren't expecting her to last this long even," David continued. "But Gina took such good care of her . . . And I expect she'll want to stay and help me! Won't you, Gina?"
Arthur jumped a little, and turned to look behind him. He blinked a couple of times, and rose to his feet before he knew what he was doing.
A woman was standing in the doorway, the most lovely woman Arthur had ever set his eyes on. She looked rather exotic, with her dark skin and hair, but her eyes were deep and kind, and her mouth was smiling.
A hand clenched around Arthur's heart, squeezing it tightly. He couldn't breathe or move.
David placed a hand on Arthur shoulder. Arthur hadn't realized he had moved. "Gina, this is Arthur Peterson, you remember me telling you about him? Arthur, this is Gina Leonowens. She was Regina's nurse."
Gina's smile widened, and she held out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peterson," she said, and her voice was gentle.
Arthur wasn't sure how he was able to grasp the hand and shake it, let alone speak around the invisible hand that held him. "The pleasure's all mine," he replied, and was surprised at how natural he sounded. "Please, call me Arthur."
There must have been something in his voice that showed what he was feeling, for Gina's cheeks darkened a little more, and her eyes darted everywhere in a gesture he found oddly familiar.
And so it begins again, something under that slowly-releasing hand whispered.
September, 2011
"Arthur."
The voice startled him. He was sitting in the station waiting for the train that would take him to London to see Gina. He looked up, and found that the woman next to him was staring.
"Arthur," she said again, as if testing the name out.
Arthur blinked; he couldn't remember ever seeing this woman before. She was slim, almost unhealthily so, with dark hair and eyes and olive-colored skin.
"I'm sorry," he said, "do I know you?"
She blinked, then smiled slowly in a slightly creepy way. "No," she replied. "But I know you." She had an accent that he couldn't quite place. Russian? Turkish?
Arthur nodded, not really sure how to respond to that, so he didn't say anything. For a few minutes they sat in an awkward silence. She kept on glancing over at him with that unnerving little smile, and he was two seconds away from trying to talk to her anyway when she beat him to the punch.
"I've met Mervin," she said, as if relaying a dastardly secret.
He frowned. "Mervin?" he asked, not sure who she meant.
She nodded. "Mervin Eggleston. I knew him, many years ago. Worked with him in Greece."
Arthur's heart seemed to leap out of his chest. "Really?" Now he was interested. "When would this have been?"
She shrugged, still smiling. "Time has no meaning when you're me. Or Mervin, for that matter." She looked a little thoughtful. "Berenice might know. She'll be here soon. I can tell you it was after your mother's death, though." The woman's eyes softened slightly. "He was so unhappy about that, he just ran away and came to Greece. They were such good friends. I think he may have even fancied her a bit, whether he knew it or not." There was definitely a twinkle of amusement now. "Silly boy. I never told him I knew. It wouldn't have done any good."
Arthur had sat almost breathless throughout her speech, and now leaned forward. "Do you know where to find him?" he asked intently. "I've been looking for him for four years now, and no one's been able to tell me what happened to him after my mother died."
The Greek woman's brow furrowed. "Why do you want to find him so badly? He couldn't tell you anymore about your mother than your family could. Why do you want to find him?"
Arthur blinked. That was actually a very good question. Why did he want to meet Mervin Eggleston so much? His grandparents had known his mother longer. His father had known her better. What about that photograph was pushing him on so much? What would he gain from this?
"I . . . " he said, having no clue how he would finish that sentence.
He turned to look at the woman, and was astonished to see that she was almost laughing with delight. "That is the answer I was looking for," she said, nodding. "It means you're just who you should be."
Arthur huffed slightly. Was he going to get nothing but riddles from this woman?
She laughed, then grabbed his sleeve. "Arthur, don't despair. The time is almost upon us for you to be reunited with Mervin. The circle is almost complete. Your time is coming, Arthur Peterson. Your task right now is to make sure you're ready for it when it comes."
A voice burst through the station. "Zoe!" Another woman was approaching them with confused eyes. She paused and beckoned to Arthur's companion. "The cab . . . "
"And . . . that's my ride," the woman said. "Just remember, you must be ready. We're all counting on you."
And then she was gone before Arthur could so much as call "Wait!"
November, 2011
On the eve of his twenty-first birthday, Miri called him a couple hours after dinner.
"Hey, Wart, come down to the pub and have a brew with me! I'm feeling lonely."
"Miri, I'd like to get a good night's sleep tonight-"
"Don't be a spoilsport!" she cried. "It's your birthday tomorrow, and you only turn twenty-one once! Trust me on that, Arthur. It'll be fun. All my friends have ditched! Come on!"
Arthur almost laughed at her half-drunk pleading, and replied, "Alright, be there soon."
The pub was only half a mile away, so Arthur just walked, shivering in the November weather. It was a beautiful night, and he looked upward, struggling to see the stars in the bright lights. They were so dim in the city.
Miri nearly strangled him when he got to his destination, latching onto his scarf and dragging him through the typical crowd to the bar. A depressed-looking woman sat contemplating her drink as Miri shoved Arthur next to her, then went to sit on her other side. Arthur thought the woman's hair might be red, but it was quite short and unkempt.
"Arthur, Sarah," Miri yelled over the noise, "Sarah, Arthur. Say hi, Arthur."
"Hi," Arthur muttered, already wishing he hadn't come. "How do you do. Can we go home now?"
Miri shook her head, yawning. "Jus' a sec. Sarah, tell Wartywartwart what you told me."
Sarah raised her eyes. They were startlingly blue, and Arthur stiffened, staring. There was something about those eyes . . .
Sarah spoke in a low, quiet way, but distinctly. "Like I was telling your friend here, Imperial College is the best in London."
Miri crowed. "See? Didn't I tell you?"
Arthur groaned. "Miriam . . . "
"No, don't Miriam me," she said, then shoved a newspaper at him. "Look: article about how awesome it is. Read it."
Rolling his eyes, Arthur grabbed the paper; there was no arguing with Miri, especially when she was drunk. Just to humor her, he pretended to read it while just glancing at the photos.
He gasped.
"I know, right!" Miri almost jumped with excitement. "See, I told you he would see it my way!"
"No, Miri, look!" Arthur shoved the paper at her, tapping frantically at one of the pictures. Confused, Miri squinted at the picture. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed.
"What the . . . " she muttered, holding the paper closer. "It can't be."
"I know," Arthur replied. "But . . . it's so much like him."
She gaped. The photo was of two people: a woman and a young man, both with dark hair, sitting at a long table in what looked like a library, smiling at the camera across several books and papers. The caption read: Martin Evans, a 21-year-old tutor, assists Jane Hanson, a 44-year-old mother returning to finish her degree after 20 years away.
Miri almost laughed. "He's gotta be his son." The resemblance was too perfect: black hair, piercing blue eyes, an angular face sharp enough to cut yourself on, a skinny, tall frame, and an enormous friendly smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
A snort interrupted them. "You talking about Martin the tutor?" Sarah was twisting around to look at the paper too.
"Yes," Arthur said, leaning forward slightly. "Do you know him?"
Sarah nodded. "Course. Everyone knows him. But if you're looking for his father, good luck. Martin's adopted, him and his whole family. None of them had parents until the Evans took them in."
Though his heart lurched a little in disappointment at this news, Arthur didn't allow this to get him down. "But still," he told them confidently, "it's a start."
The fact that Miri did not even express any doubts was a mark of how closely Martin Evans resembled Mervin Eggleston. Instead, she nodded vigorously. "Exactly. We'll find him." Her eyes twinkled. "Aren't you glad that I showed you that magazine now?"
He rolled his eyes and stood up. "We should be getting home," he told her firmly. "It's getting late. It was lovely to meet you Sarah," although it really wasn't; there was just something about the woman that resisted any liking. She didn't even answer.
As they left the pub, Miri suddenly grabbed Arthur's arm. "Arthur, do you sometimes feel like something's going to happen, like we're waltzing irrevocably to an enormous event sometime in the future? Do you feel like that?"
This was one of the reasons Arthur like Miri so much: he always felt like they were on the same page. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one going mad," he told her in relief. "But . . . are you sure that it's not going to be sooner than you think?"
Her face was unfathomable. "Perhaps it will be. But it makes me nervous; I already have enough trouble protecting you as it is!"
Arthur snorted. "What are you talking about? Protecting me? Please. As if."
Miri laughed. "No, really!" she giggled (she was really quite drunk). "If you only knew how many times I've kept you safe-"
He patted her on the back in a patronizing manner. "Whatever you say, Miri," he told her, ignoring the lump that grew to fill his throat. "Whatever you say."
Earlier that same day
Mrs. Dempsey ran a small Bed & Breakfast right on the outskirts of London. For forty-three years she had watched people come and go, people of all sorts. Businessmen, artists, tourists, even a duke. But she was sure she had never witnessed anything quite as strange and suspicious as this.
Two days ago, a high school wrestling team from America had come to stay within her walls. Ten boys, with their "handlers" (as she privately thought of them), were here to compete against the best young wrestlers England had to offer. All she could say about the whole situation was, thank heavens they were gone most of the time.
But now something almost sinister was happening, not that she knew it as she crossed the dining room floor towards the team.
"Pardon me," she said, trying to speak politely over the babble. It took a few moments for anything resembling attention to be focused on her. "I have a letter here, for . . . " She peered at the words. " . . . a Mr. Timothy Percival, room number 8."
A well-muscled young man with fair hair raised his hand. "That's me."
She handed him the letter. "It's very strange, there's not return address, but I'm sure it was sent locally . . . "
Mrs. Dempsey had some subtlety; she didn't exactly look over his shoulder as he read it, and of course she could help but overhear what was being said.
"Who's it from, Tim?" one of the other boys asked. "Is it your mom?"
"Shut up," Timothy Percival said absently, as he read it. "Hmm, that's weird. It's just got a date and an address. It's not signed or anything." He resisted the attempts of his teammates to remove the piece of paper from his grasp and turned around. "Mrs., uh, Dempsey, do you know where this is?" He showed her the paper. It was plain copier paper, but the letters were not normal; it had definitely been done by a typewriter; she almost smiled at the Es. So out of place were they, 'November' looked like 'Novmebre'.
"That'd be on the other side of London, young man. You'd have to ask someone who lives over there for more information."
Mrs. Dempsey noted that the date was the next day. As she cleared away dirty plates, she reflected that it was strange, very strange indeed . . .
The next day
When Arthur woke up the next morning, he thought, I'm 21. Then he thought, Uh-oh.
He wasn't precisely sure why, and that scared him.
His door banged open, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting at the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, ready for anything.
It was Ulric, his face beaming. "Happy birthday, son!"
Arthur could do nothing but stare; his body didn't seem to be working properly. The sight of his father seemed to have frozen him in place. Emotions he had never really learned how to deal with flooded him. His breath quickened, and his eyes shone.
Ulric seemed to realize something was wrong, because he placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his face concerned.
"Is something the matter, Arthur?" he asked, slightly awkward.
Arthur jumped a little at the well-known and, if he admitted it to himself, well-loved voice. The feelings, though not gone, had released their grip on him. "I'm fine, Father," he said, almost savoring the word, as if he had not said it in a thousand years. "Still a little sleepy, I think."
For a moment, Arthur thought he saw something in his father's eyes, a dim remembering of times long past. But it was gone, and Ulric was his usual regal self.
"Well then, breakfast is in half an hour. You must keep a schedule even on your birthday."
Arthur escaped the house as soon as possible, but no sooner had he begun scampering towards his car when his phone rang. He fumbled to answer it. "Hello?"
It was Gina. "Happy birthday, Arthur!"
Something inside Arthur clenched at the sound of her, and a little voice whispered, I never even got to say goodbye. He shook this weirdness off and responded in kind.
"Are we still on for tonight?" she asked.
"Do you even need to ask? Anything to see your lovely face, Gwen."
There was a moment of silence on her end of the line, and he wondered if he had said something wrong. Finally she spoke, "Have you been speaking with Martin?"
It took him a moment to remember that Martin was one of Gina's London friends. "Er . . . no . . . Why?"
"Because he called me Gwen once, too."
Arthur blinked, then realized she was right. "Oh. Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Why'd I call you that?"
She laughed fondly. "Maybe Arthur and Guinevere, eh?"
Tears pricked in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. What was wrong with him today? "Heh, probably. Listen, Gina, I have to go. I was going to visit David today, I haven't seen him in a while."
"Oh lovely! He hasn't had many visitors, I'm sure he would like that. I'll see you tonight, Arthur."
After he had hung up, Arthur simply stood looking out over the street for several more minutes, confused. Ever since he had woken up, something had been . . . off. He'd called Gina Gwen, he'd almost cried when he saw his father, the very thought of calling Miri to tell her of his woes filled him with terrible sadness, and why why why why couldn't he get stupid Mervin Eggleston out of his head?
"I'm going mad," he decided, and got into the car.
Miri hadn't called to wish him happy birthday (just as well, he thought; those conversations usually ended with him feeling horribly old and wrinkly), and he drove with a bad feeling, like there was a target painted on his head. All the way to London, he couldn't help but watch constantly, scanning for some threat that wasn't there . . . or maybe it was, how could he know?
It turned out that David was in the hospital. He'd fallen and was under observation.
"Just for the night, now!" David said cheerfully. "I'll be out before you know it, they just want to make sure I'm alright. But never mind that . . . happy birthday, Arthur!"
Arthur smiled back; David's loud and sunny manner always managed to make him feel better, no matter what his previous mood. But he refused to be diverted.
"Why did no one tell me about this?" he demanded. "That's not like Gina, she would have-"
He stopped short at the rather guilty and furtive look on David's face. "Er, well," said the older man, "I told Gina I was going to tell you, and you know her, she doesn't believe anyone would lie to her." Arthur raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but David beat him to the punch. "I know what you're thinking. It's just . . . you've been so worried lately, Arthur. Gina can tell, I can tell. Miri's mentioned it."
Arthur looked that David sharply. "And now I'm worried even more, now that I know you're a liar."
David flinched a little at this accusation, looking guilty, but Arthur didn't let his own remorse stop him for fixing David with a gimlet eye.
"And what, pray tell, have Gina and Miri told you about the why I'm worrying?"
David's eyes narrowed a little in thought and his forehead scrunched. "To tell you the truth, Arthur, I think they're worried too, and not just about you. There's something in the air, m'boy, something that's different."
"Something bad?" Arthur asked quickly; he'd learned that David had very good instincts.
"No, I wouldn't say bad," David replied slowly. "But there's change coming, Arthur, change coming for you and all the world. Change can be better or for worse; we'll just have to wait and see. But I fear that . . ."
He didn't finish, and Arthur prompted him a little. "That?"
". . . that you'll change. You're a good man, Arthur, and I almost think that you're going to turn into someone no one would recognize after this change comes."
David suddenly leaned forward and grasped Arthur's hands in his own. "Arthur, I don't know what's going to happen, but I have to believe it's for the best. I've seen many strange things in my lifetime, horrible fates and ridiculous miracles, but this, this is something else entirely! This is something life-changing, no . . . something world-changing, and you're going to be at the heart of it! What you must ask yourself now is, will you be ready for it when it comes? Are those around you prepared?"
Arthur stared into the dark, earnest eyes, and realized that he did, in fact, have an answer.
"Yes," he said, somewhat surprised. "I will be ready. Because you know what? I won't be alone. There'll be others, and not just Gina or - Miri-" (this name he had to force out like it didn't want to come.) "-but ones that also are ready for it."
Inexplicably, the faces of Mervin Eggleston and Martin Evans swam to the forefront of his mind, and then another, so like them, but so different as well. Arthur didn't understand; he didn't understand anything anymore. His head was starting to ache, his thoughts were starting to swirl, and all he wanted to do was get out of this hospital and find a nice quiet spot to rest - which wasn't like him at all, granted.
David watched him, and Arthur had the mad idea that David knew exactly what he was thinking, like he could read minds or something. But that couldn't be true.
Could it be?
David drew away, his face unfathomable. "You are troubled again, Arthur; you must go and collect your thoughts. When the time comes when your troubles are at their worst, never forget that David McCarthy, though old, is not beaten yet, and will come to you in your time of desperate need, if you will but ask."
There was something strangely formal in the way he spoke, like he was speaking to a king or something. Arthur shook off these egotistical thoughts and rose to his feet.
"Thank you, David McCarthy," he replied in the same way, though he could now barely talk around the pain in his head. "I will not forget what you have done for me."
In the hall, he blundered along, barely aware of his surroundings. He would not have been surprised if he destroyed several objects crashing down the corridor. But Arthur was so confused, too confused for any rational thought, and he needed peace and quiet.
The strangeness that had been molesting him since the moment of his awakening seemed to thicken, and his head pounded with it. A flash of memory - blue eyes, narrowed with concentration and pain, and a voice, saying matter-of-factly, "Yasmin Debufort." - but it can't have been a memory because he had never met Mervin Eggleston before! Any thought that he had must be a trick of his imagination, something in him wanting to meet someone that had known his mother and was willing to talk of her. But oh, he knew that blinding smile like it was his own! And what of the visions of Gina (Gwen?) in lavender silk, smiling shyly at him over a red rose, of Miri with dark, hate-filled eyes and smirking lips (Was that a crown on her forehead?), his father watching the smoke-filled air impassively, what of them? He didn't understand it at all, it was making his head spin horribly as he all but staggered down the corridor.
So caught up was he with the inside of his own head that he didn't notice the woman before it was too late. He plowed into her and sent her papers flying.
"Sorry," he muttered automatically, bending to help pick them up, still not seeing anything.
There was a gasp, and he looked at the girl he had bumped into. She was shorter than him, with long, curly golden hair and blue eyes. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. "Arthur?" she queried, her voice disbelieving.
He also gaped. "Vivian?"
"Strangers from the realm of light who have forgotten all; / The memory of their former life, the purpose of their call! / And so they must learn why they're here and who they really are, / They must learn why they're here and who they are!"
-Lex de Azevedo
And it begins . . .
Until next time!