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

Pulse: The Future

Chapter One

Darkness was everywhere, shrouding him from any and all light… if there had even ever been light. Noises- or were they voices- were muffled. Distant and far off, just breaking the deafening silence that surrounded him. It was all enough to make even the strongest of men go mad, enough to bring about insanity in the sanest of men. Nothing could touch him. He was suspended in some warped oblivion that he was beginning to loathe. Suspended like some inanimate doll, like some kind of puppet that had a master. That had a master and obeyed when the strings were pulled. He was boxed in. The darkness, the death like stillness, the grave silence- it all oppressed him.

He was forced to squint when a sudden burst of magnificent blue broke through the darkness. So bright, so brilliant… it beckoned him to it. Like a moth to a flame, he was summoned to that bright, intense blue sphere… and he was too weak to fight, too powerless to resist. Did he even want to fight, though? The closer he drew, the clearer the noises became. Words. He knew that they were words that were being spoken. Spoken in the most harmonious voice, he had ever heard. Not even Vanora and her talented voice could compare to this. It was so rich, so sweet… so pure. And pureness was something that he wasn't all that accustomed to. Too used to violence, and the whores that accompanied him, that went all too willingly to his bed with him. He was drawn to this pureness like a drunk to his alcohol.

He reached out a hand. Almost there. So very, very close. If only… The tips of his fingers touched that shimmering blue surface and-

Lancelot jerked awake, sitting straight up in the bed he laid in with his dark eyes impossibly wide. His breath came in painful heaves, as if he was a suffocating man unable to get enough oxygen. His heart pounded erratically in his chest as if it was fighting to be released, or as if he had ran a very long time… or perhaps had a nightmare… Sweat dampened his curly locks and covered his body in a fine sheen, plastering his hair unflatteringly to his forehead, and his clothes to his flesh. His clothes… he wore only strange pants that were drawn by a string around his waist, and that were beige with diamond shaped designs strategically patterned; his chest was completely bare. It was then that he took in his surrounding environment.

It wasn't a large room that he occupied, but moderately sized with walls that were painted a nice homey yellow; it wasn't too bright, but it wasn't dull either. A cherry wood dresser of drawers with a mirror sat against the opposite wall; matching cherry wood bedside tables were positioned on either side of the bed; a yellow lamp with a white shade sat on top of them. A small sofa covered in a white and yellow afghan sat angled in the corner along the wall where the door (the fact that it was opened and led into a hallway didn't escape his attention) was located; a small coffee table was placed in front of it. The window (there was only one) on the wall horizontally across from him was large, and took up a good portion of the wall. Warm sunrays shone through the partially opened window and warmed his chilled body; the curtains that blew from the slight breeze were white with yellow daises embroidered on them, and they oddly enough matched the covers and sheets on the bed. Abstract and other framed paintings that really didn't make much sense to him, hung fashionable and strategically on the walls.

Alarm and keen alertness filled him. Where was he? He had never in his life seen this room, or anything in it. It mystified him, perplexed him to great extremities. How had he come to be here, wherever here was? His brow furrowed; the last thing he remembered, though his mind was greatly impeded with what felt like thick, obscuring fog, was fighting. Yes, a battle… at Badon Hill. He and the other knights had fought against the Saxons, and he had saved Guinevere, but in process had-

Lancelot's eyes widened to enormous size. He had died. He had actually died. The Saxon, Cynric, had shot him with an arrow. Subconsciously his hand traveled up and touched his chest over the exact spot where the arrow had went in, and he felt… he felt nothing. Lancelot quickly looked down at his scared covered chest, and found… nothing. No bloodied or gaping wound, no arrow protruding out of his chest, no pain, not even a bandaged… only a small, ragged pinkish circle. However, it was hardly noticeable. He was now more confounded then ever before. Just what the hell was going on? Where was he? What tricks was it that was being played upon him? Where was Arthur, or any of the other Knights? In a hurried motion, Lancelot threw off his covers and sprang up out of the bed-

-Only to be met by a nauseating wave of vertigo that sent him reeling, and clutching at the bed and side table to keep himself from falling down. He gritted his teeth, regained his equilibrium, and carefully let go of his support, all the while sweeping his eyes over the room hoping to spot his swords or his clothes. His search proved fruitless, leaving him in an unpleasant state of irritability. Never mind, though, he had to find Arthur. It was the only logical plan he had, for who else would know what was happening? Surly Arthur did. Plan firmly embedded mentally, Lancelot purposely made his way to the open door, careful, however, of his steps. He didn't want to have another dizzy spell; there wasn't any furniture for him to grab to keep him from falling.

The hallway was painted a nice beige color with two doors (three counting his own) on the left side, and one on the right; a staircase was located at the other end, along with a window. The floor, much like the stairs, was hardwood. A hallway table sat against the wall between the two doors closest to the stairway, a picture setting on top of it with large candles on either side of it. Other pictures, not the odd ones that were in his room, but actual pictures of people framed the walls. All of them were strangers to him; he didn't recognize a single one of them. He had never seen any if them in any of his thirty years of existence. And in all of them, the people were dressed in odd clothing; the women in most of them wore pants- were they Woads? He quickly dismissed that notion. They looked nothing like Woads. In some them, in the background there were large… machines that he had never seen before.

He was once again faced with the question of where exactly was he.

A sudden noise followed closely by a feminine voice pulled him out of his thoughtful observation. He turned and warily walked closer to the stairs to slowly descend them; the noise and voice was coming from somewhere downstairs, and he was determined to find them. As he walked silently down the steps, using every bit of stealth that he had gained over his fifteen years of servitude to Rome, the voice became closer, more distinct, and it became even more apparent to him that he did not know to whom the voice belonged. That only fueled his suspicion, and as he reached the very bottom of the steps he listened carefully as to where the voice was coming from, completely ignoring the door a few feet in front of him. Did it come from the large room to the right, from the left that led into another room- the kitchen perhaps- or down the hallway that went straight passed the stairs? Finally, after listening and concentrating closely, Lancelot decided on the left; carefully and cautiously he eased around the corner.

His assumption that the doorway led to the kitchen had been correct. It was a large room with gleaming hardwood floors and a cherry wood isle- it matched the cherry wood cabinets- located in the middle of it with a rack above it brimming with pans, bowls, and other kitchen utensils. One side was taken up by shelves, and on the other side, as far as Lancelot could tell; it was decked with shelves full of kitchen supplies and other things. Behind the isle, on the side with the shelves was a stove/oven situated against the wall, and a large metal, shiny chrome refrigerator that seemed puzzled Lancelot. The kitchen sink lined the wall beside the stove/oven; the counters had odd appliances that Lancelot had never seen before. At the other side of the room, behind the side of the isle with the chairs, was a raised stage with a rectangular table sitting in the middle of it; four straight back wooden chairs sat around it. Behind it, and the source of most of the light in the kitchen, was a curved wall of windows that overlooked an expanse of grassy, well-kept yard with a line of trees that was the edge of the forest some yards away.

Lancelot, however, paid little attention to the windows or the door that was directly in front of him. Instead he looked at the counter behind the isle at the short woman standing there, talking happily into some black and silver object that she held against the side of her face; she was completely oblivious to his presence. He observed her quietly, thoroughly and thoughtfully. She wore some sleeveless tunic made of some kind of white flimsy fabric, and pants made of some odd blue material that he never seen before. She was shoeless, and short. Very short, he added in his mind. Her hair was a light blonde and her skin healthily pale. Lancelot knew that, without a doubt, he had positively no clue as to who the woman was. He had never seen her before, of that he was sure.

"I'm sure Megan will be in soon. She only went out to bring the dogs back in." The woman paused, still unaware to his being there. He couldn't help but to think that if he had had the intention to kill her, she would have already been dead. The woman suddenly laughed. "Yeah, yeah flattery's not going to get you anywhere, Tom."

And as the women turned her head slightly, Lancelot noticed her glance at him from the corner of her eye before glancing away only to hurriedly glance back, turning around completely to face him. And it was then that Lancelot became aware of her rather large, protruding stomach; she was pregnant. Lancelot dismissed her as an immediate threat, but still remained chary of her. She regarded with cautious eyes silently; Lancelot could hear a voice coming from the odd device she still held against her ear asking if she was all right, and what was wrong.

"Tom, I'll call you back," she said into the contraption. Lancelot couldn't help but wonder what it was. "Yes, Tom, I'll make sure that Megan gets your message." Lancelot watched the woman take the device away from her ear and click something on it before setting it on the counter. She never once looked away from him.

"You're awake," she said, stating the obvious. "How are you feeling?"

Lancelot ignored her question, though, and demanded, "Where am I? How did I come about being here? Who are you? Where is Arthur?"

The blonde woman frowned slightly. "You're safe. Megan found you outside in the backyard; you were unconscious. This is her house. We brought you back here, and I treated you."

He was found in their backyard? Unconscious? In the backyard? How did he get there? Where was Arthur, or any of the other Knights for that matter? Who was Megan? Who was this woman? He found himself asking most of those questions out loud before he could really think about it.

"I'm Felicia Stratford, Megan's my sister," she explained slowly, as if measuring her words, being careful of what she said. "I'm not sure who this Arthur is that you keep referring to, and as for how you got here…"

The woman trailed off, and Lancelot, in his state of irritability, snapped, "Well?

"Well, we were actually hoping you tell us that," a voice from behind him stated suddenly.

Lancelot spun his head around, wished he hadn't because of how the thumping in his head intensified a second later, and looked at the newcomer that had some how opened the side door of the kitchen, and entered without him noticing. He looked at the young woman that stood with a small dog tucked under one of her thin arms, and a bigger dog of some dark golden color standing by her leg. And though her eyes weren't as blue, but more gray, or her voice as melodious, something in Lancelot instinctively knew who the woman was, and that something was being tugged at, pulled on like a puppet master would pull on the strings to his puppet… and he didn't understand it all.

"I'm Megan," she introduced herself. "What's your name? That seems like a good place to start."

Lancelot regarded her silently for a long moment before replying simply, "Lancelot."

Lancelot watched as Megan's eyebrows rose, her lips quirk upwards, and her eyes sparkle in sudden amusement. Megan glanced at her sister, before looking back toward Lancelot. He watched as she bit her lip, and seemed to struggle to gain control of herself before smiling brightly; the sparkle was still very prominent in her eyes, turning them, now, bluer in color. He couldn't help but wonder what the lady found to be so thoroughly amusing, but found himself liking her eyes more when she was happy and they were blue instead of when they were gray-blue. He found himself unable to keep from frowning yet once again.

"Well… Lancelot… why don't you sit down. You had a rather nasty bump on your head, and this is the first time since I've found you since you've been out of bed, and I really don't want you to um… you know… fall down…" Megan trailed off, biting her bottom lip, and turned to shut the door and set the small dog on the floor. When she did, the dog immediately walked over to Lancelot and started to sniff him without a hint of shyness.

Lancelot watched the little dog as it sniffed him and pawed at his leg. He looked up as Megan spoke; saw her walking toward the raised platform where the table was. The larger dog had walked over to the table with her and was now lying under it, watching Lancelot and the others. "Don't mind Ruddy. He won't bite, just sniff you a bit until he's satisfied."

Lancelot didn't respond, merely sidestepped the small dog and walked over to the table where Megan was sitting at, and sat down across from her slowly. Felicia joined them seconds later; she sat down beside of Megan, and picked up the little dog that Megan had previously dubbed Ruddy, placing him on her lap and scratching the dark-eyed little dog behind his floppy ears. Uncomfortable silence stretched out between the three occupants of the table, none of them really sure of what to say to the other. Lancelot was anxious too find out all that he could, but didn't break the silence, instead watching the women (manly Megan for he seemed unable to keep from looking at her for long), and observing their posture and composure.

Tense; they were both tense. Lancelot could easily tell it by the way both of their small, narrow shoulders were held stiffly, or by the way they kept fidgeting in their seats, shooting glances at each other and then at him. Lancelot himself was tense, had been sense he had woken to find himself in this strange abode with a woman he innately felt connected to for some reason he couldn't even justify to himself, and a pregnant woman that had apparently helped and nursed him back to health.

"You said earlier that you "treated" me. I assume you are a healer?" Lancelot questioned, breaking the heavy silence that hung between him and the two women.

Felicia looked at Lancelot slightly startled; no doubt she hadn't been expecting him to speak. She frowned ever so slightly. "Healer? I'm an RN."

Now it was Lancelot's turn to frown. "RN?"

"Registered Nurse." But upon still seeing Lancelot's confusion, she elaborated, "Someone that helps other people get better when they're sick."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "A healer."

Felicia frowned. Before she could respond, though, Megan was already speaking. "Yeah, she's a healer. Lancelot, how did-"

"Mommy."

Felicia and Megan turned in their seats and looked at the little boy that had just entered the room, Lancelot also looked at him. The child was small, and looked no older then eight, nine at the very most. He had light brown hair with tints of red through it, pale skin that, unlike Felicia's and Megan's, looked sickly, and blue-green eyes that looked grave and far too serious for such a small child. He was dressed in the oddest clothes that Lancelot had ever laid eyes on; they looked like some kind of sleeping garb, white with odd pictures that had the weirdest looking wheels that Lancelot had never seen before. His small feet were bare.

"Who're you?"

The child looked directly at Lancelot, meeting Lancelot's dark molasses colored eyes with his light ones. Lancelot had already dismissed the small child as a threat, but still thought the little boy odd with his intense stare and oh-so-serious face, and flat deadpanned tone. Never had he come across or met a child quite like the boy standing before him. Oh he had seen plenty of despair and hopelessness, but that wasn't what… unnerved him about the child. The child was just too serious, with eyes that showed nothing of his inner feelings or thoughts. The child was stoic enough, he couldn't help but to think, that he might even be able to beat Tristan.

"Honey! What are you doing out of bed?" Felicia exclaimed, putting the small dog she had been holding down quickly before hurriedly going to the little boy that still looked at Lancelot emotionless. Lancelot instantly knew that Felicia was the child's mother, and not Megan. He wasn't sure why, but he felt a small amount of pleasure come with that knowledge. He really had to find Arthur and figure out what was happening.

"Are you the sick man Megan found?" the child asked with his same bland tone, eyes blank and intense at the same time, drilling into Lancelot's.

"Aiden, this is Lancelot," Megan said, smiling softly at the little boy she had called Aiden. "Lancelot, Aiden."

"You have a weird name. Did they name you after Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend?" Aiden asked, causing Lancelot to raise an eyebrow inquiringly before watching as Felicia sighed and gave Megan a tired look. Megan smiled sympathetically.

"Come on, Aiden. Let's get you to bed."

And soon enough it was only Lancelot and Megan in the room. Megan turned back around in her chair and looked at Lancelot, smiling tensely. Pushing a piece of dark hair out of her face, Megan sighed and opened her mouth to speak. "So are you hungry? You must be. You've been sleeping for almost two whole weeks."

Megan quickly got up out her chair, and bustled over to the other side of the isle; Lancelot slowly followed her. She barely glanced at him as she busied herself in the refrigerator and cabinets, simply gesturing to him to take a seat at the kitchen isle. Lancelot did, watching her carefully.

"What did the child mean?"

Megan glanced back at him. "What'd you mean?" she asked, brow furrowing slightly.

"He asked me if I was named after Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend. What did he mean?"

Megan frowned and turned to look at him fully and said, "Exactly what he said I suppose." She paused, bit her bottom lip, and asked with curious eyes, "Lancelot, how did you come to be in my backyard? What happened?"

"I… know not exactly. I was actually going to ask you the same question. If you would only be so kind, My Lady, as to tell me where Arthur is, I am sure we could get this figured out quickly."

"Arthur? You kept saying his name, plus others, in your sleep. Who is he?"

Lancelot frowned. "Arthur Castus. He is my Commanding Officer."

Megan blinked and slowly said, "Commanding Officer? Arthur Castus?"

"He is the Commanding Officer of all the Knights."

Megan raised an eyebrow. "Knights?"

"Sarmatian Knights," Lancelot clarified, beginning to grow impatient.

Megan licked her lips. "Sarmatian Knights?"

"Of Hadrian's Wall, woman. What other Sarmatian Knights led by Artorious Castus do you know of?"

Megan worried her bottom lip, looking at Lancelot with a cross between a look that said she thought he was well on his way to insanity, confusion, and caution. "Lancelot, um… what year do you think you think this is?"

Her question threw the Knight off, but he answered anyways, "467 AD."

Megan's eyebrows rose swiftly. She did little else but stare at Lancelot in surprise, with a hint of worry. Worry for his sake? Or did she worry for her own? It was something Lancelot found himself pondering. "Lancelot, it's March… 2006."

And just like that, a weight dropped in Lancelot's stomach. His eyes opened wide showing his shock and disbelief. It couldn't be. Could it? Lancelot couldn't help but find himself believing the short woman's words.

Well damn…

A/N- Okay, despite the extreme urge to vomit and my being busy with exams, I did manage to finish this chapter. It would have been out sooner, but I had a project/exam to complete, my power went out (I have the suckiest power ever, which is actually why I didn't proofread this chapter as well), and more exams to study for. So that has kept me rather busy, plus I feel rather ill at the moment. But here it is! And I got it out on the weekend. I am so proud of myself. Slow start, but its necessary. Also, I'm not sure if I got Lancelot correct. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for all the reviews for the previous chapter. They really help to want to make me update faster. Okay I've babbled enough. Thanks again. Any questions or suggestions are welcomed.

SatiricalPhilosophy