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 Two

Megan sighed tiredly, slid into one of the chairs at her kitchen table and rested her chin in her palm. She had finally managed to get Lancelot calmed down and into the living room, introducing him to the marvelous invention called television. Introduced him to it, that is, if what he had claimed with such zest was true, which Megan was having a hard time believing. By all things rational and logical, it just was not possible. People couldn't time travel; people didn't time travel. And surely even if they could, Sir Lancelot from Arthurian Legend… she snorted rather unladylike. That was just what it was, legend. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table didn't actually exist. There wasn't any such thing as Excalibur, or Merlin. It was just poppycock, complete and utter ludicrous from Lancelot's (was that even his real name?) injury.

But Felicia, hell even Doc. Barnes, had told her that Lancelot didn't seem to have a concussion or any other serious damage. In fact, the only thing they found in their medical examination when Megan had found him and had called Felicia and Doc. Barnes to examine him was a small, but not serious bump on his head and a small red place on his chest—a scar perhaps. However, that had been it. It had even mystified her sister and the good doctor when Lancelot had apparently slipped in a "comatose" state; there hadn't been anything wrong with him health wise—he had been as healthy as a horse.

Megan sighed, and rubbed at her temple with her free hand. Just what in the holy blazes was going on? She didn't know, was determined to find out, though. Maybe she could have Felicia and Doc. Barnes check his head. Drive him all the way to the city of Danaver, a two hour drive out of town, to see a shrink if she had to.

She sighed again; it was times like these that she wished the little town Halls weren't so… well, little. If she were still living in Burlington, it wouldn't be a problem. Hell, she could have left Lancelot off at the hospital and let them take care of him, only visiting him to make sure he was okay. But, no. Halls only had a single doctor's office, with a single doctor and two nurses (well, one nurse now that Felicia was on maternity leave), and no place really to keep Lancelot since he wasn't critically ill. So, of course, that left him in her charge, and left him in her house, not that she minded. She wasn't the kind of person to kick someone out in the cold when they needed a place to stay; her mother had taught her better than that. And while it wasn't the safest thing to do, taking a strange man in when she didn't even know a single thing about him, she always told herself that Henry Phillips, her closest neighbor, was only about a mile away if she needed him. Thinking about it now, however, Megan couldn't help but realize with an emotion akin to astonishment that a mile wasn't actually that close, and that by the time Henry did arrive at her house, Lancelot could have already killed her, Felicia, and Aiden. She reassured herself, though, that if Lancelot had wanted to kill them, he would have done so by now.

She traced the rim of her round latte mug with her index finger. But he had seemed so adamant about it. Seemed to actually believe that he was a knight from the year 467 AD. Seemed to actually think himself Sir Lancelot under the command of King Arthur, or as he called him, Arthur Castus. And what was with the getup he had been dressed in when she had first found him nearly two weeks ago: leather pants, leather tunic, armor, and swords?

Megan sighed exasperatedly. She just didn't know what to believe. The intrinsic part of her that was ruled by feelings alone, felt like he was telling the truth. Her other half, the logical side of her that went by facts and often dominated over her other half, just couldn't believe it. It was completely unfathomable! A Knight from the Round Table being zoomed thousands and thousands of years into the future? And into her backyard no less? It was complete lunacy!

"Don't think too hard, Megan. You might hurt yourself."

Megan snorted, glanced at her sister when she sat down across from her. "He thinks he's from the Dark Ages, Fel," Megan said, not even bothering to clarify whom the "he" was. She didn't have to; Felicia would know. Call it ESP or something.

Felicia quirked an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair, and placed her hands on her protruded stomach. "The Dark Ages?"

Megan brought her mug up to her small mouth and took a sip. "Yup," she replied, setting the mug back down.

A frown creased Felicia's face. Megan wondered what she was thinking. No doubt about the possible threat he could be posing; that, though, had been running amok in her sister's mind since the very first day Megan had told her he would be staying with them. That way he would have a nurse at all times, and the town's folk didn't find out about him just yet. Halls was a small town where everyone knew each other, and though they were generally friendly people, they tended to be suspicious of newcomers. It had taken nearly a year before they had almost completely warmed up to Megan, and they were still warming up to her sister. Megan could only imagine how the people of Halls would react if they found out about Lancelot and the details, or lack of details, of how he had arrived in the friendly little town of Halls.

She understood Felicia's concerns, though. After all, Felicia had Aiden and the little ones on the way to think of and protect. It was only natural for her to be suspicious, whereas Megan was trusting. Too trusting according to Felicia; Felicia had gone as far as calling her naïve with her trusting, and rather gullible nature. Megan didn't think she was naïve or too trusting, just a nice person.

"Maybe, then-"

"I should call Doc. Barnes to come and check his head?" Megan asked, interrupting the blonde. "Already thought about that, and taking him all the way to Danaver to see a shrink."

Felicia raised her eyebrows expectantly. When Megan didn't say anymore, however, she asked, "Well?"

Megan blinked. "Well what?"

"Are you going to?"

Megan shrugged, heaved a giant sigh. "Fel, he seems so sincere about it. You should have been in here. He went like friggin' ballistic, didn't believe me at all! Kept going on and on that it was all some trick or something."

"I heard from upstairs," Felicia stated. "But come on, Meg, you can't actually believe him. Traveling through time? It was nice in stories and make-believe when we were children, but this is real life. It's insane!"

Megan switched positions, leaning back in her chair and drawing one leg up, bending it at the knee. An expression akin to troubled and confused flittered across her face. She knew that it was plenty insane. Had been debating, wrestling over that little fact for the better part of an hour, and still didn't know what she believed. And it confused her that she didn't. In normal circumstances, she would have already written it off as crazy talk. Because it was like Felicia said: time traveling? Completely insane. Except that wasn't the case, not this time.

And why was that?

She wasn't even sure herself. It seemed her logical side and not-so-logical side were dueling it out, with her not-so-logical side slowly coming out as the victor. But it was absolutely implausible! Surly no one in their right mind would believe such farfetched tales spun by an obvious crazy man. Megan furrowed her brow. And yet it seemed as if she was slowly starting to believe him, something within her innately knowing that he was telling the truth. That by some wild chance that couldn't be reasoned or justified by logical and factual information, Sir Lancelot, legendary Knight of the Round Table, had indeed found his way into her backyard some thousands of years into the future.

Megan snorted; maybe she should go get her head checked out as well.

"I don't know what I believe, Fel." Megan ran a hand through her dark tresses, stared intently at the table, reached out a hand to pick at the edge with her short nail.

She heard Felicia's defeated sigh, didn't look up when she spoke. "Just be careful, Megan."

"Aren't I always?" Megan teased playfully.

Felicia rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Go check on your knight then."

Megan snorted, but got up from her seat, turned, and started to walk to the hallway entrance. Stopped when she heard Felicia's voice say, "And for Christ sakes, Meggy, feed the man. You're a horrible hostess." And in return, Megan narrowed her eyes and mock glared at Felicia, sticking her tongue out and resembling a child instead of the twenty-five year old woman she was. Felicia only reciprocated the action.

-8-8-8-

Megan entered her large living room carrying a plate full of sandwiches; saw Lancelot sitting on her blue and white-checkered sofa, outlined by the light streaming in through the two large windows behind him. She could tell just by looking at him that he wasn't watching the television across the room in front of him. His eyes gave him away, so distant and thoughtful. She wondered what he was thinking about. No doubt he was as confused as she was, if not more. No, she was guaranteeing he was even more confused than she was. Not that it mattered, she supposed. They would either figure the whole mess out, or they wouldn't. With that note, Megan crossed the room, breaking Lancelot from his trance when she walked in front of his line of vision, coming around to sit on the other side on the sofa, set the plate of sandwiches on the light oak coffee table in front of the couch.

She smiled tensely at Lancelot, unsure of what to say. What did one say anyways to a person that thought himself to be a knight with such vehemence that it was startling? She didn't know, and shifted uncomfortably, feeling awkward under Lancelot's intense gaze. Did he have to look at her like that? Couldn't he look at or study the room with that intensity? No, apparently he couldn't. She wondered what thoughts were churning inside his head, swimming behind his carefully guarded dark eyes? Megan couldn't tell, and she wasn't entirely sure what to expect from the man across from her. Was he really just some crazy lunatic that she had unwittingly let into her house because she was just too nice of a person to leave another when they were in need of assistance or aid? She didn't know, but he didn't… feel… was that the right word she was searching for? He just didn't feel like he was crazy, or had any ill will toward her or her family…

If Felicia could hear her thoughts, Megan knew her sister would be chastening her for her nature, saying you never knew what a person was capable of until you truly knew them. Which, as Felicia always reminded her, you never really know a person, therefore should never put complete trust in them, because if you do, then you're bound to get hurt someway, somehow. Megan bit the inside of her jaw, looked around as if she was nervously on her first date again, and crossed her ankles together. Finally, however, unable to take the tense silence and Lancelot's intense look that felt as if it was boring holes straight through her, she spoke.

"Are you hungry? I made some sandwiches, promise I didn't poison them," she said, winced inwardly at her lame attempt of a joke.

Apparently Lancelot didn't find her funny either, saying, "You don't believe that what I say is the truth."

Megan looked at him, sighed. She had hopped they wouldn't be having this conversation until a little later. A headache was already forming thanks for her over thinking the matter before entering her periwinkle painted living room only minutes ago. As she had established before, she wasn't sure what she believed, but it was time she found out just what exactly was happening, and who exactly this man was. It was the moment of truth, and she couldn't stop the flutter of her stomach.

"Lancelot," began Megan, "you said you were from Britain… and the year 467 AD. But, I mean, come on… The Knights of the Round Table, King Arthur… I mean, as great as they are, they're just legends… You can't honestly believe that you're actually Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend."

Lancelot frowned. "I do not know anything about your legend, but I assure you that I am quite real, and that my name is Lancelot, and that I am a knight under the command of Arthur Castus."

Megan ran a hand through her hair. She could already tell that this wasn't going to be easy. Could already tell by the little glint in Lancelot's dark eyes that he wasn't going to make this easy on her, was going to be stubborn until she either lost her patience with him or believed him. And at that moment, Megan wasn't exactly positive which one would come first: her believing his words to be truth, or her usually long patience being worn thin and her leaving to cool off. Usually it was Felicia that would lose her cool and that was quick to anger, but Megan had had a trying day already with her students. Thus, resulting in her possibly short attitude with people.

"Fine, let's say you are from the year 467 AD, and that you are Sir Lancelot from King Arthur. Why are here?"

A frown creased Lancelot's forehead. Megan watched him carefully, saw confusion in his eyes and realized that he was just as clueless as she was in the matter. Great, just great. They were going to get nowhere; she could already see it. Either because of their lack of knowledge or his stubbornness.

"I know not. The last thing I remember—" Lancelot suddenly stopped, his eyes growing almost haunted, a far off, almost stricken expression alighting his handsome features.

Megan raised an eyebrow, waited for him to finish. When he didn't, she prodded gently, but curiously, "All you remember?"

Lancelot focused on Megan, deadpanned solemnly, "Was dying."

Megan swallowed loudly, blinked slowly, a dazed, disbelieving look crossing her face. Dying? He died? Megan couldn't help but think that he was, in fact, mental. It was one thing to time travel, but being resurrected? Time traveling and resurrection… not even her imagination would allow her to swallow that one. If a person died, then that was it—they were dead. No passing go and collecting two hundred dollars, you were just dead and six feet under. Megan didn't believe in heaven or hell, she didn't believe in the after life, or anything else along those lines. Once a person died, then they were done, their life was over and they were forever enclosed in a box and placed in the ground. But here Lancelot was, claiming not only to be a Sarmatian Knight that had been zipped to the future, but a Sarmatian Knight that had been zipped to the future and brought back from the dead. Megan pinched the bridge of her nose; this just kept getting better and better.

"You think I am mad."

"Well… Time traveling, coming back from the dead… It is all a bit much to take in," she politely said, shrugging, and biting her bottom lip. However, she knew it had been the wrong thing to say, because his eyes clouded with anger and—something else.

Lancelot sprang up from the couch in a burst of pent of agitation and energy, and paced back and forth restlessly, snapping angrily, "Do you not think I realize that? All of this is—" He growled in impatience and anger, and ran a hand through his curls with irritation. Megan only watched him from her spot on the sofa, eyes wide—cautious—trepidation coiling in her body, making it tense as she watched him unmoving. Lancelot turned back to Megan, and saw the look in her eyes, and grudgingly regretted frightening the young woman. He sighed wearily, and Megan chewed on her bottom lip almost nervously.

"Look," Megan began softly, gently, knowing how hard it must be for him, and not wanting to anger him further. "I know that you're as confused as I am, and you have every right to be frustrated—I would be, too." She frowned and furrowed her brows in a contemplative way, and said more to herself than to Lancelot, "Actually, I'd probably be freaking out and going insane, but," she shook her head, and focused back on him, "never mind that." And she swallowed and looked at Lancelot whom was staring at her with dark eyes that held many things she couldn't distinguish. "We're going to figure it out—I promise."

Lancelot sighed again, frustration stemming from the situation making him agitated. Megan only watched him anxiously, body tense as she waited for his course of action. He was a stranger, after all, and there was no telling what he would do in a fit of anger. However, she felt almost positive that the knight—no, man, because there wasn't any proof to back what he was saying; she was just crazy to even think about believing him… However, she was almost positive that the man, whoever he really was, wouldn't hurt her or her family, despite how angry he became. How she did, she wasn't quite sure, but she was hoping it was true, and she wasn't putting her family in danger.

"I-I know this guy—he's a professor. He knows this other guy—they're both real history buffs, so maybe they can look at your stuff—the stuff I found you in—and, you know… Look at it, and—"

"Tell you if it is truly from my time, and to help you figure out if what I am saying is the truth," he said, jaw tight, angry, like his eyes, and Megan shifted, biting her lip.

She breathed in deeply, and said, "Lancelot, I want to believe you, I do, but even you have to admit that it's farfetched, and extremely implausible. I mean, the laws of science…" She sighed, and looked up at him. "This is crazy, but, and this a very difficult thing for me, I feel like you're telling the truth, or at the very least you think it's the truth. So until the guys can tell me different, I'm going to try my best to keep logic and science out of this big, bizarre equation, and try to help you as best I can, okay?"

Lancelot looked at her long and hard a second or two before nodding, and Megan smiled slightly. "Lady Megan—"

Megan barked out a gruff laugh. "Megan—it's just Megan actually. This is the twenty-first century after all—we don't really do the whole lady/lord thing anymore. At least most of us don't." She smiled, and shrugged. "So, just Megan."

Lancelot nodded slowly, everything hard to grasp, and managed a tight smile for Megan. "Megan, then." Megan flashed him a big, happy smile. "What do you propose we do first, this is your world, after all?"

She shrugged. "First things first—clothes. I'll take you into town, buy you some. Fel has to do some shopping anyways, so… Come on, time to introduce you to the twenty-first century." Megan got up from the couch, and motioned with her head for Lancelot to follow her. He did, and as they were walking up the stairs, both wondered just what exactly was in store for them in the future. And both of them couldn't help but feel both an unexplainable thrill, and a dim foreboding that couldn't be figured out.

Wonderful.

A/N—Emm, yeah… I know… The bad thing is that most of this chapter has been written… This story, however, is proving difficult to write. Or actually, Lancelot's character is proving difficult to write as I'm trying to figure out just how he would be reacting, and what he would actually say. Anyways, but, no, I never gave up on this story. It's just taking a bit to update and whatnot… yeah… And I'll be going back and editing the last chapter because I read over it, and found little errors, and mistakes, and they bugged me, but nothing will be changed. Just to inform… yeah… Anyways, constructive criticism and suggestions are very much welcomed. Thanks for the reviews…

SatiricalPhilosophy