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Arthur drove through the streets without a direction in mind. His thoughts kept returning to Guinevere.

Guinevere.

Her name alone struck something inside him. Even without the visions of her in his dreams, Arthur was sure that had he heard her name, the effect on would be the same. She was the woman in his dreams, he didn't imagine that.

Finally having enough of the city traffic, Arthur made his way home. "Home," of course, was Camelot, the ostentatiously named ancestral home of the Pendragons. Big, sprawling, and impossibly intimidating, it sat on a hill a few miles out of the city. Among the green fields and old trees of the countryside, it was a massive stone reminder of the importance of his family and what they represented: they were the lords of the land.

Arthur had grown up thinking that it looked like a wart on a witch's chin.

But, it was home. For now, at least.

He had lived in Camelot with his father, Uther, but when the elder Pendragon took ill, Arthur had moved them to city where it was easier for Uther to get the medical care he needed. When his father died last year, he told himself that there was little reason to stay in Camelot. He may be the Pendragon heir, but Arthur never found happiness within Camelot's walls. If anything, misery was the only emotion he associated with the place.

But the Pendragons were sticklers for tradition, and Arthur was, above all things, his father's son. He stayed in a townhouse in the city where he worked, but every weekend was spent in Camelot. He would never say it out loud, but he was beginning to enjoy the solitude it offered.

It was just too empty.

There was a massive staff on hand, of course. The grounds needed tending, the inside of the mansion always needed cleaning, there were heirlooms that needed looking after, and Arthur did occasionally bring back friends for gatherings. But those gatherings were few and far between now, and he was tired of the women who thought that an invitation to Camelot meant that they were part of his inner circle.

He was in his thirties, and as cliché as it may sound, Arthur was starting to think that settling down was not a bad idea. He saw his employees with their children, his closest friends with their families, and he envied them.

But there was never the right woman and he had never felt the need to go and find her.

Until today.

Guinevere.

Arthur expelled a breath as he remembered how they parted.

"What were you thinking, Arthur?" He scowled as he reprimanded himself. "Why did you have to grab her arm like that?"

Arthur remembered the look of loathing that crossed her features as he held her wrist. Her voice—so warm when she talked with her father—dripped with ice whenever she spoke to him. But there was that one moment, when she was alone in Tom's living room, when he saw her without her walls. Her unhappiness connected with something primal inside him and all he wanted to do was slay her demons.

"Stop being irrational," Arthur said out loud. He had met Guinevere just 30 minutes before and knew nothing about her worries.

But if he were being completely honest with himself, Arthur knew that it was the moment when he had fallen irrevocably, unapologetically hard for her. And, he didn't know how, but he would fight to the end to win—no, to deserve—her love.

The road curved to a more familiar stretch and Arthur was greeted by a sign that said "Private Property. Trespassers will be made to leave." He laughed. Just like the Pendragons to inject ego into everything they owned. He was still laughing as he approached the barrier that separated Camelot from the rest of the world.

Massive iron gates slid open as Arthur's car paused in front of them. He drove down the curving driveway, feeling the familiar sway as tires crunched over the small stones that paved it. A few minutes later, he was in front of the ornate stone facade that was the main house.

After handing the keys of his car to a waiting staff member, Arthur made his way inside the house. Marble, dark wood, and all manners of priceless heirlooms greeted him. He stood in the middle of the large front hall, looking at all the treasures other Pendragons before him had amassed, and felt, for the first time, a deep loneliness.

"Honey, I'm home," he called out the cliché greeting and heard it ring out in the empty house.

"Welcome home, Arthur," he whispered this time.

He walked up the stairs and made his way to his bedroom and as soon as he opened the door and saw the bed, he sucked in his breath and put a hand to his forehead.

Done up in cream, gold, and red fabric, the dark wood four-poster bed that had been the focal point of the bedroom for as long as he could remember seemed to mock him.

This was the bed in his dream. The one where Guinevere had lounged on as she beckoned for Arthur to join her.

Guinevere on his bed—a nude Guinevere on his bed—calling for him to come to her. It didn't take much imagination to know what the invitation meant.

He walked slowly to an armchair and sat down. He looked at the bed for a moment and then rubbed a hand across his eyes. After what happened between him and Guinevere, he was tired. But how was he supposed to rest when he seemed to be constantly reminded of her presence?

Awake, there was the memory of how she said his name. Asleep, there was the image of her calling him to lay with her.

The latter brought Arthur's attention back to the bed.

"She's not a dream," he spoke aloud in the empty room. "She's real."

"The dreams aren't dreams," Arthur told himself. They were too detailed, and they brought out too many emotions in him.

He remembered the dreams of him riding out to war, of driving a sword into the bodies of his enemies, the thunder of the hooves of a thousand horses charging into battle, and the feel of hot blood spattering his face.

There were other images too, and these were the ones he kept in the back of his mind, too afraid to acknowledge that he had seen them. They were all of Guinevere, he was sure of it now. Arthur saw her walking to meet him in a great hall, her glowing face as her body rounded with pregnancy, her despair as she wailed over a small body covered with a red cloth embroidered with golden thread. And of her asking his forgiveness as she burned in a pyre.

Arthur didn't dwell on these dreams, especially on the ones where Guinevere begged for absolution. These were the dreams that woke him. He would wake up in a cold sweat, his hands reaching out for that phantom body; her name, once unknown to him, a choking lump in his throat.

"Memories," the word whispered out of Arthur.

But memories of what? He had never met her before, had no knowledge of her existence until this morning. How could he have memories of someone he had never met?

Arthur was tired, but not so tired that he could not do one more thing. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Merlin," he spoke into the mobile device. "I need your help. You and Morgana. Can you two join me in Camelot this weekend?"