Summary: Dyllan Pennington is an 18-year-old girl who can see visions of the future and hears the voice of a long-dead king. With her mother hospitalized and unable to recognize her, and being a social outcast at school, she doesn't know how much more she can cope. It's in the midst of her troubles that she finds an unexpected friend: Lance. Dyllan is drawn to him; it's as if they've known each other for centuries. Her intuition tells her there's a reason they met: he may know why she's having the visions, and why they're getting worse...

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Presume not that I am the thing I was.
-William Shakespeare

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[Lancelot]

The car rolls to a halt, and Gwaine peers forward through the growing gloom. By four-thirty in the afternoon the street lights have already come on; the winter solstice has not long passed and the long nights are slow in letting go. The orange glow of the lights bounce back off the fog, creeping slowly in off the moors. Recent heavy rain has left the pavements slick and dark, and the road dotted with puddles.

"That one, I think." He points down the road a little way, to a gravel driveway and a small, two story house at the end of a long row. It's identical to all the others, nothing special about it at all. A pair of rose bushes grow under the front window, but no one has cared for them for a while and they are dead, little more than brittle twigs poking up through the wet soil now.

I gaze at the house with a strange, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think of Camelot as I last saw it, tall and proud and beautiful. I think of the pennants snapping in the breeze above the battlements, tall castle walls stretching towards the sky, and a high throne of polished mahogany in a great hall. That is the home of kings, mighty and magnificent, not this tiny little dwelling in a miniscule, insignificant town.

How can the blood of Arthur Pendragon, the greatest king and the greatest man I've ever known, live here?

"Are you sure?" Percival asks from the back seat. He seems to be having similar doubts as me. "It seems a little..."

Gwaine shrugs. "It's the address Merlin gave me." He squints up at the house and then glances at me.

I open my mouth to reply when a lone figure up the street catches my eye. She is bundled up against the cold, a scarf pulled up over her nose to protect against the biting air, the hood of a sweatshirt pulled low. A satchel bounces against her thigh as she turns up the gravel drive to the house we're watching.

I hold up a hand for silence as Percival opens his mouth, never taking my eyes off the figure. Excitement bubbles inside me. Finally, my chance is here. An opportunity to make up for the wrongs I've done, to redeem myself. I have failed Arthur once—I will not fail his heir.

Arthur's heir opens the door, pushing back the hood and scarf before stepping inside. For a moment she hesitates, lingering under the porch light as she turns to close the door.

My heart stops dead, leaping up into my throat and lodging there. I have no time for anything other than the girl standing in the doorway across the street. A thousand times I've dreamed of seeing her face again, but never here. Never in this new world. But there she is, as perfect and exquisite as I remember her. Her dark curls are pulled back from her face, though a few tendrils escape and flow freely, and her cheeks are flushed from the cold. She's beautiful; high cheek-bones, soft, pouty pink lips, milky skin, and eyes I want to drown in.

How is it possible? How is she here? It has been more than a thousand years since I last laid eyes on her. Since I watched her ride out of my life with Merlin. She should be long dead. Then again, so should I.

She scans the street and her eyes pass over the car, moving on down the road. Satisfied that nothing is amiss, she closes the door. Moments later the light clicks on in an upstairs room behind dark curtains.

For a long time, the car stays silent. I can feel Gwaine's eyes on me, but neither he nor Percival speaks. Like me, I assume they have no idea what to say.

Finally, Percival clears his throat. "She reminds me of Guinevere."

Of course. I should have realized that my brothers might not recognize her for who she is. They didn't spend their lives dwelling on her face almost every second of every day. They had not been in love with her once, in a different life.

"Not Guinevere," Gwaine says slowly. He twists in his seat to face me, and I finally look at him. "Right, Lancelot?"

I sigh, raking my hands through my hair. "No. Not Guinevere."

Percival is confused, but I don't blame him. Gwaine has always been more observant, more aware.

"The Lady Dyllan."

Her name, even on Gwaine's lips, makes me shiver. I haven't heard it spoken out loud for so long. She came into my life in Camelot, a strange but incredible young girl, and turned my life upside down. I loved her, with every last fiber of my being, but fate was not so kind to us, and she left me. I've never expected to see her again. I've never guessed that, despite her strangeness and her sudden disappearance, she was from another time entirely.

I nod.

"How?"

I almost laugh. "Your guess is as good as mine. I can't—" There are no words.

"Merlin didn't tell you?"

"No. Merlin didn't say anything."

I think back to our parting from Merlin at the Lake of Avalon. He gave us some basic instructions and I asked how we would know Arthur's heir. He looked right at me very seriously, and all he said was, "You'll know." Now, of course, it makes sense. But how did Arthur's descendant come to over a thousand years in the past? How did she end up in Arthur's court too many years ago to count?

And, suddenly, a million moments from those few short weeks I knew her made sense. The way she looked at me, as though she knew me. Her strange accent and clothes, her way of thinking about the world. They were so different because she came from a different time. A different world.

Has she been back yet?

...No.

Merlin said she knew nothing about our world, about magic and the Fair Folk. When she meets me in this time, it will be for the first time. She won't know me. The thought hits me like a hammer blow. And every one of Merlin's instructions went out of the window.

He made us swear to keep our distance, to watch and wait until the time is right.

But I know I can't.

I have to meet her. I have to get to know her in this time—now.

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The days trickle past, and we've found ourselves settling into a kind of routine. We've found an old abandoned farmhouse on the edge of town where we set up camp. It is dank and moldy, and graffiti adorns every wall, but it's dry and that's all we need. We spend little time there. We watch Dyllan almost constantly, taking turns during the night. It probably isn't necessary. We haven't seen any sign of Morgana since we've been here, but if I'm honest it gives us something to do. The little time we do spend at the farmhouse is strained and uncomfortable.

Gwaine and I still haven't properly spoken. Every time I try he usually decides to go and train, or take the night shift watching the house. Or change the subject, as he does about a week after we first discovered Dyllan.

"We ought to think about using other names."

I blink and glance over at Gwaine. "Not quite what I meant when I said 'we need to talk.'"

He ignores me. "I'm serious. Percival, Gwaine, Lancelot? Not exactly inconspicuous."

"I never was much of a fan of Percival," Percival grins. "I always fancied being a Galahad."

"Not quite what I had in mind," Gwaine snorts. "But we probably ought to keep reasonably close to our own names. Make it easier to remember."

"Graham. And Percy," my voice is soft, but both of them glance around at me.

"You've obviously already thought about this," Percival snorts.

I shake my head. "No. That's what she called you, once. She used them a couple of times. I was horribly jealous at the time, but now it makes sense."

For a moment, when I catch Gwaine's eye I see something of my old friend, a shared remembrance of those days. But then the expression fades. "They'll do as well as any, I suppose." He glances out of the window at the darkening sky. "We ought to go. She'll be on her way home from school soon."

I straighten the collar of my leather jacket, running a hand through my hair. It feels strange having it so short, but we've tried to fit in with the current styles as much as possible. It seems like young men do not wear their hair long anymore. Of course, Gwaine resists, insisting on still keeping his dark hair at chin-length. Percival, on the other hand, has always kept his hair close-cropped, even in a time when all men wore their hair long and often braided.

Somehow Percival is fitting in better than Gwaine or I. I chalk it up to where it is simply in his nature to adapt better to changes in circumstances. Nothing fazes him; not the uncomfortable clothes, or the strange vehicles, or the weird food. In fact, he has developed a very quick love of modern food. I have yet to acquire a taste for it. I still yearn for the days of simple roast venison and vegetables swimming in butter.

I peer down at the brown paper bag Percival deposits in my lap. A large yellow letter 'M' is stamped to the front. Something to do with the cook who made it, perhaps? I don't quite understand.

"It's a burger, Lancelot. It won't kill you."

I sigh. We sit in the car at the end of Dyllan's street. It feels a little strange to be watching her all of the time without her knowledge. It's the main excuse I'm using to get closer to her. It wouldn't feel so invasive by watching her if she knew about it; if she could understand the reason. But Gwaine proves resistant to the idea. He wants to follow Merlin's instructions to the letter. Follow, watch, keep her safe, but do not interfere.

I open the food bag and gaze down at the limp, sad thing inside. Mushy, soft bread with a tiny, thin piece of ground up beef, and a single, solitary piece of tomato.

Percival inhales his and eyes mine over his shoulder. "If you're not hungry, I'll eat it."

Gwaine balls up the paper wrapper of his food and throws it at Percival's head. "Honestly, Percival, I don't think you've stopped eating since we've arrived."

He shrugs. "I've always eaten a lot."

"Yes, but that was when our lives were a little...harder." I gesture at the car we are sitting in.

It's a strange new thing that I still haven't quite gotten my head around. A craft that moves all on its own without benefit of horse or ox, and belches noxious fumes almost constantly. I can't deny that it's useful—faster than horseback for sure, and definitely better than walking. Yet, it all still feels unnatural to me. Despite the fact that Merlin has somehow given me the memories of how it works, and even how to operate it, I don't think I ever will.

Gwaine doesn't seem to mind it, so I've let him take control.

Percival shrugs then thumps the back of my seat. "She's back."

I glance up through the windshield just as Dyllan crosses the road in front of us, heading for the small house she shares with her father.

Her pace is slow and weary. She keeps her eyes on the ground, and her hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket. She looks like this every day she returns home. I still don't fully understand the concept of a modern school, but it seems like a genuinely terrible experience. More often than not her eyes are red and puffy, as though she's been crying, and I want nothing more than to find out who, or what, is making her cry and put a stop to it. Permanently.

Gwaine gives a little snort beside me, and I glance at him quizzically.

"She—well—she still doesn't look like much of a Pendragon."

We've had this conversation before. Gwaine has expected something rather different. We all have. When Merlin explained that out there in the world is King Arthur's heir, who will soon come into a mighty inheritance that will ultimately make or break the future of the world, I expected another Arthur. A strong, brave warrior, inspiring and worthy of being a ruler. I will admit; I didn't expect a girl. But it isn't just that she is a girl. She is a small girl, willowy and delicate, and not an ounce of muscle on her.

Gwaine and Percival have been disheartened by it, unable to picture the wisp of a girl wielding a sword. They are still bound by the expectations of our time, and our world, where women were soft and delicate and always in need of rescue. But I know Dyllan better than either of them.

I know a girl who is strong and brave. Who has inspired me to a lifetime of greatness, and who I would follow to the ends of the earth if she'd let me. I know the warrior she can be. After all, I taught her to fight—or will teach her to fight.

But I don't see it in her right now as she walks down the street, scuffing the heel of her shoes against the pavement. She looks broken down, defeated already. Whatever life is throwing at her is wearing her down to the point where she looks as though she is ready to just give up.

And it scares me.

There is so much worse ahead for her; I am sure of it. If what Merlin has said is true, and Morgana is back, bringing with her all of the old magic, then Dyllan will be facing far worse things than she can possibly imagine.

It's just one more reason for me to get closer to her. She needs me, and I am not going to let anyone get in the way of me protecting her.

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A/N: Hello, all! I wanted to go ahead and get this next chapter out so that we can get this story rolling. Moving forward, I think I will try to update once a week (probably Fridays?). I'm really looking forward to this story so much (I have the first six chapters written, edited, and ready to go lol. Not to mention the whole story itself is outlined; I just have to go in and fill in the empty spaces).

I hope this chapter finds you well! And I sincerely hope that you enjoy this story as much as I have been writing it. I'm constantly reminded of why I fell in love with the legend of King Arthur as a little girl. :)

As always, please leave your feedback! I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Until the next chapter,
Dev