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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"I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

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[Dyllan]

My trainers squeaked on the tiled floor as security cameras clicked and whirled in the corners, tracking my progress along the corridor. The astringent smell of bleach scratched my throat, but I fought the need to cough. I walked slowly, my fingers trailing along the white wall as though the physical connection would keep me grounded. My free hand clutched a little shrub sprouting red flowers. It was a gift that wouldn't be appreciated, but I planned to deliver it anyway.

A distant babble of raised voices shattered the silence and my feet faltered. I froze, trying to make out the words. Only one voice stood out, pleading and begging for help, and the pitiful sound made my heart ache. Only a moment later the voices died away and silence crept back, somehow louder than the shouting.

"Miss Pennington?" The orderly escorting me stopped a few feet ahead and peered back at me.

Shaking myself, I started forward again, dragging my feet as we drew toward the door at the end of the hall. My stomach churned and bile rose in my mouth. Wrestling a crocodile was a more enticing prospect than taking those last few steps.

"Here you are, Miss Pennington." The orderly stopped outside the door. "You can go straight in."

I hesitated, staring at the plain white wood. There was no lock, but a small, square observation window that sat at eye level. I kept my gaze averted as I took ten deep, steadying breaths before pushing the door open. A blast of warmth hit me, bringing a stale, musty smell with it, the kind of smell that old houses have when they are unlived in and unloved.

"Who is it? Who's there?"

A stranger sat in the armchair beside the window. Wavy black hair hung lank and greasy around her face, and though her hazel eyes were wide open I knew she wasn't really seeing me. Another deep breath steadied the trembling in my legs, and I was able to take a few more steps into the room.

"It's me, Mum. It's Dyllan."

My voice cracked, but I refused to cry. The one and only time I'd given in to the tears was when she had looked at me so blankly that it broke my heart. The fact my own mother couldn't, or wouldn't, comfort me was too much for me to cope with. I'd been twelve-years-old at the time.

"Dyllan?" she frowned. "I know that name."

Two steps took me across the tiny room, and I sank to my knees beside her chair, my fingers stroking her forearm. I couldn't hug her, not wens he would sit there as still and immobile as a statue.

"Yes, Mum, it's me. Dyllan. Your daughter."

I knew it wouldn't help. It didn't matter how many times I told her who I was; she still looked at me like she had never seen me before. That was the hardest part: the woman who gave birth to me didn't even recognize me.

She blinked and then shifted her gaze away. "It's cold. Why's it always so cold?"

The room was swelteringly hot, and she sat right beside the radiator. At least, her body was by the radiator; her mind was somewhere else entirely. She had been somewhere else for the last five years. I sometimes wondered what she saw. What had this small, sterile room become for her? I privately hoped it was somewhere beautiful, somewhere she could see the sky.

"I brought you a new plant," I told her, placing the little green shrub in its yellow pot on the window ledge. "You need to remember to water it—or it'll die like all the others."

"I think I'd like a roast pheasant for supper tonight," she ordered, not even glancing at the plant. "Please instruct the kitchens."

"Sure, Mum, I'll tell them." Of course, I wouldn't. She would get the same food as the rest of the residents at Waverly, but it was easier to go along with her fantasies. Why she was asking for pheasant, I didn't know. She had always been a vegetarian.

"I can't stay long, Mum." A ball of guilt felt like a lead weight in my stomach. I hadn't even been there five minutes. Is that really all the time I can spare my own mother...? I shook it off. I couldn't stay, it was simply too hard. "I've got homework and things to do. But I'll come see you next week."

She didn't seem to hear me. Her face turned toward the window, but I knew that she was seeing something completely different. I reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"It's my birthday, Mum," I whispered, tears prickling my eyes. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't do this to myself, but the words slipped out anyway, "I'm eighteen today. Can't you at least say 'happy birthday'?"

Nothing.

She didn't even look my way.

Sobs clawed at my throat and I pushed back to my feet, rocking on my heels. Looking down at the stranger in my mother's body, I wanted to scream and rage. I wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled; anything to get a reaction out of her. It wasn't fair. I remembered the vibrant, beautiful woman she once had been, and for her own sake, as much as mine, I wanted that woman back.

Instead, closing my eyes, I bent down and pressed my lips against the crown of her head. "I'll see you soon," I mumbled against her hair.

When the white door closed behind me I pressed my back against the wall. Sinking down until I hit the floor, I drew my knees up to my chin. Iron bands wrapped around my chest and hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I hated it—hated how visiting her made me feel, but the guilt that ate away at me when I didn't was far worse. I dreamt sometimes of her coming home, normal and sane, but the doctors had told me that it would never happen. Mental illness wasn't something they could cure, and the meds never seemed to work.

My mother would never kiss me goodnight again. She'd never ask me how my day had been. She'd never giggle with my dad about some inane thing that only made sense to them, or sing along to the eighties pop music she used to love so much. My mother was now a ghost, a phantom, barely even real.

With my face pressed into my knees, I let the tears fall.

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[Lancelot]

"This is a really bad idea," Gwaine grumbled while glaring at me from the driver's seat.

I threw one quick look his way, then turned back to staring out of the window. Falling rain partially obscured the brown brick bulk of Waverly Hospital, but it was a depressing place. It might as well have been a prison. The grounds were pretty enough—sweeping lawns dotted with trees surround the building, but the high wall around them and the security guard at the gate ruined the effect.

We'd been watching the place for a while now, as much as we'd been watching Dyllan's house, and her school. Neither Gwaine nor Percival liked it very much, but although our old lives had started to fade, old habits died hard, and they were used to deferring to me. Dyllan visited the place once a week, never staying long, and never looking as though she enjoyed her time here.

I turned a blue badge over and over in my hands. I had 'borrowed' it from one of the hospital volunteers. Or rather, Gwaine did. Knight or not, he'd always had a more lax approach to certain criminal activities.

"I'm serious, Lancelot," he insisted. "I don't think this is a good idea."

For some reason his firm resistance to the plan only made me want to do it more. It was childish and ridiculous, but Gwaine had always brought out that side of me.

I pinned on the badge and opened the car door, stepping out into the rain, all while ignoring the choice names Gwaine called me as I closed the door.

Even though I crossed the parking lot at a run, I was still drenched to the bone by the time I reached the door. There would be too many people ready to question me if I went through the front, but luckily someone was coming out just as I reached the door; they held it open for me without even really looking at me.

I shook the worst of the water out of my hair and headed down the corridor. The entire place was eerily quiet, my footsteps echoing on the linoleum as I walked.

My timing could not have been more perfect if I'd tried. I turned a corner just as Dyllan came out of a room. She didn't notice me; she was too upset. I watched with an unbearable ache in my chest as she sunk down against the wall, sobs racking her body.

I wanted to comfort her. I fought the urge to pull her up into my arms and tell her that everything would be alright. I wanted to be her shoulder to cry on, but I had to remind myself that I was a stranger to her. And that hurt almost as much.

It took every ounce of willpower just to stand there when she was in so much pain, but I forced myself to wait. I let her cry herself out, listening to the sobs slow, and then altogether stop. When she was just sniffling into her knees, I chose then to walk forward.

"Are you alright, Dyllan?" I regretted it the instant I say her name. I wasn't supposed to know her, but it just slipped out. It's harder than I expected; to pretend we were strangers.

It didn't seem to surprise her, however, as she raised her head to look at me. The teardrops caught on her lashes sparkled in the fluorescents overhead, and although her eyes were red and cheeks blotchy, she looked more beautiful to me in this moment than ever before. For the briefest second, as her eyes met mine, I was the happiest I'd ever been. I'd waited for her for so long—had loved her for so long that, finally, being so close to her defied description.

The bubble of excitement bursts, however.

She didn't know me. There wasn't a sign of recognition in her brown eyes. I was a stranger to her in every way.

Maybe, one day... I was certain that this girl would love me. But not now. The thought stabbed me. Like an arrow to the heart, burrowing deep.

Her gaze flicked to the badge on my chest, then back to my face. "I—I'm fine."

A shiver at the sound of her voice, though I tried to hide it. How long had it been since I last heard her speak? I remembered her whispered goodbye in the courtyard of Camelot. I had never dreamt that day that it would be more than a millennia before I saw her again.

I helped her to her feet, feeling numb. She glanced toward the door of her mother's room, and I saw the tears in her eyes threatening to fall again. I wanted more than anything to hold her, but I know I couldn't.

"Is someone picking you up?"

Perhaps we could give her a ride home. Surely even Gwaine couldn't object to helping a lady in distress? I thought of sitting in the back of the car with her, just inches of space between us...

"My dad. He'll be outside. I know the way."

Despite everything her brush off made me smile. It was a sign that she was the same person I fell in love with, the same stubbornness, the same determination to stand on her own two feet.

I walked Dyllan to the door regardless, forcing myself not to walk too close to her. Even though what I wanted more than anything was to take her hand. At the exit I watched her jog away into the rain, knowing without a doubt that if I was not careful this girl would doom me all over again.

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[Dyllan]

"How was she?" Dad's eyes were fixed on the road, but I could see the tendons in his neck as he clenched his teeth, his hands flexing around the steering wheel of the Jeep.

"You'd know if you went in to see her."

It was the same argument we had every time we left Waverly. The outcome was always the same, but we said the same things anyway. Like lines in a script, there wa no emotion behind them anymore.

"I can't, Dyllan, you know that. It's too hard."

"And you don't think it's hard for me? She's still Mum."

"Yes." His voice was barely above a whisper. "She's still your mum, but she's not my Rhian anymore." He lifted one hand to forestall my usual reply. "Please, Dyl, lets not do this today. It's your birthday; I don't want to fight with you. Have you decided what you want to do yet?"

I stayed silent, watching the misty, grey scenery fly by the window. We lived in the north of England, just south of Yorkshire to be exact, where the land seemed to stretch for miles. I suppose it could be beautiful, if I were in a better state of mind to see it. Unfortunately, all I saw was the bleakness of rolling moors beneath a heavy sky, devoid of color.

"We could go to the cinema—or maybe just go get a nice meal. Indian—your favorite."

"You hate Indian."

He smiled. "It's your birthday. Or, maybe you want to go out with your friends. I don't mind if you do."

I shook my head. "I don't really want to do anything. Can we just go home?"

I felt his frustration. He hated it when I was like this, but I couldn't bring myself to be happy, or cheerful.

Outside the window the moors changed to the suburbs of the small town we called home. We lived on the outskirts in a small, two bedroom, end of terrace house, built of dark red brick. The small front garden was mostly lawn beside the gravel drive, except for the dead rose bushes under the window. They had been Mum's pride and joy once, when they bloomed in bright reds and pinks. Dad and I tried to pretend they didn't exist, so now they didn't bloom at all.

In the end, I let Dad order in a curry; it seemed easier than arguing with him. I even sat through Die Hard for the hundredth time. Admittedly, it was one of my favorite films. After all, you couldn't go wrong with a bit of mindless violence. It was one of Dad's favorite films from the eighties—and for years he had refused to let me watch it. But when he'd felt I was old enough, it became one of the things we shared. And we didn't share much.

Normally we quoted the movie at each other as we watched, laughing at some of the more outrageous lines, but I simply was not in the mood. I just wanted to go to bed. To curl up under my duvet and forget it was my birthday. Forget that my mother didn't even recognize me anymore, and yet another year of my life had passed by with Dad and I pretending that everything was normal, even when it was anything but.

When Dad finally let me go up to my room, I did exactly that. I only wished pretending could actually take away the pain.

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A/N: Hello, I hope this chapter finds you well. :)

The first thing I'd like to note is that I am American and I am writing a story about a girl who lives in England, so I'm trying my best to make her POV as 'authentic' as I can. Obviously American English spelling is different than British English, but I'm trying my best vernacular-wise!

Second thing, I envision different actors that normally portray Gwen and Lancelot. I have an unhealthy obsession with Ben Barnes and I just cannot help but portray him as Lancelot (this is fanfiction, after all). As for Gwen, in order for my plot to make sense (you'll understand as the story progresses) I had to choose an actress that favors our main girl, Dyllan. So, I've chosen to Anne Hathaway to portray Guinevere. Dyllan is portrayed by Adelaide Kane. However, if you still want to picture Santiago Cabrera and Angel Coulby as their respective characters, by all means! I absolutely love them in the show, so I don't blame you in the least :)

Lastly, this story is more AU. While some events from the show does happen in my story, there are a lot of things that did not happen, as well. Again, if you have any questions, please let me know!

Until the next chapter,
Dev