Full Summary: When 17-year-old Dyllan starts seeing terrifying visions of the future and hearing the voice of a long-dead king, she's afraid she's losing her mind. With her mother hospitalized and unable to recognize her, and the kids at school treating her as if she doesn't exist, Dyllan doesn't know how much more she can cope with.
In the midst of her troubles, she finds an unexpected friend: Lance. Underneath his rough clothes and sarcastic attitude he's surprisingly charming and gallant, and Dyllan is drawn to him 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...
"Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story."
― Bilbo Baggins, "The Fellowship of the Ring"
The whisper of the breeze drew Lancelot gently into wakefulness. A soft, hushed rustle and the gentle creak of a branch was just enough to stir him. He was outside. That much was evident, though it didn't seem right somehow. He thought back, desperately trying to pinpoint his last memory. Where had he been? What had he been doing?
It was hazy, as though it had happened to a different person. He remembered the room in Joyous Gard and the face of his squire. Then the memory hit him, slamming into him with the force of a charging war horse.
He had been dying.
Death came to everyone, and it had finally come for him. After all, his life was over. His king was one and the kingdom he had served fervently with his whole heart was failing. He had looked forward to Death as a welcome relief. He had seen it as a chance to put down the grief and guilt he had been carrying for so many years.
But what had happened? He was no longer dead, of that he was certain. Even though he believed in some kind of life after death, he knew this wasn't it.
Finally, with some effort, he forced his eyes to open. Puffy white clouds raced ahead of the westerly wind in a periwinkle blue sky. He lay on his back in thick, prickly grass with the clean of smell water nearby.
Lancelot lifted one hand to brush back his dark tendrils and stared at the appendage. He flexed young, strong fingers, untouched by age. They were the hands of a young man. They certainly were not his.
Pushing himself up to his elbow, he realized his hands were not the only thing that changed. His entire body was young and whole again, as he had been in his prime; fit and strong. He was also naked. The thought did not bother him as he seemed to be alone, and there were more pressing matters to concern him.
Lancelot knew exactly where he was: the Lake of Avalon lay unchanged, still reflecting a sky that didn't exist in this world, stars blossoming in its smooth surface when the sky overhead was clear and bright.
He was alone, but he didn't think he would be for long. Lancelot struggled to his feet; his body may be young again but he felt painfully stiff, as though he had been lying in the grass for years. He cracked his joints and stretched, still waiting for some sign of life.
Gazing around, he took in the Lake, feeling as though he hadn't seen it in a lifetime. Nothing had changed, but then, nothing ever did at the Lake. The Lady made sure of that. Then Lancelot noticed one small thing out of place: a pile of clothing lay neatly folded at the edge of the water.
He could only assume it was or him, but when he picked up the bundle, he frowned. Instead of the breeches he was accustomed to wearing, these were made of a strange blue material. They would be useless in a fight; too tight and too constricting. The top was a thin, white button-less shirt.
He hesitated for a moment, uncertain. Something about the world around him felt...off-kilter. It was the only way he could describe it.
A cool breeze ripping across the placid water brought goosebumps to his skin, and he hurriedly shrugged into the clothes. They would certainly take some getting used to, but they were the only ones he had.
Movement out across the Lake caught his eye. A tawny owl swooped over the body of water, winging its way straight toward him. Palpable relief surged through Lancelot as realization donned on him. Merlin! Surely he would explain the odd state of things.
A nimbus of bright light grew around the bird until Lancelot had to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the young, gangly Merlin stood before him with arms outstretched.
"Lancelot!" Merlin exclaimed emphatically while drawing his taller comrade into a rough embrace. Lancelot was shocked at the thick emotion in Merlin's voice. The knight had only seen the sorcerer a month, or so, past.
Lancelot stepped back and held Merlin at arm's length. "Merlin? Why am I here?" He wasn't foolish enough to ask how. Merlin's magic was something he would never understand. Nevertheless, he was curious. How had he come to be hundred of miles from Joyous Gard, and in a body that might have been his fifteen years ago, but not any longer?
"I know you must have a million questions, Lancelot, but I don't really want to explain this more than once."
Lancelot quirked a questioning brow. "You are expecting more company?"
Merlin smiled knowingly and nodded behind him. Lancelot turned. The bank had ben empty when he had first woken, but now two figures stepped out of the treeline. Like him, they looked dazed and confused, even more so because the Lake was unfamiliar to them.
For a long moment all Lancelot could do was stare. He never expected to see them again. It had been so many years since their last meeting, but they, too, were far younger than last he'd seen them. Percival's familiar boyish grin appeared the moment he saw Lancelot, but Gwaine's expression was dark, his eyes wary.
"How—?"
Merlin laughed softly behind Lancelot. "The 'how' is a little complicated." He spoke with odd inflections and an accent that Lancelot couldn't place, though it was familiar to him. As though he had heard it once before... "But the 'why' will come plain enough."
Percival and Gwaine reached them, and Percival swept Lancelot into a rough embrace, guffawing in disbelief. Gwaine stood before him, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He looked as though he wasn't sure whether to greet Lancelot or punch him.
"I'd like, at least, a little of the 'how'," Lancelot said, turning back to Merlin expectantly. He turned his hands over, looking at the smooth, tanned skin not yet damaged by age and war. "It's a little disconcerting. How—How old am I?"
Merlin offered a patient, wry smile and led the trio of knights over to a slight hollow on the bank where a fire suddenly appears, burning merrily. "Again, a complicated question. And even I am not entirely certain of the answer. To look at you, perhaps eighteen at the most. How many years has it been since the moment of your birth, however? Far more than a thousand."
Lancelot's head snapped up, his hands dropping to his sides. "A thousand?"
Gwaine and Percival looked just as shocked as Lancelot.
"Many more than a thousand, in fact. Though, it's hard to know the exact number. We were not as...diligent in our recording of the years back then, as they are now."
Lancelot tried to think, tried to focus, but his mind felt like it was spinning. Ever since he had awoken it had seemed as though his mind was shifting; the memories of his life already seemed hazy in parts, as though they were a dream or had happened to someone else. Other things were taking their place, a changed language and the sense of a world very different from his own.
Merlin shook Lancelot's shoulder and smiled gently. "Try not to fight it. It is the magic at work. I had to ensure that you all could fit into this time and place. It was necessary to combine all of your old memories with those of people from this time."
The feeling slowly subsided, and Lancelot managed to focus back on Merlin. "Magic is the answer for 'how'—but why? Why bring me—us—to this strange time? Why did you bring us back?"
For a moment, something like guilt flashed across Merlin's face, but he hid it quickly. "I believe you were there, Lancelot. You too, Gwaine. The day that Arthur fell—"
Lancelot's gaze met Gwaine's and the former shuddered. He could never forget that day—the day he had arrived to the Battle of Camlann too late to save his king, reaching him as he already lay dying.
"You were there when I told Arthur of his destiny," Merlin continued, oblivious to the knights' pain. "That he was the Once and Future King, the right King of all Albion, and that if ever Albion had need of him, he would return."
Lancelot almost looked around, expecting Arthur to emerge from the trees. But, in his heart, he knew that his king wouldn't.
Merlin touched Lancelot's forearm and smiled sadly. "I'm afraid not, Lancelot. Though, you are correct, the time has come for Arthur. Albion has need of him once again. But the wound Arthur received at his final battle was fatal. In Avalon, he cannot die, but should he return to this plain his wound will kill him. And not even my magic could save him." For a moment, the sorcerer fell silent, then shook off his melancholy enough to continue. "However, there are other ways. Out there in the world today is the last of Arthur's line. The last Pendragon, though they no longer carry that name. In them, the magic of the Old Religion has been born anew; in their veins runs the blessing of the Fair Folk. When the time comes, when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur's body will remain in Avalon, but his spirit, his very soul, will join with his heir to defeat the evil that threatens."
Lancelot shot a glance at Gwaine and Percival, but they seemed content to let him take the lead. "And us? What is our purpose?"
"I knew, long ago, that should all this come to pass, the last Pendragon would have need of the strength, wisdom, and chivalry of Arthur's knights. I picked the best; the three knights I knew were the most loyal, the most honor-bound, and the bravest. The magic was complex and dangerous, verging on a darkness that only necessity could have driven me to, but here you are. And I have only one question: will you serve Arthur one last time?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation; there was no other answer Lancelot could have given. This was his chance, his moment to redeem himself—to right the wrongs he had once committed. He had betrayed Arthur once; he would would not do it again.
Merlin was speaking, and Lancelot forced himself to pay attention.
"...the town lies north of here, and you must travel there soon. Even now, I can feel Morgana's power moving throughout the country. She seeks Arthur's heir as much as we do."
"Morgana?"
Merlin glowered at Lancelot. "Were you listening at all, Lancelot?"
He grimaced. "I—"
"At least some things do not change," Gwaine muttered.
Lancelot glanced up and wain's wry smirk with one of his own. "Some things will never change."
"Enough!" Merlin cut across, glaring at the two of them. "Morgana is back, Lancelot. Without my knowledge, she found a pathway into Avalon all those years ago. Mordred was dead, her hopes for the throne of Camelot dashed; but she was never one to give up easily. She also had the gift of prophecy. She could see how the world would one day change, and how it might work in her favor. And so, she passed into Avalon where, like Arthur, she would not die, and waited until Albion was ripe for her to take."
"She plans to take the throne from Arthur's heir?"
Merlin chuckled. "Arthur's heir is not the ruler of Albion. Far from it, actually. They are nothing, a nobody. A regular person. No power, no fortune. But Morgana will kill them because she knows they are the only person with any hope of defeating her. And we cannot allow that to happen. And so, you three must travel. You must find Arthur's heir. You must protect her, watch over her, until she comes into her birthright."
"She?" Lancelot blinked in surprise.
"A girl, yes. She is young, not quite seventeen. And she will need you. All of you."
A/N: This story is AU. While I will use certain things from the show, I will also pull from Arthurian legend. If you have any questions regarding that, do not hesitate to ask! :)
Please enjoy!