Chapter 20: To Share A Mind
"Oi, you've got to do better than that if you want to even bruise me," the man slurs, swaying and smirking. His thick dark hair is messy, obscuring his vision but the skin revealed from his torn shirt shows no sign of bruising.
The man scowling at him is sweaty and pig-headed, and technically threw the first swing. All over the score of American football. His opponent could be no more than twenty, yet is beefy and obviously has poor judgment even without the beers he's just gulped down.
The man doing all the taunting is definitely a few years older, and obviously holding his alcohol better. The swaying and slurring can't be all drunkenness, otherwise there's no way he'd be unharmed. His t-shirt is torn halfway down the front, but looks like an old college shirt anyway, and his jeans are fitted but soft and flexible with wear. His boots are solid, but not heavy and also are well worn.
Behind him, in the back corner of the bar a man sits alone, quiet but watching intently. His shoulders are clad in a beige polo shirt, but his arms on the table have no watch or rings. He looks younger than the brunette fighter, but not by much, though his face has only stubble to accentuate his elegant jaw and high cheekbones. Rich, chocolate eyes follow the fighting's every move, a smirk somewhere between proud and entertained. And then they are looking straight into me. And I am no longer observing, but am corporeal. I feel my tongue, heavy in my mouth, and I feel my heart beating unevenly in my chest. Lancelot. He nods and smiles.
Messy hair and broad shoulders dance into my vision as the taunting fighter bounces around, making his opponent's annoyance increase.
"Gwaine, you troublemaker," I feel my lips smile around the words, the endearment feeling familiar on my tongue as I watch my comrade dodge another stupid, beefy swing. The smirking fighter turns back and winks at me, before jumping gracefully onto the bartop and kicking the idiot boy's drink right into his face.
"Are we going crazy?" she breathed. Gwen frowned, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
"I don't think we can both be going crazy the same way," she said.
I keep my lips tightly pressed together so as not to allow even my breath to make noise as I spy intently. I'm spying, no point denying it or saying it's an accident. I purposefully wore my old, dirty cloak with the hood that is so grass stained it blends into the ground -- thank the gods my subjects are walking in the trees where I at least have some shade from the burning sun.
"Ooh, what are we doing?" a voice whispers so close to my ear that I wiggle and nearly snort as the breath tickles my skin. I glare at Rowanna for startling me, and nearly giving away my -- now our -- hiding place.
"Merlin and Susetthe, duh," I whisper back, unable to hold the glare for long before grinning mischievously. Rowanna grins and plops down beside me, again making more noise than I like "Shh, you'll get us caught you oaf."
She scoffs. "They're far too wrapped up in each other," she argues, though her voice is considerably quieter. We settle in the underbrush at the base of one of the larger trees, lying across the large roots to see our friends.
They don't quite walk, but they don't quite stand still either. Their voices are too quiet for us to hear, but I know we both saw the way Merlin's shoulders and head curve towards her smaller figure, and how she almost makes a point to face him completely when she speaks. I'm pretty sure a damn tiger could jump out and they'd only barely look around at it.
"Do you suppose he's smiling?" Rowanna asks, and there's no mischief in her voice now. I study her serious face as she watches them.
"I don't know, but..." I choose my words carefully. "But I don't think he's not smiling." I don't make sense, but she nods anyway.
"He doesn't want to not smile now," she offers, and I nod. Then, "Why the bloody hell are you wearing that?"
The two girls sat in silence for a moment, their now voiced dreams replaying in each mind more vividly than words could express. Lillian sighed, resting her chin on her arms, folded on the tabletop. She looked tired and forlorn.
The dress is surprisingly nice, considering the material is definitely not silk, and it is definitely no noble lady's outfit. But though it is a rougher material, it is still gentle to my skin, and the cut is still rather flattering. The lavender color is sweet against my mocha skin, and the dress dips enough to be inviting. I hold a silver pitcher in my fingers, overall looking quite lovely for a servant.
I stride forward across the stones, my shoes clicking quietly, and push the wooden door just enough to slip through. The room has high ceilings, and is still large despite the great wooden table in the middle of it, loaded with food. I stand in the corner, watching the halo of golden hair that peeks over the top of the high-backed, ornately carved wooden chair at the head of the table. His dark gold crown does not detract from the beauty, but I still prefer times like now when he does not wear it. I do my job, waiting until they are all seated and ready to begin so that I will step forward and fill water glasses.
In the other corner at my side, I meet the gaze of cobalt eyes and I smile at my friend. He grins back, and just like the wine pitcher in his hands, it is crooked. I bite my lip to keep my giggle quiet, he is going to spill that and then we'll all hear the telltale, drawn out shout of "Merlin!"
As the lords finish shuffling into their seats, the mixed greetings begin to die down.
"My lord, honored to dine with you this evening."
"Your majesty."
"Good evening, my king."
I keep my smile to myself as I pour his glass first. I call him Arthur.
Eyes shot open, gold flashing in jagged tendrils before disintegrating against the cerulean irises. Air rushed through shaky lungs and a rasping throat, as his heart stumbled to a normal rhythm. Merlin stared at the roof of his home, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of the events. He was young again, and long ago had stopped expecting changes -- so when such dramatic ones happened, he awoke in shock and uncertainty.
He remembered very few dreams he'd ever had. In the beginning, every night he saw the faces of those he'd lost, those he'd abandoned, those he'd waited for. For a short time, he'd see them. But over such time as his, all dreams had been lost. When he woke from sleep, a night or a lifetime, he remembered little or nothing.
Sitting up on his bed, Merlin rubbed his face with his hands and exhaled into his cupped palms, not quite sure if he wanted to wash the sights away or keep them in his mind.
Brown ringlets, hazel eyes full of kindness and a hidden wisdom, flashed beneath his closed lids. Merlin had just looked at her, but only seconds later the ethereal glow of the dream crackled as he recognized her. His body was held still, watching her look around and smile, his mouth full of cotton even though he felt his body move ever so slightly.
It wasn't his dream, it was hers. His young hands held a silver pitcher, mirroring her, her body young and healthy in her light dress, her hair messy even though she tried to tame it.
Merlin felt wetness slip from his cheeks to his palms, and his vision was blurred slightly as he lifted his face to gaze around the small, empty room. His limbs felt old and heavy, despite his body having returned to youth barely a year ago. His mind created new weight, greater than ever before.
Gwen had been in his dream -- not his dream. He'd had no control over it, it couldn't even be his own memory. Merlin had long forgotten Camelot, everything except a handful of blurred faces and echoing voices. Having another person's dream...not at all impossible or even unheard of, but Merlin hadn't prompted it...which meant...
With wide eyes and all fatigue forgotten, Merlin jumped from the bed and bolted into the other room, clutching the wooden shelf as if it were his lifeline. His heart was racing, his breaths short, all that only increasing as he stared.
Four little glass vials, and four tiny scraps of paper with ink that had bled and faded long ago. Now, he could only make out the large first letters of each, but it would have to be enough. It could only be by miracle that the paper hadn't turned to dust now, but Merlin dared not argue with nature. They were dusty, Merlin rarely remembered to clean them, but it was perhaps the clearest sight Merlin had ever seen.
Three vials glowed, the enchanted blood bright and untouched by time.