Britannia, NY

The dreams have always come and gone, ever since he was young. Ken is used to that. He's accepted it, the way you accept you need glasses. As long as he gets enough sleep, he's never thought it mattered to his life. Of course, recently, he's worried about Ivy, about what it means that she dreams too, about her talk about magic.

Still. None of that braced him for this.

The dream tonight is more solid and real than any of the others have been. More solid and real than life is when he's awake. It's snowing, lightly, and he's waiting, cross and nervous, for his fool of a little brother to get back with his sword. It's his first big tournament, his first chance to test his skill against real knights. And his bloody squire couldn't be bothered to hold on to a sword. His father puts a hand on his arm for a moment.

"He'll be back in a minute," he says. "Just keep your mind on what you'll have to do when he does."

Wart comes running up, breathless, as if he's run all the way. He's still awkward angles, though he's sprung up to be just under Kay's own height in the last few months. "Here." He presents a sword that's not Kay's, which triggers more frustration. He reaches to take - probably wouldn't even be balanced right.

It's perfect. Elegant, much finer than any sword he's ever held. It seems to hum in his hand.

It's the only time he'll hold Excalibur as if he might use it.

Ken wakes up shaking and feeling more like the man that grew out of that boy than he ever has. He tries to get up without waking Ivy. He needs a drink.

Clara, walking with great purpose, is going to the library. She's keeping an eye out as she does so. For what, she's not exactly sure.

(She had a dream last night-- because that seems to be the only thing that can force her to make decisions lately, but she doesn't want to think about that. She had a dream.

It's a dream about coming home.

It's the end of that quest-- the one she's dreamed about since the beginning with Lynet and Lyonors and all that nonsense. But in this dream it's finally over and he's coming home. And his brothers are with him and he rides in the midst of them, not a pace behind like with Lancelot. And they come home, to Camelot, and King Arthur is there and even though Gareth has seen him before, it was like seeing him for the first time. He looked then, more than ever, the way Gareth had imagined him from the stories, his famous sword at his hip and his Queen at his side.

And his brothers are there. They don't care that he ran away, that he did not come to them, that he lied. They're there.

It's the first time she wakes up and doesn't feel alone.)

So she's going to the library, because she feels like she has to do something and it's the only lead she really has. And she's keeping an eye out. True, she's been more or less an utter failure at recognizing anyone thus far. But today, maybe, she thinks she could do it.

He's conscious of how it affects Mike when he has a bad day, so he's avoiding the apartment, he can't help it. The most obvious solution seems to be the one that always worked back in New York, to find someplace selling beer cheap and see how quick he can get drunk. He's aware, however, that that's not a terribly good idea, so he's trying to stave it off by taking a walk.

It's warmer than usual to-day, the snow, which is dirty by now, is starting to melt. Gaheris is a worn and tired-looking man with his jacket wrapped close around his body, walking against the light.

Adia is still having dreams, since they got back from the Florida vacation, but this is the worst one she's ever remembered. She's not sure why, just that it is, that it intensely fills her head and her eyes in a way none of them ever have.

She doesn't even know the particulars of it. She remembers the fire, her hands and feet bound to the stake while the brush beneath her burns, and she remembers Lancelot, his sword cutting down the Orkney princes, their bright blood staining the grass dark brown, and somewhere in the middle of it all she remembers Arthur, stern-faced and solemn. She remembers him in his brown cloak, standing against the cold wind, his teeth clenched against his jaw to keep his resolve strong, and his fine sword gleaming in his hand.

His sword. The sword. She can't remember the name of it, only the winter sun shining off the blade. Then the fire is burning her feet away, Lancelot's horse is charging through the grounds, the men are falling like water tumbling over a cliff.

She wakes up screaming.