"Arthur," she repeated and the name felt right on her tongue, like she'd said it before a hundred times, a thousand. In jest or in anger or in fear, in friendship and love and, at the end, at the very end of all things, in a battle cry, in a grief filled roar.
Nathan had come up beside them, watching her, watching Arthur, watching them all and Lexi suddenly turned as if to flee. "I'll get the scones," she said, already running from memories that weren't quite that, were too strong to be mere dreams and too insubstantial to be anything but.
They didn't make sense and Lexi, for all her quirks, lived firmly in a world of sense. Where flour and water and eggs made dough and if you fucked up the measurements, something fell flat. No matter her vivid imagination, she knew that knights weren't real, not like in the stories, and no one had ever slain a dragon.
So she turned and she ran back to her kitchen to hide for a bit from the man who was almost demanding with quiet authority she do anything but.
Nathan looked at Arthur and arched an eyebrow in a silent question. "Give her a minute," he advised quietly. "He..." he corrected himself, "she doesn't remember anything at all."