Britannia, NY

Adia gets back into town late in the afternoon, and parks her car a few blocks away from the apartment. She's not totally sure she feels like going in just yet. Leaving her suitcases in the backseat, she walks the three blocks down to the park and finds a bench by the small, man-made lake to sit for a while.

After a few hours, just as the sun is going down, she comes back to the apartment. She gave the lease to Arthur, along with her keys, with the intention of severing all ties; the result is that she has to ring the buzzer to get in.

Ever since Larry's late-night call, Cecilia's been arguing with herself about what to do, and who to talk to. She doesn't have anything concrete to tell anyone -- just Larry's vague sense of worry and her own insistent, unclear dreams.

Still, she feels she ought to check in with Arthur, not least because she promised Larry she would. So this evening she's out and about, running errands, and oh-so-coincidentally taking a leisurely walk past Arthur's apartment building.

Ivy is beginning to have her doubts about this whole thing, but she owes it to Arthur, and to Ken now too, she thinks, so she makes sure Arthur gets the invitation and on Friday evening she gets home early, does her best to clean the house (or at least the first floor) to something reasonably decent, and brings home rib steaks for Ken to deal with.

A tiny part of her, more Ivy than Ragnelle, wants to impress the King, the High King of Britain, just a little. The only outward result of this is the fact that she's wearing the nicest dress that she can get away with for the occasion, Ken's favourite green one that looks like summertime and greenery and a kind of sweet eternity, and has her hair done up much fancier than usual.

Apart from that she seems no different from usual, ridiculously exuberant as she tumbles down the stairs shoeless and starts setting the table for supper.

For the past two days, the music students at Britannia High School have been left in the hands of a substitute-- much to their delight, Daniel is sure. He's not just playing truant, which he has admittedly been known to do. But in this case, avoiding sleep as much as possible for God knows how long does have a tendency to catch up with a person.

It's the dreams, of course. Since they've stopped being fun and a bit exciting, he's stopped mentioning them to anyone. He's reconsidering this strategy, now. Now, that is, that the first thing he does once he feels alive enough to venture outside is to immediately head to Habitat to begin caffeinating himself in preparation for mission: avoid sleep. Which is probably less than healthy, but there he is that afternoon, drinking one of those improbably large cups of coffee, a little paler than usual, the childhood Scots accent coming out stronger when he speaks because he's too tired to hide it.

Who does one go to, he wonders, if one wishes to complain about crazy dreams? He'd hardly know how to begin such a conversation, anyway; a lifetime's practice has made him perhaps too good at talking a great deal without saying anything at all.

Ivy is tired, but on the plus side it's also getting nice, the weather turning warm and windy, and the trees putting out green shoots. That's enough to be getting her blood warm and swift-flowing, turning over in her body, and it makes her feel energetic and cheerful and ardent.

The latter of which Ken's been feeling the results of, but the rest of it is more than shared with the rest of the community; her clients are seeing even better results than usual, and she has a lot more patience with people being stupid.

She's on her way home from work. The fact that the sun is still out at five-thirty is thrilling, and she's swinging her tote bag of files cheerfully, her long hair blown out of her professional ponytail, and she looks beautiful in the yelloworange sundress under her working blazer.

Arthur is taking a walk, while Adia is still at work. For the first time in a long while, he has some sense of what he's supposed to do. Or at least what he's supposed to do next. But, as ever, it's directly at odds with what's best for someone he loves.

Part of him wants to fight someone. To yell at the sky that it isn't fair. But he's older than that. He should know better than to expect fairness. From anything.

But he's hoping something will come to him. What to say to Adia would be helpful. But so far, nothing's occurred to him.

He'll have to go home eventually.

( ..through the long night.. )

//

Cecilia wakes and feels like you do when a fever has just broken. Her pulse is racing, and for some reason she is weeping, and the blade swims at the edge of her consciousness in a way that makes her nauseous.

By the time the sun is starting to come up, she's showered and dressed, and called in sick to work. She leaves the house and steps into the late February chill with her coat open and no hat. She walks, at a brisk pace, across town. She's heading for Arthur's apartment building, and half-hoping no one sees her walking there.

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.

Arthur is looking for a few people, though he's open to talking to others. As always, he gives off an air of calm authority, but he's approachable enough.

He looks driven, today, however. He's made up his mind, at least on a small scale, and he doesn't seem to be in the mood to brook opposition.

The dreams have only intensified since her fight with Lexi. The last few nights have been unbearable, but when she wakes up she just lies in bed, concentrating on being as still as possible in the darkness, noting the cold in the air--she can't stand sleeping without the window open--anchoring herself in time. She's here. She's here and nowhere else.

Around three o'clock in the morning she jerks awake, her skin burning, sitting bolt upright, then carefully untenses her body and lies back down.

"I'm here," she tells the ceiling. "I'm me. I'm just me."

( live your life the way you wanted to... )

Arthur is not the one who dreams.

Not usually at least.

Of all the people in Britannia, of all the people looking for who they were, and what they'd felt, and what they'd done... he knew all those things. The past was the only thing he felt like he had a firm grip on, these days.

Arthur knew who he was. He'd been the King of all Britain. He'd been the son of Uther, who'd united a kingdom, then failed to keep it from cracking along its faultlines. He was a man who'd loved and fought and hated and tried to rule well. He was a man who sentenced the woman he loved to burn at the stake, who'd not know what to do with the only child he ever had, who'd never seen the mind of the man he'd thought was his closest friend.

He knew that.

But tonight? It was near midnight, in the middle of winter. He was a nameless, countryless gardener with no legitimate past, who was standing in the middle of the park, staring at the cool, crisp stars. He didn't know what he needed, or what was needed of him. Even if it was nothing... knowing it would be a relief. Anything. Any action. He didn't want to be told. He wanted to know.

Instead, he was here. Frozen.

Sagramore doesn't get out much, mostly because Jim does a good job of squashing him down and keeping him out of his life. But the recent events with Nathan and the fact that Jim's been exhausted lately have his guard down, and Sagramore is the one who woke up this morning and spent half an hour working out modern plumbing, got his body dressed and headed out into town.

It's Sagramore, and for some people it might be obvious in the way he carries himself, the way his smile is relaxed and easy and his movement has a grace about it that Jim never has, a beautiful deer-like grace. He's exploring the shops that he hasn't ever been in, grinning freely at the lovely and unlovely alike, using the full extent of his charm to make everyone feel like the most special person in the world.

Arthur is tired. Adia not sleeping well means he's not been sleeping very well either, for one. For another, he still doesn't know what he's back here to achieve, and he somehow feels like there's a duty he's shirking. Something obvious that's missing.

He decides to pick up some pie on the way home. He and Adia could both use some comfort food, and he hasn't seen Lexi in awhile. These small steps, at least, he can take. For now.

Since she confessed to Arthur what she remembers, Adia has gone back to denying it staunchly, going about her life as ordinarily as possible (everything is fine; the only person I am is myself). During the day she goes to work and tries not to think outside the box; at night she lies next to Arthur and doesn't have many dreams.

Until to-night.

To-night she has the old dream of fire and smoke and burning, and wakes up soaked with sweat, sobbing, her body achingly hot to touch.

Buddy had tried to move on after he found out that the old truck was never going to run again. Not a good idea to stay in one place too long. But something kept nagging at him all the way to Rhode Island.

And then the dreams started up again.

And suddenly, against all good sense, he's back in Britannia. A little cleaner and better shaven than last time, but with the same old army jacket and duffle bag. And a copy of Tennyson's Idylls folded over and stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. And an almost manic glint in his eyes.

He's either figured it all out, or finally gone all the way off the deep end. And damn does he need a drink.

( What's happened has already happened / what's coming is already on its way / with a role for me to play )

Cecilia loves the start of autumn. Always has. She still feels like it's the true beginning of the year, even though she hasn't been in school in years. And this time around, it seems particularly sharp - fresh, even.

Since her last conversation with Nathan, she's felt energized. A strength welling up in her, a conviction born of knowing just who she is, who she always has been. The surety of knowing what should be hers, and what might be if they all get it right this time.

This morning, she's sitting outside Habitat with a cup of coffee, wrapped in a cozy scarf. For once, she doesn't have her nose buried in a book. She's just people watching, thinking, breathing in the autumn air.

( There were two brothers. )

Because Nathan honestly believed that keyboards were invented by the devil (he was the king of the one-fingered typing, when he was forced around the demon machines) and didn't even remotely know how to work email, when he decided it was time to reach out to certain key players, he turned to an old-fashioned form of communication.

Some letters, then, written in a slightly shaky left-handed scrawl on parchment and sealed with wax (the Lady thrilled in that little touch; so much of the old elegance was lost, now, in the age of electronic ones and zeros and soulless typed correspondence) in what might be a familiar symbol. The water lily, after all, had once covered the Lady's lake. It was fitting that it should now seal Nathan's letters.

---

( Letter to Mike )

---

( Letter to Arthur )

---

( Letter to Cecilia )

---

And the last letter had no address. No real way Nathan could expect it to reach the intended party. But Nathan put it in the mailbox, stamp placed firmly on with more than a little bit of optimistic hope, believing absolutely in fate to have it find its way.

( Letter to Morgan le Fay )