Britt shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable, and almost kicked her backpack—the one she had worn on the day she was struck by lightning and blasted into a coma.
As the days stretched into months and Britt hadn’t woken up she avoided looking at the backpack more and more. The sight of it brought a stab of homesickness and fear to her heart. Why hadn’t she woken up yet? Was there something seriously wrong with her? Was this a medical induced coma, or had she hit her head on something? Britt knew dreams often seemed to last longer than they were in actuality, but the length and clarity of this odd King Arthur dream was starting to frighten her.
Britt hesitated before she reached for the backpack and pulled it towards her. She opened it up and unearthed the British travel guidebook, flipping it open to the informational section on British mythology and legends.
“King Arthur,” she murmured, reading the section about the famed king. “is a legendary British king and hero. His historical existence and role is widely debated, but he is said to have been crowned at age 15 on the day of Pentecost. The day of his crowning ceremony he selected Merlin as his counselor, Sir Ulfius as his chamberlain, Sir Bodwain as his constable, his foster brother Sir Kay as seneschal, and Sir Bedivere as marshal.”
Britt went numb, and the book dropped from her hands.
How? How was it possible that Britt, knowing very little King Arthur lore, had dreamed of those particular men?
“Well, it is my dream. I can dream up information to fill a guidebook too,” Britt muttered, picking up the book again. She flipped through it, her desperation growing with each page she turned. City maps, historic notations, points of interest, it was all there, detailed, organized, and displayed.
Britt threw the book away from her. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest, and Britt started to feel light headed.
It was real. For months she had been in denial, but it was time to face the facts. This historical nightmare was real. Tears fell from Britt’s eyes, and she gasped for air as she tried to face this fact.
Her mother, her friends, would she ever see them again? Hadn’t Merlin said he couldn’t send her back? Could she even survive in this era? Britt knew very little about King Arthur, but she knew he died. And she knew he fought a lot.
“No, no,” Britt whispered, shaking her head.
“…Britt?”
Britt looked up, wide eyed and frightened, into the fatherly face of Sir Ector.
The older knight squatted down in front of her. “Lass, you’re crying. What’s wrong?”
Britt burst into tears at the kind question, and babbled through her sobs. She was terrified, she was frightened, and she would never see anyone who knew her again.
“There, there,” Sir Ector said, kneeling so he could reach out and hug Britt.
Britt slumped against the fatherly man and sobbed.
“What is her problem?” Merlin demanded as he sat up, his hair mussed.
“I-I want to go home,” Britt spat out through snot and tears.
“Oh, Britt,” Merlin sighed before he joined Sir Ector and placed a warm hand on Britt’s head.
“When the night rolls back and dawn comes things will be brighter,” Sir Ector soothed, not at all bothered when Britt pounded on his shoulder with a fist.
All night Britt mourned the loss of her family, friends, and her life.
“This forest does not end,” Britt sourly said the following day, perched on the back of her mare.
Merlin glanced over his shoulder. “It is called Arroy, the Forest of Adventure, for good reason, Arthur,” Merlin said, although he did not chastise Britt’s terrible mood.
Britt glared at the trees. “That’s a lame name,” she said as the rest of her company moved around her in good cheer.
Sir Kay looked confused with Britt’s use of modern language, but he kept silent and rode behind Britt, occasionally patting his mount in reassurance.
Britt’s sorrow had left her shortly after dawn, only to be replaced by bitterness. Merlin and her foster family seemed to accept this, and wisely said nothing. On a normal day Britt would marvel that Merlin would willingly take her verbal abuse, but she was still too grief stricken to care.
“The lake at which I hope to obtain for you a new sword is enchanted. Although it lies close to your castle, Arthur, it is considered the property of the faeries,” Merlin said.
“Fantastic. I always wanted magical neighbors.”
“You never know, Britt. I have been told a time or two that faeries brew the best of ales. Perhaps you could trade with them,” Sir Ector laughed, slapping his thigh in mirth. His horse seemed to share his amusement as it shook its head.
“A trade route with the faeries?” Britt repeated, cocking her head as she considered the idea. (Sir Ector was the only one out of the group she was not hostile to.)