“Hesitation? Buddy, you’re looking at solid refusal. For starters you have got to be the worst Merlin actor ever. You’re like, wearing Gandalf’s robe and cloak from Lord of the Rings—which works I guess—but you can’t be much older than me. What, are you like thirty? Everyone knows Merlin is as old as dirt.”
“It’s not my fault Uther wouldn’t listen to me without a fake white beard. I don’t know what sort of brutish land you come from—who has ever heard of a woman wearing leggings?—but appearances are important here. No one is going to listen to a fourteen-year-old boy wizard. Magic is all about deceiving the eyes to reveal the truth, which is what I did,” Merlin said.
Britt hitched her backpack over her shoulders. “You obviously have a complex. But this will not work anyway. There’s no way I could be your King because I’m not British. I’m American, a tourist. Plus I’m not a guy,” Britt said before turning around. “Amber, I’m leaving. Do you want to come with?”
“Yes, well the law doesn’t say ‘whatever Anglo male pulls the sword from the stone’ does it? Your gender and homeland mean nothing to me. The only thing that matters is that you can pull the sword from the stone!” Merlin snapped.
“There’s no way I can pull it!”
“Prove it!”
“Fine!”
Britt stalked up to the gleaming weapon and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. She was elated when there was no shock of electricity, but irked as the grinding of metal against metal tickled her ears when she pulled the sword free from the anvil.
Britt stared at the sword, which was well made—historically accurate even. “This means nothing,” Britt said, stabbing the sword back in the ‘stone’ as Merlin smirked. “Clearly it’s rigged. I’m outta here,” Britt said before striding across the cemetery, heading for the gate.
Merlin stopped smiling and lurched after her. “Where are you going?” he hissed, grabbing her wrist. “Are you mad? If someone sees you dressed like this they’ll burn you as a witch.”
“Now that’s a likely story,” Britt said as she stubbornly forged ahead.
“You’re indecent,” Merlin insisted, still holding Britt’s wrist when they popped out of the cemetery.
Britt took two steps into the dirt street before she stopped. The scents of hay, sweaty men, and animal poop hit her in an overwhelming wave. There was a rhythmic, metallic clang from down the street—a blacksmith nailing a horseshoe on a horse. A man dressed in a tunic walked past, his ancient nag pulling a cart full of chickens. Buildings did not stretch to the sky in cement structures, but squatted low to the ground with thatched roofs and wooden walls. It was even colder outside the cemetery, and a few flakes of snow fell from the cloudy sky.
Britt turned on her heels and fled to the graveyard.
“Now do you understand what has happened?” Merlin asked as Britt yanked her arm from his grasp.
Britt cupped her hands around her eyes as she sank to the ground, her knees weakened. “I couldn’t have been out for that long. There’s no way Lyssa could have arranged for me to be dumped in a renaissance village after getting knocked out—unless they drugged me,” Britt pushed up her sleeves and inspected her arms, looking for any injection marks.
She didn’t see any, but terror and adrenaline clawed at her heart. The world started to tilt, and Britt couldn’t seem to breathe enough air. “Oh crap,” Britt said before sinking back on her butt and putting her head between her knees. “Crap,” Britt repeated with more feeling. “Am I dead? Did I die when I was shocked? It’s the middle of July, why is it snowing?”
Merlin placed a cautious hand on Britt’s shoulder. “Britt Arthurs, are you alright? I did not think there would be any ill effects of time travel, but I am sure this must come as a shock to you. It is acceptable to find yourself overwrought.”
Britt jerked her head up, ready to shout hysterics at the handsome wizard. When she met Merlin’s eyes she paused. Merlin was too cute for his time. He was suspiciously cute, in fact. His hair wasn’t long either, unlike his two companions. It was short and soft, and he had no facial hair.
Britt inhaled before she let her head sink between her knees again. “That’s it, I must be dreaming. I subconsciously made up a hot Merlin. I bet I’m knocked out and stuck in a backwater British hospital because of that lightning strike. I’m just experiencing King Arthur in my dreams because Lyssa has been forcing her chivalry propaganda on me. I can deal with this. I’m just unconscious. This is all a dream.”
Merlin produced a vial and handed it to Britt.
Britt hesitated. Was it wise to take a drink from a stranger? She looked up to stare at the handsome figment of her imagination and shook her head. It didn’t matter, she was dreaming anyway. Britt took a swig from the vial and almost choked. She had been expecting water; instead the suspicious wizard had fed her a bitter liquid.
“What was that?” she coughed as Merlin reclaimed the vial and tucked it up a sleeve.
“Water laced with hops.” He said. “To calm you. It’s used in Beer.”