Sempiternal [Merthur]

Þrēo

Arthur scanned the structure up and down, sizing it up like he would a new opponent on the soccer field. Two stories high, four vulnerable spaces (entrances, exit, fire escape), seventeen thousand square feet, solid brick exterior. The burgundy building seemed more ominous than it usually did; a dark contrast to the comfort it held on a normal day. But at that moment, he was afraid it would hold mysteries that he didn't want to exist, ones that he didn't want to have to face.

He ducked his head down, bouncing on his heels a few times before gathering up the courage he needed and walking to the entrance, taking long strides before he could change his mind.

Cold air engulfed his body as soon as he opened the double doors. He grinned a little at the familiarity of the feeling; the air conditioning was always on too high. He walked through, his steps slower now that he was actually inside. There was no turning back now. He breathed in, his senses absorbing smell of leather and wood, unsure if it was an act of grounding or simply the product of nerves. He kept his eyes glued to the tiled floor, subconsciously embarrassed, consciously wanting something to focus on besides the worries in his head.

He then stopped when he was finally out of the hallway and in the main area of the building, the large room panning out in different directions, each area full of people. It was usually busy on the weekends.

He looked ahead of him to a counter with information in large blue letters stenciled on it. Turning left, he purposely avoided it. He wanted to procrastinate. He wanted to waste time. He shook his head, fixating on the first piece of reading material he could find.

National Geographic. Good, interesting.

The blond picked up the magazine, flipping through it with his foot taping nervously in the process. He tried to get absorbed in the words, but failed, his eyes darting to the information center to his right every other second. Breathing in, he closed his eyes. He then chuckled, laughing at how idiotic he thought he was being.

You're asking a question, Arthur, not jumping into a shark tank.

He put the magazine back in its place, spinning on his heels and heading for the information desk. He ignored how his heart was beating, trying to overlook how stupid he felt because it was beating fast, too fast for his liking. He was nervous, but he just couldn't figure out why.

His heart was in his throat by the time he reached the counter, a woman in blue turning to him with a Pan Am smile. Her lips said she was delighted, her eyes told a different story, like all nine-to-fives.

"How may I help you, young man?" she asked with mock cheer.

He took a breath before answering.

"I need everything you have on medieval knights."

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Arthur rubbed his temple, attempting to sooth his headache, which had surfaced a few minutes prior. He then slid his hand down his face and leaned back into the chair. He had been in the library for hours, obsessing over book after book, and frustration was setting in. Turning to look at the ceiling, he let out a sigh.

He didn't even know what exactly it was he was looking for. All he knew is he wanted answers. Or maybe, he didn't. Maybe he wanted to find nothing. Maybe he wanted to just be crazy. Over the past week or so, he had started zoning out, imagining things. Things that felt real, like memories almost. And that didn't make any sense to him because he knew they couldn't be.

But they were too vivid to be anything but authentic. When the episodes were in progress, he could taste the iron of the blood in his mouth when he was struck on the battle field, or feel the force of his sword clashing with an opponent's chainmail, or hear the horses trotting around him in the forests. He experienced the emotions he dreamed up, like the heaviness of sword fights or the warmth in his chest when he was around the fire with his... brigade?