A few days later, when Solomon wasn't being crushed by intrusive dreams, he was overwhelmed by the mental strain of his vast memories. It was during one of these taxing periods that he was summoned to Britain—more specifically, to a modest house in Glastonbury, Wales, where the Ancient One had arranged a solution for him.
The Ancient One had sought the aid of Merlin himself, as no one understood the nature of dreams better than the legendary sorcerer. Alongside Merlin, members of the Merlinian Order—Balthazar and his apprentice Dave—were also called in. They joined Solomon at the house, awaiting Merlin's arrival. Since finding his long-lost love, Balthazar had been made privy to part of the truth by the Ancient One. While the revelation had filled the void in his heart, it didn't erase his lingering grudge against Merlin for his thousand-year-long prank. If the opportunity arose, Balthazar wouldn't hesitate to land a punch on the old wizard.
"There's no curse, no demonic influence, and no power of Nightmare at play," Balthazar concluded after conducting a preliminary examination of Solomon. Other than fatigue and mental exhaustion, he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. "Strange," he muttered. "Are you sure all the dreams are the same? How much do you remember?"
"I've documented them," Solomon said, gesturing to the bedside table, where rows of glass vials containing silver strands of dream memories shimmered faintly. "It's monotonous. In the dreams, I can never move freely. At most, I can wiggle my fingers right before I wake up. It was interesting at first, but after repeating the same dream more than a dozen times, it's just tedious. I've memorized every detail by now."
"Dave, check the memories," Balthazar ordered, nudging his apprentice into action. He then rummaged through his satchel, pulling out an herb leaf and forcibly placing it in Solomon's mouth despite his protests. "Marjoram. It'll relax your nerves and help you sleep."
"Are you kidding me? You'd be better off giving me dragon's teeth or vervain; at least vervain wards off nightmares," Solomon complained, his face scrunching up in disgust. Whatever Balthazar had done to the marjoram leaf had rendered it unbearably bitter, its nauseating taste stubbornly clinging to his tongue no matter how much he swallowed.
"I don't think you're dealing with nightmares," Balthazar retorted, smacking Dave on the head to keep him focused on his task. He turned back to Solomon and asked, "Have you tried using any potions?"
"I've used the Panacea Elixir with European rue and lavender—it lets me lucid dream. But as you can guess, the moment the effects wear off, the dreams return," Solomon replied, waving off Balthazar's potions. "I'm not saying my potion-making skills are superior to yours, but at least my brews are more palatable. That marjoram leaf proves my point—it's supposed to be an herb, for heaven's sake."
"There aren't many schools on Earth whose potion-making rivals the Merlinian Order," Balthazar huffed, glaring at his smirking apprentice. Turning back to Solomon, he added, "Potions are never tasty. There are bad ones, and then there are worse ones. Take your pick."
"Pick what?"
"I'm going to conduct a full examination before the old man gets here," Balthazar said, trying to mask his nerves. While the thought of punching Merlin was appealing, the prospect of seeing his mentor after over a millennium filled him with apprehension. He worried Merlin might mock his progress—or lack thereof—compared to his own apprentice, Dave. Arranging an assortment of multicolored potions by the bed, Balthazar continued, "Merlin may be insufferable, but his strength is undeniable. He's the greatest wizard the world has ever known."
"But the Ancient One is stronger now," Solomon countered.
"Merlin was the Ancient One's teacher, wasn't he?"
"Balthazar, all the memories are identical," Dave interrupted, holding up a handful of vials. "Some are incomplete, but the missing fragments show up in other memories. I haven't noticed anything unusual about the dreams themselves. What's strange is how vividly Solomon remembers the color and patterns of every single cat. I compared all the dreams, from the earliest record to the most recent one, and the cats' appearances haven't changed at all. That consistency… it's almost unnatural."
"I think that's just because I'm smarter than you, Dave," Solomon replied dismissively. "Balthazar must've told you about the difference between spellcasters and regular people. Our magical energy enhances our bodies—muscles, bones, organs, and even our brains. I have far more magical energy than you, which means I'm smarter than you."
"That doesn't explain it, Solomon," Dave said, shaking his head. "You're remembering too much. You're recalling details you shouldn't even notice. Can you describe what shoes the turbaned merchant was wearing? Can you tell me exactly how much fur each cat left on your robes? You can, can't you? Every single detail is etched into your memory, without any variation across dreams. That's not your dream—you're witnessing someone else's."
Both Solomon and Balthazar froze as Dave's implication sank in.
The extraordinary clarity of Solomon's dream memories was the clue. Normally, dreams fade over time, their details eroding from memory. But Solomon's recollections remained pristine, as if he were playing a first-person video game rather than experiencing a dream firsthand.
If Dave's theory was correct, the situation was far more disturbing than they'd imagined. This wasn't a case of a demon implanting dreams into Solomon's mind—it was something more complex and bewildering.
Solomon's hand instinctively reached for the silver key on his chest. He remembered the words of Yog-Sothoth: "Your fate diverges here."
Could the dreams be the experiences of an alternate version of himself from another universe? Or were they glimpses of his own future? The tangled web of clues offered no answers, only more questions for Solomon to record and address later.
A warm breeze suddenly filled the room, carrying with it a fresh, floral fragrance. As soon as the scent reached their noses, a wave of drowsiness washed over them. Solomon collapsed onto the bed, Balthazar dozed off in his chair, and Dave curled up on the carpet.
"See? Not everyone can handle the scent of Avalon's flowers," came a voice, breaking the silence. An elderly man with a long white beard appeared abruptly in the room, stepping in from the Aether Plane. The Ancient One followed closely behind.
"To be honest, I don't know how you woke up after this, let alone had the strength to swing a sword at me afterward," the old man remarked casually.
"Cut the chatter," the Ancient One snapped, clearly unamused.
"I get it—you're protective of your apprentice," Merlin said with a chuckle, unfazed by her ire. "This boy is your Sacred Sword successor, isn't he? So, you're offloading the responsibility?"
"That's right."
"Well, bad luck for him, then. Fine, fine. Let go of my beard—I'll solve his problem," Merlin grumbled. Turning to Solomon, he added, "As my apprentice mentioned earlier, this aligns with my hypothesis. Your dreams are simply echoes of your own destiny—a sort of déjà vu. That's why defensive magic against external influences didn't work."
"But it's just a theory," the Ancient One pointed out.
"We'll test it," Merlin said with a sly grin. "Let's run a little experiment."
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