Bobby Kestrel stared out over the ramshackle collection of huts and timber buildings with undisguised contempt. The settlement—he couldn't bring himself to call it a proper village—reeked of animal dung, unwashed bodies, and the particular stench of human desperation. Smoke from cooking fires hung in the damp air, creating a haze that seemed fitting for this dreary corner of 5th century Britain.
He took another pull from his wineskin, grimacing at the watered-down piss these locals called alcohol. The Greeks and Romans had at least understood proper fermentation. These primitive Britons couldn't even get drunk properly.
"Fuckin' waste of a displacement," he muttered, adjusting his position on the fallen log where he'd been sitting for the past hour, watching the villagers go about their tedious daily routines.
The quantum temporal energy had dropped him here three months ago—late 5th century Britain based on his observations. A particularly shitty time in human history, as far as he was concerned. The Romans had abandoned the island decades earlier, leaving a power vacuum that various tribal kings and warlords were enthusiastically filling with blood and fire.
Not that it mattered to him. Kings rose and fell. Empires crumbled. Civilizations were forgotten. He'd seen it all countless times across millions of years.
Bobby ran a hand through his dark hair, still thick and vibrant despite the incalculable eons he'd existed. His nanite-maintained body remained in perfect 35-year-old condition—a cruel joke considering everything else about him had aged beyond comprehension. His eyes had witnessed the birth of stars and the death of worlds, yet here he was, watching primitives argue over whose goat had eaten whose cabbages.
"Another day in paradise," he said sarcastically, standing up and heading back toward the village.
He'd established himself quickly upon arrival, as he always did. A few demonstrations of "medicine" using basic herbal knowledge, fixing a few broken tools through discreet telekinesis, and predicting a storm using actual meteorological understanding rather than animal intestines—enough to be valuable but not so much as to be threatening.
The locals now regarded him as a mysterious but useful foreigner—odd but tolerable. They assumed he was a traveler from Rome or the Eastern Empire, with his strange accent and unusual knowledge. Bobby didn't bother correcting them. He never did.
His current lodging belonged to a widow who'd traded room and board for his help with various tasks. The arrangement suited him—minimal interaction required, a dry place to sleep, and regular meals, though the food was barely palatable by his standards.
As he approached the central well, he spotted Eilwen, the tavern keeper's daughter, drawing water. She straightened when she saw him, deliberately pushing her chest forward beneath her simple dress. Bobby suppressed a smirk. Some things never changed, regardless of era or culture.
"Good day to you, Bobius," she said, using the Latinized version of his name he'd given them.
"Eilwen," he nodded, taking the water bucket from her hands with deliberate finger contact. Her cheeks flushed predictably.
"My father has acquired some new wine from traders," she said, falling into step beside him. "Much finer than our usual fare. Perhaps you'd like to sample it this evening?"
Translation: her father would be away trading with a neighboring village tonight, and she'd finally worked up the courage to make her intentions clear.
Bobby considered the offer. Eilwen was attractive by this era's standards—healthy, with all her teeth, and apparently eager. Not the intellectual stimulation he'd found with women like Neferet in Babylon, but this displacement wasn't offering much in the way of sophisticated company.
"Perhaps I will," he replied, handing her back the filled bucket. "After sunset?"
Her smile widened. "I'll keep a cup ready for you."
As she walked away, hips swaying more than necessary under her rough woolen dress, Bobby felt the familiar emotional detachment that had become his constant companion. Physical pleasure was just another sensation to experience during these displacements—meaningful connections had become increasingly rare as his cynicism deepened.
Later that evening, after a predictably disappointing meal at his widow's house, Bobby made his way to the village's only tavern—a generous description for what amounted to a slightly larger hut where a barrel of ale was sometimes available. True to Eilwen's word, the place was empty save for her and a sleeping drunk in the corner.
"I worried you might not come," she said, already pouring a cup of the promised wine.
Bobby accepted it, taking a careful sip. Barely better than vinegar, but at least it had actual alcohol content. "I said I would."
"You say many things," she replied with surprising perception. "But your eyes are always... elsewhere."
He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps there was more to Eilwen than he'd assumed. "And where do you think my eyes should be?"
She moved closer, the primitive lamp oil casting flickering shadows across her face. "On what's in front of you."
Bobby drained his cup and set it down. Direct approaches had their advantages. "And what exactly is in front of me, Eilwen?"
Instead of answering, she leaned forward and kissed him, clumsily but enthusiastically. Her hands gripped his tunic, pulling him closer with unexpected strength.
When they separated, her breath came faster. "I've watched you since you arrived. You're not like the others. There's something... more in you."
"You have no idea," Bobby muttered, but didn't resist when she took his hand and led him toward the storage room at the back of the tavern.
The room smelled of hops and damp straw, but Eilwen had prepared by laying out clean blankets over a pile of grain sacks. Practical girl. As she worked at the ties of her dress, Bobby experienced a moment of déjà vu—how many times had he been in similar situations across the millennia? Women in caves, in palaces, in starships, all ultimately reduced to the same basic human desires.
Eilwen's dress fell away, revealing a body hardened by physical labor but still youthfully firm. She stood proudly, unashamed of her nakedness in the dim light filtering through the single small window.
"Well?" she challenged, hands on hips. "Do I meet with your approval, foreigner?"
Bobby smiled despite himself. There was something refreshingly direct about her approach. "You'll do," he said, pulling his own tunic over his head.
Her eyes widened at the sight of his nanite-perfected physique—unmarred by scars, disease, or the heavy labor that marked every other man in this era. "By the gods," she whispered, reaching out to touch his chest. "You're..."
"Just a man," he lied, capturing her hand and pulling her against him. The contact of skin on skin sent a surge of sensation through him—physical pleasure being one of the few things his jaded consciousness still fully appreciated.
Their coupling was urgent and without pretense. Eilwen gasped as he entered her, her fingers digging into his shoulders with surprising strength. "Gods, you're big," she hissed, adjusting her position to accommodate him.
Bobby established a rhythm, driven by physical need rather than emotional connection. Eilwen responded eagerly, wrapping her legs around his waist and meeting his thrusts with her own.
"Harder," she demanded, her initial shyness completely disappeared. "Fuck me harder."
He complied, driving into her with enough force to make the grain sacks shift beneath them. Her cries grew louder, unconcerned about who might hear them—another benefit of primitive settlements with their lack of privacy norms.
When she came, her entire body tensed, internal muscles clenching around him as she bit into his shoulder to muffle her scream. Bobby allowed himself release then, emptying into her with a grunt of satisfaction.
Afterward, as they lay on the makeshift bed, Eilwen traced patterns on his chest. "You didn't tell me where you're really from," she said.
"Does it matter?" Bobby replied, already feeling the familiar post-coital detachment setting in.
"I suppose not," she admitted. "But I'd like to know something true about you, beyond your cock and your strange ways."
Bobby considered what truth he could possibly offer that wouldn't sound like complete madness. "I'm a traveler," he said finally. "I never stay in one place for long."
"Are you running from something?" she asked, propping herself up on an elbow to study his face.
"No," he said, the word heavy with the weight of eons. "Just... moving."
She seemed to accept this, laying her head on his chest. "Will you stay through winter at least? The raiders come more often when the snow falls. We could use a man like you."
Bobby said nothing. He'd long since abandoned any pretense of protecting humans from each other. Their capacity for violence was as consistent as their capacity for sex—fundamental aspects of the species he'd observed across millions of years.
"We should head back," he said instead, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. "Your father might return early."
Eilwen looked disappointed but nodded, gathering her dress from the floor. "Tomorrow night?" she asked hopefully.
"Perhaps," Bobby replied noncommittally. He had no intention of forming attachments here—this displacement would end like all the others, with him being torn away without warning to some new point in human history.
As they dressed in silence, Bobby felt the familiar weight of his eternal existence pressing down on him. Physical pleasure provided momentary distraction, but nothing could truly alleviate the fundamental isolation of being the universe's most unwilling witness to human history.
The following weeks fell into a predictable pattern. Bobby spent his days avoiding the tedium of village life as much as possible, wandering the surrounding forests and hills where he could be alone with his thoughts. His nights increasingly included visits to Eilwen, whose enthusiasm for coupling never diminished despite his emotional distance.
"You were with that tavern girl again," his landlady observed one morning as Bobby returned before dawn.
He shrugged, not bothering to deny it. "Does that bother you, Wenna?"
The older woman snorted. "Not my business who warms your bed. But that girl has dreams of leaving this place. Don't encourage what you can't fulfill."
"I've made her no promises," Bobby said, irritated at the unsolicited advice.
"You don't need to," Wenna replied, stoking the morning fire. "Your very presence is promise enough to a girl who's never seen beyond our hills."
Bobby frowned but said nothing. Humans and their attachments—always seeking significance in physical connection despite endless evidence of its transience.
Later that week, news reached the village that would disrupt Bobby's cynical complacency. A merchant traveling through brought word that King Uther had fallen in battle against Saxon invaders to the east. The kingdom was in disarray, with various lords already positioning themselves to claim the throne.
The villagers gathered in the central area, voices raised in fear and speculation.
"The Saxons will come here next!"
"Who will protect us now?"
"My cousin in the east says they take slaves and burn everything else!"
Bobby watched the growing panic with detached interest. Political instability meant increased danger, true, but it hardly mattered to him personally. His abilities ensured he could escape any human threat, and the quantum temporal energy would eventually displace him regardless of local politics.
As the crowd dispersed, Eilwen found him leaning against a wooden post. "Does this news trouble you?" she asked.
"No," he answered honestly.
"How can you be so calm? Without a king to hold them back, raiders will sweep through these lands like locusts."
"Kings rise and fall," Bobby said with the weariness of one who had seen countless monarchs come and go. "Another will take his place. The pattern repeats."
"And until then? What of us?" Her voice had an edge he hadn't heard before.
Bobby met her eyes directly. "You might consider leaving. Head west, where the Saxon influence is weaker."
"Leave?" She looked stunned. "This is my home."
"It's a collection of huts that will burn easily when raiders come," he replied bluntly. "Home is an illusion of permanence in a world of constant change."
Eilwen stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Who are you really? No one speaks as you do."
"No one you've met," Bobby agreed, suddenly tired of the conversation. "I have things to attend to."
He walked away, ignoring her hurt expression. Attachment was pointless—a lesson he'd learned countless times across the spans of human history. Better she understand that now, before raiders or disease or simple misfortune took her life as it had taken billions before her.
That night, Bobby avoided the tavern, choosing instead to sit alone on a hilltop overlooking the village. The stars above were familiar companions—the only constants in his endless existence. He'd watched these same celestial bodies from countless vantage points across millions of years.
The quantum temporal energy readings remained stable, suggesting this displacement might continue for some time. The thought brought no comfort. Time had become meaningless—whether he spent months or years in this primitive era made little difference to his overall experience.
A movement in the distance caught his attention. Riders approaching from the east—too many and too fast for ordinary travelers. Raiders, then. The village's simple wooden palisade wouldn't hold against a determined attack.
Bobby considered his options. He could simply leave, using his telekinetic abilities to travel quickly and avoid the coming violence. He could intervene, using those same abilities to defend the village. Or he could simply watch, as he had so many times before, as humans enacted their endless cycle of violence upon each other.
The distant sound of a war horn decided him. He stood, brushing dirt from his clothing, and headed down toward the village. Not to warn them—that would invite questions about how he knew of the attack—but to gather his few possessions before departing.
By the time he reached his lodgings, the horn had sounded again, closer now. Villagers were beginning to emerge from their homes, confusion giving way to alarm as the sound of approaching horsemen became unmistakable.
"Raiders!" someone shouted, and panic erupted.
Bobby entered his room, gathering his few belongings into a small pack with unhurried movements. Screams outside indicated the raiders had reached the village perimeter. The crude wooden gate wouldn't hold them for long.
As he shouldered his pack, Wenna appeared in the doorway. "You're leaving? Now?"
"Yes," Bobby said simply.
Her eyes narrowed. "You knew they were coming."
He didn't bother denying it. "I saw them from the hill."
"And you didn't warn us?"
Bobby sighed. "Would it have mattered? Your people have no weapons, no training. The warning would only have given you more time to be afraid."
The crash of the gate being broken down punctuated his statement. More screams followed, along with the sound of buildings being set ablaze.
"You could help us," Wenna said, her voice thick with accusation. "There's something unnatural about you. I've seen how objects move when you're angry, how wounds heal too quickly when you're injured."
"Your imagination," Bobby dismissed, though she wasn't wrong. He had grown careless in this displacement, allowing small displays of his abilities when frustrated or bored.
The sounds of violence drew closer. Wenna gave him a final look of disgust before hurrying away, presumably to hide or flee.
Bobby waited until she was gone before leaving the house. The village was in chaos—buildings burning, people running in panic, raiders on horseback cutting down anyone who crossed their path. He kept to the shadows, using minimal telekinesis to divert attention away from himself as he made his way toward the eastern edge of the settlement.
A woman's scream from nearby drew his involuntary attention. In the yard of a burning home, a raider had cornered a middle-aged woman. She was trying to protect something behind her—a child, Bobby realized with detached interest.
No, not a child exactly. A girl approaching adolescence, but dressed in boy's clothing, her hair cut short. She had a fierce expression despite her obvious terror, clutching a simple kitchen knife as if it might actually protect them.
The raider laughed at the pathetic defense, raising his sword to strike down the mother. Bobby prepared to turn away—he'd seen this scene enacted countless times across human history. There was nothing special about this particular instance of brutality.
But something unexpected happened. Instead of cowering or fleeing, the girl darted past her mother, diving toward something protruding from a large stone at the edge of the yard.
Bobby recognized it with a start—his sword. He'd stabbed it into that rock weeks ago after using it to kill a wolf that had been troubling the village's livestock. He'd been drunk at the time, showing off to Eilwen, and had driven the blade deep into the stone with telekinesis, declaring that "only a worthy hand could draw it forth."
He'd forgotten about it entirely until this moment.
The girl grabbed the hilt with both hands, her small frame straining as she tried desperately to pull the weapon free. The raider paused his attack, amused by the futile effort.
"Look at the little boy playing warrior," he mocked, advancing toward her now.
"I'm not a boy!" the girl shouted defiantly, still pulling at the immovable sword. "And I'm going to kill you!"
Something about her defiance—the absurd courage in the face of certain death—caught Bobby's interest. In millions of years of observing humanity, genuine surprise had become increasingly rare.
The raider raised his sword, preparing to cut the girl down. Her mother screamed, rushing forward in a desperate attempt to save her child.
Bobby made a decision.
With a casual flick of his mind, he released the telekinetic hold on his sword. It slid free from the stone as if emerging from water, the sudden lack of resistance causing the girl to stumble backward.
The raider froze, his expression changing from amusement to superstitious fear as he witnessed what appeared to be a miraculous event.
The girl recovered her balance, now holding the sword that was nearly as long as she was tall. She looked as surprised as the raider, but recovered more quickly, swinging the blade in a wild arc.
Her untrained blow would have missed entirely, but Bobby provided a subtle telekinetic assist, guiding the edge into the raider's leg. The man howled in pain, dropping to one knee as blood spurted from the wound.
The girl's eyes widened in shock at her apparent success. The raider, enraged rather than disabled, swung his own weapon at her. She tried to parry but lacked the strength or skill.
Bobby sighed. Having intervened this far, he might as well complete the task. With a more forceful telekinetic push, he sent the raider flying backward, the man's body crashing into the burning house with enough force to crack the wooden supports.
The girl stared at the collapsed raider, then at the sword in her hands, clearly trying to understand what had just happened.
More raiders were approaching, drawn by their comrade's scream. Bobby stepped out of the shadows, no longer concerned with concealment. He extended his hand, focusing his telekinetic power.
The approaching men suddenly clutched at their throats, lifted several feet into the air as invisible forces crushed their windpipes. Their legs kicked uselessly as they dangled, weapons dropping from nerveless fingers.
Bobby closed his fist, and their necks snapped simultaneously. He released his mental grip, allowing the bodies to crumple to the ground like discarded toys.
The girl and her mother stared at him in terror and awe. Bobby approached them slowly, noting the way the girl positioned herself protectively in front of her mother despite her obvious fear.
"What's your name, girl?" he asked.
She swallowed hard but met his gaze directly. "Art," she answered, her voice only slightly trembling. "Art of Britain."
"Art." Bobby repeated, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Short for Artoria, I presume?"
"Just Art," she insisted, gripping his sword with white-knuckled determination. "Are you going to kill us too?"
Bobby laughed, the sound harsh and unfamiliar even to his own ears. How long had it been since he'd genuinely laughed?
"If I wanted you dead, girl, you'd be dead already." He gestured to the raiders' corpses. "Like them."
The mother finally found her voice. "What manner of demon are you?"
"Not a demon," Bobby said, contemplating the situation. The quantum temporal energy readings remained stable—he wasn't facing an imminent displacement. The village was largely destroyed now, the remaining raiders focusing on looting rather than further killing.
And here before him stood a young girl named Art, who had just pulled a sword from a stone in Britain during the post-Roman power vacuum of the late 5th century.
The absurdity of the situation struck him fully. Was this the genesis of the Arthurian legend? Not a noble-born boy of destiny, but a desperate girl trying to save her mother from raiders?
The sheer cosmic irony was too perfect. After millions of years of passive observation, had he inadvertently created one of human history's most enduring myths?
"Well?" Art demanded, still holding the sword at what she clearly thought was a threatening angle. "What are you?"
Bobby made a decision—perhaps the first truly spontaneous choice he'd made in millennia. This displacement might as well serve some purpose beyond mere existence.
"I am Merlin," he declared, the name coming to him from his knowledge of the legends that wouldn't be written for centuries yet. "And you, Art of Britain, have just changed your destiny by drawing that sword."
The girl looked at the weapon in her hands with new uncertainty. "This is your sword. I saw you put it in the stone weeks ago."
"And now it's yours," Bobby said, warming to the absurdity of the situation. "The sword chosen you, in a manner of speaking."
"Chosen me for what?" Art asked suspiciously.
Bobby smiled, feeling a spark of genuine amusement for the first time in ages. "Why, to save Britain, of course. What else would one do with a sword pulled from stone?"
The mother clutched her daughter's shoulder. "My child is no warrior. She's just a girl."
"A girl who showed more courage than any man in your village," Bobby pointed out. "A girl who pulled a sword from stone when no one else could. A girl who drew blood from a raider twice her size."
"With your help," Art said shrewdly. "I felt it—the sword moved on its own."
Bobby raised an eyebrow, impressed by her perception. "Smart as well as brave. Good. You'll need both qualities."
A scream from elsewhere in the village reminded them of the ongoing raid. Bobby gestured toward the forest edge. "If you wish to live, come with me now. We can discuss destiny when we're not surrounded by murderers."
The mother hesitated, but Art nodded decisively. "We'll come. But I don't trust you."
"Wise," Bobby approved. "Trust should be earned, not given." He started toward the trees, using subtle telekinesis to ensure no raiders noticed their departure.
As they reached the forest edge, Bobby looked back at the burning village. Eilwen was nowhere to be seen—either escaped, hidden, or already dead. He found his emotional response to any of these possibilities was minimal at best.
What did provoke an unexpected emotional response was the girl walking behind him, awkwardly carrying a sword too large for her frame, her face smudged with soot but her eyes bright with defiance and determination.
Art of Britain. The once and future king—reimagined as a skinny girl in boy's clothing.
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Bobby Kestrel felt genuinely curious about what would happen next.