Quantum temporal energy readings fluctuated more frequently these days. Bobby sensed the accumulation accelerating through his nanite-enhanced perception—not yet critical, but certainly more active than in previous years. He estimated he had perhaps a few decades remaining in this temporal displacement before the universe yanked him elsewhere. A geological eyeblink, but substantial in human terms.
Tonight, however, his focus wasn't on temporal physics but on more primitive concerns.
The tavern's upper rooms were dimly lit and permeated with the earthy scents of sweat, ale, and sex. Bobby thrust rhythmically into the tavern girl beneath him—a buxom blonde named Mara who had served him downstairs and eagerly accepted his invitation when her shift ended. She moaned with each powerful stroke, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove deeper.
"Oh gods... gods!" she cried, her back arching as she approached her third climax of the evening.
Bobby maintained perfect control of his pace, varying the angle slightly to maximize her pleasure. Unlike human males, his nanite-enhanced physiology allowed him to regulate every aspect of sexual performance, from arousal to ejaculation. He could maintain an erection indefinitely if desired, though he typically chose not to prolong encounters unnecessarily.
"That's it," he murmured, feeling her inner walls clench around his cock. "Let go."
Mara's eyes rolled back, her mouth opening in a silent scream as orgasm overtook her. Bobby continued his relentless rhythm, pushing her through the peak and into the exquisite sensitivity beyond.
"Too much!" she gasped, hands pushing weakly against his chest. "I can't—"
"You can," he assured her, gripping her thighs more firmly as he increased his pace. His own release approached—not from physical necessity but calculated timing. He'd found most partners appreciated the illusion of mutual culmination.
When he finally allowed himself to climax, he drove deep, flooding her with warmth that made her eyes widen with surprise and renewed pleasure.
"So much," she whispered, feeling his seed filling her. "So fucking much..."
Bobby maintained his position for precisely thirty seconds—long enough to satisfy human expectation of post-coital intimacy without encouraging excessive emotional attachment. He then withdrew smoothly, watching with detached interest as his cum leaked from her well-used pussy.
"That was... I've never..." Mara struggled to articulate her experience as Bobby efficiently cleaned himself with a nearby cloth.
"Rest," he suggested, already reaching for his discarded clothing. "You've earned it."
As he dressed, Bobby perceived a familiar presence entering the tavern below. His psionic abilities easily recognized Art's distinctive mental signature—focused, disciplined, but currently... agitated? Curious. She rarely visited establishments like this, particularly alone.
More intriguing still, he sensed her issuing commands for privacy. The tavern's patrons, recognizing their High Commander despite her attempt at discretion, were departing with respectful haste.
"Will you return tomorrow?" Mara asked hopefully, watching him fasten his belt.
Bobby offered a noncommittal smile. "Perhaps. Sleep well."
He descended the narrow staircase to find the tavern's main room nearly empty, save for Art seated alone at a corner table. At eighteen, she had matured into a striking woman, though not in conventional ways. Her preference for masculine attire continued, but the clothing now followed her lean, athletic figure with tailored precision rather than awkward concealment. Her features had sharpened, losing childhood softness while maintaining a captivating blend of strength and unexpected beauty.
Few would describe her as traditionally beautiful—her manner too direct, her bearing too martial—but none could deny her compelling presence. The wounded girl Bobby had saved with his nanites months earlier had recovered completely, emerging from near-death with even greater intensity and focus.
"An unexpected location for military planning," Bobby observed, approaching her table. "Though perhaps more comfortable than fortress war rooms."
Art glanced up, unsurprised by his appearance. "This isn't a place for someone of my station, according to Bishop Aldwin," she replied, a hint of rebellion in her tone. "Apparently High Commanders should confine themselves to prayer halls and council chambers."
"And yet, here you are," Bobby noted, taking the seat across from her without invitation. "Clearing the establishment for private conversation suggests purpose beyond simple defiance."
Art's eyes narrowed slightly. "Enjoyed your company upstairs?"
Ah. So she had noticed his activities. Interesting.
"Momentary diversion," Bobby replied with characteristic detachment. "Does my personal conduct concern Britain's High Commander?"
"Are you asking if I'm jealous, Merlin?" Art countered, using the name he'd adopted in this era.
The directness of the question revealed much. In the months since her near-fatal injury, her interactions with Bobby had evolved. The brush with mortality, combined with the mysterious healing she couldn't fully explain, had shifted something in their relationship.
"Would there be reason for jealousy?" Bobby responded, deliberately cryptic as always.
Art didn't answer immediately. Instead, she signaled the nervous tavern keeper for wine, which arrived with remarkable speed. Only after taking a measured sip did she speak again.
"Near death clarifies perspective," she finally said. "When that arrow struck, my thoughts weren't of Britain or Saxon threats or even the battle's outcome."
"What occupied your final thoughts, then?" Bobby asked, genuinely curious about her psychological processes.
"Regret," Art admitted. "Not for the path chosen—I've never doubted that. But for experiences untaken, particularly..." She hesitated, then continued with characteristic directness. "Particularly those of womanhood."
Bobby studied her with enhanced perception, noting subtle physiological indicators of emotional stress—slightly elevated heart rate, minor capillary dilation in her cheeks, pupil expansion beyond ambient light requirements. These responses suggested vulnerability rarely displayed by Britain's formidable High Commander.
"The warrior's path often requires such sacrifices," he observed. "Throughout history, exceptional leaders frequently forego personal fulfillment for greater purpose."
Art's jaw tightened slightly. "Is that meant to be comforting?"
"Merely contextual," Bobby replied. "Your choices have positioned you uniquely in history. When Britain faces Saxon invaders, they encounter not merely a military leader but a living symbol of unexpected resistance."
"A symbol," Art repeated, something hollow in her tone. "Yes, that's what I've become. But symbols don't take lovers or bear children or experience passion beyond battlefield triumph."
This direction of conversation proved unexpected. Bobby recalibrated his approach, recognizing something he'd failed to fully calculate in Art's developmental trajectory—the fundamental human need for emotional and physical connection.
"What will you do when Britain is secure?" he asked, changing direction. "When Saxon threats diminish and governance stabilizes, what personal future do you envision?"
Art's expression revealed the question had struck some internal uncertainty. "I... haven't permitted myself such consideration," she admitted. "Each challenge has simply led to the next. First village defense, then regional coordination, now national unification."
"Yet achievement without purpose beyond itself ultimately hollows," Bobby observed. "Every historical figure faces this reckoning eventually."
Art studied him with that increasingly perceptive gaze. "You speak of historical patterns as if you've witnessed countless iterations. Sometimes I wonder if you're truly human at all, Merlin."
Bobby smiled enigmatically. "Humanity encompasses broader spectrum than most recognize."
"More cryptic non-answers," Art said, though without genuine irritation. She'd grown accustomed to his deliberate mysteriousness over their years together.
As Bobby observed her—this remarkable human who had defied historical expectations and forged unprecedented path in this era—he found himself experiencing an unusual sensation. The predictability of historical patterns suddenly felt constraining rather than comforting. Art represented deviation from expected outcomes already; why not embrace further divergence?
A thought crystallized in his consciousness. What if he simply... altered the trajectory? His mandate against historical interference had already been comprehensively violated. Why maintain arbitrary limitations now?
"You remind me of someone," Bobby said suddenly.
Art raised an eyebrow. "One of your many students before me?"
"No," Bobby replied. "A figure from... elsewhere. Called Artoria. A woman warrior-king whose path parallels yours in certain aspects."
"Artoria," Art repeated, testing the name. "A woman who became king? Where did such a thing occur?"
"Not where," Bobby said, "but when. Or perhaps more accurately, in potential rather than actuality."
Art's brow furrowed. "You speak in riddles again."
"Consider alternative," Bobby suggested, making decision that violated countless self-imposed protocols. "When Britain achieves stability—and it will, under your leadership—what if you accompanied me elsewhere?"
"Elsewhere?" Art echoed, confusion evident. "You mean diplomatic missions to Frank territories or Norse settlements?"
"I mean beyond Britain entirely," Bobby clarified. "Beyond known lands to realms you've never imagined. I have... means of travel not limited by conventional constraints."
Art stared at him, clearly trying to determine whether he spoke metaphorically or literally. "You propose I abandon Britain after unifying it?"
"Not abandon," Bobby corrected. "Delegate. Once systems are established and succession secured, your direct presence becomes less essential than the institutions you've created."
Art fell silent, considering implications with characteristic thoroughness. "This sounds suspiciously like further teaching," she finally observed.
"Yes," Bobby acknowledged. "Though not as master to student, but as man to woman. There are aspects of existence I could show you that transcend political governance or military command."
The statement hung between them, its multiple implications evident in Art's widened eyes. For perhaps the first time in their years of association, Bobby had spoken with deliberate ambiguity that suggested intimate rather than merely educational relationship.
"Is this proposition what I think it is?" Art asked directly, never one to shrink from confrontation.
"That depends on what you think," Bobby replied, though without his usual cryptic detachment. "I offer possibility beyond symbolic existence—life experienced rather than merely protected for others."
Art studied him with intensity that would have disconcerted any ordinary human. "After years of treating me as student and symbol, you suddenly propose... what? Becoming lovers while wandering distant lands?"
"I propose choice," Bobby clarified. "When your primary mission concludes, options exist beyond continued symbolic function. Whether those options include physical relationship remains your determination."
Art's laugh held genuine amusement tinged with disbelief. "Six years of guidance, and you choose a tavern after bedding a serving girl to suggest this alteration to our relationship."
Bobby smiled slightly. "Timing often appears random when actually optimal. Your vulnerability regarding unexperienced aspects of womanhood created conversational opening that might otherwise remain closed."
"Vulnerability," Art repeated, shaking her head. "Is anything spontaneous with you, Merlin? Or is every interaction calculated for maximum effect?"
"Both assertions contain partial accuracy," Bobby admitted. "Calculation doesn't preclude genuine intention."
Art drained her wine, clearly processing multiple considerations simultaneously. When she spoke again, her voice carried the decisive tone that had commanded armies.
"I won't discuss this further while Britain remains threatened. The current Saxon defeat buys temporary security, but comprehensive stability requires additional years of consolidation."
"Reasonable prioritization," Bobby conceded.
"However," Art continued, meeting his gaze directly, "I acknowledge interest in your proposition—both the travel beyond known lands and the... altered nature of our association."
Bobby nodded, recognizing the diplomatic phrasing that neither committed fully nor rejected outright. "Timing remains flexible. My presence continues regardless of future arrangements."
As they departed the tavern separately—Art returning to her command duties and Bobby to his own mysterious activities—Bobby reflected on the surprising direction of their interaction. After countless eons observing human patterns with detached analysis, he had impulsively proposed deviation from established trajectory.
The quantum temporal energy continued its steady accumulation, reminding him that eventually this displacement would end like all others. But for now, he had introduced possibility that transcended historical expectation. Whether Art ultimately chose conventional historical path or unprecedented deviation remained uncertain.
For the first time in uncountable millennia, Bobby felt something approaching genuine curiosity about potential outcomes. If nothing else, the disruption provided novelty in his otherwise predictable existence.
Fuck the myths. Fuck the legends. If things needed to change, then change they would.