Difference between revisions of "999999/Hills of Home"

Latest revision as of 20:22, 25 November 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Dún Reáltaí lies beneath a heavy mantle of snow, as it has for some months now. It seems winter here is a season of rest, with the temperature too low and the snows too deep to do any meaningful work. The silence might be eerie anywhere else, though there's a comfortable quality to it, indoors. White flakes drift gently to the ground, blending into a soft blanket of white beyond the hills; so deep the hills themselves seem more like a vast plain.

Although the servants have kept the doors dug out, the snow has been piling up steadily. The weather is simply too foul to do anything outside, and so the lord of the land has spent the day catching up on his rest. Between the silent snowfall, the grey light, and the warmth of Arturia beside him, it's been the perfect combination for restful sleep. He's spent his time curled up with her, head pillowed partway on her shoulder, one arm draped loosely around her. Some of his hair's fallen across his face, and it flutters slightly with every breath, silvery-blonde tempered by that odd smoky strand.

He dreams, but this time it isn't that old familiar nightmare.

The sky is grey, much like it so often is in Dún Reáltaí, but it isn't quite the same quality of grey. It doesn't speak of desolation and wounded land, or the eerie silence of the storm. Wind whistles as it cuts through the high crags of the cliffside, and the surf roars as it crashes into the stone shore.

There are sea birds high up on the cliffs, hurling obscenities at one another and quarreling over trifles. There are seals out in the channel, too; their dark, sleek forms just visible over the crests of the waves every so often. And somewhere, far deeper below the surface, one might even imagine snippets of whalesong.

No boats brave the channel today. The wind is too high, and only a fool would risk his boat against the rocks on a morning like this. Instead, it's a day for smaller chores. Fishing may be the livelihood of these people, but there are always other things to do.

He's been sitting inside the warm hut for what's felt a disproportionately long time, patiently mending the weave of a ragged fishing net. Long fingers suit themselves well to the task, though the heavy net itself has long since worked its way into a hopeless tangle. His brother is nearby, patiently mending tears in the other side of the same net; not his father's net, but one of the village's many nets used to gather their catches.

"Did you hear? We're going to Albion," his brother says excitedly, and for a brief instant he can see the flash of Ceallach's dark eyes against the hearth's fire. "We're to trade, but I think it's just an excuse to see the new king."

"Oh, the new king." His own voice is distracted, focused more on the fishing net than his brother's chatter. "What was his name?"

"King Arthur. They say he pulled a sword from a stone and now he's the king!"

He makes a soft sound of dismissal, squinting at frayed fibers. "That's it? He pulled a sword from a stone, and now he wears the crown?"

"Well..." Ceallach seems to deflate, just a little. "Well, yes. The sword! The sword in the stone!" He speaks with almost childlike glee, voice cracking. "Fionnlagh! Haven't you been listening to the traders that came through?"

"No. I was busy working," he adds, cocking an eye toward his brother. "Sounds like you haven't been."

His brother grins. "Of course I have, brother."

"No you haven't. You're falling behind." He jerks his chin toward his brother's end of the net. "Hurry up, or I'm going to be mending this entire net by myself. Again," he adds, pointedly.

Ceallach only shows that grin again, dreaming of glory even in the waking world.

In the waking world, the knight stirs, brow knitting in his sleep. It's not a particularly bad dream, but his brother is still a painful subject. Arturia might feel his arm tighten around her, however faintly, or feel him bury his face into her shoulder; as though unconsciously seeking comfort.

Another dream. Grey skies again, but that isn't troubling. He lives under grey skies. Why shouldn't he dream of them?

The roads are different, though. This village is nothing like Camelot, or Dún Reáltaí. Its cliffs are too sharp, and the clouds are too low. Waves gnaw at the shore, but their distant thunder is muted; muffled. Ah. He is at home. He remembers this house, now, almost cramped, but welcoming and warm. Fish nets are strung from the ceiling, tools lie leaning against the walls, and the hearth burns merrily.

There is a woman bent over the fire, stirring the embers with a long and char-ended stick. He can't see her face, but he knows without looking that it's his mother. Aoife is a beautiful woman, even in his dim memory. She is fair-haired and tall, though not so pale as he, with hair of summer-gold and eyes the colour of moss. She was prettier in her youth, but even with tired lines beneath her eyes, she still exudes a classic kind of beauty.

Aoife chuckles. Leaving off the fire, she reaches over to ruffle his hair affectionately. As always, he makes a sound of protest, trying to swat her hand away. Strands of smoky silver stick out in seemingly all directions, and like a recently-disturbed cat, he takes a few moments to set himself back in order.

"You'll be leaving for Albion soon, then," she says, carefully helping straighten his hair. "The season was poor, but at least the wool ought to fetch a fine price. Help your father see that it does. And one more thing, Fionn."

He frowns, cocking his head like an inquisitive hound. The comparison is apt; lean as a deerhound after a hard season, all long limbs and angular face. The deerhounds, perhaps, are a little less awkward.

"Mother?"

"A gift for you." She rests a hand over his shoulder, and he can see she's holding something in her other hand. "You'll not be leaving for a few days yet, but I want you to have this before you go."

"What is it?"

Aoife holds it up; some small thing sharp and red in the palm of her hand. Two tiny stones the colour of blood, mounted on sharp brass hooks. He draws in a sharp breath as he recognises them – the polished, red stones the filídh themselves sometimes wear.

"For—for me?" His voice breaks in his surprise; he ignores it, staring with wide eyes.

Aoife only smiles. "For you, Fionn. You'll be one of them next year, and these would be fitting. I wanted you to have them before you leave. They'll keep you safe. When you come home, you'll be trained formally."

He stands still as a statue even as she kneels, quickly piercing first one ear and then the other, using the corner of her shawl to dab what little blood there is away. He flinches but makes no sound, refusing to tarnish the moment with weakness.

"There." She straightens, tilting her head to regard the bloodstone. It was called by his people dragon's-blood, a mark of protection as well as status. "That suits you, Fionn."

Hesitating for a moment, he finally allows himself an uncertain smile, as though he doesn't quite know how to accept this unexpected gift. Then, he throws his arms around you. "Thank you, Mother. I'll wear them proudly!"

"I know you will." Laughing, she ruffles his hair again.

Bedivere stirs and mutters wordlessly in his sleep, but he doesn't wake. It isn't the same as the Camlann nightmares – he doesn't thrash in his sleep or moan in distress. His dreams don't trouble him as much as that old familiar nightmare, but he's not entirely peaceful.

Home is still a complicated subject for him, even his subconscious.

Ah, and there – a rare day of sun in Camelot. Its weary stones are bright today as mist rises from the wet ground. This late in spring, the sun is warm, and a blessing all by itself after so much rain. The sky is so clear one could almost reach out and touch the heavens.

He's sprawled on a hill with a prime view of the great, fluffy clouds that lumber across the clear sky, a rare moment of peace and relaxation between his lessons, practise, and drills. They're alone, and Ceallach is saying something to him quietly, in their lilting, native tongue.

"What?"

"Were you listening to me at all, Fionn?"

"Bedwyr," he corrects his brother, without even thinking.

"It's not going to matter."

His brother's tone causes him to glance over, though he feels a strange lack of urgency, as though he were floating up there instead of lying on the hill. Everything feels strangely right, for some reason; as though in spite of all his struggles and his frustrations at being a knight-aspirant, this is exactly how things are meant to play out.

Lucan has his arms crossed, and his glum expression seems wholly at odds with the peaceful sky.

He lets himself fall back, looking up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Brother, you aren't cut out for this, and you know it." Lucan's voice sinks into a low, urgent tone. "You're killing yourself just trying to keep up with the others. You'll never be on the same level as these fellows. It's all well and good to be a knight, but—"

"But what?" He finally sits up, and he can feel something bubbling somewhere below the surface of his calm. Just a hint; a roiling of the sleeping dragon in the depths. "Lucan, what are you saying?"

"Fi—Bedwyr, maybe you'd best think about something else. Not everybody's meant to be a knight. Not everyone can. Look at you. You're bruised and beaten black and blue! And this is the best you've looked in weeks."

"Oh." He looked down at himself, almost dismissively. "Well, maybe."

"'Maybe?'" Lucan slapped a hand against his thigh in exasperation. "God's blood, brother, look at you! You're not a warrior. You're not even a skirmisher! All I'm saying is that maybe you'd better think about doing something else with your life, before this training kills you. Do you remember that other squire? What was his name... Pedravir? He took a blow to the head just wrong, and he died the next day."

"I was sorry to hear what happened to him, but maybe he should have been paying more attention." He shrugged one bony shoulder, careless. "You say I'm black and blue, but I go into it with open eyes, don't I? It's hardly ignorance. I just need to be stronger."

"There's a limit to how strong any man can be, brother." Lucan sighed, and his expression this time seemed crestfallen. "Lord God knows I would rather have you at my side than anyone else, but you're just not made for this. You're different. You've always been... well, weak."

Again he felt something roiling in his gut, something ugly and dangerous.

"What's that supposed to mean?" This time, he could feel his voice drop, soft and dangerous.

"Maybe it's time for you to think about going home. Continue your training with Father. I'm sure Mother would be happy to see you again. Go back to Dál Riata, brother. Become a filidh. You're not meant for—"

He couldn't remember ever hitting anything so hard as he'd struck his brother's face, and he could have sworn his knuckles cracked at the force of the blow, snapping Lucan's head sideways. His knuckles stung, but he was only dimly aware of it.

"I will not go home in defeat!" he snarled, seizing Lucan by the collar, his own face inches from his brother's. "Do you hear me? I will not!" He could see red, on the edges of his vision; and for a brief moment he remembered the image of the king, riding proudly through the square. How would he ever serve if he went home? How could he ever explain? That girl – and why did they keep calling her king; couldn't they see? – she was his future, he knew it, somehow. He wanted to serve her as a knight, to protect her; he couldn't explain it, but he needed to be near her. He would do anything in his power to achieve that, no matter how bloodied or bruised he had to become. "Don't you ever say that to me again. Never!"

He released Lucan so violently he almost threw his brother to the ground, turning on his heel and stalking off.

With not so much as a backward look, he didn't see Lucan staring at him, blood running from his nose, wonder and maybe a little fear in his eyes.

In the waking world, the knight stirs again, muttering so quietly the sound is almost lost. He's not quite awake or asleep, still in that twilight in between, but his moving around is surely enough to have woken his companion by now. Arturia's always been a light sleeper, and he himself sleeps heavier than usual, of late. He's asked her to drug his tea, the better to catch up on some of his rest during these snowy days.

For a brief instant he thinks he's back in that grey fishing village, but the light is too bright. Instead of roaring surf, he hears only silence. He lies for a moment with closed eyes, as though mentally sifting through the clues.

If not Dál Riata, then where—?

Ah. Right. Home. The concept is still foreign to him, sometimes. The pale-haired knight reaches up to pass a hand over his face, blearily, aware suddenly of Arturia's presence by the warmth at his side. His eyes turn down; he smiles a little half-smile. The expression is one of pure contentment, though a little self-conscious, too.

They'd been through so much together, both before and after Camelot. To have her see these dreams would be embarrassing. He finds himself hoping she hadn't seen. No knight had he been, in distant Dál Riata. He'd been no more than a stripling boy, head full of ideals, chasing after an impossible dream.

"Arturia." Her name is no more than a breath; a test to see if she's awake.

If she isn't, it won't be loud enough to actually rouse her.

Saber (346) has posed:
She did not wake. But even if she did not, Arturia stirred restlessly. The dream itself was not unpleasant – quite the opposite, in fact – but she could sense the sorrow attached to it through the link to her Master, the very thing which permitted her to dream these memories even as he did. Had she not felt that undercurrent of loss, the petite blonde would have smiled fondly; it was a rare glimpse into the past of her beloved, able to see not only him, but another one of her knights as children.

Lucan – Ceallach, as she had learned his true name was – had already dreamt of virtuous glory, reaching for the knighthood that Camelot had promised. He was not entirely unlike her nephew in that regard; though not bloodthirsty, he nevertheless responded to that virtuous glory which only the knighthood could offer. By contrast, his brother was a simple lad – practical and serious – and entirely focused on his task. At that vision, she did finally smile...in some ways, Bedivere had not changed at all.

Even in sleep she could feel his face bury into her shoulder, subconsciously nuzzling him back to comfort him. He felt Lucan's loss even more keenly than she did; he had been, after all, his brother. It was a loss she could understand completely, for she had felt the same upon Kay's death.

The dream did not quite end, but morphed almost seamlessly into an entirely different one. This time, there was a woman who vaguely reminded her of another, one whom she had met outside of dreams. Yet, she was no less awed and even slightly envious of her beauty; the years had worn on her, certainly, but she was nevertheless undeniably beautiful.

Ah. Arturia was beginning to understand why her marshal was so beautiful; he had clearly inherited that quality from his mother. Not that she would ever admit such a thing out loud; men tended not to like being complimented in that way, she had found. But if she was completely honest with herself...well, he certainly was hardly unpleasant to look at. Was this what the court ladies saw, she wondered? She had never taken notice of such things before, entirely focused on her duties. Once their masks had been cast aside and their true feelings laid bare, she had started to become oddly aware of their physical appearances...at least, aware of hers outside the context of the kingly image. Now, she simply felt inadequate.

That memory-dream in turn suddenly became another entirely, changing abruptly yet seamlessly the way dreams did, in such a way that they all seemed to be one never-ending dream. Yet that lanky, silver-haired boy was a little less so, thoroughly bruised and yet beginning to show the tell-tale signs that his rigorous training was having some effect. Yet, in the dream, he would not be able to see it, memory being a selective thing. It was always difficult to see changes in oneself even in the waking world.

It was strange, even in a dream, to have seen a display of strong emotion like that in him. For as long as she had known Bedivere, he had been as calm and stoic as Arturia herself. Every manner of insult had been thrown at him, and not a day passed when there was at least some derisive comment regarding his status as a commoner and a foreigner. His brother's concern paled in comparison, and the intent behind it was borne out of genuine concern rather than jealousy, distrust, and hatred.

Had she witnessed that otherwise uncharacteristic outburst at the time, Arturia would have simply assumed that his pride and effort had been insulted, or that the suggestion that his dream could not overcome his limitations had angered him. She never would have guessed at the true reason; even as a simple knight-aspirant, he had hidden it well. Now that she finally understood, it would have humbled her had she been awake.

And he had seen through Merlin's enchantment from the very beginning. She would wonder upon awakening if his father – himself a filidh – had been able to pierce the veil of magic as his son had. It had not been a particularly powerful glamour the wizard had cast, but it was enough to protect her secret, enough to fool ordinary people. Only those with a strong gift for magic would have been able to even sense it...and only those who made the effort to truly see things could have seen her for what she was.

But perhaps that, more than magic, had allowed him to see: the pale, blue-grey eyes which missed little. She had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the boy he had been amidst the crowd in the market square as the coronation procession passed through it. She had mistaken that glimpse of awe and had but a moment to observe it even as she heard him calling her name softly: "Arturia..."

Sea-green eyes opened slowly as it dawned on her that she had not dreamed hearing her name. While it had been barely louder than a breath, it was just enough to draw her out of the dream. Blinking a few times as if to clear the fog from her mind, she gazed up at him with a slight puzzled expression. He was smiling – at least a little – and yet he seemed faintly troubled.

"Hm?" was all she seemed to be capable of, however.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Such glimpses into the marshal's past are a rarity. He is serious and solemn to a fault, unwilling to speak of the days before he'd tempered himself into the king's own servant. To see first-hand the lanky, awkward youth he'd been is perhaps the best way Arturia could hope for – it's hard to reconcile the two, although there are hints here and there of what he would later become.

Those hints showed themselves in predictable ways. Even as a child he had been serious, looking at the world through a pragmatic lens. Where his brother dreamt of glory, he focused on his work, choosing to put his effort into the realities that lay before him. Yet even then, he still showed the same singularity of purpose, and the same dedication to his responsibilities.

In spite of that pain, though, he welcomes those dreams, even if he may not necessarily be aware of them at the time. He welcomes the chance to remember his brother, for they had been as close as Arturia and Kay; Ceallach's death had been devastating to him – as devastating as Arturia's death, although at the time there had been too much weighing on him to process it properly.

Even now he still struggles to process the enormity of Camlann's losses.

Though just as rare, glimpses of Dál Riata are also welcome. He had been missing something there, just as he had missed something from Camelot, that had let it be a true home to him. Yet it was the first place he had ever known, and in those quiet nights when he had little in the way of comfort, when his walls came down within his small and sparse quarters, he would think about his homeland sometimes.

Behind close doors, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he would think of his family, too; those who had not joined him in Camelot – his father and his mother, his uncles, aunts, and other extended family members, though mostly his parents. He had none of the animosity that some of the noble houses struggled with, and he had been genuinely close to them. They had wished him well when he had remained in Camelot, and of the things he regretted, one of them was that he had never seen them again after that.

If he had no hope of ever finding the iteration of Camelot he'd originally hailed from in the multiverse, though, he might never see them again – if, indeed, they still lived. He finds himself more and more doubtful of that, given the constant warring that seems to wrack Albion.

Now, since Arturia had seen his mother, there might be little guesswork involved in where his appearance came from. He had certainly inherited her high cheekbones and elegant features, but his complexion certainly wasn't from her – neither skin, hair, nor eyes. Perhaps his father had such colouration, or perhaps it was a mystery. Or perhaps he had a touch of the Fae in his blood, himself, though that possibility would probably be one to horrify him.

Perhaps she might come to understand that, if he should ever dream about his father – someone he obviously looked up to, but seems to speak of rarely, and less still about his nature as a filidh. It may be that Bedivere had pierced the veil because of his latent skills with the arts of the filídh, or simply because he made the effort to see things as they were, and not as they seemed. Who could know?

Whatever the case, she'll find her loyal knight glancing down at her, with a faint half-smile. It's not quite a sardonic expression as they so often are; rather, it seems almost sheepish. The possibility that she had seen him like that, in dream, is downright embarrassing. In answer to her quiet sound, though, he reaches out to clear her hair from her face, gently smoothing it down.

He flushes, though. Perhaps he'd expected her to be asleep, still. Sometimes he still struggles a little with using her true name.

"I suppose you were awake after all." In spite of snapping awake – something he'd always done in Camelot, and still seems to do, when his tea isn't drugged – his voice is still rough from sleep, his words not quite as clear and eloquent as they might otherwise be. "Else you would be sleeping still, I think. I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you, my love."

He pauses for a moment, thoughtful, though he reaches up to run his fingers through her hair again. It needs no more straightening; more likely, he does it for the simple pleasure of doing it. His mouth twitches into a warmer expression, affectionate.

"What did you see...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Though Bedivere was generally reticent about his past – though he opened up well enough when Arturia asked about it – being able to see those memories for herself was another matter entirely. Though she had hated making him uncomfortable from the idea of becoming her Master and all that went with it, the sharing of dreams was something she was grateful for. Grateful...though not without some sense of guilt. It was almost like invading his privacy – not that there was a great deal of that remaining between king and knight – to have seen him as the awkward youth he once was. Yet, at the same time, she would cherish those memory-dreams as people of the modern era cherished photographs of their loved ones.

Perhaps he had been a wide-eyed idealist, but there was still that seriousness and commitment to his duties which had marked his knighthood. Remaining in Camelot to serve her might very well have been the only time he had ever acted even remotely out of selfishness, pursuing something he wished for himself. And yet, even that had been to serve a foreign king rather than his people. He had given up any hope for personal happiness to pursue those dreams, just as she had. It was a miracle beyond miracles that they had been brought to a place where nearly everything they had cast aside for the sake of Camelot could be realised.

It had come at a steep price, however. They had lost far more at Camlann than a kingdom and a dream. They had lost all their brothers-in-arms, their last remaining family. Sir Ector had passed away long before that terrible battle, and Bedivere's parents – if they still lived – remained in the northern kingdom that, for all he could have journeyed there, might as well have been far away. After Camelot fell, he might have been able to return, but she realised now that his spirit had been too broken no matter how much he fought to carry out his final duties. Much as hers had been...though death was threatening to claim her soon afterward. But until that point, she had mourned her compatriots, and especially her brother.

Yet in spite of the pain, when she remembered him when they were children training to become squires, Arturia nevertheless cherished those memories. And she wondered what had become of that small village beyond the farm, if the people there had somehow remained safe from the calamity of Camelot's fall. Everything had long since turned to ruins, she was certain...just as the Britain she had known fell and was reborn. While she had reached for utopia within her capital and mourned its loss, what she truly missed deep within her heart was that humble, plain village and the life she lived with her adopted family. At their cores, the king and her marshal were, in truth, simple people who would have otherwise led plain, humble lives...and would have been grateful to simply live in peace. In many ways, Dún Reáltaí had become the life they could never have, where they could live in relative peace and allow their masks to fall away.

Seeing his mother for herself in those dreams had answered many of the questions she had never bothered to ask; they seemed such trivial things. She couldn't help but feel embarrassed for even wondering about them. She had wondered why his appearance was so different from his own brother's, who shared more of their mother's traits. She wondered then if their father had Bedivere's paleness, or if it was some Otherworldly blood which would have certainly unsettled the down-to-earth marshal. The latter would more than explain his family's gifts as filídh, but there were extraordinary people from ordinary backgrounds. And whatever his were, whatever gifts he possessed, he seemed to consider himself even less than ordinary, even if she would never see him that way. To her, his existence was more than merely special.

She couldn't help but smile back at that sheepish, almost shy smile. Of course, that always seemed to be her favourite, a private thing which so perfectly encapsulated the hidden heart he had allowed her to see. In turn, he was awarded one of her own, the slight smile which was only ever directed at him, leaning gently into his touch.

Arturia shook her head slightly, a fraction of movement. "You did not," she reassured him. "I would have woken when the dream ended."

Even if the touch was merely for the pleasure of it, she was certainly not going to complain, rather enjoying it on her part. Her expression turned a little sheepish, however; admitting she had seen into his dreams was, admittedly, a little embarrassing, "I saw Dál Riata," she confessed. "You and Lucan...Ceallach," she amended, "Mending nets, your mother, the quarrel with your brother..."

She shook her head slightly. "Forgive me, I did not meant to intrude." It was not as if she could help seeing into his dreams, but it was still an invasion of privacy as far as she was concerned.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Likely that reticence was learned behaviour, a necessity imposed by the treacherous political waters of Camelot. There had been much he couldn't afford to reveal about himself. Some days, it had seemed crime enough that he came from a place so far from the kingdom's heart. If he had revealed half of his hidden heritage, he would have fared poorly, and it would have reflected poorly on his king. The mutterings then would have been downright mutinous, that she would hire a warlock, someone who would bewitch the people.

Of course, he'd never needed to talk about that for the more suspicious folk to latch onto the idea. There had been plenty who had suspected the parts of himself he had hidden away.

The dreams are in some ways a blessing in and of themselves. He remembers his past and his original home through them, but they can also reveal those hidden parts of himself to Arturia. Though always glad to speak of it, there is always a hesitation, and a melancholy, when it comes to his earliest days. He would tell her all, of course, if she had but asked him – but there was always just a little melancholy about it. After all, it was a place and time he had turned his back on, and chosen Camelot over.

Is it that he feels guilty over that choice? Does he believe that he threw away his potential over a kingdom ultimately doomed to ruin? Or does he feel he could have had more of a future for himself in Dál Riata?

No, the pale-haired knight could never feel thus.

Regardless of how much suffering he might have endured, all of it was worth it. Every last ounce of misery was worth it for the end result, to be here, with his beloved; to discover this hidden country, and lend a helping hand to its proud, tough, independent people. It had all been worth it to find this place – a home, the most suitable home, for these two broken knights to mend themselves.

Curious, though, that he had dreamt of the place that had offered him at least a little comfort, even if his own wanderlust and longing for something greater had made it difficult to settle. He has dreamt of his family before, his brother and his cousin, and now his mother. Yet never has he seemed to dream of his father. Indeed, aside from the practical nature of discussing the man's talents, Bedivere has never seemed to speak of him, although the unspoken implication in conversation is often positive enough; that the pale-haired knight obviously looked up to and respected the unknown filidh a great deal.

One wonders, though, if that man perhaps bore a touch of the Otherworld about him. Bedivere is not so unusual to have been sired by the Otherworld – but perhaps it does touch the blood in his veins, nonetheless. Perhaps it's something he's thought of, and so his thoughts deliberately avoid whomever his mortal sire was. Or, perhaps he simply hasn't had cause to think of the man very much. It's hard to say. There are some things Bedivere yet seems uncomfortable speaking of; not because it pains him, but because he simply has no idea how to approach it. Perhaps all he waits for is for Arturia to put the questions to him, that he might begin to think and to answer them – for himself as much as her.

"I see," he murmurs, in response to her answer. "Well, even so, I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep." Bedivere sounds a little less sheepish, but he keeps his voice quiet, as though he were loath to disturb the quiet of the night. He glances down to his left hand, flexing his fingers almost experimentally; pulling them into a fist and then letting his hand ease open again. "I am not so clumsy a Master as I had been, but I am still not strong enough."

The unspoken implication is that he's reluctant to disturb her sleep for any reason, especially dreams; something he likely sees as a foolish and unimportant interruption.

He says nothing as she describes what she had seen, resting his head over hers and letting his eyes fall to half-mast. They close altogether when he feels that stubborn lick of hair tickling one side of his face. He draws in a breath, savouring the subtle scent of her; that faint hint of rose in her shampoo, and lets it go in a slow, measured breath.

Slowly, he cants his head to one side, shifting so he can sit up, wincing slightly. For once, he's been relatively free of injury. Yet the pale-haired knight is still plagued by old wounds, and they have a tendency to complain in the cold. Carefully extricating himself from her, he slowly raises his arms above his head, stretching to the limits of his still-lanky frame – he might have filled out from that idealistic young aspirant, and he may be recovering still from his time of self-neglect in the multiversal weald, but he's still bony. Yawning widely, he lets his arms fall, huddling up against Arturia as though cold, shivering as he resettles the blanket around them both.

"Mmm." It's a thoughtful sound, and still a little muzzy from sleep. "I think I remember what you say you saw, though from dream or memory, I could not say..."

Resting his head over hers, his eyes go distant as he thinks back to that cold, grey kingdom.

"We mended nets every day. Our village did not have the same pasture-land as the higher villages, further up the hills. Fishing was our livelihood, and everyone was expected to know how to mend a fishing net. It was a task everyone contributed to. My mother was especially good at it," he adds, resting his head over hers again; though not without a distracted kiss to the top of her head; his own hair, unbound, spills over his shoulder to tickle at her face. "She did some stonecarving, like the dragon's-blood earrings of the filídh, but she was also a weaver." He smiles, faintly. "I think she was better at it than my brother and I. We were children, and to ask us to stay still for that long was asking much of us, then, I think."

As to his mother, he falls silent, thoughtful. For a long moment he doesn't say anything at all, though it's obvious by his breathing that he hasn't fallen asleep again. Rather, he seems to be considering; though what, or why, it's hard to say.

Only after a long moment does he speak, more softly. "Aye? You would have liked her, I think. Aoife of the Laughing Eyes, she was called, sometimes. Strong of will, but generous of heart. She was a kindly woman, and a strong one. I wonder sometimes what became of her. Likely, wherever it is Dál Riata is, she thinks my brother and I have died, and my father's brother's son, too. I suppose she would not be far wrong, in that. I would like to see her again, I think, but... at the same time, it is strange, my lady. I do not know if I could face her, not with back straight and head held high."

"For my brother, though... aye, as I've said, that was the only time Ceallach and I ever fought." He chuckles, but it's in that soft, self-conscious way. "He was slurring for a day afterward, and I could not close my fist around anything without pain. It was unfair of me, for he could not have known what he was implying. What my leaving would have meant. There were no secrets between us, my lady, for we had only each other, in Camelot, although we had grown more distant by necessity when you appointed me your marshal. Yet I could not have told him... I could not have told him that."

To her apology, though, he only chuckles. The sound threatens to spill over into a soft laugh.

"You have naught to apologise for, my lady." He reaches blindly to take one of her hands in his, squeezing gently, fingers rough where years of swordplay had callused the skin – no noble's hands, has he, but the hands of a soldier. "As Master and Servant, I suppose we will see these things, for whatever reason; it is as the Good Lord has willed. I do not mind, although I think perhaps I would, if it were anyone else bearing witness to such things. I wonder why I dream of that place, though, and those people. They are a distant part of my past. Even Ceallach, now." He smiles, a little sadly, as he rubs the pad of his thumb along her hand. "Did you know? I feel terrible to say it, but I cannot quite remember what his laugh sounded like, or the exact colour of his hair. 'Darker than mine,' I can tell you, though that is not necessarily so much to ask of anyone. But I do not remember what it looked like when the sun shone in it, or the timbre of his voice..."

He shakes his head. "I suppose now it does not matter. If I see him again, he will be dead, anyway, and a Servant, too. But I do not think I will see him. If Servants operate on the legend that had grown around them, he and I... well, we do not rate much, I think. As we strove for. I suppose we fulfilled our duties all too well, in that regard, as we upheld your secret."

"Enough of such sad things, though," he murmurs softly. "I regret my brother's passing, but I do not regret the manner of it. He died doing what he had always wished to do; to distinguish himself in service. And I could think of no greater honour for him than to die in service to the king. It is as he would have wished. He would not have been content to lie abed and waste away of some illness, or old age; he was, in some ways, not unlike Sir Gawain."

Bedivere falls silent again, considering. "Mm. Actually, there is one thing that I would like to ask you about." He leans over her, that faint, almost shy smile touching his angular features again. "According to some of the village children, you have been attempting to learn something of how to play one of their whistles. A... 'recorder,' it is called. I did not know you had such interest in music, my lady."

His hands seek out hers again, gently raising hers. He presses his lips not to the back of her hand, as usual, but to her fingers themselves; touch so feather-light it could almost be imagined. "If it please my lady, I would be happy to teach you, but that is not an instrument I am familiar with. Not precisely. A harp, however..." He smiles, brows furrowing slightly; that shy smile vying with an expression of genuine pleasure. "If, of course, you had an interest, it would please me to offer you what crude instruction I can."

It might be an understated offer, coming from anyone else, but to go by his soft tone, the light in his eyes, he's positively gleeful at her interest in such things. Perhaps, too, hoping against hope that she might accept his offer.

There is no quicker way to his heart than through the avenues he had once left behind – music.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's own stoicism and reticence were learned behaviours to a certain extent; she had always possessed a bit of a prim streak – something Cai had always teased her mercilessly for – and generally not mincing words, nor was she especially talkative. Yet, she had never needed to hide herself so completely until she had claimed Caliburn and ascended the throne. Her deepest secret had depended upon it, but that was not the sole reason. The people needed a strong, ideal king after the turmoil following King Uther's death.

That was not to say that no one had been able to pierce the illusion. It would have been impossible for her foster family, but other knights had been keen enough to see through it. It should not, she reflected, have been such a surprise that Fionnlagh – the knight who had become Bedwyr – had.

Still, she could not bring herself to ask him about where he had come from. Back then, Arturia had been unable to truly get to know any of her knights beyond how they presented themselves, just as only a few could know anything behind the mask. The wall protected them nearly as much as it did her, but it likewise prevented any true camaraderie. Now, however...

After the Unification, her reasons were far more personal. At first, it was a reluctance to intrude on his privacy; he had always been as stoic and isolated as she for many similar reasons. She often wondered if she really had any right at this point to even inquire at all. And after he had made it clear that he didn't mind her inquisitiveness – in spite of that adorable shy streak – it became a reluctance to dredge up painful memories. But in spite of that, there was a fondness to his expression, a hint that though thinking of his family caused some sorrow, he nevertheless cherished them. And he was right, she supposed...Sir Lucan would have regretted his life had it been unremarkable. This way, he would forever be remembered, and perhaps she had granted him some measure of the dream he sought.

And what of his brother? The flaxen-haired king had never learned of Bedivere's true motivations, what he had truly reached for. Or rather, what he knew he could never attain and yet served her anyway simply because he couldn't not be at her side. Her knights had kept her humble, believing as she did that she carried all their dreams on her shoulders as well as those of the people who wished for lives free from the devastating wars which plagued the world. But his had kept her more humble than most, the simple quiet service as her Left Hand. Learning his reasons had only served to strengthen her sense of awe at his unwavering loyalty.

Faruja was right; she was truly blessed for his presence and that loyalty. Though she didn't speak, her hand found his, threading her fingers through his. That was more than enough to speak her feelings.

Yet, her blessings had not ended there. The intimacy they now shared had been impossible in Camelot, even as they had secretly wished for it against what had been possible. In her case, she had managed to live with it by burying it so deeply that she had fooled herself. She no longer needed to, and though her dignity had been sacrificed to make it happen, she could never regret it. That dignity had been an acceptable sacrifice to trade for being at his side as more than a king or even a comrade. No one would ever replace him...and perhaps that had been a wish that he dared not wish for. Granting him that wish was no sacrifice at all.

There was also the promise of creating a fragment of her dream in this new land, with a people not entirely unlike themselves. It made sense, she reflected; cultures in harsh climates tended to be fiercely independent and stubborn in their self-reliance, reluctant to depend on anyone outside their own circle. They would not have let a king bear all their burdens, seeing themselves as responsible for their situation as much as any ruler or outside force. That had been a lesson Arturia herself had needed to learn; people needed to be able to stand on their own proverbial feet even more than they needed a king to lead them. Taking on too much herself had nearly broken her and had been one more crack in the foundation of Camelot.

Perhaps that northern kingdom could never have truly been his home – not the way Sir Ector's farm had been in her childhood and Dún Reáltaí was for the two of them now – but there was nevertheless some longing, some nostalgia for where one's origins. Like an ivy vine, she mused poetically, where the vine wandered and spread from where its first roots set down. It was strange, however, that he had not spoken of nor even dreamt of his father. He respected him, clearly, but his thoughts seemed to be slippery, as if trying to catch a salmon with her bare hands.

There might have been certain reasons for this, she considered. The filídh were not simply musicians, nor even magi. Their magic was well-known, but they were especially known for their prophecies. The seer-poets – and there were more than a handful even in Britain's countryside – were valued for their sacred visions which took the form of poems. But that manner of insight came at a price; the very best of these prophets had been looking back into the past and into the future for so many years that there came a point when they could no longer distinguish between what had happened, what was to happen, and what was happening. How Merlin managed to distinguish past, present, and future was anyone's guess. Or...perhaps he could not, and was simply very skilled at the illusion of knowing when he was.

It might well have been that the father of Fionnlagh and Ceallach had lost his sense of time in that way to the point that even his family could not quite understand him. Perhaps his wife did – she had struck Arturia as wise beyond her years – but his sons may have been another matter. Bedivere already distrusted magic, and that loss of human understanding would have baffled – if not outright terrified – him. The Fair Folk likewise didn't think in the same patterns as humans, and the Lady of the Lake was an exception simply because she enjoyed observing and helping humans. But even then, there were nevertheless patterns to her thinking which were alien, and at times she observed this even in Lancelot, who had seen though Merlin's illusion due to that fae magic. It was not such a stretch at all to think that even filídh of entirely human origin would be similarly alien in their thinking for much of the same reasons.

Arturia replied with a soft 'hm' of thought. "Perhaps, but your training has borne some fruit. Usually, it is Masters who experience the memories of their Servants though dreams. For the reverse to occur means that our connection is unusually strong, and becoming stronger with training."

She smiled slightly, softly. "But I do not mind. I was happy to see those memories," she reassured, clearly not bothered by the loss of sleep over it.

She was especially not bothered by waking in order to hear the violet-eyed knight speak of what she had seen in dreams. Those had been glimpses, like modern photographs, but true understanding remained elusive until he recalled that former life. Some of which had been confirmation of the reports she had been given of the northern kingdom of fishermen and shepherds. And, of course, the Gaelic cousins of the Derwydd – the Druí – the classical educated class of their respective societies.

Arturia chuckled softly, remembering the gift she had received for Christmas. There was a corner of the scarf which had clearly been his own attempt before seeing the help of one of the village's weavers. Hers was hardly any better, but the attempt was nonetheless endearing. And yes, trying to persuade restless young boys to sit still for very long was a generally fruitless endeavour. When it seemed as if he might have fallen back to sleep, she was not fooled; the jade-eyed knight had known him long enough to know when he fell into deeper thought.

"I believe," she replied softly but with conviction, "That she would. You heard a calling, and there is no shame in that, particularly to serve the people. There was much good you did, as my marshal."

Lifting his hand to her lips, she turned it slightly and laid a light kiss on the back of it. "As there is much good you have done here in the brief time we have lived here."

As to his brother, she shook her head slightly. "You could not help it any more than he could. He would have understood, I think."

Her hand squeezed his, gently but firmly enough to betray her emotions. "Truthfully, I did not believe I would ever see you again," she admitted. "And there have been Servants who were less well-known than either of you..." After all. Lancer's legend was so obscure than even some lovers of legends had never heard his name. "So...do not lose heart. One day, you shall see him again, I am confident."

And for her, apologise. He was not unlike Gawain, now that she thought on it. But though he was probably satisfied with his life, she nevertheless owed him an apology that she had been unable to realise their dream, even though she had given him a greater purpose. She still owed him that...she owed all of them that.

A small, strangled sound escaped her lips, as if she had been caught in some mischief. "I-I had hoped you would not have heard about that..." she stammered in clear embarrassment. "I wished to practise first, learn to play properly, and..."

Left unsaid was her ultimate intention, which he would likely pick up on: I wanted to surprise you on a special occasion. And after I learned to play respectably.

But the gig was up, she had been discovered. Too late to make an attempt to hide it now. Her cheeks flushed scarlet as he lifted her hand to his lips and offered instruction in a different sort of instrument, this one far more significant to both their cultures. It almost seemed blasphemous to try with her miserable efforts, given its importance...not to mention who it was who was offering to teach her.

"A-are you certain? I do not have your gifts, not truly..." she stammered, feeling inadequate. "II-if it is all right, if it is not disrespectful...I should...I would like that very much..."

Even struggling with her sense of inferiority, how could she refuse?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
As Arturia had once observed, Bedivere's personality was of a sort where, if given his own choice, he likely never would have taken up arms at all. Even in the tumult and the chaos of their own world, beset seemingly on all sides by enemies, his was a gentle soul. It was not in his character to actively wish harm on others. No; the life of the filidh would have been his calling, to coax magic and melody from bright harp-strings, and sing the tales older than his people.

That was not his fate, though. Something greater had drawn him from that, a force as old as humanity itself, inexorable and abiding as the strength of a glacier – but far warmer, for that. He might have enjoyed the life of a filidh, but not after that fateful meeting in Camelot's market square. There would have been no contesting the enchantment of a filidh's magic against something far greater.

Love was what had compelled him. There would be no force greater than that, at least not until he learned of the grief that came with love lost. No force in his life at that time could have contested the love that motivated him. There really had been no choice.

Never would he have imagined he could have attained that wish, that secret he had borne for so very long. It had been a foolish and impossible dream of his. At the time he had fully acknowledged to himself how beyond reality it was. Such a thing could never be, and if it had, the scandal would have eclipsed anything that Guinevere or Lancelot could have done to the kingdom's fractured foundations. Camelot would have destroyed itself as surely as it did when Mordred incited her rebellion.

Still, he had harboured that secret desire, sheltering it like a fragile candle's flame against the wind. True, it had been a source of pain, a constant torment like wearing thorns against his skin. At the same time, it had also been his greatest strength, a source of unwavering loyalty stronger even than his formidable sense of duty – he had truly been the last loyal knight of Camelot, in the end. Where all the others had fallen or failed, he had endured, through and against impossible odds.

To endure such misery should have destroyed him; indeed, it almost had, and if she had not found him soon, there would have been very little left of him to save. All of those hidden parts of him are hers to discover, now, dragged into the light and out of the fortress he had carefully built around his heart.

Even better for her, perhaps, is to see those parts – and to see him heal. There's no denying that the Battle of Camlann had wrought ruin on everyone it had touched, but perhaps none more thoroughly than its single survivor. Although he had survived that battle with relatively minor wounds, certainly nothing as life-threatening as when Caliburn had been sundered, it had crushed him. He had lost everything in that battle. Perhaps it had simply been luck, or perhaps Mordred's men had known to keep king and marshal divided, knowing that they were a formidable force when they were in a position to work together. Whatever the case, everything had gone wrong, and the only thing left behind had been smoke and ashes.

Now, though... it doesn't erase what was done, and certainly it can't bring back the family and the brothers-in-arms he had lost, but he can heal. And he does, in the shadows of Dún Reáltaí's walls. Something about this place seems to foster such healing.

Perhaps he still struggles with the newness of the idea, but it's a simple enough reason.

It's home. Something the pale-haired knight had never before experienced; something he had always resigned himself never to have for himself. It had been just one more thing he had sacrificed in pursuit of the king's dream, the dream she had shared with all of her Round Table, down to a man.

"Hmmm." In anyone else it might be a sound more asleep than awake, though one of Bedivere's pale brows arches at her observation. "Is that so? I am glad I am not the Master of any other Servant, then. It would be embarrassing to have anyone else see such things... although I do not mind that you do." He grins, faintly. "And I am glad to share them with you, my love, although I suppose I do not exactly intend to."

The expression falters, and for a brief instant he almost looks troubled. "Aye, I would have liked to take you there, someday. It seems a place you might have liked. And I think you would have liked my mother, and my father, as well; my father's brother... but I do not know where it is." He shakes his head, although the movement is little more than a twitch. "It is lost to me, as surely as Camelot. I am certain now that it has probably joined the multiverse as many other worlds do, for that is what I had been told by the Union, once, but... I do not know where."

"Perhaps I was never in it when I joined – I had already been wandering by that point, I think, lost in the weald; and perhaps it was no longer the weald near Camlann that I was wandering, but some place in the multiverse." He shrugs, though carefully, so as not to jostle her. "I suppose none but the Good Lord can know, now. But I would not even know how to search for that place, now..." His voice lowers. "And I do not know what I would even find."

Content to let the matter go, his eyes turn down to her, simply watching her for a moment as she thinks the matter over. Her confident words seem to find some purchase with him, his own eyes hooding in thought.

"Mm." His mouth twitches, but it doesn't quite make it to a smile. "Perhaps. But sometimes, it feels like all that I sacrificed was for naught. Like I turned my back on my people. I do not even know what became of my own family, aside from my fallen brother and cousin... oh, aye, I know there is no sense in dwelling on it. What's done is done, the Good Lord knows, but... ah, I do not even know what my point was." He sighs, laying his head over hers. His eyes drift closed as he feels that faint kiss to the back of his hand. "Aye, my lady, there was much good done. I am grateful for that much. There were many who benefitted from our service, many who would not have otherwise; who would have been overlooked, or murdered by the sea-wolves, or simply trampled underfoot when the petty noblemen had their squabbles amongst themselves." He sighs, his faint smile a little melancholy. "But we did much good."

Chuckling, he looks down at their joined hands when she squeezes his, though that faint smile lingers; losing some of its melancholy. "Aye. I will see him again, someday. Through some means or another, that is my hope. I would see them all again, someday. To tell them all the things I wished I could have said but could not, as your marshal. To thank them for their service and their loyalty, and their sacrifices... aye, I was grateful for Sir Lancelot's. He and I, we were like counterpoints to one another. He did the things I could not, and I did the things he could not. We had our own unspoken agreement, too, it seemed; one I am as grateful for as you were for mine."

That strangled sound of hers causes his smile to lose the last of its sorrow, and he can't help but chuckle at her embarrassment. It's not that he likes her to be uncomfortable, but there's something so adorable about the way she tries so hard to hide those small efforts from him.

"Was I not your Left Hand, whose eyes and ears did not miss anything, my love? I know all that happens within these walls. Or very nearly all, anyway. Enough to know that the children think your efforts are greatly amusing, and I suppose that is why they help you, and lend you their whistles."

Bedivere can't help a grin. It really is adorable when she tries to rescue her dignity like this, mostly because – much like if he's in the same position – it's an effort doomed to failure every single time. "Ah, my lady, do not fret." If anything, that unspoken inference seems to bring him to smile even more. "Indeed, I am flattered by your efforts. Music means much to me, as I suppose you have already guessed for yourself. I could never truly turn my back on it, even if I may have given the illusion of such, in Camelot... but it is a part of me, as surely as the nobility of kingship is a part of you." Leaning down, the taller knight nuzzles into her hair, sighing contentedly. It smells like a hint of rose. He'd never particularly liked or disliked roses, before, but it's a subtle but sweet scent he's come to appreciate, and associate strictly with her. Hmm, perhaps when spring comes he should see that a rose bush is planted somewhere in the courtyard...

Yet his offer of the harp, rather than the recorder or something equivalent, seems to be both intentional and deliberate. There's no mistaking that he knows of the high status afforded the instrument in both of their cultures of origin – indeed, throughout Albion, it seemed to hold particular regard in some way or another. To the filídh of Dál Riata, those filídh who knew how to play it well were afforded far more status than those who did not, held in the same regard as poets and judges, and given places of honour, away from the other common entertainers.

"You do not have my gifts, perhaps, but even I do not know what gifts those may be, myself. I do not yet understand those things, or what is in my blood. I turned my back on that life years ago, and I am only now learning what it was that I turned my back on." Leaning low, he sighs through her hair, pausing only to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head; snorting as he pulls away, thanks to that stubborn lick of flyaway hair. "We will learn together. And perhaps you might have some of it for yourself. There was much you were forced to hide, as king – who knows, my lady? Perhaps there are such things you do not know about yourself, too."

He reaches out to tap her nose with a forefinger, smiling that crooked smile; the one that almost seems to suggest he's enjoying some kind of private joke. "After all... you have an appreciation for it, and a desire to learn such things; and the rest can be taught. I am not so arrogant as to call myself a teacher, but I can show you the things that I do know. And I would be glad to.

"Honoured, even," he murmurs, holding her hand as though he were handling wrought glass, with the same reverence he shows his old harp, or the pipes she had commissioned for him. Leaning over, he presses his lips to the top of her hand, the touch so light it could be imagined. "And I will let you in on a secret. I think I would like that, too."

He falls quiet for a few moments, but not because he's in any danger of falling asleep – thoughtful once more, turning the matter over in his mind. It would be good to teach her the harp, and just as easy as the recorder if he did it right, but...

"Perhaps it would be easier, though, to have a harp made for you. Something smaller, I think, and more manageable than that which was given to me. Something good to learn on." He presses another idle kiss to the top of her head, but there's no mistaking that the gesture is a distracted one. "Perhaps two octaves at most, I think... ah, but the strings will not be a problem." He looks down again, holding out her hand, gently extending her fingers and indicating the calluses earned from so many years of holding a sword. "Your fingers are already toughened, as are mine, and you will not feel the bite of the strings as some young filídh do."

To her question, which he hadn't quite answered, though, he only smiles to her, focused once more. In the dim light of the chamber, they seem almost grey, gentle as the smile he wears. "I am certain, my lady." His hand moves to cup the side of her face, delicately, the scars and calluses of his own hands rough against her skin. "Very much certain. If you have an interest, then I have no qualms about sharing what little I know. It is not much, I fear, and I have forgotten much, for I could not practise often in Camelot; there were few instances in which I could be alone... but there is still some that I remember, and I want to learn again what was lost. I—I am not certain how to describe it. I feel I must learn what was lost. If I am to be a good Master, if I am to be a filidh... these are things I must learn again, too, as surely as what Master Loros has been teaching me."

"And if you have an interest in learning these things alongside me... all the better. I am honoured by that. Truly." His mouth quirks in that half-smile again, that shy one she treasures so much. "Never would I have dreamt I would be given the opportunity to regain what was lost. Then again..."

Shrugging, he indicates their chamber with a faint sweep of his free hand, laughing softly. "I would not have imagined any of this, either. Second chances, and in such number? The Good Lord smiles upon us both, surely. I can think of no other explanation that satisfies me."

"Aye. I am certain, my lady." Smiling down at her, he leans forward, almost hesitantly, as though he were summoning his courage – and indulges in the briefest touch of his lips to hers, though perhaps she might see the embarrassed and self-conscious flush over his cheekbones even in the darkness. Oh, he still remembers that night after the céilidh, and he's still mortified by it, but at the same time... he cannot bear to push her away. This second chance of theirs is too precious to waste so carelessly.

He doesn't draw too far away, resting his face at the side of hers; conveniently close enough to whisper into her ear.

"There is little I have been more certain of, save perhaps that my place is at your side."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's fate had, it seemed, been decided long before she was even born. She suspected that she would never know whether it was through Merlin's scheming, the Fair Folk, or perhaps even Britain's own filidh who foresaw her ascendancy. Whatever the case might have been, it was apparently the Lord's will that she had taken up the burdens of kingship, somehow becoming celebrated in the distant future for her modest efforts.

It had been a relief to have come to Dún Reáltaí and not be recognised, to be seen as merely the lady of their new lord. As embarrassing as that misconception had been, it had nevertheless been a great burden lifted from her shoulders. Even if she had assumed direct control rather than her customary delegation, it would have been little trouble in comparison to ruling Britain. Just as her marshal, she would have been content in a simple, peaceful life.

At least, for the most part. The King of Knights nevertheless relished honourable competition and tests of strength and skill, raised on the ideals of knighthood and firmly believing that the life of a knight was that of servitude. Had she not become the king, in all likelihood she would have served as a knight regardless, disguising her gender for similar reasons. It would appear she was destined to never live her life as a woman no matter where her path led.

But perhaps even that simpler path was never a part of her fate. While she maintained a rather sceptical view of her destiny, there were some aspects of it which had been inevitable. Camelot's fall might well have been, but there was a far more happier destiny, one that would have been impossible otherwise. For Bedivere had confessed that he would have served no other king...and for all the isolation they had been forced to endure, the rather ironic twist of fate was that what kept them apart was likewise what had brought them together in the first place. They would never have been brought together by love, for it was unlikely they would have otherwise met in the first place.

It was a blasphemous thought, but on these occasions when she considered it, Arturia wondered if the Lord was possessed of a rather sarcastic sense of humour.

In spite of that and all they had endured, however, they had been granted multiple second chances. Her life as a Servant was never supposed to be one, merely her submission to becoming a tool for the sake of attaining the Holy Grail to undo her mistakes, to save her kingdom and her people. That was, above all else, her sacred duty. She had often wondered what could have persuaded that alternate Arturia to give up her wish; the Holy Grail may have been corrupted, true...but her duty to Britain demanded that she find some other way to save it. Perhaps she had eventually been persuaded that Camelot's fall was a fate which should not be tampered with. Still, it had seemed wrong, and she couldn't understand.

But soon enough, she had given up that wish in turn. Yet, the King of Knights was not content to simply return to her own time and acquiesce her life, even if that were possible after the Unification. The other Arturia had no other choice without the multiverse to rewrite the rules of her existence. Somehow, she had been given a second chance, and though her kingdom was forever lost, other opportunities arose, chances to save others...and even find happiness of her own. And sometimes, both at once.

She had been overjoyed just to have found Bedivere again, yet her good fortune had hardly ended there. Not only did she make amends, not only was she granted the true companionship she secretly craved and – impossibly – more, but the jade-eyed knight was able to watch over him as he healed years of physical and spiritual wounds. Even more,she was able to help with that healing. She would always be grateful to the Lord for the second chance, and to Dún Reáltaí for giving them a home, a new purpose, and a place to heal.

"I think...such a thing would be impossible for a more standard Master and Servant," Arturia mused, considering the dream-memories shared not only between the two of them, but her and Sakura as well. "I never glimpsed Kiritsugu's memories, however..."

Her expression turned grim, remembering those of her previous Master. "I witnessed terrible things in Sakura's. She endured horrors before she rejoined her sister's family."

The Servant shook her head slightly. "She buried such things deeply, but our connection was strong, nearly as strong as ours. I do not believe it would be possible for a different Servant to see into your memories, if it is any consolation."

Arturia's gaze turned inward, thoughtful. "I think, perhaps, it exists still...that is, in our reality. When our reality Unified, it would appear to have been in our own time. I was about to return, as well...from which I imagine was the distant future, rather than the present." At least, that was her theory, if not possibly wishful thinking on her part. She hoped, though she refrained from expressing it, that he would at least be able to somehow return, if only to see what might remain of his family again. He had made his own decisions for his life, he had dedicated himself to her service willingly...but she understood well how Camelot had never been a home. Perhaps his homeland had not been, either, but surely he missed it in some ways.

He raised a very good point; that weald might not have been Camlann. In fact, she suspected it wasn't, for surely Bedivere would have found his way back to Camelot by then. More and more, the evidence seemed to suggest that it had indeed been their own time which had Unified. And if that was indeed the truth, then there might be some way to return. Unfortunately, what she remained uncertain of was whether or not she was still alive. She had never particularly thought back to that moment when she had made her prayer and offered her service as a Servant, not after abandoning her wish. But she was alive at that moment, waking the next moment within Kiritsugu's summoning circle. Where was she truly at that moment, when their world Unified?

"I...am uncertain where I would be, myself," she admitted. "Unlike all other Servants I have encountered, I became a Servant before..."

She could not quite bring herself to say it, not for his sake, instead waving her hand nebulously. "The truth is that...I live, still. I never ascended to the Throne, but it was as if I fell into a deep sleep, to awake in the distant future."

In other words, she was technically still alive.

In turn, the flaxen-haired knight let the matter drop. "I would not seek the Grail again, but...were I granted some wish, it would be that we would see them, again." She smiled faintly. "Ah, but I have no need of the Grail for that. The multiverse has proven to be a miraculous place."

Her strangled sound turned into a not-quite sulk. It was not so much her dignity which had been compromised as her would-be present discovered prematurely. "Still, I had wished to surprise you..." Just as he had surprised her all those months ago at the first céilidh, when she had learned of his own skills. Arturia had wanted to see her own astonishment mirrored on his face, albeit without the melancholy which had accompanied it. Then, she had deeply regretted her inability to have learned such things about him years ago...but since settling down in what had become their home, those months had more than made up for it. And perhaps he would understand the true source of her current disappointment. As he said, he was, in fact, her marshal. The man missed very little.

"I am certain they do," she grumbled unhappily. "My playing – if one could call it that – is horrid."

She sighed. "I had hoped for you to learn of my efforts at perhaps another céilidh, when my playing had become tolerable." She shook her head. "No, I have nothing of filidh blood, and what little I know of music was gleaned from the villagers beyond our farmlands. However, the idea was..."

Arturia's face flushed slightly. "...Well, it was simply an idea. Something..." Something to make you happy, she couldn't say out loud. It hadn't mattered if she had any talent at it, so long as it was good enough for that purpose. Not that she would not try her best, as she always did, but even if she had no natural talent, she would try anyway.

If he were anyone else, the gesture of tapping her nose slightly would have inwardly annoyed her, or perhaps earned some form of protest. What it earned the pale-haired knight instead was another blush, a knit of her brows. It was still a little embarrassing, even if her dignity had been put out to pasture quite some time ago. That embarrassed expression changed quickly enough, however, at the mention of having a harp made, to say nothing of the gesture which had been so associated with the chivalry of a knight towards a lady. She might never be able to become used to it; it continued to throw her off. "I-it would not need to be very much, simply...something simple to practise with," she stammered, flustered at the thought.

Yet, her embarrassed expression shifted at the sight of the familiar shy smile she was so fond of, answering with one of her own. "Ah...yes, it is a humbling realisation, to have so much of what was lost returned, unworthy of it as I am, and yet..."

As he was, she too continued to be mortified by that evening's indignities, though some of the blame for that lay with her. But yet, she could not deny the fact that a hidden part of her had wanted such things, as humiliating as they were. Her concerns had slipped out that he was treating her like glass, placing her on a pedestal he couldn't hope to reach. When she was King of Britain, that had been for the best, for the same of the kingdom. But now, it was neither necessary nor something she wanted. That second chance was too precious to waste. Fortunately, he seemed to agree.

Her face flushed again at the hesitant kiss, though she did nothing to pull away, even returning it with the now-familiar shyness. Gone was the boldness of the céilidh night with its Mjod-fuelled courage. But neither did she retreat back into the walls which had once guarded her for the long years of her rule.

Shivering slightly as he whispered in her ear, she nevertheless stayed where she was. Even more, she leaned in slightly to rest her face against his. "Aye," she agreed, recalling all the missions she had sent him out on alone, from her position on the throne of Camelot. "I will never send you away again. And..."

Her blushing only seemed to increase, but in spite of that, she nuzzled slightly into the wisps of hair beside his face. "...My place is at your side, my lord...my love."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Much as for Arturia, coming to Dún Reáltaí was something of a relief for its lord; he who had so often been in the public eye of Camelot's courts. Although his service had never been as much of a public spectacle as the likes of Lancelot's affair with Guinevere, he had nonetheless been an unpopular choice of marshal, and there was a certain division of the populace who had watched his tireless service like a hawk.

Such suspicion had prompted certain behaviours on his part. For many years he had learned to hide his injuries and his illnesses. Only the most catastrophic battles had ever done away with them – when Caliburn had been lost, he had been unable to hide his wounds, and it was one of the few times in which he hadn't.

It had only been the king's favour that had spared him the need to deal with any others, and the direct order that he not be disturbed by anyone while recovering, feverish and in agony as he had been. He wouldn't have been in any shape to swat aside a newborn kitten, let alone a determined assassin.

While he hadn't known at the time, he had later pieced together her subtle involvement. It was certainly more than she would have dared risk for any other knight, and more than he had ever expected. Even then, even behind their mental fortresses and the walls around their hearts, he had been grateful for what he had at the time imagined as a personal touch; a mark of favour.

That had also been another stone in the wall around his own heart. Had it been a mark of favour? Had it been some small sign that the ache in his heart was shared? Or had he simply imagined it, and it had only been the precaution of a king savvy in the ways of her contentious political court?

He had never known, at least not until he had arrived in Dún Reáltaí. Now, he knew the truth. All had been laid bare for him; every last detail that had been hidden away in the depths of her soul, just as he had hidden himself away from her.

And he could not be more grateful for that cleansing, scouring truth.

If she was overjoyed to find her Left Hand once again, there were no words to describe what he had felt. Their reunion had been a shock, in every sense of the word. It had been as though someone had hurled icewater over his very soul; a wake-up call of the highest order, whistling him out of his dreams of servitude and self-sacrifice. He would have been content to spend the rest of his days giving of himself until there were nothing left, risking his life for Union service and the pursuit of his chivalric ideals, content to let them drag him down and drown him. At the time, he had not even though far ahead enough to consider that an attractive plan – he had simply acted, rather than thought, and come what may, aware perhaps on some level that his service was self-destructive, but disinclined to stop.

Once they had met again, though, it had all changed. Disbelief warred with joy, which warred with the overwhelming grief that had descended upon him in the years after Camlann. He had not known what to believe, what to think – but there had been no denying that it was, without a doubt, Arturia. There had been no denying that he would once again swear himself to her service, and stir himself back to life again; that he would put aside his self-destructive service and his passive quest for his own end.

The pale-haired knight dips his head over her, closing his eyes and letting out a soft breath. It isn't quite strong enough for a sigh, but it's just a little too emphatic for a normal exhalation. The gesture flutters her hair, though it's free of the emotional hitch he sometimes seemed to find.

Who would have imagined the cold, remote Marshal of the Realm to be so free with his emotions, or his tears? Perhaps, after so many years of sealing his emotions away, he doesn't always know how to cope with the enormity of them. After all, he had not destroyed them. They had always been a part of him. As Arturia had discovered, he had not changed, in spite of that careful mask he had learned to build and wear with such adeptness. The gentle spirit that he had been was never truly buried. It was simply pushed aside, for a time.

"Perhaps that is so. I cannot imagine anyone with whom I would know a stronger bond. Not even my brother, I think, although we were close." His voice is quiet, almost a murmur, and his eyes open slowly to half-mast. He doesn't focus on what's before him, though, letting his gaze rest comfortably unfocused. "From what you have said of Emiya Kiritsugu, you would not have shared such a bond with him. I do not trust him, myself. There is something in his eyes that... frightens me."

He remains silent at the mention of Sakura's nightmares, though, perhaps out of respect. He knows that Arturia had shared a close bond with the girl, and perhaps he suspected some tortured history in the soft-spoken girl, some pain hidden behind her slightly melancholy smile and lavendar eyes. It wasn't altogether different from his own, though perhaps his pain stemmed from a different source. He had understood her, on some level; pain acknowledging pain, although his was beginning to heal.

Slowly, his eyes open when she muses about the state of their own world. He doesn't quite pull himself upright, but she might feel him straighten, and something through his shoulders tense. Perhaps the way his eyes widen might be mistaken for fear – but no, it's something else; something that so rarely shows itself on his somber features.

It's hope.

He looks on in utter silence as she picks apart her own hypothesis, poking at the holes in them that they had both grown to notice, such as the weald. It could not have been Camlann. Although hardly a woodsman, Bedivere was nonetheless intimately familiar with Camelot's countryside, for he had to be to lead Arturia's troops. Yet even with a mind consumed by grief and pain, he could not have been so badly mistaken, not unless the terrain had not been that familiar place he had left behind. He had simply not noticed that the trees and paths were wrong until it was too late to backtrack.

Somehow, that silence seems to deepen when she confirms that she is not, in fact, deceased. It takes several moments for the enormity of that to sink in. She wasn't dead when he'd laid her in the barge. Somehow, impossibly, she was still alive when she had been given over to the Otherworld – for where else could she have gone? – and into the care of the fairy queens.

All of those details, however, paled in the wake of the single thought in his mind, brilliant as fire.

Arturia never perished.

She might hear him let his breath out, unsteady. He isn't weeping, although perhaps he wishes he might be able to, because the sheer emotion in him – he doesn't even know what name to put to it; can't even quantify what he feels, for it wants to leap from him like a hart leaping from the hounds chasing it.

In that instant, he knows then what he needs to do. He needs to be at her side, yes, but he needs to look after her. To protect her. No, he decides. His duty is to do what he couldn't do for her at Camlann, no matter his best and most desperate efforts.

It is his duty, now, to save her.

The realisation hits him like a thunderbolt. He sucks in a breath and straightens, hands resting over her shoulders, as though he were afraid to hold her too tightly.

She isn't dead, and he can save her.

But after a brief instant, he forces himself to relax, to stifle that wild swelling of hope and purpose. It's hardly the time to go haring off into the woods, and besides, he wouldn't have the first notion of how to help. All he knows is that vague beginning of an idea – of his duty, his sacred and sworn duty – that he must bring aid.

Perhaps she might exist forever as a Servant, at least in theory, but he can't be satisfied with that. It's her, but at the same time, it's not – perhaps in mind and spirit she's the same, but this isn't the king that he had once served. And in this, he can complete the duty he had softly but fervently sworn to her, when she had touched gleaming Caliburn to his shoulders.

Protect the king. It was the most basic of a knight's duties, along with the observance of every one of the Eight Virtues. And now, beyond all wild hope, beyond any hope of imagination, he was being given an opportunity to fulfill that duty in spite of his failure.

It takes him several seconds to slow his speeding heart, and to ease his breath; aware, perhaps, that his heart races. Nostrils flare as he takes one last deep breath and lets it go, shaking his head after a moment. It's rare that he experiences such powerful emotion, although in every instance, it's always related to her.

The depth to which I feel for her frightens me, he had once confided to Merlin, and it was true then and now. He will never question that feeling – but its effects on him are something he's still new to experiencing. Never before had he felt such a powerful hold over him. Since the céilidh, it only seemed as though those bonds had deepened, steadily. How deep would they run? Surely, he reasoned, there was no limit to that. They understood each other on a level very few could claim, and he knows he would lay his life down for her. He would do anything for her.

He manages a smile at her discomfort, though the expression seems just slightly forced. He's still trying to master himself, and it takes him a few moments more than usual.

"It was still a surprise," he comforts her, slipping fingers through the soft gold of her hair. He grins, unable to help himself. "Perhaps just not in quite the way that you had intended, hm? "Ah, do not look so put out, my lady. I am still pleased. Much pleased. I am hardly a worthy teacher, but I would teach you what I know."

Neither did he seem to miss that silent implication that it was something to make him happy. The implications and the unspoken things between them were nigh unto their own language, so comfortable with they in one another's presence, and so skilled at reading one another. He smiles, this time the warm, affectionate expression he reserves solely for her; the one that speaks so much of the things he has such a clumsy time putting to words. He runs his fingers through her hair again, closing his eyes.

"For you, my lady? Never." He leans over to kiss the top of her head, smiling faintly. "There is nothing too great for you, as far as I am concerned, not now and not ever."

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to be scared off when she returns that kiss – if anything, he seems to lean into it, and looks faintly disappointed when she pulls away, although the expression quickly gives way to a brief flicker of guilt. In some regards, he's still not quite brave enough to be bold.

"That is good," he murmurs, lowering his face to rest at the side of her neck. His sigh is a wash of warm breath over her; but she might feel him smile against her. "Because if you gave that order, I do not know that I could fulfill it, my love. Never again will I leave you, Arturia. Never again. No force in Heaven or on earth will compel me to leave your side, for that is where I belong."

Gently, his arms circle around her, pulling her close as he rests his face against hers. Once more, she might feel him smile when he feels her nuzzle into the wisps of hair at the side of his face.

"As mine is at yours." He lowers his voice, and his own smile is audible in his tone. "I will have a harp commissioned for you at once. It will be something small, manageable for you while you learn its strings. Ah, my lady, I had longed to share such things with you, but I had not been able to. Now, though, I would be honoured to teach you what little I know."

And, in both of their respective cultures, the harp is an instrument with much regard and importance attached to it.

He smiles, finally easing back, gently tugging at her to do the same. He curls up, settling the blanket more comfortably around them both. In some ways, it might be surprising how such a tall person can make himself seem so small. He does seem more comfortable sleeping like that – in those rare instances where she leaves him, he can often be found curled up in a surprisingly small shape, an arm tucked over the lower half of his face, like a bird with its beak folded under its wing.

"First thing in the morning," he murmurs, "I will speak to the villagers, and see if there are any luthiers still surviving. I would be pleased to." His arms tighten around her in comforting embrace; he stifles a yawn, nuzzling into her shoulder. "For now, though... my place is here. Harps can wait until tomorrow."

Silence falls, and he seems to have drifted into sleep. His breathing isn't quite the same, though, and after a moment he raises himself slightly, braced against an elbow, the light reflected in his eyes as he regards her for a moment in solemn silence. After a moment, he smiles that soft smile, leaning forward for another one of those almost hesitant kisses.

"Good night, Arturia," he murmurs quietly, curling up with her once more. She might feel him tremble, slightly, as though even that small gesture had taken some kind of courage. After a moment he smiles that shy smile again. "I love you."

There. He said it, and his mind wasn't busy dissolving in mead at the time. Just to be able to say that brings back hints of that wild feeling, that sense of freedom and joy. She might feel or see his smile broaden, as though aside from that warmth, he were genuinely pleased – which he is.

"Good night, my lady," he finishes, nuzzling into her hair. "I will see you in the morn. Ah," he breathes, settling against her, voice already beginning to fade. "To be able to say that... it brings me such comfort..."

It isn't long before his breathing finally does slow, his heart a soft but steady beat as he lets himself drift back into sleep.

Saber (346) has posed:
Though she had no longer needed to present a flawless image of the ideal king for the people to look up to upon her summoning, Saber had nevertheless needed to remain generally reserved, even aloof, for similar reasons. Heaven's Feel had been every bit as treacherous as Camelot, and in some ways the proverbial stakes had been higher. Though hiding her gender was no longer necessary – it was even helpful at times that her opponents knew she was a woman, ironically helping to hide her identity further – controlling her emotions and projecting an image of strength remained as vital as ever. And there were times when that image was merely a façade.

And she had continued to conceal her thoughts and emotions, allowing only muted expressions through. She had been friendly with Irisviel, and later came to cherish her friendships with Sakura, Agrias, and many others she had met after her Unification, yet even then she remained reserved for the most part. She had honed that reticence to a fine point, burying the young girl who would always speak her mind to her foster brother behind the mask of the king to simply cast it aside, and it served her well even as a Servant. It was only when Lancelot had reappeared as a fellow Saber and pleaded to be taken into her service again that the stoic King of Knights had finally began to permit her mask to genuinely slip. By the time she had been reunited with Bedivere, it seemed to exist solely in combat or otherwise hostile situations.

The poor man was doomed from the start to be thrown completely off by what Arturia had become.

Yet, long before that point, there were times when her façade was not quite perfect. It had softened in the presence of her first knight, when there were none but the two of them on their hunting and training trips in the forests well beyond the castle walls where no others would dare go. Those forests were home to the Fair Folk where even assassins feared to tread...but king and knight had the protection of those very fae. There, they not only hunted and trained, but Arturia would hear her spymaster's reports in necessary privacy. And there was only one other time the mask nearly slipped, yet her very actions might have betrayed her; the final battle against the Saxon host, when her marshal was nearly lost to his injuries.

She had almost constantly relied on his strength of will, but even Bedivere had his limits. It would have been unrealistic to expect him to fend off treacherous nobles and cold assassins while he recovered. His detractors had been forced to content themselves with the expectation that the common-born knight would not survive past a fortnight. And perhaps, if Arturia had been as genuinely aloof as she pretended to be, perhaps he would not have. But she could not afford to leave that to chance, ordering he not be so much as roused from his sleep and that only the physicians tending to him be permitted into his chambers. It had been fortunate indeed that anyone who had witnessed that slight favour had simply assumed that the king was 'protecting his investment', so to speak; no one could doubt his value as a tactician and general over all of Britain's armies. None, not even the keen-eyed marshal himself, ever suspected the truth. Not until they had found each other again and there was no longer a need to hide themselves behind their masks.

If their reunion had been a lifeline for the violet-eyed knight, it have been that for her in some ways, as well. She had not been wandering a tangled multiversal weald for the five years since the end of Camlann, having lost all hope. Yet, she nearly had following Kiritsugu's apparent betrayal, becoming bitter and even more driven to find a way to save Britain, be that through winning a different Grail or a method not native to her native universe. Altering the course of events and shaking the foundation of the world were consequences she had not considered. She would have destroyed herself, rather than simply allow herself to fell to ruin.

There had always been, in spite of her new life within the multiverse, the desire to return, to bury the knights who had fallen at that terrible battle. And she had longed to find her knights again, somehow. The only hope seemed to have been to encounter them as Servants, and to somehow free them from their own Grail Wars as she had been. Finding Bedivere as a human had never occurred to her, the possibility farfetched even for the multiverse's miracle.

Arturia stifled a small, wry smile. She should have had more faith in her strange new reality. All she had dared to so much as hope for had been to see him again, to make amends for her failure, and perhaps even release him from her service. He owed her nothing more for all the long years of service. But to wish to remain in her service, at her side – and even more, to accept her friendship and even love – had been dreams she had never dared to dream. But against impossible odds, he was here now, and their bond was stronger than it ever could have been in Camelot.

"No, I could not have," she admitted, thinking back to her first Master. "Even though our ideals are much the same, he has no use for such concepts as honour." She was finally able to say that now without bitterness; it was a simple observation. "But even then...a mere fortnight is not enough time to form that sort of bond. Only years can do that...and so Masters and Servants generally do not share such a deep bond as even that which existed between Sakura and myself."

Jade eyes flicked to the elaborate seals on his hand; there was a reason why such intricate Command Seals would have manifested for no other Master.

She could both sense and feel him tense, at first from the possibility of finding his homeland again, a subtle hope that he might make amends in his own way. It was not the same as her own wish, but Arturia felt that she owed him that much, even if her love for him had not urged her ever forward to support him in that wish. Brushing a few errant strands of hair from his face, she wordlessly confirmed that she would be at his side should he choose to seek out the kingdom to Britain's north. After nearly two decades of serving silently at her side, it would now seem that the time had come to return that devotion. And devotion was surely what had made her revelation all the more shocking.

She could feel him noticeably stiffen in the moments following that revelation, that her existence was not one which had come from her death. A slight frown of worry creased her brow in the stunned silence which followed, which only deepened as he straightened with a sudden inhalation, his hand on her shoulders, his heart pounding fiercely. Her head canted to one side slightly as she peered into his widened blue-grey eyes, which did not quite appear to truly see her...or rather, the version of her currently in front of him.

Arturia had been about to ask if he was hale – worried as she was that Bedivere might not entirely able to cope with that shocking truth – before he forced himself to relax. And not since Camelot had his intentions been obscured from her as they were now, though certainly not deliberately on his part. Nevertheless, she let the matter drop, though not without a concerned expression, which he would know through their bond that he needed to tell her if anything was wrong.

"I had wanted to see your expression..." she protested weakly with a sigh, still disappointed that her great surprise was found out. Fortunately, his reassurances as well as the promise of instruction mollified her for the time being. Even to admit that much might have been surprising in itself.

Whatever disappointment the silver-haired knight felt would likely not have been for long; she pulled away only briefly to brush more errant strands of hair from his face, regarding him thoughtfully. She appeared to be deciding on something, a brief internal debate before she came to the same decision he had. Leaning up, she softly pressed her lips to his, allowing the kiss to linger. It was as if inwardly she had the necessary boldness, yet remained unsure of herself.

"There is no need to worry," Arturia replied, smiling as she thread her fingers through his hair. "We are where God intended, once more. We shall never be alone again."

Once, she had felt pangs of guilt over not knowing anything about Bedivere, save for his dedication to the dream of the Round Table, the dream for utopia. There has always been a passion for music that she could scarcely imagine; though music was important in both their countries and cultures, it was also what connected him to the homeland he had given up returning to for the sake of their shared ideals. Just as she had given up the true camaraderie of which sharing that interest would have been a part of.

Now, she was not only permitted to learn all these things about him beyond knighthood, but also share in them. Within the stone walls of their new home, he was once more allowed his music without treacherous eyes watching...and she was allowed to indulge, as well. No longer was it necessary to hide themselves away from others, or each other.

She allowed him to coax her back down into the coverlets; though as a Servant the cold did not effect her to the same extent as it did him, the warmth and comfort his presence brought was pleasing. It made her feel a pang of guilt when she was forced to leave him, adorably curled up almost like a small child, a vision completely at odds with his usual stoic demeanour. But then, she considered with a slight smile on her face, that was another secret she had been allowed to discover. It had seemed that he might have fallen back to sleep already when he raised himself slightly again. Her mild curiosity at that was stifled, however, at the soft touch of his lips on hers again, earning him a slight blush for his trouble. It was a relief that he was slowly overcoming that shyness when it came to her, but she had a ways to go for her part...

...Especially when he finally spoke those words on his own without hesitation. It had demanded all of her courage when she had at last confessed to him the feelings she had buried so deeply that even Arturia herself was unaware of him. "I love you, too...Fionnlagh," she replied softly, with a shy smile, as if using his Gaelic name as a term of endearment.

"Good night, my lord...I am...glad you said those words..." she murmured before sleep finally claimed her in turn.