Difference between revisions of "3196/Honesty"

Revision as of 20:48, 13 October 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
An invitation had been extended to Mordred, the Traitor Knight, to return to Dun Realtai at the behest of Camelot's former Marshal of the Realm. Bedivere was not someone that had been well-acquainted with Mordred except by reputation, and had things gone differently, might otherwise have never interacted with Arturia's "son" very much. Indeed, he might have admired the knight's chivalrous spirit, though it had later become clear it was an act. Instead, things went about as badly as they could have, and these days, Mordred is very much a reminder of all that had been stripped from Bedivere -- home, family, friends, and future.

Moving past that has been difficult, but not insurmountable, as evidenced by the silver-haired knight's invitation. Although aloof in life, someone that Mordred might have known by reputation -- discontentious nobility thought him a warlock and just as inhuman and unfeeling as the king -- he has shown very different tendencies in the multiverse, coming across more as a quiet, thoughtful, and deliberate sort of person; someone who would have made an excellent tactician for the king's armies, and did.

Today the knight is seated in front of the hearth, and he doesn't look very knightly -- dressed in the new raiment he wears beneath his blue-steel mail he'd been given winter past, but instead of sharpening a sword, his fingers are poised over the strings of a rough-carved harp. The melody is meandering and a bit sad, but pretty; and played perhaps better than it might seem for a man who'd spent his life swinging a sword around instead of plucking harp-strings.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Unlike Bedivere, Mordred looks rather dashing today. Her own raiments of red and gold, almost kingly in looks, betray her gender completely-- the long-sleeved, down to her knees coat she wears is what could pass a slightly more masculine version of the robe Bedivere's Saber wears under the armor, with an open skirt revealing a darker shade of red in the form of actual pants. Closed at the front, gold-lined, with puffy shoulders, it's suitable wear inside a keep or castle regardless of season.

    Silent steps bring the Servant to Bedivere, but she intentionally avoids interrupting his harp playing. Instead she listens, neutral to slightly positive expression on her face, a change from the cocky grin or angry frown she usually has.

    She waits until the marshal is done playing-- whether by choice or because he spots the petite traitor-- before actually speaking. "You've expanded your repertoire of skills, Sir Bedivere. I like it. Change of pace from all the really sad tunes and apology cards I've been getting the last few days."

    Though her hair is still in that rough ponytail, maybe the man could notice Mordred took extra care to arrange her side-braids correctly and cleanly, and to wear a red ribbon at the base of the ponytail instead of just a red hair tie.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight doesn't stop playing, but his eyes raise as soon as the keep's front door opens on its oiled hinges. He stops only when he's ready to stop, a swipe of the fingers enough to silence the strings.

"I have always been a bard," he comments, voice mild. "And I have always taken pains that none in Camelot knew. Already they suspected me of witchcraft. I would give them no further reason to blame the king's judgement in appointing the realm's marshal."

He sets the harp aside, turning to face Mordred and arching a brow. "Apology cards...?"

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Oh, you haven't heard? My former master, Elliana Fairchild, died. I'm no longer bound to the Confederacy, and walked out the first chance I had," Mordred explains, bluntly, walking over to Bedivere to inspect the harp. Unlike him, she has no skill with such a delicate instrument, so she'd never try playing, but she can appreciate a royal instrument nonetheless.

    "It hit Psyber much harder than me, but it brought perspective to my life. Maybe I should be honest with you, too, if you're finally willing to forgive. Not something to dwell on, though. It'd be impolite to force you to feign sympathy, wouldn't it? I found a new master fairly quickly, anyway. Witchcraft, though? I'd heard the rumors, but I thought they were just slander. Are you saying there's more to the claims than rumor?"

    The Servant had never actually noted that Bedivere was learning magic-- or perhaps, never been told. So she's blissfully ignorant on this end!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If it were possible, Bedivere's brow arches a little higher at news of the Confederate's death. She isn't someone he was particularly familiar with, but it was someone he had certainly heard of by report and mention. Her being part of the Confederacy notwithstanding, he has to wonder how Mordred is still...

Ah, so she found a new Master, and quickly. That would explain her seeming indifference to being caught between Masters.

"Slander, for the most part," Bedivere admits. "There were a great many that would have jumped at such a golden opportunity. You knew I was not of Camelot, certainly; but I took pains that neither you nor any other knew just where I came from."

He resettles the harp in his lap; aware, perhaps, that Mordred studies it. It's hardly a royal instrument, rough-cut and much worn, battered enough to suggest that it's old and well-used. The strings are bright and new, though, and as aged as it is, its wooden frame seems well cared for. "I am from D�l Riata." It was a kingdom far north of Camelot, one well-known for witchcraft and mystery, with its southern neighbours in Camelot much suspicious of its people; known to trade wool and fish and other goods. "In fact, I am the son of a filidh--" A bard, a magician; the two were quite interchangable, "--and a Master myself," he adds, holding up his right hand and baring a strangely familiar command seal.

A trifold sword, but in stylised Celtic knotwork, graceful and intricately tangled -- a pretty thing, and in its very beauty a suggestion of how well enmeshed he is with his Servant, whoever it should be.

As to whom?

Bedivere only shows a thin smile.

"I am saying the claims were completely true, Sir Mordred, and it was all that could be done to suppress them." The smile vanishes. "Not then, of course. I turned my back on my homeland, and I chose to remain in Camelot when first I caught sight of my king. For her I would serve the rest of my days there, and did; I chose to become a knight, instead of the apprentice filidh that I was, though it would cost me. I was no fighter or warrior, and it was only my ability to strategise that I was able to stand on the level of such knights as Sir Lancelot."

He beckons for Mordred to sit; there's an empty chair beside the hearth. "Yet I would not reveal my heritage, not because I feared any retribution, but because I could not bear the thought of them speaking ill of my king's judgement. I would not let the circumstances of my homeland reflect ill on her judgement or choices; she chose for the good of the kingdom, and not because she had any knowledge of who or what I was." His head dips slightly. "Indeed, I would be surprised if she knew then that I was a filidh."

He falls silent, then -- because that's probably a lot for Mordred to take in. Maybe, he thinks, Mordred might just accuse him of pulling her leg. He'd always seemed the sort good at deadpan jokes, although he had been all business in Camelot; so much so that no one had ever even seen him so much as smile.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Of all those who sat around the Table, how many were really from Camelot? I doubt Father would have much minded what twisted rumors circulated on any of us or our birthrights so long as we swore to the same cause. That sort of petty judgment simply doesn't sound like him," Mordred answers, moving away from the harp and towards the empty chair. She'll sit, no hassle at all, and keep listening.

    Though she has to admit...

    "I can relate to not wanting to divulge your heritage, though. I was conceived to kill my Father after all, and played by a witch into doing it out of anger. You can rest easy knowing nothing you could have done could be half as bad as what I did."

    Honesty; she did say she wanted to show some.

    "For what little it's worth now, I wouldn't and still don't care if you're a magician, a knight, a magus, a warlock, or a master. And comparing yourself to Sir Lancelot is a bit unfair; a kingdom of legendary knights lacks a king, a marshal, and a whole slew of men who handle things other than fighting. For all he was fine with a sword, do you expect he could have run the kingdom's books and resources half as well as you?"

    She pauses for a moment, and then asks:

    "Say. Have you ever wondered why I did what I did? Why I was so angry Father wouldn't recognize me as his heir, wouldn't share the burden, wouldn't even acknowledge me as a son? What conclusions have you reached, on that?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Perhaps." Bedivere rolls a shoulder in what seems to be noncommittal gesture; not quite a shrug, but the same intent. "It was not the judgement of the king that I held any concern over; there was much private backlash over my appointment as Marshal of the Realm, and it was that which I sought to suppress, that it might not reflect poorly on my king. She cared not from where her knights hailed."

That honest statement of 'could be worse, could be a traitor' earns a flat look out of the silver-haired knight. He simply stares Mordred down for a long moment, as though he were deliberating over what to say.

In the end he says nothing, only shaking his head in silence. He merely offers that half-shrug again as she says she wouldn't care what he actually was, or is; studying her thoughtfully when she asks her question.

For a few minutes it almost seems like he might not answer.

"I had thought of that for some time, long after I left the ashes of Camlann behind, and long after I had driven myself halfway into my own grave. I had wondered why." He frowns, exhaling through his nose, not quite a sigh. "In the end I could not fathom why. I would have understood slander, or confrontation, or even a private assassination. But destroying the entire kingdom; destroying the entirety of that which she had wrought with her own hands -- all I could imagine was that if you could not have it, no one would."

"But I doubt it was as simple as that."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "In my anger that might not have been wrong," Mordred answers, before giving a sigh. Alright then, load off. Let's say the real reasons. Then if Bedivere wants to laugh, or mock her, she'll deserve it.

    "My mother tasked me from the start with gaining Father's trust, and killing him. She did not say I was his son, as much of a legitimate son you could call me anyway. She sent me to Camelot with just armor, my magical helm and a common blade, to make my proofs. As you know, my swordsmanship earned me a place on the Table fairly quickly. But my mother didn't count on something."

    Mordred glances up, rather than at Bedivere or anywhere else. "Father was a hero. A real, perfect king. Charismatic, able to lead men into hellfire and back. I did not want to kill him. I wanted to serve him. My 'act' as you would call it, became sincere and genuine. The rough teenager made to kill, turned into a real knight. I yearned for the king's approval, and to spread word of his glory and rule."

    From up, to down. Mordred's gaze darkens, remembering the parts she doesn't want to. "Mother thought I was too slow. You may remember she made a rather grand show of my identity. The bastard son of the king. Yet, that did not make me want to kill Father, and Father did not throw me out of his kingdom. I became filled with pride. I was now not just a knight but the son of the man I admired above all. I realized it meant I could finally heal the king's greatest wound. My Father, did he ever seen lonely to you? Miserable? Sad? Sitting on that throne alone, with none to share his suffering with? I thought if he acknowledged me as his heir, he would finally have someone to talk to, and a reason to smile again. He would not be lonely anymore."

    he Servant laughs. It's not joy in the slightest. "He wouldn't have it. Unworthy, he called me. He would not let me help him, or cure his loneliness. He rejected me, who had admired him my whole, short life. I couldn't stand it. I thought if I staged a rebellion, he would see I am worthy. Worst-case, I figured, I would take the throne from him, and he would not be burdened by it anymore."

    Mordred shrugs. "In a roundabout way, it worked. In this life, at least, Father seems happier than ever. If all I had to do was become the villain, it wasn't much a price. Not to me, anyway." She turns to look at Bedivere again. "And that is my truth, Sir Bedivere. Laugh or mock my lack of foresight if you wish. It may not excuse my actions, but now you know it. I'd prefer if you didn't tell my Father. Let me keep my last shred of pride as a rebellious teenager."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"You were always formidable with a blade, more formidable than I." Bedivere inclines his head, slightly to one side. "There were many who were, but I think you would have given even Sir Lancelot fair challenge. Small wonder it won you a place at the Round Table. But it was not only your skill with a blade that did," he murmurs. "It was your intent, or rather, what we understood to be your intent at the time. That mattered more to us than any feats of arm."

He leans back in his chair, hands settling around the harp, one sword-callused forefinger tapping at the frame thoughtfully. "Then you are as I was when first I came to Camelot. I could do nothing but serve her; I knew when I first laid eyes upon her." His faint smile is fleeting, and somewhat crooked. "I could not return to D�l Riata. I knew I would never live with myself again if I turned my back on Camelot... or its king."

Did the king seem lonely?

"Lonely...?" he murmurs, and his voice and eyes seem distant for a moment. For a brief instant Bedivere is far from the hearth at Dun Realtai; remembering a drafty castle in midwinter, of having glimpsed the king looking out from her quarters while her faithful lieutenant had patrolled the battlements in the cold winter wind. He hadn't intended to spy on her, exactly; he'd simply noticed her looking out from the window with the most peculiar expression on her face.

"I think she was always lonely," he murmurs quietly, "from the moment she laid her hands on Caliburn's hilt. And I know that she was lonely in Camelot. Did you know?" He glances back to Mordred, present again, though his expression is unreadable. "I had wished for that, since the moment I met her -- to know what a true expression on her face might look like; a genuine emotion. A smile."

"I was not to see it until after her death."

"She would not let anyone shoulder her burdens. I did as I could, with the unspoken agreements we had amongst ourselves -- to offer charity, where she offered the sword; to lead and to champion battles in ways that would make for the least casualties." He shrugs, faintly. "None were worthy of that, because she could not bear the thought of causing pain to those she respected."

He blinks, the expression somewhat owlish, and regards Mordred in silence for several seconds. Is he going to mock the king's 'son?' Laugh at her? Curse her reasonings? No. He only shakes his head, slowly.

"Why should I laugh?" It seems to be a genuine query. "I hated you, for that. For your rebellion. It would come to nothing, of course. You perished as the king did. But perhaps it had kept me from giving up completely. I hated you, for all that you had taken from me: My home, my service, my brother-knights, my blood-brother... my king, and my love." His expression seems sad. "I loved her, even though serving her would have killed me in the end, and even though nothing would have come of it. Yet because of you and all that you had wrought, I could not even be content to serve her."

"Perhaps you wonder why I had hated you so. That is why. Few things may drive a man to such emotion as love, or hatred, or perhaps a combination of the two. Certainly what I felt was more than simply a man whose kingdom had been lost; that was no great loss to me, as I had never belonged in Camelot, in any case. I was an outsider -- I had always been, and always would be. That was not what I mourned. It was her."

"I owe it to you to explain to you why, if we are to be honest, and to mend this ruin between us."

He bows his head. "I will not tell her. You have my word, Sir Mordred, that I will keep your secret, as I have kept so many others."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "That might have been the difference between us, then. I had a temper, you did not. Where you calmly accepted the king's loneliness, I saw a problem for me to fix at all costs. I can say I wish I had been by Father's side since he drew the first sword, but I don't have any difficulty believing you that he was sad from day one."

    The idea the king couldn't name a successor out of fear of passing such a burden; it would put things in context, quite a lot. There's no use for regret, though. Knowing that now doesn't change anything that happened.

    But Bedivere puts it in perspective. The rebellion really did come to nothing. And even in death, at least one of the king's knights would go on to find the Grail. The destruction of Camelot really was just a speed bump in the grand scheme.

    Then the knight speaks of love. Mordred glances curiously, eventually cementing into full-on staring. "You...? And Father?" It seems to be taking her a moment to process. And then she laughs, and composes herself, and tries to stop the snickering.

    "Haaaa... sorry, sorry. No, really, that had been in front of me the entire time and I never noticed. Yes, I suppose you two are suited for one another. Maybe there's comfort in the fact by taking everything from you I've allowed this to happen. Even tragedies can have happy endings, hm? It's good the people who deserve them got them."

    Some people might be bothered by the idea their lives are built on a hill of corpses, but not Mordred. In a sense, being a knight was all about building a kingdom on corpses, anyway. Of barbarians, of romans, of... whoever wasn't playing nice with Camelot, really.

    "I hope you don't expect me to start calling you Father as well, though?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I did what could be done to ease her burden, but there was no one in Camelot who could have taken it from her." Bedivere shakes his head, slightly. "Indeed, there was no force in heaven or on earth that could take that burden from her. I wished only to ease her sorrow, even if it was futile."

He looks away, thoughtful, as though about to say more -- until Mordred seems to put the pieces together, whereupon he blinks a bit owlishly. He stares somewhat blankly at the Traitor Knight's laughter.

"I should hope that you had never noticed," he mumurs, somewhat peevishly. Slowly, his face flushes scarlet; particularly noticeable, to his consternation, with such pale complexion. "Even she did not know, and that was as I had planned. None could know. Perhaps Merlin suspected, I think; but no one could suspect. Such a scandal would have ruined Camelot far earlier than you ever could."

"What--?!" The word is almost a squawk, and his face turns even more red. "N-no!"

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "No, I guess no one could. Even the threat of taking it from his cold dead fingers didn't work out for me. I sometimes wonder how it would have worked out if he'd entrusted anyone, preferably me, but anyone really, with a slice of his pain. Well... that's what's going on now, isn't he? Father seems in a good mood of late, and since a while ago. Smiles. Ventures out. Has time for himself. I owe you something, for that."

    Mordred straightens up, clears her throat, and simply declares: "Thank you, Sir Bedivere. Father is very bad at managing his own happiness. Someone needs to do it for him."

    But then she punches the knight on the shoulder. Not hard. Prana Burst is not currently active-- Mordred is no stronger than Bedivere is. Perhaps, even, a nudge weaker. She's kind of noodly, like her daddy.

    "But don't get used to the high praise and thanks, I have a face to save. I can't be this wishy-washy openly. Bad at it."

    She makes no comment on the obvious; it's true if the king had been seeing a man while on the throne that would have caused quite the upset. And given Sir Lancelot that much more backing in his own withdrawal.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"She is proud, and she is stubborn," Bedivere sighs. "Perhaps less than she was, now, but there was no taking those burdens from her in Camelot. Even had I the means, she never would have accepted, not of her own volition. It would have taken the intervention of Merlin, and I would not have done so." He shakes his head, eyes sliding toward the crackling hearth. "I had never truly trusted him, and I am still not certain if I do now."

His eyes turn back to Mordred, the pale violet almost grey. "She has not forgotten, and she will never let go of the pain of those days, but... she is learning how not to let it rule her." His flicker of a smile is so brief it might be missed. "To see her content; to see her eyes without that shadow of pain in them... I had wished for that, once, with everything that I am. And there are now words to express my gratitude to see her free of that agony."

Bedivere falls silent for a few moments as Mordred... thanks him? If anything, he looks slightly puzzled. Once upon a time he had snarled and sought Mordred's blood with lethal intent, and now they're having an honest conversation. Maybe part of him is still trying to reconcile /that/, let alone being thanked by Mordred.

"Think nothing of it," he says simply, almost uncomfortable. "I would not. And do not expect that I be so lenient with you at all times, either. I still have my onetime reputation as Left Hand of the King to be preserved, after all." Bedivere inclines his head, solemnly, but his sobriety is betrayed by the glimmer of subtle mirth in his eyes. It fades. "Aye. So, as you can see, I was damned between stone and anvil. I could do nothing. Indeed, she never knew I was aware of her secret during the time of Camelot. She did not discover that I knew until we reunited in the multiverse, and only because I revealed that to her."

"I kept many secrets in Camelot. So many," he says, letting out a breath. "I weary of secrets. It is good to be in a place where I need not keep them, and where I need not study my own reactions, or live on the knife's edge. This place... 'tis a blessing."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Merlin is Merlin," Mordred simply says, green eyes wandering back to the hearth, having nothing more significant to offer on the matter. The wizard and her had very little interaction; probably for the best. Who knows, he might have pierced the magic of her helmet eventually. Of course, now that the traitor is a Servant, she would not fear the wizard anymore. Blessed by intense narrative privilege, but mostly resistance to magic, it seems like there's not much he could do to her. At least, nothing so threatening as he could to Bedivere.

    Which is fine with Mordred.

    "And no, I wouldn't expect anyone to forgive and forget. Consider yourself lucky, at least, that you aren't having to reconcile Sir Gawain with his... however many victims. I've lost count. I think he may very well have killed more men than I have. He's really a tactical genius, hiding it behind his attitude with life." No one suspects the idiot of being the murderer. Not that his kills were unjustified, for the most part.

    Well!" Mordred rises from her seat, arms on her hips. "This was a nice chat, but I think my master is calling. I envy you two, finally able to sit down and just live. No secrets, no ploys, no intense social pressure. I! Still have something to prove, though. And a war to win, one day, I guess. If you'll excuse me, Sir Bedivere?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Merlin is certainly Merlin." Bedivere gives his statement in a tone of voice almost resigned. "For all the change in the world, he can be depended upon to change not at all. Whether that is comforting or not, I suppose that depends on the one contemplating the matter. Still chasing the young maidens of the village." He sighs, this time definitely in resignation. "Come to think of it, I should speak to him about that, when next I have the opportunity."

Looking up again to regard Mordred more directly, the silver-haired knight looks almost worried, however subtle the expression may be. "I consider Sir Gawain a fine knight, and certainly a master of the blade, but a tactical genius? I think you overestimate his capabilities. Speaking as the king's tactician... I do not think he could have taken my place, although I am certain his efforts would have been most... enthusiastic."

Always with enthusiasm. That aspect of the Knight of the Sun always was admirable. No matter how bleak the future looked, Gawain always met it with a smile and a quip.

...Usually the quip was butchered somehow, or some witticism that got hopelessly mangled in translation, but that's beside the point.

Envy? Bedivere's expression turns somber again, thoughtful. He's silent for a moment, as though debating his next words as he rises to his feet, still clutching the harp. After a moment he bows his head.

"I pray that you are given such a chance, Sir Mordred." When he straightens, his expression is neutral once more, violet eyes cool and distant. "Go with God. You are welcome to visit any time, provided you can behave yourself."