Difference between revisions of "3064/Remembrance"

Latest revision as of 19:27, 20 October 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Summer's given way to autumn in Dún Reáltaí; warm evenings giving way to cold wind and a sharp crispness to the cold, clear nights. It's a season of falling leaves and fresh apples, burning hearths and lights lit down the avenue of the village.

Dusk is just passed, with the sun already sunk below the horizon, though the light hasn't quite forsaken the valley. People have retired from their work for the day, though, and so too has the Lord of Dún Reáltaí. The lights are on, though; Bedivere is not yet ready to sleep.

No... he's been silent for some time, now, since dinner, dressed in his casual clothing and turning something small over and over in his hands. Firelight gleams on something metallic in his hands; a hint of brass, or silver. And something else catches the light, holding it – horn, after a moment's study. It's the warhorn that he had carried to the Battle of Camlann, cracked deeply through one side, but still very much serviceable.

The silver-haired knight looks thoughtful, although his expression is largely neutral; firelight flickering in those pale violet eyes as he studies that relic of a place that feels like so many lifetimes ago.

Who knows? Perhaps, somewhere, in another reality, that very warhorn had once been used to summon him as a Servant.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia Pendragon had to admit that the season of autumn was one she found the most pleasant. The harvest had been gathered so that the people had enough to eat, yet the weather was pleasantly cool and had yet to give way to the chill of winter. The leaves had turned a tapestry of interwoven reds, golds, and browns; even as some traces of green remained. Festivals dedicated to the celebration of the end of the growing season and a successful harvest lingered on the horizon, and the end of the ancient year remained some weeks away. For the people of Britain, the season was a needed and beautiful respite, which even God Himself appeared to grant them rest through nature itself.

The petite knight was clearly in a good mood by the time she approached her knight and, more recently, betrothed.

Bedivere had been in a rather pensive mood, which concerned her. He had always been quiet and reflective – traits which had only drawn her to him even in Camelot – but something about his deliberation seemed off. His neutral expression might have been an adequate enough mask for others, but knight and king were too alike for her not to take such a thing at face value. Perhaps he recalled the terrible battle of Camlann, what he had lost there; his remaining family, his king. The latter was right there before him, miraculously restored to life, but all else had since turned to dust.

Silently, she approached him and laid a light hand on his shoulder. She held her tongue, merely allowing her presence to speak for her. When he felt up to speaking, he would. She was as patient with him and his needs as he was with hers.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Aside from a slight tilt of his head, Bedivere gives no outward acknowledgement of the touch at his arm. Neither does he startle. The close, otherworldly bond that they share makes it almost impossible for one or the other to surprise one another. If he fails to notice her, then there are worse problems than that to worry about.

He stops turning the horn over in his hands, though his eyes remain on it. The hearth's warm glow draws the crack in sharp relief, snaked beneath the bright metal banding at each end. It had saved his life, turning aside a rebel's sword, even though its desperate sounding couldn't safe the life of the king.

After what seems like a long, long time, he sets the horn aside, sighing quietly through his nose. What might be a subtle gesture to anyone else is screamingly obvious, coming from him. He doesn't need to speak to indicate how painful those memories are. His king is beside him. She and Gawain alone are here, though, after that terrible battle – there are so many others yet missing from his life.

Bedivere manages a wan smile after a few moments.

"My lady." Acknowledgement, finally. At length he looks up to her and arches a slender brow, as though to say, 'what is it?'

Saber (346) has posed:
She hadn't expected an immediate response; Bedivere had always been a silent, contemplative sort. Simply, Arturia had merely intended to make her presence known in a subtle and unobtrusive way, reassuring him that she was close at hand should he have need of her. To anyone with the knowledge of their traditional roles be they legendary or seen first-hand, it might have seemed odd or downright strange; the sight of the king becoming the quiet presence of the lady while the ever-loyal knight had become the somewhat reluctant yet effective lord of the land. Yet it was the natural outcome when it had been the King who had granted outstanding knights lands and titles to manage, entrusting them with their duties. Bedivere had refused any such honours, so dedicated was he to her service that he had only accepted lordship of Dún Reáltaí because of her direct appointment. In spite of that, they had fallen into their patterns as comfortably as if they had filled them all their lives. It felt almost blasphemous at times, the contentedness Arturia now felt.

Jade eyes fell upon the cracked horn, her brow wrinkling in a slight frown. Where precisely his thoughts had turned even she could not say, but there was but one direction they could have turned.

Camlann.

Arturia leaned down, brushing her lips lightly over his forehead. It was hardly as if there was any point now in hiding her affections. You are thinking of that battle, aren't you? was her unspoken question.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although more rash in his younger days, Bedivere has always had a contemplative and quiet personality. He is thoughtful, where many other knights were rash; he is more prone to study and observation than direct action. For him, even in times of war, drawing his sword was the very last resort.

His eyes close briefly at that soft touch to his forehead, and when they open, they follow her line of sight to the cracked warhorn.

"I was." He answers verbally, though his voice is soft. She can probably feel it as much as hear it, standing so close to him. "Sometimes it still seems so close, as though the battle had been yesterday... but it is over." He offers a soft smile to her, although it's tempered by a certain weariness. "I am sorry, my lady. Was there aught you needed?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had always harboured a softer, girlish side to herself that she had hidden away; at first though her training under Sir Ector, but later once she had claimed her birthright and pulled Caliburn from its stone. She had allowed her more masculine traits to take the fore while the girlish part of her remained locked away, but now each side of her was able to manifest depending on the situation. Refreshingly, most on the multiverse seemed to have accepted her dual nature. Yet, Bedivere's opinion had mattered the most to her even though she had struggled to understand precisely why that was, and his acceptance had started her on the road to truly being able to accept herself. She still struggled, but the days when she had fought for the Holy Grail to undo the mistakes borne from her self-loathing seemed a distant memory. It therefore came as no struggle at all to make that same effort for his sake. It was really no struggle at all.

"It haunts us still," she mused. "Perhaps it always will. Even should all the Round Table return to us, what happened can nevertheless be forgotten. Yet...I would not forget. I cannot....to forget would dishonour the sacrifices of our brothers."

She smiled with a hint of lingering sorrow, shaking her head. But unlike before his arrival, that smile contained some happiness as well. What bedivere might never understand was that this happiness had been absent before he had appeared before her once more. "No...I had simply wondered where you had gone."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Even were all returned to us from the Round Table, it would not be all who were lost." Bedivere's gaze slides to the hearth, watching the topmost log crackle and finally split, collapsing in on itself with a swirl of embers. He frowns. "There would still be a great deal missing. Those who worked the fields around Camelot, and those who worked in the citadel..."

He sighs, and after a few seconds seems to return to himself, glancing over to regard her with an arched brow again. "Hmmm? My apologies. I should have left word. I had no more left to be done, so I thought that I might light a fire in the hearth; I did not want it to be too cold for you, when you retired."

Too cold. For the Servant who's markedly immune to minor annoyances like extreme cold or heat.

Ignoring the gaping holes in his own logic, he looks to one of the tower windows. "The nights grow sharp. Autumn is upon us." He allows a faint flicker of a smile. "I had always enjoyed autumn."

Saber (346) has posed:
Her smile faded at his words. She loved her Knights, and accorded them a special regard for their willing sacrifices. Yet, Bedivere was right; more than Knights had sacrificed for their homeland. The simple farmer forgotten by history who was unable to become a knight himself was just as sacred. They had paid the same price for something which had ultimately fallen. She had failed them just as much as every member of the Round Table, a failure that she could never truly atone for...except to give to the people of Dún Reáltaí her vision. So far, Bedivere had accomplish what she had been unable to.

The petite knight sighed softly. It seemed that at every waking moment, her marshal was working. He was always working, always toiling to provide for the people. It was one reason why he had been appointed to his position as the Left Hand of the King, why he had been entrusted with so much, even as a foreigner and a commoner. Neither of them mattered to a King to whom only the results and commitment to the Eight Virtues mattered.

She did not scold him for his concern; on the contrary, Arturia allowed him an indulgent smile. Only he would ever see that particular expression, one where all her inner walls had fallen away to the point where her true self lay bare. So complete was her trust in him that she permitted that vulnerability to be seen. "I appreciate the concern, my love," she replied, deliberately ignoring the lapse of logic.

Arturia chuckled softly. "As have I," she admitted. "The harvest has been gathered, the winter has not yet descended. A 'calm before the storm', as it were. And of course, there are the bushels of apples."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"We have all that could be asked for, and so much more beside. The people are safe, and they will not go hungry for the winter. Their homes are repaired. Life has returned to this place." Bedivere sets the warhorn aside with a sigh, looking to the window again. "Truly, we are blessed."

Even now he still hears the rising of the horns in his mind; the roar of the armies meeting. He can still feel the shock of iron as the impact of a parried blow shivers up his arm. He can hear and feel his own desperate roar to rally the failing Arthurian host.

Yet day by day, it becomes easier to let it fade from memory.

Rising, he takes the cracked warhorn by its baldric, hanging it carefully on the armour stand that his armour is hung on; settling it carefully so it rests against the blue-steel chain hauberk. Firelight still gleams in its banding, and even though the warhorn is obviously damaged, the item is well cared-for.

He sits back down with some reluctance. "Aye, a calm before the storm. We had many of those on Dál Riata's coasts." He manages half a smile as he glances down to her. "We did not, however, have the benefit of bushels of apples in that barren place."

Saber (346) has posed:
When Arturia had relinquished her wish to save Britain, she'd had little choice but to become, in essence, a knight-errant. Sakura had become her sole anchor not simply to the material plane, but to a new purpose. It had been easy to see how another version of herself had simply returned to her own time and relinquished not only her dream and her wish, but her life itself. There had simply been no purpose left for her. She was a relic of a Britain long since gone.

All of that had changed when her reality Unified. With a multitude of new worlds and people in need of a knight's sword, the Servant – no longer bound by the physical laws of her world – was no longer bound to the strictures of the Holy Grail War. She no longer existed merely to fight other Servants, and for several years had served with Sakura as her Master and fought along side her in service to the Union.

Yet, it was not until she had began to encounter her knights again outside their previous roles that she had truly been given a renewed purpose. And it was not until she and Bedivere had restored Dún Reáltaí that she had come full circle, a long-forgotten dream granted. It was not Britain, but it was nevertheless a land and a people she had pledged to save, to shape in the ideals of chivalry. Where she had once failed, she had now succeeded...and at the side of the knight she had felt the strongest kinship with.

"Indeed, we are," she replied with a faint smile. The fires of Camlann would remain with them for the rest of their lives, but those fires no longer burned as fiercely, the pain and loss blunted with time and true happiness.

Seating herself next to him, she smiled in what, while subtle by any other standards, might as well been a grin for the reserved the flaxen-haired knight. "The previous year, we had not been able to truly enjoy it," she recalled. "It will be a most welcome change for all."

A slight flicker of regret passed across her features. "I will always miss Britain, in many way," she admitted. "But I am most grateful that we have been able to rebuild this land...and in some ways, it is what Britain could never be."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Perhaps." With a hearty 'whumpf,' Bedivere lets himself lie back, staring at the ceiling through lidded eyes. "We have yet to see what true winter here is like. What was lived through last year is not normal, I am to understand. With some fortune it should be a milder winter than that which we had seen. And if that is the case, all the better."

He snorts, softly, tone turning droll. "I found it rather more rainy than I would have liked, truth told. A bit more sun, a little less rain, and mayhap I might have found it by far more pleasant." A jest; there were far too many things he disliked about that country to ever call it home, not the least of which included his precarious political position.

"There are things I miss. The first day of spring, as the promise of new life peeks through the ice; a fragile blossom here, a butterfly there. The sun setting over the fields, casting the lilies-of-the-valley in gold." His eyes trn up a bit, thoughtful. "Imagining what it might have been, had the sea-wolves not ravaged it."

"But," he sighs, "no. This is by far better, I find. As you say; it is what Britain could never have been, and for that, this place will ever be precious to me."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's expression turned thoughtful. "I should have asked Alaia," she mused. "Perhaps when she has awakened with the natural winter...though it would be merely to affirm it, once winter is upon us. Nevertheless, even if it is as harsh, we endured the previous one, and with far less preparation."

The little blonde smiled widely. "We had no need to petition the Union for supplies this year."

That had spoken volumes; at long last, the tiny rural village was self-sufficient. The fields had been renewed with Yunomi's magic, Toph's earthbending, and their badgermole residents. The yield had exceeded expectations not only through the meticulous planning of the lord and lady, but the hard work of the people. What they could not produce was obtained not through charity, but through trade; Dún Reáltaí had supplied some offworld communities with bales of wool when their efforts had provided the villagers with more than they could use. Finally, the discovery of thermal springs now provided them with naturally-heated mineral water, and with the protection afforded under Brehon Law, the remote community had started to become something of a tourist destination...much to the bemusement and amusement of the villagers.

Yet, there was still much more which could be done to make the land truly prosperous; Arturia fielded plans for a hospital, a school, proper fairgrounds for festivals and perhaps even races and jousts, an expansion for the stables. Still, for perhaps the first time in her life, the jade-eyed knight did not berate herself for not having accomplished those things already. She and Bedivere had taken a doomed, destitute village and given them back not only their livelihoods, but their hope. What they had was already a miracle beyond measure.

With a slight smirk, Arturia poked his side lightly, familiar with his mannerisms and quiet yet mildly ironic sense of humour. "Are you certain it was not simply the food?" she quipped back. She would never miss the bland cuisine of her homeland, nor the era when salt was a precious commodity, pepper was an exotic luxury, and garam masala unheard of.

A muted, indulgent smile crossed her face. "Britain was not entirely terrible. But I cannot bring myself to miss Camelot, in spite of my regrets," she admitted. "What I find myself missing are my knights, my family, my life with my father and brother."

With a slight shake of her head, she continued. "It is not unlike the village near Sir Ector's estate," Arturia mused. "Though small, it held a vitality which I had not seen since...until now."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The last one," Bedivere proclaims to the ceiling, "was entirely too cold for my liking. Yet there were no fatalities as a direct result of the wind and weather, and for that I could not be more grateful. We were forced to petition the Union for supplies, aye, but I have taken careful inventory, and we should need no such assistance this year. There will be nothing left for trade, but I predict next year's harvest should yield a surplus, barring any sudden climb in population."

Flinching slightly at the poke, the knight glances over, expression purposefully bland. "No, it was not the food. I have no fondness for the fare of these other worlds, betimes, but I do not miss the boiled oats, dried venison, and hardtack my men and I took with us on the march." Such things grew wearisome even by his muted standards.

"Aye," he sighs, eyes tracking back to the ceiling. "I understand what you mean. I miss nothing of the place, or the circumstances. I miss my brother, my mother; even my faraway father. I miss the village of my birth, clung to the slopes of its dismal grey shore. I miss the boats, though I never learned to pilot one. I miss mending fishing nets, and days and nights of practise. Perhaps I resented the endless struggle at the time, but I would not trade those trials away for anything."

He lets go a breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a ghost of a half-smile. "Aye. The people of this village are a fierce lot. If the sea-wolves or their like ever came here, I might almost feel sorry for the raiders..."

Saber (346) has posed:
One benefit of having a Servant's body was the inability of extreme temperatures to affect her quite as much; being warm was a comfort rather than an absolute necessity. The drawback was that it made gauging the comfort of human beings more difficult. Where Saber might feel a mild discomfort, a mortal might freeze to death. This being the case, Bedivere's presence was all the more vital; he would know how such extremes of weather would affect the villagers because he himself would experience them. Through him, she understood that properly insulating homes with materials from the more technologically-advanced worlds of the multiverse had been, in fact, a priority.

"Whether the previous winter was natural or otherwise, we are better-prepared this year," she noted, her eyes drifting to a tell-tale cemented joint between the wall and the ceiling, properly sealing the insulation installed during the summer. The hearth would keep their chambers pleasantly warm rather than fending off the brutal chill alone. "In truth, I do not believe we were even half so comfortable in Britain."

Such comfort, in fact, made it all the more necessary to reform some manner of knightly order. Complacency was far too tempting a trap, and while the memories of hardships were fresh in the minds of the hardy people they governed, a few more years of such prosperity would banish those times into distant memory. They would need constant goals, and sharing their prosperity with the less-fortunate and protecting the defenceless were ones which would never be fulfilled in their entirety.

"I think that...I would like to found a new order," Arturia mused, her words slowly forming as she worked through her plan. "The Virtues would naturally be the same, but our goal would no longer be to reach utopia. Rather, I would like for this order to be a more charitable one. Although...Militia would remain as important as ever, given how dangerous the multiverse can be, and there will always be a need for protection of the defenceless."

She sighed softly through her nose; the matter of the present remained. "But for now...yes. The wool, at least, has provided the necessary trade for other improvements...in truth, we are doing far better than I had anticipated."

The flaxen-haired knight chuckled softly. "Yes, well. Shirou has done wonderful work providing food which is appropriately subtle for you, yet possesses a proper amount of taste. Food should have some manner of taste," she insisted. "It should not be boiled until it becomes grey and tasteless."

Arturia really hated the idea of bland, rubbery food. It was one trait which would always persist.

There was a soft 'hmm' of response. "You would have enjoyed a life with Sir Ector and Kay, I think. Father was a strict teacher, and he would brook no excuses from my brother or me. Perhaps, had I been a normal girl, he would not have been so...but Kay and I underwent the same training. It was difficult, but it was a happy existence. It was not until we made our home here that I have known that contentedness again."

Arturia grinned, chuckling softly. "Aye, indeed. Perhaps it is because they have known true struggle, and learned to do what they could on their own." The tone of respect in her voice was evidence enough that, though she was committed to helping and defending all, her greatest respect was reserved for those who could stand on their own two feet and carry on.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I doubt we were even a quarter so comfortable in Britain," Bedivere comments, somewhat dryly. "Perhaps your chambers were not so cold, but those along the north battlements were not so fortunate. The wind was forever finding ways in, particularly in winter."

His eyes flick sidelong as Arturia muses on founding a new order. He doesn't comment for a long few moments, waiting to hear the rest out. Maybe he approves. Although he doesn't smile, neither does he seem disapproving by countenance alone. In the end he gives a faint nod of approval, or agreement. It'll be something to discuss in the coming days; a pass-time for the grey winter afternoons in store for them when they have no other productive work to do.

As she explains her life on Sir Ector's estate, his eyes flick to the window, watching a golden-brown leaf from the massive guardian oak flutter by in the wind.

"Mayhap. I had never been there. When you yet lived on that estate, I had not yet left Dál Riata." He reaches up to rub at his jaw, frowning distractedly at its roughness. Although his northern kin preferred beards, particularly the invaders from the north, Bedivere had always preferred a clean-shaven look – in defiance, perhaps, of whatever sea-wolf blood coursed in his veins. He lets his hand drop, dismissing his momentary distraction. "Nor would I for some time, if I remember my years true."

He shuts his eyes. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not having a war to fight may have something to do with that. We are knights, born and bred for the protection of others in the midst of those bloody and wearisome wars. We know not what to do in times of peace." His half-smile suggests he might be just a bit sarcastic in his observation. "I welcome the opportunity."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia shook her head. "By the standards of the time, Guinevere and I were quite well-off. Yet, it was no more cold in these quarters than it was in the royal chambers in Camelot. I can only imagine how worse off others had been." She smiled slightly, though he would be able to follow her train of thought: while there was suffering in the modern era, there were miracles as well. "And yet now, even the simple farmers of Dún Reáltaí have proper protection from the elements."

Unlike the other work they had done, the establishment of an order would be a relatively simple matter. Once the year's work was completed and winter had settled over the land, there would be little other than filling out the ledgers and planning for the next year. Of course, additional granaries would have to be built as well if they were to increase crop production for trade. Changing from a three crop rotation to a four crop and planting fodder crops of clover for livestock grazing in the fields which would have otherwise lain fallow for a season had been a revolutionary change for the village but one which had produced welcome results...to say nothing of the impressive deep-soil tilling which could have only been accomplished by the badgermoles. Now that they knew what worked – and in some cases, what didn't – they could foment goals for the long term.

Plans could be drawn up for the library and the school as well as the stable expansion and events grounds. There might be a need for an additional bathhouse if there was an increase in offworld tourists; the small village had started to make a name for itself as a possible resort town for those weary travellers who wished to 'get away from it all' and enjoy what might have otherwise seemed like a decadent bath. But what would require no elaborate plans for building or resource allotment was the idea of forming a new order.

Arturia smiled at the nod. "It is not so different from a 'charity' in this era," she observed. "However, we will likely need some form of defence, as well...though the Confederacy has seemed to turn a blind eye to our existence, they are not the only potential threat we face. We must always be prepared...lest those such as the Sea Wolves see fit to mistake our chivalry for weakness." Oh yes, in spite of her uncompromising sense of morality and honour, the King of Knights was certainly not naive. Though they lived in true peace in Dún Reáltaí, there would always be threats to its existence.

To his observance, she nodded. "Yes...I believe that I had only just completed my coronation when you applied as a knight-aspirant," she mused. "And though I have missed my life on Sir Ector's estate...I find that I can no longer regret my path." Arturia smiled faintly, almost shyly. "I would never have been able to come here...nor would I have ever met you."

her expression sobered slightly. "We fought for a peace we would never know," she replied. "We fought to reach it, but we were never able to." After a moment, the slight smile returned to her face again. "Complacency is a trickier battle to wage, but when compared with those in our era, I welcome it as well."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Your royal quarters had been no better insulated than the rest of the citadel, but you had been afforded luxuries such as personal hearths and braziers of better quality than those available to the others." Bedivere leans back and shuts his eyes, remembering the quarters he himself had slept it.

His quarters hadn't been much more than a barracks-style closet. He could have requisitioned for finer quarters, but as with every other sign of potential favour, he had politely refused any offers of grander living arrangements. The quarters themselves had looked unlived-in, although that had worked to his advantage; more than once he had left tiny 'traps' to be disturbed, such as a length of string in the doorway, to find that his quarters had been disturbed, probably by the more brazen of his detractors.

There'd been nothing to steal, of course, and although assassination was frowned upon, it was nonetheless a favourite tactic of those with less scruples than their knightly bretheren. What few attempts on his life there were inevitably failed not because Bedivere himself foiled them, but because he simply hadn't been in his quarters very much. The room had been nothing more than a place to sleep, and as a general rule, he'd slept very little.

Shifting slightly, he folds his hands behind his head, keeping his eyes closed as he listens.

"So it is to be an order of charitable militia and knights, then, and not so different from the orders of knighthood of Britain. And if the sea-wolves should have followed us here, or a new breed of the curs should make themselves known, they will be sorely disappointed if they think this place soft," Bedivere comments coolly. He will have no qualms about putting any potential raiders to the sword if it meant protecting this place.

He opens his eyes, regarding the ceiling through lidded eyes without really seeing it. "I do not think there are any significant resources in this place that would tempt such raiders, though, and the production of goods is still poor by the standards of many. These people are still recovering, and while they can sustain themselves, there is not enough that I would consider the land prosperous."

"I know," Bedivere comments, with a crooked half-smile, almost sardonic. "I was there." After all, that event had been the catalyst that had spurred him to apply. It had been the turning point in his life, and there had been no going back from then on. Dál Riata became a memory after that. "I feel the same. I would suffer all the loneliness and the pain again if it were to bring me back here, to this place. Perhaps my life would have been easier had I stayed in Dál Riata, but it would not have been a content one. I would have been missing something, something that in those circumstances unidentifiable," he murmurs, letting his eyes close again. "I would not have met you, and I would have felt that incompleteness, though I would not have known why, and that would have troubled me for the rest of my days."

"Ah, but we were able to reach it, in the end," he chides her, finally hauling himself to sit up and regard her with his head canted slightly to one side. "Are we not here? Mayhap it was not quite the peace we imagined... but it is peace, and it is something we share with those under our protection. It is the dream... in a manner of speaking. As for that... I will accept a battle against complacence over a battle against wind and sea-wolves any day."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia nodded slightly. "That was so," she agreed. "However, we need not rely on such methods." While hearths still served numerous purposes, the village now featured geothermal heating methods utilising the same hot springs used for the baths, additionally generating what electricity was needed to power LED lighting and other utilities. Even when hearths and braziers held only ash, the cold was easily held at bay. The marvels of technology over a thousand years into their future: protecting even the poor from the elements, yet unobtrusive and largely hidden. On the surface, Dún Reáltaí appeared no differently than a typical European castle town of the Middle Ages, a personal comfort for both the people and their offworld caretakers.

As Bedivere mused over what his own quarters had been in Camelot, the flaxen-haired knight smiled faintly. If he'd had his way, he would have taken similar quarters upon moving to Dún Reáltaí. Even if the townspeople hadn't mistaken them for a married noble couple, she would have insisted he had taken their current quarters if for no other reason than his health. The days where a little sleep in the cold of drafty chambers would be sufficient were long over. Even if he never believed he deserved a proper place to sleep, the marshal needed it, and Arturia would have insisted on it. Fortunately, it was no longer a problem...even if the circumstances were somewhat embarrassing.

"I believe there is a greater need now for a charitable order more than ever. There remain places in need of such...both charity and the shield of a knight. It would give an even greater power to the people; not only would they be capable of defending themselves, but they are strong enough to defend others. It would show them our trust in their strength."

Just as the pale-haired knight would have no qualms about answering steel with steel in defence of their home, neither did she. "The Sea Wolves thought anyone soft who did not live a life of conquering constantly," she muttered, frowning as she thought of one Servant in particular. Whatever good points Iskander had made, she would never approve of that way of life. Ironically, even the savage Gilgamesh had understood a king's tie to his land better.

She sighed softly, shaking her head. "There are those for whom such things matter little. It is simply the action of conquering, to test one's supposed mettle against a land's defences. I was told that the people themselves would be worth conquering, if for no other reason that the support of such people is more precious than any resource." She smiled slowly. "Fortunately, any conqueror with such insight would know better than to try. I do not think we are the only ones who would defend our home to the last."

Her smile faded as she closed her eyes. "I will always mourn Britain for what became of it. There were too many lives lost not to mourn their loss, too many ways in which I had failed in my duties. Yet, I am nevertheless grateful...and I hope that I prove worthy of Dún Reáltaí."

Arturia smiled, an expression with a faint hint of bittersweetness to it. "It is a peace I had wished for Britain, for the people and for the Knights of the Round Table. It is not utopia, and I cannot completely relinquish that dream...." She chuckled softly. "Yet, when I envisioned a utopia for Britain, even that dream was not half so peaceful as it is here. It would seem that what we have accomplished here likewise exceeded my expectations."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the situation had been embarrassing at first, even the embarrassment has faded over time. Now, sleeping in such lofty quarters has become something of habit, although given the choice, the marshal would likely still choose more modest accomodations. Even that is tempered, though – at this point in time, it's unlikely he would choose simpler quarters if it meant leaving Arturia behind. Where once that had been a source of embarrassment, it had become a source of comfort, and a constant reminder that his bloodiest, most terrible nightmares were losing their sway over him.

"I have no doubt that there are many such places within the scope of the multiverse." Bedivere glances over to regard her thoughtfully, although with his head resting against the bed, the angle is somewhat awkward. He folds his hands more comfortably over his chest, considering the issue. "We will extend our protection to others in time, when we are better-established. Yes, I should like that. It would be a boost to the morale of the people as well... but we will need to begin training them to wield steel as expertly as they wield their own fortitude." Strength of desire and wishes alone won't prevail in a contest of arms, or perhaps Camelot might never have fallen.

He looks back to the ceiling, eyes hooding thoughtfully. "There was more to it than that," he comments almost off-handedly. "It was not just a matter of strength and weakness, to them. It was also a matter of glory to their gods. I do not approve, of course, but the issue was more complex than their perception of such 'city folk' as the people of Camelot." His lips thin. "No," he murmurs, perhaps in agreement with her unspoken sentiment. "I cannot approve of that, either."

Hauling himself back to sit upright, he shakes his head, resting his elbows over his knees. The position is an awkward one, given his height; perhaps awkward, too, in how he had never slouched in Camelot, no matter how fatigued he had been. The only time he might have done so was when he had been nearly mortally-wounded, to spare him from the agony of his wounds. Now, he doesn't seem to mind showing a little tiredness to her – a concession that speaks volumes of his trust.

"They would find us a... what is the phrase? A 'tough nut to crack.' Perhaps these people are soft, but they are determined, and I believe they can be taught to defend themselves in concert with those Elites and Servants who would declare themselves for Dún Reáltaí." He smiles, thinly. "I would almost pity anyone fool enough to challenge or provoke this place. There are many who would rally in its defense." Though Dún Reáltaí is formally Union territory, he's fairly certain even a few Confederates would step up to the plate, if only to preserve the tranquility of 'their' retreat.

He merely regards her thoughtfully when she speaks of Britain and its loss, his own expression weathering into something more haggard. Those days had been a torment for him, both because of the pain he had endured daily, and for the impossibility of that dream. It's clear to see in hindsight that Camelot had not been the right time or place for such a dream; no matter how much king and knight might have wished it, Britain had been unready.

Hauling himself to his feet with a most satisfying pop and crackle of joints, he folds his hands behind his back, striding to the window. Canting his head slightly to one side, he looks out over the gently-sloped plains, tempered by the gold and russet of autumn.

"No. Even this is not utopia," he muses, quietly. "But even so, I would not make it so. There is no utopia on the face of this earth. And perhaps that is as the Good Lord has intended. After all, what are we to force perfection? It is the flaws, I think, that make the desirable things in life all the more sweeter; that make the battles all the more worth fighting. After all, man soon tires of perfection."

Turning, he shrugs, before padding over to join Arturia, one arm settling around her – not quite hesitantly, but gently, and with a faint smile. "However, this is as close as I would dare to perfection."

Saber (346) has posed:
Over time, their living arrangements had become less of an embarrassment...at least when it came to the villagers. Life had seemed to fall into a certain pattern, and Arturia had found the ease with which she had fallen into that pattern almost frightening. The people of Dún Reáltaí had assumed that she was his wife...and she found she had not minded the assumption in the least. Where once she would have violently denied such assumptions and perhaps even been slightly insulted, the petite knight was surprised at the realisation that it had not particularly disturbed her. Only the perceived impropriety of it all...and that was simply because it was not the complete truth.

Once he had given her his harp, however...everything had changed. It was not quite the misconception that it had been. Indeed, perhaps it never had been entirely a lie. Not as it had been when she was 'married' to Guinevere as the King of Britain. No, there was no guilt involved. This was natural, as it should be. She was no longer standing in the way between a man and a woman who should have been married, and perhaps one day the multiverse might bring Guinevere into its fold and her false 'husband' would finally be able to bless their union without a kingdom between them. And perhaps more importantly – at least in the present – it allowed Arturia to tend to Bedivere while the worst of the nightmares of Camlann had gripped him.

"That goes without saying," she agreed. "Even those who do not intend to do battle should learn. Come to think of it...perhaps before this new order, we should offer instruction and training first. Should Dún Reáltaí be attacked again, they would be able to repel it." Not, of course, that either of them intended to leave such battled up to the people alone, but even simply the idea of facing several Servants, magi, otherworldy creatures, powerful Elites from offworld, and a trained army of tough natives would likely be enough to discourage any would-be conqueror.

"I know," she mused. "Though I cannot help but think sometimes that the glory of their gods had been a casus belli for some. The King of Conquerors sought neither glory for his gods nor for its own sake. He did not dispise weakness the way that the King of Heroes did. His wish was, in truth, a simple one; to reach the ocean beyond the horizon, and the thrill of pitting his army against other armies." She frowned, shaking her head. "But the end is the same. Whether for the glory of gods and kings, or the battle itself, it must be opposed."

Arturia chuckled softly. "Indeed they would. Perhaps one such as Rider would make an attempt, but it would become another failed campaign in a matter of days." She hoped she would not find that out first-hand, but with Bedivere and Gawain at her side again, even Iskander stood no chance...particularly if Lancelot chose that moment to return. Added to that their friends and allies, and she almost felt pity for a would-be conqueror. It wouldn't even be a proper battle.

As the pale-haired knight went to the window, she could see the gentle slopes of gold and the trees crowned in red, orange, brown, and bronze with clarity in her mind's eye, and the snow-capped mountains beyond the foothills. It was not unlike Britain in some ways, though the range of jagged cliffs was not Snowdonia, the fields beyond not of Camelot. She missed them, at times...but the era she had known had long since passed in multiversal time. Dún Reáltaí lived in the present, and Arturia was too committed to look back for too long, the place in her heart filled now with a love of her new home, and it deserved more than her regret.

That too was something she had not considered when she had tried to lead Britain to utopia, that the people would have grown discontent. Arturia had assumed that, had she achieved her impossible dream, her work would have been over. Man, it seemed, needed those flaws the King of Britain had been determined to banish.

Silently, she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder – another indulgence where they were concerned. Other might take such a small gesture for granted, but she would have never dared years ago. Once, she had believed it was necessary to sacrifice any chance at happiness she might have for herself to provide that happiness for her people. It had been an ideal which Rider had flatly denied, and at the time she resented him for it. But she had since realised that there was some truth to his words, though it had taken five years in the multiverse and finding a true home to come to that point. A true home...and a reunification with the only person who would understand her in ways no other could. Now, she no longer had a need to maintain constant vigilance lest her vulnerabilities be exploited, no longer needed to maintain a façade of a perfect royal marriage. Even the façade that the lord and lady maintained at present was more truth than fiction.

Bringing peace and prosperity to Dún Reáltaí had not been easy; there was much work that even now remained to be done. It was not without sacrifice; the complete restoration and upgrading which they had envisioned had demanded almost ceaseless planning and labour. Yet, what it had not demanded from them was a sacrifice of their humanity. For Arturia, the truest magic of the land was that it was a place where she could cast off her mask entirely; she could be a human being with all her flaws. "It is because of its imperfection that it is perfect," she mused. "I could have never been a human being in utopia. It is only here that I can simply be 'Arturia' once again."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Where the king had slipped seamlessly into their new living arrangements, so too had her lieutenant. One could make the argument that deep down, such closeness was what he had always longed for, impossible as it might have been in Camelot. From the first he had been devoted to her, sacrificing much of himself for the sake of service to the Round Table, as well as to the king, personally. Now that he no longer needs to hide himself behind the same mask she had borne, he seems much more content. Indeed, he seems at peace most days in a way he had never been before.

"It would be one more deterrent to any would-be aggressors," Bedivere points out, with a faint suggestion of a shrug. It's true that they might be no more than a speedbump for a determined Elite, but it really would be a case of safety in numbers. Between the assortment of magi, Servants, Masters, otherworldly creatures, and offworld Elites, a standing army of Dún Reáltaí militia might well stand a chance. "Besides, it would be useful on a smaller scale. If there were any highwaymen fool enough to trouble this region, most would know how to defend their own."

Gently, he rests his chin over the top of her head, lingering for a moment on the scent of her hair – as a result he doesn't quite catch what she has to say about the King of Conquerors, although it doubtless isn't that important. Standing so close to her, very little seems to be important; certainly not a long-dead hero whose heroism is suspect at best to Bedivere.

Besides which, Eskhandar's campaign would be over before it were begun, although it might well prove to be a Pyrrhic victory against such a determined Servant with such particular tricks up his sleeves.

His arms settle more comfortably around her when he feels her head leaning against his shoulder. "Indeed." Even he has to agree that the imperfections are what make things perfect. He smiles, faintly, exhaling softly through his nose in what might be a laugh from anyone else. "And I could not have been simply the steward of this land, nor simply 'Fionnlagh.'" While the shackles that had bound him to duty weren't quite as severe as Arturia's, he had nonetheless been bound to his circumstances as the Marshal of the Realm; circumstances that would have driven him into an early grave, sooner or later, if he had not fallen in battle.

"For that I am grateful." One hand raises to run through her hair, deftly separating a few strands, before smoothing them back into place. "And," he murmurs, tone one of amusement, "it has given me the opportunity to cross blades with you as well. It has been far too long. We should take advantage of that once again, for I would hardly be one to neglect my training, mm?"

Saber (346) has posed:
It was not simply the modern insulation or plumbing which had made the Lord's Quarters much more comfortable than even the Royal Chambers of Camelot's citadel. Though these modern conveniences were ones Arturia might consider lavish even as they were so commonplace as to be considered necessities for a modern home, what made it a proper home was the size. It was no larger than a single-bedroom flat in a current-day city, smaller than the spacious quarters she and Guinevere shared but large enough for the other half to function as an office. Her chambers in Camelot had felt too large to be comfortable in spite of sharing them with her queen. That was to say nothing of the fact that in spite of his height, Bedivere didn't take up much space, the result of his simple living as a knight.

What concerned the knight-king about potential invasions was the former. Regular bandits were hopelessly outmatched, but Elites were another matter. Their Confederate guests might either stand against their compatriots to protect their haven or at least not interfere, but she doubted that some of the less-honourable, less-sane members of that faction would be deterred where there something in Dún Reáltaí they wished to possess. More importantly, they would kill the villagers the knights were sworn to protect without hesitation. Which was why she wished to train them, teach them how to evade and perhaps take the fight to non-Elite minions while she, Bedivere, Gawain, and the other Elites handled the hostile Elites. "At the very least, with training they should be able to repel summoned creatures and the like. We would be better able to defend against Elites that way."

In truth, he was right that her musings about Rider were not terribly important. He was, at this point, merely the idea of an 'enemy' when it came to the defence of Dún Reáltaí, someone to protect their home from the likes of. Understanding how the King of Conquerors thought or saw his conquests would be of the utmost importance when it came to forming strategies...something she could rely upon her marshal for. Her trust in his abilities and knightly honour was absolute, and she had no need to worry over it. Bedivere was more than a match for Iskander.

The two other Kings of the Fourth War had been correct that she would have broken her eventually, but they had been wrong in what would have done so. Both had insisted it had been her ideals themselves in their respective ways, that her path was an impossibility. What she had since learned was that it had not been her path of the king, nor her chivalry, nor even her dream of utopia. The Left Hand of the King had the right of it; Camelot had not been ready for utopia, or even simply the dream of it. It had been their ideals which had allowed them to carry the burden of Britain, not what had caused it to fall nor what had destroyed them, or nearly destroyed them. The proof was in their new homeland, a place that, while not a utopia, was ideal for the long path of healing ahead of them.

Though from his angle he would not be able to see it, the pale-haired knight would hear the grin in her voice. "Indeed," she replied. "Militia is as vital as all the other Virtues, is it not? Now that we are free to practise together, we should make the mist of every opportunity."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Mm. That was my thinking." The silver-haired knight tilts his head very slightly to one side as though considering the issue. "With training, they should be capable of repelling assault long enough for one of us to come to their aid. I do not expect them to hold out against a force of Elites, or perhaps even one, but it would buy them time enough for one of Dún Reáltaí's defenders who are to rally beside them. I feel that would be the best course of action, in such a situation."

He chuckles in response to her audible high spirits. Even though he can't see her, he can sense her amusement. "Indeed it is, my lady, and a virtue that I have neglected for far too long. I should dislike if my skills were considered so far fallen from their prior state." Letting go a sigh, he buries his face into her hair, content to stand that way for a long moment. Once upon a time, he had wondered what its scent was; now, he can be this close any time he likes. Even now he still wonders at that, still bears a sense of quiet awe.

"So we should," he murmurs in agreement, closing his eyes. "I had always wondered, once, what it would be like to cross swords with you. Certainly, I had seen you upon the battlefield, and could infer certain truths of your style of combat from that... but observation is no substitute for experience."

His eyes open slightly, and the silver-haired knight manages a faint chuckle. "I had never had the fortune to see you at training. You had hidden yourself well; well enough that even I could not follow. Certainly you timed your forays into the wood well," he murmurs, amused. "You always knew when I was most occupied with my duties... although I had always wanted to accompany you, if only to see that for myself."

Saber (346) has posed:
What was left unspoken was her concern for the people themselves. In truth, she hated the idea of them fighting; just as before, she would bear all the burdens and protect them from malevolent forces.The utopia she had envisioned would have been where the people would no longer have to fight, where even the Knights of the Round Table could at last lay down their arms. Realistically, however, she had come to understand that it simply was not possible, even in the multiverse. Those malevolent forces would always exist, be they Saxon raiders, angry sorceress half-sisters, or Confederate Elites, and even people who did not know how to fight could just as easily be victimised by them. The best way to help them, she concluded, was to teach them, give them a power all of their own. Not everyone would be able to bear such a burden; it would not have been a realistic goal in Britain. Dún Reáltaí, however, was another matter entirely.

"I hope that it will not come to that," she admitted. "But I would rather they be able to strike back as opposed to becoming little more than victims. It will always be our first and foremost duty to protect them, but I wish to give them the means to protect themselves, should it become necessary." There were people who were content to be protected, such as many in Britain, but perhaps the independent people of Dún Reáltaí would be more than willing to accept more responsibility for their lives. She would always feel responsible for them, but a populace capable of defending themselves would mitigate casualties. "If they had been able to defend themselves, they might not have lost so many before we arrived," she mused with a hint of sadness. "I would prevent that from happening again in whatever way I am able."

Her arms found their way around him in a gentle hug as she smiled. "Hm. We should not allow that virtue to be neglected," she observed. Of course, it was more of an excuse for her to match blades with him again. Now that she no longer needed to hide herself behind the façade of the ideal king, Arturia was loath to permit even a single opportunity to escape her. Few things were as exhilarating to the petite knight as a good match; against the pride of her armies, it was a dream come true.

While her Knights had often practised together and sparred often, the King could not. Of them, only Kay and Lancelot had ever crossed steel with her, and her secret made it necessary to train in the utmost seclusion. As much as she would have liked little more than to train alongside her marshal, their reality would not permit it. It was only in stolen glances of practise and on the battlefield she could even so much as watch him and admire his ruthlessly-honed skills, but it was little compared to the excitement of testing her own skills against them. "No, it is not," she admitted.

A faint sigh escaped her lips. "I would have liked nothing more than for you to accompany me, to be able to match blades. But I could not do so without too much risk, even as I had wished to do so."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I do not think it will come to that. Provided they can be trained, they will be capable of holding their own until such a time as a force can be sent to relieve them." Bedivere stays where he is, but his eyes drift toward the window, arms draped loosely around Arturia. "That is my hope; to allow them to protect themselves. It will never be enough for them to withstand direct assault from an Elite, but it will perhaps grant them the time they would need."

He shrugs, little more than a twitch of one shoulder. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. How are we to know? We do not know the full circumstances of whatever original battle took place here. Perhaps it was a series of battles, a war of attrition that these people ultimately lost." His eyes slide closed. "A discussion for another day, I think." Perhaps some time he'll speak with Alaia, and learn what the full story might have actually been.

"Indeed not." To the matter of Militia, he half-smiles again. "I should think myself a poor excuse for a Knight of the Round Table if I allowed that, would I not?" He can pick up on her quiet enthusiasm, and he relishes the prospect of crossing swords with her. He had never been allowed it in her lifetime, and now it's become something of a treat. He loves a good challenge – and she is nothing if not a challenging opponent.

He tilts his head, idly pressing a kiss to the top of her hair before pulling away. A few long strides take him across the room, where he flicks the curtain closed, ensuring the window is firmly shut. "It would have come to no good, alas. Even had I been able to, there was always the chance that I would have been seen. I could not have afforded that risk."

Passing by his armour form, he ensures that the plates of his armour are settled firmly against it, pausing to idly straighten the battered old plates. That suit of plate armour had lasted him from his knighting through to the final battle at Camlann, and several conflicts in the multiverse besides. He smiles, faintly, as though recalling some of those memories.

Hanging by its baldric is the war-horn he had worn into Camlann, as well; cracked but still serviceable, and stained by blood along one side. It hadn't been able to save the king's life, but for some reason he had carried it with him all the same. Shrugging out of his tunic, he tosses it over the armour form, yawning and stretching as he turns.

Once upon a time he had been a clumsy knight-aspirant, but now he is a knight, blooded and battle-scarred; his torso is a tangled mass of scars, some old and some more fresh. A broad white stripe marks where he'd nearly lost his arm in the battle where Caliburn was lost; the same stroke had nearly ended his life.

Trudging back to the bed, he flips back the furs, climbs in, and flops onto his side, mumbling under his breath. "For now... I am tired." Settling his chin into the crook of his arm, he lets his eyes slide closed. "Perhaps in the coming days, once we have finished our duties in Dún Reáltaí, we might spar..."

There might have been more to it, but it's quite evident that the knight will not be answering her after that – he's drifted off to sleep in short order.

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been something Arturia had wondered about, the events leading up to their rescue of the village. Though they had put down the corrupted icehounds that Alaia was no longer able to control, the winter witch had implied that the former lord had been dabbling in dark powers for years. She had been reluctant to bring the subject up with the people themselves so soon after their ordeal, and it was likely they would be unable to tell her much. The people were no more magi than they were soldiers.

But the guardian who dwelt in the lake would likely know. The flaxen-haired knight was equally as reluctant to approach the subject with her for similar reasons, in addition to Alaia needing much rest after being forced to take control of the village until help arrived. Perhaps this winter, when she became active again, the guardian would be recovered enough to answer their questions.

"We simply cannot have that," she quipped on the subject of Militia. Certainly, Bedivere had always been the most diligent of knights, carefully attending to each one. Though martial prowess had not been one of his natural skills, he had pursued the Virtue with such vigour – likely due to the fact that he understood this limitation – that he quickly became one of the most proficient, even over those with inborn talent for swordplay. It could be said that only Lancelot surpassed him in skill, and had his personality not been that of the reticent and stoic martial, his legend would have been among the most well-known. Not that she would change a single thing about him, but there were times when Arturia felt he was not being awarded his proper due. Thankfully, Dún Reáltaí properly appreciated his talents, dedication, loyalty, and hard work.

"Tomorrow, then. The ledgers are not an immediate concern, and I do not wish for duty to be the cause for neglect of other Virtues."

He might, however, sense this was merely an excuse for a little bit of fun...at least, what they considered fun.

Her expression sobered slightly as he closed the curtains. "Nevertheless, such considerations did not keep me from wishing for such a thing." She smiled slightly again, shaking her head. "But it no longer matters."

After Bedivere came to bed and almost immediately fell asleep, Arturia smiled slightly. Lifting the furs and climbing into the other side, she didn't fall asleep immediately, but sat and watched over him for a while. When she had first found him again, the pale-haired knight had been plagued with nightmares almost constantly, the fires of Camlann continuing to burn in his mind. The realisation of all that he had lost revisited him each evening, and at times it seemed he might never heal.

It was not until after they had made their home in Dún Reáltaí that those wounds had finally started to mend. Even their not-entirely façade had helped, allowing her to stay by his side each night and soothe him on those occasions he awoke from them. Now, it seemed he was at last able to sleep peacefully, his face showing no signs of troubled dreams. That, more than anything, was what she felt most indebted to the land for.

Leaning over, she brushed her lips over his forehead before settling into bed, soon following him into sleep.