Difference between revisions of "999999/Blackthorn"

Latest revision as of 20:21, 25 November 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
He isn't certain what wakes him, this time.

It isn't the nightmare that so often troubles his sleep. Camlann took its toll on him, and when he dreams of that hell, he knows the signs. His heart thunders and his throat closes, remembering the sensation of smoke in his lungs. His eyes burn, and he can feel the tracks of his own helpless tears. No... even his companion still slumbers peacefully beside him, and their shared dreams would have meant her distress, as well.

It isn't his instincts. He hears nothing but the steady patter of rain against the window. Occasionally, it's joined by the distant, muted rolling of thunder, but it is a normal storm for such autumn weather. Dismal and dreary, but mundane.

For once, it was not even the pain of his recent wounds, although now awake, he can feel the stinging and burning of raw wounds, however neatly bound. Although it's enough to bother him, he's not certain it was enough to rouse him from peaceful sleep. These days, he finds it easier to stay asleep, warm and safe in his bed and in his companion's arms in the midst of such a stormy, unpleasant night. No, those wounds are not so severe, after seeking treatment. He has borne worse.

What, then?

He reaches up to his face, trying to rub some life into it, to decide what it was that had pulled him from what had been up until that point restful sleep.

Slowly, he lets his hands fall. As they do, the command seal at his left hand catches his eye. In the darkness, it's little more than a black mark against his skin, lit starkly in red for a brief instant by another flash of lightning.

Lifting the hand, he studies the intricate knotwork with tired eyes.

Your command spells have a nice look to them, the homunculus had told him. You and your servant must be in harmony for them to manifest like that.

That much is true, he decides. What is their bond, if not harmonious? They understand one another almost perfectly, as they always have, and need no words to communicate. The similarity in personality between them is almost eerie. And now, able to let fall the defenses and walls they had once maintained in Camelot, their bond was stronger now than it ever was before.

Yet...

It's not enough, he reflects, eyes lingering on the red knotwork. In the darkness it seems almost black. Closeness will not save us if we are matched against an enemy of super strength. I cannot depend on her strength alone to lead us to victory. I am a knight; no, a Knight of the Round Table. If I cannot even defend what matters most to me, then I do not have any right to that.

His lips thin in an expression of displeasure.

This thing itself is witchcraft. Yet... so is she. What she is now... she is not human. Yet I do not see any wrong in that, not if it allows me to stand at her side once more. This mark... it is proof of one's status as a Master, and one's worthiness to command the Servant they are bound to, but...

Sighing quietly, he reaches up to clear some of his loose hair from his eyes, rubbing wearily at his face.

But I am not of the filídh. I know nothing of such things. I turned aside from that path. I made that decision and that choice years ago—

Although she had never spoken of it directly, he knew he was unsuitable as a Master. He noticed the changes once they had come here, from the Tohsaka residence, and even before that. She tired more easily, and he had noticed a marked decline in her combat ability. Thanks to that, she was hesitant to overextend herself, wary of spending too much of her power and exacting the cost from him. He physically could not afford such a backlash.

That concerned him – and to a lesser degree, it frustrated him, that she should have to hold herself back on his account.

There was much and more in this multiverse that constituted a threat to him, but that was to be expected. Case in point, the magician's pet had conjured something that had done a great deal of damage to him, moderate as most of the wounds were; he would take some time in mending those wounds. He is but a mortal, and no matter how much the likes of Loros might dislike such a turn of phrase, it's the truth in his eyes. Time and again he has had this proven to him, left defeated and broken at the hands of Elites stronger than him, often in hopelessly one-sided battles. If anything, he's had to be rescued by her more than he might like to admit.

Once, he had been among the strongest of her knights in the days of Camelot. Perhaps it was not necessarily a result of brute strength, for that was something he had always lacked, but a combination of hard-won strength and cunning. Both of these things he had taught himself, to serve at her side as her Left Hand, yet now they seemed to count for nothing. Cunning would not save her if she overextended herself, and inadvertently took him down with her; physical strength could not bolster her very existence.

Would she someday falter in battle, just because he couldn't give her the extra reserves of life energy that she needed, or that she had once been accustomed to? He didn't know the details, but he knows her last Master, the Tohsaka girl, had been a frighteningly powerful magus. Would they both fall because of his own weakness? Did this constitute a neglect of Exercitium, that which he normally holds so dear?

The silver-haired knight makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, frustrated and unsettled; little more than a breath, as he rakes his hands slowly through his hair. Shifting uncomfortably, he studies the mark on his left hand when he lets both drop, trying not to wince at the slight pull against his wounds. Fortunately, the Union has wonderful painkillers, topical creams rubbed into the wounds that don't leave him nearly as foggy-headed as the drugs that he had been administered when Magatha had run him through.

No, he decides, silently. I will not be the cause for her fall.

His eyes flick sidelong again, regarding the sleeping Servant. She looks peaceful, and somehow he knows that the expression is as rare on her face as it can sometimes be on his.

In fact, there is only one other instance in which he can ever remember such peace on her face, and the memory is as a knife in his side. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out to slide his fingers through her unbound hair.

She had been dying, and he had known then that there would be no heroic comeback. When she bade him return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, he knew then that it was over. After he had returned, his horse in a lather from running so hard, he himself dropping to a knee breathless at her side, he had seen her expression then as it is now.

Do you behold the continuation of your dream, my lord?

His lips thin as he watches her sleep. Even thinking of that day brings pain; even with her here, now, safe and sound beside him. It had been all he could do just to hold himself together in those final hours, and even then she had heard him weeping; in despair over the slaughter of his brother-knights, and the death of the only woman he had ever loved. He could neither protect her nor save her, that day, and it seems even now he cannot forgive himself for that.

Bedivere tilts his head, considering her as another bolt of lightning flashes, thunder rolling; closer than before. Wind hurls the rain into the tower, now clattering insistently like nails dashed against the glass windows by the handful.

He watches the changing light over her, before carefully – hesitantly – leaning over with a wince, brushing her hair from her forehead. Perhaps she might feel him press that gentle and tender kiss to her forehead, or that reflexive wince of pain at the jostle to his shoulder; perhaps not. He even stifles his urge to wince in pain at the movement, so as not to alert her. Either way, it isn't his intention to wake her... but she sleeps as lightly as he does.

Then I will take on this training, as well, he resolves. Is it not a form of Exercitium? Is it not a skill I must hone, even if it is witchcraft? After all, I am descended of the filídh. I would have been among their number, had I remained in Dál Riata. And I owe it to her. Even if my strength cannot compare to hers... this is my duty to her. I would be remiss if I did not make some attempt... perhaps these matters are not... godly, precisely – but it is the right thing to do.

Lightning flashes again.

It is for her.

He sighs quietly, shaking his head slowly as though to clear it.

Truly miserable weather. An omen? he wonders, looking to the window. He can see the occasional darkness of the oak's boughs, heaving in the wind, and he can imagine the ancient wood groaning at such mistreatment. It makes him grateful once more for the tower, for the stout stone walls, thick glass windows, and several fur-lined blankets.

This is what I must do... but why do I feel such doubt...?

Hunkering down, he pulls those blankets around himself once more, watching her in the darkness with an expression of vague unease. Yet still, watching her sleep is also calming, soothing; as though a reassurance that she's there with him. It even brings him to smile tenderly at the sight of her, and to forget his doubt, if only for a moment.

Saber (346) has posed:
No nightmare wakes her this evening, no memories of a battle they had fought through his eyes.

The aftermath of Camlann had been something which had plagued her previous Master from time to time – and perhaps even Kiritsugu, though the assassin had never showed any signs of being affected by it – which had been one of the only misgivings Arturia had harboured when she formed their contract. His own nightmares were troublesome enough; the last thing silver-haired knight needed was her own version of events plaguing his rest. And after five years of little sleep, every moment of it was necessary.

Injuries sustained in battle certainly hadn't helped, although the gift of health bestowed by a very unlikely source had taken the edge off of some of that fatigue, and the shadows under his eyes were gradually receding. Owing the dark wizard a boon was, admittedly, a small price to pay as far as the King of Knights was concerned. Though he had undone that to a certain extent with a more recent battle, the fresh injuries were not taking the same toll as those sustained against Magatha or Medusa, and ascending the five flights of stairs incurred less of a limp. At least, compared to previously.

That hadn't meant an escape from her fussing, however.

Following her unexpected introduction to Aoko Aozaki, the talk of the previous evening had eventually turned to magecraft and its various forms. It was a subject which unnerved Bedivere and befuddled Arturia. Though Merlin had tutored the hidden bastard princess in the inner workings of magic, her knowledge barely scratched the surface. The extent of her magic use was little more than pulling Caliburn from its stone and wielding first that sword and later Excalibur. The flaxen-haired knight hardly understood the Core that the conniving wizard had imbued her with using draconic magic, uncertain that she would like the answer. Hence, she was at a loss to describe it, many times simply finding it easier to say that she possessed "the blessing of the Red Dragon of Britain." It was true enough.

In the legends, Arthur had been 'destined' to become the King of Britain. Little had they known just how much of that had been Merlin metaphorically stacking the deck before she was even conceived. And that, too, had been his doing. The wizard's meddling had been a constant source of resentment; she hated how she had depended on Merlin so much even as he manipulated her with her honour, sense of duty, and compassion for the people. Whatever his motivations were, his individual actions were not things which agreed with her sensibilities.

The king did not fear magic as Bedivere did, but in some ways, she resented it for her dependency on it. For the Tohsakas, it was a source of pride, their own form of Exercitium, a way of life. For Arturia, it had been a crutch. Now, she was magic itself, unable to extract herself from it. In the end, it was the only thing she could turn to. And now she had dragged Bedivere into the middle of it. That fact continued to be a source of guilt, regardless of whether or not they would be pulled into a different War.

The second cause for her apprehension in changing Masters had been that very thing. True, the marshal had some talent for it, untrained though it was. But to bind himself to her in this way even as she had wished to protect him from it cursed him to follow a path he had once walked away from. Now she was forcing that crutch on him merely by her very existence.

It was with some bitterness that she faced the fact that he should probably be trained in magecraft. Master and Servant would need every last fraction of potential strength, in spite of the end of the Grail War in their world. There were countless other dangers in the multiverse, and other Masters and Servants from other Grail Wars who would use king and knight to their own ends. Now he was just as much of a target as she was...perhaps even more so. And while making themselves targets to shield the people from evil had been their entire purpose as knights, Heaven's Feel was an entirely different matter. The battleground was not a level one, and many used every advantage they were given, honourable or not.

But then, what was magic but the life-force of their universe? Was it really any different than using one's physical strength to fight, or one's eyes to see? Was even Merlin merely a servant of those forces, the Hand of God which guided the perfect storm of happen-stances and created that phenomena called 'miracles?' What was 'fate' if not the will of God?

In the end, perhaps it was because she did not want to believe in her destiny. Bedivere, Lancelot, Gawain, and Mordred were likely right; Arturia was the only one who could have claimed Caliburn. The mercurial wizard might have hedged his bets – so to speak – but the will of God would not have been denied. But if that had been her destiny, did that similarly mean Britain had been destined to fall? What was the purpose of it, what good could have come from it?

She had drifted off to sleep even as her occasional lingering doubts plagued her, yet her rest remained dreamless. In spite of the troubles and concerns, it was a little unsettling just how easily she could sleep, now. It was not simply that she was so easily exhausted; that, perhaps, would pass in time as she gradually adjusted to the new link. But not even in the heavily-warded Tohsaka estate Arturia had never felt so secure, so safe. And it was not because the keep was built specifically for defence, as castles and fortresses were. No, what it provided two weary souls was something they had sacrificed for the greater good; a home. While troubles still loomed on the horizon, they no longer made her weary.

What woke her instead was simply a light touch, something which would not have awakened a heavier sleeper. Arturia stirred, blearily opening jade eyes which gradually focused on her companion beside her. She lifted her hand to rub the sleep from them, slowly focusing on the silver-haired knight, frowning slightly. As close as they were, it was easy for her to sense an unease, a doubt.

The petite blonde did not so much as speak; she had no need to. Something troubles you.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If it had been nightmares of Camlann, Bedivere would have woken suddenly. That old dream always haunts him in predictable ways. He tenses, and he sometimes mumbles protests in his sleep. He weeps, although he's not always aware that he does. He spasms in his sleep in his desperation to wake himself. Those physical signs are almost impossible to conceal, and they usually wake his companion, too.

This is different. It's a more subtle and insidious doubt, persistent but not as immediately troubling as that familiar nightmare.

Curled on his side, he's almost to the point of drifting off again when he sees those jade eyes open. He smiles gently without moving, but the expression is apologetic.

"Ah. I did not mean to wake you," he murmurs. A flash of lightning and a roar of thunder punctuates his statement.

Her unspoken implication is as clear as if she'd voiced the thought. Even in Camelot, they'd never needed words to speak, using silence with eloquence and finesse. In that way they had spoken more clearly than they ever could with words. Thinking back, he's not sure when it first became habit, arising as a battle strategy, but it had somehow turned into a comforting routine. It became a language all their own, one only they could speak; for they were the only ones who had truly understood one another.

Sometimes, though, he wishes that understanding were a little less. He'd prefer she rest. She has as much need of it as he does, and it's his fault, thanks to his inferiority as a Master. It's a constant source of guilt to be unable to provide for her in this, to see her so exhausted; to know that there is always the risk that she might fade away like snow in the sun.

Thinking such thoughts, it's impossible for him to relax. Something obviously gnaws at him, even if not as immediately or urgently as Camlann, and he can no more hide that than she can hide her moods from him.

When she asks her silent question, his smile turns apologetic again, almost troubled. For a few long moments he regards her through hooded eyes, until finally his hand reaches out to thread fingers gently through her hair. His arm trembles; there's a faint intake of breath that suggests the movement pains him.

Even such a small gesture never ceases to inspire awe. Her hair is so soft, softer than he ever would have imagined it, and the gesture itself is like freedom, to him. He can show his affection even in such a small way, and need never fear the repercussion of a petty court. More importantly, he need not fear bringing dishonour or disaster onto her reign. She is no king here, as she constantly strives to remind him. Only in times like these, when all is peaceful and still, does he seem to take it to heart.

Bedivere smiles softly. That simple expression, and that simple gesture, seem to help him find the words he needs.

Carefully withdrawing his left hand, he turns it until he can bare the command seal. "This," he murmurs gently. His eyes are almost grey in the darkness, and the mark on his hand almost black against his pale skin, lit momentarily by a flash of lightning. He flinches slightly at the roar of thunder and the chattering of rain against the window that follows.

He sighs, huddling back into the blanket. The bed may be warm and comfortable, but the chamber is cool, the air mildly damp.

His voice is a few degrees softer than it usually is when he speaks again. Against the rain, it's barely audible. "I cannot give you what you need. Not as Lady Tohsaka did. I am an inferior Master, and I have no training whatsoever as a filidh." His fingers slide gently through her hair, resting at the side of her face. "I wish now that I had taken some training, even if I did not intend to stay in Dál Riata... though I had no way to know I would have need of it."

"Forgive me," he sighs, shaking his head and letting his hand trail down, curling loosely around her shoulder. He leans forward, wincing in pain, but he hovers over her long enough to press his lips to her sleep-mussed hair. "It is my own fault you are so exhausted. But this is not worth waking you for. I would not deprive you of your rest... go back to sleep, my love."

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, if had been those nightmares of the final battle, the signs would have been apparent, which in turn would have awakened her immediately, sometimes even before he did. No, this time the subtle dread was not quite enough to rouse her completely, though even in sleep she seemed to sense that something was not quite right. The gentle touch merely stirred an already fitful sleep.

Arturia shifted with a single faint shake of her head. "You did not...not truly," she confessed.

Between the thunderstorm and the feeling of unease, she likely would have woken up soon enough. She had always been a light sleeper – having been trained into it by Sir Ector during her days as an apprentice, with some 'creative help' from Kay – and even the faintest noise was enough to rouse her. That sensitivity had not been blunted in the least upon becoming a Servant, perhaps even intensified.

That had been less of a problem when Kiritsugu or Sakura was her Master, where proper rest was not quite as necessary, given the sheer amount of mana she was able to draw upon from the magi. As it was now, the mental link between Master and Servant was undeniably the strongest yet, but the disadvantage was a much weaker mana link. The flaxen-haired knight had understood that she would suffer a weakening of power when she submitted to the new contract, yet had submitted to it regardless. But she could not ignore the consequences.

The corners of her mouth quirked into a slight frown; the hint of pain from the otherwise welcome gesture was obvious. But scolding would have been almost blasphemous as far as she was concerned, the gesture almost a symbol of the newfound freedom they enjoyed here. Instead, she lifted her own hand, brushing errant strands of hair from his face, tucking them behind his ear.

Sea-green eyes flicked to the three interlocking red markings on his left hand as he lifted it, the proof of their pact and their harmonious spirits. Strange, she thought; she had been surprised that his command seals had manifested on his left hand rather than the customary right hand. Arturia had not thought on it at length before, but it had been a most curious distinction. Was that, too, proof of his connection to her, what he had been to the Once and Future King? It might be and insignificant thing, she mused, but what of it was not? Was it possible to unlock some unexplored potential...or was she simply over-thinking or even allowing her own wishes to colour her judgement?

As much as it pained her to admit, simply acting as her anchor would eventually not be enough. There had not been many battles since the formation of their contract, but sooner or later she would need the power to overcome stronger opponents. If she was to protect their home, she would need her full potential...or at least more of it than she currently had.

At the same time, she remained averse to pressuring the violet-eyed knight into magus training, as apprehensive as he was about magic in general. He had accepted her new existence reasonably well and had forced himself to accept the various magic wielders among their allies, but for him to learn to wield it himself might be too much to ask of him. Of course, all she needed to do was to ask and he would obey, but that in itself did not sit right with her. As flustered as he would be at the idea, Arturia thought of him now as an equal, a partner. Bedivere was, after all, her Master.

But it seemed that he was even more concerned about the potential problems than she was...

No, she amended. Even more so. Perhaps it should not have been as much of a surprise that even his discomfiture over magic was overridden by the possibility of losing her should she exhaust her magical energy completely. But for him to openly admit that his lack of training was a serious problem, or more to the point, regret that fact, was enough for that surprise to reflect in her expression. That was soon enough replaced by guilt over her earlier musings, even considering the possibility of asking if he might consider magus training.

A slight frown marred her brow. "If it troubles you, it is most certainly something to be awakened for," she argued mildly. That she would try to reassure him of the same thing had their roles been reversed was something she chose to ignore....or rather, grudgingly admit she would be glad for the reassurance.

"It might be..." she began cautiously, "That we should seek out a magus to possibly continue that training." There, she finally said it, guilt be damned.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although reassured that he hasn't woken her, the knight's expression is dubious at best, even in the dim half-light of the chamber. Still, he seems disinclined to argue the point. Much as her, he's a light sleeper. He always had been. Although he had never gone to such lengths as to sleep with a knife under the rolled-up cloak that had often served him as a pillow, he had always slept lightly, ready to leap awake at a moment's notice and don his mask as easily as breathing. The noise from the storm alone might have been enough to wake him eventually.

His eyes hood when she carefully brushes his hair from his face; for a moment, it almost looks as though he might be inclined to go back to drifting – although as close as she is, she can no doubt feel the tension in him. There won't be any sleep until he works through whatever thoughts he's been mulling over.

"That is all the more reason not to wake you," Bedivere chuckles, although there's a self-conscious note to his voice. It lilts in the subtle nuances of his native Gaelic language; there's no reason when they're alone not to speak it, since she had all but given him permission to.

He seems more comfortable speaking that way than the Welsh he had taken such pains to master. In truth, he had almost forgotten his native language, and when he pauses speaking that way, it isn't so much to mull over his wording as it is to actually think of the words themselves.

The silver-haired knight bows his head over her, considering for a few minutes. His eyes droop until they're nearly closed, little more than slits of grey in the gloomy half-light; lit momentarily by another errant flash of lightning.

"I had been thinking the same thing," he murmurs. His eyes are distant as he considers the back of his left hand, as though memorising the details of that intricate trifold crest. "I am only sorry that my own shortcoming is causing you such trouble. I cannot bear to fail you in any way, my lady. I have done enough of that for one life."

His voice is soft, as though he were reluctant even to say that much. Too many nights, he's been forced to relive that old and familiar nightmare; forced to subject not only himself, but her as well, to his last memories of her as a mortal – of desperately trying to staunch her mortal wound, choking on the smoke of the battlefield; or of arranging her with such care on that otherworldly boat, hands trembling, throat raw from the smoke and his own uncontrollable, grief-stricken sobbing.

No. Just once did he fail her, but that was almost more than he could bear. He will not do it again if he has any choice in the matter, even if it forces him to do something that he might otherwise prefer to avoid. He turned his back on that life a long time ago, when he made his choice to remain in Camelot... but it's becoming obvious that he has no choice but to revisit that untrodden road.

He exhales softly, though his nose, eyes closing as his expression twists into one of mild, but persistent, frustration.

"I do not have a choice," he finally says, softly. "Resting like this is not enough to sustain you as you are now. I see the difference between what you can do now, and what you could do when Lady Tohsaka still had possession of these." He bares the back of his left hand, briefly, to indicate the seals. "This is not enough. What if we are attacked? What if you must use your power? As we are now, you have nothing to use, no reserve of energy to be tapped. It is like..." He trails off, struggling for an analogy. "Like the army who has brought all of his troops to the fore, without leaving any of them in reserve. And if your power is analogous to an army, then there are precious few troops to be wasted."

Sagging and lying on his back with a wince and a faint hiss of pain, he squints up at the canopy, although it's too dark to actually see the fabric. "Yet we could not have implored Lady Tohsaka to remain with the seals. It was too dangerous to her, and... it is my duty to protect you. I cannot help but feel that I am failing that duty." He shuts his eyes, resting an arm over his face, sighing a little harshly. "When I travelled to Camelot, I turned my back on my training as filidh. I knew there would be no going back to it."

"Truly," he murmurs from under his arm, "it did not bother me so much as I may have let on. A part of that was mere theatrics; a means to gain trust in a court that had no use for me. Although part of that was also not untrue, perhaps because I left my home, and no longer had a person to learn it from that I trusted as I did my father... Master Merlin was hardly an example to look to. I had always misliked him, and though he never led you astray in his counsel, I do not think I could ever trust him."

Bedivere falls silent for several moments, finally turning his head to regard her for a few long moments. It's questionable whether he can actually see her or not, but then again, he had always had keener perceptions than most. Perhaps he does see reasonably well in the dark. "I only hope it is not too late. I learned of lore and music at my father's knee, but I did not learn the other, more hidden arts of the filídh there. And I certainly did not learn anything when I chose to remain in Camelot. Who, then, would I seek out? Who would I trust as a tutor?"

"I know of only a few who would even be capable of offering such knowledge. There is Lady Aoko, whom I am not certain I trust. Something about her makes me ill at ease, aside from this." He gestures to his right shoulder with an irritable flick of his hand. "In fairness, that was not her doing, but I am not inclined to trust her so easily. Something about her... her aura... it feels like Master Merlin." His low voice suggests a certain discomfort with this. "It is curious, but I can find no explanation for it."

"There is also Master Loros, whom I have no doubt knows of such things, but I think I am even less inclined to trust him. He is dangerous. Of that I have no doubt. Truly, my lady, I do not even know what he is, for there is no hope that he is human." Sighing, he reaches up to rub at his face with his left hand. "And then there are our other allies, of the Union. But truth be told, I am not certain I trust many of them, either. They are well-meaning, but some of them... I do not know. You know more than anyone, my love; it is... difficult for me to trust."

That had been a point of pride, as marshal – he couldn't afford to trust anyone at face value, and perhaps the only person he had ever really, truly trusted was Arturia herself. As long as he had been responsible for her safety, that had been a survival skill as much as anything else, no matter how much it had been a conscious effort to put aside his inclination to trust. Yet somewhere along the line, it had transformed from conscious skill to unconscious reaction.

He reaches out, gently running his fingers through her hair again, expression peaceful but for the knit of his brow. "I... don't know what to do, my love..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Under more favourable circumstances, that touch would have been encouragement to return to sleep, soothing and gentle. But his distress was obvious to her; Arturia had known him long enough to recognise the signs. It came as no surprise to hear Bedivere lapse into the more familiar Gaelic, which now she could understand even without the mysterious translation effect. As it was, she could tell by the shift to a more lilting accent, the words taking on an almost musical quality.

Still, in those fifteen years in the court of Britain, he, his brother, and his cousin spoke Welsh almost exclusively. The only other language she had heard them speak was the common tongue of the Church and the vestiges of the Roman Empire, a necessity when more peaceful visitors came, speaking the the tongues of the Picts, the Gauls, the Franks, and the Arabians. After all those years and having effectively turned his back on those ways, it had come as a surprise that the memory of that tongue remained.

The flaxen-haired knight was glad that it had not been forgotten; speaking it obviously gave him some measure of comfort. And that was a part of him as much as his gentle nature.

At times, it was difficult to tell how much their nearly synchronised thinking was due to almost identical personalities or the more recent Master-Servant link. The shared dreams was naturally the latter, but mulling over the same problem had been frequent enough during her lifetime. It had been so frequent, in fact, that it was enough to send him out on certain missions without saying so much as a word. But doubtless, he could feel that weak link as well as she could, even without a frame of reference. She could not deny that he was her weakest Master in terms of power, and they both knew that. It pained her greatly that she was unable to argue that point.

No, the only point she could make was that this lack of strength was entirely due to a lack of training. That it could be changed, with enough practise. Otherwise, he would continue to blame himself for the waning of her own strength.

"It is not a permanent disadvantage," she offered with as much encouragement as she could muster. "Just as you had to struggle to overcome your disadvantages to become a knight, I believe that you can overcome this, as well."

But overcoming his discomfiture was one thing, finding a trustworthy magus capable of undertaking the necessary training and pushing past the current limits were other matters entirely. The Tohsaka sisters had been training almost since their birth; even a fraction of their abilities would demand years...perhaps years they didn't have. But then, Shirou – both versions of them – had likewise not been trained, either. As weak a Master as the first one apparently had been, he had effectively won his version of the Grail War. If they could just strengthen their bond a little, that might prove to be adequate enough.

However, that left the issue of a proper teacher, one who could earn their trust. Only the Tohsakas came to mind, but both knights were unwilling to put the two women back into harm's way, not to mention draw unwanted scrutiny from Clocktower. Sakura was finally out of harm's way; Arturia was not about to drag her back into it. It had been difficult enough dragging Bedivere into it – her preference of bearing all harm and hardship in place of others stubbornly persisted – but forgoing a Master had proven to be an impossibility.

Arturia suppressed a sigh. Winning a Grail War was one thing, and she was confident that Servants would generally pose little problem for her, Rider and Archer notwithstanding. Victory oft-times was not a matter of strength, but of tactics, and her marshal was a tactician without peer. Even Kiritsugu, with his rather underhanded methodology, was no match for Bedivere's prowess in the tactical realm. With their ability to communicate nonverbally and their likeness of mind and morality, her reduced power would have been merely an inconvenience in Heaven's Feel.

No, what concerned her were the far more powerful dangers of the multiverse, with strength matching that of the King of Heroes. Even with Sakura's incredible power fuelling her, Saber could not hope to match the arrogant hero-king in terms of strength. As she was now, without a considerable number of allies at her back, she would be crushed utterly if she was forced into that situation. And though Gilgamesh scoffed at the thought, there were creatures out there who certainly could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him...which meant that if they made themselves her opponents, her current state would prove far too weakened to hope to stand against them.

Moreover, he was right. She was forced to hold back, and if she had need of her full power, there was nothing in her reserves for a prolonged battle. Shifting, she lifted her own hand, studying her palm as if attempting to discern something from it. Mana was like her own lifeblood, though she could feel its subtle movement around her and even within herself. Merely the simple act of existing drained it, and there were none of the reserves she could draw upon as she had when bound to her previous Masters.

Arturia made a soft sound of agreement. "It is unfortunate, but...yes. Even were I to spend the entirety of the day resting, it would not be enough."

And she could hardly disagree with his apprehensive stance regarding her tutor. As much as she had been forced by her circumstances to rely on him, she too had never completely trusted the wizard. Merlin was far too mischievous, too much of an unknown. Even as someone who advised her and dealt with magical matters concerning king and kingdom, he could not truly be understood, like a force of nature itself. Yet, were the wizard here with them in the current era, asking him for help for Bedivere's sake would have overridden her pride.

But at his hope that it was not too late, the jade-eyed knight shook her head. "I do not believe so. Perhaps it would be were you seeking to match Merlin, but that is not your intent, my lord."

While others spoke of the wizard in more reverent terms and even occasionally with a title, Arturia spoke of him almost in the same way as she did Kay: an annoying elder brother. Some might warn her not to tempt fate so, but she had no expectations that he would suddenly appear before them.

Instead, what concerned the King of Knights were the other magic users who came to mind. The friendly, lively red-maned magus had not seemed too terribly bad, though the issues with spontaneous combustion made her less-than desirable. It would not be much benefit if their new home was reduced to cinders. The mysterious dark wizard of the Confederacy was not trustworthy by any means, even if Arturia did not already owe him a boon. And their various allies appeared to be reasonably trustworthy in her eyes, but ones such as the wisewoman from Uppsala practiced magic that she doubted was compatible with that of their own world; Saber sensed nothing in the way of magic circuits. That was also ignoring the fact that she would rather not have her marshal bleeding all over the place.

An involuntary sigh escaped her lips as she pondered the problem, only bringing that train of thought to a halt at the uncertainty in his voice as he admitted how difficult it was to trust anyone other than her. Arturia frowned slightly; as useful as that had been during her reign, he no longer needed to continue to be so slow to trust. Or perhaps, the better way to frame it was learn to trust others besides her.

Lifting her hand to cover his with the lightest touch, there didn't seem to be an adequate way to reassure him. Nevertheless, she had to at least try. "I trust you, my love...whatever decision you make, I will support it with all my being."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even when he wears that old familiar mask, it's difficult for Bedivere to hide his distress from Arturia. Once upon a time, he had trained himself until it had been as easy as breathing, but now that those masks have fallen away, he finds it's one of the most difficult things for him to do. She knows him, just as he knows her; to hide even the little signs takes more care and effort than it's worth – and even then, it rarely succeeds.

Perhaps it is somewhat surprising that he's remembered his Gaelic roots after all this time. Even so, it's obvious that he has to think back and remember the wording, or that he's fairly uncertain speaking that way. The lilt is the same, though.

He seems to consider her words for a few long moments. What he might think of them, though, it's hard to say. Although he doesn't reveal his thoughts in either in words or in their unspoken manner, his tension suggests an undercurrent of discomfort.

He recognises her attempt to encourage him, even though she doesn't sound completely convinced. With a faint smile, he reaches out to curl his left arm around her. His words are thoughtful; slow. "Perhaps not, but it may be a fatal disadvantage. We do not have the time to waste in training, for me. But thank you, all the same. I was to be a filidh, but I left that behind many years ago."

"Isn't it strange, how fate returns to us the things we had thought forgotten? I had made peace with that choice, when I had told my father of my decision to remain in Camelot. I knew then that I would never learn the way of the filídh, other than what I had already learned." He sighs, softly. The hand he'd curled around her moves trails lightly along her side, but he doesn't seem to be aware of the comforting gesture – whether comfort for her or for him, though, it's hard to say. His eyes, when another flash from outside lights them, are hooded and almost entirely unfocused.

"Even if I had learned those arts, though... would I have made a skillful Master? There seems to be a great deal of difference between the filídh of Dál Riata, and the magi of the modern era. I am not always certain of what those differences are, myself..."

He falls silent, long enough to hear her soft noise of agreement, and her observation.

"There it is." Bedivere sighs, the sound one of disappointment. "What, then, if you had to unleash your full potential as a Servant? Without enough to supply you, would you not just... fade away?" He sounds pained at the mere idea of that; his arm tightens around her, faintly, and he bows his head over her. "I... I could not bear that, my love..." His voice sinks into a whisper, little more than a warm breath over her shoulders. "I do not know that I could survive losing you a second time. I—I know I could not."

He exhales again, slow and calm, tucking his face over the top of her head; breathing in her scent. He had never noticed that, in Camelot, surrounded by steel and distance as they were. Now, it's something pleasant that he looks forward to when they retire for the evening – subtle, but with a hint of that light, rosy scent of the shampoo she's taken to using. She might feel him sigh through her hair, snorting in fleeting amusement at that stubborn, flyaway lock.

"Master Merlin? No, I could not seek to match him. I only wish to use these properly." He twists his hand, momentarily baring the command seals. Shaking his head, he ignores the way his hair spills over his shoulder, unbound; or the way his right shoulder complains at him for moving just so. "Merely to ensure that you need not ever hold yourself back as you are now. To ensure that, when you need strength, you shall have it... and it will not be a threat to your existence, or to me."

He's always found the idea vaguely distasteful, though perhaps not quite as distasteful as he may have let on in Camelot. There's no question of it; witchcraft makes him uncomfortable. To him, it represents the unknown. It's thoroughly beyond his knowledge. In fact, the only experience he's had with it was Merlin's allusions and his smoke and mirrors, which was hardly a reassurance, and most likely quite different from the arts of the filídh, anyway.

He closes his eyes at that reassuring touch, affecting the faintest smile at her words. There's still a slight troubled undercurrent, but it doesn't seem quite as bad as it had been; enough to rouse him from sleep.

"I know." His voice is soft, softer even than usual. "And that means everything to me. Knowing that I have your support... I cannot tell you what it means to me, my love. Oh, I had had your support in Camelot. I knew that without words – but..." He seems to have some trouble articulating exactly what it is he means, struggling silently with his words.

"That was different," he finally finishes, somewhat lamely. "We were never free to support one another so closely. It was a different kind of support. An unspoken agreement. Now, we are free to support one another as openly as we wish, and I... still cannot quite believe it," he confesses, with an almost self-conscious chuckle. "I wonder sometimes if I am dreaming, still; lost in that weald. Or perhaps I've dreamt it all, and we have only just finished the last battle against the Saxons. Perhaps I'm still delirious." He shakes his head, faintly. "But I know that isn't true, either. It just seems so..."

He sighs, trying to express something that can't be expressed fully, or adequately, in words; exhaling softly in what isn't quite a sigh. Those violet eyes fall to regard her almost thoughtfully, as though he were mulling something of great importance over. Whatever it is, it seems almost troubling to him, but it must be something he considers important. Gradually that undercurrent of discomfort fades, as though he were reaching, or maybe convincing himself of, a decision.

Ignoring the twinge of pain in his right arm, he offers a half-smile to her that's almost apologetic; seconds before he leans forward, gently and almost hesitantly pressing his lips to hers.

Without mead dissolving his poor mind, the gesture is much more graceful, and careful, than it had been previously.

Yet he remembers that night, however dimly. He remembers being mortified that he'd been so bold – but he had also remembered that some part of him had even enjoyed that clumsy first kiss, new as it had been. That he perhaps wouldn't mind doing it again, if he could ever find the courage... and now, it seems he has. Well, mostly. There's a moment or two where he has no doubt she can hear his heart thundering or feel the way he trembles slightly.

He smiles that painfully shy, awkward smile, the one she seems to hold so dear.

"Thank you, my love." This time, his voice is a definite whisper, throat dry from his own nerves. He doesn't trust his voice to hold steady. "Your support... it means everything to me, now and ever. Just as... just as you mean everything to me."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had become somewhat accustomed to allowing her mask to slip slightly, revealing something of the emotions which lay beneath it. Yet, it had never come so completely and utterly down since she had been reunited with the Left Hand of the King. At present, she could only maintain it in the presence of others, and only for so long. In the presence of someone who knew her so completely, however, the effort had proved utterly useless.

But strangely, it was not something she regretted, or felt shame over. Perhaps she should have, given both her past and simple propriety, but for some reason there never seemed to be any particular shame in not hiding herself when they were alone. While there might have been some lingering guilt over burdening him, at the same time that had been a wish of his that she had granted. Was it really something to be ashamed of, to take comfort in something which another wanted, as well?

Perhaps the king should have always been alone, but Britain was gone, and she was no longer the king. To have someone at her side in this way...surely is couldn't be wrong, not now. It was not the guilt which gave her pause; it was the decided lack of it. It was almost terrifying how quickly things had simply happened, the quirk of precise circumstances notwithstanding.

Likewise, it seemed the right thing to do to encourage him in acknowledging his roots once again, having hid them for so long. It was little more than a coincidence that she wanted to know more about him, what had shaped his life before his arrival in Camelot. Her loss of power was a small price to pay for being able to speak his language without the use of the multiverse's translation effect.

It was not a rational thing to wish for by any means, not to mention more than a little dangerous. In the past, such an irrational influence would have troubled her greatly; it compromised both her combat prowess and her ultimate goals. oddly, now the flaxen-haired knight considered that it likewise lent her a curious strength.

Words from another potential Servant came to mind, a bard so deft that the people praised him even now, who adored writing of love's irrational nature:

"Ay me, for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth. . . ."

It took her a moment to realise she had quoted out-loud – possibly because she was still quite tired – and dropped her forehead against his chest, as if to hide her reaction...which was, of course, precisely what she was doing. He was going to ask about that, more than likely.

She nearly scolded Bedivere as he shifted to curl his arm around her, no doubt aggravating his injuries. It was with unspoken guilt that she admitted to herself that she did rather like the sensation, the warmth, and inhaling his scent. Castille soap, as always; so subtle that it was almost non-existent. Arturia really had little in the way of willpower to resist, and refrained from speaking, content where she was. She still worried over him, of course, but the fact that he had even made that effort surely meant that what comfort he took from that gesture in turn outweighed the pain.

She still hated when he was in pain, however.

Instead, she remained silent, mulling over his words. Returning to old paths, the seeming circular road of destiny...that, too, as something William seemed fond of weaving into his writing. The jade-eyed knight had never thought on the subject for long, but there had always seemed to be the question that every choice they made had, in fact, been destined. Even if she had chosen not to take a certain action, the threads of fate would have accounted for that and woven themselves accordingly.

Arturia had firmly rejected that, refusing to believe that Camelot was simply destined to fall. It had been her duty to save her people and protect her kingdom regardless of the cost to herself. Where her marshal had given everything to defend the people, she had given everything to defend the kingdom. That was something she had never regretted, only that she had failed. Just as he would never regret his personal decisions regardless of the cost to his person, that self-sacrifice – almost to the point of a complete lack of self-worth – neither would his king. At least, not until their reunion.

Becoming a tool of her Master had not especially bothered the King of Knights; was she not a merely a tool of her own kingdom, an empty vessel of their dreams? She had buried her feelings not simply to achieve impartiality. There could be little of her own personality to fulfil her proper role. Her failure – the fall of her kingdom – had been because she could not, in fact, set herself completely aside. Or so she had always believed. That core of her was delicate and weak, and it was her inability to purge it and her lack of strength to carry Britain to Utopia when had led to its fall.

In the present, Bedivere seemed to struggle with much of the same thing. Instead of bearing the weight of a kingdom, however, he now bore the weight of a Servant, the weight of her existence. it had been a terrible thing to ask of him, regardless of how practical it was. The point of ancient filídh and modern magi was a good one; had he completed his training, it was possible that the violet-eyed knight would have been a magus to rival the Tohsakas. But then...he would never have had a reason to become a Master.

She shifted enough so that she could look up at him, lifting her hand to his hair, weaving her fingers through the shorter locks framing his face. "I will be careful, in the future," she reassured him. Now, she had a reason not to disregard herself. She had someone who valued her as a person, rather than as a saviour and king. Someone to live for, who she could not bear to be the cause of his suffering. Not again.

"All is not lost. I believe it would not be a waste, to resume at least some training in part." It was not, she admitted, the best of encouragement, but it was a start.

Arturia found herself chewing on her lower lip slightly. She needed no special insight to hear the pain in his voice; Bedivere had said in no uncertain terms how her death had all but killed him, not in body but in spirit. She had never wished to bind a man so, yet now that she knew, she could never turn him away. More than anything, he was – now and forever – her first priority.

"You shall not have to bear that burden again," she replied with determination. She now knew how he would grieve, and she would not allow it again. Not now, when she finally understood what she meant to him...and what he meant to her. "I shall not fade, I swear to you."

As much as his unbound hair appeared to irritate him, the petite knight found that she was actually rather fond of it. No, she admitted to herself with not a little embarrassment. Not fond. She found herself mysteriously attracted to him like that. It was more than a little irritating how she discovered such things when there were more important matters to consider. "Few Masters in this era are truly capable of providing the magical power that Excalibur demands," she admitted.

It might have been that she was able to accept magic more readily simply because her entire life had been shaped by it. But then again, she had resented things out of her control, and there was always a part of magic which would not bend to her will. "It might be just as well...I should not depend on such things as much as I have in the past. I should rely more on my own strength and skill."

Nevertheless, that was easier said than done.

It was true that they could rely on each other absolutely when they had merely been king and marshal. As distant as they had been, as much as they had hidden their true feelings – to say nothing of their requited love – to one another, they had nevertheless bridged that chasm in small ways. She had never doubted his loyalty, and she was the only one he trusted completely. It had lent them both strength, even if they could not draw on its full potential due to their respective positions.

But now...

"Aye," she agreed, though more somberly. For her, this truly was a dream; her true body lay dying beneath the oak, awaiting that moment when she would die in his arms. No, she would make this dream last until the end of his own days. Then, should she return, she could reassure him that he would be reunited with her again across space and time, and live a life he dared not dream of. His continuation of the dream would only just be beginning.

Or perhaps they would find the Throne of Heroes, the legendary paradise...though at this moment, Arturia could not imagine any other than what they now had. Though lacking in perfection, though subtly flawed, the little king could not imagine anything closer to the utopia she had dreamed of.

She was about to be proven wrong.

For a fleeting moment she was surprised that he had worked up the courage without the assistance of mead, her mind reeling. But it was not unpleasant by any means. In fact, a guilty part of her buried deep within herself had been hoping he would eventually find the courage once more, but while sober. Not more than a few times she had wanted to for her part, but feared being so bold would spook him like a frightened deer. No, she had to wait for him to go at his own pace, but she was more than willing to do so.

After that single nervous heartbeat, he would find her returning his light kiss. He might be able to sense that his own nervousness was reflected in hers...nervousness, and yet a sort of relief. It was as if she had been granted permission to be so close to him, to no longer be forced to hide her true feelings. They could both still act as proper knights, still serve the people and embody the virtues. This one thing they had for themselves...surely it wasn't wrong? It was all right to acknowledge that he held a special place in her heart that no other would.

"And you..." she whispered, no less shyly. "You...are everything to me, my love..."

It was not knightly, certainly not the proper thing for a king to say or even think. But it would be more shameful to lie. She had finally found the strength to admit to herself just what he meant to her.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Likewise, the marshal had slowly grown used to the idea that it was alright to let his mask down from time to time. His guarded nature had carried through into the multiverse, but there were still times that even he could relax his cool, aloof front. There were even some among his allies he could call friend, although he was still somewhat hesitant, but in time that wariness would fade. That old, familiar mask, though... no, he could never assume that again. Not as he had before.

Although he sometimes seems to struggle over letting that mask down, the reality is simple enough – there's no way he can't, at least not in her presence. It's as well that she had exercised such vicious self-control over herself in Camelot, and maintained that distance. If she had bridged that chasm, he couldn't have maintained his own impartiality. Indeed, it's as well that he had stayed away from anything even remotely alcoholic. He knew even then that there would have been no holding himself back; that the secret he carried was too great for him to contain if he had compromised himself in any way.

Gradually, he's come to accept that there's no turning back. Less gradual, though, is his acceptance that he doesn't want to turn back. He's not certain if he could maintain the stifling isolation that he had once imposed on himself. For the entirety of her reign, for more years than he even wants to count, he had lived his life alone. There had been an implicit understanding between them, and that had eased some of the loneliness; but at the end of the day, he had been alone.

Yet there is no more Britain. There are no more contentious nobility to be satisfied or dissatisfied by his actions. He has no need of maintaining that crippling impartiality as he once did, and what he does maintain seems more out of rote than out of actual desire to. As she had once observed, he was never quite that kind of person naturally, and it seems that maintaining that front is more of a tactical manoeuvre than it is the desire to distance himself.

Not with her, though. Never around her. Now that he's come to know what it is not to bear that solitude, he knows he can never return to it.

When she quotes that poetry, he cants his head slightly to one side in puzzlement, resting it over her head in turn when she hides her face against his chest. Although he doesn't say anything, he does make a faint, questioning noise; likely felt as much as heard with how close she is to him.

After all, that legendary bard had come after his time. He did not have a Servant's instinctive knowledge of such things – or the time she's had to study the modern era and its history, and the subsequent years between her mortal life and her summoning.

Likewise, the marshal seems resistant to the notion that Camelot was destined to fail and crumble. Somehow it cheapens everything they had stood for, that they had fought for; that they had ultimately bled and died for. Even less acceptable to him, that would have meant her death would have been inexorable, no matter his actions or his desperation to save her.

Although she had ultimately succumbed to her wounds, he had long harboured some twisted kind of hope that perhaps if things had been different, perhaps if he had fought his way to her side sooner, she might not have perished.

To say that Camelot would have fallen was to dash those hopes. In his eyes, she was Camelot. It was so much of the reason he had been privately glad that he had never found its ruins again after the Battle of Camlann. Returning there without the king would have been nothing more than hollow gesture. What would he have salvaged? Burnt ruins and a few frightened souls hiding amongst the rubble? He was no king. He could not inspire them as she had. Even worse, every day would have been a reminder of the great, gaping hole in his heart where she should have been; and in time, that terrible emptiness would have devoured him, more surely and quickly than the hard living and service that had already been slowly killing him.

No, he couldn't accept that inevitability. Their sacrifices and their suffering would have been for naught.

His eyes slowly drift closed as she runs her fingers through his hair, dipping his head to lean into her touch. He seems to take comfort from that simple gesture as much as she seems to take pleasure in being able to express it, exhaling softly in what isn't quite a sigh.

"No. All is not lost." His voice is soft, tightening his arm around her in comforting gesture. "It is not for you to hold yourself back if you have need of your strength. If I am to be your Master, then it is my responsibility to train myself, and to ensure that you have what strength when you have need of it... for if you have need of such reserves," he reasons, "surely the situation must be dire."

He smiles faintly at her oath, though, not to fade.

"I will be your strength, my lady, no matter how long it may take me to train myself." His voice is soft, little more than a whisper as he rests his head over hers. "This I promise you. I will support you as I did in Camelot. It is well to depend on one's own expertise and training, but there will be times that strength will be needed. And I would not see you short of it when there is a true need for it."

That strength may mean the difference between innocent lives suffering, and he will not be responsible for such a failure and oversight in the chivalric virtues. It is his duty to protect the innocent. He would never willingly neglect that. He couldn't. Of the knight-aspirants he'd trained alongside, he had been the least likely candidate for knighthood; but he had taken on the chivalric virtues with such dedication that they're as natural to him as breathing. He could no more turn his back on them than he could turn his back on Arturia.

All thoughts of duty, however, are neatly swept aside – she might feel him tense as she returns that kiss, but he doesn't withdraw; doesn't shy away. Perhaps he still trembles like a frightened deer, but he does not flee.

His head slowly bows over her, the ends of his long, silvery-blonde hair a persistent tickle where it falls. She might feel him draw in a deep breath, and then another; letting them go slowly as though to calm himself and ease that trembling. That masterful self-control he had once shown in Camelot feels so far away.

Instead of responding to her statement with his own words, he just smiles. This time, it isn't shy and awkward. It's warm, and in a way, it seems just as relieved. It says without words all the affection, all the relief and warmth he feels.

His left arm tightens around her, drawing her in close; his head bows over her, content just to hold her, as though he were relieved at the last of these walls to come down. Not even in his wildest, most improbable dreams could he have thought this would ever come to pass. Indeed, he had in some ways stopped dreaming after Camlann. He had gone through the weald by sheer rote, functioning more like an automation than a human being. He'd felt nothing, and he knows, without doubt, that he never wants to live like that again.

"I will never leave you again, my lady." He breathes the words into her hair, and she might feel the tell-tale dampness of what could only be a tear. This time, though, it seems one of relief; not anguish. "I will do what must needs be done to restore to you your strength. But I will not do this only out of a sense of duty. I..." Bedivere pauses, as though struggling with the words, eyes hooding. "I do this not only because it is my duty to you, as Master, as knight and Left Hand and marshal, but because I want to."

Bowing his head further, he seems to hesitate for a moment before brushing his lips to the side of her neck, as he had done when he had been under the mead's influence – only less clumsy, this time. The gesture is gentle, slow; almost hesitant, as though he were still afraid of too much boldness on his part. The notion that he might scare her off somehow is a foolish one, but one he can't seem to let go of.

"Aye." He just smiles, shaking his head faintly. "I will face this, too. I will seek training. So long as I have your support, there is nothing I cannot face." A foolish and foolishly optimistic view, perhaps, but it's how he feels. It would be shameful to lie, indeed – and knowing that the last of their walls are crumbling fills him with a strange lightness; a strange, almost giddy sort of optimism.

That fades, but only slightly. "I will seek out training soon. As much as I am loathe to admit it, I believe Master Loros may be the wisest choice. If I can frame my request in as specific a manner as possible, I believe I can minimise the danger of indebting myself to him." Ignoring the twinge of pain from his right shoulder, or the way his right hand trembles unsteadily, he pulls her close and nuzzles into the side of her neck with a tired, if pleased, sound. "He has seen my command seals, and he recognises them. It may be that he knows enough to instruct me properly in this matter... dangerous as it is, I do not think there are any other alternatives. I do not trust Lady Aoko, and there no others I can think of who would be knowledgeable."

His eyes drift half-closed, and she might feel him smile against her neck. "For now, though... thank you, my lady," he murmurs. "For..."

He doesn't clarify what, trailing off, but she can likely imagine – for everything. For saving him, although he hadn't realised he'd needed saving; even though he would have gone down a self-destructive path without her intervention. Most importantly, for her love. He could fix no price to such a thing, and if it took him to the same conclusion, he would gladly endure the suffering he had endured up until this point.

"Thank you," he finishes instead, somewhat lamely, eyes finally drifting closed.

That was not what I meant to say, his quiet sigh seems to say. So be it.

Silence passes for a few moments – and then she might feel more than see his sudden blush; heat at his face, as though he had just considered something.

"That was... not the first time I had kissed you," he confides quietly. "But it was the first time I had done so consciously." That is to say, not hopelessly drunk. She might feel him smile, again; and even by feel it's that shy, awkward one. "I..." His voice seems terribly small when he speaks again, as though he were hesitant to speak at all. "I must confess, my lady, that I rather enjoyed it..."

This time, there's no mistaking the flush as he buries his face into her neck, as though to hide. Nor could she miss the embarrassed chuckle he gives; little more than a wash of warm breath over her neck and shoulder.

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights still needed that mask in tense situations, and its uses remained vital many times, but no longer did she have need of it every waking hour. She had never dared allow the slightest crack in it to remain, lest the people begin to doubt, or enemies find a way to subjugate her rule. True camaraderie and companionship had been sacrifices for that rule, and perhaps she could live vicariously though the people she protected. If not, then at least knowing that they lived their lives would suffice.

But no longer. Those people were long gone, the kingdom only a memory. Having failed to become utopia, Camelot instead became merely a legend, for many, not unlike an Eden lost. Yet, it had never been a paradise, not to the king who had given her life to create that paradise. Her own loneliness was a price she had paid. Only, now she could not go back to that time, even if she were offered a choice. She could not sacrifice some lives to save others, and she could no longer isolate herself as she once had.

Not ever since Arturia had found him again, refused to throw away this second chance, and granted him the wish to see the true expressions of the king. And before she realised it, she had granted a deeper wish, one so well-hidden that she could not have possibly guessed at it. There was no turning back after that point. She didn't want there to be, as guilty as she sometimes found herself feeling over it. Yet, she didn't have the strength to turn him away, even if she had thought it might have been for the best.

It took some time for her to realise that it would not have been. Did they not work together more efficiently now more than ever? They had always worked together on such a level that it had mystified allies and foes alike; with their new bonds and their defences cast aside, that synchronisation mystified even her. The elaborate command seal – far more intricate than what I typical Master would bear – was a clear sign of that.

It had been a peculiar thing; upon finding out that Saber was a Briton of the ancient past – respectively to the era she had found herself in, at any rate – many seemed eager to throw the sea of contemporary culture at her. When particularly on the subject of her own legend, it caused her no end of consternation, though some of it was not unpleasant in spite of the awkwardness of the subject. She had taken a particular liking to Tennyson, for some reason.

Yet, there was one particular Bard who had ascended to the Throne, whose works the little king was already somewhat familiar with as a result of the Grail. But it was only after Unification that Arturia had found the time to read those works in full. Naturally, her marshal would be wholly unfamiliar with them. "Ah...forgive me. The works of a bard – a writer of plays, mostly – who frequently wrote of the illogical nature of love..."

It was an admission that earned a slight flush of her face; the way in which they both referred to each other and their new relationship continued to be roundabout, never outright speaking of it in direct terms. Arturia could never seem to bring herself to, for fear of causing the silver-haired knight a panic attack. For now, oblique references were the most comfortable way. Still, she reasoned, she should find the courage sooner or later to say it forthright.

Somewhat stubbornly, the flaxen-haired knight-king refused to think of their destiny as inevitable, if unchangeable. Many continued to speak so reverently of her legend – and those of the Knights of the Round Table – but it was too bitter a pill to swallow that inspiration was the only thing to have come of their struggles. She had never been content to merely consider her duty fulfilled upon her death, having begged God for a chance to save her kingdom. She had come so close to realising that wish, only to discover that the Holy Grail had become tainted, and that any wish it would grant would likewise be tainted and come at a further cost.

Letting it go had, in some ways, been an act of despair. It had only been through saving others in the multiverse that she might have felt even partially redeemed, though her part in the destruction of Annu had undone what little she had been able to save. At times, it seemed that only destruction ever followed her wake. And now, she feared inadvertently destroying the person she cared for most, even if he had willingly put himself in that position. And it seemed that the only way to protect him was through magus training.

It was true that Arturia had always maintained some level of reservation even when she had been bound to more powerful Masters. Part of that had been the necessary caution most Servants exercised to keep their true identities concealed, and even so much as releasing the Bounded Field of the Wind King from Excalibur would have revealed her instantly. But she was also reluctant to use the full power of the holy sword; it was draining even for a magus like Sakura, who possessed more than ample reserves for such a thing.

"Such occasions have been rare," she tried to reassure him, slipping her fingers through the hair spilling over his shoulder. "It would be as you say, a reserve."

It might have been that holding back that power was a chance to redeem herself, to not use such destructive power. Even when it had been necessary, the fact remained that Excalibur was a weapon which could decimate an entire army. Its full power was completely unsuitable when there were any potential bystanders, and as such the Noble Phantasm was not a force to use for anything other than the most dire of situations.

A faint, nearly inaudible sigh escaped her lips. It was hardly fair to make him endure that burden, just as much as she had made him endure those he had in Camelot. But as reluctant as she was, Arturia no longer insisted on trying to bear such burdens on her own. It would have been an insult to his conviction and strength of will to refuse, regardless of the fact that she needed a Master. She had an obligation now to live for his sake.

"I place my trust in you," she replied quietly. Perhaps it would have been strange to the ears of another to hear her pledge her trust so formally, especially in that moment. But it was something she had never done in Camelot, to make such a vow so openly. She had always trusted Bedivere, but as the king, she had still kept something in reserve to shield him with. Yet as worried as she was, the greatest honour she could think of bestowing upon him was to allow him to act as her shield.

Even if she was going to continue to fuss over him when he was inevitably injured in battle. Perhaps they needed some training time to hopefully lessen the times that would happen.

A part of her worried that she was going to scare him off by responding. Already she could feel the trembling, how he fought to maintain control over himself rather than bolt. Yet, he might just sense her own faint trembling, as well as the thundering of her own heart and the deep flush of her face. Not a trace of the cold, aloof king was to be found, replaced by a deceptively vulnerable young woman; and anyone would be hard-pressed to reconcile the two sides of her. However, the boldness her admission had demanded something of both; the courage of the knight-king and the gentleness of the simple peasant girl.

The motivations of duty and loyalty were ones she understood instinctively. The jade-eyed knight had lived her life driven by them, enduring everything for the sake of her duty and the loyalty to her country and to her people. But it was quite another thing entirely to be motivated for the sake of a specific person. Her arms tightened around him slightly in unspoken response, understanding how strange it would be for him, as well. Bedivere was every bit as duty-bound and loyal as she, but theirs was no longer simply the bond of loyal knight and king.

It might not have been the first time he had done such a thing, but previously, the influence of mead had emboldened him at the cost of grace. It had been a sweet, but clumsy thing, and she had been focused almost entirely on encouraging him to sleep it off. But this time, it was wholly different, and so too was her reaction.

Partly because she had not been expecting it and had had no time to steel herself, but partly because it was such a gentle, light thing that the effect was greatly intensified. Her body reacted before her mind could, and he would hear a sharp gasp – a rapid intake of breath almost as if she was in pain – and a sudden tensing of her body. Yet, if he tried to pull away, he would have found the task difficult with her hands clutching his tunic in an iron grasp.

Suddenly, she found her face buried in his tunic once more, her ears burning with a bright red. For the moment, she was much too embarrassed over her reaction to dare look at him or say anything. to say nothing of her confusion over why she reacted the way she had.

That giddiness, that possibly naive sort of optimism was infectious, and Arturia found herself smiling back. She couldn't help it, really. Hope had been such a difficult thing to come by for a very long time. It was not until the last four months that she had felt it on a regular basis.

He was right, though Arturia's misgivings remained. Already, she owed the dark wizard one boon already. Though granted of his own will, it was nevertheless a kindness and she was honour-bound to treat it as such. "Perhaps...challenge him to a game of chess, where, should you win, he shall teach you some of the workings of magic." Most likely, the marshal had already considered that.

"Lady Aoko is an ally, but I fear that her abilities do not lend themselves well to instruction," she admitted ruefully. Her power was entirely too destructive, even if such a thing was no fault of her own. No, for the moment it would seem the dangerous wizard was their best option. At the very least, he adhered to the old laws.

As he thanked her, expressing what he felt as best he could, Arturia remained silent, slipping her fingers through his unbound hair. He need not have thanked her, as saving him had given her a renewed purpose, and given back to her more than she could ever hope to express gratitude for. Moreover, he had given her a gift beyond any measure or price. Something she had never dared dream for herself, something she had sacrificed for her kingdom.

No, there was only one way she could convey the true depth of her emotions.

As she mulled over how exactly to express it, she felt a subtle warmth. It did not take much to figure out from what, though she couldn't see it. It had been clear that he had remembered what had happened following the céilidh; there had been more than enough embarrassments to indicate it.

"I-I...did, as well," she admitted with an impressive blush of her own. "Though, I preferred this time much more..."

He might feel her fidget slightly, summoning up her courage as he had only moments before. "The...the truth is...I..."

She took a short, calming breath. He deserved to know. "The truth is...I love you."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if the blush was ever going to leave her face.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Once, on a warm summer night not so long ago, they had compared their reunion to the end of a long and arduous journey. He had endured hell in every sense of the word; he would endure it again if it meant to be here by her side, as he is now. There could have been no greater fate for him than this; to be reunited with the king he had served and loved from afar so faithfully, for all those years, and to not only be given second chance at her side – but to be given the opportunity to show and act on his true feelings.

True feelings. For so long, he had almost forgotten what those were. He had spent years ruthlessly stifling the things he had felt, and ensuring that no trace remained to betray the outside world. So cold and stoic had the gentle young man become as he grew and trained that he would never be remembered as the shy, slightly awkward youth of Dál Riata that he had once been. Indeed, so perfect was his mask and his disguise that none even remembered that he hailed from that northern kingdom.

He had done his work all too well. To be given the opportunity to undo some of that work, and to return to what he had once been is a treasure beyond words. Yet to be able to do that in her presence... he could fix no value to how precious it is to him.

When she flushes and stutters her apology and explanation about the poetry, he only chuckles at her response. There's nothing wrong with appreciation of literature, although such a thing wasn't so accessible in their day. Such things were more readily passed on through oral traditions. Had he not been so bogged down in his duties, he might have shown more of an appreciation for such things, himself.

Now that he need not worry about Camelot any more, though, he's slowly been exploring the arts, and returning to the roots he had been forced to turn his back on. Music is in his blood, no matter how much he had once been forced to shun it.

"Rare, but no less crucial when they are needed." His protest is half-hearted, though, and Bedivere finds his eyes drifting to half-mast.

That simple gesture of slipping her fingers through his hair soothes him. It's relaxing enough that he seems content to let the matter go. He trusts her judgment absolutely. If she believes she can resolve a critical situation without resorting to the awe-inspiring power of Excalibur, he trusts her to her word.

Yet, even so, he's never seen her wield that power as a Servant. Caliburn and later Excalibur had been terrible weapons as a mortal. He cannot fathom what kind of power they would represent as she is now, even in her weakened state. She still far surpasses the limits of a mortal.

Certainly his own limits. Of that he has no doubt. He's seen her wield only a fraction of her power in sparring, and she had put him down with ease.

He draws back to look at her when she gives her pledge. For a moment he almost seems to tremble, as though he were just beginning to understand the enormity of her pledge. Never before had she spoken those words openly. In Camelot, their loyalty to one another had always been implicit out of necessity, unspoken but understood. So too was her safety a duty he had always assumed, so much so that twice he had succumbed to an almost inhuman rage when she had been threatened; when he had faced the possibility of losing her. Yet to have that unspoken duty confirmed, and accepted by her – to be able to do that – is enough to make him tremble in awe.

Awe, perhaps, in the purest sense – reverence, and even a little hint of fear at the sheer enormity of it, which she seems resolved to try and soothe. He draws in a breath when she tightens her arms around him, eyes falling closed for a moment as he struggles to find that famed calm.

Her reaction, though, is cause for concern. Before he can react she draws in a sharp breath and clutches at his tunic, as though for her very life. So tight is her grip that he can't pull away. All he wants to do is look down at her, suddenly worried for her, but he can't even do that... and just as quickly, she hides her face as though in embarrassment or shame, scarlet to the tips of her ears.

"I am here, my love," he whispers in concern. His hand gently strokes her hair, just as she does for him through his nightmares. He whispers in his own tongue, rather than Welsh: Tha mi an seo, mo cridhe. He allows himself a tenuous smile when she shows her own, though, and seems to accept that she's alright.

That smile is an expression he once never would have thought to see on her face, in Camelot, yet more and more he finds himself eager to see that radiant smile. It's more precious to him than any silver or gold.

He considers in silence as she discusses her own misgivings about Loros. They're misgivings he shares, and so he offers no answer, at least not in words. She would have no trouble sensing his agreement.

"Chess? Mm. A good option," he muses, "though I do not know that I could succeed. He is not human, of that I'm nearly certain. I doubt he thinks like a human." His good shoulder rolls in a shrug. "Perhaps there were none in Camelot who could defeat me, save Master Merlin, but the multiverse is an entirely different beast..."

It wouldn't surprise him if Loros were a frighteningly good chess player. He seems the sort, cunning and more thoughtful than he lets on, and in unexpected ways. The Good Lord only knows how many centuries the pact-mage has had to practise, or what he really is. Bedivere isn't certain he really wants to know the truth of any of that. In this case it's easier not to know.

As to Aoko, he definitely offers no response. He's in full agreement there. She would only be a danger to the people of Dun Realtai, and the structures they've worked so hard to rebuild.

Slowly, his eyes slide nearly closed as she runs her fingers through his hair; eventually, they do close, and he leans into her touch with evident relish. It seems such a foolish thing to draw such pleasure from, but it's soothing, and he's had so little of such solace in his life. Especially that it comes from her. Face buried against the side of her neck, he seems content to remain there, so long as she doesn't stop those fingers running gently through his hair.

She might feel as much as hear an embarrassed chuckle in response to her agreement, though. What a fool he'd been, to try mead after a lifetime of never drinking anything so much as wine-flavoured watered. Surely, he had reasoned at the time, it would be manageable. His willpower had always been superb. He had met his match with the mead, though.

When she starts to fidget a little, he slowly pulls himself up, blinking a little owlishly at her stuttering start.

He stares at her almost blankly when she gives her confession, as though he didn't hear or understand. In fact, he looks at her long enough that she might be a little self-conscious thanks to her own nerves – but no, he had understood. The colour creeping into his face betrays his acknowledgement.

Bedivere tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry. Once more, lightning illuminates him; he sits up to look at her, but in spite of his nerves, his expression is calm. Indeed, as their eyes readjust, she might even notice that he's smiling gently even through his blush. The expression looks strangely relieved.

Slowly, so slowly one might think he were handling glass, Bedivere reaches out to slip both arms around her. There's a slight hiss as the movement jostles his right shoulder, but he ignores it, stifling his wince of pain. His arms tighten around her with an almost desperate strength, although he's still mindful on some level not to hurt her.

He simply holds her close, head bowing until he rests it almost at her neck again. His breath hitches in that tell-tale way, but there's no familiar trace of dampness and heat suggestive of tears. Perhaps he has none left, or perhaps he's controlling himself through some superb effort of will.

Once he's mastered himself, he draws back to watch her in silence. Gradually a smile touches his face. It's a soft expression, despite how it broadens; eloquent beyond words with the very same sentiment she'd just put voice to.

Gently as handling fine-spun glass, Bedivere leans forward, closing the distance between them.

His kiss is as gentle as his last had been, but there's less of embarrassment in it and more of confidence this time, as though her words had given him some kind of permission; lent him courage. This time he allows himself to linger, gently, with all the tenderness and warmth he chooses not to put to words. It's a long moment before he draws away. He doesn't go far, bowing his head and resting his cheek against hers, rather than hiding his face against her shoulder like he's tempted to do. Gradually, his eyes slide closed, and when he speaks, his voice is no more than a whisper. Where he finds the courage to speak, he doesn't know.

"My people have always known there is power in words. The filídh, the bards, are the closest thing we have to magicians. Among my people, their words are magic." He draws in a breath and lets it go slowly, as though to calm his own nerves. "But those words from you... they are greater and more powerful to me than any magic, my love. No. Arturia," he corrects himself, quietly. He can feel his face burning for the wild impropriety of all this, but at the same time – it feels right.

Instinct wins over duty, this time. He continues on in a tone more even than he feels. "You had not studied the tongues of the northern lands, or the magic of the filídh. Yet... your words are as magic, to me. Magic that I never thought I would ever have the opportunity to hear. That I never thought I could be worthy of hearing..."

He trails off, drawing in another measured, trembling breath and letting it go in a shuddering sigh. This time, she may feel the silent tear he can't hold back.

"I have loved you since I first laid eyes upon you," he whispers, deliberate and clear. No mumbling, no rushing these important words; not this time. "Although, it was not until I came to know and understand you that I knew it for what it was. It... frightens me, my lady, the depths to which I feel that, but never before have I wanted to reach for something, to accept, something thus. I never thought I would feel anything ever again, after Camlann, but this..."

"Once we wore masks because of the weight of the burdens we bore." His arms tighten around her, eyes squeezing shut. "That is why I wore my own mask. And that is why I could not dare let slip what lay beneath it. I felt too much, when it came to you... and I still do."

This time, he does not back down from his own fear; skittish hart he may be, but this time, he stands his ground. "Oh, I've loved you for so long. And I—I thought I would die, when you were taken from me, however distant we had been, then..." Gradually, his head bows over her. "It was one thing, to meet with you again and to stand at your side, but... but to hear you say those words – to hear you say what I'd felt for so long."

"Aí, I've wanted so long to be free—to be free to say that... free, as we never were in Camelot..." And, perhaps unspoken, free from his fears and his feelings of unworthiness – perhaps her own admission had finally given him some measure of courage.

"I love you, Arturia," he breathes, helplessly. Any other words seem meaningless, when held up against the depth of his emotions.

Saber (346) has posed:
Camelot had never been the utopia Arturia had dreamed of creating, a failure for which she had always blamed herself. Yet, while she mourned its loss, over the past five years she had never missed her life there. Since ascending the throne, her life had never been her own, dedicated in its entirety to serving the people and guiding the kingdom into a paradise free from suffering. She had made this choice willingly; only Uther's heir could become the king and quell the chaotic forced which consumed Britain. There was never any room for the feelings or more personal wishes of one little girl.

It almost seemed blasphemous to now be allowed her own feelings. Even if she could not return to save Britain, even if there was much good she could do in the multiverse without sacrificing her feelings and personal wishes, there were moments when her sense of guilt plagued her. Perhaps it always would, to a certain degree, a scar from an old wound which would never completely heal. Yet, there were times when that guilt was not so much as a distant memory, and whatever guilt she felt was over its very absence. There were moments of such complete peace within her soul that she could only stop and marvel at it. After a lifetime of a wearying journey, she had found herself at its end, able to lay aside her burdens and find both rest and peace.

So too had her Left Hand. She had never forgotten the determined youth not even a year her junior, struggling to overcome his limitations to enter her service. The price he had paid to remain at her side had been a great one yet, just she she had, he had paid them willingly. It seemed that there was little choice for either of them in pursuit of their dreams.

But all was not lost. The young girl within her had been locked away, but not obliterated...and it would seem the same for Bedivere's inner soul, as well. But while she had always thought the continued existence of her fragile inner self was a weakness, she found that she could not see his the same way. No, she treasured it as much as anything else about him. It might be, she mused, that her own fragile core was not so weak, after all. If he could still be strong, perhaps she could be. And perhaps, it was not so bad to allow that side to emerge...if only in his presence alone.

As embarrassed as she was over that line of literature, a rather frivolous thought crossed her mind. Or rather, it was one she considered somewhat frivolous. And the winter holidays were coming soon, it would be a good opportunity, not to mention that she was looking forward to showing him how festive winter could be in the modern era, without the fear of starvation and exposure. Of course, there were still a great many in need, and charity, as well, would be just as much of a compulsion for him as it was for her. She would have to get a hold of Sakura, they would need to stock up on various goods to take to the shelters...

But she was getting ahead of herself. It was an easy thing to do when she was in the presence of others of a similar disposition. And now, she could act as a proper knight, no longer ruling from the distant throne. For some, such service was a burden, but for Arturia, it was positively liberating.

As much as she was loath to admit it, Bedivere was right; she did need access to her full strength. It was a strange expression of Exercitium, now that she thought about it. A knight needed to be in top form, for their raison d'etre was to defend the people, and a knight who did not constantly maintain his strength would be unable to do so.

Still, she hated having to push him out of his comfort zone with this. To rely on him was one thing – as much as she worried over him being hurt, she couldn't help but feel closer to him by allowing him to support her in turn – but being his Servant at times seemed an undue burden. It was difficult to trust, but if there was one person she trusted absolutely, it was Bedivere. She would trust him, and support him as was necessary. They would cross other bridges when they came upon them.

"No...you are right," she submitted. "To merely hold myself back would be remiss in Militia and Exercitium. The reason I wield Excalibur is the defence of the people, as a proper knight...and I cannot do that by being over-cautious."

It had been a relief to finally pledge her absolute loyalty so openly, a thing she could have never done as the king. Of course, it was a given as a Servant, where her loyalty to her Master was absolute. Even Kiritsugu had been given that loyalty, even as she had her reservations about trusting him. By contrast, she had trusted Sakura, and her loyalty to the former Matou was granted upon the formation of their contract. Bedivere had always possessed both, and his appointment to his position as the Left Hand of the King spoke of her confidence in him.

Yet, to speak of it directly contained a power all of its own. She had always wanted to tell him how much his support, loyalty, and trust had meant to her. And while it was not the first time she had spoken of it, Arturia felt that she could never say it enough.

Then, she had another problem of an entirely different sort.

Fortunately for his concern, she managed to steady her nerves after that moment of embarrassment. Drawing a calming breath, she released him, shaking her head. "F-forgive me," she managed, her voice still unsteady, likewise lapsing into the language of her Master. "I did not intend to make you worry...Th-that was...it was simply that..."

She found herself frustrated that she couldn't articulate that reaction, or why she had even reacted that way in the first place. "It was simply...strange..."

No, that wasn't right, either. Such a simple thing had transformed her into a frustrated bundle of nerves. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation by any means...but that was the problem. It had been a little too pleasant, tempting her mind down wholly improper avenues.

A slight frown marred the girlish face. "Hm...that is true. Magi..." here she likewise used the same word as he typically did - filídh – "...that is, the old ones, no longer think as human beings. They are more akin to the Tylwyth Teg than human. Even Heroic Spirits are still human in our thinking, generally."

That might have seemed strange to him, that beings of such immense power still thought as they did as humans. Perhaps the only exception was the King of Heroes, but he had always been that way, even in life. But by and large, Heroic Spirits were the elemental spirits of humanity.

But the dark wizard...man though he might once have been, he had not been one for countless years. And she could no more discern his thoughts and motivations than she could Merlin's. or even her own Abstractum, for that matter. Sourly, she wondered what powers that be had deemed it a cosmic joke to grant her one which had a personality like that of her tutor, telling her only what he felt she needed to know at that moment and no more. It made properly preparing for things difficult and frustrating.

Of course, she suspected the Abstractum was just as amused at her frustration and sarcastic comments as Merlin had been.

With an almost defeated sigh, Arturia shook her head slightly. "It would be preferable to a favour. Though he has sworn that he would never hold us to that which would violate our vows, I cannot help but feel that it would be unpleasant, regardless." It went without saying that the King of Knights already owed Loros one such favour. another would not have been indebted to him for the Health he had bestowed on her knight, but she was the King. And as such, any blessing bestowed on one was a blessing upon the king.

Chivalry was certainly not an easy path.

As soothing as her touch was to him, it was as soothing to the flaxen-haired knight simply to be able to do such a thing. She had always exercised the utmost caution at keeping her distance, both to maintain her secret as well as rigid impartiality. The slightest touch risked betraying her, and to be able to indulge in such a simple gesture as slipping her fingers through his hair. In some idle moments – late at night or early in the morning as she had stolen glimpses of him as he made his patrol rounds – she had found herself wondering in the back of her mind how his hair might have felt beneath the tips of her fingers, only to scold herself for such improper thoughts. Now, it seemed as if she was incapable of holding back.

At first, she had been worried that, after all the years of careful distance, that the touch would unsettle him. Though she had attempted to bridge that gap and reach out to him as a friend, too many years she had been the cold and distant king. Accepting that from her had been more than simple comfort and relief; her touch contained almost a hint of reverence in it.

And it was far more comforting to be able to with a clear mind. the mead had worked some wonders for bridging that chasm of embarrassment and reserve, but if that had been the only way to do so, Arturia would have started to wonder if there was something wrong with her.

She certainly did begin to wonder when, following her confession, the silver-haired knight simply stared at her. Had she spoken out of turn, or perhaps said it too soon? Their feelings were not exactly the secret they had been for nearly two decades, having acknowledged them following the battle at the Caves of Prophecy. But there was a world of difference between vague hints and understanding and outright saying it, which left no room for doubt.

Similarly, the slow creep of a blush across his face was further cause for self-consciousness and doubt. To be sure, it was embarrassing, an acknowledgement of her vulnerability. But just when she was about to stammer out an apology, the illumination of a gentle, almost relieved smile eased her mind. She felt a wave of relief wash over her, even as she was aware of his arms tightening around her. A slight frown of worry over the pain of his aggravated injury gave way soon enough as her own arms tightened around him in turn, likewise careful not to hurt him.

How long they remained like that, Arturia couldn't say, simply content to hold him and be held in turn. There was a flicker of disappointment as he pulled away briefly, though it dissipated soon enough at the sight of his smile, something she had secretly longed to see in Camelot yet never could. That in itself was reward enough, but the granting of another secret wish of hers was soon to come.

Arturia responded just as she had to his earlier kiss, and only her arms moved to encircle him, though mindful of his shoulder. She did not so much as shift, as if frozen in place even as she returned his gentle affection. This time it was confident, assured, though no less tender, and she could not help but respond in kind.

If her words held any kind of power, that was especially true of his. Just the sound of her name on his lips – without titles or formality – was enough to draw a slight shiver from her. Improper or not, it felt strangely right, even natural. It was even more powerful than the soft feeling of his lips brushing against her neck, a subtle warmth spread throughout her body like mana. The warmth rose to her face, but this time she controlled herself enough not to bury her face in his tunic again.

He had confessed before, though shyly and in somewhat vague terms. It had been all the courage he could muster at the time; indeed, both of them had been uncertain, still new to the idea that they could be so open with each other and acknowledge the things they had hidden in their hearts for the long, lonely years. In some ways, she'd had an easier time of it, not realising her true feelings until they had been reunited, and she was finally free to allow herself to feel. In retrospect, her queen had read Arturia's expressions, and the longing she had hidden from herself had only added to the queen's sorrow. It had not been only Lancelot and Guinevere who had been torn between love and duty. But Arturia's ignorance had protected her, while Bedivere had only his own strength to rely upon.

It was so unfair, she thought, that his reward for that had been to be left utterly alone, to be forced to bury her and then wander the weald for five arduous years. she found her own eyes misting at the thought, spilling over at the sound of his own confession, the sound of her name.

After a long moment she pulled away, though only just enough to lift her face to his cheek, brushing her lips lightly over the tears almost reverently. When she pulled back again to frame his face with her hands, there was no missing the warmest smile she had ever had for anyone, through the glistening of tears.

"I...never permitted myself to feel anything. I could not, back then," she whispered. "I gave up such things to become the king, to end the chaos. Yet, I could not completely stop feeling, even though I had given up such things. I thought I had no right to wish for it..."

She took an unsteady breath before releasing it slowly. It was difficult; the thundering of her own heart echoed in her ears. "But I see now, looking back. I hid it even from myself, forced myself to think only of my duty...but it was always there. I realise that now."

This time, her confession was as much to herself as it was to him. "I loved you even then...Bedivere." She paused, shaking her head slightly. "No. Fionnlagh."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There's been a lot of effort focused in Dún Reáltaí, but it isn't the only target of the knights' compulsive need to offer aid. Plenty of places throughout the multiverse have had their attention, mostly in the way of offering relief to places stricken by disaster or war, and shelters for the less fortunate. It's something Bedivere had always done as part of his service to Camelot, and something he does now as part of his service to the Union. A knight must abide by Generositas, for what kind of knight would he be, otherwise?

When Arturia's thoughts turn back to the matter of tuition, so too do her lieutenant's.

It's a pressing concern. Although he had been loathe to admit it, this is a very real shortcoming. More importantly, it's a shortcoming that may cause serious problems for them, and sooner rather than later. It's also a matter of Exercitium, as Arturia observes silently. His aptitude is for protecting the people, not pride. In this case, it's even more important, necessary to protect Arturia. She means more to him than life itself. How could he neglect that?

When she apologises for her reaction, he frowns as she releases him, canting his head slightly to one side in puzzlement and concern. Yet she says she's alright. He'll have to trust and accept that, even though it nags at him; content to let the matter go.

"It would not surprise me if he had not thought like a human." Bedivere shakes his head, voice low. Like many of the other knights, he's almost superstitious about saying Merlin's name aloud, as though saying it would somehow summon him. "I will grant that he never led you astray, my lady, but I never trusted him. And I do not think that I ever will. As to the Servants... I would not know. I have met but few of them. Only you, and Sir Gawain."

In other words, he had met Servants whom he had known in life. He hadn't even known they were Servants until Arturia revealed it – if she hadn't told him, he never would have known by their behaviour. Of course they still think as they did when they were human.

Loros, however, is another matter.

"Nor would it surprise me if the Wizard were more akin to the Tylwyth Teg. I do not trust him, and I will be on my guard when we make our request and name our terms." He sighs, softly, through his nose. "Perhaps it would be unpleasant, but I cannot say that it would be unexpected. He claims to follow the old ways, and from all that I have observed, indeed he does. That works to our advantage. His dealings with us can be controlled, at least to some extent."

Soon enough the thought is banished from his mind. He seems to lose all sense of the outside world as she returns his affection, leaning into her as her arms circle around him – though not without a catch of breath as his shoulder reminds him it's still very much wounded.

His eyes open only slowly, a flicker of concern shadowing his gaze when she shivers. Her safety and her well-being are all-important to him. That she reacts so strongly even to such a small thing is cause for worry, every time, but – for once – he trusts her to speak up if there really were something wrong.

That's part of his protection, too, and something he's had to struggle to accept. He can't shield her from everything. Part of that protection involves trusting her to tell him when she needs his help.

It doesn't completely banish his concern, and his own expression falls when he catches sight of her tears, illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning—

There's a brief moment of confusion when she pulls away, and as his eyes readjust he can't see or feel where she's gone until the touch of her lips to his cheekbone. He lets out a soft breath, too weak for a sigh, and she might feel him shiver in turn.

Taken with her words, it's such a delicate sensation, something so foreign to his senses, that for a moment he doesn't even know how to react. He can't even think. It's like the all-consuming desire to protect the defenseless, but he knows she is anything but that. Yet the words and gesture together leads him to emotions he'd thought buried long ago; the same fervent and selfless desire to throw himself at the king's feet, to pledge himself once and always to her service, no matter what. It's different, though, tempered by time and hardship. He can feel a desperate, almost wild compulsion to protect her bubbling up from the hidden depths of his heart. He'd been willing to lay his life down for her, once before, and had almost done so on a few occasions. Now, though... now it's different.

Bubbling up from the buried depths is something far more desperate and wild, yet focused – that same selfless desire to protect her no matter what the cost, echoed by the lanky youth who'd come to Camelot's court.

His eyes close as he tries to calm himself, reaching for that steady centre that had served him well for so many years. He breathes in; exhales softly, even as she finishes her explanation, even as she calls him by the name he had cast aside twenty-one years ago.

Carefully, he brushes her own tears away with his thumb, leaning forward to gently brushing his lips over her tears on the other side. The gesture is so light it could have been imagined, and when he straightens he rests his face in her hair, closing his arms around her and drawing her close.

"Do not weep. Ah, please, do not weep. I cannot bear to see you suffer." He doesn't sound distressed, though, and his voice is soft; soothing. Leaning over, he tilts his head to press another kiss to her hair. "Those cold years are over, now. We are together, and we will never again be parted. I am grateful," he whispers into her hair. "So grateful. So please, Arturia. Dry your tears."

Although he still seems to stumble slightly over her name, at the same time, he seems to take a certain pleasure in using it – no allusions, no titles; simply her.

"I will speak with the Wizard, then, and I will begin my instruction." He brushes his thumb along the line of her cheekbone, smiling faintly. "I will not lose you again. If it means I must confront what I turned my back on so long ago, then so be it. There is no price too great to pay, not for your sake. It is more than duty, and more than Exercitium. Is that not what one does for the one they love?"

His eyes seem to droop a little, and he bows his head over her, content just to hold her close. How long he stays like that, he couldn't say, content to feel the drumming of her heart and inhale the scent of her hair – still a little like roses, he muses distantly – until he can feel sleep reaching for him again.

When he finally does draw back, it's only to reach over and pull fur-lined blankets more securely around them, mindful of the cold, damp air. The lord's chamber is mostly sealed, but any castle seems to find a way to sprout cracks and drafts; in spite of a few modern conveniences, this one's no exception.

"We will carry out our duties as knights, as we always have," he murmurs, voice a little smaller and more distant. He dips his head over her, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of her face as he settles in beside her, grateful for the comfort as much as the warmth. "We will always be knights, you and I. But it will never again be a wall between us..."

"Arturia." He speaks her name with reverence, voice softer than usual; fading. With a sigh of contentment, he pulls her closer, nuzzling into her hair with a tired, pleased sound. "Thank you... for confiding in me. Ah, I love you so. I will always... love you..."

If he had anything else to say, though, he doesn't get the chance. She'd know by the way his breathing slows that he's finally let himself go back to sleep.

This time, even in sleep, a gentle hint of a smile lingers on his face.

Saber (346) has posed:
To the king who had codified the very chivalry which had been the requirement for knighthood, it was much more than a simple code of conduct. It was a way of living, something which was not cast aside once one's daily duties had been completed. To stop acting with Generositas and being lax with their relief efforts – even to those with whom they held no particular attachment – was to stop being a knight. But then, so too was Exercitium.

It was more than merely a daily routine of practise with a weapon or military drills; the point was readiness when the time came to defend those who could not defend themselves. A knight must be in peak condition when the time came to act; to support the people demanded everything of him. And so, in spite of how uncomfortable the idea made her, seeking a tutor in the arts of the magi was a necessary part of that Virtue. Service to the people demanded all of her power, and that demanded a stronger source of magic.

She hated to worry or trouble him in any way, but that peculiar yet hardly unpleasant feeling was something which somehow made her disgusted with herself. It was, for some inexplicable reason, something which somehow part of her whispered that she should not feel. She was not entirely sure what she would have done had she not buried her face against his chest. That was the safest place to have been at the time.

It was almost a relief for her attention to turn to Merlin. Almost.

"I cannot pretend to have understood his motivations," Arturia confessed, frowning sourly. "He never told me that which I wished to know, or what I felt I needed to know, but what he deemed I needed to know at that time. As to Servants..."

Her head rolled slightly into a shrug. "We remain ruled by the lives we led..."

A lingering pain flickered across her features as she remembered the Berserker of that War, "...Even those touched by madness."

The petite knight nodded with little more than a hint of movement. "He is dangerous, that much I have discovered first-hand. But he must follow those laws as we do...as dark as his heart is, the wizard does possess a sense of honour. To break those laws is as conflicting with his character as it is our own."

And that had been the entire purpose of Brehon Laws, she was certain. The various peoples of Albion and Eire were hot-blooded and, at times, short-tempered. Such laws were necessary to prevent passionate people's from destroying each other, some form of a common code they must respect...and even the supernatural denizens of the islands generally observed them for much the same reasons.

Her brow wrinkled in worry over the catch of his breath, knowing immediately what caused it. She would always worry over him in some way, it seemed.

Once, he had been adept at concealing his secret emotions just as well as she had, neither daring to let anything slip past the masks lest those emotions lead the kingdom to ruin. Only now, with those masks crumbling away to nothing, she was finally able to see the true expressions she had secretly wished to see, just as he could now read hers.

She smiled slightly, brushing a strand of hair from his face as she reassured the worried knight. "Ah, forgive me. Perhaps it is a trivial thing to...to enjoy so much. But to hear you say my name...I cannot treasure it enough."

This time, it was her turn to frown worriedly at the slight shiver. He was wounded so she inwardly fretted that she had painfully jostled him again in spite of her best efforts. For a long while, he remained silent, and it took considerable willpower not to jump up and start fussing over the pain of his mending shoulder. Just as she did, Bedivere tended to internalise his condition both out of a habitual need to project strength and, more recently, simply to keep others from worrying. But now that they could no longer effectively hide such things from each other, she could trust him to tell her when something was wrong. And he knew she would worry if he didn't.

Her action echoed in his drew a likewise mirror reaction; a slight shiver, and silence as the overwhelming need to protect welled up in her chest. Arturia had always been devoted with all her being to protection of the people, even protective of the hand-picked knights of her own Round Table. Had anyone realised it, ever commoner, noble, and knight to a man would have doubtless been shocked that the king had seen herself as their shield.

But that had been a quiet resolve and determination, not the bright fire that this new devotion was. Never before could she have dared allow herself to stand between one single person and whatever might have come. But she was free, now, and just as well. She doubted she could have turned away from it now, so irresistible was the call.

I would be your sword, and your shield. But I would be so much more. I would be your shelter, and your hearth-fire. I would be all these things for your sake.

With a muffled sigh of comfort, she found herself nestled within his arms again. But her tears this time were not ones of sorrow, or even regret. "Ah...forgive me. I had no wish to worry you...it is simply...I cannot seem to help myself. I am simply...so very grateful."

It seemed silly, actually. She had spent so many years suppressing and controlling her emotions that they all seemed to bubble up at once. Her reactions were strange even to her. Tears would have never been permitted, not from a king who had needed to present nothing by strength. Not even the tears of relief and gratitude of that moment.

At that moment, the jade-eyed knight doubted she would ever take for granted the simple yet precious sound of his voice sounding her name. "It is a relief, as if a great burden has been lifted. To no longer need to hide myself...from you, from myself...To hear you say my name..."

She lifted her hand to his as he brushed a final tear away. It was not the sacrifice a knight made for a king, but much deeper, and the brightest jewel paled in comparison. It was a joy, a happiness she had long ago given up any hope for. "I shall be at your side," she pledged. "What may come, we will face it together."

She would be that shelter and hearth-fire, just as he already had become for her. There, in his arms, with his warm breath on her hair, she had never before felt so safe, so truly at peace. She was finally and truly home.

There were still walls, but now those walls had formed around them, protecting them both. There would be many challenges in the coming days, with approaching Loros for instruction, to the multiple Grail Wars emerging, to many more dangers on the horizon. But king and knight were now stronger than they have ever been, in spite of the years and hardships which had harried them previously.

She felt sleep pull at her, though not before hearing that precious sound of her name, and words meant only for her. Before it claimed her, she responded with her won. "And I will always love you..."

It was the most comforting, peaceful sleep that Arturia could ever remember.