Difference between revisions of "4052/You Didn't Ask"

Latest revision as of 06:19, 28 April 2016

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The keep of Dun Realtai has been in good repair for long enough that its days as a ruin are fast fading from memory. The bell of the church has rung out to announce sunrise, midday, and sunset, and people have gone about their lives with as much normalcy as can be expected. The market has opened every week, and the farms have begun producing enough to store for the year's coming winter.

In all, the steward of the land and his lady haven't had to do much in the way of stewarding. The people are shockingly self-sufficient, leaving their benevolent overlords plenty of time for rest and recreation. It's left the steward himself somewhat at a loss for things to do, but he's taken the initiative to build up his strength again, and to hone the skills he's left fallow since the Battle of Camlann.

The outer bailey of the castle keep is a great yard, with slightly more room down one side than the other. Aside from the keep itself and Grandfather Oak Tree spreading its absurdly large branches over the courtyard, the only buildings here are a stable, tucked away toward the corner of the cliff, and the aviary where the falcons would have been kept -- but that's been empty and still half-ruined for some time, a favourite haunt of the village children looking for somewhere exotic to play.

Here in the empty dust of the yard, the steward himself has donned the armour that had marked him as the Left Hand of the King, pacing the yard while carrying a practise sword, but it looks more like he's measuring off distance than practising strokes. A half-built rail runs the length of the yard, one that Arturia would recognise well -- a tilting-fence, made for jousting, with unadorned flags draped along its length and stirring in the breeze; placeholders, perhaps, for when Dun Realtai has its own sigil.

He has a few practise weapons leaned up against the fence, including a blunted wooden spear, a few other swords in varying lengths, and a wooden practise axe. He looks preoccupied, and one can practically see him running calculations in his head as he paces.

Saber (346) has posed:
Dun Realtai has indeed been a blessing for two weary knights, one of which being a king and a Servant, besides. It was more than simply a place to live, or a place more familiar to them than the lavishly-appointed home of her former Master's family. It was more than simply a base of operations for the work they did for the Union. It was a home, a shelter, a haven. The modest citadel had become that much in part due to the people who had lived there, cut from the same proverbial cloth as their new lords in their independence, self-sufficiency, and eagerness to shape their lives with their own hands. For years, they had had no one but themselves and each other to rely on, and as a result, their independence had become an almost stubborn pride.

     Arturia could very much relate.

     Idle time was something she had found herself with ever since abdicating her place in the Holy Grail War; dedicating herself to Sakura had been a full-time duty, but without the War to demand their attention, they had turned to faction-related responsibilities which demanded far less of their time. Even when Saber had intently listened to the broadband for someone in need of rescuing. A knight's work was never done.

     Now, however, she found herself with even more time for leisure, in spite of all the work they had done for Dun Realtai, and it made her feel slightly guilty. /Perhaps I should become more involved with my duties to the Union again now that the village had become reasonably stable,/ she contemplated as she left the Great Hall.

     Pale eyebrows lifted slightly as jade eyes fell on the changed outer bailey when she reached it. Even after all the years, the prospect made her blood sing. Honourable tests of strength and skill to appreciate and learn from, rigorous competition...these were as addictive to the petite knight as any wine. Better, actually; they were part and parcel to the sacred Virtue of Militia.

     She couldn't help but grin at the sight of the lord she had appointed, Camelot's Marshal and her Left Hand...now something more. For the moment, she was perfectly content to watch his finely-honed, flawless movements with the practise sword. It wouldn't be long though, before she would hear the irresistible call of matching blades.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The practise sword dips and then rises, moving along the ground at regular points. Given the rigid way he paces along the tilting-fence, the knight must be measuring off sections of it; perhaps to have standards sewn, or to have it reinforced with heavier lumber. What's there seems to be a skeletal structure at best, and if a horse were to swerve, thrashing hooves would most likely punch right through it. That won't do.

He looks up an instant before Arturia steps into view, primarily because he can sense her. His left hand, where the command seals are etched, clenches briefly; a brief motion of thoughtless reflex. It's something a distant part of him is still acclimating to -- after a lifetime of ignoring the otherworldly, he's been plunged headlong into it. Sometimes things require a certain degree of adjustment, whether in action or in mindset.

Rather than wait for her to stand and watch him in silence, Bedivere steps back from the fence, raising his left hand and waving over the king.

Saber (346) has posed:
Over the years, the Servant had become used to the subtle twinge when her Master was near, her senses adjusting to the nearly constant pull. It ebbed at times, but it no longer served in the same capacity as it had when she had been Emiya Kiritsugu's Servant. It still had its uses, but it was never meant for a more long-term purpose; she would have existed for a mere fortnight had their reality not Unified. The same could not be said for her Master, however; she should have known better than to think she wouldn't disturb his work with her presence. Arturia noted the unconscious gesture, though she refrained from remarking on it.

     It appeared that she would no longer be able to admire his handiwork silently. Then again, she did still very much enjoy his company. It had been nearly two years since he had been rescued from the twisting weald between Camlann and the unknown multiversal forest, but their reunification would never become something she took for granted. The diminutive knight would always cherish her good fortune to have him at her side once again.

     "My apologies, I did not wish to disturb your work," she confessed as she approached. For all its seeming formality, her words held the usual warmth they always did when addressing Bedivere.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
While not uncomfortable, that pull had been a foreign sensation at first, and it had taken some acclimation on part of the fledgling filidh. These days, he tends not to be taken off his guard unless his attention is fixed elsewhere. That twitch might well be reflective of how much he's concentrating on his measurements.

Few in Camelot outside the aristocracy knew how to write, and fewer still knew their sums. To commit such things to memory is trivial for him; he needs no ledger to write his calculations on, and so the interruption doesn't particularly bother him.

He doesn't speak until she's come close enough to hear him. While he certainly has the capacity to roar above the din of battle and be heard, as he had done in all of his battles, it's uncivilised and he prefers keeping a quiter tone. It isn't whispery, like Saber's fellow Annu survivor, Sarah; and it isn't low and coarse, like Saber's friend Agrias. Low and quiet, it has a more gentle quality, though undeniably a male speaker.

"There is naught to interrupt," he offers, gesturing with his stave-sword to the ground beneath the rail. His voice doesn't hold the same warmth, but that's only because he's got a problem set in his teeth. That single-minded concentration had always been a hallmark of his, even in Camelot; so strong that it had drawn askance from other knights and nobility, sometimes irritated by his insistence in finishing tasks once started. "I was only taking calculations. I will have the carpenters reinforce this fence. The foundations are sound, but not sound enough; if a horse were to panic, it would come straight through this fence with little effort." Bedivere frowns. "That will not do."

A few seconds pass while he mulls that over, and finally dismisses the problem, turning and allowing himself a half-smile. /That/, in turn, is not part of his familiar facade; a new development since they had allowed themselves to dispense with long-held formalities. As it turns out, the icy marshal had in fact been a soft-spoken, shy, and somewhat awkward man beneath his dutiful facade. "Good day, my lady. What business brings you out here...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
In all honesty, the King of Knights found the unconscious gesture to be rather endearing. Bedivere still struggled bravely to understand and adjust to the reality he had suddenly been tossed head-first into. While the good outweighed the bad, the stranger parts of it were things which would have driven a lesser man mad. New allies might tease him for his seeming stuffiness, but she thought it a little unfair. The knight had adjusted -- and continued to try to adjust -- to it all rather well, and all without a convenient library of knowledge which would have been available had he been a Servant.

     Personally, she was glad that he wasn't.

     Arturia politely stifled the fond chuckle which threatened to rise to her lips. So well-acquainted were the two with each other's mannerisms that she hardly took offence to his level of concentration on the task at hand. Indeed, that was one of the reasons he had been appointed to his positions in the first place. That, and the fact that she was of a similar mindset; she preferred to focus all her attention on a task at hand.

     Her expression shifted just slightly; the faint hint of a smile dropped at his considerations, likewise focusing on the task. She might have the not-entirely undeserved reputation for being stubborn, but she always seemed to listen and seriously consider what the knight had to say. "How much more should we allot, do you think?"

     In turn, her own fa�ade had given way to subtle microexpressions that were as plain as the day to someone as observant and familiar as the pale-haired knight. Many might have missed the sheepish glance; he would not. "Ah...well. In truth, I had been in search of some task in need of completion, or perhaps to spend some time training. I find myself at a loss when it appears there is no immediate task to complete. It feels as if I am overlooking something."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he had never precisely abhorred witchcraft, showing a greater tolerance than most men of his era, it was still something that Bedivere spoke little of and engaged less in. He had always seemed reluctant to satisfy any curiosity he might have had, and indeed, gone well out of his way to stifle any such curiosity. It would have been unseemly. More importantly, it was something he had already been accused of, and to treat with such a subject all only would have proven the suspicions against him.

It had been by far easier to turn his back on it completely. He had never been particularly interested in it, and with his incomplete training, it was more prudent to focus on his studies as a knight of Camelot.

"As much as should be necessary. I will see what the carpenters have to say about it," Bedivere mulls. "They have better knowledge of such things than I, and I sense no ill intent from them." He prods at one of the fenceposts with an armoured boot, sighing when some of it crumbles away. "I suppose all the rain has rotted much of the wood." Bother. This place gets as much rain as Camelot did; the only difference is that when summer comes, it actually stays dry and warm.

Idle time and a lack of direction are no strangers to him. He allows himself a faint chuckle at her quandary, before stooping to pick something up. "Then allow me to distract you from the issue for a time."

A practise sword, which he tosses at her hilt-first. Catch! He has his own as he straightens up, too, carved very much like his battered, nameless longsword.

Saber (346) has posed:
The flaxen-haired king had never been offered a choice in the matter of accepting magic or not. Her conception itself was a twisted mockery, a scheme of Merlin's which relied on subterfuge. That was to say nothing of the morality of the whole thing. She was not convinced that she would have been a different person were it not for her parentage; as far as she was concerned, Sir Ector had been her father and the only thing she had inherited from King Uther was her right of ascension. It was from the grizzled yet loving old knight that she learned of the early chivalric path and had taken it to heart, enough to codify it into a proper set of sacred Virtues. But the bastard princess would not have even been born had it not been for the workings of magic, her Core fashioned from draconic magic and blood.

     That blood manifested in both benign ways -- her incredible strength even as a moral -- and malevolent -- such as when the taint of the Grail affected her in some way -- and would have made a normal life impossible for her. Merlin had pulled the strings of fate artificially to /make/ her great, and in some ways she was bitter about not being able to achieve her goals with her own strength...to say nothing of the bitterness that even that supernatural aid was not enough in the end. Becoming a Servant was simply bringing her other foot into the realm of magic, and she had not been entirely comfortable putting Bedivere in the position of having to choose. Still, that he had willingly offered himself up to become her Master and undergo the forgotten filidh training had touched her deeply.

     A thought occurred to her on the subject of the rotting wood. "...Ah. Perhaps, given the heavy rains, we could obtain a portion of the composite materials that were used for reconstructing the village," she mused. Not all of the 'wood' making up the homes and shops were true wood, even if upon first glance it seemed that way. "we may be able to barter for some."

     Arturia deftly caught the practise sword in her left hand before gripping the hilt with both her hands. This time, her catlike grin would have been obvious to anyone, her enthusiasm obvious. "You have my gratitude, Sir Knight."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Stepping back into a more open area of the yard, the silver-haired knight flips his sword around at the hilt, giving it an effortless spin. The wood blurs until he snaps it back into his hand again, allowing himself a tiny, somewhat predatory-looking smile. Administrative work has taken up much of his time, lately, and he's still managed to find time to make improvements to Dun Realtai. There is always something to improve.

Time to exercise his martial training has been rare, and a sparring match with Arturia herself is always a rare treasure. Since their first few tentative duels, they've proven a close match, and despite her status as a Servant, one enjoyable even to her. Though her lieutenant is only a mere mortal, he has something that allows him to hold his own against such entities, and that is his tactical mind. Though he would inevitably perish against a Servant in earnest combat, his cunning allows him some whisper of a prayer against them, and they allow him to hold out against stronger Elites, even if it ultimately costs him. He does what he can -- and often does his best to make it a Pyrrhic victory for those who choose to fight against him.

"Composite material would be an acceptable alternative." He risks a quick glance to the fence, before turning violet eyes back to Arturia.

At her nearly mocking gratitude, Bedivere sketches a bow but straightens quickly, eyes locked on her. That aquiline intensity has slipped back into his gaze; the same fierce-eyed regard he bore in times of war, that same utter concentration. "And you, mine. The first move is to you, my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
Mortal or not, Bedivere's skill was unparalleled even in the multiverse. He had walked away from various battles against other Elites...though perhaps 'walked away from' was not /entirely/ accurate. He still had the scars to prove that much. Nevertheless, he was still dangerous, a fact he kept hidden for as long as he could; an enemy's underestimation was a fatal oversight that he never hesitated exploiting. There was little doubt as to why he had been appointed her chief tactician.

     Arturia had insisted that all her knights train regularly and consistently challenge themselves, something that was often misinterpreted as roaming the countryside in search of more challenging foes, when in fact she had merely insisted upon Militia. It was their duty to maintain a healthy fighting force to protect their tiny kingdom. It was this dedication, however, that drew knight-aspirants from far and wide to pledge themselves to King Arthur. Among these was a certain young man from Dal Riata who had taken that dedication to even greater lengths...and it showed in how he carried himself, how he fought. It was almost entrancing to watch.

     But that was something she could not indulge in during a match. No, she would have to wait until the jousts. But being permitted to test herself against one of her finest knights was a pleasure she would always relish and be grateful for. That in itself was even better than simply watching.

     The jade-eyed knight dropped easily into an en garde stance, her grin settling into an almost-smirk. Mocking? Hardly. She knew how even a Servant had to be at his best against any one of the Knights of the Round, but especially her Hands. Pure strength was not enough; skill could easily best even overwhelming strength. The King of Knights had entered her playful, bantering mode, the truest signal that she was already enjoying herself from the mere anticipation.

     As such, she did not hold back...much. Already closing the gap between them, she lunged for a quick forward strike.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That the Left Hand of the King isn't dead yet is what speaks to his skill. In Camelot, Bedivere was among the pinnacle of King Arthur's Knights, even among those Knights of the Round Table, and few fighters of common means could hope to best him on strength or skill. His ability to anticipate and think ahead were what had kept him abreast of the Saxon invasions, and even in the battles of Mordred's rebel host... he had not survived unscathed, but he had /survived/, and that was the part that had vexed his detractors so very much.

Whether this was a sign of his tactical skill or a result of his tremendous strength of will, it's hard to say. The truth probably lies somewhere in between the two. He is as stubborn as his king, unable and unwilling to accept defeat when more important things lay on the line.

By rights, he should have been outclassed by half of his brother-knights of the Round Table. Though tall and lanky, gifted with impressive reach with a sword, he was not half as physically strong as most of them... and that was the key. He fought harder, strove more mightily, than any of the people he served alongside.

That mastery was what Bedivere had wanted, more than anything else, and precisely because it /didn't/ come easily to him. He strove to make it his own, and he did. The ability to use his cunning and out-think his opponents was what made him so monstrously skilled, and there was no witchcraft about it, in spite of his detractors.

Cunning like that is what lets him fight a Servant... maybe not on equal terms, but enough to be taken seriously.

No sooner has Arturia lunged than her most trusted lieutenant is already vacating the spot, grunting as her wooden sword tags the armour around his ankle in a blow that will surely ache the next day. Yet Bedivere already lashes out with his own sword as he leaps away, his goal to give her a stinging reprisal on the wrist with his own blade.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia was hardly what one could call objective when it came to the Knights of the Round Table. While she endlessly criticised herself inwardly -- at times unforgiving -- and held herself to impossible standards, the same could not be said of her attitude towards those who had loyally followed her. It required very little prompting for her to brag about their prowess and dedication to chivalry now that there was no longer a need to remain aloof and impartial. But Bedivere's sense of Humanitas as well as his own personal modesty -- bashfulness, one might even say -- always seemed to make him uncomfortable when she did. She had learned that if she was going to brag about him, it was best to generally do so outside his presence...not that this changed her pride in him. About her Left Hand, she especially lacked impartiality.

     Perhaps that likewise made her unfit to be king, along with what she saw as her weakness. The flaxen-haired knight had never truly been impartial, and there might have been a few times when she had tipped the proverbial scales when it came to the marshal's survivability. Still, the possibility of losing him had troubled her deeply, whether that was appropriate or not. Thankfully, the man had a will of iron; a less-determined man would have long since succumbed to his wounds of both body and spirit. That will was particularly praiseworthy, along with pushing himself to overcome his shortcomings.

     By itself, his hard-earned strength and skill made him a formidable opponent, but what truly made him dangerous was his tactical mind. She would say that alone put him on equal footing with her even as a human being; she had yet to beat him at chess.

     Naturally, he evaded her testing strike, though inwardly she was a little concerned. While she remained ageless, the cruel march of time continued for him and wore at even his strength, and he might not be capable of moving with quite the same agility as he had in the years past. For her trouble, she caught a sting of his blade on her wrist. That would teach her to second-guess.

     "Well-played, she grunted with a faint smile even as she pivoted and carried through with a back-handed blow.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite monstrous wounds and the strain of maintaining his own impartiality, the silver-haired knight had triumphed over the odds and survived in the face of everything that had been thrown at him. It was as well that he had presided over Camelot's military matters in his younger years.

If that kind of strain were placed on him now, even he isn't certain whether he would have the strength to succeed. He is tired, and while he is not particularly old, his body is older than its years; he did not escape that kind of abuse unscathed, and it seems much of it is catching up to him now.

At least he can afford for it to catch up to him, now. If he were still in Camelot, the Good Lord only knows what kind of scandal or danger he would be placed in. Assassination wouldn't surprise him; neither would he be surprised if his most vocal detractors were in cahoots with some of the more weak-willed Saxon invaders. True, he might have hidden it as he had done all along -- but that ruse would not have lasted forever.

Spinning on his armoured heel, Bedivere jerks himself bodily away from the blow, but not fast enough; the blade-end tags his shoulder. The blow falls with a grunt, wooden sword clicking off the steel plate, white cloak flaring as he uses his momentum to carry himself forward. His own wooden sword flashes in a series of quick, light jabs meant to test her defense.

"Heh," the silver-haired knight huffs. "Step lively, my lady. I am not yet through."

The real blow comes when he strikes high; a punishing blow meant to numb her sword hand and possibly force her to drop her weapon -- if he can move fast enough. That part is up to fate; he can force himself into the speed and strength of his youth, but it costs him to do so any more.

Saber (346) has posed:
It was doubtful that either of them could shoulder the burdens they once had. Perhaps the King of Knights was at the pinnacle of physical and magical strength as she was currently, but the trials she had faced over the six years she had existed as a Servant -- both in the multiverse and the few months prior to that -- had worn at her spirit. She had been broken and built back up, witnessed horrors and achievements of greatness. and she had finally accepted that no one could live up to the ideals that she had set for herself. It was not enough to become something more than human. She had been made to realise that even casting aside her humanity would not have been enough, but she had accepted it. Yet, that struggle had made Camelot what it was.

     She simply doubted she had in her what that would take, not any more. Now, she simply hoped that, while bringing the pale-haired knights strength up to what it had been before was likely impossible, she could help to reach close to that point. What they were still capable of was protecting Dun Realtai, and living by the Virtues was as important as ever. Part of that was to defend their new home with all the strength they could muster.

     Arturia didn't scold him for being unable to evade; there were Servants and Elites unable to evade her spinning attack. It had been honed for just such a purpose. But through training, he would surely be able to develop an effective counter-strategy...she was counting on that. "I would be disappointed, otherwise," she quipped, dodging some feints while parrying others.

     Knowing an attack was coming was one thing, but being able to discern what that attack would be and where it came from was both the necessary and challenging part. Arturia possessed an ability for Instinct which gave her possible glimpses into a coming attack based on what knowledge she had, but it was not without its shortcomings. She anticipated an overhead blow, but not a disarming move.

     Before she could dart to the side and feint leaving her shoulder exposed, the blow came at her sword hand rather than her seeming unguarded shoulder as she had expected. He still moved with a raptor's speed, and combined with a good amount of force and her own surprise, her grip loosened on her practise sword and it slips from her grasp. She only had enough time to spring lithely back and away close to the fence where the various practise weapons rested. "Well done," she praised with her faint smile. "But I should think we are not done /quite/ yet."

     Though her class and personal abilities favoured the sword, the Saber was not exclusively restricted to it. During her lifetime, she had received considerable and gruelling training in a wide variety of melee weapons and even the bow. It was only her possession of Excalibur which designated her class, but she was more than capable of wielding the spear just as effectively. It was one of these alternately melee and projectile weapons she took now, utilising its latter function. Wordlessly, she hurled the spear at him, putting a good bit of arm behind it.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight allows himself a flicker of satisfaction when Arturia drops her weapon. If this had been a real battle, that would have been the end of it; the point of his sword would be at her throat, and he would be demanding that she yield... but Arturia isn't through yet.

She turns, hefts the practise spear, and hurls it straight for the square of his chest. His eyes widen in shock, and Bedivere reacts without thought; pure instinct guides him.

No sooner has the spear left her hand than he flings his sword aside. His cloak rustles as he lurches sideways, snapping an arm out and neatly seizing the spear from the air. That would be enough, but he lets the momentum whirl him around -- and then with a grunt of effort he casts the spear with all his might. He doesn't aim for where she stood when she threw it, but about halfway between where she was and where her sword had landed.

He's experienced enough to know she /will/ go for her weapon, and his unthinking effort is stop her from doing that... but it's more than just a desperate reflex or an unconscious reaction. There's a grace and skill in that catch-and-throw that suggests he has a mastery of that weapon. He knows exactly what he's doing when he does it, and more than that, he knows exactly where he's /aiming/ with it, too.

Saber (346) has posed:
In truth, he had every right to feel satisfied; getting her to drop her weapon demanded no little amount of skill, tactics, speed, and strength. Bedivere had pulled it off beautifully. and had she been a human, she would have been at his mercy and would have called their brief match. Yet, Arturia was far from harmless even without her weapon, as her escape and grab for the spear demonstrated. Even when victory seemed certain, a Servant could not afford to drop his guard for fear of the tactic she now employed. Even as she expertly threw her spear, the move had been a distraction, and she had anticipating him dodging it as she ran to retrieve her sword....

     ...Only to come to a complete and utterly stunned halt when the knight once again defied her expectations. Instead of dodging, he /caught/ it, a feat which in itself was impressive. But even more astonishing was that it had been a practised manoeuvre, not something out of pure luck. The reaction had been instinctual, but it was a grace born from pure muscle memory and honed to perfection. Had she witnessed it as a bystander, she would have applauded enthusiastically, but as his opponent, she was stunned even before the projectile blocked her path. That too had been deliberate; she had lost the advantage she had been counting on as she stared with clear shock.

     Though mere seconds had passed, it might have seemed like an eternity before she regathered her wits and smiled in resignation. "It would seem that this match goes to you," she finally spoke. "And with the use of a secret weapon, I might add."

     She wasn't exactly chiding him for never telling her, and it wasn't because his reply would have been 'You didn't ask, my lady.'

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even Bedivere seems a little thunderstruck that his desperate gambit had actually worked. He hadn't been thinking when he'd caught the spear, and he hadn't been thinking when he'd hurled it right back at her. That it actually worked against a being leagues beyond the reckoning of human limits... well.

Congratulations. The silver-haired knight stares, brow furrowed, as though he'd surprised even himself.

As though to reinforce that confusion, the spear still quivers where the head is planted in the earth, neatly blocking Arturia's path to her fallen sword.

Bedivere's shoulders slump a little, and he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck with a gauntleted hand in a gesture of consternation. "Oh." It's over so soon? He can't help a flicker of disappointment at that, but it's for the best. He couldn't have kept up that kind of strain for too long, or he'd be sorry for it later. "I accept your yield, but it was not precisely secret, my lady..."

He manages a rare grin. "You did not ask."

Gathering up the practise weapons, the silver-haired knight hefts them over his shoulder and falls into step beside her. The best thing now would be to head back to the keep, before the skies cloud again and bring more rain. Dun Realtai's spring rains seem to come from nowhere, whipped across its flat plains by high winds, seemingly come and gone in the blink of an eye. It wouldn't do to leave those fine wood-carved practise weapons out to molder.

"Home, then, my lady?" He offers her his free arm, lugging the weapons on his other side. "It was a good match, if shorter than I had hoped. I fear I must have startled you overmuch for you to yield so soon. Perhaps some tea would set my lady to rights again."

Saber (346) has posed:
Desperate gambit or not, it had more than simply worked. As stubborn as the King of Knights was, the throw had a combined effect of costing her precious seconds to get around it while leaving herself vulnerable even as she tried to rearm herself, and stunning her to the point that she had lost even more valuable time. No, she knew a defeat when she was staring at it. True, she was slightly disappointed herself that their bout had concluded...but then, she could always ask for a rematch later. It was not as if they were forced to hide themselves any longer.

     His quip earned the knight something quite rare, indeed. Did Arturia actually roll her eyes at him? She just might have. But the moment passed quickly enough that he might doubt what he saw.

     Not that she had much room to criticise; in the past, there had been many secrets she had deliberately kept from him. "Well then, are there any other hidden techniques you possess that I should know about?" she teased lightly. It spoke volumes about their relationship that she could do so, especially with her fiercely-competitive spirit. Had he been anyone else, she would have demanded an immediate rematch, or perhaps she would have sulked. Possibly both.

     Gathering a few of the practise weapons on her part, she shifted them to her opposite side to take the offered arm with a light chuckle. "Perhaps," she conceded. "Perhaps."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There was always time later for another sparring match; that's the beauty of their new home. They're not bound to the protocol of a court seething with petty jealousy any more. Knight and king are free to behave as they will, and to trust in one another as they had never been permitted to before. He can ask her for things like this -- it's not a show of favour any more so much as a simple request.

When Arturia actually goes so far as to roll her eyes, Bedivere slowly raises his brows in a bland expression of askance, but doesn't actually chide her on her show of exasperation; he probably knows he earned that. Even if it /is/ true.

"Actually," he comments idly, taking her arm, "my brother and I would play at combat with spears. What I lacked in brute force, I made up for in learning to catch a spear in flight. He outmatched me in strength, but I outmatched him in wits, and in quickness. I learned to catch a thrown spear," he adds, with some pride. "And it worked exactly as it did on you nearly every time."

Other techniques? He shrugs, pauldron clattering softly.

"Not especially. I suppose the use of a spear or lance was expected of a knight of your court, and so my brother and I had kept our practise up even after we travelled to Camelot. Beyond those talents you already know of, I do not believe I have any more hidden from you."

Bedivere allows himself a chuckle. "Come, my lady. A cup of tea, perhaps, and a rest. You will have your rematch." Oh, yes, he'd caught that flicker of disappointment; he'd shared it himself. "Another day, I think, and hopefully one that is somewhat warmer..."

So it is that the steward and his lady quit the inner bailey, tones light, the knight occasionally laughing softly. There will be another match, on another day, as he had said -- they both enjoy matching wits far too much to miss that opportunity.