Difference between revisions of "570/White Flag of Truce"

Latest revision as of 23:41, 10 September 2014

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The great hall of Dun Realtai is a vast chamber, with vaulted ceilings stretching high overhead. Even in daylight, the furthest corners of the ceiling seem to be just out of sight. Like the rest of the castle and its accompanying village, Dun Realtai's central keep is an amalgam of new mortar, old stone, and fresh timbers, lending it something of a patchwork appearance.

Today, the great hall is entirely empty save for two figures. The long wooden tables and their benches have all been cleared from the floor save for one.

One of them is seated at the table.

Sir Bedivere sits with his back straight as today's guest would ever remember; posture impeccably straight and expression solemn. His hands are folded before him on the table.

Rather than the commoners' clothing he usually favours, today Bedivere wears the regalia he had once donned in Camelot – his heavy plate armour, slightly more battered-looking than Mordred may perhaps remember it, heavy chain hauberk, and the mantled greatcloak. In this manner, he looks much the same as the Marshal of the Realm of memory, if perhaps a bit more tired and haggard-looking.

There are shadows under his eyes, and a gauntness to his features that had not been there before. One of the red stone studs is missing from his ears; a curious fact, for he had never even taken those odd ornaments off in Camelot. The stud that should be in his right ear is missing.

In spite of this, he waits patiently, staring at his hands folded over the table. Perhaps he might seem neutral to the guest they await, but Arturia would recognise that the marshal is tense – nervous, even.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "All this for me?"

    Mordred's voice echoes in the empty halls, despite the fact she is not physically present. A gust of wind, a shimmer of red light, as motes of prana coalesce together in a cluster, and finally a humanoid shape. Across the table from Bedivere, standing upright, appears the Knight of Treachery, with her helmet on. The red and silver platemail, spiked in some places, with the demonic helmet and horns, almost makes her look much taller than she really is – a midget, like her father, really. She reaches up and removes the helmet, dispelling insodoing any and all magic it had upon her appearance. She sets it on the table, being the custom to do so.

    And then next to it, the hanvy clang of metal, as she deposits on the table with little care Clarent as well. A blade of kings, of knighting, stolen from Camelot during the hour of twilight.

    "You need a blacksmith, Sir Bedivere. And coffee."

    Mordred grins, and the armor disappears off her, revealing blue and gold clothes underneath, color scheme matching her father's. A simple sweater with some shorts, and a baseball cap atop her head. She's got quite the regal blue and gold scarf too, long enough to reach her feet on both sides, even wrapped around her shoulders twice. This is no doubt much more casual than Bedivere would like, but after all, Mordred has no authority here.

    She doesn't have to dress and act any part.

    "So. What's up?"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Being partially responsible for the resolution of some issues and having a personal investment, Psyber had stake in seeing this all the way to its resolution. Also Mordred invited him to this particular meeting, along with whomever else would have, and he wanted to support her.

    Though he is distinctly lessmedieval than likely anyone else in attendance upon arrival, at least until Mordred takes her armor off and goes casual. Psyber is wearing his trademark coat over a pair of torn jeans, high-top sneakers, a simple belt, and a shirt which reads 'FBI' emblazoned across the front of it in big yellow letters, though the back of the shirt is not currently visible because of the jacket. He also has a pair of square-frame sunglasses on.

    He takes the sunglasses off and then, following Mordred's lead, starts putting weapons down on the table. This takes him a bit longer than one would expect, and soon enough his spot has two handguns, a revolver, three combat knives, a smaller revolver, and a black and red longsword all neatly lined up at his seat.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Another, much shorter figure stood beside the marshal and lord of Dun Realtai at the head of the table, as carefully poised as she had been when she ruled over Britain. As odd as it might have seemed at first that he was seated and she was not, the knight did not tower over his king as it was. Perhaps, that was entirely intentional.

     Either that, or she had insisted upon him reserving his strength until the appropriate moment.

     Because this was something of a formal event, Arturia was dressed in the armour and under-dress she wore for official functions, with an ermine-lined cloak settled over her shoulders. However, there was one subtle change; a stud of brass and red stone was affixed to her right earlobe.

     The Servant did not so much as need to shift her eyes to the silver-haired knight to pick up on his nervousness. Silently, she closed her eyes, and for the casual observer, that was all. But to Bedivere, she might as well have been speaking out loud. It will be all right, she reassured him without words. Brehon Law had been invoked, after all.

     She was not especially surprised when Mordred arrived in spirit form, if for no other reason than the practicality of it, with the half-angel not far behind. Arturia would make use of it, herself, if she could do such a thing. The gesture of removing her helmet and placing of Clarent on the table was recognised as something of a tradition in their era – as was Psyber's considerably more lengthy dispersal of weaponry – not to mention a function of the older laws among their various people. So far, things seemed to be going as she had anticipated...

     ...At least until the Saber of Red dispensed with the formality, quipped to Bedivere, and dismissed her armour in favour of some reasonably modest clothing.

     That threw her off considerably, but mostly the shorts. "Aren't you cold?" she blurted out in response, her jaw having dropped as she stared owlishly. Startled enough, even, to slip into slightly less formal speech patterns.

     After a moment, she regained her composure with a slight cough, remaining in her armour if for no other reason than so her beleaguered marshal wouldn't feel too left out. And she did have some formal function to perform, at any rate.

     And they could probably use some tea once things got going. Not that she could act the hostess today; she would have to 'ask' the violet-eyed knight to flag down one of the keep's few servants.

     "Yes. There is a matter to discuss. Specifically, regarding the status of our Order."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal's eyes are half-lidded and focused on his gauntleted hands before him, though whether an expression of contemplation or exhaustion, it's hard to say. Most likely it's a little from each.

Bedivere raises his eyes slowly at the sound of that familiar voice, head tilting slightly to one side as he regards the traitor's entrance. He doesn't seem to react at all to the sight of that horned visage. In fact, he seems quite calm, though the lines of his neck suggest that he may be a little tense.

"Sir Mordred." His greeting is cold, but about as cordial as can be expected. This is, after all, the very person who had destroyed everything he had once known and loved. With that in mind, he's showing remarkable restraint that would do Arturia proud; after all, she had specifically asked him to consider the possibility of reconciliation.

He made no promises in that. What he did promise was that he would remain on his very best behaviour, worthy of the Left Hand of the King, and he intends to see that promise through.

Bedivere does not smile. That would be asking too much.

The Servants have had over a thousand years to contemplate the matter of the Battle of Camlann and ultimately Camelot's fall. For the single mortal survivor of that battle, it has only been a paltry five years, and the nightmares of that living hell haunt him still. He cannot snap his fingers and heal overnight, not even if he wanted to – and as he has confessed to Arturia, he does want to. No one wants to suffer such horrors every time they sleep; no one wants to wake in the dead of night choking because they can still smell the fire and blood of that accursed hill.

Apparently he doesn't see fit to answer Mordred's quip about blacksmiths and coffee. The village blacksmith is among the casualties, and while he has shown a fondness for tea, he's not had the opportunity to try coffee yet... but he's not about to show his ignorance in front of Mordred.

He simply watches her, levelly, through those faded violet eyes. Her outfit is studied with no real interest; her formality or lack of formality doesn't even seem to matter to him. He must be tired.

Slowly, he turns his gaze to Psyber, regarding the half-angel as though seeing him for the first time. His regard is perfectly neutral, expression blank, though whether this is from the effort of controlling himself or from simple fatigue, it's hard to say.

His expression twitches. In anyone else, it might be the vestiges of a smile. In the blink of an eye that slight change is gone, and his regard is neutral once more.

"Be welcome in this hall as a guest, Psyber. Sir Mordred." Bedivere speaks solemnly, and for all the gentleness of his voice, it seems he knows how to make it carry in the cavernous chamber. "Be seated, please, both of you."

There is an edge of weariness to his tone that was never present in Camelot; something that runs far deeper than physical exhaustion. He slept little; Arturia would know that he had spent the night pacing the great hall like a caged tiger, though there was little to be done for that.

The articulated metal plates of his gauntlets rattle very slightly. His left hand clenches into a fist.

A quiet command to the shadows, and the one servant that seems to have lingered in the hall scuttles off to the kitchens, no doubt to fetch tea for the gathering.

Bedivere turns his gaze back to the table, then, folding his hands and lacing the plated fingers of his gauntlets with a practised gesture. His expression may as well be cut from stone; eyes lingering on Mordred, though occasionally his gaze flicks over to Psyber. After a few seconds, he closes his eyes, exhaling softly. It might seem a simple gesture of weariness to the guests, but to Arturia, it carries significantly more meaning.

I pray that it be so.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "I'm here simply to observe. I will not be participating unless my input is necessary," Psyber says simply, adjusting the sunglasses he wears as he looks back at Bedivere with a very neutral expression, eyes hidden behind the lenses of his jacket. He certainly doesn't hold malice towards the knight, for whatever opinions he may have.

    "And since necessary is a subjective term, I will clarify: Camelot is historically inefficient at keeping its affairs in order. I will consider my participation necessary if I feel your old drama..." He pauses, looking around, "All of your old drama, no exceptions..." And then continues, "... creates an untenable situation for this discussion."

    He pulls out a chair and takes off his sunglasses, carefully folding them and setting them down on top of one of his guns before he drops down into his seat, "If my presence is objectionable or someone has issue with me, they may feel free to speak." He looks over to Bedivere expectantly, "You keep looking at me oddly, Bedivere. Have I wronged you in recent history? If so, tell me how I can make ammends," His tone is fairly genuine, not fully sure why Bedivere keeps looking at him, and perhaps a bit weary himself from his fights the past few days.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "I'm a Servant, of course I'm not cold," Mordred quips towards Arturia, pulling the baseball cap off her head and whistling as Psyber puts weapon after weapon on the table. He sure came prepared for war. Well, traitor or not, Mordred won't be the one starting any hostilities today, so there should be nothing to worry about.

    "I thought you'd like the blue and gold more than the red and gold, father. Are the shorts really that odd?" She's not sure why but she enjoys the freedom. Pants or shorts're fine, but shorts have an edge. No skirts though. Someone would have to kill her and then dress her up for that to happen.

    Finally she sighs, and actually seats herself across from Bedivere, placing her hands on the table. No tricks. She looks at him for a few moments, and then pushes Clarent towards him.

    "Sir Bedivere. Won't you lift Clarent?"

    The silver and red bastard sword may be better fit for two hands, but it's not quite that unwieldy either. Bedivere, as a trained knight and soldier, won't have any issues lifting it if he wants to, even with just the one hand.

    Sure is an odd request though.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Indeed, the marshal had been showing a great deal of restraint, now more than ever. The re-emergence of the stoicism he had maintained in the past, the almost icy calm he had been sometimes feared for, was a testament to his commitment to following her lead and acting as her Left Hand as befitting his station. She had told him once that he could never dishonour her, and that was as true now as it was this day.

     Mordred, however, is awarded a slight shake of her head. "It is fine...simply that the winter-witch's lingering presence has left the land unnaturally cold. But so long as you are comfortable..."

     With what might have been in anyone else a shrug, Arturia seated herself with the practised grace she could not simply turn off; too many years of presenting the perfect image left her not knowing how to simply be 'casual'. But now, it was a little stiffly, as if she tried to simply sit down rather than elegantly seat herself.

     "Fortunately, there is a distinct lack of scheming nobles in Dun Realtai," she commented to Heaven or Hell's proprietor. "I anticipate no conflicts, especially given the nature of my request..."

     The King of Knights trailed off as she blinked owlishly at Mordred. It sure was an odd request. While Arturia didn't anticipate anything treacherous, she did wonder what the purpose was. Jade eyes flicked to the marshal. It should be all right, she observed. It was, after all, a Noble Phantasm now.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I am nonetheless obligated to welcome you as a guest to my hall," Bedivere replies, politely, to Psyber. "Perhaps you are more casual than the people who live here, myself included, but it would be a breach of etiquette and a breach of Brehon Law not to do formally welcome you here."

His gaze drifts back to Mordred as he listens to Psyber's terms, though the end of those terms earns a brief look from the pale-haired knight.

"I believe you have a mistaken impression of things, Master Psyber." In spite of the connotations of the title, it seems it's meant more as a respectful gesture than an allusion to Psyber's status. "Are we not adults at this table? I believe we can handle things in a reasonably civil manner, in spite of your misgivings. Mastery over myself was a necessity within Camelot, and it is no less a necessity in the multiverse." His tone is gentle, though; there's no animosity in it. Simply a gentle correction given in good faith; no more, and no less.

He does quirk an eyebrow at Psyber's observation. "Hm? Oh. Ah, no, please forgive me my rudeness. Your attire is not what I am accustomed to any more than Sir Mordred's. I have had little exposure to the more, ah, 'modern' worlds." He gestures as though to indicate the sunglasses. "We do not have anything like those. Besides which, I did not wish to lend the impression that I am ignoring you, for I do not wish to be an ungracious host."

Bedivere knows when he's being watched, though, and his eyes flick over to Clarent as Mordred pushes the blade to him.

He eyes the hand-and-a-half sword in open suspicion for a very long moment. It almost seems as though he might refuse, fearing some trick, but that silent reassurance from Arturia seems to be enough for him. Reluctantly he rises to his feet, reaching out and closing one gauntleted hand around the handguard.

Perhaps surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly to those who know his actual strength, he lifts the blade with one hand, before shifting to a two-handed grip, blade pointed skyward, eyes raised to note the ornamentation along the blade. Was this, too, forged in the same otherworld that Arturia's own armour was? That Excalibur, and Caliburn, were? Perhaps it was, or perhaps it was not. He is not familiar with this particular sword. With undue care, he sets it back on the table, pushing it toward Mordred, hilt presented towards her.

"It is a fine sword, though perhaps it is also a stained sword." It had, after all, cut down many a knight over the fields of Camlann. He eyes Mordred, caught somewhere between wary curiosity and suspicion. "Why do you make such a request of me?"

Slowly and stiffly, in the manner of one perhaps healing from injuries, he eases himself back to his seat. As he does, one of the castle servants scuttles in, quietly and discretely leaving a teapot and four steaming cups on the table before hastily taking his leave.

Bedivere indicates the cups with a slight dip of his chin. By all means, the gesture seems to say, drink up. No, it's not poisoned.

"To the heart of the matter, then, we will go." He lowers his face a little, silvery hair hiding his features; but his soft and solemn voice still carries well enough. "With the reappearance of several knights who were once of the Round Table, and with such need for chivalry as there is in the multiverse, we have called you here, Sir Mordred, to discuss the possibility of reforming the Round Table of old. And we have called you here, Sir Mordred, to discuss the possibility of restoring your seat on that table."

He seems reluctant, but Arturia may be proud of him. It's costing him to do this, to go by the way his left hand continuously clenches into a quiet, clanking fist; only to be released with a conscious effort of will. It's an uncommon gesture of agitation from him, but given the circumstances, it's likely commendable that that's all he's showing of his agitation.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "On the one hand, yes, and I appreciate that mentality," Psyber says to Bedivere about them all being adults, "On the other hand, it was a very monumental effort on my part to repair relations to the point they're at right now, so I would prefer to not see it degrade because tempers got heated," He responds to Bedivere respectfully, not disagreeing with him that they're all adults, but at the same time explaining why he has the stance he does.

    When Bedivere explains about the fashion differences, Psyber actually reaches over to his sunglasses and tosses them over to the knight, "You should try them on sometime when you're working outside. It's protection from the sun like a helmet without impeding your vision like a helmet." He explains, "Keep the pair, I go through a lot."

    When business gets underway, though, Psyber simply falls silent to let the knights talk.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "If we want to be technical I'm not quite an adult," Mordred says, though she quickly follows with: "Let's skip the part where we joke about not treating me like one, though." Well, by all accounts she is right. She's somewhere between four or five years old, tops? Even ignoring her actual age, physically she's no older than fifteen or sixteen. Barely a speck of dust younger than Arturia over there.

    As Bedivere returns Clarent, Mordred leaves it on the table, simply smilingg. "Stained, yes. A stolen blade, wielded by a traitor to cut his brothers and sisters down, cursed to strike the king even if its wielder should fall first. But beyond that, it is also a sword of kings. It might not be the Sword in the Stone or Excalibur, but it is the blade father used to knight a great many of us, and a symbol of his status as king. I wanted to see what it looked like in a king's hand again. That's all."

    Whether she's trying to flatter Bedivere or being honest is hard to tell. She relaxes in her seat when he pushes matters forward.

    She seems surprised Bedivere is the one making the offer, though.

    "I wasn't sure if you'd seek to make a new order altogether or try to revive the old one. I already told father I'd be happy to, but if my actions are too recent in your memories then I'll wait the time it takes for wounds to heal. Long as you understand I am bound to my master and the Confederacy before I am bound to this."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Though she possessed something of the authority to elaborate further, Arturia remained silent as Bedivere mildly corrected misconceptions. It would have underminded the marshal's own standing, both as her Left Hand as well as his more recent role as lord of Dun Realtai, to have interjected. Instead, she maintained her reticence with an unspoken approval and encouragement. Although, no doubt the silver-haired knight would later protest over her silent acknowledgement that he was, in this place, the authority as the lord of the land.

     And, it would seem, she was not the only one to make a similar observation. Blinking a few times, she regarded the Saber of Red with a hint of surprise. "I would not say a king, precisely..."

     Though in all fairness, Dun Realtai was roughly the size of many of the petting kingdoms of Eire, taking the expanse of farmland, pastures, and the lake into account. But a smaller land felt much more comfortable, not to mention manageable.

     The sunglasses likewise drew a bit of curiosity, though they might seem somewhat off with armour. On the other hand, he did have more modern attire, and for some reason the thought secretly amused her.

     With a nod to the departing servant, Arturia lifted a teacup to her lips gratefully. Though such a thing was converted instantly into magical energy, it was pleasant enough to enjoy, a small wonder of the current age.

     Nodding in agreement as Bedivere laid out the proposal, she was indeed proud of her marshal's excellent conduct. And it was more than a little touching, that he would go to such lengths, knowing that she had wished for reconciliation for a good while now, once she had abandoned her original wish.

     "In truth, I envision a new one," she answered Mordred. "As of yet, only the five of us have reappeared...and it would seem there are some who hold to chivalry, as well. And there are others who share our goals, who could perhaps become allies, if not knights."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I appreciate your concern," Bedivere replies to Psyber, lifting his gaze to the half-angel. "However, I would ask that you remember why it is that this is difficult for me," he says, gently. "Sir Mordred destroyed everything that I had ever known or loved. Everything and everyone, to a man. They are Servants both, now, my king and Sir Mordred. I do not know how long they have had to consider these events. But for me, the Battle of Camlann is but five years past."

He looks away, brow furrowed, expression one of unease. "This is... difficult for me. Lord God, I do not think that you fully understand what a battle this is for me. But know this, Sir Psyber. My king asked that I conduct myself as befitting a knight of my station, as a very paragon of the values we once sought to exemplify among the Round Table." Those violet eyes settle on Psyber again, calm. "And I would not fain disobey my king in any matter. You will find no quarrel from me, no matter what is said at this table, or what is done; for even if Sir Mordred were to bare steel against me, I could not even bare steel in my own defense. I am under obligation not only as a Knight of the Round, but as a host. I would not only shame myself, were I to behave contrary to Brehon Law, but I would also shame my king, and I could never do that."

He exhales, quietly. "Still. I understand your meaning, and I thank you—"

Suddenly, sunglasses. Squinting, Bedivere picks them up gingerly by one of the arms, delicately held between gauntleted thumb and forefinger, eyeing them a little curiously. "...I thank you," he says again, blinking in evident surprise. "I shall try them when next I am overseeing labour in the village."

They're tucked aside, for the moment, and his gaze swivels back to Mordred, brow furrowing again. Not in anger, though; but in apparent puzzlement.

"Sir Mordred, I am no king, and you know this well. Perhaps I had never spoken of it in Camelot, for I could not, but I was a foreigner and a commoner in Camelot's courts. There is no more royal blood in my veins than Sir Lancelot's, or Sir Palomedes'. Why did you not pass the blade to our king...? It is she who is royalty at this table, and you, as well, by blood." He shakes his head, still looking a little puzzled. "Not I."

To the matter of the Round Table, he regards Mordred levelly, though there is a certain caution in it.

"There are too few left of the old to reform that table, I think. The only other knight who remains is Sir Gawain. I have heard tell that Sir Lancelot was once seen in the multiverse, but at present he is lost to us, nor do I think I would ask him – he too has borne a great many burdens in his time, and I should not like to add to them." He bows his head. "And as our king claims, there are a great many others who are worthy to sit the table at our sides."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber looks like he's about to say something very long-winded, before he simply states, instead, "Sir Bedivere, you may not have been around long enough to know this, but I am the last person to talk to about 'Bad things that have happened in the past five years'. It may hold a lot of weight with some people, but I've spent the past half-decade slogging through the worst events imaginable for the Multiverse. I can understand your difficulty, but I don't sympathize or agree with it."

    "You would do well to focus less on the shattered pieces of your past and more on what is in front of you. You may not agree or understand it, but the more you focus on what was, the more you prevent yourself from ever growing. If you obsess about the lost, you only sentence yourself to further loss every day you spend not living," He states in a tone that's less argumentative and more 'advisorly', meaning to give Bedivere some perspective, "You have nothing to gain from the past."

    He has little input to the matter of Mordred at the moment, though.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Sir Bedivere, the person acting most like a king at this table is you. You should just learn to take compliments, sometimes," Mordred says, not losing her grin but almost looking annoyed at Bedivere's... well, unbending seriousness.

    "If blood is everything it takes to make a king then I should start asking you to call me lord instead of sir. But we both know there's more to it than that, right? Or I'd have had no trouble claiming the throne without having to make such a mess of the kingdom."

    She wisely elects not to reply to the prior statements; she did do that. Whether she regrets it or not, is not a matter suitable for this table. It'd be long, anyway. She just closes her eyes and shrugs.

    "A new order is fine. I'm honored either way."

Saber (346) has posed:
     As much as Arturia was prone to fuss over Bedivere or at least frown in concern as he recounted Camlann, she carefully maintained her neutrality as she always had. Given the businesslike nature of the meeting, the Saber decided it was best to refrain from that, or from interjecting. Her own struggle was to allow the knight to speak on his own behalf, to not interfere in the matter and to keep her mask firmly in place...even if she very much wanted to.

     It had never been easy in the past, but it was that much more difficult now. But at least, she could infer in their unspoken way of communication that she silently encouraged him, that he no longer needed to hide from her for fear of undermining her rule. An improvement, most assuredly, though it was somewhat frustrating that her hands were metaphorically tied in this case. For her part, she was behaving herself.

     And they did have their future plans, both for Dun Realtai in the immediate sense and their future order into the foreseeable future.

     Bedivere's protestations and Mordred's observations were a welcome distraction. "Hm...to be fair, it is not an altogether inaccurate description, though it is simply the proper conduct for a knight. However...I am hesitant to name this land as a kingdom. It lacks the necessary self-sufficiency and division into smaller provinces. However, the title of 'lord' is quite accurate."

     Bedivere would probably not be especially happy with that confession, regardless of the accuracy. Not with his overwhelming sense of modesty, at any rate. At least he might have cinnamon apples to look forward to later.

     A faint smile broke through the impassive mask. "Very well, then. For the moment, Sir Bedivere and I have been wholly focused on ensuring Dun Realtai's survival through the winter, therefore, the formation of the new order must wait for the time being. Nevertheless, we shall welcome you back once it has been established."

     And they are going to need a new table.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere regards Psyber for a long moment, calm despite the situation. Gone are the traces of awkwardness or shyness that seem to herald his dealings with the unfamiliarity of the multiverse; this is the knight of both Arturia's and Mordred's memory – the cool and confident Left Hand of the King, whose impartial conduct had been a cornerstone of the realm.

"You misunderstand," he says coolly, at length. "I do not ask for your sympathy or your agreement. I ask your understanding. I ask that you not belittle my own pain, simply because you perceive yours to be of greater value. I ask that you simply understand what you are asking of me; that I cannot simply sweep it away. Would I not have done that by now?" he says, softly. "I do not wish to suffer. None do."

His right arm rises, somewhat stiffly and slowly, to encompass the great hall. "Perhaps it will take much effort yet, but Dun Realtai is a blessing, truly. It is a new beginning. And I will be eternally grateful to the winter-witch for the gift she has unwittingly given to me, and to those who reside here."

"Besides which..." Bedivere doesn't look at Arturia when he says this, not directly, but his eyes slide briefly to her place at the table. "A great deal of that which was lost has been returned to me. A home. Sir Gaawin, a bright point of light amongst my brother-knights. My king. Service to a cause, with the Union."

"No, I do not obsess over them as you seem to think that I do. I am simply placing this into some manner of context for you, and explaining why the situation with Sir Mordred is what it is, for me; why I cannot simply smile, and make nice, as you seem to expect me to." He shakes his head, but his tone of voice is still peaceful. "I have, in fact, been focusing on what lies before me. There is a great deal to be focused upon. It is, in fact, quite necessary. If I do not focus, these people and their land will not survive the coming winter. That is all; I merely wish to clarify that misunderstanding."

His eyes flick to Mordred, and he listens to what she says. It almost doesn't seem to compute for several long moments. The marshal blinks owlishly. Acting most like a king. Silence. His eyes are wholly blank, absolutely bereft of any deeper emotion than flat... shock? Yes, he does seem a little shocked.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
And then, slowly, Bedivere flushes. Not in anger, by the way he ducks his head, letting his hair fall across his face to hide it. No; Arturia would recognise it as embarrassment.

"I... am touched, if you speak true, and do not lie as you had once done, Sir Mordred." His voice is an awkward mumble. "Truly."

Seems a compliment of such calibre wasn't expected in the day's festivities.

Bedivere raises his head after a moment, though there's still a little red touching his high cheekbones. He doesn't quite meet anyone's eyes after that, instead looking down at the table.

"As my king says," he murmurs quietly, "it is not yet self-sufficient enough to be named a kingdom. Dun Realtai will need much work yet before it can be such. We are relying on imports of food and material, and will be until the crops can be planted in the spring. I am merely a lord, and even then, it is perhaps smaller still than those holdings of Sir Bertilak's. Dun Realtai and its lands are small. The title is formality only, at that; it is a temporary arrangement. I may appeal to the winter-witch to remain here as a resident after we have fulfilled her conditions."

"However... I should like to propose that when the snows melt, the New Round Table be formed, when it is no longer imperative that my attention be focused on Dun Realtai out of necessity. I..." He trails off, looking down at the table again, thoughtful. A faint smile touches his face; one both bittersweet and fond. "I should like that, I think."

"I have missed the company of such fellow knights." His eyes lift to Mordred. "Perhaps you were a pretender, but I would like to say something. I could not acknowledge your deeds any more than our king could acknowledge you as the son of the king... for I was bound to be as impartial as she. When you were still behaving as a knight ought, before you turned Camelot against itself... I respected you, then. Truly, you behaved as a knight upholding the Eight Virtues ought. I will not ask you to change who and what you are, for you are a Servant, now, and have had much time to reflect on that, no doubt – but if you rejoin this table..."

"I will hold you to the Eight Virtues. Perhaps not in the capacity of your factional alignment, for that cannot be held against you. But may I ask that you be that knight once more? Even if only in part? And not merely as a ruse, this time. Such would... do much to improve my opinion of you." Those violet eyes settle on Mordred, solemn. "I do not know that I can ever forget what you had done. But I... should like to begin to forgive."

Now, that one might come as a pleasant surprise to Arturia.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    In response to Bedivere, Psyber simply shakes his head, "And you continue to misunderstand me. I do not belittle your pain, I offer you a different perspective. Perhaps one explained poorly."

    "But I will tell you now. You are incorrect in what I expect of you. I don't expect you to smile and make nice, and you severely insult my intelligence by implying that I expect that," He stares hard across the table, "My expectation is for you to reach a point where your King no longer pleads me in private not to criticize your actions and attitude."

    His arms cross in front of himself, "I do not hold you any hostility, Bedivere. As Marshall, I expect you to understand my position as a leader in the Union. I am the one who must take the position of harsh truths and cold facts, unpleasant though they may be. Please do not misinterpret my advice as hostility."

    Psyber pushes out his chair and stands up. He walks around the table to Bedivere, making a point of reaching him and saying firmly, "Your choices are your own and my input ends here. However, I would call you 'friend' if you would let me, regardless of our differing opinions on this."

    He extends his hand towards Bedivere.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Well then, Lord Bedivere, I should think your goal is clear, and I trust you won't rest until Dun Realtai is a grand kingdom? I think if you had the skills to manage Camelot then you have the skills to make of this place more than it could ever dream to be, and then unfortunately for you, give us reason to call you king," Mordred says, after Psyber finishes, not wishing to interrupt those two's more serious talk.

    She seems only half-serious, but at the same time, entirely so. Bedivere's no slouch, if he wants to, he can make this place something.

    "As for how I used to act, I don't think I could go back to that. I'll leave being the ideal white knight to Sir Gawain. I don't have 'become an incarnation of the code' in me again. But you don't have to ask me to abide by the Virtues. That's a given. If you'll have me around your new table then I'll be as knightly as everyone else around it, sure. No ruses. No tricks. Besides, I'm an awful liar."

    Mordred gives a shrug, not making a big deal out of it. She'd already promised her father she'd start behaving like a knight again, so this is mostly a formality for her. Though it is nice to see Bedivere move on. Ish. Trying to, anyway.

    "Question, though."

    She glances at Bedivere in utter seriousness.

    "You said the snow melts here. Are you saying that we're nearing the end of the year and it's already this snowy without being winter? And if so, why do people here hate fun and warm beaches so much?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     Perhaps the even greater difficulty was in suppressing an outright chuckle at the marshal's sudden embarrassment. Deep down, she suspected it would always be a point of endearment. Bedivere was not modest out of mere duty; it was a part of who he was. However, they might catch how she struggled to suppress a smile, though it was somewhat fruitless. His compliment-accepting skills were as terrible as hers, so his relative grace in accepting it was welcome.

     "Hm. That is quite an improvement," she observed with the faintest hint of her amusement.

     Insomuch as it was a virtue, true forgiveness was not merely something once logically decided upon, not something a person could simply wish into being. It seemed that, the more one tried to bring it about in spite of the heart, the more that heart protested. What was surprising to Arturia was not that Bedivere wanted to completely leave the past behind and forgive out of duty or to simply stop hurting, but that in his heart, it was what he wished for.

     Moreover, she had sometimes wondered if forming a new order on the foundations of the old was an ideal she had been imposing on him, rather than a true wish for it. The Saber visibly relaxed, sipping her tea again. Virtues were one thing, trying to rebuilt something of what they had lost was another entirely.

     Likewise, the jade-eyed knight inwardly sighed in relief as Psyber further explained himself. She had never been certain that his thorns were to deliberately shut others out when he needed them to, a way to cope with the awful things he endured in the multiverse, or other possible reasons she could only guess at. It had been her silent hope that some kind of accord could be reached, given the right setting and circumstances. Sometimes reining in her fussier nature paid off. That had definitely been a tough lesson to learn, going against her nature as it did.

     This time, she did nothing to suppress a faint sigh through her nose, a hint of a laugh. But her outlook was practical, almost matter-of-fact. "I think, perhaps, it would be best to keep things small. It is much easier to govern a small village than it is an entire kingdom. Similarly, the lord is not so distant as a king is, and so the people are able to approach with pertinent issues."

     Arturia couldn't tell if Mordred was joking or not; Bedivere on the rare occasion joked with a completely straight face, but that was not something she would have expected from her 'son'. She and Gawain tended to be of the much more open variety. "Ah...well...I do not believe the snow to be usual for this season. The land seems to be rather similar to our own Britain...otherwise, it would be impossible to raise crops in the outlying fields." Trust Saber to be a little too serious.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal merely tilts his head and studies the half-angel in evident neutrality. Even when Psyber's stare hardens, Bedivere remains mild in outlook, the same kind of calm he had accepted both routine reports or the gravest of insults to his person. Not once had his famous calm buckled in Camleot; and it seems he's found it in himself to draw on those same reserves here. Somehow.

Considering he hasn't reached for his sword or attempting to leap over the table to part Mordred's head from her shoulders, or even so much as raised his voice, he's doing pretty well.

"Mm." His voice is soft, and the sound is one that almost seems conflicted, but he doesn't speak up. He merely shakes his head, though whether in disagreement or in simple dismissal, it's hard to say. "Perhaps."

He instead lifts his eyes as a hand is offered to him. For a few long moments it almost seems like he might refuse, but he finally accepts the hand offered. His grip is strong; though he seems to be careful not to grip too tightly while wearing his gauntlets.

"I bear you no ill will, Sir Psyber, nor have I ever. I merely ask respect, rather than condescension." Bedivere regards the half-angel with a faded violet eye, thoughtful. "If it is any comfort, my actions are outside of your purview, and I have exercised all due care that they do not interfere with my obligations to the Union, so you need not invoke such a thing again. In any case, we will speak of this matter again in the future, for I fear you perhaps do not fully understand the subtleties at play, but this is perhaps not the time."

He releases Psyber's hand.

Half a glance is cast back to Mordred. "Sir Bedivere," he corrects Mordred blandly. "I am no lord, neither by birth nor by role. This is merely a temporary situation, come the winter solstice, until such a time as the natural guardian of these lands may resume her role." He sobers. "I am not so ambitious as to seek a crown. I know well the weight of such a thing, and I fear it would destroy me, in the end. Perhaps I would not allow myself to become corrupt by such power... but I would give until I had naught left to give. And my strength and endurance are not what they once were."

He lifts a brow at her utterly serious question.

"The appearance of the winter-witch before her season has had unfortunate side effects, for Dun Realtai has been plunged into unnatural winter. It will pass; already it is fading to true autumn, and the natural winter will come." He regards her blandly, tilting his head slightly. "As to that, they have a natural dislike of warmth and beaches because they are distant relations of mine, all of them, to a man."

Bedivere lets that hang for about five seconds.

Yes, he was deadpan snarking. The faint quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests as much.

"In all seriousness, these people have lost everything and may not survive the winter if they do not work, and work swiftly. They are not terribly inclined to enjoy themselves until they are certain they have roofs over their heads, and protection against the inevitable snows. Once the seasons have returned to their natural order, I believe this land will be much warmer. Perhaps not unlike Camelot's weather," he remarks, thoughtfully, resting a curled forefinger against his upper lip in thought. "Temperature, with cold winters, but enjoyable in the summer seasons."

He seems to return to himself, shaking his head and pushing himself slowly to his feet. "In any case, I believe we have settled that which we have all come to settle. Do not let me keep you any longer, if you have other matters to attend to."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "You're probably right. My perspective on the matter is undeniably biased by my own experiences, and I shouldn't hold you to my standards and life choices," He says as he tightly grips the hand of Bedivere, showing that even if Bedivere were to clamp down it probably wouldn't hurt the half-angel.

    "You have grown much since you first arrived, no one can deny that. And I certainly respect what you're doing here and what you've done so far. I just attempt to caution anyone, lest they wind up too much like me," Saber's guesses about his thorns are right, but partially only. And run much deeper. Time for another day.

    As he release Bedivere's hand, he turns to the rest, "I should take my leave, though. You hardly need me around for your affairs and the talk of your new Order. Don't hesitate to call on me if you need my help. I'm not a knight, but I will help any of you." He notes, walking over and starting to put his weapons back into his holters under the jacket.

    Finishing all that up, Psyber slugs Mordred in the shoulder. Not TOO hard, but with some good 'oomph' behind it, "Be good, kid. Your adult supervision is leaving."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "So you say, but to be honest you're too humble. I can't think of a single person who sat around the Round Table and who wouldn't have been a decent lord or king, and that includes you. Now I'm not saying all of 'em were peerless and perfect kings like father, but I'm saying I'd take them over a fair amount of people who've claimed to be kings thorough history."

    Mordred shrugs again, and then gets beaned on the shoulder. She glares at Psyber, and then just gives him a thumb up. "Yeah yeah, don't worry. I got the kingdom burning out of my system forever ago, worst Bedivere has to fear right now is me raiding his kitchen."

    ... speaking of.

    "I'll ask master if she has anything to contribute. Food isn't going to be a problem, I know a couple places where I could take Gawain for... a hunting trip," she says, wide grin now on her face. This is not going to end well for anyone except the keep's storehouses. "But for the rest that's pretty much outside my competences. Really gotta get yourself a new blacksmith and a coffee boy, though."

Saber (346) has posed:
     At long last, a frown finally broke through the mask to furrow her brow, turned on her marshal. You are a lord, she reminded him. Temporary arrangement or no, it is nevertheless your station. It is not a breach of ingenuitas to acknowledge it.

     And it would seem Mordred agreed with her. "Sir Mordred is not wrong. Your dedication to ingenuitas is an admirable trait, but the people have need of a leader. I appointed you as such for a reason, in spite of your refusal to accept holdings in Camelot..."

     she flushed slightly at Mrodred's backhanded – and she felt undeserved – praise. She was certainly not peerless nor perfect, but she refrained from protest. Besides, she was right about Bedivere; Arturia would have appointed him regardless of whether any of the other knights had been present or not. Even he admitted that it had been good for him, in the long run.

     On the other hand, she agreed entirely with his refusal to seek a higher position. "There is no need for a king, here. A lord is all that is necessary, and even then it would seem the need extends no further than someone to simply manage the reconstruction and daily operations." Some of the people seemed to think a lady was necessary, as well...but admitting that embarrassing detail could be left for a more auspicious time. In fact, Arturia would prefer not to bring it up at all.

     A few seconds passed after Bedivere's deadpan snark, where Saber merely regarded the knight impassively. It was something he had been known to do, from time to time – most notably pranking her brother shortly after he had been appointed to help Kay with filtering through knight applications – but it had been quite some time. If anything, she wondered if Camlann had robbed him of that quirk permanently. It would seem that was not the case.

     There was a slight 'pft' sound as Arturia lifted her fist to her mouth, stifling a laugh at the completely straight-faced joke.

     When he rose, so did she, nodding to Psyber at his observation at the silver-haired knight's personal growth, though she couldn't help but respond with a quip of her own, equally as deadpan with a slightly upraised brow. "Too much like you? That is to say, a walking armoury?"

     As for that hunting trip... "Just take care not to allow him to cook the spoils. I dare say even a Servant will regret that. But...we shall keep that in mind." Shirou might be getting a new job soon, if that was anything to go by.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those faded violet eyes regard the half-angel for a long moment, before the knight finally inclines his head. It's not quite a bow, but it's more respectful than a mere nod. He even manages a faint half-smile, which is probably as much of an emotional display as Mordred has ever seen him show. He had worn a mask much like the king, in the days of Camelot.

"Your caution is appreciated, though it is not needed. There are those who would watch over me, and see that I do not take the incorrect path." He can't help a faint flick of a glance at Arturia, though he stops himself before he can look at her directly. "And I trust the people to inform their lord if they feel he is beginning to lose his way. I have made it clear to them that I welcome their input. I do not seek to rule with the iron fist of a tyrant; I seek only to guide them."

Still, he shifts somewhat uncomfortably at the praise, both from Psyber and from Mordred; and even more so at the silent chiding from Arturia. He glances up as Psyber proclaims to take his leave, though, and inclines his head respectfully again. "You are welcome here any time. And I will be certain to inform you when your quarters are complete."

Bedivere's attention turns back to Mordred, and for a long moment he simply regards the Traitor Knight as though he were deciding what he wanted to say.

After a few seconds he exhales softly through his nose; not quite a sigh, eyes closing briefly. It's an odd expression and gesture; somewhere between gratitude and resignation. "Thank you," he finally murmurs.

Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, and for that brief instant he looks unspeakably weary.

"Thank you for coming, Sir Mordred; Sir Psyber. But I believe I shall take my leave, as well. You are free to stay for as long as you like. I will take you at your word, Sir Mordred, and trust that you intend no harm to the people or the land."

He turns, then, and makes his way slowly up the staircase; this time, he doesn't look back, neither waiting for the others to leave, nor waiting to see whether Arturia will follow.

He has an overwhelming need to go be someplace very quiet for a little while.