Difference between revisions of "1304/By the Sword"

Latest revision as of 06:38, 10 January 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Much as it had been before, the village and valley of Dun Realtai are cold, windy, and blanketed in a heavy mantle of snow. The temperature hasn't improved by much since the céilidh, and today people seem to be taking it easy – there isn't much work that can be done outside in such awful weather, not without risking illness or injury in the deep drifts.

Of course, not everybody is rational when it comes to that, and that may explain why the lord of the land is out on patrol, inspecting village buildings for threat of collapse under the weight of the snow. He's borrowed a large draught-horse from one of the farmers, and he wears the blue steel armour he had been wearing a few days previously; his mantled white cloak, and what looks like a knitted wool scarf in blue-grey. It looks hand-made.

For the moment, he's wholly absorbed in navigating some of the deeper snowdrifts, guiding his horse around in a way that won't have both of them plunging into the frigid bank; and he's only nominally paying attention to the roads. A quick patrol, he'd told Arturia, and he would be back in front of the fire before she knew it – no doubt the only reason she even let him go without nagging him /too/ badly.

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Things never go the way one expects when Heroic Spirits are involved.

Perhaps it's the nature of things. Those who are considered Heroes - those who have legends wove about them like mantles to wear, who have armor and weapons made of story and identities woven of tall tales and stories - are not people for whom life went as it is expected to go, after all. They are people who, more often than not, ended in tragedy and failure; they are people who, over the countless ages, have served as object lessons to children and inspiration and caution alike to those who overflow with ambition.

So how can one truly expect anything involving such people to be normal?

Bedivere may not be a Heroic Spirit, but he has drawn the attention of one. Amidst the snowbanks of Dun Realtai he appears - at a distance, first, so that Bedivere can see him coming. He glides over the snow, unbothered by it, though whether he is unaffected or simply able to compensate is impossible to determine. The blue-haired man in the lavender kimono. The blue-haired man covered in black-lined scars which twitch and writhe like living things along his skin as they lock into a new formation. He carries over his shoulder a sword of Japanese make almost as long as he is tall. His smile is as peaceful as the new-fallen snow and just about as gentle.

Kojirou Sasaki stops just shy of Bedivere. He doesn't draw his sword. He doesn't immediately strike. Instead, he unslings a jug of sake from his shoulder and takes a sip like a classical ronin, a ritualistic motion likely less about alcohol and more about the ritual of it all. Heroic Spirits stand on ritual as well as legend, after all.

"You look cold," Kojirou offers politely, "Would you care for a drink? Sake warms a man well in the wintertime, though I admit, you don't seem the type to handle your alcohol well."

Kojirou's gaze moves along towards one of the buildings. "Is there something I might help you with to hasten your task?" He asks finally, turning his gaze back to Bedivere, "I'd rather you not have anything else on your mind when I draw my sword."

"Distractions will probably get you killed."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps Bedivere is not a Heroic Spirit, but he certainly qualifies as one. Even in the multiverse, there are those who have recognised his name and deeds, albeit from a few realities over – few remembered the finer details, and he had worked hard to keep it that way. Perhaps the thing overlooked as much as any other important detail is his perceptions.

So it is that something tugs at his attention; he notices, a half-second or so before Kojirou actually speaks, that the foreign Heroic Spirit is there. He whirls in the saddle, half-twisting and clutching the reins in one hand, reaching for his sword with the other–

Sake? He's heard of it, although he's never tried it. He's not one for alcohol, just as Kojirou observes; he prefers not to drink, and he doesn't hold his liquor at all, as most likely may have been evidenced at the céilidh. He and Arturia had staggered off once the festivities had concluded, all but propping one another up.

"Sasaki Kojirou." The name is given in a neutral tone, and though Bedivere inclines his head, there's nothing but wariness in his eyes. "No, thank you. Your observations are correct; I do not drink where possible, and prefer to keep my wits about me."

He watches the Heroic Spirit with the strange tattooed scars, frowning. "No. I am nearly finished. This was the last building, in fact, though I confess I was not expecting you here." His lips thin. "May we go to the square? It is more open, and if you are truly a Heroic Spirit, then I do not wish to risk any damage to the buildings. They have only recently been rebuilt."

His hand is resting on the hilt of his sword; but when it drifted down that way, it's hard to say. But he's tense and wary, that much is certain – and focused, to go by the way those seemingly mild violet eyes watch Kojirou.

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Bedivere's skill - his qualifications - are exactly why he caught Kojirou's attention. Maybe Kojirou himself never really existed - maybe the nameless swordsman who now carries his legend was never really a Heroic Spirit - but the thing that wears his name most definitely does, in between the boundaries of reality and fantasy, and he can recognize his own. Bedivere is someone who bears that power - who bears that promise. The promise of a wish fulfilled. But the wish Bedivere fulfills may not be his own.

If Kojirou notices the wariness, he doesn't comment on it. His smile, and his eyes, remain as peaceful as a stillwater lake. He stows the sake over his shoulder and turns. "I have no objections to that. Please, lead on. I'm a stranger in your land, after all."

While it might seem like Kojirou is showing his back to an enemy, Bedivere's perceptions are sharp enough to notice instantly that Kojirou's ease isn't the ease of overconfidence. Rather, it's the ease of a man who has been in countless, countless battles, honing his inner senses to the point where they're vastly better than his own eyes. As Kojirou walks - and this close to Bedivere, it's easy for the other man to tell that Kojirou is deftly compensating for the snow, moving his weight in subtle but important ways to keep himself from breaking the snowdrift - he keeps pace and position without ever looking over his shoulder at Bedivere. He never turns around. He never glances. He simply moves, casually shifting his position to let the horse move behind him.

"Have you told your loved ones that you care for them?" Kojirou asks in the tone of a man discussing a book with a coworker, "Have you told the people you care about that they matter to you?"

"If you have any regrets in your life, please put them in order. I don't want to fight you weighed-down by thoughts of the people you might leave behind or the words you may never say to the people who need to hear them." Kojirou waves his hand. "Don't misunderstand; if I felt my victory was assured, I wouldn't be here to fight you. I don't like making a mess of my sword against unworthy foes. But..."

He stops as they enter the town square and turns to look at Bedivere. There's something different in his eyes - like the subtle ripple of a pond into which a stone has been thrown, excitement rolls through his gaze. "But if you die because of something like that, it won't be very satisfying. So please use whatever magic or machinery you deem necessary to clear your regrets."

Kojirou looks up as the distinctive /shnnnnnnk/ of Monohoshi Zao echoes through the square. His eyes catch the moon, and he sighs, a sigh of contentment and delight. "On your own time," he adds peacefully, "There's nothing quite like a duel under the light of the moon, surrounded by the new-fallen snow."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps it's that peaceable nature that inspires such caution. Perhaps it's simply the nature of the pale-haired knight not to trust so easily. Smiles mean little; there were many smiling faces in the courts of Camelot, yet they were all treacherous vipers, willing to backstab and scheme to get what they felt entitled to. It was his duty not to be lulled into a false sense of security by them.

A chuck of the horse's reins sets the beast to plodding through the snow, though Bedivere keeps his head tilted, watching Kojirou even as he leads. He certainly notices the subtleties of the other's movements; the way Kojirou places his weight just so, or the way he moves to allow the horse to pass by him.

Fortunately, snow has never been a problem to Bedivere. He may not like it, but he knows how to operate in it. He's battled in it; fought wars in it, slept in it.

He doesn't even answer Kojirou's question. He simply slides from the saddle and gives the horse's flank a swat, sending the beast running downhill, back from wherever he'd borrowed it. Away, more importantly. He's the kind of man who would feel guilty if harm came to the animal through his own carelessness or inattention.

In answer to Kojirou's question, though, he draws his sword with a rasp of leather and steel. It's a plain blade, nameless, battered and nicked. But it is /his/, and he has fought with it all his life; a trusted friend and ally, as much as Excalibur is to the king.

"Cease this meaningless chatter." Bedivere sinks into a defensive position, but doesn't otherwise move. "Your words are arrogant. I prefer to judge a man by his actions. If you are so set on a duel, then let us begin this forthwith. I should like to return to the warmth of my hearth-fire, and I have no desire to fight with you. Let us have done with this folly."

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Kojirou looks over at Bedivere again, finally, as Bedivere draws his sword. It's then that Kojirou's nature is laid completely bare for Bedivere. It's then that the other swordsman gets a glimpse of what lies underneath Kojirou's peaceful mask, of what hides behind his gentle, blue-eyed gaze. His eyes lock onto Bedivere's sword, and there's finally a real emotion in that gaze.

Joy. Naked delight. As Bedivere's heavy blade is pulled from its sheathe, Kojirou fixates on it with delight, watching it slide from its sheathe like a hungry man watches a turkey cook in the window of a rich house. He admires the blade for a moment, taking in each nick, each battered bit, each piece of it and the whole of it, as Bedivere takes his defensive stance.

"I was wondering," Kojirou observes finally, the joy in his voice laid as bare as the delight in his eyes, "What might set your blood boiling. It was that, wasn't it?"

"That's good," Kojirou walks forward, his sword held loosely at his side, "I was afraid that you would approach this half-hearted."

And then there are no more words, though Bedivere might wish there were. Kojirou lunges forward, inhumanly fast. That absurdly long nodachi flashes outwards, catching the light of the full moon in its arc; it glints and shines, flashing across the walls of the buildings just outside the square as though it was carving its existence on the world with that light. The nodachi dances around Bedivere's blade, each strike flowing straight for his neck, each slash moving like water along a path. There is no style, here, no trained school, no logic, no reason - Kojirou's blade defies all those things as he presses the attack on Bedivere.

One thing is for certain: he does not mean to hold back on the other man. This is not a sparring match. This is not a gentleman's blade against another.

Kojirou Sasaki fully means to kill him if Bedivere isn't careful.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There comes no reaction to the naked joy in the other swordsman's eyes. Indeed, the knight's regard seems almost sleepy-eyed, but there's no mistaking the intensity in that lidded stare. He watches Kojirou's every move as though his life depends on it, which it does; stare as piercing as a raptor's. No joy touches his face, though, but a strange sort of reluctance. This is not a man who enjoys battle.

"It was not that." His own voice is calm, gentle; almost feminine in its softness, but there is a core of steel to it. "I will not tell you what will earn you that reaction. But rest assured I will take you seriously. I see in you a warrior. A warrior, and a Heroic Spirit. Tell me; why do you challenge a mere mortal as myself? Why do you not seek out other Heroic Spirits and match your strength to your own kind?"

Thankfully, Bedivere had been expecting the other to move, and that's probably the only reason why he isn't dead.

Kojirou's sword flicks outward and seeks the pulse at Bedivere's throat; Bedivere, given no such advantage in reach, is forced to dance to keep the nodachi from carving him apart. He moves well, in spite of the traces of old wounds; they are for a moment wholly forgotten, the man proving again the more practical side of why he served as Left Hand of the King.

He was not the strongest knight, or the most charismatic; he was not the most noble-blooded or the richest. But he was agile, and intelligent. Most importantly, he was /cunning/. It is that cunning that keeps him from being slain before the duel begins.

Bedivere fights well not because he has strength enough to turn aside a blade, but because he has wit enough to anticipate where his enemy's blade will be. It's a bit harder with something as large as a nodachi, but his life depends on it.

He promised Arturia he would always return to her side. And he will not let himself die over something as meaningless as this death-duel.

Eventually he manages to catch the nodachi against his own blade at an angle; sparks spit down the length of both blades as Bedivere strains against Kojirou's greatsword.

"You are strong," he rasps, sabaton digging a rut through the snow as he's slowly forced backward, trembling. His face contorts with the effort of keeping that nodachi from slipping and finding his throat. "Why... do you... fight?"

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
As sparks carve down the blade, Kojirou's eyes flick to Bedivere's. The English blade is heavier. It's stronger. It's made for severing weapons like Kojirou's. If Kojirou allows it to gain weight and power on Monohoshi Zao, that nameless, notched weapon will shatter his like glass. Moreover, Bedivere has more weight behind his weapon. Even if he doesn't shatter it, he will damage it - and the act of pulling away in the middle of such a parry would destroy Monohoshi Zao as surely as the act of Bedivere pressing his advantage. Bedivere is cunning; Kojirou's already seen that, by the way Bedivere's managed to lock swords with him in the first place.

So Kojirou answers Bedivere's cunning with his own. Kojirou is not as cunning as Bedivere in matters of war, in matters of statesmanship, or in matters of diplomacy, but there is one place where Kojirou Sasaki reigns supreme, and that is the cunning of the sword.

Monohoshi Zao slips. It slides itself into one of the tiny little notches on Bedivere's blade. It's one of those things that sounds so very simple to describe, but is so very impossible in the heat of battle to do. And it sounds so very meaningless, but in fact, it has all the meaning.

Kojirou changes the nature of the block. He changes the primacy of the block. By gambling Monohoshi Zao, by dropping the sword even a tiny bit of an inch, he changes the weight of the block. And it is in that second between the moment of the block being in Bedivere's control and the moment of the block being in Kojirou's that Kojirou again does the impossible.

Monohoshi Zao slips out of the block.

The massive nodachi moves with speed that defies common sense yet again as Kojirou sidesteps Bedivere entirely, letting the other man's weight work against him. Bedivere is probably far too skilled for that, but without a fast recovery, the nodachi flashing towards his throat might find its mark.

"Because you're strong," Kojirou replies in the middle of this series of impossible stunts, "Because there's meaning in between the moments of our flashing blades under the moonlight. Because this is the joy that has been left to me."

"Why do you despise it?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Pale brows draw down over violet eyes; an expression of intense concentration, and perhaps a flicker of annoyance, as Kojirou redraws the battle lines. Monohoshi Zao slips, and the changing of that guard is enough to throw him forward with the sudden lack of resistance. He recovers fast, but not fast enough, and the nodachi flashes past so quickly Bedivere doesn't even see it.

He doesn't even realise he's been cut until he tries to raise his sword. His arm is slow to respond; it's only then that he notices he's bleeding, a dark stain blooming in the blue-grey mantle of his cloak. It's not fatal, just a tiny nick at the base of his neck, but sometimes a shallow cut is enough to call a battle.

Bedivere resolves to ignore it. He has fought through worse. "Tell me of this meaning, then. I do not see it. I have never found meaning in battle. It is the very /opposite/ of meaning." He's a bit winded, but not down yet.

A shift of weight puts him with his back to a wall, and he shifts his blade, grimacing as he attempts to guide that nodachi into another lock – since he lacks the advantage of greater reach, it's an efficient way to stall for time, and he seems to know the nodachi is no threat to the integrity of his own blade's steel.

"Because war does naught but take. Bards sing the glory of well-fought battles, but there is no glory in death. War takes. It has never done aught but take. And I am wearisome half to death of all it has taken from me." He bares his teeth, ignoring the sting of the nodachi's bite at his neck; praying, perhaps, that it does not prove his downfall. "There is no glory or joy in death for me. I have seen too much of it."

"Perhaps you find meaning in it, Sasaki Kojirou, but there—" His boot slips in the snow; the sudden shift of balance causes Bedivere to whip his sword up, risking an ear-splitting clash of steel inches from his face, but it's better than losing his head. His arms tremble as he struggles against the blade, even as he raises himself up straight in the same motion. "There is no meaning in it for me."

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
That cut brings Kojirou no joy. The blood flowing from Bedivere's neck brings him no delight. Whatever it is Kojirou desires, whatever it is he loves, it isn't found in bloodlust. It isn't found in the lives of men, nor in their deaths. Whatever it is Kojirou Sasaki seeks is found elsewhere. Still, Kojirou can't help but be impressed by Bedivere's recovery - Bedivere might have lost his neck completely if he wasn't as skilled as he was.

Kojirou watches Bedivere back off. He shoulders Monohoshi Zao and looks off at the sky, seeming unguarded for a moment. "The meaning..." Kojirou laughs and taps the sword on his shoulder. His laugh is like a brook carrying a leaf downstream, and so utterly at odds with the black tattoos and the overwhelming feeling of despair and Evil he carries with him that it's like it belongs to another person. He shifts against the snow thoughtfully again, flicking Bedivere's blood gently off his blade; it splatters against the snow and stains it red.

"Is the lack of meaning itself not a meaning?" Kojirou inquires thoughtfully, "Is the idea that things are meaningless not valid to you as a purpose for life? Isn't it a liberating idea that in the end, all that matters is how you live - that there is no meaning to anything you do but what meaning you give it?"

Kojirou shrugs dismissively, his gaze falling back on Bedivere's. "Ah...but I didn't ask you about war."

He waves his hand to the side, then turns away from Bedivere, still staring at the moon. "War is an awful thing. People come together to fight each other for power, for women, for money, for land...all those things are as meaningless as the battles themselves. Why, then, does the battle need a meaning? Why does a fight warrant some meaning beyond the fight itself?" He sits down on the town well casually and raises himself off the ground, dangling there. The sake jug slips over his shoulder for another sip.

"Why are you using that sword instead of a spear?" He asks finally as the alcohol falls from his lips and splashes against the dirt. "You hold yourself like a spearman. You backed against the wall almost instinctively there to grab a defensive position, even though you have the advantage. My sword can't cut yours. I can't guard myself against yours with weight, so I have to improvise. But you're still taking the defensive. Your foot's slipped backwards into the snow, too, as if you're taking up a stance to intercept me, even though a sword of that size and weight isn't suited for defense against my laundry-drying pole."

Kojirou takes another swig of his sake. "You said you would take me seriously, after all. Why don't you pick up a spear?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When the swordsman seems to drop his guard, the knight pointedly does not. Bedivere maintains his defensive position, although he does lower his sword, reaching up with his free hand to dab at the wound with the leather pad of his gauntlet. He risks a quick glance down to assess how severe the wound is. Not much, not quite enough to cause concern yet, but it will be problematic if this duel lasts for much longer.

He takes a half-step to one side, still watching Kojirou cautiously. Perhaps the other is confident enough in his skills to lapse into philosophy that offers no enlightenment, but Bedivere is too cautious to drop his guard. He's still alive precisely because he is such a cautious man. In the multiverse that had at times been problematic, given his problems opening up to people, but tonight he's grateful for his instincts. Right now, they're screaming at him to remain on his guard, and so he does.

"You speak in nothings," Bedivere points out distastefully. "You say many things, and yet for all your words, you say nothing at all. A battle is the same as war. Perhaps on a smaller scale, but it is the same at its heart. Two men fight, and one of them inevitably must die, according to the aggression of the other. Is it not the same with armies? I am a knight, but I am no warrior."

No; he is far removed from the glory-seeking, battle-hardened Saxons that had raided his homeland. Those had been warriors, living and dying for the fight, seeking the blood of their foes and working themselves into the battle-frenzy, the rage. He had heard much about them, and understood little and less of it; he, the soft-spoken knight at the king's left hand, who had abhored war and battle.

Bedivere lowers his sword, fractionally; he frowns, at that sudden question.

"Spear?" This time he does straighten, as Kojirou helps himself to the sake he'd been carrying. Something in his eyes is still wary, but puzzlement temporarily overrides caution. He might ask how the other knew, but like recognises like. As much as he detests battle, he's /good/ at it, good enough that Kojirou didn't manage to kill him. Plus, Kojirou explains his reasoning without even necessitating the question.

Bedivere continues to frown. "Obligation," he finally says, slowly. The sword is held up, but slowly, to show that there's no threat in the movement; the flat faces Kojirou, so the Heroic Spirit can inspect the notched, battered blade from a distance. Contrary to most knight swords, it's very light, and it looks as though it's been used hard for many years. Although it's not quite to the point of uselessness, the sheer amount of grinding and sharpening it must necessitate means it probably won't last for too many more years.

"This sword was gifted to me by my king when I became a knight-aspirant. I would not fain cast away a gift of the king. It is a symbol of service, of Camelot, and I am proud to wield it." The sword lowers, but he doesn't sheathe it. "Although you are correct. In my earlier days, before I came to the courts of Camelot, I trained with a spear, as was common for the warriors of Ulaidh and Dál Riata. But at present, I do not even own one to wield."

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Kojirou laughs slightly at that. Indeed, Bedivere is wise not to drop his guard. Even when he seems completely open, Kojirou's precision is perfect. If Bedivere had dropped his guard, Kojirou might have struck in an instant. Even from this far away, Kojirou is more than capable of compensating for the distance. It may be a bit tricky, but he can do it.

"Does it mean more because more people die?" Kojirou asks Bedivere curiously as he stands. He unslings the sake from his shoulder and sets it down on the well with a light *thunk*, the weight of the sake sloshing about him. "Does a war mean more to you than a battle because of the meaningless reasons people choose to die?"

"I suppose that to someone like you, it doesn't really make sense," Kojirou admits as he shoulders Monohoshi Zao again, "To someone like you, something like 'there is no meaning in the world' is itself as meaningless as I see the world to be. You have a king. You have an obligation. You have people who need you. You have a town to look after."

Kojirou shrugs and laughs. "It's like looking at the fetters, the chains, the things that tie you to the world, and claiming that they make the world itself meaningful. I suppose I simply can't understand that. Kings die. Castles crumble. People pass. There's no meaning in the shifting sands above the world."

Kojirou shrugs and unslings Monohoshi Zao. His stride is even and clean as he moves towards Bedivere. Confidence, arrogance, ego - Kojirou Sasaki is a man who has emptied all things out of himself and left a void where only the art of swordsmanship can remain. He killed those things so long ago. "But you're stalling for time. You don't need to do that. You can go fetch a spear, if you want. I would like to see the apex of your skill, so that I can show you the apex of mine. Or you can keep standing your ground with your notched and battered obligation, as I carve away at its weakest points with each strike."

"Your obsession with that fetter...your pride as a knight, the sword you received from your beloved lord..." Kojirou's eyes go flat as he stares into Bedivere's. Those little black sigils, barely visible at the distance he's at, flicker and writhe, twitching like ominous tadpoles in lavender pools.

"It will be the death of you."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It means even less." Bedivere's answer is delivered in a flat tone. "Do you not understand? I have no taste for battle, for war, for anything of its like. Camelot was forged in war, and it fell in war. War has taken from me everything I had one cherished. I will not allow the same to happen here."

His mouth twists, and the sound he makes might be a chuckle in anyone else. "That is correct. I cannot believe that there is no meaning in the world. I have seen too much senseless slaughter to believe that there is no meaning in anything at all. Certainly it is better to me than declaring that there are no fetters, and doing as I please, simply because I cannot see those things. I am a knight. A knight is a servant of the people. Therefore, I serve. Is that so difficult for you to believe?"

"I ask you again, what is the purpose of this battle?" No sooner are the words spoken than he raises his sword, slowly, in defensive stance. No, he's not going to go fetch a spear. He's going to fight on with his battered and notched blade; stalling for time, perhaps, until Kojirou grows bored of this contest. "I have no wish to fight. Why do you? What do you serve to gain from it?"

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
"I do understand," Kojirou replies as he walks forward, the moonlight casting his shadow along the walkway, "I understand because we have fought. I understood from the moment you told me your sword was your obligation."

Kojirou steps forward. "You are a samurai. You cling to your lord and your people like a drowning man on a life raft. You deny yourself freedom in order to grant it to others. That sword is not the weapon in your hands. The obligation that you hold to your heart is the weapon that you grasp so tight your knuckles go white. It is not the sword that you wield. It is not the spear that you wield. Your obligation is the real form of your weapon. Your desire to serve...your search for meaning in this meaningless, empty world...that is your true strength."

Kojirou pauses a little ways away from Bedivere. He's far too far to strike, even at the distance Kojirou can strike from. It's a pointless attack from there - even with the reflexes of a Heroic Spirit, he can't possibly hope to accomplish anything. He closes his eyes, his smile widening as his feet spread apart. The ridiculously long sword rises into the air, over his shoulder, as Kojirou abandons his sight and focuses solely on his inner eye. He casts aside the world. He casts aside the township they stand in. He casts aside the buildings, the well, the snow. In his mind's eye, there are but four things in this world - Kojirou Sasaki, Monohoshi Zao, Bedivere of Camelot, and Kojirou's target.

"You've shown me your strength. That struggle...let me honor that, please. Your obligation is worthy of my one and only possession. And..."

Kojirou offers an almost-apologetic smile. "I'd like to see if you're willing to die to protect that fragil tether of meaning."

The world goes still. Wind dies. The rustle of leaves ceases. The cloudless sky is empty but for the brilliant white gaze of the unblinking eye of the moon. It and it alone lights Monohoshi Zao as the sword rises in Kojirou's hands. It is the first time Bedivere has seen Kojirou take a real stance all battle. It is the first time Bedivere has seen Kojirou do /anything/ but take almost lazy lashes at his neck.

Bedivere is a great warrior. He's a survivor of countless battles. Though he may not have abandoned himself to walk the path of the blade as did the nameless swordsman before him, he's a man whose senses are finely-honed enough to sense danger. So even before Kojirou speaks the words that preface the apex of his swordsmanship - even before Kojirou's lips form the first syllable of the true form of his nihilistic enlightenment - Bedivere would undoubtedly know.

This is Kojirou's true form.

"Hiken."

Despite the impossible distance between them, Kojirou lunges. His feet springboard off the ground, sending him hurtling towards Bedivere like a bolt of lavender lightning. The sound of air displacing around him is the only warning Bedivere gets before Kojirou is in front of him, and the sword bears down.

But it does not bear down on him.

"Tsubame Gaeshi."

It is a foolish strike, with Kojirou's sword, to attempt to destroy the notched and nameless blade in Bedivere's hand. Even with the weak points Bedivere has placed with his obsessive shining, his overeager grinding, his constant obsession, a sword of Monohoshi Zao's weight cannot possibly destroy it with one strike.

But what about three? What about three perfect strikes, all at the same time - not three quick strikes, limited by human motion, but three perfect strikes, each at a different weak point on the blade, leveraging those weak points, the pressure and speed of Monohoshi Zao, and Bedivere's own daring against the sword?

That is exactly what Bedivere receives a glimpse of. Three, perfect, strikes. Three simultaneous, overlapping strikes. A strike that surpasses the ideal of swordsmanship. An attack that, without magic, made the nameless swordsman who bears the title of the fictional 'Sasaki Kojirou' into a Heroic Spirit able to stand shoulder to shoulder with gods and devils.

The Secret Sword - Turning Swallow Strike.

And yet...and yet, Tsubame Gaeshi is meant to kill people, not destroy swords. Turning his gaze upon the notched and broken blade may give Bedivere a chance - an opening, a brief and tiny opening - to strike and wound Kojirou. It may require him to bet his life. It may require him to bet his blade. Against that prison of swords...

What action will Bedivere take, when his dedication is weighed against his life?

Loros (303) has posed:
Some distance away from the actual fight, there is a flicker of light at the edge of the forest. A flicker of flame, leaving behind only an ember. The tip of Loros' burning cigarette in fact. Exhaling a cloud of spark filled smoke he mutters to himself,

"Tsk. I really hope I can avoid having to perform a summoning tonight."

Merlin (639) has posed:
The cigarette gets a glance from Loros' blue-eyed companion. Merlin sighs, and takes a seat on the ground next to the other magician. "Mm, it isn't a bad night. Full moon and all. Though Arturia would be most put out, I suppose. Ah well, it might have been amusing."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"You mistake me." Bedivere lifts his head, regarding Kojirou through those mild violet eyes, at odds with the tension of his neck and shoulders, or the blood that trickles down the side of his neck. "I do not know what a 'samurai' is, but there is no desperation in my service to my king. Indeed, I am content to serve; I am no leader, and I am not so arrogant to decide that there is no meaning in this world, for that is not how the Lord God made me."

He takes a step back, watching the foreign swordsman cautiously. His eyes narrow as he watches, even though Kojirou is surely too far away to strike. What blade could cross that distance, even a blade as long as the nodachi he wields?

Even he senses the sudden stillness in the night, and the way even the wind dies. There are no leaves to rustle, no greenery to speak of but the monstrous dormant oak all the way at the top of the hill, but he hardly misses the way the air seems to go absolutely stagnant. He knows that feeling, and it raises a tingling sensation between his shoulderblades. It's a sensation he knows well, and felt in many battles.

Danger is close at hand.

Smoothly, the knight of Camelot slides into a defensive stance, even as Kojirou adopts a true stance for the first time since the start of the duel. His eyes narrow. Sweat beads on his forehead in spite of the cold.

He reacts almost as soon as that great sweep of moonlight and steel flashes down; his perceptions and anticipation of where Kojirou stands and how he strikes allows him insight into what he aims for. And he does not accept that.

It's with a snarling /roar/ that the knight presses /forward/, accepting that bet with his life for the sake of the first gift that Arturia had ever given him – loathe to sacrifice it, loathe to even /consider/ sacrificing it. He seizes that opening with every intent to wound the foreign swordsman; with every intent to punch through that opening with as much strength and force as he can muster. His body may be tired and broken, but rage lends him strength.

It is not the blind and unseeing rage of a direct threat to Arturia, but it's still a rage uncharacteristic of him. Silent as the square is, Arturia might even hear the sound of her marshal's fury; ringing and echoing through the square, his voice distinct in the /wrongness/ of it – he is a quiet man, and soft-spoken. Such violence of purpose is rare from him.

But he seizes that opportunity, seizes it on instinct with as much fury as he can muster, and damn the consequences.

It is no choice at all, to him.

His dedication /is/ his life.

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
The weakness of Kojirou Sasaki is that he is human. Though he is a Heroic Spirit who, in theory, surpasses mortal men, in truth, he doesn't. He is a human being who carries with him an impossible suite of skills, gained by that denial of all things but his worthless, foolish, stupid and pointless dream. Tsubame Gaeshi may be a godlike skill - a skill that broaches the territory of the Divine Spirits themselves through nothing but purest swordsmanship - but it is not a skill borne by a demigod like Hercules, who bears invulnerability on his shoulders. It is not a skill borne by a legend like Arturia, who caries with her the promise of Avalon or the magic of the Saber, strongest of Knight Classes. It is not a skill carried by the King of Heroes, Gilgamesh, who holds all treasures in his vault. This skill - this skill, and this alone - belongs to the nameless, weak, and mortal man who died alone and with nothing else to call his own.

Tsubame Gaeshi is his one and only treasure. It is all that makes him a Heroic Spirit. It is the enlightenment of swordsmanship, the perfect enlightenment that can only be mimicked, never truly replicated. It is the symbol of his existence. Yes, for the nameless man, Tsubame Gaeshi is all that he holds true.

So when Bedivere dares - as Kojirou knew that he would, as Kojirou *saw* that he would - and lands the blow on Kojirou, it is with satisfaction etched upon Kojirou's face. As Bedivere wields his most prized possession against Kojirou's, Bedivere manages something so many others had failed to do across countless, impossible centuries. A thousand years of immortality - a thousand years of fighting superhumans and demigods, a thousand years of battling beings who Bedivere can scarce imagine after his blood personally - and it is a mortal man who manages to wound Kojirou Sasaki.

Bedivere stabs the blade through Kojirou's stomach. It strikes him clean through, the notched blade emerging out the back of Kojirou's stomach with a splatter of black blood - pitch-black, black even in the white moonlight. It pours down Bedivere's sword, but Kojirou's fingers are nimble, and if Bedivere is paying attention, he might even notice Kojirou wiping that strange, mud-like blood away from the sword's blade.

If he is paying attention to that, however, he may not notice Kojirou lunge forward along the blade. There is no pain on his face. There is no suffering in his eyes. Though blood spills from his body, Kojirou's body is his to control, not the other way around. Even pain is just an excuse. Even a wound like this is just something for Kojirou to take advantage of.

What a terrible swordsman!

"I told you this obligation you've chipped and broken would be the death of you," Kojirou tells him, his voice thick with the effort of speaking. His free hand clutches tight the blade in his stomach - and though Bedivere might easily be able to break his grip, it would cost him precious seconds. These are seconds Bedivere does not have, for Kojirou's other hand holds Monohoshi Zao.

It flows upwards, whistling through the air, straight for Bedivere's throat.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Impossibly, the other swordsman allows himself to be impaled. The blow would be lethal to any mortal, but this man is no mortal, and even Bedivere's fledgeling senses can tell that there's something wrong with Kojirou. There is a wrongness about him, a sinister quality to those tattooed scars, that makes even his skin crawl; makes him want to recoil.

But he stands his ground, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword, panting both from exertion and in rage. He shifts his weight minutely, not quite staggering, as he listens.

Bedivere doesn't even have time to frown as he senses motion from Kojirou; he has time only to /move/, but even in his rage, he still instinctively seeks to protect the sword he has wielded for so many years. He attempts to both wrench the blade out of Kojirou's stomach, and plant a boot into him to push himself and his weapon away at the same time.

It doesn't work. There's no time or space for it to work. It does keep him from losing his head, but Monohoshi Zao bites instead deep into his shoulder, finding a gap in the leather plates of his pauldrons and gorget; finding a weak point or gap, perhaps, in the chain mail. Whatever it is, there's no mistaking the resistance of flesh and bone.

There's no mistaking Bedivere's snarl of pain, either. He jerks himself away so savagely he rolls over once, twice; comes to rest in the snow. His right arm hangs limp, and he's taken up his sword in his left, but he still has it. Its steel is yet unbroken.

But the knight doesn't get up. He can't; his arm won't move right, and this time he's panting in earnest, both from exhaustion and pain. He looks up to Kojirou in defiance, though, violet eyes hard as chips of flint. He pants, scrabbling slightly to try and get to his feet, but only falling back into the snow again. So he straightens as best as he can, as though he were going to face it with dignity, if that's to be his end.

"I yield."

What irony. He survived the Saxons, the grueling routine of Camelot's courts, and the horrors of Camlann only to die at the hands of a man who doesn't even seem to care about life.

Bedivere bows his head.

"I yield," he repeats, softer. "Have mercy."

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Kojirou pauses. As Bedivere yields, he lowers the blade. He flicks the blood off it again, letting it splatter against the snow, then slings it back into its sheathe. Kojirou is silent for a moment as he looks up at the sky like it might hold something important once again.

Then he tears off a piece of his hakama and wraps it around Bedivere's shoulder in perhaps the most uncharacteristic display all night. It's a deft motion; Kojirou's agility is such that before Bedivere has even noticed it, the action is done. The makeshift lavendar bandage is soaked in sake, then wrapped, tight enough to choke the blood flow from Bedivere's shoulder, in the blink of an eye. Kojirou crouches and looks at Bedivere again, and Bedivere can see now, in those strange eyes flecked with darkness, in those lavendar pools full of sinister tadpoles, that Kojirou Sasaki bears him no ill will whatsoever.

Then, in another flick of his hand, the black blood on Bedivere's sword is wiped away. The black blood on the ground is swept up into that purple hakama, staining it. Finally, once he's certain he's cleaned all that strange mud up, he sits down and pops open the sake bottle, and takes another swig. Then he passes it to Bedivere.

"There is no meaning in the world," He repeats, his voice almost unbelievably peaceful for a man who just got *stabbed in the stomach* - and if Bedivere is looking closely, Kojirou has also wrapped that wound in a piece of his torn-up lavender hakama - and unbelievably passive, "Except the meaning you give it."

He taps Bedivere's sword gently. "The meaning in this battle was this," he tells him, then inclines his head at the castle, "And also that. This obligation, and this lord, for whom you would die. This is the meaning you found in this battle. When you were pushed to the limit, it wasn't your pride as a warrior, it wasn't your pride as a knight, and it wasn't your desire to keep living for your own sake that you found. It was that tie that was more precious to you than your own life, than your pride, than anything else in the world."

Kojirou passes him the sake, that peaceful smile on his face, and looks up at the moon. "That is the meaning I found in this battle. Your meaning. Your reason. The shape of your world, atop this meaningless world we live in."

"Don't detest battle. It isn't meaningful. It only shows the shape of meaning underneath the masks men wear."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Unlike so many of his peers, the silver-haired knight had not been a physical powerhouse. Indeed, he had been among the weakest of the knight-aspirants of his group, and he had constantly struggled to keep up with them. Unable to rely on brute strength to match his peers, he had relied instead on his skills of perception. There was rarely a thing that he missed in his presence, using all his senses to an almost preternatural degree to formulate plans and strategies.

So, naturally, he looks kind of surprised when Kojirou manages to tie that makeshift torniquet around his shoulder without so much as a by-your-leave... but he inclines his head in silent thanks for the gesture, perhaps too surprised to argue or question it.

He sags back in the bloodstained snow, still panting, too tired and wounded to resist or to be suspicious. He's already resigned himself to death; he had not even exepected Kojirou to spare him when he yielded.

The moon looks a lot brighter when you feel like you're living on time you hadn't really expected to have.

With a grunt, he draws himself up to sit up more fully, baring his teeth momentarily at the pain; the burn of alcohol certainly doesn't help, though he knows it's no doubt for the best. Panting a few moments and gathering his bearings, he glances over when his sword is tapped. There's a bit of a grumble at the motion; annoyed, perhaps, at having someone touch the sword. Fortunately, the heavy snowdrift is tall enough that he can lean against it a bit, cold as it might be. It affords him a slightly better view of Kojirou.

"I would die for my king," he murmurs, bowing his head. "She is everything to me, more precious than life, or pride. I had lost her once. I will not lose her again. I serve... that is all I know how to do."

Perhaps he shouldn't have said it, but Kojirou had already arrived at that conclusion. This was only a means to confirm it, for his actions in protecting the sword given him by Arturia spoke more loudly than any words ever could.

"She is the shape of my world." He glances back to Kojirou, too tired to actually glower. "But I knew that long before I ever crossed blades with you."

He eyes the sake, eventually shaking his head in polite refusal. In spite of his conduct at the céilidh, he prefers not to drink; clouding his wits like that was once upon a time a lethal risk. Now, it's perhaps less so, but still not something he enjoys experiencing. "Perhaps. What, then, will you do?"

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
"I didn't," Kojirou reminds him, his voice blank of emotion, "I had only a faint inkling of the shape of your world, and you had no idea as to the shape of mine. For a meaningless dream, I spent my life chasing a swallow. For a meaningless dream, you spend your life serving a lord. They're equally pointless, when you think about it - but to us, they're our whole lives. To anyone else, our dreams might be understandable, but to us, they're treasures we alone can grasp. 'Understanding', 'comprehension'...these are distant seconds to real 'meaning'."

He doesn't press the offer of sake. Instead, he takes another long drink, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve in lieu of anything better.

This close, Bedivere can see the shape of those scars - and they are in fact scars. They are unquestionably scars. They are cut deep into his flesh, dyed black by something that is most assuredly neither ink nor any mortal hand. It's like shadow has been poured into those scars and solidified. It's like liquid darkness has taken shape all across Kojirou's body in the deep grooves of his skin. It seems as if that darkness has a mind of its own, and stares back at Bedivere with ominous certainty - though Kojirou himself certainly has no desire to move or strike him. Granted, that means little - Kojirou was fast enough to kill a man from a sitting position if he wanted - but Kojirou is not the type of man to do such a thing. He isn't the type of man to kill a man unless that man dies standing with a blade in his hand, face to face with the violet, nameless swordsman.

He's silent for a very long time. Eventually, he shrugs. "Heal. Find another battle. Heal. Find another battle. I haven't any other joys left to me. In truth, I suppose I never did. Even the taste of sake is little more than ash in my mouth."

"But so long as I have that simple, meaningless joy, I'll probably just keep walking."

"Why?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight remains silent for a long time at that clarification, violet eyes hooded. Yet for all his sleepy-seeming regard, his gaze is still trained in the direction of Kojirou, watching him from the periphery. Initially he almost seems like he might bristle at having his lifelong service dismissed as meaningless, but patience and curiosity compel him to hear out the Heroic Spirit.

He merely closes his eyes and sighs. Although he did learn philosophy as the Greeks knew it as part of his classical education, that doesn't mean he had any real love for it. Bedivere considers himself a simple man; he sees his duty before him, and so he fulfills that duty. Defend this village and its people. Protect his king. That is where he derives his satisfaction; his fulfillment.

The explanation earns a frown. What an empty and joyless life, to have nothing as fulfilling as his duties are to him, or his ability to stand at Arturia's side; to serve the people of this village who have so graciously accepted him as their lord.

"Then I am sorry for you, Sasaki Kojirou, that you can feel no joy from aught else." He shifts, as though to prop himself up and find his balance again. He wavers unsteadily on his feet but finds his balance, stooping to retrieve his sword. He touches the weapon almost reverently; handles it with obvious care and respect as he returns it to its scabbard at his hip. "I certainly feel joy in my service. Perhaps it is meaningless to you, but as you have said, it is a treasure I alone can grasp. And I do. That service was taken from me, once... and Lord God as my witness, I'll not allow aught else to take it from me, never again."

He sighs a weary sigh. "I meant in a more immediate sense, actually. I will allow you to stay here, if you would rest before you set off in search of your next battle. The rules are simple: Harm not my guests, harm not your hosts, and harm not the people of this village, and you may stay as long as you like. Harm them, however..." When Bedivere looks again to the scarred swordsman, there is a coldness in his eyes that makes even the snow seem inviting. It fades, though. "The choice is yours."

Fake Avenger (662) has posed:
Kojirou's smile dismisses Bedivere's pity. It passes aside sorrow at the state of his life. He's old. He came to comfort with his circumstances long, long ago. When his wicked Master died, he was released from the only thing that had caused him discomfort. When the weight of truest evil was set on his shoulders, he shouldered it as he did all other things - with the passive apathy he took to all things. He was beyond the world, as far as he was concerned - apart from it, wandering through it as an observe more than one taking active hand. He had no agenda. He had no desire.

"It is as meaningless to me as everything else," Kojirou replies kindly as he sits there in the middle of the town, "But your own happiness is the most important thing in the world to you, so you should hold tight to it. Though...your lord, Saber."

Kojirou casts his gaze off at the castle, staring at it for a long, long moment. "I remember her blade very well. It was a battle I've held tight in my mind across the long years since that day." He lowers his head and lets out a sigh, part-amusement, part-cynicism, part-contentedness.

"She cared more about her Master than she did our battle. Her love for him was stronger than anything else, and she broke from our fight to protect him. I suppose that you're like her in that manner, aren't you?" Kojirou stands, finally, still watching the castle. "I can see her manner reflected in your eyes. I can see your devotion mirroring hers as the light from the moon shines across the pond."

"Heh. Western knights certainly are like that, I suppose." He shifts. "No. Thank you for your kindness, but if I stay in your house..."

Kojirou's voice darkens for the first time. It's not the darkness of a threat, but the darkness of a man whose steps are dogged by something vast and terrible. It's the darkness of a man hunted. "If I stay in your house, harm may come to you and yours, and I will not violate the hospitality of one I respected enough to draw my sword against."

Kojirou turns and waves over his shoulder. "Though I may pop in from time to time. This place is full of strong Servants, after all."

"I hope you won't be offended if your friends are too proud not to die. I enjoyed our fight. The memory will last for a long time, Sir Bedivere."

Then, hands in his overlarge sleeves, he starts wandering away from Dun Realtai, leaving no trail along the snow as the black scars across his skin wriggle and writhe.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When the other professes such an acceptance of his fate, and such an acceptance of having no real joy of his own in life, the knight looks dubious. Far be it for him to scold somebody else for that. After all, he had spent almost twenty years of his life utterly miserably, literally working himself to death, all for the sake of staying close to his king. Something about Kojirou's peaceable reply nonetheless makes him uneasy. For once in his life, the eloquent knight has no idea what to say.

And so, he remains silent. Sometimes there are no words that fit, and this is one of those times. Those observations on Saber, though, those earn his immediate attention. Bedivere looks to the swordsman, arching one pale brow.

The multiverse is a strange thing. It seems there are many who have met his king, yet she does not even know half of them. The strangest part of all is how often she seems to appear in these threads of fate; how often her name comes up in that inscrutable weave. Was her legend really so powerful as to reach across time and space, and across the very boundary of worlds themselves? So it would seem, and yet that sounds very much like something she would do. Perhaps he is naive; perhaps he takes it for the simple devotion of servitude, that a knight would show for his lord, as he does for her.

"You have already tested its mettle," he responds instead, calm once more but for the tightness of pain in his voice. That shoulder is going to merit attention, and no doubt he's going to be lectured about it. Yet he can't seem to mind. He's alive, where he had not expected to be, and that is a blessing in and of itself. "You did not find it wanting. I already told you that I would do anything for her."

There is a warmth in his words that suggests more than the mere servitude of a knight serving his lord, but someone willing to sacrifice themselves for the object of their affection. The ties that bind him to his king are far greater than that of knight and lord – unbreakable as the force that binds the stars, sure as the sunrise every morning. He smiles, faintly; not for Kojirou, but for the memory, perhaps, of his king.

The expression fades quickly once he catches himself at it, his face relaxing into more neutral lines. "If you prefer not to stay, I will not press you, but there are a great many knights in this house. They will no doubt defend these people, and themselves, so you need not fear for our health. But, I will not press you, as I said, and so if you choose to move on I will not stop you."

Given the other's professed lack of enjoyment of pretty much anything that isn't a death-dance, there isn't very much he can offer to the man in good conscience. He shakes his head, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at his carved-up shoulder. "My friends are well and able to look after themselves. They are stronger than I am," he adds, quietly. "I am the least of the king's knights, truly. But I do not think they are too proud to yield. They, too, have their duties. I do not think they would allow pride to cloud their judgement, but I do not know. Only the Good Lord knows."

That's probably just an encouragement to Kojirou, that he considers himself weak and the others much stronger; but Bedivere doesn't seem to see it that way. His words speak of a genuine lack of regard for himself. "I am glad to have impacted you so, then." Yet he seems a little puzzled, too; as though unable to fully understand the significance of this meeting. Perhaps there is some great meaning behind it. Perhaps there is nothing.

So the silver-haired knight merely shakes his head, turning for the citadel on the hill. "Farewell, then, Sasaki Kojirou. I hope that memory serves you well. May the road rise up to meet you, and the wind be at your back."

Bedivere allows himself one last look over his shoulder, a little bemused and a little puzzled, before he turns to make his way slowly up the hill.

Anyone else might drag their feet, knowing they're going to be yelled at, but it seems he genuinely is that tired, trudging through the snow drifts and making that wearisome climb up tot he citadel.

This might have given him much to think about – if he even knew where to start.