Difference between revisions of "1345/A Quiet Game of Wits"

Latest revision as of 06:32, 17 January 2015

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the winds have remained quiet, snow has nonetheless fallen over Dún Reáltaí with reckless abandon. The hills are a vast and unbroken plain of white, while the hill itself is mantled in a thick layer of snow. In other words, it's the perfect weather to stay indoors, and that's precisely what Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí has been doing for some time. According to rumour around the villagers or the castle servants, the fair lady of the land is in part responsible for that; fussing over the lord and ensuring he takes care of himself and takes advantage of this time to rest.

From what, the rumours are unclear on – old wounds, or some manner of old condition. Old trauma, actually, but none of the villagers know that.

The evening finds the lord of the castle in front of the great hall's single long hearth, a blanket spread over his lap and a cup of tea on the table in front of him. The particular chair he's chosen is more of a loveseat, although a bit on the small side for one; enough room that he can comfortably draw himself up onto it and under the blanket. He has a few books scattered on the table, too. They look like textbooks on the English language, as well as textbooks on American finance law.

Well, he'd promised Psyber that he would do that work, and any self-respecting knight would sooner rub salt into their own wounds than fail to deliver on something promised... and it isn't like him not to spend some time working.

That's exactly where Merlin might find the former marshal, so comfortable in front of the fire that he's even half-dozing over his texts.

After all, he's home; a luxury he had never before allowed himself. Surely it's alright to let down one's guard in one's own home, on a snowy night like this, knowing his lady is close at hand and that nothing threatens the castle.

He is, for the moment, content.

Merlin (639) has posed:
Ah, such lovely snow. It creates a beautiful blanket over everything, absorbing sound and heat alike. Alas, even such pristine natural beauty is hardly enough to hold the wizard's attention for too long, and the spells he currently has simmering are going to take some time before they're truly ready. And frankly there is little else for Merlin to do at the moment, besides stare out the window.

Really, boredom like this is far from befitting one of his abilities. Perhaps animating a snow-golem fight...mm, no. That might be best to save for another time. Ah, didn't Lady Arturia mention something about ice skating? "Yes. A perfect plan." And really, what isn't more romantic to those of the knightly persuasions than a desperate fight against incredible odds? Yes, definitely time for a snowman army.

One more large-scale spell to add to the list, he supposes, but it ought to be worth it for the sheer amusement factor.

Meanwhile, with nothing better to do, the robed wizard decides it's time to play a game. And it's been a little while since he's had the chance to engage the good Lord of Dún Reáltaí in a proper chess match, doubly so since Bedivere needs the practice after his all-too-questionable loss to the vixen Kagenashi. He makes his way down to the common room, pausing momentarily - oh my.

Was that a certain familiar blonde bun bobbing over Bedivere's face? Merlin pauses at the tableau, watching the little Lady enchanting the knight with a kiss - and can't help it. At least a momentary silence spell keeps the sound of the camera-phone from being heard, as well as the 'file sent' to a certain young woman in another world. He's quite glad that the former master of Saber had visited and cooked for them, and was much more than pleased to repay her favor.

Once Arturia departs, none the wiser, Merlin will approach the dozing knight and settle in across the table from him. A slight gesture with his staff and the paperwork adjusts itself, clearing a nice little space in the middle of the table. "Lord Bedivere. Pray tell, were you truly sleeping just now?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Warm and comfortable as he is, the knight hasn't spent much of that time studying. Over the past hour or two, he'd instead spent it dozing; relaxed enough to sleep without fear of that old, familiar nightmare. He must be feeling pretty good, because Camlann is a constant threat on the edge of his subconscious. That battle had been too traumatic to him to simply let it go, even nearly a year after joining the multiverse. Strong as he is, even the pale-haired marshal had his very much human limits.

He doesn't notice when Arturia passes through, silent as a ghost; doesn't so much as wake up when she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. Although he stirs, mumbling quietly, he doesn't wake. In fact, he doesn't even take note of the wizard's arrival.

Well, not until he's spoken to, anyway.

Slowly, those violet eyes flutter open. Bedivere stares dully for a moment as though he isn't certain of where he is; blinking, he pulls himself somewhat upright, still huddled under the blanket. Squinting, he almost thinks that Arturia's come back to join him, for a moment, but no. It's the Wonderful Wizard of NOPE instead. He couldn't be lucky enough to have Arturia join him for a nice winter's nap, or to avoid being on Merlin's radar for a while. That's apparently asking too much.

Sighing, he reaches up and rubs at his eyes, grimacing a little; as though girding himself for a verbal battle. It always is, with Merlin.

At least here in this place he can be a little more aggressive. He had never been willing to cross any lines in Camelot, and had always treated the king's advisor at arm's length, courteous and distant. Now, free of the trappings of court, he's free to show his mild annoyance.

"And if I was?" Bedivere raises a pale brow at the wizard, frowning a bit when his things are shuffled to clear a hole in the middle of the table. "What are you doing?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
A bit jealous? Maybe, as far as the blanket goes. But with Merlin's back to the fire, the warmth will be more than enough to keep the wizard placated. Perhaps almost as much as the sleeping Bedivere...and glancing over his face, the wizard smiles at moment at some inner joke or another. Once Bedivere awakens, the smile disappears - it's quite a shame.

Arturia really should wear lipstick.

"If you were, then I would bid you good afternoon." The trickster wizard reaches into one sleeve of his robe, drawing forth a chess board - one Bedivere would be all too familiar with. There's no pieces, just the board; Merlin needs no such things. Instead, a wave of the wizard's fingers brings pieces rising into existence; after a moment it should be all too easy to recognize them.

The white king is, of course, Bedivere. The diminutive queen by his side is equally recognizeable as Arturia, while Gawain stands in for the knight and a miniature version of Dún Reáltaí's castle makes up the rook. The bishop, blasphemously enough, is Loros - much to Merlin's amusement. Pawns are simple peasants with spears, it seems, though a closer look would reveal the face of Shirou. Opposite the white pieces, Merlin's taken a more typical approach - he is, of course, the black king, but the rest are all the typical abstract designs.

"It's been quite some time since we had a chance to play, frankly. And as you aren't doing anything terribly important any the moment," Merlin adds with an all-too-knowng smile, "I thought it might be nice to while away a winter day. Shake a little of the rust off, as it were."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Good afternoon." Bedivere keeps his voice bland. He is too dignified to sound surly, no matter how much he might be tempted to. Straightening, he rakes long fingers through his hair, trying to set himself in order as best he can. Though slightly disheveled from an afternoon nap, he's still presentable, tucking a few stray strands behind his ear and tossing one of his half-braided queues over his shoulder. "I would ask what mischief you've been up to for the sake of amusing yourself, but something tells me I might rather not know."

He looks on with a critical eye as the chess pieces rise and form over the familiar board, the same he had used in Camelot. Although Bedivere had at times challenged Merlin to a friendly match, or vice-versa, not once had the marshal ever won. Somehow, he suspects tonight's match will go the same way, although he can take comfort in making the wizard pay dearly for the inevitable victory.

Reaching up to rub at his jaw with a hand, as though rubbing some life back into his face, he frowns as he notices the pieces acquiring certain... familiar... features. He even leans over, frowning more as he inspects the white queen, which bears a striking resemblance to Arturia.

"Your irreverence never ceases to astound me," he states blandly, straightening and moving straight into the game. After eyeing the board critically for a moment, he plucks up a piece and sets it down. "Very well, then, I accept your challenge."

He just eyes the wizard's knowing smile, though, exhaling softly in what seems like mild exasperation.

"...What," he finally says, flatly.

Merlin (639) has posed:
ACROSS THE MULTIVERSE

A ping of a telephone, a soft shriek of glee. Finally! And in time for St. Valentine's day!

MEANWHILE DOWN IN THE KNIGHT CAVE

"Of course you would not want to know. The best surprises are surprises. Why would you wish to ruin the surprise?" Ever the cool, collected, smug bastard, Merlin just smiles as Bedivere straightens up. The wizard fluffs his robes gently for comfort, then Merlin takes a critical eye at the board.

"My irreverence is not in play here. I merely highlight the difference between the good Arturia and yourself. The most powerful piece, the farthest moving, versus the slowest - and the most critical." So this is to be a lesson as well - Arturia the Servant truly outclasses Bedivere in every level, and yet despite being the strongest piece on the board is not the one upon who the entire battle hinges.

Protect your king, Bedivere. Protect yourself.

At least Merlin's benign enough to not say it outright. Meanwhile he just takes in Bedivere's not-question with an innocent look. "I say nothing. Merely observe that you are taking a break from your figures and finances, and perhaps it might be worthwhile to take advantage of that break." Once Bedivere moves first, Merlin prepares his opening salvo. "So tell me...does she have a pet name for you? Bedi-bear perhaps?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I had nothing in mind to do with surprises when I said that. Rather, it would save me a good deal of stress and vexation if I didn't know what you were up to," Bedivere replies coolly, keeping his eyes on the board. He moves to wrap the blanket around his shoulders, though, huddling into it slightly. Perhaps that's sign enough that he's not as recovered as he might like – in spite of the warmth of the hall, he still seems to have trouble keeping warm most days. "I suppose I'll count it a blessing that the townsfolk haven't been complaining to me about you harassing their wives and daughters."

At least, not yet. Dimly, he realises he probably shouldn't have said that. He'd rather not have to clean up after a disaster like that. Merlin is unruly and stubborn as a mule, and no amount of ordering or even threatening would have the least effect on him.

Bedivere sighs and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose... but he listens to the more serious side of the speech, and the unspoken advice. Those mild violet eyes hood slightly. Oh, yes, he understands that implication.

It's just so hard. It's hard for him to care about himself the same way he cares about anyone else, or especially about her. He doesn't think of himself the same way he thinks about other people – he rates less, somehow; measures up short when it comes to intrinsic value. He's never placed much of any value in himself, and his service in Camelot only reinforced that notion. It was easier not to care, and somewhere along the line, it even became a survival skill.

"I suppose so." Surely a break wouldn't do any harm, and it isn't as though he doesn't intend to get this work done for Psyber. Carefully, he moves a few textbooks aside, eyeing the board. And then...

Bedivere stares at Merlin for a good ten seconds in complete silence. His expression is completely blank.

"Wh..." After a few more seconds of failing to compute, the silver-haired knight sighs. "No. Not that this is any business of yours whatsoever, but I have a feeling you'll simply make my life miserable until you find out, either way. She does not have any 'pet names' for me. Perhaps she calls me by my true name, but that is all." The half-glower he gives the wizard seems to imply, 'not that you've even earned that much.' His expression sours even further when he looks at the board, noting Merlin's move. Another pawn is reached for and deployed. Brave little warrior, its sacrifices won't be forgotten! Probably. Actually, no, they're probably going to be forgotten. Poor Shirou-piece.

Merlin (639) has posed:
Hmpf. As if he were a cat finding itself rained upon, Merlin seems to pout in only that feline way. Bedivere huddles into the blanket further, but the wizard just remains where he is - though a moment of attention to the fireplace gets the flames just a bit warmer and higher. There, Merlin thinks, much better. And the fine smell of the wood fills the room, much to the wizard's delight at least.

"Hm...no, with such luscious specimens as I've sampled among those of the Union and Confederacy, I must say that those of the town hold little of my attention." Bedivere plays a pawn, and Merlin opens with a knight from behind his lines. The early part of the game is simple, both sides probing each other - though Merlin is playing it decidedly cagey for once.

The knight goes through his own thoughts, and Merlin his. As much as it might be nice to have, romance is not his way. Not like this, not in this, and his arms-length policy is always in the back of his mind. Forever unsatisfied perhaps, but much safer for both himself and those around him. It's part of the reason why he is such a trickster.

"Oh come now, Bedivere. You are a Lord now, you are the ultimate subject of gossip. Did not tongues wag in Camelot, after all?" Even if Bedivere wasn't their subject, the topic of love between 'Arthur' and Guinevere was always something quick to chat about. "I recall your being quite aware of the King and Queen's celebrity status, and are you not in the same position? Your word law, your people looking up to you for leadership?"

Merlin quirks a smile. "It is not as if I've even had to plant rumors among the people. They see the way you look at each other, and even a fool could see the warmth in your eyes. But if it is to be a secret," the wizard adds, slowly shifting his pieces for an attack upon the left flank, "then it is the worst one in the land."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The smell of woodsmoke is always a pleasant one, provided the smoke is being vented out the flue and not into the lungs of the person enjoying it. Most of the wood is fragrant in its own way; with a lack of trees that can be cut, Bedivere was forced to import most of the fuel at considerable expense. On top of that, he ensured that every villager had enough wood to last the winter and the coldest dayys of spring.

Eyes falling to the board, he studies as Merlin displays uncharacteristically cagey tactics. That isn't like the old man at all, and it's enough to incur the marshal's suspicion.

"Mm." His eyes flick back up, and he frowns. "Heh. Of course they gossip. I am certain many of Camelot's nobles thought me simple-minded, but I heard and knew more than they had guessed. Yet I do not think they suspected it was my hearing that condemned those who plotted rebellion, early on, when we were still fighting against the Saxons." He shrugs, faintly, using the movement to gather his blanket tighter around himself. "But I am no celebrity."

He looks down at the board, reaching for a particular pawn, before hesitating and reaching instead for another one. His own strategy is cagey, but that's to be expected. Bedivere is a cautious man in almost all matters, and it reflects in his chess tactics. "It is... not meant to be a secret, but..." He sighs, looking away.

"Even if we had need to hide it, I do not think we could." The knight shakes his head, hair ghosting the movement; one hand reaches out from under his blanket to clear it from his face. "True, this is not Camelot. I do not need to hide it, but it is a hard habit to break."

He grins, then, the expression so sudden and sheepish it might seem disturbing, coming from the stoic marshal. "Did you know, Master Merlin? I expect you do. She was the reason why I could not return to Dál Riata. I knew then I would serve no other master. And she is the reason why I never took a wife. Oh, yes, I know there was gossip about that, as well. I know that a few of the ladies at court would have been content to claim me. But I belonged to her, even then..." His expression falls; his voice drops low. "I had longed to be close to her in Camelot, but now that I am free to... I have never felt anything so strongly as that. It frightens me, this bond, stronger than anything I have ever felt before, even in Camelot, when I made my patrols in the rain and could think of nothing but her distant face. Yet now... is it wrong, Master Merlin? That I feel even more strongly for her, now that she is no longer the king, and free of those obligations? That I am free of mine? I feel selfish, sometimes, being allowed to care for her so openly... but..."

He sighs, finally plunking down the second pawn he had been considering. It's by no means a careless move, and indeed, it may be an attempt to bait the wizard. "I would do anything for her, more so than ever before. And that terrifies me."

Merlin (639) has posed:
It will be interesting to see how this greenhouse project of Bedivere and Yunomi's turns out. The wizard glances back at the fireplace, thinking about the trees - and debating planting a few things of his own. It might be easier than sneaking around plucking some of the finer wood from the fireplace, after all. It isn't as if the wizard is wasting the precious fuel; it's simply one more piece of a fairly complex spell he's working on. It certainly wouldn't do to have it end up substandard.

Cautious tactics meet Bedivere's own, and the first pieces are exchanged. Just pawns, for the moment, as Merlin decides to test the knight's solid defenses. That attack is building on the left, but slowly, each piece needing its turn to set up. On the right, not much - just the rook holding its place.

"I recall those days. And those wagging tongues, speaking of rebellion. You did well at the time, Bedivere, but." The wizard points to the blanket tugged around the knight's shoulders. "You don't do that because it is cold. You seek to protect yourself against that which you fear and hate, do you not? You deny being a celebrity...yet you fulfill the duty of lordship and you are the leader of these people."

Merlin sighs a little. "A fish might as well declare it does not live in the water. But it is what it is, and it is where it is, just as you are. No argument can deny that." He shrugs, addressing the board before continuing. A pawn extended too far, snapped up with the rook.

A confession occurrs, and Merlin doesn't meet Bedivere's eyes. "Camelot...was a place that tried so much to be the best. It was a grand experiment. And it is so strange to think that love was its downfall." He gazes at the chessboard, though without seeing it. "And it is strange again that love rises anew, like a rose among the ashes. It is not wrong, Bedivere. It is only wrong to deny it, to hide it - that was the mistake in Camelot."

Merlin turns his eyes to the knight carefully. "If Guinevere and Lancelot had been other people - him the lord of his own land, her simply a Lady, without Camelot between them - would you wish them well?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Keeping the blanket wrapped firmly around himself, Bedivere cranes forward slightly to watch the exchange of pieces. Thus far, their opening sorties are fairly tame, and no more than a means to politely test one another's defenses. Both are playing cautiously; neither stands to gain much if they keep to their current tactics. It would end in eventual stalemate... but Merlin is more interesting than that. No doubt he would grow bored with such an inevitability.

"I did what was necessary." He doesn't meet Merlin's eyes, looking down to the board again, though he arches a brow and glances back up when Merlin points at his blanket. "Mm? Actually, I can assure you I do this because I am cold," he replies, blandly. "Ask her if you have any doubt. I suppose I gave too much of myself in Camelot, and now I pay the price, fragile as a deer. I will be glad when spring arrives. I long for warmth."

Shifting the blanket, he glances back to Merlin, thoughtful. "No. I do not hate it. Perhaps I do fear it, if only because I fear some misstep, and that the people would pay the price for such a thing. But I do not hate it. It is a necessary thing, and it is only unfortunate that so many are unfit for such a role. I remember well some of the knights of Camelot who should perhaps never have been knighted, although they fulfilled their training well... although I do not intend to judge, for that is not my place."

Reaching for one of his knights, he tips the piece back, rolling it this way and that with its base still touching the board. It isn't the knight that he's thinking about, though, sighing. "An experiment is a good word. A failed experiment. Even if we had succeeded, Master Merlin, it should not have been inherent in its design that all of its success came of her sacrifices and her misery. I saw her, even when she did not think that I did. I saw that she suffered. Perhaps it was for the greater good, but I could not bear to see her suffer."

"And we Knights of the Round... all of us sacrificed something to contribute to the dream." He frowns, setting the piece down and cocking a violet eye toward Merlin when the wizard studies the knight in turn.

"Mm? Of course I would. Need you even ask? Perhaps I did not approve of their affair, given the need for the king's illusion of a royal family, or the political catastrophe that I knew lay down that road... but she was happy. And so was Sir Lancelot, for the first time that I had ever seen. Perhaps he thought he had hidden it well, but when he spoke of her... it was as though the life returned to his eyes." He smiles, a little bitterly. "I suppose I must look the same, when I speak of her. For a time, I felt as empty as Sir Lancelot seemed to..."

He shakes his head, then, looking at the chessboard again. "Of course I would wish them well," he murmurs, more softly. "I did not bear them any remorse, truly. I could not fault them for something beyond their own control, for Sir Lancelot believed in the dream as surely as we did, and Queen Guinevere... I spoke with her a few times, in brief, Master Merlin. She was a good and gentle soul. Heh. Perhaps if I had not already given my heart to my king, I might have been swayed by Queen Guinevere's gentleness. Who can say?"

"I know what you are getting at, and I suspect it is this: To forgive myself, and wish myself well, and allow this... this..." He shrugs, unable to find the word, "to go where it will. And I wish to do that. Truly, I do. I could not cause her any harm or to see her in any discomfort, not on account of my own fool hesitation. I..." He hesitates, looking down for a moment, swallowing; reaching for his courage. "I love her. Aye, I've said it. But... oh, Lord God, it is difficult." Those violet eyes lift to Merlin, absolutely earnest; open in a way the knight rarely is with anyone beyond Arturia. "So difficult. I should never have left Camlann. Did you know? They call it 'Salisbury,' now, and it looks so peaceful. I saw a picture of it in a book, once. You would never think that it had been the place of so much death, or the ending-fire of Camelot..."

He sighs, closing his eyes, the gesture weary.

"I want to give her what is due. She deserves no less. And perhaps I will in time. But I still see them, Master Merlin. I still hear them, entreating me as I run past. I–I have to reach her; she is dying, if I hasten I may reach her in time. But I cannot stop for them. I cannot help them or save them." His voice cracks. "My cousin. My own brother."

He draws in a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice seems somehow diminished. His eyes are haunted; his expression subtle but nonetheless one of misery. "How... how can I let myself feel this joy when I betrayed them so? I do not deserve her."

Merlin (639) has posed:
Anyone would agree that a bored wizard is a bad wizard. But will Bedivere make the first dynamic move? Or will Merlin have to be the one to send a pawn hurtling through the knight's own defensive line? Then again, perhaps Merlin's primary thrust will come in other means. At the moment, he's just feeling Bedivere out, and rattling his cage slightly - though not with the chess pieces.

"So I have noticed. Perhaps youth is not what it was in those days, and in the face of such...terrible foes as you deal with now, your mere humanity is rearing its head." On the right, a bishop slides into place, supporting the general slow push of the left. "But I suppose I might well be amiss in suggesting such a thing. You certainly have found things to live for, after all."

The fire flicks a little higher, and just that little bit warmer. If Bedivere's going to complain about the cold, well, Merlin certainly isn't going to stop him. It is truly frostbitten outside, after all.

"Perhaps at the time that was necessary. The land of Britain was under great stress at the time, and someone needed to shoulder that burden. The daughter of Uther Pendragon was chosen to be that one, that person who holds their hand to shield the candle in the wind." The wizard shifts a rook, targeting the white queen.

With a smile on his face, the blue-eyed wizard nods. "You do. I remember Lancelot's smile, and his anguish. But there is a great difference between the two of you and they. Lancelot and Guenivere had to maintain a fiction to keep the realm intact, and suborn their love to the greater good of the kingdom. You struggle under no such fiction. The only thing you suborn your love to is your own fear, and your own shame."

One hand raises to cut off the expected outburst. "An understandable feeling - just as love brought down Camelot, I suspect you fear the same thing happening here. The loss of your family. The loss of your land. The loss of your king."

Merlin leans back, letting Bedivere consider his words, and sighs softly. "Slowly you become aware that this is not Camelot. And I would not hurry you so, and I would be more than pleased to allow you to come to this realization on your own. You have accepted that you are not a Marshal anymore, and have foresworn battle - just as, so many times, Arturia did as well. You take well to leadership positions, just as before - but I am afraid that there may not be time to 'ease into the rest of the job,' as it were." The chair is comfortable, and he pauses for a moment more.

"You pass judgement on things too close to you to see clearly. Let your heart lead you. You are free to make that choice. Make it soon - for I fear that the future may not grant such spare time as you have now." Merlin smiles. "I would be more than honored to give Arturia away at the wedding, you know. And I can think of no greater best man than Gawain himself. I imagine you've had many thoughts of a potential honeymoon, too. Somewhere warmer, much warmer...I hear Bermuda is spectacular this time of year."

Did the white queen suddenly, for the barest of instants, sport a bikini? Of course it did. But not like anyone would be looking at it long enough to notice.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I would say youth is not what it was. Perhaps when I was nineteen years of age, I was better inclined to shrug such things off, among even a nearly mortal wound, with swift treatment." He watches Merlin make his coup, pushing into the left-hand territory with a certain detachment. "But I am past that point, I suppose. It is frustrating to know you have become so... frail. This cold, this winter. I feel it as I never did, before. Perhaps I was wounded too many times. Perhaps I was forced to feign wellness for too long, and that is the price I pay now."

Mere humanity. Although he doesn't say anything, Bedivere nonetheless seems to be in silent agreement at that description. As he's so often insisted, he's no more than a mere mortal who just happens to have a legend attached to him. He is no Servant, and he can certainly not compete with the level Gawain or Arturia are on. In his eyes, he never will. He's lucky even to survive the things the multiverse has thrown at him.

It's both a sobering and depressing thought.

Bedivere tilts the pawn between thumb and forefinger, absently rolling it this way and that, its base still touching the board. Even his fidgeting is calm, in spite of whatever inner turmoil he feels. His eyes are half-hooded as they linger, unseeing, on the chess board. The silver-haired knight sighs through his nose.

"I remember the anguish in his eyes, too, although I think he did not know I could see it." Bedivere keeps his eyes fixed on the pieces. "I remember wishing that there were something I could do to comfort him, but there was no point in my involving myself. It only would have drawn suspicion to the queen. And perhaps the king, as well. Better that I remained aloof, though it pained me to see the Right Hand and the queen both so tortured. I regret that now, and I wish I had been able to give him some words of comfort... but it is better that I did not, bitter a taste that may leave in my mouth."

Those mild, violet eyes flick up to Merlin. "I knew nothing of his particular circumstance. I could not relate. Perhaps I shared his pain, of harbouring a love I knew could never be, but that was all it was, for me: A foolish dream, a thing experienced from afar. But I wished them well, for what good it may have done. I knew they took comfort in one another... just as she and I do now."

He leans back in his chair, sighing as he huddles into the blanket, closing his eyes for a moment. "Ah, God, I miss them, Merlin; my brothers-in-arms. They were good men and good knights, all."

"That is my worry, too." He regards Merlin seriously, and perhaps with a little melancholy. "You are right. I am cautious. Too cautious. But I do not know any other way to be. As much as I might wish this time were unlimited, it is not. A sling-stone may snuff out my life tomorrow for all I know, slung by one of Harkaitz' rebels. I'm certain they're still out there, prowling the borders, away from our eyes – I cannot imagine one man could have wrought such destruction by himself; he had to have help – and if not that, then something else in the multiverse." He gestures, loosely. "It is after all a very large place, and there is a very large range of things that would appear to want to kill me. I have no shortage of enemies here, save that they are more direct than any I had in Camelot."

Bedivere slumps, though he stiffens as though a bucket of cold water were thrown over him when Merlin mentions a wedding. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing, as he straightens; twitching somewhat. "Wh—"

"Th-thoughts of what? I have done no such thing," he snaps, horrified. "P-perhaps I may have let myself drink a little too much mead, but I would never disgrace her so!" His face is, at this point, quite red. Whether the man doth protest too much or whether he's simply horrified, it's hard to say. He quickly seizes one of his own knights, setting it down decisively, threatening that carefully-building left flank. "F-forget I said anything. Now you mock me."

Merlin (639) has posed:
"Perhaps indeed," the wizard muses. "Age is the great leveler, that which we must all contend with. Perhaps not entirely all," he adds, "but still. There are ways to contend with such frailty, and I see some of them in you already." The training with Loros, and the other wizard's occasional boon.

"I understand the feeling. When I was sealed in the earth, so weak for so long, I imagine it was not unlike what you felt. I admit, I was freed, though I did not quite expect it in such a way." It's a simple commisseration, but one probably quite unexpected from the wizard. "I will advise you, as a friend and mentor, to continue as you have in that. You may yet find yourself achieving greater heights than you ever could have imagined. You already have, no doubt," Merlin says. He gestures to the command sigil on Bedivere's hand.

"Even the mere presence of that says enough. I would someday love to look through your family album, perhaps." :3 "One never knows what strange secrets one may find, after all."

The pawn is watched carefully, though Merlin isn't one to call cheat. No, in this case the Shirou figure would simply turn and stab the lord of Dún Reáltaí in the finger, but Bedivere isn't trying to gain unfair advantage. The piece stays whole, and quite solid, for now at least.

"Let it out." The advice is simple, as Bedivere huddles and bares his heart. Merlin can wait; so can the game.

Once the moment passes, Bedivere brings up his own mortality, and Merlin simply nods. "Then your caution will have you second-guessing until that stone strikes. Just as you were once battle was joined, be decisive. You can not rely on the extreme lifespan that Arturia was given, or even for a very long time upon Loros' own energies. 'Carpe diem, miles.'" Seize the day, soldier. "There are great threats against you, yes. Even the Tylwyth Teg fear that which they do not speak of that walks in the frost. So much raises itself against you..."

The wizard simply gestures at one of his pawns, which slides forward to pin a knight - and open a sudden deep attack with the bishop from Merlin's right flank. "That you must seek fast decision in all you do. Mortality looms, just as checkmate does. Caution stood you in good stead as an advisor, but you are no longer a mere advisor."

And then Merlin's entirely cheating meta-game strikes home, far harder than a mere checkmate could. The flustered expression on Bedivere's face, the sheer redness of it all in the firelight, is just the perfect example of Wizard's Delight. "Ahahaha, then it is quite true. You need a vacation, Bedivere. The both of you do. I daresay that Loros, Gawain, and I could manage this place for a week. Nothing will happen with the snows such as this." Merlin stands, looking out the window at the drifts outside.

"Not even the northmen of Scandinavia could make headway in winter such as this, and it would be easier to crawl through a swamp than it would be to make headway against a force in such snow. Any beseigers..." Well, that much is obvious. Between the wind and cold, they'd freeze to death before the first catapult was even loaded. "I dare say Lady Alaiya herself has bought you time away from the lordship, and you deserve it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When the mark on his left hand is indicated, Bedivere's eyes slant down to the now-familiar mark. At first, he had been wary of the command seals. He had frequently rubbed at his hand as though it bothered him, unconsciously, although he couldn't actually feel that red knotwork. Now, it's become more a source of comfort, a reminder of her presence even when they're apart.

He finds himself rubbing the mark unconsciously, hooded eyes resting on the chess board, though his expression is faintly troubled. It's strange to hear Merlin speaking so candidly of his entrapment by Nimue. He shakes his head, though, murmuring quietly. "I had not intended to stop. If I am to serve her in this capacity, I must learn what I can."

"No, I suppose I am not." Not merely an advisor any more, that is. He sighs, reaching up and rubbing at his face with both hands. "I have not acted as marshal for over five years. And there are threats out there, I know it, though I do not know of what would frighten the Tylwyth Teg." He levels his eyes on Merlin, briefly; is there some threat before their nose, threatening Dún Reáltaí, he isn't being told about? His eyes drop to the pawn threatening the knight, then, watching as the hole opens up in Merlin's defenses.

His tactical mind acknowledges the opening almost immediately, but his attention is still on the conversation. He hesitates for a long moment before sliding his own bishop forward, seizing the piece Merlin had allowed to be threatened.

"Perhaps. Although claiming to have Master Loros, Sir Gawain, and yourself in charge for a week is less incentive for me to go and more incentive for me to stay," the knight comments, blandly. It fades into a more serious mien, though. "Perhaps. I will consider it, and I will discuss it with her, as well."

A deft motion captures the bishop, replacing Merlin's with his own, and he sets it aside.

"It may surprise you, but I am capable of swift action when the need arises." His smile is subtle; bland.

Merlin (639) has posed:
A reminder of her presence, certainly. Though if he were ever told, that cheek of Bedivere's might well be even more sensitive to touch. Will Merlin speak? Not friggin hardly, he's enjoying knowing the secret too much.

"Neither do I," says the wizard ominously. "As I said, there are things they would not speak of. But they were willing to form your armor, in trade for peace with you. That should speak of things to come, I daresay." What could frighten the Teg into refusing to even speak a name aloud...well, the danger could run to the extreme. Perhaps even the very snows themselves, should spring never come...

Merlin lets the knight be taken by the bishop, watching this new evolution - and nodding, smiling slightly as the knight surges forward. And the feint to the left suddenly becomes Merlin's main push, now, as the right flank finds itself quickly taken. Can he bring enough of a threat to pin the king before Bedivere can wheel back his troops?

"I would not worry so much. I imagine the Holy One would be more than enough to keep us quite in line with promises of punishment. Or would you want something more than that? Very well." Merlin stands from the chair, yet at the same time he remains behind - as if a shadow splitting in two, the wizard has doubled himself.

"Do not worry, Bedivere," says the standing Merlin. Then both of them chime in. "I will do my utmost to keep that one," mutual fingers point, "out of trouble." Yes, he went there. Then the sitting one speaks again. "Loros and Gawain would not even notice I was present. And besides...imagine the Lady's face were she told that she would have a week to herself...to be the one thing she could never be. A young woman, in love and without obligation."

The seated Merlin remains, while the standing one shifts shape - forming an image of Arturia herself. She smiles delicately, cheeks blushing, as the green-eyed gaze of the ersatz king looks longingly at Bedivere's cheek. One finger raises to her lips at the same time, while Merlin himself simply smiles. This ought to be even more fun than holding the secret. The image of Arturia fades into pink and white sparkles, "I might say, the warmth might well still be palpable. It must be telling of your condition that you never noticed her attentions...perhaps one more reason to spend a little time together."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight reaches up and rubs at his face, as though he were none the wiser to that fleeting display of affection. He'd been well and truly asleep when she had passed through and into the kitchens. Although it's within his purview to feign sleep, most times he's seen like that in Dún Reáltaí, it can be assumed to be true. He's still catching up on the five years of sleeplessness following Camlann, and still healing his broken body and spirit.

It may be that he's in a better place than he ever has been since that battle, but he still has a long way to go, too. He'd spent too many years pushing himself past his natural limits in service to the kingdom, and now he's paying that price, even as he strives to heal from the scars of the Battle of Camlann.

"The Most Holy? Perhaps she would, but she does not always spend her time here. She is a Servant like my king, and caught between her spiritual duties to these people, and her duties to her Master." Bedivere waves a hand, dismissively. "Perhaps I may consider travelling someplace in the spring. But there are too many things yet to be done here until then. I must stay and see these people through the winter. Perhaps there is nothing that may threaten them between now and then, but I would be better able to leave in good conscience come the spring, after the soil has been repaired by Lady Stadler and the crops have been planted."

He sighs, leaning back in his chair—

—and choking when he sees there are two Merlins standing side by side, giving their comedy act. He seems to find nothing amusing in it, though, staring wide-eyed as the extra Merlin flawlessly assumes Arturia's countenance. He stares, even as 'Arturia' fades into shimmering motes.

"Do not ever do that again." His voice is soft; dangerously soft. "I do not know how long you have lived. I do not care. And I do not care what manner of power you can call upon. Dishonour her like that again, and I will feed you your own heart." There's something bright and hard and cold in his eyes. "She is perhaps not king, here, but I will not suffer any slights against her dignity. And I will especially not suffer them from you."

Five seconds pass; he stares the wizard down, as though to show just how deadly serious he is about that. No joking at all, and no mirth.

But he eventually sags back in his chair, still glowering a little. "You are insufferable... but thank you. I think I will take you up on that suggestion, after the worst of the winter has passed."

Merlin (639) has posed:
In Merlin's case, all he had was time to sleep. As Bedivere seeks rest and respite, he is downright bored sometimes. Such as this chess game, for example; it was really an excuse to find time to talk. And talk they have, which is good - the game no longer has need, and with Bedivere's sudden surge in daring the wizard finds himself...alas. His first loss.

"All in good time. Lady Stadler...ah yes, the one working on the greenhouse with you. A fine idea, and certainly much warmer a planting place than the stone walls of the keep. I look forward to seeing how that turns out. And..."

Merlin stands, assuming power and presence in the face of Bedivere's stare. The kind of thing that would send most mortals scurrying, the wizard doesn't visibly move - but seems to loom over everything, even the castle itself. Firelight shifts, casting an even taller shadow against the wall, as Merlin draws upon power the likes of which no mortal man may ever even sense.

And with a nod, he acquiesces to Bedivere, settling back down and letting the powerful presence fade away. The black king on the board is toppled gently to surrender to the knight's superior play. "As you wish, my lord. However, might I suggest one thing?" The look in the wizard's eyes are honest, and almost pleading. A rare enough thing indeed. "Arturia is not one to be placed on a pedestal, out of reach. Love her. Do not worship her. And get your rest."

He stands, as the chessboard pieces sink back down into the board. The game itself is left behind, as Merlin walks away quietly.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The very one. She is a good person, and I am glad that she has found purpose here in Dún Reáltaí. Perhaps helping these people can in turn help her to heal, as well." Bedivere smiles, faintly. This broken castle seems to have done wonders for bringing people together, and for healing their wounds, not the least of which include his own. "I admit I am much curious to see how this 'greenhouse' turns out, aye. It is an interesting concept, and some of the fruits she showed to me were not of any species I had ever seen before. It is always good to have more variety in food—"

The smile fades. His own stare turns hard again, and where most mortals would scurry under a table at the wizard's fearsome display, Bedivere merely maintains his seat – and though his posture is calm, his eyes are not. He stares down the shadow and the wizard with blazing eyes, just a hint of his wrath, willing to direct it even at the wizard if he feels his lady threatened or dishonoured. He will brook any insult to his person, but he will suffer no insult to her. Never to her.

Only slowly does his own anger fade, bound in the tight controls he had learned to weave in Camelot. It takes him longer than he might like to dismiss it, though, and for a brief instant he's left drawing in a deep breath through his nose.

"Speak." That simple imperative is all he has the calm to say, although his voice is level and even.

He listens, though that almost pleading note in the wizard's eyes seems to break through the rest of his lingering emotion. Bedivere's own brow furrows – as though he were seeing, mirrored, just how it is she must see his reverence. For all his words, he's still worshipping the king, not the lady.

For a long moment he's silent, staring at the fallen black king. The significance of the toppled piece almost seems to escape him.

"I will," he murmurs. He does not look up as Merlin walks away and the chess pieces subsume back into their board.

Leaning back, he sighs, wrapping the blanket around himself. He does not shiver, but he does look toward the kitchens, half-lidded eyes thoughtful.