999999/Dacw 'Nghariad

Dacw 'Nghariad
Date of Scene:	20 July 2014
Location:	Fuyuki City
Synopsis:	While the Master's away, the king is at play. Or at least in an uncommonly good mood.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Mornings had always been quick and no-nonsense affairs for Bedivere.

As Marshal of the Realm, the administrative tasks of maintaining Camelot had fallen to him. This allowed the king to attend more important matters, such as addressing the Saxons ravaging their borderlands, or other wars with Camelot's enemies in more distant places. Keeping an entire court of noblemen in line was not an easy task, though, and they had often begun their trouble early.

To that end, his short and simple routine always began the same way – pulling himself out of the warm blankets (often with an effort of will, especially in the winter), splashing cold water on his face and scrubbing the weariness out, and donning his tunic and armour.

Almost every other Knight of the Round Table depended on a squire for that task, but Bedivere alone had always refused the services of a squire. He groomed and saddled his own horse, he donned his own armour, and he bore his own burdens without complaint. He had become quick at donning the heavy plate armour through long years of practise, and had long since learned to do it with precision.

Fully garbed, he'd cut an imposing figure, striding the battlements as he listened to reports from lesser servants, the castle's banners snapping in the cold breeze.

Now, though... there was no need to don his armour, nor to wake so quickly. And while mostly recovered from those four years he had spent in the wood, sleep had been one of his many sacrifices as he sought to return to Camelot, however hollow that goal had been, and he's only just beginning to recover from that deep-rooted weariness.

For a time, the marshal finds himself somewhat at a loss to do, in the mornings. After some dithering around for the first few days, he had finally broken down and asked his king's plum-haired Master for tools, and took to keeping the house as clean outside as it was inside.

So it is that this overcast and unseasonably cool morning, the marshal can be found in the backyard, patiently raking fallen leaves into a pile, when he isn't carefully trimming die-back from the yard's trees. It isn't yet the season for their leaves to fall in earnest, yet, but the wind has still knocked some of the die-back down.

Like so many mornings at the Tohsaka residence, he isn't wearing his armour; not unless he needs to leave the property, or to go into battle. Much as he had worn at the céilidh, he wears today a simple commoner's tunic and leggings, and simple boots; his armour remains on the armour-stand that had been found for him, and his cloak hanging on a hook just inside his quarters. His knight's regalia can wait, for Bedivere of Camelot, Marshal of the Realm, is not needed just yet.

Today he's merely that soft-spoken young man of the Dál Riata, raking leaves in an effort to be useful to the people who so graciously let him have use of their guest quarters.

It's still quite early, the sun only just having topped the horizon. The morning is somewhat gloomy, though, with clouds looming leaden and promising rain. It's unseasonably cool, as though a preview for what's to come with autumn; the wind off the bay carries a sharp note to it every time it rustles the leaves and stirs the marshal's silvery-blonde hair.

When that breeze whispers through with a little more force, he pauses in his raking, scrubbing at his forehead with the back of an arm. Standing the rake up to lean on it for a moment, he looks out to the bay, frowning a little. Although he doesn't know the patterns of Fuyuki's sometimes capricious weather, he does know that he can feel the bite of autumn in that wind.

Hm.

Curious.

And with that, Bedivere returns to his work; the steady scrape of dry leaves against the metal tines of the rake.

Saber (346) has posed:
There had been quite the sharp contrast in the lives that Arturia, Servant Saber, lived.

Mornings as the King of Britain always began before the dawn broke. In Camelot proper, the routine involved having to make careful preparations that her grand ruse remained undiscovered. Merlin's enchantment helped, but if there had been something which might break that, if she somehow appeared too feminine, the enchantment would surely fail. And so the king herself maintained rigid control over how she appeared the moment she left her chambers following a quick meal, tending to the daily matters of running a kingdom personally handling what she could and delegating what she could not.

On campaigns, it began much the same, at least in preparing her daily mask, a quick meal, and onward towards meeting with her knight-generals and soldiers. When not immersed in battle itself, manoeuvring, or setting up camp, much of that time had been spent forming tactics, receiving reconnaissance reports, or surveying troops and equipment.

During the fortnight of the Holy Grail War, there had been no such routine, accompanying her decoy Master, Irisviel, needing little preparation for the day of travelling, investigations, and battling other Servants. No need for meeting with nobles with requests or demands, nor generals for tactics, the latter had remained the domain of her Master. In some ways, it had seemed as if he intended to win the Holy Grail War on his own, and that she and his wife had merely been decoys.

Now, there was the daily routine of the Tohsaka estate. While Rin was not, in her own words, a 'morning person' -- unable to rise early and still function properly -- Sakura and Arturia rose before the sun to begin various chores. Often, the Master would begin preparations for breakfast assisted by her Servant, a rather labour-intensive process which had made Saber respect chefs of the modern era all the more. Such work! Yet, she found herself enjoying it, conversing with the violet-haired magus as she peeled potatoes or performed some other task.

In fact, it was not altogether unlike the very first of her lives, raised by Sir Ector in the countryside beside her adoptive brother, Kay. She had known nothing of her birth-parents, but life under the care of a knight had been a comfortable one as far as young Arturia had been concerned; Kay's constant teasing notwithstanding. Many of her chores had been similar enough; such as washing and peeling roots. But there had been ones made generally unnecessary in the current era; gathering fruit, digging up roots, fetching water, tending the cooking fire. But the general feeling of a mostly peaceful life was certainly present. Even the day's rigorous training -- which she enjoyed, anyway -- had the feeling of a simple yet fulfilling life. Here, with the magus family, she had come full circle.

This particular morning, however, was slightly different. Sakura and Rin were both away in London, leaving the household duties to Arturia and the once-Marshal of Camelot...predominantly the former, as the latter tended to regard such things as washing machines as 'witchcraft'. It was just as well; the chores gave her time to think. But for the moment, the morning found the petite Servant in the kitchen, preparing what would be a more familiar breakfast to those from an entirely different time and place.

Dressed in a simple white button-down shirt -- a little on the big side for her, probably a man's shirt -- and boot-cut jeans under a black kitchen apron, her hair tied up into a high ponytail by a black handkerchief. She had learned one of the customs -- which in retrospect, was a fairly good idea -- had been the removal of shoes inside a house, and so had become accustomed to wearing simple socks and slippers while inside. It was comfortable attire; not particularly feminine but neither the almost severe look of her customary three-piece business suit.

In spite of the disasters involved in a certain gathering she had planned, Arturia was in fairly high spirits. She had to admit that there had been a number of things which had turned out well, and it seemed as if quite a few people had enjoyed themselves...even if some of that had seemed to be at the expense of a pair of Knights of Camelot. She had never remembered the music being quite so compelling, so full of life as it had never truly been at court. Perhaps that had been what a true gathering was like, among the people who had no need to worry over such things as appearances. And she was beginning to understand why they were so popular even now.

Not aware of what she was doing, Arturia began singing softly as she peeled apples. It was a folk song she had picked up from somewhere, though she had never particularly attempted it herself. Though the multiverse would have translated for anyone else, for the two knights of ancient Britain, no such translation was necessary.

"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan, Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The sound of the wind in the trees is a welcome one, even if it inevitably creates more work for the knight; the cool breeze is refreshing, though if he weren't working, it would no doubt feel a bit cool. Leaves and branches clatter quietly as though the trees themselves were speaking in their dry, scratchy voices. If not for the grand manor or the wrought-iron fence that circles the property, he might imagine he were back in his own time, in any number of nameless villages...

No, this place is too far removed. He is no magus. Perhaps it's even possible that his Dál Riata heritage might have afforded him a few magic circuits, but he has no training, and perhaps never had any desire to learn. Maybe the fili really did have the ability to do some of the things that were rumoured of them, but not Bedivere. Perhaps those circuits allow him to sense that there's no mistaking this as anything but someplace foreign to him; or perhaps he, like so many of bygone days, is more closely connected to the earth than the folk of the local era.

Whatever the case, that imagined familiarity is gone as soon as the wind whispers through the trees again. They are foreign trees, and it is a foreign wind, and the sea did not smell quite so harsh in Camelot as it does here.

Frowning slightly to himself, Bedivere circles to begin manoeuvring his leaves into something more of a proper pile, glancing over to the far edges of the yard. There are still a few minor piles of leaves under the trees, where they had been knocked down, but it's clear that no one bothered too much with the yard work.

Truthfully, it's a bit of a strange custom, but he doesn't mind. Working more closely to the earth like this is strangely comforting. Such a simple task also gives him a sense of accomplishment, more than making war or filling out ledgers ever did.

A strange note enters the wind, though, and he pauses.

Bedivere has always been perceptive. Among the Round Table, he was perhaps the most observant of his fellows. Where Gawain would spend half the day talking of the virtues of this or that, Bedivere would remain silent. He would watch, he would listen. There were even times he had suspected that well-water had borne poison, simply because it didn't smell or taste right to him. And now, his senses are telling him that there's something... different.

It's a sound, he realises a moment later. A woman's voice. Light, but not soft; high, but not in distress. A song? Ah, yes. A song.

It takes him a moment later to realise it's coming from the house, and he's a bit startled to come to that conclusion. Surely it couldn't be the magi whom it belongs to. Had they not left, to travel? The only ones here at the moment were himself, and the king.

For a few moments his mind almost doesn't want to connect those dots, not because he's not smart enough to make that connection, but because the idea of Arturia singing is so... so foreign.

Bedivere holds the rake upright, taking an uncertain step or two closer to the house. Bereft of his armour, he can move almost silently if he really wants to, and that skill serves him well for the moment. Drawn almost helplessly, he takes a few more steps closer, towards the kitchen and its generous windows. After a few more paces he finds himself setting the rake down, leaning it against the wall and slipping into the back door. It leads off the kitchen.

The sight is still a bit strange; seeing her wearing something so foreign, though he's a bit surprised to note her wearing her hair so casually – even out of armour, he's taken the time to braid his own, pinning it back in the two bronze cuffs he favours. She had always taken the time to braid hers similarly; pinning it up and out of the way, and perhaps drawing attention away from the femininity of it.

He frowns a little. There is no translation effect needed for them – they both speak Welsh, and he can make out the words with ease even now.

It's an old song, one that was popular among some of the more remote villages and among the commonfolk, though it takes him a few minutes to think of the title. There is My Love, or something along those lines, wasn't it?

Bedivere clears his throat, almost silently, torn, and thinks for a moment.

What were the words...? He remembers them even as she comes to them, frowning and trying to stir up old, half-forgotten memories. He had heard the song often enough, and some part of his mind had a knack for committing song to memory. Perhaps it was that bit of fili training he had gotten, or simple preference. He enjoyed music then, and does now. Slowly, the remainder of the song comes back to him.

Folding his arms, he leans back against the doorframe, still trying to reconcile his remote king with this seemingly contented young woman signing a folk-song.

It's about then that he notices what she's doing, too, and the smell hits him half an instant later.

Apples.

He had always been fond of them, even in Camelot. Few fruits had been readily available in that cold, wet place, but he had always had a knack for sniffing them out. They were perhaps one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, for they required no real preparation, and even commoners could enjoy them without too much difficulty, unlike more exotic fruits.

Bedivere swallows, eyeing the fruit and then eyeing his king, as though trying to decide precisely what to do.

He's not sure why the idea crosses his mind.

It's absurd. It's not dignified, or proper, or knightly.

But...

"O na bawn i yno fy hunan—" The old words are soft, but he has an ear for melody, and his voice holds its pitch with surprising sureness in spite of his nerves. "Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal—"

It comes easily to him after thinking through the first two verses, and he matches Arturia's voice as closely as he can; taking a harmony to her simple chorus. Standing there with his arms folded, leaning on the doorframe as though he'd been there all morning, she'll no doubt falter and stop and turn to see the interruption.

His face is bright scarlet.

Bedivere makes a valiant attempt to ignore that.

Saber (346) has posed:
In some ways, living in the country now widely known as the island nation of Japan was not entirely unlike the campaigns which had taken her away from Britain. Rome, in what was now Italy, could be oppressively hot in some seasons, a stark contrast to the mountains to the north which had been oppressively cold in others. Comparatively, Japan was not disagreeable, neither as fiercely hot as the Mediterranean nor as bitterly cold as the Alps. While she did at times miss Britain, there were far worse places to be.

The city itself, however, had a certain coldness to it, as most modern cities did. They were far cleaner than those of the distant past -- one of the marvels being plumbing even the Roman Empire would envy -- yet in some way, they seemed...cold, like a dead thing. Even one as small as Fuyuki, in comparison to large ones such as London -- currently the source of Rin's suffering -- was still almost an alien thing. And all the light -- though rather beautiful, in its own way -- burned so brilliantly that it drowned out all the stars. In some ways, she had almost wished the manor had been further out into the country, if for no other reason than that she could see the stars. But she had scolded herself over such unimportant things; she was happy to have a place to live which was by her native standards ridiculously luxurious. More to the point, she had needed to stay by her Master's side as much as possible.

Which had made it somewhat ironic that she had remained at the manor while the two had gone to London unaccompanied. Saber had been to the new -- at least, in her mind -- capital of Britain before, but Rin had been worried that Clocktower had been watching the Tohsakas a little too closely for comfort, even without the added pressure of having to explain an existing contract with a Servant. They had understood the multiverse well enough, but seemed to believe that a Servant -- even from a different reality -- was somehow under their purview. She could not help but feel a little bit sorry for Rin, given the circumstances, but at least she would only have to worry about feeding Sakura and herself. Though Saber made her own contributions, there was always still the issue of carrying all of it home.

Even now, with the two gone, Arturia was preparing enough for five people; most of which would be converted into the pure magical energy Servants use to sustain themselves. With Sakura in another part of that world, the link between Master and Servant was significantly weakened, and she could not simply draw energy from the magus. She found herself frowning, as if seeing it for the first time; this was going to require some exposition...

But for the moment, she was content to simply peel apples, completely unaware that she was singing out loud. It might have been nostalgia; there had been times when, as she performed her chores living with Sir Ector and Kay, she could hear some of the village women singing about their work. Arturia had not thought she had necessarily learned any of the songs, but perhaps she had, after all. It was hardly as if she'd had the opportunity -- or even the inclination -- to even so much as sing previously. But alone in the kitchen, knife through a favourite treat from her childhood, it was not as if anyone could hear her. Or so she thought...

She didn't quite register that she was no longer the only one singing at first. In fact, the sound was so pleasant that she kept smiling with an expression she had rarely dared to show anyone, enjoying the sound. That is, until a few notes later when she realised that she was not, in fact, imagining it. With a rather uncharacteristic clumsiness, she dropped the apple she had been working over -- though she managed to hold onto the knife -- as her throat abruptly closed, stifling a squeak of surprise. Of course, there was only one person who could have possibly been there, adding his voice to hers, but she didn't dare turn to look, her face nearly as red as the skin of the apples she had been carving.

No, the now-embarrassed King of Knights now fumbled almost hopelessly to recover the dropped apple, stammering. "I-I...forgive me, I did not...to disturb..."

It was not a very dignified thing at all for one of her most trusted knights to have heard that horrible, childish squeaking that she might otherwise call 'singing'.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Half a glance is cast toward the food, but Bedivere doesn't comment on the sheer proportion of the ingredients just yet. If anything, he seems to be calculating just how much that ought to make. No doubt he's figured out what she plans on making just going by raw ingredients alone, for he's familiar with the makings of many dishes, even if he isn't much of a good cook, himself. As marshal, it was necessary for him to know such things – how far commoners' stores of food could be stretched, especially come the winter, and what sorts of things were necessary to an estate for the inhabitants to get by.

Also he just likes apples, and he's familiar with what can be made with them. He never let on that they were a favourite of his, but he never once turned down a chance to partake of them, or something involving them.

He only gets through three more lines before she seems to realise that she has company, and that she had not, in fact, been imagining the light voice singing harmony to hers. When she doesn't turn around, he allows himself a crooked little smile, in spite of his blush.

"You did not disturb me, my king." He tilts his head, faintly, watching her fumble with the dropped apple and stammer at him. "I had wished to hear who was singing. I had not thought it would be you."

It's not very dignified, and it certainly isn't knightly, but something about her reaction is oddly endearing. He can't help the faint, crooked half-smile at the way she stammers helplessly. Never mind that if their positions were reversed, he'd be doing the same thing.

Bedivere considers for a few seconds, looking as though he might want to say something. Actually, he seems to be marshalling his courage, as though working up to that. When he finally does speak, his voice is quieter; low enough that it might be missed if not for the sudden silence.

"Pray—pray do not stop, please. Your voice is lovely."

It still feels strange to tell such a compliment to his king, however true it may be for him. He had always admired her for qualities she firmly refused to see in herself. Actually telling her that is a little more difficult than he'd thought, but at the same time, he's loathe to take that ability for granted. It's enough to overcome his inclination to hold his tongue on the matter, if only barely.

He's also inordinately proud of himself for saying that without stammering.

Saber (346) has posed:
There are, given the nature of the current era and the multiverse, a number of ingredients he might not recognise. Or rather, different equivalents. The skin of the apples is more pinkish with hints of golden yellow than those of their homelands, the flour more finely ground, the honey -- in a peculiar container as clear as glass yet almost as thin as vellum-- more clear. In a small metal spoon, there was even what had once been a precious commodity; salt, seeming for all the world as if it was an easily obtained substance rather than crystalline gold. Perhaps strangest of all was the container made from something like waxed parchment -- with alien glyphs written on it -- with the delicate scent of buttermilk wafting from the neck...yet it was cold, as if kept in a mountain stream. What could be be attempting to make?

As secretive as they both had been, she remained ignorant of Bedivere's love of apples, having simply decided on a fruit that was common enough in their country. Unfortunately, the situation had become a bit awkward for her. Managing to retrieve the apple from the floor, Arturia stepped over to the sink and rinsed the half-carved fruit, the colour not yet receding from her ears and neck. "I-I had not even...I had not realised I had been..."

Not long ago, their positions had been somewhat reversed, when she had learned that he had been of a fili clan and had remembered at least some of that profession. It had been rather different, however; his skill, though rusty as it might have been, was something he had talent in. Her singing voice, on the other hand, was an embarrassment unto itself.

Though she was not sure she could look him in the eye, she was nevertheless forced to turn around; her work was behind her. She did, however, catch a glimpse of him struggling with...something. Even as she tried to distract herself by focusing on something, namely peeling apples, her eyes flickered involuntarily back to him.

She gestured in the air with her knife, vaguely indicating her voice. "I-it is not a very knightly thing, that..."

She almost hadn't heard the quiet words, though they nearly made the knife slip out of her hand. Qualities she refused to see in herself, indeed. "Wh-what...lovely? Th-that?"

How had that been anything resembling music? She sounded like a child trying to learn a song.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Nostrils flare as Bedivere tests the scent of those apples. They're somehow different, just a little sweeter. His head cocks faintly as he studies the other things on the counter, too. While the apples had been easy, the other things are a mystery. He recognises the flour, though the powdery state of it is a bit surprising. And the honey is in a mystifying container that he can't quite seem to place. It certainly isn't glass. No glass he knows of is that thin, and the lustre of it is somehow a little off.

The salt is also given a bit of a stare, violet eyes widening a little. How wondrous that such a thing would be so commonly available in this age? In his era, it had been a vital commodity that wars were once fought over. Without salt, meat or fish couldn't be preserved for the winter...

He frowns a bit at the sight of that bottle of buttermilk. It certainly smells sweet, but the writing on it makes no sense to him – the translation effect that allows him to speak to others does not extend to written materials.

Eventually, he tears his attention away from the materials, and back to Arturia.

"I had not realised, either, at first." Bedivere reaches up, rubbing at the back of his neck in what is surely nervous gesture. His soft laugh is definitely nervous. "I did not know you could sing. And I would not have imagined it, not from you, my king."

He does blink somewhat owlishly when she protests on the grounds of it being unknightly, frowning slightly. It doesn't seem upset so much as thoughtful.

"Mm. Have you known me to speak falsely?" Letting his arms drop, he regards her thoughtfully. "I do not intend to begin now. Aye, it was..." His smile is a little lopsided; a little nervous. "It was lovely. And I would hear more of it, if... if it please you, my lady."

If he knew she thought so poorly of her own voice, he would no doubt try to dissuade her of that notion. As it is, he only smiles a little more broadly, shaking his head. Maybe he suspects her train of thought – they'd always understood one another implicitly. Yes, it was lovely. Even if she seems to think the opposite.

"And if it is unknightly," he adds in that gentle voice of his, "then so too was my, ah, piping. 'Tis the pursuit of a fili, not a knight. Especially not Marshal of the Realm. Ah, my king, I am sorry..." He ducks his head, but it seems more out of that shy embarrassment than any sense of shame. "But I cannot accept that. You do not sound so poor, to me. I—I did not expect to hear a voice so sweet."

He's glad, in that moment, that he keeps his hair long. It hides the furious scarlet of his face.

He's not so glad that his ears are probably visible still. They're scarlet, too.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia couldn't help but smile at Bedivere's curiosity -- and wonder, in the case of the salt's now-common status -- of what was laid out nearby. The knowledge of some things was unnecessary for the Holy Grail War and thus had not been imparted to her upon summoning, and she had remembered how amazed she had been about new technology and techniques. She remembered her amazement in particular over pasteurisation; milk had at times carried with it terrible illnesses but with the process, such illnesses had nearly been eliminated. And certain things which had once been so expensive and difficult to obtain were now so common that they merely cost the equivalent of a few coins. Truly, as far as she was concerned, it was a wondrous age in spite of its flaws.

But her embarrassment overrode her lingering sense of wonder as she tried to concentrate on her task, if only to make the blushing stop. It wasn't working very well. "I cannot...not truly. I did not know what I was doing..."

The reminder of her status likewise made her want to sink into the ground. It was amazing that she managed not to nick herself with the paring knife, even if her skills had improved considerably over the four years. She had never been clumsy when it came to blades, but such fine work had been a little awkward at first. She had never done anything like it since she had attempted to carve a wooden figure for Kay once. In her childish hands, it had not looked quite right and Kay had teased her for it before accepting it with his customary grin that had never managed to not look cocky.

In the present, Arturia started to protest all over again, maintaining her blush all along the way. She wasn't trying to imply he was obfuscating the truth, not after what he'd said earlier. "I-I did not mean..."

Oh, but he used that title again. The protest was forgotten, and just as he could not disobey her, she was finding herself incapable of refusing him. Earlier requests had been easy enough, but this one was much harder to fulfil. It was so awkward! And yet...

Just as he had squirmed uncomfortably under her praise, she found herself similarly uncomfortable under his. For a moment she remained paused -- half-peeled apple in one hand and knife in the other. After a moment of remaining like that, she risked a glance at him and found he was not in any better shape that she was. It must have taken him a great deal of courage to say that -- courage within battlefield and court were completely different than what was needed out of them, she found -- and here she was being insensitive.

Summoning a courage over her own, she drew a breath and relented. How very odd it took courage to acquiesce. "A-all right..." she stammered slightly. "If it would please my lord..."

Though it did take a longer moment for her to summon up enough courage to begin singing again, her voice shaky at first now that she had an audience. Especially one she felt particularly self-conscious with.

"Dacw 'nghariad i lawr yn y berllan, Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal
O na bawn i yno fy hunan, Tw rym di ro rym di radl didl dal..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those violet eyes linger on the paring knife, and it may be that the knight is watching to make sure she doesn't nick herself in her distress. Even he has to admit on some level that the blushing and the stammering is oddly endearing. It's not a proper thing to think, but he can't help himself, watching her try to arrange her wits and form some kind of coherent protest.

He folds his arms again, leaning against the doorframe and watching as she seems to struggle with herself over the courage needed to forge ahead with his request. Maybe it was cruel to ask that of her; he knows from personal experience what it costs to be thrust into the limelight – he avoids attention as thoroughly as Arturia does, and he finds himself just as flustered when others focus on him. Actually, he tends to be even more flustered when it's her focusing on him...

Still, he listens, and this time he doesn't join in. It might destroy her courage if he were to do that; by her reasoning, no doubt, it's difficult enough to sing with his attention so directly on her.

Maybe it might encourage her a little to see the faint smile he shows as she lifts her voice again.

It's a pretty song, and the rest of the lyrics come back to him slowly as he hears her singing them. There is my love down in the orchard, it goes, oh, how I wish I were there myself. There is the house, and there is the barn; there is the door of the cow house open.

His eyes lower as he listens to her go on.

There is the gallant, branching oak; a vision, lovingly crowned. I will wait in her shade until my love comes to meet me.

Bedivere finds his forefinger tapping against the opposite forearm in time, head lowering as he listens; that time-keeping is purely unconscious, though likely not surprising, with what little training in the art of the fili he has.

There is the harp, there are her strings; what better am I, without anyone to play her for?

Well. In his case, it would more likely be a set of pipes played for her, though he might be able to coax a rudimentary sort of tune out of a wire-strung harp. The thought gives him pause, though, as he considers the lyrics. The song is someone pining after their lover, and the indirect comparison brings him to flush such a bright scarlet that he drops his head again, hair hiding his face.

He doesn't quite clear his throat, loathe to interrupt her, but he does make a point of staring at the floor.

There's the delicate fair one, exquisite and full of life; what nearer am I, without having her attention?

What nearer, indeed? The thought is also unbidden. He had never particularly sought her attention before now. True, he had performed his duties to the best of his ability, acting as her conscience where she could not, but he had not done so for the sake of any reward. He had done it simply because that was what, he'd presumed, she had wanted. It had been one of their many unspoken agreements.

Now, though... he finds he wants to earn her attention – to earn that smile of hers, something he had never seen before, and now can't seem to have enough of. It's odd, and certainly not the proper conduct of a sworn vassal, but on some level he finds he no longer cares.

Things are different, here. This is no longer Camelot. They are free of their burdens; free of the intricate dance of the courts they had once been forced to follow the steps for. They are free to take off their masks, and lay them by the wayside.

Should she look over, though, she'll find that he has his own smile. There's no trace of that familiar shyness, this time, but simple enjoyment – almost entrancement – as he listens to her singing that old, old song.

Saber (346) has posed:
Any sense of what was 'proper' has already left the building. In fact, it had seemed to have left days ago. Arturia didn't think she had even been as embarrassed in her life as she had in the past few days. Certainly, there had been a few moments where she found herself somewhat embarrassed over the past few years, but never to the point where all sense of her dignity abandoned her, leaving her blushing, stammering, hopelessly flailing. It would have made for an interesting point of study of she could detach herself emotionally as she had in the past. But that ability, too, seemed to have abandoned her.

But perhaps that last was not entirely a bad thing, not at the moment. Bedivere had wished to see the king's true expressions, and here they were, what she was in this moment: flailing little girl. It was so unlike what she had been in Camelot that she had been astounded when her loyal knight was not disappointed in what she had kept locked away for the sake of the kingdom, that there were some wishes which were sweeter if unfulfilled. In some ways, she had not accepted that part of herself, though she obviously couldn't deny it when it was there as plainly as day. She might have even ignored the silliness of her singing if she hadn't been overheard.

The protest stopped cold in its tracks and her courage sufficiently rallied to begin the song again, Arturia attacked the apples again, trying to focus her attention on the task. Her self-consciousness was palpable as she sang the first few lines, sounding even more childlike than before in her mind. It was somewhat harder to concentrate, knowing there was someone listening, especially someone she wanted to think highly of her. She nearly stopped to mull over that. His admiration of her as a knight and king was well-known, even in the multiverse, and he had told her that he valued her in other ways. What was she trying to accomplish, exactly? What more could she possibly want?

At that point she found it easier -- and even not as discomforting -- to focus on the song. Her voice steadied, becoming clear as it had when she unconsciously sang as she worked. She had not especially paid attention to the lyrics when she had learned them, or even when the song suddenly came to her enough for her to begin singing it. She understood their meaning well enough, but the concept had been alien to her and she had simply enjoyed it for the sound of it alone. It was a pleasant tune, easy for even for someone who had very little musical training and none of it particularly formal.

In spite of her self-consciousness, she found herself slipping back into enjoyment of singing it. "There is the gallant, branching oak, A vision, lovingly crowned."

So it was not quite as bad as she feared it would be. She might be getting the hang of this.

"I will wait in her shade Until my love comes to meet me."

It was at this moment that it finally dawned on her just what the song was about.

Oh. Oh, dear. And it seemed as if a little bit of that earlier shaking had returned.

"There is the harp, there are her strings; What better am I, without anyone to play her for?
There’s the delicate fair one, exquisite and full of life; What nearer am I, without having her attention?"

It had been so much easier to sing when it lacked a more personal meaning for her. And she had certainly not been burning bright-red over it, either.

She nearly cut herself thinking about it, in fact, fumbling with the paring knife. How humiliating.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Such proper behaviour curled up in a corner and expired days ago, at least as it pertains to the kind of working relationship marshal and king once had.

If Arturia thought she'd never been so embarrassed in her life, then so too was her loyal knight. Bedivere had always handled things with a certain grace and poise, even when the direst of insults were thrown into his face. In fact, he seemed to handle himself especially well, cool under fire where the likes of Sir Gawain was ruled by passionate response, or even where Lancelot might have given way to his brooding anger.

Not so with the silver-haired knight. He had never presented anything but his unbreakable calm in the face of impossible situations. Only a few times had he ever lost that famous cool, and always in the midst of battle. When his battle-line had fallen, in the ill-fated conflict that claimed Caliburn; and in one or two other occasions, where he had seen Arturia struck down or wounded, and had come to her defense with all the wrath of a thunderhead.

Of course, few ever remembered such details in the heat of battle; and after the enemy had been struck down, he had always gone back to his quiet self, as though nothing had happened.

He keeps his arms folded as he leans on the doorframe, listening in utter silence to her singing. She may consider it juvenile or shameful, but he seems entranced, staring; yet some part of him still seems alert and tense, as though he were fighting his own nerves – tense as the hart poised to spring away, waiting only for the proper shock.

He shifts uncomfortably, but as her focus returns to the music he seems to relax as well, no longer reminded of his own self-consciousness by hers. It's as though he's listening to something forbidden; something never meant for his ears – so wholly alien to his perceptions that he almost can't believe what he's watching. That, in turn, only seems to make it that much of a more wondrous thing.

Even though she may have no musical training, she performs well enough that even he can find no fault, with his smattering of training. She sings with control, on-key, once she's forgotten her nerves. There is a sweetness and clarity to her voice finer than anyone he had ever heard sing – though that's probably his admittedly biased perceptions of her. He finds himself wearing a smile that is no doubt completely silly, but he can't help himself.

He can't help his self-conscious flush, either, in thinking over the lyrics she's singing – but it was worth it, completely worth it, just to see this new and different side of her.

When she comes to a halt, nearly fumbling her blade, he pushes off from the doorframe to gently, carefully, attempt to relieve her of the paring knife.

"Allow me," he offers, neatly taking over with the apples. His voice is low, as always, though he seems to be keeping it a little more quiet than usual – as though reluctant to break the silence that falls.

He looks over the cutting board, thinning his lips a little. At least that's familiar, made of wood and kept clean. "I spoke truly, you know," he adds after a moment, the knife slicing with quick and efficient movements. Maybe he'd snuck an apple here or there in Camelot – he seems practised. "And it does please me. You sing well, my lady. I never thought I would have the privilege of hearing that." He smiles a little, even as he focuses on the apples. Maybe he's just good at shoving his nervousness aside, or maybe he's just focusing almost all of his attention on it, so as not to slip with the knife.

He does pause for a moment, knife coming to rest over the board as he smiles that faint, contented smile.

"Thank you... my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
In some ways, their masks were not truly masks -- the coldness was certainly false -- but their stoicism in carrying out their duties had been real enough. Arturia had never made any guesses as to what lay behind the cold façade, but she had never expected to see again the shy, awkward young man again. But rather than be disappointed, she found it endearing, and drawn to him even more.

Perhaps it was not proper, given their past relationship as king and knight, a breach of what was acceptable in the chain of command. It might have been that, when she had first encountered him in the multiverse, she could have fallen back on the old patterns and completely donned her mask. But it would have been a pointless waste of time; she was the king of a land long gone, if not forgotten. And then there was the matter of her new wish. She refused to allow the opportunity to slip through her fingers, even if she had gotten far more than she had ever bargained for.

And of course, that more was no means for regret, whatsoever. Not a single regret, not even with all the accompanying embarrassment and the death of her dignity. She would miss it, but it had been an acceptable trade.

But in retrospect, there had been times when the mask might have slipped, when the marshal had fallen into an almost Berserker-like rage in battle. More often, the mask of ice-like calm pervaded, but there had been times when something had made him snap. She had understood that well enough, violating her oath of chivalry so consumed with rage in a single moment. She had resolved never to allow herself to break her oaths again, though it had never gotten any easier. And though many had forgotten that the stone-faced Marshal of the Realm could ever become furious, Arturia never had. It seemed that she had committed a great deal to memory when it came to the pale-haired knight.

In a sense, he had indeed been listening to something forbidden; she would have never relaxed enough to indulge herself by singing, never dared to. But even so, she had never particularly felt like it...not until after the céilidh. Perhaps the fili did indeed possess magic, but it was a sort that required no circuits, and the spells they cast were of an entirely different sort. But to stir the once-aloof king to a song of her own, that was powerful magic, indeed. Or...perhaps one of the poet-musicians in particular, but she disallowed herself that train of thought.

"O-oh..." she managed somehow, even if there technically weren't words involved.

Almost to distract herself, she found herself watching as he deftly peeled the apple -- much faster than she had, it shamed her to admit -- with an almost rapt attention. Long, slender fingers, but certainly the hands of a man, with the subtle callouses from lifelong martial training. It was only after she realised she was staring did she suddenly turn away, blushing and busying herself with another task.

Her blush only seemed to worsen at his compliments. But she didn't protest, though that seemed to have been out of embarrassment than necessarily graceful compliment-receiving. And for a long moment, she couldn't bring herself to speak at all. Summoning up her courage again, it might seem, until she finally spoke in a soft voice. "I...had never tried. I had never thought to....but today, it simply...."

She paused, gesturing a little helplessly as words failed once more. And then, he thanked her, and with the shared term of endearment which would have seemed formal and aloof to anyone other than the two of them. Risking a glance, she was greeted with the faint smile of contentment that seemed to make nothing else matter. And even more, brought out one of her own.

"It was my pleasure, my lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite the cold mask that had served him so well, it didn't truly reflect who lay hidden behind that armour. In truth, the shy young man had never faded away – simply hidden his true self; obfuscated the gentleness of his heart, for such a thing would never have survived in the courts.

Certainly, that mask had slipped from time to time. The marshal had not been perfect, although he had been the perfect man for the job. Perhaps the most notable were those ill-fated battles, where either their forces were in threat, or Arturia herself was under threat – and then the wrath of the Dál Riata fell upon the offending party like a thunderbolt from the heavens itself. In the battle where Caliburn had been lost, the peasants had spoken of him in hushed tones of awe. He had been like a different man. No, some of them had said. Like a demon. Nothing human.

Maybe that impression wasn't helped by his nearly emotionless mannerisms at any other time... but that was not to say that he had no emotions.

He had simply perfected his ability to hide them; to hide himself away.

Now, it feels so strange to let slip those emotions, that true self. It feels like a betrayal of some kind. At times he even finds himself a little suspicious, as though looking for some way in which he might be inadvertently ruining Arturia's reputation – something he has no need to fear, here, but which he looks for nonetheless.

He had become so used to wearing that frozen mask that he had, in part, forgotten how to take it off. She makes it easy, though; so frighteningly easy. What is this power she holds over him?

Violet eyes watch her from their periphery after he takes the knife, deftly peeling the apple and setting it aside, and reaching for another. He doesn't immediately set to deconstructing this one, though, instead raising it and inhaling deeply.

"These smell different," he observes in that soft voice of his, cocking his head slightly. He holds it up to the light, squinting slightly at the pinkish-gold of its skin. "And the colour is different. They smell... sweeter, somehow."

He shrugs, though, lowering it and taking the paring knife to it. He keeps his eyes on the fruit, mostly because it involves not looking at Arturia; looking at her right now would result in all sorts of red-faced and stammering, he's certain. It had cost him just to compliment her straightforwardly. Such is not proper conduct for a sworn servant of the king...

Although he isn't looking directly at her, he does see her from the corner of an eye – specifically, he sees that contented smile of hers.

That, right there, makes the entire ordeal entirely worth it.

"Good." He finds that smile settles more readily to his own face again, even as he neatly finishes the last of the apple. Setting the knife down, he steps aside, inclining his head as he might if he were still in court – a deeply respectful gesture, though that faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth betrays it. "Ah, do not let me take your work, my lady. I should be returning to the yard, soon; I have almost finished."

"But—" And here he pauses, turning to regard her from the corner of his eye again, "—please, do not stop yourself from your singing. I should... I should like to hear more of it." Again, that shy smile. "The honour is all mine, to hear it, my lady."

And with that, provided he isn't stopped, he'll move to slip back out the door he'd come in through.

Getting back out there and not tracking more leaves into the kitchen is probably a good idea. If he's not careful, he'll catch hell from the mistress of the house for such carelessness. It's also possible that he might be trying to edge away – because in spite of all this, his face is, he finds, quite insufferably red once more...