999999/Le Mortefication d'Arturia

Le Mortefication d'Arturia
Date of Scene:	04 July 2014
Location:	Njorun Station - Ring of Philosophy / Fuyuki City
Synopsis:	The Servant Saber pays a visit to Njorun Station, only to meet with a very familiar face, indeed...
Cast of Characters:	346, 482, Tohsaka Sakura

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Multiverse is a place of strangeness. Here there come together things that no one would have thought possible; fantastical things and impossible things, all swimming together like so many fishes in a great, wide sea.

For the knight perched on a stone in the midst of an arena of raked sand, it is an impossibility that he still struggles to grasp.

Sir Bedivere of Camelot is a literal-minded sort, fiercely loyal but not particularly open-minded about the fantastical and the weird – and ever since coming to this place, this "Union," he has struggled to try and understand what's become of his world. Camelot is safe, but he has heard that his liege is about somewhere in this "Union."

At least, somebody very closely matching her description. She's been gone from Camelot, and he had personally laid her to rest beneath the tree on the shores of the lake. He had personally returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, after some convincing from Arturia.

Bedivere sits hunched over on his boulder, arms folded over his knees, chin buried in one mail-clad arm, frowning deeply. His sword is at his hip, sheathed, and he looks ready for war in his plate-mail and his heavy cloak. Familiar, perhaps, to some – unchanged.

"Hmmph." It's a deep, unhappy sigh. Trying to sort all of this out is like... like... like trying to thread a needle while wearing mail mittens, he decides after a few seconds. "This world is mad," he mumbles to himself.

Pushing back to his feet, he returns to the simulation of a dead trunk – the best explanation he'd gotten from the arena's minder is that this was all holographic, whatever that meant; eventually the man had simply said it wasn't real. That made no sense to Bedivere, but it was a working arena that he could practise his skills in while he thought about his next move.

And so his blade flashes silver in the simulated sun – and simulated sawdust flies as the blade bites into the dead trunk, Bedivere practically dancing as he battles some imaginary foe of Camelot; light on his feet despite his heavy armour, pale hair flying behind him as he changes direction and spins on one plated sabaton to strike at the log from the other side.

No doubt a familiar sight, to some.

Saber (346) has posed:
As much as she had felt obligated to help out in the supernatural criminal cases of the multiverse -- as both a member of the half-angel-led Heaven or Hell and a "special consultant" to Harry Dresden, Wizard of Chicago -- the Servant known simply as Saber occasionally wondered how much indignity she was capable of enduring. The day before had found the King of Knights in the Winter Court, which in itself was bad enough. But the fae had taken to the modern era in various ways, and Harry's being forced to act as a courier between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts due to a "really bad deal" with his fairy godmother had landed knight and wizard in the middle of a rave and all manner of unsavoury sorts -- male and female to include Mab herself -- taking a rather unhealthy interest in Dresden's accomplice.

It was more than just a little disgusting.

But the worst indignity in her mind was her prickly response to warn them off, name-dropping the Lady of the Lake as a reminder that they had better behave themselves. It had not gone as planned.

Finding herself alone, Arturia allowed her mask to slip as she entered the Union's recreational and training area, releasing an exhausted, pent-up sigh. She liked Dresden personally and the bribes of the multiverse-famous "Chicago deep dish" were worth the trouble, but that hardly meant that the Unseelie hadn't been practically begging for their faces to the concrete...or whatever that floor was made of. Saber didn't want to think of what else it could possibly be. The fae here had been nearly as annoying as one fellow Servant in particular, another person she tried very hard not to think about lest it ruin her entire day.

?For now, she was going to enjoy some training and take a long bath to purge the grime. A frown marred the girlish face; her suit was in dire need of drycleaning as it was. Rather than summon her battle armour, Arturia opted to borrow a training uniform -- apparently the only one her diminutive size was something more suitable for Chinese unarmed martial arts than sword training -- as she was reluctant to switching back afterwards to her tainted modern clothing.

Now ready, Saber headed to the arena...only to find it was already in use. She stifled another sigh; not that she was annoyed with it being used, that would have been rude. But the weariness was wearing her down more than it should have, and the Servant wondered if the years she had been in the multiverse had spoiled her to the point of rot. She would need the training, no doubt.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she peered in, idly wondering if the user was someone she knew...and though she couldn't see clearly at the distance, there was indeed something familiar...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The sword flashes as though it were a living thing, rearing back and striking with a serpent's speed. It nearly blurs as it lunges for the tree trunk that Bedivere has chosen as the object of venting his annoyance; sawdust and chips of wood fly from what is fast becoming an unrecognisable chunk of wood.

He moves well, with speed one would not necessarily expect him to have, wearing full plate armour and a heavy, reinforced cloak. It shines in white and blue, bright and proud, and every inch of him seems to be primed and ready for battle. It shows in his eyes, pale as they are, focused on that trunk with such intensity that they might well pass for a bird of prey (or perhaps another familiar friend, to the King of Knights).

It isn't until the king chooses to look into the arena that the sword halts in its track, pulled back with an audible grunt of effort; it wouldn't do to shower any potential spectators with splinters.

Sir Bedivere of Camelot turns, frowning slightly. He hadn't expected any visitors, but...

The first thing to strike him is how short his visitor is. Not a child, though. Those proportions may be fine and slender, but they are an adult's, not a child's. And certainly not a novice, for they carry themselves with the grace of a warrior.

What strikes him most, though, is the eyes. Once he spots them, the much-taller knight simply stops, his sword droops until the point touches the ground, and he stares with his mouth hanging open like a village yokel.

It takes him about ten seconds to fully regain his composure, jaw snapping shut so quick the click of teeth is audible.

And then Bedivere drops to one knee so hard he could swear, somewhere in the dim recesses of his numbed mind, that he must have bruised something. So fast does he fall that his cloak is, for one brief instant, floating in the air behind him until, with a heavy rustle, it follows his movements.

"M-my King...!" His statement is a shocked breath, and his voice is likely as familiar as ever; seeming as though it could be a masculine woman or a feminine man. "H-how–?"

He is, for the moment, staring quite wide-eyed at the ground beneath Saber's feet.

Saber (346) has posed:
In turn, the King of Knights was every bit as shocked as her knight. The tiny blonde stood, frozen as if made of a block of ice, her face carved from stone. Only her eyes gave her away, snapped impossibly wide as her mind reeled. Though, perhaps it shouldn't have; she had encountered Lancelot twice already, and it was entirely possible that other Knights of the Round Table were somewhere in the multiverse. On the other hand, it was a very big multiverse, and this was only the second time in nearly four years she had encountered one of her knights.

It took a long moment to recover her wits, her mind catching up to her outward composure. And ironically, that composure relaxed. Even around her closest knights, Arturia had carefully maintained her facade of the king, neither truly frowning nor truly smiling...so much so that one knight in particular had, unbeknownst to her, merely wished to once see her true expressions. While it had certainly been necessary to hide the truth of her sex from the people -- even her knights -- what Rider had said about her was true; she had never led them, she tried to save them. Revealing anything of herself would have been a burden.

But time in the multiverse had worn down that mask, and her friends had pointed out that the greater burden would have been worrying over her. No reassurances to the contrary had ever seemed to fool any of them. Had it been that way with her knights, as well, and she merely refused to see it? She had assumed it was too late to truly make amends with them; meeting Lancelot when he was not hiding behind a madness enhancement and trying to commit suicide by king had been an entirely unexpected stroke of fortune, one that she had never expected to encounter again. Arturia had decided to force her mask down instead with her new friends, allowing them to see the glimpses of annoyance, amusement, exasperation, and even happiness.

For a brief moment, she was at a loss for how she should act. Her instincts demanded falling back into her old patterns as the King of Britain...and yet, living with the emotionally-open Tohsakas and other friends had unlocked other paths that simply seemed natural. Whether it would confuse her knight or not, Arturia opted for the latter.

It might have seemed strange, but the familiar mask dropped, and the King of Knights allowed a slight, gentle smile to alight on her face. "Please, forgive me...I did not intent to interrupt your training, Sir Bedivere," she replied. It was too precious a moment to waste on a mask that, in truth, she no longer had much of a need for...especially for one of her beloved knights, and even more so for one whom was as close to her as he.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps he had not been expecting the king to drop her mask. She had always been guarded, though it had pained him on some level to see her sacrifice herself for the sake of her people. Not that he did not admire that, or respect that – but it saddened him, somewhat, to know that she had put her people before herself to such an extent. Never had he seen her so much as smile. Some part of him had always wanted to see that, impossible as it may have been.

So when she favoured him with that gentle smile, his reaction is to blink owlishly, and to stare. At least his mouth isn't hanging open this time, but his expression is one of obvious puzzlement.

"My King?" Never had he presumed closeness with her, although he trusted her with his life, and always he had observed the correct and proper titles. So strong a habit is that that he does so even now, head cocked like a curious hound.

And he continues to stare, because it's just plain odd to see her without her kingly raiment; her richly adorned armour.

Bedivere can do little more than stare, for a few moments.

"No, my lord, you were not interrupting anything." He finally remembers himself, head straightening, though he remains on one knee. He wouldn't presume to rise until told to do so; he would never breach the rules of etiquette so. "But if it would please my lord to do something else, I will put up my sword. I... I did not expect meet with you here." He shakes his head and stares, and a smile even threatens the corners of his own mouth – only through effort does he stop the smile, though he can't completely banish it from his voice. "I had despaired of ever meeting again. My lord had slept so soundly on the shore of the lake, I had feared my lord dead..."

He shakes his head, looking to the ground, hair falling across his face. (Quite a few suspect he's a woman. Quite a few are wrong.)

"No training is as important as to meet with you again." He looks up, sudden fire in eyes that are otherwise so mild. "I am yours to command, my lord. Now and ever."

Saber (346) has posed:
His formality was at once so familiar that it was almost nostalgic, yet in some ways alien. Out of everyone she had met in the past three years, only Harry addressed her as 'Your Majesty' and only fellow knights such as Agrias addressed her as a peer in their respective knighthoods. Those who could sense something of royalty in her found themselves sitting up a little straighter or sometimes curbing coarse language, but it wasn't the same thing as living in the middle of court, insisting on maintaining a level of protocol necessary to reassure the people that the king would protect them and rule them wisely and fairly. The modern era was more informal than otherwise, and Arturia, in spite of her generally hidebound ways, had become accustomed to it.

Beneath her mask, one of the feelings she had buried was to grant her knights the companionship they longed for; before she was a king, Arturia was a knight. It was only natural that the camaraderie that could only come from those who had faced death on the battlefield and returned was something that knights and soldiers wanted to share, but to her people, the King of knights had to become the king first. Friendship, family and a normal human life were sacrifices that needed to be made, and she had accepted that. But it meant that there were some wishes that she could not grant, lest accusations of favouritism tear the court apart.

Or so she had believed. Other tragedies she had been unable to prevent tore the kingdom apart instead, and rebellion brought her dream -- and her life -- to an end. The Holy Grail had granted her a chance to correct it, only to be a tainted relic with no other purpose than opening a path to Akasha for a Master upon sacrificing his own Servant. At first, Saber decided to seek out a different method; if the Grail could not grant her wish, surely a multiverse with limitless opportunities would. Yet, while the means to save Camelot might yet exist, she had some to see her past as perhaps something best left untampered with. What Iskander could not convince her of, precious friends led her to, seeing their lives as important as her duty to her people. Where she had failed Britain, she would succeed with Sakura, Rin, Agrias, Psyber, Harry, and countless others of the Union. And beyond that, Arymes Prydain had hinted at another possibility...though for the moment, perhaps the Abstractum did not feel that she was quite ready to hear of it.

It took a moment for her to step back into role, if for no other reason than to let the man get back on his feet. "Rise, Sir Bedivere," she said, straightening a little more. Impressive, considering that even when informal, Saber's posture was impeccable. And yet, she was unable to don the impassive mask completely; the smile was still there.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although it was something he had longed for, companionship had been an unattainable goal for Bedivere; he had learned to content himself merely to serve, to the best of his abilities, and ease the burden from his liege in that manner. She would never need to worry herself about his conduct, and any tasks she gave to him would be carried out to the utmost of his abilities and in the highest of integrity. The least he could do, he had once reasoned, would be easing her burdens that way.

Some of the other Knights of the Round had come into suspicion; their conduct and their honour had been sullied by their own actions. Bedivere only prayed that he would never fall to such depths, but more than that, he prayed that he might never disappoint his liege so. Her approval meant everything to him; more than that, it meant everything to him to be able to claim such high honour.

He could not envision himself without knighthood. It was as natural to him as breathing.

Bedivere cocks his head slightly, and that air of puzzlement is still settled about him when he regards the King of Knights, the King of Britain, his liege; the one whom he had so ardently served for so many years. He frowns, but not out of disappointment. It's simple puzzlement. Saber might even find the expression amusing. He just seems so uncomprehending at that faint smile of hers.

"My lord." His acknowledgement does seem a little hollow when he finally climbs to his feet, the plates of his armour clanking faintly. "Is aught amiss...?"

In other words, surely there's a reason why you're smiling like a lunatic, because that's starting to creep me out, the question seems to say. Bedivere is too hidebound to actually say as much, but his concern is noticeable. More to the point, who are you, and what have you done with the real King Arturia?

There's a moment or two of awkward silence in which Bedivere brushes imaginary grit from the plates protecting his knees; or from the hem of his unsullied white cloak. He folds his arms, and for a few seconds more, he seems completely at a loss as to what to do.

His armoured shoulders slump, very slightly.

"Ah..." It's more a breath than a sigh, and his head bows, hair falling across his eyes. The great sigh he gives after that is definitely a sigh, and it seems like a breath that had been pent-up for years. It's hard to tell whether it's a breath of regret or relief, but after a few moments, it seems that it must surely be the latter. "It is so good to see you alive and hale, my lord. I had feared the worst..."

He looks up with a tiny, somewhat uncertain smile of his own. It fades after a moment, and again he seems a little puzzled; mystified by Saber's own show of emotion, however restrained it might be.

Bedivere had in time become accustomed to the mask, and if he had suspected some of the king's fears, he had never spoken on them. He had simply accepted her behaviour, and accepted serving her to the best of his ability; the very role model of a good, loyal knight – no ulterior motives and no hidden agendas, with Bedivere. There was only service, and only his unshakeable loyalty to his liege-lord Arturia.

To see anything but the mask is extremely disconcerting, to go by the naked puzzlement on his face.

"It is you. I see it in your eyes, though your behaviour be strange to me – why do you smile so? Has something happened? Tell me; are you safe? Are you hale?" Now he sounds worried, and though he barely moves, shifting his weight, his eyes betray his concern. "Please, my lord, if you lack for anything, tell me. I will see to it."

Oh God, what's wrong with her? Why is she smiling? Poor Bedivere. He doesn't quite seem to know how to deal with that. Well, at least he seems to have the best of intentions heart, still.

Sir Bedivere of Camelot seems not to have changed in the least.

Saber (346) has posed:
The smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement of her own. Was it truly that strange? But then, she had been in the multiverse for several years after she had been first summoned as a Servant; bitter at first and truly cold, then gradually opening up. The piece de resistance when she had realised just how much she had changed had been after inviting Lancelot to dinner at the Tohsaka estate, when the violet-eyed knight decided to 'test' her with an old game, only to have her Master blurt out the proper response. It had taken a moment for both Servants to recover from staring at the painfully shy magus, only for the stoic King of Knights to laugh.

Poor Bedivere, indeed. He would have doubtless had a heart attack.

Unfortunately, this was not going to be easy for either of them. The otherwise calm, serious Knight of the Round Table looked so utterly baffled, so out of his element that it took all of Arturia's willpower not to laugh once more. But this time, it would have been not so much out of amusement as the feeling of nostalgia overtaking her again. The memory of his first appearance at the court, an untested strip of a boy seeking to become a knight of Camelot, seemed at once distant and yet, with that knight standing there, as if it were merely the day before. He had always been so serious, so dedicated to his duties...all of them had been, of course, but Gawain had always been cracking jokes when he could, and Lancelot had been more melancholy than stoic as time went on. Bedivere had been more like Arturia herself; taking his duties as seriously as she had taken hers.

It was probably for the best that she not recount that particular dinner.

"I am hale," she reassured the poor man with a wave of her hand, fighting off another nostalgic smile. "Worry not. It is....simply that a great many things have happened since I arrived here. Many battles have been fought, and I have found myself in some...unusual circumstances."

Involuntarily, her brow wrinkled in worry. She only knew of what had happened to her after Camlann from second-hand accounts, having been summoned from a point before her death. Were she to return, by all accounts only death awaited her, and that was a sorrowful burden she was not about to place on the tall knight. But she had probably better find out; Saber had a feeling it was going to be brought up in the foreseeable future.

And then there was perhaps an even bigger problem: Bedivere wasn't a Servant. How much of the bloody ritual war of Heaven's Feel was known, she couldn't discern, but if he remained ignorant of it, Arturia would prefer to keep him innocent of it. Nothing good could come of that knowledge, whether it would be in the form of disappointment in her, or driving himself to an early death worrying over her even if that war was well behind her.

Saber suppressed a sigh; her death should have set him free, not keep him bound to her. The selfish part of her was overjoyed to see him again, but the selfless knightly part curse whatever thread of fate had brought Bedivere into the multiverse. Even if King Arthur could not live a normal life, her people and her knights should have been able to. The petite blonde found herself in a dilemma; pushing him away and attempting to convince him to forget about her and the knighthood would be painful and probably impossible. As much as she hated to admit it, she was thankful Sakura wasn't there...or anyone else, for that matter. It would have taken even more explaining on her part and fretting on his, and she needed some time to prepare everyone.

But as much of a headache as everything was probably going to be, Saber nevertheless had to pour considerable willpower into not smiling. As selfish as it was of her, she had missed him so.

"I have been in this universe for nearly four years," she explained. "Though it might be improper of a king I must be truthful...it is good to see you again, Sir Bedivere."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Evidently such a reaction is, indeed, truly strange from the point of Bedivere. So accustomed to the mask had he become that to see anything else – no matter how much he might have wished to see a genuine reaction from his king – was indicative of something very much out of the ordinary.

Still, he is a knight, and he seems to find his balance well enough once he has reason to believe that there's no witchcraft at play. She does indeed seem to be Arturia, and her mannerisms are very much like the Arturia that he was once familiar with. He might have said that he once knew – but he wonders, briefly, if anyone truly knew her. She allowed few that luxury; that honour.

Bedivere presses his lips into a thin line, not quite displeasure, but not quite contentment. Something troubles him, and his expression is almost pained when she mentions unusual circumstances. Truth be told, he finds himself under strange skies and in odd times, as well.

"Ah... about that." He reaches up, rubbing at the back of his neck in very un-knightly gesture. While not necessarily high-strung, he was certainly one of the first knights to worry himself sick about inconsequential details. Occasionally he had reason to break his facade of stoicism, and often it was to express his ceaseless worrying.

If any of the Knights of the Round understood the difficult business of running a kingdom, it was Bedivere, Arturia's own right hand. Many of the administrative tasks fell to him when she became too busy to manage it all herself; he understood what was needed, and most of the time, he saw that things were taken care of in a just and expedient manner. But he understood the pressures, and felt the driving compulsion to ensure that all in Camelot were treated fairly and enjoyed as decent a quality of life as could be provided for them.

In some ways it was something of an impossible goal. With so much warfare and so many enemies on all sides, both without and within, it was difficult to bear the suffering of its people, at times. There were orphans living on the kingdom's streets; hungry and alone in this world.

This world, though, has suddenly grown larger. Bedivere's hand drops back to his side. For a moment, he seems to be at a loss for words. He settles for folding his arms, though the posture looks oddly defensive from such a tall and solidly-built knight; lost, even. Or perhaps just very worried. It wouldn't be outside the realm of normalcy for Bedivere. He had always taken his duties as seriously as Arturia had.

"If I might be honest with you, my lord, I have had a strange time of things, myself." He glances back over to Saber, frowning slightly. "I had returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, as you had instructed, and I had left you on its shore. But when I sought to return to Camelot, the roads became strange... by God, they were bewitched! I prayed that I might find the proper path, for I wished to return and set Camelot aright, until your eventual return, but try as I might, I could not find the way."

His gauntleted fingers splay wide, palms up, in confused gesture. "And there were brigands on the road. Brigands! In broad daylight! Although I was able to drive them off, my horse was frightened away. I became disoriented."

"After that I came across a strange man from this 'Union,'" the knight continues. "He said that I could swear my service here, but I–I could swear no oath to him, for I had sworn my sword to you, my King. But I told him I would serve for a time, for I had nowhere else to go, and no means by which to return to Camelot. I have been here since. That was... a fortnight ago? Perhaps two? I have had no cause to raise my sword, yet, but I have been waiting for the opportunity..."

The knight seems at a loss when she says it's good to see him again, and indeed, for several moments he seems torn and almost pained; perhaps mulling over what to say. Perhaps Arturia can understand that struggle between duty and self, rare a conflict as it may be for one like Bedivere.

He finally sighs, arms dropping and shoulders sagging a bit, head bowing forward. His slump is almost enough to take him to his knees, but he wobbles on his feet a bit, keeping himself upright – even if this whole situation is surreal, and even if the mere sight of her again nearly drives him back to his knees in shock.

"Four years..." This time he does sag slowly, and there's a muted, metallic thump when his armoured rump hits the ground. Bedivere exhales a long, slow sigh of befuddlement and shock. "Four years? Had I been wandering so long? Yes, I suppose that is possible. I did not have any sense of time. I do not know where I went, or from whence I came. What was left to me? To return to a Camelot that did not have you at its reins... it did not seem right, my King," he admits faintly. "I could not imagine serving another lord. It shames me, but I was content to wander, even though I could not have found my way had I wanted to."

"It is not proper or knightly to say this, either, but... I am glad to see you again, my King." He looks up to her, apparently not caring that he's in a terribly undignified position. The taller knight remains flat on his rump, cloak crumpled, hands splayed behind and legs splayed out before him. Slowly he smiles, an expression of genuine pleasure, apparently not caring about dignity or propriety, for just a moment. "I am glad. Truly. I did not expect to see you wake from that shore ever again. I am blessed to lay eyes on you again, my King; to speak with you once more."

A few seconds of silence pass. He frowns, slightly, cocking his head to one side like a puzzled hound.

"...But whatever are you wearing, my King?"

Saber (346) has posed:
As much as she had kept everyone at an emotional distance, there were certain mannerisms and behaviours that Arturia recognised in those closest to her...or, at least those who had comprised of those she had trusted with knighthood and nobility. She felt some sympathy for Bedivere; four years ago, she had found herself in a similar predicament. However, his situation was far more complicated. The Holy Grail had imparted at least some knowledge of the current era, and she knew that she might be summoned into an era far into her future, so there were a number of things she knew to expect. She could only imagine his reaction to the flying machines that now filled the skies...and the ones which went well beyond them.

Another internal sigh. This was going to prove difficult, even disregarding Heaven's Feel.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she mulled over the completely unexpected situation, and adapting was proving to be much more difficult than first appearances. But as a king it was a necessity for her to think and resolve problems quickly...however much she might have regretted the decision afterwards. It seemed that for every decision she had made, she should have made the other one. But now was not the time to mourn her reign again.

Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Saber tapped a finger on her arm, deciding that there were some things that she simply couldn't ease the bewildered knight into. This was not going to put his mind at ease at all. "There is... I fear no comforting way to put this, but...for the most part, these worlds exist thousands of years after our own era. And, to my knowledge, there is no way to return."

Admittedly, that was not completely true, at least in her case. Not that she was inclined to simply disappear and return to her death-bed under the oak...she had become quite comfortable with being able to make a difference in the world at long last, not to mention all the wonderful food the era had to offer. Now she had one more reason not to simply give up and slip away quietly to her death; someone would need to look out for Bedivere. As capable as she knew he was, being tossed abruptly into the multiverse was overwhelming for anyone. At the very least, she was grateful someone from the Union had found him...some of the Confederacy's members were clever enough to obfuscate the true nature of their organisation. "The Union are as close to a knighthood as any that exists in this time," Arturia attempted to explain. "They are committed to keeping the pathways into this world out of evil hands. I suppose one could think of them as ley lines...I fear the more complicated understanding of them eludes me."

She avoided speaking about Camelot further; Saber knew Bedivere would discover the truth eventually, but she hoped she could break that part to him gently...as well as that of her apparent death. Though that in itself would come with no end of complications, such as the fact that she was now a Servant, a being no longer human. Had she been alone, she would have pinched the bridge of her nose in frustrated musing and paced, but for the moment she had to keep up appearances. Fortunately, she no longer had much of a need to hide her true identity -- and hopefully the other Sabers wouldn't complicate things even further -- but first she would have to contact her friends and associates and warn them of what was to come.

And then there was Mordred, another Saber like herself. Damn it all....this was entirely more complicated than anything had a right to be. "There are a great many good, honourable people in this world, even fellow knights from distant lands. However, there are a great many enemies, some of whom we know all too well."

Arturia could not keep her mask in place completely at her knight's admission; as complicated as it was, she was genuinely happy to see him again. Regretfully, the moment was not to last.

"Oh....ah. Perhaps the best way to put this is that...it is a long story..."

As if someone had decided that her life was not nearly complicated enough, that someone had decided that they needed to call her on her cell phone right this minute. On the one hand, she was not going to need to explain the Chinese-style uniform. On the other, explaining her cell phone was going to prove even more of as headache.

The King of Knights might or might not have been fidgeting at this point in time.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Though Bedivere is certainly capable of coldness and ruthlessness, where King Arturia is concerned, he is largely guileless. Although none could truly be said to be close to her, he was perhaps the most likely to be; loyal, and unquestioning in his devotion to her every command and her every potential need -- many times had he anticipated something she might want, or perhaps anticipated some need of the kingdom, the better to ease the burden off her shoulders. He knew that she had borne so much of the burden; taken on so much of the lion's share of worrying, and he sought where he could to ease that.

Right now, though, he probably looks a little silly, sat down and splayed out like that.

Truth be told, magic is not so foreign a notion. Perhaps it was out of the hands of ordinary folk, more into the domain of magicians like Merlin or Morgan le Fay, but its existence was not entirely a secret in the days long past to the modern era.

Such an explanation may be why Bedivere accepts what he does of this strange new world. The only possible way any of this makes even a bare minimum of sense is "magic." He didn't necessarily watch Arturia die, but it was close enough – there was a chilling finality to the act of laying her at the oak tree's roots.

He just stays on the ground, possibly because it's easier to look up at her than to force her to look up at him. It's kind of awkward when your liege-lord is about a foot and a half shorter than you are.

"A knighthood." He cocks his head, this time looking more thoughtful than lost. "I suppose that makes sense. 'Twas the impression I had gathered, myself. One of them said I looked familiar, though I could not imagine why... but yes. They seem as such. Hmmm. I can respect that they wish to keep the pathways protected, and out of evil hands. Even men alone are capable of great evils, but I've a feeling there are many more things than just men to be wary of." Bedivere is, at least, reasonably perceptive. It makes certain things (and probably dealing with eventual Multiversal things) much easier. "I can agree with that."

To Arturia's assessment of many honourable people, that earns another faint, un-knightly smile.

"Good. That is good." It makes his job a little bit easier. It's so much harder to uphold the pillars of knighthood when you're the only one doing it, or the only one who seems to take things seriously. "I am glad for that... but there are always enemies, my King, even in the most safe-seeming realms. 'Tis why we must take our vows seriously. We must uphold the pillars of knighthood, even if it seems we may be the last ones to fight the good fight. Yes? Especially because those enemies may be those we know all too well. And sometimes those enemies may even be ourselves..."

Perceptive indeed. He's a quiet one, though; most of the time rarely imparting such insight unless asked directly.

Bedivere drums gauntleted fingers on the ground, thoughtful under his liege's revelations. He straightens, looking thoughtful, though he does eye her a bit oddly when she smiles again. It seems he still has to get used to that aspect. To see something beyond the cold, seemingly indifferent mask is a little strange. It isn't quite off-putting, but it does give him pause.

"Uh?"

And then, a cell phone rings. Bedivere looks around, left, then right; over his shoulder, before he centres on the source of that sound.

Arturia.

Specifically, Arturia's pocket.

The loyal knight frowns, somewhat deeply, and he points straight at Arturia.

"My lord," he proclaims, with such gravity that she's bound to find it amusing, "there is a demon-thing. In... in your pocket."

He sounds somewhere between horrified and intensely curious.

"What... is that. Infernal. Chirping."

Poor Bedivere. Welcome to the modern age.

Saber (346) has posed:
It was more than a little bit of a relief that the "magic" explanation made things more comprehensive, and in truth, Arturia didn't understand any better than the average Elite. The world that she and her knight came from was tucked away in some small corner of it, or some version of it. That was another headache in the offing, having to explain the phenomenon of Unification...and of course, there was the extremely bizarre happenstance of different versions of the same person. That, above all else, was going to cause no end of headaches. How could a knight pledge his loyalty to another Arturia, should another duplicate turn up again?

A small part of her was sorely tempted to call Ezio and take him up on his drink offer; the King of Knights had a feeling she was going to need it.

As much as it was something of a relief on her neck not to have to crane her neck up to look the tall, pale-haired knight in the eye, Arturia couldn't help but feel a little bit bad about the situation, given how Bedivere tried to maintain the same level of dignity as she did. Like her, he was not always successful, though at least the indignities she had suffered had generally gone largely unwitnessed....except for perhaps that one horribly embarrassing episode where Gilgamesh had demanded both her and Mordred's hands in marriage...after somehow exploding his clothes off.

Saber couldn't completely suppress the shudder from the deeply-scarring memory. She sincerely hoped Bedivere would never have to suffer knowing the insufferable Archer's existence. After that terrible moment, however, she had made the knight suffer his own indignity more than long enough. Though perhaps he would be mortified by it, the petite king offered her hand to help him up, and -- even more unsettling -- allowed a slightly chagrined expression to flicker across her face. "Forgive my rudeness," she apologised.

It was a good thing she was maintaining some caution; Bedivere was proving once again one of the reasons why she had hand-picked him to be her Marshal. Finding oneself in the multiverse could be compared to teaching someone to swim by tossing that person into a deep part in the ocean, and Arturia was not about to allow him to drown in the information overload...or, for that matter, the tragic end of their legend. But she would have to begin that task immediately. "An order....and like any order, not all are what we would speak of as 'honourable'. Their purpose is to uphold a semblance of law across the worlds, though some employ methods we would not approve of."

As much as she personally liked the Hashashins, she had not entirely agreed with some of their methods even as she had understood their necessity. And their own world was far different from hers in a great many ways, and they were among what she had considered the more honourable members of their organisation.

"By the by, the Confederacy is not entirely without honour....or rather, certain members are not. Many are reprehensible, though others give one pause. There are some whose position within it puzzle me," she admitted somewhat ruefully. Saber still wondered what Nine was doing in it, other than the fact that he seemed to think of himself as a being of chaos and that he was simply supposed to be there. Once again, she set aside her musings to focus on the immediate concern, a person whose life was precious enough to her for the king to end up protecting the knight where she could.

For what seemed like an eternity, Saber simply stared at Bedivere and his reaction to something she had for years taken for granted. After a second it finally registered, and with the last scrap of willpower left quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle what would have been the same laugh Lancelot and Sakura had heard over the callback from the "Rogue in the Castle" game they played with cutlery. It was so unexpected, and yet...so very much like the Bedivere she knew. But though the laugh itself was successfully stifled and her mask mostly in place, her shaking shoulders gave her away. It was going to require a few moments for her to completely regain her composure and calmly explain that what he was hearing was a simple communication device.

She sincerely hoped he hadn't been given a radio yet.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Thankfully, the Union had explained some of the sticky business of Unification to their newest recruit. That had not been terribly difficult, eventually having found somebody from a similar timeline as the Dark Ages of Europe; someone who had been able to couch the terms into something familiar enough for the bewildered Sir Bedivere of Camelot to digest more easily.

That doesn't make it any easier, though. Some subconscious part of him still struggles to place all of this, to reconcile these many worlds with his one; the unknown with the known.

Bedivere doesn't seem to mind being splayed on the ground, as it does mean he doesn't need to make Arturia suffer the indignity of looking up at him. It might be undignified, but right now, there aren't any other people to observe such. It's also possible he's still a bit in shock over the whole affair, too, and less prone to caring about his dignity than he might normally be.

He cocks his head at the hand offered him, before holding up a gauntleted hand in a gesture of polite refusal. No, he wouldn't put her out like that. And he's tall and solid enough that he might well haul her off her feet unintentionally, which would be even worse.

Instead he climbs to his feet, brushing nonexistent grit and sand from his armour; straightening out his cloak fastidiously, and smoothing the creases in it. He folds his arm once that's done, letting the cloak fall to curl around him. The posture almost makes it seem as though he's cold, though likely it's more because that heavy cloak is a comfort in the face of such strangeness.

Despite his discomfort, though, Bedivere seems to be handling himself reasonably well – he is a knight, and he thinks on his feet reasonably well; recovers quickly from shock. This and many other reasons are why he had been elected Marshal by Arturia herself; and now that he's over his initial shock, he's beginning to prove those qualities.

Slowly.

"Hmmm." Bedivere affords a thoughtful sound on the matter of honour, though it seems a bit dubious. "I can believe that. But were there not knights whose honour was suspect?" He's not speaking of anybody directly, but certain examples do come to mind. The pale-eyed knight's expression is a little dubious. "'Tis any order that will have its black sheep, and its rotten apples."

"I expect the Union is no different," he says, shrugging with a clank, "though I grant it is on a much larger scale than aught I have ever seen before."

There's a short pause.

"Ever."

Ah, the Confederacy. He had heard of that band of rogues and blackguards, although he has no reason yet to leap into conflict with them. He's still testing the waters, as it were, and finding his place in this Multiverse. They sound like just the sort of thing with which he might like to raise his sword in defiance, though.

Silence falls, then, and he finds himself stared at by his liege, and the object of his selfless devotion for so many years.

Bedivere stares back, though after a few moments he seems uncomfortable under such scrutiny, turning and coughing into a hand, looking away. She might not miss the slight flush of high cheekbones; or the way he looks away so as to avoid her gaze. Is the Marshal of Camelot nervous, and actually fidgeting under the gaze of this slip of a king?

Yup.

Actually, the longer she goes without saying anything or looking away from him, the redder he's going to get.

Truth be told, it's odd to have her react in such human ways. It's very odd. He'd become so accustomed to the mask. He had always looked up to her, and served her in any way he thought might benefit her. He had served her because he believed in Camelot and wished the best for it, as much as for its king. But mostly, he served her because he followed Arturia as much as he followed any ideal – in some ways, she is the ideal he had always aspired to; she is the one whose approval he had always sought.

She was the impossible goal he had always striven for, even knowing that his cold, distant "king" was unattainable. Oh, yes; he had known her secret for a long time, trusted with it, and had altered his own appearance for her sake to ease suspicions throughout the kingdom – though it had been a small enough sacrifice, gentle of appearance as Bedivere had always been. A braid here, a braid there, and perhaps the softer lines of a heavy cloak over his armour to blunt some of the hard angles of chain and steel.

When she stifles that laugh, he turns on his heel to face her again, blinking owlishly in helpless confusion; so helpless that it might just set her off properly. He might be the perfect picture of dignity much of the time, particularly in the public eye, as Camelot's steel-spined Marshal... but here, he is just a knight, and a lost one at that.

Bedivere just sort of stares at her, helplessly, because he doesn't know what else to do.

Chances are he had indeed been given a radio, and he hadn't bothered to investigate it too closely or activate it just yet. Clearly, he is not familiar with the protocols of communication devices calling to one another, and attributes that noise to witchcraft and devilry.

"Milord?" Bedivere says, somewhat helplessly, in the face of her trembling shoulders. He even reaches out hesitantly, as though uncertain that it's laughter that's the "problem." Steel-clad fingers brush her shoulder before he remembers himself, snatching his hand away as though burnt. "I–I am sorry; forgive me... are—are you hale...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Though she knew the knight had his reasons for refusing her offer, Arturia inwardly flinched. But she should have expected as much; she had insisted on a certain level of protocol...needed to, in fact. Had she been a man, it might have been unnecessary, as she wouldn't have needed to hide being a girl from nearly the entire kingdom. Yet even then, the people had taken comfort in such assured, formal rule, and giving them confident rule had been one of her aspirations, even as it was a confidence she had never truly felt.

Saber let her hand fall back to her side, the more familiar impassive mask back in place. back to business, it would seem. Nevertheless, it was good that he could understand the broader situation, the Union-Confederacy conflict, as well as the fact that everyone involved had a familiar range of alignments and motivations. If there was one part of her rule that she did maintain confidence in, it had been in her selection of capable knights.

"Quite so. In many ways, it is not so different than our days in Camelot. The difficulty lies in understanding so many differing mindsets...there are those from countries whose entire ways of thinking are beyond what we are accustomed to. It is not that they lack honour, it is merely that their sense of it is...peculiar." In particular, she thought back to the Hashashins, some of whom were honourable even by their rigid standards...except, perhaps, in their method of fighting. Ezio was probably as close to being a traditional knight as one of the order could get. then again, she tended to think highly of those whose cooking and sense of hospitality were as praiseworthy as his.

To be fair, anyone who could bear the brunt of a Saber's appetite must possess at least some modicum of good in his or her heart, demanding as it did a deep sense of generosity. But in truth, as a proper knight she reined herself in, keenly aware of the sacrifices one made to feed others; the peasants of their era had struggled, especially through the winter months, and much effort was spent to help them. They were the backbone of her kingdom, and King Arthur made it known. And when it came to the hospitality of others, the Servant only allowed her legendary fearsome appetite to run unchecked once explicitly invited to do so. Even still, those who adhered to their ancient law of hospitality tended to reserve a special admiration in her heart, even if they themselves had no knowledge of the Brehon Laws. It was still, in the petite knight's mind, a form of high honour.

The moment of seriousness didn't last for very long. Hand still clasped over her mouth with some vestiges of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, Saber nodded helplessly, waving her unoccupied right hand, unable to speak until she was finally able to assert control over her amusement. Quickly, she cleared her throat, her smile no longer faint. "Ah...yes, forgive me," she apologised, fishing the phone out of her pocket. "This is a device for the purpose of communicating with another over great distances."

The doubtless disconcerting smile faded slightly, becoming somewhat...sheepish? Was King Arthur actually embarrassed? "I am sorry that it was so startling...there are a great many things which could have only been possible in our own country through magic."

And here, perhaps the most startling of all, she became much more animated than she ever had in her lifetime. By anyone else's standards, she would have been calm and sedate, but for the girl who became the Once and Future King of Britain, she was positively giddy, unable to contain herself any longer. "Starvation is all but unheard of in this era, even in the most severe of winters. So many diseases have found cures...there is still poverty, but the people nevertheless have clothes and food..and can even obtain a noble's education. In some ways, this era is like a miracle...though it is not perfect, it is more than I could have ever thought possible."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Those from our own country sometimes thought in ways beyond what I am accustomed to," Bedivere points out. "There were those whom I did not understand living even in Camelot. 'Tis not the trouble to live with them, but to understand them. I believe a true knight must accept and be at peace with all who surround him." Bedivere smiles a gentle little smile. "You taught me that, milord. To be the calm in the midst of the storm."

Although he might seem hapless in the face of modern technology, he has always been an insightful knight, if prone to quiet and brooding almost as much as his liege. His voice is gentle enough that some have mistaken him for a woman; never demanding, always thoughtful. He gives consideration to his words before he speaks, and he always tries to settle on a fair solution to conflict or conundrum. In all, he's been a wonderfully efficient marshal; one Arturia has never needed to chastise, and almost never correct.

He is wise, and fair, but perhaps he lacks some of Arturia's ruthlessness in her role as king; he is perhaps too gentle, especially for a man. Some perhaps saw him as too soft, though none questioned his skill and ferocity in pursuit of Arturia's defense. Rare was it indeed that she ever needed defending, but in those rare cases, perhaps happenstance on the battlefield, Bedivere was there; sword bared and thundering his defiance like a force of nature given form.

Right now, however, he doesn't look very threatening. He sheaths his sword, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his chin to look down at the diminutive King of Knights, and the communication device she fishes out of her pocket. He squints at it, even as she tries not to weep with laughter.

He has the distinct impression that he's been had, somehow, by something, somewhere in the cosmos.

At least Arturia's almost giddy pleasure doesn't seem to be disturbing him too much. He even allows a tentative smile at her own mirth, as though not quite willing to believe it, and unwilling to call attention to it, lest it disappear. For a few seconds, all he can do is watch, conversation utterly forgotten – just to see her smile, or even laugh; he doesn't even care that it's entirely at his own expense. For her, he would happily play the court fool, just to see that smile.

It takes a few seconds for him to realise that she's talking to him again.

"Milord." He himself looks sheepish for a moment, perhaps embarrassed to be caught at anything but intent and alert. "Fascinating," he adds, when she describes the thing's function. He cocks his head at it, like a dog hearing a whistle. "Witchcraft... probably... but fascinating, all the same."

To her explanation of the current era, though, he can only stare at her with an expression of naked disbelief. Starvation, unheard of? That ancient evil rears its head every winter, when scores of peasants die for simple want of food and warmth. He has done what he could to mitigate the effects in Camelot, passing out food – even if it was as meagre as stale bread, or dividing up what firewood and fuel he could. Even if it came from his own personal stores (and it often did). There were always casualties; always.

Cures for diseases? Clothing and food, and poverty reduced so? A noble's education?

He stares almost slack-jawed for a moment, eyes wide.

"What?" Finally his arms fall to his sides, head cocking slightly in that endearing, almost houndish expression of puzzlement. "Unbelievable." He catches himself; he was about to say 'witchcraft' again, but that doesn't seem to be the case this time. Instead, he simply bows his head. "By the grace of God," he says instead, humbly. "I am glad to hear it. And I am glad to hear it from you. From the mouth of any other, I would not believe such miracles..."

"But you are a miracle yourself, milord, just to stand before me. I confess, I do not know how you rose again." He rubs at the back of his neck again, cold steel and leather padding against skin. "I do not understand. I mourned your death... as I am certain the rest of Camelot no doubt did..." Sighing, he lets his arms drop again. "And yet here you are."

"Well... I suppose I should not be ungrateful, nor ask too many questions of that. 'Tis unknightly of me, but it would be disheartening if this were naught more than a dream, or a bewitchment." Bedivere folds his arms again, as though he can't quite decide whether to leave them down or keep them folded; perhaps another sign of nervous habit in an otherwise placid, loyal knight. So he instead settles for lowering himself to one knee in respectful gesture, head bowed. "I am glad that that does not seem to be the case, thus far. And if 'tis a bewitchment... I am gladly bewitched. It was a long and lonely road, milord, and I feared I would never find the end of it. But that winter road was worth the effort. I would have pressed my horse faster, had I but known what awaited me at the end of it."

"My heart is glad to serve you again. I am yours to command. Now and ever. Whatever you wish of me in this new world, O King, it is yours. On this I swear, by my faith."

Saber (346) has posed:
Once more, the faint, gentle smile emerged. She had done her best to instill those ideals into her knights, praying that they shared them. It was a great comfort to know that she had not simply been seeing what she wished to. Even if she had not truly led them, if the ideals of Camelot had thrived, all was not lost. If they simply lived on in a single knight, Arturia counted that as a victory. How could she not be gladdened by that?

She hadn't meant to laugh at his expense; in some ways and in spite of the distance she had imposed, Bedivere had been the closest thing to a family as she could have, other than Kay. Lancelot had been a friend, Kay had been the older brother who picked on her, while Bedivere was not unlike a younger brother to her. She protected him as he protected her, though she had tried to hide it....but the knight was more than astute enough to have probably noticed. She had never teased him, her need to maintain her serious demeanour aside, nor would she. But the only way to describe his reaction...the word 'cute' mysteriously popped into her head for some unfathomable reason. Why, she wondered? It could only be a familial way of seeing others, she fielded a guess.

Either that, or Fate was seriously rubbing off on her.

But on occasion, familial-like bonds could turn to exasperation. Especially now, given Saber's gradual changing and freeing of her emotions. In some ways she would never change, she would always be mostly serious, especially carrying out her duties. But the King Arthur of ages past would not have given one of her knights the flat look which she gave Bedivere at that moment. So she didn't understand the exact ways this new technology worked. "The forging of a sword is not witchcraft, is it not?"

Arturia risked a glance at the screen, hoping it hadn't been an emergency call from Harry or Psyber. She was relieved to see it had been from her Master and, switching quickly to the text, noted that the violet-haired magus simply requested picking up a few things for dinner. Nothing to worry over...other than now she'd have much more to explain. At least this time Rin wouldn't be throwing tables over another Servant coming by, and it wasn't as if Saber wasn't drawing salaries from several different sources and couldn't cover her own food bills, as she pointed out not long ago. Moreover, she did try to help Sakura out in the kitchen...but it always seemed that her own culinary attempts were, while not bad, never measured up. Unlike Saber, Sakura was a true lady.

Her train of thought made her pause abruptly in surprise. For countless others, it was a perfectly normal series of events and concerns. But that was what made it so unique; during her own natural lifetime, she had given up on such an ordinary life, sacrificing the comfort of a normal life for the sake of Britain. How many considered such a mundane life boring, not appreciating such comforts which seemed decadent to the King of Knights? On the occasions when she reflected on them, Arturia couldn't help but feel guilty, believing she had no such right to them. Camelot was gone, but a part of her believed her duty did not end even if her kingdom had fallen.

Once more falling back into old patterns, Saber ruthlessly suppressed her feelings, choosing to focus on the present. She was going to have to let Sakura and Rin know what was going on, and once again she found herself missing Irisviel. The little blonde couldn't conceive of a person immune to her charm and could resist being pulled into her pace...even Kiritsugu couldn't resist the girlish Einzbern homunculus completely.

Especially now, once her excitement over sharing her appreciation of what good existed of the era turned back to her. She knew she was not going to be able to evade the truth forever, that sooner or later she would have no choice but to reveal that she was now the Servant Saber. That didn't mean that she wouldn't try to make that as "later" as possible. Arturia wasn't lying, but she didn't like not telling Bedivere the entire truth either way.

"It was a sudden thing, how I found myself here. I encountered another knight, a dame from a land called Ivalice..." she decided against attempting to explain the demon bird at this point in time, "...it was she who explained much of the multiverse to me." While Agrias hadn't been her introduction to the modern era, Saber felt at least a little better speaking about the holy knight, one whom she considered a beloved friend. And she had made her induction into the multiverse considerably easier, after all. once more, Arturia found herself grateful that Sakura was her Master; she was going to need considerable help trying to explain all this, particularly the Heaven's Feel side of things. At least Sakura treated her with the same respect and admiration as her knights; she had a sneaking suspicion Bedivere wouldn't have tolerated Kiritsugu Emiya. At all.

But then, all her internal fretting came to an abrupt halt with a few honest, simple, yet moving words. He always seemed to be able to do that...even if she could not allow herself to properly display her appreciation. As much as she had willingly taken on the burden of kingship herself and had fully intended to endure it by herself, it had always been a comfort to have someone truly on her side. For a moment, her eyes widened before the stunned expression was replaced by another smile...but this time, it was slightly bittersweet. Her hand lifted as if to gently touch the top of his head, but she hesitated and simply dropped her hand back to her side.

"I am...it is perhaps selfish of me, but...I am grateful to whatever powers brought you here. I have...missed you...my most loyal knight."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although many of the knights of Camelot had adopted the ideals their king had preached, few of them had taken them to heart as Bedivere had. He was devoted completely and utterly to his duties with a seriousness that surprised many, and even invited some suspicion on himself – some doubted his devotion, for surely such a knight was too good to be true.

Not Bedivere. To the very end, he had remained faithful. When his liege had commanded he cast Excalibur into the lake, he had ultimately done his duty, and his hesitation had been the only stain on his record of service – but even then, he had not hesitated out of selfish motives, but had been thinking of his country, and the good Excalibur might have done for it.

Ultimately, though, he had obeyed. Bedivere always obeys. It is a hallmark of his personality, ever since he had come to Camelot wishing to become a Knight of the Round.

Somewhere along the line, he had gradually let his sense of duty carry him. It became automatic, he did it without thinking. His devotion had been easier to bear when he spared it no thought; when he became accustomed to his king's coldness and distance. Many of her knights loved her, the pure love of a knight willing to die for their beloved king, but Bedivere's devotion stretched perhaps further than others – he was certainly willing to die, and he knew there would be no hesitation if he were called to such a fate. Others might perhaps hesitate out of self-preservation. He would not.

It was perhaps the only way he could show his devotion to a person who could only barely be considered human any more – so complete was her mask that even her most loyal knight was in fact afraid, though not of her. No; he was afraid of his own devotion – he knew he would do something as extreme as sacrifice himself for her, or something similarly reckless. But it wasn't death that frightened him. It was the depths to which he was willing to go; the absolute hold his cold and remote liege had over him.

In those cold and lonely days of wandering the wood, he had almost been ready to give up, but it had been the memory of her that had spurred him on. She would have been disappointed if he'd simply thrown in the towel – and disappointing Arturia was the one thing he feared; the one thing that upset him more than anything else on this earth.

Bedivere just blinks a bit, rising slowly and awkwardly, and he almost withers visibly under Arturia's flat look – seems somehow diminished, despite having an extra foot and a half on her and plenty of weight. There is confusion, too. He's just not used to such candid displays from her. The King Arturia of ages past never would have done something like that.

When the silence seems to stretch on to uncomfortable lengths, Bedivere drums his fingers against the opposite arm almost nervously, gauntleted fingers meeting the sleeve of his plate mail with a quiet tink for each finger. Although he's not precisely distressed, there's a definite unsettlement to him.

She finally speaks before it becomes impossible to bear, thankfully, and seems not to be piqued at him any more.

"Another knight?" He raises a brow in what seems to be approval. So, there are other knights, here; knights who would seem to uphold the strict codes of conduct expected of the Knights of the Round? That's good. Very good. It is in fact extremely heartening to hear, to go by the light in Bedivere's eyes. Odd, though, that it would be a woman. Not that he has anything against that, given the secret he's kept so long for Arturia; given that she commands his faith and his devotion more wholly than any male lord could. No, it's simply odd, because such things aren't commonplace in Camelot. If they happen at all, they happen because a woman is clever enough to hide her identity as Camelot's king does. "I see..."

It is entirely likely that Bedivere would have fought a Master like Kiritsugu Emiya in every capacity he would have been able to.

Though it may not be knightly of him, Bedivere can't help a broad smile at the faint one Arturia allows herself. It gives him no greater pleasure than to see an expression like that on her, and it shows plainly on his face. The expression falters as she reaches up to the top of his head, cocking it as though in puzzlement, but he allows her the attempt, perhaps curious to see what she might do. He seems almost disappointed when she lets her hand drop.

He smiles again when she offers her honest statement, though, gentler this time; the smile of a person deeply content, and with no regrets.

"Then we are both selfish, milord, and share in such sentiment. 'Tis not knightly of me, but I can no more deny it than fly through the air." Bedivere shakes his head, some of his hair falling across his face. He seems to pay it no mind. "I know not what powers brought me here but the hand of God. And for that, I thank God. I prayed that I might see you once more, milord."

He looks away, turning slightly so as not to face her; his pale, almost violet eyes seem distant when he speaks again.

"I cast Excalibur into the lake as you commanded me. I saw the Lady of the Lake seize the blade and draw it back beneath the waves. After that, I returned to see that you were in comfort 'neath the tree's boughs... you looked so peaceful, milord, as though you had only closed your eyes to rest. I could have believed that but for the blood. I cleaned what I could... but I knew I would not see your eyes open again but for God's Kingdom, if I would be fortunate enough to find my own final rest there."

"I raised a marker for you, and inscribed your name. I found a flower and left it. It seemed..." He shakes his head, as though momentarily struggling for words. "It wasn't right, milord, that none would remember your passing. I would bring word to Camelot, aye, but... right then... I couldn't bear the thought of..."

It had struck him, at the time, that there would be no grave for her, no marker; for surely she had been laid low at Camlann. She seemed only to be sleeping, but he knew it was a sleep from which she would never wake. Camelot would mourn in time after he brought word, but letting her go without some kind of remembrance seemed wrong, somehow.

"I said a prayer over you, on the shore of the lake." She wouldn't have heard, most likely, though he might be surprised if she did. "Forgive me my presumption; I am no priest, but it... it didn't seem right that you would not have a final prayer. If anyone deserved that, 'twas you, milord."

If she did remember, she would remember that it had been a pitiful thing; his voice had not held steady, breaking; weeping bitterly as he tried to form the words. Unknightly conduct – but she hadn't been alive to note, and so he had felt no shame in it.

He sighs, turning his back to her, looking down and away as though to regard her obliquely.

"I never expected to see you again save in the Kingdom of God, milord." He smiles; she can probably hear it in his voice. "I am blessed. Truly. Whatever I have done to earn this, I know not, but whatever cost it was, I would pay it again gladly."

Bedivere spins on one sabaton-clad heel, metal plates clanking quietly at the sudden shift in weight; in the same movement, graceful as a deer, he falls back to one knee, smiling that smile of pure joy.

"To know that I was missed by you, milord... you do me too much honour. Ah, by the Good Lord, I missed you. To see you hale again before me is a miracle. I can see no other explanation. But to see you smile so, my King – I had always wanted..." He flounders a bit, voice gentle and slightly awkward, as though he were unsure of how to arrange his words. Bedivere was perhaps not the most eloquent of knights, but he was always a confident speaker; to see him flounder may no doubt be a bit amusing to Arturia. "I had always wanted, just once, to see a true smile on your face."

"I never thought that I would have my wish." He studies her with those almost-violet eyes, folding his arms and smiling a little more broadly. "It suits you. Not even a sunrise over the fair fields of Camelot can compare in its beauty. I..." He seems about to say more, but trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly and turning away from her. "But I speak too much," he mumbles, awkwardly. "Forgive me my boldness, milord."

Saber (346) has posed:
As strict as she had been with her court and her knightly order, those knights had never complained or protected, not even once. Naturally, the nobles had done so, and even Camelot was not freed of the petty power struggles and undermining of the king's rule of other countries. Gilgamesh 'solved' those problems by simply making everyone fear him, driving his people to beg their gods to intercede on their behalf to save them from their own king. Iskander had 'solved' it by leaving the administration of the lands he had conquered to appointed officials while he busied himself and other restless men in the business of conquering even more ever-distant lands. Arturia, by contrast, took as much of the higher road as possible...though those who crossed over into mutiny often fell to the executioner's noose. At least, until Mordred's rebellion.

But her knights had never complained. Whether their duty was to King Arthur or whomever ascended the throne, it hadn't mattered. As long as she had those whom she could place her trust in, it was enough. As long as they believed in the utopia she reached for, it was enough. Yet, she could not show them the favour they had earned, treating them no different than even the nobles harbouring treachery in their hearts. If there was any sacrifice she had truly regretted, it had been that.

Only now, she no longer needed to. She could let the facade drop, welcome them as true friends. She had been able to when Lancelot had reappeared, no longer cursed with madness and finally at peace. Was it because bedivere had been so dedicated to being the perfect knight that she feared disappointing him by revealing her true nature, with all its flaws and imperfections? If his fear was disappointing her, that fear was mirrored with her own. All she was able to do in the end was leave them with a dream, an ideal. The other Kings of the Fourth War might have mocked it, but it was all they had. They weren't the heroes of ages past which Kiritsugu blamed for the bloody nature of the world for those seeking glory. Their only glory would be found in defending those who could not defend themselves, in bringing justice to wrongdoing, in serving the poor. Glory was the means and the inspiration for others, not the end. Their ideal became what defined a "hero" to the modern era, even if Arturia stubbornly refused to see that.

That did not, however, lessen her immense pride in her knights of the Round Table. All of them had undoubtedly been remembered by Akasha...she had seen Lancelot as a Servant with her own eyes, even fought him in Heaven's Feel. The loud, obnoxious Saber in red who bizarrely shared her face spoke of a tall, handsome Saber with hair and eyes like hers and a confident smile...he could have only been Gawain. She had almost been expecting that, should she ever encounter her knights again, she would be forced to fight them on the terms of the Holy Grail War without ever having known who they were, and vice versa. That would have been the only way they would have submitted to fighting one another. Even Lancelot had no wish to fight her, only be properly punished by her. there had been some sense of mercy in the universe to meet him again and become fast friends once more.

That made it all the more puzzling that Bedivere appeared before her not as a Heroic Spirit, but a human; the multiverse seemed to favour them as Servants. But Arturia was not even remotely about to complain; the cruelty of the Holy Grail War was something she would have wanted to shield the gentle knight from. It was going to be bad enough simply explaining the entire ordeal to him. He was not going to be happy about it. At all.

At his discomfiture she sighed, letting the mask slip. But he was going to be getting a tiny lecture here. "I apologise. However, it is important that you learn more of the current era. There are worlds where magic either does not exist, or the people are deliberately kept in ignorance of it."

She smiled again with the return to the subject of Agrias, a bright, dazzling thing. "Indeed. There are worlds where knighthood is open to both men and women, so long as they possess the ability to learn the necessary skills and carry true chivalry in their hearts. I had feared that our ideals had been forgotten....but even in other worlds, they are very much alive."

Her own death and the final end of Camelot were, strangely, in her possible future. It was an inevitability...if she returned to her own era. But for the moment, it remained something she had to be told about, from those in the distant future...or now, as Bedivere described everything in careful detail, barely keeping his emotions in check, telling her of his own deeds in what he tried to do for her. How he continued to be a loyal knight and serve her even beyond her passing. To simply say that he made her proud seemed inadequate. How could she possibly express it; she, who had always concealed her true self behind a cold, inhuman mask?

Almost randomly, the memory of Haytham Kenway's funeral flickered through her mind, a deadly foe to the Assassins and yet possessed of his own code of honour, and nevertheless a subject of the Crown. She had felt obligated as a King of his country, as well as her friendship with Connor and the others, to see him off in her own way. Sakura had given her a book of poetry which contained one dedicated to the end of her own legend. She had smiled; even poets of her distant future mourned her passing so much that they had re-written it so that she had never died, merely "went away" until Britain had need of her again. She hardly felt worthy of such adoration, but the sentiment was deeply touching.

Those words came again, and she recited them as she had when Haytham's funeral barge bore him away:


"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?"

For all her past careful reservation, Arturia had been gradually casting the mask aside, only donning it like another piece of her armour, to be used in battle and set aside when the battle was done. Yet, there were times when it had become a crutch, something to retreat behind like a shield. But there were times when all she had experienced in the multiverse, all the moments shared with Agrias, Sakura, Rin, Psyber, Lancelot, and countless others who had encouraged her to open up, wore away her defences. Where once he would ruthlessly restrain herself, it seemed too unnatural to merely stand perfectly still. Such as now.

Slowly, carefully,she closed the short distance between them. Her tiny, deceptively feminine hands reached out, though only a short distance, yet is was enough to take one of his hands in hers. With a smile containing a full range of emotions between happiness and sorrow, both bittersweet joy and regret, she squeezed his hand gently. "I am the same....but through my trials and my friends here, I have...changed. That you have been able to accept that...it brings me happiness."

After a pause to search for a succinct way to say what she wanted to, she continued. "In truth, I have found purpose here. Camelot is...lost to me, but there are worlds beyond counting which have needed my sword. The only regret that had remained for me was to have left you behind."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere had certainly never complained – indeed, he had been one of the few to offer not even a hint of protest or rebellious nature. He had always been her most staunch supporter; always been the first one to soothe ruffled feathers in the courts when the nobility had protested this or that. He could speak eloquently when he wanted to, and his gentle, measured tones had always had a calming effect even on the most bombastic of Camelot's resident nobility.

Favour had always been the one thing that had meant more to Bedivere than any silver or gold. The approval and favour of King Arturia Pendragon had always been the one thing he had sought above all else; the one thing he had craved, and his single driving motivation in serving the kingdom.

He had never known if he had ever achieved that approval before now. He had contented himself with knowing that she was unreachable behind that mask, and that he may well never know. Ironically, that had only spurred him on to greater efforts to seek out her favour, and conduct himself in a manner that she would approve of.

How strange, then, that the one knight who had striven almost more than any of the others for the ideals of King Arturia had been the one that had not been remembered by the Akashic Record – the one she had not seen as a Servant, but as a mortal man before her. A Servant would not have the faint shadows under the eyes that Bedivere now wears. They know not of fatigue as a mortal man would.

Perhaps, though, he might know that something is amiss – to be seeing Arturia at all, even amongst the possibilities of the Multiverse, is almost too good a miracle to be true. He could not be certain whether she had slept when he left her or whether she had truly passed beyond mortal ken, but the difference had been negligible at the time. Whichever the case, she would not be returning; she would not wake from that final sleep, and he would not see those cold jade eyes again. He had known that; had fought with himself to accept that inevitability, no matter how much it pained him.

To see her here at all, then... perhaps he suspects that something unnatural is at work, but as he had mentioned before, he's willing to accept it if it means seeing his beloved Arturia once more, and serving by her side, where he belongs.

Perhaps, then, explaining the War of the Holy Grail to him may not be quite as difficult as she might imagine. Perhaps he might even be grateful of the position she finds herself in – to be remembered with such fervour by people of an age they can only dream of; to be remembered and honoured so.

To be remembered and honoured for her sacrifices had been one of the few things that had truly angered Bedivere, though he had been careful, so very careful, not to let it show to his liege. While understandably upset at her passing, another side of his upset had been that she would not be remembered for the great deeds she had done; would not be celebrated for what she had done and the way in which she had shaped Camelot with her own hands.

That pitiful stone monument he raised, a single stone with her name scratched into it, would be the only lasting memorial to her – until now, anyway.

Bedivere shifts his weight somewhat uncomfortably, looking a little awkward when he finds himself the target of a lecture. He clears his throat with equal awkwardness, bowing his head and looking repentant.

"Yes, my lord."

Honestly, the way he wilts a bit under even such a mild chastisement can't be described as anything but 'cute.' He has at least a foot and a half on her height, and probably a minimum of fifty pounds; if they were both mortal and it came down to a contest of strength, there is no conceivable way he would lose – but he's cowed as easily as a hound scolded in a firm tone of voice.

That smile, however, draws him out of it. Without consciously realising it, he finds himself wearing a similar smile – not because he knows this lady knight Arturia speaks of, but to see such a beautiful expression on her face; something he had once only dreamt to see.

He is at least dimly aware of the subject matter, though, and he is listening, even if contemplating her smile is mostly the focus of his attention.

"Good... that is good." His soft voice is a little distracted. "I am glad that somewhere, such chivalry lives on. It would have been sad, I think, if Camelot had been the only seat of such ideals. That it has most likely died with you... it does not bear thinking."

The poetry earns a slightly blank look – not because Bedivere is unfamiliar with poetry, but because he isn't familiar with this particular piece, likely written centuries after his time. He cocks his head like a puzzled hound once more, listening intently to the recital.

Bedivere blinks somewhat owlishly, as though picking it apart in his mind and trying to make some sense of it. When the pieces settle into place, he smiles again, but this time it seems almost sheepish; almost shy.

Yes, he carried her memory, and he wished to do right by it. Who else would? The duty had been left to him, as much because he wanted to as because there was no one else to properly respect her memory. It was his duty – to not do it wouldn't have even occurred to him in his grief and his anger.

He blinks owlishly once more, but this time in confusion as Arturia approaches him. He lets her take one of his hands, but only because he seems to be in slight shock as to what's happening, those almost-violet eyes wide in unguarded surprise. This is definitely not the Arturia that he left behind; that proud and aloof king, who wanted nothing more in the world but to build a suitable kingdom for her people. At the same time, though... this is also the same Arturia. He's not sure how he knows that; perhaps just from his imaginings of what the real Arturia might have been like, but he's as certain of that as the earth beneath his feet.

Bedivere very carefully does not move at all as she takes his hand; does not so much as breathe when she squeezes it gently. He does not tremble – but he stands still as a deer that knows it's been spotted.

He's reluctant to ruin that brief instant by speaking, but eventually, he finds his voice.

"I—" His voice cracks; he's forced to start over, clearing his throat again, flushing a little at his own false start. "My lord..."

Having something eloquent to say was a great idea, but there seems to be a disconnect between his mind and his tongue. Bedivere inwardly curses; his face flushes a little more, and this betrayal only seems to cause further inward despair. His eyes drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his own sabatons, lingering on the floor.

"I have reason to believe Camelot is lost to me, as well. I know not how you came by here, but I have wandered for what you would say is four years in search of it – would I not have found it already, were I not meant to be back there? But it is just as well that I have not, for it would be an empty thing, a hollow thing, without you there. What is Camelot without its King?" he asks, lifting his gaze to hers.

To hear her speak so openly of a regret, though... that is a rare and precious thing beyond counting or measure.

Again, he finds himself reluctant to speak, but...

Bedivere bows his head; his laugh isn't much more than a breath, almost missed but for proximity. It might be a hearty belly-laugh in anybody else.

"You speak in nothings, milord." In spite of what might be a reprimand from anyone else, his gentle tone is good-natured. "I am not worth such regret. I am but a humble knight of Camelot. Why would you trouble yourself over my fate? My King, I am happy to serve you, no matter where it may be from."

He seems to consider for a few moments, dimly aware that she still has hold of his hand, and seemingly reluctant to so much as move for that fact. He is, dimly, aware that he doesn't want her to let go. Her hands are surprisingly warm; he can feel it even through the steel plating of his gauntlet.

"But I am honoured, milord. I—I will serve you to the end of my days. Should I find Camelot, I will serve it again – but until that time, I remain your loyal servant." There is a particular emphasis he places on it that suggests not kingdom or kingship, but a more personal loyalty – for her he would travel to the very gates of Hell and challenge the Devil himself. Bedivere smiles, genuine; though there seems to be a thread of self-consciousness in the expression. He's not used to showing himself so openly, especially not around Arturia; it feels incredibly awkward. The expression falters just slightly. "If... if you will have me again."

Saber (346) has posed:
As much as she had secretly cherished her knights, what drove them had been something of a mystery to Arturia, and she had dared not find out lest her mask be exposed should the wrong person have overheard. That they had believed in the ideals of Camelot and followed the path of chivalry without reservation had never been in question, but their reasons for doing so had eluded her. Did they follow the King of Britain or King Arthur, whether it was her ial, what she represented, or who they imagined her to be? She had been grateful either way and would not have turned even one away...and yet, understanding their hearts was a luxury she was unable to grant herself. Mordred had believed that she was the only one whom had been pushed away...when in truth, she had been forced to push everyone away. One version of Mordred had apparently come to terms with that and, in spite of her previous treachery, grown beyond her previous role. But this new one...

There was battle in the offing, Arturia could feel it. And there was little she could do to avoid it.

For the moment, however, she decided that she would figure out how to cross that bridge when she got to it. For now, she considered other, more immediate problems. She had no doubts that, upon his own death, Bedivere would have ascended to the Throne; the Knights of the Round Table were far too legendary to have been forgotten, their deeds too widely celebrated even on distant shores far beyond the infinite oceans. but for whatever reason, his reality -- or perhaps only Bedivere himself -- had Unified before that point. And while she was personally overjoyed that he truly lived still, the multiverse was a dangerous place. Those mortals who lacked supernatural powers in the Union had to be especially careful. Saber hardly minded having to look out for her knight -- she was a Servant, after all -- but to Sir Bedivere, it wouldn't seem right that she would be the one protecting him. Such was her dilemma.

It certainly didn't help matters when he looked for all the world like a scolded puppy. Here was a tall, imposing knight with the same serious demeanour as Arturia herself, and yet with the same manner of lecture she had given others, was reduced to this. She couldn't help but blink in surprise; had he always been like this? In all her memories, he had been beyond chastisement...then again, after the Holy grail War she had found herself chastising some when they failed to properly look after their health, or became too reckless...

her eyes widened even further upon realising that every one of them was someone she had thought of as family, in a sense. Just like that, she had considered him as a part of her inner circle in the present. Would he be happy, or horrified? It wasn't always a good thing.

At the very least, he would probably enjoy meeting the others. "It is, regrettably, a rare thing, at times. But those whom I have met whom share our path of chivalry are true treasures, the pride of the Union. It is my honour to serve beside them."

As she watched his changes of expression, Arturia continued to be puzzled in turn. That was perhaps the most disconcerting of all to her; as she had been unbreakable in her stoicism, so too had he...or so she had thought. Bearing the burden all on her own, becoming the immovable, stoic king was supposed to have allowed them to be free with their emotions. The example she tried set wasn't supposed to go quite that far. She never would have expected it, for him to seem so lost, so innocent, so....shy. Even the aloof king had heard the whisperings of the court ladies...his mysterious, similarly aloof demeanour and gentle calm had captured more than one maiden's heart. If they had known the truth, Arturia had a feeling there would be even more.

She smiled again, mostly to herself. "Ah...another friend had given me a book of poems. It had been the first thing to come to my mind." She chuckled softly, which doubtless would have disconcerted the poor knight even more. " I seem to be thinking of it often..."

Which would have come as no surprise at all to anyone familiar with it: the speaker had been a fictional version of herself, and the audience had been a fictional version of him.

At his modest dismissal, she shook her head slightly. "No. I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now...." and here she thought of Sakura, and the necessity of forming a contract to fight the King of Heroes, "...and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings."

An even brighter smile alighted her face; a Knight of Camelot had been returned to her. She hoped that, in the future, she could set his mind at ease, not make him so horribly uncomfortable. But she was glad...glad that his loyalty had never wavered. "You need not even ask, my most precious knight."

And all this time, she was still holding his hand in hers.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Such lack of closeness was one of the many reasons why Arturia had not known the motivations behind her own knights' actions – and Bedivere may have represented more of a mystery than the others. Ironic, considering he was the most driven among his brothers-in-arms. Not once had he ever confided in anyone why he strove so mightily to serve. Never had he revealed something of his true colours in this sense. Much like his liege, he had never been particularly close to anyone.

Perhaps Gawain could have been said to be his closest friend among the Round Table, but even then, there were aspects of him that Gawain simply didn't understand. While the other certainly had his virtues, and certainly displayed compassion as befitting such a lofty standard, Gawain showed more of a casual nature than the serious-minded Bedivere.

Oh, he was certainly good for a laugh from time to time. Even Bedivere couldn't help but crack a faint smile at some of Gawain's better jests. There was a rift between them, though, driven open by duty, and kept open by the same. Few, if any, could have been said to truly know Bedivere – he was probably more a symbol of knighthood to the people than an actual person. His motivations were always a closely-guarded secret.

Now that he has no kingdom to fall back on, no need to impress and no duty to fulfill short of his obligations to the Union, he finds himself at somewhat of a loss.

In the face of Arturia's chiding, the knight certainly does have a puppyish air about him – however minor it may be, it can't help but call to mind a scolded puppy in the way he ducks his head and avoids her gaze, or the faint hint of a chagrined expression on his face. There are few things that can really get to him that way, but direct chiding from Arturia herself. That's certainly enough.

No doubt he had always been like this – but once upon a time, he had taken more measures to take her criticism with an expression of stone. And he had always been shy and gentle; a quality that no doubt earned him many a female fan among the courts – gentle, quiet Bedivere, the mystery of the Round Table, whose intents and motivations were as much a mystery as the king's herself.

Now, though... to see her smile, to see her laugh; it's difficult to rein himself in. It shames him, truly; to know that his self-control is so little. He should not be allowing himself this luxury. If she wishes to indulge, that's all well and good, unknightly as it may be... but...

At the same time, something in her words rings true.

I have come to understand that one's friends and family should be treasured. Perhaps it was impossible for me, while I was king, to show such favour. I am under no such obligations now... and it has become important that, in order to work together harmoniously, that they know of my true feelings.

The awkwardness seems to fade from him at that, and he seems to think about that with seriousness. In fact, he seems to have forgotten entirely that she still holds his hand; frowning as though he were on the verge of realising something terribly important – at least, until his eyes drop, and he notices his hand is still held by both of hers.

He curses inwardly, because he can feel the heat springing to his face; that traitorous reaction. He makes no move to pull away, though, thinning his lips slightly at his own awkwardness, and even forcing that into an awkward smile.

"It would not be right not to ask. I should not have left your side at Camlann. Perhaps then..." She would not have been killed, then; subjected to the wrath of Mordred. But there's no use in the what-ifs. What's done is done. He sighs, head bowing slightly, though it doesn't hide his face from her. He still practically towers over Arturia. "But that is done, I suppose."

His eyes lift to hers almost reluctantly, as though he were unwilling to look her in the eye. In truth, he's still horribly embarrassed, because his face is still horribly red. It's also horribly embarrassing! But he forces himself on nonetheless, and even manages a faint flicker of a smile.

"I—I have a confession to make, milord, if... if you will hear it. Since you seem to value such openness, now..."

Saber (346) has posed:
A symbol of knighthood, of just rule. That was what Arturia sought to become, to be the vision of a perfect king for the people to rely on, and a model for those who wished to become knights and serve the kingdom. She knew very well what it was to sacrifice oneself to become the living embodiment of an ide. Even Mordred had seemed to pursue this goal of perfection, only for Arturia to find out that the homunculus had been chasing after Arturia herself, believed she was the ideal of a father. That, more than even having been created as a tool for Morgana's revenge, had been why Arturia had been forced to reject her. Mordred had been an impeccable knight, but to be the king, she needed to have placed the people -- not the king -- first.

At first, she had been at an equal loss after the end of the Holy Grail War, abruptly thrust into the multiverse with Gilgamesh laying waste to entire worlds searching for her and the source of her hope -- the Holy Grail -- destroyed. The despair had nearly overwhelmed her even as she searched for some other way to grant her dying wish, and it was only her determination to grant it with her own hands which had kept her from succumbing. Everything and everyone she had cared for was gone...and even the realisation of her wish would have taken most of what she had loved from her. But Camelot must live...that was her entire reason for being. She had been entrusted with one duty above all else, and she had failed in that.

Without a doubt, Bedivere would have vehemently disagreed. But that wouldn't have reassured the petite king. Even now, after all the years, she could still feel the pain of the loss of Camelot, though it had dulled to an ach upon being reminded of her loss. Accepting it hadn't completely healed her....she doubted that anything ever truly could. It was a wound that was so deep that it would pain her until she ascended to the Throne of Heroes.

"In truth, there was nothing that could have been done, at that point in time. You performed your duty admirably. That was all I could have ever asked."

In the present, however, she took comfort in those she cherished, and the powers that be had brought her another of them. She had very little to regret, given that fact. Arturia couldn't help by smile; she had to admit, he was quite adorable, flustered like that. On the other hand, she truly did want to put him at ease. Focusing on their duties...that was always something that seemed to comfort the both of them. "Our task as knights is not yet over....even more have need of us, now. And I can think of no greater honour or blessing than to have you at my side once more."

Nevertheless, his flushed complexion puzzled her; the girlish knight hoped she wasn't putting him on the spot too much, though somehow that seemed a foregone conclusion. "of course," she replied with a faint smile. In truth, her smile never seemed to have left; it was hard not to, given that perhaps her last remaining wish --selfish as it was -- had been granted. "You no longer need fear speaking openly in my presence."

Though she did worry that Bedivere was going to admit some bad habit of hers which had always annoyed him, or a frustration with her cold mask....but one had to take the good with the bad. She'd not have it any other way, these days.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere inclines his head when told that he'd done everything that could have been expected of him. He doesn't seem particularly proud of the praise, perhaps feeling that he could have done more still – like he could have avoided the great tragedy, somehow. No, and it would be presumptuous of him to think so, but that doesn't ease his guilt very much.

Still, it's the best kind of praise he might earn in the situation. It was, and is, a complicated one.

The knight exhales through his nose, too soft to be a proper sigh, but clearly still a little regretful. There's still a little colour to his high cheekbones; still a bit of fluster to him, but he seems to be gradually bringing it under control.

"If you say so, my lord." He glances back up at her, if only a little, and somewhat indirectly. "And you are right, from what I have heard men of the Union say. There are many more who have need of our protection and our help, and many more who are as bad shape as the most piteous of Camelot."

Inevitably, his eyes drop back to the hands that still hold his. He manages not to blush this time, though he seems to be staring as though he doesn't quite comprehend what he's seeing. It's just so strange to see that; so surreal, to know that those delicate hands belong to Arturia. The woman could have been cut from alabaster for all her affability in the days of Camelot. He could think of statues that had been more personable.

Some part of him, though, wants to think that that potential was always there – that maybe, even, she had been lonely behind her mask; as lonely as he had sometimes been.

"Ehhhhn." It's a quiet, not quite uncomfortable sound when she says he need not fear speaking openly. He still seems reluctant, as though whatever bravery had gripped him has utterly deserted him now. There are no confessions of worrisome habits here, though. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on their joined hands, as though fascinated by it and reluctant to look away; as though if he did, such a thing would vanish, never to happen again.

He seems to steel himself with a breath before speaking.

"When I first came to the court, I was struck by your status as a knight." He begins slowly, choosing his words with care. "I knew then that that was what I wished to become. I wished to live the ideal of chivalry, no matter what price was required... to help others, to defend the defenseless. I wanted nothing more than to do that, and to serve the one whom I saw as the living ideal of that."

"As time went on, I came to see that my instincts were not amiss. But sometimes I almost dreamt of a melancholy that I saw in your eyes, when you thought that none were watching – I dismissed it, of course; it was not... knightly... to think of such things. Especially of one's liege." He shakes his head slowly. "Yet still, I did not think I was imagining it... and in time I suppose it came to haunt me, as well. I did not have many friends even among my brothers of the Round Table. Perhaps Sir Gawain, but..." But Gawain did not share Bedivere's ironclad dedication to duty and idea; could not seem to spur himself on to the same heights of utter selfless devotion. Maybe Gawain was a little happier for being able to fall back on good-natured humor when things looked bleak, but it had always struck Bedivere a bit oddly. "But I was not close to many, if any at all."

"In time I realised there was something else that I wanted, my lord. One more thing, however much an impossible dream it may have seemed. I wished to see what lay beneath the mask that you wore. Once, my lord, just once, I wanted to see you happy – to see you smile. I understood that you needed to wear the mask. Such a thing was necessary; I did so myself... but..."

He himself smiles, just a little.

"Yet still, I wanted to see – just once." He doesn't look up at her, instead keeping his eyes directed firmly at her hands.

"It seems surreal, my lord, that I have seen that now.But I would not trade it for anything. In that, I have been given something more precious than silver or gold; more valuable to me even than the teachings I have striven so hard to follow." He smiles gently; not much more than a faint curl of the corner of his mouth. "I will remember it to the last of my days. To see that, my lord... that was my wish, and I had thought I must settle for seeing you find peaceful rest as you lay beneath the oak. But to have two wishes granted – to see you again, and to see that... and to serve you again?"

"I am blessed, truly." He shakes his head, slowly, as though he doesn't quite believe it himself. "And I am humbled; that you would reveal to me..."

Bedivere stops talking, perhaps thinking he's dug a big enough hole for now. He can feel his damnable face heating up again.

Saber (346) has posed:
In all fairness, there was much they both would regret until such a time came where their minds would be free from all worries....though hers had come first. And even when it had approached, when she lay dying beneath the oaks, Arturia couldn't simply let it go. Pleading with Alaya had been all she was capable of at that point, but it had been something. But even if, ultimately, that particular wish had not been granted, and Camelot had still met its end, that decision was one which she refused to regret. Had it not, would she have ever found herself in the multiverse as Bedivere had? Would it had been too late for her, even if she had? Or had the only path for her to take through the Holy Grail War, as a Servant? Certainly, she never would have met Irisviel, nor had much of a reason to befriend Sakura. No, that particular path was one which she would not second-guess herself.

The truth of her mask was as complicated as the rest of her. It was truly a mask, hiding her real nature as well as her gender. But many times, she did not permit herself to feel; her personal feelings would have interfered with many of her duties, as well as some of the uglier realities of the world as it had been. The gentle, girlish Arturia of her childhood would have been unable to brutally put down rebellions, execute traitors, go to war. Deep down at her core, she was a weak, soft slip of a girl; that girl was her first sacrifice for Britain. She cast aside more than simply her femininity, her identity as a girl; she had banished her kinder, gentler side deep within her. She could not waver in what was necessary to rule.

Yet, burying her feelings had never made it easier, and the mask she wore was also her crutch and shield. It had kept out the enemies of Camelot and king, but it had kept out the companionship of true friends, as well. So well hidden behind it that Arturia herself had wondered if there was anything left of her humanity...only after spending time with Irisviel and later being abruptly thrown practically headfirst into the multiverse had taught her that it wasn't the case. it had taken years, but the long-exiled girl had started to find her way back.

However, she was still somewhat afraid to reveal her, especially around the knights she had known in life, who knew her only as King Arthur. Kay had been the only one who had seen her as a girl, knew her when she was weak and frail. Though the two of them had trained together -- he remained the only opponent she was unable to beat -- she had still been an overly emotional girl she had ever needed to hold back anger, tears, or laughter.It was that girl who now felt just a little timid...worried about rejection from those who had only seen the Iron Rose.

Which is why Bedivere's confession was all the more astonishing. She was not so foolish as to be ignorant of his admiration, perhaps even hero worship. It had helped keep her focused, to try to live up to that ideal. She had failed to live up to the chivalric code once, and the price had been Caliburn. How much worse would it have been to disappoint such a promising young knight? To hear that he had always looked up to her stirred mixed feelings; it made her happy, and yet the fear of being a disappointment persisted. What was completely unexpected for the King of Knights, however, was what followed.

That the mask was what had been looked up to was entirely intentional; it was the mask which had been the ideal king. Gawain had all but idolised the ideal of the king, and much of his pride had been wrapped up in serving that ideal. Lancelot had known something of the truth, that a girl hid behind that mask, but even then he had known the fierce and honourable knightly side of her. But it astonished her that there had been someone who had wanted to see beyond all of it, to catch a glimpse of the true person at the center of it all. That someone cared enough to wish for that, to understand that there was more than simply the ideal.

This time, it was Arturia who was the one with the flushed face and downturned eyes, studying the rivets in the gauntlet covering his hand. it made her feel even more inadequate, seeing just how tiny her hands were, especially compared to his. She had always felt ashamed of her short stature, especially compared to the tall knights around her, but it was never so apparent until that moment.

It might be a while before she was able to speak again, even if she should have said something. If for no other reason than to reassure him that she didn't think any less of him...though the bright red face she now wore might have been a good indication of that. the timid girl had surely picked a very inconvenient time to reemerge, damn it all.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps the King of Knights would be surprised to know that her trusted lieutenant had endured much the same – not only burying his feelings, at time, but outright banishing them and hardening his heart. His is a gentle heart, much as hers, although perhaps he didn't exile his innermost essence quite so far. He can still recollect the gentler aspects, still call them to mind, though at times it takes effort to actually show them.

His mask, however, was not a crutch or a shield. It was simply a thing that needed to be done, another facet to his duties as a knight of Camelot. He had done things he could not fully be proud of, but the ends justified the means – always he has acted with Camelot's best interests in mind; always he's put aside the good of the one for the good of the many.

Perhaps Arturia had underestimated the perception and depth of Bedivere, though his deft administration of Camelot had certainly showed sharpness in the past. Perhaps he knew all along that there was a softness buried behind the steel; perhaps that was why he wished with such fervour to see that one, untainted smile.

And perhaps that sharply perceptive knight senses something of Arturia's astonishment. Bedivere allows himself the faintest hint of a smile, though he has the good grace not to let it seem too obvious. Yes, he sees and understands much, and so single-minded is his devotion to duty that many would underestimate his sharp mind; or his ability to connect dots that are not always so obvious.

That faint smile widens when it's her turn to look away, flushing; he can't help the reaction, even as he follows her gaze to their hands. His flexes almost unthinkingly, the oiled steel giving not so much as a whisper at the movement, well cared-for. Bedivere takes his equipment as seriously as his duties, for are they not in their own way gifted to him from the king? Besides, it wouldn't do for a knight to live the ideal, and then appear in tatters. Who would trust someone with such a shabby appearance?

Bedivere can't help himself. When her face turns such a shade of scarlet, he chuckles, quietly. Oddly, even his own face is red in light of what he considers – and then, before he has the opportunity to think better of it, he reaches out and draws the considerably tinier knight close, steel-clad arms folding around her in a firm embrace as he rests his chin over the top of her head... and though he still has to bend a bit to do that, he doesn't seem to mind the difference in stature.

"What I'm trying to say, milord," he begins awkwardly, "is that I have always..."

No, that would just come out all wrong. Bedivere draws in a patient breath and tries again.

"I wanted to see who you were, not the mask. It is easy enough to wear a mask, as king, but..."

No, that doesn't seem right either. Bedivere makes an awkward little sound of despair and tries one more time.

"I am your faithful servant, my lord. But I would be more honoured to be your faithful friend, too."

That's better.

But not really.

...Damn it, he can feel his face heating up again. So clumsy! Couldn't he find some better way to phrase that? Augh, of all the...

Saber (346) has posed:
It was probably for the best that she hadn't known just how far Bedivere had duplicated her path to the point of even adopting the proverbial mask, albeit for somewhat different reasons. It was in her very nature to worry, and where once she had hidden and buried such inclinations, with the release of her previously suppressed inner nature her fussier side tended to manifest. Already, Saber's mind was furiously working on how to ease him into the insanity that was now her reality. Many of her friends could be overwhelming, even on their best behaviour.

As fairly polite as she was, an unprepared meeting with the likes of someone like Hastur would go over about as well as a tonne of bricks. And even Psyber could be a little....crass.

All right...a lot crass.

They were good people, it would simply require some reassurance. But then, perhaps his keen skills of observation would see that there was nothing to be concerned about, and she was worrying over nothing. Was she being overprotective? Probably, but his owlish expressions certainly weren't helping. Moreover, being overprotective was merely a part of her nature, even if he was a capable knight who hardly needed her protection.

The King of Knights suppressed a sigh. Her mask should have been flawless, and there were many who were misled by it, but perhaps she should have been more careful around Bedivere. Then again, it was strangely comforting that she couldn't fool him....if a little worrying for those times where she needed to. Such as if her fortunes turned exceedingly bad and the King of Heroes showed up to plague her existence once more. That could be more than just a little troublesome; even if he had been a Servant, Bedivere could not hope to face the insufferable Archer on his own. Even the King of Conquerors fell to his blade. And those were just a few of the dangers of their own world.

As her jade eyes seemed to suddenly find the more intricate details of knightly armour even more fascinating that they usually were -- though she had a much easier time of it with armour made from prana which demanded no upkeep other than a competent Master -- Arturia felt even more self-conscious. She must have looked ridiculous like this, and inwardly she scolded herself for her lack of proper bearing. She might have been trying to be more emotionally open these days, but she'd be damned if she was going to stop carrying herself like a proper knight. Her pride was something she would never let go of.

She was almost startled out of it by his own chuckle; if he had been baffled by hers, she was in turn baffled by his. It would have been enough for her to look up, were it not for the surprise of her life. Her eyes widened in astonishment at first, followed by even more furious blushing on her part. Yet, she did not push him away, quite the opposite, in fact. She sighed -- a barely audible sound -- as the sea green eyes closed and her own small arms gradually found their way around him in turn. To be true friends...

Her voice sounded tiny, awkward, and shy even to her own ears. "I...would...like that. Yes."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Adopting the mask-like guise of the king had begun as a form of respectful imitation, but it had quickly become a necessity – much like the girl that had been locked away, the softer aspects of Bedivere's personality had by necessity been banished in the pursuit of his duties. Perhaps he hadn't needed to make choices quite as difficult as Arturia's, but those that he did make were not easy for him. More than any of the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere's personality was gentle, soft; aspects some said were unfitting for such an esteemed knight, and so – as whispers of this disapproval began to reach him – he had slowly begun to hide those softer aspects away.

Oh, he would indulge in them. He had a natural outlet in knighthood's chivalry – he could not pass a beggar without offering coin or bread. But some parts of him had been locked away just as surely.

Maybe, in his wanderings through the Multiversal wood, he had reverted even further into that manner of being... but just a few moments of interacting with Arturia – an Arturia unburdened by the things that had once troubled her in Camelot – seems to be enough to coax that knightly facade to crack.

Funny how life has a way of working out like that. He'd thought his own guise to be as ironclad as he could make it.

Although not as ornamented as Gawain's armour, the ornamentation Arturia so carefully studies is a cut above most knights of Camelot. He'd spent some coin on the armour, but true to his ideals, he'd wanted something protective more than something well-decorated. Most could be found on the embroidery of the cloth aspects of his armour, such as trimmings around the border, hemming the cloth in bright metallic thread of gold. What few ornamentations he sports are subtle and tasteful, enough to lend an impression of affluence, but not opulence. And certainly not arrogance. None of the metallic pieces of his armour seem to sport any real decoration – a slight blue hue to the steel, perhaps; a tint applied when each plate was forged, but no more than that.

Of all of his comrades of the Round Table, he had leaned towards subtlety and modesty. Many were the tales of Bedivere slogging through the frozen slush in midwinter, bringing food to the poor and fuel for their meagre fires where he could.

Still, even unornamented, the craftsmanship is obviously superior, and he's taken exceptionally good care of it. Why would he not? All of his raiment is practically a gift from the king, is it not?

Despite what seems like relaxed posture, the knight is wound tight as a spring under his chain and steel and heavy cloth; he at least does not tremble in his nerves (thank the Lord for that small favour), but he's still strung taut as a deer tensed to spring. He relaxes only slightly when she doesn't push him away (or even worse, aim a swipe at his face for his impropriety – a reaction he had halfway anticipated).

She might feel him sigh through her hair when she gives her awkward, small-voiced reply. It's so odd to hear a tone like that from her. His memory is so accustomed to the cool, regal tone of King Arturia Pendragon of Camelot; not the sweet, painfully shy voice of Arturia, the young woman who had driven away so much of her own life and given up so much of herself in sacrifice to the cause. The discrepancy between memory and reality is almost enough to make him chuckle again.

But he is sensitive to her pride. He would not insult her by pointing that out... it does make him smile a little, though.

"I could have hoped for no better answer." His own voice is soft; gentler tones than the aloof sort he would so often adopt in Camelot – something of the gentle, almost shy young man beneath the mask of the realm's able marshal.

He seems almost about to pull away, but no, it's just so his gauntleted hands can settle over her more comfortably, so the steel doesn't bite into her. Much like the other Knights of the Round, Bedivere favours extremely heavy armour; so much so that only the largest, heaviest horses could even bear him. But he's far stronger than he looks, able to move gracefully even when encased in steel. Better still, he seems mindful of that weight, since Saber isn't wearing her own plated armour.

He pulls away, but only the upper half; just enough to get a better look at her, head cocking as he glances down at her.

"Hm." It's a thoughtful sound. He lifts one brow, as though considering something quite seriously. "So be it, then. I will try to mind myself... or not mind myself, as it were. Hah." He gives a dry laugh; almost self-conscious. "Perhaps I will need you to mind me, as well, my lord. I spent much of my time hiding my reactions from you. I... I did not wish to disappoint you. I had always wanted nothing more than your approval, and as I said; to know who you were beneath the mask of the king..."

His smile twists a little; somewhat sardonic, but still amused. "I may need some chiding to allow myself to react when I am not thinking of reacting. But for you, I will do that, if you wish." Since she seems to place such value on being more emotionally open, now; that practise, at least, seems to be something he's willing to make an effort to adopt. Maybe just the chance to not hide behind his own mask is something he had always wanted, too.

Steel-clad arms close around her again, a presence both comforting and comforted. "I am glad." The words are little more than a sigh through her hair, a sound of breathless, almost disbelieving pleasure; but more than that, tremendous relief.

Better still, he decides – he hasn't botched it too badly with his clumsy awkwardness! Truly, the good lord smiles down upon him this day.

Saber (346) has posed:
Another series of memories sprang to mind, blending into one; catching a glimpse of an almost frail-seeming young boy with shaggy silver hair in the gathered crowd as her entourage passed through, yet there was something different about the kind of awe he possessed. Then, she saw him as only perhaps a few years older, untested but with an unmatched fire in those pale eyes, determined to become a knight of King Arthur's court and submitting to training with not so much of a word of protest. After that, she caught glimpses again of that boy during training, slowly maturing into a much taller young man, yet losing none of that determined fire. and then he was on bended knee before her, silver hair now long and bound back in the familiar braids, face turned respectfully down as the blade of Caliburn touched each of his shoulders in the familiar ceremony.

She had always tried to treat everyone equally, showing no special favour to those who loved her over those who merely respected her and even those who hated her. Beyond hiding her gender, her mask had served to project that impartiality, that King Arthur could make those necessary hard decisions even regarding those in her favour. Of course, there were always those who tried, playing the familiar court politics to be granted the graces of the king; much disgruntled complaint became active political plotting against her. In truth, Mordred's rebellion was merely a catalyst; Camelot's fall began with the discovery of Lancelot and Guinevere, and the demands which had resulted.

Her enemies had assumed that she could not carry out the execution, that they could accuse her of the very favouritism she had carefully avoided. They cared not at all about the laws, nor about honour.If not for that law, that instance, they would have eventually discovered another. It was not unrealistic ideals, nor the weakness of the people which had felled the Britain she ruled. A stronger king would have possessed a power and strength they wouldn't have doubted and questioned.

And yet, for all that, there were still those who had indeed earned her highest regards, who she watched grow up before her eyes as they became men, whose devotion and loyalty were genuine and true, who were as dedicated to the more unfortunate was as absolute as hers. And one in particular, who had been so devoted to the kingdom that in some ways, he became like her...not only the honourable knightly aspect, but all of it, including the unwavering mask of duty. He had earned every single rank, every position. No one had ever doubted that Bedivere had earned the position of Marshal with his own hands, and his calm reliability had made him such a natural choice and his modesty had meant unbiased decision. None could possibly make an accusation of favouritism without appearing bitter themselves. Yet, Arturia never felt that he had been granted even a small portion of what he truly deserved.

What might have been even more damning is that in all that time, she could still see glimpses of the awe-inspired young boy, an honest and gentle heart that inspired her need to protect. It had been children such as him who had reminded her of her duties, it had been they she fought so ruthlessly to defend. As open as she had started to become, that was one truth she could never tell him, so devoted he was to protecting her. Knowing that might cause him to doubt his knighthood, and that was one thing she could not do.

His care in resettling the thick plate over his arms in consideration of her might have almost been a metaphor for the complexity of their relationship and motivations. As a Servant, the weight to her was nothing, but she was not about to tell him, touched as she was by such a simple gesture. It was so much like the Bedivere she knew, and she smiled fondly musing over it.

Once more, she could see the boy watching the entourage as he committed himself to following once more, even insofar as trying to become more open. there were at least some things she could tell him now. "Do not feel as if you must force yourself," she reassured him with an earnest expression in place of where the familiar mask had been. "Go at your own pace...I shall not pry if there are things you are uncomfortable speaking of."

She indulged him the fond smile that she dare not have showed him in Camelot,though there was in turn a sardonic edge to it. "Aí...there shall be times when I chide you, I shall warn you of that right now...but it shall be over other things."

And then she did something that she had been wanting to do for years, a simple gesture that would have betrayed everything of her fondness for the tall, shy knight. Arturia had to strain a little, though his current posture had made it a little easier.

The Once and Future King of Britain reached up to her Knight of the Round Table and ruffled the hair at top of his head

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
From the first time he had laid eyes on his king, he had wanted nothing more than to serve – it had been his dream; a relentless and driving goal, one that would not let him rest. From then on, the wide-eyed boy had thrown himself into his practise and his studies. He would throw himself against the things he did not know, or the things he did not do well; and he would succeed, or he would break. For if he could not serve at court, if he could not become a Knight of the Round Table, what other service was worthy of his dreams?

Skill had prevailed, though, and he had focused his calm, determined mind to the task. As he'd grown, that determined fire had been tempered into something far more formidable. All his perception, his keen skills of observation, had served him in his learning and his practise: Letters and blades, sums and chivalry; he had taken it upon himself to learn all of it.

Never had it been a chore, though. He had applied himself gladly to his studies. There had never been a single word of complaint. In the years to come, no matter the hardships, there never would be. So devoted had he been that none had questioned his mastery or his skills – indeed, even his detractors could name none who would make a more just or fair Marshal of Camelot.

Ironic, then, that the only thing he had wanted was the one thing that no gold or silver could buy; no price could be named to – just a single glimpse of the true person behind the crown; a single genuine smile untainted by worry or concern.

He seems taken a bit off his guard by that fond smile. Even if it was something he'd always wanted to see, it wasn't something he'd ever expected to see. It still seems a bit strange to him.

"Aah." It's a quiet sound of acknowledgement, low in his throat, as though he were still a bit uncertain of what to do with himself or what to say. It's certainly nice that she wants him to fumble his way through dropping this mask at his own pace; but the reality is that it's still incredibly awkward, for him. She is his king, and the remembrance of that fact is almost enough to shock him into dropping his arms and backing away – almost. He does not, though, mastering himself at the last instant. She might well feel the reflexive twitch as he brings his subservient instincts back under control.

He doesn't look miserable at that warning, but he does still look incredibly awkward. "Other things?" He tries to keep a note of dread out of his gentle tone. It's hard, and he's not terribly sure of its success. No sooner are the words spoken than he decides he's probably better off not knowing until he has to cross that particular bridge.

When she strains to reach up for the top of his head, he merely cocks his head in that puzzled-hound fashion again, blinking in evident surprise. What's she—

Oh.

"Aí! My lord!" Bedivere's half-hearted protest can only be called a squawk; completely undignified, and thoroughly taken off his guard. His hair is extremely fine, and it makes a nice satisfying frizz when it's unceremoniously mussed.

The Knight of the Round looks at a loss for a brief moment. His mouth twitches, slightly, threatening a smile – and then he laughs; not the low, restrained chuckle that he usually holds himself back to, but he laughs; a sound of genuine delight and amusement.

He can't help himself – she just seems so inordinately pleased at having been able to do that.

Saber (346) has posed:
In the midst of becoming swept up in her memories, an almost seemingly random fact occurred to her. According to the multiverse's calendar, the current day was the sixth day of the month of what was now called July, the calendar having undergone extensive revision hundreds of years into their future. It was the day before her birthday.

Someone, somewhere, had decided to give her a birthday present to make up for all her troubles. Perhaps the best part of it all was that she no longer had to pretend, no longer had to hide her pride, or curb her doting. It was perhaps the closest thing to a true miracle as she had ever seen. If there was a lesson to be learned, it had been one she had learned long ago, yet the last part of understanding finally fell into place. She didn't need the Holy Grail for a miracle. She never had. Or perhaps, she had only needed it to summon her from what was to be her death-bed.

There might have been another Camelot, another version at least that she could save. But she had grown dissatisfied with it over time, and frustrated that she could not bring the utopia she had prayed for. How could she keep the destitute from winter and drought starvation? How could she cure the terrible plagues which had claimed so many? How could she bring a true peace, what might almost be a boring existence to be taken for granted? Through those she had come to know, Arturia eventually realised that her utopia, her paradise, was right here. Should she find Camelot again -- or a similar kingdom with similar needs -- leading the to utopia was a matter of serving the Union and bringing them into the multiverse.

And in spite of the advancements that had been made, and the people seemed to no longer need a king, there was still a need for knights, for chivalry. That suited the King of Knights just fine; she had always been a knight first, anyway.

And now, part of her own hope had been restored. She had never been able to properly convey her gratitude to Agrias, to Sakura, to Psyber, and all the others for their support and friendship. They probably knew, of course, but it was something she could never properly express; the words always seemed lacking, the struggle with her own numbing mask seemed to be a stumbling block. It might be that now she would be able, having been granted her wish of being able to convey at least a part of it to the knight whom she had always wanted to express it to. Her final regret was no more.

Arturia didn't speak when they finally separated -- it wasn't as if they could stay that way forever -- but she did notice he was making an effort. He always did, of course. Now the problem, she could tell already, was going to be convincing him to live a little for himself. On the other hand, she was having that very same problem, with her occasional 'selfishness' being relegated to minor acts of enjoying her food or trying to sneak in petting lions at the zoo. It was fortunate indeed that the one place where she wished to maintain at least some semblance of dignity tended to go unnoticed. Mostly.

If she had been offended or disappointed in the cracking of his own armour, she hardly expressed that displeasure. Quite the opposite, in fact; his gentle laughter was contagious. The tiny knight had known bedivere was going to be a little flustered, but while she didn't want to make him too uncomfortable, that was the one thing she finally couldn't resist. She'd been holding back far too long. She almost looked like a triumphant little girl, and yes, some might find that quite adorable, king or not.

So even had she wanted to, Arturia couldn't fault him. Had he not confessed that all that he had wished for was this moment in time? She would have forced herself to drop her mask for Bedivere's sake, had she known...it just so happened she had been trying to wear it less in the first place. That was her reward, in turn...seeing him smile and laugh. There was little she wouldn't do to see this scene again.

"Now then," she said at last, her hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of contented serenity, "What have you been doing, prior to my interruption?" He would probably choose to drop everything to attend to her, but she was not about to drag him off somewhere if there were other things he had needed or wanted to do prior to her arrival. That, and she was curious what he'd been up to, how he was faring since arriving in the multiverse.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Miracles could be subjective things, and the King of Knights had stumbled into her own purely by happenstance. The same could be said for the subject of her good fortune. Never would the knight have suspected such a thing could be possible, let alone that it would happen to him. He had expected to wander those woods to the end of his days, if that was what was needed of him – eventually he may have found his way out, but he had held no expectations on his way back to Camelot from Arturia's grave.

Bedivere does take a moment to fix his hair, though he offers not a word of complaint. Truth be told, it had been an amusing trick, albeit one he never would have expected from her.

That almost girlishly triumphant expression isn't missed, though. Hmm. Would it be proper to think of some way to set her out of sorts in response? Maybe. He'll have to ponder that. Surely there must be something he can do, some amusing thing to make her laugh again – because that's the real motivation. Something as petty as "getting even" would never occur to Bedivere. No, he would do it strictly to see that smile again, that laugh. Such things are more rare and precious than the most valuable jewels. Gold and silver tarnish before such beauty.

"Mmmm?" It's a soft sound, more thoughtful than anything else, as Bedivere listens to her question. Although he lets go of her with obvious reluctance, he lets her go all the same, folding his arms and glancing over to regard her obliquely. "Serving the Union, primarily. But oh, my lord, they are such a strange lot. Still, I do what I can. I do not have a Camelot to serve, and I did not know you were here – could not have guessed—"

His voice goes a little raw as his emotions threaten to get the better of him mid-sentence. He closes his eyes for a moment until he's mastered himself, inhaling and then letting it go; he clears his throat before he tries again.

"In any case, I have been conducting myself as a Knight of the Round would be expected. I have served them in battle, but I take more pleasure in charitable works for the poor. There are so many worlds torn asunder by war, my lord, so many. Sometimes I feel the task of helping them all is impossible, but I am helpless but to try." He shifts his weight a little, eyes distant as he considers. "Some days I bring them food. Others I bring fuel. Still others simply require clothing. Clean water. Ah, my lord, the water here – it is so clean. Never have I seen such crystalline water. 'Tis even safe to drink!"

And a lot more palatable than the usual substitutes. Once that brief instant of almost childlike wonder passes, Bedivere continues his recounting.

"I have also served in war. The Confederacy..." His expression turns grave. "I will not pretend they are all monsters. But there are many such. I do not understand how they can treat one another so." He spreads gauntleted hands as though in entreaty. "Are we not all brothers and sisters 'neath the Lord's reckoning? And they are strong. Stronger than I could have anticipated. But I shall not stand down."

His hands drop, head shaking faintly; his cloak rustles as he shrugs.

"I would not be so cowardly as to turn tail and run in the face of such. There are too many who cannot defend themselves against such – and what am I, if not a shield to the poor and the vulnerable?"

Ah, Bedivere. If ever there was a Knight of the Round whom the ideals of the knight had never faded in, it would have been him.

He shakes his head, as though to dismiss the matter. Those pale, almost violet eyes turn to Arturia once more, suddenly curious. Once upon a time, he had been forced to turn his curiosity inward, for it would not have been seemly to pester his king with such questions. Or, perhaps it would not have been seemly to be asking ceaseless questions with all the guilelessness of a child among his fellow Knights of the Round.

Here, though... the knowledge that he can do something as simple as ask questions in regards to the things he doesn't know, that's a treasure. The realisation actually stops him cold; he'd opened his mouth to say something, and it hangs there for a second or two.

And then Bedivere, briefly, can't help an awkward little smile.

"Ah. I am sorry. I forget myself, my lord," he says softly, flushing as he ducks his head, hair thankfully hiding his expression of embarrassment. "I am... not accustomed to asking questions. May I inquire as to what you have been doing for these four years...?"

He keeps his head down, because his hair hides that traitorous blush creeping across those high cheekbones.

Saber (346) has posed:
Ignorant of Bedivere's 'plotting', the Servant merely cracked a slightly lopsided smile. Fate would have been in full teasing mode...how many times had Saber herself looked like that, trying to tidy her own hair after the golden blonde 'Strike Witch' had done the same?

Come to think of it, she had better not mention the Mobile Six Captain just yet. As strange as he already thought they were, in truth they were most likely even stranger that that. She herself had become accustomed to just how different everyone was from the people of their kingdom and era -- with some help from the Holy Grail when it came to basic knowledge of all the eras before and since theirs -- but now that she thought on it, there remained many, many explanations she was going to need to make.

She was going to have to call Psyber and Harry and let them know that she wasn't going to be able to come by the respective offices for a while. A demonic version of Boston and 21st-century Chicago were liable to give Bedivere a heart attack, much less that her consulting work had been for a half-angel and a modern-day wizard. At least Harry didn't share Merlin's bizarre proclivities, thank the Lord.

That line of thought was cast to the winds, however, at the emotions he barely held in at what was to be her passing. Her smile dropped, replaced by a slight frown and a wrinkled brow of worry. In spite of that, she remained silent, allowing him the time to compose himself. It might have been that it was a fate she couldn't ultimately avoid, but for the moment, she was right there and, for all intents and purposes, alive.

In all fairness, she was up to a little 'plotting' of her own, with much the same intent. Even with her deep-seated worries about how to help acclimate the distraught knight to a universe that many times made no conceivable sense at all, there was nevertheless much she was looking forward to sharing. That is, if he hadn't discovered them, already. A small part of her suspected there was a great deal that she would indeed have to introduce, especially since, much like his king, tended to bury himself in his work.

...Which had been exactly what he had been doing. just as he had in Britain, her marshal had been busying himself with knightly charity and defence of those who could not defend themselves. A soft 'hm' of approval, with a nod of her head. "That is good. An example must be set...those of us who belong to various orders have been working to achieve that, though we are relatively few."

She couldn't help but smile at the almost childlike wonder over things so many others took for granted. Such simple things that most in the modern era never took notice of, so commonplace they were, and yet, in the Britain of their time, were things out of the reach of even the wealthiest noble. There were few whom she could truly share that wonder with, and Arturia was glad once more that there was another who could appreciate such things.

But then, her expression turned serious at the accounting of the Confederacy. On the one hand, there were almost innocent souls, such as the golem Nine, and even Haytham with his sense of honour and misguided goals. On the other, there were those such as the King of Heroes -- or, at least the version of him who had not been reined in by a Union member. And then there were was Mordred...

Even without the Confederacy, however, the multiverse was still a dangerous place, especially for a mortal. Samael, while not a part of the Confederacy, was untrustworthy and dangerous. Saber was even more aware of the dangers, now that Bedivere had appeared; Sakura at least had powerful magic to fall back on in a tight spot. The silver-haired knight was certainly a formidable swordsman, but against the more powerful magic and other powers of the dark side of the multiverse...

Arturia couldn't help but be worried all over again. "But take care...should you fall, it would mean one less knight in the multiverse, and we are in need of each and every one." Not to mention that she needed him not to die, not when there was so much to show him...so much time to catch up on.

And then, her smile returned at his innocent question. It had made her happy, his curiosity, and she saw no need to hide that fact. Some things were going to be trouble to recount, particularly the Holy Grail War. And yet, in some ways, even those she wanted to tell him of. "Ah. A great many things have happened...it will take some time to recount it all. But this I promise you: I shall tell you everything."

She cast a critical eye at their current surroundings. "Perhaps a change of setting is in order to tell you of all that has happened..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Twenty-first century Chicago and demon-infested Boson would probably not settle over well with the knight. Loyal and faithful he may be, but Bedivere is still a little skittish when it comes to things different from his own native time period and familiar setting. He seems to adapt well enough so long as he's eased into it, but that's the trick – he has to be eased into it, or it quickly becomes overwhelming to him, and nothing's gained.

Fortunately, aside from his bravery and his loyalty, Bedivere's senses of observation are keen. He picks things up quickly enough when they're couched in terms he can understand. For those modern things he can't quite see to understand, as long as they're explained in a means he can understand – something that Arturia would know precisely how to do, familiar as she is with him – he can certainly grasp them.

Charity work likely isn't surprising at all. It would be like Bedivere to find something like that to do, and to apply himself to it with little to no instruction. It's the kind of thing expected of him as a knight, but more than that, it's the right thing to do, to him.

"Yes." This, in regards to setting examples. His voice is gentle, deceptively soft. There are those in the courts who had, upon only hearing him, once mistaken him for a woman – he simply has a gentle way about him, and he speaks softly, unlike the brash Gawain or the harder voices of the other knights.

Bedivere had simply seen no need to impose himself upon others like that. If people wanted to listen to him, they could listen, and he need not shout over them or otherwise overpower them in any way. It was, in some ways, perhaps the last indulgence he allowed himself when he had begun to build up those walls; to wear that mask – unless calling across a battlefield, he never raised his voice, not even in anger. Some of his detractors called him womanish and weak, but perhaps it spoke well of Bedivere himself that he had never wasted the breath to answer those detractors; as though such was beneath him.

Besides which, his capable administration of Camelot was proof enough that even if he had a few quirks, by the reasoning of his peers, he could be permitted them and still perform his appointed tasks admirably. The treasury certainly never suffered under him, and some were even inspired to do charitable works of their own by Bedivere's own personal example.

Should he fall? Bedivere cocks his head at that, as though the turn of phrase is foreign somehow.

"I will not fall." His affirmation is given calmly and patiently, and he looks directly to Arturia with those near-violet eyes. "Am I not a Knight of the Round Table? It would take a mighty foe indeed to strike me down. I have trained against the greatest knights of Camelot. Still..." He looks away. "You are right, my lord. There are powerful things in this 'Multiverse.'"

"A knight's duties are many, and difficult, and there is no guarantee that we will not fall in pursuit of our duties." He smiles that gentle smile down at her. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though reaching some internal decision, reaching out and carefully – oh so carefully – taking one of her hands in both of his. "I cannot promise that I will not fall, my lord. That would be foolish – and it would be arrogant. A knight must be modest. What I can promise you is this – in times of war, in times that I am compelled to ride to battle, I will do aught in my power to return to you. I have served you always, my king, in the utmost of loyalty. For this I would return to you regardless."

"But I have all the more reason to, now." Because now, he has more than a liege-lord in Arturia; but a friend, and while he would never shirk his duties, that is far more rare and precious to him. "For you I would return to you, my liege, as a loyal servant – but how could I not return to you, as a friend? No force could stop me from that."

He looks down at the hand, seems to realise what he'd done, and then abruptly lets go – as his face flushes that bright scarlet again. Bedivere mumbles something that might be an apology, but it's a bit too vague to really make out the words too clearly.

"Y-yes, my lord. A sparring ring is no place for such, is it?"

Several seconds of awkward silence pass.

When he speaks again, his voice is still a bit of an embarrassed mumble.

"...To where shall we go...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
In some ways, Arturia's newfound openness was working against her; as the aloof king, she would have simply left his way of adjusting to Bedivere alone. Inwardly, she fretted; was she being insulting by worrying over him, her mind working to find the less-jarring ways of bringing him in? Somehow, she didn't think he would admit it if she had insulted him...or more likely, would not have been insulted at all. For all his rigid adherence to chivalry and his strong sense of justice, the violet-eyed knight nevertheless possessed a quick and agile mind which adapted to nearly any situation. As chaotic as the multiverse was, he would adapt as she had.

But that was simply her way, to worry over her loved ones. Sakura had nearly been astonished when her Servant, King Arthur herself, had been reduced to fussing over her when she endangered herself, albeit unknowingly. it had been a little paranoid of her, but considering Gilgamesh had been running loose with some mysterious designs on her Master, Saber was not about to take any chances and did not trust the young magus to go out on her own. looking back, might that have been one of her flaws as a king, that she didn't trust her subordinates enough?

She suppressed a shake of her head as if to shake such thoughts off; now was not the time. At the very least, she could help by phrasing things in ways familiar to him. That she could do. "There are...creatures which, though they call themselves all manner of names which may seem familiar to us, these names mean something else entirely. There are 'demons' who are not demons at all...and 'witches' who do not practise what we would think of as magic, though it might seem so."

It was a start, anyway.

To her discomfiture, the fact that Bedivere's mannerisms had sometimes led others to assume he was a woman had complimented Arturia's deception. While Merlin had cast a glamour which had, in essence, enchanted the people into seeing a man whenever they looked upon her, Bedivere's presence had further maintained that facade. it almost felt as if she had been using him, something which had inwardly disgusted her. He couldn't help his --admittedly beautiful -- appearance, and it had never sat well with her that it worked to her advantage.

With his almost casual dismissal of her caution about falling in battle came another expression that he might find disturbing: pale brows knitted together in a deeply troubled expression. It might have been the first time the Knight of the Round Table had ever seen it, in fact...a look of fear. Oh yes, the king did know fear, though never regarding herself. Having found Bedivere again, the thought of losing him again terrified her. But that look lasted merely fractions of a second, before some vestiges of her former mask fell over it. "Simply....be careful. that is all I could possibly ask of you."

It demanded much of her willpower to keep her face in a mask of calm, to suppress that fear. She was being ridiculous...he was a knight, a man, and someone in whom she had entrusted countless battlefield duties. She had lost so many in her time, and even friends as a Servant. But somehow, the thought of this miracle slipping away seemed unbearable.

With that, the moment passed, especially with what followed. Somehow, she could feel the warmth of his hands through the mail and plate, and the glove beneath it. It was comforting, and yet... she could feel the blood rise to her face, as if she was staring up at the mid-day sun. Not just his gesture, his touch, but his words. Friend. Her selfish wish, to be more than a king and a comrade. To share in their laughter and their sorrow, to understand them...

For Camelot, she had given such things up. But that hardly meant that she hadn't longed for them.

Try as she might, the mask slipped as she bit her lip. She should have said something, but what could she possibly say? She opened her mouth to make the effort, but frustratingly, her voice stubbornly refused to co-operate. And then the opportunity passed as he let her go, turning away and mumbling what sounded vaguely like an apology. It was just as well; he probably wouldn't have glimpsed her disappointment.

Oh. Right. Onto more practical matters.

Saber clasped her chin between her thumb and her index finger in the typical habitual gesture she employed when she thought on something. "Hmm...the home belonging to my Ma..." abruptly, she stopped herself before she completed the word. She cursed herself; she knew full well her fellow knight would pick up on it. She had gotten far too careless. "....my friend's home is some distance and in another world. however, it is secure and comfortable. That would be the best place, I should think."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere still has his dignity, even if he is considerably less prone to pride than his contemporaries of the Round Table. No doubt if he thought he were being sheltered, he might take exception to such a thing on general principle, insisting that he can look after himself and that his king need not trouble herself over such an insignificant matter. Gently, of course. Always gently. That's just his way.

To have her pay any attention to him outside the context of duty is still strange and new, though, and part of him finds that he doesn't mind the notion.

Most likely, though, he would suffer no insult. Bedivere was always of a placid mindset, disinclined to take things personally. Even the rare direct insult over his somewhat feminine appearance and soft voice were always met with grace and good humour; a trait that served him well as marshal of the realm, and had earned his trust with Arturia.

More hot-tempered among the knights would have bared steel at such an insult, but not Bedivere. Indeed, unless he was looking after his sword or he was called to battle, it rarely left its scabbard.

If he has any notion of some of the awful things that lay in wait in the Multiverse, though, the calm knight shows no fear and no apprehension over what he may someday challenge in the line of duty. Only in times of danger for Arturia herself had he ever let slip his calm exterior to show fear – fear over her safety, not his own. Never his own.

The knight cocks his head, slightly, at her explanation. "Oh?" Demons that aren't demons? Witches that don't practise witchcraft? "That seems strange, but if you say so, then I shall take that to heart, Sire." His head inclines forward, slightly, in an expression of respectful acknowledgement.

He's so damned polite in all things, too. Also a plus in Camelot. Probably something that's going to earn him some awkwardness, here.

Although he dismisses her caution, it's given in deadly earnest. He seems to genuinely believe he can look after himself here, even if it may be vastly different from Camelot. His duty and his faith are his shield, and it seems he has yet to learn the hard lesson – that some shields do break.

Bedivere was always a perceptive knight. He does not miss that brief flicker of fear through Arturia's features, and he almost looks ill at ease himself. It certainly wasn't his intention to trouble her, and she certainly looks troubled as she bites her lip. The expression is a foreign one, and it takes him a moment to reconcile the cold, remote King Arturia with the young woman in front of him.

He seems to hesitate, momentarily not quite certain of what to do to soothe her worries. At a loss, he frowns, looking a little distressed himself. Augh, this is just so strange. He himself isn't so remote that he doesn't recognise the signs of worry or unease, but to see it in her is a different matter entirely...

"Your...?" He caught that fragment of a word. When she corrects it to 'friend,' it seems like an awkward fit, but he doesn't call her out on it. She might notice that knowing quality in those violet eyes, though. "Mm. If it is not an imposition on your friend, I would not be averse to travelling there, then."

He shuffles his weight a little, still looking a little awkward. He lifts his arm for a moment, hesitating, before reaching out for Arturia's hand. Mortified, he catches himself and drops his hand again, settling for folding his arms lest he do something foolish. The slight clearing of his throat he makes sounds more like an awkward, embarrassed cough.

Bedivere looks away, strictly to hide the bright scarlet of his face from her.

Saber (346) has posed:
Just as much as it had been for his trained skills, Bedivere had been appointed for his fairness and even temper. As capable as Gawain had been, he was far too hot blooded -- not to mention not quite serious enough at times -- for the tasks she had given to her appointed marshal. And while Lancelot's martial skills were unparalleled, his ability to disguise himself with equal flawlessness had made him better for tasks such as espionage or, more often, reporting of the true feelings of those throughout the kingdom. The only knight who had both the martial prowess, the mental agility, and the proper temperament had been the knight she had ultimately chosen.

Change though they might in subtle ways, there were some things about the both of them that would never change. They might show more of their true feelings, laugh and smile a little more, allow embarrassment to show on their faces...but the two knights would always be proper, conduct themselves with dignity, live by their chivalric ideal, seek peace, and never allow their emotions to get the better of them. To change those parts of themselves would have meant that he was no longer the Bedivere she knew...nor would she have been the Arturia he had known.

"You shall see for yourself, soon enough," she cautioned gently. Of all her knights, she was the most gentle with him, at least as much as she had been able to be, given that she treated all equally. "However," she continued with a smile, "In adhering to the tenants of chivalry, I am reassured that you have and will continue to conduct yourself as befitting a knight of Camelot."

Arturia might have had to worry about the boisterous Gawain or another knight accidentally causing an incident, but with bedivere, she felt no need to worry. If anything, her worries were over how the multiverse might affect him. Even some of their allies were a little disturbing.

At least his reassurance had made her feel a little better, but still...even just the thought itself of losing him again secretly terrified her. It didn't help that the two of them were of one mind in so many ways that their emotions seemed to bleed off and affect the other; when she laughed, he seemed to start laughing, but when he was uneasy, it started to make her uneasy in turn. She fidgeted slightly, cursing her mask drop at a bad time. "I...do trust in your abilities, without question. If ever there was someone who could face the dangers of the multiverse and triumph, it would be a knight of Camelot. Still...these miracles seem to come with a price. The water is safe to drink, yet the other side of the coin is dark magic practiced by those with no honour nor compassion. Even..."

She stopped before she finished saying 'Servant', cautious in her phrasing. "...those who possess strength greater than human beings must remain on guard." Of course, if any of her knights could be said to be truly cautious, it had been Bedivere. Her warning was most likely unnecessary, but her fears stubbornly persisted. Perhaps this was what it was like to truly feel; it wasn't always pleasant.

Here, his keen powers of observation were working against her; she knew he was going to catch that. Even still, she wouldn't keep the knowledge of the Holy Grail War from him even if he were less astute. He needed to know, and not simply because she was in the middle of it all. That, however, didn't mean that she was looking forward to it. "I explain everything, but...not here."

The awkward air was almost palpable. Arturia was likewise astute, not missing the attempt, nor his awkward reaction. In turn, she hesitated with her next action, but pressed herself to follow through with it. Closing the distance, she took his arm, snaking her hand around and curling around it in a posture of escort to lead him out. Her hair hung low around her downturned face, obscuring it as she stared at the floor, but the bright red colouring her ears gave her away.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There are aspects of the gentle knight that will never change – that even, placid temperament, and his relentless desire to do good. His is a generous and gentle soul; one that is pained by the injustices of the world and the rift between rich and poor. If ever there is a Knight of the Round that will conduct himself as befitting knightly ideals, it would be Bedivere.

If those parts of him changed, there would be something wrong with him, and that man would no longer be Bedivere.

"I am honoured," he murmurs, ducking his head when he's praised – openly, so openly, such a strange and wondrous thing to hear that from his king! – for his conduct. It hides the sudden redness touching his face again. Why can't he take such praise with a straight face? He can do any number of other things without so much as flinching, but this seems to be beyond his capabilities.

He looks to her sidelong through those violet eyes, and seems to take her caution in all due seriousness. It isn't like him to dismiss advice of any kind, so she can at least content herself that he'll take it to heart.

Indeed, Arturia's unease seems to linger in her loyal knight. He isn't quite certain why she feels so ill at ease, but some of that is reflected in himself. He manages to hide most of it, but no doubt she can see right through his efforts. Worry over her is one of the few things he's had difficulty hiding beneath his own mask.

He cocks his head slightly at her near-stumble again. It seems strange that she would be so uncertain with her words; normally so self-assured and confident.

"Hmm." The sound is thoughtful, and Bedivere watches her from the corner of those violet eyes. "I thank you for your vote of confidence in my skills, milord, but you need not worry for my sake. I will be cautious. And I do not have reason to take unnecessary risks." He smiles, though the expression is more reminiscent of his more careful, restrained displays of emotion. "Have I not given my word that I would return to you, milord? I have never been one to break my given word. Nor have I any intentions to start now."

Fortunately he's tactful, too, and lets her slip pass without comment. There's a knowing quality to those violet eyes, though, that says very plainly that he did catch that slip, and he is curious, but he is also a gentleman and won't pry.

"As you wish, milor—" Bedivere's voice abruptly trails off, not quite squawking, though it comes close. His own face flushes red again as she takes him by the arm and tugs him along to leave. He can't help but stumble after her; not just because he doesn't want to resist, but because she's got him by the arm and all. She's got him by the arm. The strange, surreal nature of that is probably the only thing that keeps him from dissolving into mortification.

He can't even protest, because his throat's closed off so badly he can't find his voice.

Well, looks like Arturia's going to have a willing travel partner, if only because he's too flabbergasted to protest, helpless but to follow along wherever it is she intends to go.

Oh, dear.

Saber (346) has posed:
Oh, how she had missed him. And even now, being at her side again, it was a bittersweet feeling, the memory of the ache from leaving the knights behind. Out of all of them, however, Bedivere could have been said to be the closest to her, and not simply because he had been the one to bury her in a future that had yet to happen for her. He had been the most like her in temper and outlook, the one who most pursued the sacred chivalric virtue of charity...and, of course, adopted a mask of stoicism to carry out his duties with the same impartiality as she had. In some ways, they had not even needed to speak, understanding so well what was within their hearts, and their shared devotion to chivalry.

And yet, so much misunderstanding. For her part, she had remained unaware -- though hardly blissfully so -- of his deeper motivations, of longing for just a simple, honest smile from her or a glimpse of her true feelings...feelings she dare not reveal to anyone. Perhaps had she only known, she could have allowed something to slip beyond the mask...

But no. In Camelot, it simply wasn't possible. Only now could she reveal herself, let go of those constraints. Even if she remained unaware of the wish she was continuously granting him, she wouldn't hold back. At least, not as much. Her stoicism was too much a part of her -- a part of her chivalry -- that she would always maintain some vestiges of it.

That was simply who she was. But it was a part of him, as well. Another way in which they understood each other so well.

"I know," Arturia replied quietly. "I truly do." And she left it at that; Bedivere had given his word, and the only way to properly honour him was to take him at his word. The word of a knight was his bond. She had made sure of that when she founded the Round Table.

The tiny blonde was further grateful that he did not pry; there was going to be a lot of exposition to a very ugly greater reality. She wasn't looking forward to it at all, but it was necessary. Involuntarily, the Servant pressed her lips into a thin line. Her current Master was a true lady with hidden spirit, and honourable to a fault. Bedivere would probably accept her with few issues, but recounting her previous Master's actions would prove to be a trial. That was to say nothing of the tainted relic of the Holy Grail....and her motivations for seeking it out.

That was going to sting the worst of all. She felt as if she had insulted him by wishing to undo her entire reign, even if she had, in her eyes, failed completely. At the time, Arturia had thought that by undoing her history she could spare them the pain she had caused, allow a king whom they could truly trust in, who could lead them the way she never could. Yet, if it had not been for that perhaps selfish wish, would she not be here, now? Granting his wish to serve her again....she had the power to grant at least one, after all was said and done. For some reason, that brought her a measure of satisfaction.

Her hand stayed where it was as she led him out, leaving the V-Max and her (in dire need of drycleaning) suit where they were to make their way to the Tohsaka mansion on foot. Thank the good Lord for warpgates. But before that, she took a moment to inhale and exhale slowly, carefully. "I am not sure how to prepare you for all this....nor the close friend whom I live here with. I...was somewhat too preoccupied to properly warn her..."

It was a rare occasion when the King of Knights was embarrassed to the point of blushing, yet she seemed to be doing just that non-stop. With some trepidation, she opened the door, just as she had so many times before, and called out in a language that the workings of the multiverse translated for them but was obviously not the medieval Welsh they had spoken in Britain so long ago; "Sakura, I am home. I have brought company."

At least the Servant/magus alarms weren't going off.

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
Blissfully unaware of the impending doom, a certain lavender-haired young woman glides around the kitchen of the Tohsaka mansion. Mostly, that is, because the doom isn’t really hers, so the whole ‘oncoming train of embarrassment’ isn’t triggering her own senses. As it is, she instead provides the domestic services of which she’s both immensely proud of and skilled at, almost humming to herself. The song in her head is one that’s been on the radio now and then, but the electronic box itself is quiet for now.

And then there is that sense of presence, of familiarity, that doesn’t even break Sakura’s rhythm. The only sign she gives of her awareness of Saber’s close presence is a smile; it’s been a little while since she’d seen the Servant. And it was nice to have friends around, even if...well, at least she did make the onigiri as a snack before dinner; well...ahh, it’ll be alright, and it’ll be fun to share the tray with her.

Sakura did, as always, make enough.

The door opening gets a reaction, and the magus makes her way to the foyer of the mansion. Slippers on, she smiles wide and greets Saber with a cheerful hello - and then plum eyes go wide when she realizes that the King of England has a companion. Her cheeks go red slightly when she sees the incessantly handsome young man … woman … ? with her friend, and then she notices their hands. A new expression dawns across her face, one Saber definitely hasn’t seen in quite some time.

It’s joy. It’s peaceful, almost tearful, pure joy. “Ah...w-welcome to our home, ah, that is...I’m Sakura. Sakura Tohsaka, ah...please, come in. I, er, wasn’t expecting anyone special to arrive, I’m sorry I’m unprepared…” A bow, proper and formal despite the simple clothes that she wears, before she rises to give Saber the subtlest (not really) of winks. Then her gaze turns back to the much taller blonde, and...erm. She isn’t sure, and never really...enquired such things about Saber, but the royal woman’s own love life was her own business after all.

Still, congratulations were in order. Reaching out, Sakura rests both her hands atop Arturia and Bedivere’s, the smile on her face still wide. “Saber...I’m really, really happy that...that you finally found someone. And I’m so very honored to meet you!” Another nod of the head by way of acknowledging, and Sakura looks back to the Servant. “After all, it’s been so long, it’s not right that...you’ve been so alone all this time. That you found your happiness as well, with someone to be by your side…!” Well, maybe she’s just a little bit speechless. But that’s kind of understandable, when one of your closest friends shows up.

And then realization dawns. England...was not known for its historical liberal views on courtship, and knightly chivalry and courtly love was something expressed in deeply subtle ways. For the Magus, perhaps her own memories are slightly muddled by those shared with the King of Knights, but there are feelings that she remembers to someone just like this blonde person before her. And the closeness that they are clearly showing must be deeply significant, and Sakura gasps, pulling her hands away.

“Y-your highness...please forgive me, I didn’t mean…” Wellllll she did actually sort of swear fealty to Arturia at one point, technically that makes the incredibly handsome Guinevere her Queen. “I am at your service...for someone who has clearly won Saber’s heart…” Somewhere in what passes for a metaphysical realm, the great god Murphy is laughing his ass off.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although Bedivere glances over at Arturia's acknowledgement, he doesn't comment on it, apparently content to let it go. If she doesn't wish to speak on it any more, he certainly has no inclination to pry. It is impolite to do so, and also improper. She may be encouraging him to be more open and the like, but it's a difficult thing for him to do. Saber may have had four years to bring down her walls, but his were just as strong. It will take more effort to relax completely.

Even as they walk, he seems to be a little uncomfortable just holding her hand where it might be seen by others. He doesn't pull away, though, which probably speaks volumes.

"Prepare?" Bedivere quirks a brow in an uncharacteristically curious expression.

Whatever does she plan on telling him? It doesn't really fill him with apprehension, but it does make him wonder just what strangeness his liege has gotten herself into in his absence. Properly warn her?

Still, he follows docilely enough, all eyes as they cross through the neighbourhood. The architecture is at once familiar and utterly foreign, and he can't help but stare. No doubt he has people staring at him, too, for he isn't a Servant... though these people have been in a Unified world for some time now. Some of them have gotten used to seeing the occasional weirdness pass through.

They reach the door, which he squints at. Such intricate craftsmanship, with such perfect planes and angles. He reaches out to touch it shortly before she opens it. "Glass," he breathes in wonder. "How is it made so clear, I wonder?"

The door opens, though, and he follows his liege faithfully. He blinks a bit as he and Sakura are suddenly faced with each other, and sizing one another up with evident puzzlement. Ah, so this is the friend that his king had mentioned. She does seem a proper lady, and refined in all of the correct and proper ways. He gives a faint inclination of his chin that's mostly meant as subtle approval. And then—

Oh.

Oh, Good Lord above.

Arturia still has him by the arm, and too late does he realise why Sakura has such a strange, strange expression on her face.

Violet eyes widen as he stiffens so much he can practically feel something in his back pull painfully. He's good enough to mask his sudden expression of dawning horror, and since Arturia has his entire arm, he can't pull away before Sakura lays a hand over theirs.

Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, but he can't really form any words.

He's definitely starting to look uncomfortable, now. Still, he's holding his own, and his quiet horror is more concerned with the fact that there are others witness to he and Arturia behaving so closely, and not—

"What—"

Bedivere can't even speak. His high cheekbones flush red, and he can feel the damning heat that he knows everyone else can see. He can feel it straight into the tips of his ears; can feel his throat closing in his shock and mortification. Not necessarily for himself (though that's certainly an element), but for Arturia's own honour, too. After all, he doesn't know what this young lady is to his king, and...

He sputters a bit as he tries to master himself, even against the odds. "I—n-no, you misunderstand, good lady, I—milord—" Bedivere's head whips over to Saber in helpless entreaty. Help me! "N-no, that is not... I am only..."

So much for that famous calm and poise.

Saber (346) has posed:
Perhaps 'warn' hadn't been the best turn of phrase to use, Arturia reflected. "Ah...well, you see, there have been some hostilities tied to this family...it is one of the things I shall explain shortly. But more importantly, my friend is somewhat...shy. A true lady. I did not wish to put her out of sorts, bringing unfamiliar visitors without preparing in advance. It is, I must admit, rude of me."

She visibly steeled herself mentally, inhaling and exhaling again. "The first truth I must share is that I am known by most not by my true name, but by a code, of sorts. Do not be surprised when I am merely called 'Saber'."

That was definitely going to score a questioning look, but the whole explanation could be delayed until they at least got settled. The nest part, given his suspicion of magic, was going to be far more difficult. "The second is that magic in this world is very weak, acts of True Magic are all but nonexistent. However, there are those who call themselves 'magus' who wield the small vestiges of it through peculiar means."

With at least the basics out of the way, Saber decided to take the rest as they came down the path; revealing that Sakura was one of these magi, that she was even a Master, specifically Saber's....and that Saber was no longer human. Baby steps.

At first, Saber was a little startled but didn't think anything suspicious about Sakura's enthusiasm; she always seemed so happy when her Servant made efforts to create a true life for herself, finding friends and working with various allies and associates for the greater good. Tragically, she assumed that Sakura's enthusiasm had been over the fact that someone from her own time and place had appeared, that Saber had started to piece together more of her past to properly make amends. She hadn't spoken of her regrets in so many words, but the memories Sakura could catch glimpses of in dreams and Arturia's own recounting of them surely must have left the magus with some impression of the wish to see her knights again, to convey what lay behind the mask.

She had no earthly idea that Sakura had interpreted some romantic meaning to her companion. Which made the whole eventuality all the more disastrous.

It was in the second burst that things started to go horribly wrong. "Found...alone...side..." she repeated, her mind not quite registering the words at first, labouring with Sakura's ecstatic outburst. Try as she might, she couldn't quite address one point. She started to smile and then introduce Sakura to her dear friend, then relate how she had missed all of her knights, ask her if she remembered the last time she had brought Lancelot -- a fellow Saber now -- over...

And then.

Without preamble, all of Saber's mental workings came to a screeching halt.

It might seem as minutes tick by as Saber's face reflected nothing at all, each one lasting a seeming hours as she seemed frozen in time itself. Once the silence might appear to last for an eternity, the exact progression of events seemed to blur into a single flurry of frantic activity. Which came first: the impossibly widened eyes, the burning cherry-red face, the frantic waving of hands, or the choked unintelligible sputter? Only the Lord God Himself could really and truly know.

"Wh-what....n-no...I...we...it does not...."

She happened then to glance down, which is when she finally noticed it: her hand was still curled around Bedivere's arm.

Oh.

Oh dear.

At the realisation, Arturia abruptly let go, waving both her hands out in front of her as if to ward off some accusation, so flustered that her filter regarding the ritual relationship between Sakura and Arturia came completely off and not daring to risk so much as a glance at her equally horrified/embarrassed knight. "Y--you misunderstand, Master...he is a knight of my retinue...n-not...not...."

There were some rare moments when returning to her own time and letting the earth take her into its embrace seemed such a welcome, peaceful fate. This was one of those times.

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
The much taller man gets a sunny smile, as he nods - and that smile persists as he straightens and his eyes go wide. She is indeed a proper lady, at least as the modern term might go; Sakura herself is certainly not one of any highborn blood but at least comports herself with dignity.

At least, usually.

Sakura blinks as Bedivere straightens up suddenly, and his eyes widening bring a slight shadow to the sunny expression on her face. It lasts for a moment, as he starts to ask a question, but the young woman's own blurted words of praise and encouragement suddenly bring a reaction she hadn't quite expected...from both of them.

Those purple eyes, not quite as blue as Bedivere's own, flick back and forth between the two newcomers in confusion. The bits and pieces of words they're trying to get out, and the terribly flushed reaction from both of them...

OHHHH. Before Saber's able to recover, reboot herself, and reason with Sakura as to just what's going on, the magus realizes the truth herself. Saber's true identity was a secret, of course, and that meant that this other person...must be the same. "I...ah, I see, then...I'm terribly sorry!"

Her head hangs forward, long hair spilling past her shoulders in an apologetic bow. "I didn't realize, th-that...it was something that was supposed to be, ah, kept quiet...p-please forgive me! Er, th-though, please come in, both of you..." One hand gestures further inside the manor; after all it wouldn't do to leave the once and future King and Queen of England simply standing in the foyer! The door will, fortunately, close behind them; the house at least is doing its best to keep some form of privacy even if noone else is aware of its kind and supportive efforts.

"I didn't mean to, ah, disturb your identity, y-your-" Fortunately, the magus is saved from a worsening case of foot-in-mouth disease by the sudden and spastic gestures by the diminutive King of Knights. She gives a sudden and understanding nod; Sakura does her best to keep up with the implications of Saber's stuttered explanation.

And promptly misconstrues it. "Ah, r-really that...that's alright, Saber, I won't...tell anyone. It's important to, ah...maintain a certain sort of disguise, wh-when ah..." Well, when someone is trying to be as incognito as Saber was - and, apparently, Queen Guenivere as well. Well, if anyone /else/ figured out the tall blonde's identity it could be extremely dangerous to Saber's own life as well!

Blushing as furiously as the other two, Sakura lets her voice drop to a whisper. "I promise...o-on my bond to you as a M-" Cough. She still hates that word. "As...your friend and ally, I won't...tell anyone. Not even sister." It's bad enough when Rin's hackles are up over the presence of one Aozaki or another; were she to know who is standing there she'd probably explode.

As it was, Sakura finally draws her hands away from the others, crossing them in front of her chest. It's an entirely understandable situation - as Saber herself had to masquerade as a King, it's only reasonable that a gentleman such as this would be the right match for her. And with Saber's own destiny determined by the single act of drawing a sword, it wasn't as if she had a choice.

Perhaps that Merlin fellow that she'd dreamt of once or twice had a hand in maintaining their illusion.

"Ah, if you'd please...this way, I'm afraid there isn't much, but I've made refreshments..." Deferential as ever, Sakura will be more than happy to lead them to the kitchen. And she can only wonder about Sir Lancelot, and how privy he was to all of this - and just what it must mean. Wasn't...Lancelot part of the reason that Camelot fell, and...with this person...?

What passes through Sakura's mind for the shortest possible instant causes those plum eyes to open slightly, and she turns to regale the Man Who Would Be Queen. Ah, for such a face, a truly royal beauty...p-perhaps she can understand what the tall, dark-haired knight must have felt...!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Unfortunately, Bedivere has very little opportunity to take in the cautions and warnings given to him before the door opens and the whole kettle of fish is overturned.

Where Arturia's face reflects nothing at all for a few minutes, Bedivere's is a healthy mixture of horror and scandalised shock. His mask may have been nearly as complete as Arturia's, but there's absolutely no hope of maintaining it under this assault, this onslaught. He can only stare in growing horror at this mortifying misunderstanding.

Bedivere's just as quick to yank his hand back when she pulls away, as though he'd been burnt. Suddenly everything becomes clear, and for a moment all he can do is sputter ineffectually.

"No, that is not—we—I—"

The title used doesn't escape him, but right now, he's in too much shock to make specific note of it. He's too busy skipping beats over the rest of the situation, trying desperately to make some sense of this awful misunderstanding.

"Aí!" He finally comes out with that sound; a syllable Arturia well-recognises; not something he uses often, and certainly not in Camelot... but when he does, something in place of exasperation, embarrassment, or simply more emotion than he can really put to words. Right now it's something of all three. "N-no! This—this is not what you think, good lady!"

It gets even worse as Sakura seems to putter along with that reasoning.

Bedivere is so scarlet he's sure that the heat must have done permanent damage to the skin of his face by this point. Even the tips of his ears are scarlet. No doubt it's an amusing contrast between his pale, silvery hair.

"Oh, no, no," he groans, scandalised, reaching up to cover his face with his hands. "No. Please, no, by the Good Lord, this is not..."

He forces himself to drop his hands, looking to Sakura helplessly. "Let me introduce myself properly and perhaps we can put this to rest once and for all. I am Sir Bedivere of Camelot. I—we are not—that is to say—"

Bedivere folds his arms over his chest, one of them raising so he can bury his scarlet face in one steel-gauntleted hand. Again.

"I am milady's loyal servant, not—we are not—'tis not like that—oh, by the Good Lord, this is a terrible misunderstanding—!"

Violet eyes dart to Arturia in obvious desperation, as though entreating her to help them out of this mess somehow. She doesn't look to be in any better straits than he, though.

Oh, what a mess.

Help me! those desperate violet eyes seem to plead to Arturia.

Saber (346) has posed:
And in the middle of that storm there was Arturia, groaning softly, holding her head in her hands. Even that one piece of hair that stubbornly refused to lie down obediently seemed to droop with despair.

Dear God in heaven, she pleaded with the powers which had made her a Heroic Spirit. Surely I have committed no great evil to incur this!

"No...Sakura...you are mistaken..." she managed to grind out hoarsely as Sakura closed the door, her mind still fragmented with the mental cluster bomb her Master had just dropped on the two unsuspecting knights of Camelot. Bedivere's looks of desperate entreaty went unseen; Saber's still-red face remained dropped in her hands -- she didn't dare look at him. Giving him hope again, only to cruelly serve up such horror. Such a terrible liege.

Still, even with her mind reeling like that, she could hear the desperation, the mortified denials, the brave attempts at setting Sakura right. The problem was that she was hardly in a better position to deal with the situation with her usual calm and an unflappable expression.

Or, was she? As equally mortified as she was, some semblance of reason miraculously broke though. It did, however, have a number of conditions that needed to be met. And much to her added horror, drop the poor knight right into the middle of an exposition of the Holy Grail War. Finally, she removed her face from her hands, and the calm mask started to reassemble itself. Right, so perhaps the most embarrassing moment in either of her lives was apparently over, and now all that remained was a rational explanation...

But as if the universe was conspiring against the petite blonde knight, the magus chose the perfect opportunity to hit her again, merely seconds before Arturia was able to speak...with an even more devastating attack.

She seriously assumed...

The empty, near soul-less stare was even longer this time, and even though the door was now safely closed, the poor unfortunate humans might have probably felt the vestiges of a chill wind sweep through the foyer as Sakura completely and disastrously misinterpreted every last detail. And had Saber turned completely sheet-white?

"Master...." the Servant Saber finally managed, her lips feeling numb. "What are you speaking of..?"

Her expression, though bland, would probably convey everything to her helpless marshal. Her gaze was empty, her lips pressed into a straight line with the ends curled up into not-quite a smile. And that chill wind persisted. "I am completely and utterly defeated." Forgive me, Sir Bedivere, but you shall have to bury me again.

One could almost hear a plaintive penny whistle in the background...

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
There are impressive qualities about psychological masks. They can endure many things, they can be a powerful demonstration of will and determination, and they can be a wonderful protection for those who must wear them. So much can be endured, so much can be absorbed, that it's almost impregnable.

And then there's simple misunderstandings centered around hope, and the sheer power the multiverse has given the sensation of hope from young women means it overcomes everything.

Meanwhile, innocent misunderstandings continue, and Sakura wonders momentarily if the radio's weather report was wrong. After all, it seems as if they've both been in the sun for some time; the flushed expressions...was it that hot outside?

Her head bowed, Sakura doesn't quite notice the change in the two, the blanching and curiously expressionless face of Saber, and the desperate terror of her companion. She does, though, hear the words stated...and finally mentally pauses after a moment, trying to understand what it was that Saber and her companion had just said. And when he speaks, that soft plaintive voice finally triggers another memory of dreams.

A sword, gently placed upon each shoulder, and a certain phrase. The look of sheer joy on the young man, the sensation of pride in Saber, and the meaning of the ceremony.

It's now Sakura's turn to turn as red as physically possible, and her head hangs lower. There's a very long moment where the magus is more than glad her hair has grown so long, as it makes a perfect way to hide her face. A strangled squeak of...not much comprehensible at all, and without an ability to say anything the girl turns and flees into the kitchen.

Well. She does need a moment, after all, to regather her composure - even for the younger of the Tohsaka clan, it is still a difficult thing after such...a horrid misunderstanding as that. Well, the simplest and least embarrassing thing is to simply pretend it never happened, and simply carry on. A faux pas of that nature...maybe it can be just...left behind, perhaps. If Saber and her companion are willing...

After a moment, Sakura returns - this time carrying a tray of sushi rolls. "Ah...Saber, and your friend, I..." Kind of completely forgot your name. "I made something to eat earlier, if you'd like. It isn't much, but perhaps...to, ah, to celebrate finding your friend, after so long..." It's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, and one should always welcome guests with significant hospitality!

The fact that her face is glowing as red as the malfunction lights on a certain little hatchback's dashboard is blithely ignored.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he seems to calm down fast, the noble Sir Bedivere can do little more than stew in his own horror as Saber adopts the mask of the cold king. Maybe he suspects that this time it's so she can control her raging emotions. He does the same, for much the same reasons. Perhaps it's a little less complete than the king's, but the marshal was still formidably impartial. He had to be, to perform his duties objectively.

A faint twitch near his right eye nonetheless gives him away. No, his mask is not nearly so complete as Arturia's.

Bedivere's armour rattles slightly in the face of that chill wind.

When Arturia admits her defeat, he swallows thickly, as though trying to clutch at some remaining hope of salvaging this horrible misunderstanding. Some dim, distant part of him hopes this never comes up again – there's simply no need to say that this is beyond mortifying for such a loyal servant, so concerned for the honour and pride of his king.

For a brief instant, some small part of him wonders if he could yet return to the wood he had wandered for four years. C-could he just... wander for a few years more there, at least until the fire left his face and the horror fled his heart?

Sakura takes a moment to flee. Once she's left, Bedivere very slowly crumples to his knees, both hands rising to hide his face. The scarlet of his skin is still visible through his fingers, though, and the faintly blue tinge to the gauntlet's leather pads only accentuates the brightness of the hue.

"Ah, milord... I—I... there are no apologies I can offer to—" For someone normally so eloquent and composed, Bedivere can't even seem to speak. The redness reaches the very tips of his ears, so covering his face doesn't help as much as he may think it does. "I—I am so sorry. There—there is no way I can make this up to you; I take full responsibility for the assault on your honour, I..."

Dimly, he might be aware that he is running his mouth like an idiot, but his nerves are too frayed to stop until he trails off, gracelessly.

The onetime Marshal of Camelot inhales deeply, sags forward a little further, and lets his breath out in a sigh that is, thankfully, only slightly shaky.

Oh, horrors.

He seems about to say something else, but before he has the opportunity, Sakura comes back in. His fingers splay just enough to regard her through one violet eye. Even crumpled on his knees, hunched over a bit, he's not a whole lot shorter than Arturia – it's clear that this is (normally) a tall, and imposing, figure (in any other circumstance but this one specifically).

Clearing his throat, Sir Bedivere rises to his feet with great dignity, dusting off his cloak and resolutely ignoring the crimson that still touches his face.

It isn't much longer until Sakura makes her return. Bedivere stands there, hair shadowing his still-red face, and he eyes the plate somewhat dubiously. What exactly is that? Is that even edible? And then she does it again. He'd been about to banish that redness, but she goes and calls them friends again – it's one thing to allow Arturia to do it, but somehow, the idea of other people acknowledging them as such, openly, makes his stomach twist itself into all sorts of new and interesting configurations that were probably never meant to be endured. His face redoubles its impressive scarlet colour.

He opens his mouth and makes a strangled sound. When he tries again, he finally manages to make some kind of sense. Or at least use words. Actually, he seems to recover most of his wits, though he has to stand in silence for a moment, working his jaw to burn off some of those nerves. Arturia may hear his teeth creaking for a brief instant before he manages to speak. He finally sighs, famously straight posture sagging.

"No, good lady, I am King Arturia's sworn knight. My name is Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, and I was her sworn Marshal of Camelot. I am not—that is to say—w-well, yes, we are certainly fortunate to see one another again, but—" So much for recovering his composure. Bedivere reaches up and covers his face with a hand. What's he supposed to do?

Arturia may be the one burying him.

He sighs through his hand, somewhere between frustration and helplessness. "What I mean to say is that milord Arturia and I are not... not..."

Oh, the Good Lord in Heaven. He can't even bring himself to say what conclusion he suspects Sakura had jumped to. Even thinking about it makes his face redden so much more. Just thinking about being friends with his liege makes him practically hyperventilate; thinking about the kind of nebulous more that Sakura had implied?

Bedivere looks faint for a moment; his jaw snaps shut, and he just hides behind his gauntleted hand for about five seconds of perfect silence.

He tries one more deep breath and tries again.

"We are not—we are not— I have not—" His voice rises into a genuine squeak. "I have not won milord Arturia's heart—"

He doesn't dare say anything more for a moment, lest he betray the horrible maelstrom that his poor mind's turned into. He can't even imagine that, and yet for a brief instant, he does, though he doesn't breathe a word. He wouldn't dare breathe a word.

All the others would take note of is that the tall knight suddenly sags to his knees again, hands resting flat on the floor, shoulders hunched, head bowed and trembling in his misery... but there are at least small favours. His hair is long enough that it does, for a brief moment, hide his face.

"Oh, might the Good Lord give me mercy," he says in that soft voice, tone plaintive, "for I have clearly sinned to bring this upon myself, and may I repent properly, for I—I have brought shame upon milord Arturia..."

It takes him about five more minutes of this before he recovers, rising unsteadily to his feet.

He resolutely does not meet either Arturia's or Sakura's eyes during this time. In fact, his head remains bowed, staring straight at the floor. His posture is still a little hunched, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to stand tall and proud.

"Aí," he murmurs, softly; absolutely mortified.

Oh, the Good Lord preserve him.

Saber (346) has posed:
As the realisation at long last dawned on her Master, Saber was unable to speak so much as a world as Sakura -- nearly as mortified at the two knights of Camelot -- let out her characteristic squeak and retreated into what had become her well-established refuge. "Ah..." was all that managed to escape the Servant's lips, helplessly raising a hand as if to grasp the fleeing violent-tinted shadow.

That she probably understood their relationship now was good...the unfortunate part was that the awkwardness was almost tangible, having escalated even further. Arturia hadn't thought that was possible.

Saber stood frozen in place, valiantly fighting to overcome the embarrassment which seemed to keep her rooted like a tree to the floor. Slowly, the colour returned to her face...a little too much, given her now ruddy complexion. After a moment to gain at least some semblance of coherent thought, the tiny blonde tried to piece together some idea of what to do. She was startled out of her murky musings, however, by the sound of metal scraping floor as her poor, beleaguered marshal sank to his knees beside her.

Poor Bedivere, she could feel the humiliation practically radiating off him -- or that could have been the blush of a thousand burning suns she was feeling -- and his choked apology made his sound absolutely pitiable. Vaguely, she wondered how long had it been since she'd last seen him like that, so helpless; years ago when that young boy not even a year her junior began the difficult road to knighthood. He had trained relentlessly to perfect both skill and demeanour, and for the years afterward it had never seemed to crack at all.

Until today. It would have been nostalgic if she hadn't been so embarrassed, herself.

Taking a deep, somewhat shaky breath, she composed herself carefully, ruthlessly suppressing the overwhelming urge to do some hiding of her own by fleeing outside and losing her embarrassment in rigorous training. Her mask was far from complete, but it didn't need to be. Just enough for her to rest a light hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "There is nothing to apologise for," she replied, managing to sound fairly even. Mostly. "I-it was just a misunderstanding..."

A horrifically embarrassing misunderstanding, to be sure, but a misunderstanding.

The Servant was mildly surprised when Sakura made her return; it was rather impressive she managed to recover relatively quickly. Of course, she was 'burying herself in work', but wasn't that what Saber did? The thought of the two rubbing off on each other was a touching and pleasing thought...if that was the case, perhaps Arturia might acquire at least a little of Sakura's cooking skills? With an internal frown, Saber scolded herself and tried to put on a dignified face; she needed to focus on the needs of her friends first.

Clearing her throat softly with a tiny fist raised to her mouth, Arturia nodded to the magus. "Yes, that is quite thoughtful, Sakura," she replied smoothly, trying to smile reassuringly. "Yes, I..."

And then it was the marshal of Camelot's turn for a bout with foot-in-mouth disease. Oh, no.

"Sir Bedivere, she is not incorrect, we are fr..."

And then the silver-haired knight blurted out probably a little more than he intended to, flustered as he was. This time, the squeak was from her. Not to mention her face heated up all over again. Was he just babbling something frantically to convince Sakura that her earlier assumptions were wrong, or...

No, clearly not. There was nothing feminine about her for anyone to want to win her heart, nothing beyond that of a cherished comrade. Yes, that was surely what he had meant. Inwardly, she nodded in satisfaction, regaining her composure a little more fully now. Bedivere was simply unsettled because of the horrible blows to his knightly dignity, that was it.

With a sweet smile of some much-needed relief, Saber waited until Sakura had returned to the kitchen -- perhaps to regain a little more composure but more than likely because she was in the middle of preparing dinner -- before her smile dropped. This was probably the best time to fill him in on that which she had been dreading. "I...have much that I must tell you. But I think it would be best were you sitting down to hear of this..." she said quietly, almost reluctantly leading the way to the parlour.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If Saber shows a bit too much colour in her complexion, her loyal knight must be suffering from some kind of awful sunburn. Bedivere remains exactly where he is as though rooted to the spot, shoulders slumped. His gaze is resolutely directed at the floor. Actually, not even that. His eyes are closed. He can't bring himself to open them.

So complete was Bedivere's once-mastery of himself that he had never before shown this side to his liege. Not even when he was training had he ever seemed so helpless – indeed, he had been fiercely determined as a youth, his heart and soul absolutely set on passing the trials before him and joining the Knights of the Round Table in service to Arturia. Perhaps he lacked experience, then, but never had he been helpless.

The temptation to sink to his knees again is almost overwhelming. Just to hear her voice is enough to hammer down the guilt at visiting such indignity upon his liege. One hand slowly rises, and so terrible are his nerves that his arm trembles; the slight sound of rattling plate is unmistakable. Very slowly and deliberately, Bedivere covers his face with a gauntleted hand.

He does not speak when Arturia reassures him. He isn't certain he can trust himself to.

Somewhere in all of this, their plum-haired host returns to the kitchen. Bedivere never takes note of it, striving valiantly to recover some shred of dignity in all of this. His shoulders slump and his other hand rises, both coming up to cover his face.

Without much prompting, he makes his way over to someplace appropriate to sit, sinking bonelessly down in the manner of one without much spirit left in them. The motion is graceless, especially for him; the armour makes a distinct clank when he rests on it, and the only reason he doesn't get jabbed by his own sword sheathed at his hip is because he isn't thinking when he drops a hand to remove the sword belt, leaning it carefully against an endtable.

And then he slumps and rests his face in both hands, elbows on his knees, shoulders a bowed, miserable line.

"Aí," he says again; very, very softly.

Well, it's probably a good as time as any to continue on. He is listening, even if it may not seem like it. He's just trying to recover what tatters remain of his dignity and composure while he does.

Saber (346) has posed:
Deliberately conscious of his discomfort, Arturia took a seat in a tapestry-covered Queen Anne chair across from Bedivere; close but not so close that it would continue to make him nervous, keeping her jade eyes focused on the folded hands in her lap. She risked a glance at the exhausted knight; it might take some time for them both to recover, and it was still difficult for her to think straight. Inwardly, she scolded herself....she really should have had Sakura at least bring them some tea to calm their shattered nerves. On the other hand, she wasn't entirely convinced she could balance a teacup steadily, not with what seemed like an ache throughout her entire body that rendered even her Servant's healing abilities useless.

Not that things were about to get any easier, abject humiliation they had suffered aside. In some ways, even that might have been preferable. The King of Knights felt herself squirm involuntarily, wondering how the composure she had spent a lifetime perfecting had been decimated so utterly in a matter of minutes. It may have been that she had gotten soft in her new life in the multiverse, but she had maintained a rigorous training regimen to offset that -- as unnecessary as it might have been for a Heroic Spirit frozen in a moment in time -- and she had always been able to deal with most situations in a calm and collected manner. The obvious exception, of course, had been the King of Heroes. No one had been able to incur her wrath as absolutely as he had. She had assumed that only he could shatter her composure so.

Today, she had discovered that this was not the case at all.

Why was that? Saber resisted the urge to peer into his eyes to discern just what was it that had caused all this. But not only would that would have been terribly rude -- extremely unbefitting a proper knight and king -- but she wouldn't have been able to, anyway. She had never had that problem before, but with her mask stripped away, even if a large part of that was her own doing...

Perhaps, she decided, that was why. Her lack of a mask left her vulnerable, which had been the entire point of cultivating it to begin with. The favour she was displaying now would have ended the Kings of the Round Table before they were even gathered. But her friends in the multiverse had done an excellent job of slowly stripping it away, so much that when she had finally and against all odds been reunited with her beloved knights, she was defenceless. Especially regarding one whom she had always had a special -- and completely unknightly -- fondness for.

The Servant was unable to suppress a weary sigh. There really was no good way to begin.

Taking in a deep breath to steel her nerves, Saber began, her face impassive, but her true emotions betrayed by haunted jade eyes. "I should begin with what was to be my death..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perched on the edge of the chair, the former Marshal of Camelot tries to recover some wayward scrap of his dignity and pride. He can barely bring himself to raise his head, let alone look his liege in the face. It's hard for him to even string a coherent thought together.

Now that there's some relief of the ungodly pressure that had been bearing down on him, the eyes of the well-intentioned but misguided Sakura or the direct regard of his liege, it's a little easier to find some breathing room. Slowly, Bedivere can begin to piece his own mask back together again. It feels somehow more fragile than it ever had before, though – why? It had always been flawless. His calm and steady personality had always led him through the worst of times, through even the hell that was the crumbling and eventual fall of Camelot, and even the death of Arturia; led him even to act calmly and rationally to build a cairn for her – for surely what could be harder than that?

Yet even now it threatens to fall away, when he even thinks about raising his head. So he keeps his gaze riveted to the floor, lest his emotions betray him.

Why do they trouble him now when they had never been so uncontrollable in the past? Is it just the shock of seeing Arturia alive again? Surely that must be it. The opportunity to even see her again is more than he had dared hope for, dare dream for. Surely it's just the shock of everything, coupled with his own physical condition – those four years in the wood had not been kind to him. To be certain, he had found peasants to shelter with when he needed it, but more often than not, there were nights he bedded down on his cloak cold and hungry. He's spent a little time in the Union recovering, but it's clear that he's not quite there yet – there are still shadows under his eyes, and those high cheekbones are likely a little more gaunt than Arturia remembers.

A mere shadow of sorrow; a lingering vestige of the grief he had been trying so hard to work his way through. Even four years had not been enough to blunt that sorrow – and now, it has turned to joy, to relief.

Surely his lack of control is just from having to reconcile one extreme with the other.

Some of that sorrow comes back in the set of his shoulders, though Bedivere does not look up, when she mentions her own death again.

"Tell me of what comes after, milord, but – but forgive my boldness. Please do not speak of that." His words are little more than a breath. Anxiety and awkwardness banished, it's clear that the remembrance of that threatens to strike a nerve in the ordinarily cool and calm Knight of the Round. He had never truly put her out of mind; had never truly stopped grieving.

How could he?

"Tell me what you must, but I would not think of that again. Those were cold days, milord; such cold days. To—to have lost you was a great blow indeed to Camelot. A winter had settled over that land I fear would never be broken, even had I returned to try and help set things aright. There..." His head drops just a bit lower. "There would have been no setting that aright."

He shakes his head, voice lowering even further; it lies barely above a whisper. "I am sorry. I do not mean to interrupt. Please continue, milord. I would know what had become of you."

Saber (346) has posed:
Deep in the recesses of her mind, Arturia knew they would mourn her passing; why wouldn't they? She was the king, the one who they looked up to. If nothing else, the king symbolised the hopes of the people, their protector and guide. Failed though she had, the knights who trusted her and looked up to her would grieve, it was natural. And yet...

There was something else, something that suggested that Bedivere had not mourned simply the king, or even a fellow knight....but her. The though humbled her greatly; she had her pride as a knight, yet to have been mourned personally...

On the one hand, it gave her a small measure of happiness that someone had tried to see the woman and not the king. On the other, his obvious sorrow nearly broke her heart, the one that so many doubted she even had. And her sense of guilt nearly threatened to consume her as it once had. It didn't matter that she hadn't died yet, not in her timeline. The fact that she had been about to, and that she would have certainly not remembered all that had happened after pleading to the world, was enough. She hadn't even known that it was to be Sir Bedivere to have found her and laid her to rest, the one she would give her final command to.

Part of her wished that he hadn't been. He was always too gentle for such tasks, even though he carried them out flawlessly and without so much as a word of complaint. And she had burdened him until the very end. "Forgive me," she begged so softly that her voice was barely above a whisper, begging for more than just the mention of her passing. For everything.

She remained still, almost to a disquieting degree, but only for a moment before her hands tightened into clenched, slightly shaking fists on her lap. It was going to be even harder now, telling him what she had intended to do.

"I...pleaded with the spirit of the world. I pledged my service as a Servant in the Holy Grail War...in exchange for my wish."

That admission alone was difficult enough, but the worst for her was yet to come. "My wish..."

Her hair hung low over her face, obscuring it like a shield. Her eyes shut tightly, as if to block out an admission that now, in the face of his devotion, caused her shame. Her voice was steady, but only barely, as if she was doing so only to be able to speak at all. "...Was that I wanted to undo my reign...to allow a stronger, better king to rule in my place. A king who would be able to save Camelot where I could not."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere looks up at those two words. The soft entreaty might have been missed by anyone else, but the Marshal of Camelot has always had keener perceptions than his fellows. He has seen things and heard things where they would not; not necessarily because of any desire for subterfuge, but because it has simply always been his nature to watch and listen, rather than talk or impose his will over others. In some ways, his gentle, shy personality had worked to his advantage.

The emotion seems to drain from him as he looks up; as he sees that broken, vulnerable girl who was, for a time, king of an entire nation. That mask slides back into place, even as he chides himself for having brought about that through his own selfish request. If she were watching, she might be able to see the change pass over his features – the emotion seeming to leach out of those violet eyes, becoming the calm, stoic marshal that she had relied on so much in Camelot.

Inside, he has to suppress a sudden flare of anger, so rare to him, bright and white-hot in its intensity and suddenness. Something, no doubt, that Arturia has never seen in him. Muted though he may force his reactions to be, there's no mistaking the deadly cold in his eyes, or the drawn quality to his angular features.

It isn't fair.

She gave up everything for the sake of a Britain that rejected her rule, had given up any semblance of happiness that she might have had – and for what? For Lancelot to spite the Round Table and indulge in his indiscretions with Guinnevere; for Mordred to rise up and overthrow the kingdom wholesale? For the people to turn their backs on the one king who could have given them the dream they had all at one point harboured? They were the traitors; they who had followed her ideal, and then they who turned on her.

Bedivere does not notice that his hand has clenched into a fist; doesn't even heed the steel plates biting through the leather guards at his palms until he hears the metal rattling quietly.

As much as he wants to, he can't open his fist. It shivers in betrayal of the emotion he strives so hard to hide.

It isn't fair.

She gave up everything. Even her life. And that is what she believes? That she failed? That she could have turned over reign to someone somehow more suitable?

Does she really not know that she was the most suitable?

For all its intensity, surprising even him, his anger isn't directed at her. Never her. No, he is angry at the ungrateful people. How could they follow Arturia, only to cast her away so readily? What justice is there in this world that that is her reward; that she gave up her very life, and if not for Bedivere's survival of Camlann, she would not have even had a proper grave?

Bedivere sets his jaw so hard he can feel the muscles strain, and his teeth creak in protest.

"No, milord." His voice is dangerously soft as he strives to control himself, but preternaturally calm.

She might hear a rustle as he rises from his seat, the quiet clatter of steel plates and the sound of his heavy cloak falling behind him. If she listens, she may hear the quiet sound of Bedivere's sabatons settling against themselves as he takes a hesitant step, followed by another.

There comes another sound, a rush of fabric settling, and the clatter of plates resettling. Should she look up, she'll see him kneeling before her, looking at her with those violet eyes; so tranquil, so absolutely certain of himself.

He does not smile. That would not be right, and he does not trust himself to, anyway. But his voice is gentle and reassuring, the anger leaching out of him to see her broken like that. There is an undertone of warmth to it that he would never have shown in Camelot; though there is an undertone of pain, in turn, to that warmth.

"There could not have been a more worthy king," he says softly. "Did you not draw the sword from the stone yourself? No one else could have done so. And even had they been able to, they would not have held the kingdom together. It would have splintered long before it did, and the results would have been much more grievous. Camelot would have been a disaster of blood and ruin well before now. Perhaps it has ended in ruin, but that is by Mordred's hand, not yours."

He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. His touch is light, as though he could flinch away at any moment; a deer tensed to spring.

Despite all of his adoration of her, all of the hero-worship she had rightfully suspected lay within him, there is a calm confidence to his voice; an absolute certainty. There is nothing of an idealistic, wide-eyed youth in his words, but the cool reassurance of a man absolutely certain of what he says.

"You did all you could, milord. That you could not save Camelot was through no fault of your own." A shadow seems to pass over his features; a sad solemnity in those violet eyes. "Perhaps Camelot was fated to fall. I believe that you held it together longer than any other king may have, against all hope, and at—" His voice finally breaks, however faintly, and he coughs before he continues on, "—at such cost to yourself, milord; at such cost..."

His head bows and his hand drops; he remains knelt before her, the posture of a loyal subservient.

"I am sorry. I speak too much, milord." He seems to withdraw, then, quiet as he leans back a bit on his heels; but he does not rise, and he does not draw away. Once he masters himself, he looks up to her, holding that mask together through sheer willpower; that wall, regarding her through a veil of silvery hair.

No. He would not dare let himself slip now, and cannot afford to suffer a crack in his own mask. To do so would be grave insult to Arturia, and he could not do that. No matter how much it pains him to see her like this, so vulnerable, he will not do her the disservice of losing his own calm. He clings to it as a drowning man clings to a raft – but there's a tightness around his eyes that suggests he struggles as he has never struggled before.

"You—you deserved more than a commoner's cairn," he murmurs softly; so softly. His voice breaks again, and his gaze drops, unwilling or unable to meet her eyes.

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights hadn't known what to expect following her confession, if she had expected anything at all. She had apprehended a number of different possibilities; disappointment, sorrow, anger...any number of feelings or accusations directly at her. Bedivere's loyalty was beyond question, but she had failed chivalry and kingdom again. The King of Conquerors had scorned her regrets, declaring with pride that a king would never regret...and yet, she was helpless to stop herself from doing so. She had born every burden willingly, without complaint, and buried her emotions while hiding her vulnerabilities behind that inhuman mask. She had done everything she could have possibly done, yet failed anyway.

The only explanation Arturia could find was that she had not been strong enough. If her best efforts were not enough to protect Britain, what other reason could there possibly be? Her only hope was to fight for the Holy Grail, claim the sacred artefact, and undo it all and allow a king who could protect the kingdom to ascend the throne. A king who would not have had to wear a mask, who could have been the leader the people and the knights of the realm could truly have confidence in, who could have shaped fate itself with his own hands and forced it to submit to his will to protect his kingdom. Who wouldn't have broken so helplessly under the burden..not the frail, impotent thing who had ascended the throne.

Nevertheless, whatever trepidations she had over how her former aide-de-campe would react, she could not have foreseen the reality. Startled out of her morose thoughts by the simple address, she managed to suppress jumping even slightly in surprise. She could hear him approach, her face remaining down-turned, her eyes still trained on her hands. It was not merely the firm denial, but the unyielding tone in it that held her as if held by a spell. All the awkwardness, the uncertainty, had evaporated in an instant, replaced by the immovable, self-assured Marshal of Camelot of her memory.

Her sensibilities all but screamed at her not to look up, but she was compelled to in spite of it. Her mask was nearly gone, the normally hard jade eyes wide in astonishment as she looked up at him. It was as if all the earlier humiliation and doubt and never existed. The man standing before her was the knight of her memories, the one she had left behind.

But there was a softness to him --and pain -- that had not been there before. As he spoke, she was transfixed, unable to so much as move or even speak. Not even when his hand laid lightly upon her shoulder did she move. Except for the astonishment in her eyes, she might have seemed as distant and emotionless as she had been for all those years as the King of Britain.

It was only when he pulled away, struggling to maintain his own mask, did she so much as blink. As distraught as she was with her own grief over the loss of Camelot, it was only when his own grief threatened to overwhelm him that she looked away. It was human to be missed when one passed, to be remembered and mourned...and yet, it was also human to feel guilt over wishing for that, to feel it when one is the cause of so much pain. To love meant to hurt, and to be hurt in kind.

That once inhuman king dropped her head once more, the pale blonde hair hanging like a veil over her face. It was as if she was carved from lifeless marble, not even so much as shifting for a moment that might as well have been an eternity. But though the little knight didn't so much as move, a sound so soft that only the most keep of ears would have been able to hear it; the sound of water droplets. And only an equally-keen eye would have been able to see the glistening tears on the back of her hands.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It had taken him some time to find that confidence and that self-assurance, those hallmarks of his service in days of yore. More than his knowledge of tactics, more than his abilities in war; those were what had earned him his position as Marshal of Camelot. That steadfast ability to remain calm in the midst of hell itself were more valuable than anything else – rare qualities in many.

Perhaps the Multiverse has crumbled the foundations a bit, but it seems that when it matters, those qualities are still there. This is still the same Bedivere that she had left behind so long ago; the same achingly loyal Bedivere who had without complaint taken Excalibur to return it to the Lady of the Lake. This is the same Bedivere who had gently and patiently set his liege afloat on the lake, to return to Avalon; who had built an empty memorial cairn on the shore of the lake.

He is a bit worn, perhaps, but it is the very same Bedivere who now crouches before her, with nothing but steadiness and calm in those gentle eyes. At the same time, he is not the same – that gentleness and that pain are new, things he never would have permitted to show in the realm of Camelot. They were dangerous vulnerabilities that he could not allow to show in Camelot.

Much like his beloved king, he was forced to hide his weaknesses. He had to present the image of a confident, calm knight. One with inner strength that, at times, surprised even himself.

The naked astonishment in Arturia's eyes does finally earn a faint smile; a slight softening of those violet eyes. It's a rare and precious thing to see such open reaction in her, even if it is under the worst of circumstances. His expression falters when she hangs her head again, brows furrowing just slightly. The reaction is so faint it could be missed by all but a practised eye.

Bedivere remains frozen for several moments.

He hears that sound; he who had trained himself to listen and watch to everything that happened around him, to focus on the details that so many others would have missed. It was how he had come to the conclusion that his king was not a man; although he had never told her he'd figured it out, there had always been a silent understanding. He had figured that out for himself early on, though, thanks to his sharp perceptions.

They serve him now, but he isn't certain of what he's actually seeing.

It actually takes him several seconds to assign some kind of meaning to the sound he hears, or that slight glimmer of just a bit too much light on the back of her hands.

His own eyes drop to regard that, thoughtful.

King Arturia Pendragon would never have shown her reactions to her people. It's a foregone conclusion, then, that she never would have permitted them to see her do something as vulnerable as weep. No matter how much her heart may have been twisted and torn by the events that unfolded around her, she never would have allowed herself to show the pain – and he knew she was in pain, his perceptions keen enough to know that she was hiding it.

Bedivere's mouth twists in an expression of uncertainty, and unconscious pain.

He starts forward, just slightly, little more than a twitch, and he hesitates. Arturia would not want someone else to acknowledge that she hurt so fiercely; if this were any other situation, there's no possible way that he could know the depths of her pain.

The knight's expression seems to tremble for a moment. His violet eyes remain locked on her, as though unable to look away. There are shadows beneath his eyes; lines of stress and fatigue that suggest he's trying his best to hold his own reactions in.

Arturia might hear his sudden exhalation; trembling, and the way he tries to draw in a breath as cleanly and calmly as he can, but his own breath hitches.

She's dropped her gaze, so she wouldn't see her most faithful of knights lunge forward; wouldn't notice until he's thrown his arms around her, the sudden embrace almost desperate. For a brief instant he doesn't think to hold back, and only concern for her brings him to loosen his grip a little, hesitant to dig those steel plates into her arms. She isn't wearing her typical armour. He does still hold her tightly, though; something suggestion of desperation in his tight grip – as though if he let her go, she might vanish, and he might discover this has all been a very strange dream.

Very carefully, he rests his head over hers, and she might feel the trace of moisture in her hair, or the way his breath hitches; so subtle it could be missed – he's obviously trying to control his own reactions, but even he can only control so much.

"Aí, my king; my king," he whispers into her hair, unable to hide the way his voice breaks. "Do not weep. Please, do not weep. I can bear much, but please—" His voice breaks again. The sound is almost a sob. It's clear that he's struggling; harder than he ever has before; trembling even as he tries to comfort the one he had given everything to. For he truly had – after burying her, he had been a hollow man; a broken man, with little left to live for but some vague sense of duty to the memory of that which Arturia had built. "Please do not ask me to bear that. I—I cannot, my king; I cannot bear to see you in such pain..."

Saber (346) has posed:
The iron mask of the King of Knights was not entirely to protect her secret, hide her vulnerabilities, or even to maintain impartiality. A part of it had also been to protect those around her, to keep the burden entirely on her shoulders. Even if at times she wasn't entirely certain she could, she had to. Her first duty was to protect her people, and she had willingly made that choice when she cast aside her femininity -- even something of her humanity -- to draw Caliburn from the ceremonial stone when she was but a child herself.

She tried to shield them...just as she had tried to shield Bedivere. She had failed once more, and no less dramatically.

Were she any less distraught than she was, Arturia would have jumped in surprise at the sudden embrace, perhaps even have pulled away if he had been anyone else. In this moment, however, she was powerless, her mask crumbling away into nothingness. Instead of pulling away, tiny hands reached up and gripped the mantle around his shoulders and upper chest, clinging to it almost desperately and she buried her face into his shoulder.

But what had been silent tears became open sobbing, quiet but nevertheless audible. Her voice was hoarse, cracking as she murmured, the release of all her long-buried agony almost palpable. "I'm sorry....I'm sorry....I'm sorry...."

And then his own grief feeds into that, making it even worse. Arturia was beyond caring about her own dignity at that point, the aloof, mighty king gone, if only for this moment. She was being so very selfish, so very unknightly, to have laid such a burden on him when she finally broke under the weight of her own ideals. The naked despair, the bitterness, the sorrow...everything she had still buried beneath countless layers came crashing down around her and once more, she was too weak to even protect a single person from it. Never had she hated herself more than that moment.

Yet, she couldn't stop. She couldn't pull away and gather herself, not until her raging grief was finally spent, leaving her so very exhausted. Perhaps that was what she had felt when she was dying and had given up her wish, when the world slipped away like water through her fingers. That she had just wanted it all to end. And then there was a faint light in the darkness, like a whisper that told her it was not so. True, she had finally and truly let it all go, accepted the end of her kingdom...but she was still alive. Alive, and even beginning to heal, after all the long years. Her tale, unlike all those in the poetry books, was far from over. In some ways, it had only begun.

Her tears finally ceased, and she took a ragged, steadying breath. But she didn't pull away, not yet. it was a little bit selfish of her, she admitted to herself, but a part of her wanted to reassure herself that he was, in fact, there...not simply a vision that would fade upon waking.

She did, however, have one thing she needed to do. "I...forgive me..." she murmured, her voice still raw. "To have burdened you so...it was not right..." Words were still failing her, it seemed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
While it's true that she may have tried to shield her knights, the truth is that some of them chose to bear these burdens.

Sir Bedivere of the Round Table was perhaps the quietest of her entourage. Few knew what he may have been thinking at any given time, for he spoke precious little of himself, and none of his comrades knew what his true motivations were in serving the king so loyally. None would have suspected how deeply his loyalties lay, although perhaps some of them knew that he would have laid his life down in an instant for his king.

He had kept things close to his heart, though, and remained aloof. Much like his king, he had adopted a similar mask, pushing away even those whom he considered fondly. In the end, only a few of the Round Table could have been said to know him, and even that seemed faint by comparison to what lay beneath the surface – Gawain knew only that he was entirely too serious; and whatever Lancelot may have thought of him, only the heavens know.

Calm and stoic, he had always given the impression of a rock of stability in the midst of a court full of high emotion and potential intrigue. Alone among his brethren, he was the one that always seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be.

Surely he must have known, with his observant nature, that she had tried to shield him from some things. That she had tried to take the burdens onto her own shoulders, that he might not be made to suffer them. Too, he had neatly evaded some of these efforts – he had merely soldiered on, quietly and without complaint, sharing the burdens where he could.

Much like her, he had wanted to shield her, in whatever ways he could. They had always understood one another; had always been so similar in their pragmatic and selfless approach to things. They shared the same sense of duty and obligation to the people, and they raised similar masks to deal with the injustices and cruelties of the world they lived in.

Bedivere finds his mask cracking, though. He can feel himself-control eroding by the moment, feeling her tremble in his arms; hearing the quiet but undeniable sound of the king's desperate sobs. The sound is more agony to him than a knife twisted through the heart. To hear that suffering is almost worse than the suffering he'd endured to lay her to her final rest, watching the boat bearing her drift away, into the lake; laying what stones he could find together into an empty cairn, a memorial.

It had seemed so paltry at the time. How could a pile of stones do justice to the memory of a person who had inspired such awe and fealty from him?

She may feel him shudder around her, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of her agony. Much like her, her grief only seems to fuel his.

Perhaps Arturia may hear a soft sound from her knight. It is a curious sound, strangled, as though given from a throat that threatens to close itself off. It is not a sound she ever would have heard before, or perhaps ever would have expected to hear from such a calm, stoic personality.

Unable to help himself, Bedivere gives his own strangled sob. The sound is somehow foreign, coming from him; as is the trembling that he suffers – ordinarily so controlled, so measured.

He gives another strangled huff, hoarse, trying to master himself; his breath warm. For him, the sound is so vulnerable, for he had always striven to guard his reactions as surely as his king. He had always followed her more closely than any of his brothers of the Round Table, adopting the same cold visage.

And now that visage is useless. Utterly useless.

When she takes a ragged breath to steady herself, he does the same, steadying his breath and mastering himself once more.

He doesn't let go of her, either. If anything, his arms tighten around her, as though she might vanish if he let go. That would be worst of all, to have found her again, only to discover it was the dream of a mind gone mad from cold, from hunger, and from grief.

When he speaks, whispering into her hair, Bedivere's tone is even softer than it normally is. It's not quite a whisper, but it's close; so gentle, but it's still clearly raw, too. "Aí," he murmurs, softly; "my king, my king." It seems more a clumsy reassurance than a reminder of her title. Perhaps she's forced him to break down some of his walls, but it will take more for him to actually call her by name. "You speak in nothings." He laughs, but it's little more than an unsteady breath blown into her hair. "That burden was mine to bear by choice. I chose to follow you from the first. And I chose to follow you to the end, no matter where that may have led."

"I will follow you still. It is my choice, and your actions have no bearing on that. To follow you is no burden at all." He draws her closer, mostly so his plate armour isn't digging into her arms; he also rests his head more gently over hers, squinting a little when that stubborn lick of hair feathers along his cheekbone; threatening to stick to the tracks of his tears. She might hear the faint smile in his voice, unsteady as it is. "I knew when I saw you from the first, there was no other purpose for me. I would be at your side, or I would die in the effort, but I would accept no less."

"And I accept no less now." Carefully, somewhat awkwardly, he gives her shoulder a pat with a leather-padded palm. His voice drops into a raw whisper again; she might feel, one last time, the dampness in her hair of a tear. "I will follow you to the end, whatever that may be. I would have it no other way, save by your wish. I could not have imagined finding you again. I..."

His voice catches, but he doesn't dissolve this time; though his tone turns raw, he seems to be in control of himself once more, relying on that mask he had so carefully built. But it isn't as complete, this time – lessened, somehow; letting her in, letting her see what lies beneath.

Although he doesn't draw back from her, his head tilts slightly, as though he were cocking one violet eye at her to study her as she makes her final entreaty. "You have not burdened me." She may feel his head shake, faint as the movement is. "No, milord, not in the least. Far from it. I chose to bear that burden, and I would choose it again, without hesitation. Even with no Camelot, even with no Round Table, I would still follow you – to Hell itself, my lord, to fight the very Devil himself, if only you asked it of me."

Saber (346) has posed:
Four years ago, at the height of Heaven's Feel when Rider had called out the two other Kings of the Holy Grail War, the King of Conquerors had scorned this ideal of hers, to protect her people, her knights, rather than truly lead them. Not that she really could have, given that she would have been rejected as a woman, and she would absolutely not become a tyrant no matter how noble the intent was. Yet, it had not been completely out of a sense of chivalric duty; she cherished them far too much to see them hurt, to share those burdens...even when they were more than willing to. And, on occasion, they took them onto themselves anyway.

She was trapped, unable to protect for fear of letting her mask slip, but she could see it. Bedivere, especially...he did everything without complaint, always dismissed having his burdens taken from him in turn by insisting upon knightly duty. It pained her, but the impartial king could allow herself to show no special favour. Not even to those she cherished. It was touching beyond measure, but her fears practically paralysed her.

There was no need for a mask any longer...at least, not in the sense that it had been needed in Camelot. And still, she felt as if she needed it still. Arturia didn't worry over exposing any vulnerabilities, she could not have been in safer company; if there were any she trusted with absolute certainty, it was her Master and her closest knight. However, she had never suspected that in some ways, their similarities ran much deeper than merely the surface, or even their shared commitment to chivalry. Had he been, beneath his own mask, as lonely as she had been? Was his just as much to protect others as hers? She had always been fond of the quiet knight, and even felt a kinship that she was certain was only one-sided, but never as much as before now. Arturia couldn't help but feel that something had changed, that perhaps she was just a little closer to true friendship than before...but perhaps that, too, was one-sided.

She shifted slightly, but only enough to let go of the mantle, lowering her arms to encircle his torso. She had never known such a comforting feeling, and, like before, even with her sense of propriety and guilt over his feelings, she couldn't bring herself to stop. A part of her would always mourn Camelot -- it was too deep a scar to heal completely, too much a piece of her that was lost to her forever. It had left an empty ache that could never be completely filled, but there was no one else who had experienced that loss...losses of their own, of course, but not the same. Bedivere might have been a reminder of that loss for another, but Arturia only saw someone who had suffered as greatly as she had, who had lost the very thing she mourned. That gentle presence only served to soothe her, to help that scar at least heal in part.

Once more, he was her rock, but with the crumbling of their masks she couldn't help but be worried; he had his own vulnerabilities to protect. Being aware of just how far his gentleness extended...Bedivere was far from fragile -- not like her -- but at the same time she worried that with too much pressure, he might disappear like a Servant struck down. Arturia knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't seem to help it.

His words, though...those gentle words. She could hear the smile in them, the fondness in them. He truly had mourned her beyond her kingly mask, as he himself had said. Once more, she felt humbled. There was no doubt in her mind at all that he would stay by her side, and her arms tightened of their own accord around him. To rely on someone else was a frightening prospect, for fear of needlessly placing that person in danger, or hurting them, especially by one's own hand. Guinevere had been one such person whom she had harmed thus, sacrificing her 'wife' for the sake of the kingdom. Many empty nights, she cursed herself for that choice, even as the only other option was to allow lawlessness into the court. She was terrified of hurting him in such a way, but the entreaty had rendered her refusal impossible.

She was unworthy. Yet, he followed her anyway. She had no strength to push him away, neither physically nor mentally. No part of her wanted to. "I...I am so glad...that you are by my side again..." was all the petite knight could manage in reply to such eloquence, almost reverently and with perhaps a trace of the awe he might have once felt as she rode by, all those years ago.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
No doubt she had not suspected how deep their similarities had run. Bedivere had been careful, so very careful, to hide that. Although he had not wanted to be perceived as weak by his contemporaries, he had especially not wanted to reveal any weakness to Arturia. She had been his inspiration, his motivation for striving so hard – he had not wanted to disappoint her by showing his vulnerability.

It had forced him to push people away, though. He had become lonely. The ladies of court sighing over his handsome good looks and mysterious nature may have imagined a bit of melancholy that always seemed to surround him. They weren't too far off the mark. Of course, he was always careful to hide it in Arturia's presence; careful that not a hint of his loneliness ever showed.

For oh, he was lonely. The gentle, almost shy knight was a stranger even among his brothers-in-arms. Gawain was the one who perhaps understood him best, and there was much and more about him that even Gawain never knew or suspected.

Gawain had never suspected the true reasonings for Bedivere's absolute loyalty; the reasoning that not even Arturia herself knew, that secret reason that even Bedivere rarely considered too deeply. It shamed him, and it was unknightly, but he could no more deny that devoted admiration than he could refuse a direct order from Arturia.

He had always admired her, even behind the cold, remote mask of the king. He had always known there was something beneath it, something far richer than the inhuman figurehead that ruled Camelot from on high. He had always wanted to see that; he alone, where all others had seen only a symbol of kingship, an ideal given form.

From the first, he had wanted to serve her – but from the first time he had laid eyes on her, he knew that he would be helpless but to devote himself to her. He knew from the first he had been hopelessly in—

Arturia may feel him tense, and then slowly relax, as he shifts his thoughts to a path less shameful.

He had certainly mourned her more than a mere servant mourning their king. There's no mistaking the raw pain that haunts his eyes whenever the subject of her death comes up. He had mourned the loss of king and kingdom, but more than that, he had mourned the loss of her. It had broken him, as surely as anything could break the steadfast Sir Bedivere.

Unworthy she may think herself, but he seems to have no intention of letting her refuse. When she gives her quiet response, she might feel his head shift slightly, as though he were eyeing her from the corner of one violet eye. Perhaps he hears the awe in her tone.

His only real response is to sigh into her hair, fluttering that stubborn lick of hair of hers in front of his face, but he doesn't move away. While he wants to answer her, nothing he thinks of seems to be sufficient. None of it really frames the awe he feels, the reverence; the sheer joy at having her back in his life again – or the wonder he feels at this rarest of opportunities, to see what lies behind the mask. It had been a foolish dream, a pointless flight of fantasy; nothing more. He had never truly expected it to be granted.

So he simply holds her tightly, sighing into her hair, though his breath trembles a bit.

Perhaps she feels the dampness of his tear – he catches himself, silently, but he can't help the emotion. He has no way to express it, and it's simply too great, too overwhelming, to hide it behind his own mask.

"Milord..." His response is raw and hoarse, but his tone is one of warmth. More than that, it's one of relief; relief so great he has no way to put it to words properly.

Saber (346) has posed:
There were a great many things Arturia was ignorant of regarding her knights, but ironically, few hid themselves even half so well as the knight who had kept her company the most. Many times, that mask had even been a comfort to her, keeping her steady and serving as a buoy for her own chivalry. When Caliburn was broken -- a reflection of the single time she had ever violated her oath -- it had been well before he had been there with his calm rationality tempered with true chivalric charity and compassion. Even Mordred, who had tried so hard to earn her approval, had not embodied the virtues so well. Not even, Arturia reflected, herself. But for his gentle temperament, he would have made a fine king.

She was all too happy to spare him from that particular pain, however. There had been some places he could not follow, and she would never have let him. They were all warriors, blooded in battle, but her hands were stained with such impurities that went far beyond merely the slaying of enemy armies. She had razed villages, ordered executions...things that no one with a pure or gentle heart could in good conscience order. She was neither gentle nor pure. That was the price she had been willing to pay to keep Gawain's cocky grin, Lancelot's subtle smile, and Bedivere's innocence and purity.

Keen of mind, she was certain he knew, yet he never spoke of it. That silence had helped her maintain her mask, cemented her own icy calm. It was a fortress which repelled all attack, but at the cost of locking out friends as well as enemies. Likewise, the walls kept her locked within, ignorant of the true hearts of those around her. And with his own fortress walls, she couldn't hope to catch a glimpse within. Until now, that is.

It had been clear that for all his ferocity in battle and incomparable martial skill, within the armour still dwelt that shy young boy in awe of the king. Of a soul who, in the current era, would have probably never taken up arms at all. The sort of person who seemed to represent everything she had been trying to build a utopia for. She had caught glimpses -- more than even his mask it had strengthened her resolve countless times -- but nothing to the degree she now saw.

For some reason, it evoked an unfamiliar emotion she could not quite place, and Arturia suddenly felt so very self-conscious. She almost stayed the way she was out of fear of having to look him in the eye. Surely it was because she was unworthy, in spite of his dedication to stay by her side.

Fortunately -- at least for his piece of mind -- she misinterpreted the sudden tension followed by relaxation as he ordered his thoughts away from a path he refused to allow them down. It swept away that uncertainty, being terribly conscious of his pain. A pain she strongly desired to ease, and to allay any fear he might have that she would fade into aether if he merely looked away.

Her arms tightened just slightly around him, now there for his sake than merely reaching out to someone who had reached out to her first. She would never abandon a fellow knight, but something compelled her to do more than simply protect. "I am here..."

It was not a mere acknowledgement, or a declaration. It was a gentle reassurance. "I am here..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he feels Arturia tighten her arms around him, Bedivere doesn't seem to react for a moment, as though unable to. His gaze is fixed on some distant point behind Arturia, somewhere far distant and past the wall, violet eyes hooded. Slowly, very slowly, she might feel him relax just a little against her. He's still terribly tense, but some of that tension seems to bleed out of those broad shoulders.

He lets out another breath, still trying to bring himself under some semblance of control. His eyes finally drift closed. He tilts his head to bury his face into her shoulder, so narrow by comparison to his; just like the rest of her – so small and delicate, but possessed of such strength. How did she survive the things she did in the name of the king? Even he can't answer that question, in all his reverence and worship of her; even he can't puzzle out how she managed to move forward, without truly losing herself.

And it awes him, even now, to think of it. Almost against his will, his arms tighten around her – less desperate, this time, and more as though he were reassuring himself that she won't vanish when he opens his eyes.

No doubt she must be marvelling at his weakness, he reflects, with some bitterness. Was that all it truly took to reduce him to shambles? To have his wish granted; to see beyond that mask? This is shameful, he knows, but he can't help himself. He can no more pull away than he could turn his sword on her, or disobey a direct order.

Still... to see her let go, to see her drop the walls she had so carefully built up – it evokes an unfamiliar emotion in him as well. Yes, he had always wanted to protect her, but seeing this side of her... something about it makes him want to protect her all that much more. To shield her, that he might not see those tears again, or see her in such heart-wrenching agony. Although he had suspected some of the pain she had carried through her rule, it had run deeper than he could have imagined.

For just a few moments, the spell is still intact. He does not think to resume his own mask.

"I never knew..." His voice is as gentle as it ever is, but there's a raw note to it. "Milord, I never knew you suffered so. I knew you had suffered, I knew you had given up much for your reign, but I—I never knew how deep it had run. Had I but a means to shield you from that... I would have borne any burden to spare you from it..."

He sighs, though it's a much shallower sigh than before; it carries with it a note of regret. "I know you are here, milord. And I am here, as well. I will not leave you, not ever again. Where you go, I shall go. On this I swear, by my faith, by my sword..."

It occurs to him, very slowly, that he can feel and hear something unfamiliar. He falls silent, listening, almost straining – it takes him longer than it should, he of such keen perceptions, to identify that unfamiliar thing as the king's heartbeat.

He considers for a few seconds, trying to think of a time he had ever heard that. True, the people may have seen Arturia bleed – war was an eventuality in their world – but they had never seen her weep, and he can think of no time in which he had ever heard a sound as quiet as her heartbeat.

He bows his head over her, the better to hear that sound, frowning as though through intense concentration.

The king may feel him tense; this time it seems he has a harder time dismissing that tension.

By this point she might start to wonder if something's wrong, but eventually, he seems to relax a little. That frown fades away into an expression that seems oddly peaceful. As though that sound, that simple, quiet, infinitely steady sound, had somehow reassured him that this is real; he's not dreaming, nor wandering the wood somewhere in the final throes of death or dream or madness. That sound, it seems, is what makes all of this truly real to him.

At least this time he seems more inclined to speak his own mind, for just a few more seconds.

"Ah..." His voice is so low that if he weren't so close to her, she might have missed it; hushed and almost reverent. "Listen..."

What in the world is he trying to point out?

"Your heart," he adds, after a moment, shyly. His voice is still hushed, as though reluctant to break the near-silence; reluctant to interrupt that sound.

After all, the last time he had been so close to her, he had carried her to the oak tree, to lay her down; there had been nearly nothing left of a heartbeat, and certainly nothing he could have noticed through her armour. And after that, that noble, proud heart had stopped. When he had laid her in the boat, and set her onto the lake, she had already begun to cool. The commoner's cairn he had so painstakingly built for her had been empty. It had only been a memorial; something to sate his need for something left behind of Arturia, the king he had watched sacrifice so much for her country.

It seems he can do no more for a few moments, listening in hushed, awestruck silence to that very real reassurance.

Truly, Bedivere has a gentle soul – for such a simple thing to arrest his attention so completely...

Saber (346) has posed:
The Servant smiled to herself, her head nestled against his shoulder. While his tension only seemed to relent slightly, it was still far better than moments ago. Maybe, just maybe, she could ease that discomfiture and pain. If she could, she wouldn't be so utterly useless. Arturia had been a knight and king, someone who ruled and fought, not comforted anyone. The only way she could possibly do that centuries ago was through just laws and defence of Britain against her enemies. Even a simple touch or a smile had been too dangerous to risk.

Secretly, buried within her so deeply to try to forget was how much she had wanted to. That part of being human had been one far more difficult to sacrifice than simply her femininity or the hope of a family or any such things she had considered trivial compared to the chaos of the lack of a king and the suffering that anarchy had brought. To rule with compassion, in many ways she had to give up her own. In turn, she had to rely on others to act on theirs in her place.

Not everyone who had risen up from such roots remembered them, but as a knight, Bedivere never forgot his, exemplifying the virtues of charity and generosity. He had been so much more than just her strength, he had acted with compassion where she could not, leading refugees from borderland villages ravaged by war to new locations or issuing supplies to outposts which had been cut off and were forced to be officially abandoned, often carrying out these tasks personally. She had never seen him withhold anything from those in need, bringing constant relief to the poor and unfortunate.

And yet, he had never tried to act as her conscience, chastising her for the hard decisions she was forced to make for the sake of the kingdom as a whole. He merely acted in silence, almost reading her true wishes. If he had been someone else, she might have suspected that he had been doing so to silently shame her or undermine her rule...but not him. It could have been that, when she had never disciplined him for doing so, he had understood what it was she had truly wanted. Or, at some point, something might have slipped past her mask, and he had acted on it ever since. A keen observer, of that she harboured no doubt.

His strength was an altogether different sort, the kind which came from righteous actions and dedication to the ideals of chivalry. Arturia hadn't seen the crumbling of his mask as any sort of weakness; quite the opposite, in fact. It was an admirable strength, to maintain one's compassion even through all he had been through. How could she, the king who had tried to lead her country to utopia, not be awed by that?

But on a more personal level, she had admitted to herself that she had wanted to see behind his mask as much as he had wished to see behind hers. She had no right at all to want that, but that did nothing to stop her from wanting it, regardless. Emotion threatened to overwhelm her again -- not to the point it had before, but enough to furrow her brow as he spoke. "No, I...I wanted...I thought of myself as your shield, so that you would not have to..."

It was frustrating beyond measure that she suddenly found herself stuttering and inarticulate. All she wanted at this point was to convey something of the truth of her rule, but the words stubbornly refused to co-operate. moreover, his pledge, as it had before, brought with it a happiness that she had never thought she would ever feel again...yet no speech could properly express that.

She tensed and then relaxed again, and this time it bewildered her, at least, until he spoke again. The sound he had heard had been slow and steady, calming after the storm of grief. As he bade her listen, her brow furrowed again, this time in concentration. What sound was she listening for?

But at the moment he told her, he would hear the unmistakable sound of the beating becoming more rapid. Were he to look down, he might catch the tips of slightly reddened ears. Such a silly, trivial thing to suddenly find oneself bashful over. And yet, it was in noticing that sound that revealed his own heart:

Bedivere was the sort of man who would watch, listen, and observe. And he had been watching listening, and observing not the king, but Arturia. It made her strangely self-conscious in a way she hadn't known she was capable of, but more importantly, that a gentle soul would still long for nothing more than to serve her again, even after seeing her so pathetic and weak...

Arturia managed to maintain dry eyes, this time... though perhaps the threatening tears were only held at bay by burying her face in the mantle again.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If she had only wanted to comfort someone, or be comforted, that simple desire was shared in her lieutenant. Much like his king, he had sacrificed that for the sake of duty. Part of it was to protect his own reputation, perhaps knowing that there were many eyes on him; he, who had been knighted a commoner, of a family with little fortune and no name. Indeed, he is perhaps the only Knight of the Round not to bear his own heraldry – although given permission at his knighting, he never forgot his common roots.

There were eyes upon him, though, and Bedivere knew that by extension, there were eyes upon the king. He wouldn't dare threaten Arturia's reputation, not even by proxy. There were some who had questioned her choice of marshal, and some who had put forth their own name to be chosen; and she had chosen Bedivere over them. There was bound to be bad blood of some kind.

It came as little surprise, then, that those were the first such nobles to be swayed to Mordred's cause by her honeyed words and silver-tongued lies.

Not all of it had been duty, though. Bedivere was simply not the sort to forget his roots. Nor had he, practically breaking his back to deliver relief to the beleaguered, to offer more material comforts to those in need of them, where he could not offer such simple things as a simple touch or a smile. He tried where he could to make their lives easier – and where some might have suspected him of being a little simple, aloof of the courtly intrigues, he was more canny about it than they had ever known. He knew exactly how to balance his compassion with competence; how to do exactly what he wanted to do, and do it in a way that did nothing but help his own reputation.

And, therefore, the reputation of the king, who had chosen her highly dedicated marshal.

Perhaps part of that undertone of resentment were his common origins, he'd once speculated, and perhaps they were out of sorts because he had come from more distant territories – his pale hair and his odd eyes were clue enough; the faint but undeniably foreign lilt to his words that he took pains to hide as he grew. Was that it? He would never know, now.

Somehow that isn't so distressing a notion.

There are some mysteries Bedivere can live with.

His eyes flick down, slightly, though he can't quite see Arturia from the angle he holds her at; he can only feel the weight of her head against his shoulder. Carefully, he reaches up to circle his arms around her, mindful of the steel he still wears. Likely he should simply remove the gauntlets, but thi is still the house of a stranger, no matter how welcome he had been bidden – he could not fully relax here until he had, in some odd way, judged that for himself.

Another of his desirable traits, as Marshal of Camelot – although secretly warm-hearted, Bedivere was aloof, and slow to extend his trust. No doubt it had once been a useful skill. Perhaps he does not distrust Sakura, but the thoughtful knight would prefer to take her measure before he can pass judgement in good conscience.

Surely, though, Arturia's trust in her must go a long ways.

She may feel him shift his head, just slightly, to listen when she speaks. Despite the sincerity of the words, and the seriousness with which they're spoken, he can't help but chuckle – and never mind the way her ears turn red, or her heart quickens. He certainly notices that; dimly, he's aware that his own is probably thundering, but thank the Good Lord he still wears his armour. It would be more difficult for Arturia to hear his.

Still, that 'laugh' has no real voice involved, though; it's not much more than a warm breath stirring her hair – he was always subtle that way. Where someone like Gawain might indulge in a hearty belly-laugh, Bedivere might have exhaled in that particular way, suggestive of laughter, but restrained as always behind his own mask.

"Aí, my king, when have you ever known me to carry a shield?" Despite the admonishment, his tone carries warmth; a warmth he never would have let himself show in Camelot. "I need no shield from the burdens I bear willingly. Though, by the Good Lord, it touches me that you would think such." His voice takes on that quiet, awed tone again. "No, milord, I knew what it would mean to serve you. I knew that I would need to bear my own shield."

He shifts his weight slightly, if only because the plate armour he's kneeling on is starting to dig in most uncomfortably. It's a good excuse to resettle the much smaller knight in his arms; mindful not to dig steel-plated armour into arms and shoulders that aren't wearing any.

"To serve as a Knight of the Round Table... and to serve as your Marshal..." He shakes his head, careful not to jar Arturia too much. "Do you know where I come from, milord? A province on the far reaches of Camelot's bordermarches."

Perhaps he's not thinking clearly – to be so forthcoming is simply not proper, but he can't seem to stop himself, at least for right now. He continues on in a soft tone, and it seems to change before her ears; his voice still holds that familiar gentle tone, but there's a nearly musical quality that slips into it – almost a lilt, stamping it as surely as anything to the region he mentions.

"I knew that I would have enemies, to achieve the Round Table, even in the kingdom you sought to build. I suppose there are some who would think me a dreamer, and a fool, for I do not suffer the politics of the courts lightly. But that does not mean that I lack skill." The faint smile he shows is almost shy; and that accent fades again as he consciously dismisses it. "I know the way of the world in such matters, and I know that to achieve any kind of rank would have earned me enemies, even where I sought none. Perhaps especially where I sought none."

He exhales, softly; that quiet, subtle laugh again that so many had missed. Few in Camelot would bother to speak with him beyond the bounds of duty; a position he encouraged, despite his loneliness. Perhaps his brothers of the Round Table, but few more than that. Most had no idea of his subtle sense of humour, or the gentleness of him. They saw only a man with gentle looks, and perhaps for that, some assumed him weak.

Incorrect, of course, but he was above correcting such notions – he preferred to let his actions speak for him, and in war, they had nothing to question. When acting in defense of his king, in particular, he was a force of nature on the battlefield. No doubt there were occasions in which Arturia was under threat simply by dint of numbers, and an enraged, righteous Bedivere helped to turn the tide, along with his brothers of the Round Table – enraged, perhaps, because they dared threaten his king; his dream.

He flinches back a little when she buries her face into his mantle so suddenly; surprised, perhaps, at the vehemence of the motion. Awkwardly, he raises his arms around her, drawing her closer; trying to comfort her in his own unfamiliar way.

This is new territory for him, and he is keenly aware of his shortcomings. While it does take conscious effort for him to lower his guard like this – at the same time, it strangely doesn't.

"I knew what endeavour I had begun," he murmurs into her hair, "to enter into your service. I did not choose that path with blind eyes. And when you saw fit to appoint me your marshal, I knew also what that would bring for me. I knew to shield myself. No, my king; I wanted to shield you. I suspected something of your sacrifices. I simply never knew how deep they ran."

He considers for a few moments, mulling over his words, letting his eyes close. "Had I but known, I could have done something to help you. What, I know not, but..."

"But that does not matter any more, does it?" He can feel how tense she is; how she strives so valiantly not to tremble. Bedivere sighs, resting the side of his face against the top of her head; the soft gold of her hair. "I am sorry, milord. I never meant to twist those knives. I—I would never wish to cause you pain... I only wished to share some of your burdens, that you might not carry them alone."

"It is... shameful of me to admit, but I watched you, at times. I wished to know what was behind the mask, yes? I think I began to know something of the burdens you carried – I had never known how great they were, of course, but I knew something of the sacrifices you were forced to make. I only wished to share some of that." His voice lowers, barely above a whisper. "You seemed so alone, my king; so... isolated. I wished only to relieve some of that burden, even if—even if I dared not even speak of it. It was not fair to me. You had given so much of yourself, had given up nearly everything... but that you need endure those sacrifices so alone..."

He sighs, eyes sliding closed. "Forgive me," he murmurs into her hair. "I speak too boldly."

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been another source of seemingly endless guilt that Arturia had appointed Bedivere to be her marshal and aide-de-campe, working closely with her and, for all appearances, had her ear. It was naturally a highly-coveted position, one fought for by anyone with any ambition at all, and hardly a one had the best intentions for the kingdom at large. The unassuming, dedicated, and completely trustworthy knight was more than her best choice, he was ideal. Even those who had desired the position for personal means were grudgingly forced to admit such.

Yet, she knew full well that it would be a great burden on him, that a fragile heart and a weak mind would break. For all his seeming fragility, Saber knew he was far from it. She had watched him as he trained, catching what glances she had been able, climbing his way up from squirehood. She had knighted him with the same placid, impassive face as she had all her knights, but was in secret pleased that the quiet, gentle soul was tempered by a spine of steel and an indomitable spirit.

He would face even greater difficulties, she realised even as she appointed him, but she had confidence he would face them as he had faced all other challenges. It was the pain it might otherwise cause him, the verbal knives and plotting of ambitious nobles. As she did, he stood alone, faced everything alone. The king had hoped he would find some form of support...yet he had always seemed content to simply support her, to act as her secret will. She could never seem to discover why. It had not been even the duty of a knight utterly dedicated to the path of chivalry.

It certainly wasn't shame any longer which kept Arturia from looking up at him, though it was some odd compulsion which kept her from doing so , some strange reluctance which had not been there before. She could feel rather than hear his laugh -- if she had ever heard it before this moment, she couldn't remember, and she had been watching him for years -- and it does nothing to ease the quickening of her heart or the burning blush on her face. She frowned slightly, unsure why it was that this particular expression was one she wore. "I watched you as a boy, becoming a squire...I feared placing too unfair a burden on you too soon," she blurted out, too flustered to properly filter her words, revealing far more than she wanted to admit.

Curse it all. She might never be able to look him in the eye again. It was a shame; his eyes were, she had to admit, beautiful. And even for that she inwardly scolded herself; such impropriety!

Yet, when he began to speak of his homeland, the compulsion was then to shift back just enough to look up into his violet eyes, her own sea-green ones widened slightly with some surprise....even a hint of wonder. Her embarrassment evaporated as she listened intently, hungering for even more. Bemused, Arturia found herself disappointed when the lilt gradually faded; to be sure, Bedivere must have taken considerable pains to train himself to speak in the common accent of the kingdom. But she found herself yearning to know more about him, to listen to him tell of his life before his knighthood.

That he never knew, could never have even guessed of just how heavy her burdens had been was a testament to her nearly flawless mask, one she had spent a lifetime perfecting, burying her emotions deep within her. That had been what she had wished for, that they would not suffer because of any burden she had placed on them, and for those threats from the outside...well, she would deal with them with ruthless efficiency. Anything to protect her kingdom, her knights, her people.

Bedivere was, however, right. Whatever both their intentions had been, however many burdens they had each carried alone...none of it truly mattered any more. The sense of melancholy remained, but the burdens had long gone, fragments of a Camelot which had fallen to ruin centuries ago.

Discovering that the motivation behind his own mask had been to catch some glimpse of her behind hers had been a humbling experience on many levels, laced with a tangle of other emotions that Arturia was still attempting to sort out. But the earnestness in his voice now stirred her to try to reach out, as clumsy as her own efforts were. Strangely, the words seemed to come more easily this time. "No, it was not too bold of you," she replied, shaking her head slightly. "I chose you because I trusted your judgment and your opinion. I could never ask it, only trust in the decisions you would make in my stead. I have never been disappointed in them."

She shifted then,pulling back just enough to be able to reach up and place her hands on each side of his face, gazing intently, earnestly, into his eyes.

A little of her old self returned, the confidence of a natural leader. What was missing was the cold mask, and her eyes implored him with the emotions it had once hid. "Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer. I wish to hear what you have to say."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
To some of the nobility, the position of Marshal was more than just the responsibility of overseeing the kingdom; they assumed that it came with the king's ear, and the ability to gain the king's favour.

Unfortunately for them, that was not the case – this was not a king whose favour could be gained. There would be no compromising the standards set before this king. The very being of this short, strong woman was devoted to the well-being of her people. No; there could be no compromise with a personality that fierce, that strong. Such a thought of favouritism would never even cross her mind.

Nor would it cross the man she had appointed Marshal over all of the contenders for the role. He had denied to bear heraldry, and had also denied a fief of his own – he had preferred to simply serve, without trappings of knighthood; without distractions to pull him away from his own duties. Far more likely, as she gets to know what Bedivere really is beneath his mask, it was more out of his inherent humble nature than out of avoiding distraction.

Using such a position for personal means, even to gain the things that the other knights had earned, would never cross his mind. A more ideal knight could not have been found – even his detractors were forced to admit that, even as they slunk through the courts and nosed about in search of some tidbit of scandal to erode his position.

They'd found none. Perhaps the worst in their tireless campaigning had been that Bedivere was, perhaps, a bit more feminine in appearance and mannerisms than his brothers-in-arms, but that was hardly a crime – he carried himself with bravery and chivalry on the battlefield, and he worked tirelessly for the poor and the unfortunate in Camelot, almost always personally. No; he was not even the kind of knight to issue orders and feel fulfilled over that – he was never satisfied unless he was there, personally distributing food, clothing, fuel, or whatever else it was that might have been needed.

"Ah. Yes, I knew you were watching me, even then." Bedivere flushes slightly at that. He was so unrefined, then; so raw. All of that idealism and youthful determination were hardly dignified, and time had eventually tempered him into the calm, focused knight he is today – looking back, his youthful enthusiasm was somewhat embarrassing. "Hah." A quiet laugh, little more than a breath. It sounds almost embarrassed. "I was... untempered, shall we say? Yet still, I... thank you for your concern, milord. But it was unfounded."

He need not say that he would have done anything for her – already he's spoken those words several times, and there's nothing else he can add to them that would give them any more sincerity.

When she looks up at him, jade eyes surprised and even in wonder, he seems a bit surprised at that raw curiosity, though he doesn't draw back. He just tilts his head, very faintly, as though he were trying to make sense of the emotion he sees in her. Any emotional display in her is blatant, to his sensibilities, honed by the cold mask of the king. To see anything like that in her is still new, and he still seems to struggle over how to react to her own reactions, at times.

Yet, still... part of him doesn't mind seeing that curiosity. Something about that expression of hers makes the corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile. When was the last time she would have been able to express that, he wonders? Would it have been at the courts? Surely not. And if it was, it would have been over far less happy subjects – war parties and border raids, battles forming and enemy scouting. Her curiosity would have had a hard, imperious edge to it.

He seems a bit taken aback when she says his words aren't too bold; as though he had been expecting her to agree with him, rather than express a desire for more of this strange openness. "I..."

Bedivere doesn't have the opportunity to say anything else. Before he can react, she reaches up and touches each side of his face; stares straight into his eyes, violet meeting sea-green. He startles so badly his armour rattles, but he doesn't pull away; perhaps uncertain of whether she would take it poorly if he did. No, he doesn't dare retreat, but it's obvious that that straightforward, sudden contact spooked him – Bedivere, who had unflinchingly faced down half a battle line just to defend his king when she had incurred some moderate wound, the very picture of righteous wrath; Bedivere, who had endured years of courtly intrigue just to remain at his king's side, loyally enduring all manner of the less pleasant aspects of Camelot's inner workings.

And now – now he looks terrified. His face flushes scarlet, so scarlet it goes to his very ears, and perhaps she can hear his heart now; thundering in time to the twitch of the pulse at his throat. His eyes won't meet hers, darting as though looking for an escape.

Wh—what should he do? What can he do—?

Bedivere opens his mouth to say something, and to his further horror, he actually squeaks. He tries to say something, but his voice cracks before he can even form any words.

Frantically, he tries to gather his wits, but his mind races like the hare before the hound, darting and terrified, never settling too long on one thing. Certainly not long enough to recover his wits.

When he finally gets his voice back in working order, it's no louder than its usual gentle tone, but it is a few notes higher than it should be.

"M-milord—?" His face is still red; he can feel it, and he can't even duck his head to hide it. Dimly, he's certain that he must be blushing down to his neck, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. Right there, plain as day, for Arturia to see.

Oh... oh, how humiliating.

He swallows, harshly; slowly, he can try to put his mask back together again. It's not the same as it was, though. Trying to hide his reactions away in the face of that entreaty – he can't do it, no matter how much he wants to, just to restore some semblance of order.

She might feel him shudder, but his eyes eventually lift to meet hers. Something about him seems withdrawn in the face of that straightforward entreaty.

Is he afraid? Is this brave knight who had faced down so many horrors actually afraid?

He certainly seems to be.

Bedivere swallows again, helplessly. When he finally finds the presence of mind to speak, his voice is dry and hoarse, almost a rasp.

"I—I cannot, milord." That might be a disappointment to her, though, so he elabourates. Perhaps some part of her might be pleased to hear that that faint, musical lilt touches his words again; his shock too great to consciously hide it. "My thoughts... I... that would not be..."

Please, she says, and the simple entreaty in her tone is like a knife wrenched in his gut. How can he refuse her? He has never refused her in any other thing. Even when she commanded him to throw Excalibur back into the lake, he had relented.

The heat of his face is almost painful; the hands he can still feel there are distracting like nothing has ever been. He's always been so calm, so focused. So why, now, can he barely even speak?

"Aí," he finally says softly, and his tone is one of resignation. That single liquid syllable is nearly a sound of despair. "Aí. My king, I cannot deny you."

She genuinely wants to hear, and he manages to gain some semblance of self-control; if nothing else, than to obey her wishes.

"Very well, then. I—I could not bear to see you sacrifice everything. I knew you would, nonetheless, and even as Camelot's very underpinnings began to crumble, I knew that it would serve no purpose, too." He bows his head, slightly; his brow furrows as he leans, slightly, into her touch. Those violet eyes slide closed. "There would be no returning that which you sacrificed. I saw the walls that you put up. I should know. I did the same, my king. But the worst was to see you bear that burden alone."

He sighs, a soft breath that barely has any strength to it. His eyes open, but they slant to one side, not looking at her directly. "I did not want to see you in such pain. It... angered me, to see that not only did you suffer so, you did so alone. I would have shared that burden with you, had it only been possible... but even that opportunity was not to be." Neither of their morals would have bowed enough to allow them to confide in one another; neither would have been able to drop their masks.

Indeed, only the shock of finding her alive again seems to have helped him do so.

"I... have always admired you." His voice is quiet, so quiet; and it threatens to crack again. "To be able to do anything to lessen your pain... just to see you smile... I would have done it. I..."

He reaches up, carefully taking one of her hands, as though he were handling the finest-wrought glass. They feel so strangely delicate without the gauntlets he's accustomed to seeing her in, and he's almost afraid he might hurt her with his own gauntlets on. Despite the weight of leather and steel, his touch is light, and so infinitely careful.

His eyes drop. With surprising care, he takes her hand in his, regarding the delicate features as though committing them to memory. His eyes hood; in that moment he seems unspeakably weary, though not for lack of sleep (although the shadows under his eyes suggest that, too).

"I hope never to disappoint you. I do not think I could bear that." His tone is hushed, almost reverent, and he seems content just to hold her hand. He keeps his gaze downcast to it, as though studying it. So delicate, as though he were instead holding some other person's hand; not the hand he had so often associated with the same style of leather and steel gauntlet that he favours.

His words still carry that lilt, so distracted he hasn't thought to banish it. Besides, looking at her hand means not looking in her eyes; he isn't certain he has the fortitude to do that just now.

"You... you are everything to me, milord."

There. Was that so hard?

Probably.

Still, the way he says you suggests more than simple kingship or the fealty of a loyal servant – after all, he had mourned the death of Arturia, not the death of the king. And time after time, he has put her before his own comfort or safety, even if only in subtle ways.

Perhaps the king may not understand, but if a certain plum-haired magus of the house were watching, she might recognise that reverent tone of his; the earnestness in his voice, and the faintest hint of warmth there – when he can be bothered to push his shock away enough to let it show, that is.

The poor knight. It's obvious that he's rattled – but at the same time, if he truly minded, he would have pulled away; would have expressed his horror in some manner or another.

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
The truth of the matter is that said plum-haired magus is not actually watching - but while she’d been planning to return to them, the conversation had been overheard. And of all people, Sakura herself knows when it’s best to not interrupt others...especially when it’s something as important as this. There’s a soft, beatific smile on her face, and she just lets the two of them speak quietly to each other. Lunch, or snacks, can wait just a little bit longer.

Still, she was right, and the slightest of impish smiles crosses her lips. Ah well, she’ll simply congratulate Saber - and Bedivere - later.

Saber (346) has posed:
If one of those nobles who had coveted Bedivere's position had been awarded it instead, he would have soon been bitterly disappointed. With Arturia's reforms, it had become a heavy responsibility, one of strict administration with nothing in the way of political perks, not privilege. Advisory capacities had been stripped away, replaced with the much more unglamourous duties of an aide-de-campe, someone who merely kept the affairs of the state in proper working order and kept painstaking records or its workings.

From the very beginning, she had set out to create just laws, ones under which noble and commoner alike were subject, carried out with completely impartial rule. No longer would a starving peasant be put in stocks for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his children while an earl skimming taxes collected for the royal treasury would go free and even gain from it. Even the court itself was not immune, with strict codes of conduct enforced, a declaration to the people that the decadence of the past would not be tolerated. The court would no longer enjoy special privileges and comforts that the people themselves could not. Such laws had been widely celebrated by the various commoners...but had made her an enemy of the nobility from the very beginning of her reign.

And by extension, those she appointed to any position within her court. The foundation of the Round Table had caused an uproar the likes of which Britain had ever heard. What was even worse in the minds of the nobility, the Knights bestowed this honour were required to earn their position, rather than buy it with coin, goods, marriages, or special favours. There were knights from nobility's ranks, but ones who had demonstrated their absolute commitment to the chivalric code and all its virtues. Their oaths were not mere decorative ritual; they were absolute, and the word of a knight became his bond.

Even the King herself became subject to such strictures. Though she wore the royal blue to indicate her status as was necessary. Her armour and dress bore only the lightest of embellishments, her lifestyle was as simple as status would permit. Her seat at the Round Table likewise bore more embellishment as some indication of rank was necessary, but her place at the table was equal to even the most recently-initiated knight. But to King Arthur, all was but the start of the road to her dream.

Her hand-picked knights to a man had all shared her dream, in one way or another. While some, such as Gawain, possessed the hearts of warriors, all believed in the pursuit of peace for the kingdom. It was the peasants who suffered the most when countries went to war, and their chivalric code demanded that knights become unto servants of the people. When they fought, they fought only for a cause that was just.

As a commoner himself, Bedivere was perhaps more inclined to truly believe in those ideals. In the years past, someone in a similar position could have simply spurned that past, living a life of luxury. Yet, the gentle knight needed no such strictures, painfully aware of the plight of those who had come from the same beginnings. He conducted himself with the holy virtues of humility and modesty at all times, never wavering, never casting them aside when he had thought himself alone.

And the king noticed. She did not award such exemplary conduct, however. instead, she charged him with one of the most demanding positions in her new kingdom. Nobles who had dreamed of it as a pathway to the throne would have rebelled, or at least protested. Arturia had never regretted choosing the soft-spoken of mysterious origins. She had never regretted making him a knight.

Arturia's admission about observing him was no small cause for embarrassment to her, though. He knew? She had taken pains to be careful, to not show favour. "You...were talented...and driven. I could see that...qualities I wanted in a knight. They served you well.." she managed to admit quietly, conscious of her burning face.

But then, she cast aside that doubt at his second-guessing, retreating back into the modesty which had otherwise served him so well. She had never seen him act so flustered, so perfect was his mask, so impeccable his conduct. Attempting to bridge that chasm she herself had erected around herself as the king, she found herself wanting to become closer, make him not so nervous in her presence, not dread her status as king, to see her as a fellow knight whom he could talk to openly and easily. Just as he had wished for some way to ease what loneliness she surely felt, so too did she wish for some way to ease his.

She had tried to make that first step, to show him that she was indeed human. The silver-haired knight's initial reaction, however, baffled her utterly. It seemed to even frighten him, causing him to drop his mask and reveal a look of what could only be terror, an expression she had never expected to see from the steel-nerved knight. Arturia worried for a moment if she had in fact done something terribly wrong, that she had offended him in some way. Yet, he didn't pull away, even as he turned more scarlet than should be humanly possible, looked desperately away, squeaked, attempted to stammer out a proper answer.

Saber was at a loss. Furiously her mind searched for what it could be, what had she done wrong. She was about to draw her hands away and stammer out some humiliated apology of her own when he finally looked back into her eyes. He was still, for all appearances, embarrassed. Even so, he was trying.

Bedivere fought valiantly to speak, and she couldn't take pleasure in the lilt's return, as sweet at it sounded -- like a musical instrument -- to her ears. He was too distressed, and she didn't want him to be. Her intention was to be reassuring, not make him nervous!

Even as he relented, his resigned tone sounding almost mournful to her ears, she felt terribly guilty for placing him in this awkward predicament in the first place. It had been a selfish request, she knew. Arturia had gone out of her way not to order him, though she had really only ordered him when he refused to rest or eat to stop working -- so stubborn! -- and attend to himself. She should have known better; Bedivere treated any simple request from her as an absolute order.

She had been prepared, she thought; she honestly wanted to know if she should have done what she did, if there was some way she could have saved her kingdom...or even if perhaps the King of Conquerors had had a point in calling her wish blasphemous. Unlike the boisterous Rider, she trusted Bedivere absolutely. His calm demeanour, his rational and observant mind, his dedication to chivalry. If she had been able, she would have made him an advisor regardless of what a Marshal's duties were. She would never stray from her righteous path, but because neither would he, she could trust in his wisdom.

In some ways, his truthful words, as kind as they were, were painful. He could see the cracks in the foundations that she had refused to see, those sharp eyes and that keen mind had faced the truth she had refused to. She couldn't...it was her sworn duty, her sacred oath, to do everything to prevent it. Yet, she couldn't. The flaw was not with what she sacrificed to protect; the flaw must be within her. otherwise, she would have to face the truth; Camelot could not be saved.

There was something like the twisting of a knife in her side at the other truth he had seen, the one she had guarded as if her very life depended on it. While he had not seen precisely how deep it rant, he had seen her pain, her regret. Somehow, though the mask, he had seen it. Simply by watching her and truly seeing her, the girl behind the king.

Finally, there were five simple words that felt to her as if she had been kicked in the gut. His honesty was beyond question, and yet what he confessed was surely impossible. That mixture of emotion, disbelief even in the face of something undeniable, reflected on her unmasked face.

Her throat felt to dry to so much as swallow as he took her hand as gently as if it was as fragile as a butterfly's wings, his touch light despite the gauntlets he still wore. When he spoke his tone was of such a weariness that she would have ordered him to sleep immediately in spite of everything had it not been predominantly something else entirely. No, a weariness of spirit could not be so easily healed. She would know. She felt it at Camlann.

Arturia had tried to reassure him as much as she was able that he could never disappoint her, never in a million years. He was too dedicated to chivalry, too pure, to ever incur her disappointment. at that moment, however, all she had was that emotion, something beyond speech. Even if she had somehow gathered suitable words, they would fail completely mere moments after.

You... you are everything to me, milord.

As she lay dying beneath the oak tree, she had prayed to the world to allow her to be replaced with a suitable king....because to Arturia, the king was merely a symbol. The other kings of the Fourth Holy Grail War had resoundingly disagreed, but while a king could protect and rule wisely, he was nevertheless something transient and replaceable. So long as Britain lived on into Utopia, the king was ultimately unimportant. She had tried to rule so that the people would hold her ideals sacred, not the king herself. She never wanted to be regarded a irreplaceable, so crucial that without her, the kingdom would fall.

That was not, however, how Bedivere had spoken of her. Before King Arthur, before the ideal of the king, his hand had reached out for the woman behind the mask. Even if he could not reach her, even if he could not even see her. Why? Did he already see her as a fellow knight...or as even a friend?

She wanted so badly to ask what was she in his eyes? But she didn't dare; she had pushed him far enough and opened up too many wounds already.Her eyes remained fixed to the same point his were, her guilt eating away at her. But in spite of that. she was nevertheless grateful; more grateful than she could ever express.

"Thank you..." she managed after a long moment, her eyes misting over. "For telling me..." She shook her head, correcting herself. "No. For everything."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although she had sought to unify the people under the banner of equality and justice, the king had in reality alienated more than she could have known. The ruling class wanted nothing that would threaten their base of power through the ages. Few who have held such power are willing to let it go, especially not without a fight, and perhaps those royal edicts were the beginning of the end.

Some may have coveted the position of Marshal of the Realm, intending to use their newfound authority to gain the king's ear, but that wasn't how this king ruled. The only person suitable for that role was someone to whom the role was not a guarantee of a soft life, but hard work; something earned rather than given. Ultimately, the only person suitable for that role was the person the role had been given to.

Oh, there had been scandal, albeit very quietly. Some questioned how and why this foreigner, this pale-haired Dál Riata, had become so indispensable to the king – how had he earned her favour where no others could? In time it had become clear that he had earned the position through merit, but those undercurrents of resentment throughout the courts had never truly gone away.

Other things had drawn their attention, such as Guinevere's infidelity and Lancelot's betrayal, but some considered the appointment of Sir Bedivere as Marshal of the Realm to be the king's first fatal misstep.

He had known that, at the time. He had heard their whispers and the sometimes cruel things they had said, forcing it to roll off his back. They had not bothered him, for he had expected such betrayal; was it not the nature of men in positions of privilege to guard what they considered theirs?

Besides, their loyalty had meant nothing to him – his loyalty had been solely to the king.

Bedivere had been in a unique position to carry out the work that he had believed his king had wanted; charitable work, work that said that the commoners were not forgotten, even if the king could not push policy too openly. So he had acted as her conscience, gladly helping those less fortunate than he. Had he not been familiar with living in such dire straits? After all, by the reckoning of so many of Camelot's more well-to-do, he had been worse even than a commoner – he had been born of Dál Riata, a foreigner, people rumoured to have strange and unbelievable powers.

Untruth, of course – the most he had were a few talents picked up as a child that he had secretly kept on, such as his love of music, born of the great fili, the bards, the storytellers and the poets, the keepers of lore. Some had rumoured it, and whispered of it, but he had never confirmed or denied those rumours. To acknowledge them at all only would have brought him to lose face. So he had calmly tolerated the hard looks from the nobility, and the quiet whisperings they thought he couldn't hear.

He had always had the keenest of senses. But he had never so much as thought of wavering.

They served you well. Direct compliments, once so rare as to be nonexistent from his king, and now he's heard more of them than he would ever have dared to count in one evening. Bedivere exhales through his nose, head bowing just slightly, but it seems more a gesture of modesty than anything else. He can feel the heat rise to his cheekbones again at such praise.

"I thank you, milord," he murmurs, controlling that lilt once more. "I... only acted as I thought right."

That was, when it comes down to it, the story of his service record. He did what he thought right, in the cleverest way he could think of that would both achieve his goals and appease the capricious nobles. Bedivere had become adept at striking that balance, at perching atop that knife's-edge; in this, his mind and his capacity to deal with courtly politics was far keener than any of the court would have guessed.

His eyes lift when she tries to express her gratitude, and he can see the tears that threaten to spill, but don't quite. For a brief instant he doesn't seem to know what to do, expression flickering between several different emotions – relief, gratitude, puzzlement, pain. He seems conflicted in that moment, so conflicted; where he had always been so sure of himself, so calm and quietly confident.

Finally, he smiles, the expression faint. He seems to hesitate for a moment before allowing it to broaden a little, just a little, beyond the restrained bounds he had so often set for himself before.

Please, do not withhold your thoughts from me any longer, she had told him. Would that also include his emotions, his reactions? He would suppose so.

He hesitates again before reaching out, the leather pad of his gauntlet lighting against the side of her face; so controlled and careful that it may as well be the touch of a feather – and so light that she may feel him trembling as he does, all through his arm, as though he were struggling not to withdraw.

"You need not thank me for that, my king." Despite the title, the formality, there is a warmth to his voice that implies so much more – that he sees more than the crown she once wore; that he had always seen more than that crown. His voice is hushed, though not quite a whisper. "You need never thank me for what I give freely. Do not weep, my lord; do not weep. You have failed no one, least of all me. Nay. You have succeeded, more surely than any could have known." That smile broadens, though the expression is still gentle, those violet eyes veiled by pale lashes. "I must... I must thank you, as well. Truly. I do not think you knew that you gave me something to look to, but... you gave me place and purpose. A cause I could serve. And..."

He stops, then, looking somewhere between anxious and thoughtful; as though he wanted to say more, but isn't certain how to frame it – or if he should even speak. Those violet eyes are doubtful; another expression she never would have seen through his own mask. The Marshal of Camelot had to be confident and decisive, wholly convinced of the correctness of his actions. He could not have afforded to show doubt, even if he had nonetheless felt it.

Now, it probably seems so strange on him; he, who had always been such a bulwark of calm, quiet confidence.

"Ah..." The sound is almost disappointed, little more than a breath, and his eyes turn down and away. He's already told her that he's wanted to see beyond that mask, beyond the cold countenance of the king, but he dares not tell her why. If she asks, he is helpless but to answer, but he clearly seems to be struggling over something.

It isn't proper, and it isn't knightly, but some part of him wants to tell her what she means to him – but those parts of him raised on chivalry and on the propriety of a knight are deeply ingrained. Still, perhaps it might reassure her. After this conversation, he has some idea of how little she thinks of herself; how much a failure she thinks her actions. He wants to tell her that she was never a failure to him – that she was always the opposite; that she always spurred him to greater courage, greater actions.

She had always meant more to him than a figurehead or an ideal. True, she had inspired him, but he had not followed her because of lofty ideals – while true in part, it was never the entire truth.

He simply regards her with those conflicted violet eyes. The need to speak is almost a physical weight, but it's a struggle he can't put to rest so easily.

"My lord." His voice is soft, so soft, almost a whisper, and an undercurrent of disappointment lies in his tone – as though it weren't precisely what he wanted to say. Prying off that mask takes conscious effort for him, especially when it clashes with his knightly sensibilities. It isn't proper to befriend one's king, let alone to—

His face flushes scarlet again; he looks away, pained. That doesn't even bear thinking about.

Even if it weren't in defiance of everything he's ever learned or taught himself... whatever makes him think that he could be worthy of her?

Saber (346) has posed:
If anything could have been said to be the king's true downfall, it had been in her belief that -- in time -- some of the nobility could be persuaded. Surely they would have seen the prosperity such peaceful and equal rule for all had brought Britain, the surplus in the stores and easily-travelled roads? Clearing the dead weight from her court had improved efficiency considerably; the Crown had been able to accomplish much more with fewer taxes, leaving plenty for those who had actually worked for their gains. Fewer deaths in the dead of winter or famine -- though even those were unacceptable to the king -- had meant from a strictly economic standpoint a larger and healthier workforce. A shepherd tending to his flock gently and carefully more often than not boasted a healthier flock. And even a simple peasant child was worth far more than a sheep.

Her fatal flaw had been that she had underestimated human selfishness and depravity. If she had indeed been an unfit king in at least one respect, it had been in her blindness to such greed, such evil. Arturia hadn't been so naive as to expect that inherent good in people would overcome -- there would always be those ruled completely by evil -- but she had grossly underestimated how widespread it had been, even within her own court. She had seen the well there as plainly as day...she failed to be able to see the bottom.

That then, was another part of what she had considered her weakness, when she reflected on it. it seemed nearly every decision she had made had been wrong, that she should have taken a different path. She should have found some other way when it seemed as if both options were terrible and that she could only choose the less-acceptable one. Somehow, a stronger, better king would have found some other option. no, the only choices she had never regretted were the knights of her retinue, the appointments she had made. Bedivere's origins had never mattered to her, only that his loyalty was beyond dispute, his dedication to chivalry without question. She had expected others to see what she had seen; the flawless work, the self-discipline, the impartiality. Or perhaps this last virtue was one the courts preferred to do without, given that any attempts to bribe or coerce were refused and reported immediately.

If the king could be said to have become genuinely angry at anything -- in spite of concealing it ruthlessly -- it had been the rumours,the cruel whispers. no court was ever completely free of gossip, but a less-controlled king would have ordered the execution of those who had accused Lancelot and Guinevere, instead of that of her queen. She had been too fragile for such a poisonous environment; in retrospect, Arturia should not have accepted the proposal of a false marriage for the sake of the illusion of a stable royal family. Guinevere had been a kind, gentle young woman, not the scheming harlot they had made her out to be, and the rumours had in truth made her furious beneath the cold, aloof mask. It had hardly been through any fault of hers that she had fallen in love with a man, and he with her. That was natural...not the unnatural sham of a marriage only meant to keep Arturia's disguise.

So too had the attempts to poison Bedivere's reputation, ranging from the clearly ridiculous to those which might well have fooled those who did not know him. In no way had he deserved such ill-regard, yet he had handled it with such dignity that the rumours had seemed to merely slip away into nothingness. Of that she had been thankful, but there had been no recourse for her for how to punish such impunity. Arturia carefully buried such anger, but deep within her, she still felt it.

A different sort of emotion welled within her heart now, however. She could only feel pride as she looked at him now, his head bowed humbly as she had finally been able to bestow the praise she had always wanted to. naturally, he had merely done what was right. Such a modest, humble answer...so very much the Bedivere of her memories. There was nothing she possibly could feel at that other than pride, for one who had so exemplified the virtues of chivalry. The came naturally to him, and his king could not have been more proud.

That pride had been mingled with gratitude, but then pride faded when she tried to express it. Memories of all they had endured for the years of her reign; looking back, she had silently depended on him so utterly. She had always insisted -- both to herself and to others -- that the king was always and forever alone. Even as she had drawn Caliburn, she had accepted that. Only now, she had discovered that it had not been entirely true.

She had shouldered all the burdens of kingship, true; but where she had needed others to be her eyes, ears, and hands, she had hand-picked a select few to become them. Yet they were not merely extensions of her will as the king; she delegated authority and responsibility to them, trusting them to understand that will, but to use their own judgement and abilities. The prosperity of Britain until the fall of Camelot had been, in many ways, due to the ceaseless efforts of these men. Alone, Arturia could have only accomplished so much. She was keenly aware of that.

The greatest of these debts was owed to the Marshal of Camelot. Even among the Knights of the Round Table he had worked tirelessly, needing no prompting and nearly no correction to act in proper service to the Crown. But her gratitude ran far deeper than for simply that. One was rarely moved to tears from gratitude, alone. They were not out of sorrow, this time. Were it not for him, she would have broken long ago.

His light touch surprised her into looking up, but like before, Arturia didn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifted to cover his hand in a touch as light as his, leaning ever so slightly into his hand. The sound she made was barely audible, so soft that only he would have been able to hear it. It might have sounded like something half-way between a choked-back sob...and a sigh of relief. Another of her incredible burdens had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps the most moving of all...her efforts had not been so futile, after all.

But then he stopped, and briefly she wondered what it was she had done wrong again. She could see the struggle, clearly, but this time she refused to press him on the matter. In truth, she was surprised that he had managed all he had already. No, she would not pry further; she had wanted at least something of his true thoughts, hoping that she had at least made it known that he could speak them now. But only if he felt that he could. She hardly begrudged the tall knight any secrets; she kept countless ones.

Though perhaps that was changing. there was so much she wanted to tell him; though fearful that there might be something hidden that stained his opinion of her irreparably, there were likewise his reassurances that no such thing existed. She wanted, almost desperately, to confide in someone...confide in him.

Never in a million years could Arturia have possibly guessed what lay beneath the surface, what other feelings he could possibly have other than the ones he had already expressed. Still, the conflict in his eyes, the sound he made of almost...disappointment? In what? She couldn't ask, not until she knew he was willing to talk, but surely there was some way to ease his troubled thoughts. She couldn't read his face, either, turned away as it was, puzzled as to what could have made him so conflicted, so flustered.

"It is true that I wish to hear what it is that you think," she told Bedivere quietly, making another attempt at reassurance. "But...if you do not wish to, I would like to know that, as well. you need not keep silent any longer, but you need not speak, either, if you do not wish to...simply for my sake."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If the king had been angry at such backbiting and ill regard as surrounded Bedivere's reputation, she had hidden it well indeed. There had been no suspicion at all from her faithful marshal, who had let the toxicity slide off of him. He had always seemed almost oblivious to those efforts to get under his skin or damage his reputation – but no doubt Arturia knew better. His very perception was one of the reasons he had been chosen.

He watches as she looks up, forcing himself not to look away or startle. It takes more self-control than he can usually muster; how is it that his king, the very person he had followed unflinchingly so many times, could strip away his mask so completely? What power did she hold over him that she could reduce him to such distress?

Despite how quiet it is, he hears the quiet sound Arturia makes; that hitch of breath between a relieved sigh and a stifled sob. When he does, his hand tightens over hers, fleeting concern over his face as he regards her. Had he done something; said something? Did she want him to speak where he had held to his silence?

He is perceptive, though, and he does note the puzzlement on her face. All he can do in response is to make somewhat of a helpless sound, quiet, as though to say without words his discomfort; his reluctance to speak.

It would be easy. She even encourages him to speak his mind; that he need not keep silent any longer, but his honour demands that he not speak. Not on that. That would be going too far, and he isn't certain he wants to burn that bridge. Not yet; not when he had only just found her again.

"No, milord." His voice is quiet, the words barely a hoarse whisper. He finally does drop his gaze, though, looking almost troubled. "I—I am sorry. Do not mistake my hesitation; I could not keep anything from you. But this..."

The look he casts her is both conflicted and complex. Something certainly gnaws at him, but he seems powerless to speak of it. At the same time, something in his expression suggests that he does want to talk about it. Isn't talking supposed to help? Still, old habits are hard indeed to break, and much like Arturia, wearing his mask is a very old habit.

"No, I do not wish to keep anything from you, but—but it shames me," he murmurs quietly, dropping his gaze again. "Aí, it shames me. I should not even speak of it, but..."

Her attempts to reassure him only make it worse. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, settling less stiffly on the floor, but he doesn't seem at all inclined to get up or move, still holding her hand with such delicacy, despite wearing those steel-plated gauntlets.

He has the strength to cut a man down in battle, but at the same time, he's always been the most delicate of her knights – perhaps she had seen him in the gardens, once, catching his breath after training with a stave-sword.

It had been a spring morning, early into the season and still somewhat cold; he had found on the ground a single butterfly, shivering, fluttering its wings but unable to fly. Perhaps she had watched then as, with infinite care, her marshal had scooped up the trembling insect and cupped it in his hands, sitting down on a boulder and simply waiting there, patiently, holding the butterfly until it could recover enough warmth to fly off.

That's just the kind of person he's always been – perhaps he might have hidden that away, but he couldn't hide it from her, and he could not dismiss that part of his nature without destroying who and what he was. And while there were many things he could do, Bedivere never could have done that to himself.

"I wish to," he says quietly. His hand trembles in hers, fragile as that butterfly he had once held in turn, brow furrowed just slightly. "But I do not know how... I..." The knight sighs, sagging a little.

"Aí," he murmurs in defeat. "I had not thought that taking the mask off would be so difficult..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia was still somewhat unaccustomed to seeing him without the mask he had built up ever since his training had started in earnest. Though she had relied heavily on it as King of Britain and had strangely taken comfort in it, she was happy that, even after all the years, Bedivere had not really changed at all. The youthful exuberance had tapered, but there was still that idealism, that devotion to the ideals of chivalry and the knighthood. Attaining that dream had not made him cynical; in fact, he had taken it all the more seriously following his knighting.

Yet, there were a few things that had changed. She had remembered him being a little awkward and almost painfully shy, and his training had seemed to have given him the confidence that knighthood and service to the king demanded. She had thought that his shyness had faded, replaced with a mask not unlike her own, and that his own aloofness was simply a part of his now stoic nature. In truth, it seemed, that shyness and awkwardness had not faded at all. He had always been kind-hearted and gentle but open display had been replaced for the most part by silent charity. She had only discovered that he was still this way as he comforted her through her grief, even grieving himself. But instead of finding these weaknesses, Arturia found herself strangely drawn to them. She still struggled with her own mask, but with his lowered, she found it easier to lower hers in turn.

That lowering in ways made her feel vulnerable, it left her open to attack, but she had nothing to fear from him. Her trust in him was unshakable, and so rather than making her feel exposed, that lowering-- though stirring up an odd shyness of her own -- felt...liberating. She had believed a king must shoulder all burdens alone, shielding his subjects and becoming more than human in order to endure burdens which no frail human being could on his own. But she wasn't a king any more, not really. Camelot had fallen to ruin years ago, and what was a king without his kingdom? Or perhaps a better way to describe it was that she had felt suffocated, only now able to breathe.

Not that she no longer had need for that stoic mask. She remained a knight, if no longer a king with a country to attend, and that mask was another piece of her armour. In battle, the need to obfuscate one's weaknesses remained, and her kingly mask had always served her well in that regard, whether in distant Camelot, Fuyuki City, or the multiverse at large. In business settings, she had for the most part remained calm and collected, revealing little beyond an occasional slight smile. In the company of friends in more relaxed settings, however, she would allow it to slip, chuckling at jokes and expressing her appreciation for a good meal. yet, even then, she conducted herself with a fair bit of reserve.

Her mask came down further within the walls of the Tohsaka estate, in the presence of Sakura and Rin. There had been more than one occasion Saber had fussed over Sakura overworking herself or lectured Rin on the cost of cigarettes versus those of the gems she required for thaumaturgy. She had even laughed and played once Lancelot had returned as a fellow Saber and entreated her to permit him into her service once more; a fact that would probably not please Bedivere in the least, given the violet-haired knight's actions as Berserker in the Fourth Holy Grail War.

But she had never broken down completely before, every last wall collapsing into nothing. She had never cried on anyone's shoulder, nor admit everything of what she had endured. It had felt so unfair to burden anyone else with what she had chosen to shoulder herself, shirked her responsibilities. With her mask up, she would have refused Bedivere's open offer to help her to bear what he could of those burdens. Without them, she was helpless to refuse. But once he had, she felt -- a little selfishly -- that great wave of relief.

Arturia felt herself chewing the inside of her cheek; he looked so anguished, though over what specifically she could not discern. perhaps it had something to do with his knightly duty, or at least some perceived conflict with it. When he admitted in a tortured voice how this mystery brought him shame, the King of Knights was left bemused. What could have possibly caused such a thing, for a knight who possessed all the proper virtues almost naturally, who was so slow to anger yet so quick to defend an innocent, who had remained loyal until the very end and even beyond?

Her hand lightly squeezed his as it trembled. It pained her that he was so inconsolable; it was true that she had been earlier, but he had weathered that storm. What could she say that would make him smile again? She found she liked seeing that smile he had kept hidden away for so long, she had felt so warmed by them. Conversely, his pained expressions incurred an inexplicable tightness in her chest. These were such odd, unfamiliar sensations that she had no idea what she was supposed to do. just as she had no idea what she was supposed to do for him.

She did, however, know of at least one thing she needed to tell him, even if it might not assuage his sense of shame. "You could never be shameful," she said with absolute certainty. "I have never known a knight who exemplified the chivalric virtues more than you. Whatever it is that you have done, it could never be said to be shameful."

He was right, though. It was difficult, indeed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If Arturia had thought his shy nature had faded, she was mistaken. In truth, it was a testament to how carefully Bedivere had built his own mask. That she had suspected nothing was something of a left-handed compliment. He had done his work more thoroughly than he had even suspected.

How ironic, that both of them had only wanted to see past one another's masks, and yet both were bound by those very masks. The very things each had wanted had always been right within reach, and yet for kingdom and for duty, they had denied themselves; had resolved to carry out their duties in silence and solitude.

No doubt she sees the slip of his own mask as a weakness, but that's an opinion she may need some effort to change – it would be like Bedivere convincing her that she had not failed Camelot. Some habits are difficult to break. That mask had served him well for many years, and he had been loathe to remove it. In Camelot, there had been every reason not to. To do that would have been tantamount to career suicide. It may have been so in a more literal sense, too. Even the gentle and soft-spoken Bedivere had enemies.

Where she had been given time to lower her defenses in her years in the Multiverse, Bedivere had no such fallback. If anything, finding himself utterly alone before Arturia had happened across him had only encouraged him to raise his defenses further, hiding behind that mask as a footman would crouch behind a stout shield. Since he had laid Arturia to rest on the shore of the lake, it had been his survival skill; that, and shutting his emotions off entirely.

He had watched the boat bearing her body push off into the lake, and only then had he allowed his mask to crack, alone but for the birds in the wood – no doubt his grief-stricken cries had carried across the lake until his voice had been no more, but there had been no one to hear them. It had been the only time he had let that control slip, and after that, he had let the numbness take him. That was by far easier than thinking about what had been lost.

It had not been just his kingdom or his king, although those were certainly casualties of the Battle of Camlann. No; it had been something far more precious to him. Something he never thought would be replaced, and something that he struggles even now to reconcile.

Having her back forces him to confront things he had pushed out of his mind entirely until he'd seen her again; things that obviously cause him some kind of pain. But what is it that she tries so hard to figure out? What could even shame someone of such impeccable conduct?

Bedivere bows his head, slowly, hair falling across his face. Though fine, there's enough of it that she might have to duck her head to actually see his expression, which seems to be one of pain.

He turns his hand over, carefully, when she squeezes his hand; ever mindful of the steel plates. His fingers close over hers in a silent gesture of what seems gratitude, or relief, and perhaps even apology.

"Ah, my king..." He shakes his head, slowly, but he doesn't bother to straighten. Even his posture is a sign of his distress, normally so careful to conduct himself with dignity. There's no dignity in it now, head bowed as though he wanted to hide from whatever it is that troubles him. "There are some things..."

The confidence in her voice, though, the absolute certainty, seems to do some to reassure him. Goodness, what could it be? Had he killed an unarmed man? Struck down a woman? Robbed someone? It causes him clear distress, whatever it is—

Bedivere sighs, so quietly the sound could be missed but for the hitch and then sag of his shoulders. The movement is just enough to cause the heavy cloth of his mantle to rustle.

"I..."

He wonders, briefly, how one turns that protective mask off. How one simply speaks, openly and candidly, without the almost instinctive urge to hide away. His gaze drops, unable to meet her eyes, and his fingers tighten around her hand, almost imperceptibly, as though unconsciously seeking comfort.

"I had always... admired you, milord." His admission is quiet, but surely there must be something else to it. He's already managed to say this, though it may have taken some work to drag it out of him. He hadn't placed such emphasis before, though; not quite so plainly. "And there is no untruth when I tell you that I followed you for the ideal, for I did, and I too wished to realise your vision of Camelot. But... that is not the only reason why I... followed you."

He swallows, harshly, almost grimacing as he tries to marshall his failing courage.

"I knew from the day your entourage passed me by in the market square that I would have no other master, and I would spend my life serving you. I knew then I wished to become a Knight of the Round Table, but it wasn't..." He shakes his head, faintly. "It wasn't that I wanted to be a knight. Well – I did wish to be a knight, that much is true, but... it... was because of you. Yes. I strove to become a Knight of the Round Table... but not solely for the sake of knighthood," he adds, risking a glance at her. He can feel the scarlet flush of his face clear to the tips of his ears; he doesn't dare meet her eyes. That blush is almost painful. "It was for the sake of standing by your side... I only wanted to stand at your side. I—"

Bedivere exhales through his nose, a quiet sigh of – despair? Frustration? It's hard to say what exactly it is, but it's definitely unhappy. He screws his eyes shut, but there's no stopping his words now. If he stops, he fears he might never speak again, especially not to her.

His voice drops, that gentle tone not quite a whisper.

"From the first I was stricken by the sight of you. I know it is shameful, but my desire to serve you was only to be closer to you; it was only a selfish desire to prolong that moment in the market square, when I had first seen you in the sun... I—" His voice cracks, and he coughs, mortified; but to his credit, he continues on. It's as though her silent desire to help him opened a dam, and now, held up for so long, there's no stopping the inevitable deluge. "I knew you were a woman, even from the first," he admits, releasing her hands a little reluctantly. His own hands return to rest over his knee, fidgeting slightly. How odd it must be for her to see this bastion of calm and stillness... fidget. "I know not how I knew, but I had suspected. I confirmed as such later, but my suspicions had been correct. And since the first I—I had been struck by your beauty," he admits, voice so faint and hoarse it would be missed if they weren't so close. "I..." His voice gives out again, and he has to start again. "And I still am."

Several seconds of silence pass; he seems to fold in on himself, shoulders hunching, head hanging. She may hear a quiet sound – the subtle, metallic rattle of his armour as he tries to control his trembling.

And now, apparently, she knows what terrible thing it was that had plagued him; what shameful secret he had harboured all through her rule. Was this what had sent him into such distress? To simply admit that he had admired the woman on the throne, who hid herself and sacrificed so much of herself, that her people might prosper? That he alone had seen her beauty, and had wanted to serve not the king, but this brave and selfless woman who had – completely unknowingly – stolen his heart?

"I—I am sorry. I should not have spoken. Ah, merciful God! Why did I speak of that?" Even his voice trembles; as though he were waiting to be struck by lightning, or perhaps struck by Arturia, or some similarly unpleasant punishment. "Aí," he murmurs mournfully, "I will understand if you choose to dismiss me from your service for such shameful..." He can't even seem to bring himself to finish his sentence, miserable voice sinking into a dry whisper, and then giving out altogether.

He can still feel the heat in his face right down to the tips of his ears, too, and no doubt he knows she can see it. No; he only keeps his head bowed, because it means not meeting her disappointed – or perhaps horrified – eyes. He can imagine any number of reactions from her at his halting, stumbling admission; and every one of them is as a knife wrenched in his gut.

"Aí..." The sound is so small, so despairing, it might almost seem comical.

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
Elsewhere in the house, there’s a momentary - and extremely silent - gasp. She was right after all...but, keeping her mouth covered, Sakura only listens carefully. She’s going to have to make much penance for listening...b-but, at the same time, for the plum-haired magus to simply stride out would be noticed, and remind them of the horrible mistake she’d made…

...which would take Saber’s current feelings, as well as Bedivere’s and crush them in a way that would be irreparable. She owes her friend too much, and she owes Bedivere...at least the chance to confess himself. So silent she will remain, keeping what is, at the moment, a secret between two people only that.

Saber (346) has posed:
There was a great deal Arturia didn't know about, it seemed. Emotional detachment for the sake of impartiality had many costs; even commoners, who had been jubilant over her reforms, had been made uneasy by her distance. None could gain her favour as a means of power...but at the same time, no one could approach her with honest intentions, either.

She had watched Bedivere grow from an exuberant if timid boy into a serious young man, but those brief glances told her little. She had heard that whatever family he had come from were of the Dál Riata, but beyond that, she knew nothing. His likes and dislikes, habits, tastes...it was all a mystery to her. It had been the same for all her knights, in fact...only now, for some reason, she found it deeply troubling. Even when Rider had criticised her for it, it had not bothered her quite to the extent that such a thing did now. She had hardly enjoyed it, keeping her distance from them, for some part of her had always wanted to get to know them as true friends and comrades. But the kingly part of her realised that camaraderie had been sacrificed so that the people would not think they were above her new laws. Becoming a knight might have been a great honour, but it was no privilege...it was a call to service. Just as how Arturia regarded her place as king.

She only felt that loss as keenly as she did once she had stumbled upon the multiverse, first when Lancelot appeared, then Bedivere. She had felt some conflict over Mordred's reappearance -- both versions of her -- but the Saber of Red seemed uninterested in making amends, and while Arturia's mask had diminished, it had not sufficiently slipped in the presence of her artificial 'son'. But not so with her remaining knights. and one for whom she harboured a special fondness for was now right there, after four years, his mask sufficiently slipped enough for her to have seen his own anguish. It was only now, seeing it with her own eyes, that she realised that there had not been anything she could have done to completely shield them all, to free them from concern over her. Had it been like that for all of them? Lancelot, too, had seemed to desperate to be punished by her for his actions, and similarly pined to be readmitted back into her service. Of course, she couldn't refuse him. She had wept openly after he had faded away as Berserker; accepting him as a knight again as a Saber was simply the sort of forgiving and loving person she was.

She missed them all terribly. It was a selfish wish of hers to see them again, to grant them perhaps some of what they might have wished for that could not have been granted in Camelot. but there had been some merciful power in the multiverse, to have brought at the very least the knights she had most wanted to make amends with.

But it must have been so confusing, she thought with a sense of shame, to now see the distant, confident king crumble into an uncertain girl with a tangled knot of emotions. How could he have not been disappointed in what she was behind her mask, the girl Arturia she had kept locked away in a prison within her own self? His own uncertainty at having seen her mask drop; her inner self was a stark contrast to her kingly self...so weak and unsure. The newly-coronated king he had been in awe of...would that boy have been so awe-struck to know that she had only permitted the kingly part of herself to be seen?

Her unworthiness was made all too clear to her as Bedivere continued, even as she had tried to reassure him that he did not need to. He had at once been horrified by the thought, yet something urged him forward. At first, she was slightly puzzled; it had been clear that he had admired the king greatly -- she had known that much, at least -- and he had already confessed that he had also longed to steal even just a glimpse of what had been concealed behind it.

His posture crumpled, a far cry from the usual rigid posture of a knight of Camelot, and he looked so weary that, had she not wanted to disturb him after being so determined to see the rest of it through, she would have taken him into her arms just as he had with her as she openly grieved for the first time. So too, when he had said that there were some things, she almost dreaded hearing that he had, in fact, been disappointed. Her conduct had hardly been becoming a proper king. Especially when he said admired in a way that carried with it something beyond even admiration, though she was befuddled as to what that specifically was. Inwardly she winced, afraid she had let him down in some mysterious way.

He had followed her for other reasons? No matter what reasons he might have had -- helping his people, perhaps? -- she almost didn't care; he had served her so faithfully, so unwaveringly, that even if the motives had not been 'pure' by some standards, it didn't matter to her. But then, no...she was learning he had been following her, that he desired nothing more than to follow King Arthur herself, and that becoming a knight had been the best -- and perhaps only -- way to do so. That revelation likewise failed to trouble her; the entire point of becoming a knight was to serve, and he had served flawlessly.

No, what finally began throwing her off was that he had known from the beginning of her secret, of the gender she had been trying to conceal. Her mouth fell open slightly in astonishment, her eyes wide. True, bedivere was perhaps the most observant person she had ever known -- if anyone would have been able to see beyond the ruse, of course it would have been him -- but they had been so very careful after the coronation. Drawing Caliburn from its ceremonial stone had been easy by comparison. Was this his horrible secret, that he had hid his knowledge of it until he had been made the Marshal of the realm?

But it was only when he had confessed that he had been struck by an attribute that she firmly believed she did not truly possess that she went into shock. Her, beautiful? Even in the raiment of the king, projecting as much masculinity as she was able? She almost didn't register the implication. It was an impossible thing for someone like her; a masculine king and the weak young girl hidden beneath. Nothing of her could have possibly been evocative of such feelings. So how had she? Surely he had been confusing his awe with something else entirely, she thought...until the final part of the confession.

It was if she had been riding through a desert for days on end, the way her face flushed to such a point that, had she been human, she likely would have fainted from a heat like a thousand suns. All the ways she was unworthy of such....regard. Every last one of the instances in which she wasn't worth that sort of regard demanded to be told, each one a reason until itself for why someone could not possibly feel that way about her. So much blood on her hands...they were both knights, true; both had shed much blood in defence of Britain. But she had razed villages, destroyed entire universes. Complete lack of femininity which had been willingly cast aside, she was tainted. Bedivere, closest of all her knights, had seen that first-hand. How could he still feel such things, even after that?

Her hand reached up and gripped the fabric of her tunic over her chest, and her eyes slammed shut, a stricken expression naked on her face. Somehow, it hurt, in a way unlike any physical wound, and in some ways more painful. She was helpless, as if drowning in the lake, some invisible iron hand squeezing her heart. And that was to say nothing of her confusion over her own feelings. Perhaps it was suppressing her emotions for all those years, but she couldn't make sense of the maelstrom at all. When she tried to name one, it would slip out of her grasp as quick as if she had been trying to hold water. But most troubling of all -- due to the guilt over feeling it all-- was an emotion she had been able to identify before it was overwhelmed by the morass of all the others. A small, strange bit of happiness.

So caught up in her internal maelstrom that she almost didn't hear the mournful apology. "N-no..." she stammered, her trembling quite nicely matching his own. "I-I...I would never...never do that..."

The once proud, stoic king now simply stared with that girlish, bright-red, fiddling nervously with one of the clasps of her tunic. In spite of the overwhelming sense of shame he felt at something that was hardly shameful at all -- even if she couldn't bring herself to quite believe it -- he had reached out to her and told her of his true thoughts and feelings. She wanted to understand, to know how he could still feel that way. And perhaps, that way she might begin to understand her own.

So softly that he might have to strain to hear her voice, she asked a simple question. Her throat was dry, and her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears. At least the stammering had stopped. "What is it like...to feel that way...how do you know?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Thankfully, Arturia's conflicted emotions are all her own. Bedivere doesn't so much as look up, gaze fixed firmly on the floor beneath him. He hasn't the strength to look up, and the humiliation and shame that seem to ripple from him in waves are almost tangible. He crouches as though he wanted to hide, withdrawn into himself, shoulders and head bowed in the furthest thing from pride she's ever seen in him.

His armour still rattles softly as he trembles, and as the silence passes, it almost gets louder. The brave, unflinching knight shakes in front of his king like a leaf.

Although he hears a rustle of cloth as she reaches up and clutches at the front of her own tunic, he doesn't look up. If he were actually watching her, he might sense the conflict and the pain with his keen eyes, but apparently he hasn't the strength to.

Her words bring his head to rise, though, very slowly. He doesn't quite look up at her. His head is still tilted down enough that his hair can hide his eyes, but it's clear that he's listening. Although he can't see her face, he can see the way she fiddles nervously with one of the tunic's toggles. It's so strange to see such indecision out of her – she, who had always been so calm and so confident. So cold, so remote. Yet here she is, right in front of him; vulnerable.

Part of him still marvels at that.

He has to strain to hear her next words, head cocking faintly as he does; the desire to know what she's saying momentarily overruling his humiliation. When she does, he frowns, though the expression is so faint it could be missed.

Slowly, Bedivere seems to wilt again. He droops, as though all the strength were leaching out of him before her eyes. He seems to shrink until she can look over the top of his head with ease, head bowed so far that there's no question that the only thing he sees is the floor. His eyes close; he gives a sigh that sounds curiously defeated.

How, precisely, did he let himself slide so far as to shame himself like this? And why does she not punish him for his dishonourable misconduct?

Still, her question is puzzling. This wasn't what he had expected to hear. Dismissal, perhaps, or even beratement at such insolence. Anger. Shock. Even disappointment, which in some ways would have been the worst to bear. Instead, she seems curious. The part of his heart still hopeful almost wants to believe it sounds accepting, but the greater part of him, the part that wants to punish himself for such shameful behaviour, doesn't want to acknowledge it.

"How?" He repeats the word softly, and his tone is one of puzzlement. "How do I not?"

For a moment it seems that those hoarse words are all she'll get out of him, but once he's found his resolve, he speaks again, still knelt low before her. He doesn't dare look up or meet her eyes; doesn't dare reveal his burning face, though she can probably see it in the scarlet of his ears. At least he seems to be controlling himself enough to speak evenly, through some tremendous effort of will, though she may hear that musical lilt creeping back into his tone; unconscious. At this point, his control only extends so far.

"From the first time I had seen you in the market square, I had known." His own words are soft, so soft she might need to strain to hear him in turn. "I knew then I would serve no one else. And I knew then that I would—that—"

He makes a soft sound, almost miserable, but he forces himself onward.

"I knew then that I would give my heart to no other. Even if it was impossible, and I knew that it was – even if it was wrong..." His head drops a little further. "I am your knight, your marshal; your servant. It—it is not right..."

Why, then, he has to wonder, does it feel right?

He continues, voice soft and low, words clear despite how hushed his tone is. It's clearly costing him something to get all of this out, by the way he shakes, crouched so low over himself. Though still knelt before her, it isn't the posture of someone showing respect; it's the posture of someone bearing such a shameful burden that it becomes a physical weight bearing down on them. He trembles so violently his armour rattles; steel plates chafing with a subtle, almost musical sound.

"I know because there are times I can think of nothing else. I remember that day as though it were yesterday, even after all this time. I know because when I—when I laid you to rest, I thought I would be torn asunder. I—I had certainly wished for that, yes; I knew that there was nothing left worth living for." His voice sinks even further. "Oh, God forgive me, I did not even want to return to Camelot. But only the duty to what you had built bade me go. If there was anything left of Camelot to save, I—I knew I owed it to you to save it..."

His tone is haunted; a raw rasp. "I—I wept, when I pushed the boat over the lake, the boat I had laid you to rest in. It shames me, but I could no more control myself than—than..." He shakes his head, very slowly. "No more than I can now," he finishes helplessly. "Ah, God! You ask me how I know, but the better question to ask is how I do not know. It is because I am helpless, my king, but to follow you. It is because there is nothing else for me. It is because without you, I am nothing; I am less than nothing. I am meaningless without you."

"But I—forgive me." This time his voice is a whisper, and his head bows further, shoulders hitching. "This is wrong. You bade me speak freely, but I did not wish to dishonour you so..." The soft, strangled sound he makes is unmistakable; although he tries to stifle it, Bedivere is weeping – but in a way so typical to him, not for his own misery, but for his perceived slights against her – slights that probably don't even exist. "I am sorry, my king, that of the knights who served you loyally, it is the weakest among them that returns to you now..."

Saber (346) has posed:
It was frustrating...so frustrating that she could hear and in stolen glances see his anguish...the wavering of his voice, the violent trembling...yet be so powerless to do anything for it. Even if she wasn't almost completely caught up in her own, what could she possibly do? The ache was unbearable. She had done everything to save them, save him, and yet this still...

A shameful part of her wanted nothing more than to simply throw her arms around him, to persuade him that there was nothing wrong with his feelings, with what was even more than devotion and duty. He was so very precious to her...he always had been. They had both concealed it to well that no one could have even suspected, not even each other. And in some ways, Arturia had buried it so well that even she herself was ignorant. She could not even have had true friends. To fall in love even more impossible. Perhaps that was why it had been one of the easier sacrifices to make; pushing everyone else away, submitting to an illusory political marriage...if she had already given her heart to another, one well beyond her reach.

It was shameful to her, not because it would have been a violation of chivalry, but an abuse of power. Bedivere was her subordinate, for the love of all that was holy...she could never abuse her position like that. It was wrong...on her part. Already, the guilt that she had dared even be a little bit happy about it gnawed at her. And yet, she could not push him away, not any more, not with her mask evaporated into aether as it was. Not even if she had wanted to.

Was that favour she had felt all those years ago, in spite of all her efforts to be wholly impartial...was it something other than a simple fondness, a simple favour? Once more her heart was divided; one side wished more than nearly anything that she could know, while the other was too fearful of the answer. Was this how Guinevere had felt, she she looked upon Lancelot?

Above all, there was the crushing guilt, the constant remind her of her unworthiness. As he answered her question, pledging that his heart would belong to no other, she could do nothing to control her own trembling, a cold knife twisting in her chest. And when he spoke of his overwhelming grief at her loss even as he fought to carry out his remaining duties, Arturia could not keep back her own sorrow and guilt, her very breath laboured. Neither shock nor anger, nor even disappointment coloured her tone. Instead, it was anguish, much like his own, tears stinging her eyes once more. "I don't...I don't deserve such a precious thing...I..."

His insistence on his weakness, however, spurred her towards a hard decision." No..the weakness lies not with you. Never with you. I have..."

She stopped, shaking her head as she firmly decided upon one particular dark secret, the one which perhaps plagued her more than even her life as a Servant. "No. I must show you."

Perhaps to his horror, Arturia suddenly turned with her back towards him, and perhaps even more mortifying, unbuttoned the top clasps of her tunic, shrugging off the top around her shoulders...

...to reveal the stylised alien mark of a black sun just below the nape of her neck. "This is, perhaps, my greatest shame. Much I have destroyed, in my life, as a Servant. But this..." Her voice, steady at first, lapsed into a slight waver. "This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe."

Surely this would convince him that she was in no way worthy of such a precious gift, even as she felt it crush her inside to try to push him away. No, he couldn't love her. Not her. He deserved something far better than to be so hopelessly bound to one as repulsive as the Servant Saber.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
By this point, Bedivere has sunk so low as to look almost as though he had no strength at all– head bowed, trembling violently, all pretense of dignity thrown aside. Doubtless to his own mind he does not deserve dignity at this point. He is beneath even that. To admit to something so against the very grain of everything he had ever followed – it's one thing to have harboured that secret, but to lay it bare before the very one whose dignity and honour he would have given his life to protect—

The marshal makes no attempt to speak, and no attempt to even move. In spite of his agony and his shame, he bears it in silence, as he always had. What strangled sobs he had given earlier are now silenced ruthlessly, though in the quiet of the sitting room, there's no doubt that she can hear the catch and hitch of his breath as he tries to stop himself from making any sound. One hand lowers to brace against the floor, instead of bending double over his knee; the unconscious movement allows him to bow even lower.

He had always been dignified in Camelot, but never arrogant. Always he had comported himself with a quiet dignity despite his common origins. What pride he had felt never lay within himself, but within his service to Arturia's reign and to the kingdom he had loved. For that, he had always let his knightly pride show, conducting himself with the utmost dignity. Now, though, there's no trace of that to be seen. Now, he cowers before what he no doubt thinks is her inevitable judgement.

Precious thing?

The words seem to give pause to his anguish, and reach him even through his thoughts of shame and unworthiness. His head raises incrementally, even as she says she has something to show him. He looks up even as she turns her back on him. His self-loathing at his own conduct must run deeply indeed. He flushes as she turns and begins to unfasten the toggles of her tunic, but he doesn't look away.

He stares as though in morbid fascination, but there is also an uneasy puzzlement on his face. What on earth is she—?

She shrugs the tunic down over her shoulders, baring the Scar of the World-Slayer. The black sun stands against her pale skin, bared for him to see, and he frowns at the mark. It bears no especial significance for him, at least not until she speaks on it.

This marks me as one responsible for the death of an entire universe.

It takes him several seconds to even process that. True, he had known that she could be ruthless. Such was required of the king in the course of duty. It was necessary to harden one's heart and take actions that were unpleasant, or even abhorrent, for the good of all. He had seen countless instances of that behaviour, even as he had quietly worked as though to atone the foul things Arturia had been forced to commit – as though they'd had an unspoken agreement that his actions would serve penance for the necessary atrocities.

Bedivere's expression falls, very slightly, although she doesn't see it. She stands with her back turned to him, brandishing the scar as though it were a weapon with which to drive him away.

Perhaps it speaks to the solemnity of the occasion that he doesn't question the sheer scale of what she tells him. And perhaps he has better experience with this Multiverse for the short time he's been alone in it than he lets on – but it seems that on some level he knows that what she's telling him is a possibility. Arturia did not lie, not even when it would have been necessary, save about her gender.

She may hear the quiet sound of armour resettling. He plants both hands on his knee, pushing himself to his feet. She may hear the subtle sound of his heavy cloak settling over his shoulders, rippling from where it had pooled on the floor beneath him. And she may hear the sound of the two footsteps it takes for him to draw even with her.

With the utmost care, she may see as he reaches out to her, settling the tunic back around her, covering the Scar of the World-Slayer. He settles the fabric back about her neck and shoulders. Despite wearing gauntlets, his touch is light, as though he were afraid to apply any pressure; afraid that she might break – or afraid that he might.

And she may feel as much as hear his response. He's standing behind her, close enough that he can bow his head to whisper into her ear.

"I do not know what you did. I was not there. There is no way for me to know what reasonings you may have had for whatever earned you that mark. But know this."

Despite the steel he wears, the weight of his arms suddenly settling around her from behind is nonetheless surprisingly light – he's being careful not to cause any untoward harm; and though she may feel him tense as he hesitates, it relaxes after a moment, as though he were reaching a decision. His hair hangs down as he bows his head over her again, a faint but insistent tickle at the side of her neck.

"I do not care." Despite what could be a harsh rejoinder out of anyone else, the words are spoken with such gentleness, such conviction, that there is no question of the truth of them. He's obviously torn, though; perhaps at hearing the anguish in her own voice, the uncharacteristic wavering of her tone. His own voice lilts again, that faint, musical hint to it that – now – seems to betray him in times of distress. "I know you. And I know that if there were any other path, you would have sought to take it, or sought of others – as you had done with me – to take it in your stead. My king, you are no murderer. You do nothing without good reason."

Gently, his arms close around her, and he bows his head until he can rest the side of his face against the gold of her hair.

"No, my king." The gentle refusal is little more than a warm breath through her hair, unsteady and trembling. Bedivere closes his eyes, expression tightening, as though he himself felt the pain she shows him. "Please. I cannot bear to see you do this to yourself – you have suffered for as long as I have known you. And you—you have given so much of yourself, without hesitation..."

"Ah, God have mercy on us both," he whispers, tone anguished. "But if He will not... then please, my king... please let me help bear the burden, this time. I cannot bear to see you suffer; it pains me more than any burden I myself could bear."

"Please..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Earlier, had the knight whom she had known to be as composed and dignified as she been so cowed and vulnerable, Saber would have laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled gently, insisting he had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Commanded him to rise, insisted that there was no penance to be paid. That Bedivere was now, and forever would be, her knight.

There was no fault in his feelings, in what had been only a silent longing within that gentle heart. He had never acted on it and resisted all temptation, endured it all for the sake of Camelot and the sake of her reign. In some things, he had sacrificed even more than she had. He had never spoken of it until now, hidden it so completely that it had never so much as troubled her. Nothing would have been gained, and there had been everything to lose.

As she was now, however, she was powerless to comfort him. She could, however, try to protect him. She had failed miserably before, but if she could stop this, he could truly begin to live. Bedivere had mourned her far more than she ever deserved, and while she was grateful, she couldn't let it go on. he had to leave it behind, to stop suffering, to heal. More than anything --even having him at her side once more -- she prayed for his healing, his happiness. She loved him too much to shackle him to her like that.

Her shoulders shook slightly as she remained with her back to him. The pain became a stitch in her side -- appropriately where Mordred had given her the wound which had ended her life, as if to remind her of her failure -- and her arm crossed over her torso to hold it with an involuntary gesture. "That is why...you must..."

Saber never had the opportunity to finish.She heard the armour resettling, wondering in the back of her mind if that had meant that he would finally walk away, free himself from her at last. His service to her had brought her joy and even some measure of peace, but she would sacrifice that in a heartbeat for his life. She would sacrifice her life for his as many times as she had to. perhaps it was not a kingly thing to do, for a king to die for his knights. But it was the chivalric thing to do, to lay down one's life for his brothers, and she was a knight even before she was a king. And aside from that, she valued him as more than simply a knight and her marshal.

Instead,she was surprised when the sound came towards her rather than away. What he was thinking at the the moment, she couldn't yet tell from her position. She nearly flinched as he simply resettled her tunic back on her shoulders, though she could do nothing to stifle the surprised gasp as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. The tiny blonde struggled uselessly with her mask, but even that effort ceased once his arms were around her again. The last vestiges fell away when next he spoke.

I do not care.

Just like that, Arturia's resolve crumbled all over again, and once more, the immovable King of Knights was reduced to sobbing in his arms, the open palms of her hands pressed into her eyes. How could he still...after all she had done, after discovering who she really was? She could hear the comforting lilt in his own voice, struggling to comfort her even as he fought his own despair. Even with all his burdens, Bedivere was nevertheless there, even pleading with her to share hers with him. Lord God above, she was so selfish.

With considerable effort, she tried to speak, as if to repay his kindness if only with a few paltry words. Instead, her thoughts came out fractured jumble that she fought to press past her lips in a small, shaking voice.

"You can't...not you...for me..." The emphasis on 'you' was telling, a hint that her regard extended beyond a simple fondness or a devotion to one of her knights. Even if she herself didn't quite understand what it all meant.

Curse it all.

How can you still call me your king? How can you still wish to serve me, after all this? Why was her stubborn tongue refusing to speak such simple words? She was past caring about her dignity at that point, but why would the words not come?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
She can't see it, but his expression twists as her defenses come down once more. It pains him to see her in such agony, reduced to showing so openly the pain she had borne throughout her reign, and now here, in this place. Slowly, Bedivere closes his eyes, and he does the only thing he can think to do – he simply holds her as that long-suffering pain comes bubbling back to the surface. His arms tighten around her when she tries to speak, stuttering in a small, unsteady tone.

Even now she tries to push him away. He is astute, though. That small slip, that emphasis placed just so, betrays her motives more than anything else.

He doesn't dare to speak just yet, even as he tightens his arms around her; feels his shoulders sag, as though in defeat. Perhaps there's some of that, but in reality, all he wants to do is ease that terrible burden on her shoulders. Despite the pain, despite wanting to crawl into a hole for his indignity and his shameful bearing, he feels the faint beginnings of a smile flicker across his face.

Those broad shoulders sag a little further, though she may mistake it as despair, or pain.

No. This time, it's relief.

Bedivere heard that emphasis – Bedivere, who never seemed to miss anything that happened around him, whose eyes and ears were more astute than anyone of the Round Table had ever suspected; perhaps even the very king he served. Few things slipped past his notice.

He lets out a breath, still trembling, and slowly lowers his head to rest over hers.

"I can," he murmurs, though his voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper. "And I shall. Don't you understand? For you I would do anything. Anything," he adds softly, his voice cracking faintly. He ignores the slip, continuing on. If he doesn't, he knows he'll lose all resolve again. He's not sure why it's important for him to continue on. He knows only that it is. Her raw pain compels him to speak. "Please, my king, please." His voice is soft, lilting; perhaps unintentionally soothing. Truth be told, he isn't even aware that he's letting it slip.

With his mask down, it seems he slips into that mode when he's distraught – and if there's ever a time in which he's distraught, it's now. Still, perhaps his tone is soothing, so gentle and soft; this shy and slightly awkward knight. He had never raised his voice outside the battlefield, not once. "Do not weep. I will bear any burden for you, and I will bear it gladly, if it means for you not to suffer so."

"I cannot bear to see you suffer... even—" His voice cracks. He withdraws his arms from her, but not to draw away; very carefully, and with such gentleness that he might be holding that butterfly again as he had done that spring morning in the garden, he tries to turn her about by the shoulders to face him. Gently, though – if she resists at all, he'll abandon the notion. "Even then I had longed to share your burdens, to ease the pain I knew you felt, even if I did not know how great that pain was. I would do that even now. I... especially now."

"Please let me help you, my king. Aí," he whispers, "I wanted to see you smile, not to weep... I did not want to cause you any distress. No, my king, no; I do not care what you have done, or what burdens you have borne. You are still my king. You are still—" He can't quite bring himself to call her by name; that instinct is so deep-rooted that even he can't overpower it. Instead he shakes his head, dropping his gaze to some distant corner. His voice drops as well, barely a breath, so quiet that she may have to strain just to make out the words. He tightens his grip on her, as though afraid she might flee in her anguish; lowering his head to rest over hers, as though he might shield her from whatever pains her.

"You are still the woman I... you are still the... aí, forgive me, my king..." Try as he might to find the right words, they fail him, leaving him with his own confused tangle of words. "No... no," he adds, breathing a sigh into her hair. "You—you are more to me than just my king; so much more than that... I will always serve you, but..."

Bedivere just... stops talking. It is possible that he's trying to quit while he's ahead, hoping his awkward, clumsy half-sentences can nonetheless convey to her what he wants so desperately for her to understand.

Or... maybe... quit while he's behind, more like.

Saber (346) has posed:
Within that warm, comforting embrace, the storm gradually abated, leaving her exhausted once more. Even as she had tried to shield him again, Bedivere would have none of it, holding her there as the storm raged again, bearing it with her until the winds receded. But then, that was simply one more thing which made him the man her was; the gentle yet steadfast knight, the one fit to sit at the left hand of the king at the Round Table.

Saber might curse her slip, but his words gave her such relief. It was if she had finally come to the end of a long, arduous journey, able to lay down her burden and finally rest. She could feel him slump against her, and it worried her; had her burdens been too much for him?

No, it would seem.

She could hear the lilt slip out, the one he had been so careful to suppress. It had been a wise thing to do, given the pressures of the court and the distrust of the nobility within it. To Arturia, it didn't matter, but her own judgement was already and constantly in question. Perhaps it was a small thing to sacrifice for her, yet it nevertheless troubled her. Idly, she wondered if perhaps she could coax him to speak like that more often, to speak of where he had come from...if only within the walls of the Tohsaka estate. to see him finally relax, smile, perhaps even laugh...

It was so strange; thinking about trying to get him to do something so simple as smile had started to make her feel a little better. Curious.

A realisation made her start, if ever so slightly. He pleaded with her to share her burdens, that he would do anything for her sake. Nothing she asked of him would be withheld, of that she was certain. It was such a simple thing, yet merely by being there and listening to her, weathering that deluge of all her buried emotion as the dam finally broke after the long years of silence, he already had. At long last, she realised it now; this was what it meant to truly rely on someone, to share one's burdens.

It frightened her knowing this, however, not because it made her vulnerable; her trust in him was as absolute as his loyalty to her, and nothing could tear that asunder. But if there was something even more terrible, some burden that would finally break her, that was something she never wanted to share with him. That fear had, she thought, always been born out of a need to protect his purity and innocence. To some extent that wish remained, and yet, now...

When he tried to turn her around, she was gripped by a sudden bashfulness, her face heating to red once more...but she yielded. In spite of her embarrassment, Arturia very much wanted to see his face. Her eyebrows knitted, though, as she turned to face him and his entreaty to let him help her. She desperately wanted to protect him, and yet...she couldn't bear to see the pain which such protection caused, the distance she would have been forced to maintain once more. Which was truly worse; the pain caused by such burdens, or hiding them and knowing she was bearing it alone? Was it that much more painful, the latter?

Woman. He had called her a woman. A woman he...

She could feel her face heating up all over again, matching his complexion, her awkward fumbling a mirror of his own. Why did only a few humble words make her feel like that? Inwardly, Arturia steeled herself. She could not let this go unanswered, this debt unpaid.

"Even if I am unworthy, even if I can never...I still..."

Again, the words failed her. She was grateful of course, but this went well beyond even that. But how could she express it? What could she convey with simply words? After some fierce internal debate, she came to the conclusion that she would have to once more simply have to show him.

Edging slightly closer, Arturia rose up just enough until her face was at the same level as his. With a slight tilt of her head, she leaned in and brushed her lips lightly over his cheek before sitting back down, her eyes fixed once again on the hands in her lap, flaxen hair only partially shielding a bright-red face.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It seems that the soft-spoken knight may know the king better than he may have ever let on. He simply holds her as the storm rages, as though absolutely certain that the emotional deluge will end. After all, she's been through so much. Most of what she had been through were things he never had the opportunity to see – although, yes, he had suspected. Then, there were the scars inflicted on her after she had come to be in the Multiverse.

Those were, perhaps, what cut him more deeply. It isn't that she had to endure those things, though he would have preferred otherwise. No; it's that she had to endure them alone, for he can imagine that she must have put up her mask in the face of that pain, just as she always has. And how could he blame her for that? He would have done the very same.

Bedivere merely waits, patient as she ever would have remembered him. His face is calm again when he looks down at her, when she relents and allows him to turn her around. He even manages the faintest hint of a smile, as though he were even now wanting to reassure her. It falters at the sight of her troubled expression. Had she been listening? No, he thinks not, but he can hardly fault her for that, either. Old habits run deep, and those roots are difficult to pull. They have an insidious way of sprouting again, just when one thinks they'd all been pruned and uprooted.

His own expression of concern seems to crack a bit as she flushes scarlet again, though, and he's dimly aware that his own face is just as red. She fumbles with her words just as much as he had, and the similarity is not lost on him. If he weren't feeling so hopelessly distraught, he might even find some amusement in the comparison.

When she trails off and seems to lose all semblance of words, though, he tilts his head. The gesture is ever so faint; one of obvious curiosity. He seems to remain puzzled as she edges closer to him, stretching until she can stand level with him (which, if he weren't distracted, would be impressive; he is a good deal taller than her).

Before he has any opportunity to react, though, she stands up, closes the distance, and—

The world seems to go a bit fuzzy for a moment, curiously soft around the edges. For a moment he has to think hard for which way's up and which way's down; he actually wavers on his feet for a moment in his shock.

By the time he recovers himself, she's sat down on the chair again, staring resolutely at her hands in her lap. Her head is tilted down, so she probably can't see him, but she might hear the quiet clatter of heavy plate armour as he takes another step closer; the rustle of his cloak as he again kneels down before her. If she risks a look up, she might see him smiling at her – a little like that ghost of a smile he might have shown in court when particularly pleased, where anyone else might have been grinning ear to ear – but there's a warmth to the expression, an utter contentment, that he had never shown before.

Whether or not she's looking, he'll reach out to take one of her hands in one of his, though he hesitates before he quite reaches her hand. Nonetheless, he forces himself to follow through. Despite his steel-plated gauntlets, he holds her hand with the same delicacy he had shown to a shivering butterfly on a cold spring morning; so careful, as though he were handling fine-wrought glass.

He lifts her hand, then, with a confidence he does not particularly feel. If she still doesn't look up by now, she won't need to see to know what he's doing. Bedivere leans down, carefully, pressing his lips to the top of her hand. It would have been a courteous gesture within Camelot; simple favour shown between a lord and lady – but it was something he never would have dreamt of doing, something he never would have been able to do.

And now, here, showing his favour to this particular lady, it has so much more meaning than a simple show of courtesy. It is, for him, all of the admiration and respect and loyalty; all of the contentment he had felt in serving at her side. More than that, it's all of the relief, the sheer simple joy, at having found her once again; things he has tried to put into halting words, but could not.

When he draws away, he simply holds her hand, eyes fluttering closed; he doesn't lower it, instead holding it to the side of his face, as though he were holding the most precious treasure in the world.

For him, he is.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia hadn't been entirely alone -- all those who had taken part in that terrible campaign only to find that universe occupied -- but each member of the Union forces bore the pain in their own ways. Psyber had become moody, for a time -- at least, more moody than usual -- and eventually set up a memorial of a sort. But for Saber, there was nothing but to bury the pain within her where the rest of her agony was and move forward. She withheld even speaking of it with anyone, unwilling to reopen their wounds or reminding them of the destruction of Annu by their own hands. It didn't matter if there had been no other way, if many more countless worlds and universes were threatened by Annu's expansion. To Saber, it was something which had to be done, yet the mark and the memories of every person in that internal universe reminded her of the cost, even as she buried her anguish along with that which had come with her reign.

Only, she hadn't...not really. But it wasn't until her mask had broken down in front of Bedivere that she learned she had never truly been able to bury everything, to simply kill her emotions until they didn't exist. She could still don her mask when the need arose, in battle or other situations which demanded calm logic and an impartial eye. Her duties as a knight were far from completed, and when she pledged her sword in service to the Union or her allies, it was merely another piece of her armour. Yet, even when she had thought she had lowered it, she still hid her inner pain. The light smile she wore with her volunteer work was for the sake of the downtrodden who needed that comfort -- something she had never imagined she would ever be able to provide, and her service brought her measureless joy -- and while it was not a mask, it was not completely honest, either.

All the fumbling, all the blushing...perhaps they might one day look back upon these horribly embarrassing moments and laugh. That day, however, remained a good ways off.

It had been much more of a bold manoeuvre she ever thought she would be capable of, at least outside of battle or politics. There, bold, aggressive action could give her an advantage, turning the tide of many a battle. But in social situations, it had generally seemed rude to the prim and proper knight. And yet, it had seemed so right...and something she had wanted to do. It was still so dreadfully embarrassing, however.

Arturia felt too embarrassed to dare look directly at him, not until he knelt before her again. Her head raised only slightly, but from that angle she could see him clearly...and his look of utter contentment. She inhaled softly yet sharply, the blue-green eyes flaring in surprise, unsure at first of what she was seeing. She had never, in her recollection, ever have seem him smile like that, as if all burden had been lifted from him. As terribly embarrassing as it all was, it had all been worth it just to see that expression. So caught up in it, she didn't quite notice at first when he had gently taken her hand. When she finally did, her breath caught in her throat as she felt the light touch of his lips upon the back of her hand.

She had witnessed many a scene such as this one within her court, the timeless gesture of a lord and a lady, what had eventually become the very image of chivalry. Perhaps not the sacred virtues themselves, but this one simple gesture which conveyed so much of them. But she had always seen it through the distant eyes of the king, merely observing for a brief moment before attending to the matters of the Crown. Now, here she was in that moment, the otherwise simple, modest gesture speaking entire tomes of what it was they wished to say.

Though a blush remained, it had tapered off into a light dusting across her cheeks as he pulled away. She would have been disappointed but for the fact that he did not let her go, not yet. For a moment she blinked in surprise, but then her features settled into an expression that Bedivere had probably longed for years to see; a look of contentment not unlike his own, as her thumb lightly caressed his cheek. For this moment in time, there was no trace of grief or sorrow at all.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
One day, they'll look back on all of this needless embarrassment, this awkward evasion, and they'll laugh. Right now, it's all Bedivere can do to express himself coherently. It's hard for him to put to voice the feelings he'd carried for so long. He'd never been able to truly bury those feelings. If he could have done that, this might have been easier – or it might not have happened at all. Some things have a way of never coming to light again.

Even though she had bade him to speak at his comfort, he's seemed almost compelled to express himself, to speak honestly in a way he never could before.

Bedivere had never had any confidants in the court of Camelot. Where most of the nobility and the knights were of Welsh stock, he alone was an outsider, a foreigner of Dál Riata stock. There had always been a subtle wrongness about him in the eyes of the people, and his eagerness and sincerity in serving had only seemed to perpetuate that suspicion. He had withdrawn as much out of self-defense as to protect Arturia's reputation.

At the same time, he could never resist Arturia. No order had ever been too dire for him to carry out, for her sake. No request had ever been too great. He had always considered disappointing her the greatest failure he could suffer, and so he had worked tirelessly to avoid that.

Even now, he doesn't want to disappoint her. He can't resist her gentle encouragement to speak his mind.

Her boldness seems to have surprised even her knight, though. True, she was a force of nature on the battlefield. He had watched her reave into enemy lines countless times. Her bold tactics and strategic aggression left Britain's enemies reeling, but this is no battlefield. In this, he had never expected her to be so forward.

Off the battlefield, she had always been a cold and impartial creature. Rarely would she reveal her hand, and she never revealed her emotions. So complete was that guise that many privately accused her of not even having emotions – an accusation that pained him, but one that he dared not speak against. Lancelot had always been more of a proper spymaster than the soft-spoken, gentle-hearted Bedivere. Bedivere's duty had been to observe, to watch and listen, and he had done those faithfully all through her reign.

For a few brief moments, violet eyes drift closed as he holds her hand to his face. Despite how keen his perceptions are, how accurate his memory for fine details, he can't remember ever seeing her without that armour. He has never seen her bare hands, or seen her separate from the mantle of kingship. He had always wanted to, but she'd always guarded that part of herself jealously.

Though her hands are small in comparison to his, it's their delicacy that strikes him. Her appearance is such a stark contrast from the cold, imperious conduct of the king. Now, she is just an uncertain young woman.

She is, for these precious and fleeting moments, Arturia – not King Arthur Pendragon.

Bedivere exhales softly, breath catching again as he feels her thumb against the line of his high cheekbone. The touch is welcome, though, and he makes no move to pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it.

His eyes flutter open to half-mast in time to see that expression he had longed for so many years to see. For a moment all he can do is stare, eyes half-closed. The peace in her face seems to broaden his own smile - free of care and worry, free of weariness, for a few moments.

"I had dreamt for so long to see that," he murmurs, voice low and unsteady, lilting again. His gentle tone is hushed, as though hesitant to break the silence. He doesn't want the moment to end. "So long. I had thought it only a foolish longing, an unsuitable and shameful dream for a knight of his liege... but I..."

He bows his head into her hand. His breath hitches in his chest again, but the sound is faint, so faint it might be missed if not for the quiet clatter of his armour. She might feel the distinctive heat of what can only be a tear against the side of her thumb, then, but he keeps his breathing mostly steady. Bedivere doesn't dare betray himself with the choked sob he wants to release. No; he will conduct himself with dignity in the face of such a precious gift from her.

"I remain your most ardent admirer, my lady," he murmurs, so quietly it could be missed if she weren't listening closely. His tone is one of affection and tenderness – foreign qualities in a voice once as impassive as Arturia's own. More than that, his tone is one of relief. "Now and ever."

And for the first time she'll ever have heard, he uses no royal title. What he does use is a far cry from the polite term for any woman of Camelot's courts. His tone suggests a deeper meaning; a much more personal meaning. Something much more specific.

She is his lady.

Without looking up, his other arm rises to slip around her shoulders and pull her close. He folds her into an embrace with such firmness that it seems almost desperate, and though he's mindful not to hurt her, he nonetheless seems almost driven by something. For a moment all he can do is hold her, trembling as he chokes back a hoarse sound. She will recognise it without doubt this time as a sob.

This time, though, it isn't a sound of anguish. This time, it's a sound of overwhelming relief.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had hardly been oblivious to the secret -- and not-so secret -- distrust and apprehension of her marshal as someone of a foreign bloodline. On the contrary, she was all too aware of it, as well as the opposite reaction more than a few ladies of the court had over his exotic nature. The only ones who had seemed to pay it no heed one way or the other had been the other knights of the Round Table and Arturia herself. But even then, he had carefully closed himself off from even them, just as she had. Perhaps that had made him suspicious to some, but never to his king.

No, she only judged him by the standards of chivalry and knighthood. In those ways, Bedivere was without equal, even if she had been unaware of the undercurrent of his motivations. He had been so eager to serve, though she had never known there had been any other reason than what she had been trying to accomplish. Many times, she found herself burying her anguish over how such a gentle person surely must have been repulsed by her actions, however necessary they had been, as a king.

As he didn't want to disappoint her, she too feared disappointing him, especially now. She had always been conscious of her actions, and in those times when she was forced to act ruthlessly as a king, there had always been another layer of guilt over how he must have been secretly disappointed, perhaps even disgusted. Knighthood had probably been nothing like he had expected, serving such an inhuman king...and yet he had never so much as hesitated in his duties. She had always thought that had been out of his dedication to chivalry, so well he had concealed his true feelings.

Arturia would tell him of that, eventually. But for this moment, she didn't want to break this spell.

Her boldness might have been rather embarrassing, but Arturia was feeling dangerously reckless. So many walls had come down around them both, their bond stronger than ever now that she realised the true depths of it. But it didn't feel to her like it was enough, and she wouldn't be satisfied until every last one of them was gone. He was her knight, friend, support, confidant, and perhaps something more...but none of these truly defined that bond, brought into daylight like a fine gem, where all the facets reflected and refracted light at every angle.

Perhaps that reckless feeling was because she had never been so close to another before, not even after she had become a Servant or even stumbled upon the multiverse. Some had come very close, yet the opportunities had never arisen, but also none could truly understand what she had been though without having seen it first-hand. Or perhaps after coming to understand that bond, she was helpless to resist its siren's song. But neither of these potential reasons seemed quite right. No, she realised. Only the wish for the happiness of her most gentle knight could have made her so. Now that she finally could grant him his wish. Now that she realised she had wanted that, herself.

His dream to see her smile, he said as he struggled to maintain some dignity, as if God Himself had sent an angel down from the heavens to bestow a great reward and he tried to receive it with the proper reverence. It had been such a simple thing, yet impossible within Camelot's walls, even as she had wished to grant it. It had made her apprehensive at first; though she had become more open after four years and considerable persuasion, but how would he have received it, given how he had always seen her? All he had known was the King of Britain, concealed within armour of silver and blue, hidden behind a mask of ice.

Bedivere had swept those doubts away with gestures which perhaps would mean little to anyone else. But to Arturia, they told her everything. As he leaned slightly into her hand, she bit her lip slightly, and surely he must have felt the slight tremble she couldn't quite control. She didn't dare move, like a startled hare, unwilling to break the spell with actions or words. She had never expected that, rather than break, that spell would intensify into a bonfire.

Two words. Two simple words were all it took to cause her breath to catch in her throat, and she had certainly not missed that implication, the lack of royal title. It moved her in a way she had never dreamed was possible, so intense that it had almost felt as if she had been thrown from a horse and had fallen hard to the ground. That caught breath tangled into a startled gasp for only a moment before her hand fell away as he pulled her close, her arms lowering to encircle him in turn.

"You are more to me than merely my knight," she whispered after a long moment of quiet, her cheek resting against the silver of his hair. Delving through her memories more critically now, she could finally see those traces, the hints that she had misinterpreted her fondness, her feelings of closeness. "Perhaps, my lord...you always have been..."

Once, such a form of address would have been inappropriate, a discarding of protocol which would have seriously called into question her rule. She had been the king, he had been her knight -- her marshal, but a knight nevertheless -- born of foreign common folk. But in that moment, she was simply Arturia.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If Bedivere had ever noticed the apprehension and distrust that followed him through the courts, he had never breathed a word of it. Not once had he ever complained, nor had he ever indicated that perhaps life was not as easy as he had expected it to be. More likely, he had never held any expectations, or perhaps he had expected it to be hard. Unlike many of the nobility, he had sought to become a knight not for the promise of glory, land, or riches, but for the simple sake of serving.

Alone among his brethren, he had refused to bear a standard of his own. He had also refused any offers of land, isolating himself further as one of the only landless Knights of the Round Table; and in particular, one of the only landless knights at court.

Rather than help ease the tension, that had only seemed to make things worse, for a time. The whisperings had grown, but as before, Bedivere had borne them with such dignity and grace that they seemed to flow away like ice in the sun.

He had not been ignorant, though. There was little he had ever missed at court. Most would have been surprised to learn how acute his perceptions were. He never spoke of what he saw, or what he had heard. He simply filed the information away, and where it was necessary to act on it – such as mutterings of rebellion, or news of a border assault – he dutifully bore the news to Arturia. Yet he had never so much breathed a word of the unfair persecution that seemed to surround him; indeed, seemed to accept it serenely.

Perhaps he had thought that, aside from the impropriety of bringing complaint to the king, he had not wanted to disappoint her by bearing his burdens with anything other than grace.

Or, perhaps he genuinely thought that he wasn't worth the trouble. He's always been modest among her knights, humble; and where some might have used it as a front to earn the king's favour, his modesty had always been honest.

Although he notices that faint tremble, or the way the line of her shoulders seems taut as a strung bow, he doesn't draw attention to it. Much as she had politely ignored his own nerves, he does the same for her. If she felt thrown from a horse, he felt the same – and he had suffered such a fate many times in battle. Horses had been killed from beneath him, or simply stumbled on uneven ground, and his landings had never been easy in full plate mail; he had even broken several bones in one particularly nasty fall, forced to retreat from battle, ashen-faced – although wounded, he had gamely stuck to the sidelines to rally his troops.

This, however, makes falling from a horse seem like so much less. True, it's a much happier occasion, but the shock of it is so great that it makes even breaking a bone seem barely noticeable by comparison.

While he notices the way her breath catches, his seems to outright stop for just an instant. Perhaps, she had always considered him fondly? My lord? He trembles; those two simple words are just as much a bolt out of the blue to him. Never before had he been called that – by anybody, but more importantly, never by her. She may feel his own shoulders hitch as he remembers to breathe again; a faint shiver of what can only be shock.

"Ah..." It's not much more than a breath, and the soft, awestruck sound gives way to a long, trembling sigh. "My lady." He makes no effort to control the lilt in his voice, too awestruck to stifle a detail so insignificant by comparison. "I—I know not what I had done to be rewarded so, but whatever it has been, I would do so again in a heartbeat. I will not leave you again. Not ever."

Not that he did so consciously in the first place, but it's the thought that counts, right?

"What..." He seems to lose his momentum, helpless for a moment but to let her hold him, even as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "I..." He only shakes his head softly, little more than a sideways twitch. "My lady. You—you honour me..."

So much for an articulate, thoughtful speech to try and impress upon her the enormity of this situation. His throat closes off; he finds he can't even speak, and the effort of stringing words together is more difficult than he had thought. Why? Why can't he even speak? Surely he owes her that much, but at the same time, he finds that it somehow... isn't important.

Drawing in a deep breath, he sighs, and tries again. Dimly, he can remember that she'd had something she had wanted to explain to him, here; there was a reason that he had been brought to this house, and while this had been beyond his greatest expectations, he's fairly certain that this had not been the aim. Loathe as he is to think of much else, Bedivere was ever a dutiful knight.

"Ah, my lady." His voice is soft, so soft she might well have to strain to hear it. "There is yet duty to be done, if you had aught more to tell me. I... I do not wish for this... this moment to pass, but... if there is anything left, anything important..." He exhales softly; breath only slightly unsteady. "But if you do not wish to speak of it, I will not press..."

He struggles for a moment.

It is his place, no matter what his personal feelings, to serve. He is a knight, as he has ever been; and he has always been her marshal and her loyal supporter. As much as he cherishes this, and as much as he even lets himself enjoy it, he does have his responsibilities to remember.

Ah, Bedivere, ever the loyal servant; even at a time like this.

Saber (346) has posed:
What have you not done to be rewarded so? Saber wanted to say, though she refrained. Like her, Bedivere seemed to be ill at ease around too much compliment. She wondered if he might likewise feel unworthy of it, just as she did. All the flustered reactions, the furious blushing, the dropping of his mask to reveal the shyness beneath, seemed to suggest it. Instead, all she could do was simply stay like that when the words failed, her arms around him, for however long he needed it.

It was a little frustrating, however, because not only did he deserve so much more than the little things she had been able to grant, but because she wanted to compliment him. And not out of simple gratitude or because he had always been the most virtuous of her knights. Oh, she had known of the persecution, the shunning, the rumours and plotting. It had secretly angered and saddened her that she was powerless to stop it, at least not without accusations of favouritism. Even still, he shouldered it all without complaint. To embody all the chivalric virtues was her ideal, and he had more than lived up to them.

When she addressed him, it had been such a little thing, but it had been something he had long deserved. He had served his king magnificently, and if there was one thing she wanted him to understand, it had been that. Had they met under different circumstances, or their positions been reversed, he would have been the one whom she had admired. In her own way, she already did; chivalry was everything to the petite knight. And his devotion was as strong as hers.

Through his stuttering speech, though the slight trembling, somehow Arturia had at least some idea of the significance of it all. She hadn't been doing any better attempting to express the same sentiment to him, but tightening her arms just a little seemed to be the only way she could express that as he stumbled over his words. And called her my lady again. That was a treasure more precious than gold to her, those words, spoken by him.

But once more, the familiar pattern emerged; when she felt as if she was straying, he would cautiously remind her of what she should do, what needed to be done. But "duty" was not the correct way to look at it. There were dangers, things he needed to know so that he could properly protect himself. She'd be damned if she lost him again, especially something so pointless as the Holy Grail War. Relieved of the great burdens -- some of which she had not even realised she was carrying -- she sighed softly, releasing him with some reluctance and settling back into her chair.

"Indeed," she replied, her expression serious, though not the same icy mask as the one she wore in Camelot. "Forgive me, I was somewhat...carried away."

As much as she was still reluctant to relate the events of Heaven's Feel -- and what Servants truly were -- Saber found she was not dreading it quite so much now, given that her fears of his disappointment had been allayed. The Scar of the World Slayer had been much worse, something she had intended to discuss much later, not out of desperation. If that had not driven him off, nothing would. And Bedivere remained at her side.

Nevertheless, she steeled herself. He was going to be saddened, or angry, or perhaps both. The entire idea of the Holy Grail War was something such a gentle soul would find to be an abomination, even before she approached the subject of her previous Master. "I had mentioned before that I offered my services as a Servant to the world in exchange for the opportunity to win the Holy Grail and undo all the history of my reign," she began. "Our universe...it preserves the souls of those who have been celebrated as heroes..."

Of course, she would personally not have thought of Archer as particularly heroic. "In...some form or another," Saber added after a moment to ponder that sourly. "We become Heroic Spirits, preserved in the Throne of Heroes, and we can be summoned to fight in the Holy Grail War, if we agree to a contract with the Master who summons us. We are granted transient bodies formed of pure magical energy, prana...and our abilities are even greater than they had been during our lifetimes. We are divided into individual classes according to aspects of our legends...Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Berserker, Caster, Assassin. I myself am a Saber."

After a pause, she continued. "Our identities are concealed, and we are merely called by our class designation, for to do so would be to reveal the weaknesses within our legends. The Holy Grail is what keeps us anchored to this plane of existence, yet also grants us knowledge of legends before and after our own eras, as well as grant us some limited knowledge of the era into which we are summoned."

Saber considered a point, and then added, "This is why I do not struggle with understanding this era; I was granted knowledge of it from ten years ago...there are some differences, yet the era had not changed dramatically in that time." She recalled being surprised that mobile phones had become so small, recalling the large device Kiritsugu had used to contact Maiya.

And here was where things were about to get ugly. "We are summoned for the purpose of battling and slaying each other in combat, and the transient body of each Servant slain becomes a refined form of prana, filling the Grail. We fight...until only one Master and Servant remain, who may then claim the Holy Grail and have any wish granted, no matter how impossible."

"I was summoned to what was the fourth such of these wars by Emiya Kiritsugu -- ten years prior to my arrival in the multiverse."

Here was another point that she decided was something she wasn't going to get into just yet; Berserker's identity...and the fact that she was forced to kill him, even though that had been his wish. Instead, she skipped ahead.

"In the end, only I and Archer remained." It was slight, but there was a slight twist of her mouth that broadcast her displeasure with the haughty King of Heroes. Saber was not about to get into all the indignities she had endured from him, particularly at the end. "However, my Master ordered me to destroy the Holy Grail even as Archer and I fought."

After her initial talk with Rin, Sakura, and Shirou, Saber had learned the truth of the Holy grail, but she still could not help but be bitter over, unconscious of the frown which slipped past her mask. Kiritsugu could have told her, she would have understood. But then, he had never fully trusted the tool he had summoned. "In the end, it was for the best; I was unable to destroy it completely, but I was informed some time later that the Holy Grail was, in fact, tainted. Any wish it could possibly grant would, in turn, be tainted."

Saber paused again, as if to reassert the detached way she had been trying to relate the events of the war she had participated in. "I was likewise informed that there had been a final Holy Grail War ten years from that moment, and that I had once more been summoned as the Servant Saber. However, I have no recollections of such. Once I had destroyed the Grail, there was an explosion....and I found myself in a strange fortress. I was later informed that I had arrived in Njorun Station, and that I had 'Unified' with the multiverse. I also discovered that it was impossible to return...though that was for the best. Without the anchor of the Holy Grail, I would have disappeared."

Of course, there was far more to her entire story than this, but her recounting was acceptable for an introduction. Poor Bedivere was going to be more than a little confused even by what little she had told him so far.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
At the king's soft sigh, Bedivere allows her to release him, though there's a clear reluctance as he sinks back into an obedient kneel. He keeps his head somewhat downcast. To any potential watchers, he would be the spitting image of a dutiful, obedient knight – the faithful servant, loyal to the end.

His head cocks slightly as she mulls over where to begin, and as she marshalls her courage to begin. Ever the perceptive one, he can sense her hesitation, but he offers no pressure over it; makes not a movement or word to hasten her to begin before she's ready. He would never be so presumptuous.

In silence, he listens to her explanation.

She explains the nature of a Servant's pact; of the Throne of Heroes, and the nature of a Servant's bargain with the World. He listens in silence as she describes the nature of the Grail War, and the nature of a Servant. He listens to the seven classes, the nature of legends, the knowledge imparted by their very being. And he listens as she explains the rules of the war – and her hesitation at describing their dear brother-in-arms, Lancelot, and his tragic end. While he knows not the nature of her hesitation, he knows there is pain, there.

Bedivere dips his head, the gesture a faint but gentle indication to continue.

He listens on as she describes the end, and the destruction of the Holy Grail at her own hands; of its tainted nature, its tainted promise, and the Fifth Grail War ten years later, which she has no recollection of. He listens, and she describes that without the Holy Grail serving as an anchor, she would have vanished had she returned to the place which she had been summoned.

All through this, his expression remains impassive. Even she would sense that he has put up his mask by now, the mask of the loyal servant receiving the king's imperative. He listens, and he shows not a single hint of betrayal to his emotions now. He has recovered from the destruction of his mask, earlier, and he has put the pieces back together again to hear her out.

When she finishes, he remains motionless, as though he were considering his answer with care. In truth, he is. He isn't certain what to say to any of that.

Perhaps it isn't as fantastical as she might believe. After all, he was familiar with Merlin, and had a little suspicion of some of the things the great wizard could do. Humanity was much closer to True Magic in those times – he had heard whispers of Merlin's infatuation with Nimue, and the strange things that had befallen Arturia's strange advisor. Whether they were true, he couldn't say, but he was inclined to believe it.

He had never seen Merlin at work, not precisely – but even Bedivere could sense the aura of raw power about the magician.

That Arturia would be caught up in such things again is unsurprising to him. Regardless of his high opinion of her, she is nonetheless a remarkable young woman, prone to being caught up in remarkable events. He may distrust it, but magic was a fact of life even in Camelot, however understated – it did undeniably exist.

Still, it seems strange that it would be so sought-after in such a time as this, so long-departed.

He is silent for so long that it might be worrying – and then he finally speaks, head tilting, though he doesn't look at her as he addresses her. His tone is calm, and thoughtful.

"It seems strange to me that people would seek the Holy Grail, so long after our time. But if you say this is true, then I believe you." She might hear him draw in a breath, and then let it go through his nose, measured; pragmatic and businesslike once more, like the flip of a switch. He is nothing if not resilient. And perhaps set in his ways. Much like Arturia, he had made the mask his own. Something in his voice darkens just slightly, though, as he continues. "So. It is a grand melee, held for the cup that held the blood of Christ. That does not seem right. Nor does it seem right that you would be the tool of another. You are a king... but..."

His tone seems to shift, as though mollified by something. "Still. I am... pleased, that your accomplishments were not forgotten." He doesn't raise his head, but she might see part of his soft smile. "That too was something I had regretted – that you would never be rewarded for the sacrifices you had made, and that you would be forgotten by an ungrateful people. But it seems you were remembered, my king. Ah... I am glad for that."

Anybody else might be wondering if they themselves were remembered in such legends, yet Bedivere, faithful Bedivere, is only concerned for the reputation of his king.

His head bows again, voice calm and impassive once more.

"So you are no longer human, then." It is a simple statement of fact. For just a moment the words hang there, and perhaps Saber might feel a fleeting instant of apprehension, even fear – until he continues. "I understand. It matters not. I will continue to serve you, my king... and I will continue to stand by your side, my lady. I will serve you here in this world as I have always served you. Was I not knighted by your own blade? Had I not sworn my blade in turn to your service?"

Again, he seems intent to sweep away her doubts, even if he didn't even realise she had had them. He straightens, though he remains on one bent knee to look at her thoughtfully. Although he doesn't smile, there is nonetheless a warmth in his regard.

"Mmm." The sound is thoughtful; his eyes slant away, distant. "I have sworn my blade to the Union, but I would not forsake my oath to you, my king. Their cause is just, in many ways, and I will do what work I can for them. But you are the one I serve, truly. You are the one to whose side I will return, now and ever. I hope they are content with such, for I will not forsake that which I swore to you. I cannot. I do not know that I could even were I dismissed." A smile flickers across his face. "Though I hope that is not and will never be an option... my lady."

He makes no move to rise, content to kneel before her. As much as he might not like to disturb the moment, though, he looks tired – he had not yet recovered from his time wandering the wood, and the not-insignificant outpouring of his emotions is draining all on its own. He seems to be trying to bear it with his usual poise, and for all that anyone else might miss his fatigue, Arturia seems to know him better than he might have guessed. The signs are clear to her.

"What then are we to do now?" He cocks his head, regarding her with those violet eyes. "You serve the Union as well, do you not? I suppose that is what lies before us. Though the Union is at war with the Confederacy, I should like to help those forgotten by both sides." Just like Camelot – running supplies to the forgotten and the downtrodden, by his own hand where he can. No, her familiar Bedivere hasn't changed a bit. "Though I am willing to raise my sword in their defense, of course, if that is what is required of me. Ah, God preserve me, this world is so great as to defy the thought of it. I cannot imagine so many worlds, full of so many poor souls needing help..."

His gaze drops, eyes drooping to half-mast. "A pity my brothers of the Round Table are not here. There is such good that we could do... I suppose it falls to you and I, my king..."

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been a mere four years since Saber had found herself in the multiverse, and compared to her years reigning Britain, it had not been very long at all. But the realisation and one's perception are occasionally at odds, and it seemed as if the scene before her had happened lifetimes ago; her faithful marshal, kneeling before her, receiving orders. There may have not necessarily been a need for such a thing, not in an era over one thousand years into what had been their future. Even with the automatic knowledge imparted by the Holy Grail, there were times Saber had felt the world -- the universe, she corrected herself -- had passed her by. She couldn't even imagine what Bedivere was going through, having none of that pre-knowledge at all. While he was the most observant person she had ever known, there was only so much a person could absorb in a short amount of time.

Heaven's Feel and ambitious magi aside, she was going to have a great deal more to introduce, hopefully help him to adjust. There were still so many other matters within the multiverse, so many dangers and circumstances that were -- by their standards -- bizarre. Arturia felt weary merely considering some of them; where would she even begin on the time she had visited one of these unique worlds and ended up being turned into a unicorn with her own heraldry on her flank the moment she passed the warpgate? That, she decided, could probably wait, perhaps some time after she had related what kind of highly questionable beings the fae in Harry Dresden's Chicago were or when she had offered to help retrieve a Scion of Lugh from the Underworld by promising a favour to Persephone. Come to think of it, battling the chief of the Deep Ones -- some time after battling Caster's summon of a Great Old One -- could wait for that matter, as well.

Yet, he had managed to remain there on bended knee, as patient as he always had been, his own impassive mask restored, listening to her entire recounting. Even with the crumbing of those masks, this too, was nevertheless a part of who they were. King and knight. No matter what the future held, that part, she foresaw, would never change. Which was why the long silence did not bother her as it might have, at least before the masks had fallen away. Now, her concern was over whether or not she had revealed too much too soon, without giving him enough time to process it all. Even keen minds would find the infinite number of different worlds enough to drive someone to the point of insanity.

Regardless, his acceptance was a relief to hear spoken out loud. But it was mystifying...how he was still wishing that she only be remembered, rewarded at least in the people's memory for her efforts. It had been her shame, as she lay dying, mourning her failures rather than fearing her impending death. No matter what history had said, she could not accept that. And perhaps, until that moment in time, she had never truly let go...even as she had been told the Grail was no more and not something she should have been fighting for, anyway. For several years, that had merely led her to see the multiverse as her opportunity not to find another Grail, but to find some other way to grant her wish. If the Grail was unsuitable, then perhaps there was something on another world which was.

Living with and fighting alongside Sakura, Rin, Shirou, Agrias, Fate, Psyber, and others in the Union too numerous to count had changed her perspective, somewhat. Eventually, she was led to the conclusion that she should not change her past...for to change it would mean that she would have to change the lives of her friends. And that was a sacrifice she was not willing to make. Yet even then, she had not completely accepted the loss of Camelot. She had never truly and completely moved on. Arymes Prydein had spoken to her of something greater, but it has seemed the Abstractum believed she was not yet ready.

Being reunited with Bedivere, however, made her think that perhaps...perhaps that wound might finally begin to close. The scar would always remain -- like the brand on her back -- but it would heal. She smiled at him then, the mask falling away again. "It had never mattered to me whether or not I would be remembered...but I am glad that you were able to see this, how I have been remembered."

Arturia sighed softly, almost a suggestion of sound. "In truth, I had given up the war for the Grail some time ago. But though I no longer fight for that tainted thing, I had...not completely given up my wish. However, over time I came to cherish the friends I have made here, and I cannot alter history and risk changing their lives." In some ways, it was still painful to admit, but she finally relented to sharing her burden with her faithful knight. "I was forced to finally see...Camelot is gone. Even were I to change the past and allow a different king in my stead, the Camelot I knew would nevertheless be no more."

To his observation that she was no longer human, she shook her head. "No." Saber could not help but feel a slight wave of apprehension, though she was uncertain what she dreaded. The moment passed quickly; he renewed his pledge to her and in that moment, the apprehension dissipated like the morning mist over the hills as the sun rose over the barley fields beyond the castle walls.

She made a soft sound then, almost like a chuckle, at once slightly amused and nostalgic. "They seem to have had little issue with those who serve first their sword lieges," she mused, almost seeing the long, ash-blonde braid of hair as another knight from a distant world turned away, ever-pursuing service to her own lady. "Defence of the gates from those who would exploit them for conquest, that would seem to be the purpose of this strange sort of order."

Arturia frowned then, observing how exhausted he suddenly seemed. "Indeed, I do...and relief for those torn asunder by such a war is a most welcome endeavour. However..."

Standing,only to kneel down beside him, Arturia lifted her hand to brush his hair aside, peering into his eyes with a critical stare. "How long has it been since you last slept? Ah, no matter...you will rest here tonight, at this very moment." Another frown, and anyone observing the scene would clearly see the fussy mode of the King of Knights had activated. "And do not think to protest, or I shall order you."

Taking the stinging off her lecture, she smiled slightly. He truly was the Marshal of Camelot, her most beloved knight. And now, with him at her side -- and being by his -- she might be able to affect the changes she had been praying for. "And then, on the morrow, we shall begin our work as knights. Even a one makes a difference...two shall bring hope to the people all the more."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere tilts his head as Arturia makes that sound – at once amused and nostalgic, though it seems more to do with someone she might have known than any shared history of Camelot.

She stood in the frozen slush, heedless of the cold, one hand on the reins of the ill-tempered bird that served as her steed. Although the winter morning was not harsh, the cold was nonetheless a formidable force, fangs of ice buried in the skirling of the wind.

Someone already sat astride the chocobo's saddle, uncertainly clutching the ruff of feathers around Alkoun's neck. Princess Ovelia Atkascha – no, Queen Ovelia Atkascha – seemed a delicate thing in the weak light of the winter sun, but there was an odd sort of relief in her brown eyes.

Her loyal guardian, however, stood holding the reins of her war-bird, and her eyes were on the Servant standing before her. She had called her there to say goodbye, for even she had no idea where she would go.

"The truth, Dame Saber, is that I am weary." Agrias Oaks shook her head as she spoke, but there was a hint of amusement about her words. "'Tis an exhaustion that no rest will help me relieve. I have sworn my sword to the Union, and I owe them much for that which they have done for me, but they deserve better than a broken knight. We will travel, for a time, and see what we can see. 'Tis safer on the roads than to settle in any one place, but I will see to it that milady is comfortable."

"Agrias..." The princess on the saddle spoke the name with uncertainty, and a little concern.

"I am not burdened, milady." Agrias half-turned to address the queen, and despite the mild chastisement, her tone was one of warmth. "To travel is how I lived, for a time, though 'twas in far worse a situation than this."

The Holy Knight turned to face the Servant – her friend – and smiled.

"Ah, Dame Saber, my friend. I owe you much and more. I will be certain to say hello, from time to time." She strode forward, then, and threw her arms around the shorter knight in a brief but warm embrace. "We will meet again; on what remains of Defender, I swear it." Her voice took on an almost playful tone. "Mind yourself while I am gone, and see that the Union does not forget the chivalry we have shown them, aye?"

With that, she let go, stepping back and smiling to the Servant. It was the smile of a woman relieved; unburdened, and she bowed low in respect. As she straightened, she turned on her heel, ash-blonde braid flying behind her as she turned away, climbing into the stirrups. Leather creaked as she eased into the saddle, settling Ovelia in front of her.

"Of all those friends I have found in the Union, I will miss you and Dame Amalthea the most while we travel, I think. But take heart – we will see each other again."

Alkoun tossed his head, harness jingling.

"Farewell, my friend."

Her ash-blonde braid snapped once more, this time behind her, as she spurred her loyal steed on at a brisk run. His talons crunched in the snow, and the long plumes of his tail flew out behind him; soon, even those began to diminish, until the trio shrank and finally vanished as they travelled east, into the morning sun.

Such a memory is not something that Bedivere would be privy, to. The knight simply cocks his head at Arturia's explanation of the Union. "So I have heard, myself. They are also known to provide relief to those caught in the war; and that is what I had sought to do more of. There are many in need of such relief. So many."

Bedivere glances up as Arturia kneels down to his level, brow furrowing slightly. To his credit, he doesn't flinch away when she reaches up to brush his hair aside, but he does blink somewhat owlishly at her careful scrutiny.

Aside from a catnap here or a brief and restless sleep there, he can't remember the last time he truly slept. "I do not... well..." He looks undecided, but only for a brief instant. It's easier for him to accept than to argue, and besides, it would be unseemly to argue in the face of an implicit order. "I am your loyal servant, my king," he relents.

Bowing his head, his hair hides his faint smile. It fades as he climbs wearily to his feet, wavering slightly. "I will stay in the guest room, then, so long as it does not impose upon Lady Tohsaka. Yes... I will rest," he murmurs, inclining his head in courteous gesture to Arturia. He pauses before he starts in the direction of the hallway, though, offering her that contented smile again; the one so free of weariness and worry. "Good night... my lady. Rest well. And please, call for me if you should have need of me. I will not be far."

With that, he'll make his way toward one of the house's many guest rooms – but though weary, there is a relief in him that seems to lighten his step.

Tohsaka Sakura has posed:
Unfortunately for poor Bedivere, it seems that the Tohsaka family had been...slightly busy of late, what with summer cleaning and other such. While it’s true that Sakura hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort to Saber recently, it seemed as if there simply wasn’t any other open rooms for the Knight but the one by Saber’s own. It’s almost coincidental, possibly even conspiratorial, but Sakura’s quite alone - and it does make sense to only heat and cool portions of the mansion anyway; rooms that were potentially open would be the most reasonable to find next to the ones in use.

Of course, the knight is shown the bath, and other such amenities, and thankfully for him there were spare pajamas of a certain redheaded stepchild’s that...happened to be available in the laundry. Once Bedivere is assured of Saber’s - of Arturia’s - safety, and quite becalmed enough to finally retire for the evening…

...he might just notice that the door of his room mirrors that of Arturia’s. And that his bed is on that same side; there’s nothing but a little air and plaster between the two. All quite honorable and chivalric of course...but just a little bit sentimental as well.

Once in her own room, sliding into bed, the lavender-haired woman simply sighs in happiness. Matchmaking is fun after all...and she can think of none better. Hmm...the best way to make a truly beautiful flower blossom is tenderness and patience...and just a little bit of help.