999999/The Bard and the Warrior

The Bard and the Warrior
Date of Scene:	31 December 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	In order to test how well he's been healing, Saber challenges her marshal to a sparring match.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Mornings are always cold in Dún Reáltaí.

So are its afternoons, its evenings, and its nights.

Summer never had a chance to find this land. Now that the seasons have struck something of a balance, autumn brings with it dreary days of chill wind and sweeping rain. In the rare cases where it isn't gloomy, it's still cold, and now that the land is heading into winter those days are rare indeed. It is a bitter season.

It's a good thing the village and its people are prepared. Sir Bedivere would have broken himself against what work remained. As it is, he's still testing the limits of his fragile strength, though with the king's constant chiding, he's gotten better about pushing himself too hard. He learned his lesson well when illness laid him low for such a time. Even now he's still recovering from an occasional cough, and the wounds he had suffered at Odin's hands.

The marshal had been late out of bed this morning. Once upon a time, that would have been a serious breach of his personal conduct, and perhaps a sign that the man must have been dying or otherwise wholly incapacitated. Now, it's becoming more of a common occurrence – there isn't much to do so early in the morning with weather so foul. In fact, this morning, the silence of snowfall is almost palpable; like the world is holding its breath.

For once, he had savoured the knowledge that he didn't need to get up and start his day in a rush. He had been content to stay there, savouring the silence while lying in his warm and comfortable bed, curled up with the woman he had sacrificed so much for. And, for once, he knew she wouldn't mind his lingering. He needed the rest. Aside from recovering from his illness, there was still the matter of five years of forsaken rest to catch up on, and severe wounds to heal from.

Of course, the chill weather hasn't helped motivate him at all. This place makes Camelot's worst weather look like a mild spring afternoon. Winter, Bedivere has observed often, in politer terms, is going to be a bitch.

Once he had finally convinced himself that getting up was better than lazing around all day, the knight had proceeded to scrub his face, join his lady for breakfast, and then make his way to one of the large, empty storage rooms on the third floor.

The chamber had been fixed up and swept clean, leaving only bare stone and sconces for torches, which Bedivere has brought in. Armour forms have been set up in the corners, as well as weapons racks; one of them bears a number of sanded wooden pells.

Soft torchlight casts flickering shadows as he goes about the business of stretching and practising his stances, wielding a practise sword that could serve as the wooden double of his battered aspirant's sword. He's dressed warmly in spite of being indoors; commoners' clothing, as well as his mantled white cloak of office.

The weather may be bitter cold outside, but weather won't stop for the marshal. He has neglected the knightly virtue of Exercitium for far too long.

More than likely, by the time he's finished up his morning routines, that's where the lady of the castle will find him – slashing at imaginary foes, and going about his practise with his usual somber air. Unlike the days of Camelot in which she'd secretly watched him honing his skills, though, he seems more easily winded this time, pausing to stop and rest, where he had never bothered before.

As she has observed, he isn't as young and strong as he had once been. Though not old by any means, he's put tremendous strain on his body through the years, and now it seems he's begun to pay the price of those years of hardship.

So, to him, there's only one solution, just as with every other hardship in his life.

Overcome.

...He does not, however, pay any attention to the turtle-like gong sitting in the corner of the room. Every so often it gives a soft metallic gong as it strikes itself with its hammer-tail, shuffling slowly in a vague circle and generally staying out from underfoot.

In fact, the other corner sports Kepas, curled up as though to make himself as small as possible, which looks fairly ridiculous given the sheer size of the creature. His skull-faced muzzle is laid over his front feet and his yellow lantern-eyes are fixed on the turtle-gong, with just enough solemnity to make him look ridiculous.

...Dún Reáltaí is becoming the Island of Misfit Spirits, it seems.

Saber (346) has posed:
Winter for a Servant was not quite the issue that it was for normal humans. Though only able to be slain by the representations of their individual legends – their Noble Phantasms – such beings of pure magical energy could still be harmed by other weapons wielded by other Elites within the multiverse and even by environmental factors. But as cold as it was, the building bitter cold of Dún Reáltaí had yet to reach the severity necessary to wear down the prana sustaining Arturia's continued existence on the material plane.

However, that did not necessarily mean that the biting cold was pleasant, or that staying in a warm bed was not an inviting thought. And with much of the necessary work done preparing the village for the coming harsh winter, there was no longer a pressing need to be up well before the dawn to begin the day's preparations. The peasantry could conserve their strength a little more now, venturing out only to care for livestock or other comparatively short homestead chores, and protect themselves from the unforgiving weather. That meant that, instead of rising hours before even the sun did, Arturia could sleep in a little longer – a necessity given her own need to conserve her reserves of mana – and encourage her companion – also a necessity given his recent illness and need to catch up on five years of near-insomnia – to do the same.

Bedivere's recovery had been slow compared to previous years, though how much of that had been true recovery or the marshal simply faking it to safeguard a façade of strength remained a mystery. Likely, the knight himself remembered little of those dark times. Fortunately for her peace of mind, the more recent days had found his terrible cough dissipating somewhat; what lingered of it no longer rattled or produced blood. Though it was her nature to worry, she was able to reassure herself that he was recovering adequately.

It was a fine balance she had to learn to walk when it came to her marshal. Without her constant reminders and lectures, Bedivere would easily work himself to death, figuratively and literally. But at the same time, Arturia had to be careful not to fuss too much, and not simply to avoid annoying him or breaking his recovering spirit. The reality was that the only way the knight would be able to properly recover was, as always, to push his limits. The ideals of Militia and Exercitium were as important as any of the other Chivalric Virtues, and one could not be a knight without them. The modern era even confirmed this: regular exercise had been proven by more recent methods to be beneficial to overall health. The only way he would truly recover was with a balance of the much-needed rest he had been denied for so many years and the familiar constant training regiment of one of Camelot's fighting forces.

For the moment, however, there was a more immediate need for both Master and Servant: breakfast.

In spite of lingering in bed for longer than she had when they had first arrived to aid in the village's recovery, Arturia nevertheless rose early, dressing and descending the long flight of stairs down to the great hall and kitchen. This morning, there were already servants up before her, readying for their day of tending to the castle's many necessities. Breakfast was already ready for her, and a large iron cauldron over the hearth was already simmering with oats which had been cut with steel lathes. A peasant food that had startled the people to learn that their lord and lady were hardly above eating, the otherwise bland grains were easily flavoured with various spices and fruits. The jade-eyed knight herself favoured the resulting oatmeal with brown sugar, a syrup processed from the sap of a tree of all things, and walnuts, while the lord's would be served with dried apples, honey, and cinnamon. As long as the taste was agreeable, Arturia hardly cared about the presumed status of a food.

There were also newfound benefits, as well. There were many things which had been luxuries in their era yet were now widely available – such as the exotic spices like cinnamon – as well as things which had been entirely unknown in their time – such as chocolate – and introducing him to them had become a recent hobby of hers. Perhaps it was childish of her, but she found herself enjoying studying his reactions to new things she thought he might take a liking to. The expression he wore when introduced to caramel apples, for example, were such a stark contrast to the perpetual stony stoic mask he had trained himself to adopt as the Left Hand of the King. She was beginning to understand now why so many of her friends in the multiverse obviously delighted in dragging her out on shopping trips just to introduce her to new things. The equally-stoic knight-king's expressions must have been similar.

Yet, while a human being of her stature would have required only a small amount of food to sustain herself, Saber needed much more. When the silver-haired knight had already finished breakfast, the deceptively petite Servant was only halfway through hers. As much as she disliked being 'greedy', it was a fact of her non-human physiology. A Master with a large mana capacity could mitigate that somewhat, as Sakura had...but Bedivere was still very much untrained in that regard. Doubtless, he felt some measure of guilt over that, but the truth was that their current situation was the best one they could have hoped for. It simply meant that she had needed to supplement their bond, and she did enjoy eating. at the very least, she had managed to secure enough supplies from the outside.

Once she had been sufficiently fed, the flaxen-haired knight took charge of washing her own dishes and utensils – like Bedivere, she was more accustomed to doing such things herself – and ascended the stairs back to their chambers. It had been her intention to catch up on some much-needed paperwork, not to mention look over the reports of possible erosion from the hilly terrain. The task had previously been carried out by the appointed lord, but he had been unceremoniously relieved of that duty after he had fallen ill.

Yet, upon reaching the third floor, Arturia picked up a series of familiar sounds, though ones which seemed more that a little strange to be coming from a room on that floor. Hardly enough to be concerned over, yet her idle curiosity pulled her in that direction.

The room had been cleared out and cleaned, though the servants had been directed to the more critical areas of the common areas, guest rooms, and – much to the chagrin of the lord and lady – the lord's chambers on the fifth floor. No, this room had clearly been tended to by the one currently using it for training purposes.

Their two 'pet spirits' were behaving themselves, and aside from some mild amusement, the knight-king paid them no mind as they stayed out of the way. Instead, she silently watched her marshal for a little while, not entirely unlike all those times in Camelot she had silently watched him practise. Only now, she had no need to hide it, careful not to show any hint of favour. Now, she could study his movements thoroughly, noting how easily winded he was in comparison to all the years in Camelot. The five years following Camlann had indeed exacted a heavy toll on the knight.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Considering all he's been through, the knight's recovery is smooth. Both his cough and weakness linger, but they're to be expected, with the abuse he'd endured in years past. He'd been severely ill. Before that, he'd been severely injured.

He had always been a terrible patient – even after Caliburn's loss, he had yearned to return to work like a horse champing at its bit, though in part it had been circumstance. Idle time had been a curse then. Now it's less of one, all those reasons to despise it gone, but he still has a hard time with something as simple as remembering to see to himself.

Now that he's recovered somewhat, it's good to test his limits. Recovering is impossible without that subtle touch of effort. In that, Exercitium is a useful tool, and if ever there were a knight to live by it, it's the soft-spoken marshal.

Bedivere's movements are light as ever, agile and graceful as a deer. The only clues to suggest he isn't in peak condition are the way he stops to rest after a few strokes of the sword, or the way he has to stop and cough when he pushes himself too hard. It's an inconvenience, but not an insurmountable one. It seems he's slowly falling into a rhythm that doesn't bring him to his knees with coughing.

Those 'pet spirits' linger in the room as though they hated solitude above all else. As soon as Arturia enters the threshold, both the turtle-gong and Kepas immediately pick up on it. The gong shuffles a few steps toward her with a louder gong, while Kepas lifts his head and pricks his folded, greyhound-like ears, jaws opening to grin his skeletal grin.

The hound's attention is what alerts Bedivere. The knight immediately pulls back a stroke and turns on his heel, wooden sword dipping until its point rests on the ground.

"My lady. I had thought you would go out into the village, today." He seems surprised, blinking owlishly at her. "How long have you been there?"

Before he has time to notice, Kepas pads up behind him, the hound's massive head looming over Bedivere's shoulder from behind. Apparently the hound isn't satisfied, though, padding around to investigate Arturia closely. She might feel the chilly wash of his breath and the faint sound of snuffling, even though he has no visible nose to speak of; just the fleshless contours of his skull-face. He's large, up close; it's a good thing the training room is large, though he probably had to squeeze to fit through the doorway.

He turns, then, taking a few steps back to the weapon-rack. One of the swords is clamped delicately in his teeth, jerking his head sideways to both pull it from the rack and fling it in Arturia's direction, sending it skittering to a neat halt at her feet.

Bedivere squints at the spectacle.

For his part, Kepas shows his teeth and play-bows, lashing his whip-thin tail furiously. He looks for all the world like a moral puppy wanting to play. The sight is a little ridiculous.

He drops down onto his belly then, content to sprawl beside the turtle-gong, poking absently at it with the naked bone spur of his skull-snout.

The turtle-gong tips over, flailing its little legs as though it were still marching. Kepas earns a smack on the nose from its hammer-tail for his trouble, though he utters not a sound at the shock.

"I wonder sometimes," Bedivere observes dryly to Arturia, "just how wise that creature really is."

Saber (346) has posed:
In all, Arturia had little cause for complaint or, in the silver-haired knight's case, lecturing. He always seemed to be in some sort of constant pain since his initial rescue from the weald, be it from injuries or the more recent illness. In comparison, he was nearly healed at present...at least, until the next battle. Not that she could do anything to discourage him from it any more than he could discourage her; they were Knights of the Round Table, and defending the defenceless was foremost among their duties.

She was really going to have to get him a better suit of armour, though.

But perhaps Exercitium would not only prevent the appointed lord of the land from climbing the proverbial walls, but better prepare him for future challenges. He was by no means the only mortal in the Union, not even the only one with no – or, in his case, minuscule – supernatural abilities to speak of. She would really need to look into how those members avoided being killed in the line of duty.

But aside from that problem, the Left Hand of the King was still as formidable combatant as ever, in spite of his peaceful nature and dislike of fighting. It was still pleasurable simply to watch, admiring his efficient yet graceful technique which wasted no movement. Once or twice when he was forced to stop to be able to breathe, however, she frowned slightly, yet held her tongue. Aside from her enjoyment of watching, it was something that they both knew he would need to overcome. She couldn't coddle him forever; neither of them desired that. In spite of the peaceful lives they wished to create for others, lives of continuous challenge were theirs. Not that any of Camelot's knights would ever be happy being so complacent.

Sure enough, Bedivere fell into a more comfortable rhythm, where he could practice without falling into a coughing fit. Excellent. That was precisely what the flaxen-haired knight wanted to see. She stepped closer in, still intending to stand back silently and watch without interrupting her marshal. Unfortunately for that plan, their 'pet spirits' noticed the intrusion.

The jade-eyed knight knelt to pat the awkwardly-waddling turtle-gong. Though quite frankly rather cute, such creatures were young souls with childlike intelligence, objects so old that they had acquired souls of their own and as such were not always uncomprehending creatures acting on insinct. It was not unheard of even in their own universe, and some rare ones even became Heroic Spirits. "You have not been too lonely, I hope? This is castle is quite a ways from Azuma," she asked quietly, though not certain how the creature would necessarily communicate either an affirmative or a negative.

Standing, she shook her head at Bedivere's own question. "Not long, merely a few minutes," she reassured him with a slight, albeit somewhat chagrined smile. "I had merely been curious...but I am gladdened to see that your training has resumed, Exercitium aside."

Oh yes, she knew how much he absolutely hated to be idle, and it didn't demand any of her special insight to know. Camelot's physicians often grumbled about his inability to stay properly put. But it was good, actually, that he still had that restless energy, and not that the worst was past he was very much in need of exercise. "I did not intend to interrupt. Please, do not mind me."

But her enjoyment of simply being a spectator was not meant to be, and the marshal was not the only one surprised at Kepas's completely unexpected 'demand.' For a long moment she merely stared with naked surprise, first at the ice-hound, then at the sword which had been 'presented' to her down at her feet, then back up to the play-bowing Kepas. She would have thought he was requesting a game of 'fetch' but for the fact that he seemed content to go back to poking at the turtle-gong.

Kneeling down to retrieve the sword, she eyed the elemental even as she agreed with Bedivere. "Indeed...."

To the ice-hound, she asked with some mild amusement, "Oh? Do you wish for me to participate, instead?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even before he'd taken on the training of a knight-aspirant, Bedivere had always lived by the virtue of Exercitium. As a youth, he'd pushed himself to the limit regardless of the task before him, whether the rudimentary training of a filidh, or helping mend the village's fishing nets.

The body may fail from time to time, but the spirit has never faltered. When challenges present themselves, Bedivere responds in the only way he knows how – to strengthen himself until he can overcome those challenges.

Although it doesn't seem to have much in the way of higher intelligence, the turtle-gong has a certain charm about it. When patted, it swings its hammer-tail, giving a ringing gong once Arturia's hand draws away from it, as though pleased at the treatment. If it's lonely or unhappy, it's hard to say. How does one tell when an animated gong is despondent, anyway?

"I see." Bedivere seems almost embarrassed that he'd been watched, shifting his weight as though he were uncomfortable. "Well, I hope I have satisifed your curiosity, then. Yes, I was merely waiting until I was well enough to do so again. I did not want to overdo, only to make things worse. I have had enough of lazing and loafing about." He regards his practise sword thoughtfully. "It is time to restore myself to the standards that I would have had in Camelot. No longer am I content to be a shadow of the knight that was in your service."

Kepas, meanwhile, lashes his tail when he's watched, grinning that vacant grin. One has to wonder just how smart that thing is. He seems to understand certain things, and then he'll turn around and do something completely undignified or ill-thought out, or behave like a non-sentient animal.

The castle's lord also stares at the hound-creature, though his expression is a little more blank. He seems to be studying Kepas, as though to see what the creature does next. Will he prove his intelligence, or will he leave the matter unresolved as usual?

Carefully, Kepas knocks the turtle-gong over with one clawed paw, happily gnawing on the side of the bronze 'shell' while the turtle windmills its little feet. At least it doesn't seem to be in any terrible distress, though it can't really enjoy being chewed on.

Not even a bark out of him, either. The creature could almost be considered eerie with his utter lack of noise; he never barks, whines, or makes any sort of vocalisation.

Though, recently, some in the village have reported the sounds of eerie, bone-chilling howling late at night; some of the servants working in the castle have even reported seeing Kepas in the courtyard, baying like a hound giving tongue once it's found its prey.

One wouldn't know it right now, anyway, as he happily gnaws on the side of the turtle-gong. Apparently he's accepted the gong, or at least isn't hostile to it. Indeed, it looks like it's become a favourite toy...

"Typical," Bedivere sighs. "I will have to ask the winter-witch just what kind of mind these creatures have. Either he is not as smart as we think he is, or he is uncommonly skilled at obfuscating it."

He flicks his practise sword at her, indicating the blade on the ground even as she picks it up.

"Well, it seems he's clear about what he wants. Shall we dance, then, my lady? It has been long since we last made an attempt, and I should like to try again, if it please milady." He smiles, slightly lopsided. "If I am not being too forward, of course. Long had I wished to cross blades with you in Camelot, but I would not have been so presumptuous as to ask, nor to draw suspicion on you, then... but here I am free to."

Saber (346) has posed:
Any proper king would take pride in such a knight, and even now his famous loyalty was praised both by those who only knew of the first and last of her knights in legend as well as those who witnessed it first-hand. Often, Arturia was told directly how fortunate she was to have such a knight at her side, and she emphatically agreed. It didn't matter how or why, she was simply thankful for it whatever those reasons were. It was a gift she could attach no price to, more precious than gold or any jewel. And her loyalty to him was as fierce as his was to her.

Likewise, his dedication to the Virtues seemed as much of a natural part of him as breathing. Though neither combat nor politics seemed to come naturally to the silver-haired knight, it was far more laudable that his training was rigorous and continuous. He was never one to be content with how things were, nor his condition, and never rested on his significant laurels. As Bedivere looked up to her, in many ways, she in turn looked up to him. Perhaps it was this mutual admiration and respect which opened the proverbial door to other feelings, but regardless, Arturia enjoyed simply watching him as he practised, much to his apparent embarrassment and self-consciousness.

It was hardly the first time the king had watched him as he ran through the familiar drills, though perhaps the first time she could watch so openly rather than quickly turning away lest hostile eyes notice that obvious favour. It might have been that her previous stolen glimpses failed to make him so self-conscious precisely because he in turn had been forced to similarly bury his feelings, or perhaps it was the fact that she could thoroughly scrutinise the marshal without fearing the unwanted attention it would draw. Either way, the jade-eyed knight felt a twinge of guilt for making him so uncomfortable.

"Ah...yes, well. I did not meant to disturb you. Please, continue...if you like, I shall leave you to your practise."

She couldn't help but smile faintly, however. Having him at reasonably full strength was something to look forward to. "I shall anticipate that time when you have been properly restored, then."

But that retreat was halted by a certain ice-hound. Was he silly, or terrifyingly intelligent? Arturia decided that she would probably never know, observing him knock over the turtle-gong and proceeding to gnaw on it like a bone. Once more, it was an unresolved question.

"Aye," she agreed with Bedivere's mildly sarcastic observation, not bothering to stifle her sigh. "Kepas, stop chewing on..."

Come to think of it, did the spirit-animated turtle-gong even have a name? "I suppose we shall have to name it...if it does not have a name, already." Something more fitting than 'Chewtoy', she should think. "As well as something for Kepas to be entertained with...I fear waking one day to find our footwear has been shredded."

All her previous uncertainty was washed away as the violet-eyed knight quipped, flicking his practise sword at the blade she retrieved from the floor. The knight-king couldn't help but grin. "Aye, indeed. If it pleases milord, then we shall."

Arturia needed no further prompting, already dropping into her en garde stance, the awkwardness of their particular situation from the previous attempt no longer present. Now, they could freely enjoy the test of skills with neither awkwardness or the looming shadows of Camelot.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"So too shall I." Bedivere studies the training sword in his hand, absently flexing his fingers around its hilt. "It has been long since I have felt restored."

It's been a very long time since he was at full strength, and not just from his service in Camelot. Even then he had often feigned wellness when he had been wounded or ill, or denying himself rest for duty's sake, and it might have surprised some to know just how poor his condition had been in those days. In fact, it's been so long that he's almost forgotten what that had felt like.

Health had been just another thing he had sacrificed for the good of king and realm. He had sacrificed them gladly as he had everything else, but it hadn't been without cost.

He glances over at the misfit spirits; the hound chews on the gong with evident relish. Is that Kepas' way of showing affection, or is he just happy to have something to occupy himself with, like an overgrown puppy? It's hard to say, sometimes. The issue of the hound's intelligence really is a mystery.

"I suppose so, though I do not know how we might find if it already has a name. It does not seem to speak, nor make any great noise, save its ceaseless gonging and carrying about." He sighs. "Well, I suppose it does keep Kepas entertained... and I do not think he would shred the boots so much as devour them wholesale." Bedivere rubs his jaw, regarding the hound speculatively. "I believe he could bite a man in half with a maw that size, so a boot would not hinder him for too long. There would be nothing of it left."

Well, if any boots go missing, they know who the culprit's going to be.

He falls into his own ready stance, though perhaps it seems a little more loose than it should be; but misleading and misdirecting his opponents had always been his style. Since he wasn't as strong as most knights, he had to make do with outsmarting them rather than overpowering them.

"Begin when you are ready," he states with a smile, shifting his grip on the practise sword. "I give to you the first strike, my lady. Whenever you are ready."

Kepas, meanwhile, stops chewing on the gong long enough to look up and watch, ears pricked, as though he were genuinely interested in the goings-on of the master and his lady. One of his big, viciously-clawed paws is draped loosely over the gong, which slowly windmills its little feet, as though half-heartedly trying to get away. As it does, Kepas' jaw falls open in that characteristic doggy grin.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia considered their shared past. Even with their dedication to remaining properly fit for their duties, that distant past had hardly been ideal for their health. Even without the wearying, ruthless politics, they simply lacked the technology: the means to eliminate disease, to better preserve food, to purify water. Force of will could only last so long, and if her reign had lasted much longer, she suspected that the years of feigning health would have caught up to her marshal eventually. As it was now, they had the means to properly heal him, and all that remained was his rehabilitation, such as the familiar exercises.

It had amazed the Once and Future King to learn that some of their arts had survived, and as rigorous as their training was, it was considered quite beneficial. It was just as well Bedivere was attempting to return to that routine, albeit without the poisonous aspects of the court. Perhaps it would not be possible to restore him to his absolute peak, but he was in a far better position to do so than within her own court. The gradually-rebuilding village and keep they lived in now was a far superior place for it.

The mind of their castle mascot remained ever the mystery, and there seemed little way to find a definitive answer. There was an even split between evidence of frightening intelligence and an endearing yet somewhat frustrating puppyish silliness. Arturia merely watched with some disconcertment as the elemental creature, without missing a beat, went from a demand/request for her to spar with her marshal to...chewing happily on an animated temple gong.

The turtle-gong was little better, unable to express even as much as Kepas did. If it could write, that might have put them in a better position, even if neither lord nor lady would be able to understand it. The flaxen-haired knight had half a mind to return to Azuma to inquire, but she doubted the ruined temple's draconic archivist understood any more than they.

"Regardless, it seems to be content here, though I would imagine it might find its new settings strange," the Servant remarked. To say nothing of not being the chewtoy of an ice elemental. Arturia wasn't certain if the idea sat well with her that the creature might be diverting attention away from devouring their boots. It was a wonder none of them had disappeared yet.

Not long ago, Saber had been concerned that her more recent power as a Servant might have been too much for the marshal. But then, he was her tactician, a man who relied on his intelligence and wits to outmanoeuvre his opponents. Any who underestimated him did so at their own peril. His stance might not have been as rigid as it otherwise would have been, but she knew better than to assume it was an indication that he was out of practise.

The dilemma of the misfit spirits was forgotten as she smiled, holding her en garde stance for a long moment, as if savouring the moment...or simply waiting. Then, without warning, the Servant stepped forward in a smooth gait, closing the gap far faster than someone of her stature should have been able to. At the same time, in a single smooth arc, her blade whipped out in a low strike at his leg.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Except for rare instances, brute strength was rarely the solution that Bedivere favoured for his problems. Only twice had he resorted to that, and he had hardly been in his right mind for the duration of those. No; he much preferred thinking his way through his problems. It's always been much easier for him to do that.

If he has anything to say about the castle's misfit spirits, he remains silent. His mind is already on the sparring match to come, and though he has somewhat of a sleepy-eyed regard, there's no mistaking the sharpness in his eyes. Some have indeed mistaken him for sleepy-eyed, given his often calm expression, and done so to their peril.

The practise sword whips up and into a defensive position the instant Arturia starts to move; Bedivere immediately leaps backward, swinging low in an attempt to bat her blade aside. At the same time, he sweeps high with his own blade, aiming for the now-open defenses over her upper body.

He doesn't aim for her head, but for her sword-arm, specifically at the shoulder. If he can even catch her in time, it's a stinging blow meant to briefly numb her arm – and if he's lucky, drop her sword, but it doesn't seem to be a very serious blow. He's just testing her.

Back over by the sword rack, Kepas is contentedly chewing on the gong as he lays there, he himself squashed into the corner since there's no other way for him to fit in the room and still give the lord and lady space. Curiously, he seems to be watching the goings-on even as he gnaws on the brass gong; but whether he's simply waiting for attention or intelligently following the duel, it's hard to say...

"You move as I remember," he calls, though his voice is soft as ever. "I had always wondered what it would be like to cross blades with you, in times of peace." Bedivere swats at her again with the flat of his blade, but he's taking care not to stay too long in one place; light on his feet as a deer.

At this point, he's only testing her defenses, probing and prodding with care. He knows of her fearsome strength, and he knows she could easily overpower him. So he treats her with the same regard he would a dragon – which isn't too outrageous an assumption. She had always been affiliated with the creatures, thanks to Merlin's tampering.

"I had longed to cross blades with the Right Hand, as well. I had always been curious about such a match – Right against Left, strength against cunning." He grunts, shifting his weight to the other side and keeping his eyes on Arturia. "Of course, I never would have presumed to ask you to spar. Ah, yet another thing to be thankful for here."

Saber (346) has posed:
As the marshal's practise blade snapped up into position, Arturia's initial blow was deflected with seeming ease. Though powerful, she was his equal in terms of technique alone; Bedivere was as much a Knights of the Round Table as she. Though she had been training nearly all her life, sheer determination and force of will had seen him through his. Where another might underestimate him from his stance or gentle nature, she knew better. She had appointed him as her Left Hand and understood his capabilities and mindset as well as anyone could. So similar of personality and disposition, she could read him fairly well.

Of course, the opposite was just as true. The violet-eyed knight would doubtless read that even immersed in the spar as she was, she couldn't help but objectively admire his efficiency and grace of movement even as her blow was parried. It was a habit; as many times as she had matched blades with her friends and allies in the Union, the King of Knights savoured observing their differing skills and techniques, admiring their respective strengths. While it failed to compromise her attention, in a non-lethal situation, sometimes she appreciated the art of it far too much. For anyone else, it might as well have been a dance.

And dance she certainly did, albeit an otherwise lethal one under different circumstances. Ordinarily, having such a strike parried would leave one open to attack, but Arturia was not a conventional sword-wielder. Using the momentum from the parry itself, she spun on the ball of her foot, pirouetting in a move far more expected of a dancer and swinging her wooden blade into a block of his oncoming counterstrike. And grinning all the merry way. Indeed, it was clear that she was very much enjoying this, much more than that awkward time at the Tohsaka manor when there were unresolved issues dampening the spirit. But here, there was no such weight bearing on them.

The one part of the Holy Grail War which had been at least somewhat enjoyable – aside from her time spent with Irisviel – had been her battles against Lancer. As tragically as it had all ended and as terrible as their objective was, it was invigorating to match blades with an honourable and skilled opponent who shared that sentiment. Perhaps one day, that Lancer would one day be granted his wish to serve a lord faithfully, and that lord would be as honourable as he. And perhaps one day, they would meet again and cross blades in a friendlier manner. But for now, one of her own wishes had been granted, and Arturia was going to savour every moment.

"And you as well," she commented, still admiring his deft, graceful movements even as she countered with her own, testing his own defences. "To watch from afar and yet be unable to match steel to yours was something I would always regret."

But no more. He was right; they were now free to spar to their hearts' content, with no regard for preserving the image of the king.

Though admiring his movement, the jade-eyed knight nevertheless studied in a more utilitarian capacity, a critical eye on his defences. It was not unlike a chess match...which meant he was more than her match. She still had yet to beat him at that particular game, to her mild frustration. Simply overpowering an opponent by brute force was so...inelegant. Besides which, as the Grail War proved, even a relatively weak fighter could prevail on skill alone.

"Mm," she agreed softly, even as she sidestepped to attempt a light strike at his left knee. "I am grateful beyond words for this chance."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he claims to dislike fighting, always seeking the more peaceable solution, it's clear by the way that the marshal moves that he has acclimated himself to a lifetime of warfare. It may be that he dislikes it – but with times as they were in Camelot, he had never been afforded the luxury of choosing. So he had been forced to practise the arts of war, just as he had been forced to build and perfect his mask.

Overpowering his opponents by main strength had never been his specialty. He had been a sickly child and a frail young man, and he had been forced to outwit and to outsmart. That he had been drawn to; showing a knack for the cool, calculating skill that had made him indispensable to the king later in life. Over the years, he would come to hone that, turning it from a useful battle analysis into the kind of keen, tactical thinking that would make him the best tactician among the Round Table.

That tactical mind is put to the test now, forced to anticipate and gauge the very woman he had served so faithfully. His lips thin as he considers his options.

She moves quickly, he reflects, watching her every move with those faded violet eyes. There is no hope of moving more quickly than a Servant. So. It is to be a matter of anticipation. A game of chess.

He allows himself the faintest hint of a smile as they begin what would otherwise be a death-dance; a sword-dance, grace and agility put to the test for both of them. To any watchers, it might seem a confusing whirl of limbs, swift footwork, and practise swords, but there is an exacting choreography to their movements – relying both on their partner, and the rhythm of the 'battle.'

For all that he moves well, there's still a lingering hint of stiffness to his movements; a lingering hint of the ill-healed beatings he had taken over the years. He forces himself to ignore it, though, and the grace he shows is one born of exacting self-control – something he's always been well-versed in.

Bedivere's defenses are solid, for all that he moves lightly. He seems careful to leave little open, though there are holes here and there, shifting as he moves; an unguarded shoulder here, an unguarded ankle there, for he cannot possibly cover everything at all times with only a single practise sword.

In this case, though, he won't be able to attack her directly. She's simply too fast, too powerful, to hope to match. It forces him to rely on the skill that's won him so very many chess matches, then.

Anticipation.

If she puts her weight down on her right foot when she strikes, I should be able to—

Arturia's practise sword whacks across his knee with a loud smack of wood against kneecap, but it's a calculated risk as he bares his teeth through it. A willing sacrifice, which allows him to strike out – not at where she is, but where he estimates she will be, by the time she follows through and puts her weight down. The whole sequence is almost instantaneous – barely has she begun to strike than he's already lashed out with his own counterstrike.

Hopefully such anticipation is enough, or he's not going to stand a chance against her.

"As am I," he replies with a smile, though his voice is a little tight with pain. That stings, and he's going to be feeling it later. A nice soak in the baths would do well for that. "It is one thing to watch from afar, but another entirely to participate directly. I had seen you in battle plenty of times, but that was not enough, nor time for more than stolen glances here or there; in most cases I had my hands full with the Saxons."

He ducks forward, aiming another swat at another point he imagines she might move to; attempting to drive her back from his immediate personal space with the tip of his practise sword. "But it is better still to take part directly. You learn much about a person for watching the way that they choose to fight. It is like a language all itself. A dance. And you dance well, as well as I would have expected you to." Again, that smile; unguarded and pleased. "Better than I, I'm certain."

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been an ironic twist: the king who sought the peace of utopia nearly her entire reign had been remembered and celebrated for her prowess in battle, as well as that of the Knights of the Round Table. Each war they fought had been not for the sake of conquering, but to hold would-be conquerors at bay. But even in peace, Arturia would have kept her skills sharp and insist upon the same of the knights who served her. That was ultimately their duty, to become the bloodied shield so that others could live in that peace they could only pray for on their own behalf.

But friendly tests of skill? There was no sorrow, regret, not deadly aggression in such things. The King of Knights could enjoy those freely, especially now, without the crown weighing down on her head.

An otherwise frail and petite girl, the only possibility for her to wield such power had been through magical means, in mortal life and beyond. Caliburn and Avalon had kept her body small and compact, and while that compromised what strength she might have been able to wield otherwise, it made her faster and more agile. Her movements had been honed into swift, graceful, yet powerful movements which could lay waste to opposing forces in a matter of seconds. Even against stronger, more skilled foes, she was capable of holding her own, and her Instinct for the outcomes in battle allowed her to anticipate potentially deadly attacks.

Yet, in spite of her tactical abilities, the marshal's were stronger still. Even without the class abilities of a Servant, he could easily outmanoeuvre stronger, faster opponents by anticipating and waiting for the precise moment to strike. In some ways, this was just as much practise for her as it was for him, but in the mental aspect rather than the physical. One had to be able to think in unorthodox, flexible ways if one ever hoped to match the agile mind of the intelligent, quick-witted Left Hand of the King.

It was difficult for the untrained human eye to follow a battle between Servants, but it was nearly as difficult to do so between knights of their calibre. In many ways, the legends of their skill were not terribly far off, perhaps the sole aspect that future generations had gotten somewhat correct. While not a Servant himself, Bedivere's movements – in spite of that lingering stiffness from repeated injuries – would have been nevertheless challenging to follow by all but the most experienced and skilled onlooker. Even as Arturia could match that speed, she would need more than that and her strength, especially with those ironclad defences.

It was difficult to discern whether openings in those defences were truly openings or traps. That she could easily overpower him was a given, and taking advantage of those openings would have been an easy matter...that is, if they weren't deliberate to lure her in. As challenging as it was, the Servant still couldn't keep the doubtless stupid grin off her face; she did so love a challenge, especially given just whom she was testing her skills against. In some ways, she almost didn't want it to end.

Except, of course, when she strikes true. That was definitely going to leave a nasty bruise in spite of being careful. True, the Marshal had dealt with worse even before Unification, but the flaxen-haired knight still didn't like it when he was in pain. This wasn't like back in Camelot, after all.

And yet, even that much had been a ploy. Her eyes widened briefly as the violet-eyed knight correctly anticipated where her foot would come down, the blow landing solidly. And even a mortal could hurt a Servant, if they had enough skill and power behind it. It certainly stung.

Even the wince did nothing to dampen her grin, though now it was somewhat pained. "Well-played," she grunted through her teeth.

She couldn't disagree even as she danced back, batting away his sword into a riposte, once more testing his defences. At least, not with his first sentiment. "Hah...yes, there is no proper substitute for directly participating," she quipped with a prod aimed at his right shoulder. "But I shall have to respectfully disagree regarding your own dance. I have some sympathy for your opponents, now."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although Bedivere had arrived in Camelot as a lanky and untrained youth wholly unsuited to knighthood, he had forced himself into such training as to become one of Arturia's finest knights. He was tough, but not for the same natural aptitude as the other knights. He had fought and worked for every ounce of his toughness, putting himself through grueling training and showing incredible self-displine over the years.

Now that he's been reunited with his king, he's been working on restoring his skill and his physical condition, from the years it had been tarnished. He isn't where he had once been – but it's within his reach; an attainable goal.

Much as she had to overcome her petiteness with magic, he's had to overcome his own handicaps. Even as a youth, he had been unsuited to knighthood or warfare; long-fingered, slender and agile. More than that, he disliked conflict at a fundamental level, and combat was always the very last of his options. He would have made a better bard, a filidh, well-suited to it both physically and mentally.

He had needed to work hard to become what he was grudgingly respected for within the kingdom; what legend would remember him as. Yet that physical strength was not his true talent. No; it was his tactical mind that had rescued so many skirmishes against the Saxons. His ability to outwit his opponent was what had rescued so many skirmishes, and allowed him to triumph against foes far stronger than he.

The grin fades from his face, but only because he's spending his effort in concentration. It takes much to match a Servant, even one who's pulling her punches as Arturia does. It's a challenge, and one that he relishes. She may not have the same acumen when it comes to chess, but she's just as skilled a combatant as he is.

Whack. The strike he'd purposefully taken is throbbing even now, but he forces himself to ignore the pain. It was a calculated risk, and one that seems to have paid off. He can feel the shock of impact all the way up his arm, light a blow as it is, and before he's followed through with it he's already circling around to strike again. His polished wooden sword flashes amber in the torchlight, quick as a brown serpent, flicking out to slap at her other leg, right at the kneecap. Nothing debilitating, but certainly a stinging reprisal if he plans it right.

"I was your tactician," he points out with a half-smile. "If I could not keep up with you, of all people, would I not be unworthy of the sobriquet of the King's Left Hand? Not all of my skill has whittled away, I suppose. That I can manage to land a blow at all is a point in my favour. You are well beyond even what I would have estimated your skills to be in Camelot. I have seen this for myself."

His blade flickers again, the colour of old amber in the torchlight. The blows are hardly powerful, though, meant to test her defenses more than decisive strikes. He's probing, searching; looking for the gap he knows he'll find if he's patient.

"Still," he huffs, dancing around her with another quick strike. "I am glad beyond words to have this opportunity."

A quick shuffle puts him closer again, and after two feinted blows, he lashes out with where he expects her to go to dodge them, blade snapping out in a smart tap against the wrist holding her sword, provided he's quick enough to catch her. "It is better still than I had imagined."

Just as quickly, he dances back to try and escape her inevitable riposte. Still, human reflexes are nothing when held up against a Servant's, and so at the same time he braces himself for the inevitable blow – and does, grunting as he's prodded sharply in his right shoulder, staggering back and immediately lashing out with a stinging rejoinder for her wrist.

"Hmph." Despite the snort, he's smiling. "No sympathy necessary, for them. They'd dug their own hole the instant they thought of me as womanish and weak. Perhaps I wear my hair long, and braided, like the women of Albion. But that is not the way of we of Dál Riata. And I have spent years honing my skills."

Another sharp crack as their blades meet, and he grins at the shiver of impact up his arm. "But we will see if it is enough to match you, my king. My lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
It might have surprised many that the mighty king lauded through history was not that much different than a shy, lanky youth of Dál Riata when she ascended the throne. Arturia had always been tomboyish, undergoing the same squire's training as her adopted brother and generally enjoying it, but she had not always been the mighty, impossibly strong monarch she had been lauded as. Her inhuman strength had been Merlin's doing, and her nigh-immortality the result of Caliburn and Avalon. But what she lacked in ability had, at the time, been made up with her raw willpower.

In some ways, she saw a little of herself in her marshal. Would she have persevered the same way? Arturia hoped so.

No. She knew she would have, finally returning his devotion over the long years. How could she not be drawn to such a person?

At the moment, however, she needed to focus. That person was her opponent for the time being, one that could not be taken lightly. Though in Arturia's case, not so much taken lightly as being admired in ways that compromised her effectiveness. While their game was not the deadly one it would have been in times such as the Grail War, it was nevertheless a form of training, if an enjoyable one. Even a Servant had room for improvement.

Equally, she wanted him back to peak form; partly because their work for the Union was dangerous, but also to restore some of his confidence. She could tell when that was flagging, especially compared to all the ridiculously powerful beings of the multiverse. The silver-haired knight would persevere even if discouraged -- he had somehow kept going even through his own personal hell after losing everything -- but it would be easier in better spirits.

His mind, however, was as sharp as ever. Even before she had become a Heroic Spirit, the knight-king had the physical advantage in spite of her stature and gender. The Core Merlin had created by infusing her magic circuits with dragon blood -- or so the theory went -- had made her stronger and faster than many men, inspiring both awe and terror on the battlefield. Yet, even strength and agility could be overcome with sufficient intelligence and cunning. In these, Bedivere held the clear advantage.

Such calculated risks were the standard of battle; did she not take those same risks not only during her reign, but in the Holy Grail War? That calculation for him paid off with a blow, and unfortunately for her, she did not fare any better with the follow-up. The strike at her kneecap might not have been particularly powerful, but the efficient use of physics had meant that he hadn't needed to put a lot of power behind it.

"I should say not," she quipped with a half-grin, half-grimace. "Power and speed mean nothing with neither skill nor tactics..."

Perhaps, she amended to herself, certain gaudy golden Servants might, at times, be able to make up for a lack of skill with sheer power and a smattering of tactics when he had felt like it. But for the Knights of Camelot, it was as much a point of pride, of Militia and Exercitium, to be as well-rounded as possible.

"Aye, as am I..." Arturia agreed with a slight smile and quick darts backwards to evade the feints and put some temporary distance between them, with a quick riposte. A quick side-step to feint a backhand blow followed up by a last-minute lunge and shift into an arc aimed for his upper arm.

"Deception and obfuscation are very much facets of battle," she admitted, "Though perhaps not as readily apparent as in the Holy Grail War."

As their blades met again, she couldn't help but grin as a perhaps mischievous idea occurred to her. "Hmmm...care to make a friendly wager?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
As far as Bedivere may be concerned, every combatant has room for improvement. There are always things to be learned, no matter how well-rounded one may consider themselves. Whether one is a peasant or a king, that's always been his outlook, all throughout the years of Arturia's rule. Unfortunately, his duties rarely gave him opportunity to train against fellow knights, or his king. His swordplay was a thing of mystery to his closest allies. Only observation in battle might have lent them some idea of how he fought.

That was something he had always wanted, in fact; to spar against his most trusted allies. Lancelot had always been an enigma to him, the taciturn man from the lakeshore; whose chameleon-like ability to disguise himself let him act as spymaster. Then there was the cheerful Gawain, straightforward as an arrow, but even such a boisterous personality must have had something to teach. Or his own brother, Lucan; somewhere in between the poles of Lancelot and Gawain, albeit lesser in skill.

More impossibly, he'd always wanted to cross swords with Arturia herself. He had only been able to observe her on the battlefield, often at great distance. Actually requesting such a thing was impossible, even though he alone among her knights was closest to her, having spent the most time around her. Yet he could never ask for such a thing; could never destroy her carefully-cultivated impartiality.

Now, though, she's living up to his expectations. Powerful, as he had known, having watched her in battle; but cunning, too, just as much so as he. This is a challenge – and he always savours a challenge. He welcomes them as an opportunity to hone his own skills. Right now, his skill is more as a rusty knife than the gleaming sword of a Knight of the Round Table.

"Power and speed are as nothing without tactics to guide them," Bedivere affirms, though his voice is breathless. He's starting to flag already, though he's reluctant to acknowledge it, nearly dancing as he attempts to avoid her feints. His sword flicks out here and there, as though reading her like a book. He's aware of what she's doing solely through anticipation. "They must have a purpose. Any power must have purpose."

The backhanded blow causes him to stagger, turning aside her blade with a grunt, but it seems he expected that to be the real strike. He takes her sword against the muscle of his forearm instead, desperate to keep it away from his head or torso instead; briefly baring his teeth at the sudden pain. It doesn't look good for him, but he doesn't seem interested in yielding.

Fortunately, he was always good at turning situations to his advantage. It saved many a campaign.

Having won the advantage of space, Bedivere stays where he is, a two-handed grip on his blade to manoeuvre it more quickly. It swings this way and that to keep her sword from him, and also to unleash a quick flurry of blows against her, testing her defenses. This close, she can tell he's flagging, his breath sawing against his throat as he concentrates wholly on her – she's faster and stronger than he is by a depressing margin.

She might see him grinning, though. Dancing this closely, their exchanges are almost too fast to follow, and the only reason he can keep up is for his anticipation of where she's going to be and what she's going to do. He, a mere mortal, could not hope to compete against a Servant otherwise.

"I like to think myself an honest man," he murmurs, winded, "but deception is necessary in battle. I can think of no battle I won for you without some measure of misdirection. It was especially necessary against the Saxons."

He eyes her a moment when she suggests a friendly wager, something wary in those violet eyes, but something pleased as well. This is an entirely different person than the cold and remote king he'd served. Some part of him still clamours at the impropriety of it, but he finds himself more and more drawn to the woman behind the mask and crown. Especially on days like these, where her contentment and happiness can't help but be contagious.

How could those high spirits not be contagious when he has so much to be grateful for?

"Very well, then." The pale-haired knight shows a crooked grin, lashing out in a vicious slash to buy himself some space, dancing backward and out of her range. He pauses only to catch his breath. "I... I will offer my terms, then. If you should yield first, my lady, I would like... hm." Something with apples comes to mind, something she had prepared for him, when he had been recuperating much as he has been lately. "What was that called... ah, yes. 'French toast.' With apples. Aye," he says, with a grin – and echo of the gentle soul beneath the marshal's armour and icy mask. "I think I should like that very much."

He shifts his grip on his sword, shifting his weight in turn to eye her warily. That means she's free to name her own terms, too, and it occurs to him that he can't guess what she might ask. What would she ask of him? What could she want as a prize? Ordinarily it bothers him when he can't anticipate scenarios, but in this case, he's enjoying it too much to worry.

Grinning, he lets the point of his sword dip toward the floor, his other hand resting against his hip.

"And what would you ask of me, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Though each of the Knights of the Round Table was expected to adhere to Exercitium – always training, always striving to improve himself – Bedivere had needed to go above and beyond due to his lack of natural talent and ability. It had always been inspiring to watch when she was able, studying all the potential knights undergoing training and especially cautious not to allow her gaze to linger too long on the awkward youth from Dál Riata. Even then, he might have noticed when it did, though the new king had taken pains to hide it.

Perhaps she had been drawn to him even then, but above all else, she was inspired. Arturia might have possessed the strength of dragons, but she knew then that she could not become complacent. Sadly, she could only match blades with Lancelot and Kay, and even then, such training could only take place in secret, in the countryside beyond Camelot's walls. She had wished she could have tested herself against any of her knights, Bedivere most of all.

And perhaps had she known of his knowledge of her secret from the very start, she could have offered such training, as well. Then again, perhaps not; they had always trod a razor's edge when it came to their true feelings – hers subconsciously – and any closeness on their part would have doomed the kingdom long before Camlann, before Guinevere and Lancelot's weakness against their own feelings.

The flaxen-haired knight had been forced to make due with occasional glances she caught in the heat of battle, back then. What he lacked in raw power, Bedivere had more than made up in skill and tactics...both, she had learned even before the Grail War where such were taken to extremes, were more than capable of felling a more powerful foe. And though his skills had been out of practice from those five years trapped in what might as well have been hell, he remained a formidable opponent, one she could finally test her own skills against.

"There was a Lancer, in the War I was in, who was not particularly strong as far as Servants go...but his skill and tactics were impressive," Saber remarked, noting that the violet-eyed knight's strength was starting to wane. Yet, she did not let up; he was going to push himself to overcome that exhaustion threshold, and in all honesty, it made her secretly happy that she could finally help. "In many ways, I should think we were evenly matched."

It was just as well the Servant didn't let up as she reacted too soon to a feint, her left forearm grazed by the follow up strike. But her own strike was true, and in a true battle with blades, such a more would have severed her opponent's arm. For many, that would have been the beginning of the end, but the Left Hand of the King was another matter entirely.

He wasted no time in using that proximity to his own advantage, something she often employed against her opponents, her compact stature allowing her a greater freedom of movement. But though he was much taller, his agility more than made up for a lack of raw power. She successfully batted away most of the blows, but at the cost of risking her balance by stepping back while at the same time fending off the flurry of rapid strikes. And not without cost; some indeed landed.

The Grail War, she reflected, had been almost entirely one of intrigue. And though Arturia herself was of an honourable disposition, she was nevertheless forced to obfuscate a number of things – not the least of which had been Excalibur – to level the battlefield. But though that War was behind her, misdirection continued to be necessary against the threats they now faced. Thankfully, there was nothing in the Virtues about telegraphing one's manoeuvres and intentions. In fact, sparring with the keen-eyed marshal helped hone that ability.

Even if, when it came down to tactics, she couldn't hope to outmanoeuvre him any more than he could overpower her.

Arturia allowed a soft chuckle, pleased with his response even while prodding at his defences, iron-clad in spite of his building shortness of breath. There was a great deal of pain to overcome and mending to do for both knights, but it would seem they were on their way. "Aye, then...French toast with baked apples...should the battle go to you, that is." A little bit of a tease; their mock-battle could go either way.

"Hmm..." she mused. "I think I should like to hear you play something."

After the silver-haired knight had expressed some longing for a proper set of the elbow pipes, the knight-king had been struck with inspiration. There had been other ideas for gift-giving, but this one she had suspected would bring him the most happiness. Judging by his tearful reaction, she was confident that her aim had been true. Yet, Bedivere also seemed fearful to actually put them to use, as if he feared breaking them. "'Twould be a pity to have had those pipes crafted so carefully only for them to collect dust, would it not?" she reasoned.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It always seemed that no matter what Arturia had taken pains to hide, the pale-haired knight always saw through her obfuscation, keen of eye and ear. When she had watched him, he had known. Where she had jealously guarded her secret, he had first suspected and later confirmed through observation. It seemed there was nothing that could be hidden from him, save perhaps the shared secret that they had both carried with them. She had hidden hers so well that even she was unaware of it.

Even more skilled, however, was his ability to keep secrets. Moreso even than the spymaster, more than any other knight of the king's retinue, the shy and soft-spoken man from Dál Riata had carried more secrets than anyone had known. Not just in number, either, but in potency – secrets that could have put an end to Camelot. He had known the secret of the king's gender, the secret of Lancelot and Guinevere, and the secret of his own devotion that he had carried around for almost twenty long years. Any one of those three alone could have been the end of the kingdom.

At least, he need not worry any longer about protecting her reputation or sacrificing himself for the kingdom. No longer does he need to guard the secret of her gender, or worry half to death about what would become of Guinevere, or Lancelot; no longer need he torture himself with the secret that was both his greatest weakness, and his greatest strength. He need only focus now on the recovery of Dún Reáltaí – and his own.

Now, he has the luxury of seeing beneath her mask. More than that, he has the luxury of being honest with her; something that, ironically, he had never been able to do during the long years of her reign. For all that he upheld the virutes, conducting himself with the highest honour and honesty, he had never spoken freely with her. He had certainly never been honest about his own feelings.

Sometimes he still has to remind himself that this isn't a dream.

"Was there, now?" This, to the mention of Lancer. He considers that with a huff of breath, eyes darting as he follows her movements. Watching her is all he can do for several long breaths, stalling to give his burning muscles a moment's relief. "A spearman, aye. I imagine such a Servant must need be agile and quick of foot... though I am impressed that one would have trained themselves in the art of tactics. A pity I did not have the opportunity to meet such a Lancer. I should like to have known him, if he is as skilled as you say he was."

Following her with his eyes as she moves, Bedivere forces his tired body to move in turn, even as she moves out of his personal space once he's unleashed his flurry. He watches her with a certain wariness, narrowing his eyes, as though trying to anticipate what she might do now that she's won herself some distance from him. That may not necessarily mean much – just as she's smaller and able to dodge, he's tall, with excellent reach; able to move faster than most would expect a man his size to.

The sword whips around, point trained on her, though it's an empty threat. She's too far away to strike at; such an attack would foolishly leave him open.

"Hm. French toast, with baked apples. A good wager," he affirms, with a grin. "If you should yield first. Ah, but do not expect me to give up so easily. You of all know how stubborn I can be; I do not let simple things like limitations stop me when I've half a mind to test them – or break them."

To her request, he actually stops what he's doing for a moment, blinking at her in what seems to be genuine surprise. It seems he hadn't expected her to ask that of him.

Those beautifully-crafted pipes have remained in the parcel they were given to him in, pristine. He had been touched by the gesture, more touched than he could even articulate at the time; for she had given him not just a musical instrument but a piece of his own heritage. He would have kept such pipes as a filidh, and part of his culture, if he had continued down that path. That air of mirth seems to bleed out of him as he regards her, unmoving in his consideration.

After a few moments, he smiles that shy, awkward smile; then he dips his head, hair momentarily hiding his face. "It would be my honour to do that, my love."

"But do not think that I have been neglecting them," he adds, in motion once more. Only a fool would stand there like a target, and he knows full well she can fight and carry a conversation at the same time, as can he. "I had not been well enough to use them for some time now. I did not wish to tear open that wound again, and pumping the bellows would have been strain enough to do so. Ah, I have wanted to play them, truly. To do so freely... I have not since the céilidh in summer." He laughs, but the sound is soft and embarrassed. His free hand rises to rub at the back of his neck in what almost seems nervous gesture. "Ah, truth be told, my lady, I do not know what came over me that day..."

Even so, he's not complacent enough to stay put. Circling around her, he studies her carefully, violet eyes sharp with an intensity they don't normally bear. Even when he watches someone or something, his regard is so calm it's almost sleepy; enough to lull many into a false sense of security – often the last mistake his enemies have made. This battle, though, is taking everything he has. Since he can't hope to match the physical capabilities of a Servant, he instead must use all of the skills he's ever learned as her marshal, and all the intuition he's brought to bear over the years. No simple test of strength is this, but a match of will and wit.

"I will play for you regardless of whether this battle is yours or not." He smiles, a little softly, even as he flicks out with the sword. It's a simple test of her defenses and her footing; a jab here, a pointed prod there at the incautious ankle if she doesn't move too quickly. All of it is done quickly, even though he's growing increasingly winded – something of concern to him, in the back of his mind. Weariness means sloppy mistakes.

If this were a real battle, he'd be dead by now.

"However, allow me to propose a counter-offer. If you are the victor, I will play for you... hmm. No," he says softly, considering. Then, once more, he shows that almost painfully shy smile. "I will compose something for you. In—in your honour... if... if it please milady. I am no filidh, and it would be presumptuous of me to call myself that, but... I have some knowledge."

Shifting his weight, he unleashes another flurry of blows, trying to force himself into her personal space; eyes darting as much as the point of his sword, watching her for the opening he's certain he must eventually find. It's hard work, and taxing, but he must think it's worth it in the end.

When he does find it, if he's so fortunate, he'll strike – not with his sword, but with a simple lean forward, reaching out with one leg to hook an ankle around the back of hers, to literally try and sweep her off her feet; even as he lashes out with an elbow at her sword-arm.

Not exactly conventional tactics, perhaps... but he's never been a conventional knight, has he?

"I would be honoured to do that for you, all the same," he pants, with that crooked half-grin. "But first... let us decide this contest. I am sorry to say... that it will probably not be long, now, I think. I—I grow weary..."

Saber (346) has posed:
There were times when that keenness of eye and ear were almost as much of a curse as a blessing for the king, the silver-haired knight observing far more than was safe for him to observe. His senses and mind had served her well during her reign, though should anyone have found out just how much he knew, that the marshal was potentially the most dangerous man in the kingdom, there would have been far more attempts on his life. Fortunately, he was equally as discreet – as taciturn and icily calm as she – and none could have possibly suspected just how many secrets he harboured. And it was not through any action on his part that the kingdom fell.

But that sort of secrecy as not something so easily cast aside. Even with Arturia's gradual emergence from her own shell, she continued to be at least reserved, if not outright secretive. She no longer needed to guard her secrets as she had, no longer carrying the burden of leading an entire nation, but the Grail War had been even more demanding in some ways. Once she had effectively abdicated, the Servant nevertheless remained on guard, if for no other reason than keeping Sakura safe.

Yet, she had always been something of a private person, regardless of need. She, perhaps more than anyone, could understand her marshal's natural reserve; she herself was of the same disposition. It had demanded time and dedicated effort to lure the Saber from her proverbial shell; she understood well that it would take the same to lure Bedivere from his. Fortunately, she had the time and dedication necessary, and it had already begun to pay off. The wounds of Camlann were still healing, but where there had once been despair, there was hope.

As to Lancer, she nodded slightly, edging sideways by a few steps. "A knight of the Fianna, in fact," Arturia replied. How much of the ancient tales he had learned from his father in his training as a filidh, she wasn't entirely certain. She herself only knew the name of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne from the Grail itself. "I must admit, a part of me wishes to one day face him again, and grant the honourable battle we were denied."

But then, perhaps not. The Holy Grail War had meant using one's strength to the fullest, and there could be but one victor. It was not a battle she wished to fight with so many who needed her in the present, especially the Left Hand of the King.

Distance was not a particular advantage for the King of Knights, with her short stature. Taller melee opponents had far better reach, and Archers and Lancers could strike from an even greater distance. he Servant Saber had little choice but to continuously close the distance with relentless attacks. As much damage as she was capable of weathering, Arturia nevertheless had to remain on offence and use her agility and stature to her advantage. She could only retreat to evade that unexpected flurry, change direction, and press her attack again. Which was precisely what she did; with a quick shuffle forward, bending impossibly low into her knees to aim for a strike at his torso.

"Indeed, I do," she quipped with a grin. "And such a prize would make you work all the harder, aye?"

She nearly faltered at the sight of that endearingly shy, awkward smile which had enchanted her so completely. Strangely, he in turn seemed completely unaware of its effect. She held power over him – that much he had been open about not long after their reunion – but was he so unaware of his own over her? When she had feared the worst after Odin's attack, she had been inexplicably consumed by a rage she had not known since her battles with Archer, colouring her vision with shades of red. Instead of the cold rage against the Saxons, this new rage burned brightly, awakening the dragon blood within her and the need to punish the one who had laid him low. Deep within herself, the flaxen-haired knight knew Bedivere was not so easily defeated, but it hadn't mattered. Her bloodlust would only be quelled once the Elder Primal was no longer a threat to the one who had come to mean so much to her. Had always meant so much to her, she realised, but now, she no longer had to hide it from herself.

He did, however, have a point about the wound. That certainly would have made a set of elbow pipes impossible to play without pulling open numerous stitches, and yet she had doubted he would have dared to touch them even under normal circumstances. It made her doubt her decision, if she should have had something less lovingly-crafted made...

But, no. The craftsman had been determined to do his own personal best out of gratitude for bringing life once more to the devastated village. In some ways, the gift had been just as much from the townsfolk as from their new lady. That lady, in turn, attempted her own heartfelt – if clumsy – gift. But she had learned what would please him the most, and she had tried to answer that. She could never give him back the heritage he had sacrificed to serve her, but she could try to give him back some pieces of it. To see his face as he beheld the pipes he had idly hoped to have crafted, the traces of tears at the edges of his eyes...it had been worth any trouble. She could never undo the suffering after Camlann, nor his five-year wandering in the weald...but she could do whatever lay within her power to bring him what joy and happiness she could in the present.

The other survivors of Annu had, in their own way, send gifts of comfort, ways of coping with the traumatic experience of being forced to choose between saving a universe and saving many more. There would be no happy ending for any of them. Yet, Bedivere's appearance had made that burden bearable. He might never know that he had saved her as much as she had saved him, but she could, at least, express it in small ways.

She failed to take advantage of his sudden bashfulness, primarily because her own overtook her. "I-I...it was...I very much enjoyed hearing you play..." she managed even as she remained in guard. Her training under Sir Ector had been too well-ingrained to be anything other than instinctual. Neither was she fooled by his deceptively lethargic reactions; Arturia had hand-picked him to be her Left Hand specifically because she could discern his hidden strength. Some of his advantages were ineffective against the king he knew so well...and yet, his tactical prowess was unmatched even by her. Even as winded as he was, there remained many weapons in his arsenal which could overcome her if she was careless.

Of course, one of those weapons was one he had not even seen as one. Her jaw fell open, slack, at a simple smile and the pledge of a song composed for her. That was the sort of thing done for elegant, beautiful, gentle ladies...not for a slip of a girl who might as well been a lanky boy, all awkward angles of armour and traces of sinew. Certainly, she had asked to be his lady, but that hardly meant that she was one. Guinevere had been the epitome of courtly grace, not Arturia.

So stunned was she, in fact, that she left herself completely open to the flurry of attacks which followed. By muscle memory alone she managed to defend against them, yet Arturia was completely defenceless against the sudden foot-sweep, landing her quite soundly and inelegantly on her backside even as an elbow landed squarely on her sword-arm. The Servant held onto her practice weapon, but even then, Bedivere would have been able to land what would have otherwise been a finishing blow. "W-weary or no..." she stammered, her face red from more than merely defeat, "The battle...g-goes to you, m-my lord."

Her embarrassment, too, would have appeared to have been from more than simple humiliation of defeat.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he had struggled as a knight-aspirant, Bedivere had come into his own as the king's tactician. He had proven his knack for formulating strategies and thinking ahead; something his opponents often never thought to do. To the Saxons, it seemed power was everything. Even their leadership valued power, to the point where their chieftains were the strongest warriors, with no regard toward diplomacy or strategy.

"A knight of the Fianna?" Bedivere raises a brow in recognition at the name, although he doesn't seem particularly surprised. He considers for a moment, thoughtful. "I suppose that is hardly a shock. There are many heroes of Ulaidh, so it does not surprise me that many of them would become Heroic Spirits, remembered in legend..."

When she changes direction to press her assault once more, he pivots, turning to face her as she advances and present as much of a defense as he can. Even so, his strikes are hardly proactive – he reacts to her, but little more, relying on his intuition to guide him. Keen as it is, it isn't always flawless, and he's certain he'll have the bruises to prove it.

Her turn of heart, however, seems to bewilder him more than anything else. Had he gone too far? Had he offered too much; done or said something wrong—?

"Then I shall compose something worthy of you, my lady." Bedivere bows his head, though there's an undeniable nervousness about it. He watches her from the corner of his eye, even as he takes a half-step away from her, ready for that sword of hers to move. He swallows against a sudden dry throat. "Though I am hardly suited to the task, all that I may do is my best. I am no filidh, but..."

He seems a little shocked when he sweeps her off her feet so easily, flinching backward even as she lands flat on her rump. His sword lowers as he regards her with a certain level of apprehension. "My lady, are—are you hale?" He shouldn't have been able to catch her so thoroughly off her guard like that.

But no, she seems fine, red-faced as she may be. Is that... embarrassment?

Wordlessly, he casts his practise sword aside, still breathing a little hard even as he offers her his hand to climb back to her feet. Weary he might be, but he does graciously bow his head, chuckling self-consciously. "I accept your yield, my lady. Please, be at peace, I—I am sorry; I will simply play for you, if you prefer. Please, accept my apologies; I spoke too boldly... I am not even a filidh."

Saber (346) has posed:
What the legends rarely recounted was that much of Britain's undefeated reputation had been neither through the numbers of their armies, the discipline of their knights, nor the strength of their champions, but the tactics of Camelot's Marshal. Only the Romans could have hoped to match them with their superior numbers of trained soldiers and formalised tactics. The Record had remembered each and every Knight of the Round Table, but King Arthur remained the Unconquered King through the efforts and skills of one man in particular.

"Aye," she acknowledged as she studied him for potential openings. "Even heroes who have been largely forgotten ascend to the Throne. Less powerful than others whose legends are better-remembered, perhaps, but no less formidable. It is especially so for the older ones. All but two of the Servants of the previous War were considerably older....Caster had lived centuries after our own time, and Berserker...well." She had already told him what had become of the Knight of the Lake, though it would always remain a subtle point of regret. She could only be grateful beyond words that she had not been reunited with Bedivere on that battlefield.

Once he was on the defensive, she harried those defences with sure strikes which had lost none of their power over the course of their match. In extended, exhaustive battles against other Servants, she could tire after a while, but a friendly match was hardly tiring. And once, such a thing would not have tired the silver-haired knight; it had only been after years of pushing himself too hard, accumulating after the Battle of Camlann, and the months of recovery following his rescue from the multiversal weald that he was so easily exhausted. True, he would need to keep at it gradually to recover, but too much too soon would do more harm than good.

She held the advantage in strength, and yet there was little doubt he could secure a victory even then. What she hadn't expected was just how that victory would come, and almost entirely by accident. His wager was clearly not intended to throw her off proverbial balance, yet that was precisely what it did. It was not something she could simply grin and accept, not with her feelings of unworthiness and her complex about what she perceived to be her lack of proper femininity. It demanded a great deal of willpower not to flail and insist she was hardly worth the effort.

She didn't have the chance to insist that she didn't particularly care about formal training, or whether or not that was one of his many talents. It was partly because she did quite enjoyed his playing, but perhaps more than that, it was simply the idea of it. Anyone else might have read into that blush the almost guilty enjoyment of the proposal alone. It proved more than adequate to stun her long enough for what was an otherwise easy defeat.

"I-I am hale..." she stammered hopelessly, desperately attempting to regain her composure. And yet, her pride was not as bruised as it otherwise would have been, still beyond flustered at the offer. But then, she had let that particular opportunity pass her by, hadn't she? She had lost fair and square...though she had already intended to prepare French toast, anyway. Her reward for that was to study the pleased look on his face as a result. she would have that, at least.

With an undeniable expression of bashfulness, she accepted his hand up, half propping herself up with the tip of her practise sword. But in spite of her embarrassment, some odd bit of boldness managed to creep past that outer layer. "N-no, I...I would like that. I was simply...surprised. Ah, but the loss was mine. It would not be fair to...to ask such a thing."

Not to mention it was more than a little presumptuous.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although his tireless efforts had secured many of the kingdom's campaigns, if he were asked directly, Bedivere would naturally deny any such involvement – or that his own efforts were so integral to the kingdom's success. Some might consider it out of a sense of modesty, but it had always gone further than that; as though the silver-haired knight genuinely didn't consider himself worthy of such praise. Indeed, he had often behaved in a manner that suggested he valued the lives of the peasants and villagers he protected more than his own, though perhaps some might have needed to look closely to understand the signs.

Even now in such a multiversal setting, he cleaves fast to that modesty of spirit. Although recognised by some in the Union, he steadfastly denies any heroism or qualities that might lend themselves to legend. He's simply a humble servant of the king, and doing no more than what might have been asked of him.

"I see." He responds to the information about other Servants only after she's accepted his hand, and a tug sees her back on her feet. Not that she particularly needs the help. Smaller and shorter as she is, her strength is measureless compared to his own, but the offer to help her up is unthinking; almost reflexive. "So, the legend of a hero also influences his strength, at least relative to his opponents. I suppose it truly is a game of chance, for the magi who summon their Servants... surely they must not know whom they summon until it comes time to meet them face to face..."

The matter of Servants, however, is soon enough left by the wayside. Even Bedivere can't help a faint smile at the way Arturia flounders, embarrassed as the expression is.

Having reunited with her in the multiverse, one of the first things he'd learned was how bad she is at accepting any kind of praise, especially that which has to deal with her personally. Yet in his eyes, she's not only worthy, but deserving of such things – after all, he's had a chance to judge for himself, now that he's seen her without the visage of the king.

Thanks to conscious effort, he manages to stifle that half-smile. "Perhaps the match went to me, but that does not mean I do not still wish to do what I offered. Indeed, I should very much like to do that, if it please milady." He sketches a half-bow even as he replaces his training sword on the weapon rack, folding his hands behind his back as he turns to the door. "Aye, indeed. Something on those new pipes, I think, once I am healed enough to manage them."

"I am winded... but that was a most satisfying match. I should not mind resuming our regiment as we had in Lady Tohsaka's household; to train every morning, once the weather is not quite so cold." He smiles, a little less embarrassed. "For now, though, I think rest is in order. I am tired, and there will be little else to be done today, if the weather is any gauge. Snow, later, I'm certain of it."

So, for once, he'll do exactly as she wants him to do – rest, and see to his broken body as she so frequently insists. More than likely that'll mean another nice long nap, possibly under the effects of the medicine in his tea. After all... there's not much else to do as winter slowly begins to flex its claws over the village.

Ever so gradually, even he's begun to look at the bright side in this idleness. It will be good to be at his full strength again, but more than that, he treasures the time spent with Arturia – even if it's time spent doing nothing but drifting in and out of sleep, with his head on her shoulder, he could ask for no more than that.