1152/The Wonderful Wizard of NOPE

The Wonderful Wizard of NOPE
Date of Scene:	15 December 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Merlin pays a visit to the recuperating Sir Bedivere.
Cast of Characters:	482, 639

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the chamber used by the lord and lady of Dún Reáltaí is the entirety of the fifth floor, there is nonetheless a certain reserve about its furnishings. The people who manage the land and its people are not the sorts to flaunt wealth or status. Indeed, the lord himself is exactly the sort opposite to that kind of behaviour. Sir Bedivere of the Round Table had never been one to accept either fame or fortune in the height of Camelot's rule, and now that he's found himself in the multiverse, his deeds remembered, he is nervous even about that.

Sparse as the lord's chamber is, its surroundings make for a gloomy afternoon. The sky is bleak and almost black, heavy with looming clouds. There is no rain today, but sleet instead; hammering in steady rhythm against the glass windows and stone tower.

Bedivere has not made an appearance at all today, although his companion had gone to take care of things here and there, leaving him to rest. Lulled by the rain, his injuries, and five years of insomnia, he had obediently slipped back into deep sleep when Arturia had bade him rest a while longer, needing no second encouragement.

That was hours ago – and the lord of the castle has still not left his quarters, although that's hardly a surprise. He's been resting, mostly sleeping, for most of the week. His battle against the Elder Primal, Odin, had gone poorly. A lucky swing of that greatsword had nearly cloven him in two, and Bedivere was lucky to survive at all, especially after Saber had unleashed the power of Excalibur to stay the Elder Primal's blade.

The wounds alone had taken a heavy toll on him, moreso even than the mana, as they always seem to. Perhaps he may survive his conflicts where many others would fall, but it always seems to cost Bedivere in so doing.

Only recently has he drifted out of sleep, opening his eyes to half-mast and regarding the canopy of the bed dully while he listens to the sleet hammering into the tower. He might have struggled to his feet and down the stairs to see to some work, but Arturia would probably kill him. Of less concern to him, it might rip his stomach open again, too. But that's not as much of a concern to him as Arturia's wrath. He does so hate to disappoint her.

So he lies there, listening to the sleet, letting his eyes drift closed again with a soft and extremely careful sigh.

The first snows should be soon, he thinks. It's nearly cold enough. Blizzards, no doubt, with these winds... but the village has been made fast against the weather. Good. For once, he need not rush around, need not kill himself to ensure that others won't perish through the winter.

That concept alone is foreign to him – peasants that will not need to sleep out in the cold, and perish in the freeze. No casualties of the weather.

His eyes open slowly again, looking to the door for a moment, as though to see if Arturia's returned to check in on him – but no, no one's there.

Very well, then. It would do no harm to rest for a little while longer, he decides, letting his eyes slide closed again...

Merlin (639) has posed:
The sound of the rain against the tower and its windows was something that the wizard enjoyed. True, it was far less enjoyable than actually being out in the wet, but the titanic forces of nature had a subtlety to them that a simple rainstorm so beautifully demonstrated. The elements themselves could drive themselves to a war capable of reshaping the surface of the earth...yet now they were barely strong enough to shake a leaf.

The wizard decided he liked these moments, as he ascended the staircase to the lords' room. A simple tea tray floated above his hand, a small pot and two mugs resting on the tray. Merlin takes in his charge as he lies in bed, shaking his head sadly as Bedivere looks to the door for a moment. To be so slow of mind, and so far from alertness...well, it's a good thing he'd brought the tea.

Eyes that have seen mysteries of the universe took in the knight - and paused, lingering on that mark on his hand. The symbol was intricate, and was something that Bedivere had been loathe to speak of in public before. Normally Merlin would hardly have been so curious - but like Gawain's cooking being locked behind a door the thing radiated sealed mana...somewhere. It was a mystery, and one that he was going to solve.

"Bedivere." Voice as soft as the rain, the pale-haired wizard sits at the knight's side when his eyes close. "I believe it is time to speak of things of some import. And look, I have brought you tea." One cup is filled, then the other. "Do drink up. Tea is good for you, and you would not want to disappoint your king. Who, I might add, is entertaining a guest. Fate, I believe her name was." He shrugged; the other woman seemed fascinating but they were quite busy in a discussion, and he wasn't going to interrupt. Not one bit, frankly.

He did, however, make sure to get a picture of Fate brushing Saber's hair. Invisibility and silence spells were so very useful, and the little device he'd been granted for a radio had so many functions it might as well have been a high quality familiar. Maybe he'll show Bedivere later, when he's well. Or Gawain.

"I have an answer from the Tylywth Teg."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Gentle rain was always an enjoyable sensation, but the sleet driving against the tower walls today is far from gentle. Not even the most industrious villagers have dared to brave the weather, for there are no tasks too important to risk illness or injury in that. It's a day useful only for resting, and conserving one's strength – or healing.

So it is that the knight has been doing, helped along by tea dosed with strong painkillers, and mild sedatives. Arturia hadn't done it on the sly, though, nor would she; he had actually requested it, perhaps knowing there was no other way he would rest as he knew he needed to.

The path of chivalry is not an easy one, and one that he follows almost compulsively, regardless. He can no more turn that off than the king can cease projecting a regal air about her.

Those painkillers must be strong. For one so lauded for his perceptions and observation, it must be strange to see him so unresponsive. Had anyone invaded his very bedchamber in Camelot, Bedivere would have drawn a dagger on them immediately, no sooner than they had crossed the threshold; hearing an unfamiliar voice in such close proximity to him would have immediately sent him on the offensive.

Instead, he only sighs softly, as though he were already asleep again... but the voice is wrong. He had expected to hear Arturia, for she has brought him tea regularly. This voice–

"Master Merlin." His voice is still faint; weak. Those faded violet eyes slide open slowly, so slowly, and linger on the wizard for a moment. He seems to have some difficulty physically focusing on the other man. When he finally does, his lips thin in what might be displeasure or disappointment.

For a few moments he doesn't answer, as though still processing Merlin's words; or gauging, perhaps, if he feels well enough to have this conversation in the first place. He's reluctant to treat with the wizard even at his best.

His eyes slide closed. "Thank you for your concern," he murmurs. His voice is thin; reedy, altogether unlike the stern and absolutely duty-bound marshal the wizard would remember. "Leave it. I will drink it later. My king will understand..."

Merlin's not having any of that, though, and so the knight sighs after a moment. Bedivere's left hand twitches, as though he might curl it into a fist, had he the strength. No? Not leaving? Blood and damnation. He would have preferred to do this when he was feeling just a little more lucid. There's a reason he had always refused wine or any other thing that could have blunted his wits, even when he was at his most injured. He opens his eyes slightly, regarding Merlin as though gauging the wizard.

"Is she? I had wondered where she had gone..." Yet he doesn't seem to be working himself up to a verbal battle this time. He's too weak, and in too much pain, to battle the wizard today. "Good. Ensign Harlaown seems to be a good friend to her. I am glad for that." His eyes drift closed.

The next bit, however, brings him to open his eyes and regard Merlin, albeit only to half-mast. "Do they, now? What is it?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
In Bedivere's current state, a stern talking to or a long argument would be impossible. The knight is suffering, though slowly knitting together - the subtlest of magical spells would reveal that. Merlin's healing abilities may not be the greatest in the realm, but the wizard is no slouch when it comes to them. Nor is he lacking in skill in keeping his patients unaware of his ministrations, though in this case he needs do no more than examine. Good.

As the knight comes to, Merlin leaves the tea tray floating between them and pours himself a cup. The wizard's eyes roam around the room, frowning at the complete lack of decoration. It's a shame that Bedivere's hubris is letting his humility get the better of him, but the argument is something that will come another time. Leaders must lead, and in doing so they help give people an identity. One could not rally around nothing, after all. He did frown, at least, but decided to spare his companion from a debate...this time.

Instead he keeps his voice calm and smooth, just audible over the rain. No need to disturb him, and the gentle white noise of the water against the glass would keep the knight mostly pacified. "Yes. Harlaown, you said. She is not one of these lands, but she is a very kind person. The worlds beyond are such interesting places; someday I must visit them. But not today; who would I take with me? Such adventures grow tiresome when one is alone."

And then talk turns to business. "I am afraid the Tylywth Teg were...most predictable in their price. Their first demand was every male, sun-haired, sky-eyed child in Dún Reáltaí, for such a thing as you request. I would miss good sir Gawain, and instead worked a new price with them, one that took much time and effort to achieve."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight's breath is soft and steady, inaudible over the rhythm of the sleet against the tower. With the way he seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness, one might worry about whether he were really holding together as well as he does.

Deception had been a great part of his strategy in Camelot – he had many public detractors, and he had to present an image of strength. Often, this came at the cost of his health, feigning wellness when he was injured or ill. He had done it often enough that he's still paying the price of it now. Although he would be considered in his prime in many worlds, he's abused his body enough that he can no longer push himself as though he were in his prime. He heals more slowly. And every time he suffers a wound like the one Odin had laid him low with, it pushes him a little more firmly to death's door, no doubt.

He's listening, though; even through his pain and what must be suffering, to go by the dull look to his eyes. His gaze drifts to the teacup as Merlin pours two cups, though he doesn't miss Merlin's look of disapproval.

There were always few things the pale-haired knight missed.

"Would you rather I line the walls in gold, Wizard?" His voice is faint and reedy, but there's no mistaking the wry edge to his words. "I will not indulge in ostentatiousness while the people struggle to get through the winter. And I have no need of nor desire for extravagance." True, certainly; his quarters in Camelot had been small and so sparse that they'd almost looked unused.

Then, to the Tylwyth Teg; the Everliving Ones. The Fair Folk.

"That is not surprising." Bedivere sighs, but slowly, lest he jar something painfully. "Well, I will not give to them a price such as that. I would be no better than the lord who allowed this place to fall to ruin if I were to grant the Fair Ones that. No, it is better not to. I will find anohter..." Option. He doesn't finish, though, arching a pale brow when Merlin mentions another price. "Oh?"

And then, slowly, he frowns. He may not want to know about this price, when it comes down to it... but better he know than not, no matter how unpleasant it could be. "And what is that?" he murmurs, warily, watching Merlin through those uncharacteristically, and perhaps uncomfortably, dull eyes.

Merlin (639) has posed:
It isn't possible to hear his breath, but at least the knight's chest moves when he fades out. Merlin is satisfied with this, and is pleased that he won't be forced to come up with some bizarre kind of bedivere-golem to keep Dún Reáltaí going. Well, the wizard mused, Arturia would step in, but...no, it's best for all of the knight keeps going. Really, though, it might do well to take better care of himself...

There's a cruel smirk on Merlin's face. "Gold? Hardly. I daresay I have overheard Lady Arturia's mutterings over the metal and her feelings toward another who decorated himself so. Were you to share his sense of aesthetics, I daresay a new lord of Dún Reáltaí might be needed." The smirk turns a bit softer. "But, as you have broached the subject, perhaps a little indulgence might well be worth your time. The people do not struggle this winter, Bedivere. You and the others have seen to that. And I do not say that you plunder the treasury for women and booze, no matter how fine they seem to be."

That's his job.

"But you are a Lord now. And you might well consider the finery to be a sign of depraved decadence, but in its own way it is a uniform of duty. It is also a symbol. When you were in Camelot, your armor was glorious. It was something few others had, but the people could look up to it and be inspired. Ofttimes the people will take their kingdom's largess as a symbol of success and pride, and while I've no doubt you will fall prey to true hubris..."

He paused a moment, then glanced at Bedivere. "Isn't it also true that demonstrating one's piety and poverty as loudly and sharply as possible is a mark of the same? I merely ask," he adds, raising a hand to forestall an argument, "that you might consider it. I dare not suggest that you and Arturia wrap yourselves in such silken fineries that nothing reaches your ears, but the people do take pride in you. Perhaps it might well be good for them, and for yourselves, to at least allow their indulgences to some small amount."

Merlin's teapot lifts, pouring the wizard another cup of tea, before it settles back on the tray. He takes a long draw of the brew before speaking. "Mm. The Tylywth Teg were loathe to give up on their greatest desires, but things soon came up that were more important to them than mere desire." He set the teacup back on the tray. "They have become quite aware of your efforts at Dún Reáltaí. Yes, the fortress and the town have not quite returned to the size they were, and will not for some time. The lives lost will take generations to replace. But the Tylywth Teg are a patient people with the long-term view, and I daresay I appreciate them for it."

He reclines finally, sitting on what appears to be nothing at all. Invisible force fields for comfort and profit! "They fear your Lady. They fear Sir Gawain. They fear the fair maiden Jeanne. And they fear those who come here, and all of your strangeness. The powers that were," Merlin explains, "had a balance of sorts. He who would have usurped Alaia may have done far more damage than he thought, and like scales struck from above things have not quite settled yet."

There's a long pause as Merlin sighs, understanding their problem. "They agree to create you your armor. If you agree to show them that your preparations and your rebuilding, with so many unknowable powers from afar, are of no danger to them. There is not yet a storm brewing, but there are clouds on the horizon, and they would seek a promise of peace and support from you. Aid them, if it becomes necessary. That is their price for what you seek."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the knight of Dál Riata has suffered crushing defeats time and again in the multiverse, they never quite seem to get the better of him. He may be wounded, and he may be broken, but it seems to be incredibly hard to put him down for good. That's just as well. To go by the rage that Arturia had unleashed when he'd been struck down by Odin... the king might not recover from such a blow, and neither would Dún Reáltaí's people.

He listens in silence to Merlin's advice, though he doesn't acknowledge whether he agrees or disagrees with that assessment. Many different people have tried to tell him the same thing, and he's stubbornly refused them each time. Still, for the time which they've come from, their quarters might as well be lavish – glass was a luxury, and so was the writing desk and its tools; or the canopied bed and the threadbare rug on the floor. What luxury they could have had was instead given instead to the people, in the form of modern insulation, watertight sealing for grain storehouses, and other life-saving innovations, with hardly a thought to themselves.

"Perhaps," Bedivere murmurs, letting his eyes drift mostly closed. He fixes his gaze on the canopy above, though it's likely he isn't really looking at it. "But I do not prefer common clothing to flaunt it. When I have new armour struck I will wear that as a sign of my office, as I did as part of the Round Table, but I will not clothe myself in the decadence of the nobility. I am content with the same cloth the people wear... besides which, it is comfortable to me, and has always been."

After a few more seconds his eyes do drift closed. "Like as not you already know, but I was born a commoner. I would have been content to live as such, but..."

Bedivere doesn't complete that sentence. For a moment it almost looks like Merlin might have lost him to sleep, but after a moment, he takes another breath as though to marshall his failing strength.

And with it, curiously, he chuckles.

"A favour. You have asked the Fair Folk for my armour, in exchange for a favour. Oh, you wise fool. I would have done anything but that. Now I will be obligated to help them even if they should ask for something that is the most disadvantageous to myself or the people of this place. Ah, God." He sighs, rueful. "It would have been better if you had not done that. You have a way of enlivening things in ways I do not care for, but you are here, now, I suppose, and so you are here to stay. Very well, then. I will aid them, though I will not much like that. We will see what they ask when the time comes. And if they ask aught else, as well, as part of their asking-price."

He moves his left hand to adjust the blanket, baring the command seal, momentarily; the red marks lurid against his pale, pale skin. "So my king is visiting with Ensign Harlaown, then. Good. I am glad. The Ensign is one whom she has befriended here in this multiverse. It is good for her to have people she may count on..." But, he doesn't say out loud, he might have liked to see her when he woke up. The unfinished thought isn't spoken out loud, but Merlin is shrewd; he might well pick up on it. "That armour will serve splendidly. I am weary of such wounds." His voice fades; grows a little more quiet, as though some of the strength leaves him. "I have borne enough of them in Camelot's day."

His eyes open, settling somewhat unfocused on Merlin. "Very well, then. What else? You have told to me what you came for, I presume." He snorts; it might be a chuckle, or a sound of exasperation. It might be a little bit of both. "Or have you grown bored in your lonely quarters, and seek for company, and all others are unavailable?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
"Quite sufficient, I might think. It may be a truth of the universe that you are as stubborn as Arturia when it comes to certain things," the wizard observes. "And yes, I know some little amount of your birth. But that is all; I have said my piece and it is for others to weigh and judge it, and react. Or not, as they will."

There is a slow nod. "The alternative was an unthinkable request, for I know your devotion to the people of the land. Nor was coming away without such a thing; it would do the people well to know that their leader is quite protected. The very bones of the earth, you said." An eyebrow raises slowly in approval. "You are, of course, more right than you should know, and they make both a terrible protection and a magnificent prison."

He sighed. "Much of their request is predicated on a promise of you remaining Lord of Dún Reáltaí...and not Warlord thereof. The rest, well." Merlin shrugged, sipping at his tea. For a long, long time, while staring at Bedivere. "Had you paid more attention to the chessboard, you might well not be owing as many favors as you do."

Someday Merlin will have to hit him up for Kagenashi's phone number.

"It is indeed. Especially as she spends so much time by your side, though I imagine in the form of a nurse and jailer, rather than a proper lord's lady. That armor will serve more than just you, you know; it might even let us restock our supplies of healing goods. So many poultices and herbs, alas." Smiiiiirk.

"I have spoken that which I came to speak." He nods, then pours another cup of tea. Merlin smiles, raising the tea to his lips. "Of questions, I have not. Might I ask...your childhood among the Dál Riata. Tell me of your mother, Bedivere."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Yes, that was ever your way, to speak your piece, and to leave it to others to heed or to ignore. There is little wrong with that, I suppose, and it certainly leaves your hands clean of the matter if advice taken should fare poorly." Bedivere chuckles, wryly, though it segues into a grimace and a wet-sounding cough. He's doing much better today, but it seems he's not out of the woods quite yet. "Advisor, aye, that is always what you were."

But for whose benefit, he sometimes wondered? Certainly not the king's, for his way was guidance and subtle manipulation. To what purpose, though, Bedivere had never been capable of discerning, even in his keen observation and perceptions. Merlin had been a more masterful chess-player than he, by far; both literally and figuratively. He hid his true motives very well indeed.

That had always bothered the pale-haired knight, on more than one level. How could he accept such service in the name of the king, when he could not be certain it was the king whom Merlin served? What was it that drove the strange old man's whims? What drove him to jockey for a position in the ground floor of the ill-fated Pendragon dynasty, to insert himself into the court of the fledgeling Camelot?

Questions for which Bedivere has never had an answer, and questions he supposes he may never have answers for. Some things are fated to remain mysteries. These are, perhaps, such things.

"I have no intent on conquering land or putting innocents to the sword," Bedivere points out, a little stiffly. "You were there when I was knighted, and appointed Marshal of the Realm, and through my long service to my king. How in the Good Lord's name would I ever aspire to become a warlord? I am no conqueror. I do not even enjoy battle. Truly, I would not have become a knight, if..." If not for Arturia. Had he not seen her that day in the sun, in the market square during her coronation parade, he would never have left Dál Riata lands. He would have become a filidh, and sung the histories of his people, and lent his wisdom to his land's kings.

Yet, by the same token... he never would have met Arturia, either. The strife, the bloodshed, the torment and the sleepless nights... no matter how much it had cost him in spirit, he would have considered it worth it, and done it again if it meant arriving in this place of rest and respite; of being by her side. He would not so much as hesitate.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
He sighs at Merlin's prodding, a shallow breath through his nose. "It is true. I have not been as attentive of late as I should have. I have been remiss in my duties. Happenstance, I suppose, and carelessness on my part. Yet sometimes we are forced to settle on the unsavoury choice, whether we happen to like it or no." The pale-haired knight closes his eyes. "Sometimes especially because we might dislike such choices. They are, at times, the lesser of the evils before us."

He blinks, slowly, when Merlin mentions the king's various roles. For a moment he almost seems like he might sputter something indignant, but instead remains silent. There's no mistaking the way his jaw works; a display of his irritation that for him may as well be blatant.

Bother.

"She is free to come and go as she please, and never have I compelled her to remain," he snaps at length, though his voice is quiet. "And she is not my lady. She is my king, and I am her loyal servant. I would not be so presumptuous, and you would do well to mind your tongue when speaking of our king... and I have not been so grievously wounded." Bedivere is a terrible liar. "I would not presume to take away such valuable supplies from the people in their time of need."

Some of the fire seems to fade from him, though; he doesn't have the strength for a proper argument. He sags back, eyeing the wizard from the corner of his eyes. He seems to consider that strange question as though to determine just what Merlin means by it. What's he playing at? Why would he want to know about Bedivere's family? It was no secret in court that he had come of commoner blood. Why would that possibly interest Merlin?

"My mother?" His response is more than a little wary. "Her name was Aoife. She was a weaver, though she had some skill in the cutting and polishing of gems as well." He reaches up with his left hand, indicating the stud in his ear, but it drops after a moment, too weak to stay up. "This was her work. Why do you ask?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
Sometimes the son of a bitch just had no motives beyond 'why the hell not.' Of course, this wasn't one of those times, but even Bedivere would agree that there were occasions that required you to make your own entertainment. And thus, Merlin's ineffable legend was born.

"Be calm, milord. I merely jest, that the Lady is often by your side attending your healing. You may not compel her to stay, but something deeper and more powerful than one person does - and you are both by far the better for it." Bedi and Saber sittin' in a tree and all that. "As far as your plans for the future, I am aware of it. I know you better than you might think, though not as well as I might like. You were second only to Arturia herself in not seeking battle when it was offered, though when it was forced you were a great strategist and swordsman as well."

He shrugged. "The Tylywth Teg know the latter. They have seen your more recent battles, and they have seen the power at your command. Not only yourself, but Gawain and Arturia. The Union allies you bring. All of that is beyond them and their experience, even in a land such as this, and it is that sudden imbalance they fear. As I said, there are storm clouds on the horizon. The Tylywth Teg do not yet understand you, Bedivere. I have given you a chance to correct that."

And in Merlin's mind, he strongly suspects that they can come to an understanding. The knight might well be frustrating at times when it came to humility and his dedication to his beliefs - much to the sadness of many of the available ladies of Camelot, Merlin sighed - but they would more than pay off in this. It would not be difficult to convince the Tylywth Teg that Bedivere was no conquering emperor.

The blood-colored gem catches his eye, but it settles instead on the markings on his hand. "It is fine work indeed, but that was not what I wondered. Mm..." The idea of inquiring further, and describing any number of Dál Riata girls he had known is tempting, but with the knight in his current condition it might well end in Bedivere's head physically exploding. And even Merlin isn't sure how he'd explain that to Saber. Alas, he'll have to save that for later.

"Frankly, Bedivere, you are at the core of a mystery. Imagine if one picked up a book about lords and ladies, dragons and demons, spirits and battles and conspiracies. The deeper you went and the more powerful the charcters became, suddenly...at the center of this whirlpool of power, there was one for whom everything was connected to and they were no less mundane than the reader. It is as if a great weight were to balance upon a fulcrum...that does not exist."

Merlin turns his eyes to Bedivere. "Gawain I already know is bound to another, but pray tell...where did you learn such fine magecraft? A Familiar of that caliber," he added, absolutely making the pun, "can easily convince others they are mere mortals but not when battle comes. And not to one such as myself and Loros."

Those eyes narrow, now. "But the mystery remains - not just anyone can maintain such a connection. Especially in battle. You never showed the slightest interest in the ways of my kind before, yet...here you are. Are you truly what you claim to be, Bedivere?" Or are you more? For Merlin, the question is extremely important - if he isn't a thaumaturge, or whatever they might be calling themselves these days, then what may be dragging him so low is the simple connection he has. Saber's demand on his body may be taxing it to a point that even a simple cold could render him unable to leave a bed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I am calm. If I were not calm, I would be interrogating you at the point of my sword if I mistrusted your motive enough," Bedivere points out, voice perfectly level as he eyes the wizard. "And I have not had much reason to trust it, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt, for your long service to my king. If you had ill intent, you had every opportunity to work mischief."

His expression softens a little when Merlin describes Arturia's habit of not leaving his side. So. Another who sees right through them, and their utterly hopeless efforts to hide their closeness. He sighs, closing his violet eyes. "I had wondered," he murmurs quietly, giving up his pretense of denial, "how much you had seen in Camelot. I had imagined more than I might have liked. You are right. She spends much time at my side, now, while I heal. She is free to, for she never could before, not even when I lay dying after the battle in which Caliburn was lost. And I would not have asked her to. I would not have been worth the compromise of Camelot then, and I would not be now. But... you are right." He sounds weary, if anything. "Something deeper and more powerful, indeed, and I cannot escape its pull any more than my king..."

Those violet eyes open, suddenly bright as he regards Merlin. "Speak not of it to any living soul," he adds, not quite glaring. "It is no matter of propriety, although I confess I struggle with that as well, but of vulnerability. I would not be the reason for her downfall, not when it is my duty to protect her; to keep her safe."

He is silent for a moment when Merlin explains the matter of the Tylwyth Teg, making only a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat as his eyes fall half-closed again. "Mmmn. They have seen my defeats, then, for many of the battles in which I have fought, here have ended in ruin – for me. Certainly my constant wounds have not escaped their notice. By her word she was once mortal, but Lady Alaia is as well one of them, or may as well be. I do not doubt that she speaks to the Fair Ones, what of them dwell in this place, at any rate." He closes his eyes fully. "I am no threat to them. I wish for nothing more than peaceful coexistence, and I believe it is possible."

Silence again, and for a moment it almost seems as though he might have fallen asleep this time. But after Merlin gives his last statement, he slowly opens his eyes, regarding not the wizard, but the far wall. After a moment his gaze lowers to his left hand, where the intricate knotwork of the command seal betrays him, bold red against his pale skin. His lips thin; for a moment it almost seems as though he might not answer.

"I did not," he states simply; honestly. "You do not know of my origins, for I did not tell them to anyone, and strove to become Welsh when I became a knight-aspirant. Bad enough that it was known I came of Dál Riata; worse still if they discovered my origins. Perhaps I was not wholly born of common blood, though my family did not hold much status. My father was a filidh." A bard, a judge, an advisor, a magician; these are all the same things, in that single word from his lands, and known for being mysterious – and feared, in Albion. "But I dared not reveal that to the people. And I did not learn the craft from him; I left my lands too early. I turned away that training."

He tugs at the stud in his left ear, though the gesture is weak, and his arm soon falls again. "I suppose I must have potential still. But I did not learn it, no. And I did not bear any interest for it, nor do I now, but do only what I must." His eyes turn away, to one of the darkened windows. "I do not have a choice; my hand has been forced. As to that..." He glances to Merlin again, regard just a little stern. "I do not claim to be anything, so how can I represent myself truly or falsely?"

Merlin (639) has posed:
He just grins. "My work has always been for the betterment of the realm." Yes he says that with a straight face. "I merely look towards your own good health. I should not want the Lady Arturia wroth with me for delivering bad news and giving you a relapse. Mm, perhaps it is my own good health I look after instead, in that case." A joke! He's doing his best to keep on good terms.

"Your personal defeats, perhaps, and it is certain that they know your wounds. As well, it would be obvious anyway - it is not as if one seeks armor such as only they can make when one's own will do. But they notice you have an uncanny ability to survive; of all of Camelot's knights you were the greatest strategist. And of all of Camelot's knights, you are still alive. I believe you. I would not be an advisor and negotiator if I did not; as I have said, it is the people of Dún Reáltaí that I labor for."

He winks. "But the Tylywth Teg do not yet know that, and perhaps the price for your armor may not be so great to you as it would seem to them."

And talk turns to more of Bedivere's past. "I have seen more than you might like. Less than you worry." Merlin smiled. "You both were so calmly professional and spent such time together, it was very clear that your affinity was strong. In any world, in any time, you would have been allies and friends at the least. Like seeks like, and you both were a still pool of calm among the turbulences of joy and calamity." Merlin shrugs. "For one so acquainted with women as I, it was simple enough to see it. I might suggest that I am not the only one to notice...but then again, perhaps it is simply the way of the people here."

He glanced around, smirking. "After all, they did their best to set you up together, did they not? I had nothing to do with that, of course; my lips are innocent of such whispers - and at your behest, will remain so. But I remind you that you are no longer in Camelot. And that one such as Arturia deserves far more than the title of lover or concubine." He pauses, considering the kind of company Bedivere keeps. Arturia. Inga. Kagenashi. Now this 'Fate' woman. For a moment, Merlin contemplates the possibility of a true kings' harem, and smiles to himself.

Merlin (639) has posed:
Well, if Bedivere has a soul only for one, that certainly leaves many choices upon the plate of desire.

"Hmm..I see. It's been some time since I was among their folk; a fascinating and deeply musical bunch. And no small number of fine artists, both of physical and magical talents." He can't entirely resist it. "At your age...mm, had circumstances been different, perhaps you would have ended up learning true magic upon your father's knee. Had your father been another," Merlin adds with an evil grin, "he might have insisted upon such things." Now that might just be a nightmare for poor Bedi-kins.

"Perhaps there are yet secrets to learn, but let me tell you this." Merlin snatches up that hand, staring at the command seal. "Speak to your Loros about this. I know you have visited him, and I do not disapprove. You have always been a reliable judge of character, Bedivere, and I will rely upon you as such. But turn that studious eye inward, and do not hide behind your denials and labels - find who you truly are. No mere untrained son of a filidh, with decades of neglect, could perform such a thing as maintaining a familiar on the level of Arturia."

He lowers his eyes, meeting Bedivere's own. "Your illnesses and weaknesses worry me, Bedivere. I do not in any way seek to sever your bond with Saber - but you must be sure that you are able to support it. That is my concern, and I do hope you seek out a way to strengthen yourself that way. Consider it your duty to her, if you will."

His hand finally drops, and Merlin stands. "The hour is late, and it seems the rain has slightly lessened. I believe I find myself well and pleased; my boredom has passed. A pleasure to speak with you, Bedivere. Do enjoy the tea." And unless there is anything from Bedivere, Merlin will let him think about what he's told Merlin and what he's learned. And maybe to work on some kind of a suitable design for his armor, as well. He did come from a line known for its artists.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal's expression remains stony through the wizard's observations, though perhaps it isn't out of any sense of hostility. Rather, he's guarding his own reactions. It's the same mask that had served him so well through the reign of King Arthur, one he relies on when he isn't certain that his own reactions wouldn't betray him, in some form or another.

"Perhaps." Bedivere doesn't seem very reassured, but maybe he just needs time to think it over. The Tylwyth Teg are otherworldly and frightening to some, but they, like so many other things, simply require thought and understanding. And, perhaps, a little patience.

He sags back in his bed, though perhaps on some level he's grateful the old man isn't making some mocking comment or another about how very large a bed it is for merely one person; or that he hasn't commented on the fact that Arturia also uses these very same quarters. No doubt the old man will, sooner or later, if only to see the otherwise calm marshal and king sputter hopelessly... but he's glad that the wizard has opted not to, this time.

That's a battle he would sooner fight at full strength.

"Your very insistence on your innocence makes me question it," Bedivere sighs, sagging back against his pillow. His left arm moves to gather the blanket more securely around himself, shivering a bit. "I am well aware I am no longer in Camelot. Were I still, I would have worked myself entirely to death. And a dagger would have found its way through my ribs sooner or later, of that I have no doubt. I was not so blind as to think my appointment was celebrated; I had more enemies than even I knew. The nobility did not take it kindly that a commoner – worse yet, a foreigner – was appointed marshal before they."

He lets his eyes half-close, studying Merlin thoughtfully for a few long moments. "Aye," he finally says at length, with a strange expression. It's not quite a smile, but it's not quite a troubled expression, either. "She deserves far greater. I intend to give to her what she deserves, as I have ever." It fades, to a more neutral set. "I would do anything for her. This you know well."

Those violet eyes open more suddenly when his hand is seized, but Bedivere doesn't have the strength to yank his hand away from the wizard's grasp. He does glare, though; violet eyes suddenly bright and angry – he has always disliked being touched, save perhaps by only one. Even standing too close to others was often more than he would endure, politely stepping back and away out of others' personal space.

"Perhaps I might have. Perhaps not. And he is not 'my' Loros, to come at my beck and call; he is himself as the Tylwyth Teg, and one whom I do not trust. I take instruction from him only because I have no choice." That is to say, if he wants to continue supporting Saber, Bedivere will do whatever he feels necessary. "The untrained son of a filidh is exactly what I am. I turned my back on that life years ago, Master Merlin."

He looks to Merlin when the old wizard meets his eyes; vibrant blue against the faded, almost grey violet of Bedivere's own. All the fire seems to fade from him again, leaving him exhausted and without strength; though not so much that he can't snatch his hand away once it's released.

"I already have. I am taking regular instruction from Master Loros, if you must know, for I suspect you will find out sooner or later." Bedivere sighs, sagging back. He gives no acknowledgement of Merlin's statement, of being pleased to have spoken with him, other than a soft sound in the back of his throat.

Should Merlin look back before he leaves, he'll find that the knight has fallen asleep this time for true, teacup untouched.