999999/Flowers For the King

Flowers For the King
Date of Scene:	31 July 2014
Location:	Fuyuki City
Synopsis:	Bedivere attempts to leave Arturia a small gift, on the sly, only to be caught red-handed.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Late summer in Fuyuki City can be miserable, especially for those used to a more temperate climate, but it's still too early for the heat to set in. It's absurdly early by the standard of some people; but others are accustomed to rising well before the sun as a matter of course.

Despite his work for the Union and his seemingly tireless efforts to help the people less fortunate than himself, all of the efforts of the Marshal of Camelot have added up. Even now, nearly a month after his arrival in the multiverse, the knight is still healing from the years he had spent wandering lost in the wood; grieving. This past month has been spent learning how to let go of that grief – and building himself back up to a more healthy state, banishing the hollows under his eyes, or the way his ribs stick out a bit.

His progress has been helped immensely by Arturia's presence. Aside from the necessary catharsis of letting go of his grief, she's taken it upon herself to see to his well-being where he would not – a role it seems they're destined to fill, each for the other. Where one is blind to one's own well-being, the other sees with eyes more keen than is perhaps convenient at times. Still, he wouldn't trade her hawk-like regard for the world, and has reluctantly submitted himself to her advice and occasional badgering to take care of himself.

To that end, he actually slept later this morning than he might have otherwise let himself. The sun has actually risen before him, which is in and of itself unusual, but Arturia has had to nag him to rest properly. Apparently it's simply caught up to him against his will, as it has for the past several days – to rest without feeling the compulsive need to leap out of bed and immediately begin the tireless business of running a kingdom is something of a guilty relief for Bedivere.

Even he can only sleep so late, though. He had eventually wrested himself out of his bed, into something resembling modern clothing – a simple blue-grey shirt and dark slacks – and, on a whim, had quietly left the estate with a note (which neither resident magus would have understood, being written in ancient Welsh) that he had business to tend to and would be back soon. Arturia should have been practising in the yard, though, perhaps having taken pity on her marshal and letting him sleep, instead of rousing him for an early morning sparring match. At times she was known to sleep late, but he wouldn't suspect that of her...

He had found his way to the nearest market, driven by some half-formed urge, of something that had been spoken casually in the company of Faruja Senra, half-remembered when he had (somewhat shamefully) drifted in and out of sleep. That was, he supposes, part of the reason she's been so adamant that he rest. He never would have let himself sleep before strangers in Camelot. Even at that, he had always slept with his sword within easy reach.

Hmmm. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

In any case, it had taken a few instances of stopping to ask directions, but he had found his way to the particular stall he had spotted, and with a smile, and some clumsy counting out of the strange currency they used here that he still couldn't read, he had dispensed payment and returned home with his prize carefully clutched in his arms.

Getting back is interesting, and the house is silent. Either Rin hasn't awoken yet, or she's tending business elsewhere. The same must be true of Shirou, the magus that is occasionally seen in the proprietress' company; and Sakura had left before Bedivere had even dragged himself out of his bed.

That might explain why Bedivere has paused at the front door, leaning so close to it and straining to hear any hint of sound inside. He can't be too certain of the routines of people here; in some regards, trust was never quite his forte. Once reasonably assured that there's nobody moving about in there, he eases the front door open on oiled hinges – thank goodness for that – and slips into the hallway.

A quick look left and then right confirm that he has the corridor to himself, easing down the hall on light feet; still carefully holding his prize and attempting valiantly not to sneeze.

He slows as he passes his own quarters, the door closed over but not latched, squinting through it to regard parts of his armour piled in a corner. The rest is in the workshop, and with Arturia's help he's been patiently trying to put it back into something approaching order.

But that's not his goal.

He pauses again to listen, glancing back down the hall, toward the back yard, listening.

Silent. That means nobody in the house.

Good.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, Bedivere toes the door open with his foot, clutching a modest vase full of flowers – beautiful, vibrant flowers he had just purchased, whose aroma is so nostalgic that it almost makes him think unbidden of the fields beyond Camelot's walls.

There's a mix of pretty blooms in there that both of them would find familiar – most prominently, lily of the valley, a few irises for colour, and other things native to Camelot's fields and clearings.

He doesn't think to check if she's still sleeping. He simply pads over toward the table in the centre of the room, quietly – oh so quietly – setting the vase down and carefully arranging the blooms.

Taking half a step back to admire his work, he smiles that shy little smile of his, suggesting he's quite proud of himself for this little gift—

—and then Bedivere sneezes.

No sooner is it done than both his hands clap over his mouth, but it's too late. He whirls and stares, mortified, at the door. Surely she's going to come in and catch him any minute. But so focused on the door is he that he might be looking in the wrong direction entirely...

Saber (346) has posed:
Duties in the Union waited for no man or woman, it would seem. Following Bedivere's recovery, Arturia Pendragon – the Servant Saber – had busied herself with catching up on work that had been delayed by her insistence on remaining by his side. She found herself without much in the way of free time at all between catch-up work, maintenance of her mechanical 'steed', and tending to her duties at home – making certain her Master was well enough and seeing to her knight's recovery and continued training. But truthfully, the last of these hardly felt like duty, at least when it came to training.

Pells had generally been fairly useless for a Heroic Spirit who didn't always measure her own strength, and nothing she managed to make ever survived her training. But in her earliest memories of squire training under the watchful eye of her adopted father, Sir Ector, crafting and using such things stood out. Even those who had become knights continued to practice with such things, and the training grounds were never without them. It may have been that she had been indulging in her nostalgia when she had first tried to recreate one; she had remembered her training well enough, but sadly, such things were intended to withstand only human strength. But now, her old training made her somewhat useful. A pell was a much better training dummy than a boulder.

And then there was the mental side of the recovery, of wounds much older than the physical. Even those as strong as the king and the knight could not endure forever, and there came a point when, like any physical injury, one simply collapsed from exhaustion. The marshal had been dangerously close to that point by the time she had miraculously found him, and she hadn't wanted to think too closely on what might have happened had their world not Unified. And there was little point now; he was here, thank the Lord, and whatever horrible fate might have awaited had been averted. Concentrating on the here and now had been a comfort...at least when she didn't have to badger the tall knight about getting the proper amount of rest.

Yet on that front, Arturia was being a little hypocritical. Though Sakura's particular magic circuits had kept the Servant well-supplied with the magical energy necessary even simply to exist, that connection faltered when Master and Servant were in two separate realities. Saber had fallen back to consuming enough food to make up the difference, but the separation still left her exhausted. Lately, she had been able to rise early enough in the morning to train her faithful marshal, but today, her exhaustion had finally caught up with her; not to mention that magical energy was less than optimal. Even as she tried to get out of bed, her body simply refused.

It was just as well; she'd intended to make sure Bedivere got a proper night's sleep this time and resume training when there weren't dark lines under his eyes. On the other hand, she had wanted to get up early enough to make a decent breakfast, perhaps something with the apples she had only recently discovered he liked so much...that was so cute...and once again, she had drifted back to sleep.

Nevertheless, Arturia had always been a light sleeper out of necessity. Whether it had been on campaigns or within the citadel when some emergency or other had demanded that she rouse from her sleep, the king had needed to be able to wake and dress quickly, taking care to prepare her façade before she presented herself. Even a soft sound in her immediate vicinity was enough to rouse her from her slumber.

It went without saying that a sneeze would more than qualify.

The problem was that there was not supposed to be anyone else in her room. Even in her mostly-asleep mind, she realised that there was some manner of intruder; it wasn't her Master. Her reflexes sprang into action from years of training – not to mention more than a few pranks of her brother or her tutor – and reacted rather than stopping to properly awaken. Even groggy and blinded by sleep, she somehow managed to snatch the closest object to her and hurl it at the source of the sound.

Fortunately for her poor victim, that object happened to be her pillow, making what would have otherwise been a satisfying THWAP! as the impromptu missile connected. It was fairly clear from her posture – an obvious combat pose on one knee with her other leg outstretched, her left arm likewise outstretched as she had flung her 'weapon' – that she had been caught off-guard and was only gradually waking up. Her eyes were finally coming into focus as she could finally make out the shape of the intruder.

"Be..."

Surely she was still asleep, because otherwise this was probably going to be the single most embarrassing moment of her life. And in light yellow pajamas with pink ribbon trim, her hair horribly mussed, no less.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In spite of spending only a month in this place, Bedivere had somehow gone through several pells of his own. No doubt that was also the fault of such single-minded training. Ever since Arturia had resolved to train her loyal knight and prepare him for the forces of the multiverse, he had thrown himself into it with the same kind of single-minded determination that he had forced himself to endure his training as knight-aspirant. Perhaps she has seen, over the past week, the determination and fire that has come to his eyes just like so many years ago.

Even he has his limits, though. Over the past week, the knight had pushed himself too hard. He was still recovering from his battle with Magatha Songsteel, his bruises from morning sparring matches, and – in much longer terms – from his ordeals in the woods of Camlann. Although that shadow of sorrow is slow to leave him, he's still begun the long road of conditioning himself again into the kind of fighting fit state he would have maintained in Camelot.

His reflexes are understandably not what they once were; diminished by years of neglecting himself and only recently beginning to return to what they once were. He's focused on the door when he hears a rustling sound behind him—

WHUMPF.

The pillow smacks him squarely across the back of the head, prompting him to squawk and reach up to the offending missile, which he fumbles and drops; and the resultant stagger from him causes the vase to wobble dangerously – he makes a grab for it, catching it before it has a chance to fall over. He isn't even thinking as he settles it back in place, spinning on his heel to see what had so cruelly accosted him...

Oh.

Oh, dear.

His jaw falls open inelegantly, and for a brief moment he stares at the king – dressed in those yellow pajamas with the pink ribbon trim, hair let down and still mussed from sleep – and then abruptly spins on his heel, his posture so knotted and tight it's a wonder he doesn't cause every major muscle group in his body to lock up in his sudden panic.

"M-my lord! I—I—" He can't even get a sentence out, and even from behind, he's resigned to the fact that she can probably see how very red his ears are. And probably his neck, too. "I am so sorry—I only—I—just—oh, Lord God f-forgive me, I—I am leaving now—"

At least, that's what he says, but he can't seem to move from that spot, eyes screwed shut and head bowing to hold his face in his hands. Ah, this is going so very wrong. All he'd intended to do was leave this vase where she would find it and appreciate it; a little floral arrangement of home.

Instead, it had, as expected, derailed completely into the realm of "painfully mortifying."

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been a most welcome sight, the fire and determination from so long ago. Once he had been knighted, Bedivere hid much of himself behind the familiar mask, and only on very rare occasions did anything slip past it. Those masks were too useful, too much a part of them now to be completely discarded, but there was no longer a need to completely hide behind them, either. And more importantly, that meant that the life was returning to him.

Still, Arturia had to remain vigilant, especially after the battle at the Caverns of Prophecy. The violet-eyed knight had learned just how dangerous the Elites of the Confederacy could be, and he hadn't remembered the scare he'd given his king over that incident. While it was highly unlikely he was going to do anything like that anytime soon, pushing himself too hard was still a concern.

But sometimes, she just seemed to make the problem worse. Such as now.

Even at his peak, it simply wasn't possible for a normal human being to have dodged such an attack. And it was only after she could make out her unfortunate target that the problem became clear, after she began to make out the stumbling and hopeless attempt to grab onto her projectile, the catching of something that was probably breakable. And it was a problem in more ways than one.

For a long moment after his name died on her lips, the currently rather undignified King of Knights simply stared, her mouth shaping into an O of astonishment, not completely certain she was not still asleep. That couldn't be right...but no, it was indeed her loyal marshal, looking mortified before turning his back so quickly he surely must have broken something.

At least, she might have thought that if her mind hadn't suddenly been shocked into proper gear at that point, when a number of things happened at once. It was such a rapid succession of events that human perception might not have been able to follow them even if the pale-haired knight had not been turned around and immersed in his own personal horror.

It might have been that Arturia's complexion took an abrupt turn for the brilliant scarlet upon realising any number of things ranging from having attacked her own marshal to the fact that she was in a very girly set of pajamas and otherwise not presentable. Or perhaps it was the sudden undignified squeak of combined horror and embarrassment of her own. But all these things surely precluded the sudden loss of her balance as she fell – quite ungracefully – off the bed and – with some small mercy – on the opposite side of it. While later she would be thankful bedivere couldn't see such a thing, the distinct accompanying THUD as she hit the floor was indication enough of what had happened.

Once more, Arturia's poor, abused dignity had abandoned her.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If any of the Knights of the Round were prone to overworking themselves, it was the quiet marshal. He had always striven to follow the knightly virtues, no matter the cost to himself, and he had always held himself to the highest of standards. That had been made painfully clear when he had explained how he had agonised for so many years, torn between duty and love. Duty had won in the end, in spite of what it cost him in suffering. Perhaps as penance for what he considers so improper, he has always pushed himself all that much harder than anyone else.

Neither has the multiverse dimmed that sense, driving him to overcome that which no mortal man should be able to – that these threats lie so far above human standards seems to make no difference to him. It was, as they have both observed, never a matter of brute strength.

No doubt Arturia's careful vigil has kept him from working himself too hard. The pale-haired knight is still recovering after his many ordeals – injury at Magatha's hands, maltreatment from his wandering in Camlann's weald... even now, there are still shadows beneath his eyes and a gauntness to his features, and while they're slowly fading, it will be some time before he is back in the healthy state she best remembers in him; the same good health and resilience he had shown at the height of her reign in Camelot. No doubt she's nearly had to order him to take it easy. He seems not to know how – for it isn't just an issue of learning the things he needs to learn, but also an issue of forgiving himself.

That seems to be the hardest lesson of all.

Routine, thankfully, seems to be a balm to him. They always train in the morning, sometimes before the rise of the sun. They train for a few days, and then she encourages him to rest for a day or two; on those rest-days, he tackles the learning necessary to help with Psyber's work, in learning modern law and language. Routine has always been a comfort to him. After all, what comfort did he have in Camelot but routine, his constant companion? He had no friends; he had no confidants. He had only his work to throw himself to.

It's the sound of a collision that draws him from his horrified silence. He whirls on pure instinct, spinning neatly on his heel and blinking for a moment when he doesn't see her. The expression might be almost comical if she could actually see him – somewhere between bewildered and puzzled.

"M-my lady?" His voice is cautious. "Are you hale...?"

He's a smart man; he can probably guess what happened. Although she's beyond his line of sight, the floors are carpeted, and things make a distinct muted sound when they fall on them. That extra padding gives some relief. It's not quite the same as taking a spill on castle flagstones. She couldn't have hurt herself too badly, so long as she didn't fall on her head or neck. Which, hopefully, she didn't do.

Still, his default state is to worry over her. That part of him is as unchangeable as her regal air; each aspects the other simply can't shut off. He takes half a step closer, cautiously standing to one side to peer around the frame of the bed.

"...My lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had silently suspected the the marshal had deliberately buried himself in his work for some reason or another; to avoid fuelling whatever rumours persisted about him, to prove his worthiness of that position, or something else. Only recently did she learn precisely what the underlying reason beneath all these other potential ones had been. Bedivere had no reason to feel guilt as far as the king was concerned, but even her reassurance wouldn't have mattered. Moreover, like his king, he was something of a workaholic, possibly for the same reason: simply being useful, helping others in some way, no matter how insignificant.

So too, it was simply his way to try to exceed what should have been possible. Overcoming being both a commoner and outsider, rising to become the left hand of the king herself...even those who had been far less at a disadvantage lacked the the sheer willpower of the son of a filidh. And now, he was a mortal thrown headfirst into a universe where demigods, legendary heroes, vampires, fae, wizards, shapeshifters, youkai, and all manner of otherwise incredible beings were commonplace. Though he could not match them in terms of power, the marshal nevertheless agreed to sharpen his already impressive skill. It was what he had always done...indeed, Arturia herself would have, had their situations been reversed.

What had proved far more difficult was persuading Bedivere to rest, to give both wounds of body and wounds of mind the necessary time to heal. Even what little time had been spent for that he seemed to feel guilty over, and perhaps now it may have been a feeling that he needed to make up for the time lost. Once, he had proven to be so stubborn on the issue that Arturia had been left with no choice but to issue an order – the only time she ever needed to outright order him – even as an expression of utter defeat crossed his face as he obeyed.

Of course, the same could be said the the King of Knights. Though it required a great deal more to tire her, even the body of magical energies she now possessed needed rest eventually, particularly when her reserves of that energy were low. She really should have gone a little easier on herself, if for no other reason than to establish routine. As it was, her energy levels were still lower than they should have been; she would probably require more rest – not to mention the terrifying amount of food Servants of her level of power required if Sakura was not around – and some pestering to do so. Sakura had always seemed to be able to persuade the stubborn little knight with a saddened, worried expression which never failed to trigger Arturia's guilty complex.

Perhaps under any other circumstances, she could have easily kept her balance. But that had been the kind of shock that she couldn't have possibly foreseen, and her stumble lacked all of the elegance of her proper station. She groaned softly as she sprawled on the floor, the injury much more to her pride than anything physical.

"I am hale," she murmured, rubbing the back of her head gingerly. The remarkably ungraceful landing still hurt a little. Still, as the fog cleared from her mind, she wondered, what he was doing there? Looking back upside down at the small clock beside her bed, she began to make out the time. Drat. She should have been up hours ago.

"Forgive me, I did not intend to oversleep..." she apologised after a soft groan, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Strangely, the idea that she must seem lazy was even more of an embarrassment than the unrefined fall.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It was rare indeed for Bedivere to show even the faintest insubordination. He was, and is, the very definition of loyalty – never once offering complaint during his thankless and often dangerous service, and never once questioning the king's orders. Yet when it comes to his own safety, he seems to have a considerable blind spot, just as she does. Only once had she needed to order him directly.

Even then, he takes his rest reluctantly. It seems no relief at all for him, and even when ordered, he sleeps little. Certainly it isn't because he intends to be contrary. He would never behave so, for it would be shameful, and also inelegant; unfitting for a knight of his station. No, his reasons for avoiding rest are more than that.

Perhaps on the quietest nights, when the rest of the city sleeps, she might hear him thrashing in his sleep; might hear, through the wall, the soft sound of her marshal as he awakens weeping. He struggles to be free of that grief, and while he may be making an effort in the waking world, his nightmares still haunt him. When he closes his eyes, he is lost on the battlefield at Camlann once more.

So many had fallen, there. So many good knights who had been as brothers to him, and even his own blood-brother, Lucan. He had found his brother grievously wounded but able to walk, but when he had helped the marshal move Arturia, his heart had failed him; stricken, he had been unable to catch his brother, for he had still held Arturia, and she had still lived at the time.

No; rest was no balm for Sir Bedivere. He avoided it like the plague, even if it meant working himself to the very bone. Only a direct order or suggestion from Arturia seemed enough to convince him otherwise. It might explain why the shadows under his eyes seem so slow to leave him – or the soft sound she might hear through the wall, sometimes, late at night; of a person weeping, and trying so very hard to stifle it and remain quiet.

The marshal finds himself sidling half a step closer, if only because of his concern. Truth be told, he's never seen her like this before – when she awoke in the morning, in Camelot, she was fully functional and, like him, she was nothing short of perfect when she left her chambers; ready to hit the ground running. To see her still foggy-headed from sleep, to see her in sleepwear with her hair still mussed, it seems... endearing comes to mind, but he hastily bats the thought away, improper as it is.

"I... ah..." Bedivere reaches up, rubbing at the back of his neck in uneasy gesture. "Well, that is not why I was here. In truth, I... I thought you were training in the yard. I suppose it seemed too quiet..."

Well, he might as well spill his guts, now. He's been caught red-handed, and he knows it. Turning, he takes the vase in hand, carefully, before turning to show it to Arturia, holding it down so she might be able to see all of the variety in there.

Not one of the flowers is something native to a region outside of their native Camelot – even the companion flowers and the greenery are things reminiscent of home. Most prominent are the lilies-of-the-valley, which rise and fall in elegant sprays of delicate white blooms.

His smile, over the vase, is exceedingly awkward and shy; the pale white of the flowers only serves to underscore the flush he feels creeping up his face.

"I... thought..." He shifts his weight awkwardly. Why is it suddenly so hard to speak? He had always been eloquent in the past. "I... well..."

The vase is replaced on the table, mostly so he doesn't drop it in his embarrassment; set down with undue care.

"That is to say... I... thought that you might appreciate these. I left early this morning to bring them back, and I thought to leave them while you were elsewhere... I had... not wanted to bother you with such a trivial thing..." Poor Bedivere's voice seems to diminish a bit, a little smaller. "I, ah, did not know you were still sleeping... I, ah, I would have left them... elsewhere; I—I would not have intruded so thoughtlessly..."

"Ah..." He bows his head, somewhat grateful that his hair spills over his shoulder to hide his face. He hasn't braided it today, simply tying it up in a simple queue with one of those brass cuffs. Since he usually takes such great pains to arrange it just so, he must still be too sore to reach up... but right now, it makes for an excellent veil. Although nearly a foot taller than Arturia, he seems to wilt before her very eyes. "I—I am sorry, my lady, such rudeness is inexcusable... please... please forgive me..."

Saber (346) has posed:
It was impossible for Arturia not to have noticed. Sometimes he continued to appear weary even after a night of sleep...at times even haggard, the dark lines taking longer to fade than they should have. Work seemed almost like a relief, as if he could escape whatever had haunted him in his dreams. And the, there were those otherwise silent nights, when the sound of muted weeping was so silent that only her preternatural senses could hear it though the wall, when she lay her head against it, pressing her open palm to the wall. It could be a curse to the other, just how much they could see when it came to the other.

It was easy to figure out what had haunted his sleep so. A nightmarish scene of death and destruction on a hill which would be forever cursed; her kingdom was destroyed, her people dead or scattered, only one of the Knights of the Round Table surviving the battle. Even after five years, she could see it as clearly as day as she had leaned on Excalibur in exhaustion, her fatal wound from Mordred wracking her mind in pain. Yet, she had never seemed to notice her own condition, her spirit so broken with grief. All she could do there on that hill was die, murmuring her tearful apology over and over again until the dark finally consumed her.

I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry...

Sometimes she still dreamt that nightmare of the people and the kingdom she couldn't save, the knights she had ultimately failed to protect. Britain was eventually reborn in those ashes, but so many suffered in the birth pangs, and it had taken centuries to reach the point they had in the current era. What so many now took for granted, she had wanted for her own kingdom. And of her knights...

The Round Table itself was so celebrated in legend that not a single name of its knights had been lost to history. That they would be remembered by the Throne of Heroes was foregone, but one of Arturia's deepest fears had been finding them once more...on the opposite side of the battlefield of the Holy Grail War. It had been horror enough to discover that Berserker had been none other than her friend, Sir Lancelot, and even finding him again in the multiverse as a fellow Saber from a different War had carried with it all the sorrow that went along with their artificial existence. They had really only existed for one thing, and it was only through chance that Saber was largely freed from it.

She knew that pain Bedivere felt, all too well. What grieved her most, however, was that she had no idea how to help it. Perhaps he, as she had, would have to work though it, find some measure of peace and rest. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

Her pain at the moment, however, was to her wounded pride. And if she knew what his thought had been at the sight of the sleep-addled knight, she would have been more horrified still. Instead, she stared at the vase for a moment before her face flushed considerably. And it didn't help that he was wearing that smile, the one he seemed completely oblivious to the effects of, the one which disarmed her so utterly and made it nearly impossible to think straight, much less form a coherent sentence.

As if to hamstring her even further, she noted what flowers they were: lily-of-the-valley, yellow iris, bluebells, violets, and even trailing woodbine. Each native to the countryside of Britain. It didn't require much in the way of observation to note why her face had turned as red as the berries the woodbine bore in autumn. "I-I...ah..." Come to think of it, coherent words weren't very likely, either. After all, as far as she could remember, no one had ever given her flowers before.

Almost as if to distract herself, she noticed that his hair wasn't gathered into the customary four braids, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. Once more, the guilt which had seemed to be her constant companion surfaced. She had something of an idea of what she could do, but first, she had to rectify something. "I-it is all right, but...I should...that is...just until I..."

When in doubt, nonverbal was the best way. I really should get dressed first.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps the only saving grace for Bedivere was that he didn't know that his king had heard his nightmares, though there was of course no avoiding that she noticed how deep-cut those lines of weariness and pain were in his face some mornings. Sleep is no respite for the marshal. The best he's rested since Camlann, nearly five years ago, was when he had been drugged by the Union's medics. Since then, he's suffered most nights – though only she can hear that suffering.

Time would heal those wounds, but he had borne them for many years. It would take time indeed to work his way through them. Having things to set that agile mind to is a great help, though, even if he does have a tendency to try and push rest aside in favour of work. In time, maybe he'll be able to sleep without those terrible nightmares.

For now, his nightmare is having stumbled in on Arturia in such an unforgivable way. To say that his face is red is an understatement; his mouth is twisted into a thin line of horrified self-reproach while she tries to gather her wits.

"R-right."

Bedivere just sort of slips sideways out the door, closing it with a click. It's amazing that he manages it with a minimum of sputtering; but she might hear a thump as he leans against the door, sliding to sit down against it with a heavy sigh.

There comes a much softer sound; that of his head falling forward into his hands in despair.

Oh, Lord God preserve him, what has he done?

Wrapping his arms around his knees, he turns his head sideways, loathe to actually knock. He knows she can hear him through the door, though.

"I—t-truly, my lady, I had not intended..."

Ah, this is hopeless.

"I had only..."

Bedivere sighs and drops his head onto the arms crossed over his knees.

Saber (346) has posed:
A part of Arturia was tempted to ask someone if there was something she could do; aside from nightmares reopening wounds that were in the process of healing, he needed a decent night's rest. There were many in the Union with a story similar to theirs in some ways...she was loathe to bother Psyber about such things, but she wasn't sure there was anyone else in a position to help, not the way the half-angel might be able to. She didn't want him collapsing somewhere and hurting himself, even if it was to avoid those memories in nightmares.

But perhaps there were things she could do. And in this moment in time, that 'thing' was getting dressed. She heard the subtle thump-sigh after his temporary banishment, guilt gnawing at her as she fumbled around in the wardrobe for something simple that she could dress herself in quickly. Settling on a blue shirt with 3-quarter sleeves and black boot-cut jeans, Arturia quickly dragged a brush through her flaxen hair quickly but didn't take the time to braid it and wind it up into her characteristic bun just yet.

Instead, she dragged a chair out from the corner by her bed quietly, though in spite of the muffling carpet the observant marshal would doubtless hear something being moved around. The Servant couldn't help but feel self-conscious, particularly in what she had planned to do. He would certainly protest, no doubt, but she was determined to be of some use.

But even then, she hesitated, even pacing a little; it was hardly proper by their standards. Perhaps the ladies of the court had done such a thing, but Arturia had been the king; it was hardly becoming. But she was also a knight, and it was the duty of a knight to help others, even other knights. He was still recovering, after all, and this could be merely a courtesy. Yes, she decided, it was a courtesy.

Summoning up her courage, she rested her hands on the back of the chair. After a moment to take a steadying breath, she called softly. "Come in."

And now, she steeled herself for the flurry of protestation which was most likely about to begin.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even if asked, it's likely that the knight would protest. He would never want to burden her so; even if she is more to him than simply his king, to be humble is simply his way. His problems are his own. Even if they've grown closer to one another than they ever would have been in Camelot, and even if he has allowed her to see some of what lies beneath the mask, those old habits are difficult to break.

Against the door, the marshal tilts his head. He can hear something being dragged across the floor, and though the curiosity is almost overwhelming, he would dare not ask what she's up to... even if he can't picture in his mind whatever it is she's doing in there. What is she doing in there?vQuietly, the door opens when Bedivere finds himself invited in once more. His head appears around the door, regarding the room warily, as though it might well bite him. Or maybe he's expecting something else to be flung at his head. Still, he was invited, and so it would be rude of him to refuse that invitation.

He blinks a bit at the chair, then his gaze flicks up to Arturia. He blinks again; his regard is distinctly puzzled. It might even be comical. Apparently he has no idea what she has in mind, standing there with her hands on the back of the chair. Does she want him to sit down? Why would she stand behind him?

"Ah?" His puzzlement is clear in his hesitant tone of voice, and he eyes her... not quite suspiciously, but perhaps a little more warily than he might otherwise. "How may I be of service?"

Yep, still confused.

He can't help but watch her, though. It is, perhaps, the first time he's really had the opportunity to see her with her hair down. The last time he'd seen her like that, he'd been drugged half out of his mind. He hadn't remembered much of the conversation at all. This look... suits her, he has to admit. Not in a regal or kingly way. It could, if she wanted it to, for she can no more turn off that kingly aura than he could switch off his loyalty. Yet somehow it seems strangely fitting.

"I had not seen you like that before," he says, softly. Perhaps not the protest she was expecting, for he's wearing that crooked half-smile again. "That is to say, with your hair..." He gestures, faintly, indicating that she hasn't braided it in the usual manner. That faint smile broadens a little. "It... suits you, if I may be so bold. You look..."

Half a dozen adjective flit through his mind. None of them really seem to fit the bill, or perhaps he's a little too shy to say the more accurate ones that come to mind. He just smiles that shy half-smile, letting the sentence hang awkwardly.

In the interim, maybe she can explain to him what it is she wants, because he clearly has no idea.

Saber (346) has posed:
Fortunately for the Marshal of Camelot, the King of Knights was fully awake by this time and hence there would be no fluffy projectiles trained on him. Her incoming attack was entirely different this time.

The expression she wore was somewhat shy, hesitant, and there was a slight flush to her complexion. But even then, she still concealed her intention as best she could from a man who could read her like an open book. It was indeed a double-edged sword; the very thing which had made them into such a devastating force on the battlefield now worked against them in the ways they tried to spare one another from pain or even embarrassment. It rarely seemed to work, but this time she hoped it might last long enough to keep him from bolting like a frightened rabbit.

It was a very good thing indeed that he was confused; that would work to her advantage. She managed to keep her expression reasonably neutral, even if that damned shyness persisted. She had already decided there was nothing untoward about this, so why was she so suddenly bashful? The fact that she was made her wonder if perhaps that was her guilty conscience eating at her, but no, this was something that needed to be done.

What she had not been expecting, however, was the compliment.

"A-ah?" was all she could manage before the blushing overtook her, and the flailing began. "I-I simply did not have enough time to b-braid it as of yet..."

And there was that smile again. Arturia nearly fell over with embarrassment. Bedivere did not need so much as finish the sentence; her hand had already risen to a lock of pale gold, fidgeting with it as she stared down at the back of the chair. He had said it suited her. Perhaps that was what had finally turned the blush from a light pink to a bright red.

Abruptly, almost as if she was deliberately avoiding that, Arturia attempted to focus once more on her task. "Would...could you please...would you have a seat, please?"she requested in a small voice, fidgeting slightly.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere himself is fully awake, though the shadows under his eyes seem slow to fade this morning. No doubt she knows the reason why. It's difficult for her not to hear him struggling against his nightmares in the dead of night; terrible nightmares that afford him no rest. He seems reasonably alert, though, if somewhat cautious.

He is, from his own perspective, invading on forbidden territory here. These are Arturia's quarters; he shouldn't even be here, no matter what the reason. That they can read each other so well is both a blessing and a curse – in battle, they function as a single cohesive unit. But off the field of battle, it works against them, such as in situations like these. Each can read the newfound awkwardness of the other; see straight past the tatters of masks they try to wear.

When she blushes at his compliment, stammering awkwardly, he smiles that lopsided smile again. "It does," he says simply. He doesn't say anything else, not trusting himself to voice it with any measure of eloquence. Instead, he maintains that smile, trusting it to speak for him. It does suit you, and even if it was only out of neglect, you would still, and will always be, lovely to me.

In some ways, he's much braver when he doesn't have to speak.

Still, she makes a request of him, and he would be loathe to ignore it. Even if he wants to sidle right back out the door, she's asked him to stay, focusing on a task as though it were a holy mission to be completed.

"Alright." The knight seems a bit puzzled, tucking his chin a bit as though trying to figure out just what it is she intends, but he does relent, easing into the chair with a slight grunt – his bruises are still there and complaining loudly.

Just what is she planning...?

Saber (346) has posed:
The violet-eyed knight would surely have noticed that his king had not been nagging him as of late on his rest patterns, though he would likewise notice the pained expression she tried in vain to hide from him. Just as he had tried to conceal his troubled sleep from her, she attempted to hide the fact that she knew and was troubled in turn. For all the good that such attempts would do, and the both of them knew it.

Which was why Arturia had to resort to smaller, hopefully comforting gestures. There always seemed to be fresh apples on the table, and good tea with honey was always within easy reach, and the music playing from the office always seemed to be Chopin or Debussy or folk of the Irish variety. What she was planning , on the other hand...it probably wasn't going to be quite so comforting. On the other hand, he was having difficulty and she was going to help, come hell or high water.

Of course, it didn't help that he most likely felt as if he were intruding; her quarters in Camelot had been almost hallowed ground to protect her secret. But though she no longer had to hide the fact that she was a woman, certain habits were hard to break. But she had invited him, and that meant he was an honoured guest.

That she managed to control the flailing that would have otherwise resulted from the lopsided smile and affirmation was impressive, even as she ducked her head in embarrassment. Unfortunately, that broke down at the unspoken part of the compliment. It wasn't the first time he had used the word 'lovely' to describe her – albeit unspoken – but even being the second time seemed to have the same effect. Lest he tease her again for her lack of being able to take a compliment gracefully, she murmured out what might have sounded like a "thank you." It was probably difficult to tell.

But after he seated himself in the proffered chair, it would most likely soon to be his turn to be hopelessly embarrassed as, without much in the way of warning, unclipped the brass clip binding his hair back. "R-right...please sit still."

Not that he probably would after what she'd just done, but she could ask.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In some ways, both king and marshal harbour these blind spots. While he notices, there are some things even Bedivere chooses not to remark upon, just as he had held his silence over so many matters in Camelot. No doubt he has noticed the pain in her eyes every time she sees the shadows under his eyes, however brief a flicker it may have been. Even though he is humble when compared to many other knights, he still has his pride.

There's no doubt that he had also noticed those smaller, comforting gestures she has tried to use. Fresh apples, tea and honey, or music that would be more familiar to his sensibilities; small luxuries he never would have afforded himself. Those little touches are certainly welcome. He's managed to communicate that in their familiar silent way – grateful glances here or there, even if he is loathe to speak openly of it.

That she had invited him, though... he is, unfortunately, an honourable man; even to his own detriment, as Magatha had found out. Once bound by those ancient laws, he is helpless but to observe them. That means no scurrying off once he's been invited in, even if he might prefer to be somewhere – anywhere – that isn't Arturia's personal quarters.

Too late for that.

Although he isn't fidgeting, it's clear by the lines of his shoulders that he's either expecting the other shoe to drop, or simply uncomfortable, as though worried that he'd overstepped some unspoken boundary. That's always been a concern in her presence, but lately, it seems more and more difficult to hide that concern. Anything involving his mask seems more difficult around her – he isn't certain why, considering he had once built that mask expressly to hide himself from her.

Still, he manages a crooked little smile, one she can't see for the angle he's sitting at. He's about to turn his head and ask what she wants—

—and hears the tiny, metallic sound of the brass cuff releasing, and he feels his hair fall. His expression does, too, but she can't see that.

"M-my lady? What are you..."

Technically speaking, he's a guest here. She did ask him to sit still, and he is loathe to disobey a host, and especially loathe to disobey her. He sits still, though his instinct is to flee. He can feel his face heating up, and she can probably see it in his ears. What is she doing?

His hair is just as soft as it looks, and damnably fine – if he didn't control it as he does, it would be a mess of tangling and frizz, forever getting in his eyes and in his way. Even free of Camelot, he seems not to have any desire to cut it, putting it into the style he's always favoured, when he's not falling back on a simple queue with that brass cuff.

Its colour is unique, too, more common perhaps in Dál Riata lands, but the mark of an outsider in Camelot. Looking more closely, it seems to be nearly platinum blonde, with a distinctly silvery cast. This close, it isn't the same uniform colour throughout – there are strands of unmistakable silver, nearly white; tempered here and there with strands that are a bit darker, almost smoky; but most are that same curious silvery-blonde.

His head twitches slightly. He wants to look over his shoulder, but... she did ask him to sit still.

Bedivere does make a slight sound of confusion. It's probably endearingly helpless. This is so hopelessly improper, but he can't bring himself to protest. He's a guest in her domain, however small it is, and she made a direct request of him.

Blood and damnation on those ancient laws...!

Saber (346) has posed:
Pride: a perennial weak point for the King of Knights. On more than one occasion, a situation nearly came to blows when she had felt her pride insulted, even if such a thing took tremendous and more often than not deliberate attempt. Thus far, the only ones who held that dubious claim were her fellow Kings of the Fourth War. Nevertheless, she disliked being pitied and did her best to avoid pitying anyone else out of respect for their sense of pride. Regardless, she was still a worrier by nature, and those closest to her could expect at least some small amount of fussing.

But though she respected the knight's pride, she had thought that the small touches would do no harm. Nothing in the way of painful reminders of what they had both endured and lost. She was at least somewhat comforted they hadn't been. The last time she had attempted something similar, it had blown up in her face, metaphorically-speaking. At least the walk afterward had been quite pleasant...

It was a good thing Bedivere couldn't see her at the moment, because her face had started heating up all over again.

That the tall knight would be so tense was expected, though she had to admit some small surprise to herself that he had suppressed fidgeting; she had asked him to stay still, but it wasn't as if he could necessarily help it. Certainly, she only managed at points due to years of needing to present a perfect image of a king. Then again, he had a different sort of image to protect...or rather, something that demanded an image to conceal. But for whatever reason, the marshal managed to suppress even simply fidgeting with worry.

...Even when she set about to her work, though that certainly set him to blushing. Of course, were the situation were reversed, she would be doing the exact same thing.

Instead, she set about combing the fine, silvery hair with her fingers, dividing it neatly into the usual partitions. She worked silently, perhaps concentrating to avoid blushing on her own part. Otherwise, her own thoughts would start wandering into improper places; enjoying how soft his hair was, admiring how beautiful the colour...

Arturia scolded herself as she caught her mind wandering, especially since she had a task before her. It might have been fortunate for his peace of mind that it wouldn't take long to figure out that she was carefully braiding his hair for him. On the other hand...she was braiding his hair. While that might not have been so terribly embarrassing –perhaps even perfectly normal – for a different lord and lady, for a knight and a king...yes, it was more than a little bold.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In spite of his sterling record of service, the violet-eyed knight had rarely if ever had issues with pride. Not once had he ever raised his voice in the courts, to the disbelief of some, and he had almost never argued against any insults on his knighthood or person. Where some would be perfectly within their rights to demand a duel for such sullying of honour, he had borne all insult in silence. No; it was something else that had always drawn his sharp tongue and his ire, and that was insult to Arturia's honour. He took it upon himself to safeguard her person, but also to safeguard her dignity and her reputation, perhaps with astonishing zeal.

Although he would have resented being coddled in any other situation, something about it touched him. That Arturia would have such consideration for him is more of an honour than an insult. More than that, it makes him strangely... happy, to have her go out of her way for his well-being, even if he feels a little guilt for worrying her. Whether through modesty or hidden lack of self-esteem – it's hard to tell where those lines blur – he feels genuine distress when she spends time or effort on him.

When it's come to those small touches, though, he's just too tired to argue, and to appreciative to insult her with any gentle protest... and he does enjoy it. Perhaps knowing that she cared in those little ways was what had prompted him to return the favour with those flowers from home. Surely some of that arrangement must have come at considerable expense.

Although the situation is enough to make him nervous, Bedivere's self-control is astonishing. He does not fidget, nor does he so much as move when she asks him to remain still, keeping his head straight when he feels that subtle pull against his scalp.

It's an altogether foreign sensation, having someone else tending to his hair. Normally it was something he did himself, combing through it in the morning, taking the five minutes necessary to secure it, and then seeing to the rest of his morning routine. Long years of practise afforded him a familiarity in the task, and it scarcely took him five minutes; only braiding half of the queues was of some help.

He can't help but concentrate on that strange sensation, though. It's so foreign. The last time someone else had braided his hair was... perhaps his mother? He doesn't actually remember clearly. For his past twenty years of service in Camelot, it had always been his doing.

Even so, it's impressive that she knows precisely how to partition it, and how to pleat it the same way that he does. He finds his own face colouring to think on that – had she been studying him, even then? Is that how she knows so well for something she's never done before?

Had she studied him at court, even as he had watched her? Stolen glimpses; when other eyes had not been watching?

As she works, she may feel him relax a little, see some of the lines of tension fading from his neck and shoulders. In spite of the impropriety, there is something soothing about the sensation, and he can't help but feel himself relax a bit. Some of that sharp focus drifts, mind wandering a bit as his eyes droop to half-mast.

He's tired. Even he knows that much, and he's in no denial over his own exhaustion. It's a good way to run himself into the ground, but attempting to rest or sleep only seems to make things worse. Having to relive the Battle of Camlann leaves him drained and grieving; she's heard evidence enough of this during those silent nights... and for whatever reason, his mind seems bent on returning there in dream. The end result is that he gets almost no rest, no truly peaceful sleep.

If she were there when he were sleeping, without the benefit of the Union's medicines, she might see just how pained his expression is once he drifts off. She might see the twist of his mouth, or the furrow of his brow; might see the track of tears down his cheekbones, helpless in his dreaming.

But he would never burden her with that knowingly. In his mind, he is but a humble knight; unworthy of upsetting her, no matter how much they may care for one another.

"Ah..." Bedivere sighs quietly, eyes closing. He has no way to know that she would want to do something so minor for him, but flailing at her probably won't help the issue. Instead, he smiles one of those crooked smiles, even though she can't see it. "Thank you, my lady. I could not reach without upsetting my wounds."

Well, at least he does appreciate that effort, even if his gratitude is a bit awkward. He falls silent for a moment, as though he were considering what to say. At least he calming effect seems to have stripped him of some of his nervousness.

"I do not remember the last time someone else tended to my hair. Hah..." His laugh is quiet and self-conscious. "What an odd thing it must be for a man to say. Few wear their hair long like a woman's. It was not so unusual in Dál Riata lands, but I did not wish to cut it when I came to Camelot. So, I continued to braid it, as I always had... the cuffs were a gift from my father. The filídh sometimes wear their hair long. They bind it with cuffs like mine, if they wish to restrain it... mine are only brass, but a filidh would wear silver. Mine are brass, for my father wished to give me silver cuffs before I left for Camelot, but I could not take them in good faith. I preferred humble brass. My brother's, too, were brass."

That the cuffs were crafted for a filidh, or a future filidh, is evident in their craftsmanship. Even in brass, the simple cuffs that Bedivere wears are elegantly tooled, with triskelions in the centre of each cylindrical cuff and artful tooling surrounding the designs; intricate knotwork teased out of the metallic surface. They're small things, and subtle, but pretty for those with an eye toward them.

Even his voice seems to grow relaxed, soft tones no longer carrying that edge of wariness to them.

...Wait. Brother? He hadn't spoken of that before. He's not talking about his brothers-in-arms of the Round Table, either. He's talking about his homeland.

"I remember thinking it so strange when I came to Camelot. Everyone was dressed so drab, to my eyes, and so grim. We of the Dál Riata wore different colours, and such bright patterns... bright sashes, for different stations." His voice grows distant, as though it cost him some effort to recall those distant details. Those days were long ago. He was only a boy when he'd come to Camelot's courts. "The women wore feathers in their hair, sometimes... great plumes from owls, for the witches and wise-women. But our chieftains also wore feathers. Birds he had hunted for himself. Large, savage things. Hawks. Eagles. And ornaments of brass, of gold, of silver and bronze... gold for the chieftains, silver for the filídh. Brass and bronze for the others..."

He sighs, softly.

"Those days were long ago... I... do not well remember them, and must think, sometimes. It is like catching fish with your bare hands... you see them, and they are so bright and clear, but when you reach for them, they are gone, quick as thought."

His voice fades and finally falls silent for a few moments. He is tired, exhausted; that much is blindingly obvious. With his nerves tamed by her simple touch, with a person he trusts his life with, it's clear that he's not just relaxed but struggling to stay awake.

If it were anyone else in his immediate personal space, he would be unnerved. He had always been uncomfortable even when his brothers of the Round Table stood too close. Yet, for all that, he had never seemed uncomfortable standing watch over Arturia in the great hall of Camelot's citadel. Perhaps she had noticed, acute as her senses are; he had always trusted her.

"Thank you for the apples... my love." Even though the term fills him with an odd fluttering sensation, a kind of lightness in the pit of his stomach, it thrills him to use it. It fills him with a joy he never knew he could feel, especially after the bleak mourning of wandering Camlann's tangled weald. She, whom he had watched over with such vigilance for so many years, whom he had resigned himself to never even knowing – they are each other's, now, and he cannot help but feel such awe over it.

It shows in his voice; in the reverence he places in that simple term of endearment, and the simple warmth; the depth of such a thing that the rest of Camelot never would have suspected from him.

That soft smile shows in his voice, too, when he asks his next question.

"How did you know that those are my favourite...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
In many ways, helping or trying to comfort the pale-haired knight was its own reward. There could have been some small amount of ulterior motive; under different circumstances, she might have looked for excuses simply to feel the softness of his hair or the warmth of his hands. But ultimately, if such gestures gave him some manner of happiness and contentment – if only for a little while – that was what mattered. It wouldn't chase away the nightmares – their final battle for Camelot had been too terrible, and he had been wandering for five years with no true rest – but Arturia would do what she could.

Perhaps it was that way for Bedivere, too; there had been little he had been able to do for her as the king, other than perform his duties to the best of his ability and even beyond that. It could very well be that this otherwise simple gesture of flowers was his own way of it...although that arrangement would have been costly, especially since what had once been simple wildflowers were now cultivated for such a purpose. Even then, she wouldn't protest; as extravagant as it might have been, it was a touching gesture, and Arturia blushed and smiled slightly as she caught a brief glimpse of them as she silently braided the soft strands of silvery-blond.

Life in Camelot had not been miserable, not as much as it could have been, but for the king and her knights, transforming the kingdom into a place where others could find happiness had meant sacrificing much of their own. Each in their own ways, they had given up what may have been their dreams for hers, and she in turn had given up living as a human being to become the perfect king who could lead them to utopia. Yet even then, she could not completely banish that human side, a fact for which she had blamed Britain's fall. She was plagued by her decisions, and could not truly feel the impartiality she had strived for, even as she acted upon it.

Oh, she had certainly watched him, though she had never known precisely what had compelled her to. Fondness, the understanding which came with the knowledge that he too wore a mask, even the pull of a kindred spirit. Perhaps all of these and something else, some mysterious reason. But whatever it had been, she was observant in her own ways; the braids of pale-blond, the gentle rescue of a helpless butterfly, the odd apple filched from the kitchens.

She would know when his posture shifted from uneasiness to relaxed, smiling slightly and relaxing on her part. It had taken quite a bit of courage to be so bold, and yet, she couldn't afford to let her self-consciousness overrule her when it came to what was, in truth, a minor effort to provide some measure of respite. Arturia wouldn't even complain if he fell asleep; the problem was the nightmares. Was the only peaceful sleep he had been able to have since he was freed from those woods only possible when he had been drugged half-out of his mind? That was a more troubling thought than most.

The worried furrow of her brow dissolved somewhat into a gentle smile that Bedivere likewise would have been unable to see. "You are most welcome, my lord." She was even taking simple gratitude better these days. Would the wonders ever cease?

In truth, she was surprised at how Bedivere had started speaking about his past. Politics within the court had kept him from speaking about it, more so than his learned reticence. It had been troublesome enough for him that there were some parts of his heritage which he could not hide. Certainly the revelation that he had hailed from a filidh family would have caused no end of problems, even as Arturia had made it clear in no uncertain terms that she was not going to simply change her mind or replace him under political pressure.

Arturia paused to briefly study the cuff she held in her hand. She could see the La Tène triskeles delicately etched into the metal now that she could see them up close. Going back to her work, she paused again at the mention of his brother, and the pieces fell into place. There had been only one other knight of the Dál Riata, another of common heritage...with similar bloodstones adorning his ears. "Sir Lucan? I did not know you were brothers."

And suddenly, another piece fell into place, and Arturia froze for a moment with the realisation. Bedivere had lost more than his home, his comrades, and the woman he loved; he had lost his only remaining family. She chewed her lip at the guilt welling up again; he had lost everything in that battle. As terrible as the nightmares were, the deeper despair was crushing even as she emphatically felt it; she, too, had lost everything. Yet, she had not been forced to bury the one she cherished above all else and try with whatever strength she had left to find the destroyed citadel to deliver that terrible news.

Anyone who had ever thought that Bedivere was weak could not have been more completely wrong. In some ways, he was the strongest of them all.

She continued to remain silent as he tried to remember what life among the Dál Riata and among the filídh had been like. Her own life before ascending the throne was difficult to remember at times, though the presence of her brother, Sir Kay, had served as a reminder of that life. In some ways, it had been an easy thing to understand the struggles of a commoner; she had lived as one herself until her fifteenth birthday when Merlin had appeared and revealed her lineage and destiny. At her core, she was still a peasant girl and squire, as the Hashshashins had discovered when, in one of the dream-worlds created through the consuming of tea of the Great Willow Tree of Ratonhnhaké:ton's world, Saber appeared not as a king, but that very peasant girl locked away behind her mask. Yet, some details were so very hard to remember, and she could empathise with that struggle.

In spite of memories of the battle which had robbed them of everything in the form of nightmares, it became readily apparent that the lack of rest was catching up with him, struggling as he was to stay awake. Yet, she didn't speak just yet, or even so much as convey anything in their unspoken way. Nevertheless, she had something of an idea for what to do as soon as she completed her current task.

If speaking that term of endearment warmed in, it likewise warmed her to hear it. "Of course, my love," she replied with a similar smile. To at least be able to return that regard, to hear the smile in his voice...Arturia had never known that a happiness like this had even existed.

"Ah...it was an educated guess, to be honest," she admitted. He would doubtless be able to hear the slight amused tone in her voice, suggesting that Bedivere hadn't gone quite as unnoticed as he had probably hoped on those patrols when he'd managed to abscond the occasional apple. "There had been hints, here and there."

It was with some reluctance that she completed the last braid, fastening them together with the brass cuff. In retrospect, she would be somewhat embarrassed, even surprised by what she did next. It was a simple impulse, but before she let the queue fall through her fingers, she held it up to her lips softly before releasing it. "All done, my lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although his efforts to show his appreciation are somewhat awkward, the silver-haired knight does seem to be trying. It's his first time being able to act so openly, and sometimes he simply doesn't know what to do or say. He's never had the opportunity to openly admit to his feelings, or be free to act on them. In some ways, it's almost bewildering; like someone who's been confined for so long suddenly let into a great empty space.

Of course, it's the best kind of bewildering. Even when he has no idea what to do or how to react, he wouldn't trade it for anything at all. If those flowers had been costly, it was no cost at all to him just to see her smile, to see the recognition spark in those sea-green eyes. He has always been frugal; money is no real object to him. It simply doesn't matter to him, for he has never been a worldly personality, always choosing to live a simple life even when he could have done otherwise.

Bedivere takes care to remain straight in his chair, lest he pull against the hair she so carefully pleats, but it's clear that he's finally begun to relax. Perhaps he won't fall asleep, but some of that tension has bled out of him; that nervous energy that always seems to come bubbling to the surface when he isn't certain what to do or say to her.

Old habits are hard to break. There's no denying that he cares for her; that the love he feels is almost overwhelming, but it was a matter of survival that he had kept those feelings hidden and locked away for so long. To open those locks is difficult even for him. It's becoming easier, though. He wonders, sometimes, how he had ever survived the hell of living behind his own mask.

"Mmmmm." It's a quiet, relaxed confirmation to her question. "Sir Lucan was my blood-brother; I was the eldest by a year. We wore the same bloodstone studs. Ah," he sighs softly. "I hope that he was buried with his. He would have been upset to lose them... Sir Griflet was my cousin, the son of my father's brother, but I did not know him well. Our names were different, of course. We changed our names when we came to Camelot..."

Ah, such as what he had given to the Saber of Silver. Not the familiar name that he had served as the left hand of the king under, but something entirely different, something foreign. It had been a matter of survival to adopt a more fitting name. Fionnlagh would have stood out too much; would have been too obviously foreign. His looks were detriment enough.

He leans back a little when she speaks to him with that term of endearment, smiling; those simple words that seem to bring such warmth and comfort to him. Though he doesn't respond in words, the quiet sound he makes at the back of his throat is nonetheless one of contentment and gratitude, eyes half-closed.

"Mm. Hints." Bedivere chuckles, quietly; it's little more than a softly-exhaled breath. "I see..."

He can feel her deftly fasten the brass cuff, finishing her work. Already? He doesn't say anything, but he's a little disappointed that she's finished so quickly. That had been... well, terribly improper, but it's hard to care about the impropriety when he feels so content. It had been... the word soothing comes to mind. He can't recall the last time someone did something like that for him. In Camelot he had lived a life of solitude; he had not even dared take a squire, lest he let slip some hint of the feelings he had locked away.

It seems he doesn't notice that simple touch of her lips to his hair; it falls once she releases it, and the cuff makes a tiny, metallic clink when it clatters against the back of the chair.

The pale-haired knight tilts his head to one side, then the other, as though trying to see her, but he can't twist that far without aggravating some manner of ache or bruise. He settles for climbing to his feet, albeit slowly and stiffly, and turning to face Arturia – still with her hair unbraided, dressed so simply and so different from her kingly regalia.

He smiles again, faintly. It isn't the painfully awkward or shy expression he seems to favour around her. This is the one that reveals his hidden heart – all of the warmth and affection he had borne for her for so many years, without ever having to say a word. Silence had always been their most honest language.

Maybe he'd regret his next actions if he stopped to think on them.

A single pace carries him around the chair and to her side. He had never really noticed how much smaller than him she was; how delicate – but not fragile; never fragile. In many ways, he had always consider her much stronger than he. Standing so close to her seems to throw that discrepancy into sharp relief.

One hand rises, almost hesitantly, before he runs his fingers through the pale gold of her hair. He looks down at it as though spellbound. He'd spoken truly when he said he had never seen her like that. He'd also spoken truly when he said it suited her. His touch is light, as though fearful of somehow hurting her, but he takes his time; indulging in the moment to do something he would otherwise not have the courage to do. Fingers thread into the pale gold of her hair as he carefully runs them through her hair, gently brushing it back from her face.

"Thank you, my lady," he murmurs quietly, with that same gentle half-smile; eyes drifting closed momentarily.

Despite his soft words, it doesn't seem that it's just that simple favour that he's thanking her for.

His quiet, heartfelt thanks seem to be for all that she's done for him – all of the little comforts, the reassurance of her presence, the concern she no longer needs to hide. Her patience with his clumsy efforts to show her just how deeply he cares, and the unspoken concern she has every time she worries about the condition he's in. It had not gone unnoticed. A prouder knight might have been stung at being thought of as vulnerable, but not Bedivere. He is grateful, instead, and humbled.

In spite of the hell he had gone through at Camlann, and the lonely days after, it seems there was a happy end waiting for him after all. Here, now, he is blessed. It can never erase the sacrifices of the good knights or the kingdom left behind, or the loss of his brother... but he has gained so much more than he had lost, now, and he would be a fool not to recognise that.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had certainly noticed his efforts to be more open, though she certainly wouldn't rush him in that regard. It had taken nearly five years for her to reach that point...five years of difficulties as well as pleasant times, opponents and enemies as well as friends. Her own new-found openness – or as open as she was likely to be – was more of an invitation, a reassurance that Bedivere was no longer forced to hide himself behind his mask, at least in front of her. She hadn't expected his walls to come down as completely as they had, and she understood how vulnerable he must be feeling, to be suddenly bereft of them. Sometimes, it was still difficult even for her, in spite of how long she had been living her new life.

But she was able to see his true smile now, just as he could see hers, and she could no longer hold back even if she wanted to. The shy, yet slightly triumphant smile at her reaction to the flowers – even in the midst of all that embarrassment – was something she treasured as much as she had enjoyed them for their own sake.

It was more than a little of a relief that he hadn't bolted or even so much as baulked, otherwise she might have lost her own nerve. But now that the difficult part was over, she relaxed on her part. That they seemed to influence each other's moods and emotions was unsettling in some ways, and yet strangely comforting that they could have been so close now, after all the years of being forced to keep a cautious distance. Even the strange sort of awkwardness that had come with casting their masks aside was a welcome change.

Her eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, and her voice was coloured with the same, along with a hint of a much deeper humility. "Three of you...I did not know...even as far as Dál Riata..."

Yet, as humbled as she felt that even young men of outlying kingdoms had been so inspired by her devotion to chivalry that they sought the difficult path of knighthood, Arturia felt the losses of Camlann more keenly than ever. For a long moment, she remained quiet as the persistent guilt welled up again for her failure to protect them, to save them. It was moments such as these where she felt her new wish all the more deeply.

Arturia was drawn out of her morose thoughts, however, at the realisation that naturally, men of the Dál Riata would not have had Welsh or Roman names. Out of proper respect, she had never questioned them on it, when they had given their changed names upon their respective knighting ceremonies. But now, she was free to ask.

"Your name....what does it mean?" she asked with a subtle mix of curiosity and shyness. "I fear I never learned the tongues of the kingdoms to the north..."

Her voice kept that hint of amusement; doubtless he knew what she had been referring to, just who the culprit behind the odd missing apple had been. "Ah, well...I recall how the head cook grumbled frequently when an apple happened to be missing," she teased lightly.

After years of carefully braiding her own hair, she had found it easy to do so for someone else, and even she was surprised at how quickly she had completed her task; the little blonde had even been taking her time. In fact, she had been reluctant to finish, liking low his hair felt between her fingers, studying how the different strands blended into silvery blond. On the other hand, she did have another plan in mind. Now, if she could just keep her nerves from betraying her...

Arturia found a little bit of resolve watching how stiffly he rose, aches persisting after injury and training. The latter was something normal that was little cause for worry, but the deeper injuries needed to be treated with care. She considered asking if he'd eaten yet; already her fussier mode had started to awaken. But that train of thought was cut short as she finally saw the smile which had lain at the heart behind the mask, even further than the endearing shy smile which easily disarmed her. But his warm, open smile was much more than even that. She was almost helpless.

And then, suddenly she was. The petite knight did not even so much as move as he lifted his hand, slipping his fingers through her hair in a touch so light that it could have been a simple breeze. She blinked in surprise for a moment before she could feel her eyes suddenly hood with perhaps the same contentment he had felt as she had braided his hair.

She had understood the meaning easily; the emotions behind it far more than merely gratitude for only the task she had finished. No, he had implied all that she had tried to do for him. And yet, none of it had felt as if she had been sacrificing at all. It had been nothing like when she had worn her mask for the sake of Britain, giving up any sort of wish for personal happiness she might still harbour. This had felt...natural, almost as simple as breathing. It might have seemed on the outside that she had been going out of her way to make him more comfortable, to wait as he sorted out how to live with having to constantly don the stoic mask. But to Arturia, it hardly seemed that way at all.

"It was no trouble at all, my lord," she replied softly, returning that smile.

It was with some reluctance that she pulled away, taking the few steps necessary to seat herself on her bed. Suppressing to the best of her ability her rapidly rising bashfulness, she closed her eyes and patted the space beside her, indicating for him to sit next to her. Certainly the boldest move she had made thus far, in spite of the purity of her intent.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight can't really be faulted for trying to be more open, though his efforts are a little clumsy and uncertain. He's never had the opportunity to behave like that before. Much like her, he had carefully built up his mask of inhumanity, presenting a unified front to the kingdom and burying his true feelings. Perhaps she did so to secure her rule, but he did so because he had no choice. It was a matter of survival. Now that the foundations have begun to crack, though, he finds himself caught between – unable to fully let those vestiges drop, but unable to go back to the way he had been before.

In truth, he had been living in agony. He had harboured a secret pain greater than any of his brother knights could have known, and he had worn his mask expertly. No one had ever suspected what had consumed him, though perhaps they may have suspected hints here or there. Only Arturia had ever seemed to understand, lucky or determined enough to catch the odd glimpse of the marshal on his rounds; carrying a torch through the lonely night-watch, and looking to the stars in that melancholy way of his.

Without the need for that mask, he has the opportunity to show that true smile, but there are still times he feels uncertain. It's difficult to cast aside a lifetime of caution. The end result paints a picture of endearing awkwardness, of uncertainty and even a little confusion. Even bereft of a Camelot to concern himself over, he still struggles over what he thinks is proper. She's made it clear to him but he still seems torn over whether it's really alright.

Time will soothe that, just as it will heal the scars that can't be seen.

"Three only that I know of," Bedivere says honestly, with a faint shrug. "I do not know of any others who may have travelled from Dál Riata." His smile turns almost apologetic. "I did not speak of it, nor did I ask of it. There are a few whom I might have suspected, but I do not believe they stayed at court for long."

She asks him about his name, so endearingly shy, and he cocks his head. It seems to take him a moment to remember. He knows the old tongue, though he had never let slip that fact at court. A more private component of his training had been mastery of the Welsh language, for no one spoke the tongue used in Dál Riata lands at court. Not if they weren't looking for mockery or scorn. Harder still had been eradicating all traces of an accent; fooling the courts into believing that he was a natural speaker, and had been all his life. Perhaps not so easy, considering his appearance, but by the time he had become the king's trusted lieutenant, none questioned him.

His eyes hood as he sifts back through those distant memories, piecing together bits of a language he hasn't seriously used for over twenty years...

"'Warrior. White warrior,'" he says after a moment, with a sardonic little chuckle. "I was never a warrior. It was something of a joke, but also a little serious. I was a sickly child, but to hear my mother tell it, I was determined to survive. I fought. A warrior in spirit, perhaps, even if I prefer words to blades. Aah," he sighs, "to be honest, it's a bit embarrassing... I am a Knight of the Round Table, not some sickly boy..."

"No?" Those violet eyes settle on her when she says she never learned the language of the Dál Riata, one pale brow quirking. It takes him a moment or two more of thought, but when he slips into the Gaelic tongue, his voice seems to affect a more... musical quality; much more than just that lilting accent. There's an odd quality about his words, as the translation effect takes hold, transforming the meaning into the old Welsh Arturia knows so well. But, even though she can understand, it's clear that he's speaking something very different.

"The language spoken in Dál Riata lands is ancient, my lady, and it was the first language I learned at my father's knee. The people know it, the filídh sing it, and the chieftains proclaim it. No one in Camelot knows of such ancient traditions, for they look upon us with suspicion, but our words are as old as our people, and our songs are older than our words."

He smiles a little shyly as he switches back into the Welsh he had struggled so hard to learn; perhaps as something of a residual, his words still carry that lilting accent. "Truthfully, I had always preferred it, and found Welsh to be awkward. I knew some Welsh when I came to Camelot, but I forced myself not to know it, but to master it... it would not have been proper to speak Gaelic, and only but a handful would have understood me."

That had been so complete, in fact, that the only reason any might have known he could speak Gaelic was the odd trip to the borderlands, to offer relief; the villagers in those outlying lands always seemed to know precisely what was needed of them, though no one had ever asked him on how he spoke to them.

To the matter of the apple, his brows creep up until they're nearly hidden by the long bangs that partly hide his face. "Oh..." His answer is a little quiet, endearingly awkward. "Ah, I had not meant to steal, precisely, and had I known the cook would complain... that was not becoming of a knight, and especially not the left hand of the king..."

Even so, Bedivere looks a little disappointed when she finally pulls away. When he sees where she's going, he tilts his head a bit, brows furrowing in what almost seems like apprehension. What's she doing? And why is she—

His eyes follow her as she sits down on the side of her bed, patting the space beside her in clear invitation. For a few long seconds, all he can do is stare somewhat blankly. He sees what she's doing, and he even understands the general intent, but it seems his mind just isn't making any sense of it.

Slowly, so very slowly, red creeps into those high cheekbones. He blinks somewhat owlishly, and croaks something that isn't quite a questioning word.

The bed hasn't even been made, yet. It's still rumpled from where she had ungracefully fallen out, coverings half-dragged to one side.

Bedivere continues to stare somewhat blankly.

In defense of his honour, he had received a direct invitation from one who could be considered a host. She had invited him in, and she had made a request of him. It would not be proper to deny that, would it? He's grasping at straws and he knows it.

Slowly, he follows her, easing himself down beside her. There's a slight falter as the mattress gives under his weight, and a slight hiss when he tries to straighten himself, his motley collection of bruises suddenly clamouring to remind him they're still there. He's a little wary as he watches her from the corner of violet eyes.

"M-my lady...?" His voice is an equally wary murmur.

Saber (346) has posed:
Certainly, she wanted him to be more comfortable, but Arturia found Bedivere's clumsiness uncertainty rather endearing when she was honest with herself. She herself had struggled greatly with letting down her mask, if in largely different ways; Irisviel and Sakura most often saw the chivalrous knight, Archer saw the proud, enraged king. On the other hand, she had been much the same way when it came to Fate's treatment of the petite knight as 'cute'. She had tried to insist otherwise, but that had never deterred the Enforcer. Otherwise, letting it down had been slowly incremental, and Saber continued to be seen as quiet, dignified, and reserved, if no longer cold and distant.

However, when it came to her knights, trying to put her mask back up was, in her view, a waste of valuable time. She had given up her wish to change history and save Britain, but that hardly meant that she could simply let things remain as they were. Even making amends to the Knights of the Round Table was impossible, it was something she would wish for and reach form regardless. And acting as she always had when she ruled would only get in the way. It had its uses both on the battlefield and off, but with those she had known in life, she cast it aside unless there were extenuating circumstances.

But that did not mean she didn't worry how they would take it, the truth that she was not only a woman, but a vulnerable one, at that. In many ways, the mask not only secured her rule, but was the only way she could survive as both king and knight. She was strong in ways, but she was not the flawless king with no weaknesses she had projected herself as. Much of her rejection of Mordred was this; her 'son' had believed the mask was her true self, and she was chasing after a 'father' who did not actually exist. There would be others as bitterly disappointed in her, surely. Yet, it was something she had to do: tell them the truth, allow them to see the reality, and make amends in whatever way she could. She owed them that for their sacrifices.

The fear persisted, in spite of her resolve. The pain of betrayal had hurt her worse than she had ever thought was possible; it made her mask all the more effective, harbouring that immense pain behind it without cracking, secretly blaming her weakness which she blamed for those betrayals. How much worse would it be when those who had remained faithful discovered it had all been a lie? Not her dream nor her chivalry, which had remained even after her own death, but the truth of the king?

In many ways, she had feared the reaction of Bedivere most of all. Like her, he had presented a paragon of stoic knightly virtue, had believed in both Camelot and chivalric virtue as completely, and remained steadfast until the very end. Letting him down would have been a devastating blow, and not simply because she had remembered the idealistic Dál Riata training to become a squire. She had caught stolen glimpses of the gentleness beneath the mask, the silent melancholy, though she had never discovered the reasons for it.

That uncertainty and awkwardness, she realised with some guilt, had been a relief to her, to know he struggled just as she still did. These qualities had soothed her nearly as much as his acceptance did.

It was true that word of her ascension had spread far and wide; there had been knights from as far away as Orkney, a land ruled by the North-men. Yet, her half-sister was from their own lands, and her nephews who had travelled all the way from their home to become knights had blood ties to Camelot. But for those of the Picts, or the Cumbrians, or the Dál Riata, to have been so inspired by the dream, the ideals of chivalry...

"There were many from across Albion," she mused with a hint of humility in her voice.

She smiled faintly as Bedivere translated his birth-name. So he had fought even then...though she blushed when her mind wandered, wondering what he must have been like as a young boy before he had made his fated journey to Camelot. It was improper; he was right, he was a Knight of the Round Table, now. "It is a good name. Fitting, I think."

Though the words and meaning were effectively 'translated', Arturia could hear the shift, not unlike those times when his accent shifted into a subtle lilt. There were similarities – the native tongues of Britain shared similar roots which extended into antiquity – yet, the sounds were softer, without the harsh edges that her native ancient Welsh contained. And she began to understand how the Gaels had acquired the reputation for magic and witchcraft; there was music in his very words.

"Ah...well...given the nature of this place, you need not conceal it," she observed, and it occurred to her that, from his perspective, she would have to grant him permission to speak in his native dialect. Some things, she realised, would probably never change between them. "If it is more comfortable to you, you are more than free to speak it."

And of course, there was the more selfish reason that she simply enjoyed hearing it.

Politely, she stifled a chuckle. "Worry not...the head cook was rather...curmudgeonly. There were always more than what was truly needed, and it was far better for them to be eaten than simply go to waste." And she despised waste, especially in an era where starvation was all too common.

In spite of her own blush, Arturia fought to maintain a calm, somewhat dignified mien. After all, this was for his sake; she couldn't afford to baulk now. It was a relief he had obeyed without protest, shifting to allow for her next command. "I would...like you to sleep."

Involuntarily, her eyes flicked to the wall separating their rooms; she had not wanted to hint that she could hear him, but she hadn't been able to stop herself before she accidentally hinted at it. Well, she would berate herself for her slip later. Moreover, he would probably be able to tell, in any case. "I thought, perhaps...if there was someone by your side, it would be easier..."

Her bravery was crumbling even through her resolve, but she soldiered on. "Merely a nap...and I will be here, so..."

There wasn't really any way to make this request without being awkward, so it was a good effort.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
True, it was a struggle for Bedivere to let down the mask that he had lived behind for over twenty years, but she seemed to have a way to see right through it. He may as well have never adopted such a thing in front of her, for all the good it's done him; no one else seems to be able to see right through him as she does. Were it not for the things he had hidden behind that mask, or the warmth he feels for her, that might trouble him. To see so trivially through such careful defenses would have been a dangerous crack in his armour in the courts, with the dangerous games of power and favour that nobility played; a game that he had a permanent disadvantage in.

Fortunately, this is not Camelot.

Although he tries at times to adopt that calm mien he was so famous for, it's difficult to do that around her. Part of him still strives for the level-headed and professional conduct he had been so valued for. Another, more insistent part of him views it as a waste of time, much as Arturia does, and there are other times when he cannot seem to find equilibrium; trying in vain to wear that mask, only to have it crumble before him like dust.

Increasingly, he finds little point in it. Life is too short, and their time together is altogether too precious – he knows this lesson well, having found out through the most excruciating means possible.

"There were many," he agrees quietly. "We of the Dál Riata were few, but there were many others. I did not know the tongues of them all, and at times, the only way I could communicate was through Latin. Some I could not understand at all. We all shared in your dream, my lady, and we all sought to make it into reality. Alas that it was not meant to be." Bedivere shakes his head, thoughtful. "But it was not in vain... I do not know why, but somehow I feel that the world had been made better for our struggle, even if we feel it was a failure."

His face flushes a bit when she compliments him on his true name, gaze flicking off to the side; anywhere but in Arturia's direction. "Er," he says, awkwardly. "I..." He sighs, shoulders twitching in a faint shrug. "Ah. I have not been called that in over twenty years. It is really more a memory than a name. I have not been 'Fionnlagh' for over twenty years."

Still, he smiles a little when she gives him direct permission to speak as he will, in whatever tongue he might wish. "Thank you, my lord." Oddly, his smile is a little melancholy. "I speak little, any more. I suppose, as a Servant, you understand me. It would be good to speak that way, from time to time... I should not like to forget it. I will continue to speak Welsh, I think, but... surely it would not be so bad to speak Gaelic from time to time..."

"Ah." The pale-haired knight seems relieved to hear that she hadn't faulted him for filching the occasional apple, though he still looks a little guilty. When he speaks again, his voice is decidedly shy, as though revealing some secret of great import. "I preferred to take them directly from the orchard. They always tasted better that way, straight from the tree, when they were in season. I do not think he knew that I did. Truly, I do not think he knew it was I who took them." The cook probably wouldn't have complained. It might have cost him his job, or, given Bedivere's reputation, he might have thought it would cost him his head. "But I did not do that often. Those were for the people, and I was content with what I had."

Bedivere cocks his head slightly when she makes a clear effort to summon up her courage, blinking somewhat owlishly at her.

Sleep?

For a few seconds, it seems like the request doesn't even register, or that he doesn't even understand what she's saying. Why would she ask him for that? There's not really...

His violet eyes don't miss that tell. Something in his expression seems to fall, just a little.

So. She knew. Of course she did; their rooms are directly beside one another, and their beds share the same wall. No matter how quiet he tried to keep himself, it was still the middle of the night, and even a normal person would notice the disruption.

His gaze drops to his hands in his lap; he sighs, quietly, through his nose. The sound is oddly defeated.

"I had hoped to spare you from that, but I suppose it must have been obvious." His admission is quiet, even as his shoulders gradually slump, just a little. "I did not intend to trouble you with that, but I suppose I have failed in that, too."

Even though these are her quarters, and he's sitting on the edge of her bed, the impropriety and the awkwardness seem to fade – the pain in his soft voice is sharp, like the sudden flash of sun on a blade.

"I do not know that anything will make it easier. I want to sleep."

When he finally speaks again, it's a dry whisper, as though he were uncertain of precisely how to say what he wants to say. Were it not silent, and were her hearing not so acute, she might otherwise not even hear him.

"I am tired, my lady." He pauses, as though he were mustering his courage, though his voice sounds more exhausted than nervous. "I am so tired. I try to sleep, but there is no rest. I close my eyes, and the only place I find myself is Camlann, back on that accursed, blood-soaked hill. But I... I cannot save anyone."

He slumps forward; hands rising to cover his face, elbows resting on his knees. Although he seems to try and hide it, his shoulders hitch, so faint she could have missed it, were she not sitting right beside him. There's no mistaking the faint glint of light as something falls; the faint, round spot that darkens his slacks.

"Lord God have mercy on me, I am so tired, my love, I... I cannot even think straight any more, but I cannot sleep... I... I cannot bear to go back there any more..."

Saber (346) has posed:
For all her previous calm, all the times she had worn her mask, she might as well not even try in Bedivere's presence. Not only had he always been able to see at least a little past it, it seemed to crumble away into nothing with a shy smile, a light laugh....or even a pained expression. Perhaps even more than that, having lost her all those years ago, she would not deny him that humble wish. Not that she could deny him anything, regardless.

This was not Camelot; she no longer needed to bury her emotions, or act as if everyone was no different than the other. She no longer had to pretend that her marshal was simply an extension of her will, or a mere soldier. And she was no longer forced to hide her weaknesses. It was at once terrifying and yet a great relief.

She listened quietly, contemplating. She had never doubted that dream, even as she believed she wasn't strong enough to reach it. From all over that island they can come – and some even from beyond it – to answer that dream, and she wanted to believe that it had not been for nothing.

"Perhaps..." though she herself wasn't entirely certain. That her people had to suffer for it...the idea didn't sit right with her. The feeling went beyond her duty, the commitment she had made to save and protect her people. It was difficult enough for her to accept willing sacrifices.

She smiled slightly; the awkwardness continued to be endearing. And it, along with the red jasper – one of which now adorned her ear – was nevertheless something of his past, fragments of the Dál Riata. "But a good memory, regardless."

That smile did not so much as waver. "It could do no harm. And..." she hesitated a little, the shy note creeping back into her voice, hinting that she had at least a little bit of self-interest in her encouragement. "...there are...a great number of songs, I have found it it..."

A small cough; no it hadn't been entirely selfless.

"There was no harm done." Had he not been facing away, Bedivere would have caught the slight chagrin in her smile. "It was a general complaint...there had been more than one guilty of such. In truth, one of the culprits had been..." Here her voice took a sheepish note and she coughed lightly in the embarrassment. "...Myself."

Arturia fell silent again as she listened. Her plan had been to coax him into trying without hinting that she had gathered from the subtle clues even without hearing the muffled weeping in the middle of the night. It could have only been one thing that could destroy his composure like that.

Camlann.

"It was no failure of yours...no one can fault you," she insisted gently. "I know you have been trying, but that battle..."

Unwilling to finish that thought, she shook her head lightly. It had been a nightmare made real, even in her own memories, and weaker men would have gone mad with grief by then. In the truest sense, she remained trapped there, her body lifeless even as her soul had through strange circumstances found its way to the multiverse. That gulf between them never seemed so wide as it was in that moment, but she remained determined to try to cross it, even if it consumed her.

She shifted closer to him then, and with great care, slipped her arms around his waist, laying her head on his back gently. Nothing could erase the deep pain of the last battle – it could only dull with time – but neither would she coldly stand aside while he suffered. "I cannot permit you to suffer alone, my love," she replied softly. "Not now...not after all this. You are not alone."

She realised then that she was not entirely helpless. There was one sort of medicine which reached beyond time, beyond language, one that might reach him even through the fire and blood of Camlann.

After a moment, the light, sweet voice lifted in the soft strains of a comforting song.

"Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant,'
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The knight's violet eyes flick sideways, just a little, when Arturia dangles that bait that seems to be so irresistible to him. He's only heard her sing once that he can remember, although she had sung to him when he had been brought back from the medical facilities. Unfortunately, he'd been under such heavy medication that he could remember only vague impressions. He can't be certain, but he may have dreamt the whole thing.

Although he doesn't say a word, she might feel him shift just a little; as though interested. He's listening... though he exhales in that quiet, breathy laugh of his when she claims there was no harm done to Camelot's cook.

"Hmm." Bedivere raises a brow, apparently a little surprised that she would admit to having filched the odd apple or two. He doesn't seem surprised, though. Had he known she'd done it? That's certainly possible. Little and less had ever escaped those violet eyes. "I suppose had he known who was enjoying his stock of apples, he would have been considerably less forthcoming in his complaints... though I am surprised you would have done so, my lady. You could have called for a bushel of apples, and they would have been brought to you with all due haste."

Still, even that momentary amusement pales in the face of the nightmares that have haunted him for so long.

He startles a little when she slips her arms around him, laying her head against his back, but he doesn't move to pull away. His eyes droop when he hears her voice lift, and though she can't see it, he smiles a weary smile. It is soothing; he'll never tire of hearing that, nor does he think he'll ever lose that sense of wonder on hearing her sing.

She may not think much of it, but as far as he's concerned, for the reverence he pays her when she does, he might as well be listening to the voice of an angel.

Although he's careful not to dislodge her, his head bows lower. He lets go of his face, resting his hands on the side of the mattress, as though to prop himself up, though his back is still hunched and his head hangs ever lower. Those violet eyes finally drift closed, hair hanging down as he practically droops. His weariness is almost a tangible thing – but he still seems to be struggling to stay upright, to listen to her song.

He chuckles after a moment, the sound that low breath of his.

"Ah, my love." His voice is quiet, little more than a whisper. "I will never tire of hearing that. But I cannot... I have work to do... and..." And he doesn't want to go back to Camlann. He's never thought of himself as brave, but there are only a few things Bedivere fears, and those night-terrors are near the top of the list. Having to witness losing her again, the blood and destruction and death of everything he holds dear – it terrifies him.

The silver-haired knight takes a moment to straighten, but he shrugs her off gently; only so he can turn and wrap his arms around her. Their height difference makes it a bit awkward to rest his head on her shoulder, but he does, eyes closing as he inhales deeply. That sweet scent is still about her – rose? – and it seems to suit her so well. He stays that way, ignoring the complaint of the ribs Magatha had bruised and nearly broken. Arturia would no doubt notice that he's in pain, though; there's a slight tension through his neck, and his breath catches almost imperceptibly as he bends lower.

"You are right, as always," he murmurs, with a certain unhappiness. "I know that I cannot go on like this. It is only a matter of time until my work suffers for it. But..." But he doesn't want to return to Camlann. On the other hand, he is exhausted.

With extreme reluctance, he kicks off his shoes, sighing as he eases himself back – but not without a wince of pain, a catch of breath; a grimace she's sure to notice. He stares unhappily at the rumpled sheet beneath him, lying on his side to face her.

He's also trying very hard not to think about whose bed he's lying in, though it's hard not to notice. The sheets in his own are much starchier, probably from being used so little before his arrival. And the pillow smells like her, he observes distantly. It's hard not to find that pleasant.

The pale-haired knight does not close his eyes. He has no doubt that she can see the colour spreading across his cheekbones, though she may just attribute that to his reaction to an already awkward situation.

He seems to be considering something, though. Maybe the fatigue's dulled his wits, and it's a little harder for him to think. Or maybe he's just beyond caring about the details, and quickly losing the ability to fret over whose bed he's lying in. Past a certain point even his awkwardness dulls.

It may surprise her, however, when he reaches out to curl an arm around her with a soft sigh – that quiet breath almost sounds like an apology, although he doesn't form the words clearly; it may even be imagined.

Bedivere's fingers curl into the material of her sleeve. The gesture is almost childlike, just like when she had clutched at his sleeve, begging him to stay with her. He does the same now, and his eyes are a silent plea when he looks up to her – Please, stay with me.

And then he gives a faint tug at her arm; perhaps it's meant only as a slight entreaty to get her to stay – though from his angle, it might well be enough to pull her close. Which would probably horrify him – it doesn't seem to be his intent, but it seems like he's not alert enough to hold back from accidentally pulling too hard.

"Please—please stay with me, my love," he murmurs softly, tone one of misery. "I... dare not sleep otherwise. I cannot bear to go back there. I cannot..."

Saber (346) has posed:
At the very least, the petite blonde was grateful that her singing – as untrained and unrefined as it was – could soothe him, if only temporarily. Her childlike voice in song was hardly what she would consider magical, not by the standards of the filídh, but it pleased her that it could have that effect. Of course, he was the only person she would dare sing in front of, particularly because he hadn't laughed at how childish she sounded. Quite the opposite, in fact. While she was still insecure about it, the fact that he seemed to enjoy it was the only thing that could get her to sing without double-checking if anyone else could hear her.

It was a modern song by their standards – sadly, very little music of their era had survived – but the lyrics were especially comforting.

All the stars' twinkles say
All through the night
"This is the way to the realm of glory,"
All through the night.

They had certainly been through a long night, in the poetic sense. All Arturia had felt after she had been carried from that hill had been crushing despair, and then desperation as she made her final prayer for the salvation of her kingdom. Anything of hope had been lost. It had taken some time before she could see the stars in that sky.

The song had its intended effect; she had noticed how he fought to stay awake, just as he had fought only moments before. The jade-eyed knight could hardly blame him. That bloody hill, that mass tomb, was a terrible place even in memories and dreams. For Bedivere, the only one who had lived, the burden was the greatest of all, having lost everything. How could she possibly overcome that? But in spite of her despairing, she would fight...in a different way.

She nearly protested when he extracted himself from her arms and insisted he had work, but that was stifled when, instead of standing, he simply wrapped his arms around her instead. Even in spite of the pain from his wounds from the fight with Magatha – which nearly had her start fussing over him all over again – the tall knight simply rested his head on her shoulder. She withheld her worry, merely lifting her arms to carefully settle over his shoulders, remaining there until he moved to settle himself back.

The grimace of pain was awarded a worried frown, even if there was little she could really do to help. Arturia had to reassure herself that he was healing, and that some pain was natural as long as he didn't aggravate them too much. Of course, it was the aggravating which had her worried. But no, she was going to be good and not fuss, not when what he needed most at the moment was some proper sleep, uninterrupted by nightmares.

Arturia was still uncertain what she was going to do about that; dreams were not something one could control. She could only hope that having someone there with him might alleviate it, that perhaps it was the lingering fear of losing everyone around him that was triggering them. In any case, she didn't want him left alone, in spite of the mutual embarrassment.

Ignoring the flush of her own face, she shifted slightly to give him more room and to settle into a more comfortable sitting position, though she remained somewhat uncertain. While she no longer had to worry about maintaining impartiality, the mere suggestion of impropriety had been a concern, and the little blonde had half-expected Bedivere to have bolted by now. But the fatigue had finally caught up with him, as she knew it would.

What she had expected was for him to drift to sleep and she would maintain a careful watch over him, waiting for the first sign of troubled sleep. Instead, she was taken by surprise when an arm curled around her even as he sighed with what might have even been an apology. Even if she had not already intended to keep watch over him, the imploring eyes would have been more than enough. Of course I will stay with you.

But that specific plan took a rather different turn. What she was certain had been in his tired mind only a slight tug was strong enough to pull her down close to him. It took her enough by surprise that she had to bite her tongue to stifle the startled cry that surely would have woken him up and sent him flailing. she didn't resist, however, and tried to settle in as comfortably as she could even as her face heated up. But the embarrassment was a rather strange one, the result of where her mind had wandered, thinking that this was actually a pleasant feeling. How improper...

That blush easily subsided at the soft, mournful entreaty. Lifting her hand, she lightly brushed strands of ashen blond away from his face, a gesture which easily became a gentle caress. "I will stay for as long as you have need of me, my love. I am here."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It had certainly been a long night. If Arturia had felt crushing despair, the pale-haired knight had felt a powerful longing to join her in that boat he had so carefully laid her in. But he owed her the duty to return to Camelot, and try to make some semblance of order out of the chaos. He owed it to her memory, to the thing she had bled for and built with her own hands. Although it had shamed him at the time, he had thought sometimes of simply lying in the hollow of a tree's roots in Camlann's weald and staying there. Of giving up and giving in to exposure; of closing his eyes to sleep, and not waking.

For five years he had wandered, bleak and exhausted, limping along after his horse was stolen by highwaymen he had been too tired and too uncaring to stop. It had been something of an odd meeting – he had simply handed them the reins when they had demanded valuables. Something in his eyes had suggested to them not to press their luck; perhaps they had recognised that he was a man with absolutely nothing left to lose, and if they goaded him into a fight, it would have gone poorly for them. They had simply taken his horse and ridden on.

He had continued alone on foot, walking, though after a week or so he'd lost all sense of direction.

It's been nearly five years since that terrible battle. He's only now beginning to feel like he can see the dawn after that endless night.

Never before has he seen such a beautiful sight.

The fatigue has certainly caught up to him, and now that he's finally been put down, he looks unlikely to rise again. His weariness is almost tangible, a simple lack of strength. It seems so long ago that he had worn his mask, had soldiered on through impossible odds, had carried himself with the bearing and dignity expected of the Marshal of the Realm – and the loneliness of the same. It was a position just as lonely as the king's.

If he had to resume that lonely post, he isn't certain he would be able to find that strength any more. He's exhausted, and though he may not realise it, it's in more ways than one. He could not maintain that same degree of distance any more; no more than he could return to Camlann in the flesh.

Right now, though, he can't do anything. He has no strength left, and no strength left to fight his exhaustion.

Too tired to register how improper and embarrassing this ought to be, Bedivere merely closes his eyes when she reaches up to brush his hair from his face. He manages a soft sound in the back of his throat; if he were more awake, it might be a proper statement of gratitude. Instead, it's a simple sound of gratitude and contentment, wordless.

Fortunately, they've never needed words.

He simply closes his arm around her, burying his face into the join of her neck and shoulder. His breath is soft; the sigh he lets go is one of contentment – as though he were finally beginning to relax.

"Thank you, my love." His voice is quiet, not much more than a breath over the side of her neck; his eyes are drooping, finally drifting closed.

It's for so much more than simply staying with him, though, and he relies on their unspoken communication; the way his arms subtly tighten around her, as though afraid to let go.

Thank you for staying with me, he says, silently; speaking with his heart rather than his faltering voice. For this second chance. Thank you for accepting the truth behind my mask, and enduring my weakness. For all of the small comforts, the little favours, the subtle gestures.

He ducks his head to bury it at her neck and shoulder, exhaling more sedately; though he seems tense. Is he waking up again? Thinking about something? Perhaps fighting sleep, in anticipation of having to return to that blood-stained hill again?

No, he simply pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, regarding her with half-closed violet eyes, and the ghost of that warm, heartfelt smile. He's too tired to properly smile, but he hopes that it conveys that unspoken warmth.

His hand rises, briefly brushing her own hair back from her face – lingering for just a moment in that soft gold – before pulling her close again. He's too tired to think, which may explain why he doesn't so much as hesitate before resting his head over hers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head; lips briefly touching the soft gold of her hair.

He has strength left to tighten his arms around her, just a bit. Maybe it can convey some of what he wants to say; too tired to speak, but not so tired that he can't try to convey those feelings.

I will always have need of you. You are more important to me than life itself, and I am shamed to admit that there were days in Camlann that I had wished to give up... but your memory spurred me on and lent me strength, even as I grieved for you. Thank you for that, for if I had not drawn strength from you then, I would not be here now.

"Thank you," he whispers aloud, letting his eyes slowly close. The words are just a breath.

Thank you for that which is more precious to me than any gold or silver; more precious still than the greatest treasures in the world.

She might notice that his expression is peaceful, this time, instead of pained. Even as he drifts toward sleep, he doesn't do so reluctantly this time – she is here, she will not leave him; and to know that seems to give him all the peace he needs.

Thank you for your love.

Saber (346) has posed:
From her summoning to the Einzbern castle chapel to fighting the Saber of the Seventh War – Lancelot – Saber's road had been a painfully slow one from the sorrow and desperation beneath the oak tree, to bitterness and anger over Emiya Kiritsugu's betrayal, to her arrival in the multiverse and Agrias's rescue, to the countless high and low points of her service as both Union free agent and Servant of Tohsaka Sakura. Though she had gradually began to show more of her true expressions each day, the sorrow of Camlann had never truly disappeared. She had decided that she could not sacrifice Sakura's life for her kingdom, and her wish would go unanswered, but the blood-soaked hill her Master could occasionally see in her dreams was a nightmare she could never atone for, never leave behind.

It was not until Lancelot had reappeared that Arturia realised that, perhaps through some small chance, some manner of redemption might be possible. She had welcomed the Knight of the Lake back into her fold, and a new wish was formed, one she had no need of the Holy Grail for. Not long after she had first fallen through a warpgate into the Union's citadel, she had decided that, if the Grail could not grant her wish, perhaps the multiverse could. Once more, she placed her hopes in that convoluted, bizarre mishmash of worlds and her faith on God, only this time, to bring her knights to her. God, it seemed, had decided this wish was acceptable.

And, it seemed, just in time. The exhaustion which had finally overtaken Bedivere was not simply from running himself ragged with work, or even the terrible nightmares of Camlann which he had worked himself ragged to avoid. No, this exhaustion of both body and soul ran far deeper, much more than she could have ever anticipated, even as she felt guilt over not having seen it earlier. It extended all the way back to Camlann, to his wandering through the forests surrounding it in weary search of a way back to Camelot. Or, perhaps, the roots extended further than that to Camelot itself, and the many hardships he had endured over twenty years.

If she had done nothing else well, she was impossibly grateful that she was there to help him when he had finally reached his limit. He was strong, but no person could endure all of it indefinitely. No matter how stubborn they were. After all, she had reached her own limit not too long ago.

She smiled faintly at the sound of gratitude. Really, he didn't need to thank her, even if she was glad for it. In other circumstances, that light breath would have been the cause of no small embarrassment for the both of them, but in this moment, Arturia could only feel a flood of relief; he was finally starting to drift into sleep. Slowly, but surely. "You are welcome, my love."

The subtle tightening of his arms spoke much more than even words could. Her own response was to continue to slip her fingers through the silvery strands of his hair with a delicate touch, accepting his unspoken words and gratitude. It still amazed her – and probably always would – at the gift she had been given in spite of having once cast aside that chance in order to sacrifice herself for Britain.

Green eyes met violet ones as their foreheads touched lightly, the hint of a warm smile which he was too tired to fully convey. However, that did nothing to lessen the warmth she felt. I, too...thank you for this second chance.

Arturia did not so much as flinch as his lips brushed the top of her head, only so much as a faint sigh escaped her lips. There would be many difficult journey ahead for them from now on, but that moment in his arms, she could only feel warmth and contentment. Yet there was a hint of steel it it; she would continue to support him and care for him in any way she could and God help anyone who stood in her way. My strength is yours, now and forever.

All her worry and fretting seemed to be washed away with the peaceful expression she had been wanting to see as he drifted to sleep, and carefully, she slipped her arm around him in an almost protective gesture. She would be his sword and shield, his strength and comfort, because he had given her a gift more precious than the brightest, clearest jewel.

As she in turn drifted off into a similar sleep, her expression of peace matched his.

Thank you for your love.