999999/When Summer Ends

When Summer Ends
Date of Scene:	23 September 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Mead: The mortal enemy of Sir Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It had been a long, weary walk back up the hill.

The market square is precisely halfway up the hill that the castle and town sit upon. At the lowest point are the village gates, where the curtain wall encircles the village. At the top is the castle itself, and its inner bailey, where the great oak grows and the central keep rises; destination of both the weary, disoriented marshal and his patient and attentive king.

Such a walk would ordinarily be a trivial thing. Once upon a time, the marshal would have made this walk without breaking a sweat, in better times. Such a walk would not have been dissimilar to the occasional changes in elevation throughout Camelot's castled city. Yet with the persistent weakness that had plagued him, he had not been able to take the entirety in one trip, especially not unsupervised or unaided.

And now that his health has been returned to him, however temporarily, he's too intoxicated to do it steadily. All bets are off after a full drinking-horn of mead.

Not once had Bedivere ever taken wine that wasn't heavily watered-down, to the point where it had often resembled wine-flavoured water more than anything else. The same had been said of any other liquors he had consumed. He couldn't afford to compromise his mental acuity, in Camelot, and there was always the possibility that he would miss some critically important piece of information, casually let slip; guards lowered once the keen marshal was too drunk to notice.

Actually, feigning intoxication might have been a useful tool to part information from disloyal nobles, but the marshal had never been one to compromise his integrity or his honour so.

Even when it had come to his well-being, he had refused straight alcohol. After the battle that had cost Caliburn, he had refused, delivering his report through agonising injury. Only the ministrations of the chirurgeons had finally rendered him unconscious, drugged with the by-product of some plant or another. Even other, lesser injuries that had been no less painful had not been drowned in wine. He had refused.

Maybe he'd gotten caught up in the festival air. This time, he was a participant, and not a guardsman, or the protector of the king. More than that, he was in a place where he could truly let down his guard, and call home. Even the presence of a few dubious guests couldn't seem to dampen his spirits. All of them appeared to follow Brehon Law in spite of that.

Unfortunately, poor Bedivere hadn't stood a chance against mead. Sweet as it tasted, without watering-down, there was no hope of his sobriety making it through that kind of trial by fire.

So it is that the walk uphill has taken a lot longer than it might otherwise have. As difficult as it is for Bedivere to coordinate himself, he's been stumbling into Arturia for most of the trip. Fortunately, she's much stronger than she looks, in spite of their disparate heights. She's had no trouble patiently holding him up, and enduring his mumbled apologies, as though he were genuinely confused as to why he can't place one foot in front of the other.

Thankfully, a stop at one of the many wells is a welcome breather. As some of the first initial work, he had ordered a number of them dug throughout the village, and others repaired. Although it seems redundant, such a system was meant to help reduce the risk of tainted water, relying on many smaller sources and the occasional engineering project straight from the lake instead of being dependent on a single source.

He'll offer no argument at drinking his fill of water. Apparently some dim, distant part of his mind knows he'd better not let himself stay dehydrated, having seen it happen often enough among incautious nobles who let their wine run away with them.

Several long draughts of water do much to revitalise him, and soon they're on their merry, bumbling way once more. It's enough to get him to the relative solitude of the castle keep, anyway. Amicable as he seems to be in his inebriation, he's lost his taste for a large gathering like that – though ever since Camlann, it seems to take little to sour him on such crowds and noise.

It seems like a small eternity of stumbling and walking before they reach the keep itself. Its gates are new planks of oak, fragrant and welcoming, and he can't help a sigh of relief as he staggers through them. The great hall is lit by torches and candles at this hour, as well as the blaze of the great hearth on one side of the room. It's as familiar now to him as any place he has ever stayed, and a great deal more welcoming.

Once they make their way in, Bedivere stumbles gratefully up to the hearth. The air still has a bit of a nip to it, and even though he's been wearing his mantled greatcloak, the chill was bound to reach him eventually, mead or no mead. He drops his empty drinking-horn on the table, and lets down the book he'd been carrying, as well – a leatherbound copy of Le Mort d'Arthur – before letting himself sink onto one of the stools before the fire. His uncertain balance nearly overturns the seat, initially, but he manages to find some kind of clumsy equilibrium.

"I'm just... going to sit here for a few minutes," he mumbles, slurring a bit and lowering his head to hold it in both hands. He stays that way for some time. It almost seems like he's not going to get up, or perhaps he's passed out that way, though the steady rise and fall of his breathing never quite changes. Finally, he stirs after a moment with a rustle of his cloak.

He straightens, grinning a lopsided grin when he does. "The fire feels good. Oh, aye, I know what—what mead is," he slurs. "I'd heard tale of the Saxons drinking something..." There's a long pause while he tries to find the right words, which it seems he never quite finds. "Of the Saxons drinking something such."

The grin falters momentarily. "But I hadn't actually seen it. Seen it myself. Heard of it, though. Think Lancelot'd mentioned it once or twice. Maybe?" He squints into the fire, sighing a long and drawn-out sigh while he tries to remember. Apparently he has no such luck, finally dropping his gaze after a moment. "Might have sent him over to have a look at their encramp... encar... camps, once," he finally finishes, slurring.

He's definitely drunk. Not only does he dispense with titles, the normally-eloquent marshal can't even speak clearly... although he doesn't seem to be in any particular distress. Indeed, she might find it endearing, if not for the torment he's likely to put himself through come the morning.

...Or the hangover.

He pauses, almost abruptly, and looks up to Arturia for several long moments. There is an intensity to his study, and an earnestness to his gaze, which almost speaks of sobriety... but for the way he squints a little. Still, he seems to be struggling to put something in mind, and his usual unspoken means of communication has all but failed him.

His mouth twists into a thoughtful frown, as though he were chasing down some elusive, but terribly important, thought.

"Should've said sooner," he mumbles, frowning a little more. Gradually, that expression lightens a little, into a lopsided and almost silly-looking smile. It's an echo of that shy and awkward smile of his, but it's not shy enough to overcome the effects of the mead, or the loosening of his tongue. "You look... you look beautiful like that, m'lady. Aye. Should've told you sooner."

And then he smiles such a pleased little smile, as though he were merely stating a blatantly obvious truth.

Well, in his mind, he is – the only difference is that if he were sober, he wouldn't be putting it to words, and there would be a good deal more stammering and blushing. The only blush he has is because he had entirely too much mead.

Saber (346) has posed:
The first indication that something was not-quite right with the multiverse had been difficult to miss. Arturia nearly jumped in surprise at the jovial praise – and their more personal form of address, much to her chagrin – from the tables, half-expecting to turn and find Gawain standing there with an empty horn of mead. Certainly not the normally stoic, taciturn Bedivere. She knew well that he disliked dulling his wits, therefore it had been rather unexpected to find that his curiosity had overridden his usual caution. Now it was abundantly clear just why that had been.

On the other hand, many of his reasons for that caution were gone. With Camelot in ruins and the people scattered, the Marshal of the Realm had been released from his duties to it, even as he desperately held onto his duties to her. Now, he was free to let slip the mask and not be so cautious and reserved, at least within the walls of Dún Reáltaí. Of course, the flaxen-haired knight had not expected that all it would take was a single horn of mead. True, his cup had always been so diluted as to be little more that water lightly flavoured with wine; even the pain of injuries he had sustained in the final battle against the Saxons had never been blunted with it. Still, she had not expected his tolerance to have been quite as low as it had proven to be.

The journey up the hill was proving a challenge, not due to her lack of strength but keeping the staggering knight somewhat on his feet. All of his usual grace and sturdiness was gone along with most of his wits. Arturia was grateful that he'd held on to enough of it to realise that he should probably draw his evening to a close. While he had done nothing particularly embarrassing, the knight-king found herself wincing in sympathetic embarrassment at the eventual teasing he was going to be subjected to after the fact....even if several others were similarly three sheets to the wind, as the sailors of Britain's ports often referred to it.

And nothing was going to spare him from regretting it the next morning, even if she insisted on stopping at the well first. At this point, Arturia was merely mitigating some of the damage.

She noted how difficult it was for Bedivere to traverse the hill, something that, years ago, wouldn't have so much as caused him to breathe a little more rapidly. however, after the five years of burning himself out after Camlann and the slow recovery following two battles in which he had been seriously injured, it was not so surprising that his body hadn't been able to keep up. But after the gift from the visiting Loros – as wary as she was of the wizard – perhaps he could resume training once more. That was something the jade-eyed knight was looking forward to.

The stop at the well had been planned with twofold reasons. The first was, naturally, to have the knight drink enough water to at least blunt the morning's hangover. The second was to allow him to catch his breath. While it would have been preferable to reach the kitchen and draw water from there, Arturia was not entirely certain he would have been able to make it that far in a single go. Silently, she praised the foresight of the engineers who had suggested several wells tapping into the underground water sources, and with more advanced techniques introduced, it was safe enough to drink. It had been a prudent decision, though at the moment, it was simply a welcome convenience.

Arturia did not so much as hesitate to hold the dram of water steady for him as he drank, nor to resume the last leg of the stumbling journey. There was no indication at all that she was bothered by the length of time it took to reach the keep; instead, she simply reassured him with each mumbled apology. Even then, she sighed with gratitude when they finally reached the new oak doors of the castle proper. Though her strength would hardly wane from such a walk, the same could hardly be said of him.

She could sense through their bond – even as inebriated as he was – the relief Bedivere felt, both in distancing himself from the din of the festival as well as in the simple act of coming home. It was more than merely the proximity of a warm bed and the promise of sleep...it was the comfort, the sense of truly belonging. Arturia had always felt somewhat out of place in the multiverse no matter where she went; even living with the Tohsaka sisters had felt strange, and she could never shake the subtle feeling of being alien. No such feeling existed for her in Dún Reáltaí, and it hardly stretched credibility to imagine the violet-eyed knight felt much the same.

Setting aside her cloak, Arturia blinked owlishly as Bedivere set down the leather-bound book. Its presence caught her by surprise; he had managed to hold onto it all that time? It didn't demand much reasoning on her part to figure out who had gifted him with it, and she frowned deeply at it, as if the book itself was dangerous. What exactly was Loros up to with that? Yet, she set aside those concerns as she helped the intoxicated knight into a nearby chair as best she could, even as he nearly tipped over in the process.

Sinking gratefully into an adjacent chair, she continued to keep a watchful eye on her charge, debating on whether or not attempting to build up his tolerance might be a good idea. There would likely be other social situations which would demand it, and if he wanted to keep some semblance of his wits he would need it.

For a moment, his king suspected he had fallen asleep, and she debated how she was going to get him up the five flights of stairs if she couldn't wake him up. At least, not without a great deal of embarrassment if she attempted to do so herself. Perhaps she could flag down one of the servants of the keep, even if she was loathe to interrupt the festivities...

After a moment, however, the silver-haired knight revived. At least he was a cheerful drunk; with all he had suffered for years, she had been expecting him to be far more maudlin. Perhaps this was a good thing, and more than likely what the villager who had given it to him in the first place had in mind. She suspected that the purpose had been – at least in part – to get their stoic lord to 'loosen up'. She couldn't fault them, really...and it was touching in a way.

"Aye, mead," she said. Curiously, the word she used was the Welsh one, medd, rather than the Old Irish mid. A warrior's drink throughout the various kingdoms and tribes, its manufacture demanded a great amount of honey and years to properly ferment. Far more common were the varieties melomel and gruit – of which fraoch was favoured in the northern heaths with the abundance of heather – where the former required less honey and the latter used grains and bittering herbs. If made to ferment quickly, mead tended to be so indistinguishable from cider that it was simply more economical to ferment the more easily-obtained apples for cider.

Yet, the Saxons seemed to have consumed it in large quantities, something that the King of Britain found to be wasteful. While commoners were free to use their own resources as they deemed fit, honey was far too precious a commodity to waste within Camelot's walls, and the king diverted its use for far more vital medical treatment. Perhaps she had been more strict with resources than was absolutely necessary, but Arturia had despised the frivolousness of the court. It was hardly surprising that Bedivere had had little contact with such a thing, as a result of her austerity.

The knight-king stifled a sigh. Definitely drunk. She should probably get him to bed at the earliest convenience.

She found him studying her again, not entirely unlike the previous week at breakfast. Though he was doubtless oblivious to what he was doing, she couldn't quite suppress the flush of her cheeks; the entirely involuntary reaction at being studied so. Or rather, being studied that way by him. She had been sized up countless times before on the battlefield and off, yet in all those times, not once was she beset by that strange bashfulness.

And yet the worst was yet to come. She frowned slightly, puzzled at what he thought he should have said earlier. That didn't last for very long, however.

Her face heated abruptly, nearly matching the fire as she blinked owlishly at his open admission. Oh, things were said between the previous céilidh and this one, but the silver-haired knight had only obliquely hinted at it. A comment on her loveliness he seemed to downplay as an offhanded remark, or saying a particular look suited her. But that was the first time she recalled him outright saying she was beautiful.

He might regret that even more than the hangover.

Suddenly, Arturia turned her head, the braid over her shoulder flopping around to her back as she looked away, her elbow propped on her knee as her hand cradled her chin and covered her mouth. The furious blush persisted even as she murmured something unintelligible. Hammered he might be, but that was still more than she could necessarily respond to without the usual hopeless stammering.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The role reversal is almost laughable. This time, the stoic marshal had been the one to sample the mead, and the king's freewheeling nephew had been the one to miss the céilidh because of reading material. One has to wonder just what sort of cosmic events had come together for that kind of strange and ironic coincidence. No doubt when Gawain finds out, he'll never let Bedivere live that down.

Once upon a time, the marshal had been so reserved that people had likely wondered if it was possible for him to enjoy himself. Much like his king, he had never so much as smiled within the courts. No one had ever heard him laugh. If he took wine, it was watered-down, and that was common knowledge. The only part that wasn't known was just how much water he would add. He couldn't afford even the slightest lapse in his judgment, and not just because he feared missing some crucial slip of the tongue in some contentious nobleman or another.

No; he couldn't afford a slip in his own composure. At that time, he could not afford the possibility that he might let slip his own motivations, or his secret love.

Where once he had been so reserved that people had wondered if he ever could enjoy himself, he now smiles within Dún Reáltaí; offering comfort and reassurance to the villagers who have worked so hard. Where once he had only contented himself with his distant charity-work, he can speak to them directly, and treat them with the gratitude and more humane touch that they deserve.

Unfortunately, he might have overdone things just a bit, this time.

That relief is almost palpable once they've crossed the threshold of the keep. Even the Tohsaka residence had not been so comfortable, to him; if anything, it had been foreign, and somehow not very welcoming – as much a product of its design as the subtle layers of wards wrapped around the property. He was mortal, although perhaps his latent potential kept the wards' effects from outright driving him away. Yet it had not been welcoming in the least. It was a place to stay, no more and no less, and the only reason he had tolerated it was for Arturia's sake.

"Mead," he agrees, a little unfocused. His expression twists, souring momentarily. "Didn't expect it to be this strong. Ugh. How'd the Sax... Saxons... how'd they drink so much of this? Tastes good, but... aye... creeps up on you. And then—" He claps his hands, a little imperfectly, "—well. I wonder... if it ever hit 'em so hard...?"

Probably. He can remember, dimly, the sight of distant Saxon camps where a few of the more successful warriors had been in various states of hopeless intoxication; glimpses stolen from the tops of hills, keen eyes allowing him to observe as best he could what sort of resistance they could expect on those campaigns.

It seems so terribly long ago, now.

Bedivere blinks a little owlishly, watching as Arturia abruptly colours and looks away, braid whipping over her shoulder to match her sudden movement. Was it something he said? He can't quite hear her mumbling vaguely, his vaunted perceptions dulled by the mead. Lurching to his feet, he staggers a bit unsteadily over to her chair, peering down at her as though he were struggling to see clearly.

"Something I said—?" He cocks his head, though the sudden loss of equilibrium causes him to stagger. Rather than fall over, he simply drops to one knee, wincing a little when he misjudges the distance to the ground and bangs his kneecap against the flagstones. That serves to sober him a little, but apparently not very much; so accustomed to enduring pain is he. The worry on his face is almost comical, and so is the flush – all the more noticeable for his usually-pale complexion. "Are you—are you alright, m'lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights was more than a little certain that there would be a few who would not be letting him live this down, not the least of which would be the Knight of the Sun. She fully expected to be woken up the next morning or sometime during the night by some very boisterous laughter when he heard what had happened. But by far the marshal was going to be enduring the brunt of Gawain's amusement for a long time to come.

Yet, Arturia was reasonably certain that he had needed something like this for a very long time. Not necessarily the "getting drunk" part so much as the ability to finally let slip the mask. It was one thing to do so in her presence, quite another in front of the townspeople and their Union friends and allies. To be comfortable enough to do so was another indicator that he had finally found a refuge, a place to truly rest and make a new life for himself, without the need to be constantly guarded. And with God's blessing, she had been able to do the same by his side, allowing her own mask to fall away.

Not that she seemed to have much choice in that matter, anyway. Bedivere's mere presence appeared to cause it to crumble away into nothing.

In fact, it seemed to happen whenever there was something which affected her knight in some way. Once more, she had lost her temper at the treacherous fox who had taken up residence in their hall, and they could not turn her out in accordance with the laws of hospitality. But that hardly meant that Arturia could keep her temper in check when Kagenashi continued to needle someone she cherished so deeply. Even when she tried to remain calm, the fury simply rose in spite of it. What exactly the nogitsune was trying to do, she was never certain, but she was reasonably sure that whatever it was could not be good for either of them.

It was shameful, unknightly, undignified, certainly not in keeping with the Virtues. So why was it that she could no more keep her temper in check than when she had raged against the King of Heroes? Kagenashi had never insulted her honour, her knighthood, or her way of the king as far as she knew. Yet she was every bit as angry as when Gilgamesh had her by the hair and lewdly taunted her. It was as if she was watching through a warped mirror, the way the nogitsune needled him.

It was probably just as well she had enough of a distraction; Bedivere seemed panicked at his king's rising ire. That must have surely thrown him off at the previous céilidh, the way her mask cracked to reveal an anger he had seen only once before as she decapitated the Saxon chieftain. Then, it had been a deadly, icy cold, like a northern gale. Against Gilgamesh, her rage had burned like fire. But directed at Kagenashi, it was like steel.

The Servant frowned slightly; she would rather not think on it at the moment, and she had more immediate matters to consider. Those five flights of stairs looked daunting at the moment, even if she would hardly be winded ascending them. The same couldn't be said of her marshal. It was just as well when he all but collapsed in front of the hearth; she was reluctant to tackle the stairs straight away. And perhaps the effects of the mead might wear off...if only a little.

"They consumed enough of it to weather its effects," Arturia explained, probably fruitlessly. If he remembered any of this the next morning she would be amazed. "Though I suspect some were drunk even as they charged into battle." At least, that was her suspicion, considering some of the otherwise insane methods of battle the barbarians employed. Naturally, the very idea was an affront to her proper sensibilities and the Virtues.

The sound of the silver-haired knight rising from his chair – or trying to – jerked her head back. Unfortunately, the blush was still there. "Ah! No, no...it is all right," she insisted, flailing a bit as if to reassure him "It is nothing to be concerned over..."

Rising abruptly from her own chair, her own usual elegance fumbled a little trying to help keep him upright. "Really, you should not try to rise just yet..."

Not that her attempt met with success, the marshal landing painfully on one knee. Possibly another point to regret the following morning, she surmised. "I am fine," she attempted to reassure him, though the success of her attempt remained dubious, especially given the lingering blush. "You did not say anything wrong. Do not worry over it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If he'd been asked a year ago whether he might consider letting his mask fall away like this, Bedivere would have given an emphatic refusal. He had relied on that mask for so long that it was second nature to him; as natural as breathing, and in his eyes almost as vital. Only Arturia's reappearance, without her regal obligations, had seemed to encourage it to fall away. Even then, it sometimes took coaxing. It took conscious effort at other times. Yet the sum result was that slowly, oh so slowly, Bedivere had begun to come out of his shell.

The land also seemed to be part of the reason for Bedivere lowering his guard so. Dún Reáltaí itself was a refuge for both of them, a place of peace and rest. In that way, it was so much more than just a place to come back to after the day's work is done – it's something much deeper than that. It's a place they look forward to returning to.

That he can be so comfortable here is a blessing in and of itself. He can be slightly inebriated or roaring drunk here, and it's his home. Bedivere need not feel the urge to compose himself behind that mask again.

Besides which, it's impossible to do in her presence any more. He couldn't even if he tried.

No doubt the marshal hasn't even considered those five flights of stairs yet. It's good just to rest for a moment, although he seems to be having mixed results with that. While he may not necessarily be winded by trying to climb them, he's too unsteady just yet. Arturia would have to support him; he'd be staggering into her for the entirety of the trip... not that he hasn't been doing that since finishing off that drinking-horn.

"Must be it," Bedivere decides, in light of Arturia's superior knowledge. At least, it seems logical enough to his mead-muddled wits. He even nods a bit, though the gesture is a little exaggerated. "Aye. Built up a... got themselves enough... er... ah. Tolerance," he finally says, as though proud of himself for finding the right word. "Aye. Tolerance."

He wavers a little, but being down on one knee helps keep him somewhat balanced. "Aye?" This, to her insistence that she's alright. "You are hale? Ah."

Head lowering, his hair falls across his face, though it does nothing to dim the smile he wears. It's an odd one, as though it couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to be happy, or embarrassed, or shy; or merely content. Maybe there's a bit of unsteadiness in it as well. If he were sober, it would be the kind of expression that revealed his hidden heart; that warm, caring smile that said more for him than any words.

Instead it just looks a little awkward. Endearing, perhaps, but still awkward. "Well, then. So long as you're hale... aye...?"

He seems to lurch for a moment, forced to reach out to her chair to steady himself. Hovering over her for a moment, he simply studies her, as though he were trying so hard to do so in a coherent manner... as though there were something important he wanted to say, and it were ever on the tip of his tongue.

"M'lady..."

The pause hangs for a moment, as though he had more to say. His expression of intense concentration is likely almost comical – he's really trying to find whatever thought has slipped his focus, it seems.

Gradually, his head lowers over hers, eyes sliding over to the crackling fire. He seems so sure that he'd had whatever he was going to say, frowning as he tries to find it. It puts him rather near her; no doubt she can smell the mead on his breath still. Just as well that he seems so focused on trying to think of whatever thought's eluded him – he doesn't yet seem to notice that he's so close to her; doubtless that even in his drunken haze, he would still flail about it.

"...A moment. I... I had it a moment ago... had it on the tip of my tongue... ah, blood and damnation, thinking's hard," he mumbles, mournfully. "What was it...?"

His frown deepens, even as his eyes hood, staring sightlessly into the fire. "Something important. Had it."

Given his sobriety, or lack thereof, one might wonder just what it is that he considers important at the moment...

Saber (346) has posed:
There were times when Arturia still had need of her mask as the Servant Saber, those moments when battle or a tense political situation was upon them. Keeping her true thoughts hidden often proved useful, even necessary, when surrounded by hostiles or the untrustworthy. But she had been slowly coaxed out of her shell by the combined – though not co-ordinated – efforts of Agrias, Sakura, and others. Lancelot's reappearance had cracked it even further. But only her reunion with Bedivere and finding a home in Dún Reáltaí had made its dissolution complete.

But it was hardly such a bad thing...even if poor Bedivere hadn't known what to make of it when he had laid eyes on her for the first time in five years, finding her alive again. She could hardly blame him; her mask had been as flawless as his. And now, there was a place where it was safe to allow it to slip completely. Comfort aside, it turned out to be necessary; she could not seem to keep it intact when it came to the Marshal of the Realm.

It was the unsteadiness which concerned her regarding the stairs; at the moment, he was liable to stumble and break his neck. The petite knight was not willing to test just how far Loros's gift extended. Even supporting him, she was not entirely confident she could keep her grip on him regardless of her Servant's strength, some of that uncertainty possibly on account of just how bizarre the evening seemed to have turned out. The role reversal was strange enough, but witnessing the otherwise taciturn, carefully-poised marshal so talkative and off-balance almost made it appear that Judgment Day was upon them.

Gawain was certainly going to enjoy himself thoroughly at the news. While his king wouldn't be sharing any secrets, the same could not be said of the villagers and various guests. Word was going to get out, blast it all.

"Aye, tolerance," she agreed, inwardly cringing at how embarrassed the silver-haired knight was going to be tomorrow morning. At least the hangover wouldn't have the same kind of lingering effects., assuming he would be able to remember. For his sake, she hoped he wouldn't, just as she had when he recovered from his battle with Magatha. It had been her own embarrassment which had even hinted that there was something amiss, though at least this time Arturia didn't anticipate any more such surprises. And it was a good thing; as it turned out, she was horrible at keeping secrets from him, the disadvantage of their close bond.

"Aye, I am hale." Horribly embarrassed, perhaps, but hale. It might very well be that the both of them would one day into the future be able to look back on this and find amusement in it, but for the moment that escaped her. Still, she considered with a faint smile, he was rather endearing in his current earnestness, his tongue loosened by the mead. Even as close as they were, there remained subtle layers which she dared not reveal just yet. It would seem that it was indeed that way for Bedivere, as well, some of which may have only surfaced from his inebriated state.

"Aye, aye...it is all right," she reassured again, waving her hand as if to dissuade his worries before reaching out to steady him. Whatever it was that he was trying to say, Arturia couldn't discern, but she nevertheless waited patiently. The poor knight was trying so hard to focus, to find something important; the least she could do was wait.

"'Tis not an easy thing to think through it, no," she agreed, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "I am certain it will come again....perhaps tomorrow."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In turn, there are times when the silver-haired knight still has need of his familiar mask and the same kind of icy, unruffled confidence he had shown as Marshal of the Realm. Those instances are becoming rarer, though. At this point they're almost isolated to those times when he must speak with those he considers enemies, or those whose motives he isn't quite certain he trusts.

Yet instead of a group of friends and allies to coax him out of his own mask, it had been the work of but a single person – Arturia, who had shown him by example that he need not hide himself away as he had done for so long.

Even if he had wanted to, though, it was impossible. He could maintain that aura of cold confidence against anyone but her. Merely being in her presence seemed to unravel any efforts to control his reactions that closely, try as he normally might, and it's reached the point where he no longer even tries. There's no point or percentage in it. Maintaining that distance is no more than a waste of time, as they've each acknowledged, and a waste of this second chance; more valuable and precious to him than could even be named.

Indeed, word would be out about the marshal's unusual behaviour. No doubt the villager that had handed him the mead would be the one proudly spreading his or her tale of their grand lord behaving like a drunken fool. Well, perhaps not so harshly. After all, the people wanted him to relax and to enjoy himself, with a celebration they'd planned in honour of all the hard work he and his lady had done, for their sake. Unfortunately, they just didn't know him that well – that kind of thing wasn't ordinarily in his nature.

All is not lost, though. Knowing this place is safe, that it's home, he's slowly begun to shed those outermost layers he presents to the public, and those vestiges from protecting himself within Camelot. That he even allowed himself to taste the mead was a step in that direction, let alone to drain the entire drinking-horn... though, perhaps its deceptively sweet taste kept him from really understanding just how potent it is. He certainly feels it now. The poor man can hardly keep himself together, wits (and dignity) scattered to the four winds.

He smiles that unsteady smile when she says she's hale, apparently content to take her at her word. "Then I'm glad," he manages to say, without slurring too badly. Close as he is, it doesn't take much effort for him to reach out and rest a hand against the side of her face, smiling that soft, slightly unfocused smile. "Anything for you, my lady... my love. "

His hand trembles, but it's not a case of nerves. It's probably a miracle he can prop himself up with the other arm, and manages to do it without misjudging his balance and collapsing.

When she pats his shoulder in that reassuring way, he frowns again, as though it were a matter most grave. His eyes hood, as though he were still trying to fish out that errant thought from the morass of his own drunken mind; not quite resigned yet to give up on it. By this point he's using her chair to hold himself up, one arm braced over her to the other arm, the other dropping from her face to prop himself up more steadily.

"No," he agrees, slurring a little. "Not so easy right now... but it'll come... maybe. Something important..." His expression shifts to one of concentration again, violet eyes hooding. "And I always remember... the important things." For a brief instant he looks uncertain. "Aye? Do I... do I not?"

Sighing, he lowers himself over her, likely because he has no more strength to half-kneel and half-prop himself up over her chair. Mostly, this seems to entail folding his arms over her lap and laying his head down on it, not particularly concerned about the proximity. Or the potential embarrassment to Arturia. "Hmmnn. Always remembered... the most important things. Never forgot them... in Camelot... but you know," he adds, violet eyes sliding up to regard her, "couldn't say them."

"Always remembered... the most important thing of all. But... secrets," he adds, gaze dropping to the fire, "so many... secrets. Had as many as you did, I think. Sometimes." Those violet eyes hood, and his mood seems to go from cheerful to melancholy; but without the benefit of his usually-keen mind. "Wasn't... wasn't really fair. I think. Oh," he adds, picking his head up, wavering a bit. "I remember..."

Bedivere stays as he is for a moment, looking into the fire, and for a moment it's questionable whether he's forgotten whatever it was he remembered. He finally glances back to Arturia, staring at her with such concentration that it might even be a little awkward – he seems intense, but his mind is just such a hopeless haze of mead and scattered thoughts that it's up to fate whether he even can think anything through.

But he finally smiles that uncertain, slightly wavering smile; the one that seems such a throwback to that soft, shy smile... when he's sober, anyway.

"Remember now," he adds, in a mumble, that smile broadening; his hand lifts again, to cup the side of her face a little unsteadily. "Even then... even in Camelot... you were always... always so beautiful... my lady. To me, you... you always put the other ladies to shame. Couldn't say it. But it was true. They wanted my attention... sometimes... but they weren't you." Yes, even in her armour and projecting as much of that regal, kingly nature as she could, he saw right through it, even then. He remembers seeing right through it, even in the midst of his intoxication. "S'why I never... never took a wife," he tries to explain, uncertainly.

"Gawain asked me, sometimes... Lancelot did once, too... but... I couldn't tell them..." He trails off for a moment, as though he were trying very hard to focus, eyes narrowing. "Couldn't... tell them that I wouldn't have anyone but you... that if it was anyone else it... it wouldn't be... ugh." The poor marshal seems to struggle for the right word, and gives up on it. "Wouldn't be right."

He wavers a bit, before slowly leaning forward; head coming to rest against her shoulder. He doesn't move for a few minutes, staying there as though he just didn't have the balance to try and get up again... which, given his state of affairs, may well be true.

But he eventually sighs against her shoulder, so he's not passed out just yet.

"But I can now," he mumbles against her neck, words vague and unclear. "You... were the most beautiful of them all. Arturia. My love."

The poor man is going to be absolutely horrified if he remembers any of this.

Saber (346) has posed:
Perhaps it had been nothing more than a selfish wish: to be reunited with her knights somehow and to make amends – perhaps not in knighthood but in the friendship she now longed for. Arturia had assumed she would meet them once more on the field of battle, but as Servants; though her own War had concluded and she had withdrawn from it, she nevertheless hoped they would not regard her now as an enemy to defeat to claim the relic. Her reunion with her Right Hand had given her a small hope, that this wish would not be so impossible as it seemed. After all, Lancelot had returned – not as a mindless Berserker consumed with rage and guilt, but as a Saber – and wished to reclaim his place at her side as her knight once more, a thing she gladly granted.

Yet, she almost dared not hope; the Throne of Heroes existed outside of time and space, and the multiverse – which the flaxen-haired knight had found to be much more accommodating – was vast. The chances of crossing paths with another of her knights was a slim prospect, indeed. But once more, God had granted another wish, and in a most unexpected but not unwelcome way; it had returned her Left Hand to her side as a mortal. She had had to keep her hope contained even for the nearly impossible, to be reunited as Servants, to dare to hope he would still be alive seemed too much to plead with God for. That she was even able to maintain some sliver of her familiar reserve at finding him again was a miracle unto itself.

Regardless, she could not allow this chance to slip by, and dropped her mask as much as she was able to, mindful that Bedivere would be more than a little disconcerted at seeing her as something other than the cold and distant king. Perhaps he would be disappointed, she had worried, but in the end decided that she could not waste this opportunity. And as awkward as it was at first, that almost uncharacteristic boldness of hers had been rewarded with an even deeper bond...along with quite the unexpected turn.

And that, she mused with a faint blush, was certainly something she had never dared dream of.

It was just as well that her marshal was currently drunk; he would have noticed that easily. Then again, even mead could probably only blunt a little of that keen eye which seemed to see almost everything. Arturia stifled a sigh; she doubted that her involuntary actions would go unnoticed even now. If the villagers had hoped their lord would lose himself a little, they had been only partially right. The potent honey wine appeared not so much change his personality as release some of those buried layers he had jealously guarded to protect the both of them and her kingdom. Yet, they would certainly have been revealed following an empty drinking horn. Certainly, the townsfolk had discovered that their lord could not mind his grog at all.

But then, they were safe within those walls, and even the more questionable company could do nothing to take advantage of his current intoxication even had they been so inclined. This was not Camelot, where their enemies held nearly equal power to the king.

Fortunately, the gesture was a more frequent one, late at night as she had comforted him as he tried to sleep, or return to it from the recurring nightmare-memories of Camlann. While it was more familiar, however, his gentle hand against her face still drew a faint blush from her, not to mention words which were likewise only said when they were alone. No...though she would always mourn Camelot in some part, it would never have been possible while she still ruled it to be at his side in this way. It would have been impossible for them to love each other.

And it certainly would have been impossible to compromise his wits. Arturia tried to keep him steady as best she could, though the constant shifting made it a challenge. "Aye, you do," she reassured him soothingly. "I always trusted you, I knew that you would..."

Keeping her own composure was proving more difficult by the second, particularly when the violet-eyed knight nearly collapsed right on her lap. She had thought, some time ago when they had been in the middle of earlier embarrassing situation, that her face could not possibly have burned more. How very wrong she had been. Perhaps it was out of her sense of shock that she was able to stifle any sound or keep from jumping out of her chair, but whatever it was kept her remaining perfectly silent and still.

She could not immediately respond, praying he wouldn't be able to sense her fleeting discomfiture before the jade-eyed knight managed to suppress it. He was drunk, it was not anything terrible, it would pass. After a moment of hesitation, her hand lifted to his head, stroking his hair gently. "Yes...so many secrets..." she mused.

The petite knight blinked owlishly as Bedivere suddenly remembered – or thought he did – what he had intended to say. She was not entirely sure that was the case, but whatever it was seemed important to him regardless. It might have been that he would only find the courage to tell her of what had troubled him so deeply after the effects of the mead. Her brows knitted slightly under his scrutiny; normally she would flush and perhaps even look away, but at the moment it seemed as if he was staring to try to remember.

That flush made an appearance, however, at what would have been the shy smile she had found so endearing. Yet even that was merely a preamble to the furious blushing at his confession...a confession that harboured not a single doubt as to the nature of what he had found of beauty. It was one thing for him to have obliquely recalled how he had been struck by it – at least, what he had found it to be – but it was quite another to be told so directly. It wasn't merely her beauty, which she had passed off somewhat at the regal bearing of the king which she had projected. No, this...this left no room for doubt.

Her? Beautiful? Not as the image of the perfect king, but as a woman? Arturia had willingly cast aside her femininity to rule, but it had never been something she had particularly thought about. Even at the side of Irisviel, she had never thought about the possibility of being feminine, taking on the role of the gallant knight at her side. She had not even questioned it beside Sakura...not until the violet-haired magus – with quite a bit of help – began trying to bring out that femininity she had never known she even possessed. It was common knowledge now that her more feminine side was no longer hidden, but that was after five years of Sakura and Fate working to bring it out in her.

But in Camelot, when there was nothing of that femininity to be found, when she had hidden it so completely that even the king herself remained unaware of it? Bedivere, it seemed, saw things that even she had not seen...and not simply because he was observant.

Even if he might not remember the next morning, Arturia still owed it to him to share some honesty on her part. "I...I still do not understand how you could have seen such a thing in me," she confessed, the self-deprecating, self-critical part of her surfacing. But even as she tried, she found herself as tongue-tied as usual. "I did not know what it was in my heart when I watched you, but...I heard the ladies of the court, and I wondered why, though it was not my place to say..."

In fact, now that she thought about it, the only times she had ever started to feel insecure about not being a proper lady had been during those stolen glances late into the evening.

The marshal was not going to be alone in his horror the next morning.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
After the ravages of Camlann, such a reunion was more than the silver-haired knight might have asked for. That he might see his brother-knights again, let alone his king, was an impossibility. He had never experienced the world as a Servant, for he alone had survived that conflagration; to ask for that would have been to catch smoke with his bare hands. More than that, it would have been presumptuous. He hadn't believed himself worthy of such a blessing then, and he still struggles with that now. True, it's getting easier, but there are some old hurts that only time can cure him of. The scars of Camlann, and all that they've caused in him, are at the forefront of that list.

Having a home helps; a place of safety and warmth where he can recover. It seems to be just as much a boon to his king, who had suffered from her own scars – both from Camelot, Camlann, and later, from the inner world of Annu.

He had not dared hope at all, and that had been his problem. He had been a shell, a rough approximation of chivalry that functioned by rote, and there had been little life left in him when she had found him. The familiar fire that he had shown as a knight-aspirant had very nearly been snuffed out; given way to apathy and despair, however deeply buried. If he had gone on for much longer before she had found him, no doubt it would have been put out permanently.

Where once he might have stuttered and struggled to get through such a bold admission, the silver-haired knight is carried right along by the mead, tongue loosened and words a bit bolder than they might otherwise be. Yet it also seems to dull his wits, for he doesn't immediately sense her discomfort when he slumps forward over her.

He does make a faint sound of what might be enjoyment when she runs her fingers through his hair, but it's hard to say. It doesn't quite resolve itself into proper words, but he still manages to make his appreciation known. It's a soothing gesture, no matter what the circumstances; just as having her close by in any form soothes him. Although the silver-haired knight seems almost skittish about even standing close to others, and reacts poorly to being touched, those restrictions don't seem to apply to her presence. Somehow, the very thing that distresses him so much with anyone else is a comfort, coming from her... even while hopelessly drunk.

Maybe he senses her doubt at his praise, even in his addled state – he smiles unsteadily when she seems to hesitate, and at the red rising in her face.

"Don't argue," he says simply, reaching out to rest a hand against the side of her face again, though it's just a bit unsteady. His words are a little more confident this time, absolutely convinced of them. "It's true. Always was true. I knew it when I first saw you." He'd suspected her secret even then? Well, he had always had keen perceptions, and it was that, among other qualities, which made him such a valuable marshal. If he had not been so honourable and straightforward, he might have made an efficient spymaster, too. He had the capacity to think deviously, even if he was unwilling to act on such stratagems.

For a moment he almost looks proud of himself for revealing that observation. "Nobody else saw it. You hid it. Think you think you don't have it..." Bedivere trails off, as though trying to logic his way through that statement, awkwardly making sure he used his words right. "...Aye," he adds, unsteadily, confirming it to himself before continuing on. "But that's it—"

She protests, as expected, and he takes a moment to squint at her. The expression isn't angry; merely uncomprehending over her denial. His expression is probably endearingly puzzled – as though he just doesn't get it.

"Heh." It's a soft laugh, although it slurs a little, and his grin is a little lopsided. He runs the pad of his thumb along the line of her jaw in unsteady gesture. "So bad with praise, my love. But you deserve it. And it's true, you know... all true..."

Somehow he finds the control to raise that hand, running his fingers a little clumsily through her hair – not enough to pull at anything uncomfortably, but not with quite the same finesse he might have if he were sober. Yet he has that look of concentration about him, as though he were trying to keep another fragmentary thought from getting away from him. That seems to happen a lot, with the mead.

"Not the same kind of beauty," he finally says, thinking it over with his hand lowering back to rest against the side of her face. His gaze slants away as he considers, mouth twisting in a faint frown. "No. S'different. You... have a different beauty. Not the same as those nobles' wives and sisters and mothers and daughters," he muses aloud. "Not defined by dresses or walking a certain way or giving favours to the knights before a joust..."

He tilts his head, studying her more directly, as though he were trying desperately to come up with the word; looking a little disappointed when it doesn't come to him very easily. After a moment his head drops, and he heaves a sigh of despair. "Ugh. Can't think," he mumbles, as though to himself, before raising his head again and regarding her closely. "You're..."

"...Different," he finally says, helplessly.

That's... that's not what I wanted to say...

Thinning his lips, he tries again. "No, there's... something... you're a king. But that's not it," he adds, helplessly, somehow finding the balance to gesture briefly with the hand that had been propping himself up. "Not that. More... elegant. You have more dignity than any of them. You know what you want and you go out and you get it, and that's why we followed you... because we wanted someone... someone..." Once again he finds himself stumbling over wording. "Someone confident. But... that's not it either."

He sighs, eyes dropping; but his gaze doesn't stay there for long, lifting back to her. Leaning in, he frowns at her, as though he were still trying to dig up that errant word... but no such luck. Or, maybe he's considering something; mulling some statement over in his own drunken way. Even hopelessly inebriated, he seems to have the same core of thoughtfulness.

"Ah, blood and damnation," he mutters simply, and a bit of a grin briefly touches his face. It's odd enough for him to curse, let alone in her presence; it's odder still that he seems to do so with such good cheer, as though he were resigning himself to something—

And then he leans forward and, oh so carefully – and a little clumsily – presses his lips to hers.

"Wanted to do that for so many years," he says softly and earnestly. "So many years, dear heart..." It's hardly a kiss, more of a brief brush of his lips over hers, but that hardly seems to matter to him. He wavers a bit as he straightens, but that grin doesn't so much as flicker, as though he were proud of himself for finding his (very much liquid) courage.

Some tiny, tiny part of him may well be sobbing in a corner and praying that he remembers absolutely none of this by the morning.

If he does, it'll probably be enough to get him to swear off mead... permanently.

Saber (346) has posed:
If she was to be completely honest with herself, it had been more than a little unfair of Arturia to hope that her marshal had survived Camlann, knowing what it had cost him. She could vaguely remember before she had prayed for her miracle and pleaded for the chance at the only thing which could save her kingdom, she had despaired over her fear that her knights had fallen to a man. She would soon be joining them – in body, at least – but they had deserved a better fate. Summoned at that point, she would not remember her final order to Bedivere: return Excalibur to the lake. Discovering that he had been the one to carry that out was at once a blessing and a curse; she was relieved and happy that he had survived, but at the same time it was a terrible thing to burden him with. And, as she was later to find out, an admission that the woman he loved was dying. Had she known, the diminutive knight was not certain she could have asked that of him.

But even then, she found herself grateful that her Left Hand had lived. And he was here, now, without that added burden of existing as a Servant bound to a Master. She remained ignorant of her role in saving him in spirit, simply glad for his comforting presence once more. Glad that she was able to do something for him, repay him for his two decades of service to crown and kingdom....and her.

It was a good thing indeed that the mead had blunted those famous wits, at least for the sake of what little dignity Arturia still held onto. Strangely, once the initial embarrassment had passed, she had to admit that this was rather enjoyable. His hair was soft beneath her fingers, and his faint sound of enjoyment encouraged her further. Even in Camelot, she had found herself admiring the pale silver, idly wondering how it would feel if she ran her fingers through it. She had always ruthlessly banished such thoughts before they went further; it had been a wholly inappropriate thought regarding her subordinate. Yet now, she was free to indulge herself.

Rather like everything about their new home, she mused. They were free to leave aside their masks, ask questions, show affection...

Once more, her cheeks coloured. Perhaps not too quickly, she amended. They each valued their personal space, and the flaxen-haired knight often found herself worrying that she might have intruded into his too quickly. Yet, strangely, he never seemed to mind, at times even welcoming it. It had been a relief that he had not yet pushed her away, even as they maintained at least a fragment of reserve.

On the other hand, the mead had certainly seemed to overcome that reserve in the marshal. Once more, the jade-eyed king was conflicted; Bedivere was going to be more horribly embarrassed than ever should he remember how loose his tongue was, but on the other...it seemed as if part of him was relieved to be free from this burden, so speak his mind on things he had kept hidden for so long. It was, perhaps, something good...at least, it might be in the long run.

She frowned slightly at first, something of an indignant pout before she found an unsteady hand on her cheek again. Though not as graceful as those nights when she had comforted him waking from nightmares, it was nevertheless nearly enough to silence her building protest. But what finally stilled whatever she was about to say was from the absolute certainty of his words. Even inebriated – or perhaps that state gave him the necessary courage to say it – they brooked no argument or doubt.

Arturia had to admit that she was amazed that Bedivere had seen through her ruse from the very beginning. Perhaps she should not have been; she had appointed him as Marshal of the Realm precisely because of that sharp observation, and her own obfuscation had never been effective before those blue-grey eyes. The rest, however...

What did he mean, 'Think you don't have it"? Have what? In all likelihood she would never know, as the silver-haired knight was having enough difficulty trying to even think straight, much less assemble the garbled thoughts into coherent sentences.

I am not bad with praise, she started to say, but held her tongue. All right, so perhaps there was some truth to that. But that was one thing she would always struggle with – as he would – even more when it came to any hint of the femininity she had cast aside years ago. The idea itself had never bothered her except for those occasional instances. Still, that gentle caress was enough to make her wonder, unsteady though it was. It was the thought behind it, even blurred hopelessly by mead.

Then, it began to make a little more sense, though still not as clear as it would have been had the marshal possessed his wits...though if he had, he likely would not have been able to say even half so much as that. Different? That was true, of course...but Arturia had always assumed that the deliberate beauty she projected was that of the ideal king. It was an image to be admired, but it was not a feminine beauty, she thought. Unfortunately, the mead was not helping the poor inebriated knight when it came to clarity, even as it bestowed something of bravery.

Bedivere seemed frustrated by that fact, mulling over how to express his muddled thoughts and finding himself frustrated unable to do so. She nearly stopped him to reassure him that it was all right, he didn't have to struggle so much with it if the words failed to form. But it was one time that they couldn't rely on unspoken communication, which depended on them to be of one mind, synchronised enough to know what the other would say. At the moment, she had no idea. And he seemed to be struggling to figure out what he wanted to say.

At first, she thought he had decided that it was better left for a more sober moment, the rather unexpected curse. That in itself was unusual enough, though the lopsided grin threw her off even further. It might be, she decided,that he would leave it for tomorrow, sleeping off the morass his thoughts had become and the inevitable hangover. It was not to be; this night seemed to be her night for being utterly mistaken.

It hadn't quite registered at first what the violet-eyed knight had been about to do, or even immediately after the fact. She remained frozen in place for the length of a heartbeat before he confessed that he had been wanting to do that for a long time. and perhaps it was the confession itself which jarred her out of her shock, allowing her mind to finally catch up to what had just happened. Even as her mouth fell open, another realisation suddenly dawned on her. Belatedly, she realised that mere moments before – she had been so flustered that it had briefly escaped her notice – he had called her by her name. No titles, not even their usual terms of endearment. Her name.

The petite knight-king was far too stunned to even so much as flail. But once more, she had underestimated just how deep of a blush she was truly capable of. Her mouth remained hanging open for a long moment before she finally had enough presence of mind to close it, even managing not to stammer or let out a squeak or any manner of noise suggesting a protest over her long-departed dignity. It might have seemed a long time passed before she even so much as moved, studying him with the same regard he had when he had come to his own decision. As if she was coming to a decision of her own...

Shifting forward with somewhat more elegance – without mead to compromise her movement – she leaned forward and just as carefully brushed her lips against his in turn.

One good turn deserved another, did it not? She only hoped he would be spared the embarrassment of remembering.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Battle of Camlann would have been at great cost to anyone, let alone the quiet marshal who had already sacrificed so much. All through the king's reign he had worn a proverbial band of thorns, serving her in spite of the secret shame of his motivation, and simultaneously drawing strength from it. That secret had been killing him slowly, driving him into an early grave; working himself numb and ignoring the cost to his increasingly failing body. Indeed, that was to say nothing of the battle itself, where he had been forced to see to the final rites of the woman he'd loved, and everyone he had ever known or respected.

After he had cast away Excalibur, returning to lay her on the boat and send that off, he had turned to watch the sun set over that blood-stained hill. The sky had been a lurid red for all the smoke, and somewhere more distant, he knew that Camelot was ablaze. If anything remained of it, he knew there would be only ashes awaiting him.

He had somehow found his horse, and departed immediately. There would be no burying his brother-knights in the night. There would inevitably be looters come to scavenge the battlefield, and he was only one exhausted, wounded man; one whose spirit had been crushed and broken. It was to be his last sight of that bloody battlefield; his last sight, at least, in the flesh.

Regardless of how cautious she seemed about personal space, nothing ever seemed to bother him – at least not where she might be concerned. He had made no exaggerations about how uncomfortable the proximity of others could make him. Once he had even struck at Gawain in earnest, when the Knight of the Sun had surprised him by sneaking up behind him, taking advantage of a rare lapse in the marshal's perceptions. Bedivere had lashed out without even realising who it was he'd struck. He disliked the closeness of others even while he craved it; afraid to let people in and afraid to let them go.

Yet only with Arturia did it ever seem to be comfortable to him. No amount of closeness seems to bother him, in spite of her concerns about personal space. If anything, he seems to seek it out, never quite one to complain about any excuse to be close to her. He's expressed his enjoyment of such a simple gesture as her running her fingers through his hair, either by leaning into her touch, or from that soft, appreciative sound in the back of his throat – a sensation he's never known before now, but one he finds he doesn't mind too much. Or, those instances where she might lay her hand on the side of his face, or gently brush his hair from his forehead. It seems to be those small, simple gestures that offer him the most comfort.

Indeed, he seems to crave that closeness, even as he still struggles over reconciling his sense of duty and his overwhelming love. Were he more sober he might wonder if he can ever find peace with that, but tonight, under the mead, his sense of duty is left entirely by the wayside.

Most likely, there's nothing she could do that would push him away. She tried, baring the Scar of the World-Slayer to him. He would have none of her desperate attempt to drive him off; not then, and certainly not now.

Even after his spate of embarrassed boldness, the knight remains where he is, as though he were even now processing just what it was he'd done, that grin fading into a more subdued half-smile. His eyes remain closed, though whether from embarrassment or from savouring the moment, it's hard to say.

That moment's hesitation is exactly the reason why she's able to lean in and return that kiss; one good turn for another, although perhaps at first it might scare him more than he might see it that way. He tenses against her, bracing against the chair as though he might falter, eyes momentarily snapping wide in pure shock. He knows precisely what she's doing.

If he were sober, he might shy away, sputtering apologies and refusing to look her in the eye. In fact, if he were sober he would certainly do that. This time, though, the mead lends him fire in his belly. Some detached part of him can see why the Saxons might have indulged so heavily in it before battle. Even intoxicated, he can almost appreciate the courage it gives him. Without it, he never would have had the wherewithal to speak so earnestly with her; let alone to act on his buried whims.

By the time she pulls back, he finds himself grinning that idiot grin again, even in spite of the colour on his cheeks – it's hard to say whether that's from nerves or intoxication. Most likely both.

"Arturia," he murmurs, low, tone one of hushed and breathless wonder. Her name again, with no filters; no titles. He speaks it with such reverence and warmth that it's almost a title unto itself. "You... you honour me..."

There's no mistaking how pleased his tone is, however much he might struggle to hold it level. Somewhat awkwardly, he reaches up and circles his arms around her, but he hesitates for a moment. Small wonder the Saxons had fought so fiercely, with that fire in their belly and liquid courage in their veins. He can't see her well from such an angle, but he merely watches, as though he were considering something.

And then he twists, slowly and carefully, as though he were mindful not to hurt her or overbalance himself, in what would be a much less clumsy kiss along the line of her jaw if he weren't so hopelessly drunk.

Maybe he knows, even in the depths of his drunkenness, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he returned her kiss properly – and while he's far gone, he's not so far gone as to disgrace himself to that extent, it seems.

That done, he sags against her, arms tightening as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.

"You honour me," he repeats quietly, voice wavering. He's not quite trembling, but he does feel a little tense, in spite of his boneless half-sprawl over her. "So—so very much. I—I... you..."

His voice fails him, cracking. The huff of breath he gives, warm against the side of her neck, is unmistakable – the same thing she had heard when they had first met again in the multiverse; a breathless sob, as impossible as it may have seemed then. Now, he just can't seem to cope with the emotion gripping his mead-addled mind.

"For so—so long I thought you were go—gone." Bedivere tries to keep his voice steady, but there's not much point in trying. The poor knight will be mortified by morning, not just for his bold words or his bold actions, but for completely losing his composure, too.

He always tries to hide his vulnerabilities from her, and put on a brave face; now more than ever, as though to overcompensate for what he still, unreasonably, feels is weakness beneath the mask he'd worn. "I—I almost wished something would—would have happened, then. Didn't want... didn't want to go on... not without you. Even if..." He tightens his arms around her, as though desperate, burying his face into her shoulder. "Even if I couldn't... couldn't have you, there, just—just to be near you was... that was enough for me..."

"Oh, those... those were cold days... my lady; my love. And now—and now..." This time he does sob, without bothering to try and stifle it, or muffle the sound; a hoarse huff of breath against the join of her neck and shoulder. So much for staying cheerful. Now that he's slowed down a bit, it seems that those years of pain and suffering are catching up to him, although in this case it seems as much an expression of incomprehensible gratitude. "You—you're mine, and I'm yours, and... and... and blood and damnation on everything else," he finally finishes miserably, burying his face into her shoulder and clutching at her, uncaring of his own hoarse sobs.

...The next morning is going to be an extremely awkward time in Dún Reáltaí.

Saber (346) has posed:
The hellish final battle would have even sobered a knight such as Gawain, so it was no surprise that the gentle-souled Bedivere would suffer trauma and nightmares from living through it. She would not have blamed him had he become bitter and jaded from what must have seemed the final reward for all his sacrifices and hard work: destruction, ruin, death. What had happened to him instead was an even greater tragedy, his spirit broken. Unification was not always a beneficial thing, but in his case, it had saved him...eventually. Five years of wandering nearly made that brokenness irreversible.

That Arturia would see him healed went without saying, though for perhaps the first time, that determination was not the result of guilt. She still felt that, but more than simply owing that to him, she dearly wished for his happiness even as he wished for hers. She had cherished him secretly all this time, had wished to protect him as she protected her kingdom. She had failed in both, but now she had been granted a second chance. This time – now that she was no longer bound by her duty to her kingdom to affect impartiality – she was permitted to.

And perhaps now, they could both begin to allow people in. They each had different reasons but the result had been the same: shutting others out. In Camelot, it had been vital to maintain their necessary masks, protecting both others and themselves with their rigid defences. In some instances, those defences were still useful and even necessary, but in what had become their home and in no one's presence but their own, such things proved to be detrimental. Here, the king who had always guarded her space carefully was no longer forced to withdraw from a gentle, soothing touch. In turn, she was free to return it in kind. It almost felt as if she was spoiling herself, reaching out to brush the strands of silvery hair from his face.

If there was at least one good thing which had come from this awkward situation, it could be said that he didn't struggle with the appropriateness of it, conflicted between his desires and his perceived duty. Doubtless, when he returned to sobriety that struggle would resume, but for the moment, the violet-eyed knight was spared from it. In turn, Arturia didn't feel quite so awkward herself, grateful that he could simply take comfort in her light touch without feeling that he was committing some great blasphemy or breach of conduct. But in this moment, she could finally provide some measure of comfort to him, and she found it to be a welcome, if temporary, respite.

Admittedly, the flaxen-haired knight struggled with more selfish reasons, the source of persistent guilt. She had lived her life – and died – in the service of others. She had never permitted herself anything of her own, never sought to comfort herself when there were others much more in need of it. Or so her line of thinking went. In some ways, their new bond was a guilty pleasure, something she had only dared to indulge in because it had seemed to bring him equal happiness. But it felt at times that she was abusing her status; while she was no longer the King of Britain, Bedivere nevertheless considered her his king, the only superior he would ever serve. He would never refuse an order from her.

Which was why in a bizarre way the situation brought some measure of relief. With some fraction of his duty set aside – even inebriated, his duty was far too much a part of his personality to be discarded completely – in the haze of mead, the silver-haired knight had become bolder, drawing closer to her still of his own volition. He wasn't acting simply after her prompting. His somewhat clumsy reassurances of her beauty made her as bashful as always – forever fighting with her feelings of unworthiness – and yet her heart quickened, knowing it had not been out of service to her. Strange how she wanted him to be a little more selfish in this regard.

Arturia didn't have the benefit of intoxication to lend her courage. She was forced to rely on his, to convey to him that, embarrassment aside, what he had done was not wrong. And it wasn't simply because he was drunk and had little control over his faculties, either. The fact was that she had wished for that for years, as well...even if she had only recently realised it.

She nearly sighed in relief as she pulled away; a part of her had expected the usual reaction of sputtered apologies and a bolt like a terrified deer. it could be said that she was taking advantage of the situation, but at the same time, if he remembered any of his actions the next day, then perhaps remembering a little of her own boldness might convince him that she didn't think any less of him for it. Quite the opposite, in fact. As if to say, It is all right to be a little selfish, from time to time.

At the sight of the idiot grin and the sound of her title-less name, however, the jade-eyed knight did nothing to stifle that unsteady sigh of relief. "No, I...I simply...I wanted that, as well..." she admitted, stammering without the similar mead-fuelled bravery. "But...I would like for you to call me that more often..." With a bit of hesitation, she made another bold yet strangely timid move, daring to use a form of address which she doubted she would have otherwise had the courage for. "...It is pleasing to hear you say my name...Fionnlagh."

Arturia did nothing to pull away from the embrace; on the contrary, her head dropped a fraction to rest her forehead on his shoulder, her arms eventually finding their way around him in turn. Not even at the awkward kiss did she pull away...though her cheeks coloured more deeply afterwards.

It was only when he shifted from cheerful drunk to maudlin drunk that she moved, pulling back just enough to lift herself up to kiss his cheek with a more sober grace. "I am sorry...forgive me for leaving you. Nothing can make amends for that, but still I..."

Her forehead lowered against his shoulder once more, her arms tightening around him in turn. "I am still so very glad...to be by your side once more, as unworthy as I am."

Her breath wavered unsteadily. She should be saying these things to him when he was sober, but perhaps this was a start. There remained a few walls between them, it seemed. "But...I am yours now, as much as you are mine. Nothing shall change that."

Even if the next morning was going to be the most awkward they had ever been to date.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite all the wandering he had done, and the five years of despair and isolation, the silver-haired knight has something he has not had for a very long time – he has hope, in the form of the Once and Future King. True, he may have looked to her as a symbol of leadership in Camelot, as was proper. She inspired the people, even though the more doubtful whispered about her inhumanity. She inspired loyalty in her knights, and even confidence in the more uncertain among them... but more importantly than any of those, she gave him something he had almost abandoned.

She gave him hope. He had not felt that in so long he had almost forgotten what it was like. Just as importantly, she gave him a reason to want to heal, to reach for that recovery.

Indeed, the drink seems to have banished all thoughts of propriety from the silver-haired knight. Not once has he raised the issue of kingship or the appropriateness of his conduct. Much like his king, too, he struggles with feelings of unworthiness when sober. If anything, though, the mead seems to goad him into behaviour he had perhaps contemplated for years – but never had the courage to act on.

Fortunately, the mead seems to count for quite a lot.

"Oh..." His acknowledgment seems both pleased and mildly surprised, soft as he speaks it, when she tells him she'd prefer to be called by name more often. "Very well, then... my love. Arturia," he corrects himself, sounding inordinately pleased with that.

And then she calls him by his name. Not the name he had served under for twenty years, as the stoic Marshal of the Realm, but his name. The one he had put aside in service to Camelot; the one no one in the courts had ever known but for Lucan and Griflet... and now, more recently, Arturia herself. It suits him, however embarrassing he considers its origin – Gaelic, rather than Welsh, and its meaning fitting as well, in spite of his peaceable ways.

He just smiles a lopsided half-smile when she calls him by that. It says for him better than any of his halting words how pleased that term of address makes him, though he might protest it a little, if he were sober.

It fades quickly, in favour of the darker memories.

They seem somehow clearer, through the mead, cast in stark relief, as the lightning in the midst of a thunderstorm might paint sharp-edged shadows on the wall.

Perhaps he notices that gentle kiss to his cheek, but the marshal is too removed for a few moments. In some way, though, it's a catharsis all its own – purging that sorrow, however much in small part, and working through it in his own way, even if it requires a drinking-horn to do. "No, you—you were gone, for s'long... but... but you're here, now..."

The last is given in a tone of almost-wonder, but the unsteady quality of his voice almost makes it seem exaggerated. He doesn't rise, instead tightening his arms around her a little more. It's not enough to hurt her, or so he might think in his mead-addled state, but there's a quiet desperation to the gesture; as though she might vanish like snow in summer if he let go.

"No..." His protest is soft, but it carries a core of steel; of absolute certainty. "Th'... fault is mine." There's an earnestness in his soft voice entirely at odds with the drunken slurring. "Should've... should've stayed closer in Camlann... could've... protected you... kept you from harm... like I was s'posed to do... s'my fault... my fault... no, I'm the—the unworthy one... I—I failed, so I shouldn't... shouldn't be rewarded for it..."

Even so, he has been, and he would be loathe to criticise that too deeply. So he simply holds her as close as he dares, nuzzling into her shoulder – it might be an endearing gesture, if he weren't nearly sobbing as he did so; shoulders trembling.

"Aye," he breathes, unsteadily, but the storm seems to have passed for the time being. He draws in a ragged breath, letting it go unsteadily. "Nothin'... nothin' 'll change that..."

Slowly, he picks himself up from his graceless half-sprawl over her, resting the side of his face against the side of her neck – she can feel the tracks of his tears, no doubt; but he doesn't seem to care. He gives another huff of breath, as though trying to master himself.

"Never leaving you again," he murmurs, letting his eyes close. He steals another brief, if clumsy, kiss to the side of her neck; almost as though he were unaware of the gesture. After he does, he presses his face to her neck again, screwing his eyes shut. "Never again... God's blood, we're home... and we don't have to leave each other again..." Another unsteady breath; an awkward attempt to steady himself. "Ah, Arturia... my love..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Becoming a symbol had been entirely intentional, tutored and led by Merlin to Caliburn, and ultimately to the throne of all Britain. By drawing the Sword of the Kings of Britain, she had been warned, she would cease being human. That had meant more than only the magical aspect of the sword...at least, the white-haired wizard seemed to obliquely hint at the entirety of what it meant. It was at once symbolic and literal insofar as Uther's heir was concerned, leaving nothing at all for the girl she had been. She had resolved that she would be alone, bearing the burdens of the kingdom entirely, both saving and inspiring the people with the vision of the perfect king.

Of course, it didn't happen entirely that way. What the King of Knights had forged in the Round Table had become an inspiration even years after Camelot had fallen. But that had been just as much the doing of the knights she had so carefully hand-picked to serve the people, and by extension king and country. Hope, even as she stretched her hand toward utopia, had been her more immediate dream for the people. Yet, that was something lost to her at the end of her reign and at the end of the Fourth Holy Grail War.

Only now, Arturia had found it again. Everything up until that point had slowly restored a little, but it was not until she had appointed Bedivere as lord of Dún Reáltaí and began making that wounded land their home had she truly felt it again. Having a true home, with him at her side once more, had made all the difference in the world.

It was perhaps that, for only the second time in her life and beyond it, she had known what it was like to have more than simply a dwelling place. Camelot had never been a true home even as she tried to shape it into her dream of utopia, and though she cherished Sakura as a friend, the Tohsaka residence had been, in spite of its safety and comfort, too alien. Moreover, there had always been something lacking in her new life, a vital piece missing which she could never quite put her finger on. But now, she knew what it was...or rather, who. Just as he had felt her absence before he had even known of her existence, the jade-eyed knight-king had been missing his. That realisation made her bolder than any mead could.

Her smile was tinged with a faint hint of her usual shyness when he spoke her name again, if also tinted with some regret. She found herself wishing he could find the courage to speak it when sober, and that he wouldn't protest if she tried to say his Gaelic name. Perhaps it might have been too intimate too soon for them, but she found herself wishing for it nonetheless; for him to simply say her name, and to be able to call him by his original one. But for now, the petite blonde would have to content herself with this.

In truth, Arturia had expected the maudlin reaction from the first. There was still too much lingering pain even as he tried to heal, too much darkness that could not simply be banished in the few months since he had been rescued from the Unified weald. It couldn't be forced, no matter how much they both tried. There was too much Bedivere had deliberately buried, but now that he could no longer control himself – at least partially – those barriers came down.

Indeed, the embrace could hardly hurt her, in spite of her deceptively diminutive stature. But even then, she would not have complained. It was abundantly clear how very much he had needed this moment; perhaps the villagers hadn't known the true depth of his lingering sorrow and pain, but they knew something was there and had apparently engineered the incident to foster this moment.

As she had suspected – though with their bond, even a spoken revelation was unnecessary – he had blamed himself, at least in part, for her death. "No, my love...it was not your fault...there was no way to have known," she replied, albeit uselessly. There was nothing she could do to convince him otherwise. Nevertheless, her voice was a soothing tone as she stroked his hair with a similar soothing gesture. There would always be scars they carried; at this point it was a matter of letting them go as much as they were able. As before, she willingly endured the storm, offering comfort in the only way she knew how to.

And it seemed he was, finally. As much as Arturia herself was prone to dwelling on the past and allowing her grief and guilt to creep into her present actions, the rational side of her had since recognised that it was detrimental to what she was trying to accomplish in the here and now. And because their personalities were so similar, it was not so surprising that perhaps he had come to that same conclusion....even through the mead. Or perhaps sooner, and the drinking horn had loosened his tongue enough to say so.

Under nearly any other circumstance, the flaxen-haired knight would have flinched in deep embarrassment when he lay his cheek against her neck. But even if she had any protestation left within her, his tears would have silenced all of them. Instead, her arms gently but firmly circled him, mindful of her own ridiculous strength.

The awkward kiss against her neck would have likewise sent her into a flurry of embarrassed blushing and flailing. But in that moment, only the faintest of blushes coloured her cheeks as she brushed her lips against his ear. "Aye, my love...we are home, at last."

Lifting her hand, she continued to gently stroke his hair. Though her voice remained gentle, there was a subtle determination in it. "I shall not leave you again, Fionnlagh..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the king had sought to be alone, she was never truly isolated. Her knights had sworn to follow her through the trials that would come, regardless of the cost to themselves. None of them had quite exemplified the determined, stubborn loyalty of her Left Hand. He had served and sacrificed to a greater extent than anyone might have expected of him; the gentle, soft-spoken northerner whom no one in the courts seemed to know anything about.

The small, Spartan quarters he had maintained in Camelot were hardly a home. Indeed, if the king had ever seen them, they had looked unused for their cleanliness and the sparseness of their decoration. Only the wooden armour form carved to fit Bedivere's heavy plate identified the room as used, though without knowledge, it had hardly been enough to identify the room's resident.

That had been a dwelling-place, not a home; much as the simple quarters he had shared with Lucan in Dál Riata. Something had been missing even from that humble abode, though he had appreciated the constant sound of music in the village; something he would later note as a marked absence in Camelot.

Perhaps someday he might have the courage to speak while sober. For now, though, the mead seems to be a much-needed means to an end. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to mind the use of his name – his original name – while still under the effects. If anything, he seems to appreciate it, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to otherwise. Perhaps it stems from his sense of duty, perceiving his assumed name as another aspect of his service. Or perhaps it genuinely embarrasses him; something he hasn't been called by since his childhood. It's hard to say, given how evasive he can be regarding the topic.

The festivities themselves had been cause enough for the knight to be cheerful in his hopeless drunkenness. Now that they're away from the people enjoying themselves and that festival air, now that he's had some time to slow down a bit, that darkness seems to be reaching up even through the haze of mead. He had simply endured too much to simply banish it. He had spent too many years consciously and deliberately burying it, much as Arturia had done, to dismiss out of hand such feelings.

"Was," he protests feebly, though whether this is because he can't argue or because his face is against her neck and he can't speak clearly, it's hard to say. In either case she can likely feel the tell-tale dampness of his tears, although perhaps her presence soothes him. At the very least, he's not sobbing quite like he was before. "Should've... should've been there. Left Hand of the King. My responsibility t'... t' keep you safe."

Although perhaps that wasn't his official role, it was one that he had taken on himself. Many a time he had stood guard at her left hand during functions and festivals, the stern and stone-faced protector of the king. His height and his unquestioned prowess in battle made for an intimidating guardian, and while he was ironically the last of her knights to draw his sword in a given situation, the mere presence of his blade at his hip was often enough of a deterrent for most people.

Yet if he had ever felt the need, he would use it – and use it well.

The knight sighs, although the breath is unsteady and wavering. "Didn't really matter. Knowing. Should've been there. Shouldn't... shouldn't've let them separate us..." There's a short pause, as though he had either passed out against her. That, or he's considering his words, trying to force his slow, mead-addled thoughts into cooperation. "Tried... tried t' call help. Nobody left t'... t' hear my horn." Indeed, it had been a universal call-note. To the King! his horn had called with its three short, sharp blasts; over and over again, until he had realised that no one was left alive to answer his call. "Couldn't get there fast enough."

Bedivere seems to be slowing down, though, words more of an indistinct mumble than actual, coherent speech. His eyes are slowly drifting closed, as well.

"But... here now," he mumbles, with a half-sigh, half-sob. "Never... never leavin' again... never."

At least he seems to be winding down, as though that passing storm has finally taken the wind out of his sails. Slowly, he picks himself up, though there's a reluctance to the movement, as though he didn't want to disturb the hand still running through his hair. Once more he wavers unsteadily, forced to stop for a moment once he's climbed to his feet; bracing himself against the chair.

He takes a moment to find equilibrium, though it seems like it takes him an awfully long moment to do so. His expression is one of concentration, or at least discomfort. Being awake and alert is something he suddenly finds he has no more taste for. The world is slowly spinning, and all he really wants to do now is sleep. For a very long time.

"Will..." He blinks somewhat blearily, and then squints over to the stairwell. "Will y' help me up... up the stairs? Not... sure I can manage..." He offers a wavering, apologetic smile, but there's a weariness in the expression that suggests he's about at the end of his endurance.

It wouldn't do to pass out down here, only to be found by some castle servant or another... although he's probably thinking in far simpler terms, such as his bed is more comfortable than stone floor and wooden chairs. The idea of sinking into those furs and blankets and not waking up for another week is a nice thought.

Although he doesn't quite collapse, he does find himself reaching for her chair with both hands, because suddenly keeping his balance is one of the most difficult things he's ever had to do.

There is a brief pause, in which Bedivere seems to study the floor with a peculiar intensity.

"...Floor won't stay still," he mumbles, somewhat plaintively.

Saber (346) has posed:
From the very beginning, Arturia had been unable to live up to her ideal of being alone. The king had one friend in Lancelot, in spite of his choice of love over friendship and duty. She could never bring herself to blame him, in spite of his wish that she would. And even then, her knights had committed themselves to following her into the throat of Hell itself. Many of them never returned from it...at least, not as human. But even then, there had been one so loyal, so dedicated that she would always question herself before she would the Left Hand of the King. Mysterious to many, yet she knew him as she knew herself, so alike in personality and outlook that they knew on an instinctual level what the other would say or do in any given situation. This gave her comfort, to know there had been one who knew her as well as anyone could know the king.

She was never alone, not truly. Though she had not known precisely how much she had always depended upon her marshal, she had known one thing; she would never have become that ideal king celebrated in legends had it not been for his silent, steady, unwavering support. It was a pity that none would truly know that King Arthur was as much his own legend as it was hers. Though he only cared for her happiness and that she was recognised for her sacrifices, she wished those same things for him.

But within the safe walls of the place which had become home, legends no longer seemed to be as important as they once were. And the happiness she had hoped for him had come to fruition...at least as much as it could. Shadows remained, but he had found a true home. He had found her again. In turn, she had found her own happiness, there, with him. In some ways it seemed blasphemous, yet in others, it seemed the only thing truly right with the world.

Arturia suspected that, once the mead had worn off, speaking his original name would be, while not verboten, something that would make him uncomfortable for whatever reasons. She found herself wishing that she knew; when they were alone, Bedivere had no need to worry so much about his sense of duty. There were those times when she needed to guard her identity where addressing him by his Gaelic name was wiser – a strange turn where his Welsh name was well-known enough to warrant it – yet those times were a rare occurrence. But whether it was too intimate or so much of his identity was attached to his duty to her, it was nevertheless a small cause for discomfort. Yet while mead still addled his senses, the silver-haired knight appeared to take comfort in it, and so she continued to say it.

Given his moroseness and buried anguish, it was probably in his best interests not to argue. Even sober, she would be unable to dissuade him as much as anyone else seemed to dissuade her from her conviction that she had failed Britain. While she knew that there had been no way to save her in that situation, the feeling and regret would remain. All she could do now was try to soothe him in the present. "You no longer have to leave my side...we no longer have to hide anything..."

She continued to stroke his hair soothingly. "We no longer have to be alone. We need not leave each other's side."

Arturia only drew her hand back once he began trying to get back on his feet, rising in turn to help steady the inebriated marshal once more. As much as she was uncertain that it was a good idea immediately, it was still preferable that he slept it off in bed, even if she had to wait a while for him to find some semblance of balance. And even then, it wasn't particularly convincing. "Of course," she reassured him with a faint smile. There would be no possible way Bedivere would make it up those flights of stairs on his own as he was.

Being found by a servant or some other local, while embarrassing for the king and knight personally, would not necessarily have been a point of shame. After all, as far as they knew, the two were a proper lord and lady, with all that such a relationship implied, though perhaps they had found it unusual indeed for nobles to have supposedly married out of love rather than arranged out of political alliances. For as much as they had tried to hide it, the townsfolk seemed to have read a great deal more into it than what was apparent. Or perhaps...they saw things which the two in question remained stubbornly oblivious to. Regardless, finding the two in the great hall might not have been such a surprise.

But on the more practical side of things, a proper bed was far more warm and comfortable. "Come," she murmured gently, making a careful effort to begin leading him to the mountain of five flights of stairs. A comfortable rest would be a fitting reward for the monumental task that lay ahead of them. "Careful, now..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite his integral role in Arturia's own legend, the quiet marshal would have preferred to remain unknown. He had been her strength, her support and the enforcement of her will, often without any active direction. They knew one another as well as any could in that treacherous court. When it came to matters of charity, or matters of war, they were of one mind – and yet so few knew of that connection, that silent bond. Yet for his modesty, he would prefer to remain unknown.

Indeed, he had seemed genuinely surprised that any legends had remembered him, or that he might in some reality or another be summoned as a Heroic Spirit. He had also seemed a little distraught at this possibility. Bedivere had genuinely believed his actions had merely been fulfilling his duties. Such things weren't worthy of song or legend. The completion of her duty, and the realisation of her dreams, had been the only things to matter to him – his own well-being and happiness were as nothing, held up against hers.

While some of that remains, it's becoming a little easier to convince him to take care of himself. Even something as simple as playing music in the courtyard seems to put him at ease; a thing he had never been able to indulge in within Camelot's walls. The sound of his pipe-chanter, or the battered old harp he'd been given, are often common things to hear in the late morning or early afternoon, from beneath the monstrous oak in the courtyard.

More than that, having a place that he can relax and let down his guard seems to have made a tremendous difference. There are aspects of his personality that will never change – he will always be her knight, and he will always put her well-being before his own – but he has the opportunity, now, to live for himself, if only a little.

Shadows certainly remain... but there is light now to dispel them. Perhaps not all of them may be cast aside, but it's a start.

Most likely, his name is a simpler issue by far. For twenty years he had not so much as given a hint of his origins. His name and his heritage had been secrets, and while they had not been as potentially damaging as the secret of his motivation, he could not have afforded to deal that kind of blow to Arturia's reputation. He had been suspect from the beginning, the target of jealous or bored nobility who felt that there were plenty of things to criticise regarding King Arthur's reign. Bedivere refused to hand them any ammunition.

So, stifling his identity had become more than habit; it had become second nature, to the point where even hearing that name sometimes caused him to pause – as though he had to associate, all over again, that foreign word with himself. So accustomed to his Welsh name had he become that he had for a time nearly forgotten what it was like to be called by his original name.

Perhaps in time she can convince him that, even if only in the secrecy of Dún Reáltaí's walls, such a thing would do no harm – could be, as with the other fragments of his past, a comfort.

"Not leavin' your side," he slurs in agreement, mumbling somewhat. Gone is the eloquence of his speech, or the precision of his words. Ordinarily he took such pains to speak clearly, sounding almost clinical in his precision... but the mead's wreaked havoc with his careful diction, and the slurring in his speech is probably almost comical – such a sharp contrast to his usual nature.

The marshal manages that wavering smile again even as he staggers into her, steadied only by her assistance. If he tried to take that staircase alone, there's no doubt that he would never make it up. So long as he didn't break his neck, he'd probably just curl up in a ball on whichever landing he fell down on, and sleep it off there. The promise of a warm bed, though, is suddenly more alluring to him than the sweetest siren's song – thanks to the rather eventful evening, he's exhausted, and the urge to sleep is almost overwhelming.

It takes him a few seconds to find something reasonably approaching balance, and even in spite of that, he finds himself leaning on her rather more than he might if he were sober. Gone is his usual caution, as though he were afraid to hurt her; he has such trouble coordinating himself that even if he wanted to be mindful of resting too much weight against her, he couldn't. He needs her help just to stay upright.

...Mostly.

Maybe it wouldn't quite be shameful for him to be found by the locals, but it would definitely be embarrassing. Although he's in no condition to think it over, he's reasonably certain that he's heard some confusing gossip where he and his lady are concerned – nothing he can quite pin details down on. From time to time he's caught some of the scullions looking at him oddly when he comes down to the great hall in the morning, only to whisper amongst themselves when he and Arturia sit down to breakfast. Curious, really. If he weren't vaguely apprehensive of whatever answer they might give him, he might ask them what the problem is.

Right now, though, he'll be lucky if he can get up five flights of stairs... with help.

Bedivere mumbles something vaguely meant as an agreement when she encourages him to tackle the first of the steps, taking it far more slowly than he might otherwise. He seems to have to squint to see them clearly, or perhaps he's trying to resolve the fact that the floor just won't stay still.

He's nothing if not stubborn, though, and he's more stubborn than his inability to coordinate himself – a warm bed is a perfectly justified reward for having to struggle up five unforgiving flights of stairs.

It takes a while, but it's not entirely beyond his capabilities – with help.

He's reduced to leaning against her to make the final ascent, and by the time they reach their chambers at the top, he stumbles through the doorway with an incoherent sound of mixed despair and relief.

Never doing that again, some still-coherent part of his mind insists miserably.

Collapsing against the corner of the bed, he wavers a bit before finally falling over backwards, exhaling. Has he fallen asleep? Maybe, though his breathing doesn't seem quite as slow and even as that... more likely, he's waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Several seconds of silence pass.

"...Thanks," he slurs, with another one of those unsteady, lopsided smiles.

He's too drunk to acknowledge it, but on some level he probably knows he's too drunk to have done that by himself. Collapsing onto a bed is infinitely preferable to collapsing in the corner by the hearth.

Bedivere sighs a deep, heavy, largely contented sigh. "Better," he mumbles.

Saber (346) has posed:
Given that every knight of the Round Table would eventually become Heroic Spirits, Arturia had been surprised – though not disappointed by any means – when Bedivere had appeared in the multiverse as fully human. It had been noted, she was told in retrospect, that he could have been summoned as one of several classes of Servant in accordance with his legend, and if she had even encountered him again, she had expected that it would be as Servants. That legend had diminished over time, yet even through the years and the obfuscations, some seemed to have sensed that knight and king shared some manner of bond. They couldn't have begun to understand its depth, not with the layers of misdirection they had established, and with good intent. He was quite correct in his fears that his motivations and her secret favour would have ended her kingdom well before Camlann.

The downside, of course, was that the knight retained all the physical disadvantages of mortality. While Servants could certainly be – and were nearly always – killed, it was much more difficult than slaying a normal human being. Had it been Saber facing Medusa or Magatha, her injuries would not have been so life-threatening, not to mention healed within a day with enough prana channelled into the healing. But it was only on account of Loros' gift that the silver-haired knight was no longer painfully limping up the stairs or forced to spend the day in bed recovering. And while it had been advantageous for Saber herself to have formed a contract with him, that bond parasitically pulled necessary magical energy from him through whatever untrained circuits he possessed. Moreover, it made him a target for any Master-Servant team should they decide that all other Master-Servant pairs were their opposition regardless of the War, and many bypassed fighting the inhumanly strong Servants by outright killing Masters. That was, in fact, a tactic often employed by her first Master.

Yet, for all those downsides, Arturia remained glad. She understood in part what Bedivere had suffered after Camlann; had their roles been reversed, his death would have slowly killed her inside. To him, her pseudo-resurrection must have been miraculous, but that could only blunt the pain of her burial. She wasn't certain she would have had enough strength to so much as rise the following morning. Half of her soul would have been gone.

But now, she doubted even the Throne of Heroes was a place where she could finally rest half so well as she did now. Not just to sleep, but to truly live for the first time...free from masks and soul-crushing politics, starvation and suffering. True, there were difficulties and struggles, but even the presence of Kagenashi, Loros, and other Confederates were not so bad, she mused. In a way, the flaws were a reminder that she still lived. The act of reaching for utopia possibly created a better society, but she had somehow gained the wisdom enough to know that this was, in many ways, and even better ideal. Some shadows would always remain, but it was even more of a true utopia than what had existed in her dreams.

Had it not been for his obvious distress, the slurring and breakdown of his carefully constructed aloof defences might have been strangely endearing, even as it was nearly the polar opposite of his usual nature. The embarrassment was going to be horrific the following morning, but Dún Reáltaí – to say nothing of the mead – had slowly worked its mysterious healing magic on him, allowing such things as reclaiming their cultures or, in her case, her true nature. Whether it was subtly indulging her long-buried femininity, singing softly while she prepared breakfast, or simply speaking to the people directly without her mask, nothing was an exploitable weakness any longer. A drunken pledge to never leave her side again was now protected by walls of stone rather than wearying internal ones.

Likewise, carefully helping her uncharacteristically-intoxicated Left Hand up five flights of stairs would have certainly been an impossibility. As tricky as it was keeping him from falling over and back down the stairs, there was some small amount of satisfaction that she could at last indulge herself in tending to or fussing over him. The task of helping a knight who had indulged a little too much back to his bed had always fallen to his fellow knights, naturally never to the king.

It continued to be quite the journey, what with the floor constantly swaying for him as if they had been aboard ship and the world acting as if it was being viewed through a warped mirror. At least the mule-like stubbornness he shared with his king had not been equally blunted by the mead. And while it might have seemed to take all night to ascend them, the last flight was eventually and successfully conquered. Though hardly any physical trouble for the petite Servant, that adventure had been more than a little time-consuming. Moreover, it was likely to have dehydrated the violet-eyed knight a little. His hangover tomorrow was going to be unforgiving.

First slipping off her own boots and neatly setting them aside before tackling the task of removing his, she idly wondered if he had fallen asleep already even as he collapsed into bed. It would hardly have surprised her, though his breathing had not yet fallen into the proper pattern just yet.

At his slurred expression of gratitude, Arturia shook her head slightly. That lopsided smile continued to be endearing, even if he was three-sheets-to-the-wind. "You are welcome."

Pulling off his boots and setting them aside, the jade-eyed knight slipped gratefully into bed beside him. Yes, this was much better than a wooden chair or a stone floor.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although it might have seemed a foregone conclusion that Bedivere would meet his king again as a Servant, the multiverse was an inherent wild card. More than that, he was perhaps the most likely to have gone through the process of joining that multiverse – he was, after all, the only one to have survived that terrible final battle. The experience had left terrible scars on him, scars which have yet to heal, yes; but at the same time, it also allowed him to experience this opportunity.

Even so, there are disadvantages. His injuries tend to be more severe, and they take by far longer to heal. While perhaps he might have learned such a trick if he had continued the training of the filídh, healing isn't so easy as cycling life-energy through his circuits. As it stands, he's barely aware of their presence, a tingling on the edges of his consciousness, when he might happen to stand in places of power. It's nothing concrete, and he will need considerable training to be able to harness such potential, and there's no telling what he might be able to do with it.

Until then, he'll have to endure mortality, as he always has. Of course, that's no great sacrifice to him. He has no point of reference; has never had a taste of the pseudo-immortality of a Servant, outside of time and space as Arturia partly is. Yet he is content with that, too. He is content with all of it, if it means that he can be here, in this strange age, at the side of his king and his lady.

It does not bother him so much that she holds such a great deal more power than he. If anything, it soothes his nerves, at least in some part. That strength is her safety, for on some level, he knows his wouldn't suffice to keep her safe in the multiverse and its hostile entities. In spite of the potential dangers that face them, though, he would sooner accept that than the relative predictability of Camelot's dangers.

Never mind the other benefits – that they can be close as they had never been, or show concern over one another, and indulge in the affection that they had denied for so long and at such cost to themselves. Even fussing over one another to remember to eat lunch seems like something forbidden, some days; as though he has to remind himself that it's really alright to show his concern. At least being within Dún Reáltaí's walls seems to help. He is without a doubt more at peace within this broken-down castle than anywhere else in the multiverse, and doubly so, when he's in her presence.

Only when Bedivere hears her setting down her boots does he seem to remember that he's still wearing his, and he somehow manages to kick his off as well, without too much puzzling over the coordination necessary for it. Mumbling under his breath, not quite even resolved into words, he crawls up until he can bury himself under the fur-lined blankets, yanking one of them to wrap around himself. The hearth's been out, so the lord's chamber is somewhat cold; enough to make him shiver a bit, and perhaps knock some of the drunkenness out of him.

But not much.

No doubt he won't be drinking mead again for a very long time after this.

"Oh... good," he mumbles, as though relieved she didn't find helping him a burden. Without even thinking about it he curls up around her, wrapping his arms around her (she is, some dim part of his mind observes, pleasantly warm) and burying his face into her shoulder with a sigh of relief.

No more flights of stairs to climb. No more mead. The floor's still rolling and heaving like the deck of a ship in storm, but at least he's horizontal, which seems to help with that. His eyes drift until they're nearly closed, though not quite.

"Ah, m'lady... you are warm." The observation is pleased, if subdued, as though he were proud of himself for finding the right words and stringing them together in the right order. Truth be told, he's fast reaching the point where even a simple sentence is almost beyond him. "Aí... you... are so much... no... you're everything to me, m'love..." He straightens just far enough to regard her with that drunken, lopsided smile again—

—and indulges in another one of those clumsy kisses, letting his head dip down once he pulls away, burying his face at her shoulder again. Once he's resting against her, he lets out his breath in a slow, almost relieved-sounding breath. It still smells of mead.

It's good not to be moving.

For a few moments he almost seems like he might say more, but slowly, oh so slowly, his eyes drift closed; and he relaxes against her, resting his face more comfortably against her, nuzzling into her shoulder with a small, pleased, and unspeakably tired sound at the back of his throat. He's had about all he can take of being conscious, and right now, letting that darkness reach up and drag him down sounds pretty attractive – he's safe in his bed, in the arms of the one person he considers more precious than any other, and his head is still pleasantly buzzing from that deceptively strong mead.

"Arturia..." He tilts his head just enough to crack open one violet eye, regarding her with the kind of bleary-eyed intensity only someone hopelessly drunk can fully muster. Once he's sure he has her attention, or at least he thinks he does, he smiles that unsteady smile again. It's trying to be warm, and affectionate, but it succeeds only in looking uncertain. His eye is drifting closed even as he forces himself to speak. "Good night... m'lady..."

His next words are more a breath than anything else. "Know... that... I love... y..."

Bedivere never has the opportunity to finish. His eyes slide closed, and his head sags against her shoulder, breathing steady and even... but there's a faint smile on his face, and his expression is one of peace.

...Peace bought through mead, perhaps, but peace nonetheless. One takes the small victories where they can be found...

Saber (346) has posed:
Idly in the back of her mind, Arturia briefly entertained the idea of perhaps exploring the possibility of training that untrained ability, if for no other reason than to facilitate healing. The dark wizard's gift would not last indefinitely, certainly not with the silver-haired knight's propensity for throwing himself into harm's way. Of course, she had no reason to fault him for that; the Virtues demanded it, and she herself would do the same even if she was as mortal as he. But it nevertheless presented a challenge in a multiverse filled with powerful Elites. Nearly any potential advantage should be explored.

He would never be a powerful magus or Master even with training, but the flaxen-haired knight was not especially bothered by that realisation. She had understood that by forming a new contract with an untrained Master with perhaps only a handful of weak magic circuits at best, she would be unable to wield the power she had when bonded to Emiya Kiritsugu or Tohsaka Sakura. But she was alright with that. There was so much more to this bond than simply power. His command seals were proof of that, more elaborate than those of a typical Master.

Perhaps she could bring up the possibility later...after the mead had finally worn off.

Not quite stifling the low chuckle at the incoherent mumble, Arturia set aside first her boots and then his with the usual amount of care, mindful of just how much of a nuisance it would be the next morning if he couldn't find them easily. It was, she considered after the fact, a strange domestic quirk that she seemed to have picked up upon moving into the keep. They really wasn't so strange, the assumptions of the townsfolk, given how easily she had fallen into that supposed role. As embarrassing as it was – enough to make her face flush even now – she found she didn't mind it so much.

Likewise, slipping comfortably into bed was a relief, particularly after the travail of ascending the stairs. Servant or not, she could feel exhaustion, and the jade-eyed knight could feel her body demanding mana conservation in the form of sleep. And, with a little bit of guilt, she realised that sleeping beside him had gone a long way to easing her peace of mind. It might have been that easing his nightmares likewise brought her some measure of comfort, but whatever it was, she found herself suffering fewer disturbing dreams in turn.

That was more than a little reassuring; with those nightmares of Camlann, he didn't need to see the same the same thing through her eyes...or Annu.

But she had expected the poor inebriated knight to fall asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow, and was a little surprised when he wrapped his arms around her, murmuring on how warm she was. With a barely audible sigh, she settled an arm around him in turn, her other folded up against his chest. It was a little awkward, but comfortable enough.

One thought seemed to blend into the other for him through the mead and rapidly approaching sleep, yet he tried to speak even though it. She considered softly hushing him to encourage him to sleep, but it felt as if, in his addled mind, there was something important he had to convey to her. Still, she nearly protested when he shifted, about to mildly scold him to sleep, only to be silenced by another clumsy kiss before he buried his face against her shoulder.

Oh yes, he would forever curse mead from the next day forward if he remembered this.

And yet, in spite of a flushed face, she found herself liking that, in spite of the clumsiness of it. It was hardly a proper thought, but she couldn't help it. She found it even more pleasant combined with the sound of her name on his lips as he started to fall asleep. "Good...good night, my love..." she whispered softly in turn.

But perhaps most of all, what would tease her even as she slowly joined him in sleep was the soft, unfinished breath before sleep had claimed him. It was possible she had imagined it, but even if she had, she found herself murmuring in response. "I...too.."

Neither was she able to finish the thought before a fatigue not induced by mead finally overtook her. Regardless, it was decidedly peaceful.