999999/White Wings

White Wings
Date of Scene:	08 January 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	After a draw in a drinking contest between Wolf Lord Karian and the Servant Saber, Sir Bedivere drags poor Saber home, where they discuss the nature of duty, love, and the fears that come between the two concepts... or at least try to, through a haze of mead and the Space Wolves' own specialty brew, Mjod.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The winter céilidh had run on longer than expected. It had been a great gathering of friends, allies, and those who didn't quite fit into either category, all within Dún Reáltaí's cavernous great hall. Even so, despite the appearance of two known ranking Confederates, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves well into the evening. There hadn't even been any incidents... at least, nothing that involved diplomacy, politics, or the war.

Even Bedivere had enjoyed himself – a rarity, given how withdrawn and shy the man can be. He had seemed to be comfortable, at least until asked to lift a horn of Mjod, and on taking a sip had some sense of the evening's doom.

To make matters worse, Merlin had amused himself for half the night by turning his water into mead whenever he had reached for a goblet. In fairness, it might have been one of the castle servants' idea of amusement, but it was more logical (and usually accurate) to pin the blame on the wizard.

Getting up the first few stairs had been an ordeal, more of one than it should have been. Staggering against Arturia, as much to hold her up as to keep himself from falling over, Bedivere had nonetheless managed to make the trek without falling – though whether or not he had to catch Arturia, that's another matter entirely. He'd had a better time of things than the last céilidh, but it wasn't his usual grace.

Still, he manages to stagger to the top floor, and even do so with his lady. No sooner do they pass the threshold than he wavers on his feet, nudging Arturia towards the bed – mostly so she doesn't fall, because he can't support her without losing his own balance. Once he's sure she won't collapse against the flagstones, he makes his way to his armour-form, shucking off his gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. Each lands with a distinct clank.

It's too uncomfortable to be wearing so much steel right now, and he feels entirely too out of sorts to bother with anything more than he has to. He's in the safety of his own hall, so such protection is entirely unnecessary. Just as urgent is the fact that the lord's quarters are cold, almost cold enough to sober him a little, and he does so detest the cold.

Once he wrestles his way out of the hauberk, he places it over the armour-form with a slithering of metal links, coming to rest somewhat lopsided. The pauldrons and gorget of leather follow, though one of the pauldrons misses and lands, forgotten, at the armour-form's stand. The sabatons follow, though at least he's taken to wearing thick modern socks against Dún Reáltaí's abiding cold.

Leaving himself in gambeson and leggings, he seems to debate for a moment, before shrugging out of the gambeson. The quilted tunic is tossed aside; despite the fact that the hearth in their quarters is unlit, the mead must be affecting him – even his face is red, too warm to be comfortable.

That done, he wavers on his feet for a moment, as though he had no notion of what he was doing; something that's possibly not too far from the truth. Eventually, he staggers back to the bed, sitting down heavily on the side and rubbing his face wearily in his hands.

The flush of the alcohol almost seems to bring his scars into sharp-edged relief – the pale, deadened tissue against the flush, and the unmistakably broad stripe of scarring over his left shoulder, where a Saxon had buried an axe in his shoulder during the battle that had lost Caliburn. Only after a moment does he seem to remember where he is, blinking slowly a few times through his fingers.

"M'lady?" He lifts his gaze, over to Arturia. "Are—are ye hale?" Not only is he still slurring for the drink, but that Gaelic lilt is so strong it colours his speech and nearly twists his words into a brogue. Still musical, perhaps, but entirely without quite the precision that he ordinarily strives for. "Ye didna look so well, keeping up wi' Laird Karian... but... heh, heh." He grins, the expression crooked and a little silly-looking. "But ye did keep up wi' him."

"That Mjod... ugh. Lucky I wasn't poisoned," he mumbles, passing a hand over his eyes. "Strong. Stronger'n wine... probably stronger'n mead, aye."

Sighing, he drags himself to sit straighter, squinting a moment at the disorientation. As though to get it over with as quickly as possible, he reaches up, plucking the bronze cuffs from his hair, tossing them to the nightstand and undoing the braids in his hair. Sighing, he falls backward, then, eyes sliding closed for a moment.

Several seconds pass in silence; the poor knight may be trying to reconcile the slow spin of the room with the fact that he's not actually moving.

"Might be..." he mumbles faintly, "might be I'll no' be touchin' mead after this again..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Had anyone predicted the events of the evening and her part in them, Arturia would have thought that person was lying. Nearly all her life, the petite knight had carefully built up her mask, projecting the image of the perfect, elegant, calm, and even distant king. That all had finally been swept away thanks to five years of gradual erosion, cumulating in the drinking contest ending only when the stocks of Mjod had been depleted. The King of Knights and the Wolf Lord had been forced to call it a draw, though had it gone on much longer, at least one would have fallen in the next round. Given her stature, it probably would have been the tiny knight-king.

All in all, in spite of what embarrassment was to come, at least she had earned the respect of the Space Wolves. Apparently, now they considered her brethren. Their ways were not precisely ones that Arturia had sought, as Iskander of Macedon had discovered – and now that she thought about it, he would have invited the entire unit to join his army – but gaining new allies was generally beneficial.

Of course, in the past, the winning of their loyalty would have fallen to one of her knights, who would have matched them drink for drink and plying them with tales of his own exploits and those of the king he served, and perhaps impressing them with his loyalty to his liege. That allowed her to maintain her facade and her regal dignity. But now, many of those knights were gone, having died at Camlann and ascended to the Throne of Heroes. Only two had been summoned as Servants and had returned – though Lancelot remained ever the knight-errant – and the sole survivor had returned as well.

That knight was now in a similar predicament as his king, albeit for entirely different reasons. Some mischievous spirit – likely A Certain Wizard was somehow involved – had been filling his goblet with the comparatively safer mead rather than water. Though it wasn't the literal poison that Mjod was, the honey wine was nevertheless something which could quickly put the tall knight under. By comparison, his king might have seemed only slightly inebriated even after all she had matched against the Wolf Lord. However, compared to her usual demeanour, she might as well have been completely three sheets to the wind, nearly all her significant inhibitions cast aside. In fact, her personality had seemed to morph into something more resembling the homunculus created from her, Mordred. an altogether bold, reckless soul in place of the calm, reserved knight-king.

This night, more than a few might have learned just where the Knight of Treachery had truly inherited her boisterous and straightforward personality from. Perhaps it should not have been so mysterious: Mordred was, in essence, a magical clone.

But perhaps she was not quite as inebriated as she appeared to be, her balance and footsteps relatively stable, more indicative of exhaustion rather than drunkenness. Or, possibly, the slight, inelegant wobbling from someone otherwise as steady as bedrock was the equivalent of a regular mortal barely able to remain upright. The contractions and informal speech from someone whose words were normally formal and as precise as a surgical knife might as well have been slurred mutterings from someone who was not a Servant. Nevertheless, the ascent was more of a trial than it needed to be, with both knights not possessed of their full faculties.

Unlike the marshal, Arturia had no need to fumble with her armour, able to simply dismiss it into the ether, the chains of mana weaving it into solid form dissipating with nothing more than a mental command. Such convenience might have earned her a sour look, but the advantage was that she could help with putting the armour away. At least, insomuch as she could keep her hands relatively steady. Rather than collapsing into bed immediately, the jade-eyed knight could do that much without having to worry about her own armour.

Not long after that, however, she gratefully flopped onto the bed with an uncharacteristic, undignified gracelessness. Clad in a simple tunic and leggings, the little blonde didn't bother struggling to get up to change her attire into something more suitable for bed. She didn't want to move, content merely to fall asleep right there without even so much as shifting under the coverlets. Intoxication carried with it that haze, but with it a drowsiness that was difficult to shake. All she wanted to do was sleep.

Had the circumstances been slightly different, she would have just as easily passed out in a chair, resting her head on folded arms over one of the wooden table. But she submitted to being led back up to their quarters where at least a warm, soft bed awaited her.

Bedivere's only answer was a muffled sound which might have been 'mmmm', stifled by the pillow her face was currently planted in. It may very well have been the closest thing to a reassurance she could manage for the moment. Nevertheless, she somehow managed to lift her hand in a waving gesture, as if to convey that she can considered the situation and ultimately decided the effort necessary to move was simply too great for the time being.

'Later,' it seemed to say.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Likewise, the Left Hand of the King would have protested vehemently if he'd been told the night's progression. To imagine his king would ever behave with such reckless abandon was quite frankly an impossibility to him; when he had been reunited with her, it was difficult enough to reconcile her with the smiling young woman he had seen, who had simply been happy to see her faithful knight once more. That was difficult, but not impossible; this, however, is a complete change. If he weren't inebriated himself, he might suspect witchcraft at play.

Just as well it hadn't fallen to him to prove Arturia's honour in the contest, though. The poor man has absolutely no tolerance for liquor at all. Thanks to a lifetime of avoiding it, his resistance is nonexistent; even a sip of Mjod had nearly put him on the floor. The ordinary mead that Merlin had "helpfully" plied him with didn't help matters, either.

Actually, it's a wonder he made it up the stairs without breaking his neck.

He doesn't comment at her help with stowing his own armour, perhaps concentrating a little too much just to keep himself from falling over. Those violet eyes do slide over as she flops down, herself; it's not like her to move with such carelessness. Like her marshal, Arturia had always conducted herself with the utmost grace and elegance, setting an example for the people. It had its advantages, too; one more plate in the social armour they wore amongst their political detractors. Now, though, she looks like she could pass out right there.

Slowly, very slowly, the pale-haired knight reaches out to the king – and prods her, gently, on the shoulder.

"Really should drink some water, m'lady," he mumbles. As though to punctuate his statement, he pokes her shoulder once or twice more, insistently.

He's really not in his right mind, is he?

Reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, Bedivere hauls himself upright, rubbing at his face and clearing his hair away with an unsteady hand. He regards the room somewhat blearily before spotting the pitcher, perched on the writing desk next to the potted lily-of-the-valley.

Crossing the room, though – now that's an uncertain prospect.

The knight mumbles under his breath as he pushes himself back up to his feet, staggering toward the desk uncertainly. His hands find the desk and prop himself up for a moment, shoulders hunching as he squints blearily at the pitcher. He turns, glancing back at Arturia – she looks comfortable and he feels vaguely guilty for disturbing her – but decides that it's probably a good idea.

With undue care, he takes hold of the pitcher and pours the water into one of the two glasses – somehow managing only to spill a little instead of half its contents – and sets it down, frowning as he regards the glass.

Can he get that back over without dropping it? Maybe. There's only one way to find out. His expression is almost one of comical concentration as he takes up the glass, shuffling back to the bed with far too much care, sitting down next to the seemingly comatose king. Taking the glass in one hand, he reaches down to prod her in the shoulder again.

"Arturia." His voice is a bleary mumble, and his violet eyes seem rather bleary, too. "Here. Ye shoul' drink this." And then, he grins, as though he found something hilarious – that broad grin might be hysterical laughter, in anyone else. "Drank more than I did."

The glass is offered to her, albeit with obvious, and willful, care. It wouldn't do to overturn the thing.

"Had fun, did ye?" Bedivere's still grinning even as he holds the glass out for her. "Can't... can't remember th' las' time I heard ye laugh like tha'."

Saber (346) has posed:
A soft groan seemed to issue from the pillow as she was poked, a sound of annoyance at the mere suggestion of moving. This might have been even more potentially disturbing; she had always carried out difficult, trying duties without so much as a sound or expression of complaint. Yet now, something as simple as getting up to drink a glass of water might as well have been asking her to move a mountain.

Which, ironically, she would have little trouble doing, provided she was permitted to use Excalibur and the ability to not so much 'move' as 'vapourise.'

Buried somewhere in her mind was the realisation that, even in his state, he continued to be worried about her. The sentiment was touching, but at the same time slightly aggravating; she was hardly made of glass. The Servant Saber was capable of withstanding far more damage, she could deflect nearly any manner of magical attack. A little poisonous alcohol was not going to kill her where even some Noble Phantasms failed. From anyone else, the suggestion would have been an insult, but looking after her welfare had been his duty as her marshal, after all. Moreover, his personality matched hers well enough that she was not even so much as annoyed, much less insulted. But that hardly meant he would have a reprieve from getting the stink-eye, though....when she felt up to moving, anyway.

You worry too much, was what Arturia attempted to say...only it came out as soft muttering further stifled by linen and goose feathers.

The petite blonde was not certain of what she heard or otherwise sensed; the shuffling, the sudden absence of weight on the other side of the bed. He was possibly getting up for some reason, though the fogginess of her mind prevented her from discerning what. There would be all sorts of things to be horrified over the next morning – not the least of these was her personality switch – but what would have been most unsettling of all was just how compromised her senses and her ability to move were. Never before had she been so exhausted that she could not order her limbs to move, relying on sheer willpower regardless of how badly she had been injured. Never before had she been so completely blinded to her surroundings. Where battles with various Elites and powerfuls Servants had failed, Mjod had succeeded in sapping the last shred of her willpower and powers of observation.

In spite of those distant worries, Arturia could feel herself drifting off, the fog closing in around her consciousness. She was nearly asleep by the time she felt another poke at her shoulder., the prod drawing a stifled noise which might have sounded suspiciously like a whine. Surely, the King of Knights, even in her current undignified and unkingly state would never whine? Not after all she had endured, after all her years of careful practise and training, or after all the horrors she had seen and hardships she had shouldered?

Yet, after that mild protest, sit up she finally did, her sea-green eyes dulled with impending sleep. So dulled were her otherwise sharp wits, in fact, that she failed to even react to the sound of her name, something Bedivere seemed to strenuously avoid when he could. With a movement which seemed rote, she accepted the glass and downed it in two gulps of water, with only a moment's pause between. While that had hardly sobered her up, it seemed to return some of her senses to her.

It was as if she was having a hard time deciding whether to sulk or revert to blushing and stammering. The bizarre twist where her personality had switched to one closer to that of Mordred now seemed to shift again, at once parts proud knight and shy country girl. At this time, the duality of her nature was never more apparent, the two sides of the Once and Future King which would otherwise assumed to be in conflict. Yet, both sides existed simultaneously within the body of a frail-looking girl. A frail girl...with the power of ancient dragons and Last Phantasms.

"It...it takes...requires...a great deal for a Servant..." she objected with an annoyed frown, struggling to regain her more formal ways of speech and 'correct' her initial informal words. And she became much more open and philosophical. At least, of the inebriated philosophical sort....when she wasn't ready to simply collapse and fall asleep for the next week.

"That was not nearly enough to...to..." Arturia waved her hand in annoyance, struggling to find the right word before she settled on something reasonably apt. "It was not enough to cause me to collapse. Yet. And it was necessary."

The flaxen-haired knight glowered at him sourly, yet the flush of her cheeks diminished the effect before she turned away abruptly and muttered something inaudible. It was not the first time she had sulked, but never before was it so blatantly obvious. "I-I...don't...do not...I am uncertain it was fun, precisely..."

The pale-haired knight might pick up on the subtle shift, a gesture which could only be fidgeting. Though she had likewise made similar gestures before, the effects of the Mjod had greatly amplified them. Now, she might seem no different than an ordinary girl of her supposed age. "Maybe...maybe it was. A little. But only a little!"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Arturia's reluctance is met with a chuckle from the pale-haired knight, though the sound is a little less controlled than it usually is. Ordinarily, Bedivere would express his amusement at something with a soft chuckle, so quiet it might be no more than a breath through his nose. Such a subtle display in him was as open laughter in anybody else. Now, though, he does genuinely chuckle, and with the grin he's wearing at her sulky antics, it threatens to become an outright laugh.

He might be horrified if he were sober, but the sight of his cold and remote king sulking like this is too funny to pass up. With his tongue loosened and his wits clouded by the mead, he can't help a laugh bubbling up at the sight and sound of her annoyance.

"M'love, are ye sulkin'?" This time he does laugh. It'll probably serve to irritate her further, but he can't help himself. The mead helps him to see it as funny, instead of horrifying, though he'll probably feel his own horror come the morning. "Aah, I dinna think I've ever seen ye do tha'. It's cute."

Definitely going to be horrified in the morning.

"Ye shoul' smile more, though." He himself smiles, a big lopsided smile that's very obviously drunk, to go by how ruddy his cheekbones are. "Looks pretty on ye."

Definitely, definitely going to be horrified in the morning, if he even remembers any of this. Given his own intake of mead, he'll probably spend the day in bed, with the blanket pulled over his head, rasping at anybody that talks to him to stop shouting.

"Oh—oh, aye. Necess... neci... necessary." He struggles with the word a bit, plunking down on the side of the bed beside her when she drains the water glass. If he were sober he might startle at how fast she can put away that water, but he's just foggy-headed enough not to notice. "Diplomatic relati... relations. Well, maybe it wasn't enough t' cause ye to collapse, but I wanted to just t' see i'. So much Mjod... wonder how Lord Karian's gettin' on after tha'... och, he probably has his men t' roll him away," Bedivere finally concludes, cheerfully.

To hear the soft-spoken, eloquent marshal talking like this, words so twisted as to have a proper brogue, would be shocking in any other circumstance. The man is almost obsessive about his conduct in any other situation, no matter how casual the setting, and to speak so carelessly or show emotion so openly is sign enough that he's had a little too much of the mead.

If he were more sober, he might wonder how the Saxons practically lived on the stuff.

"I' was fun," he protests, leaning over and slinging an arm around Arturia's shoulders – as much a companionable gesture as a means to prop himself up. He's warm to the touch, too warm; scars a crisscrossing of white and raw colours over his pale skin. The broad stripe at his left arm is unmistakable, as are the various other wounds. Each one tells a story; a story he normally keeps hidden beneath tunic and hauberk – that the Left Hand of the King was hardly invulnerable, despite the appearances he kept up at the cost of his own health.

He seems completely oblivious to her fidgeting, still grinning like a fool. "Smile for me, m'lady. I like t' see ye smile. More'n anything else. I always..." He wavers a little, leaning on her to keep himself upright, "Always wanted t' see ye smile in Camelot. Did ye know... did ye know tha' was one o' my wishes? Aye," he says, with such sudden earnestness that it might be comical in any other situation, nodding solemnly. "Prayed t' God t' see tha', but He didn't grant tha' wish 'til I came here. Glad He did." Another solemn nod. "An' other wishes, too. Oh, aye."

Bedivere wavers for a moment more, eyes distant, as though he were thinking over something of vital importance. Then, suddenly, as though someone had snapped their fingers to startle him from his daze, he looks down at her for a moment; long enough that his study might be uncomfortable to her in the midst of her sudden awkwardness.

"Hmmmmm." It's a long, drawn-out sound, and if he were sober, it might be a thoughtful sound. It just comes off as a clumsy attempt at it, now; and he grins again. "Always wondered what ye migh' ha' looked like wi'ou' th' armour, too. Got that. An' see ye smile... wait, I already said tha' one. Hunh..."

He leans closer, dipping his head until he can address her ear, as though he were letting her in on some great secret. "Wondered, too... wondered sometimes... what it'd be like t' hold ye. Found tha' out, too. Dreamt about i', sometimes, in Camelot. Better'n I'd dreamt, too. Ah, God, Arturia," he mumbles thickly, trying to form the words. "Wanted you for so long. Just t' be able t' walk side by side, an' not be givin' a report, or tactics, or—or—y'know." He gestures with his free hand, nebulously. "Marshal."

He sighs, mead still on his breath, and slumps against her. "Best, though... best is seein' you have fun. Seein' you smile. Laugh. Aye, never thought I'd live t' see th' day." He leans his head on her shoulder. "Worth all th' pain, that. Worth bein' alone." Sighing against her, he smiles that lopsided, unguarded smile. "T' see you enjoy somethin'... worth even Camlann jus' for tha'."

Saber (346) has posed:
The knight-king started slightly before she frowned, her brow furrowing. On the one hand, her dignity had taken yet another blow...even if there wasn't truly much of it left at this point. On the other, a real chuckle from him – as opposed to a soft breath – had been more than enough to startle her. That was perhaps even stranger than the beginnings of an actual brogue, a mixed accent which seemed to contain pronunciations from various places, a hint of constant travelling.

But at the laugh and amused question, she wheeled then, sputtering. "I-I am not! Sulking! I'm..." Well, she had no idea what she was doing, in truth. But whatever it was it was definitely not sulking.

"W-well..." she half-stammered, half-slurred. "Whatever it is, it's not a sulk. I do not sulk."

She very much sulks.

But what really threw her off was what came next.

"I-I am not cute!" she protested, trying her best to convey annoyance and disbelief. Unfortunately for her effort, it was not particularly successful, especially after her expression softened after a long moment into a wrinkled brow. Even more than that, the furious blush underscored it completely. "You don't truly think that..."

Yet, there was a note of uncertainty, even through the Mjod-incurred haze. "...Do you?"

Even now, Arturia struggled with the idea – and even the mere suggestion – of the cold and distant king ever being seen as 'cute'. It was difficult enough for her to understand why Fate seemed to think so, or Sakura...but for her marshal, who had seen nothing but the aloof king, and who himself seemed to struggle seeing her without her own mask, it was downright baffling.

But in spite of the sense of humiliation, a part of her was reluctantly glad to hear a genuine laugh rather than the restrained hint of one, which often seemed almost tortured. Her sulking softened into a faint, rather sad smile; Camlann had wrought terrible injuries in the both of them. Her physical ones had even been about to claim her life...or would, if she ever returned. The tragedy had taken an even heavier toll on its sole survivor, and even before then Bedivere had never truly laughed, his rare smiles always subtle. To hear it, and to see him smile, was a reward beyond measure, one she was still not certain she truly deserved.

And speaking of smiles...

As if to further trample on her dignity, that line of thought was turned right back on her. Her previous bittersweet smile dissolved instantly into furious blushing and indignant sputtering. Unfortunately, she seemed unable to form any actual words for a stunned moment. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again before she attempted some form of speech. "P-pre...I am not...how..."

Perhaps she had meant how in the world he could find such a hopelessly mannish stick of a girl could be pretty, but Arturia was hardly articulating it well. Not after her clear embarrassment and a gallon of Mjod. Yet, even then, a small wish of hers – one she would be far too squeamish to admit without some inebriation assistance. "I...I'd like to...see more of yours, as well."

But the moment passed, makin way for another bout of glowering. Only, it didn't have quite the necessary gravity for her to successfully pull it off, ending up becoming closer to a sulk...or even a pout. "You're..you are making fun of me, aren't you?"

Of course, it wasn't possible for Arturia to be truly upset or angry at him for such a little thing; the only way he ever upset the jade-eyed knight was when he disregarded the importance of his own life, allowing himself to get into situations where he was fortunate to come away seriously injured. Bedivere had never regarded his life important while hers was tantamount...yet, she could never make him understand that from her perspective, it was the opposite. She valued his life above all others. Unsuitable for a king, assuredly...but she was no longer the King of Britain. Becoming his Servant was almost an excuse to treat his life as all-important, even if there was technically no longer a need. Yet, she could not lie to herself; even if Sakura had never relinquished her command seals, it would have been the same. She could no longer pretend she could sacrifice his life for a vague "greater good".

And perhaps, she never truly could.

Arturia blinked owlishly at the silver-haired knight's admission, even more than the sudden arm around her shoulders for balance. Fun? He always seemed to act as if such things were an enormous pain. Staring for a moment, the request finally registered with another round of protestations. "I-I...it is not as easy as simply..."

But it died on her lips soon thereafter. That's right...it was one of his simple wishes, wasn't it? As modest as those dreams had been, as much as she dearly wished she could have granted them, those had been the most impossible of all. Glory in battle seemed to have been the only wish she was able to grant. But the closeness, the true camaraderie and friendship, that had been beyond her power to grant.

She attempted a small, somewhat shy smile, with a slight blush to accompany it. Certainly awkward, but it was, at the moment, her best effort. Yet, the most impressive blush of all was to come.

If even smiling for him lay beyond her power to grant, those others were thrice impossible, then. To see her without her armour, smiling and in his arms, or simply talking to her as a person rather than giving some report...none of these things could ever have been anything more than hopeless dreams in Camelot. But in Dun Realtai, they were almost routine. Yet, Arturia would never tire of them, and she doubted he would, either.

She lifted her hand as he slumped against her, somewhat clumsily stroking his hair. She was spoiled, really, to have accepted her fate as a lifetime of isolation and loneliness only to be granted a dream she had never known she even harboured. At times, she wondered if it was right to allow herself that happiness when all her knights had sacrificed so much...and most, even their lives. But how could she refuse his wish when she herself wanted the same thing?

"I...I have had few occasions to do so, truly," she admitted, continuing to ildy stroke his hair. "There have been some, these past five years, and yet....something was missing. I have made many true friends, but none could truly understand the life we led. In dreams, at most....but it was not quite the same. In some ways, I was as alone here as I was in Camelot."

She sighed, brushing a light kiss on the top of his head. "But no longer."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Unfortunately, dignity is something both knight and king left behind long ago. For that, their very reunion had been the beginning of the end. There was no way such a thing could survive the bond they both truly wanted. After all, how could they maintain their walls and distances, when they both sought such comfort and closeness with one another? Remaining aloof is an impossibility.

Deep down, though, the knight is at peace with that. He cherishes every aspect of her, even the ones that are undignified, and on some level he knows the same is true of her. Even being able to share those parts of his hidden self that embarrass him is an honour, and a gift.

Arturia's flustered answer seems to be a source of amusement. She's not sulking, but she's definitely not a sulk. Again she's rewarded with that surprisingly rich laugh, though the mead gives it a slightly wild edge. Especially when she sulks even more over being called cute, which only reinforces that image. Yet even in his delight, it's an image he won't forget even in his drunkenness – a sight he'll treasure for the rest of his days, as he does her own smile or laugh.

That's the impression one might have from that slightly silly smile of his, anyway.

Does he really think that?

"I do," he says with a grin, violet eyes fixed on her. "Aye. I do think tha'. When you're like—like tha', anyway. Definitely no' what I migh' ha' expected from th' king, but... this suits ye too. Aye, i' suits ye. Jus' as much a part of ye as—as—" He struggles to find the right comparison, gesturing vaguely. Maybe she can infer it from his drunken gesturing, or maybe not. "As th' other side. Th' kingly... part. Thing. An' I... like t' see this, sometimes."

His mouth twists into a silly smile as she dissolves into blushing and sputtering. It only broadens when she ramps up her protests. She's always thought of herself as anything but beautiful, yet it was that very trait that had drawn him to her. He had seen her that day in the market square, walking proudly with her entourage astride a white courser. The day had been cloudy, but it seemed like the sun came out solely to illuminate her as she passed by. From that day on, he'd been captivated; captured.

That silly smile of his fades into something more warm and affectionate, thinking of that cherished memory, though it's still a little uncertain from the mead. It has nothing to do with her request for him to smile more, though; he's too busy concentrating on her face, even as she scowls.

Making fun of her?

His smile fades entirely. The accusation seems to sober him, if only slightly. He does seem to stop and genuinely think about it, slow and imprecise as his wits lead him in tired circles. The effort of thinking on that seems to cost him, squinting a little, as though it were leading him to some great and fundamental revelation. He tilts his head slightly, now puzzled.

"Make ligh' o' ye?" He tilts his head slightly. "Oh, m'love. Arturia. I'd—I'd never do tha'." Reaching out, he threads his fingers clumsily through her hair, suddenly showing that lopsided smile. "I—"

Here he seems to falter, face reddening a little more. He forces himself to maintain that smile, though, and to speak in spite of his embarrassment.

"No," he breathes. "I love ye too much t' dis—t' dir—t' insult ye so." Complicated words are a little too much for him right now. He's at least able to use simpler words to say what he means, though his thoughts are still a little fuzzy. He's definitely had too much to drink.

Slowly, as though he were coming to a decision, he rests his face to the side of hers, closing his eyes. He stays there for a long moment, but eventually he draws back, watching her with half-lidded eyes and that faint smile.

He closes the distance a little clumsily. Like his first kiss, this one is clumsy, relying on too much mead and not enough clear thought. He's had far more to drink than that night, too, and this time it's perhaps quite a lot bolder than he might have intended, and perhaps more lingering, too.

When he finally pulls away, he smiles that warm and unsteady smile. "Of course it's easy," he murmurs, voice so quiet it could be missed. "It's like... like there's no winter at all here when ye smile, m'love."

His own smile broadens when she gives it an uncertain try, as though to say he'd never tire of such a thing. And he wouldn't. It had been his secret dream for so very long, in Camelot; how could he ever take such a beautiful thing for granted?

Gradually, those violet eyes hood in contentment as she reaches up to stroke his hair, no matter how clumsy the gesture is. They close after a moment, though the smile remains. He sags forward until his head rests against her shoulder, propped against her at a slight angle. Drunk as he is, his contented sigh seems almost exaggerated.

"No longer," he agrees, mumbling against her. His arms circle loosely around her, as much to prop himself up as affectionate gesture, resting his cheek to hers as he pulls himself partway upright. When he speaks, his words are no more than a warm breath against the line of her jaw. "No longer."

"Never need t'be alone ever again," he murmurs against her skin, though he words are so slow and deliberate that he's obviously still concentrating to find the right ones. It isn't the measured pace he might take in diplomatic matters, but the intense concentration only a drunk can really conjure. "Ah, God, how... how can I..."

His arms tighten around her like a drowning man in search of a life raft; as though, if he let her go, she might fade into motes of light. "Arturia." Her name is no more than a breath, as though he were savouring every syllable of it, too drunk to worry about propriety. "Oh, my Arturia. I love you so. So much—so much i' almost hurts, aye, i' does. You... ye're everythin' t' me. Everythin'. More'n everythin'." He's behaving like a drunken fool, and coming dangerously close to sliding into maudlin territory, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. "Wanted you for so long. So long. And now..."

"And now..." Words fail him, though he doesn't seem to be on the verge of weeping, at least not yet. No; he seems more incredulous, as though unable to decide how to express this gift, this incredible second chance. He rests his face against the side of her neck, holding her perhaps tighter than he might if he had his wits about him – unafraid, this time, that he might break something wrought of glass.

After a moment he pulls himself mostly upright again, regarding her with a strange intensity, as though he were seeing her for the first time. He draws close, no more than an eyelash between them, but he doesn't quite close the distance. Slowly, that unsteady smile spreads across his face, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud; one hand rises to gently, if clumsily, stroke the line of her jaw.

"No longer," Bedivere breathes, eyes drifting closed, as though burning into his memory the sensation of her face under his sword-callused fingers.

And then, cupping his hand around her face, he closes the distance – a slow and gentle kiss, wholly absorbed, completely unconcerned with propriety or fear or whatever it is he's afraid of when he's feeling more sober. That's what he tries for, anyway, but it keeps slipping back into his earlier boldness. Eventually he gives up and lets it. He's too tired to force his wits into any sort of obedience.

It seems the mead lends him courage. Liquid courage, indeed.

When he finally draws away, he rests his face against hers, absently running an open palm along the line of her shoulder; likely he doesn't even realise he's doing it. "Never have t' be alone again," he mumbles thickly. "No more missin' pieces. Aye, broken ones, maybe, but nothin' missin'. No more."

He nuzzles into the side of her face, some of his silvery hair falling across his own. "Oh, Arturia," he breathes. "I—I dunno what i' was I did to deserve ye. But I'd do i' again in a heartbeat. Less'n a heartbeat."

Saber (346) has posed:
As much as the petite knight protests over it, the sacrifice of her dignity was an acceptable one. As the king who had been whispered to have been an inhuman, unfeeling creature, she had simply suppressed her emotions and kept her distance, not only for the sake of protecting her secret, but to rule with a fair and impartial hand. Perhaps she would have silently yearned for companionship had she allowed herself the luxury, permitted her mind to sway from her duties to her country. or perhaps she buried that yearning so deep within herself that not even she was aware of it. Then, her careful, deliberate dignity was a piece of her armour, a shield, a banner for the people to have confidence in and look up to.

But now, she had little need of such things, and it had become a wall distancing her from everyone. It had been for the best, she had assumed, with her intention to finish her commitment to the Grail War, undo her history, save Britain, and return. Once she had learned the truth of the Holy Grail, she had then thrown her energy into defeating Gilgamesh, but even that had not truly given her new existence much in the way of comfort. But then, she never believed she deserved to even wish for such a thing.

No..though it was all terribly embarrassing, Arturia couldn't regret the crumbling of her dignity. Certainly not the walls that had existed around her and Bedivere. And that gave her glimpses of his hidden nature, in turn. That had been a wish she had harboured once she had relinquished her dream of saving Camelot, having found that wish once she realised her remaining regrets. She had sacrificed Lancelot once, during the Holy Grail War, slaying the Berserker by her own hand. After meeting him again and truly resolving their regrets with one another, she realised she would never again sacrifice one of her knights for the sake of that wish. Instead, she would seek to find them, and to reconcile, acknowledge them, and offer a true companionship...at least, as much as they might wish for.

But she had gotten far more than she ever could have imagined when she had found her Left Hand once more. It had been for the best that she had remained ignorant of just how deeply his own feelings and devotion ran, and the reasons for their existence. Knowing would have made her duties that much more soul-crushing...and he realised it. In many ways, the jade-eyed knight could not seem to shake off her own feelings of unworthiness, even as she was grateful. Yet, for the moment – and thanks in no small part to the Mjod – there was only gratitude.

And, of course, some small bit of embarrassment.

'Cute' was something she admittedly wished she was...even if others insisted on it. It was a feminine description, in some ways, but even before she had submitted to transforming herself into the image of the perfect king, she had been boyish. Dresses never helped; the callouses from practising swordplay constantly were not that much different from those of the weavers and the farmers and other peasant women, but her entire demeanour was all wrong. The cuts and scrapes and bruises from almost daily training certainly didn't help. On occasion, she would observe the other girls her age in the village near Sir Ector's lands, wondering what it would be like to simply be a girl like them. She relished her training and, in all honesty, could probably never have lived contentedly as some farmer's wife. Her need to protect the people was too strong, her heart too proud to simply pray for a peaceful life. But there were times when she could not quite help wishing there was something more feminine about her.

Which was why she struggled with the idea that she didn't have to work very hard to achieve it. Some part of it was embarrassing, true; the dignified king protested what might be considered an image of weakness. But the other part was a terrible shyness, a reluctance to admit that Bedivere in particular would find her that way. Especially given the stark contrast to her kingly side, just as much a part of her as the half she had kept hidden. At first, she had been fearful of disappointing him once he had learned that the king was not purely the image she had deliberately projected. It was not that the proud King of knights was a lie...but it wasn't the entire truth, either.

His slurred reassurances might have been comical in any other situation, but for the moment, they were just that; reassurances. He cherished both sides? While she had been comforted by the revelation that he would never reject her, finally hearing that he had not chosen to simply ignore or deny that other half of her – with a little help from mead – was a burden lifted that she hadn't even realised she had carried still. As silly as his smile might have otherwise been, she couldn't find it that way. It was comforting...even if being currently inebriated had more than a little to do with it.

The flaxen-haired knight had to admit that she was not entirely put out by the idea that she was amusing him somehow. She had, after all, wished for him to see her as a human being rather than the mighty King of Britain. There were times she worried still that the pedestal he constantly placed her on were the vestiges of his hero-worship of that king. Though his reasons were far deeper than merely being inspired as so many others had been, all he had seen of her for nearly two decades was the public image. In a sense, it was almost a relief to be made fun of, to be properly teased. In Camelot, the only one who had ever teased her were Kay and – on rare occasions – Lancelot.

"W-well..." she stammered with a blush, looking away, "I wouldn't be...it would be acceptable...to be teased...from time to time."

She looked back at him, however, with that clumsy yet gentle touch, her face heating up a few more shades. His words were so open and honest, and admittedly he had not said anything quite so plainly, especially not that. "Wish you would say that more often..." she slurred, not entirely aware that she had actually admitted that out loud.

But that was certainly not the only thing she had secretly wished he would do more of..even if, without the influence of Mjod, she would not have the special sort of courage necessary to admit to it. Fortunately, in the midst of his own intoxication, the violet-eyed knight did just that. Clumsy, perhaps. But that did nothing to stop her from returning his kiss...and with a bit of Mjod-influenced eagerness, in fact. It might have been difficult to tell who was more drunk at this point.

The chances were more than a little good that, if he remembered that line of impromptu poetry, Bedivere was going to groan and hold his head in his hands, wishing embarrassment was fatal. For the moment, however, all it did was serve to make her blush even more and flail as much as was possible in her current position. "I-it's not...th-that's...a bit...overgenerous..."

Even the drink of the Space Wolves couldn't completely erase her inferiority complex, it would seem.

Still, it was so very peaceful to simply be there with him, her fingers entwined in his soft, silvery hair, inhaling the subtle scent of Castile soap. To know that she would never be alone again and neither would he was like the calm which settled over the land after a storm. Even if he might have been behaving like a drunken fool, so was she. Not that she thought anything of the sort; clumsy to the point of being comical was not a thought which had ever entered her mind. Not when he had finally spoken those words again, ones which she had been longing to hear once more. Drunk or not, she was grateful. "Wanted to hear you say that again..." she fumbled with just as much uncharacteristic clumsiness. "Always seemed afraid to say it..."

Admittedly, it had been pleasant when he had treated her like she was some fragile thing, showing a tenderness she had never before known. It had been a unique experience, and being so close to him now after all the years of mutual isolation flooded her with feelings she had never even known she could feel. Yet even that paled in comparison to the present, and her own arms tightened around him, as if to tell him that he need not worry about breaking her, to encourage him that she found this quite pleasing, indeed.

A fraction of her more familiar shyness seemed to overtake her for a moment as he cupped her face in his hand, blushing profusely. Still, she did nothing to escape or push him away. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes slowly closed, leaning into and returning his kiss even as it become bolder. Her barriers and sense of doubt were completely overridden by what she had felt so many years ago at her window; the longing to connect to another who understood her, even if he could not possibly have guessed. Those true expressions had remained carefully hidden, and she could not possibly allow them to slip for many reasons. But now, without the need in place, she did not hold back. Her very soul lay bare before him, her masks and defences utterly useless. She returned his affection as if to try to tell him all of these things, hopelessly, what she couldn't express with mere words.

Perhaps the next day the pair would be completely horrified by their submission to wherever the liquid courage had taken them, but for the moment, she was all too happy to submit. At least their embarrassment would be entirely mutual.

There remained one thing that she could tell him, a feeling which had at least a few words for it. "Fionnlagh...I love you. It's almost painful, to feel this...but...I love you."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he might not admit it sober, the pale-haired knight doesn't mind the loss of his dignity so much. It's a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. For almost twenty years he had spent his life alone, isolated from anyone who might have been a companion to him by his own rigourous adherence to duty. He could not afford to drop his guard or lower his walls, for such a thing would have been the end of the kingdom – or, at the very least, the end of Arturia Pendragon's reign.

One and the other were the same. To Bedivere, there had never been any significant difference.

It may be uncomfortable for him to sacrifice his dignity, but he wouldn't change it for the world. To see her true self, to see her smile and even laugh beneath her mask and her defensive walls; that treasure is more valuable to him than anything else. It would be worth any embarrassment, worth any discomfort, just to experience what lay beyond the visage of the cold king.

"Oh?" He raises a brow, grinning that lopsided, drunken grin. True, his smiles are often crooked, a hint of that mild self-derision he seems to carry with him wherever he goes. Yet this time, it's just plain sloppy, too far beyond the control of his compromised wits to help. Fortunately, he doesn't notice or care, and there's still a kind of genuine quality to the expression – like the mead has revealed his hidden heart, wrapped up in the layers and walls even he doesn't know about. "I'll keep tha' in mind, then." His smile softens, though there's still that drunken edge to it. "An' I'll... I'll be sure to do tha', too. M'love. Aye. Shoul'... shoul' ha' said tha' more often—"

She's returning that kiss, though, and he finds it's suddenly much harder than it should be to concentrate on forming words. He gives up, though not without mumbling something completely incoherent; though by the half-smile he still wears, it's something undoubtedly approving.

It takes him a few seconds to find his wits again, arching a brow at her. Overgenerous? "Oh? Really? Ah..." He laughs, as though greatly amused by that. "Aye? I didn't think so... aye, wasn't enough, I think..."

The pale-haired knight seems just as content to simply be, resting his face against her hair. Even through the mead dulling his wits, he can smell the faint rose traces of her shampoo; underlaid by the faint scent that is uniquely her – something he had never really known of before the multiverse, always dampened by the scent of steel and leather, sweat and oil; or the musky aroma of horses, when they had been riding. He inhales deeply, letting his breath go in a sigh of pleasure.

Sometimes he still thinks it's a dream, expecting to wake up at any moment from it, to find himself alone in that weald. He's since learned better – but even the stoic Left Hand of the King can't believe his own good fortune. After the hardships of his life, after the hardships of Camelot, he had never expected peace. Certainly not for his king; certainly not for himself.

"Hm? You... wanted me t' say that again?" He opens an eye, glancing down at her, frowning slightly. He seems to consider that for a moment, though it perhaps takes him much longer than it otherwise might. "Afraid...?"

Bedivere seems to process that for a moment, although it stretches on for a rather long moment. He's almost dead weight over her, head resting over hers, arms draped loosely around her. For a moment it almost seems like he might have passed out – but he stirs, faintly, eyes hooded as he stares at some middle distance. Whether he's actually mulling over that revelation or not, though, it's hard to say.

"No." When he finally speaks, his words are still slurring. "No, not afraid... 'least, not o' ye. Never ye." Slowly, he tightens his arms around her, burying his face into the soft gold of her hair. "Afraid of... of losin' ye. Like if I say it, if I say what—what I want—I—ye migh' disappear. Or I might wake up. Or this'll jus'... jus'..." He sighs into her hair. "Dunno," he finally mumbles, faintly.

Even the pale-haired knight's remaining walls are cracking. There are many, in spite of how he's come to accept his situation and the relationship; Bedivere is nonetheless scarred in more ways than one. He nuzzles into her hair, but he frowns as he does. Why did he decide not to do that? To tell her what he really felt? To take advantage of this miraculous second chance they've both been given?

Yet before he can comment, she's leaning into him, and he quickly forgets why it is he wants to think about that. In fact, he can't really justify thinking of anything at all. There are no doubts, no guilt, no worries, no fears – he feels none of those things that so often plague him, those spectres of the past from Camlann and Camelot. He lets none of that affect him now, relying only on that wild, unpredictable courage of the mead; that wonderful confidence he wouldn't ordinarily have.

Although he wouldn't dream of it if he weren't in that haze, he lets his own guard go, dropping his own defenses – lays his own soul bare to her. Even if he had to dredge up those defenses, he isn't certain he could. With anyone else, perhaps, but not with her. He could never wall himself off from her. Never again.

The next day, he might be horrified by the boldness that's come over him. For now, though, he doesn't care. He's all too happy to dismiss his fears, his guilt, his reverence of her. Right now, she is the woman he loves – the woman he would do anything for, has done almost anything for, at great cost to himself. Now, he feels no selfishness in reaping the rewards of that suffering, to simply indulge in her presence, in the lack of fear and guilt and hesitation between them.

He smiles, even through the kiss; even as she pulls away and addresses him with that hesitant statement.

There's no need for him to answer, with that soft smile, slightly lopsided as it may be. He reaches up, somewhat clumsily, to rest his hand over the side of her face; thumb lingering over her lower lip as he slowly lets his hand fall.

"I know." It's a soft statement, slurred, but no less genuine for it.

He leans forward until he can rest his forehead against hers, although the difference in height means he has to slouch a little. Thankfully, he's drunk enough that he doesn't care about slouching. In fact, he's inclined to do that anyway, unsteady as he is; arms circling around her. One arm wraps around her shoulders; one rests loosely over her waist, and he manages a soft, almost breathless laugh, more reminiscent of the ones he might show when sober.

"An' I love ye, Arturia." The statement is no more than a breath, eyes drifting closed. "It is painful. Only one thing's hurt so bad in my life, an' tha' was losin' ye. But no more. No more missing pieces. Shoul' ha' said i' a long time ago. Aye, this is painful. But not because I don't want it." He tightens his arms, bowing his head and resting his face against the side of her neck. "Because I've never felt somethin' so much as what I feel for ye. It's strong, m'love, so strong... stronger'n anythin' I'd ever felt. Even when I was dyin', when ye los' Caliburn... even when I faced no' servin' ye, of dyin' an' leavin' ye... I didn't feel so much."

He sighs, and for a moment it might seem as though he'd passed out against her. Except, after a few breaths, he shifts slightly – just enough to press a kiss to the side of her neck, although perhaps he hadn't intended to let one turn into two, or three, or four; by the time he seems to remember he was in the middle of something, he sighs, as though reluctant to actually think. It's so much easier not to think; the mead makes his wits so slow, so reluctant to follow any semblance of order.

"Hmn." It's a soft, reluctant sound. "Didn't feel so much then. But now... aye. I do. But I want to. Wouldn't trade anythin' for this. Oh, Arturia," he breathes, "I've been a fool. A great bloody fool. Shoul' ha' said that more. Aye. But I am, now."

He draws back to look at her, though he's a little unsteady; so is his smile, though there's no doubting its sincerity.

"Arturia. I love you. I dunno what's taken me so long t' tell you tha', or why I don't say i' more... but I do. More'n I could say. More'n I even know, I think." That smile broadens, and he reaches up to rest his hand at the side of her face again, thumb absently tracing the line of her cheekbone. Leaning forward, he lets himself indulge in another kiss – no hesitation, no fear; simply showing her what he can no longer find the words for.

Or, perhaps, what he doesn't want to think to find the words for. Thinking is getting progressively more difficult for him, and it's much easier to just show her, before the overwhelming need to sleep drags him down.

No doubt he's going to wish a hole would open up and swallow him by the morning – but for now, he has no regrets, content to let the mead run its course, wherever that takes him. He'll pass out, of course. He always does. The Left Hand of the King had made it a habit to drink nothing that was anything less than ninety percent water – so he has no tolerance at all for actual alcohol, let alone something as strong as mead.

He won't mind, though. He's had his opportunity to show her what he has so much trouble putting to words, and he's in her company. The pale-haired knight can only be content with that.

It might be that he won't be so content with his hangover in the morning, though, or his own horror in acting like a drunken fool...