3338/Parallel Lines

Parallel Lines
Date of Scene:	06 November 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Arturia and Bedivere discuss the past, the future, and the quirky habits of the villagers in their care.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's a quiet autumn day in the village of Dun Realtai, with leaves tumbling to the ground in the wake of the stiff breeze, the smell of woodsmoke on the air, and the cheerful bustle of people going about their daily lives. The weather has been cold, of late, prompting fires burning in the hearths, frost on the ground at night, and even the threat of eventual snow. The ground is not yet white, though; just rimed in frost in the mornings, with the frost sometimes lasting late into the afternoon.

Today it hasn't melted yet, even as the long shadows of late afternoon stretch over the village's wide courtyard. The broken stone fountain in the middle is where the land's steward can be found, perched on the edge of the stones and layered in warm clothing -- the outermost is a heavy tunic of homespun fabric, smelling faintly of Castile soap, grey and unremarkable. It looks suited more to a woodsman than a castle lord.

Tucked under one arm is the set of Uilleann pipes he's been known to play on occasion, and their sharp notes resound through the alleys and the avenue, echoing off the buildings. The melody is not quite mournful, but it's not quite bright, either; more enigmatic than anything else, promising mysteries as yet untouched, mysteries that will remain mysteries even when the sun has gone dark.

If he notices anybody about, he doesn't look up, head bowed over his playing and seemingly totally absorbed in it.

There is magic at work, here, too -- for the graceful, intricate Celtic knotwork that seems to form his equivalent to a circuit is aglow over his arms and creeping up his neck, one careless whorl of knotwork even circled around one eye. Both of them are closed, though, and he is paying surprisingly little attention to his surroundings.

A few curious townspeople watch from their doorways or windows, but nobody seems interested in bothering the would-be bard... at least not for the moment.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The Once and Future King of Britain would perhaps never take for granted a time when winter was merely a time of rest, and autumn no longer a frantic race against the death it would bring. The harvest had been a time of hard work as it always had been, but it was not the desperate struggle that it had been in Camelot, nor even the previous year in Dun Realtai. It would be some time before the people were truly prosperous...or at least satisfactorily as far as Arturia was concerned. There would always be improvements which could be made -- she was never completely satisfied when there were -- but she would never be less than grateful beyond words that the year's end no longer meant death by exposure, disease, or starvation.

     In fact, though the winter remained as cold as ever, it had become a time of much-needed rest both for the people and the lord of the land. So long as there was a warm keep to return to, he could finally take some much-needed rest. And no, Arturia was not going to tolerate long patrols out in the snow; there were enough people now to assign shift rotations so that no one was out in the cold for longer than necessary. She was fully-prepared to nag about it if necessary.

     Today, however, there was no need. The weather was crisp and cold, yet without the sharpness which would descend in the coming weeks. Nevertheless, that lord of the land had armed himself against the coming cold, though he had forgotten one very important part of the ensemble. Carefully tucking the delicately-carved harp beneath her left arm, Arturia gathered that necessary article of clothing and made her way down to the village square.

     It was not difficult to find him; all she had to do was follow the airy strains of pipes down to the broken fountain. When she reached the source, however, she paused with some surprise. Magic circuits were a curious thing, and generally they did not grow, but never had Bedivere's manifested in the way they did now. A result of his training, no doubt....and perhaps combined with music, his forgotten heritage was emerging once more. Though she had come with a purpose, the petite blonde was loath to disturb him, even though he would have sensed her presence as she approached.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The pipes stutter to a halt, but not because of any fouled note. No, the piper simply happened to notice that he has more of an audience than curious village folk; thanks to otherworldly bonds, he is always aware of his king's location, and he can no more ignore the sensation of her approach than a moth can ignore radiant flame.

Tilting his head, he glances up, eyes snapping open -- and for a brief instant there's an unsettling gleam of light in that left eye, the one the knotwork circuitry curves around. It's gone in an instant, and so is the eerie light.

"My lady." He tilts his head again, this time in more of a gesture of acknowledgement and greeting. Those violet eyes linger on her, almost uncertain. "What is it?" It's slowly getting dark, although he seems not to have noticed. A brief glance at the stone beside him becomes a silent invitation to sit, although he doesn't say a word.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The flaxen-haired knight's face was composed in its usual calm, and she carried herself with her habitual, practised regal grace. There was not even so much a question in her eyes as she crossed the remaining distance with several light steps -- strides which seemed longer than someone of her stature should be capable of -- though Bedivere would be familiar enough with her mannerisms that it would seem languid for the petite knight-king. Wordlessly, she set the harp next to him and extracted the other item she carried. He would recognise it as she tucked it around his neck; the scarf she had knitted for him the previous winter and given him as a Christmas present along with the other currently tucked under his arm.

     "It will be colder soon," she remarked softly. It was as much fussing as Arturia did before she finally tilted her head slightly, regarding the glow of the magic circuits along the side of his face. "It would seem that your magus studies have begun to bear fruit," she observed.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Blinking somewhat owlishly, the knight raises his hands, mouth twitching into a half-smile as she winds the hand-knitted scarf around his neck. Absent-minded when he had left, he'd forgotten to take it with him where it had hung by the door. "Oh. Thank you. I'd forgotten to take that with me..."

He tilts his head slightly in the other direction when she looks at him, as though only belatedly registering what it is she's talking about. Oh, his magic circuits. Or whatever it is his people had once named the soft light arranged in its intricate patterns. "Oh," he says, again, softly. "Perhaps. I have been experimenting, somewhat. Seeing. Not quite the awen, but Seeing, as Master Loros had shown me. I thought perhaps I could use the music, somehow, as my forefathers once had..."

And has anything come of it? He shrugs, faintly. "I do not know if it has accomplished anything, but it seemed an interesting experiment as any other." Leaning just the slightest bit against her, he rests the side of his face against the top of her head, faintly, breathing a chuckle into her hair. "And how does this crisp and cool autumn eve find you, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     A half-smile of her own similarly tugs at a corner of her mouth. Though the sentimentality of the gift had been that she was the one to have made it, the gift itself had been quite practical given the climate of their home. /Home,/ she mused inwardly. That had been a dream she had never dared imagine for herself, another gift of the present she would never take for granted. More importantly, it was a home she had made with the one whom she had cherished above all others in spite of herself.

     "I do not think you shall forget after this," she noted. "The weather turns colder by the day. We shall have to bring more clothing for emergencies." By which she meant that wondrous insulated fabric from Union forces which, though not any thicker than leather, kept the cold out magnificently.

     "Perhaps it is something of both," she suggested. "Even when you practised his exercises, it has never manifested quite this way." Lifting her hand to his face, she brushed her fingers lightly along his cheek where they glowed, brushing a lock of hair from his face. "Music might well have been the way in which the magi of our lands focused their magic."

     As he leaned slightly against her, Arturia responded with a soft 'hm' of contentment, pulling the harp back into her lap. "In truth, I remain in awe of how this season is no longer a dark time. The people are not worried over the possibility of losing loved ones to the winter. I am...contented. Truly contented."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Aye, the leaves turn, and they fall." Bedivere gestures to indicate the distant trees, already in various shades of red and gold. Piles of leaves lay on the ground and drift against the sides of buildings and walls. "They will be falling more swiftly, I think. The nights grow more chill. I am grateful for the hearth, and the sleeping furs given to us."

Once upon a time, in Camelot, he had slept on a hard and uncomfortable palette, and he had used his cloak as his own sleeping furs. Somehow he had kept the garment in good condition in spite of its constant use, but it had not been nearly warm enough to serve as his primary protection against such bitter cold.

The silver-haired knight half-smiles. "My peoples' music was magic, and our magic music. Who's to know? I never completed my training, so there is no limit to how my own skills would manifest, or how they are supposed to." He closes his eyes, subtly pleased, when she reaches up to touch his face. "Aye. So too am I."

"The lack of loss in this season is astonishing. So many times I had ridden so hard for the marches to deliver supplies to the villages, only to find I was too late to save some. So many times I saw even those of the citadel at Camelot perish in the bleak seasons..." Disentangling himself from the pipes, he rests an arm around her, pulling her close and resting his chin over the top of her head with a contented sigh. "I never thought I would live to see a day when midwinter would be such a time of peace."

Saber (346) has posed:
     "More than a few have already fallen," Arturia commented with a faint note of amusement and a soft chuckle as some of the village children had discovered that piles of leaves were fun to play in. "Enough to make a sport of, it would seem."

     In Camelot, the hearth and sleeping furs of the royal chambers were more than many possessed, yet even they paled in comparison to the comforts even the poorest among the villagers enjoyed now. Homes were warmed though geothermal vents not unlike the houses of the Romans had been, but the access to modern materials and building techniques had made it truly efficient. Hearths were an added comfort to huddle around as the snow fell thickly outside, but none froze should they run cold. "I rather like these new artificial fleece blankets," she marvelled over a more recent acquisition. "I prefer them to wool, in truth...I never imagined cloth of such softness...."

     Idly, the jade-eyed knight made a mental note to send word to Sakura or Rin to investigate how magic circuits might work; perhaps Merlin would be more knowledgeable, particularly given that he was from their era, but his former pupil was loath to ask the wizard much of anything. But it would be out of curiosity more than anything; her faith in his abilities and discipline was absolute. Though he was but a fledgeling magus, his potential was impressive enough before he applied himself as only the Left Hand of the King would. But more importantly, it was the reclamation of the heritage he had cast aside to follow her. What was lost could never be regained completely, but what could be was precious.

     She leaned into him as he pulled her close, resting her head gently against his shoulder. The previous year, she would have been apprehensive with his various injuries, but he had healed well in the time since. "It will never be anything other than a miracle," Arturia mused softly. "I can never take such a thing for granted."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight glances to the side, where a few drifts lie piled against a wall. They look suspiciously undisturbed, and he has no doubt that by the same time tomorrow, there will be nothing left of the tidy, orderly piles. "I suspect the children have already found most of them, and I suspect the groundskeepers will be muttering to themselves."

"There is something to be said for those," Bedivere concedes, thinking back. "They are indeed soft, softer than even the finest wool. They are surprisingly warm, too, for as thin as they are... warmer than I would have thought them to be."

Perhaps he had healed from his wounds, but even now he still moves more stiffly than he had before. No more is he the young warrior with everthing to prove as he had been in Camelot; perhaps not old, but hard-used and ill-healed.

Leaning into her, he rests his head over hers, nuzzling into her hair a little and closing his eyes. "Mmm. Aye, it is a blessing. I thank the Good Lord every day that I have been led to this place, and back to your side once more." He half-smiles. "Perhaps we should make our way inside, mm? The shadows lengthen, and it will soon be dark. Walk with me?" he requests, gently, climbing back to his feet and offering her his free hand, the other cradling the Uilleann pipes.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia chuckled softly again. "A hazard of the occupation, I fear," she remarked with a light humour she would have never dared show in Camelot. "I cannot fault them, given the struggles of the previous year. Nevertheless, perhaps they could be encouraged to...'direct' the piles in a single direction."

     That is, 'punish' them by 'putting them to work'.

     While Servants were better able to adapt to the modern era than others of their own times by way of the Holy Grail, that did not necessarily mean that they embraced everything about the era of whatever War they were summoned to, and some adapted better than others. The King of Heroes had hated nearly everything about it even as he was able to blend in when he deigned to and even made use --rather hypocritically -- of its benefits. On the other hand, the King of Conquerors seemed to embrace it entirely even as he appeared unable to do anything /but/ stand out. Arturia, for her part, had taken the road of moderation. While Gilgamesh had not been wrong that there was ugliness in the world, she shared Iskander's sense of wonder at it. She could never truly hate an era where the mass starvation and disease of her own time had largely been eradicated.

     And even if she had been able to achieve the true peace she wished for Britain, those delightful fleece blankets simply would not have been possible.

     Part of her would have been content to remain there, leaning against him slightly as she watched the people milling about in their leisurely pace, much of the year's work already completed. Yet, she was contentious of how the cold would affect the knight at her side, and she nodded, taking his offered hand with a slight smile, tucking her harp under her free arm. "Hmm...and I think that tea or hot cider would be most agreeable."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Perhaps. Children have a love of following their own ends, particularly if it happens to be contrary to what someone else might wish of them." The silver-haired knight shows another half-smile, looking to the piles of leaves. "But aye, perhaps they can be encouraged."

Reaching up, he adjusts the lay of the scarf over his shoulder, smiling again in evident pleasure. It was a well-thought gift, and he apparently enjoys simply wearing such a small token of his lady's favour. Simple as it is, the scarf is a reminder of these miraculous times he's found his way into; a small comfort.

"Hot cider sounds most agreeable." Some distant part of him might even agree to mead, but only once in the safety of his own home. Something about the bitter cold of the air makes that warmth in his veins a little less distasteful... and really, the mead /does/ taste well, for what it is. "Something warm would not be too untoward, I think."

The trip back up the hill is short, and the silver-haired knight holds doors open as necessary. Although he has to stop halfway up the stairs, moving more stiffly than he once might have moved in Camelot, he eventually makes it up to the fifth floor. It's in their generously large quarters that he lays the Uilleann pipes down, lovingly, handling them with the same reverence she shows to the harp he'd given her.

Once there, he moves to the window, waiting while she fetches the cider, looking out over the waning forest. The trees still display their fall colours, but they're beginning to thin, and one can see the earth and stone beneath them. He seems content, though, patient while waiting for something warm to drink, considering the weald beyond the hill.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The knight was rewarded with another soft chuckle. "Indeed," she began before her expression sobered slightly. "But had this village been left to its own devices following the attack, they would not be nearly so playful. A small frustration is barely a price to pay for their laughter. It would be a simple matter to make a game out of re-gathering the piles and the promise of waiting for the snows."

     That too was another treasured sight to behold; the village children playing in the snow. While it had not been unheard of in Camelot, such times were few and brief as their efforts were necessary to gather vital firewood and fuel to keep their homes warm throughout the season. While there was still work to be done in Dun Realtai, there was still time for play without the dark shadows looming overhead.

     Inwardly, Arturia was glad that her gift was appreciated, though not unexpected. Both Knights of the Round were practical sorts, appreciating small tokens which were useful over largely useless finery. Even the sprays of flowers had their function, adding both beauty and delicate scent to a corner or room. As the King of Britain, finery had been for the sake of the people, the presentation of an ideal king...but in Dun Realtai, such things were unnecessary.

    

     Once the two arrived at the keep, she requested cider be warmed before making her way to the stairs, maintaining a careful eye on the lord as he made his way up. The continued stiffness troubled her, a sign that perhaps there were some injuries which would never heal completely. She was tempted to request one of the Union's physicians to see to him, even if he would insist he wasn't worth the trouble.

     Once in their quarters, the flaxen-haired knight set aside the harp with that constant reverence before making her way out again, the token from him which carried layers of special meaning for the both of them...meanings that apparently hadn't been lost on the townspeople, either. She returned not long after, carrying a kettle, two earthenware mugs, and a ladle, setting the latter two on a table before setting the kettle's handle unto a hook above the fire. The hearth might not have been the necessity it once was, but for the moment it served quite a practical use.

     Using the ladle to serve them both from the kettle's contents, Arturia handed him one of the filled mugs with a slight smile. Unbeknownst to the both of them, some helpful servant had added a measure of spiced mead to the cider. It was cold outside, after all.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Now that the necessities have been seen to, the people have the ability to concentrate on leisure time. No longer do they have to work so hard just to survive the bleak seasons; modern insulation and ample food have ensured that there will be no fatalities as part of the seasonal weather. Bedivere had seen the children playing in the new snow, the year before, as the tail end of winter had given way to spring slush -- and now, with autumn leading into winter, he'll have that opportunity again.

No doubt he might even be in the snow-trenches with them, from time to time... although play and leisure are still something of a foreign notion to him, having been accustomed to his duty-bound life in Camelot.

Their quarters are a comfortable and now-familiar place, and the warmth of the hearth certainly doesn't hurt. The evening is chilly, and the biting cold suggests there will be another thick rime of frost through the night.

He turns from the window at the sound of the kettle and the ladle, eyes lingering on the hot mulled cider, and reaches out to take the mug offered to him. He gives his own faint smile, blowing on it a moment before taking a sip.

Apparently the cider passes muster -- well-seasoned, and pleasantly warm. He settles on the corner of the bed, folding a leg under himself. "This is good," he murmurs. "Well-seasoned. I did not drink it often in Camelot, but I had always enjoyed it when I did," he admits, almost shyly.

Well, it /is/ made with apples, after all.

Saber (346) has posed:
     'Time off' had been a generally unknown concept in Camelot, the single day of rest mandated by the Church and one the people gratefully accepted when the remainder of the week consisted of hard work for nearly all. Perhaps not for some among the nobility, but the King and her Knights maintained much the same schedule as the commoners. Though the purpose of rising before the dawn had not been to tend to livestock, each knight was expected to be at drills when farmers were preparing for a day of tilling fields. In some ways, the Virtue of Exercitium was as much for the reassurance of the people that their protectors were capable of defending them as it was to maintain a competent military force.

     Furthermore, Bedivere had taken on additional duties, ones which would have fallen to squires, stable hands, falconers, and kennel hands. The Left Hand of the King saw to his own armour, horses, hounds, and falcons after drills, further adding to his already tight schedule. Arturia herself had seen to her equipment out of necessity of maintaining her secret, and the Knight and King rarely had time for much in the way of relaxation. It had been just as well, given what they had secretly harboured deep within themselves.

     Only now, neither secrecy nor tight schedules were necessary, nor was the need for previous apprehension of winter. So long as the village's provisions had been accounted for and properly stored, it was possible to even enjoy the season; outside when the weather permitted, indoors by blazing hearths with mugs of hot spiced wine, cider, or mead when the blizzards raged. Even now as the first frosts of the season set in, such comforts were welcome even for a Servant largely unaffected by such extremes; it was enough for her that the pale-haired knight was certainly affected by them. He was much more mindful of his health now, but she found it necessary to prompt him from time to time.

     She smiled warmly before seating herself beside him. "The yield has been most excellent," she observed gratefully. "Moreover, cinnamon and cloves are not so difficult to obtain in this era."

     Taking a cautious sip, Arturia frowned slightly, bemused. There was a slightly sweeter taste to the cider, something accompanying the natural sweetness of the apples and spices...along with a different sort of taste hidden by it. It seemed the brewer had added honey to it, another commodity which had increased in availability. While not as easily-obtained as salt, it was no longer necessary to reserve large quantities for medical treatment. That had meant -- rather unfortunately for the poor marshal -- that the villagers would likely attempt to ply him with more of the apparent bane of his existence, the potent wine made from its fermentation.

     It was with that thought that the petite knight glanced down at her own mug a little worriedly. She had finally pinpointed the /other/ taste she had detected; someone had spiked the cider with a goodly amount of not honey, but mead.

     In retrospect, it was a good thing indeed that they were in their own quarters.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Free time had been a foreign notion to many of the Knights of the Round table, but few took it to the extreme that the king and her Left Hand had. He had always actively avoided such leisure, busying himself with ever more numerous tasks until it had seemed the silver-haired knight had hardly even slept... which wouldn't be too far from the truth. He hadn't, retiring late into the night and rising before the sun.

Here in Dun Realtai, once or twice he's even slept through the sunrise, when wounded -- almost unthinkable, for those who had known him well; as though he had become a different person entirely.

Even the approaching winter hasn't bothered him too much.

Although he doesn't look around, he does lean against her a little when she seats herself beside him, wrapping his hands around his own mug. The heat is welcome; without the hearth kindled, the topmost floor of the citadel is cold. She may not notice the temperature but her loyal lieutenant most certainly does. His ability to shrug such conditions off is not nearly what it once was.

Mmm, cinnamon. He doesn't comment, but the slightly goofy half-smile tells all he really needs to say about his opinion on that particular herb. He's grown to appreciate it as much as he does apples. The two complement each other well.

He sips from his mug, but apparently he attributes the taste of mead to the taste of honey. Mead isn't as familiar to him -- he's only had it a few times, and he was in no shape to remember it.

"I have not tasted cider so sweet," he observes, lifting his mug and squinting at it. "The villagers must have used too much honey."

It's odd, to him; to think of using something so carefully rationed too excessively...

Saber (346) has posed:
     Perhaps by the standards of others, the lord and lady of Dun Realtai were hard workers, constantly tending of the needs of the village and nearly always available should someone have need of them for some issue or other. Yet in comparison to how they had been in Camelot, knight and king might have seen themselves as lazy for indulging in some much-needed rest and respite. Of course, Arturia would have insisted on Bedivere resting, given how hard he had worked for nearly two decades, but she too had learned the value in some relaxation aside from the occasional outing with Lancelot for secret training. It had not, she found, compromised her effectiveness....at least, not as a Servant.

     Yet, even with more responsibilities as one of Dun Realtai's caretakers added to their duties to the Union, there seemed to be ample time for playing music, reading, or even attending festivals. And not simply overseeing them, but actively participating. Arturia couldn't help but blush faintly, remembering the first time they had danced together after they had been reunited, before they had come to their new home. She never could have guessed at his hidden talents, an opportunity to learn which never would have been possible in the Britain of their era.

     Sea-green eyes fell on the unlit hearth, debating getting up to kindle the fire necessary for his comfort. While she hardly minded tending to him should he fall ill, she would rather him not fall ill at all. With the years finally wearing down on the violet-eyed knight, recovery was not such an easy thing as it once was. More importantly, she simply hated for him to suffer in any way.

     The flaxen-haired knight smiled slightly, thankful he had been able to experience the wonders of the modern age. Certainly, there were a great many things which appeared to make him uncomfortable -- technology perhaps the most -- but there were wonders she had wished he could have seen for himself. Arturia would always be grateful to God and multiverse that she had foudn him again and been able to show him these things. Cinnamon might have seemed like such a trivial thing to many, but she would always treasure the expression he now had having experienced it for himself.

     Then there was the matter of the mead. "Ah...it is not honey, per se," she admitted. "It would appear that some of the harvest has been fermented and added to the cider."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
To anyone in Camelot, both lord and lady would have seemed like inexcusable slackers. No more did the marshal settle for a few hours of sleep a night, and a workaday that lasted longer than the midsummer sun. Even if the need were there, he couldn't do it any more, not physically -- he'd done it for too many years, and burned the midnight oil for too many nights. His body had been broken and restored too many times.

Thankfully, Dun Realtai is a balm to even the most tormented soul, or so it seems. He's healed up nicely in the care of the king and the place they've agreed to care for. He'll never be as he was, but he's healed from Camlann, at the very least.

He follows her gaze to the hearth, one shoulder twitching slightly in unspoken gesture. He isn't cold; choosing to kindle the fire is up to her. It's almost spooky how they can talk without ever saying a word. It was one of the many thing his detractors had latched onto, and something their enemies had feared.

Settling, he cocks a mild eye toward what should be a simple mug of cider, mouth twisting a little as she admits it's not /quite/ flavoured with honey. She might have been able to dance around it if she wanted to, but saying it's fermented is all he really needs to hear.

"Mead." Bedivere sighs, mournfully; the exaggerated quality of the gesture suggests he finds it more of an amusement than an actual inconvenience. "I should have known. The villagers take much in the way of liberties, do they not? I... suppose it will do no harm, this time. The doors are closed; there are naught to see me make a braying ass of myself." He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck with his free hand.

The silver-haired knight chuckles, a little embarrassed. "If the villagers continue to insist this treatment, I suppose it would be wise of me to drink it from time to time, if only to develop a resistance..."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Fortunately for the lord and lady, the people had been understanding, having observed the stiffness with which the knight moved and the newer injuries he had sustained as an agent of the Union. Though Dun Realtai was tiny in comparison to Britain and thus less demanding, the people themselves were less likely to expect the nobles to solve all their problems. They seemed content to leave the defence of the lands to the newcomers wielding fantastic powers, but that which they could do on their own, they would. There was no need to rise before the dawn to begin a long day of soothing ruffled feathers and bearing the burdens of an entire kingdom. There was honour and nobility in their work, a pride that Arturia did not take from them. In turn, they understood that there had been battles knight and king needed to heal from, and had not made unreasonable demands of them.

     And it seemed they understood Arturia's new duties of tending to the lord. It had been embarrassing for the both of them, at first, and it had required a great deal of adjustment on the part of the King of Knights to shift to a role of support. Yet, in some ways it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and the villagers had taken it at face value. After all, a lady's duty was first and foremost to her lord...even if it was in truth a strange reversal of knight and king.

     She had understood him as if he had spoken out loud; words were not always necessary for the two of them. Her own unspoken answer was to silently set down her mug on a nearby table before lighting the hearth. Even if he was not cold now, it would only become colder; it was best to start now and give the room time to warm properly. The flaxen-haired knight refused to allow anything to chance when it came to Bedivere's health.

     Retrieving her mug, she returned to his side once the fire was comfortably blazing, chuckling softly at his mock-mournful tone. "They have the best of intentions," she remarked softly. "Even here, you carry a great many burdens, and I am certain they intended to ease them...if only for a little while. Perhaps they felt you need not worry so much over appearances in private."

     Idly, she sipped from her own mug, the intoxicating properties ineffective at this small amount. "That would be advantageous," she replied softly with a faint smile. "As the village grows more prosperous, I imagine there will be much more mead in the future."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The very independence of the people had been a blessing, when Bedivere and Arturia had first come to Dun Realtai; constantly wounded in Union operations and haunted by old wounds and scars, he had been a long time healing. Even now, he still heals, although he has come worlds away from where he once was. He's not what he was physically, though -- at times he still takes ill if he isn't careful, and recovers slowly.

Perhaps the most marked change is his slow acceptance of Arturia's determination to look after him. He had resisted at first out of a misplaced sense of duty and propriety, but slowly, he had allowed her to fuss and given himself over to her meticulous care.

His eyes flick to the hearth as she kindles the fire, exhaling very quietly in what might be relief -- the quarters are cold, and they'll only grow colder as the night rolls on. There will be frost, tonight; the grass has already begun to brown.

"They do," he agrees, glancing down at his mug with eyes half-closed. One hand jogs the cup to swill it around a bit, but he doesn't drink any more just yet. He remains silent on the matter of burdens, still looking down at his cider. "Perhaps they did." He exhales, slowly, through his nose. "It would not be the first time they have tried this..."

He tilts his head slightly to one side, cocking a hooded eye toward the mug. "Mmm. Perhaps. These plains are rich, now that they have been restored, and such a surplus would not be outside the realm of possibility." With a suspiciously fatalistic shrug, he takes a drink from the mug, pausing a moment to reflect on the taste. "Not unpleasant," he finally pronounces. "A hint of sweetness..."

Saber (346) has posed:
     The old scars and injuries were a constant reminder of what the knight from distant Dal Riata had sacrificed to serve the King of Britain. It had been more than family, culture, and inheritance he had given up. The life of a knight was one of sacrifice, but Bedivere had sacrificed more than what was called for, and he continued to sacrifice even beyond what would have been her final moments. Even in Dun Realtai, he was still sacrificing, albeit not to the extent he had been. Arturia had seen to that much, putting her proverbial foot down when she felt he was overworking himself, something she tended to do on her part.

     Moreover, the sacrifices she now makes are ones lacking the hardship and sorrow of her reign. Indeed, she could scarcely call them sacrifices at all. Watching over him was not a joy in itself, not like seeing him smile and laugh without the need for the same distant mask she had worn, but it nevertheless provided her with the happiness he had wished for her. She was glad to be of use, to be able to openly display her concern for him and bestow the rewards she felt he had earned long ago. The breaking down of their barriers and subsequent blossoming of their personal relationship had only added to that satisfaction and a happiness that she once felt she had no right to, giving it up for the sake of the kingdom. Long ago, whatever happiness she allowed herself could come from realising utopia for Britain; it was only in Dun Realtai Arturia had been able to realise both.

     Of course, she never would have realised that without him, a realisation which even now tended to flush her cheeks pondering on it. Things had not been especially beneficial for her sense of propriety or dignity, particularly when it came to their current beverage.

     She followed his gaze back to the fire, the light illuminating the receding flush. No, she was not going to take a chance when it came to his health. Reassure her that it wasn't too cold though he might, she knew better. Dun Realtai was colder than even Britain had been this time of year, and she was not about to permit a seasonal illness to slip through.

     "Perhaps not," she agreed with a soft chuckle. "Nevertheless, I am gladdened by it. It is touching that they have accepted us and care for you enough to trouble themselves so." It was one more reason for her to be grateful to the villagers; they appreciated Bedivere properly, going so far as to ply him with precious mead. They clearly believed he needed some time to relax, the honey wine intended to aid her effort to get him to do so. Arturia very much appreciated the gesture, sneaky though it might have been. Then again, the pale-haired knight was a stubborn one, and so she could hardly fault them.

     Stifling another chuckle, the jade-eyed knight grinned nevertheless. "A bit young, perhaps...but it has scarcely been a year. A proper mead requires more time to mature, but this is quite good otherwise. Enough for the lord to cease fretting so much and rest properly," she teased him mildly.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Hmmmn...?" Bedivere raises a brow at the king, squinting slightly at the fleeting scarlet that colours her cheekbones. Very little brings her to lose her composure like that, and his own gesture hints to his curiosity. She doesn't mention it, though, and he seems content to let the matter go. "Certainly, I appreciate their concern. I simply wish they would rely on such things a little less. You know me," he adds, plaintively. "I prefer to keep my wits about me."

He maintains a bland stare through her teasing, finally sighing and quirking a brow in a skeptical expression. Really; cease fretting? He hasn't even been fretting lately. No more than usual, anyway. In other words, he's been behaving himself, for the most part.

"I do not think this was produced here," Bedivere observes, lifting his mug and swilling the contents about. "That is correct, that it would be young, but I am not certain there was so much surplus for that. There was not enough time for any apiaries to become established, either; certainly the honey was imported, at the very least." He takes another drink, considering the flavour. "Even so, I think it is not a bad showing..."

He shifts his weight, settling more comfortably as he balances his mug. Looking to the hearth, he watches the cordwood crackle and burn, eyes hooding as one of the logs collapses in on itself with a flurry of embers.

Those pale, mild eyes flick back to Arturia again. "I am curious, my lady. Had you ever tasted mead in Camelot?" After all, he hadn't been at her side every moment, evidenced by her retreats into the wood to spar with the Knight of the Lake. The faintest hint of a lopsided smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "After all, you seem to know a great deal about it, my lady."

Teasing, teasing. His grin turns more good-natured. "No matter."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Indeed, there was very little which could cause the carefully-composed mask to fracture. Atrocities, insults to her way of kingship, the mere presence of the King of Heroes...and much of anything having to do with Bedivere, in particular the situation they had found themselves in. It was already well on its way before they had so much as set foot on Dun Realtai soil, due to circumstances such as the knight's proper arrival in the multiverse and some creative nudging from Saber's former Master. However, it was not a subject she could really approach out of the blue.

     Fortunately, he seemed content to let the matter go even with his curiosity unanswered. That in itself was a rare blindness, that he hadn't been entirely able to puzzle it out. Inwardly, she was slightly relieved and grateful for it. "Yes, but they are rather perceptive...not unlike their lord, in fact," she points out. "I have not been the only one to have noticed that some time spent /not/ thinking would do you some good."

     In other words, he was wound up worse than a broken timepiece, and he needed to /un/wind or else his habit of burning the proverbial candle at both ends was going to catch up to him. Arturia had been able to deflect some of that, but it seemed to be an ongoing process rather than a one-time occurrence. "Once in a while will do no harm," she reassured him.

     She matched his bland stare with one of her own, with no need to actually speak. /Yes, really. If I did not remind you, you would fall back on those old patterns. You cannot deny this./ In truth, it was a rather endearing habit of his, the same sort of fussiness she herself was guilty of at times, but not at the risk of burning that candle down even further. Arturia took her new duties to him seriously.

     The flaxen-haired knight shook her head. "It was not," she admitted. "But perhaps this winter the brewers have what they require for experimentation." Imported honey remained something of a premium but it was not quite the luxury it once was, exchanged for some goods and no longer as vital for medicinal purposes in the modern era.

     Sea-green eyes flicked back to him as she lightly poked his side with a mock-frown, which didn't last very long. A slow smile -- almost a smirk, really -- replaced it soon enough. "On occasion," she admitted. "You might recall some of the feasts which had been hosted in Camelot, in which not partaking would have been considered an insult."

     With another sip, she added, almost chagrined, "But...there were the occasional outings where a flask was brought along."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The pale-haired knight looks almost morose when Arturia points out that taking some time off would do no harm. Going by his reaction it would indeed do harm, at least to him; he's always been self-conscious about losing his control, and it seems even a release from the political maelstrom of Camelot has not dulled that instinct. Even here in Dun Realtai he is reluctant at best.

To that bland look and its implication, he... doesn't quite sulk, but it's close. He still looks a little morose, and somewhat resigned, too.

Freely available honey means that more can enjoy it on its own merits, rather than as a medicine. Its many beneficial properties were better used for the treatment of burns and wounds, in Camelot, or as ingredients in medicinal recipes... but now it can be used for such things as mead, or even as something as simply as a spread on toast.

And then he is poked in the side.

"Ohhh...?" It's a slow sound, as Bedivere arches a brow. He doesn't quite smirk, and doesn't quite leer, but his expression is one of amusement. Maybe the mead's beginning to affect him already; loosening his tongue on things he wouldn't ordinarily speak. "My, my. I'd think I would have noticed such a thing... you must be better at keeping secrets than I, my lady. "

"Indeed, your sparring matches with the Right Hand were an accomplishment. You were skilled to shake me for so long; perhaps he was your Right Hand, but I was your shadow." He smiles, a little shyly. "Not that I minded such a duty. In any case, I commend your ability to slip out of my surveillance, in those days... I did not know you trained in the weald until you told me. I knew you had gotten away from me, during those times, but I had never known why."

He chuckles, taking a drink from his mug. "In the beginning I had wondered if you had gone to treat with the Saxons, but decided that they had done too much damage to earn anything but your retribution. Then I thought perhaps you were meeting with nobility in my absence, perhaps to better the attitude of those who were still contentious." His head shakes. "Eventually I gave up trying to figure out why. I could not."

"I suppose it would not have done for the people to know that their king had taken a nip from a flask of mead here and there outside the bounds of a celebration." He grins, leaning against her, companionably. "Eh...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     Her point was one that she never would have dared make in Camelot, with its system wholly dependent upon their constant vigilance. Even in the absence of Britain's enemies both foreign and domestic, it demanded everything from the King and her most trusted Knights. The situation had required that they keep their wits about them at all times, and Bedivere's personal dislike of losing control had served him well. His cool calm in both demeanour and conduct had been advantageous in those days, and even remained so in Dun Realtai and the Union. But there was the need to unwind as well, lest his lifestyle catch up to him in disastrous ways, even if he was reluctant to. The almost-sulk would have been cute but for that fact.

     "It is not so terrible," she chided mildly. "Unlike Camelot, Dun Realtai will hold together should we allow ourselves rest in mind as well as body and spirit."

     In Britain, there had been some allowance for the more recreational and culinary uses of honey, though it had been permitted almost exclusively for the common classes. Products such as mead were far too crucial to the economy as well as to morale to have forbidden outright, but honey itself was too valuable to have been used for little other than medicinal purposes within Camelot itself. There was the occasional mead for special occasions, but it was otherwise eschewed in favour of the more easily-produced ciders, ales, gruit, and even grape wines. It was on one of these these occasions -- her own coronation feast -- that Arturia had discovered for herself the taste and potency of mead; regretful in that she had found it more than pleasant to the taste given how many resources went into its production. The jade-eyed knight-king had found it deceptively delicate, wondering why the Saxons had prized it over heartier grain alcohols given its sweetness before she discovered its hidden strength. It was almost poetic.

     "It was on my coronation, in fact," she explained, her answering smirk dying down into a more contemplative expression. "I had never experienced such a thing while I lived under Father's care...I was accustomed to diluted gruit or cider. Sir Lancelot had only discovered my fondness for it by chance, and one way of expressing his devotion was to bring a flagon along when we trained."

     She sighed softly. "I regretted that I could not have asked you to join us," she reflected. "Long had I wished to match my steel to yours, and..."

     Arturia paused, sipping from her mug, the taste souring somewhat. "Those were the few times when I was permitted some vestige of camaraderie. I had wished I could have shared those times with you."

     Responding to that slight lean of camaraderie with one of her own and resting the side of her head against his arm, she frowned slightly before sighing again "Ah...well. It was a sign of decadence that I could not permit, regardless of the barbarism of the Saxons and any reminder of their cruelty. I would have sworn it off altogether but for Lancelot's gifts...the King was the first of the people who should sacrifice such comforts."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
He doesn't answer to her words on resting, which is just as well. It's not quite an agreement, but at least she hasn't found an argument in him. Once upon a time, he would have argued.

Although Bedivere doesn't quite raise an eyebrow, he does glance her way as she explains her coronation feast. It was one of the only milestones of the king's rule that he had missed; at that time, he would have just been arriving in the kingdom, or due to arrive soon thereafter.

At her words, he only shrugs. "Truly, you would not have had reason to think I would have enjoyed such an outing, back then. Hindsight is flawless, as the saying goes; aye, you would now wish I had been able to come with you, but then? I was as cold and inhuman as you, to hear the people speak of it. So far as you might have known, I think, my rapport and understanding with you existed only as far as orders and duty."

"Back then, you would have had no knowledge of what I was like beneath the armour of the Left Hand of the King." Squinting at the mug, he swills it a bit, before draining what's left. "Or, perhaps you may have. We will never know."

Shifting his weight, he settles with one leg drawn up as though to sit cross-legged, but he lets the other hang over the edge of the bed. It's proably more comfortable than it looks; but it does keep him from tipping over at having her weight angled against him when she leans. He reaches around her, resting his arm over her shoulders. Her strength of will as the king had always lent her a certain presence, but now, both of them relaxed, it's hard for him to reconcile how /small/ she really is, at least physically. There's nothing small about her heart or will, of course.

"Thankfully," he murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of her hair, "we need not sacrifice anything any longer. Not as we had before."

Saber (346) has posed:
     It had been a victory in itself for him not to have argued. Years ago, it would have been unnecessary when the king could ill-afford to treat her Left Hand any differently than any other Knight. But once that barrier had been removed, another took its place in the form of self-depreciating modesty, on his part more than perhaps hers. And while that modesty would always be present, at least he seemed to have learned that Arturia would not allow it to stop her from what she considered her duty. That, and the fact that she hated seeing him in pain. Once her own mask had fallen away, it had been a simple matter to treat him far differently.

     "You saw something of my true nature, did you not?" she asked. "So too, I saw something of yours...or perhaps I imagined it, understanding as I did the need to hide oneself." Arturia shrugged slightly. "It would have been pleasant, I think...but something I no longer regret. Such times are no longer the missed opportunities they once were. And perhaps we will have a similar chance here...though there will no longer be the need for secrecy."

     That was something she had considered only recently, given that most of their energy and focus had been on what would benefit Dun Realtai as a whole. Likewise, a combined hunting and training trip into the woods would prove considerably difficult given the state of those woods and the lack of game. On the other hand, perhaps an outing into the multiverse might be more realistic, though anywhere other than that weald Bedivere had been fished out of. That would bring back unpleasant memories she wanted to avoid.

     "Perhaps in the coming spring, should we have a chance for such an excursion," she mused. "The woods here still recover, but there are a few places in the multiverse which might prove to be amenable."

     It did nothing to help their current seating arrangement that not only was she petite by most standards, but he was so tall. Even had she been able to grow beyond fifteen summers, he still would have dwarfed her. The stark contrast of their respective sizes was almost comical, particularly when her regal presence relaxes in private.

     She sighed almost inaudibly as she leaned against him, flushing slightly at the sensation of the kiss on the top of her head. Her bashfulness seemed to linger at times, though perhaps it was the warmth of cider and mead.

     She made a soft 'hm' in acknowledgement. "I could not be more grateful for that, nor for this place."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Years ago, the knight would have argued vehemently, preferring that he not be given any special treatment over any other of the king's subjects. Aside from his own modesty when it comes to matters involving himself, he would not have allowed her to risk the political backlash of favouring any knight of her court, let alone himself; the mistrusted foreigner. Even appointment as the Left Hand of the King ahd left him uncomfortable, but at the time, it was hardly something he could argue.

"I believe that I did." Bedivere lifts his mug, squinting at the contents as though to gauge just how much mead is in there, and how miserable it's going to leave him in the morning. Without the alcohol tolerance of his brother knights, it's not such a simple thing for him to drink himself into a stupor; he'll pay for it the next day, and dearly. At least he seems to have the foresight to know that. "Pleasant, perhaps, but it would not have been worth the cost, I think. Camelot's underpinnings were already fragile things, and I do not think they needed the blow such a thing would have represented, if word of that had got out. My appointment to Marshal of the Realm was enough of a blow. Truly, I was exercising damage control for the rest of Camelot's days, over that."

He shrugs, faintly. A trip here would be pleasant, and while the game is scarce, it's still begun returning to the woods. Be that as it may, hunting has never been one of his favourite activities, though he has undeniable skill in it; but he has never had any great love of the taking of any life, even the creatures of the weald. Indeed, he had never had any particular preference for red meat as the nobility did, contenting himself with more peasant-like fare.

Training and bettering himself, however, he always has time and inclination for. A chance to match blades and wits with the King of Knights has become a special treat for him, here in the multiverse; in her, he's found an opponent that truly pushes him to his limits.

"Perhaps," he muses, on the subject of the woods. "I would sooner not hunt, personally. And I would definitely not do so here, not with the weald still in recovery as it is. The deer are returning, but too slowly to be taking them carelessly."

Perhaps it's the fault of the mead that he /isn't/ so bashful. It's never taken much for him to lose his wits; the particular reason for which being why he'd never voluntarily allowed himself to drink anything alcoholic in Camelot. As he'd put it before to her, he had no desire to behave like a braying ass, especially not in public, where his reputation might have been damaged beyond all repair. "Mmn. Nor I," he agrees, draping an arm around her and leaning on her a little, eyes drooping. "This place... 'tis a little like I had imagined Camelot to be, I think, before I had gone there. The ideal place; the ideal kingdom, except there is no king here, but merely an overseer. A seneschal, a steward." He pauses long enough to take a sip of his cider. "Once the weather clears a bit I should like to survey deeper into the east and see what we will see. I've a feeling there is more to this land than even meets the eye, and more to be seen in that direction. So busy have we been with Dun Realtai itself that we now have the opportunity to turn our eyes further to its limits, I think."

He cocks his head, eyeing her from a slightly awkward angle. "What do you think, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     For her part, the King had been nearly ruthless when it came to conducting her personal affairs. She existed solely for the sake of the kingdom, and the Knights of the Round were a part of that service. While she had wished she could have accorded them special favour simply by virtue of belief in her dream, that dream demanded that no man was above the other. Nobles were the stewards of their people, not their betters...at least, that was what she had insisted. The nobility itself, however, believed otherwise. They praised the king's prowess and success in battle and the glory successful battles brought to Britain, but where they grumbled were those times Arthur was more than merely a warlord.

     She had direly needed level and calm heads at her side; Lancelot du Lac and Bedivere had undeniably been the most suitable of choices, regardless of their foreign backgrounds. Neither man sought glory, even as skilled as they were, and she could sense the discomfort for their respective roles. Nevertheless, they had undeniably been the best choices...even if the nobles continued to bicker and plot over them. She had hated throwing them to the proverbial wolves, but the kingdom had come first.

     Yet even recently, she had made a decision which had forced him out of his comfort zone. Though Dun Realtai lacked Camelot's cut-throat nobility, leadership was something Bedivere at once seemed to loathe yet excelled at. Appointing a lord of the beleaguered land was among her duties as a king, and the former Marshal of Camelot was not simply the best choice available; he had been the /only/ choice aside from governing the land directly. And this was a role which demanded only his dedication and attention rather than something which would chip away at his very soul. She could never again ask such a thing of him.

     "In truth, I wished that I had not had a need to ask such a thing of you. But those who could remain calm and were beyond corruption were difficult to find. Gawain has always been beyond taint, however..." Arturia gestured nebulously, without a need to elaborate beyond that. The Knight of the Sun was among the most pure of the Knights of the Round Table...and one of the most boisterous. He was a knight without peer, but he would have been a disaster as her Left Hand. Almost as much of a disaster as he was in the kitchen. "That is to say, only you were able to fill that role. It was what was best for Britain....though I regret its cost."

     But there was mead, at least. She preferred it without the trappings that some noblewomen were fond of, such as rose or lavender oils or exotic spices. On the other hand, blueberries or elderberries didn't overwhelm the flavour, and she was finding that the cinnamon-lanced cider mix was quickly becoming one of her new favourites...now that cinnamon was no longer expensive.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia knew of Bedivere's more deep-seated dislike of killing, and she found no blame in him. Their diet even in Dun Realtai consisted of little in the way of meat, something she had willingly adapted to out of respect for his personal comfort. Nevertheless, the villagers themselves needed to be properly fed. "Not within the realm of Dun Realtai, certainly," she replied. "I do not believe there is so much as a wayward hare within the woods, and it will be some time before they return. But there are other lands in the multiverse where the natural balance has been upset for some reason or another...and it becomes necessary to thin herds than consign them to slow starvation. It becomes more prudent to bring game back to the village, rather than allowing it to go to waste."

     Nevertheless, she relented. When she and Lancelot had gone on their training excursions, hunting had been a necessity: if they didn't hunt, they didn't eat. In her childhood, it also doubled as a training exercise, honing hand-eye coordination, discipline, and wits. Ector had also beaten into the heads of his son and his adopted daughter a proper respect for their prey and their lives, hunting only what they needed and killed their prey quickly and neatly. What they were unable to eat themselves was given to the villagers, and Arturia recalled when the old knight had brought down a sizeable stag, possibly saving the village that year with a reliable supply of venison to last through a particularly brutal winter. That had been one of the very first lessons taught her: death was an inescapable part of life. As a knight and king, she would have no choice but to kill to protect her people.

     But the lessons were no longer necessary, and in the modern age it was now possible to preserve and pack provisions. "You shall have to practise your archery, however, in the absence of a hunt," she lectured, sounding to her own ears like Sir Ector when he was drilling his charges. "That is," she continued more softly, "I intend to train more than merely swordplay." Even if she especially enjoyed it.

     'Braying ass' was not a term she would have used to describe Bedivere even after a helping of mead. She would better describe the two times that had happened as 'silly', and even then hardly to the extent Gawain could be when perfectly sober. On the other hand, her own judgement had been compromised each time, the first by embarrassment and the second due to her own accidental inebriation. Karian was using the title of 'Jarl' now with her, but that didn't make her behaviour less embarrassing.

     Sipping lightly at her cider, she mulled over his words. In truth, she had idly entertained the idea of exploring the lands beyond the borders, if for no other reason than to find more resources for the villagers. But she often wondered what might lay beyond the horizon, occasionally finding herself wishing she could see for herself.

     "I should like that," she replied with a slight smile.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Hmmmm? Not so much as a stray hare?" Bedivere cocks his head slightly to one side, eyeing the King of Knights almost skeptically; one eye squinted and one brow arched. "You have not looked so closely, then. I have seen tracks, but they are still slow to return. The does are more skittish yet. But of the things that stalk them, I have seen little. Those too have yet to return in force, and I expect they will not until they have prey to depend on."

He shrugs. The gesture is simple enough: The villagers can eat whatever they want; he doesn't care. He just doesn't want any part of such wild game on his plate.

"Archery?" He considers for a moment, thoughtful. "I am passable with bow and quiver, but only that. Passable. I would be winning no commendations for my skill. I have not had much reason to use them; no more than a war-lance or a spear. I suppose proper practise would do no harm. I am not always in range enough to use a sword; an arrow may save time when a fraction of a moment becomes necessary."

Swilling his mug around, he takes a drink of the last of his cider. "It was what it was," he says simply, returning to the earlier topic of Camelot and shrugging a fatalistic sort of shrug. "There is nothing to be done about it now, whether its cost was too high or the duty was too difficult... it was not, for I am here now. What was done was necessary for the kingdom, and so it is done, and over; we are here, now."

"Then we should ride," he muses, looking out to the dark window. "See what lies beyond the bounds. It would be good to leave for some days, and discover what we have missed." Bedivere shows one of those faint half-smiles. "Aye. I should like that, indeed. But right now, I should like staying inside, where it is warm, and where it is dry."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia shook her head. Perhaps he had seen the tracks, but it was possible that the winds had taken them by the time she had cast her eyes in their direction. The lands had only just recently returned to life, so to hear that even some of the fauna had somehow returned was something of a surprise. "Truly? Then, perhaps in the coming spring more shall return as well. I suppose that we will hear the braying of the foxes when they have returned."

     "It is as much a part of Militia as any swordplay," she observed. "It is more difficult for me as a Servant, confined as I am to the restraints of my class, and I am unable to exceed the skill I possessed as a human being." It was easy to forget sometimes that, though she had not been human ever since she had claimed Caliburn, now she was more spirit given physical form than human. Their new, pleasant life in Dun Realtai had only helped to forget that fact, largely removed from the Holy Grail War. Even the occasional intrusion of alternate versions of Heaven's Feel had lacked the same sense of urgency as the one she had lost only moments before Unification.

     With a slight shrug, Arturia continued. "But yes...it is never a waste of time to hone a lesser skill."

     Her regrets, strangely, had only lessened once she had sought a new wish. Nothing could be done for Camelot now, but reconciliation with the Round Table remained a possibility. It might even be possible that some remained human, unbound to the Holy Grail and the bloody ritual to summon it. Time seemed to have little meaning for the multiverse, and any one of the Knights could very well appear from a point before Camlann. It would not undo her past or her failure, but the idea of setting things right with the Round Table had lessened those regrets. She could never completely make things up to them, but she could properly reward them, perhaps even grant them a much-needed rest. "If I am able to gather the Round Table again, and to grant them the peace we have found here, I would be content," she mused, another sign that she had acquiesced the wish she had reached for when she pleaded with the world to allow her to fight in the Holy Grail War.

     Arturia smiled slightly. "Indeed. What remains to be seen, I imagine, will be content to wait until the spring."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"So long as they stay out of the hen-houses," Bedivere muses, "I've no quarrel with them. I expect they'll be hunted as well, for their furs. Mink is better, or so I've heard, but I've seen no sign of such creatures yet. If, indeed, they were ever here to begin with. Hares, though, yes; and the does and stags as well." He shrugs again. "They'll all return in time."

Few knights regarded archery as a particularly worthwhile pursuit; it never had quite the popularity in Camelot that it would draw in much later eras, such as through the legend of Robin Hood. It was hardly shunned, but it lacked the allure of a knight wielding sword and shield in defense of the realm.

"Hmmm." Bedivere cants his head to one side, eyeing her speculatively when she comments on keeping up skills. In his experience she's turned into even more of a beast than she ever was in life, at least when it comes to swordplay; sufficiently powerful that he has no hope of standing up to her directly, and must rely on his intuition more than ever. She, like him, has a tendency to underrate her own skills. Privately he has to wonder if the same's true of her archery... and whether his middling skill with a bow could even compare to her abilities.

He sets his empty cup aside, considering the hearth with a slightly squint-eyed regard. "Until spring, then. Perhaps we will hold a joust, too; the ground is too unstable, as of yet, and the snow will begin in earnest soon enough. The mornings grow colder." Half a glance is cast to Arturia, along with a sort of sardonic half-grin. "Mayhap I'll enter the lists this year, hmm?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     "We will have need of guard dogs to discourage them," Arturia observed, her head tilting slightly to one side. "In lean times such as these, solitary predators prefer easier prey, and it will be some time before that becomes plentiful enough even for a single den. There will not be enough to hunt for furs for several years more."

     A thought occurred to her suddenly of how ordinary their conversation was. It wasn't an elaborate code for a battle plan they were drawing up, nor was it something to fill idle space for the sake of appearances, but a genuinely idle and meandering conversation. Something taken for granted by most, or even dreaded as a pervasive ennui...but for Arturia, it was a reprieve as well as a sign of how their lives had become truly peaceful. She no longer needed to pretend, to keep the mask constantly in place. Even now, the fact that she could cast it aside filled her with a sense of wonder.

     Arturia chuckled softly to herself. When had they become so comfortable like this?

     Archery might not have been a popular pursuit, but the King had insisted upon at least rudimentary training in all forms of weaponry, even if most of the Knights relegated the bow to hunting small game. Swordsmanship was the foundation of the martial arts; those unable to demonstrate above-average proficiency in it were unsuitable as knights. Though there were some whose mastery lay with other weapons, the sword was the cornerstone of their order. Few, she suspected, possessed the skill to be summoned as Archers.

     Of course, Lancelot had mastered many different weapons -- enough to possess such a proficiency as a personal skill which allowed him to make anything he touched into a Noble Phantasm -- but the Knight of the Lake was the exception.

     Yet, even if Militia had not demanded the training, it was a useful skill to perfect. Naturally, this was why Militia was as important as it was; the ability to be self-sufficient was a necessity for a knight. "I would never be able to fight properly as an Archer," she admitted. "Perhaps my skills exceed what would be possible for a human being, but not enough to be effective against other Servants, much less many other beings in the multiverse. Nevertheless, it would be practical to maintain such a skill."

     They had discussed the possibility of a joust before, and Arturia was glad that he hadn't abandoned the idea. She looked forward to the prospect of seeing him in action and found herself mirroring his grin. "I shall hold you to that," she teased lightly. "I shall be most disappointed were you to insist on being too busy to enter. And I should think the people would look forward to seeing the prowess of their lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Perhaps. It may be that they are so skittish that they will not come near the village." Bedivere reaches up, rubbing idly at the side of his jaw. "I do not know where these animals will come in from, so perhaps they are unfamiliar with man living on their proverbial doorstep. In from the deep woods, or lands entirely beyond Dun Realtai. We do not know what lies beyond it, after all, although I should like to know, someday."

He leans back a little, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, staring at some vague point on the ceiling. "That would necessitate more planning, though; for an expedition that far. I should think it would be several days' ride to Dun Realtai's borders, where the mountains flank the valley. From there, we would need to find a pass..."

His reverie on the theoretical is broken by Arturia's shift in topic. Archery?

"Nor would I. My skills are passable, at best; I lack the physical strength required to draw a longbow, and I cannot conserve stamina with the draw needed for even a composite bow or hunting shortbow." He shakes his head. "I am better served with other weapons, and the ability to remain close to my opponent. After all, I cannot study him from afar; not as accurately." He can still see from a distance, but there's just no substitute for close details.

Brows arched, he regards Arturia when she holds him to his promise to enter the lists. "Average as that may be," he says, with a sigh. "Perhaps I may make a showing of myself in the melee tourney, but I am not much of a jouster, myself... after all, I had not entered in Camelot. It is not a skill I had ever had the opportunity to practise as some of the other knights had. I was much too busy to save time for honing a skill impractical to Camelot's war efforts. Heh."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia shook her head; not in disagreement over what he'd said, but a sign that she didn't know, either. When they had first arrived, the forest had been so entirely devoid of life that she would not have been surprised if it had turned out to be a Reality Marble. Yet, the magic which had banished all life had not been the realisation of someone's inner world, but an outright corruption which had not disappeared once a Reality Marble had been withdrawn. That would have been preferable, now that she thought about it. "I find myself almost wishing that it had been the work of a magus or a Dead Apostle," she admitted. "The world itself is unaffected by Reality Marbles, but this damage will take some time to recover from. Life is returning, but slowly."

     She sighed softly. "But I should like to know what lies beyond the forest and the mountains, yes."

     Idly, she wondered how he would react to the red-clad Archer's feats of skill, recalling her first battle with the King of Heroes after Unification. A Servant had sniped the haughty hero-king all the way from a perch on the ruined Einzbern mansion's rooftop, and it was not until some time later that she had met him face to face. And it was not until some time after that when she learned the identity of that Archer. As much as she had frowned upon how that particular version of Shirou had developed personally, it was actually rather impressive that he had honed his skills enough to have become a Servant...even if the outcome itself was one she hoped to avert with the one who literally dropped in on Dun Realtai. "It is more of a case of skill rather than strength," she noted. "One would need to become a Heroic Spirit to be able to see minute details miles away...such a feat would be impossible for a mortal."

     Still, she would expect a strategist to favour some kind of range to be able to properly assess a situation; swords demanded a proximity to an opponent that made the full range of sight difficult. It was hardly any surprise that the marshal had chosen a longer sword with a greater reach. Only spears boasted a greater range without compromising near details. It was something of a surprise that he carried the former rather than the latter...though perhaps it was because the sword was a symbol of their knightly order.

     Though she remained silent, Bedivere would sense her unspoken thoughts. Jousting itself was a military drill, specifically for the training of vital cavalry troops. The tournaments had made a sport out of it in later times of relative peace, but the intention had been to prepare for the inevitable war. No, what was far more likely was that Bedivere hated the thought -- just as she did -- of a poor horse being slain on the battlefield. It was far easier to prevent injury to one's mount to close that gap and engage the sword, though there were times when it was unavoidable. As ridiculous as Gawain's enthusiastic suggestion of jousting from a motorbike would be, she could see the merit of using a lifeless machine. Perhaps that was one reason the Knight of the Sun had made it in the first place. Fortunately, horses were relatively safe in competitive sport as opposed to battle, where they were often killed deliberately.

     "In truth, I had much more than martial arts in mind," she admitted. "There is a wide range of activities that are not drills, such as competitions of strength and skill. I intended to ask the village if there are any such activities they should like to hold a competition for...a tournament that the people could participate in." In other words, her vision was of an entire sports competition.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Dead Apostle?" The knight's brow furrows at the unfamiliar term, clearly puzzled. Magi he can understand, though, and so for the moment he mentally files it into the same category as cutthroat thaumaturgists. "Hm. Even so, you have a point. By my reckoning it will be many years before the full extent of this damage is repaired. Indeed, that is only the damage we are aware of."

He looks out to the window, as though he were also looking to the far ranges of the territory, hidden though they are. "Aye. I should like to know what our boundaries are. They are there, but it makes me uneasy not to know "

He looks back to the hearth. "Archery is not my focus. What need have I to see from so far away? I do not fight from far away, so leave such otherworldly sight to the Heroic Spirits and the Fair Ones." Bedivere shrugs. "I prefer to know my surroundings, in any case. If ever there is a need of moving troops on a large scale, although I pray God it be not necessary, I will need to have knowledge of Dun Realtai's outlying areas." It's a tactical advantage, to know the outlying areas; it would also be tactical suicide to remain willfully ignorant of the hinterlands. Even if it was never necessary to know, Bedivere is the kind of person who would rather know.

"Hoh?" He tilts his head, as though warming to the idea of other sorts of competitions. He is by nature a competitive sort, though she has had little opportunity to see it; his unrelenting dedication to excellence drives him to it. "Indeed? That would be agreeable, particularly if there is anything the people would prefer to do." The unspoken implication is that everybody could join in, then, rather than the contests between nobility that formal jousts and melees had been.

Setting his now-empty mug aside, he stretches, yawning, until several joints pop. "In the meantime... I am weary. We will plan more of this later, I think, but right now I have need of sleep." The mead's hit him, but not enough to make a fool of him -- merely to make him sleep.

With that, and a brief kiss to her forehead, he'll flip the covers back, crawl under them, and proceed to pass out in record time. By the look of it, he's still catching up on all those years of burning the candle at both ends, most likely.