4259/Dreaming of Bygone Days

Dreaming of Bygone Days
Date of Scene:	28 June 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere dreams of days past, returning to Camelot and remembering his duty's singularity of purpose.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Though similar at first blush to the fields of Camelot, the landscape of Dun Realtai is at once very different. Chiefly flat and broken by rolling hills, only the central spire rises to break the monotony of the plains. The weather is also different. The winters are savage, with wind howling down from the hills and snow piling high. Summers are mild, more humid than Camelot, filled with the drone of insects and the smell of wind and earth.

Summer storms are common. Thunder sounds and resounds off the hills when such storms pass through, shaking the citadel like a child's toy. Yet thunder has never bothered Bedivere of Dun Realtai, even when it seems like to burst through the walls themselves.

Tonight, Bedivere lies cirled on his side, as he so often sleeps. Despite his lanky limbs and height, he has never sprawled, always affecting the most compact shape he can manage. Even when wounded and drugged after Caliburn's loss, he had slept small, as though subconsciously protecting himself.

He had had much to protect himself from. His appointment had never warranted outright protest, but there were many who had no love of the pale knight of the northlands. There had been much whispering of the Left Hand of the King, though he had never responded to such whispers.

In sleep, Bedivere's right hand twitches faintly, as though it were forming a fist. He dreams, as he does some nights, so vividly it's as though he were back in Camelot.

Indeed, the only thing that could garner a reaction from him was to insult the king's honour or judgement. Some had done that, only to discover the shocking fury of the stoic marshal. Once upon a time, disgusted with the king's sweeping changes to an aristocracy resentful of losing power, a nobleman had insulted the king within the marshal's hearing. It was rare that Bedivere was outside the king's presence; though she hardly needed one, he had appointed himself her guardian from the start and would brook no argument on the matter.

And so he dreams, back to that summer afternoon, as though it were still unfolding; as though he were still young and strong, standing tall and unbroken by time and trial. The court is indolent in the summer heat, and perhaps that loosens tongues that would have been still elsewise.

"I fail to see how this boy-king will lead Britain to greatness. First he preaches of men equal before all others, and then claims them to be servants of the people. The people serve /us/, as they always have, and as they always will." The man, a bellicose specimen of red hair and a moustache quivering in his righteous indignation, smacks a fist into an open palm. The sound echoes in the quiet hall.

"And now he elects a bloody commoner of the northlands Marshal of the Realm. He is a /foreigner/ here, a /commoner/," the man sneers to his friends. Bedivere stands beside the king, seemingly out of earshot, but even then Arturia would have known her marshal could hear more than he let on. Most would mistake his gaze as flat and indifferent, but perhaps even then Arturia might have sensed the disgust brewing in her marshal.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Has he gone mad? Or has he perhaps always been soft in the head?" The nobleman pushes his attack, foolishly, expounding the failings of the king to his circle of cronies. Further distant, the silver-haired knight stands beside the king, at her left side, as though he couldn't hear the quarrelsome nobles. "Mark me; he will bring this kingdom to ruin with his mooncalf ravings and his lies, and I'll have none of it! This bastard-child of Pendragon, this idiot /boy/, will--"

CRACK.

Sir Bedivere's blow falls like a thunderbolt; so swiftly has he crossed the chamber that not a single of the nobility saw him move. He moves alarmingly fast for a man his size, so fast that the moustached nobleman is flat on his back at the force of the blow. His cronies are left standing in slack-jawed amazement.

The silver-haired marshal's expression has never changed, but there is anger crackling in every line of his body and in every nuance of his voice.

"You will not dishonour your king." Very slowly and deliberately, he straightens, resuming his straight-backed posture. "Consider this my only warning."

His footfalls echo as he returns to Arturia's side, resuming his vigil as though nothing had happened.

But even she would have noticed how he had simmered in silent anger after that, tension almost palpable about him -- but only to her perceptive eyes, hidden well from the other nobility in the hall...

Not long after that, the man's fields had soured, and his property had produced virtually no crops. His house had gone bankrupt, leaving him all but destitute, and the laughingstock of the frivolous-minded court. No one had questioned the marshal, believing the northern's outburst to be the end of it... but perhaps Arturia might have noticed a certain satisfaction in his eyes when he had received report of the estate's dissolution. A subtle lesson, perhaps -- and a sign of how ruthless the man could be when the one thing he considered important was threatened.

In the midst of Dun Realtai's thunderstorm, Bedivere twitches in his sleep, and finally starts awake, sitting upright in the time it takes to suck in a breath through his teeth. Bereft of his tunic, the harsh lightning throws his scars into sharp-edged relief; illuminates the shadows under his ribs -- he is healing and coming back to his health, but slowly, still; it may be years before he undoes so many years' worth of neglect and damage.

Bedivere looks down at his right hand, experimentally curling and uncurling a fist, and flinching involuntarily. Only then does he seem to come to his wits, looking over to see if he's woken Arturia or not.

Saber (346) has posed:
The 'Stars Fortress' truly had more dissimilarities with Camelot than the few similarities they shared. Among the many differences was the climate, one far more like that of the northern lands across the eastern sea, and while the Servant Saber was hardly troubled by extreme temperatures, it remained a constant reminder that this was not Britain. The great plains surrounding the modest citadel and village seemed to stretch forever, broken only by the village hilltop and the tangled forests with their two enchanted lakes within, were only vaguely reminiscent of the hill of Camlann. But that, in all honesty, was a good thing, in consideration of the knight to whom Arturia had pledged to spend the rest of her days caring for.

     The thunder would not have troubled her even had she been mortal; the walls of the castle were sturdy, in no small part to their restorative efforts. Their modest quarters were comfortable in spite of the lack of many modern conveniences which the pair had decided were largely unnecessary. Though the windows shivered with the storm, there was no concern with them bursting even with the lack of shutters over the glass panes behind the heavy curtains; one of the subtle hints of modernity present in their composition and construction. It was as if the residents had chosen to accept only what was practical in terms of the modern era.

     Still, to someone who lived as simply as possible, such things almost felt opulent, though every home in the village also boasted of the same deceptively modern construction. Arturia remembered well enough that even the royal chambers in Camelot were not as comfortable as her modest room in the Tohsaka's residence, which itself had been more comfortable than her simple room with its straw cot on Sir Ector's estate. By the standards she had lived with in Britain, the people of Dun Realtai practically lived like kingsperhaps even better. The blonde had to admit that she would have put her proverbial foot down on returning to drafty stone rooms with only tapestries and hearths to fend off the cold. Not just for the sake of a good night's rest for her, but for Bedivere's health.

     And sleep well she did, perhaps even better than when she lived with Rin and Sakura. But there were some restless nights when she dreamed of a shared past. Some were more pleasant than others, some even nightmares when she awoke to comfort their source. This night is no different when Master and Servant share dreams through their preternatural bond. The tall, wiry man at her side was once more curled into a deceptively compact position, while the diminutive knight herself takes up even less space on the large poster bed even in a restless sleep.

     Time might have blunted the pain of some memories, the events having transpired thousands of years ago, but even now Arturia's blood scorches in anger over these particular ones, even in sleep. True, she had expected the hatred. But it was one thing to shoulder it when it was directed at her, and quite another when directed at her noble knights, and especially so towards one of Bedivere's impeccable character. It had been during such times that her willpower was truly tested not to cast aside her impartiality to punish those disparaging the Left Hand of the King. Yet, he shouldered the hatred towards himself just as she had towards hers.

     No, the only time he rained down judgement was in defence of his king.

Saber (346) has posed:
Perhaps some would have been repulsed or horrified by the lengths to which he would go in that defence. Yet, though Arturia was idealistic, she had not been na�ve. She had understood what would be necessary to become Britain's saviour, its king. She had willingly accepted the burdens and responsibilities with open eyes. And she knew what was necessary in defending her rule. If he had been cruel in creatively making examples out of her detractors, she was the most cruel of all in her pursuit of utopia.

     If anything, she hated burdening him so, the perfect knight, but Bedivere had become indispensable to her.

     She wakes silently to the sound of thunder beyond, having been roused by the bitterness of the dream. It might very well be that she would never be able to let go of her lingering bitterness over his treatment, though the guilty ones had turned to forgotten dust thousands of years ago. There were some things beyond her capacity to simply forgive.

     When he sat up beside her, Arturia shifted to face him before likewise sitting up. Slightly mussed flaxen hair hung unbound over the shoulders of her simple tunic, the somewhat childlike appearance offset by concerned jade eyes which had clearly seen much tragedy throughout her lifetime and afterward.

     "Are you all right?" she asked softly, her bows knitted slightly as she raised her hand to gently touch his.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In some ways, it hadn't been hard for the marshal to come down on the king's detractors like a thunderbolt. Dismissing or dishonouring her were two of the very few things that could rouse him to real anger. He knew what she had sacrificed to become Britain's strength; there was no way he couldn't, for he had also sacrificed many of the same things.

The situation had not been ideal. There had been a lot of factors contributing to how fast both king and marshal had been burning out the last reserves of their strength. Even if the Battle of Camlann hadn't happened, they would have fallen sooner or later, victims of the monstrous demands made on their morals and strength. It would only have been a matter of how much longer they could have lasted.

Making a groggy sound, Bedivere reaches up and rubs at his own face, though he pauses when he feels the light touch of her hand, quirking a brow as though in puzzlement. Despite how vivid the dream was, he's still not entirely awake, very possibly still trying to decide if he's asleep or awake.

He squints, frowning a little through the darkness. Lightning flashes and throws the room into harsh-edged relief, and he seems to relax once he's fully aware that she's still beside him.

"Mm." His hand rises, rubbing at one eye. It's his left hand that he uses this time, the knotwork-sword glowing so softly it could be imagined. His right he leaves alone, loathe to shrug off her touch. "Aye. I'm fine. It was not the sort of dream I was expecting," he adds, voice still a little muzzy from sleep. "I had near forgotten about that man, truth be told. I suppose there were plenty like him to take up the torch, though. They ran together after a time."

Plenty more came out of the woodwork once Mordred had turned traitor; the faithless nobility were quick to pledge their support to the Traitor Knight. "What a difference it is, here. No nobility waiting to watch one's every move. No leaping from bed in the dark to see if there are sails on the horizon." As though noticing for the first time, he reaches out, delicately smoothing down her hair for her. He takes a moment more to run his fingers through her hair, with that characteristically crooked half-smile of his.

"I am fine, my lady," he answers, this time a little less groggily. "I would like to ride, soon. To see what lies beyond the bounds of Dun Realtai. Surely there must be something past the plains, perahps some manner of resource the people may be able to make use of."

Saber (346) has posed:
Knight and king were almost mirrors of each other in some ways. Both had come from humble backgrounds -- while Arturia had been a bastard princess, it was an inheritance she had been entirely ignorant of until she was fifteen -- and thus humility came naturally. They each valued others far above themselves. They were constantly underestimated, a fact both exploited to their advantage when necessary. Lastly, it was not insults towards themselves which roused the pair to anger -- though Arturia had a habit of internalising such insults -- but disparaging words with regards to the other. No one had truly understood her sacrifices for Britain more than the humble knight of D�l Riata, who had given up his home and his people's ways to serve as her Left Hand. As such, the constant gossip had secretly infuriated her, even though her proverbial hands were tied on the matter. It had been one more burden for her to carry.

     No, she had never blamed Mordred for her betrayal, as dishonourable as it was and how much suffering her rebellion had caused. Her treachery would have never found purchase had it not been for the people's own discontent, an incurable rot at the very cornerstones of the kingdom. Perhaps utopia had never been possible, and even a king who had successfully ascended his humanity would have been unable to stem the tide of discontent. Perhaps her inevitable fall began the moment she had drawn Caliburn.

     Arturia had never been able to be fully comforted by the presence of others as Britain's king. While there was some comfort to be had amongst her knights, she could ill afford to allow her guard down completely, nor could she actively offer comfort to others. But now that there was no longer a need to maintain her fa�ade, she could at least try, albeit somewhat awkwardly. Still, with their new closeness, the jade-eyed knight was slowly getting better at it, offering a small smile at his relief.

     She made a soft sound of agreement. "In truth, I have spared little thought for such men," she admitted. "D�n Realta's people have occupied my thoughts for the past yearI have had little to spare for the distant past."

     That alone was a feat in itself; when she first arrived in the multiverse, the past had all but consumed the petite king. But with a new home and its citizens to look after, Arturia had found little time to spare for regret. And with her faithful knight once again by her side, that part of her had slowly begun to heal. Hopefully, she had done the same for him.

     The flaxen-haired knight offered him an almost shy smile as he smoothed her hair. Five years ago and done by anyone else, she would have been offended by the gesture, but time and the fact that it was Bedivere made her almost bashful. "I should like that, as well," she admitted. "I had considered sending scouts, butin truth, I should like to explore the distant lands for myself."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Stretching and grimacing a little at the pop of protesting joints, Bedivere lies back, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling. From inside, the masonry looks convincingly mediaeval. Stonework neatly hides the modern insulation behind the stones, but experience tells him that they're there. Dun Realtai's citadel isn't nearly as drafty as Camelot's had been.

"I suppose I can understand that," he sighs, flicking a brief glance at her as she gives that shy smile, and answering with one of his own. Violet eyes slide to half-mast, even as he considers the past and the present together. "I had not thought of the nobility until I dreamt of them, in truth. It has been long since I had thought of those bygone days. My mind has been occupied with Dun Realtai and its people."

Even so, to hear her of all people deny the past is a curiosity; a novel thing. It is an understandable thing, but some part of him does acknowledge that it's still a strange thing. For one who had been so defined by her past, it's odd to hear her begin to let go of it... but also somewhat welcome, too.

At some point, everyone needs to let go. Even her, even himself; no matter how difficult it might be. Even the past has begun to fade, for him. Much as with his king, it had been a core part of him for so very long. It had guided his waking moments, and it had haunted his dreams. Now, with Dun Realtai to look after, he has had no such time to waste in mourning a dead and bygone past.

Yawning, he drapes an arm over his chest, curling the other around Arturia; a gesture that seems more asleep than awake. "Mm. Scouts would be wise, and I intend to send them out, but I would also like to ride out for myself. I have a wish to see what lies beyond. There is much and more we do not know of this land; and sometimes, it is not wise to leave some mysteries unravelled."

"Aye, perhaps there are some that are best left untouched, aye, but there are more mysteries here than truths." He frowns, studying the ceiling thoughtfully. "What was this citadel built for? What lies beyond its bounds? Why were there no skeletons of trees on such a now-fertile plain? Before the winter, there should have been weald in those places not cultivated as fields; at least the /remains/ should have been left, I would think..."

Saber (346) has posed:
While the Servant was not vulnerable to extreme temperatures, the same could hardly be said of her former marshal, and Arturia had insisted on a modern, draft-free environment for his convalescence. When it came to his health, she would spare no expense. Fortunately, the townspeople were in complete agreement on that, and the otherwise plain lord's quarters were perhaps decadent in that respect, having been restored quickly alongside the village homes. The few tapestries which hung from the walls served decorative rather than primarily practical purposes, as the modern insulation held at bay what would have otherwise been potentially dangerous drafts. The winters of Dun Realtai were unforgiving, and Bedivere had the good sense not to argue the point in spite of his king's fussing.

     It had been a sign of all she had been through in the multiverse, to leave her past behind as so many had insisted. The knight-king had stubbornly clung to it; what purpose did she truly have, if not to save her people? It was her solemn duty to defend them, save themeven at personal cost. Yet, her experiences in the multiverse had gradually persuaded her to see reason where others had attempted to brute-force that realisation out of her. She had cast aside her humanity, and when that failed, attempted to replace herself with a more fitting king. Yet, even that quest had ended in failure, and she had been thwarted at every attempt to right that perceived wrong. It was not until she came to love with the Tohsakas that she began to change that stubborn viewand it was not until her knights began to return to her that she realised that she had been what bound them together. It was Bedivere who finally made her realise thatand with that epiphany came the gradual letting go of that past.

     Now, she had Dun Realtai's people to look after, as well as her betrothed. She could no longer afford to constantly look back if she hoped to carry out her duties in the present.

     "Indeed," she replied at last. "To dwell on the past would mean that I am not committed to my duties here. I cannot in good faith divide myself so, and it would insult the people of this land to do so."

     As to the mention of scouts, Arturia frowned in contemplation. "I do not wish to jeopardise any from the village. Perhaps there are some among the Union who would agree to the task?"

     Resting her head on his broad shoulder sleepily, the jade-eyed knight made a soft sound of contemplation. "It is regrettable that there were no records to be found. I would like to know what purpose the sword above the mantle had servedperhaps that too would enlighten us."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In spite of his mortality, the marshal had never complained much at cold weather. That was probably a product of the miserable, sodden winters in Camelot, which were either rain, slush, snow, or some mix mix of the three, depending on where one was at the time. He had developed a certain apathetic resignation towards it, enduring it where he needed to but not particularly seeking it out.

He'd had a habit of slinking closer to hearths like a whipped dog when delivering reports, though, hoping nobody would notice his subtle approach.

"Hou?" Bedivere lifts a brow, looking down, although he can't quite see her face from the angle. "That is not what I was expecting to hear from you, my lady, although I am gladdened to hear it." It means she's not mired hopelessly in a past from which she'll have no respite. It means she's begun to move on, and maybe, just maybe, that she's begun to heal somewhat from the many hurts that had been dealt her over the years. It might lead to his own healing, too, slowly.

"Perhaps." He leans back and closes his eyes. "I imagine there would be plenty who would volunteer themselves, but I will be looking for diplomacy over strength of arm. Should we encounter the Sidhe, I would not have my work here undone or threatened by bared steel." It is possible that Bedivere may be just a little bit cynical. "I will consider it, but carefully."

In other words, he's going to need the right people for the job without lousing it all up beyond repair. He isn't necessarily afraid of the Sidhe, but he's very aware of how capricious they can be, and how readily they can see certain things as an insult -- and how carefully they weave webs of words, with which to trap unsuspecting mortals. You can't just muscle your way through a negotiation with the Ever-Living Ones.

The knight heaves a sigh, and his breathing slows. "So too would I. I would know also who it had once belonged to, and who had wielded it. It is an uncommon large blade. I..."

He had more to say, but it's getting hard to piece thoughts together.

Bedivere doesn't add any more to that thought. By the time she might question what else he was about to say, she might notice that he's drifted back to sleep again, arm still curled loosely around her.