4437/All the King's Men

All the King's Men
Date of Scene:	18 August 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Sir Bedivere plays a game of chess with Merlin, the only native of Camelot who could beat him at the game.
Cast of Characters:	482, 639

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Autumn has come upon Dun Realtai in a fury, with nights of crisp cold and storms that throw cold rain and wind against the tower windows. The outdoors are a terrible place to be on a blustery day like this. The wind seems like to sweep a man away, if the water doesn't drown him first... but patrols are still necessary, to ensure that Dun Realtai's repair work holds through wind and weather.

  It had.

  On a more personal note, he had also spent some time fighting wind and weather to raise a lean-to for the Black One in his lonely paddock, too aggressive to stable with the other horses, and too willful to accept a halter to be led about. So the knight had slogged down to the paddocks, fighting with sodden timber and managing to jury-rig something that would serve to keep the horse from being too miserable in the elements.

  Bedivere had come marching back up the hill soaked to the bone and streaming water, shedding pieces of gear on his way to the hearth, which servants have quickly and unobtrusively gathered up to go clean and return to his quarters.

  Shivering, he'd settled himself down in front of the roaring hearth -- bless the person who had built the two side-by-side hearths so obscenely large -- and proceeded to zone out for a little while, maybe expecting Arturia to come harangue him for going out in the rain. Most likely she's resting, conserving her strength, because of his shortcomings as a Master.

  Bedivere tilts his left hand, eyes falling to the knotwork sigil and thinning his lips.

  His feelings on those three marks are still somewhat conflicted.

  "Master Merlin?"

  It's a soft inquiry, soft even for him; but he knows if the wizard is about he'll hear his own name. Merlin is, after all, a wizard.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Perhaps storm-hardening reinforcement should be something he'll teach Bedivere first. With the kind of mercurial ferocity that is Dun Realtai's weather, it wouldn't hurt for him to learn such things. Certainly another time, when it's not quite so wonderfully stormy out.

    Where he'd been and what he'd been doing is a fantastic question for the universe. But when Bedivere mentions his name, speaking it aloud in front of the hearth, the wizard walks out from just outside the knight's own field of view. Was he summoned by less mundane means? Or merely waiting? A wonderful conundrum.

    Robes swirl softly as the wizard steps forward. "You seem exhausted, Sir Bedivere. I imagine you were working on the shelter for the Black One, or the other horses. Little else would motivate you from the keep in this weather short of a fire in the village...and I doubt such a thing in rain like this." Making his point, distant thunder rolls like a crash of waves on a beach.

    The chair next to Bedivere's becomes occupied with a long, pleased sigh. Merlin's staff rests alongside him, and logs crackle merrily as the hearth does its thing. There might be a little magic added to keep the logs from burning quite so fast, yet still providing the warmth needed. "You rang, sir knight?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Dun Realtai's weather is as fierce as it is unpredictable. One day it may be storming like the world is about to end, and the next it may be mild and clear. Summer and winter are mostly predictable, but during the spring and fall, all bets are off. There's no telling which way the wind may blow, because it changes on a whim.

  Bedivere cranes his head up from around the blanket wrapped around himself, squinting and tilting his head slightly as Merlin materialises from the shadows. It isn't at all surprising that the wizard appears when called. How does he do that?

  "I have felt worse, and I could hardly leave him in the wind and weather, bloodthirsty savage that he is. He is as deserving of it as I am. Well, 'tis no stable, but he will keep, for now." Bedivere half-closes his eyes, savouring the warmth of the fire even as Merlin seats himself. "The other horses have been herded, with some difficulty, into the half-finished stable building. They will fit, so long as they learn to coexist with a bit less space than mayhap they're accustomed to. A new one must be raised, but not until the rain has stopped."

  He glances over, huddling the blanket around himself, because it's warm and the great hall is generally not. "I did. What say you to a game of kingsmen, wizard?" Bedivere lifts a brow. "It has been some time since we have matched black and white." He half-smiles. "You were the only one who could best me, you know, in Camelot... not even she could."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Winter is indeed predictable. Colder than Bedivere's anger, all day erry day. Merlin himself prefers the more active seasons - the power that marks the foundation of the world, capricious and rampant upon its surface. It's almost humbling...and deliciously fun.

    "Indeed." It says a lot about Bedivere that he would sacrifice so much of himself - and risk the wrath of Arturia for getting sick /again/ - for the horses. But the knight has always been an animal person, and with horses especially. "At least they will be safe from this tempest, and if it abates tomorrow perhaps we shall take a closer look at their lodgings. I suppose the Black wouldn't go near the lean to until you were quite some distance from it..."

    The offer of a game gets a grin from the wizard. "I believe I shall accept your offer. It's been some time, hasn't it." The chairs are turned with a little bit of magic power - stay huddled up, Bedivere, you're probably still damp under all that - and a table is slid over by Merlin's whimsy. "As marshal of the armies, I suppose it is something of a point of pride. Though it can be difficult to truly plan ahead the entire game, rather than three or four moves." Merlin puts on a fake sigh. "I suppose I shan't be allowed to read the future and counter your moves before you decide them, since it would only be fair."

    Not that he'd /ever/ done that in the past. A board is summoned, as are pieces - the white box handed to Bedivere, while Merlin keeps the black. Once they're set up, he leans back and lets Bedivere have all the time he needs to plan his opening.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "We stared each other down the entire time," Bedivere observes dryly. Both horse and master were stubborn fellows, stubborn as the day is long. "I, to ensure he wasn't going to try and kill me when I had my back turned; he, perhaps... well, I do not know why he is so mistrusting of men, but mayhap someone did him harm in his colt days." He shrugs one shoulder under the blanket. "Only the Lord God knows what has happened to that stallion. I would know, if only to heal his hurts."

  He settles in his blanket, eyeing Merlin, perhaps a little suspiciously, only to feel his chair turn itself. "The trick," Bedivere observes, "is not in the planning ahead. One cannot plan for everything, after all, especially against such an unpredictable foe as the Saxons were."

  "The trick is to make them think you can."

  Bedivere had always relied on a combination of trickery and perceived strength, as well as reputation, to fight his battles for him. That didn't mean he wasn't a capable opponent, and was in fact horrifying in those few times his wrath had been aroused, but it was by far easier to let one's reputation do the fighting. In time the Saxons grew to hate and fear him as he racked up the victories against them, against crippling odds.

  Even against Mordred's rebels, he had done the same, using his reputation to his advantage. There was hardly any acting then, though; he had fallen into the same fury that had moved him during Caliburn's loss. His detractors saw firsthand the violent mistake they'd made in setting their plans into motion.

  Reaching out, Bedivere sets his hand on a pawn for a moment, slowly rotating the piece between two fingers as he considers. Those mild, violet eyes are locked on the board. Many had mistaken it for a sleepy sort of regard, but few eyes in Camelot had noticed more. Paranoia, as much as careful and directed intuition, had been a job requirement.

  "Hm. Here, perhaps," he murmurs, scooting the pawn forward. Off you go, loyal minion, your sacrifice will not be forgotten! "I am curious, wizard. When did you notice the cracks snaking through the foundation...?"

  In other words, when did he begin to notice things turning sour in Camelot?

Merlin (639) has posed:
    "As you have returned to us hale and whole, I daresay your mutual precautions were quite in order. Perhaps there might be an understanding between you yet." The wizard wonders, debating if a horse - if it IS a horse; he's still skeptical - can truly recognize royalty.

    And then Bedivere has to go ruin his fun and spill one of his secrets. "Magic is indeed the same way. Much is made of its power, and much would be correct. But there's also letting your opponent defeat themselves by believing your infallibility. Planning ahead in chess...quite the same." Well, now that that cat is out of the bag, perhaps the good knight's experience may be the telling factor in this game.

    Merlin's own reputation...is carefully cultivated. Enjoyably so, certainly, but there's an absolute need to leave the wizard aloof and just a little bit feared. Someone like Bedivere...fears a little less, but that's alright. Meanwhile, their battle is joined, with the charge of a pawn!

    There's a long pause after the question. In that time, Merlin sacrifices the center of the board to slide his opening pawn on the left side. Of course, he doesn't TOUCH the pawn, and it simply glides along the board of its own accord. "Something you might want to practice, Bedivere. To control your grasp." Magical training...though enough avoiding the question. "As for the cracks...perhaps they were there at the beginning. I began to worry after some time...when the tendency of men to violence was never truly yoked."

    He sighs, pale eyes taking in the knight. "Arthur's quest, that final great attempt to seek the grail and to put the fighting spirit to rest, might be the true moment that the cracks formed. The feelings that had been kept bottled up, the rampage some went on while others sought more spiritual means." He steeples his fingers, leaning back in thought. "I was then a prisoner of the earth, but I thought perhaps seeking a greater, holy glory might have enough. After that..." Sigh. "Perhaps that is when those of the old times truly began to fall against themselves. There was none left to conquer but each other."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Understanding, yes. Peace, though... I will hope for that, but I'll not expect it." Bedivere regards the board through slanted eyes, and one can almost see the wheels in his head turning. "He is willful. I only hope not so much that he cannot be gentled. I purchased him in the hopes of using him as a foundation sire, but if he will not suffer the company of other horses without violence..."

  The knight rolls one shoulder in a shrug, sighing heavily. "I suppose it is enough to give him a place of peace for the rest of his days. A lesser owner would have beaten him to subdue him, and mayhap that is precisely what had happened to him."

  Much as the wizard, the marshal had cultivated his own reputation with care and precision. He had presented himself as Arturia's stern and oathsworn master of horse, with a head for figures, a gift for logistics, and an uncanny knack for winning against odds far beyond his forces' reckoning. Many had whispered about witchcraft, but it had simply been a combination of careful study, patience, and ruthlessness.

  He had developed something of a reputation not unlike Arturia's, despite his charitable works in her name. People preferred to remember him as the berserker on the battlefield, cleaving down his foes in cold fury; or the stern and unsmiling Left Hand of the King, frosty as the season he was born in.

  Bedivere studies the board, expression impassive as he watches Merlin's piece slide itself without ever being touched. Such cantrips might be the basics of any wizard, but training comes hard to the silver-haired knight. It was a piece of his life that he had left behind for over twenty years when he made his own fate. He'd chosen love over the Otherworld, although it was a love made of thorns, one that had bled his heart for every year of his service.

  Yet the Otherworld is back, and it demands its due. He has turned his back on it for long enough; it is a part of him, however much he might wish his life to remain simpler. Besides that, it's for her that he's accepted that back into his life, so he owes it to her.

  Bedivere half-closes an eye and flushes energy through his magic circuits. It's a familiar sting that causes his breath to catch; a side effect he's still not fully used to. Carefully, with almost too much care, he reaches out not with his hand, but with energy. It's like plucking threads, or pulling puppet-strings. The chess piece scoots clumsily forward, almost too much, before teetering back a little and wobbling into place. Clumsy and without artistry -- but he's still new at this 'magic' nonsense.

  "Perhaps." He shuffles closer into his blanket. It almost feels blasphemous to speak of Camelot's ruin in one breath and enjoy this kind of fireside contentment in the next. "If it was present in the beginning, even I did not see it." And there were very, very few things that his eyes missed. His talent had lain in not /speaking/ of what he saw, heard, or witnessed. Few, therefore, knew the true depths of his observations. Only Arturia and Merlin suspected how deep those still waters ran.

  He tilts his head sidelong a bit, studying the board, but Merlin would know by looking that those pale violet eyes are distant. He does not see black and white; he sees old drafty halls, and fluttering pennants.

  "Hm. I had always been wary of such a power, myself, and I grew more so when the ritual of the Grail War was described to me by her." He shakes his head, slowly. "So they turned upon each other, aye. A shame. But I suppose it was worth it, if it led here. This place feels more true to me than Camelot had ever been... but I suppose I had been an outsider from the start."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    "Quite true. As it is...perhaps Dun Realtai has a magic of its own. A place of healing, drawing those wounded elsewhere to rest and restore themselves here." Between Bedivere, Arturia, the Black One, and...probably a few others, it seems to be true. "I will see if I can lend a hand. And tomorrow...I'd like you to practice some reinforcement, for your shelter. I doubt that the horse would be willing to enter anything significant, but providing the lightest windbreak might be enough. It would not do to have it blow down in a fiercer storm than this," he adds as a roll of thunder echoes off the stone once more.

    Bedivere's reputation is well known - and well earned. It was also often in display in their chess matches; Bedivere often favoring a feint or a defensive strategy before simply striking out like a viper. Perhaps others saw the ruthless viciousness, or the coldness, but the true knight lay in his calculating intelligence.

    Merlin, meanwhile...is far more terrifying, for far more friendly reasons.

    The push of energy is sensed, and Merlin nods with approval. "It is difficult at first, but it will come to you as easily as breathing or walking. As for the grail...the true Grail, the one found by Percival and Galahad, I suppose...such things were like Camelot itself. A dream, something that should be striven for...but never truly reached. Perfection is not for mankind, I suppose."

    His bishop slides out, anchoring the left and looking for open lanes. "I agree with you that this place...feels true. It isn't trying to be the apex of civilization, it is just...like you. Like Arturia. Wanting merely to survive. A simpler, gentler foundation."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "So it would seem." Bedivere looks sidelong to the great hall, where the light of the hearth flickers against the patchwork of old and new stone. In some ways, it reminds him of Camelot, with the new stone laid over the bones of the Roman stronghold it had once been. Yet it lacks the wearying politics or the knives waiting to find their ways between ribs.

  The knight only shakes his head, voice soft. "There are many with hurts to be healed, here... whether they are seen or not." His half-smile is a little self-depreciating. He is, of course, a prime contender for that role. Camlann had damaged him in ways he still has yet to comprehend; if not for reuniting with Arturia, he might think that death would have been the kinder fate. "It is a balm to the soul, truly. I wonder, sometimes, if perhaps Lady Alaia had known precisely what she was doing when she made her request of us..."

  Certainly it seemed like an awfully happy coincidence. If she were truly part of the Otherworld as her descriptions suggested, she'd been around long enough to be canny... canny, and observant.

  In many ways, Bedivere's chess strategies weren't unlike his battle strategies. He would feign a weak flank, like a bird dragging its wing, and then he would turn his forces in on themselves, smashing the offender between hammer and anvil. Or, he would arrow straight for an enemy formation, and strike with such fury and such overwhelming discipline that the enemy would have no choice but to retreat. Such discipline was in a part a legacy of the kingdom's patchwork Roman heritage -- but it worked, because the Saxons had not encountered something like that.

  They had expected the knights to be soft behind their walls of stone. They'd gotten a rude awakening. Bedivere had fought with a singularity of focus and fury that had put the fear of the old gods into the sea wolves... and that was without the battle-rage upon him.

  The silver-haired knight starts to reach for a chess piece, but he remembers the wizard's instruction a second before he touches it. Retreating to his blanket and yanking it a little tighter around himself, he concentrates, the flourish of knotwork that curls around his left eye almost luminous for a moment -- and so is his eye, too; just a shade too bright to be a trick of the lighting.

  A knight moves itself into position, nearly teetering over like the last pawn had, before righting itself and wobbling into place. Hardly the kind of results he's proud of, but it's a start.

  He glances up again, regarding Merlin with those oddly luminous eyes. One can only imagine what he must have looked like if he had fully embraced his heritage -- a filidh of the Dál Riata, one foot in the world, one foot in the Otherworld. Half a smile flickers its way across his face, before fading. "Aye." He almost looks bittersweet for a moment. "How much suffering could have been avoided, I wonder, if Camelot's foundation had been simpler? But I suppose it would not have endured, either. It fell, in the end, aye, in ash and ruin... but we were remembered," he says slowly, almost as though in awe at that fact. "And my king... she was remembered most of all." His head bows. "I thank the Lord God for that, at least. That her suffering was not wholly in vain."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    It's a fine mix of the familiar and new. The heavy stone construction is a true reminder of their old home...though the only thing here that tries to get under your armor and stab you in the back is the icy winds of winter. "Perhaps this might be a new calling for you. Dun Realtai...it is more, perhaps, of a hospital than fortress. Not one for physical wounds, but those of the mind. You've already opened this place to those of a peaceful mind, of all backgrounds."

    He considers the recent, relatively long visit of a certain draconic ninja. She had convalesced well, and returned to her life elsewhere, but Bedivere had been willing to help purely out of his spirit. That said ninja was quite beautiful had simply been icing on the cake for Merlin, but the wizard had always enjoyed the side benefits of Bedivere's decisions. Maybe some proper nurses in those modern little dresses and sandals...

    Bedivere's nature for feints and shell games with his forces is quite well known. He'd come close to beating Merlin before, but even the greatest wizard in the world has his own plans for victory - and he has some suspicions of what to look for. Bedivere /is/ tired, physically exhausted...and being gently goaded into tapping into his magical side should push that exhaustion further. Merlin merely has to survive the knight's first two, possibly three significant strategies. As long as he keeps his forces intact, then it shouldn't be too hard to simply war against Bedivere's "logistical" means and defeating his army by merely tiring them out.Cheating? Not really; it's simply taking the chess game to a meta level. No army as rain-sick and tired as Bedivere must feel is going to find victory.

    "Perhaps so. Lady Alaia has...an interesting mind, and is truly dedicated to those of this land. Apparently," he adds, fixing Bedivere with a stare and noting that soft glow of his eyes, "even those who hail from afar and only now call this their home." There's a gentle and approving nod as Bedivere taps into his power to move the piece. "Precision will come. It is like a child reaching and grasping what it can. You are still learning to use limbs you never knew existed until recently."

    There's a thoughtful sigh from Merlin. "Perhaps it might have survived. But it would have been no more than another small hamlet, a village with a truly good leader and possibly a long life. But it would not have been the flame that burned so bright in history, and been an inspiration for so long. A long time, Bedivere; a hundred and fifty decades - more in some lands - and yet Camelot is still the shining city on a hill of the memory of mankind. Even in lands that Arturia had never known existed, in histories she never lived, that name is still respected and loved for its ideals."

    Merlin begins shifting his pawn line, keeping a stoic defense against the knight on the field - and keeping the backside of the pawns well protected by his second line. "And perhaps despite the pain it caused us all, the losses we suffered...what Arturia, you, Gawain, and the rest accomplished for mankind was worth those cracks and lives."

    He settles back to take in Bedivere, and after a long pause finishes his thought. "All battles have casualties, but those who fall give themselves for their beliefs. Perhaps you did not fight the Saxons or the rebels or the bandits. Perhaps you fought the darkness that loomed over mankind...and won."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Despite the familiar style of stonework, there are signs throughout the interior that this is no stronghold of old Britain. The old, half-disintegrated weapon over the hearth carries no style familiar to the smiths of Albion. Down in the village below, LED lights complement the torches that some of the villagers still use. Modern insulation lines both the village houses and the citadel both, protecting from the most savage of the winter wind.

  "Perhaps." It's as much of an answer as Merlin can hope for. The silver-haired knight hasnt' yet committed himself to the notion one way or the other. As with all things, he'll need time to mull it over, consider its angles, probe and test how the notion feels to his mind.

  His eyes are hooded as he watches the chess board. Despite his physical exhaustion, he'll still be able to give Merlin quite a run for his money. There's a reason Arturia had entrusted command of her armies to him. He is honourable, but cunning; devious, when he has a mind to be... but the wizard is right. He is tired, and rain-sick.

  "You are right," Bedivere murmurs, toying with a piece as he decides what to do with his move. "It would have survived, but it would have been one more hamlet; one more small town forgotten by the wayside." Another charming little tourist town in the Welsh countryside, and little more than that. A lukewarm little candle, compared to the bonfire its memory was.

  Finally he lifts a pawn to answer Merlin's sally, forming up a defensive line without bringing his heavier hitters to bear just yet.

  "I know," he murmurs, this time in response to Merlin's description of how far-reaching the name of Camelot is. "I am still recognised by the occasional resident of the multiverse, though I am at a loss as to their identity, more often than not." He half-smiles, half-hooded gaze dropping to the board. "I wonder sometimes if it was worth her suffering, or so much blood... it had seemed all we'd done was for naught."

  "But mayhap you are right." Bedivere shakes his head, hair falling forward over his eyes, shadowing them momentarily. "Did we win, though? When all was reduced to ash? What had I won, wizard? Everything I had ever loved -- /everything/ -- had been ruined. Unless it was all for this moment, and this place." His eyes close; he smiles faintly. "To see her smile, for her happiness, I would gladly do it all again."

  Silence falls for a long moment as Bedivere withdraws his hands, hunching a little and pulling the blanket more tightly over himself. He studies the board in silence for a long moment.

  "She is still alive." His voice is soft when he speaks, and even under the locks of hair over his forehead, his eyes are luminous. Without touching a piece, he moves another, ignoring its precarious wobble. "Somewhere out there, perhaps in Avalon, perhaps floating in the barge I had left, she is still out there, alive."

  His eyes turn up to Merlin, almost forlorn. "I would save her, wizard. I would make her whole again; heal her of the grievous hurt she had been dealt... I would fain even find Caliburn again, piece back together those Fae-forged shards..."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    It's true that this is no Britain. But in the way everything does not quit fit to make a whole, yet still forms one...perhaps there's a synchronicity in Bedivere as well. The foreigner who never quite fit properly in...that nonetheless made Camelot as much a whole as it could have been. While Dun Realtai is old leavened with a bit of the modern, it comes together well in the wizard's opinion.

    "In time. Of course, such a decision would no doubt require Lady Alaia's approval, but I imagine she would not put someone in charge of this land that disagreed with her." Whichever Bedivere decides, Alaia will very likely have already thought of and agreed with. "But for now, Dun Realtai will simply be a home to two people playing kingsmen. After all, winter is coming."

    Hm, winter. Well, maybe Merlin could set up a skiing resort. And a jacuzzi. Now there's a pleasant idea.

    "As am I. The legend of Merlin is almost as popular as Arthur himself," the wizard adds with an amused smirk. "Though I've no idea where this silly idea of pointed hats and long white beards came from. I suppose none could truly understand my beauty, a shame." He draws a hand across one temple, tucking hair back behind his ear - and there's a moment of projected aura of radiant gorgeousness above and beyond the wizard's normal looks. Good thing Gawain's not here or he might get hit on. It lasts but a moment, the magical equivalent of a joke's punchline rather than any real attempt at trying to charm the poor knight.

    "Immortality is the greatest prize mankind has ever sought. In a sense...you of Camelot attained it. Indeed, yes, there was a great sacrifice. Much was lost, but I suppose such is the way of that which is best for mankind. Was not your own savior slain by his own people, yet still is revered and worshiped? It's the way of things, perhaps." A simple comparison, yet Merlin doesn't dwell long on it.

    Bedivere's look plunges the wizard into silence, after shifting his own knight to begin an advance upon the center of the board. "A quest as such...can blind one to the present. To focus so deeply on the past is to miss what lies next to you in bed, and greets you every day as radiant as the dawn." The words might just be for Arturia as well. "She is, now, not the mortal human that she was...but she had never been truly mortal since the moment she drew the sword. And, even as a Heroic Spirit, is that truly such a bad thing? Gawain, for example..."

    Right, bad example. Moving along.

    "You still cling, some, to those ashes in your heart. You have a new life, a new land, and a new love. Weep for the past, but do not let it consume you. This will not be easy, and it will not be short. In some ways..." He leans back again and looks at Bedivere. "You and the Black One are quite appropriate for each other. Both of you living through brutal times, with deep wounds where no man can see. Perhaps this is already place of convalesence, and it's now your time."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The contrast of Albion and Dun Realtai is immediately obvious to the trained eye, despite the surface similarities. There is an undercurrent of peace and contentment that Camelot had never known. Winter looms on the horizon, yet the people are not rushing to battle the coming of the north winds. They have food and warmth aplenty. Disease and cold will not take its toll, where he had come to detest winters in Camelot. There had always been casualties.

  For that alone, this place is by far better. People have a fighting chance in this place... although the fact that he gave them that is something that often escapes him. Bedivere is a man to turn a blind eye to his own accomplishments, while noticing and brooding over every mistake.

  "I do not think she would dislike the notion, but I would not act without her approval." Bedivere shakes his head, shadows under his eyes as he idly regards the chessboard. Arturia is most assuredly going to scold him for going out in the rain, but he couldn't leave the Black One or the half-wild mares to the weather, helping drive the latter into the stables, and raising a temporary shelter for the former. "If the Ever-Living Ones are so concerned about the appearance of but a handful of outworlders, and Elites, then I should not think that a steady stream of travellers would soothe their nerves."

  He squints at Merlin as the wizard affects his air of glamour, not quite frowning.

  Immortality. The silver-haired knight is silent as he considers the matter. Yes, the Knights of the Round Table are effectively immortal, in a sense. Over a thousand years later, people still know their names, and they can cite their accomplishments. Some of those are smokescreens, their true deeds veiled, much like Arturia's gender -- it seems Bedivere is not always remembered as Arturia's master of horse, or the commanding force of her armies, in some worlds -- but for the most part, his efforts to help obscure the true histories succeeded.

  Not one story remembered her gender. For that, he is grateful. It's a secret that could have ruined Camelot, as much as...

  "Mayhap." He looks down at his left hand, clenching a loose fist, watching the knotwork command seals play over the skin. Merlin will also have the satisfaction of seeing the knight flush scarlet, when Merlin so blatantly draws attention to how close king and knight are -- of course he knows, likely suspected the depth of their feelings from far earlier than either of them would have liked. He, like Bedivere, had a knack for seeing things that others missed.

  He regards his fist for a moment more, turning his hand this way and that. "I do not know if she would wish for that, no. But I would do it for her... to free her from this dependency upon me, when I can barely sustain her... I am doing her no favours, wizard, even with what training I have taken." He shakes his head, frowning and tugging at the stud in his left ear in thoughtful gesture. "As a Servant, I am not worthy of being her Master."

  "No..." Bedivere glances up to Merlin, eyes still luminous, but he gradually lets the power fade from his circuits; eyes losing that Otherworldly light. "It is not for the past that I wish to save her. I wish to save her... but for her future, wizard." He smiles, slightly. "Just as I wish to save the Black One from whatever it is torments him. Mayhap I can. Mayhap I can't. But I would rest easier knowing I had tried." That smile fades, faintly. A place of convalescence? "Mayhap it is, wizard. I'll not deny the healing I have known since coming here."

  He doesn't reach out, but activates his circuits again, the light returning to his eyes; to the curling knotwork around his left eye. His knight rides forth to meet Merlin's, wobbling precariously before tipping into place with a nudge from Bedivere's senses.

  "But mayhap that is simply her," he adds, with a faint and undeniably fond smile, "and not this place. I do not know."

Merlin (639) has posed:
    That, and wifi as well as satellite TV. Really, that 70-inch screen in the wizard's lair is possibly one of his proudest possessions. While Merlin does appreciate all the signs of home, and the simplest of lives...having HBO on tap is truly fantastic.

    "Of course. I merely suggest it for consideration, an idea from your brain-trust council." It's up to Bedivere to find a way to figure it out, but isn't that what being a leader is? "A fair point. Though, perhaps a few from time to time might not be so bad, and it isn't as if there are more such hospitals across the multiverse. "But you are quite wise to remember that we live on loaned land, rather than truly own it. Maybe that is part of why this is such a gentle place. Not bathed in war, and the spirits of wood and water still present."

    Well, even if the secret had been maintained...surely someone out there was imaginative enough to stumble upon it. There had been /so/ much written and told about them that sooner or later a story was going to accidentally get something right. It's just such a shame that so many of them...were so banally romantic. Try harder, the wizard urged the universe.

    Merlin laughs as Bedivere's face betrays his reaction to the comments about the Once And Foxy King. "Perhaps that's the case, that you aren't worthy. But there is no Grail to be fought for. There is no prize to be won, no wars to be waged, merely a bond between a man and a woman. For all that even I may see, Bedivere...she is still a woman, and quite fetching at that. Consider yourself lucky that she yet remains in the springtime of her beauty and will remain so as long as you both are together." Even if the only chest Saber has is the one against the wall, Merlin can still agree she's damn cute. Still...maybe he COULD help out in that regard. It certainly couldn't /hurt/ so much!

    Bedivere makes a point. "Love always tries. I wish you well, and will assist you in that if I can. But do not become too wrapped up in titles that do not matter anymore. There is no Grail to hunt, therefore...you are no Master. Merely the one person who anchors Arturia's soul in this world and gives her both the peace of life and the joy of love. You even both blush like each other, you know," Merlin adds. "And stammer fruitless half-denials like a junior squire caught with pudding on his hands."

    Merlin finally unleashes his rook, sending the castle surging forward and cutting off the knight. "And perhaps you are right. Man has warred for love's sake, man has built for love's sake, man has died for love's sake." Or worse. "Perhaps you've healed for love's sake."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  It's probably best that the steward never goes into the wizard's tower. It's not that he cares so much about the wizard's privacy, but he probably knows that seeing the contents of that tower would only make his blood pressure soar. Merlin has a way of not caring about the comfort levels of others, and he's taken to the sport of harassing Bedivere. Someone has to keep the steward on his toes.

  "In more ways than one," Bedivere agrees, to the land being loaned. Aside from the area that lies directly under Alaia's governance, the Ever-Living Ones remain wary. So far, only the kelpie has made itself known, watching over the others as though it were reporting back to those of the Otherworld. Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn't. He wouldn't presume to know or guess, and wouldn't necessarily want to. "Wood and water, and still older things, remain in this land." He shakes his head. "I would not presume to own it even if the Lady Alaia had instructed me as such. Fledgling as my senses are, I can still sense the presence of the Otherworld so close at hand."

  He only hunches his shoulders a bit as he's laughed at, not quite flinching, allowing himself a beleaguered sigh. Why are people so very amused by his embarrassment? Once upon a time, his relationship would have been the worst kind of breach of etiquette, of social conventions, of... of everything, really. The political scandal such a thing would've garnered in Camelot would have ruined the kingdom as surely as had Lancelot and Guinevere, or Mordred drumming up a rebel faction.

  But, perhaps he ascribes too much importance to himself.

  Bedivere frowns. "I do not know whether she sees it that way." Bedivere arches a brow. "She will remain frozen in time, a dragonfly in amber, as all those she knows grow old and wither around her. I am not certain that is a fate she would enjoy... no, I am sure it is not. Would that not be a cruelty to her, she who has suffered so much already?" He sighs, shaking his head. Maybe he'd better talk about it to her. He's curious for himself whether she would choose, if offered a choice.

  Oh, there's that flush again, as Merlin points out they even blush like one another. It reaches to his very ears, so he must be embarrassed indeed. Sometimes it's a curse, having such a pale complexion. "I--I do not..." The protest dies in his throat. Yes he does... protest like a junior squire, that is.

  It's exasperating when Merlin's right about something.

  No sooner has the rook moved than...

  ...the pieces on Bedivere's side do not. No answer comes to the rook's challenge.

  Curled up in his blanket, eyes drooping further and further closed, the silver-haired knight has finally succumbed to his exhaustion, dozing before the fire. The light leaves him, too wrung-out to maintain his novice's powers any longer. Despite the shadows under his eyes or the slight gauntness to his face that he bears even now, Bedivere looks peaceful in sleep, in a way he rarely is in the waking world.

  ...Arturia will scold him later, no doubt.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    Merlin cares plenty about the comfort levels of others. The lower the better, of course. And it's a good thing Bedivere's never entered - it isn't as if there's a golem or anything in there! The facehugger that springs at unexpected visitors is only rubber and springs, really.

    Wisdom strikes, and Merlin simply nods accordingly - then grins as Bedivere practically sulks. "Come, Sir Bedivere, where is your joviality? You were not so far from a filidh as you once thought, with your abilities." Merlin just glances at the chessboard to clarify what he meant. "It is best to be able to laugh at things - and with them. Besides. This is Dun Realtai; we are companions here. The knives and eyes of Camelot are far behind you."

    Just to make the point, there's the slightest of spells - and the chair Bedivere sits in somehow feels just that much more comfortable. Safe. Protected, impenetrable, and...wow, /really/ soft.

    And then Bedivere mentions the very problem that Merlin himself suffers - and suffered, spending so many centuries in the earth to find the world so changed. "Either way...it is somethign that she alone must choose. But I think that is a choice that can be made another day - we are not mayflies, and have a little future ahead of us." A reassuring smile, followed by a burst of laughter. "It is indeed true. Did I mention how immensely adorable it is?"

    But alas, it seems that between his work on the chair, plus the efforts Bedivere had given earlier, the knight has given out. Oh well. Merlin, of course, cares for Bedivere's comfort - so the chessboard is sent back to whatever magical hole it resides in. Bedivere's chair gets slowly, gently turned back to face the fire, and let the knight rest. And of course, a magazine - one of Merlin's favorites - will be found tucked in his hand when he waked up. At least it's under the blanket, where noone can see. Really, those french girls are gorgeous.