4453/The Raven in the Oak Tree

The Raven in the Oak Tree
Date of Scene:	23 August 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Wisewoman Inga drops by Dun Realtai to deliver medicine to Bedivere, and finding the supposedly sick knight unable to sleep, knight and seer chat by the fireside.
Cast of Characters:	482, Inga

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Although the rain has let up a little, Dun Realtai's autumn thunderstorm is still crackling its way through the basin. Rain hammers against structures, and the occasional roll of thunder echoes in the far-distant mountains. Hours have passed since the rain began, and now the sun hangs low in the sky, nearly dark now for the cloudcover. Night is nearly upon the area.

  It's not much before midnight, and the pale-haired knight has quietly disentangled himself from his blankets to creep back downstairs, careful not to wake his companion. He does not, for while observant as he is, she sleeps the sleep of the dead. Such is the drawback of being a Servant; she is bound by her energy requirements,

  While grateful for her tireless care, all he wants to do right now is to sit and think about something specific.

  So he does that, before the hearth, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the flame. Every so often he looks down at the trifold tattoo on the back of his left hand, but for the moment, his attention is on the fire.

Inga has posed:
The storm continues to rage, soaking everything. No one should he outside on a night like this one, yet at least one person is. A hooded figure in a drenched cloak rides toward the gates astride a beautiful grey horse, clutching a small basket on her lap and trying to keep it covered with her cloak in a vain attempt to keep the contents dry.

If not for being soaked through, Inga would quite enjoy this weather. The lightning flashing across the sky and the thunder shaking the earth only makes her think of Thor, and such is a comfort to her red heathen heart.

Inga hold tightly to the pommel with one hand before sliding off the saddle. Not an easy or graceful movement, but she manages it while clutching the small basket with her other hand. She then unstraps her walking stick and gives Jodis to whatever stable-hand is available, giving the equally soggy horse a kiss on the nose before Inga moves into the castle.

With a heavy sigh, she sets down her basket by the door while she attempts to remove the now extremely heavy cloak from her shoulders, looking right over toward Bedivere. She doesn't seem surprised that he is awake. "Sir Bedivere," she greets. "I've brought medicine," she informs him, leaving a puddle on the floor from her dripping garments. She'll wait to be invited further inside.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  At this point in the night, there are no guards standing at the doors of the citadel. There aren't even any patrols in the village. When the door booms open, creaking on its hinges, it's with a spit of rain and a gust of wind that it clashes shut again.

  Bedivere looks up, half his face in shadow as though startled from his thoughts. It looks as though he has something in his hands. A war horn, she might see, if she approaches him. It looks to be very old, yellowed around where a crack runs through the horn itself, banded in somewhat tarnished silver. Blood stains parts of it, seeped into the ivory or horn.

  There is blood about that thing, in more than a literal sense. There is a great deal of despair invested into the object; sorrow and futility, and the grief of failure. Metaphysically, it reeks of blood. It went through Camlann. That battle left its scars even on an inanimate object.

  Medicine? He seems to come back to himself, as though taking a second to recognise who's talking to him, and why she's here. Once he does, he beckons her over to the fire. "Wisewoman. Come, warm yourself before the fire. It's the Devil's own rainstorm out there; this is not a night for a soul to be out. You did not need to brave wind and weather for my sake..."

Inga has posed:
Inga recognizes what the horn is. What it represents. Even an object can sometimes have a wyrd tangled about it, and Bedivere's threads are all twisted up with the object, she can see that plainly.

She drags her cloak to hang by the fire, sighing once more. "It is very wet. The storm is glorious, but gods is wool heavy when it is wet," she complains, pulling at her wool overdress. Even with the cloak it is wet. She grumbles, then just unpins the overdress, hanging that beside her cloak. The underdress beneath still covers her fully and is still a great deal more than most woman seem to wear these days.

Once that is settled, Inga opens the basket and pulls out a couple of bottles and a small jar. "I saw that you were ill, and as I could not sleep either..." she shrugs. "I'll stay the night though, if that is alright. Jodis is being seen to by your stablehand. I assume he will take good care of her, as I believe he is slightly terrified of me," she says conversationally.

"Now, this you will drink now...this you will drink the morning," she informs him, showing him the bottles. "And this is a salve that will help you breathe better," she said, passing the salve. The bottle she holds in one hand, conjuring a quick flame in the other that she uses to warm the contents of the bottle a bit.

Once warm, she pours it into a clean cup fetched from her pouch, and hands it to him. "Your thoughts are heavy tonight," she remarks as she flops into a nearby chair, enjoying the warmth of the fire as it warms her chilled skin and seeps down into her bones. There is nothing like a good fire.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The knight tilts his head. "Wool? Aye. I remember. My cloaks were usually wool in Camelot," Bedivere admits, with a half-smile that's almost shy. "Mayhap I would have had better luck with the pelt of a bear in those winds, but I would have looked like the Saxon invaders. I may have been cut down by my own men in the heat of battle."

  Thankfully, Inga's modesty is safe. He isn't the sort of man to stare, and even if he were, he simply doesn't notice. There's only one woman he cares about, and she's not here right now. His eyes remain fixed on the flickering orange light of the hearth.

  "The stablehands here know their steward appreciates consideration shown to the beasts we rely upon." Bedivere allows himself a faint flicker of a smile. "Jodis will be well-cared for."

  He'd do it himself, but various and sundry people might yell at him.

  To his credit he doesn't flinch back when she summons a pinch of flame to warm the bottle. His brows furrow, though, because the sensation of other people working magic around him is still... strange; foreign. He accepts the salve, though.

  Bedivere also accepts the teacup, drinking deeply without much regard for the taste. He's used to pretty bland things; he's also used to fairly bitter things, because the sorts of medicinal teas that the people of Albion had used left pretty much everything to be desired in terms of taste. Once he's finished it, he sets it aside. The faint flicker of his expression isn't quite strong enough to be called a proper grimace.

  "They are always heavy," he comments, seemingly off-handedly. The onetime marshal doesn't seem perturbed at all by this. "That has always been my way." He seems to hesitate for a moment, before continuing. "Though it seems more... prevalent, after Camlann," he adds, turning the warhorn over in his hands, so the silver banding catches the firelight.

Inga has posed:
Inga shakes her head, smiling slightly. "Surely you made use of the skins of animals as well. But I do love a good wool cloak. It holds up well to light amounts of water...but when its wet, its WET," she sighs. "Still warm though, even when wet. That is one of the things that makes wool so essential," she says. It is pretty clear Inga could go on about the virtues of wool for /hours/.

Inga grins. "I am glad. I have perhaps been spoiling Jodis a bit. I'd like if she gained a bit of weight before winter sets in," she admits.

The medicine isn't as bitter as it could be. She's added honey, which is both good to sweeten it and plain good medicine. Good for a sore throat.

Inga holds the pin from her dress in her hand, fingers running over the smooth silver surface. May as well hold an object from her past, too. Inga nods. "I understand. I have been accused of being too solemn. Too serious. I've learned to do a little better a think, with the influence of friends...but yes, my thoughts are usually heavy as well. I think that partly just who we are, partly what we have seen," she says quietly. "It is especially difficult at this time of night, hmm? During the day we keep busy. If we keep moving, we do not have time to think...but when everyone else is asleep...thoughts run rampant and memories pull us into the past--or the future, if you are me," she adds with a small smile.

"But surely, your heart is lighter when you are with Arturia?" she asks. She's not trying to embarrass him this time. Inga simply doesn't think there is anything to be embarrassed about. It is what it is.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "As bedding, mayhap, but not for a cloak." Bedivere shakes his head, leaning back. "Though my cloak was my blanket, more often than not, when I was out on campaign with the men. It is a fine cloak, and heavy; though the fur trim I added once we assumed stewardship of Dun Realtai."

  He tilts his head in a simple gesture of acquiesce. "Wool is indeed a versatile fabric. I am also fond of the modern world's... 'fleece,' I believe it is called. It is like wool, but finer, and very warm." Here, though, he's using the pelts of bears and Lord God only knows what other creatures; they are warm, though, and he doesn't mind their weight. In the winter, it's a comfortable weight.

  "I am glad she meets your approval, Wisewoman." Bedivere allows himself a small smile, eyes closing briefly. "Good. And I am glad she makes the journey up the hill and throughout the village easier for you, as well." Dun Realtai is not designed for people with leg injuries of any kind. Most of the main throughfares are pitched steeply enough that climbing the hill would be exhausting. They're only shallow enough for the foundations of buildings; or terraced into areas of relative flat with steep inclines.

  "My brother used to accuse me of being too serious," the knight murmurs, looking down to the war horn in his hands. "I miss him." He's never spoken of having a brother before. He must mean Sir Lucan, the butler; he was in charge of the citadel's food stores and stock of spirits. Maybe he wore those jasper studs in his ears as Bedivere does; maybe he wore a tooled bronze cuff with La Tène motifs in his hair like Bedivere does.

  Bedivere smiles, faintly. "He was something of a prankster, my brother. From what she's spoken of, I think he would have gotten on well with Sir Kay."

  "Aye, not so much the future, for me. I do not have the awen. My father did, but neither of his sons showed it. No matter. The awen is inconstant; just because the father has it, that does not mean the son will." He looks to the firelight. "But that is so," he adds, about it being harder to avoid brooding at night. "That is so."

  He looks up, not sputtering, not flailing, but regarding Inga calmly. "Yes," he answers, simply. There's nothing to be embarrassed about, either. It's the simple truth. He looks down to his left hand, closing a fist and releasing it slowly. "She makes me... feel as though I can live with myself," he murmurs.

Inga has posed:
Inga scoffs. "Fleece! Tis made from who knows what. Wool is far superior--and they have such lovely wool these days from sheep even softer than what we had. Have you ever tried merino wool? Or /cashmere/? And there's an animal called an alpaca..." Inga stops, blinks, as it suddenly occurs to her she's getting into an arguement about fabric.

Inga clears her throat. "Yes, having Jodis makes things a great deal easier for me. I must say though, perhaps you could ask Toph to come and help level some of the ground some...I'm not the only person who struggled with it. One of the farmers broke a leg last week, and while he can get around on crutches it would be easier for him if the ground was more level in the village," she suggests. Really, they know and earth bender. They're not at the mercy of uneven ground.

"Heh, Freydis use to tell me the same. While she too saw the wyrd, she kept a certain....humor. I've tried to remember that. Any defense against madness," she replies. "Your brother...was he lost at Camlann?" she asks. "As for the awen...well, I do not know anything about my family. I do not know who they were," she adds with a small shrug.

Inga smiles, resisting the urge to make a comment that certainly would make Bedivere blush. "That is good. She is a good match for you then. You are alike in enough ways to feel close--different in enough ways to balance each other," Inga nods, reaching into her pouch to pull out a bottle. Ale this time, rather than mead. She assumes he still won't be interested, and she doesn't offer because he's ill and its tea he needs, not ale. "You're cautious to feel joy," she guesses. "You are afraid that it will be taken, as so much has been taken from you before."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The knight seems content to let the wisewoman go off on a tangent about fabric. It isn't a topic he's very well versed in beyond the basics; in the past, he only cared about the practical value of such garments or supplies. He might be zoning out a little as he stares at the fire.

  "Yes, I'll speak with Toph," he murmurs, regarding the uneven ground. At the same time, he hasn't heard any complaints about the grade of the main avenue. He can't help but think that they built it at such a steep grade for a reason, as though they were afraid of grading everything and building the whole of their town on a flat, single level; as though they crowded their way ever higher about the massive fang-shaped stone spire.

  Why? It's a question he's been quietly attempting to answer. What motivated these people, who seem otherwise a simple farming folk, to build a citadel of Dun Realtai's obvious defensive properties? What are they hiding from? What do they think they're defending themselves from...?

  He's interrupted from his musings, frowning thoughtfully. "Yes. His name was Lucan--was Ceallach. We took more Welsh-sounding names when we travelled from Dál Riata to Albion," he adds, by way of explanation. "My brother and my cousin stayed on with me. My brother became Lucan; my cousin, Griflet. And I became Bedwyr."

  "Everyone I knew was lost at Camlann," he murmurs, looking down at his closed left fist. "Every knight of the Round Table, every footsoldier, every man capable of holding a weapon. Like as not some women, too; I know there were some in the ranks who passed themselves off as men. I knew, but I did not care, so long as they could follow the orders given them. They died, too. My brother fell when he tried to help me with the king. He was too stricken; I should not have asked him to help me lift her. The stress of his wounds were too great, and his heart failed him. Griflet was already dead when I found him. I chased the crows from his corpse."

  He sighs, letting out a breath. "I knew my father, but I do not think that he always knew me. He had the awen, and he had it strongly. There were times, I think, that he did not know precisely /when/ he was; whether the life before him was reality, or merely another vision that had yet to occur. I suppose in time he would have gone mad. I would have. My mother did not have such talents, but she encouraged me to follow in my father's footsteps, even though I did not have the awen. Still, I am sorry you did not know your family. Sa, sa... that is a hard weight for a man or woman to bear, to not know from whence they come," he muses.

  Settling back into his blanket, he wraps it more securely about himself, regarding Inga from the corner of one pale violet eye. "There was no one else who understood her as I did," he observes, turning his gaze to the fire again, letting his eyes hood. "People feared us, you know. On the battlefield. We would fight without needing speak orders to one another. A glance, a gesture. My detractors were convinced it was witchcraft... but it was merely one soul knowing another." He chuckles, quietly, eyes closing for a moment. "She would be the kingdom's sword. I would be the open left hand of charity. It was an arrangement we held for some fifteen years without ever discussing it amongst ourselves. Rare was it that we spoke of aught that was more or less than military briefings."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "To know her as more than my king would have been the worst kind of political backlash, and if Sir Lancelot and Guinevere were any indication, one the realm would not have recovered from. So I served. I was content with that, painful as it may have been." He looks down to his left hand again, fist gradually clenching and unclenching. "So long as I could remain close to her, I was content. I would accept no land or title. I took no wife. I barely spoke to the ladies of the court." Lord God knew they didn't always want to leave him alone, though. That was really all he wanted; to be left alone, and far away from the scandals of bored female aristocracy.

  He is silent a moment, but his eyes are open enough to suggest he hasn't fallen asleep. He's only considering her statement carefully.

  Eventually, he shrugs one shoulder, flinching slightly at the motion.

  "And you are observant," he offers simply. "I still dream, sometimes, of ash and fire. Of being too late to save my brother, my cousin. My love." He smiles, sourly. "I failed to defend them. When I still dream of blood and damnation all around me, it is hard, sometimes, to feel worthy."

  "I swore an oath before God to protect her. Perhaps not before her," he murmurs, "and perhaps not one I spoke aloud. But that made it no less binding and no less sacred to me. And I failed in that sacred oath."

  "I am unworthy."

Inga has posed:
Inga nods, mollified. Inga will come down and see that things are done well. Obviously the castle must be built on high so that it is defensible, but they can at least make it so no one is breaking their legs in the village because of the ground.

"Ceallach. I like the name," she says. She likes it better than Lucan. After that comment, she simply listens, nodding gently to show that she is listening. It is a moment before she responds. "You live in a different world now. You are...a different you, Bedivere. Sometimes I feel as if I was reborn. I have the memories of before--I have more memories than should fit into one mind, many not even my own. But I feel as though...I am disconnected from the past sometimes. I know that if I went back I would never fit in there again. Now, your place is here," she says. Camlann would always haunt him, but she hoped it would hold less sway with time, as good memories began to outnumber the bad. Fresh happiness easing the pain of the past.

The wisewoman sighs, shaking her head. "I will not lie. I have wondered. I have occasionally felt quite bitter. I've no family. I do not know the blood I come from. My parents did not think I should even live. But what does it matter now? My wyrd was already woven and my fate is in the hands of the gods. So I serve them, for they are more like my family than those who birthed me. That will be my life. I will have no children. Most of the people I know will die and I will continue on until, perhaps, the gods have finished with me."

Inga sighs quietly. Gods, will all their conversations be so morose!? Inga takes a moment, calming herself, listening to him speak. She shakes her head, smiling slightly. "It does not matter. For you see, you may think as you wish but it is what she thinks that matters. She finds you worthy, and you do not get to decide otherwise. You are intertwined and it is no use fighting that. You must realize Bedivere, that if you dwell on the failures of your pass you will be failing her in the present--and I do not think you want that," Inga tells him, taking another sip of ale. "She loves you, that is plain. Accept that, for you will only hurt her by feeling unworthy of it. I believe it is called a self-fullfilling prophecy," she finishes.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Ceallach is his name more than Lucan ever was; more than Bedwyr ever was my own name. We needed to sound Welsh when we came to Camelot, and so we did not only sound Welsh, but we became it. I learned the language, for it was not the Gaelic tongue of our homeland. I learned the language so thoroughly I did not even carry an accent." Bedivere shakes his head, pulling his blanket more comfortably about himself. "I had to."

  His voice is calm, despite the subject matter. "There were those who were unhappy with the king's decisions, resentful that their authority was being taken from them. So they sought fault in every decision of the king's, and what better to harp upon than her appointment of a landless, bloodless foreigner taking the post? The best way I could deal with that, for her, was to ignore them." He shakes his head, slowly. "They sought every slight against my honour they could dream of, but that did not matter to me."

  He only brought ruin to them if they insulted the king in some manner. Every so often, foolish men would do exactly that, and they would find that in a few months their finances inevitably came to ruin. Bad luck would plague them. Their crops would fail. They wouldn't be able to meet their taxes. For those close to the bordermarches, the Saxons came just a little closer to their lands than others'.

  "Aye. I live in a different world, now." Bedivere lets his eyes mostly close, content to bask in the warmth of the fire. He's still cold, but maybe the fire can warm him, at least until he decides to go back to bed. "But I do not long for those days. I do not want to go back to them. Those days were a misery for me; the days after, even worse." He shrugs. "My place has been here since we have come to this place. That is known."

  He cocks his head just faintly, eyeing her sidelong as Inga sighs, smiling a little. "I suppose you have a point." His statement is slow and not altogether convinced. "No. I would do anything but fail her."

  His unhappy expression suggests he really, /really/ isn't comfortable thinking of himself as worthy. In its own way, the expression is almost like a cat that's had a bucket of cold water tossed over it. "Wisewoman..."

  He sighs. "You are right, as ever."

  "I cannot deny it. It... frightens me, the depths to which I would go, for her sake. It always has. And I have felt that way since the first. I knew from the beginning the ruse that she maintained for the sake of the people; I knew right away she was a woman, and not the male king that Merlin attempted to pass her off as." He smiles, faintly. "The first time I saw her, she was astride a white charger, clad in her regal finery, on her way to the castle. It had just been her coronation, but... time seemed to stop, while she was in the light, the sun in her hair... I knew then, if I did not serve that woman, I would never find peace. She would haunt me through my days and nights in Dál Riata. Perhaps I could not be close to her, there, but serving her, being permitted to stand by her side... I was willing to accept that small token."

Inga has posed:
Inga finishes the bottle of ale. It was a small bottle, but she drank it fairly quickly all the same. "Perhaps you shoul assume that name again...give up Bedwyr. Nothing like a new name for a new life--or, one so old that it seems new once more," she offers, not expecting that he would actually do it. Bedivere was how Arturia knew him best, and thus she guessed he would not give it up.

Inga watches him as he speaks, her dark hazel eyes keen and slightly amused. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of his ruthless streak. It was there. The berserkergang. A gentle man, but there was a storm of fury at the core. This is amusing to Inga in a way that is difficult to verbalize.

The woman sighs, sitting back in her chair, the warm of the fire lulling her. She smiles wistfully, following Bedivere's memories. Perhaps she can See it. "I have never seen a woman so worshipped. I think your god must be jealous--he is the jealous type hmm?" she jokes. They needed a little jest with such serious talk. She chuckles. "It is difficult sometimes, isn't it? To feel your threads being woven, knowing your wyrd. Feeling the pull as the Norns weave without mercy," she muses.

"Well, I think perhaps you should return to your bed Sir Bedivere, before she notices you are gone. You know she will scold you and worry if you do not. I will take one of the guest rooms and be sure you have had medicine in the morning," she says, reaching for her walking stick.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Perhaps..." Bedivere seems distant again for a moment, mulling over the issue of his name, before shaking his head. "No. It has been too long. It would be as calling a stranger, to me. Too long have I lived as Bedwyr... it would not be right to answer to another, now."

  He allows himself the faintest flicker of a smile. "I have allowed her to call me by it, but I think it would lose its meaning, were I to give that away... once and again is no bad, I suppo--"

  Bedivere startles slightly, looking somewhat scandalised when Inga suggests his God must be jealous. He sputters for a moment, flushing scarlet straight through to his ears. The scarlet remains as he tries to protest even more when Inga suggests he return to bed before she notices. Not that he's terribly distressed about returning to bed, but for her to speak so /blatantly/...

  Yeah, he's still a bit red, even as he slowly gathers himself up and staggers to his feet, blanket still wrapped around himself. What? The halls are cold. "Aye. Thank you for coming to the citadel." He half-smiles, though his face is still somewhat red. "Rest well, Wisewoman, and... thank you."

  "May the Lord God keep you... or one of your gods, more like. Good night, Wisewoman." With that, Bedivere turns, shuffling his way toward the stairwell and ascending the stairs slowly, with much creaking of joints and popping of knees.

  In the far corner, shadowed where the hearth's light doesn't reach, Inga may notice something move. Kepas lifts up his head, yawns hugely, and slinks after his master, somehow managing to squeeze himself into the stairwell and shimmy his way up after Bedivere.

  What a strange hound... or whatever he really is.

Inga has posed:
Inga takes in Bedivere's embarrassment and holds in her laughter, tucking it away for future amusement. "Rest well Bedivere," she says, wondering if he would mind, or notice, if she cast a small spell. Something to give him good dreams for once. A restful night's sleep.

Maybe once he was asleep.

Inga watches Kepas follow his master, then leans back in her chair. She closes her eyes and listens to the thunder, her mind working, weaving...maybe everyone should have pleasant dreams tonight. It would be a big spell, but she thought she could do it.