999999/Battle Remembered

Battle Remembered
Date of Scene:	22 July 2014
Location:	Fuyuki City
Synopsis:	Having been dragged back to the Tohsaka residence more or less insensate, Bedivere has been recovering after his duel with Psalm, tended to by a worried Saber. Once he's started to come to, though, Saber has a few laws to lay down for her loyal knight...
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It is perhaps some kindness on part of fate that the silver-haired knight had remembered nothing of the Union's medical facilities. He had been unconscious when the Servant Saber had brought him there to stitch the hole in his side; he had been unconscious when she had taken him away to return him to a more familiar setting.

He had spent the entire night unconscious. Though quiet, Bedivere had always been of a respectable constitution; clearly, those new-fangled painkillers are a good deal stronger than he might have expected. No need to tough out the pain, for him. His wounds had sapped him, and he had already been fatigued by the trek up the mountainside.

After his ordeal at the hands of Magatha Songsteel, his body had simply given up for a short while, all too glad to allow the Union's strong painkillers and sedatives to keep him under.

Now, half a day later, he's finally begun to show some signs of life. Someone had kindly divested him of his armour, and he's back to his commoner's clothing, though the tunic has been dispensed with; owing to the thick swath of linen bandage around his side. Some are still spotted with blood – it's one of those tricky spots that has a tendency to open itself with every movement.

Slowly, those violet eyes flutter open and stare dully at the ceiling.

It's difficult for him to muddle through the dense fog of the medication, and it takes him several moments to realise that he's in "his" bed; that is to say, the guest room of the Tohsaka residence.

After a few seconds of staring dully at the ceiling, those violet eyes slide closed again.

It takes him several seconds to realise that somebody has also unbraided his hair; he can feel a few wisps of it over his shoulder. Bother. Reaching up to prepare it is going to be difficult in this state, and he dislikes leaving it loose.

Apparently he's still not thinking clearly. Bedivere reaches out to steady himself, with the clear intent of pushing himself into an upright position – only to wince and fall back with a grimace, baring his teeth at the sudden, sharp pain, clear as a bell through the haze of painkillers.

Right. Perhaps he'd better rest for a few minutes before trying that again...

Saber (346) has posed:
And yet, the poor, innocent knight had no idea of the hell he was about to experience.

Arturia had been against the whole thing from the get-go. Bedivere had been among her strongest knights -- a fact which even history had gotten right for once -- but the multiverse was a dangerous place. Even for Servants such as Saber, there were many worlds which posed dangers even she could not face alone. Somewhat stubbornly, she had set out almost immediately after her Unification to find Gilgamesh and put an end to his rampage by her own hand. But it had demanded the efforts of an entire team of Unionites to finally force him to stop, even if they had been unable to defeat him before he departed the scene.

But the dangers were even more threatening for even Camelot's elite, unless they too had ascended and become Heroic Spirits. But Bedivere had not; Britain -- perhaps even the entire world -- had unified before his death, a subject about which legends and therefore the Holy Grail were unclear and which admittedly Arturia had deliberately avoided. At this point it didn't matter; he was here now, and she'd be damned if she was going to let anything happen to him now that he had come back to her.

At least, that had been the plan...and no plan ever survives first contact with battle. She had made as many subtle -- and a few not-so subtle -- indications how very Not Pleased she was with the arrangement and how very much against the whole idea she had been. On a number of different levels, no less. Unfortunately, there had been little she could realistically do; he was a knight, as she was, and honour had meant at least meeting with the energetic bard.

It had been fairly clear to the both of them that the entire 'date' had been a facade of some sort, though what Magatha Songsteel's true intent was remained an unknown. Arturia wouldn't have been surprised if Bedivere had considered this a reconnaissance mission as a matter of course, but the Servant was not convinced the risks were worth whatever information he could gather. In Camelot, she simply would have sent Lancelot disguised as the fair-haired knight in his place; Bedivere was silent and discreet but the violet-haired knight was a master of stealth and disguise. As it was, it seemed as if every duty in their makeshift Round Table had to be divided between king and marshal.

And those were duties Arturia had intended to agree to turn over only after some proper training. There was only so much he could do as a mortal -- even as highly-trained and skilled as he was, even surviving a battle in which she herself had fallen -- but he would learn to use underestimation to his advantage after some preparation. Preparation, they were soon to find out, that they had no time for...not before his first battle with someone with another Elite.

She had not felt so helpless to protect him as she had in Camelot, sending him into dangerous places from which he might never return. And now that she could openly try to stop him from putting himself in harm's way, the chivalric code demanded he go, anyway. The most she could do was remain on standby and pray that nothing happened; the Brehon Laws of their lands which long pre-dated her rule bound them from drawing sword against a host. But the bard, it seemed, would have none of it. The necessary loophole was that she demanded a duel, which released Bedivere from the Laws of Hospitality, but in turn they both seriously injured the other in the process. Fortunately, it had not taken much time for the Heroic Spirit to arrive at the Caves, and with a quick call to the Confederacy that Magatha was in need of some medical attention, hauled her marshal unceremoniously over her shoulder and bounded off for the Union's hospital.

Eventually, the violet-eyed knight might be horrified to learn that in addition to that very undignified retrieval, his king had also been the one to strip him of his armour and bloodied tunic, as well as unbraid his hair and change bandages once he had been sent home. For the moment, however, the tiny king merely remained seated at his bedside, dressed in a grey dress shirt and slacks, her hair in its customary braided bun, but bound with a black handkerchief. She had nodded off at some point during her watch -- having attempted to stay awake all that time until the lack of rest finally caught up with her -- though she slept as lightly as usual.

At his efforts to move, she awoke easily. But he might not like what he was to hear next. "Do not attempt to rise." And she said it in a way that he was more than familiar with.

She had given him an order.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere remains where he is after his stalled attempt to rise. Aside from breathing heavily, or the tightness at the corners of his eyes, he gives no other sign of his pain. After a few seconds his eyes flicker open again at the sound of Arturia's voice. The effect of her voice is immediate, not unlike a bucket of ice-water thrown into his face.

His eyes close again. That subtle motion almost seems one of defeat.

"My king." All pretenses of closeness fade, and the two words he speaks are solemn. He recognises the command in her voice. This is to be business, then.

Silence reigns for several seconds. Only a ticking clock breaks it.

In truth, it doesn't bother him that he was defeated so soundly by a woman. After all, Arturia is the fiercest fighter he knows, and she's a woman. No, what humiliates him is that he had felt so trapped, and even his keen mind could think of no way to honourably reconcile the situation. To fight back would have broken Brehon Law. And yet, had he tried to leave, she would have planted that blade in his back – had tried to do so at least once.

Beyond that, he's not certain why this duel had left such a sour taste in his mouth. Something about it felt somehow wrong, yet in the end, he was powerless not to draw his blade. As host, she reserved the right to make that demand of him, and as a guest, he could not honourably refuse.

Yet, at the same time, he raised his blade against a host, no matter how much she might have been asking for it.

When he speaks again, his voice seems somehow thin; weary and uncharacteristically weak. Not even after Caliburn's sundering had he sounded so vulnerable. There is no resistance.

"I am sorry." He falls silent, as though attempting to muster his strength. "I could not... refuse Lady Songsteel's... summons. When I attempted... to leave, she... she became wroth... she attacked."

He falls silent, swallowing harshly and taking a moment to catch his breath. The wound pains him. Those wonderfully strong painkillers are beginning to wear off.

Perhaps he understands on some level her unspoken concern. Her mere presence speaks volumes of it, for even in Camelot, she had never stayed by his side like this. She could not. It would have implied favouritism, no matter how great her concern may have been. Even he can sense the gravity of her mood.

He seems terribly disappointed to sense that worry.

If there is anything Bedivere could be said to truly hate, it is failing her.

Bedivere exhales quietly, and the measured quality of it suggests he's trying to keep it steady.

"She offered me... hospitality when I arrived. Yet... she would not permit me... to leave. I was... I was left no choice." He makes a small sound of disappointment, or perhaps pain. "I could not... break the Laws of... Hospitality... but..."

He falls silent again, eyes screwing shut while he tries to breathe, mouth thinned into a tight line at the pain every breath brings. If there is a next time, he reflects, he's going to damned well prioritise disarming her before doing anything else.

"Ah... not since Caliburn's loss... have I been struck down... so. And by... a single combatant... ah, God! What strength..." He doesn't open his eyes, but the twist of his mouth suggests he's still in pain. That he shows it at all

"I am sorry... my king. I... have done something terrible. I bared... bared steel on a host. I have... brought dishonour upon... your rule."

Ah, poor Bedivere. Even in his reluctance to fight, he had only struck at her with the pommel and the flat of his blade, so there's no way he could have hurt her too seriously, beyond concussing her soundly. Yet it's the spirit of the thing that bothers him, even if he may have followed Brehon Law to the letter in an otherwise impossible situation.

And trust him to care more about dishonouring her rule than himself. It speaks to his high regard for her – to break such a law as this would no doubt ruin a man, were they still within Camelot's bounds.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia remained perfectly still, her arms folded and her eyes closed, as if contemplating something. In truth, she was of a divided mind. He sounded so crushed that nearly every fibre of her being simply wished for nothing but to comfort him, to reassure him that he had done Camelot proud. It was true; against an experienced Elite, the fact that Magatha was hardly in better shape remained a testament to his skill and determination, so say nothing of raw survivability. Bedivere alone had survived Camlann, after all.

But her more fearful side reminded her that he had been fortunate to have faced one of the more honourable Confederates who seemed to genuinely like the knights. The next time might mean facing an opponent with no regard for chivalry and a heart poisoned with hatred, with powers far beyond those of a human being. Or perhaps even worse, someone like Mordred, with the abilities of a Saber class and an acid tongue constantly insulting the one thing which could prod the otherwise calm knight into a rage.

For the moment, however, it looked to be the middle ground; the painkillers were beginning to wear off. Bedivere might only be half-conscious through her coming lecture after another dose, but that would simply have to do. Her features softened slightly as she stood to help him up for another round of some beneficial 'witchcraft', though her mien warned him not to argue. In spite of her strength as a Servant and her simmering anger over him going off alone and unprepared, she was nothing but gentle, making efforts not to disturb the wounds any more than necessary before handing him a glass of water and the medication the medics had issued. Once that was done, she would help settle him back in before returning to form, her arms folded once more. And she was upset all over again.

She had run though a thousand scenarios in her mind on how she would handle this, remaining calm and explaining why it was a Very Bad Idea to go off on his own like that right now and that he would Not Do It Again until he had healed completely and undergone at least adequate training and she accompanied him at least as a form of backup. Yet each and every one of them went straight out the proverbial window as anger and deep fear bubbled to the surface, her mask splintering and falling away. So much for that kingly demeanour.

"What in the name of the Lord God were you thinking?" she demanded, her anger and fear plain as day in her expression. "Did I not speak of the dangers of the multiverse? There are worlds filled with daemons, sorcerers, dragons, shapeshifters, Unseelie, black knights who wield blades of red light, giant machines, flying battleships, and Great Old Ones. Many of them would use our chivalry against us, and many more still would simply crush us without a second thought. Even for Heroic Spirits, these all pose grave threats, and you were not ready to face them, certainly not alone!"

Suddenly, she cut her tirade short with a flicker of mixed horror, surprise, and shame when she realised what she was doing, becoming silent for a moment and pacing to calm herself. No, this was not the right way to go about it. She wasn't entirely certain why Magatha had invited him to the Caverns; was it false pretences looking for a fight, or was she trying to tempt him somehow with the magic-infused waters? And tempt him into what, exactly? She would have to hunt down the bard and interrogate her over what her purpose was. Not to mention put some fear of God into her. Or rather, Harm my knight again and I will cleave you into so many pieces that even the Throne would not recognise you, so help me God.

But for the moment, she had a lecture to complete. A calmer one.

"What I mean to say is that you must be much more careful. I can find no fault with your chivalry or adherence to the ancient laws, but this place requires far more cunning than even Camelot. We must act with honour but to the best of our abilities avoid those situations where it might be used against us and harm us or our allies. That is why I opposed this from the start. Travelling to the Caverns alone was foolishness."

Arturia made no effort to stifle her sigh, pacing again. "But...I am the one truly to blame. I should have insisted on training immediately, and I have been remiss in that. And I should have accompanied you; the Laws of Hospitality aside, if Lady Songsteel had made her invitation under false pretences, it would not have been shameful to defend oneself, and I would have been able to permit an escape."

That Bounded Field of the Wind King, so very useful.

With another sigh, she seated herself again with a somewhat weary expression herself. Her anger was spent but the fear remained. In fact, perhaps this was the first time he might have ever seen true fear in her. "Worry not about my rule...I am the king of no country. It is little more than a title now, and I will not risk losing you simply to defend it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That he held his ground against an opponent who should have been able to crush him, completely and utterly, does not yet register to the silver-haired knight. No; he is convinced that he enacted a breach of the laws they hold most sacred, even though he was left with no real recourse. That he may have been slain by the bard is certainly known to him. He alone survived the horrors of Camlann, but surviving a battle does not make him immortal.

He grimaces a little when she helps him up, if only because the worst of the wounds is in what is, arguably, the worst place to have it. The muscles of the side and abdominal wall are one of those muscle groups that seem to move no matter what, and even he can't hide the pain he's in from it. Magatha's sword had bitten deep, and that's to say nothing of the ugly bruising that Arturia had no doubt found all along his side.

In retrospect, he's probably lucky his ribs didn't give out under that kind of assault. While having his plate mail smashed into might have left some spectacular bruising, it did protect him; he has merely bruising and a lucky stab wound, instead of having been split in half like a melon.

Even so, sitting up is painful. He does so without any real complaint, though, aside from the twist of his mouth, or a sharp intake of breath. He even accepts the medicine without complaint, and makes a point of finishing the glass of water, too – so sweet, so clear; that it can be safely drunk still amazes him – before letting her take the glass.

He eases himself back down, and perhaps, on some level, prepares himself for battle.

Or at least one hell of a tempest. He can sense the aura about her. She's angry, and she's scared, though those emotions are still surreal to be sensing in her.

When she speaks, to his credit, he does not flinch. In fact, his only reaction is to close his eyes, and to exhale so softly and so quietly that it can't even be called a proper sigh. The best thing he can do is to ride out that storm; to let her spend her anger and her fear. Gentle, he is; always gentle, even when he's the indirect target of such fury. He does not argue and he does not even raise his voice. Even if he had the strength to, he wouldn't.

He simply waits for her to finish, and to spend those emotions. Bedivere is perceptive; he can sense the point when the anger is gone, and only the fear remains... though even that's strong, like the crackle of a live wire.

Bedivere spends several seconds just catching his breath once she's stopped talking, quietly gathering his strength; he does not want to falter once he starts.

"I was thinking, my king... that I did not want... to sully my honour. Lady Songsteel has... shown us a degree of tolerance... in the past. But I do not trust her. I did not then... and I do not now." His faint smile is crooked, though his face is lined with pain. "Yes, my king, there are... many things that are dangerous. I know of... some of them. But was Britain... not dangerous?"

His fingers close into a fist, mouth twisting until the burning abates. Stab wounds are the worst. Once it passes, he looks up to the ceiling, regarding it dully. He doesn't speak immediately, as though considering what words to choose next, or perhaps catch his breath. "But at the same time... my king... I will not... cower behind... these walls. That would be... just as great... a dishonour."

Those violet eyes flick sidelong to regard Arturia, gentle as ever, and he offers a faint smile. "Still... I will... exercise more caution... in the future."

The expression falters when she claims to be the king of no country; king in name only. He frowns. It seems more thoughtful than anything else, as though he were considering this quandary very carefully.

Slowly, his eyes drift closed, but he doesn't fall back asleep. He seems to be gathering his strength, and perhaps fighting the onset of those painkillers – they scatter his thoughts; dull his wits.

As the kingdom's marshal, Bedivere had always held a certain distaste for situations in which his judgement might become clouded. He avoided wine to excess; indeed, he only took what would be considered polite at any social gatherings his presence would be required at, and had developed something of a reputation among his brothers of the Round Table as being a bit of a stick-in-the-mud for it. Even so, he endured that gracefully, for he had a purpose – in that place, he could not afford to lose his sense of judgement, or to have his keen perceptions blunted. Such dulling of the mind leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He didn't like it then, and he doesn't like it now.

It takes him a few moments to gather his wits, trying to fumble through the cobwebs in his mind; the soft, dulling edge of the gauze that seems to wrap his thoughts. She might note him frown slightly as he makes the effort to gather himself to speak.

"That is... not true." His words are softer even than normal; he's clearly making an effort to stay focused. "You are... Camelot's King... and just because that place... is lost to us... it does not take that away from you." Violet eyes flicker open, slowly, focusing on Arturia with a curious intensity, though it seems short-lived; they droop to half-mast after a moment. He manages a crooked half-smile. "Am I no... longer your marshal... simply because Camelot... is lost to me? No, my king... I do not... stop being... your marshal. I do not stop... being a knight... and you do not... stop being... my king."

He reaches out, unsteadily, as though to take her hand.

"Worry... not. You will not... lose me. Did I not... promise you that I... would return to your side? I do not... fain break... my promises..." Half a smile flickers across his face, though the expression is tight with pain. "My lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
The smashed plate would be found nowhere in his room; not discarded, of course, but for the moment on a table in the shared workshop amongst modern tools and vehicle parts. It was going to need considerable work before it was serviceable again, to say nothing of more advanced metalworking techniques which might be applied. The latter might take quite a bit of convincing that it was not 'witchcraft' however...unless it was. Arturia decided that was best left for another time when Bedivere was at least semi-lucid, however.

She found herself up and pacing again, considering a number of things. Whether it was sufficiently-advanced technology, magic, or something in-between, it was going to be difficult for him to accept it without baulking, much less use something forged from 'witchcraft'. Perhaps calling up Arymes Prydein to explain Abstractums might help; that, too, was a subject best set aside for later. Still, she did not like the idea of the battlefield being so unlevelled for him. At least some fighting chance...

She frowned deeply at the pain even sitting up had caused; she had known it would -- hence the order not to get up -- but even just for the sake of more analgesics didn't mean she could simply ignore it. But she was grateful that he withheld protest, regardless of her fussing or the strange medicine.

And as always, he bore the storm with his characteristic quiet calm, not so much as offering a word in his defence. It was disconcerting to be the one he was enduring it from, however, and she felt a sharp pang of guilt. Lecturing was one thing, blowing up at him was unacceptable. What on earth had prodded her to do that, to lose her temper that way? She was worried, certainly...

No, she realised. She had been terrified. And Arturia had no right to be; how many missions had she sent him out on from which he might have never returned? Not all of that could be chalked up to a simple lack of preparedness. But whatever the case had been, she owed him an apology. "I-I...forgive me, I do not know what came over me."

Shaking her head as if to clear it of errant thoughts, she seated herself again. "This is...different. Britain was indeed a dangerous place, but it was nothing like this."

She paused, and couldn't help but smile faintly in spite of herself as her refused to merely stand by. She would have expected nothing less of one of her knights. "It is the duty of knights to protect the people from the dangers which exist, but..."

And this own lesson was one that had taken her considerable effort to accept and learn, and he was nearly as stubborn as she was. "...It is a policy within the Union not to face enemies in the Confederacy on our own." She shifted uncomfortably as she admitted something which made her seem, in retrospect, reckless. "I...made the mistake of facing enemies on my own...I do not know if I would have survived had it not been for their intervention."

Allowing a soft sigh of relief to escape, she returned the faint smile. "That is all I have the right to ask, truthfully. Thank you."

It was no demand on her patience that he struggled with maintaining some coherency of thought; the medics had kept him on painkillers so regularly that he had thankfully slept through most of the ordeal. Now that duty had fallen to her, and she had made certain he wouldn't wake for some time. At least when he finally had awoken, it wasn't nearly as bad as earlier.

Involuntarily, her hand rose to her right ear, fidgeting with the red stone and brass. Naturally, the other two Kings of the Fourth Holy Grail War would have fervently disagreed with her, but many times it had seemed they were but relics of humanity's past, not especially relevant to the present. What had made her press forward had been her wish, and later, her knightly vows to protect the people even in the current era. But the way that Bedivere had refused the notion -- the appeal to their shared knighthood -- made her accept it.

With a bit of a smile, she gently took his hand in both of hers. "Then I shall hold you to that, my lord..."

That smile turned into a worried frown soon enough. "You should sleep...everything else can wait until you have healed properly," she said soothingly, lifting one hand from his and lightly brushing some of the hair from his eyes.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When things have a more practical purpose, especially towards maintaining the equipment he holds so dear, it's possible that the silver-haired knight may be more inclined towards leniency. Perhaps he regards the methodology as witchcraft, but he seems not to be as inclined to balk at such things as an overzealous priest. Perhaps it's his perspective – the Dál Riata were outsiders in Camelot, and perhaps this outside perspective frees him of the xenophobia some of the nobility had; of how easily they bought into the compulsive need to reject the strange and the unexplainable.

It still seems to be his go-to definition for how such things work, though, and he's not entirely trusting.

Although he watches her pacing, his mind is not fully focused, eyes half-closed and distant. It must be a strange thing, to see him so out of his wits. Even after the battle that had lost Caliburn, he had been lucid, despite the pain and the loss of blood. He might have slipped in and out of consciousness, but when he was conscious, there was no question that he was alert and fully aware. Now, though, the drugs seem to have dulled his mind considerably. He's never had them, and so his body has no defenses against such a thing.

"There is nothing... to be forgiven." He smiles that unfocused half-smile, though he seems to be struggling to focus on her. The expression fades, as though he doesn't have the strength to hold it, and his eyes eventually drift closed.

It almost seems like he may have fallen asleep, but after a few moments, he responds again; voice uncharacteristically small and distant. "Aye... that is a duty... I cannot forsake. I will be... cautious... but I will not forsake... my honour. I cannot... stand by... while they threaten..."

He trails off, silent for a long moment while he catches his breath, listening to the rest of what she has to say. His voice seems somehow smaller when he continues.

"You need not... thank me... for..."

Though his thoughts are hopelessly scattered, he can feel when she takes his hand in both of hers, and curls his loosely. He doesn't have the strength to properly hold her hand, though, eyes flickering open to regard her distantly. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, simply watching her, as though he were struggling to organise his thoughts. That may well be the truth; he seems to be having a certain difficulty in it. The painkillers must have hit him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the temple.

He finally manages a faint, unsteady smile when she brushes his hair from his forehead. It may be that he smiles because of that title, or it may be that he's simply glad to have her there; no longer forced to adopt the cool, distant front of a soldier delivering a formal report. Even if that were necessary, he's not certain he could. The more he tries to focus, the more his wits seem to scatter to the four winds.

No doubt he may be a little irked over that when he's more lucid. Bedivere had never liked having his wits blunted. In Camelot, he couldn't afford it.

"I will sleep... a little later..." Once the painkillers kick in, no doubt. He looks up to her, and with some effort of will that must be impressive in his state, he reaches up – wincing a little for the pain of the movement – and withdraws his hand from hers, trembling, to rest it at the side of her face. He tries to keep it there, but he doesn't have the strength; it falls away a moment later.

His voice is a distant murmur when he manages to speak, eyes slowly drifting closed again. "Thank you... for staying with me... my lady. Would you mind... staying with me... until..." He pauses, trying to gather his scattered thoughts; to make some kind of sense of what he's trying to say. He's too disoriented to think of it, but never before has he ever had such difficulty stringing words together. It would be downright embarrassing if he were more lucid. "Until I... might sleep... again...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been rather strange, Arturia had to admit, to see Bedivere out of his wits in this manner, even if they were specifically intended to dull the pain. He had always refused even wine while recovering from one of their first battles against the Saxons, determined to give a proper report. Even afterwards, where there might have been some words spoken in the hallway he had needed to observe and report. He might have refused the drugs even now, given how he felt he needed his wits about him at all times. Under normal circumstances, she was inclined to agree, but there was no need at the moment, and he needed the rest more. Moreover, he no longer needed to suffer that pain.

Likewise, she no longer had need of an illusion of cold objectivity. She was not free to fuss over him and forgo pretending not to be worried. While someone else might have found his unsteady, half-lucid state amusing or cute, Arturia was slightly exasperated as he fought to stay awake and somewhat coherent. Stubborn man. Not that she had any right at all to call anyone else that, but she continued to be a little blind to her own faults. And in her own way, she admired that tenacity and strength of will, so much like her own.

The petite blonde had hoped he had fallen asleep, but no. The knight continued to struggle, now battling painkillers rather than bards. "Shhh...." she tried to lure him into sleep. "It is all right...we shall speak of duty and a great deal else after you have slept."

It was hard to parse what exactly he was trying to say, but between finding out what he meant and his well-being, it was a foregone conclusion. Away from the demands of ruling Britain and the intrigues of the court, Arturia would always choose the latter. If he was clearly distressed over her not hearing something he needed to tell her, then she might make an exception for that, but for the moment, she was going to keep trying to get him to sleep.

Not that she seemed to be having much success...it was almost as if he was trying to stay awake for her sake. She continued to hold his hand, gently brushing more hair away from his face. With a slight sigh of exasperation when he refused to, she scolded him mildly, but there was no edge to it, almost as if she were making a request. "Really, you need to rest..."

Regardless, she was happy when he lifted his hand to her face, smiling at him. As his hand fell away from lack of strength -- that he managed to at all through the industrial-strength painkillers was nothing short of amazing -- she took it, slightly bending her head down and lightly brushing her lips over the back of his hand. "Ah, my lord...what ever am I going to do with you...?"

He hadn't need ask her, really; she had insisted on staying by his side the entire time. That was not especially proper behaviour, particularly for a Servant whose first duty was to protect her Master...even if Sakura would have probably ordered her to stay by his side, anyway. The younger Tohsaka could be quite devious when she put her mind to it, in spite of her demure nature. Yet, Saber had made that her temporary duty, seeing to him and refusing to leave. She was not about to now.

"Of course, my lord," she merely replied with a faint smile. Which is when she had an idea, one that would demand she drop the last vestiges of her mask. Hopefully, no one else would be around to hear and hopefully he wouldn't remember. She began to sing softly, a different song than when she peeled apples in the kitchen. It was a more recent song, not ancient by any means, but one she had found lovely nonetheless.

"Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant, Ar hyd y nos,
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant, Ar hyd y nos..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That Bedivere doesn't flush or stutter is a sure indication of how disoriented he is. When his hand is taken and her lips brushed so gently to it, his only reaction is to smile that uncertain smile. Slowly, so slowly as he struggles against it, his eyes begin to slip out of focus; gradually drift until they're closed. Though his hand tightens almost imperceptibly over hers, his strength is clearly gone.

"What shall... you do?" His words are little more than a breath, and his chuckle is no more than a faint exhalation. Even that small thing causes him to wince in pain. "Allow me... to serve... and to protect... you... my lady... for does a knight..." He struggles to marshall his drifting thoughts, brow furrowing slightly in concentration. It's so difficult to think. His mind feels wrapped in cobweb, lost in a dense fog. He wants to sleep, but letting himself go is almost as difficult as taking off that mask. "Is it not natural... to protect..."

If he remembers any of this later, he's going to wish he hadn't. It's as though he had taken too much wine, and now his tongue and his thoughts are let slip from their careful control.

"Is it not natural... to protect... what I hold... most dear... what I cherish... above all else... in this world...?" Bedivere still wears that faint, unfocused smile. There's none of his customary shyness in it; he has not the presence of mind for that, and his eyes are drifting closed against his will.

Violet eyes flicker open at the sound of her voice in song again, something almost approaching wonder in them, but he lacks the strength for it. That hint of wonder fades to acceptance, and then something approaching contentment.

Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes drift closed. The strength seems to leave him, hand limp in hers. Just when it seems he might have been asleep, his voice leaves him, no more than a breath. She might not even hear it over her own song.

"Ah... thank you... my... love..."

Definitely going to kick himself later.

He exhales again, softer and more slowly. He has no more strength to fight with. This time, lulled by that voice he finds so lovely, he offers no resistance as sleep gently drags him down. His breathing slows. The lines of pain and weariness smooth from his face, replaced instead by an expression of... peace, one she has so rarely seen on his waking features – though one that seems to show itself more and more in her presence.

Truly, the silver-haired knight must be at the end of his strength.

She hadn't even finished half of her song.

Saber (346) has posed:
In a way, it was good that he didn't flush or stammer; he probably would have fumbled out of bed and end up further injuring himself. To say nothing of feeding into Arturia's own sense of shyness, her face colouring just slightly even as she kissed the back of his hand. Still, the intent was to comfort him, lull him into a much-needed sleep.

She regretted her light-hearted mock-exasperation the moment the pain set in again. It was probably not a wise idea to make him chuckle like that, however faint. Moreover, she could feel a little bit more of a blush coming on -- though he would hardly have been able to see it, thank goodness -- at his attempted pledge. It was about as proper as he could manage, swearing as a proper knight to protect his liege. Regardless, it continued to touch her deeply, and she was thankful indeed that he always seemed to reassure her of his devotion whenever she fell into her usual self-depreciation patterns.

The brushing of hair out of his face became something else, closer to a light caress. The light blush persisted, but if such a thing would ease him to sleep, then she would endure at least a little bit of embarrassment. Actually, she found she would endure practically anything for his sake. It was strange; of course she knew that he was more than simply a knight to her, but what that 'more' was remained rather elusive. She pondered on that for a moment before Bedivere tried to speak again...and she might find herself wishing she didn't remember, either.

Or, at least, that he wouldn't remember the burning blush that rose to her face. ...What he held most dear, what he cherished above all else? He was no longer talking about a simple fondness, but something far deeper than that. Far deeper than she ever could have anticipated.

She was more than happy to distract herself with singing; somehow, that seemed to make her feel less self-conscious. Even given her voice -- he had said it was lovely but her self-image of it persisted -- the singing was a much more comfortable thing to do. At least, until she heard him murmur something that made her stop cold as he finally drifted off to sleep.

In all the recent days of what seemed like incessant, furious blushing, these simple words achieved the greatest, most furious blushing of all. Of course, he had spoken of this before, yet there was something different about the direct words, something which made it seem tangible, gave that feeling definition. And why did those words make her breath stop and her heart skip a beat? Why did they make her feel so...happy?

She remained there at his side, even when sleep claimed her as well. By the time he eventually woke, she will still be there -- though asleep -- still in her chair. But unlike before, her hair was taken out of its braid, loose around her shoulders as she slept with her head on a folded arm on the side of his bed. Her other arm extended slightly out, her hand still holding his.