999999/Fire and Blood

Fire and Blood
Date of Scene:	16 August 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere wakes to dreams of fire and blood; the terrible legacy of the Battle of Camlann. He and his king discuss the battle, dreams, and their future in Dún Reáltaí.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The moon hangs low over the snowy plains beyond Dún Reáltaí. Though autumn should have arrived, the snow still lies deep, and so does the cold. It makes for a beautiful sight from the citadel's vantage point, blue-shadowed silver as far as the eye can see – like something out of a tale, or a poem.

Repairs have been proceeding at a rapid clip. Although there has been no new snow, the cold still hovers over the countryside, and what snow there is melts slowly. It won't be long before fresh snow does fall, and the restoration of Dún Reáltaí has been a race against the changing seasons; to repair housing and recover food supplies before the snows begin in earnest. Several houses of the village have been completed, and efforts have begun in rebuilding both the village's granaries and the separate granary within the castle's outer bailey.

Still, things have gone well, and with a minimum of fuss or incident. What few injuries on the job have been minor; a slipped hammer or a fall from a ladder, but nothing severe enough to hinder the work. Indeed, the people still seem quite happy with their new leadership, and have striven to work with all the resolve and resilience that might have been expected of Camelot's people – living their lives in the face of Saxon raiding; or, in this case, in the face of having lost everything.

Nearly a week has passed since the lord had finally taken residence in the tower keep; although it had first been a bit of a misunderstanding between peasants, lord, and lady – granted, he had made assumptions, and so had Arturia, that the other would take possession of the castle's quarters – and rather than demoralise the people, had decided to both take possession of the quarters.

It had been embarrassing at the time, and resulted in no small amount of stammering for the beleaguered former marshal, but he had settled into routine well enough. Now, after a long day of balancing ledgers, overseeing work, and occasionally being scolded by Arturia for working too hard, he finds himself looking forward to the evenings, resting in his quarters with a splendid view of the countryside and the slowly-rebuilding village. Although such a vantage point would have been a strategic advantage in Camelot, the lack of such a need here has been an unspoken relief. The only need for such a view seems to be to appreciate its beauty.

Since he had moved into the lord's quarters with his king, the exhausted knight had shown no inclination to revisit Camlann in his dreams; sleeping peacefully, and slowly looking a little less haggard and a little more rested. Even the worst of his wounds have stopped ailing him; bruising slowly fading and the wound dealt him by Psalm slowly troubling him less by the day. There have still been faint shadows under his eyes, and sometimes a distant look to them when he thinks back to the days before Dún Reáltaí, in all the marshal finally seems to be on the path to his own healing.

Dún Reáltaí itself is aptly named. Tonight, with the air so cold it nearly burns in the dead of night, the sky is breathtakingly clear. The sheer number of stars visible is almost dizzying, and in spite of the moon's brightness, constellations stand out clearly in the night sky. Most of these are strange, as Bedivere has commented; unrecognisable and foreign, and so crowded in the sky it seems as though half a hundred night skies had been stitched together in the aether.

Tonight, though, the marshal is not admiring the view. He had retired for the evening somewhat early, looking forward to a night's rest after a day spent... not working, under Arturia's hawk-like gaze. Still, one does not easily shake off five years of sleeplessness, and perhaps he's taken her concerned scolding to heart.

With as lightly as she sleeps, Arturia might notice when her marshal suddenly mutters in his sleep; not loud, but enough to break the silence. Although the words aren't clear, the tone is troubled, and he seems to struggle for a moment.

Where the outside is ice and snow, his dreams are blood and fire. Perhaps, with their unique bond, she might see into those dreams.

The hill rises above the plain like the marker of a tomb, a landmark littered with discarded swords and broken rebels. Fire rises in the distance, dwarfing even that blood-stained hill, embers drifting into the sky and smoke threatening to choke what survivors remain.

He fights with ferocity born of desperation, and in spite of the cold mask he wears even now, he can feel the hot tears burning his eyes. His mask threatens to fracture under the weight of this living hell.

How had it come to this?

He has no idea where his attackers have pushed him. He can see the hill, and further distant, he can see Arturia fighting for her life atop it, surrounded by rebel knights. He thinks he sees a flash of red and silver – he can only think it must be Sir Mordred – and the sight of it spurs him into an ever more desperate battle.

Three of the rebel host fall before him; the practised, sweeping strokes of his blade are no match for their hasty defenses.

Although he had seen him earlier, he has no idea where Gawain has gone. The Knight of the Sun is strong, though, and surely Bedivere will be able to find him later—

When he looks up again, he is surrounded, and he is alone. They loom on all sides; pressing in, a living barrier of sharp steel and pitiless eyes. Farther away, he can hear the sound of Arturia's desperate battle.

He clutches for the war-horn he had brought with him, raising the gold-banded ivory horn high, choking as he tries to inhale. It calls above the din of battle; three short, sharp blasts; a summons, but not to bring help for himself. To the king! the horn calls, and he blasts those three desperate notes for as long as he has the ability to hold off his attackers and breath to blow. There is a desperation to the horn's note – To the king! – and even distant Arturia may have recognised that her marshal could have summoned help for himself – but he was trying to bring help to her, desperately.

Just as in reality, his calls for help go unanswered.

In Dún Reáltaí, far away from that blood-soaked hill, the marshal mutters again, stirring restlessly in sleep. Although he isn't aware of it, cold sweat beads on his brow; he chokes slightly, as though he were breathing in that smoke even in life.

When it becomes clear that his war-horn will not summon any help, Bedivere slowly makes his way to the hill, snarling and laying about the rebel force with all the strength he can bring to bear. he is heedless of the wounds that already slow him, or the blood staining his white cloak. All he cares about is to reach the king's side, and these honourless curs are in his way.

It feels like it takes hours to cross that plain, and by the time he does, the rebel host is dead or dying. So too is Arturia's host – he wonders, then, if he is the only survivor.

He walks without knowing; stumbling forward without feeling his wounds, knowing only his exhaustion, and the leaden weight over his heart.

He is halted by a voice near his ankle.

"Brother."

He turns quickly, leading with his blade, but his sword points at his own brother, Lucan, sprawled amidst rebel corpses. Bedivere hastily sheathes the blade, falling to a knee in his haste to help Lucan to his feet. They are of a build, tall and lanky, though Lucan's eyes are grey, and his hair closer to blonde. The other knight of Dál Riata coughs, staggering against him, and Bedivere is pained to note the thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his brother's mouth.

"My chest feels most peculiar." Lucan manages an unsteady smile. "I fear I am stricken, brother."

"Be strong, brother," Bedivere hears himself say, and even in his dream, his tone is pleading and desperate to his own ears. "Lean on me if you must. The king is in danger."

They make their way to the blood-stained hill, and when Lucan pulls away from him to help him lift Arturia, he can feel the dread settle in the pit of his stomach. "Brother, you are not strong enough—"

Bedivere snaps awake with a start and a choking cough, sitting bolt upright; eyes wide and unseeing. The room looks strange – he expects to see fire, and smell blood—

Coughing again, Bedivere sags, rubbing his face with his hands and shuddering. He doesn't notice when his hand come away wet; doesn't feel the tears that leave tracks down his cheekbones. He risks a glance to Arturia, but... it's doubtful she'd slept through that.

Bedivere coughs again, hands dropping to rub at his throat. There's no smoke here, but it had felt so real...

He takes a few breaths to steady himself, but he can't stop trembling.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had adjusted well enough to the modern era – in part due some key information provided by the Holy Grail upon her summoning – and had come to appreciate a great deal for thing of modernity. Of special value was her Yamaha V-Max, faster than any horse and a pleasure to ride, though limited somewhat to modern roads. There were a great many things which she had become accustomed to, and she could appreciate how they made many lives easier in modern times. To return to a more familiar era by way of an alien world was a bit of culture shock of five years in a technologically-advanced multiverse.

Yet, the blonde knight found she hadn't minded. It was almost nostalgic, really. Her sole concern had been the race against the seasons in restoring the village, rebuilding homes and preparing for the onslaught of what promised to be a brutal winter. The harsh season had always been of special concern to the king, and there were always at least a few lives lost to the winter. If there was one thing about her era she wished to banish forever, it was the death which winter brought.

By God's grace, however, there was hope. There were some signs of modernity: the lightweight insulation which had been layered between the outer stone walls and the wooden inner ones of the rebuilt village homes, the polymer coating of the granaries to lock out the inevitable moisture which threatened the stored crops with rot, the fleece-imitation cloth which lined the heavy parkas stitched by hand. Even the occasional LED light provided illumination where absolutely necessary. But for the most part, the people were determined to rebuild on their own terms and forge their own way. And their lord and lady were more than willing and able to accommodate them.

The restoration of the lord's quarters had been a humbling expression of gratitude, another reason why – when it had been assumed that king and knight were a lord and his lady – Arturia had refused to consider moving elsewhere or allowing Bedivere to seek shelter elsewhere. Not only did the Brehon Laws forbid them from refusing such hospitality, but it would have been rude, if not outright insulting. No, as much as their sense of modesty protested at the luxury of it, their laws and their honour bade them accept...even when the outcome was more than a little embarrassing.

At the same time, she was glad; it appeared to be the ideal place for Bedivere to convalesce after his ordeal at Camlann and the five years trapped wandering the weald. He had enough work to keep him busy – though she was not shy about reminding him when he traded dangerously close to overwork – with the noble charitable work she knew he had a passion for. It had seemed God, in His infinite mercy, had led them there after their many travails to grant them a much-needed respite.

Even, perhaps, for the King of Knights herself.

It had been not quite a fortnight since they had accepted the task from Alaia, and her marshal had seemed to have peaceful rest since she had taken to staying by his side throughout the night. From what she knew of his condition, it would not be so easily cured, but it appeared that things were progressing well enough. Slowly, he was catching up on the five years he was unable to truly sleep.

Though not, it seemed, this night.

She awoke to the sound of his voice, though not completely; the Servant remained in that twilight between dreams and wakefulness. Perhaps she would have awoken not long after that but for the now truly supernatural connection they shared. While not in a true sleep, her mind was nevertheless consumed in blood and fire.

It was strange to see Camlann through the eyes of another, but the king could not step back to consider it. She could only see herself in those brief flashes even as her marshal fought in vain to come to her side as she fought with the homunculus leader of the rebellion. Was there anyone left alive to answer the call which sounded from the marshal's horn? She couldn't tell.

Even as he reacted physically, Arturia could not rouse herself. Instead, she reacted physically in much the same way, coughing on the smoke consuming the kingdom of her memories. Somewhere from within her subconscious she knew that she had slain Mordred, who in turn fatally stabbed her father even as the homunculus fell. In her own memories, she could not remember who had carried her from the battlefield, fainting even as she had propped herself up on Excalibur.

Mae'n ddrwg gennyf....Mae'n ddrwg gennyf.....Mae'n ddrwg gennyf... was all that had run through her mind even as her consciousness had left her.

She only awoke when he did and released her from the dream, sitting up next to him. Her jade eyes were glassy even as she reached out to clutch at him with trembling hands. "It...it was only a dream...just a dream..." she murmurs as much to herself as to him.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although he had expressed some curiosity over modern conveniences, such as the motorcycles that both his king and his brother-knight Gawain had taken a liking to, it would be some time before Bedivere would learn to embrace such things himself. If ever, really.

He had always enjoyed riding horses, and seemed to enjoy a bond with those he had ridden; he had always been devastated when his steeds were wounded or slain in battle. Where other knights would have sold or otherwise rid themselves of wounded horses, Bedivere kept those which survived but could not be ridden into battle – he treated them all with care, and had his favourites.

Perhaps he'll acquire horses, here, and take to riding again – but for motorcycles, it will likely take a lot of convincing to get him astride one. He is mistrusting of some technology, even if the Servants seem perfectly accepting of it.

Now, though, horses are the last thing on the knight's troubled mind.

"Ceallach—" His despairing cry is no more than a choking breath, voice cracking, even as he tries to catch his breath. There is no smoke here in their quarters, no blood, no fire. He is as far as can be from that blood-soaked hill, but the dream is always so vivid. "Ceallach..."

His brother? His cousin, perhaps? All three had been from Dál Riata, as he had explained to Arturia. The name is not Welsh; it carries the same lilt as his own. Most likely it's his brother's; Lucan was the first one he had come across, and Griflet had been dead already when the marshal had found him.

Bedivere coughs again and rubs at his throat. He can imagine the smell of blood on the air; the thick ash in the air and in his mouth. Although he had not been so wounded as after Caliburn's sundering, he had nonetheless pushed himself hard through Camlann, and could almost imagine the taste of blood in his mouth.

He jumps when she clutches at him, reflexively shying away, the reaction one of pure instinct. He stops himself once he realises whose hands they are. Swallowing, it takes him several seconds to convince himself that he does not taste his own blood; that there is no smoke in the air, here, no fire and no embers. Drawing in another breath, he lets it go in a shuddering sigh.

"Arturia..." He forces himself to settle, once he recognises whose hands they are. He's obviously shaken; he uses no title for her, and ordinarily he takes such pains to. His hands rise to cover his face. He doesn't notice the tears, or the hitching of his breath.

He tries to speak, but his throat closes on the words. Shuddering again, he scrubs at his face with his hands. When he straightens, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close as though convince himself that she's there; that she isn't the dream. It may be a bit tight, though some part of him is still careful not to clutch at her too hard. Even in his fear, he doesn't want to hurt her.

The choked sound he makes is almost – almost – a sob, as though he were trying to stifle it. "You are here..." He seems to be trying to convince himself of that, his observation breathless. "You are here. We—we are both here. It was just—just a dream... but..."

He draws in another breath as though to calm himself, letting it go, but it shudders in time to his trembling. "Aí, Lord God, my love, it—it is so real..." he whispers, stricken.

Saber (346) has posed:
The enticing leonine rumble of an engine and the intense speed of her new steed, in truth, were merely minor pleasures of the modern age. At the root, Arturia realised that as well-designed as it was, her motorbike was not a living, breathing creature with a soul. It could not be injured nor die as a beast could. As a Saber, she could ride nearly any beast she so desired...yet she generally refused to. She would only ride a chocobo into a situation where she did not anticipate violence, vaulting from the creature the instant she sensed otherwise. Like peasants, creatures had never willingly submitted to battle. During her reign, she had little choice but to ride a steed into battle and risk it being cut down. In the modern era, she could afford to be much more discerning. Objects did not have precious lives to lose.

And at Camlann, the dream-memories of Master and Servant, there was so much of life which had been lost.

It had been a dream, but the events had been painfully real. Both Bedivere and Arturia had lost their brothers, their only family: one of blood and the other of a bond that might as well have been. There had been so many dead...and the green-eyed king would have dragged herself anywhere to find Kay's body had she had not been dying herself. So much waste of precious life, of those she had treasured but could never dare show her true feelings to. To a man they had fallen, to a man she had failed them. And the only knight who had survived, at least in the flesh, was the one she was now trying to comfort. And she was not certain she even could.

The fires are gone...and for many worlds, they had been gone for over a thousand years. But to Bedivere – who had been trapped in such dreams for five years – and Arturia – who had been trying to forget them for the same – it was not so simple. Gawain, too...surely he remembered, for these events were his final memories before he, like Arturia, had been summoned to the present. Even Mordred herself seemed to have remembered Camlann as if it had been merely a fortnight ago, while those who seemed ageless thought of Camlann as the distant past. For the King of Britain and the Knights of the Round Table, the tragedy might as well have occurred not days past.

Arturia remembered that Bedivere had said that he was close to his brother, and she could still see Sir Lucan fall in his shared dream. Was that his true name, then?

Bedivere shied away when she clutched at his tunic, and almost let go at the motion. But her hands only loosened when he said her name, releasing the sleeve out of shock. She had seen the fires in his mind, but yet that vulnerable murmuring of her name drew that horror out of the past and the land of dreams, fully into the present. Her throat ran dry, and she could not so much as even speak, not even when he rubbed his face as if to ward off those memories with the gesture.

And suddenly, she was within his arms, a reassurance that she was there with him. She was indeed there, the lady he loved...but his family was dead and his homeland gone. She could not possibly make up for that loss. Arturia didn't hold back, though, even with that inadequacy. His king was here, his lady was here...for whatever small comfort that could offer.

He need not have worried about crushing a Servant like her, but she didn't voice that reassurance. In some small way, perhaps that act of protective consideration might have comforted him. Arturia couldn't say for certain. What troubled her was that, though it was indeed a dream, it had happened. And for him, it was not so long ago.

What else could she do but reassure him that she was there? Arturia simply lifted her arms around him and silently held him close, her presence made real through that simple touch. The fires of Camlann would burn in memory, and she could only try to reassure him that they no longer burned.

"I am here, my love..." she murmured in his native tongue. Tha mi an seo, mo cridhe.

It was all she had the power to say, like a simple charm uttered against a raging storm.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps in time, the knight may adapt to more modern ways, finding an appreciation for a machine that cannot feel pain. For now, though, vehicles seem to make him nervous. Even being on the same street as one makes him a bit jumpy, as with whenever he's accompanied Arturia into the cities of the modern era. Maybe it's the noise, or the bulk – the biggest he's ever had to deal with were the towering farm horses he had occasionally ridden into battle. Cars can be intimidating, in light of that.

Still, if he were aware of her reasoning, he might agree. Machines can't feel pain. They don't cry out when wounded. He doesn't need to see their eyes, and he doesn't need to slit its throat himself when it lies too broken to survive. Such a thing he had done for several of his horses, whose legs had been broken, or after impalement on the enemy's weapons. A part of him had died with every mercy-killing.

Camlann had seen its share of horses and hounds. Bedivere had ridden into that battle astride a great black war horse, bearing full barding. When he had commanded Arturia's forces to that fateful hill, he had ordered his knights mounted, and he had also ordered a regiment of mastiffs along. These had been loosed into the midst of the fray, their leads cut and left to savage what soldiers had been in their path.

To his knowledge, none of those brave hounds had survived, though they had sold their lives dearly. It's possible he'd missed the survivors. After all, he'd taken to his single-minded search for Arturia, at the time. There were a number of details he had likely missed.

Perhaps he senses something of Arturia's thoughts – the overwhelming sense of pain, loss, and guilt; the shared knowledge that their family and their homeland are gone. His arms tighten around her, though what precisely he means by that embrace is hard to say. Even that unspoken communication they value so highly seems to fail him. He doesn't resist when she holds him close, but there's no mistaking his desperate trembling.

It takes him some time to master himself, to remember that he is alive, uninjured, and in his own bed, rather than still at that blood-stained hill. He left those fires behind, both in time and in distance.

"I..." His voice falters. He bows his head, burying his face into her shoulder. Holding her so tightly, there's no mistaking the sob.

It takes him several long moments before he can master himself, and even longer until he can breathe steadily, without his shoulders hitching. Reluctantly, he lets her go, drawing an arm over his face. He draws in another breath and closes his eyes. Releasing it slowly, he takes two more in an attempt to find his famous calm.

With every breath it becomes a little easier.

In the Tohsaka household, he hadn't been able to pull himself from the jaws of that familiar nightmare. Those visions of fire and blood had haunted him and chased him into wakefulness, but it had sometimes taken him an hour or more to stop shaking; to stop his near-silent weeping and stem the tide of his pain.

Here, though... with her close by, murmuring reassurances to him, there is hope.

He need not suffer that nightmare alone.

"I know." The words are quiet and hoarse, but his voice is steady. He bows his head as he reaches up and rakes his fingers through his unbound hair. He must still be shaken on some level, though, for he speaks in Gaelic; not in Welsh. There's no mistaking that musical quality. "I know, my love. I know. I am sorry."

She may scold him for his apologies, but he can't seem to help it. If he feels responsible for the horrors of Camlann, he feels responsible for failing to protect her. Had he been just a few yards closer, had he fought just a little harder, he might have made his way to her side. He might have deflected Mordred's sword, and struck down the traitor... but that was not possible, no matter how much he might question.

Even after he had given himself over to his rage and his grief, letting that terrible wrath carry him, he could not possibly strike down the rebel host fast enough to reach her. There were too many of them. He had been driven too far away from her, and isolated from his allies.

He had prayed someone might respond to the desperate call of his war-horn, but it was not meant to be.

The marshal was the last one standing in the midst of that hell, the last loyal knight of the king who would go to her side. Once he realised that, he had given up on help, determining to make his way to the hill himself.

But that had not been enough to save her.

It had not been enough to save anyone.

"I lost everyone I had ever loved that day," Bedivere murmurs bleakly. His shoulders sag, and he slowly slumps, head bowing as he stares down at his hands in his lap. Gradually, his eyes hood, gaze distant. "My allies. My brothers-in-arms. My brother. My cousin. My love. But..."

He looks down at his hands again, flexing the left, as though he weren't fully aware he were moving it. "All things can be rebuilt. Can't they?" There's a note of what almost seems desperation in his soft question. "This broken keep, these broken people. I... I pray that my broken pieces, too, can be set right again. But..."

"I was the only one who survived." He turns his hand over, studying the command seal, though the knotwork is barely visible in the darkness. "Why? Why did I survive when everyone else – everyone else – perished? There were knights stronger and more enduring than I. Stronger warriors. Why did I survive? If I were as strong as Sir Lancelot, I might have saved at least one. If I'd had Sir Kay's cunning, perhaps I could have reached the hill sooner. But... even Ceallach—even Lucan—his wounds were too great, and his heart failed him when he tried to help me bear you away."

He screws his eyes shut, hand closing into a fist.

"I—I could not even catch him as he fell. I could not let go of you. You... you were still alive, then, and I could not..." His voice sinks. "I wanted to return to Camlann. Oh, Lord God, I wanted to go back there, to bury the good knights who had fallen. My own brother, my cousin, Sir Gawain, Sir Lancelot... so many others... but I could not find my way. I could not even find my way to Camelot. I wonder now if there would have been anything to return to but ash..."

Bedivere trails off, with a quiet, despairing sound. He lets himself lie back, staring at the bed's canopy without quite seeing it.

His eyes close a moment later.

"It was just a dream," he breathes. "This is real. You are real. I—I left that blood-stained hill behind five years ago."

"May it remain only a dream."

The silver-haired knight reaches out, pulling her to him again, murmuring into her hair. "So why, then... why will it not leave me? Is this my punishment for not returning...? I do not understand, my love. I—I don't understand..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Camlann had not been the last time Arturia had felt such complete despair.

She had continued to sacrifice nearly everything to obtain her only hope, the one thing which could erase all the pain her rule had caused. Damn Archer to Hell for standing in her way with his preposterous demands. All that mattered was the Holy Grail, the doorway to Britain's salvation. No matter if her opponent's golden armour had not so much as a scratch from his battle with the King of Conquerors. As hopeless as it was, she must win.

Get out of my way, Archer!

She could not have seen herself, though if she had, she would not have cared that jade eyes had dulled into a murky gold. Yet, even if she had, the battle with Berserker had only fuelled the fires of what had become an obsession.

The Grail...is mine!

But it was only when Kiritsugu used his remaining two command seals to order her to destroy the manifested artefact that despair once more consumed her. She had gambled everything on that desperate wish; she could not allow it to have been for naught. But she had no choice. She could not disobey such an order from her Master, no matter how much she tried.

In the eternal moment between its destruction and her abrupt Unification which saved her from disappearing, she once more saw the angry skies over a hill of rivers of blood and broken metal. She had thought she would never see it again, that she would banish it with the fulfilment of her wish. But she was trapped there in that hell until she obtained the Holy Grail; that was the contract she had made. Frozen in time like a fly in amber.

Likewise, her marshal was trapped there in his own way.

How many minutes had passed as he trembled in her arms, Arturia couldn't say. She hadn't been paying attention, merely staying there without so much as pulling away, only shifting to better fit her arms around him. For however long it was, she didn't speak, either with words or their silent way. All she could do was be there at his side for how many ever times it took to master himself through faltering voice and unsteady breath.

No scolding tonight. But she wasn't going to let it alone, either. "There is nothing to apologise for," she said with a shake of her head, continuing to speak in the tongue of her Master.

There had been no one to come to her aid; in truth, her death was her own fault. She had slain Mordred, and became too immersed in her inner apologies to see her blade strike out at the king even before she fell to the ground, dead. No...even if she had lived, there was nothing to rebuild from. Her remaining knights had all been slain, save one who, after that battle, was dead in spirit. The failure was hers, and she had been helpless to change it. Perhaps the only way she could begin to make amends for that was to rebuild another broken place.

"Yes, there is that which can be rebuilt, mended..." she placed a hand over his, squeezing gently. "We can rebuild...even ourselves."

Arturia could not say why he alone had survived other than by the will of God. Bedivere had survived countless battles – nearly dying once – and his gentleness of spirit belied his skill as the Left Hand of the King. Yet all of her knights were skilled warriors; even Gawain had perished in that terrible battle, heroically sacrificing himself. Arturia was glad that he had lived, but at what cost to his spirit?

The jade-eyed knight allowed him to pull her into his arms once more, carefully resting her head against his chest as she settled against him. One of the benefits of a more recent era was the knowledge that his nightmares, his suffering had a name. "It is nothing you did...it is not unheard of, what is happening to..to you..."

A barely audible sigh escaped her lips. It was something even knights of the centuries well beyond their own struggled with, and some even wrote about it. "I believe it is something called 'post-traumatic stress'. After that battle..."

She couldn't bring herself to finish. But more than that, something about the situation nagged at the edges of her subconscious, as if there was something she was overlooking. Five years after Camlann, wandering the weald...that should not have been possible. There was indeed something dark about that even as the bloodied claws of the past continued to dig into king and knight, refusing to relinquish its hold.

"It...it will take time to heal," she said at last. Whatever the case might have been, she would not simply stand by and force him to suffer alone. "I swear that I will do everything in my power to grant it."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those faded violet eyes look down to the hand holding his, as though he were trying to reconcile that reassurance with that shadow of grief and despair shrouding him. He seems to think on her words as he turns her hand over in his, folding her hand in both of his. Carefully, he lifts it; brushing his lips over the top and holding it to his face, as though seeking comfort.

After a moment, he wraps his arms around her, considering her words in thoughtful silence.

"'Post-traumatic stress.'" He repeats the unfamiliar phrase awkwardly, but he seems to file that away for consideration.

At her pledge to help him, he lets his eyes hood, finally closing them.

"Thank you." The words are a soft breath through her hair, Gaelic and lilting. "Ah, my love, I... for five years I have suffered that nightmare. For five years I have had no rest. For five years it had haunted me even after I woke... but..."

His arms tighten around her. "I want to heal," he breathes. "I want to be free of this... this..." He struggles to find the words. Pain and sorrow seem so very small, compared to five years of anguish. Yet still... there is hope.

He falls silent again, reaching up to thread fingers through her hair. For a few seconds he simply regards her quietly, watching the play of her hair through his fingers.

"We will... heal together," he murmurs. "I... cannot do that on my own. And I... I know that..."

I know Camlann left its scars on you, as well, my love. It scarred all whom it touched. But he can't seem to force the words out, letting the arm still around her tighten; speaking for him in their silent way. We will walk that road together, out of Camlann's shadow, and into the light.

"I will always be proud of the kingdom I served. But I am Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí, now. There is... there is no returning to that kingdom of ash and blood. Even had I found it, there was nothing to return to."

Even though he had been reluctant to accept Dún Reáltaí, and reluctant to risk letting its people down, it was necessary. Throwing himself into the repair efforts helps him to mend his broken spirit – to see the settlement come alive again, where before it had been only wreckage and ruin. In some way, it mirrors the steadfast marshal; the hope and resilience of these people easing his own pain.

Not all things broken can be mended... but a great many of them can.

"No more," he murmurs. "I will walk forward. By your word I am the servant of Dún Reáltaí's people, now. There is nothing left for me in Camelot, or Camlann. I will pray... for my brothers' souls, and I... some part of me will always mourn them," he murmurs, slipping his fingers through the soft gold of her hair. "But for now... this is where I belong. Here, with you; to help and to serve these people. It... it must be this way."

He gives a soft sigh, smiling a weary, apologetic smile. "Ah, my love. I am sorry. I had not meant to wake you. I know I am not so efficient a Master..." He grimaces a little at the term, "and you must make up the difference in rest..."

Saber (346) has posed:
When he lifted her hand to his face, Arturia caressed his cheek with her thumb in a subtle movement, lifting her other hand to brush strands of silvery blonde hair out of his face. She considered pulling him into her arms for a moment, though she was not doing so for long as the violet-eyed knight pulled her into his. As painfully shy as he had been – to say nothing for his awkwardness over her status as his king – she was grateful that he had accepted her help. Even if she had never shared the nightmare of the blood-drenched hill, it was more than obvious how protective he was of her. She had once thought it had been because she was the king, but later she had learned the entire truth, and while that protectiveness was endearing, she didn't want him killing himself trying to protect her from involving herself in his problems.

It was difficult for her, in turn, to restrain herself against shutting Bedivere out for the same reasons. She was likewise protective of him, and as much more than simply her knight or the knight-aspirant of years past. Some of her walls crumbled down on their own, but some she forced down; she was not going to waste this precious second chance. And since they had made Dún Reáltaí their home, it seemed as if they had started to trust each other even more. Or rather, trust the other not to break under the burdens they carried.

"Do not force yourself," she told him gently as her own arms tightened around him in turn. "You do not have to speak of it...but if you should wish to, I will listen."

She was glad when he admitted he couldn't do it on his own. She had insisted on shouldering all her burdens alone because that was the sworn duty of the king. And for Bedivere, he bore his burdens alone to protect her secret and guard his own which would have compromised her rule. But these were wounds too deep to bear by himself, and if she hoped to help him, she would need to allow him to help her in turn. Some of that had been accidental when she had tried to apologise for her disastrous rule only to reveal her own scars.

Indeed, Camlann had scarred her as deeply as any physical wound, a hell she could not escape. But he was right; they could walk that path, however difficult, and make their way at each other's side.

Her sigh would tell him what she could not say. I know, my love. I am so grateful to have you at my side.

Arturia smiled faintly. "It suits you, that title...." she murmured. As reluctant as he had been out of his own feelings of inadequacy, the new lord of the land was doing as well as she had expected. And, just as she had hoped, it began to heal him, as well.

"We will always carry them in our memory, but I think to rebuild here is the best way to honour that memory. Perhaps...something of the dream can be reached, what we had all wished for..."

That is, unless any more of the Knights of the Round Table had ascended and called as Servants as Gawain had been.

Arturia shook her head. It was readily apparent that he hated thinking of himself in such a way, that it made him more than merely uncomfortable. Arturia suspected that Bedivere would, whatever the future seemed to hold for them, always see himself as her knight. In light of that, her status as his Servant was one a humble knight would regard as a breach of proper hierarchy.

"It is all right," she assured him. "I had dreamt of it, as well...I would have awoken when it ended. Our dreams, I fear, are no longer as private as we wish them to be..."

And perhaps at this point, he might feel the sudden flush of her face through the fabric of his tunic. There were quite a number of dreams that were ones she wished to have kept private, even forgotten.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight bows his head at her touch, eyes closing for a moment. Ironically, the one who had presented himself as the most coldly formidable of the Round Table was perhaps the most shy of them all; the least inclined to the ceaseless warring and strife that marked Camelot's sometimes-desperate struggle to shake off the Saxon threat. He had been perhaps the least suited to knighthood – gentle of heart; ideally suited to the role of filidh that he had willingly left behind all those years ago.

True, he has had opportunity to show his wrath on several occasions, disproving any suspicions that he was weak, and surprising perhaps everyone that had thought they'd known him. Even he had surprised himself at the depths of his anger when he had felt Arturia threatened; and in those times that he'd had time to himself, he had even been a little afraid to have let slip his tight control over his emotions. Those two battles had been the only time he had ever presented himself as something beyond Arturia's cool, calm war-leader. They had been the only two times he had ever indicated any depth past the cunning but dispassionate tactician.

Always dutiful, he had been protective of her, and that would never change – but he had far more incentive to guard her than simply her position, although that had certainly factored into his motives. It was only proper that any of the Knights of the Round would lay their lives down for their king, but... he had always seemed to go further than that, and if he had ever thought her threatened on the battlefield, he would strike down her enemies with overwhelming force, as though coldly furious that they would even think of threatening the Once and Future King. For those two battles, though, it had been something else entirely.

He had thought, in those few moments, of losing her – when she had been surrounded by the Saxons, before Caliburn's sundering; and then, when the rebel host had closed in on them like the jaws of a treacherous wolf. Although his service had been a thing of pain, like wearing a bracelet of thorns, he had done so gladly. Even knowing he could never be close to her; could never even see a true expression, he would not have traded it for the world. To be threatened with losing that, when the situation had looked bleak... he had already borne a great deal of pain in his years of service, but the thought of that was simply too much for him.

For a little while, surrounded by the enemy and given no choice but to fight for her survival and his own, he had simply let go; given in to his wrath, and lost his mind for a time.

Indeed, when he had been borne back to the citadel after Caliburn's sundering, when he had finally come to, he had looked up to his king. Even struggling against pain and unconsciousness, he had seemed puzzled. Had we won, then? he had asked, haltingly, even as the physicians fussed over him. Are the Saxons routed?

When the battle had been described to him, it had seemed to take him several moments to piece events back together again – and it had not been a question of his slipping in and out of consciousness; when conscious, he had been unmistakably lucid. It was as though he had not well remembered what he had done; those moments of terrible release from his pain and his control.

But that had been a mere exception to a lifelong rule of iron-bound control.

Here, though... here he has no need of such a thing. His mask is useless, and if he's honest with himself, he finds he has no desire to piece it back together again.

It is nothing more than wasted time.

This time with her, this miraculous second chance, is too precious a thing to squander.

For so long, he had borne his burdens alone, suffering in silence, while projecting the kind of strength she could rely on – neatly concealing his pain, offering his strength to her when he thought she needed it. He acted as her conscience where she could not, and he let her know through actions that she could make any order of him, and expect it to be fulfilled with the same integrity and honour as herself. He had watched over her from what had felt like such a distance, even though he had stood at her left hand for those twenty long years.

But he need not bear that pain any more. She is here, and they have no more need of those masks, not with each other. This is not Camelot; there is no jealous nobility to be placated, no rule to be threatened. They can say and do whatever they please in one another's company – they need not fear any reprisal save their own.

Even now it is like a weight lifted from his shoulders; such a great weight that he had not even realised how heavy it had been, or how exhausted the effort of carrying it had made him.

And I am grateful to have you at mine. His breath flutters her hair as he holds her close, though this time it's with the ghost of a smile. I could not walk this road alone. And while you are the strongest person I know, it would not be fair to ask you to walk it alone, either. We will walk it together.

He blinks when she says the title suits him, though, sighing in mock resignation.

"Bah," he mumbles. "I am no lord. I am not even noble. Filídh were not looked on poorly, but they were not landholders, and they did not own fiefs. I would have been an advisor to the kings of Dál Riata... though," he adds, canting his head to glance down at her, "I suppose it is not so different than a marshal, is it? I had led your troops and I had protected you, but I had also given you what advice as I could, in my own way..." Unspoken advice, of course, since they could not afford the risk of open favouritism – but by his actions, by the ways in which he carried out his missions or led those troops, he'd sought to draw her attention to various issues that had perhaps needed her attention. It had worked well given the restraints they had been forced to work under.

Bedivere considers for a moment, shifting to wrap his arms more securely around her. The closeness is soothing to his jangled nerves. Besides that, she's pleasantly warm; their quarters are cold, the fire in the hearth has long since spent itself. Although he might sputter at such an observation any other time, he's too emotionally wrung-out to do so now. He simply takes such comfort for what it is.

"I would like to think so," he murmurs. "To rebuild, and to teach these people and lead them by the example of the eight virtues. To protect them from harm, and see that they are happy, and flourishing... I want to think that would be the best way to honour the memory and the dream. We had all shared in that dream, my love, and even though the others have fallen, I... I should like to reach for it once more." He exhales, a soft breath through her hair. "I believe it can be reached. I must believe in that, if I believe in nothing else."

Otherwise, their years of sorrow and struggle were all for naught. He cannot believe that he or any of the others, let alone Arturia herself, had suffered such agony for an impossibility. Would not the Good Lord have led them away from that path if it were not the righteous one?

"Mn..." His quiet sound seems uncertain, as though he weren't sure whether to accept her reassurance that she would have woken. He threads his fingers through her hair, holding her with his other arm. This time, it's his turn for reassurance. "It... it is all right. I... there are no secrets between us. No more. I will not wear that mask again; I cannot. I no longer have the strength to bear it." He smiles, faintly, though the expression is a little crooked and slightly bittersweet. "And if we must suffer these nightmares, it is better that we do so together. We will not let one another walk that road alone any more..."

He tilts his head a little in puzzlement. It's too dark to see her flush, but he can feel the heat of her skin through the coarse fabric of his tunic. "Mn...?"

Bedivere takes a moment to think on that, perhaps running down the trails of why she would feel so self-conscious. After all, it's not just the nightmares that they share, now. Eventually he seems to reach the same conclusion that she does.

Her embarrassment is rewarded by a low chuckle; one she can likely feel as much as hear. She can't see it, but his face flushes a little as well. Indeed, there are things he would prefer that she not witness, but...

"I do not remember my dreams often. At least, I don't think I did, before..." Before Camlann, that is. He coughs a little awkwardly. "But I suppose that doesn't mean much if you can still see them, does it? W-well, we..."

He trails off, and his tone seems to turn from one of awkwardness to contemplation. He was going to say we will just need to be understanding, but they already are; there is such understanding between them that most of the time no words are even necessary. The silver-haired knight makes a thoughtful sound as he tries to think of what might be suitable.

Eventually he can only shrug a little, letting go of her long enough to pull the blankets and furs over them both; shutting out the cold.

"We will simply have to be patient with one another..." In any other situation, he might flail a bit, but he's too emotionally wrung-out to bother with it. "Everyone has foolish little things they would rather keep hidden from the world, don't they? My dream to become a Knight of the Round... I would have considered that a foolish little thing, once. I suppose I did many things that were foolish..."

Falling silent for a moment, he rests his face over her hair – still that pleasant rose scent, he reflects – and considers.

"I kept all of the horses I had ever acquired," he says, smiling an awkward little smile. "Even when they were wounded, I could not bear to part with them. They served no practical purpose, I'll grant; some could never be ridden again, nor would I demand that of them. I'm certain the other knights thought I was a little mad for coddling them so, but... they had served me so well, and I knew anyone else would have had the beasts killed... I could not do that to them when they had given me everything. I would visit them every day, when I was not on campaign, and I kept them in the castle's stables."

"Do you remember that big flaxen and white farm horse? I seem to remember you had wondered, once, who that had belonged to. I..." He chuckles, faintly. "I had feigned ignorance, at the time, but he was mine. There were three others, too, aside from those I would ride... I had loved them as one loves their favourite hound. I knew it was foolish, for they cost much to maintain, and I could no longer ask them to carry me to war... but there you are, I suppose."

Once finished, he chuckles, a little self-consciously.

It seems to be so like him, though – the gentle knight, who could bear no bloodshed or loss of life; who would go to such expense just to keep horses that had outlived their practical use, treating them as one would treat cherished pets. Certainly the horses had appreciated it – they came to him without even needing to be called, attentive and well-behaved in his presence.

"So, please..." He runs his fingers through her hair, slowly, as though still fascinated by that simple act. "Do not mind it. I treasure everything about you, my love; even your dreams."

Saber (346) has posed:
The king had only heard from second-hand reports of the legendary fury of her marshal in that battle against the Saxons; some awestruck, some fearful. But all said the same thing in the end; that he fought like a man possessed. She had wondered what could have cracked that icy exterior so much like her own, assuming that it had been the sight of so many men of lower birth who had given their lives in defence of their homeland. So many widows and children without fathers, mothers without sons. She could more than understand that fury, though it manifested quite differently.

At first glance, one might not even notice the change from the king's typical impassive demeanour. Yet, those who had beheld her as she stood over the broken bodies of Saxons and as their chieftain fell to his knees would later tell of the icy winds that seemed to surround the king. Among the barbarian dead were those of loyal knights and peasants – the very lifeblood of her kingdom, as if Britain itself bled – and as she walked among them the deathlike chill of that aura only intensified. Her fury didn't burn like a white-hot fire, but as the deadliest hailstorm.

There was no mistaking that silent fury as she ignored the barbarian's pleas and severed his head from his body in one deft stroke. There, the king had been truly merciless; those who were a witness to Calburn's sundering never spoke of the king's inhuman coldness, for they knew what true cold felt like. In a somewhat ironic twist, that very act of inhumanity restored her to the humanity she had abandoned when she drew Caliburn; the Golden Sword of Promised Victory shattered when the chivalry she had pledged herself to was broken. Even when justified, the king must never act out of passion.

By the time she had awoken from her own rage, the battle was over and the enemy crushed utterly, but at a great cost. And she had nearly lost her marshal to that battle, Arturia had belatedly learned. Returning to the citadel as quickly as she could, she had nevertheless carefully composed the familiar mask and drew herself up in rigid posture before striding purposefully through the castle gates, the crowds ceasing their murmuring as they hastily parted and awkwardly knelt. Even as she ordered the wounded knight to report, their silent way answered him. They have been defeated. She dared not linger; Arturia would have been unable to tear herself away from his side had she remained. And she could not afford to, not with Britain similarly wounded. The people needed their king.

But now, there was no kingdom to attend. She could stay by his side for however long as the violet-eyed knight needed her. The mask was needless here; they no longer had to bear those burdens in isolation, from across the gulf of their respective duties. No longer did she feel her strength gradually wane under their weight.

"To be a lord is not simply holding land and strutting about," she reminded him. "A lord's duty is to care for the people, to serve and protect them. That is what it truly beans to be a lord."

Naturally, there were few in the nobility who had agreed with her; those who did ended up becoming knights and delegated their duties to relatives who might not have been as receptive to the chivalric ideals. It was during such times that she had been more grateful than words could express for her marshal's silent, careful counsel. His sound advice had yet to fail her...though now the positions seemed to have reversed somewhat. She would continue their silent way, however, but for wholly different reasons. This time, she was the support, a role she hardly minded; it made her feel useful.

It was more than merely useful, though, in staying at his side as she was. Though the circumstances has thrown them into their current arrangement rather awkwardly, Arturia was going to insist upon it, if for no other reason that she could continue to watch over him as his scarred psyche healed. Improper or not, it was necessary. And the more selfish part of her was certainly not complaining; it was warm and comfortable there like that, pleasantly scented of Castile soap.

That he still believed in her dream was moving beyond words, beyond even their silent expression. She had met many honourable knights since Camelot, but each sought their own goals and dreams. It had been a wish she had thought impossible for her – unsuitable as she was – and something she had never been able to grant her kingdom. Her great failure had been to promise that dream but fail to achieve it. And yet, she found she could not give it up. The jade-eyed knight assumed that the Holy Grail had been her only hope, and that the only way she could realise it was to save Britain from its fate and her rule.

That was not to be, but giving up on changing a fate which had already occurred hadn't meant giving up on her dream, his words said to her. And for the sake of their fallen comrades, she would continue forward.

Her hand raised to her eye, seemingly to wipe away at sleep, but it was doubtful the keen-minded marshal would have been fooled by that.

Her sigh was more of a gesture than a sound. She remembered that Sakura had dreamed of Camlann at least once, and Bedivere already had enough nightmares of it from his own perspective.

She would be there when they happened, but her mouth twisted at the thought of there being more.

Of lesser concern were the moments of embarrassment. She listened, though, as he admitted to ownership of the farm horse which had been inexplicably in the fields surrounding the citadel, and to keeping the horses which had been so injured in battle that they would have otherwise been put down. But she hardly considered that to be an embarrassment. That wasn't foolish, love... she protested with a blush.

No, her idea of an embarrassing memory was the one she decided to share. "When I was training as a squire, my brother often played pranks on me. He hid a toad in my bed, once..." and she flushed from the remembrance of a very inelegant shriek as she had discovered that. "But I did get him back, sometimes...the buckle of his saddle happened to fail over a muddy puddle..." A triumphant moment in her life, to be sure, but it was so undignified. Never mind that she had been only seven at the time and could hardly have been expected to act like an adult.

She was already blushing at the moment. But that simple phrase – combined with the accompanying gesture – produced quite the strange effect. How could something make her so horribly self-conscious and happy at the same time? Of course, she felt the exact same way about him, but still...

There might have been a muffled sound of embarrassed protest as she buried her face in his tunic, her complexion more than enough to keep him warm throughout the night.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even as Bedivere had thrown himself at the Saxon host, the peasants had looked on in awe. Even the Saxons had turned to stare in disbelief and horror at the pale demon raging in their midst, lashing out with his longsword and leaving a trail of blood and ruin. He had fought longer than any would have thought him capable of, and his awed peasant-soldiers had followed him as though under a compulsion.

While the loss of so many of his fellow commoners had not helped his cause, he had been certain they would fall to the Saxons that day. The rain had been torrential, nearly blinding him, but he had been keen-eyed enough to see how few of Arturia's host had remained. They had been far too few to turn the tide. The enemy had seemed to know this, closing like jaws over the tattered remnants.

That had been their mistake.

At the time, the marshal had been pressed against a rock outcropping; the few soldiers left to him and Arturia's standard-bearer cut down beside him.

Later, the peasants described the most unearthly sound that had originated from the marshal's position – a bellowing roar, like nothing human; and they had seen the rain and blood flashing from his sword. He himself had been a whirl of white cloak and steel armour, and mad, absolutely merciless violet eyes. He had simply pushed past his allies, ignoring them as he threw himself at the Saxons. Armour had not mattered. Parrying and blocking had not mattered. He had simply fought like a thing rabid, wholly bereft of reason, sparing no thought to his own defense. One man had buried his axe into the marshal's left arm, blade somehow biting deep through the chain hauberk. His arm useless, the marshal had simply caught his sword up in his right, and continued on.

It had felt like an eternity before he had stopped, the red haze clearing from his vision. Rain had still been pouring down around him. Slowly, he had looked down at the dead around him, Saxon and British both. He had sunk to his knees, dropping his sword; when he had fallen forward, blood pooling beneath him, he had remembered no more.

The peasants had approached him hesitantly – as though afraid he weren't really unconscious, and that that terrible wrath would be turned on them somehow. But several of them had eventually managed to lift him, bearing him back to the castle in reverence.

Where Arturia's rage had been a cold thing, with the inevitability and crushing strength of a glacier, Bedivere's was sudden fire – hot and all-consuming, crackling; with a terrible vitality all its own, towering high and ravaging the object of its focus. There was no gradual ebb; it did not release him from its clutches until it had nothing more to fuel it.

When reassured that the battle had been won, even at great cost, his answer had been their unspoken way. He had simply closed his eyes as though he'd been dealt a blow more severe than the wounds he had sustained; silently grieving for the lives lost and the destruction and ruin left in the battle's wake, and the inevitability that there would be accusations of witchcraft over his fighting.

When he'd opened his eyes a moment later, he had given her that silent look of apology, even though his eyes had been glassy with pain; as though begging her forgiveness that he had created such trouble for her. Explaining their victory in the face of what should have been such a crushing defeat would not be easy, he knew.

Here, though... here things can be different. Here there are no Saxons raiding. There are no wars, no constant threats of death and destruction just beyond the horizon. While terrible ruin has been wrought here, it can be rebuilt; the broken lives and shattered village mended. Even if those dark things should return... they can share in that burden. They need not communicate in their silent way save if they wish to.

"No, it is not," he murmurs, sighing through his nose in what almost seems resignation. "But it was still a thing I had never wished for in Camelot. I do so now only out of necessity. Sir Kay is not here; Sir Lancelot is not, nor would I entrust such a thing to Sir Gawain. And I—I could never ask you to take up such a role again. I will do it, and I will do what need be done to help them. They are my responsibility, now, and I would not forsake that save were it their wish, or yours." He smiles a crooked little half-smile, threading fingers through her hair. "Do not worry. I know what it means to be that which I had never been."

"I have no doubt that the nobility wondered why I had never accepted such a thing. I imagine they thought that those who thought themselves better suited to the task of marshal thought that they would be rewarded with more land, greater fiefs, and material gains... but..." He reaches up with his free hand, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly, one eye closing. "Ugh. I had never wanted that. To be a lord was not some pageant. It was a responsibility, not a privilege or a game. I did not feel I could adequately balance protecting you and ensuring the safety of a fief... When I took up service with you, when you touched my shoulders with Caliburn, I swore that I would serve you to the best of my ability. I could not allow anything to compromise that..."

His arm lowers, and he looks down at her, silent for a few moments. He simply studies her through hooded eyes; his regard so serious for a moment that it might even make her uneasy, but he doesn't seem troubled, simply thoughtful. He'll never grow tired of such a thing – simply watching her, openly, without needing to shift his attention the instant he believes someone else, or Arturia herself, sees him.

After a moment he smiles, even as she reaches up to rub at her eye. The silver-haired knight seems to consider for a moment, before leaning forward, clearing her hair from her forehead; brushing his lips over her bangs. "Do not grieve, my love." His words are soft, tone gentle. "We will rebuild. And we will reach for that dream together."

It would have been if anyone else had discovered that. He chuckles at her wordless protest, resting his head over hers. I suppose my status allowed me that foolishness. After all, he hadn't had a territory of his own to funnel resources into, and what he earned or was given was his alone. He had simply spent a bit of his funds caring for those horses. "I wonder what became of them," he wonders quietly, sighing. "I suppose they are gone, by now."

He tilts his head slightly over hers, listening as she describes the prank wars between herself and her brother. He can't help a bit of a smile at the thought of Arturia finding a toad in her bed; the indignant shriek that surely must have resulted. Cold and inhuman as she was while king, he's been with her long enough now to know that was not the truth, not by any means. And he can imagine, no matter who it is, that a toad in one's bed would hardly be appreciated.

"Ah, loosening the girth when he isn't looking. A classic," Bedivere states. He laughs in genuine amusement and delight, both at the memories and the thought of his impartial king indulging in such a thing. The sound is so rare, coming from him – but no less sincere, as when he had done so after the summer céilidh. "I will be honest, my love. Ceallach and I were not above such things. When we were training as knight-aspirants, sometimes we would have our own back-and-forth. I remember once finding a lizard in one of my gauntlets..." he intones solemnly, "...after I had put it on."

He'd had the dignity not to shriek outright, but he had probably been an amusing sight, hopping around and squawking indignantly while trying to rip his own gauntlet off.

"Well, thankfully, it didn't bite. I fear it lost its tail in the struggle, but I was able to rescue it from my gauntlet. I have no notion how he made the thing stay there. I suppose he must have been wearing the gauntlet, so it was warm... or, the time he had taken a knife to my belt, and frayed the leather just so; causing it to snap when I had put it on..."

He grins, perhaps noting the change in her as she makes that embarrassed sound, burying her face in his tunic. He can feel the blush, laughing and wrapping his arms around her. "Ah, my lady. I had loved you from afar for so long... do you really think a few embarrassing stories would scare me away?" Leaning over, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, snorting a bit when that flyaway bit of hair tickles at his nose. "There is nothing you can say or do that would send me away unless you ordered it directly. I am here, my love, and it is here I will stay."

"It is where I belong, now." Burying his face into her hair, he draws in a deep breath, letting it go in a sigh; a wash of warm breath over her. "I could not be more grateful for that, and I thank the Lord God for it. I..." He seems to consider, struggling to find the right words. "You... you make me... happy," he decides almost uncertainly, as though testing a word that had been unfamiliar to him for so long. "After..." After Camlann, "I had not thought I could ever feel happy again. I did not think I could feel again, after that, but... ah, Lord God, I am grateful."

Although he's not blushing, she might feel a hint of unmistakable dampness in her hair; even though his voice and his breath seem even and calm. When he speaks again, his breath is a whisper. "Those dreams I had, once, wondering what it would be like to know you, while I had hidden behind my walls in Camelot... they seem so foolish, now. How could they ever compare to reality...? I..."

Saber (346) has posed:
The first battle in which Arturia had lapsed into her own cold rage had been the last one during her mortal lifetime – even at Camlann, she had remained calm in comparison – and once more as the darkness of obsession took hold. But at that moment when Caliburn had broken with her vows, the king was abruptly brought out of it by the destruction of the sword of the Kings of Britain. As enraged as she had been, she nevertheless regretted both that loss of control and her actions. On the logical side of things, he would have been more valuable to Britain alive. And on the emotional side, the death of the chieftain would not bring her own country's dead back.

But in spite of that, the Saxons had been crushed, and not simply in terms of their forces. They saw from themselves the inhuman king who ruled from Camelot, assuming the Britons were too weak, soft, and disorganised to oppose them. And just as terrifying, many had fallen to the blade of a pale-haired berserker, a type of warrior they assumed could not possibly exist on this side of Albion. They paid the price for their assumptions in their dead, and they would not attack Britain again for so long as King Arthur ruled. How could they oppose fire and ice turned against them?

It had been a boon for her kingdom, the legendary fury which had inspired the troops and paralysed their foes with fear – though perhaps some of their allies, as well – the aloof logic of the king of icy winds had concluded. But from within that prison was someone very much afraid...not of him, but for him. That berserker rage had cost him greatly, and even simply the possibility of losing her marshal should not have troubled her as greatly as it had. That possibility, along with so much of Britain's lifeblood, she struggled to maintain her mask to carefully conceal. We are triumphant...but it is not worth all this loss...

Yet, she could not afford to show even the Left Hand of the King such favour. She could only request his report and leave him to the chirurgeons, the order that they not be disturbed the only possible hint that he meant more to the king than simply as a knight. She shook her head at his apologetic glance. Think only of recovery...

At the time, perhaps his mind had been too clouded with pain to protest. Thankfully, he had no need to endure it so much; she had made sure Bedivere remained unconscious through the worst of it. The silver-haired knight no longer had need to protect her rule at any cost to himself.

"The ones most suited to such tasks and positions are likewise among the most reluctant to do so," Arturia remarked with a hint of dryness. Camelot had always seemed to be rife with nobles constantly clamouring for higher positions, expansion of their lands, and greater wealth; it had been difficult appeasing them when it had come time for reforms. The court had been a never-ending careful dance of tossing the right kind of bones to the wolves of nobility. But now, she had no need to play that game. There was but the lord she had appointed who shared her ideals, whose modesty would ensure he took his proper place seriously.

"Well," she considered with a slight smile, "As we are not in war, then it would seem Dún Reáltaí has more need of a lord than a marshal." She knew very well how he hated war and violence; it was only natural, given the gentleness of his soul. "Serving me now...it means doing what we are doing here. Acting in accordance with the Virtues, helping the people...that was what I had always asked of you, though I dared not speak it."

In Camelot, she had needed to rely on their unspoken agreement. Here, she had no need. The people of this world needed kindness, something she was more than willing to share. Though modest, Bedivere was more than simply competent at his task. And that was all that was necessary.

His scrutiny didn't make her uneasy, but she did find herself curious. And perhaps even a little self-conscious, as the light blush revealed. She had remained ignorant of those times when he had watched her, though it seemed as if he had turned all too quickly, and the air of melancholy was subtle but palpable to her. Her own stolen glances had always seemed to be in the early hours of the morning or late into the evening...even as she was unaware of why that was, or why she had felt so ashamed of doing so. Still, to have seen him rescue a butterfly, or gazing at the stars...she had never brought herself to regret them.

It hadn't surprised her at all that he had noticed as she wiped away misting eyes. She had never properly grieved for her fallen knights – aside from being at death's door, herself – and even her breakdowns before each of the knights who had returned to her had not been quite the same. It had seemed the only thing which had kept her together was the hope that she could save them through the Holy Grail, but when she had given that up, Arturia kept those feelings buried lest she succumb to further despair. To finally bury them, to rebuild and nurture a home built in chivalry and the dream they shared...perhaps she had some healing of her own to do. Her response was a delicate sigh, as if releasing that pain finally.

Perhaps. And perhaps his status had afforded him the ability to spare them, though commoners would have likely made some use out of the animals, unable to afford the same waste as nobles did. If there was some way to return, she wondered, perhaps someone could find them...though in truth it wasn't very realistic for her. Especially since there were many other things to be done among the ruins of Camelot.

Not too long ago, Arturia would have flailed, blushed, protested, or some combination of all three as Bedivere laughed at the memory she recounted. But the idea had been to do away with secrets, to admit to the more embarrassing parts of her past which included her childhood with Sir Kay. But more importantly, he had laughed...something she had not heard since that disaster of a céilidh, and not at all before then. That alone was worth more to her than simply a little compromising of her dignity.

The jade-eyed knight found herself smiling in spite of herself. "His retaliation was dirt in my shoes," she tried to grumble but the lilt in her voice betrayed her own amusement. "Mine in turn was to hide his shoes on the roof of the stables."

Arturia stifled her own laugh with her hand at the silver-haired knight's own similar memory. "Were you able to exact revenge?" she asked, wondering what kind of retaliation someone with such a tactical mind would have come up with. Even more amusing was the idle thought of the aloof, supposedly humourless marshal waging a prank war of his own against his brother.

"I-it is not that...it is so...undignified," she grumbled into his tunic. Of course, much of her dignity had already evaporated in his presence over the past month – with or without the assistance of others – when her mask crumbled and the walls came down. There was much that was quite undignified about her beneath the kingly mask...and she had to admit that allowing Bedivere to see those true expressions meant sharing the undignified parts of herself. When she had first found him in the multiverse, admitting that in her childhood, the king had been waging a prank war with her adopted brother for much of her life would have been horrifying, out of fear of disappointing him. Now, it all seemed rather silly to have been so afraid.

She could feel the shift in mood as the violet-eyed knight became contemplative, relieved after the long night following Camlann. After her final battle, she could remember little, slipping in and out of consciousness, feeling only sorrow and regret in her waking moments. She had made all her sacrifices willingly in sound mind, but in truth she had never truly realised what she had given up. Now, Arturia was certain she could not have isolated herself in such a way again, closing herself off from the people she had come to depend on and love. Even for the sake of protecting them, she could no longer withstand the pain to herself nor to them. She certainly couldn't turn away the love of her closest knight even had she wanted to.

But God had granted her the blessing of never needing to again. Whatever path they took from there, it would never again be one of isolation.

Her arms tightened comfortingly around him as she felt the familiar dampness in her hair, both reassurance and affection. There was no spell powerful enough to make her feel so warm, safe, and yet strangely strengthened as she did now, praying he could feel that way in turn. Such a thing had been impossible in Camelot, but to have in now was more than enough. "There is no magic nor dream which could compare."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Saxon defeat in that rainy valley had marked a turning point in King Arthur's reign. No more did the people express their doubts about their leader, or question the king's capabilities. They had done so since Caliburn had been drawn from the stone, but after that battle, no more. It had been a decisive victory no matter how it had been won. Whether by perceived witchcraft on part of the pale-haired berserker or by the king's cold and inhuman rage, the day had been won.

Still, that rage had certainly come at great cost. Even putting aside his injuries, the marshal had seemed somehow diminished after that battle. He had rested, and thanks to the king's request that he spend as much of that time unconscious as possible, but he had taken wounds that should have killed another man. The strong, silent marshal had been physically devastated – unable to move his left arm for several days, though mercifully able to sleep through the pain thanks to the administrations of the chirurgeons.

Even they had muttered grimly and shaken their heads, though, when they had dutifully reported his condition to the king... but he had surprised them all by pulling through. He had made a point of rehabilitating himself, and much as his knight-aspirant training, he had not allowed that wound to compromise his abilities. Now, aside from a terrible scar tracking along his left forearm, one would never know.

"Perhaps," Bedivere murmurs, in response to her observation. He still seems a little unhappy about it, but he's willing to accept it. It is what it is, and this is necessary for him, however much he might object on the grounds of unworthiness. On some level, they both need this, to help them heal and mend those old hurts.

Shrugging faintly, he shakes his head, though he seems to accept Arturia's observation of his unspoken duties and the agreement between them. He shifts slightly, sighing quietly into her hair. I am thankful for that. Even if we could not speak, we could still understand one another perfectly. It made the pain of those years bearable for me.

Even if he could never have her, or admit to his secret motivations, he could still take comfort in the fact that they could share in their singularity of purpose. That, and his ability to watch her when no one else was looking – though always he had looked away the instant he sensed her regard, as though something had pained him. Perhaps I wasn't as careful about that as I should have been, he muses. If you had seen it, who else had...?

He had no doubt that the court wizard had made note of it. Sometimes, Merlin would look at him while smoking his long-stemmed pipe, thoughtful and silent. The way the tattooed wizard regarded him had chilled him to the marrow – like Merlin had seen right through him, somehow; all his motivations and secrets laid bare like the pages of an open book.

Still, he finds his amusement returning when Arturia describes more of the prank war between herself and her brother.

"Dirt in the shoes? Mm. Well-played," the marshal murmurs, with a grin. "Aah, but not as good as leaving his boots on the stable roof. I imagine Sir Kay spent some time hunting for them." And given his hot-blooded nature, he can imagine Kay grew increasingly frustrated, too, while Arturia tried not to laugh.

Revenge? Bedivere smiles serenely, reaching down to run his fingers through her hair. "My lady, you know I am not a vengeful person," he chides her gently. The undertone of mirth undermines his words, though, and he can't help but chuckle. "I took his gauntlets apart, and I drove nails through the leathers. When I'd fixed the plates back over them, he wouldn't have known until he put them on. I heard him howling from across the courtyard." The pale-haired knight's tone is undeniably smug... but he deflates a few seconds later. "Of course, his revenge was to scour my sword with sand. He nearly ruined it, and I nearly struck him a blow over the matter. I was a week polishing that back to acceptable standards... there are marks on it still from that, though I suppose they've been lost among the scoring and the notching."

He chuckles again when she grumbles into his tunic, stroking her hair. Dignity isn't really a concern any more; and the chuckle she can likely feel as much as hear says as much. "You need not worry about that, my love. I think we have suffered enough blows to that to humble us both for some time to come." His thoughts drift back to the Tohsaka household, and her former Master's horrifically embarrassing assumptions. Or, more recently, the peasantry of Dún Reáltaí.

"Mn." It's a soft, thoughtful sound as he senses her shift in mood; fingers slipping through her hair in soothing gesture – though, if he were to be completely honest with himself, just as much is the motivation that he enjoys doing that. Her hair is fine and soft; as soft as he might have imagined it would be, and that faint scent of rose about it somehow suits her. You will need never wear that mask again unless you so choose to. It is no more a necessity. We never need go back to that wearisome routine again. He closes his eyes over the top of her head.

"No," he agrees softly, voice even in spite of the telling dampness in her hair. "There is not. Nor will there ever be. Oh, my love..." He trails off, as though unable to quite articulate what he wants to; silent as he continues to run his fingers through her hair, head resting over hers. The silver-haired knight settles instead for a smile; not that awkward and shy smile she so adores, but the one that reveals his hidden heart; the warmth and affection he had hidden for twenty long, cold years.

For just a few moments, content and comforted in one another's arms, they are not the king and marshal; they are simply Arturia and Bedivere, two lost and long-suffering souls finally permitted some measure of rest and recovery from their struggles.

"No magic or dream," he murmurs, reaching out to pull the blankets and furs more securely around them, huddling into them and closer to her. Tucking his head over hers, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, tightening his arms around her. His simple gesture of affection speaks more truly for him than words.

He had been eloquent in Camelot's court, soft-spoken but capable of great precision in his choice of words, able to move peasants and nobility alike. Yet now they seem to fail him when he wants them most; unable to say what he wants to in her presence. How does she do that...?

Bedivere chuckles softly, the sound felt as easily as heard. "There are so many things I want to say to you, but I do not know how to find the words. What irony, my love, when I had relied on words in the court..." His voice is a little muzzy, though, as though his exhaustion were slowly catching up to him. "I feel a fool for ever having thought you would turn away from me, from the weakness I had hidden from you..." The shy, gentle knight behind his mask; not the cold and stoic marshal, that is.

"I do not care if it is improper." He smiles into her hair. "We are here for one another, and that is more priceless to me than the greatest gold or silver. You make me... happy," he repeats softly. "But it is more than that. I cannot even put to words how it makes me feel, that you are mine, and I am yours... I... never thought I could feel this way. I had never expected to be able to feel this way."

"Aí." His voice is no more than a breath, soft and unsteady, tone one of undisguised wonder. "I had expected to long for you for the rest of my days, knowing I could never have you. I spoke truly when I said I would have no other lady. But for your reign, I would serve you, for it is all I could do. Twenty years I had loved you from such a distance, my lady. Aye. I was glad to serve you. I would never take that back. But such service was as a knife in my side, twisting every time I saw you. If... I am to be honest, I do not know how long I could have borne it. And to see you suffer so... aí, my love, I had wanted so badly just to comfort you..."

"But I..." His voice cracks; arms tightening around her, just a little. "How can I even put to words what you mean to me? I—I cannot find them. There are no words for that..."

Saber (346) has posed:
It would be days before the king set out again, and she could already feel time begin to move for her again following the loss of the Golden Sword of Destined Victory. Whatever bad omen might have been read into the sword's shattering was almost ignored in light of their impossible victory; perhaps many saw that the cost had been the sacred symbol of the King, or it was simply a coincidence as the blade struck the backplate at just the right angle to shatter. How easily chivalry could be discarded even then. If there was any guilt to be had on her part, it was the breaking of her own oaths, the loss of reason to the demand for atoning blood. They had already won due to the sacrifices of others, she should have kept her rage in check. But whatever her true feelings had been, the king merely knelt, retrieved the shards of Caliburn, and returned to the citadel, every action carried out dispassionately.

Late that evening, the king took up her nightly station seated at her window, her arm propped up on a knee drawn close to her chest, her chin resting on the open palm. The broken sword lay before her on the sill with the moonlight casting ethereal shadows over it, but how long her gaze remained on the pieces without seeing them, she did not know; time seemed to have no meaning. The queen had long since retired to bed, but Arturia could not sleep. Perhaps it had been the moment when she began to question her rule; surely Caliburn had deemed her unworthy.

The next day had been when the mysterious advisor to the king appeared to her from wherever he had been wandering. Merlin always seemed to have an uncanny knack for suddenly appearing when he was most needed...or at the worst possible time. That day, however, had fortunately been the former, and it was only a few days following that they had set out for the home of the Lady of the Lake. Once more, time stopped for the King, and from that moment on, her chivalry had been absolute.

But secretly, perhaps even to the king herself, the task also forced her to focus on something other than stalking about the castle out of worry. The prognosis had not been favourable by any means, but there was nothing she could do. There were few times when she had felt more helpless than during the marshal's recovery. And something she considered a miracle that he had successfully fought for his life.

That 'perhaps', she realised, was probably the most satisfactory answer she was going to get for the moment. Just as Arturia was going to struggle with feelings of unworthiness for years to come, so too was Bedivere. That he had so much as grudgingly admitted that what she said was right was, at least, a start.

The unspoken communication had been a comfort to her, as well. It had undeniable tactical and political advantages, but more importantly to the jade-eyed king, it was a comfort beyond that. It had been a sign that there was someone who understood her at least on some level, who would not turn away no matter what decisions she made as king. No, there was never a question of Bedivere's loyalty, even as suspicions ran throughout the court because of his foreign birth. That had never mattered to Arturia...the silent words between them, the understanding that he would be the Open Left Hand of the King which offered charity rather than the sword. He knew she had wanted that, and in turn she trusted him absolutely. It brought me as much peace as I could have then, to know you would remain by my side.

She shook her head lightly. Not that it mattered much any more; anyone who could have possibly have noticed had long since become dust. If someone else had, Arturia was certain that it would have been a weak point in his impenetrable armour that none could ever seem to crack. I was simply puzzled. I doubt anyone else had noticed even that much.

"He spent hours searching for them," she quipped with a triumphant smirk at the memory before it faded. Some part of her had missed those days of pranks and chores and watching the stars from the top of the hill on warm summer evenings. "Naturally, our 'war' came to an end when I accepted the task of drawing Caliburn."

"Not that sort of revenge," she chided with mock-annoyance, poking him lightly in the chest but not enough to cause any pain. She did, however, wince in sympathetic pain at the then-knight aspirant's prank. She was, however, somewhat surprised at something she had noticed in the recollection of Sir Lucan's 'revenge'. "The sword is one you use, still? Many knights have new swords commissioned and keep their squire's blades as mementos..."

Arturia herself had kept the one given to her by Sir Ector for reasons of nostalgia; obviously she could no longer use it when she had claimed Caliburn.

She groaned softly thinking about it, but it was rather half-hearted. Indeed, it seemed as if their dignity had been cast to the four winds since she had brought him back to the Tohsaka estate. Her previous Master was a kind young woman, to be sure, but not healthy for the Servant's dignity by any means. And things hadn't gotten any better once they had moved into the keep. Somehow, she suspected that even if she had taken direct leadership, the townspeople would have thought that he was her consort, anyway...so perhaps things had worked out for the slightly less-humiliating.

Besides, it had worked out for the best. Arturia was obligated to stay by Bedivere's side and help him recover both physically and mentally. The fact that he was warm and comfortable and the hair-stroking being quite pleasant and having an excuse to be near him were all incidental. It made her feel a little foolish, how she somehow just seemed to fall apart in his presence; not only had the mask disintegrated and the walls protecting her fell away, but even the more masculine aspects of herself...the battle-hardened veteran had retreated to somewhere else. And yet, to cast aside the burdens of having to wear the mask at all times, hiding her true self, burying her feelings...she finally understood how very weary it had made her.

Though she was unable to see with her head tucked beneath his chin, she could still somehow feel the warmth and affection in that smile. Somehow, she knew that was the most beautiful one of all, completely free of the mask. In this moment, there were no titles nor duties, and the smiles they had were those of the truly free.

She settled more comfortably into his arms as he struggled to express himself, tightening hers a little in turn, as if to speak with a gesture when her own words failed. It was ironic; the very things he had feared her turning away from were precisely was was so irresistible to her. Perhaps my ignorance was for the best...I do not think I could have stayed away from you, had I known....much less have been objective.

It occurred to her that perhaps there simply were no words for the gift they had been given, the miracle they had been granted. Not simply her new life, nor finding each other, but being able to cast aside their masks and reveal all of who they were. Even with the masks, they had always been of one mind. Now, without them, that bond was even stronger still. And that filled her with a wonder beyond anything she had ever felt. Indeed, there seemed to be no words that could even approach expressing it.

"No, there are not," she replied, shifting her arm slightly so that she could run her fingers through the tips of his hair. "But we have no need for words."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In spite of grave injury, fever, and the threat of infection that the chirurgeons had striven mightily to fend off, Bedivere had survived. Against all odds, he had pulled himself through what should have been mortal wounds. He had been terribly weak when he had finally found the strength to sit upright, and he had coughed up blood for days, but he had survived.

His detractors among the nobility had been astonished. So had the chirurgeons that had been tending to him. It made no sense; it could only have been the will of the Lord, they said, muttering into their beards and shaking their heads.

Bedivere had proceeded to throw himself right back into his work, pushing aside his pain and his exhaustion through sheer willpower; rehabilitating his left arm until he could carry a shield again, or do whatever else he might have needed to in the line of duty. He would bear a broad scar from then on, among the many others; but he had survived.

It was perhaps the closest to death he had ever been. Not even the terrible cost of Camlann had laid him so low, physically, though it had certainly done so in spirit. He had wandered the multiversal weald thinking he had been trapped in Camlann, and gradually, he had lost weight, hollows beneath his high cheekbones and haunted shadows in his eyes. He had done good for the peasants he had found living there, staying here and there in exchange for tasks like chopping wood or driving away brigands, but he had done these things with a certain emptiness; as though he were simply following a prescribed routine. His heart had not been in it. His heart had not been in anything. How could it? It had been broken so badly he had doubted it would ever heal.

Now, though... the scars of his heart are finally beginning to heal, however slowly. He could not be more grateful for that. The fires of Camlann that had burned for so long in the recesses of his mind, and his memory, are finally beginning to die down. It will be some time before they are banked fully... but it's a start.

Bedivere chuckles when she describes Kay searching for his boots for hours. It stands to reason; who would think to check the roof of a stable for such a thing? "Did you have to tell him, or did he find them on his own...?"

"Mm." He flinches a little when he's poked in the chest, but it seems more from reflex than actual pain. He grins as she winces, perhaps thinking that Lucan had actually put the gauntlets on. "Ah, no, my lady, he did not actually put them on. He did have to spend time taking his gauntlets apart and repairing the damage, though. That took him some time, as I recall..."

"Ah?" The sword? He raises his brows, and his eyes flick to his armour, neatly arranged on the armour-form, and the sword belt hanging from a hook driven into the mortar beside it. Beside that hangs the war-horn he had borne at Camlann, cracked but functional. "Oh... yes. That is my sword, my lady." he cocks his head slightly. "I never had another commissioned. That is the only blade in my possession, beyond my dagger. Look it over, some time, and I am certain you will find the scoring in it... I... did not see a reason to commission another sword when that one worked so well."

His had been sentimental appeal, as well, though – the first concrete proof of his path of knighthood. That, and Bedivere has always been a terribly practical person.

Gently, the knight pats her shoulder at that groan, chuckling quietly enough that it might be missed if they weren't so close. There, there. He can sympathise. His dignity is in tatters just as much as hers, both from her former Master and the assumptions of the villagers. Like as not they would have made assumptions no matter their course of actions – in their mind, things were probably much simpler: A lord taking control of the keep, and a woman who was, to their observation, his constant companion. He can't really fault them for it, in all honesty. What else were they to think at such a thing? He had never thought about it himself, before; the people of Britain had always assumed their king was a man. He had known otherwise, but it had been a closely-guarded secret, so closely guarded that he had not even known there were others who had pieced the puzzle together for themselves. He had been somewhat surprised when Gawain had confessed his awareness.

It had certainly worked out for the best, no matter the villagers' perceptions. Though he struggles with the impropriety of depending on her, he can find no fault with how comforting it is to have her close by. Even the simple act of holding her, or being held, is a balm to his nerves.

I have no words. He bows his head over her, his soft breath a helpless sigh. She would have stayed with him, even under threat of her rule and reputation. His eyes close; he buries his face in the her hair. While staying by his side during his ordeal would not have destroyed her reign, it would have dealt irreparable damage to her reputation, and hastened the crumbling of the kingdom that much more. Yet, all the same, he finds himself glad she did not. He was not worth the damage it would have sustained. You honour me... truly... One hand rises to slip fingers through her hair, the gesture gentle and slow; reverent. But it was as well we had our distances to keep, my love. I could not have maintained my mask if you had breached that distance. I—I could not have borne that.

He had his limits, as he does now.

Even with his head over hers, face in her hair, his is still long enough that she can run her fingers through it. He's always kept it long; and loose, it reveals itself to be as soft and fine as it appears to be, if slightly mussed from sleep. The sensation seems to soothe him, his arms around her relaxing somewhat.

We need not stay away from one another any longer, and for that, I could not be more grateful. I am yours, my love.

"No," he murmurs, voice already growing distant. He shifts to pull her closer, nuzzling into the join of her neck and shoulder with a soft, tired sound at the back of his throat. "We do not."

"I think..." His voice fades, breath a wash of warmth over the side of her neck as he sighs. "I think... I will try to sleep again..." Lulled by the gentle sensation of her fingers through his hair, his eyes gradually drift closed.

The last words he manages are barely a murmur. "Good... night... my love..."

Although he does not smile, there's no mistaking his contentment; the steady measure of the rise and fall of his chest, or the way he lies with his arms curled loosely around her. Slowly, so slowly she might not notice if she weren't so close to him, he gradually relaxes; breath slowing into the rhythms of peaceful sleep.

Saber (346) has posed:
Among the silver-haired knight's qualities which the king had found admirable was his steadfast refusal to simply give up. His original Gaelic name was more than appropriate, even though he had been almost chagrined at its true meaning. She had realised from his very beginnings as a knight-aspirant that he was not a warrior, that he had to struggle to keep up with his fellow squires. Yet, in spite of the many odds, he never withdrew, forging on until the day he was before her on bended knee, Caliburn touched lightly on each shoulder in turn.

It had been the proudest moment of his life, he had implied. And for the king, one of her proudest memories of him.

Perhaps the only comfort for her when he was borne from the battlefield with wounds that would have surely felled another man, and when she was forced to leave his side by duty and impartiality, were those memories. He was no warrior, but he was a soldier and a fighter. He would persevere where warriors fell. If ever there was a knight who would recover from such grievous wounds, who would never simply give up content that he had died in battle, it was Sir Bedivere.

He had proved that time and again since that battle, moving forward even after he had lost everything and his king was no more. Even for the sake of her memory alone and of all she had tried to reach, he pressed on to continue to fulfil his duties even when her death should have released him from all obligations. Whether broken physically or mentally, it seemed that nothing could force him to abandon duty or even life itself, no matter the cost. It was humbling, not to mention at times stirred up feelings of inadequacy in her. She had refused to give up even as she lay dying, going so far as to plead with God to grant her the chance to save her kingdom. She had fought for years and in spite of fierce opposition in strength and in spirit, many enemies, and countless setbacks. But there had been times when she had wondered if she truly had the strength to carry on, as weak as she was.

Yet, even in her weakness...if she had helped him to begin healing in any way, perhaps that was enough.

The slightest smirk was on her features; she had got him good with that prank. "He finally found them on his own," she recalled. "Though, not without a hint." He had been an excellent knight, Sir Kay...but sometimes had seemed to have trouble thinking in more unorthodox ways. That had been the talent of the man who had become her marshal.

A wound from something like nails in the gauntlet would have laid up Lucan for at least a week; it was certainly a good thing it had merely been an inconvenience. A very frustrating inconvenience, but an inconvenience nevertheless. Arturia stifled a laugh with her hand, imagining Bedivere's brother cursing under his breath – or perhaps audibly, at times – as he worked to take apart his gauntlets piece by piece.

Perhaps it should not have been so surprising that Bedivere had kept his original blade, as frugal and practical as he was. Few knights simply discarded their first blades, usually keeping them as souvenirs of their squires' training. But they were never used again; generally too lightweight and damaged from the training. Most wished not to risk their blades shattering due to one of the many nicks and notches in their first blades. Most preferred heavier, thicker swords which lended themselves to more powerful – if slower – strikes. However, the violet-eyed knight favoured speed over strength, preferring a lighter blade. It was practical for him to keep his first blade, yet the amount of honing it must have required to remain serviceable...

Well, that part was hardly surprising, too.

Arturia had not thought on the fact that they had been constantly in each other's company; naturally, he had accompanied her constantly as her aide-de-camp. Rare was the time when he was not at her side as they assessed a battlefield or the condition of her troops, and the king had relied on him as her subordinate to issue her orders. It was the standard procedure for a military operation...only, they were not in a military operation. Even more to the point, she was no longer disguising her gender. The petite knight would have slapped her forehead at the realisation were it not for her current position; the grievous failure to observe and adequately assess the situation. In retrospect, it was a perfectly natural thing to assume of the two of them, from their perspective.

But it had worked out for the best. As embarrassing as it was, the jade-eyed knight had to admit that the idea of it had not troubled her. It was rather pleasant, in fact...shameful though such thoughts were. Yet, in many ways, she had been granted things she had willingly but ignorantly given up. A home, family...even love.

Such things would not have been possible for her as the king of Britain. She had believed that it was the destiny of the king to be alone, to bear all burdens silently for the sake of the people. Camelot was a much more fragile thing than many had ever suspected, and that delicate balance was – in spite of the murmurings of the king's inhumanity – maintained because of the stony mask guarding her self-imposed isolation. Bedivere had the right of it; compromising that would have corroded the foundations of her kingdom. They never could have maintained their masks...just as they were unable to in the present. There, in his arms, with his fingers entwined in her hair, hers was nowhere to be found.

She continued to slip her fingers through his soft hair; doing so soothed her in a similar way as it had him. No, she no longer had to isolate herself, to pretend that the kingly mask was all there was to her, that there was nothing of weakness or embarrassing memories or childishness. It was all laid bare for the knight of the Dál Riata. As I am yours, my love.

Arturia did not so much as stop running her hands through the silver-blonde hair as he drifted off to sleep. "Good night..." she murmured in turn, only faintly noticing when he finally relaxed into a peaceful rest. "My love..." murmuring faintly as sleep in turn claimed her.