999999/In a Lifetime

In a Lifetime
Date of Scene:	27 July 2014
Location:	Fuyuki City
Synopsis:	On discovering him training, Arturia challenges Bedivere to a sparring match.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The backyard of the Tohsaka residence is not precisely vast, though compared to many other residences in the neighbourhood, it's certainly spacious. Grand, mature trees arch over the yard and obscure it from sight. Impeccable landscaping graces all other aspects of it, turning it into what almost seems like a beautiful garden. Since the trees are largely planted towards the periphery, they leave wide swaths of open lawn. In summer, golden light filters through the leaves, dust motes dancing in the air – almost reminiscent of the gardens in Camelot, save for the lack of stone pathways, or plants exotic to mediaeval sensibilities.

Towards the centre of the lawn, one of the house's newest guests has settled himself in the great outdoors. In his hands is a simple stave-sword, probably carved from a fallen branch of one of the trees.

Arturia had told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to train himself. And so, train himself he has. Every morning, nearly before the rise of the sun, practising his movements and his stances. Thus far he hasn't had the courage to ask to spar with her – it wouldn't be proper, she is still his king, even if their kingdom is lot to them – but he has been here, faithfully, for as much as his injuries would permit.

They're healing nicely, though, thanks in part to the "witchcraft" of advanced medicine. The bruises still pain him, and they'll take a bit more time to fade, but in all he's recovered quite well. No longer do the simplest of movements cause him to grit his teeth or suck in a sudden breath in shock. He'd forgotten what it had been to be wounded so – even at Camlann he had been relatively uninjured despite the ferocious fighting on both sides of the battle lines. And for much of the battle that had lost Caliburn, he had simply forgotten. Memory had faded; tempered by time, as it is wont to do.

Now, though, he is focused completely on the wooden blade in front of him. For the moment he isn't doing much – standing stiffly, blade held vertically in front of him with both hands on the "hilt," eyes closed as he just breathes for a moment. He holds it so it balances perfectly, nearly weightless in his hands. In truth, it's nearly that, for pine branches are a soft wood, and despite his mortality, Bedivere is strong and well-trained. There is a boulder in the middle of this part of the lawn, likely detritus from home repairs or leftover material from the house's original construction that had not been bothered to be removed. That, it seems, is Bedivere's target.

His eyes flutter open. Slowly, he lowers the blade – and launches into a fierce flurry of attacks, attacking the thing from almost every side. The blade meets with the stone in harsh reports – crack, whack! – with every blow.

No doubt anyone coming might almost be able to sneak up on him, so complete is his concentration, despite his usual perception...

Saber (346) has posed:
As beings of pure magic frozen in time, Servants had little need to train, particularly for a lifespan less than the two weeks necessary to conduct the Holy Grail War. But the King of Knights was not that kind of being any longer, closer to a very sophisticated familiar, albeit with limitless free range. She wasn't entirely certain if training would do any good in her case...and yet, she did it anyway, rising before dawn and running through the familiar exercises. If nothing else, it had always seemed to bring the girlish knight some manner of peace.

The same could be said of sparring, something she had done many times after her arrival in the multiverse, with a wide range of friends and allies; from her close friend and fellow knight, Agrias to another close friend and Mobile Section Six teammate, Fate Harlaown to even her First Knight and fellow Saber, Lancelot. As much as she had enjoyed even her much more serious battle with Lancer – as a fellow knight and honourable opponent – a test of strength and skill in non-lethal contest between friends was a pleasure she had not known for a long time, and couldn't seem to get enough of in her new life. Sadly, when Agrias had departed on her journey, one of the things she knew she would miss would be such times.

She shook off the nostalgia with a slight shake of her head as she left her room – dressed in a simple hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, her hair in its customary braided bun bound with the familiar blue ribbon – with wooden practise sword in hand. Typically, she would go in the opposite direction from where her marshal was currently training. but today, whim overtook her and she decided to check up on him. He hadn't exactly been avoiding him on purpose, but Arturia understood that there were times one had to find one's own balance. It had taken some effort, but she decided that she ultimately trusted him to be able to.

That, and she was still not entirely certain she could look him in the eye yet. Making sure he'd healed properly had been simple enough, even if he might have been baffled by the strange lack of eye contact. But at least observing shouldn't do any harm.

Silently, she approached the grounds behind the estate, and it didn't take very long to find the pale-haired knight. She didn't call out; aside from her newfound awkwardness, he was so immersed in training that she had no wish to disturb him. Instead, she studied his precise movements, visually gauging their strength, and glad to see that he was recovering well. Still, there was only so much one could practise with an immovable target...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
With a particularly harsh crack, the stave-sword rebounds off the boulder with a small shower of splinters. Bedivere steps back at that, apparently startled out of his trance-like state, shaking out the momentary numbness from his arm. The boulder is given a look of mild surprise. Had he really struck so hard? The stave-sword is carefully checked over for damage.

And then... and then he senses something strange.

It's a distinct sensation, that feeling of being watched. Certainly Bedivere has felt it before. After his appointment as marshal he had been on the receiving end of many such looks from jealous nobles. He knows what that feeling is. It's saved his life on the battlefield, before.

The stave-sword flicks out in a single movement, not so much as quivering when it points in Saber's direction.

"Who—" Bedivere goes no further than that, blinking owlishly in Arturia's direction. The sword immediately lowers. "Ah. I—I did not hear you..."

The admission is given with a little embarrassment. It's rare for the marshal to miss anything. His head inclines respectfully a moment later. She's been strangely distant, refusing to so much as look him in the eye, ever since she'd recovered him from the Caverns of Prophecy. Yet she had also cared for him, patiently attending him while he healed, and gently but firmly insisting that he not overreach and set himself back in his recovery.

Needless to say, things have been a bit awkward since then. He isn't certain what the cause of that is, and he's been a bit bemused; careful not to say or do anything that might not set her off further. At the same time, he's not certain that the comfortable formality of king and knight is called for, either.

Bedivere lets the wooden blade lower until it touches the ground, reaching up with his other hand to rub at the back of his neck. It's an endearingly awkward gesture.

For once, the socially adept marshal has no idea what to do or say.

Bereft of any direction, he falls back on the comfortable routine of the loyal knight.

"Is there something I might do for you, my king...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
For the moment, at least, Saber was content to simply watch, assess, and even admire. Had he always been so strong? The fact that he alone had survived Camlann was a testament to his skill, certainly, and he had a build capable of such power. But that much aside, the knight of the Dál Riata had been driven for as long as she had known him, since she had caught the look of awe with a passing glance. Even had he lacked a clear natural talent, the sheer determination would have been sufficient. And yet, somehow she had not studied too closely.

Perhaps it had simply been that she had never noticed, too focused on leading Britain and maintaining her careful mask and the proper amount of distance. Or maybe, the four years had blunted her memory more than she would have liked.

On the other hand, his perception was exactly as she had remembered it. Of course, that was not terribly hard to remember, as she had been seeing that first-hand almost constantly. She couldn't help but smile, still impressed. Not an easy thing to do when the one watching was a Servant with preternatural abilities."Ah, I should have known you would be able to sense my presence so easily..."

Unfortunately the moment was broken when she realised she had just looked into his eyes for the first time in weeks. With a sudden flush, she quickly looked away, as if to hide something. "Ah...forgive me...I had not intended to interrupt your training."

In truth, she was; the memory of when he first woke after being brought home from the hospital refused to obediently go to the back of her mind. Still trying to sort through her own feelings, loathe to do anything to hurt him, even accidentally. The problem was that she couldn't seem to look him in the eye for fear that he would see too much, as he always seemed to.

Once more, she found herself cursing that sometimes Bedivere was a little too observant.

If that memory was going to be so disobedient, then perhaps she should focus on something else deliberately. Besides, she wanted to help with his training, get him up to speed as quickly as possible. Lifting her hand to her chin and clasping it between her fingers in that familiar habitual gesture, she considered her previous train of thought. "Have you found anyone to spar with? I have heard others on the radio, but I do not know if any have yet to agree to something of that nature. it seemed to be mostly requests for instruction."

A pity Agrias was off on her journey...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Though his strength and courage have never wavered, Bedivere was by no means the strongest knight of the Round Table. Cunning, and enduring, perhaps, but there were others who won over him in terms of raw strength. No; it was the combination of his strength of arm and his mind that truly made him dangerous in times of war. He had enough strength to make him dangerous, but the ability to direct that strength so keenly – that was his true weapon.

Certainly, there were many things stronger than he in the Multiverse. Lady Songsteel had proved that point efficiently, though he'd ensured the cost was just as high to her. Still, he had been reluctant. Where another opponent might have been less scrupulous, he had not so much as tried to hurt her; merely to knock her out, using the pommel and flat of his blade, his fist, or the odd well-placed kick where his weapon failed.

Any knight worth his pledge took Brehon Law seriously – that tangle of rule and law that dictated life in their time, which included the proper behaviour of host and guest. That topic, in particular, had great importance. If a man could not be trusted to host a gathering in peace, honourably, what good was he?

Even so... the rules here were different. Sometimes it took a hard lesson to learn such things. Arturia had only served to underscore that point, though he scarcely remembered the conversation at all. In fact, he has no memory of waking until a day later, after their conversation. As far as he knows, he slept through the day and night after he'd been brought back.

In that manner, one can understand his bewildered puzzlement.

Bedivere stands straight, almost to attention, regarding Arturia with some curiosity that his calm mask can't quite hide; though he's careful not to meet her eyes. That, he's noticed, seems to spook her these days.

It seems odd that she would spend so very much time and effort avoiding him, only to approach him directly at this juncture. Did she not usually use the other side of the yard for her own training? Certainly, he has heard her at her training, though he himself had never thought to intrude.

The faintest hint of a frown touches his face when she says she hadn't intended to interrupt him.

"You did not interrupt me." The explanation is given in that gentle tone of his. He doesn't smile, but his tone suggests something other than solemnity – that now-familiar shyness, perhaps. "Indeed, you are welcome to evaluate my training any time. After all, if you are aware of my capabilities and limitations, you know better what... situations... I can be sent into." That is to say, what will prove a challenge and what will flat-out rip his face off in the Multiverse. He shifts his weight, a little uncomfortably. His gaze drops away from her. "Ah, but if you wished to use this part of the yard, I do not mind relocating..."

He trails off when she gives her question, tilting his head slightly. Sparring? There had been many offers he'd made to instruct others in the use of a blade, but a rookie makes for a poor sparring partner. Aside from being unchivalrous to challenge someone so far behind in skill, it would present no challenge to him.

Part of him longs for the days of the Round Table, when he could keep his skills sharp against the likes of Sir Gawain, or even the occasional bout against Sir Lancelot; or his brother, Sir Lucan.

His gaze seems to go a bit distant at that. So many fine knights slain and lost. To his knowledge, he was the only survivor of Camlann. Lucan had died in his arms, after trying to help Bedivere move the mortally-wounded Arturia; the strain had proven too much for his brother's own wounds. It had been a hideously painful way to go, and in the end, he had ended his brother's suffering out of mercy.

Gawain, Lancelot... even Sir Bors, Sir Kay, and so many others. Then there were those who had gone haring off after the Holy Grail of their own accord, too; or those who had simply turned upon one another during Camlann, perhaps driven mad by the schism within the court between "father" and "son."

Bedivere clears his throat, expression stern as he pulls himself out of his memories. He tries for a hint of a smile, but it looks – and feels – forced.

"Ah, no, my king. I am sorry. It seems there are many in need of instruction, but few who are able to spar on equal terms. I should not like to challenge an unprepared ally..."

He turns away, sighing as he regards the boulder. "Ah, Lord God, what I would give to cross blades again with Sir Gawain, or Sir Lancelot... Sir Kay, Sir Lucan... I knew their ways of fighting as surely as I knew them." His voice drops; she might have to strain to hear his next words. "So many, lost..."

Shaking his head, he turns toward her again, though not directly, and he's careful not to look her in the eye. "I will try harder. Surely there must be someone among the Union who would agree to such a contest."

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, the attributes which had earned Bedivere the duties of Marshal of the Realm were the most readily identifiable; his cunning, keen mind, and sheer determination. Less well known was what had splintered a wooden sword; though there were stronger beings in the multiverse – to include his own king, now – that was not something to be underestimated. Then again, such underestimation had always been something Bedivere managed to work to his advantage. That, too, had earned what was more than a mere title.

Arturia would have been somewhat relieved had she known that he had forgotten the entire conversation, which whe might have been able to figure out if she dared really look at him. Certainly, she would have been relieved after her intentions for a Kingly Lecture had accidentally been cast to the wind the moment she allowed her emotions to get the better of her. She would rather him not remember that particular shameful outburst of hers. Unable to remember her singing again...also good. But above all that had been...

Her face flushed again as that cursed memory surfaced yet again. If only she could have forgotten it, as well....even if a part of her didn't want to, even if it makes even just speaking with him considerably more difficult. And she didn't even know where she could possibly begin to explain, not without casing him needless embarrassment or hurting him as she tried to wade through whatever morass her emotions had become. How frustrating this was.

His tone changed, however, and for a moment she looked up before looking away again. "O-oh...no, that is not...that is, I did not have need of this space, I was simply curious..." It was true enough.

For a while he was silent, unbeknownst that he had become lost in many of the memories which had haunted her, as well. Enough for her to beg the greater powers for a chance to obtain the Holy Grail and erase it all. Sometimes she had found herself wondering if abandoning it had truly been the best thing to do, 'fate' and all that rot be thrice-cursed. Not when so many good men – her own knights– had died because of the flaws in her rule. She had only made amends with two of her knights...and so many remained.

Finally, when he did speak, she was once more pulled into a past which she refused to put to rest. She remained silent, but someone as observant as he was – not to mention as familiar with her mannerisms – would be able to sense the internal grief she still carried with her. While not as terrible as it had been, it still remained.

But she could help no one like this. With deliberate effort, the petite blonde forced herself back to the present; there was still much to do. She did allow herself at least one recollection, a more recent one; thinking back to the last time she had seen Lancelot and accepted a 'challenge' from her First Knight. It had been great fun...if a little embarrassing from a bit of teasing on his part.

The fond memory helped her recover a bit of her purpose, and quite a bit of her composure. Finally able to set aside her embarrassment and guilt from the past few weeks, Arturia finally straightened, raising her head to the proper level befitting a knight. Moreover, there was a suitable way to honour their fallen brothers in arms.

"Then...if there are none, perhaps it is possible to honour their memory with a spar of our own." Now, she looked directly at him without so much as flinching, her face placid but for the fire of determination in her sea-green eyes.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Carefully, Bedivere raises his stave-sword, sighting down the edge with one eye squinted closed. That had been a hearty strike. Not quite enough to shatter the thing, but there's a crack running through the sanded branch where there hadn't been one before. His mouth twists in displeasure, and a little disappointment. Pity. This one had felt balanced. He'll have to find a suitable piece of deadwood and carve another.

Half his attention is still on Arturia, though. He had spotted her blushing and internal debating. Something obviously bothers her, something she can't explain to him, but he has no idea what it could be. Why does she suddenly have such difficulty looking at him? What terrible thing happened that she would avoid him so carefully? It's a mystery. Even worse, it's a mystery she has no intention of being forthright about. Surely she would have explained by now.

Lowering his blade again, he rubs at his jaw, contemplating this quandary. Doubtless she can sense some hint of his worried thoughts, but he doesn't burden her with that. No; she's come here to inspect his progress, it seems. Best he maintain that distance. It seems to help her.

Still, no matter how much he wracks his mind, he can think of nothing that would upset her so. He frowns faintly when she says she's only curious. So. She didn't come here to evaluate him? That's all the more confusing. His hand falls away, both loose at his side, stave-sword drooping in his grasp until the point touches the grass.

Ah, but he does sense the gravity of her thoughts. For a brief moment, he knows exactly what trails her mind has gone haring down. His has done the same, lately. He also notices as that fire slips into her gaze. Bedivere doesn't react with the same passion, though; it would be odd out of him. He merely tilts his head, regarding her with unspoken question, at least until she speaks.

"Ah—" The sound is almost a croak, though more of shock than anything else. "Wh—"

Maybe it's the sheer confidence in her eyes that does it, or the way that, for the first time, she looks to his eyes – the first time in several days; in fact, the first time since his return from the Union's medical facilities.

Bedivere looks a little uncertain, but he wouldn't dare argue. He does spend a minute or two internally agonising over it, though. She is his king, but at the same time, she's a fellow knight. And it would be honouring their memory – marshal and king, last remaining survivors of their home; the kingdom Arturia had built with her own hands.

The silver-haired knight frowns a little, as though he were trying to justify this to himself. Even as the high-ranking Marshal of the Realm, he would never have dared to cross swords with the king herself. That would have been presumptuous of him, and it would have been taking up valuable time of the king's. Such would have been a breach of etiquette. It also would have been yet another potential indication of favouritism, which neither of them had wanted.

Uncertain, he chews at his lower lip for a brief moment – the gesture is so helplessly uncertain that she might even find it endearing; so momentarily lost, in the marshal she had so implicitly trusted to be her rock, her stone of stability in the midst of the kingdom's whirl of drama.

Finally he sighs, eyes closing for a moment and head bowing in assent.

"Aye, my king." Violet eyes open once more, and while he retains that placidity, there is a solemnity to his features. "I accept your challenge. Have you a stave-sword of your own?"

Saber (346) has posed:
It retrospect, Arturia reflected that she should have constructed a replacement pell after she broke her last one, or a more modern training dummy somewhat more capable of enduring her abuse. Rocks generally did not make for very good training posts. She eyed the makeshift practise sword Bedivere wielded; despite the crack, it should hold up, at least for one session. If need be, there were others.

Internally, she resolved to figure out this whole problem about the forgotten discussion which was causing her so much distress. She really should not leave him like that, worried, not knowing what he could have done in that time between being brought back home and waking up. It was going to be difficult to explain that it wasn't anything that he had done, per se...

But that needed to wait until she could sort her own head out. Her suggestion had been almost as much to help her to cope with the bizarre situation as it was to train him. She needed something to clear her head, sharpen her senses and her thoughts, look at the whole problem more objectively. And the only thing that ever seemed to effectively accomplish that was mock-battle.

But aside from that, there was the matter of simple practicality; she was the best choice. Her knights were – in some form or another – no longer with them. An unpracticed opponent was certainly out of the question for a number of reasons; in Bedivere's case, the idea was to train with someone stronger. By her very nature, Saber possessed the superhuman strength and speed of a Heroic Spirit, and even among Servants she was one of the strongest and swiftest. And as a fellow knight and the founder of the Round Table, it would be the closest thing to continuing the training they all had pursued even upon becoming knights, never allowing themselves to become complacent. Even the king herself had trained in secret with Lancelot, out of the way of treacherous eyes. She was the ideal choice in this situation.

Yes, she thought. This was perfect, both in terms of practicality and in remembrance of their fallen comrades. And, perhaps a little selfishly, she had always wanted to cross swords with him sometime, proper etiquette or no. Now that she was finally afforded that opportunity, it would be a shame to waste it...especially for things which no longer truly mattered or a ridiculous tangled vine of unfathomable emotions.

Thinking on that fine mess nearly caused her to waver, but then she caught that endearing expression, a look of something vaguely resembling helplessness. Lately, she seemed to be feeling much the same of that herself, albeit for entirely different reasons. Yet, he acquiesced in spite of that, perhaps not yet aware that she saw this as a gift of a sort.

Smiling widely with an almost childlike exuberance, Arturia held up her practise sword. "Aye...and I shall have need of more, it would seem."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
All the poor marshal can do is to ride out this awkward phase, regardless of what it is that he did. Even so, it's a question that gnaws at him. What could he have possibly done that could have drawn such a reaction from her? Had he breached his own honour in some manner or another? Had he said something untoward? Something unchivalrous? By the Good Lord, what was it?

Still, he knows better than to ask. She seems uncomfortable enough just in his presence – though the promise of a spar seems to be drawing her out of it, just a bit. Indeed, the thought of crossing blades with anyone is a heartening thought; as much to him, too. He misses his brothers of the Round Table, no matter how aloof they may have considered him to be, and he did enjoy having their company around. They were as much a part of his life as the citadel itself at Camelot, or the spring rains, or the ledgers he so dutifully kept. Sir Lancelot's taciturn almost-frown, Sir Gawain's hearty laugh, the slightly teasing half-smile of Sir Kay... the halls of the stronghold weren't so empty, thanks to those things.

Bedivere raises his stave again, checking it over with one eye squinted closed. That was a nasty blow to it, and it's certain to go sooner or later, but in his estimation it should hold up for one more match. Provided she isn't too hard on it, anyway.

Still, to cross swords with his king... the thought is a strange one. It should be improper. He never would have asked for such a thing, in Camelot, though he secretly would have enjoyed the opportunity to test her personally. Such would have been presumptuous, though, and a possible sign of favouritism besides.

He knows of her skill. Certainly he's seen her reave her way across a battlefield, cutting down the enemy with strength and skill, greater than any man he had ever seen – she was a force to be reckoned with despite her small stature and her secret. Just from those glimpses, he's fairly certain they're matched, if he isn't outmatched entirely. And now, she is the Servant Saber... hmm.

Those bruises aren't going to be so lonely, are they? Something tells him he's going to collect a few more, whether he likes it or not.

The silver-haired knight barely seems to move, but at some point he'd adopted a defensive stance, flicking out his blade. He's dressed well for the occasion – the same commoner's clothing he seems to favour, out of his armour, and his hair drawn back not into its customary arrangement, but a simple queue bound with that brass cuff. Reaching up that high is still a bit painful, and he wouldn't dare ask her to do it for him. That would just be improper.

"Come, then, my king," he says in that soft voice. He is wholly focused, though, the line of his shoulders taut as a bowstring; those violet eyes suddenly sharp, searching for the faintest hint of movement that might betray Arturia's opening strike. "I am ready."

Saber (346) has posed:
In time – perhaps even later that day – she would at least try to tell him, and hopefully he won't be too horrified. And perhaps, this test of skill would blunt that lingering pain of loss, at least for a little while. Free from worries about favouritism, or impropriety, or betraying what lay behind the mask. Perhaps, even one day, the multiverse might even see fit to bring them back in some form. It was greedy of her, she knew; but she owed them the praise she had never been able to grant them, the love for them she kept hidden and dared not show.

That was what was ultimately worrying to her, now; was she simply reading that sense of loss and hope into her feelings now? Had she missed him so badly that she was confusing it for something else, mixing his own feelings into the morass? A single word from him had made her stupidly happy, but was it that she wanted to answer those feelings so much that she was tricking herself into it? She wanted to reward him so much and he had already suffered enough for her, but was that all there was to it?

She had to figure all that out first before she could tell Bedivere what was really going on. But for the moment, work. With no small relief that nagging memory finally pushed to the back of her mind, thanks to the discipline required of battle or facsimile thereof. That much came to her naturally after a lifetime of training. This she could do.

The King of Knights might have been grinning at this point as she dropped into an en garde stance. Or at least smiling widely.

As insulting as the idea might have been, Saber had no choice but to limit her physical speed and strength, just as she had against Agrias. This was especially necessary given that they – or rather, he – was not wearing so much as practise armour. On the other hand, there had been powerful beings against which she had limited not physical prowess, but skill. She hadn't needed to hold back against the holy knight in that regard, and she certainly had no need to now.

For a long moment, she simply held that pose, as if waiting...and then, with a blur of motion darted forward with an otherwise simple manoeuvre; a straight strike at his (uninjured) arm. Though fast, Saber reduced her speed by what was probably 60%, the same amount she had reduced it against Agrias when first they sparred. In their last bout, she had only reduced it by 50%, which indicated an excellent amount of skill against a Servant. of course, the idea was less of a spar and more of getting him used to facing opponents who were far faster. In fact, speed was a better trait to improve over strength; avoiding wounds at all was preferable to enduring them.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal looks on as his king tries to sort out the tangled skein of her thoughts. For once, he find he can't read whatever's going on behind those sea-green eyes, and the notion makes him uneasy. He can sense she's torn over something. He can sense that whatever it is distresses her considerably. Yet for all that, he can't seem to come any closer to providing any answers about it.

What had he done?

Even so, he makes no move whatsoever, motionless as he holds his blade in a defensive, two-handed stance. The blade does not so much as quiver in his grasp, despite the considerable ache he must be feeling from his bruises still. Bedivere had always been one for self-control, though – if any of the Knights of the Round Table could be said to exemplify the virtue of temperance, it had probably been him.

He waits, patiently, as she drops into her en garde stance, and that smile seems to melt all of the doubt and hesitation he'd been feeling over the past few days at her distance. He can't help a faint, lopsided smile flickering across his own face, short-lived as it is – his mind is quickly turning to the mock battle at hand.

Bedivere finds that he has no idea what to expect out of her. He's seen her fight, that much is true, but that was different. That was against the hordes of Saxons antagonising Britain, chewing at the foundations of Camelot like filthy rats. This is something else entirely; an honourable duel between two knights, two followers of the chivalric codes, and he finds that he's somewhat at a loss.

He's never seen her secret practise with Lancelot, and for all his perception, there were yet some secrets she had held from him.

That sword wavers, very faintly, in a controlled movement. Should he defend high? Low? Is she strong enough that he should avoid her entirely, or is he evenly matched enough to merely turn aside her blade? A block is out of the question; he's not certain his stave-sword would hold up to such trauma. Plus, her status as a Servant is some cause for concern. Exactly how high above human standard are we talking, here? How—

Oh shit.

Apparently the answer to that question is "absurdly far above it," because no sooner has he blinked then the king is on him and already lashing out with her practise sword. Bedivere makes a sound that could best be described as a graceless squawk of surprise.

To his credit, he recovers quickly – he attempts to sidestep out of the way, batting at her blade as he does, with every intention of fouling up the strike as he goes.

He is only human, though. The polished wood still grazes his arm painfully; he can expect a bruise there later.

Violet eyes flick to meet sea-green, then low, to study that sword-hand carefully. Bedivere is still uncertain; this is his king, and also his lady – he is reluctant to do harm. But more than that, after such a display, he finds himself wondering if he even could do harm. He had spoken the truth when he'd told her that her inhumanity didn't matter to him... but until now, he hadn't been certain of what that truly entailed.

The marshal swallows, though, gamely pressing on. He's never been a quitter. He's not about to start now.

Bedivere lunges forward with impressive speed of his own, lashing out in a quick strike for Arturia's unguarded sword hand; the manoeuvre is one meant to probe her defenses, a flurry of blows meant to see how quickly she can block – and whether she recognises them all as feints, for his true intention, after that, is to lash out at her sword-hand to disarm her.

Saber (346) has posed:
Nearly all of Arturia's rule had centred on one thing above all else; to bring utopia, a lasting peace to Britain where no one would know the horrors of war or live in fear of pillaging raiders. That era had been a tumultuous one where – ironically – to achieve that peace, there was no choice but to turn back invading forces and end rebellions which would tear the kingdom apart. It was either defend the kingdom or be overrun.

Yet, there were occasions when testing one's strength and skills against others for the purpose of honing them was simply a matter of friendly competition. Even the Holy Grail War had been something to that effect, at least in her battle against Lancer before they had been repeatedly interfered with. Certainly, the only times she had been able to enjoy such a thing after her coronation had been her training in secret with Lancelot, which oftentimes took the two of them away from the citadel and into the dense woodlands. As much as she had wished she could have trained with the rest of her knights, she could not.

But things were different now, and she was going to enjoy this for everything it was worth.

The first strike was something of a test and an introduction; ignorant of the details of his battle with Magatha, the Servant could only guess that the bard was not as fast as a Servant...probably. And probably not as strong, as well, but Saber wasn't about to test that. She had been strong, certainly – the awful wounds were evidence of that – but it was more than likely that was an effect of magic or that she, like Arturia, was not human. How he reacted would indirectly gauge what the battle may have been...and if the marshal was completely surprised, then it would serve as a fairly decent orientation.

Surprise, it was. The latter, then. Good recovery, though; he wasn't the Marshal of the Ream for useless reasons. And in all fairness, Servants seemed to be ridiculously strong beings even as far as the multiverse was concerned. In spite of that, they were hardly infallible – Saber didn't always walk away from her battles unharmed – and there were ways to beat them provided their opponent was cunning. And cunning was something Bedivere had in spades.

The parry was a marginally successful one, though she had made sure she hadn't put much of any power behind it for a variety of reasons. She'd still have to be careful; bruises in training were to be expected – how many times had she had bruises all over from her spars with Kay? – but broken bones or worse...not so much. The idea was improvement, not another visit to the medical wing.

Arturia couldn't help but feel a small measure of pride; she would have been astonished if Bedivere had simply given up, but it was nevertheless thrilling to see that familiar spirit and determination. She parried the incoming somewhat light strikes simply enough with little effort; they seemed as if they might be feits, though she was not completely sure. Conservatively testing the proverbial waters, perhaps? What would he do next, she wondered with a faint smile that bordered on the smirk she wore in her spars with Lancelot.

She had her answer soon enough. A disarming move, simple yet effective. Her answer was somewhat unorthodox, abruptly reversing the grip on her wooden sword with her left hand. With a quick step back, she swung her blade in a low arc aimed at his (obviously uninjured) side. "Ah, almost had me there..."

She really was enjoying this.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Few had actually known the extent of Bedivere's martial skill. He had rarely consented to such duels, having had much of his time occupied with the business of statecraft and the duty of keeping Camelot running smoothly. He had practised his skills largely in the mornings, alone, sometimes before the sun had risen. In winter it was a useful way to warm himself up without lazing about in front of a fire.

Once upon a time, before his election as Marshal of the Realm, he had been able to partake in such things. He had proven an equal match for both Gawain and Lancelot, and had enjoyed such duels... but it's been a long, long time since he had the opportunity to enjoy one. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to cross blades with someone and not do so with lethal intent.

He's quick on his feet, even with the level of bruising he still must be suffering from. His reflexes are no match for a Servant's, though, but he can make up for it with another natural gift of his – his cunning.

Cunning, many times, had won the battles where brute strength could not. Certainly, he could put to use brute strength when he needed to, but cunning was what won him the post of Marshal, and it was what had won many of Britannia's battles.

That Arturia parries those testing strikes seems not at all surprising; he had, indeed, expected that. While he had never crossed blades with his king, he had nonetheless observed her on the field of battle – watching, always watching – and perhaps knows some of what to expect. Where she shows her smile, though, his expression is neutral and focused – those violet eyes are sharp, watching her once again, but with a far more focused purpose this time. He's fully sunk into the mindset of the battle-tested knight; observing, anticipating, always seeking after the next opening to take advantage of.

It's with a sharp inhalation that he tries to jerk out of the way of that sweep of the blade, but it's enough to graze his side. He hisses; the jarring sensation is still enough to jar the wounded side painfully. Even as he does, he's circling around, light on his feet, trying to present as small a target of himself as possible – apparently he knows now that speed is her greatest talent, and wants to try and mitigate that somewhat. It's easier to dodge if he already has some momentum built up.

Bedivere is loathe to pass up such an opportunity, though, once he's in her personal space and under her guard.

He flicks out with the sword, lashing out in a quick one-two strike designed to bat at the Servant's sides; then, adopting a two-handed grip on the hilt, attempts to shove the blunt end of the stave-sword into Arturia's stomach. It's not too harsh a blow, but if she were both human and less skilled than he, it would be a vicious strike to knock all the air out of her and lay her out flat.

Somehow he doubts that's going to happen... but this allows him to find out what that threshold is.

Saber (346) has posed:
Four years wandering in the woods trying to reach Camelot, driven by duty and her memory alone. What had happened to him in all that time? Arturia found herself wondering. Had he fought off brigands before someone had found him, defending passing caravans from raids, or rescuing others who had been beset by such ruffians? She doubted his skills had rusted but those four years had been, to hear him speak of it – even as much as he seemed eager to put it behind him – he had been in mourning, hardly a time for keeping up one's skills. She certainly wasn't going to open up that wound by inquiring. Besides, she could assess how his skills were simply by what she was doing presently.

Once he found his focus, Arturia was confident that Bedivere would know to rely on his wits than physical skill; after all, that was precisely what he had always done as Marshal of the Realm. Even as a Servant, she had found herself falling back on forming her own tactics rather than almost acting as Kiritsugu's decoy. Perhaps that wasn't the right word, but it had felt as if he had planned on eliminating Masters himself rather than having her fight the other Servants in single combat. She had remarked once to Irisviel that it might have been better for his personal tactics to have summoned Assassin, nobility of his wish aside. Doing so had certainly helped once she no longer had a Master to co-ordinate with...at least until her contract with Sakura. But even then, the Tohsaka had more often than not deferred to Saber's greater experience in lieu of ordering her around.

Ah, she had been so very lucky to have met a Master who understood chivalry.

Yet, all this was in the back of her mind; she needed concentration. Saber might have been proud, but underestimating one's opponents typically got a warrior killed. Even when she faced those of lesser power, the Servant never dared lower her guard. That was certainly true now; mortal or not, underestimating a Knight of the Round would have been a most foolish mistake, especially for the king who had once led them. Her strike connected, and a part of her had wanted to stop to make certain she hadn't hurt him too much. But no, this, she ruthlessly reminded herself, was necessary. How many times had she been hurt like that against Kay or Lancelot? More times than she could even remember. Instead, she pressed her attack....however, not immediately.

Had she not reduced her speed, the rapid strikes could have been easily avoided or parried. She dodged the first and parried the second, but in all fairness the blow to her midsection would have been a valid score when she had been mortal. Fair was fair, so she tanked it. Moreover, this served as another demonstration; one of her advantages as a Servant was that she could take a great deal of abuse, even from other Servants...the King of Heroes notwithstanding.

Almost at the same time as the midsection blow, Saber gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands again, swiftly dropping the blade into an overhead strike at his shoulder. Hopefully, this wouldn't hurt too much.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps someday, Arturia might hear the story of what he had done in those four years. For now, though, that time is still a shadow over his being. He had spent it in mourning; even now, looking back to it is painful, even though the very object of his sorrow is standing right here in front of him... and battering him with a wooden sword, if he doesn't pay attention.

The marshal's skills may be slightly rustier than she remembers, but those instincts are old. He had pushed himself almost to the limit in his own training in Camelot, and it had served him well in many pivotal battles. When Caliburn was lost, that training had combined with his inhuman fury; in other campaigns, he had used his skill with such cool-headed mastery that the enemy was sure to fall before him, like ripe wheat before the scythe. However skilled he is, though, he was never trained to fight something beyond human limitations.

And Arturia is much more than human, now.

Violet eyes flick left, then right; trying to follow those impossibly quick movements to the best of his ability. It's difficult, but as usual, he offers not a word of complaint. He simply throws his effort into the attempt – just like always. Some things, it seems, never change. That aspect of him is as much a constant as his air of calm.

Bedivere carefully shifts his grip on his practise sword, but before he has the opportunity to follow up his strikes with anything further, her own blade parries and turns him aside effortlessly. He isn't quite putting everything he has into it, but even a trivial attempt from him is still better than most soldiers of Camelot. While he's not entirely surprised that his efforts are so trivially dismissed – she had told him she wasn't human anymore, after all – there is still a little bit of disappointment in his eyes.

Ah, well.

He'll have to change his tactics.

Adaptation was always one of his strong suits.

It seems he recognises what she's doing the instant she turns her grip on her sword, but he isn't fast enough to counter the attack. The best he can try to do is duck away from it, but the thing still comes down with (what is to his ears) a hideous crack. It also hurts, by the way he reels away with his teeth bared.

But as always, he makes not a sound of protest or complaint, aside from sucking in a sharp breath. He's in motion even as he wonders how bad the bruise is going to be, though. That blade flicks out again, faster, stronger; less of a test of her defenses this time, and more an attempt to force her on the defensive. Not enough, of course – a human can't hope to overcome a Servant's speed – but surely impressive.

He had always fought gracefully, agilely; despite the heavy plate mail the Knights of the Round favoured. Now, unburdened, he can move all that much faster for it. Too bad it's still not quite enough, but he was never one to quit.

"Hah." It's more a breath than a laugh, and he regards her with those alert eyes, watching as he circles her warily. "Such speed. Greater even than I had expected."

His sword flicks out again, batting at hers, more of a test than a true blow; still circling, still wary. He won't drop his guard until she says they're finished. Bedivere had always been a cautious sort. His battles are almost always defensive – aside from affording him the luxury of choosing his terms, he simply lacks the same sort of passionate aggression Gawain favoured so much. Occasionally they had locked horns over the matter, but nothing too severe. It was simply how they were.

Another lightning-fast flick, trying to tag her on the side; followed up by a sharp swat at her sword-hand again. Disarmament is always a useful tactic.

"It occurs to me that we have never crossed swords like this," he says, voice calm in spite of how taut his nerves are; how sharply those violet eyes watch her. "I have only seen you fight on the battlefield, my king. That was skill enough, for I had still been watching, but this... this is different."

Another swat at her; most likely to no effect at all. He doesn't seem to mind that his efforts simply aren't enough. He's nothing if not determined.

His mouth twists in that now-familiar crooked half-smile. "I did not expect such strength. Oh, aye. You told me you are more than human, now. I suppose it had not fully sunk in."

He suddenly kicks off, lashing out at her with his blade again; this time with a two-handed grip on the sanded-off section serving as its hilt. Whipping it around with only a slight wince of pain as his bruises complain, he aims a sharp blow at her right shoulder, apparently still intent on disabling her sword-hand.

Saber (346) has posed:
There had been another point that Arturia had considered; how they had relied so much on their unspoken method of communication to co-ordinate on the battlefield, and even off it on occasion. They read each other on an almost preternatural level, which had made them a devastating force against enemy forces...but on the other hand, they might telegraph their moves in a similar way merely sparring with one another. Would it be counter-productive?

She need not have been concerned. The realisation of her strength and speed as a Servant seemed to finally be registering, and he was adapting even in spite of her speed making it harder to read her moves. In terms of raw strength and speed, he couldn't hope to overpower her, but he could use his superior tactics. Even she was honest enough with herself that she could in turn not hope to match him on that particular front; she never could beat him at chess...at least after she demanded that he not let her win.

The blade came down hard, though; Bedivere tried to evade but against a Servant, even one nearly halving her speed, however much he managed to dodge was about the best one could hope for. It was impressive that he had even been able to move at all. But inwardly she frowned; he was going to be battered fairly hard by the time it was over. Whenever that might be; he certainly was not going to call it off until she had or was knocked unconscious, and the latter was out of the question.

She batted away the quick strike with a deft flick of her wrist, though there had not been much power behind strike nor parry. A testing move, it appeared. She considered something for a moment; it was probably unfair, but at least he would know what to expect. "I am reducing my speed by a fair amount," she confessed. "Would you care to see what I am truly capable of?"

This time she side-stepped the lighter strike, then flicked her wrist again to block the first disarming attempt. "I must confess that I had wished for this...to hone my skills against yours," she replied with a faint smile, jade eyes flashing as she dodged the next swipe. Though hardly violent by any means, Arturia truly loved a good challenge. And perhaps this was not in terms of raw power, but it wasn't so different than those chess matches. it was simply a matter of knowing when and where to strike...

...And she had left herself open on the next disarming manoeuvre, she admitted, and treated it like a successful disarm. More to the point, if she had been the mortal she once was, that would have seriously hurt. The fact that it was simply even sore was a testament to that much. "Hah..it seems you have caught me," she said with a faint smile, catching the hilt in her left hand. "Strong and fast though we are, Servants are not invulnerable."

With a bit of a wider smile, she bowed slightly. "It would seem this match goes to you, my lord."

Oh, it would also seem that the familiar term of endearment just slipped out accidentally. She must still be in a good mood.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That almost preternatural ability to communicate their intentions to one another had served them admirably every time they had taken to the field together in the defense of Britannia. Never had a word been needed to pass on their intent to one another; never had they needed more than a simple glance, or the briefest of gestures – a flick of the weapon, a glance at a target, or a faint shake of the head.

No doubt there had been mutterings about Dál Riata witchcraft in such battles. He had, as usual, ignored such rumours. The explanation had been much simpler. King and marshal were alike, perhaps more than they'd ever realised – they operated the same way, and in battle, they functioned as a single cohesive unit.

Now, though, that does work against him somewhat. He is a subtle man, and a subtle combatant, but it's difficult to hide from someone who knows you so well... but there's still an element of surprise. Her abilities are far beyond what even he had expected.

And if there are things out there that can best even his king... the thought is not a comforting one.

Bedivere's violet eyes narrow, very slightly, when she reveals that she's holding herself back. To do so in ordinary circumstances would have been considered an insult, and even though he knows that she's doing it for an extremely practical reason, part of him is still curious – what is she really capable of? Exactly how far above the standards they're familiar with has she risen?

"I would like to see what you are fully capable of... if it please milord."

Perhaps she might see some of the old determination and fire of that shy young man who had subjected himself to such grueling training. Here again is that determination, that fire, even if he speaks in the same soft tone. There is a hint of steel in it. He will conquer this setback, or he will be broken – the same as he has approached any significant challenge in his life.

Is this not more of the same, even if it happens to be on a much greater scale?

Shifting his stance, he brings his blade up again, though it wavers when she drops the blade and catches it with her left hand. He seems surprised that his manoeuvre had even succeeded, and for a brief instant, his expression is baffled. What?

"Ah." She explains herself, and gradually, he seems to accept that she's not just letting him win. She wouldn't do that, not with something this serious. Bedivere inclines his head respectfully. "In that case, I accept victory graciously, my lady."

Despite his use of the term – perhaps because she had, as though she were granting him permission to – he gives it in the same solemn tone he would have reserved for her royal title.

He's still not quite sure where he stands with her, and the skittish way she's been behaving for the last few days has him skittish.

Well, more skittish than normal, anyway.

With a whirl of his blade, he brings it up neatly in a two-handed defensive stance.

"I suspect the next match will be yours." He fixes her with those violet eyes, all trace of that good humour gone – his is the focus of a warrior, of a knight, every nerve humming with concentration. "Please show me what you are capable of."

This, he decides, is probably going to hurt. A lot.

Saber (346) has posed:
Had she been in Bedivere's place, Arturia would have indeed felt somewhat insulted; Archer had not even used a fraction of his when she faced him, as infuriating as the idea had been. But he was the oldest and strongest of Heroic Spirits, and there was no way to defeat him by her power alone. Even simply to halt his rampage had demanded a concerted effort of Union Elites, refined tactics, and a Master with powerful magic circuits. She had needed to hold back, at the very least to show him a little of what Servants were.

"I do apologise...however necessary this has been." at least she owed him that much courtesy.

For a moment, sea-green eyes blinked in surprise at his determination; she had not seen this image since...it had been years. The nostalgia was almost overwhelming, and the smile which crept briefly to her face was bittersweet. He would face this challenge, and he would overcome it, just as he always had.

No, she had certainly not simply let him win. The same advantage which had earned him the position of Marshal of Camelot would be what levelled the tournament field for him against beings far more powerful in terms of strength and speed. He could win...once he figured out how. She could only help to sharpen not only his skills, but his wits. Grief might have not merely blunted his combat prowess – however briefly – but even some of that mental acumen. It was her responsibility to help him recover that part, too.

For the moment, her skittishness has fled, banished for the sake of responsibility and even a small amount of personal enjoyment. Once this was through, however...but for the moment, Arturia simply smiled faintly with a bow of her head.

"As you wish."

One moment, Saber was standing directly in front of him, unmoving, not even so much as dropping into an en garde stance. Then, suddenly she wasn't...and in the same moment, Bedivere would feel the tip of a wooden sword poking him between his shoulder-blades. It was merely a light pressure, but that would likely not be of much comfort, even as she lowered the point and stepped back.

"One cannot hope to best a Servant with a direct rush forward...with raw, brute strength." There was a pause, and then a slight, knowing smile in her voice. "But that was never our way, was it?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It was indeed an odd situation for Bedivere. Rarely did he allow battles to boil down to a simple contest of strength. His sharp mind had often allowed him to outwit and outmanoeuvre his opponents, often serving to show, sometimes harshly, why he had been elected Marshal of Camelot. There had been no such thing as favouritism among the Knights of the Round Table; only merit.

Now, though, he finds himself in unfamiliar waters... and he doesn't quite know how to swim.

When she smiles her assent, he can't even track her movement. For a brief instant, violet eyes flick left and then right in a near-panic.

Where did she go? Why can't he see her?

Before he can answer his own question, he feels the sword poking at him at the precise centre between his shoulder blades. Once he registers what that odd sensation is, he sighs, shoulders slumping and head bowing.

The gesture might be one of defeat in anybody else, but to Bedivere, it's just a temporary setback; a momentary expression of dismay.

He inclines his head, faintly, a silent gesture of respectful acknowledgement. Those violet eyes are still watching her, though. Something in his gaze is still a little skittish; still a little cautious. She's more open than she's been for days, but he's loathe to tread those waters too incautiously.

"It was necessary," he says simply, and his voice reflects a little of that wariness. "There is no way I could have known. I had not even crossed blades with you in Camelot, so how was I to know the depth of your abilities as a Servant?"

He seems to consider for a few moments, obviously torn. The tip of his practise sword lowers, gradually, until the point hovers just over the grass; after a few more seconds of hesitation, it lowers until the point rests against the ground. He leans on it slightly, one hand lowering to probe gingerly at his ribs; the point at which he had been bruised so recently by Magatha and his own plate mail. Yep, that's still incredibly painful.

"I... before we continue, I have a question, my lord," he begins, quietly. He won't meet her eyes, and seems to favour a point just beyond her, off to one side and indirect. "I have noticed—" Ah, the bane of Arturia's dignity, "—that you have seemed... displeased with me, over the past few days...?" His tone is one of clear uncertainty.

"Since my return from the Caverns, actually." He very definitely doesn't look at her this time. His tone is cautious, as though testing the waters; softer even than usual. "I... have I done something to displease you? Beyond the obvious," he clarifies, shaking his head in hasty self-correction. "I know it was foolish to go, but I could not dishonour a direct summons as a guest..." His tone is guilty; he knows full well it was a foolish thing to do.

On the other hand, he doesn't seem to have any memory whatsoever of that conversation.

Hmm.

Saber (346) has posed:
She smiled a little, thankful that he hadn't taken it as insult. In some ways, he was even more practical than she was. How could she have not relied on him as much as she had? If she was the fortress, he was what buttressed it. "It is true...many times, the best way to learn is through experience. I hope that you will not ask for me to use my whole strength..." she quipped with a slightly wry note.

"But...to be fair, even among Servants, the Saber class is prized as the strongest. Some Servants might not have fared as well against me as you have." Though he seemed to be uncomfortable with praise, it needed to be said. Though she was certain he would not see it as hopeless, Saber still felt that she needed to stress that Servants were not invulnerable...even against mortals.

But just like that, the confident warrior was replaced by the blushing, stuttering young girl once more once Bedivere began asking about where her current skittishness was coming from. "A—ah? N-no....you did not displease me...it was something...I..." she stammered helplessly, looking away.

Not remembering the whole episode might have seemed like a boon...if she hadn't been so horribly embarrassed by it and thereby revealing that something had happened. Arturia fidgeted; what should she do? She knew she had to tell him, but it was the how that had her tied up in knots.

Arturia closed her eyes and forced herself to calm, taking a breath before sitting down on the ground, indicating for him to take a seat as well. This might take some time to explain, it seemed to say.

"To begin, I must confess to something. I...lost my temper. That was inexcusable, even if you have no recollection of it," she apologised, her eyes focused on the folded hands in her lap. She managed not to fidget – not yet – but it took considerable effort. And the revelation that there were gaps in his memory could not have been a comforting thought.

The petite blonde managed to keep her fidgeting suppressed just long enough to begin. "The...the truth is...perhaps it would be best to say that...you awoke several days after you were brought back home...."

At this point, she started fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt, eyes still focused on her hands. "Perhaps, however....you were not truly awake, if you cannot remember..."

She tried, but the words were still fractured. It was frustrating not to be able to simply say it, but on the other hand, she was very much loathe to tell him. For an entire sea of reasons, no less. There was the urge to pace and fret at the same time, but she decided that staying put was for the best. This was not going to be easy.

Another intake of breath. "Th-that is...the medicine made you a little...you were quite tired, you must understand...."

By this point, her light blush had progressed from a soft pink hue to nearly bright red. "You wished for me to stay for a while, and so I did....I...well, I sang, a bit....just long enough for you to be able to sleep...."

While it was certainly true that her dignity had apparently taken leave of her some time ago, there had been some small sliver of hope that it would eventually return. Tragically, it was not to be. Especially not with the cause for her great embarrassment and her overthinking of the situation. "Y-you...I believe you were beginning to fall asleep...you said... ah, you asked...was it not natural...to wish to protect what you...what you held most dear...cherished..."

Why was this so difficult to say? She needed to steel her nerves, because the worst was yet to come. Her hair blessedly veiled her face; there was no possible way she was going to be able to look him in the eyes soon after revealing this. "You...you said...ah, that is...y-you said..."

The poor little knight seemed to duck even further into herself, her voice barely audible. "S-said...called me...'m-my love'..."

There. She finally said it. Now if only God would summon her back to the oak tree...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There were plenty who would have taken such as an insult. Gawain, for instance, had more passion than pragmatism. No doubt he would have demanded that his king hold nothing back against him. Although one couldn't question his dedication to Arturia's cause, he was a little problematic in his eagerness sometimes. He had lacked the subtlety of Lancelot, or the simple discipline of Bedivere.

Bedivere, however, recognises the practical argument in this. It does sting a bit that she had held back. At the same time, he had always regarded her with reverence anyway; very nearly awe. That she's so far above his level of skill now isn't too hard a pill to swallow. In fact, he seems mollified by her description of the Saber-class as among the strongest. That makes sense. Of course she is. She is a fine king, and a fine knight. Why wouldn't she be among the strongest?

He, however, swallows a little harshly at the praise. Although he looks extremely uncomfortable, maybe he senses something of her honest description, because he doesn't complain.

And then he looks even more uncomfortable when she suffers a sudden attack of nerves.

When she sits down and indicates for him to do the same, he looks puzzled, but he offers no argument. Tossing his practise blade aside and mentally noting that he'd best carve himself a new one later, he gingerly lowers himself down, mouth twisting briefly as his bruises loudly remind him that he really shouldn't be applying any sort of pressure against them.

He shifts uncomfortably before finally assuming a cross-legged seat on the grass, absently plucking a few stray blades from the knee of his leggings and tossing them aside. His hands settle on his knees, and he regards her with that earnest seriousness. Honestly, he wants to know exactly what it is that he did that was so horrible. What possible breach of honour had he done that she wouldn't even look him in the eye?

Apparently he really is kind of clueless in some regards, the poor thing.

Although the marshal frowns slightly, it's more an expression of puzzlement than anything else. She seems to have increasing difficulty finding words, and what she's said so far seems to be innocuous enough. He had wanted her to stay, although he finds it hard to believe that he'd have asked her so blatantly; he can feel his face heat a little at the impropriety of that. He also finds his gaze straying somewhere that's not lingering in her general vicinity.

Still, the thought of her singing again brings him to smile, crookedly; just a little. It's a pity he has no memory of it. That's something he doesn't think he'll ever tire of; something that will never cease to mesmerise him.

Arturia keeps talking, though, and the smile slides off his face into a slight frown. Her description grows fragmentary, and it actually takes him a moment or two to piece together what she's actually trying to say. Fortunately, he's sharp as a tack. Sometimes, in hearing out issues in the court in Arturia's place, he'd had to deal with less than articulate peasantry, and he'd gotten pretty good at filling in the gaps.

Well, mostly.

He's trying to fill in the gaps here, and while his mind is certainly agile enough, the pieces he's filling in with aren't making much sense.

And then suddenly it does.

Bedivere ducks his head, swallowing so harshly he almost gags. That pale hair hides the sudden scarlet in his face; for that, some distant part of him is grateful.

For the rest, though...

"Ah." The sound is a little strangled, as though he were still trying to process what he had just heard. "I—I said what? Oh, Lord God preserve me. I did speak too boldly..." He sighs, hanging his head even further; his tone is plaintive. "F-forgive me, my lord. I—I spoke too boldly. Without... without doubt."

His head lowers further, and he buries his face in his hands, perhaps because he has no idea what else to do. It doesn't improve his scarlet complexion, but it does make him feel a little better. Marginally. Not enough to salvage the situation, but enough that he doesn't feel like crawling into a hole and never coming out again.

Actually, never mind. He still feels like crawling into a hole and never coming out again.

"Ah," he breathes, "p-please, forgive—forgive me. I—I had no idea... I..."

Saber (346) has posed:
As if the confidence had never been there in the first place, Arturia's mind was reeling. Dropping her face in her hands nearly mirroring Bedivere in that regard, she murmured, "I...I had hoped that I would not need to...though I knew that I should...but I did not want you to be..."

No, that was coming out all wrong. Damn it, why could she not simply speak plainly?

Then again, she was not entirely sure what she even wanted to say. Obviously she had known that she had been special to him, and as more than even a just king or brave knight or any combination of those things. But while the mind knew, what she understood, for some reason it had not quite sunk in until he had said that, even as delirious as he had been at the time. It had made it real, and in a way that she could not simply rationalise.

The feeling was an almost painful tightening in her chest, and as her hands dropped away from her face, her right reached up and clutched at the fabric over her heart. It was like an ache, but different in so many subtle ways. But then, what he was feeling must have been that much worse, whatever it was.

She looked up suddenly, unable to hide her pained expression. "N-no, it was the medicine...it blunted your senses...I-I find no fault with you, you were not to blame, truly..."

While she didn't want him to blame himself, that wasn't completely right, either. How could she possibly convey that he shouldn't feel guilt or shame over something he could not have been able to control? But how could she also tell him that it wasn't something bad? Not without chasing him off, or feeling ashamed, or that he had failed her? All her own shame was over her persistent feelings of unworthiness, of self-doubt? How could she adequately answer something like that?

With a soft groan, she drew her knees up to her chest, folded her arms on her knees, and dropped her face until them. Though her face was hidden, her ears and neck were still burning bright red. Never before had she ever felt so helpless, not even as she lay dying; she had simply begged God to give her the chance to win the Holy Grail. But this...

"What am I supposed to do?" she murmured so softly that one would have to strain to hear it, as if she was demanding the rhetorical question of herself. "I have never...I do not know what I should...I know how to wield a sword, ride a horse, but not..."

Though she might have regretted the entirety of her reign, thought herself inadequate for failing to achieve utopia for Britain, she had always made decisive actions. There was always a number of paths to take – though not always easily discerned – and she had always been able to decide on one and take it. But for the first time, Arturia could see no path to take, could not find any action to decide upon. She was, for the first time, at a complete loss.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere doesn't move from his position. Sitting cross-legged, hunched over with his elbows resting over his knees, face in his hands, his posture seems utterly helpless. Or perhaps hopeless. Whichever the case actually is, he doesn't seem to have much in the way of his famed confidence at the moment.

He and Arturia had worn similar masks throughout their tenure in Camelot, to the point where some whispered that the king had been inhuman, and her second-in-command much the same. They had always acted with absolute confidence. When a decision needed to be made, they did not so much as hesitate – in Arturia's case, no matter how terrible that decision might be. By the same token, her marshal had never hesitated, either, no matter how great the risk to himself might be, or whether it might reflect poorly on his reputation or his honour.

Both had been confident, unshakably confident, and now – and now that confidence is nowhere to be seen. Bedivere's posture is one of hopelessness, of a man wholly lost. He has no idea what to do. The worst part is that he doesn't even have any memory of this grave breach of honour, of common decency and dignity.

And yet... thinking on it, he can almost remember faint snatches of song, in that light voice that had seemed so unlike his cold and stern king's. He can't even remember the words, though, only that he had felt as though he'd been drifting, weightless; as though he had only been half-there.

Truth, in so many words. He'd been drugged half out of his mind.

He can see her as she reaches up to clutch the fabric over her heart; the gesture seems to be one of pain, but also indecision. Is she feeling as torn inside as he is? Does she feel as lost as he does; wanting to pursue one path, even though it is the improper one; one that is – seemingly – more difficult for him to do than even burying his beloved king had been?

He reaches up and clutches the tunic over his own heart, fist tightening until his knuckles are white. His eyes close. He draws in a deep breath and lets it go through his teeth.

Two more breaths follow as Bedivere slowly releases his shirt front, hands settling over his knees again, striving for his once-famous calm.

Why is it so difficult for him to find that calm around her?

"A knight is... he is always responsible for his actions," Bedivere replies, faintly. His tone isn't quite one of horror, but it comes pretty close. How in the Lord God's name could he have said that? What was he thinking? His voice is so soft it almost borders on a whisper. "I—I had no right to... to say that."

He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see much of anything at the moment, let alone her. Well, no. That's not completely honest. He does want to see her, but the thought of meeting those sea-green eyes stirs up such humiliation in him that the notion is almost physically painful. He doesn't want to see the disapproval in those eyes; of him having failed in his legendary discipline and temperance – for that is, really, what it was.

Still, the quiet sound of her shifting brings him to glance over toward her, though not enough that he would actually meet her eyes. He watches as she brings her knees up to her chest, face burying in them and arms wrapped around, as though to hide from the world.

The position seems so vulnerable that it almost hurts to see. To know that he was the cause of it—

She might hear his sigh; a great, heavy thing of so many tangled emotions he's not certain how to untangle them or even name them. It's almost a physical pain.

Why now? He had always been skilled at hiding such things. He had always been able to push away his silent admiration for her, that unspoken and dangerous fondness for her he had kept alive through the years; the longing to let down his mask, and see what lay behind hers. He'd been willing to die for her, and still was, but something seems... different, now.

And he can't even remember what the turning point was.

"My lord." His voice is quiet, and he sounds miserable. "That—that was... that was too far. I—please forgive me. But if you wish, I—I will leave your service. Such was a—an unacceptable breach of etiquette. I—I had no right to say that."

Part of him hopes she's not looking miserable because she thinks her most loyal knight just betrayed her, and cast away his dignity and knightly honour. The rest of him figures that's the case. He had always been a paragon of the knightly virtues that all of the Round Table had held so dear – and now he's betrayed that, he's certain, with such thoughtless impropriety.

Of course, Lancelot had done much worse, but that imbalance doesn't seem to occur to him right now.

"I—I will resume my search for Camelot, and..."

And what? Wait there for her? Why would she ever go back, especially if he were there? Was she not a Servant, now? Free of the duties that had bound her to country and kingdom?

Bedivere buries his face in his hands a little more firmly and sighs, miserably.

"Ah, Lord God, forgive me..."

When he speaks again, it's so far under his breath he might as well be whispering. She might even miss it over the distant sound of morning traffic and sparrows quarreling.

"But—but I cannot speak untruth, so I cannot—I cannot say I did not mean it – and yet, even if I knew not what I said... I... ah, God, why did I say it...?" Bedivere hunkers down a little more, miserable and clearly torn.

Saber (346) has posed:
If anyone who had believed that the king and her marshal had been inhuman creatures could have seen the two at this moment, they never would have believed it. To be reduced to blushing, stammering out apologies...it could have only been some illusion cast by a sorcerer. It could never have been that they had worn masks for duty and kingdom, those masks hiding two shy, awkward young people who had finally been revealed.

Once, she led an entire kingdom. Now, she could not so much as decide what to do in the presence of a man who seemed to make her completely take leave of her senses, reduced her to blushing and fumbling with only a few simple words.

Arturia straightened and lifted her head, shaking it almost furiously, and quite adamant in her disagreement on that point. "It was not your fault," she insisted. "It was not the same as becoming drunk...it was not a choice you made. And there was no...I was simply there..."

What she decided on saying next demanded every last scrap of courage she could muster. Not that she wasn't stammering mightily, blushing furiously, and avoiding eye contact, however. "If...if you had no right to say it....I had no right to...to find it...pleasant...."

Her status as king aside, the sense of unworthiness plagued her mercilessly. How could she possibly have deserved such a thing, especially after she had willingly cast it aside for the sake of her rule? She had not committed to leading Britain out of greed – indeed, it had been a hard sacrifice, at least as far as she was concerned – but she had made that decision. What right did she have to something she had rejected? Moreover, to someone she had inadvertently pushed away?

And yet, she couldn't do it again. As Bedivere mournfully accepted a punishment he fully expected and spoke of resuming his search for Camelot, she found she didn't even care about the horror-stricken expression on her face.

"No!" she nearly shouted, so suddenly it might have startled him, before the expression of horror was replaced by one of shame. It was such a violent reaction that she had even startled herself. Every last bit of common sense and dignity had not only fled, they had long since turned to dust. "Ah...th-that is, I mean..."

The already tiny woman seemed to become even smaller, her voice quiet once more. It was a most inelegant plea, but at the moment she found she was not particularly capable of the eloquent speech she was once known for. "Please...I wish...I want you to stay by my side...no matter what....please."

But what the pale-haired knight admitted next astonished her; not the admission itself, but the fact that he honourably refused to deny it. And she found – perversely – that she didn't want him to. She merely stared, the persistent blush still there, and inelegantly blurted out more than perhaps she should have.

"You...truly...did?" And was there a faint note of hopefulness in her voice? Someone else might not have noticed, but this was the Marshal of Camelot...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's true that the king had never shown her people a true expression. At the same time, never had her marshal. Her second-in-command had adopted the very same mask of ice, meticulously learning how to disguise his true self, and hide away his vulnerabilities. To think that the charitable but cold Bedivere could be reduced to this scarlet stuttering, it would be difficult for anyone to believe; even those closest to him, such as Gawain.

Drawing himself up, Bedivere sits in a position not unlike Arturia's, knees folded up to his chest, arms propped over them, face resting over flat arms so as to keep staring at the ground. It might mean that she won't see the scarlet of his face, though it may show in the red tips of his ears. They nearly match the stud still in his left ear. At least his pale hair hides his face. Some small part of him is thankful for that, at least.

He listens to her broken and fragmented words, although it may not look like he's listening to anything.

When she says she found his drug-addled words pleasant, he doesn't say anything. His flush grows a little darker, though, now notable against the silvery-blonde of his hair.

"Ugh..."

It's a quiet sound, so quiet, but it seems to sum up all of his regret and his self-loathing at such an inexcusable slip in his discipline.

That is exactly why he never allowed himself to drink to excess, or to indulge in anything that might have blunted his wits. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid making a fool of himself; everyone says foolish things when they're well into their cups, and that's not something that had ever concerned him overmuch. No, his concern was something far worse. He had always been afraid he might not be able to keep such a tight rein on the feelings he had buried and hidden for so many years. Perhaps the outside world had never seen them, never suspected them, but he had never hidden them from himself.

All those years he had hidden that bright spark of hope, that small, guttering flame that had driven him on through the worst of circumstances and ultimately carried him through nearly debilitating grief from everyone else... but he had never fooled himself over that. It had taken him years of agonising over it, but he had puzzled out what it had meant, if only because of his observations, his perception; his ability to understand people merely by watching them for long enough.

And that realisation had terrified him to his core.

It still does, but for so long, he had been able to hide it away behind the veneer of duty. It had only plagued him in those moments just before drifting off to sleep, when he had sometimes wondered if she had ever thought of him the same way. Improper, perhaps, but his shameful admiration had been limited only to himself.

He flinches when she shouts her vehement no, and seems to draw inward. For such a tall and dignified knight, for someone so unflinchingly confident and cool-headed, it must be an amusing reversal to see him in such dire straits... but she's in much the same position, and it isn't one that lets her appreciate the humour very much, is it?

When she gives her plea, broken and unsteady, he only exhales a long and unsteady breath of his own. Bedivere isn't looking at her, but he doesn't need to in order to hear that thread of hope in her tone of voice.

Very slowly, he picks up his head. He looks in her direction, though he doesn't yet have the courage to meet her eyes. No; he stares at the ground near her feet, though his expression is haggard.

"You... will not dismiss me?" He seems incredulous at that, and his eyes lift toward hers in clear astonishment. "Even though I... even... you..."

For once he finds he has no eloquence at all. Even though he had never had any difficulty speaking publicly, addressing squares full of thousands of people on behalf of the king, he can't seem to string sensible words together for just one person. Of course, this is a different matter entirely than speaking to a square of commonfolk. He will always serve them, and he will always value them as much as even his brothers of the Round Table... but this person; this small, vulnerable woman, means infinitely more to him than anyone else in this world or the next.

That is, perhaps, why the thought of speaking so frankly with her terrifies him so.

He's told her that he would leave, if dismissed, but what he doesn't tell her is that if he ever obeyed that order, it would break him. He had been a broken man after the Battle of Camlann, but to have found her again and lost her because of his own inability to control himself...

But he hears that hope in her voice. Damn him, his sharp perceptions catch it as easily as breathing. And he feels that hope himself.

He swallows, harshly, trying to find some shred of his voice. It still has that gentle tone, but at the same time, it seems somehow fragile.

She might hear him climb to his feet after a moment, a little unsteadily. For a few seconds, nothing happens as he plucks grass from his trousers, but then she might hear the soft sound of footfalls in grass. They're approaching. Then there's a creak and crackle of a protesting knee; the soft grunt of pain as the marshal sits down at his king's left side. His knees are up in front of him, his arms around them, chin resting over one arm as she had been doing.

He closes his eyes.

Lord God help him, he had fought hopeless battles with greater courage than this.

When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper.

"I... I will stay by your side as... as long as you will have me there. I would not forsake that promise any more than... any more than my knightly vows."

He straightens up and reaches out as though to wrap an arm around her shoulder, but he hesitates. Thinning his lips in displeasure at his own hesitation, he reaches out, pulling her close. It's a bit awkward, with both knights side by side, and already sitting so hunched up; but he seems not to mind.

When he speaks again, his voice is almost less than a whisper; a fragile breath in her ear.

"I truly did."

Saber (346) has posed:
That mask carved from ice had long since melted away into nothing now. She was reasonably certain he could hear her – though a small part of her wished he could not – given that he could not simply turn off his keen senses. Even under all the painkillers, he had heard her words, read the tone in her voice and expressions. That was one more trait that had made him invaluable as marshal, though that same trait had made things considerably awkward for her. But Arturia would not have traded that for anything, in spite of how Bedivere noticed things about her she tried to hide.

As stubborn as he could be, as secretly shy and awkward behind the mask, she found she would not change a single thing about him. Somehow, she knew how troublesome she could be, yet he endured it from her. How could she not do the same, not when for her, it was no burden at all? She might not have been entirely sure precisely what she was feeling, but she did know one thing: how precious the person near her was to her.

Even if currently, she had no idea how to properly convey that. Doubly so for how to do so without causing a panic attack.

How he had not been terribly disappointed to discover just how weak and fragile was was behind her mask was nothing short of a miracle. Certainly, a knight as steadfast as he would continue to serve as her knight per his vows, but mere quiet service and the devotion he showed every moment of the day were two completely different things. Bedivere was not serving out of duty alone, and he had made that repeatedly clear. Even understanding the reason for it baffled her; how could he continue to feel that way? And more importantly, why was she acting so irrationally over him?

It had never been easy to send knights or even simple troops out into battle – praying for an eventual peace within the utopia she sought even as she went to war – but it had always been especially difficult sending him. Gawain had always seemed to find glory from warring; he was a natural warrior and wanted to bring glory to the king. Bedivere, however, was of one mind with the woman behind the kingly mask, slow to draw his sword and finding no glory in war. He would accomplish what needed to be done, but each time must have cost something of his spirit...and there was always the fear that he would not return. Yet, she had never dared show him special favour.

But now...even simply bruising him worried her, and a battle that, in Camelot, she might have sent him into without so much as a flicker of expression caused her to lose her temper at him. Why had all the cool logic she was known for simply flown away like an escaping lark? Why could she not simply act as she normally had?

Resuming her previous posture with her forehead dropped on folded arms resting on her knees, Arturia groaned softly again. Perhaps she had dropped her mask too early, was too eager to make amends and offer the friendship and camaraderie that she had always wished to show all her knights. But she had gotten far, far more than she had ever bargained for, the price of her ignorance of both his feelings and even her own.

Oh God, how did she feel? Any time her thoughts started wandering, she was overcome with horror over her own impropriety and crushing guilt. And she very well couldn't tell him of that until she had figured it out and likewise figured out how to express it in words. It was a shame she couldn't simply communicate this in their standard way. For some reason, that was a language she could not seem to hear.

Arturia was pulled out of her musings, however, at his clear surprise that she could not dismiss him. Involuntarily she looked up – her face likewise as red as the stud in her right ear – momentarily before closing her eyes and lightly shaking her head. It was terribly selfish of her, she knew...but now that he had been returned to her, the thought of losing him again felt as if it would crush her. She might have granted his wish and revealed her true self, she might have made the amends she was so silently desperate to make...but that hardly mattered. "I spoke truly...I wish...for you to be by my side, always."

Perhaps it was an improper thing to wish for. But perhaps...at least it was good to be honest, to admit that she wished for it. If only it didn't embarrass her so. She lowered her head slightly, her hair obscuring at last some of her face; in her shame she was uncertain she could dare look at him.

She could only hear the footsteps, puzzled, until she discerned they had come closer. She bit her lower lip; what was he doing? But she wasn't wondering for long as he sat beside her, and out of the corner of her eye he had adopted the same posture she had. It might have been amusing if she wasn't so helplessly wrapped up in their mutual conundrum.

Though she knew on a practical level that he would never abandon her, actually hearing him reaffirm it somehow made it real. A wave of relief swept through her and she relaxed a little, even if only someone as observant as he would have noticed the subtle change. Only for a fleeting split-second did she tense again when she felt the arm around her shoulder, but she relaxed once more after the moment of surprise had passed.

The soft breath in her ear didn't have quite the same effect as it did last time; as before, a sharp intake of breath and a slight shiver followed it. But...he truly did. Though not the same, the words had a similar inexplicable warm effect. She still had yet to figure out what it meant, but for the moment, she smiled slightly, happy that they had been true.

Releasing the ragged breath she had been holding, Arturia shifted slightly closer to him, careful not to disturb the bruises she had given him earlier. Necessary and a natural part of training they might have been, but that hardly meant she wanted to aggravate them. She tilted her head enough to lightly rest on a non-injured part of his broad shoulder, relaxing a little bit more. Improper or not, confused feelings or not, there was at least one thing she could say. "Thank you...for staying with me."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Part of him almost forgets what it was like to wear that mask, to behave with such cold inhumanity as his king once did. For that was the image that he had willingly presented, to the courts – he alone of the Knights of the Round may not have been born of Camelot, but it was his home. To that end, he would serve it to the best of his ability; from the beginning, that had necessitated learning how to build his own mask. His training as a knight-aspirant had been more than simple physical abilities. Bedivere had also forced himself to learn how to become a different person.

Yet now it seems like such a waste. How difficult it is to resume that mask in the face of the very person he had built it for. All that time and that careful effort, wasted.

If she has doubts about her fragility and weakness behind the mask, then the sentiment is mirrored in her faithful lieutenant. For so many years he had dedicated himself wholly to hiding his vulnerabilities, even if he would occasionally let slip something, when he thought no one was watching – such as coming to the aid of a poor butterfly one cold, spring morning. He had even let that gentle nature hide in plain sight, dedicating himself fiercely to charitable works, even if he rarely offered so much as a smile to the people he had dedicated himself to.

But the thing that had been hiding underneath his mask... so weak. So easily flustered; so confused. Ah, Lord God have mercy on him! Was this how Lancelot had felt, or Guinevere? When the Knight of the Lake had been behind closed doors with the queen, had his mask dropped so easily? Did he have such monstrous trouble merely stringing words together?

Well, Bedivere thinks reasonably, yes, probably. That little incident had been the beginning of the end for Camelot, in some ways. Reflecting on it only makes him melancholy, and he pushes the thought aside. There are more important things to focus on—

He tenses slightly when he feels her head rest on his shoulder, though whether from bruising or nerves, it's hard to say. Even so, his arm tightens around her just a little, tilting his own head to rest over hers, eyes closing.

Even if the impropriety is almost a physical pain, even knowing that what he feels and what he allows himself to say is disgraceful to him as a knight – he knows he wouldn't have it any other way. He knows that, if it came down to it, he would cast away even his station for her.

Had Merlin felt like this, ensnared by Nimue's charm? To be certain, the wizard had known nothing of honour, or simply not cared; but that helpless bewitchment, that draw that could not be argued with – had he felt the same thing, too?

Of course, this was different. Arturia had used no witchcraft, needed no help in mesmerising him. No, that was something he had submitted to many years ago. For her, he had turned his back on anything he might have become in Dál Riata lands; had put aside whatever destiny had awaited him as a filidh. He had done so willingly, and knowingly. Even then he had known he would be helpless but to follow. Yet Arturia had used no witchcraft. She had needed no such thing then, and she needs no such thing now.

He finds himself smiling a crooked little self-conscious smile at her thanks, and she might feel him chuckle, even though his voice cracks and he can find no voice in it. His arm tightens around her, almost imperceptibly.

"You... you need not thank me for that, my lady..." The words are almost shy, and he can feel his voice crack. Damn his nerves. "I swore an oath, but... but that was hardly necessary. Even then, even... even in Camelot, I would have done anything for you. And even here, in a different place... even with no Camelot to serve... that will never change. I... will do anything you ask of me. Anything. But you need not thank me for that. And you need not ask it. So long as you... so long as you wish it, I will... I will stand by your side."

"I will be your knight. I will be your marshal. And I..." He falters, and tries again. His voice fails him; his last words are a whisper. "And if you wish me to be anything else, I... I will be that, too."

Saber (346) has posed:
In another setting, in the midst of battle, Arturia was fairly certain her mask would reassemble itself. She was too highly-trained, too disciplined a knight for it to have been permanently destroyed. In fact, it seemed to be only in the presence of one person which demolished it so. The man who was present there, now. Which, in turn meant that her mask would not be returning anytime soon.

Not that it really seemed to matter; as of late, Bedivere had been becoming an expert at seeing past it. Every subtle twitch, every off note in her voice...all of it seemed to be broadcasting at least something of her true feelings. At least, what she knew of them; he seemed to be as in the dark about those as she was. It might have been a relief that his perception had limits, but on the other hand, he might very well be the only person who could truly help her to understand. It was somewhat ironic: the best person to help her was the very same person she wanted to hide this from.

This time, her sense of guilt was one she couldn't quite pinpoint. To be sure, she continued to feel undeserving for throwing this away only for it to come back and be offered to her at perhaps the most unlikely of times. But she worried; it was bad enough when he was injured physically, but the kind of emotional pain she had been causing was unbearable. He had not taken her death well at all – and how could he? – but now that she was here, she was still the cause of more. How could she be completely honest and protect his smile, keep him from knowing that kind of pain ever again? Perhaps a small part of her was afraid of hurting, but she had decided that she could bear it...at least, if all that pain was only hers. But that, if he knew, would have been something he would vehemently oppose. And he would know; she was so utterly transparent now, her mask utterly useless.

She let a deep sigh escape, not quite of the frame of mind to stop it even as she regretted it afterwards. His arm around her was so comforting, and yet she felt selfish even for so much as feeling that, and the guilt bubbled up again. Arturia should have stood on her own two feet, just as she had in the past...yet she could not seem to at this moment. Her mask had, in many ways, been like a crutch in the absence of whatever feelings she had crushed in service to Britain. Her emotions were like a wild thing; off their tight leash, she was unable to control them, unable to even catch one to examine it.

Ugh. Why was this turning out to be so bloody difficult?

Moreover, Arturia was finding it even more difficult to concentrate, what with that persistent pain in the middle of her ribcage. Pain, and yet strangely warm, even a little pleasant. That realisation made no sense at all. Even more strangely, the warmth in it seemed to inexplicably spread as she felt – rather than heard – him chuckle at her gratitude. Even more so when he used the familiar title, and the pain slowly dissipated into it. Just those words seemed to make everything right in the world. The renewed oath, as well...only, it was not really an oath, but something else. Something which moved her strangely, in a way that even a heartfelt oath would have.

Her eyes hooded, almost in contentment...until his voice faltered. Arturia had to admit to being a little surprised; any time it seemed as if there might be something other than their traditional roles as king and knight, the violet-eyed young man would baulk somewhat once he had thought twice about it. When they simply acted without too much thought, it was something different, something other than simply the devotion between liege and vassal. Though what that relationship was precisely, she wasn't certain. Perhaps...perhaps making some innocuous observations might help?

"I had wished...before, after I had given up my first wish, my new one was to find you again, and to be true friends...as we never could be in Camelot. Sakura, Agrias, even Psyber...they are all my friends, but this..." She shook her head slightly, helplessly confused. "Somehow, it is different."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
No doubt both of their masks would recover in a different situation. They are both too disciplined and too trained to have lost something that had long been essential. Life in Camelot would not have been possible without those masks; let alone success. Those tools were imperative... and even though he had wielded that very mask against her, for so very long, it's become obvious that she is one it no longer works on.

Were Bedivere more detached from the situation, he might find that strange. An inconsistency to be examined; a valuable clue that he would no doubt be able to reach a satisfactory conclusion over... but he is too close to the situation. He cannot see that clue, even if he may know it and feel it on some level.

He settles for staying where he is, for holding her close, simply because he doesn't know what else to do. The part of him that had served as a faithful knight for so long wants to flee; to never have to face her again after such shameful conduct. The rest of him has no intention of going anywhere. Had she not said she wanted him at her side, no matter what? Had she not asked for that?

Why is this so difficult?

When she sighs that heavy sigh, his arms tighten over her, however slightly; perhaps sensing some of that tension and guilt of hers. The emotion is mirrored in him, albeit with different reasoning. His own mask had likewise served as a crutch. He had put aside those feelings, though they had never truly been forgotten. But that mask had served to temper him, to keep him focused, and to distract him from the things he tried not to let himself dwell on. Now... now it seems to serve no purpose at all.

Slowly, he can feel her relax, if only a little. That always seems to have much the same effect on him – when she's at peace, so too is her knight. When she feels pain, it always reflects in him, no matter how much he may try to hide it behind his mask.

She might feel his head tilt as he listens to her, a slight shift over the top of her head; a quiet snort as that stubborn lick of hair flutters against his face. He's listening, though, and when she finishes, he makes a quiet sound. It's hard to say whether it's a sound of despair, or puzzlement, or even simple exasperation with his own inability to navigate these emotions. It's a tangled skein, and trying to untangle any of it only seems to make it worse.

"You already know I had always wished just to see a true expression of yours," he says softly, the words breathed into her hair. "That is true. And perhaps I had wanted to be friends, as well, with my brothers of the Round Table. But I could not. My first duty lay in serving Camelot, and in serving you. I could... not afford to be so open." He smiles against her hair, softly; and though she can't see it, the expression is a little melancholy. "There were enough suspicions around me. Bad enough I had been elected over the more jealous of the nobility. Worse still that I was of the Dál Riata."

He seems to consider for a few moments before continuing, as though mulling over his words. "I... did not have any true friends. Not really. My horses, the hunting dogs, my falcon. The ones whom I could expect no treachery from." He chuckles again, the sound more of a breath than anything else. "They would not betray me. But I..."

"It is different," he finally agrees, though his tone is uncertain. "I do not know how I know... but it is different. I will do anything to defend those people I consider friends, or those in need of help, but... this is different. I do not jest when I say I will do anything for you. I... I do not understand it, myself. I want nothing more than to be by your side." His tone turns shy again; quiet. "I... am glad you did not send me away. I would have obeyed you. But... somehow," he says softly, "that would have been harder even than laying you to rest had been."

To have found her, only to have to leave her – it would have killed him, and he knows it.

"Yes," he finally murmurs, letting his eyes drift closed. "It is different. And even if I did not know I had said it, I meant what I said. Ah, but Lord God, my lady, I had not wanted to say it then. I... I did not want to impose. I would have been content to serve, as I always have." His voice dips again, quiet. "I have no right to ask more than that."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had simply requested – almost begged, really – for him to stay by her side, yet he seemed to regard it as an order. While he was still her knight, and she only needed to issue a direct order when he was being stubborn about neglecting himself, she was uncertain how she felt about that now. That obedience reflected his absolute trust – a trust she returned – but outside the setting of Camelot, it troubled her. She had always projected a confidence she had never truly felt, a facade at odds with the girl who doubted herself at every turn, and while she had needed them not to question her decisions for the sake of her rule, she was the most critical of all. Now, she questioned it even more.

She had been able to get her fidgeting under control – had she always done that when she was so out of sorts? – if only for the moment. But in lieu of that, her thoughts had started scattering to the four winds again, always questioning, always doubting. They had always been there, her insecurities, but lately they had been thrown into such sharp focus, and her inadequacy was overwhelming at every turn.

But Bedivere had stayed, and somehow all those doubts had seemed to quiet down, at least a little. Of course, there were all new ways in which she felt inadequate, but at least these had little to do with the decisions she had made, save one. And at least she could forget, if only for a short while, as long as he was there like that. Even the gentle breath, with what she could only imagine was that blasted stubborn lick of hair which refused to lie down no matter what. And Arturia was certainly glad for the lack of complaint in that regard.

Another sigh as he recounted his own experiences in Camelot, unable to keep from fretting slightly over what might have been his uncertainty. "Forgive me," she couldn't help but apologise again. The only suitable person for the duties she had laid upon him, but the guilt persisted. She had chosen what was best for Britain, even if that had been at his expense."I knew it could not have been an easy thing...even though I knew...and you had always served Britain so faithfully..."

Yet, not only had he never had so much as a word of complaint, he had made decisions similar to her own. Just as she had sacrificed friendship, love, family, and perhaps a peaceful life to fulfil her role as the King of Britain, he had done much the same for the sake of the king. More specifically, for her. Her regrets had not laid with what she had sacrificed, but with her failure to save her kingdom. And Bedivere had said that he held no regrets for what he had sacrificed. It made her feel small, humbled, for someone as unworthy – in her mind – as she was. Yet, the fact that he had and never regretted that...humbled was not really the right word. But whatever the feeling was, it was like a wave beating against a cliff wall, and it wore down her defences completely.

As he spoke of how it would have crushed him to be sent away, her hand lifted just enough to clutch at the fabric of his sleeve. Perhaps a childlike gesture, but she found comfort in it, and this time, she didn't need to struggle for words. Her gesture spoke for her. I meant it when I said I didn't want you to leave.

She was quiet for a long time, not moving even to shift slightly. It might have seemed discomforting as she remained there, summoning up her courage to admit what had been laying heavily on her heart after he had said he had no right to ask for more. She had been thinking of her own unworthiness, mulling over it before she finally admitted to it.

"I, too, have no right to ask more of you," she replied with a bittersweet smile. "I cast such things aside for the sake of Britain...I have no right to even wish for them now."

She moved finally, slightly, but only for a faint shake of her head. "No...I have no right to ask for more, my lord..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Obedience was a trait that Bedivere had always displayed, and always been known for. Early in his appointment as marshal, there were those who had once tried to bribe him for their own ends. He had of course refused them, and then reported them to the king. After enough instances of this, he had become known as a staunch loyalist to the crown... but more accurately, he was fiercely loyal to Arturia, not the king. His trust was, and is, absolute. He trusts her with his life, but it seems he also trusts her with a great deal more.

Although he likely suspects her train of thought, he doesn't comment on it. He knows that Arturia was her own worst critic. It's always been that way. Even if he had never known that so blatantly, he had suspected it and seen signs here and there. Sometimes, he would catch her looking off into the distance when she thought she wasn't watched – there was always a faraway look about her, in those moments, before she would come back to herself.

He would always look away before she noticed him, or so he assumed, but perhaps she noticed that he would always seem a little melancholy whenever he caught her in those thoughtful moods.

His own confidence had never been an illusion. In her, he had complete faith, and he acted with surety on that faith. He trusted her to lead the realm in the most pragmatic and honourable way, and she had succeeded in that for many years. So far as he's concerned, the events chipping away at Camelot's foundations were well and truly beyond her control. There wasn't much she could have done to stop it... but at the same time, he knows she wishes she could have. He knows, because she had confessed to him her wish; that a more fitting king had drawn the sword from the stone.

Bedivere had indeed stayed. It wasn't just because she had specifically requested it, either. So long as she didn't send him away, he would remain with her – loyalty had always been one of his hallmarks, even though she had so recently learned it was a personal loyalty, and not the loyalty of duty and service. Those are certainly still present, but his duty to her is by far stronger.

Settling a little less uncomfortably, and mindful of his own bruising, he wraps his arms around her more tightly – not enough to be painful, but enough to indicate he's not moving (and she probably won't be, either, unless she tries to break free) – as though to say, Fear not. I'm not going anywhere.

He doesn't seem to mind the quiet that falls, content just to hold her and to be held, and to listen to the quiet of the morning – even the distant morning traffic is quiet; the only sound the wind through the trees, and the birds in them. If not for a few details, he can almost imagine himself back in Camelot, except for the parts that never could have happened there.

Although he doesn't respond yet, he tilts his head, burying his face into her hair. It's surprisingly soft, he realises, and smells oddly sweet. Shampoo, of some kind, no doubt... but he'd never thought of that before. Of course her hair is soft; she's as fastidiously clean as he is, but he had never really put that into any sort of context before now.

And of course she'll say she's unworthy. She might feel him snort, though the soft breath is one of amusement more than anything else. He finally moves, too, straightening so he can look at her – though his arms are still loosely around her – to smile down at her. It's not that usual shy expression, or uncertain; and while not as open as she's seen him smile, it's still an expression of amusement.

"You have every right to ask whatever you will of me, my lady." He regards her with his head tilted slightly, reaching up as though to rest his hand at the side of her face. He hesitates, but finally settles it there, ignoring the faint tickle of her hair over the back of his hand. "You are right. I spoke truly, even if I did not know what I spoke."

He swallows harshly before continuing. "I... yes." His smile is a little uncertain, less of the conviction of his words, and more of the awkwardness of actually speaking them; of putting to voice the things that had been in his mind for so many years, so jealously guarded. "I will do anything for you. Ask anything of me. It is no burden. It... pleases me to be of service to you. And not... not just as a knight – though I am honoured to serve in that capacity as well," he adds, so hastily it might seem almost comical. "P-please do not mistake that! I am honoured to serve the Round Table."

Carefully, he draws her close again. But I am more honoured to serve as a friend. For them, silence can be even more eloquent than their clumsy words, but he can't seem to stop trying to organise his thoughts. "I cast aside such things for Britain, too. For you. I did it willingly; it was a necessity. I..." He smiles, lopsided, almost embarrassed. "Ah, my lady, I wore a mask, too. But it was not because I could not handle the court. I would have challenged any claim of the correctness of my posting. And I would have handled the backbiting." Most likely as he always did – by graciously ignoring it. "I wore that mask because it was a defense for myself."

What's that supposed to mean? Fortunately, he seems to have got some control over his nerves; his words come out even and soft, unbroken. For the moment, anyway.

"I could not trust myself to... it shames me, but I had always..."

So much for speaking eloquently. Bedivere awkwardly clears his throat and tries again.

"I had vowed to serve you from the first, and I had admired your beauty—" He pauses. "Do not protest," he adds, gently, with an undertone of embarrassed mirth. "I had admired your beauty and the nobility of your spirit when I first saw your entourage pass the market square. I vowed that I would serve no other master... but... I..."

He flounders a bit, one arm releasing her expressly to rub at the back of his neck in that now-familiar gesture of consternation.

"I also... vowed to myself I would... ah... I would have no other lady, either."

Ah, so that explains why he so deftly and easily avoided the notice of the court ladies, those few who were fascinated by his foreign looks and Dál Riata mystique, or his gentle ways. He had ignored them not just because it had been the right thing to do, but because he simply had no interest in them.

His interest had been reserved for one person, and one alone; the one woman he knew he couldn't have. He had never breathed a word of it to anyone, at least until recently.

Bedivere's fleeting smile is lopsided; clearly embarrassed, to go by the hint of colour that touches his face.

"I, ah... well, my lady... the truth is simple. I did not trust myself to be, ah... shall we say... discreet. I did not trust myself to speak or act on it. N-not without training. Not without learning to control myself, completely and absolutely; to not speak without thinking it through most carefully. I had to control my feelings – I could not allow them to control me." He seems solemn again. "And I would not have risked endangering your reign so. I could not, not for such a selfish thing; not for such a shameful thing... it... it would have been wrong, my lady, and that is why..."

"That is why I have no right to ask for more than to simply serve you again..." He shakes his head, faintly. "I—I cannot."

Saber (346) has posed:
As silent as he remained, Arturia held no illusions that he had never noticed the those moments when she would become almost morose, even when her expression remained as passive as it always had been. Bedivere might not have understood just how deep the dark pool of her thoughts had been, but he had known it was there. Why else would he have wondered, wished so much to see behind the mask, to know the lonely woman who remained hidden behind it? She had been a prisoner of herself, her heart becoming a cold fortress as she ruthlessly suppressed her emotions...and yet, the maiden could still see out of the window of her prison. Now that she had been freed, well...some newly-freed prisoners found themselves almost terrified of their newly-granted freedom. That timid, dirty little maiden had no idea what she should do.

It had been some time ago that she had relinquished her wish to undo her past by allowing some more worthy king to claim Caliburn. She had sworn to Britain to protect it, to save its people...but not at the expense of the lives of those who had become her friends. She could not change who Sakura would become – though had she known what horrible tortures her Master had endured, she would easily have tried to change that much – in good conscience. Perhaps it had been wrong to sacrifice the wish to save her people for the ones she had befriended, but the experience was a humbling one, and the Servant decided to pledge her sword to noble causes which could be altered. Some of them continued to cost her – such as the Annu campaign – yet she could only move forward. All that remained was another wish: to make amends with those who had served her so faithfully, and in some cases, even died for her kingdom.

Yet, it was more than simply amends when it concerned her marshal. That much she had already done, and perhaps even began the first steps towards a true friendship in spite of her clumsiness. So why did she still feel so incomplete? Something ate at her, but what?

In the midst of her confusion, his arms subtly tightened around her, conveying an unspoken reassurance. Arturia sighed again, though this time it was one of contentment; as if to underscore that, she shifted to better settle into his arms. She had not been entirely certain what she had feared, but that fear had dissipated into that gentle embrace.

But it was when he chuckled and pulled back enough to look at her with a lightly amused rather than bashful expression that she was thoroughly disconcerted, blinking at him owlishly. Part of her tried to protest, to insist that she had made that decision long ago, and that even now her selfish wish was to see her knights at least one more time and to honour them...though she had no right to wish for even their friendship. To ask even more to the one who had suffered in silence for so long. She could not possibly...whatever it was that she wanted from him. In all honesty, she had not yet figured that part out.

And so, she remained silent, at least until a small bit of awkwardness, where Arturia was the one amused. "I know...it is all right. You have accepted all accolades with chivalric modesty...I do not mistake that virtue as a lack of proper gratitude."

Settling again into his arms, that smile became one of contentment – how easily she could become so, just like that – as she listened to him struggling with his words. Ah, she knew exactly how he felt. She did nearly protest at the comment about her beauty, but he had persuaded her off of it with a not-quite laugh, drawing an almost pathetic look from her as she chewed on her lip. But the moment passed and he continued.

It was just as well; he confessed to something which shook her to her core. It was not the fact that his mask was to protect himself; she had always assumed he needed to shield himself properly to carry out his duties, just as she had. Like her, he had a fragile core, and there was much that they had needed to steel themselves against. Moreover, the more xenophobic nobility distrusted the pale-haired outsider, and shielding himself made him above reproach. What she had not expected was the true reason which lay beneath all others.

I would have no other lady.

That had been perhaps the most stunning thing he had ever said to her, and the expression on her face revealed as much...as well as the flushed complexion accompanying it.

He had been shielding himself from his own emotions. His emotions for her.

She heard the rest of his explanation, though her mind was reeling so much that it was like hearing it through water; blunted. All that time. All that time...and he had not so much as breathed a word of it in all the years he had faithfully served her. Not trusting even himself to protect her rule without the mask he had created. In retrospect, she could see the hints here and there; perhaps she had known she had stolen glimpses from her chamber window as he made his rounds, or passed him by as he made his way to the stables to care for his horse. The fleeting moments of melancholy he had buried as ruthlessly as she had her own.

There was guilt, persistent feelings of unworthiness, some regret, and even gratitude...but even those were dwarfed by the sheer awe she now felt, along with that mysterious feeling she had yet to discern.

Arturia's doubts might have remained in some part; she was still uncertain what her feelings truly were in the absence of the necessary experience to identify them. But immersed in that awe, that feeling overcame all others. She became reckless once more, deciding that it wasn't the time to be cautious, and merely acted on instinct, what her heart simply commanded her to do. This time, it was she who hesitantly rested her hand on the side of his face with a smile that was at once bittersweet and yet radiant. "You have been there...all this time..."

Arturia took a steadying breath before she made her own attempt at words. "I have...never felt like this before. And I do not know what I am supposed to do, how I should act...however. It...it is not duty, nor gratitude...I am uncertain what it is, this is new to me. But...whatever it is...it is yours, my lord. Ask anything of me. Anything at all."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even in the beginning of his career as marshal, there were few things that the pale-haired knight had missed. The skill served him well as Arturia's aide-de-camp, but it was not a skill he had needed to teach himself. He had always been quiet and perceptive. Ascending as the left hand of the king only necessitated that he sharpen those skills, and he had applied himself to that, just as he had applied himself to every other obstacle that had stood before him.

He had noticed those fits of melancholy in her, most certainly, even as he had tried to hide his own.

Bedivere doesn't quite laugh when she chews on her lip, looking lost and distraught. Something about it strikes him as endearing, to see her so bereft of direction... although he knows it's not proper. He chuckles again, not much more than a breath, at her pouting look at having to accept a compliment. Oh, just accept it, that laugh seems to say, good-naturedly. For once in your life, allow yourself to. It's alright.

She need not worry. He won't tell anyone that she broke down and accepted a compliment.

In truth, it took significant courage to reveal that to her – the reason why he had created such a mask nearly as complete as hers. She had done it to harden her heart and do what needed to be done, for the good of the people. His, however, had served a more difficult purpose. It needed to be refined, complete; he could not afford any cracks in its countenance, for what he shielded was far more difficult to shield.

It was a knife's edge that he had walked. He had hidden his true purpose even from her, even as he had silently allowed it to drive him on, to lend him strength. He could not push it aside, and could not bury it deeply enough to forget it; yet no one could know of it. Not cheerful Gawain, who had ribbed him from time to time on the looks he got from the noble ladies of the court; or quiet, troubled Lancelot. None of his brothers of the Round Table had known that about him, or even suspected. And certainly not Arturia herself. Especially not Arturia herself.

Yet that kind of thing is difficult to hide away. To build those walls of ice around his heart had cost him, and she had no doubt seen some hint of his suffering, even as he faithfully served her, loyally carried out every order – as he had laid her to rest, in the end.

Bedivere's strength of will must be astounding. To have gone through all of that, to have subjected himself to that kind of daily pain, compounded by the mortal blow of having to put to rest the one he had loved...

It's a miracle he can function at all right now.

He blinks a little owlishly when she lays her hand on the side of his face, though he doesn't pull away or startle from her touch. No; he just looks a little puzzled.

"I... have?" It comes out as more of a question than he'd like, even though he'd meant it as a confirmation.

She continues on, though, and he can only listen, not daring to move lest she withdraw that hand from his face. It might set his heart to quickening, might bring such an odd, fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach – but he knows he doesn't want her to pull away. Her hand, he realises somewhat distantly, is surprisingly warm. Or is it surprising? Cold hands, cold heart, or so the saying goes, but he had never once believed that her heart had ever been as cold as the people sometimes whispered that it must be. He'd known there was more to her than that—

Oh.

Well, that's a little confusing.

Whatever it means, it cost her something to say it, to go by the way she has to muster herself and find her words. He can appreciate that. Some of the things he's said in the span since he'd been discovered from the woods of Camlann have required more courage than it had ever taken to face down any Saxon host.

Bedivere swallows, a little harshly, shifting just enough so he can keep his arms around her – he's quite certain he doesn't want that to end, either. And he's reasonably certain she doesn't. Even as he tries to form words, he can feel his throat closing off; can feel the burn of tears he doesn't want to shed. How can she tell him that, after that disgraceful thing he had carried in his heart for so long, and those motives he had harboured for all that time?

How can she still call him a knight? A lord?

"I..." He falters, swallowing and trying to pick up again. "You... bade me speak my mind with you, to... to cast aside the mask. But I cannot. Truly, I cannot. Not completely. I— could not dishonour you so, my lady, I..."

He looks at her for a long moment, tormented in trying to reconcile what he had carried around for so long, and what she's telling him. In the end, he squeezes his eyes shut, mouth twisted into a pained line that has nothing to do with his wounds.

"I have no right to ask what I want to ask of you. I should not even have the right to this." His words are a whisper; his arms tighten around her as though to indicate. "Truly, my lady, I would do anything for you. I would follow any order. But I—I do not know that I can follow this one. Oh, my lady, I would ask of you—I... but..."

He sighs heavily in despair. His thoughts are running in such circles that he fears he'll never catch them all, never form some kind of order out of that chaos. Instead he lays his head over the top of hers, mumbling something quiet. It sounds suspiciously like Lord God grant me strength.

"I accept the consequences if I speak too boldly," he murmurs instead, almost morosely. It might be comical if not for how tense he seems, the arms around her almost trembling.

"I will still have no other lady but you. Lord God forgive me, but it—it is the truth." The words are soft. He pulls one arm free from her, but only to settle more carefully over her – alert, as always, for the slightest hint of resistance, to let her go if that's what she wants. "I am your knight, your second, and that will always be so, for as long as you will permit me to serve. But... if..."

His courage almost deserts him for the last time. It takes a monstrous effort of will to seize the last fleeting remnants of it, to find his voice and continue on.

"If you will have me... I would be... more. I... would..." He seems to struggle to actually speak, even though she had bade him speak freely, and ask anything of her. It's easy in theory, but so very difficult in practise.

He smiles, but it's wan; a little unsteady. So is his voice. It's almost less than a whisper. "I would have you as my lady..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Thankfully, the marshal was as discreet as he was observant; at best, incidents would have exploded well before the king had a chance to deal with them. But much more likely, her rule would have ended before it had even started, as her secret would have been exposed shortly following her very coronation. Then again, that sharp observation would never have been possible for someone who had not learned the art of silence as well as he had. His mask had made sure that he was, and it was just as well, given how flustered he seemed to become around her without it.

Not that Arturia was any better. That, too would have ended her rule; to be seen as a flailing young girl in his presence. Her brow furrowed and her face flushed with the barely audible chuckle, as well as the unspoken words he conveyed to her. All right, all right...fine. But I am going to remember this the next time you can't take a compliment.

She wasn't that bad, after all. Mostly. And this is your fault, anyway. Not that she was angry or even annoyed...just persistently embarrassed.

But it was blindingly obvious that it had not been easy for Bedivere to confess as much as he had; the reason he followed her, the reason for his mask. That could even speak with some clarity – far better than her own halting mess – was nothing short of incredible as far as the petite knight was concerned. While not quite as keenly observant as he was, she had indeed noticed that something had been eating away at him beneath the emotional armour, even if she could never ask. That it had troubled her in turn was another feeling she had been forced to bury, to disregard in favour of objectivity. That had been much harder than casting aside her femininity.

It had finally struck her like the force of an irresistible gale; how much he had truly given up, the ways in which he had suffered as she had. How could she not want to repay that, somehow? Guilt and unworthiness, and sense of obligation aside, she simply...wanted to. Even though he would refuse out of honour or embarrassment or some combination of the two.

His puzzled look was endearing, she found, but something troubled her. His trials were over, she was there, and yet...it all seemed to persistently haunt him. The pain of his injuries had made it abundantly clear this was no dream or hallucination, certainly. And she knew better than anyone how some wounds of the spirit took time to heal, even years, even if some never healed completely. But of there had been only one of her knights most deserving of happiness, it was him, her own personal biases aside.

Her frustration with herself as she made her floundering attempt to properly express herself persisted. That hadn't made much sense, had it? She had tried to say everything all at once, and from his confusion it was apparent that she had not even expressed anything resembling a coherent chain of thought.

Inwardly, she groaned; why was this tangled mess so difficult to sort out? Why could she not even think straight in his presence and only in his presence?

What I am trying to say is...ugh, I don't even know what I am trying to say. Her almost tired sigh was barely audible, as her hand dropped away from his face and in turn dropped her head against his shoulder, but not before an exasperated expression. Please have patience with me...I'll sort this out, eventually. Arturia hated making him wait again, having waited so long already, but there was something that whispered to her that this was something she had best take her time with.

And perhaps that was just as well, given that Bedivere had likewise been unable to completely conquer his nerves.

Still, the comforting arms were still there, reassuring her that it would be all right, in spite of this horrid awkwardness, embarrassment, feelings of unworthiness. But at his floundering speech again after she had at least been able to tell him that she could not refuse him anything, she looked up, shaking her head slightly. "You could never dishonour me," she reassured him. "I know. Never."

Arturia shifted slightly, lifting her hand to his chest, resting it over his heart. "My only remaining order...is to follow this...to live. I am...happier than I could ever hope to express....that you still....that you can still follow me. But you should not...not simply for the sake of my honour."

Her pride still mattered to her – as she had roared at the King of Heroes often enough over it – but that was something she felt she needed to defend herself. It wasn't right to put others in that position, certainly not Bedivere, after he had spent nearly a lifetime at it. Of course, she realised with some exasperation, he was going to keep at it, anyway. And of ever the question of his own came up, well...she no longer had to hold back for fear of compromising her impartiality.

She could not stifle the soft gasp that resulted from his renewed vow that he would have no other lady but her, however. A moment of tension, and then slowly – carefully, lest she startle him off like a frightened deer – she slipped her arms around him from beneath his own arms. In spite of her obvious strength, he could back away if he chose to, and she would offer no resistance if he did. But what she did say silently was that he had no need to fear being too bold...not with her.

There were a thousand more things she had wanted to say, a tangled net of thoughts and feelings which clamoured to be spoken. But fortunately, this time one thought stood out above all others; quiet yet commanding her full attention. It was perfect in its simplicity, in conveying the whole of what she felt at this moment.

Even through her profuse blushing, she nevertheless smiled with a hint of shyness. Her own voice was likewise unsteady, soft...and yet clear. "Then...I would like to be your lady...for as long as you shall have me...I am yours, and yours alone, my lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Were he not such a gentle soul, it's possible that the roles between Bedivere and Lancelot may have been reversed, with the pale-haired knight playing the spymaster, and the Knight of the Lake as Arturia's aide-de-camp. Lancelot had never had quite the level of devotion to detail that Bedivere possessed, though, or Bedivere's dedication to the plight of the smallfolk – certainly, every Knight of the Round was an example of chivalry, down to a man, but Bedivere seemed to take this further than any of his brothers. After all, he had once been one of them. Worse still than that; a foreigner.

For someone else to have served as Arturia's aide-de-camp, though – her secret would have been revealed, sooner or later.

Perhaps Bedivere had noticed every small detail that gave her away, piercing Merlin's illusions, but the difference was that he would never so much as indicate it. It was one thing not to speak of it, but to feign true ignorance took skill. Her secret had always been safe with him, and him alone.

The truth is that he could have brought ruin to her kingship. He could have had her overthrown by popular opinion if he'd wanted to; the position she had appointed him to implied tremendous trust. No doubt the more traditional nobility would have objected to the reign of a woman. Plenty of them had found reasons to fault her rule as it was, and her choice of marshal, or various other details surrounding her reign. But he had kept his silence, and kept her secret; never once hinting at the truth.

Yet he had also kept his silence on other matters, matters closer to his heart, and far more difficult. Revealing these things have been some of the hardest things he's done – harder even than laying her to rest for the final time.

Some part of him had shut down for her final rites. It had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done, but at the same time, he hadn't necessarily been thinking about it. He had spoken the prayers in a broken voice, and he had laid her on that mysterious boat, arranging her with such care and devotion, washing the blood off of her face and her battered armour; even laying flowers in beside her. He had wept, too, wept bitterly; but she would not have known that.

Yet to have her before him again, alive, and to be given the opportunity to set certain things right...

What had he done to earn that? To deserve that? It was a secret he had intended to carry to his grave, had the situation not turned out differently – it was, perhaps, a secret that would have driven him to his grave, eventually. Bedivere is strong, but even she had sensed that it had eaten him; that it had consumed him beneath his calm mask. To shield himself from himself had been at terrible cost.

Only now, freed from it, is he beginning to grasp just what kind of terrible cost it had come at. It's as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders; a weight he never knew he'd been carrying. And to know that he had carried that weight... it makes him weary, so very weary, as though he'd walked a hideously long road, and only now been permitted rest.

In a way, that was true.

Those keen perceptions are still part of him, though, and will forever be part of him. He senses her inability to express herself, and her floundering attempts to make sense of her own tangled emotions. The faint flicker of a smile he shows is sympathetic, and also understanding.

It had cost him a great deal to sort his own out, though he had done it years ago; bearing that burden in stoic silence. He had the advantage, in that regard – he knew exactly what he was dealing with. It might have been easier if he hadn't.

His arms tighten around her, marginally. Take all the time you require. Unless you wish it, I will not be anywhere but at your side. His eyes seem somehow doubtful when she tries to reassure him that he could never dishonour her. He wants to believe that; wants to believe it so badly, but it seems he's spent many years tormenting himself over the secrets he had kept in his heart. Time will tell, and he will learn that eventually. For now, he seems to accept it, if a little uncertainly.

He looks down when she rests a hand over his heart, startling slightly, though he doesn't pull away. She might note that his heart rate climbs a little, though, much as hers had when attention was drawn to it. He listens to her in what seems shock, at first, then slowly giving way to what almost seems like wonder.

"I..." His voice is dry, he can feel it crack when he tries to speak. "I cannot not follow you," he whispers, almost helplessly. "It... I do not..." Now it's his turn to flounder. He manages a small, frustrated sound, unable to articulate what he wants to. "It is as though I... I am a leaf, caught up in a great wind, a great storm... I am but a leaf, and you... you are that great, roaring wind..."

It's just as well she circles her arms around him so carefully, so slowly – he's tense as a hart prepared to spring, shaking like the leaf he described himself as. He's certain his courage will fail him any moment now. Even Bedivere has his limits.

For a moment it almost seems as though he hadn't heard that soft, unsteady statement. He doesn't react for a long moment, still trembling.

I am yours, and yours alone, my lord.

He almost doesn't believe the words – not because he doubts her sincerity. Just like her, he believes himself unworthy. More than that, this magnificent second chance is almost unbelievable to him. He knows this isn't a dream, having been wounded enough to learn that, but it still feels like one. It still feels surreal.

His trembling only worsens. He releases her, almost reluctantly – will he finally flee?

No.

The pale-haired knight throws his arms around her so suddenly it might be startling, gripping her tightly; not quite painful, but desperate. He buries his face into her shoulder with a choked, strangled sound that can only be a half-stifled sob. The disparity in their height may make it awkward, but he doesn't care.

Even the stoic and strong-willed Bedivere has his limits. How she can keep tearing them down, he's not certain, though he would never trade it for anything in the world. Despite her admission, despite the shaky sense of overwhelming relief that comes with it, he can't help himself.

He had borne that pain for so many years, and then years more of that hollowed-out agony of having lost her – to be suddenly relieved of the majority of it; to not only have that but to have his most secret wish granted, too – it's a relief he can't even put to words, even as it shames him to actually ask for something so selfish.

His eloquence fails him completely.

All he can do is sob against her shoulder, just as she had done some time ago when she had shown him the Scar of the World-Slayer; when he had comforted her simply by being there for her. He trembles, holding her tightly as though expecting her to simply vanish if he doesn't. Several times he seems to try and speak, but he simply can't master himself enough to find the words to.

Hopefully she'll understand – his relief, and perhaps strangely, the pain of letting go of that pain; the sheer release of what he had carried with him for so many years. It's not all gone, and that pain may well haunt him for years yet, but it's a beginning. So much for remaining calm and stoic. Hadn't she been the nervous one when he had brought up his questions? How disgraceful of his own conduct, that he should be the one weeping shamefully on her shoulder. He's supposed to be her support, not the other way around...

But he can't help himself, and he can't seem to stop. To have been granted this second chance free of the bonds of kingdom and pretense, this wondrous gift, and to have his sentiments returned, against all impossible odds...

He can't even express himself beyond his quiet, choked sobbing, or his desperate embrace; as though she might vanish like snow in sun if he lets go of her.

Saber (346) has posed:
It may well have been that Arturia had favoured Bedivere in small ways; as her marshal, he had been the closest to her, kept away from even more soul-crushing work that would have slowly killed his soul. He would have accepted any order, any assignment, and the king knew that quite well. But the courts were treacherous enough, and his work allowed him to act as her charitable arm, a task he seemed to be born to. But objectively, each of her knights had been assigned to the roles most suited to their talents, and those who had worked closest to her knew of her secret and were discreet, private men. She had needed to protect herself, and those who guarded the truth of her reign had needed to be silent, reticent.

And so it was, the two who served as marshal and spymaster knew her secret but kept their own counsel. On her right and her left, they generally speaking only when spoken to, expertly hiding their deepest secrets from all. So much, in fact, that she had only learned of Lancelot's secret love from Guinevere. And she had only learned of Bedivere's now. Even after all those years, the revelation hit her like a bolt out of the blue. She had never expected such a thing, even in spite of his admiration and devotion. Refusing to burden her with a wish she could never have granted then, he bore that burden alone.

She could only imagine how terrible it had been when she had passed away, and in the four years – nearly five – wandering those woods to reach Camelot to execute his final duties to her. Continuing to carry that burden in what could have only been an overwhelming loneliness...

But she could set things right, now. He no longer had to suffer, to carry that burden, certainly not alone.

Perhaps surprisingly, their era's understanding of the four types of love was quite sophisticated. Sorting through a tangled net of emotions meant attempting to pin down which of those kinds they were, what they had been named. For it was indeed love she felt – an overwhelming one – but what one? φιλία, certainly – philia, the rather intellectual love between friends – their united devotion to chivalry and to the common man. Likewise, their years together as knight and king was suggestive of στοργή – storge, fondness through familiarity such as family – as many knights shared, particularly over all the years the Knights of the Round Table had served. The remaining two, however, were where things became complicated; ἔρως – eros, the romantic affection between man and woman – of which she had had no experience to speak of save for what she had seen from afar in courtly practises, and ἀγάπη – agape, the complete, divine unconditional love – which was difficult to separate from her more general love of Britain and her people.

It would take some time to think on those. Blessedly, her knight had reassured her without so much as speaking that she could take that time necessary to puzzle it out.

She could feel his heart quicken beneath the gentle touch of her hand, and was almost worried he might flee as he had done during the céilidh when he had finally reached his limit. And she would not have blamed him, though she certainly would have felt guilty at what had been perhaps too bold a thing for her to say. Yet, he tried, just as she had not moments before, to form the right words. She could not help but smile with that same sympathy and understanding. Ah...we are both so hopeless, you and I...

At her own pledge, he had been trembling so much that she had nearly let him go in the event he had reached that limit. Instead, Arturia was startled when he abruptly threw his arms around her...and her worry quickly turned to relief, even as he still trembled against her. She could do nothing but continue to hold him though a storm not unlike her own only days before. This must have been how he had felt as her own storm had raged, finally letting go of years of pain and grief. It pained her, in turn, that he had grieved so much and yet, that letting go would finally free him from the burdens she had never even known were there.

Her own deceptively tiny arms tightened around him in turn, leaning her head gently against his, closing own misting eyes. But she remained silent; gladly offering her shoulder as comfort, perhaps even happy that he had taken refuge in her as she had with him. Another might have read that as aloofness, but for the two knights, no words were necessary.

You do not need to bear that burden any longer. You are not alone.

What she had not intended to communicate, however, was much more subtle. So much, in fact, that Arturia herself wasn't aware that her thoughts might reach him.

You, who endured every day of being so close and yet so far, unable to do anything because of loyalty...you were the one who, in spite of your own grief, laid me to rest and tried to carry out your duties for my sake. Even now, you have been the one to endure the storm of my pain, uneasiness, unworthiness, and guilt. All I could possibly give you seems so small and insignificant...yet, I would give it all. Your suffering was not in vain, and your feelings have reached me, after all this time.

Eventually, she would find a way to express this in spoken words, or some other way to tell him. But for now, it was a simple, unspoken feeling, a grain of thought.

My heart belongs to you, my love.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although king and marshal had sought for complete impartiality, knowing that to do any more would be a risk, it had been impossible not to show favour in small ways. She had assigned him the tasks that would do the least damage to his gentle soul. In exchange, he had served her in the ways he suspected she would appreciate most – to do charitable works, to be the hand of Britain that offered back to the people, instead of the hand that held the sword.

Yet his talents had also suited himself to those works. As marshal, he had always been skilled with figures, numbers, and such abstractions. Those skills were valuable, and set him apart from the commonfolk he had always championed for; such things fell to the education of nobility, and that was, as a Knight of the Round Table, what he had.

He had always kept his own counsel, and perhaps that secret burden was, in part, why he had thrown himself so into his work. To be certain, he held a dedication to his work unmatched by few. Yet for him it had always been a release. Perhaps that was his intent on returning to the burned-out husk of Camelot – the task of rebuilding would have been monumental, in the best case, and he would have had no time to think of what he had lost.

The thought of that future is a terribly depressing one. He would have been alone, utterly. His brothers of the Round Table had been slain to a man; even his own blood-brother, Sir Lucan, had perished of his wounds. Though, he had never confessed that his own brother served; Lucan's complexion had been considerably darker than Bedivere's own, though he had also borne the bloodstone studs of the filídh in his ears.

The storm rages, but all storms fade in time.

The knight's hoarse sobs fade, though the hitching of his shoulders suggests he hasn't yet spent his grief. It will be some time before that shadow leaves him. He had borne it for years, where it had dulled his senses, blunted his mind and strength, overpowering even his legendary discipline. It will be some time before he can recover fully from that. What he'd lost was not easily recovered.

But this was a start.

He simply holds her, tight as he dares without hurting her, as though she would vanish if he let her go. This close, there's no way for her to miss his trembling, or the dampness that tracks down those high cheekbones. It takes him some time to recover, enough that he can breathe without his shoulders hitching.

It's not clear whether he understands that thought – perhaps he does, but he doesn't seem to be in any position to answer those thoughts. Not, at least, in so many words... but they had always been good at communicating without words.

I had been alone for so long. That desperate embrace seems to suggest that much. That shadow had been over me for so long. And now this... this is like stepping out into the light. But that light is blinding...

Perhaps he does understand at least some of what she wants to tell him.

His arms tighten around her, heedless of how close they already are; only pausing because he doesn't want to actually hurt her – but he doesn't want to let her go, either.

I gave mine to you years ago.

At long last, he seems to loosen his grip, but he doesn't release her. He can't; not unless she moves to pull away.

When he finally finds the composure to speak again, his voice is no more than a broken breath, but he makes an effort for it not to falter. "Thank you... my—" He hesitates, drawing in an unsteady breath and releasing it slowly.

He tries again, subdued and soft, but clear.

"Thank you, my love."

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, Bedivere's specific talents and skills had served him well, and by extension King Arthur, as her marshal. She could remain silently imposing, issuing orders silently as he barked them out to the troops under his command. Even in the multiverse they had reverted to that efficient method of working; it had served them well in the past, in spite of Camelot's tragic end. It was never their efficiency which had been questioned, the almost supernatural way in which the two had worked. Even the closest person to a true friend as she'd had worked more independently, having been issued orders long before he set out on his missions for the king. By contrast, Bedivere remained by her side, acting as almost an extension of her will.

But even that had cost him; at the time, it had been the best he could have hoped for, the closest he could ever be to her. He had submitted to her will as the king, contenting himself with at least that much. And for Arturia herself?

Her Master had no doubt caught those fractions of dreams as she had stolen glimpses of the marshal from her chamber window, her queen having noticed with a mysterious smile of her own. Guinevere had, in retrospect, certainly recognised the unhidden look on her face that Arturia had never even known she had let slip, hidden away from everyone else. Yet, whenever the king had asked her, the queen had simply smiled a bittersweet smile of her own and changed the subject. They were all prisoners of their duties, it would seem.

Such moments had haunted her for years, even after she realised the Holy Grail would be unable to grant her wish. Perhaps changing history was not something she could do, but how could she grant the wishes of her knights and her dear friend, the queen? That was her new, secret wish, though she was certain her lieutenant had had suspected as much.

Yet it was still her selfishness; wanting to see them happy, free from the burdens she and Camelot had placed on them. They had all answered the call willingly – after the first defeat of the Saxon invaders, there had been countless young men who had come to Camelot in the hope of becoming knights. Yet, few had endured so much, taken the dictates of chivalry to heart. They had become the Knights of the Round Table, and the one whom had most exemplified them became the Marshal of the Realm. The Left Hand of the King. The one who had shared her loneliness, and in some ways, endured even greater pain from it. She had never realised her buried feelings until now. He had, and endured it for possibly two decades.

Though this storm was a grieving process, a part of letting go which would allow Bedivere to heal, it nevertheless pained her. She remembered his shy smile at the céilidh, and his joyous laugh after they had left together, and they warmed her as much as the brilliant red of the morning sun melting away the fog over the pastures and barley fields. She treasured those expressions, free from the burdens of her kingdom, desiring with all her heart to see him like that again. His grief, so long kept buried within himself, felt as if it would irreparably rend her heart. But she would endure it, just as he had done for her. Not because she owed him, but because...

Was it like her love for Britain? No, the king decided, it was different...to be willing to sacrifice for Britain was one thing, but for one person... It certainly wasn't a kingly thing to do; as the head of the country, it was her obligation to stay alive to support it, even if she had not valued her own life any more than anyone else's. But that sacrifice, that feeling of unconditional love for a person...it was there. She did love him, in the most important of ways. Arturia found that if it came to it, she would die for his sake...but more importantly, she would live for his sake.

She had found a purpose, when she had relinquished her wish and devoted herself to a new Master and to the Union. But now, she had something more.

With time, the storm abated, the choked sobs fading into nothingness, even as the vestiges of grief and sorrow remained. She understood that intimately; her own grief had lessened from when she had been in his position not long ago, but it would be some time for it to fade almost completely. It would never truly disappear – like an old wound – and neither would his, but they could at last move on from it...even find some comfort as they now travelled that road together.

Bedivere didn't release her, and neither did Arturia release him, and for perhaps the same reasons. Carefully, she lifted her hand up to brush the wet strands of hair clinging to the side of his face, keeping her movement at light as possible. Even her silent way of speaking with him remained unspoken, cautious not to intrude upon anything he might want to express. Just as he did with a subtle tightening, the desperate feeling he conveyed through that embrace.

I will wait for you. For however long it takes.

That was what agape meant, after all...to love someone enough that this patience was no trial at all. Arturia was more than glad to do it, so long as it was for his sake. And she remained there, as long as he didn't pull away.

I am sorry that I have made you wait so long.

When he had spoken those two simple words earlier – nearly asleep from the painkillers – it had been the cause of a great deal of embarrassment on her part. That Bedivere had meant them had not been the issue; she hadn't known how to deal with them, or how she could answer them. But now? The little knight had a much better idea of how to respond to them.

"You have no need to thank me..." It seemed as had for her to say it as it was for him. "I am glad that...you confided in me...my love."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal had always been a quiet man, predisposed towards silent observation. He spoke rarely, though it was often insightful when he did. Yet he could also affect an air of command about him nearly as efficient as his king's – when he stood and barked commands to the men, the men obeyed. Whatever quiet mutterings there may have been over his status as Dál Riata, or his gentle nature, or even the potentiality of witchcraft – these were all forgotten.

In spite of his dignified non-reaction to his detractors, Bedivere never once let the men forget that he was the left hand of the king – that they served Britain, but more importantly, they would serve king and country in obeying the marshal. These campaigns were perhaps the only time the gentle knight had ever sought to force his will over others; the only time he had ever bared his fangs.

Those fangs were there. He simply preferred not to bare them, given a choice. Gawain had been perhaps too eager to, and to a much lesser degree, even Lancelot – but not Bedivere. Aggression was always his very last option, but somehow he managed to behave in a manner that did not make him seem weak.

Bedivere, however, was not weak. His detractors found that out the hard way. Battle after battle, he had prove himself a formidable warrior; there were many dead or maimed Saxons to attest this. And when the Battle of Camlann had raged, embers dancing as the battlefield burned, he had laid into the rebel host like a creature possessed.

They had been as brothers to him, once, some of those knights. But they had given up their claims once they turned their back on Arturia's rule. It had been his intention to help put down the rebellion as swiftly and savagely as possible, to make an example of them for perhaps the first time in his life. He had been angry, truly angry, that it had come to that.

He had fought just as hard as when Caliburn had been sundered, and despite his placid expression, no doubt Arturia had seen hints of that anger; that cold wrath, that glacial but all-consuming fury. His sword had sung and leapt like a thing alive. It had been a graceful and terrible death-dance of steel, of reflected firelight; of blood. Perhaps she had seen him, across the battlefield – seen the desperation in him, the tears that were not just the work of the smoke hanging low.

Perhaps, somehow, he had sensed that battle was to be an ending... that there would be little left after the ashes were sown.

While he had not been struck down, during Camlann, the fighting had carried him away from Arturia. He had found her entangled with Mordred as they lay dying of the wounds they had inflicted on one another. He had retrieved Arturia with such care, such tenderness – for a few moments she had still been conscious, and he had been loathe to hurt her even as she was dying.

Perhaps she'd remembered, in those last dim and hazy moments, the sound of her marshal weeping bitterly.

It was a grief he would carry with him for years afterward, and it will be some time before he can truly let go. Such a burden is not so easily released. No doubt he had blamed himself for the king's murder; it was the one time in his long, torturous years of service that he had not been there to protect her.

He does not flinch from that gentle touch, brushing wet strands from his face. If anything, he seems to lean into that touch, however faint it is, as though it has exactly the comforting effect she had tried for.

Bedivere releases a soft breath, as though in response to her unspoken apology. You needn't worry yourself over that. I would have borne any wait, for this; for you. If the end of his road would have led him here regardless, any torment at all would have been worth it, just for this. Yet...

Guilt wells up again. How could he deserve this and still call himself a knight?

But the arms around him, that light touch, so careful and tender, seems to bring even his knightly pride doubt.

At the same time... how can it be wrong? This was something they had both wanted, an impossible thing that they had both tried to put out of mind; to bury it so deep that it had consumed him like a kind of poison. Now, though, he can finally bleed out that toxin; let it seep away with his grief and the unspeakable pain he had borne in that wintry weald for nearly five years.

His arms tighten around her, and this time the breath he releases is much more measured, as though he were slowly starting to gain control over himself.

"I am sorry," he murmurs. "This is not... worthy conduct of a Knight of the Round Table. I am shamed... but... for you I would cast it aside." He seems as though he'd been considering this, the words given in deadly earnest, and reasonably calm, given his earlier turmoil. "I would cast it aside before I brought shame to you, or to the Round Table..."

He sighs, softly, eyes closing as he tries to sort out his thoughts.

"This is not... not knightly. I feel as though it is not right. But I cannot... not feel this way. Aí, my lady, my love, I had never – never – thought I could have you. I was prepared to live the rest of my years content only to serve you. And the part of me that strove to serve Camelot, to serve the Round Table, was content with that, for I would bring no shame to either save by only my thoughts... but..."

Lowering his head, he rests it close to hers, exhaling again in that helpless huff of breath. "I do not know what to do or what to feel, in regards to my station... I only know that I will follow you. I served you because I had loved you, even then. But I had also known pride, as a Knight of the Round Table. But for you, I will even cast that aside, will relinquish my claim as knight and marshal if it means remaining with you, if it means bringing no tarnish to the Round Table..."

His voice is small, uncharacteristically lost; this time through no fault of painkillers.

"I—I do not know what to do..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Though she possessed a clear air of authority, Arturia had relied heavily on the knights under her command to act with a similar authority when the need arose. Many times, this delegation lent even more to her distant, inhuman aura; such was extremely useful in enforcing discipline and emphasising the chain of command. The king was the final authority, the overseeing eye of an operation, but her lieutenants issued the commands down the chain. Each of them had been trusted to be able to act according to her will, and any disobedience shown them was considered no different than disobedience to the king. There were always a few, of course, but they were quickly disciplined.

Fortunately, most had learned early on that even a foreigner and commoner who had risen up through the ranks on his own merits was not to be questioned, that disobeying her marshal was tantamount to treason. For those who failed to learn, that was their final mistake; the most foolish of all fell at Camlann, perhaps ending their lives in astonishment at the ferocity and anger of the otherwise gentle knight. Even in that battle against the Saxons when the Golden Sword of Destined Victory had been lost, Arturia had caught a glimpse of that ferocity; underestimating her marshal was a costly, even fatal mistake.

Even she had been at least somewhat surprised; it was apparent that his martial skills were nearly unparalleled, but the fierceness in the otherwise gentle soul was astounding. It was indeed a most rare thing, but it was there. And she remembered – though her recollection was hazy though fatigue and pain – the soft sounds of someone's grief as she was borne away from the battlefield of Camlann.

She swallowed hard, thinking about it now; it could have only been one person who still possessed the strength, had still lived. Even when she was dying, Arturia was still burdening him; if he had felt guilt over not being able to protect her, she felt it for burdening him so and even worse, having been ignorant of it. And yet...she was so very grateful that he survived. Had Bedivere fallen in that battle, he would not be here now, his wishes unanswered. She would always feel that guilt for those burdens in the past, yet the petite knight was overjoyed she had been able to ease them off in the present. Perhaps not completely, but enough for them to stop crushing him.

Of course, the violet-eyed knight wasn't the only one struggling with feelings of unworthiness. Why her, the cold and distant king who failed to bring utopia, the frail girl who lacked the strength to lead Britain to it? She could not truly call herself a knight, much less a king. How could someone with such bloodstained hands ever have earned the heart of this most kind and gentle knight?

And yet, all she could do was try to comfort him, to lift her hand to softly brush those tears away. If she was the only one who could, she would do it without hesitation.

"No," she said firmly, without a trace of doubt. "You could never shame me...you, who have been by my side for so long...never complaining, never doubting...never turning away."

Indeed, he had even accepted her after she had revealed her great sin, the one which had scarred her permanently. "I have shamed myself..."

She took an unsteady breath. "But yet I...cannot help but continue to think as a knight. Perhaps it is shameful, and not knightly. Yet, I cannot simply banish it..."

With a deep sigh, she rested her forehead on his shoulder, her embrace tightening yet still mindful of his injuries and bruises. "The truth is...neither do I," she admitted with a note of chagrin in her voice. "As I had said, I am at something of a loss...however..."

Her own voice lowered, barely above a whisper. "If...if I can no longer be your king, I would stand aside...if my shame is too great, but...I wish for you to be by my side, in whatever way that is. I would not mind, my love...being a simple knight, if that is what I must do."

Actually, she thought, that would not be so terrible at all, to stand by you as an equal.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Some of the disloyal knights present at Camlann had expressed their shock even as they were cut down. The gentle and quiet marshal, who had been so very slow to draw his sword, had surprised them all with his ferocity and his single-minded devotion to the battle. Not a single movement was wasted; not a single sweep of his sword served no purpose, save in those resounding clashes where his weapon was turned aside. But even those had been rare. Much as when Caliburn had been lost, fury had driven him through the final battle; fury, and later, grief.

Now, though, there is no trace and no hint that such a gentle soul could harbour such rage. Off the field of battle, and with no direct threat to the one he cherishes the most, why would he? Now, he seems so far away from that – still struggling to control his trembling, to dry his helpless tears of mixed relief and lingering sorrow; as though this man couldn't even wield a sword, let alone with the focused, deadly intent of sweeping away an enemy host.

Violet eyes close as she brushes his tears away; his brows furrow, and for a moment it almost looks as though the dam might give way again. He controls himself, though, bowing his head and leaning into her touch. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, drawing it in slowly, letting it go even more slowly.

Calm, he commands himself; I will be calm, as I have always been.

Perhaps the firmness in her voice is what gets through to him, rather than the words themselves. He offers no more argument, perhaps finally taking some of that to heart. Although he sighs when he feels her tighten her embrace, it seems more one of contentment rather than pain.

"No." His gentle rejoinder is soft as always, but it carries the same confidence that her denial had. Slowly, violet eyes lift to sea-green. "If... if I could never shame you, then you... you could never shame yourself in my eyes."

He smiles, though the expression is a little unsteady, as though it still costs him to let go of the grief he had held to for so long. But there is no longer reason to hold onto it. Is not the one he had grieved for right here, after so long? Is it not true that this is reality, and not the dream of a mind wracked by guilt, fatigue, and starvation in that faraway weald? This is real; he has certainly had that proven to him beyond a doubt.

"You will always be my king, just as you will always be my love. Yes, I will admit, I followed you because I loved you. But I also followed you because I respected you as king. Yes, Camelot fell in the end, but you cannot control the people who would follow you. Perhaps the disloyalty was in their hearts from the beginning. But that does not diminish the dream you had. It does not bring you shame – your failure was through events beyond your control, and beyond even your ability to anticipate." His expression turns thoughtful, almost troubled. "If you are to be blamed for it, my king, I confess that I should share in your guilt. Perhaps I saw the signs, before things began to turn, but I did not want to see them. A nagging sense of knowing, perhaps, that the nobility paid us the services they wished us to see, spoke to us the words they wished us to hear, even while suspecting that they were plotting." He sighs. "I do not like having my suspicions confirmed in that manner."

His head shakes, faintly. "But this is not about Camelot. That place is lost to us. But..." He meets her gaze again, violet to sea-green; perhaps touching in his earnesty as he reaches for one of her hands. "I will continue to follow you. You are still my king. I am still your marshal. I would not ask you to be anything else." His smile is suddenly shy; crooked, in that familiar and endearing manner. "I confess," he murmurs, lifting that hand to brush his lips to the top of it, "I do not know how to stop following you." He sighs. "I fear I would still try to follow you, even if you were to dismiss me as your marshal..."

Violet eyes drop, regarding the hand held in both of his, as though suddenly at a loss for words, or perhaps worried he'd spoken too boldly. It is perhaps the only way by which he would ever even consider insubordination towards her – to continue protecting her, to continue serving her, even if she didn't want that protection or service. Thankfully, she's made it quite clear that dismissing him is not, and will never be, an option.

Instead, he simply folds her into his embrace again – carefully, mindful of his own bruises, and her smaller size. "Aí, my love..." he breathes, voice unsteady, as though he might weep again – but not for grief, this time; overwhelmed by something else entirely.

Saber (346) has posed:
Though it might ultimately prove to be impossible – there were too many possibilities within the multiverse – Arturia hoped that Bedivere would have no need for such ferocity. For now, there was none...even the stoic mask so alike hers had been cast aside for the moment to reveal the vulnerable heart. There was no doubt about his strength, not with how much he had endured and even flourished in adversity. Yet, she couldn't help but want to protect that heart, as she had tried to even in Camelot. And she had committed to doing so after the céilidh.

Without conscious effort, her left hand moved slightly in a soothing, caressing gesture as he trembled, as if to reassure him that she would hold him as she was for however long he needed her to. Just as he had been her rock, she would be his.

Arturia waited as he forced himself to calm, sorting through what wreckage the storm had wrought. Yet, she was adamant about the question of his honour, and that seemed to have had some effect. She could never agree to the idea of the marshal dishonouring her in any way. Yet, she had remained fearful that the reverse was not true, that, upon the breaking of her mask and discovery of things she had done, that would change. But when his eyes finally met hers, that question seemed to melt away into nothing.

Still, at the end of the Fourth War, her wish had changed, coming to believe that Britain's fall had been caused by her inferior leadership. Rider's command of his ἑταῖροι – Ionioi Hetairoi –had first caused her to doubt. She could have never commanded her armies the way Iskander had, the reason for that being that she had never truly led them. Even the name of that Reality Marble – Companions – revealed what his armies had been to him. She had been a knight first, and a king second...sacrificing constantly but never allowing anyone in. Arturia had concluded that a stronger king could have.

"When I made my wish...I simply wanted to save Britain, somehow. But after I had seen Rider's...Iskander of Macedon...upon witnessing his command over his army, his Ionioi Hetairoi, I doubted my path. He had said I saved my people, but I had never led them. I could never inspire such a thing as he had, and so...I thought that what Britain had truly needed was a king who could lead the people...and find the utopia I sought."

She sighed wearily. "I found the strength to finish the War, and...it would seem the War after it, though I had never reached that far, as I Unified before I was called to the Fifth War. I do not know what would have become of me, after that...what I hear from others seems to conflict."

She shook her head slightly. "But...that does not matter any longer. Perhaps you are right....perhaps there had been things which not even the King of Conquerors could have prevented. No...he could not have, the empire he created through his conquests had been divided and fell apart upon his death. But...he had said that he could never regret his life, his rule. I, however...I cannot. Not with the people suffering as they had." That the noble Knights of the Round Table – even the boisterous, glory-embracing Gawain – would have never followed a king such as Iskander had never seemed to have crossed her mind.

Only now, she knew there was one knight who never would have left his homeland, his family, and his people. He had only left for her, for complex reasons. Battle and glory had never called to him as it had the Companions, not the gentle soul who told her that only she would be his king.

As he met her gaze and took her hand in his with the disarming shy smile, Arturia could feel her own eyes misting even as she commanded the tears they threatened back. And all she could do as he lifted her hand to his lips was stare in what could only be awe. Not even a part of a supernatural army, the internalised world of a Reality Marble, or a Noble Phantasm...but fully human. There could be no greater power than that, to still follow her to the ends of the very universe itself. Not even the Servants of the Companions could boast of loyalty so great. And certainly nothing of love.

Though she could have simply 'spoken' through their silent way of speaking, there was something about speaking out loud which made it more real, like a vow. Like his own, her voice was unsteady with emotion, though neither grief nor regret. "I am here, my lord....my love..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Only seeing his king in danger ever seemed to draw that incredible wrath from the marshal. True, insulting her honour could tread dangerously close to those waters, but true threats were what seemed to transform him from calm knight to raging berserker. His aura of calm was so complete that many quietly accused him of the same inhumanity as his king, unbreakable even by direct threats to his honour... yet when Arturia came under threat, the quietest of the Round Table's knights was transformed before their very eyes; motivated solely by wrath, focusing his deadly grace and strength toward one goal and one goal alone – protect Arturia.

The battle of Caliburn's loss had been a combination of that, and seeing Britain's army cut down before him, the crushing weight of loss and the threat that the Saxon host might well overrun Arturia herself – although in awe and worship of his fighting, even the peasants that had borne him back to Camelot had spoken in hushed tones of how he had seemed to change; how he had simply... lost his mind, for a time.

When the king's reign had gone up with the embers at Camlann, he had fought the same, though it had been tempered with sorrow, as though he had somehow known that the great conflagration in the battlefield was somehow an ending-fire; the final pyre of King Arthur's reign, and the last gasp of Camelot. That they would dare to raise their blades in rebellion had made him wroth; he had again fought like a creature possessed, roaring – but weeping, even at the same time, for the brothers he had been forced to cut down, and then for losing his beloved king entirely once the battle had taken him away from her side.

He remains silent as she tries to explain the complicated matter of the King of Conquerors; his brow raises slightly in recognition of the name. Truly, the most notable of historical figures and heroes seem to become Heroic Spirits, though perhaps for him, it's a matter of course that his king would be counted among their number... and among their strongest. He listens dutifully, though, eyes half-closed as he watches her through a veil of pale lashes.

His mouth twists slightly, perhaps picking up on her unspoken thoughts.

"I could not have followed such a king," he says quietly, shaking his head. "I do not think that my brothers of the Round Table would have fain followed such a king, either. Perhaps he was a great conqueror of land, and perhaps his soldiers may have followed him willingly, but did he have any chivalry? Any honour? I do not think so, from what I have heard, and what I have read..." He smiles, a little uncertainly. "If he could have no regrets, were his actions worthwhile, to have thought so little of them after having done them?"

He falls silent for a moment, as though considering; violet eyes distant and thoughtful. "And that is what sets you apart," he says slowly. He reaches up and rests his hand at the side of her face; gently, always gently, as though handling spun glass. "You care about what happened. You did not rule because you wished for the glory of ruling, but because you cared to do what was right for the people."

"And that," he says softly, "is why you will always be the better king. That is why we of the Round Table will always follow you." He smiles, faintly. "That is why..." He hesitates for just a moment. "That is why my heart belongs to you. Truly, you were the most suitable. I could not have drawn Caliburn from the stone. Nor could Sir Lancelot, nor Sir Gawain; Sir Bors de Gans, Sir Galahad, Sir Percivale, or Sir..." He hesitates for a moment; pain flickers through his expression, though he never lets his smile waver. "Sir Lucan." She's going to notice that. Unfortunately for him, she's just as perceptive as he is.

He hears the wavering of her voice, and while his breath hitches, he controls himself this time. Slowly, the pieces of that mask are coming together – but not to hide himself away from her. Not this time.

No, he vows silently, I will never hide from you again. I care for you too much to shut you out. I have done enough of that for a lifetime.

That shy, almost uncertain smile shows itself again, though there is an undertone of something a little more confident. There is no uncertainty in his love; his devotion to her, no hesitation at all. On that he is absolutely confident, willing even to die for her sake, though as she had thought of earlier – it is more important that he live for her sake.

"I know." His response is soft, but calm; confident in that fact. They are here for one another, as they could never have been before, and there is no questioning that. He reaches up, clearing her hair away from the side of her face, marvelling briefly over how soft it is. He had never thought of that before. Nor had he ever noticed how sweet it smelled.

Bedivere clears his throat a little awkwardly, aware that his face is colouring, just a little.

He's still struggling with the idea of proper behaviour, and he's reasonably certain he doesn't want to embarrass himself or upset Arturia; letting his mind wander too much in her presence is only asking for trouble. It goes in places he isn't entirely certain he wants it to go – noticing small details that it would have been absolutely improper to notice – such as that sweet, rosy scent about her hair.

Still, he decides, it does suit her.

With a final caress of his thumb, he lets her go, carefully rolling onto his side and climbing – somewhat gingerly – to his feet. It takes some hunting to find his stave-sword, and when he lifts it, the deep crack that had rent it before seems to have wormed its way fully through; the two ends hang awkwardly.

He sighs. "I suppose I'll be needing to carve a new one before we can do this again." The broken stick is tossed aside.

Turning, he offers her his hand to help her up. "Perhaps... we can have a cup of... tea. I... should just like to sit quietly, I think. With you. If... if it please milady," he adds, quietly.

Saber (346) has posed:
The change had always been so complete – and so rare – that Arturia had doubted what she had seen. That such a thing could happen had never led her to think less of him; what had troubled her was that he had been driven to such lengths. At the time, she had thought it was for the same reason that led her to the one time she had ever broken her vows of chivalry; surely the death and wanton destruction by the barbarians had enraged such a compassionate soul. She had never made the association between that and her own person. Now that she finally understood, she would have to exercise caution.

Saber was typically careful – honourable but yet cautious – and generally exercised restraint with both her use of magical energy and her Noble Phantasm, and only took painstakingly calculated risks. There were times she had been incorrect, and her actions bold, but they were hardly ever reckless. Yet, she would have to exercise restraint even beyond that, if she was to keep that berserker-like rage from surfacing again, when Bedivere would completely disregard his own safety to protect her. That was a risk she certainly could not take.

On the King of Conquerors...Arturia admitted that he knew honour, that much was was made clear. 'To defeat without humiliation' or some such. "To be honest, he did have honour; those he had defeated were invited to join his army; most of them did." She shook her head; she was still envious in some ways of his ability to inspire so well. But she would not have traded those armies of Heroic Spirits for the Round Table. "Yet, chivalry was our calling; we only raised our swords for the sake of the people, rather than to see the ocean on the other side of the world."

Her breath caught at that gentle touch, the once-more calm demeanour. When she had changed her wish, it hadn't mattered what her intentions had been, what reasons she had for accepting the heavy burden of Britain's kingship, and eventually, the hopes and prayers of all dying soldiers on the battlefield as they prayed that their sacrifices would not be in vain. Rider had pitied her, Archer had become obsessed with her, but neither of them had understood that such a thing was not merely a burden that was crushing her beneath its weight. All that had mattered was saving her country and her people, and she would pay any cost for that salvation. she had never thought that had set her apart, simply that it had been her solemn duty as king.

But to hear Bedivere speak of it, she had missed what should have been obvious; there were many more who did not see the mantle of the king as a sacred duty, who did not believe in chivalry. And her knights would only have followed a chivalrous king. Perhaps she had failed, but she had reached for it. It might have been that what they had reached was more important to history; their chivalry, that which was remembered, even now. Had they changed the fate of the world, then?

Indeed, she caught the subtle change, and his sacrifices – and those of all her other faithful knights – burned in her memory. Camelot had fallen, Britain was torn asunder...it had felt as if those sacrifices had been made in vain, and Excalibur's light was their hope to change that fate, to defy it and reach utopia. Those memories had driven her forward, staring down her own fate and refusing it, defying it for the sake of her kingdom. But would that have been what they fought for?

Her hand lifted to cover his. No, she decided; she could no longer dishonour them in that way. One day she would find them again, confess her sins, and accept the sacrifices they had made for their shared dream. She would finally accept them as friends. But for now, she could only move forward. Only now, she was no longer alone on her journey.

"Good." She smiled a little, her face colouring just slightly in turn. Would it always be like this? In some ways, entirely likely. Neither of them would completely abandon propriety.

But for this moment in time? Arturia simply smiled – the subtle hint of her own shyness persisting –and took his hand.

"As a matter of fact...tea sounds lovely."