2660/A Gift

A Gift
Date of Scene:	21 July 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	In memory of the day they met with one another again in the multiverse, Sir Bedivere presents Arturia with a gift.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The light of the sun is like liquid gold in the air of Dun Realtai, with dust motes dancing in any shaft of light that falls. Cicadas and crickets buzz and chatter in the foliage, and most of the village folk have retreated into their homes and out of the heat.

Well, almost everyone -- except the land's steward.

A cursory search for him turns up most of his usual haunts empty, and Kepas seems absent, too. They aren't in the empty storage room he uses for sparring practise. The storerooms, where he often takes inventory of the castle's supplies, is empty of all but one or two servants tidying up. The lord's quarters are likewise uninhabited.

He's not even in the village, either, but helpful villagers would point beyond the base of the hill, out into the woods -- and eventually, the King of Knights would come upon him some distance away, west and north, near where the winter-witch's weald meets with the valley's newer growth.

Bedivere has his back to a tree, his harp in his lap, a shaft of sunlight casting the clearing he's chosen to settle beneath in gold. Kepas is sprawled nearby, the yellow lantern-lights of his eyes winked out for the moment (and does the creature even sleep?) Although Bedivere's eyes are likewise closed, every so often he plucks at his harp strings, humming some aimless tune or another under his breath.

Lazy summer afternoon, indeed.

Saber (346) has posed:
     It had not yet been a year since the Once and Future King of Britain had come to Dun Realtai, yet it almost felt that way. The summer reminded her somewhat of a place where, nearly a year ago, she had hosted a celebration for a very specific reason. Of course, given the season, it was hardly a surprise her thoughts had turned that way; it was the anniversary of her reunion with the Knight of the Round Table she had long ago named her Left Hand. One of her first Knights, and the one who had been the last, whom she had entrusted Excalibur to in her final moments to return to the Lady of the Lake.

     For all the darkness of the bloody ritual that was Heaven's Feel, she had escaped her destined fate somewhat in a queer twist of fate when their world Unified, and she was suddenly thrust into a multiverse of endless potential, impossible in her own universe. She had survived the Holy Grail War and her fate beyond it, and though her life as a Servant might not have been a true second life, it was good enough as far as Arturia was concerned....especially once the knight she could no longer deny she had favoured above all others in her own way had been returned to her side. How could she have called that anything except for a miracle?

     Dressed in similar commoner's clothing with her hair bound in its usual braid-encircled bun, there was but one difference: the tunic had been dyed royal blue and embroidered, a gift from some grateful villagers. Yet that was not the only indication of her status; the regal bearing of the petite blonde was one which could not be overlooked. Simply, she had lived so long projecting that image and constantly carrying herself in that way -- not daring to allow the mask to slip -- that it had become a habit in itself, and didn't know how to stop. She carried no weapons; indeed, she had no need to, with both her armour and Excalibur able to be called into existence at a moment's notice. Furthermore, it was unlikely indeed that violence would disturb the idyllic picture now that king and knight had gathered allies and banished the destructive forces which had once laid waste to the land which had become their home.

     That, too, was a miracle Arturia had never dared hope for. A true home for her had once been impossible, sacrificed like so many other things for her duty to Britain. However, that duty had been fulfilled to the best of her ability. Whatever her failures had been, she now pledged herself to the Union, to Dun Realtai, and to her Master....though the last was somewhat more than simply a Servant's loyalty.

     She had wondered where he had gone once the last of the current stack of inventory had been taken for an early summer crop -- the petite blonde had been nearly ecstatic that there would already be enough to last through the next winter -- though it wasn't terribly difficult to find him. Indeed, she was thankful once she could sense his presence even before she approached, still catching up on five years of troubled sleep...that is, when he could even sleep at all. Arturia smiled fondly, reluctant to disturb him, though Bedivere had likely already sensed her approach.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those faded, mild eyes open slightly at the familiar sensation of Arturia's approach. Bedivere had always been possessed of sharp instincts, but his supernatural connection to the King of Knights makes it now impossible for one to surprise the other. It seems they always know where the other may be, and when they draw near.

Kepas likewise picks up his head, yellow lights simply /appearing/ in those empty sockets. Although it's impossible to tell which way his vision is actually focused, something about the tautness in his posture suggests he is indeed looking forward -- towards where Arturia hesitates near a middling oak tree, not quite large enough to rival those that had half-hidden Camelot's mighty citadel.

"You needn't hover like one of the servants, my lady." Bedivere's words are given with a faint chuckle, at about the same time Kepas' tail starts slapping at the grass in peculiarly dog-like glee. "Come, join me. The afternoon is warm, and the glade peaceable."

Saber (346) has posed:
     In truth, she had been content to simply watch him, happier than she had ever thought she would have a right to be. All of the Knights of the Round Table had suffered for their shared ideals, though few had endured as much as Sir Bedivere. For him to seem so comfortable and at peace was a scene she as loathe to disturb. Never in Camelot had she seen him so contented, he never could have dared to relax his rigorous guard, the fa�ade he had maintained for the sake of protecting her rule. Arturia felt almost guilty for bothering him.

     "I-I was not hovering...not precisely," she stammered with a slight blush, clearly embarrassed. In spite of that, however, she acquiesced to his wish, though not without a pat on the goofy ice hound's head first.

     "I merely did not wish to disturb your respite," she admitted as she seated herself beside him. "I cannot remember the last time you seemed so contented."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Kepas all but thrusts his head beneath the hand, as though eager for the praise. His head is a strange thing, almost skeletal like the rest of his body, but obviously bone or something like it; cool and smooth to the touch. The short, fine white fur doesn't seem to fill in until his neck and throat.

"The servants asking after such a detail or anoter would be a disturbance," the silver-haired knight states simply. "You are not. I would hardly consider your presence a bother."

Leaning back against his tree, he strums the harp-strings, gently; a short distance away, Kepas puts his head down with a dog-like sigh, setting a small flurry of frost to glinting in the sun before it melts.

"More so than Camelot ever was," he admits, with a shrug. "This place is home as it never was."

Silence passes, in which he's comfortable to let the crickets chirp, the cicadas buzz, and the dust motes dance in the sun.

"Did you need something, my lady? I have finished my work with the granary's inventory, for the time being, but there is always something that needs doing." He chuckles, leaning his head back, sleepy-eyed in the summer sun. "I should not like to have forgotten something important..."

Saber (346) has posed:
     As nightmarish as the ice hound might have been for some, his personality made it nearly impossible for the Servant to see the creature as anything other than a giant puppy. Even when she had witnessed Kepas fulfilling his obligation to track down the errant dark magus responsible for Dun Realtai's destruction, Arturia seemed stuck on the image which was now before her. Either that, or chewing contentedly on the poor gong-creature which they had accidentally brought back from Kagenashi's world.

     Idly, she wondered what had become of Cavall. It seemed a foolish thing to wish for the return a beloved pet when she had yet to make amends with the remaining Knights of the Round Table, and had already been granted miracle after miracle, but there it was.

     The heart could be a selfish thing. It had indeed been wise to control hers when she ruled from her throne in Camelot.

     "Perhaps not," she replied. "Nevertheless, it was a peace I was reluctant to disturb in any way."

     Arturia paused, closing her jade eyes as if she had fallen into a similar light sleep. "Indeed. While there is a need for governance, it is not the need to maintain the same rigid rule as was necessary in Britain. And no need for the same obfuscations and pretences."

     In turn, she fell into her own contented spell in the silence only punctuated by the sounds of cicadas and the occasional songs of larks in flight overhead. Arturia almost seemed startled when Bedivere asked her a question. "Hm? Ah...no. The day's work has been completed, and I dismissed the servants for the day. In truth, I had simply wondered where you had gone. Though...I imagine dinner will be ready in a few hours, as the day grows late."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Mmmn." The sound is given in response to Arturia's reluctance to disturb the peace, and the noise is vaguely dismissive. "They do their own work, and live their own lives. They need not be led about by the nose like an unruly horse, and for that I am grateful. Nor need I concern myself with the same politics that marked life in Camelot's court. It was a wearying thing to bear with a smile."

The silver-haired knight glances aside, as though in acknowledgement of what Arturia explains -- that the servants are gone for the day, and the lengthening evening. That seems to get some reaction out of him, at least. He straightens, blinking somewhat owlishly. "The day grows so late already? I had nto known."

He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though considering; frowning in deep thought.

"I see. I will be ready to go, soon, but... stay with me a while, first." He gives the strings on his harp another brief strum. "There is something I would discuss with you, first."

Saber (346) has posed:
     The petite blonde smiled, almost indulgently. It might have seemed a queer thing indeed to someone only accustomed to her stoic, stone-like mask. While she had not faulted the people of Britain for their desperate need for a leader, she had grown fond of the people who were more like she was: proud, capable, and independent. They never troubled the lord and lady unless the circumstances were truly dire. "Yes, quite. For them to trouble us, it would have to be a true emergency. They are so capable of bearing much...it has been refreshing."

     But perhaps more than even that was the absence of the need for rigorous protocol. Though the manner of king and knight was formal by most standards, the stoicism which had been so vital in Britain had been wearying. It was doubly so when neither of them could afford to allow their masks to lapse at all. To be able to cast them aside had done much to heal the both of them.

     Her smile was no less indulgent for him. "Yes, though if you had lost track of the time so, your time was well-spent resting." Even if he wasn't sleeping necessarily, the rest would do him good. The Good Lord knew he had earned it years ago, though not without some firm assistance from his king and lady.

     Arturia shook her head. "It is well...I would not be averse to staying, awhile. It is a most pleasant afternoon."

     However, her head tilted slightly at the prospect of a discussion, her expression one of mild curiosity. "Oh? What is it that you wish to discuss?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Thankfully, I have heard nothing from them today." Bedivere tilts his head back and settles comfortably against the tree trunk. "I find they are skilled in managing their own affairs, and when I must correct or supervise their work, those corrections are minimal."

"Mm." He pulls himself upright somewhat reluctantly, draping one arm over a bent knee, the other resting over the battered, scuffed frame of the harp. "A pleasant afternoon it is, my lady, albeit a warmer one than I would have expected of Camelot." Warm, indeed; his clothing is thinner than usual, woven of simple homespun linen, though the usual scent of Castille soap is tempered somewhat by the earthy scent of grass and bark.

He tilts his head slightly, studying the King of Knights in silence; thoughtful and mild as he has ever been. Bedivere is quiet for a long moment before he drops his gaze, regarding the harp in his lap.

"Perhaps it may be better to act than to speak. I can think of no suitable words, not especially. A poor filidh am I," he adds, with a soft chuckle.

Instead, he straightens, shifting his grip on the harp--

--and offers the instrument to Arturia.

"I would give you this, my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
     A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "At times, I feel as if I am in fact underfoot with my efforts, as opposed to truly helping them," she remarked with a dry note. "It is good that we are able to focus so completely on the matter of organising allies without the need to issue orders for every last detail."

     As it was with the Knights of the Round, she reflected. She had assigned each vital task of administration and organisation to the most suitable man, and each had executed his duties flawlessly. Many of Dun Realtai's citizens, it seemed, had the hearts of knights. Truly, she was blessed to have found a home here.

     "It is a good thing, I think, that the weather is as warm as it is. The cold of this winter has not been kind to your injuries, and even the baths can only do so much. I do miss Britain from time to time, but I am grateful that the summer has been as it is here." She wasn't scolding, but it was simply in her nature to worry over him even when he took acceptable care of himself. All the rest of her days she would likely be doing so. But that in itself was a miracle of their new life, the freedom to show that sort of care.

     She had thought that perhaps what he had wanted to discuss were more long-term plans for their home, those dreams they had discussed during the long winter of what they could build for the people. A school where any could study regardless of background, a joust and feast for all the people to enjoy, exploration and survey of the land beyond their borders. Her own mind began to mull over all the possibilities they had been forced to put off until they were able to lead the people through the brutal winter and restore the fertility to the land. Arturia was completely unprepared for the path now laid out before her.

     She stared, sea-green eyes wide, at the harp for a long moment of stunned silence. After what might have seemed as an eternity, she slowly lifted her eyes to his blue-grey ones. Her expression was unmistakeable, for they both hailed from lands which prized the distinctive triangular harp as more than simply an instrument, even an important one. It represented the soul of their cultures, for they were both of the tribes of Britain's Celts, even as his named it the cl�rsach and hers the telyn. It was the same symbol of the fili and the rulers. As much as the sword and shield, it was representative of their shared homeland identity. And she understood perfectly the significance of his offer.

     Which was why she seemed to painfully slow, her face flush, as she lifted her tiny hands to accept it.

     No words needed to be said; Bedivere would understand what she had accepted with the greatest of silent awe, reverence, and the hint of persistent shyness.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"My sentiments exactly. Such it was in Camelot, at times, when I was sent to the marches and the people were readying their own defense of the sea-wolves." Bedivere manages a half-smile, wry. "Not all of those people were helpless, although a great many seemed so. I arrived to many villages to find that they were burnt to the ground; not by the sea-wolves, but by their own people, determined not to let the Saxons have aught but ashes. I would find them waiting patiently in the woods for our arrival."

It wasn't a common story, but it was one that had always delighted him in the telling -- not because of the destruction wrought, but because he had always admired those who had stood up for themselves; who had taken decisive action against the raiders in the only way they knew how. Such determination had always impressed him. It wasn't an easy thing to set one's own home and fields to the torch.

When the King of Knights stares at him with that guileless and wide-eyed look, he can only smile in response; that same shy smile that seems so endearing to her. It's as though he confides silently that this gift, however freely given, nonetheless took some courage in the giving, too.

He seems to release his breath when she accepts the harp, casting a critical eye to the way she handles it, but he has confidence. She's been learning quickly, however disparaging she may be of her own efforts; and she has always practised the utmost care when handling his own harp instead of the learner's-harp that he had commissioned for her.

Once she takes the instrument in hand, he leans back against the tree, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; a weight he hadn't realised he'd had.

"Good," he murmurs, closing his eyes; but the way he says the word and the edge of amusement to his voice suggests he'd known her answer all along. "Very good, my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
     As tragic as such destruction had been -- even if it had been done willingly to at least slow the advance of the Saxons -- Arturia had to admire the tenacity and self-determination of those villagers. As a proper knight, she would always help the unfortunate regardless of their personalities and circumstances, but she would always be most fond of those who naturally followed the Virtues she had codified. It was people of this mindset she had truly fought for, those most deserving of the utopia she sought. They had sacrificed their homes, she would give them the perfect home in return.

    "Yes, I remember the reports," she mused. "Though I had hated the wars had come to that, such sacrifices were admirable. I only wish that we could have done more for them."

     At least now, in the multiverse, they had been given that chance. It had been a fine line to walk between helping too little and too much, doing enough to guard against a winter the people were already vulnerable to and doing so much that they insulted the villagers' own efforts.

     Indeed, that smile was one she would always treasure, the hint of what he had been forced to seal behind walls similar to the ones she had built to protect her secret and her rule. It had been a terrible -- albeit willing -- sacrifice, and yet that smile meant that the years of service had not completely stifled the soul she had seen so many years ago. Arturia could not help but respond in kind, the part of her suppressed for those years re-emerging at long last.

     It was not without some awkwardness that she accepted, however. The significance of the gift being what it was, and in many ways she felt unworthy of it, not ready to accept. Her own talents were, she still felt, lacking. In some respect, it nearly felt presumptuous. But if she had only trusted but a single person, that person would have been Bedivere. If he believed she was ready, then she could only place her faith in his judgement, as she had countless times before. As infuriatingly stubborn as she could be, the Servant could in their more private moments yield to his counsel.

     Hence, she was not especially surprised that he seemed to have known what her answer would be. "It seemed improper to ask whether you were certain or not, my lord," she replied. "As it is, I cannot help but wonder. Yet, I have never doubted your counsel...and I never shall."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The villagers had been... colourful," the silver-haired knight says, with a shrug. "It was less a sacrifice to them, and more a denial to the Saxons. They were angry, and destroying what they were already leaving behind gave them a certain satisfaction, I think." To hear the headman tell it, they'd been content with that, striking back at the sea-wolves in the only way they could.

Harps were significant both as instruments and as items of symbol in both of their cultures. In presenting his harp to her, he may as well have presented her with a piece of his own soul -- a symbolism that hardly escapes him, even if there's no questioning that he is the more musically inclined of the two. She's learning quickly, though, and he wouldn't have given it up if he didn't think she could someday become his equal.

In response to her explanation, he only chuckles, pushing himself up to his feet from the tree trunk. "I rarely do things without certainty, my lady; I should think you would know that, by now. It was not my way as a child, I could not afford to do it in Camelot, and I see little reason to do so now." He offers his hand to haul her to her feet. "Walk with me? I am not yet ready to return to the citadel, and I would enjoy this fine afternoon."

Heaving himself to his feet as though by some unspoken signal, Kepas shakes off the dust and bits of summer grass, sneezing silently. That whipcord tail swipes back and forth once or twice, jaws falling open in a silent doggy grin.

One could imagine that if his masters threw a stick, he might go bounding after it like an overgrown puppy.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The petite knight chuckled softly. She had encountered many characters who could be called 'colourful' over the six years since the end of the Fourth Grail War and Unification. It had never bothered her even as there had been times she was uncertain how to necessarily react. The 'colourful' language of certain allies, for one, tended to leave her bemused and she had discovered that simply ignoring it was the best way to go about it.

     The people of those borderland villages had been another matter. Earthy, and perhaps nobility considered them crude and uncouth, but nevertheless Arturia considered them to be the backbone of the kingdom. Without them, there would not even have been a kingdom in the first place. Their means were limited, and so she could understand that otherwise impotent anger. Perhaps that small satisfaction had been a comfort even as the invaders had driven them from their homes. Still, she remained determined not to force the people of Dun Realtai to make a similar choice.

     The gift of the harp was both a blessing and a burden, though a willing one. She had always inwardly berated herself whenever she felt she was not living up to expectations adequately, hence her new dream of finding the Knights of her order though some means and making amends. It was a clear demonstration of his own faith in her, and the one thing which had continued to worry her was failing him or disappointing him somehow.

     She accepted Bedivere's hand up -- another indication of her trust in him -- still clutching the harp to her chest with her free arm, though her scant weight would seem as nothing to him. "Yes, it is quite pleasant," she agreed.

     And perhaps somewhat nostalgic, though it had not been quite a year ago since the familiar scene after the first and somewhat comically-disastrous ceilidh. It was still too fresh in her mind to properly find amusement in it and all the embarrassment which still made her ears colour, but she smiled at how far they had come since then, from knight and king to true companions, the walls between them no more.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even in his relatively short time in the unified world, Bedivere had met many individuals who could be considered 'colourful.' Many of those allies he has worked with in the Union fit such a description, and certainly differ from the standards used by the silver-haired knight. Initially, his adjustment had been a period of awkwardness and uncertainty. Although Arturia had not yet returned to him by that point, it had thankfully been a brief adjustment and one expedited by the comfort of strict Union routine.

Now, he counts those many allies dearly. They've saved his life, and he's saved theirs; of equal importance, they gave him place and purpose when he needed them the most. It couldn't have sustained him forever, but it sustained him until Arturia could be reunited with her directionless marshal.

A firm tug sets Arturia back on her feet, an easy demonstration of strength for a knight a full foot taller than her, and a few dozen pounds heavier -- the strength of a Servant aside, he had always towered over her in life. Though not the strongest of her knights, it's likely he had been stronger than she in life and without supernatural aid.

"I have always liked summer." The knight inhales deeply, letting the breath go through his nose. "The smell of the fields, and the sunlit earth... it has always been a far cry from the mist-soaked cliffs of home, or the sodden fields in Camelot's spring and autumn rains... it must sound a peculiar thing to say, but this land has a good scent." Stooping, he retrieves a handful of earth, sifting through his hand as he lets it fall. "I smell no blood in its fields. It has moved on from its own tragic history, I think."

He starts forward, then, checking back to ensure that the King of Knights follows, still clutching the battered old harp to her chest. Somehow, without ever quite getting to his feet, Kepas is there, slinking along beside them, half-hidden by the trees and silent as a shadow. The creature seems less the playful puppy, now, and more the silent guardian he is; foolishness gone as though a switch had been flipped.

"We have not been here so very long, but I think it will be a good year in this place, once we return to winter. Already we have enough to last the winter, and a surplus beside." Bedivere folds his hands behind his back, at ease, long-legged stride taking him away from the village rather than back towards it; meandering patiently through Dun Realtai's distant hills. "I think it best to arrange a survey, and see what lies beyond the bounds of this land."

"And I believe it would be good to host a feast; a reward for the hard work of the people through winter and spring, in recognition for their efforts and achievements." He manages a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. "A joust, perhaps? Few here would know how, I think, but it would be a useful skill to teach them, particularly if we are to build Dun Realtai's cavalry." He cants his head slightly to one side, fixing her with the corner of a violet eye. "What say you, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     The mysterious benefactor who had rescued the Left Hand of the King from his eternal wandering seemed destined to remain unknown. It was a true pity; were she ever to come across that anonymous member of the Union, Arturia would have knighted him on the spot for the simple act of rescuing her knight. Any kindness rendered to them was one rendered to her as far as she was concerned, more so when it came to the one closest to her. She owed that ally more than she could ever hope to repay, particularly in the year which had followed when he was able to truly heal...and be granted every wish he had harboured.

     It had only been her purpose which had sustained her throughout much of her time following the Holy Grail War, and later her friends when she had finally acquiesced her wish. Her life with the Tohsakas in service to the Union had been pleasant and had given her a new purpose...and yet, there had been something missing. It hadn't been until she had crossed paths with Lancelot again that she finally began to understand. And when Bedivere had reappeared, the circle was complete. But even though she had yet to realise her new wish completely, Arturia now felt complete in a way she had never before experienced, not even in Camelot. Dun Realtai was the miracle she had been seeking all along.

     "Father said I had been born in summer," Arturia reflected, and even without the nostalgic tone it was easy to figure out that she referred to Sir Ector; the princess had never met her biological father, King Uther. "Our celebration was always a simple affair, and yet it seemed so extravagant. Even the feasts of Camelot could never compare."

     As her Master, Sakura had been able to discern that the Servant had always celebrated her birthday on the seventh day of the modern month of July and had planned accordingly. Bedivere would remember those events first-hand, the feasts of the king's birthday, but both would have seen those affairs as having been more for the sake of politics than a genuine celebration. Those small affairs on Ector's estate, on the other hand, had been genuine.

     The tiny blonde seemed to watch him intently as he sifted a handful of earth. One might consider that symbolic in its own way; Camlann in the distant future -- what was not the current era for much of the multiverse -- was similarly peaceful, the blood of their compatriots long dissipated from the earth of what was now Salisbury. One might never know all who had fought and died there.

     She followed behind him now, a sight which would have been at odds for anyone accustomed to the sight of the proud king and loyal knight, as the conversation shifted into what she had expected. "Truly, we have been blessed," Arturia replied. She had done well to assign him to the task of governing Dun Realtai, even as the idea had made him uncomfortable. She knew what his capabilities were, even if his modesty prevented him from recognising them. "I agree. The time is now right to explore the land, perhaps find what lies beyond the horizon, be they other settlements or otherwise." Either would be good, be it for trade or more resources.

     The question of a joust, on the other hand, was a more immediate question. The spring grounds had been too muddy even as most effort had been needed to establish what crops they now had. But with the coming harvests and traditional festivals, the season was now agreeable. "I would imagine that there are harvest festivals not unlike Britain's," Arturia mused. "Instead of merely a festival, we could host such events. It would be good, I think, for the people to have much more than simply a simple festival."

     Meaning, she thought they earned a week of respite and games.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I did not celebrate my birthday. I scarcely remembered when it was, there was often so much work to be done, but my mother always remembered." The silver-haired knight lets his hands drop to hang at his sides. "I suppose I simply never noticed or cared. Some years, in Camelot, Ceallach would slip some useful trinket to me. But for the most part I did not observe it, nor did I take note of it. There was always work to be done in Camelot."

Oh, but he remembers Arturia's birthday. He had remembered that better than he would ever remember his own. He had longed to do something for his king, anything, but duty had always forced him to maintain a distance and attitude of aloofness.

Bedivere glances left, then right over his shoulder, blinking somewhat owlishly when Arturia falls into step behind him rather than at his side. "Aye, we've been blessed. I would like to explore the land and see what lay beyond the bounds of this hill." Another half-glance to either direction, and he takes a deliberate step backward to put him side-by-side with the King of Knights again.

Once upon a time he would have been the one following behind her, ghosting her steps as silently as Kepas follows them from the treeline; the position of a subservient.

"Mayhap there are," he concedes, in regards to harvest festivals. "I will ask among the people, and see what they should favour; I would not like to impose upon them. I should like to reward them, though, for their hard work. At the same time, a joust would be an excellent way to begin introducing to them the business of soldiering. As much as I would prefer these lands never know the touch of blood and iron, that is impossible."

"This remains a Union territory. And I cannot trust the Confederates to remain blind to it. Furthermore, I do not know that the Fair Folk will remain peaceable." He thins his lips, gesturing vaguely with both hands, as though he were trying to find the right words. "While I would prefer to brook no trouble with them, I will not allow them to take Dun Realtai unawares, either. Nor will I allow any foreign force to invade this land and sweep its defenses because there were none. Only a fool would allow a land to be so soft. I will seek no war beyond these borders, nor will I seek conquest -- but I will have these people capable of defending themselves."

His hands drop and he sighs. "It would be a good introduction to them, in any case, and a way to ease them into training. Let them have a bit of fun with it. Then they can learn that it would not all be drudgery and drilling. It would also be an efficient means of winnowing out those who do have some training at arms."

A few seconds of silence pass, broken only by the wind sighing through the trees, and the buzzing of distant cicadas. Bedivere shows an almost sheepish sort of half-smile.

"Although I expect I would not be very good at it, it would be interesting to try my hand at the lists, as well. My duties had long prevented me from it in Camelot, but..."

But he's under no such obligations, here.

Saber (346) has posed:
     The subject was one the jade-eyed knight would have never dared broach as the King of Britain. But now, she no longer needed to maintain that virtual distance. Her birthday had been more of a ceremony than a celebration, a feast for the courts and the people while the king observed from her throne. She had never truly celebrated the day since she had left Sir Ector's estate for Camelot. And she could never host a celebration for her knights.

     However, she was no longer under such obligations, free to honour them as she wished...though not without great embarrassment to the marshal. Arturia could not recall the last time she had made the attempt without embarrassment of her own. The ceilidh had not been without its good points, but how it ended had been a disaster. "Perhaps we can correct that, now...though I dare say that such occasions should not be so...public," she observed with a slight blush as she remembered how the events of the ceilidh had quickly escalated.

     While she had never been particularly self-conscious about her height in Camelot -- or rather, she had never allowed herself to be -- now Arturia struggled sometimes to keep up with the tall knight. It had never been a problem before, as he was always careful to follow behind, but when she exerted little effort, now she ended up lagging behind, fuelling her self-consciousness. She was grateful for the deliberate step back, though had he been anyone else she might have been slightly insulted. But she knew his heart, and thus knew he was merely doing everything he could to accommodate her out of respect and genuine concern rather than pity.

     "I am certain they have their own traditions," she mused on the subject of a possible festival. "Their ways are not entirely unlike ours, though there are enough differences that I would imagine such a festival would not be entirely alike. Perhaps a blending of our traditions, once we learn what they are. I shall ask the people and assign someone to plan for one." She didn't dare try again herself after the last time.

     As close as Dun Realtai had come to her dream of utopia, it nevertheless fell short in one respect through no fault of its own. The reality Bedivere spoke of was what made that utopia impossible, the simple condition of its vulnerability to malevolent outside forces. By its very nature as a haven and respite, it dangerously opened itself up to the potential of harm. Years ago, King Arthur would have barred the presence of Confederates and their allies entirely for the sake of creating a land free from suffering and conflict. But now, she hoped that showing that peace even to their enemies might persuade them to lay down their own arms, or at least realise the value of an oasis of calm. It was a curious paradox that what brought it closest to the true utopia she had envisioned was what likewise placed it in that precarious position.

     Then again, the people had already known what it was to experience violence and hardship. "Perhaps, after what their previous lord had done, the people never expected the peace we have now. There will be those willing to ensure such never plagues this land again, though I would prefer they would not be made to make such a choice."

     Arturia sighed, a faint escape of breath. "While this is not a contested territory, and even some of the Confederates seem to understand its value as essentially neutral, I would not put t past others to simply see this as a territory to be conquered. That we must remain constantly vigilant is regretful, though it is what we have been sworn to as knights."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Her next words were slow, deliberate. She found herself wishing the circumstances were better, but such as it was. "It may be that to resurrect the Round Table might not be simply a dream, but a necessity. And the joust would be a good opportunity to discover those with aptitude or at least a willingness to learn."

     Arturia couldn't help but grin, not only in response to the sheepish smile she was so fond of, but in his interest at being added to the lists. "Oh? That might be a little unfair to the other competitors," she quipped. "How could they hope to best a Knight of the Round, particularly the Left Hand of the King?"

     She was hardly going to stop him -- in fact, nothing would please her more to see him in action -- but the fact remained that he was a seasoned knight and veteran of multiple campaigns, and her confidence in his abilities was absolute.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I am content to let it be forgotten." Bedivere dismisses the subject with a careless wave of his hand. "Truth told, I have never been one for celebrating my own birthday. I have always had more important things to do with my time than that, and that is no less true of Dun Realtai than it was of Camelot. If you insist, though, than something private would be preferable, yes."

In other words, he genuinely doesn't care about his own, to the surprise of no one, and the c�ilidh was an unmitigated disaster.

"Perhaps." Bedivere waits until the King of Knights is able to keep up, though this time he consciously walks a little slower, ensuring that she doesn't fall behind him again. He's an exceptionally /tall/ knight, with an exceptionally long stride, and knights taller than Arturia would likely be left behind if he were on a mission.

Certainly his ability to reach different parts of the citadel at Camelot had been no surprise; he could nearly reach the speed of an average knight jogging by simply lengthening his stride and walking fast. The less observant of his detractors blamed witchcraft, as they blamed for so very many of the things he did.

"Perhaps." Those violet eyes turn to the sun-dappled underbrush, a thoughtful frown flickering across his face. "Sir Gawain would join us, as would others of the Union, I think, if we were to put out a call--"

To his credit he doesn't quite stutter at her boast, but he does frown at her in a distinctly sulky sort of way.

"Hmph."

"In any case, opening up such a competition to those of the worlds beyond Dun Realtai would lend an interesting twist; to those of the Union and the Confederacy both, provided they abide by the ancient laws." He rubs his jaw thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to Arturia. "What do you think...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     His king sighed; she had hardly been one for celebrating her own, at least when it came to the court. But with family, it had been an entirely different matter. It had been the mere occasion, where it was a different sort of day for her and her family. The modest gift was nice, but a special meal with them had always been her favourite part. It had been something she had missed when she ascended the throne. "What of your family? Surely you celebrated them with your mother, father, and Sir Lucan. I cannot imagine otherwise."

     He might not especially like the next implication, but she knew better than anyone of the sort of pageantry that the people needed. "Moreover," she continued after a brief pause to catch up. "It is different here. Perhaps allowing such an event to go unnoticed served our purpose in Camelot, but in Dun Realtai I would imagine the people have a similar need for such a celebration. And you are their lord now. Oft-times, it is more of an occasion for the people than it is the one whose birthday it is, when one is nobility."

     It took some effort to keep up with many taller than she when not leading them or putting deliberate effort into moving quickly, and Bedivere was taller than most. It beggared belief that anyone had been dense enough to consider witchcraft which was obviously natural ability. Of course, Arturia doubted they had even believed it themselves, those making such accusations. In all likelihood, those rumours had simply been intended to poison the proverbial well further.

     The petite knight stifled a grin with her hand. Under any other circumstances, she would have tried to ease his discomfiture, but his almost painful modesty was, in truth, quite endearing. He would never in an eternity boast about himself, but she was more than happy to do it for him. "Ah, yes...well. My nephew does so enjoy a challenge. In that, he is not unlike myself. But if he, as a Servant, is to compete, there will need to be special categories. And if that is so..."

     There wasn't anything to keep /her/ from adding her name to the lists, after all.

     Arturia had to admit some surprise to the idea of opening the competition to the Confederacy's more honourable -- or at least well-behaved -- members. The Left Hand of the King had always maintained a vigilant, watchful eye, and he maintained a similar distrust of the faction on principle. His king's approach had been slightly different due to her experiences in the Holy Grail War, where combatants were deadly enemies yet could come to understanding and respect. She continued to remain on guard, though she lost nothing simply by making an attempt to be friendly.

     Yet, for Bedivere, she understood that it was difficult to obfuscate his suspicions. She was certainly not going to order him to relax the guard she had trusted with her life for over two decades, but the game had now changed. As the appointed lord of Dun Realtai, the knight from Dal Riata would be better served by concealing it to a certain extent. For him to take that step meant that perhaps he realised it...though that was not especially surprising. "Indeed, it would. Likewise, it would reinforce the idea that Dun Realtai is a true neutral ground."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Minor celebrations, at best." Bedivere waves a hand dismissively, snorting quietly as Arturia grasps at straws. No doubt he can imagine her wanting to drag his own birthday kicking and screaming into the limelight, but it seems he would honestly prefer such a thing to be forgotten. "Yes, yes. My mother, and my brother, would often observe it. But my father... no. He had the awen, but I think more often, it had him. I do not think he knew /when/ he was, most times, and could no longer know the difference between what was, what is, and what will be."

He gives it rather clinically, seemingly untroubled -- it had always been a fact of his life as a boy that his father was distant, and only grew more distant as the years ticked by. Perhaps his mother made that up for her sons, observing that closeness and being there for them while their father drifted in and out of what was, and what would be.

"Hmph. They may have their celebrations, but not that one." The silver-haired knight folds his arms, obstinate; snorting quietly. "If you had a mind towards doing something, my lady, I will hardly stop you. But I will not make a public ceremony out of my own date of birth. It is hardly worth the importance you ascribe it. If the people wish to celebrate something, I would imagine that the rebuilding of their homes would be of far greater import in their minds."

He arches a brow, glancing down to regard Arturia briefly. "Sir Gawain? Yes, I imagine he would enter the lists. I would be surprised if he did not, truth be told; his is just that sort of personality, and always has been." Glory in battle had been his creed, seeking to spread Camelot's reputation far and wide through strength of arm. He had succeeded, too, for his name lives on, proof positive in his status as a Servant.

"That was my thought. More than that, it would establish that we are willing to treat this place as neutral ground, and that it does not simply mean 'neutral ground, excluding some.'" Bedivere shrugs as he walks, folding his hands behind himself. "I am willing to grant them that much clemency, provided they abide by Brehon Law, and do not disgrace either themselves or Dun Realtai's hospitality. Of course, the instant they do, they will have a great number of angry allies to answer to... including a great many Servants," he adds, raising a brow and casting Arturia an oblique glance.

"While I do not think it would be without risk, I do not think it would be wise to reject such an option out of hand, either. And it would provide us a means to observe them directly, those who are also our enemies." His eyes turn forward, though distant; mulling the matter over. "It would be foolish not to take that chance, although 'tis true that they would battle and conduct themselves differently, if their lives were truly on the line."

He rolls one shoulder in a careless half-shrug. "We shall see where the winds blow. There is still a great deal of planning to be done before then. I must complete inventories of the season's crops, and plan out what we've an excess of in terms of supplies and stocks. I think that our current stores are well in hand for such an event, though."

Saber (346) has posed:
     "Well, yes," Arturia lightly scolded. "It is partly for the sake of the family to remember such things, they need not be elaborate. I had little need to once I became king and I no longer had a true family, and the pageantry had been for the people who had need of it."

     A pale eyebrow raised ever so slightly. "Certainly you would prefer that I not ask Merlin to tutor you in the necessity of appearances for those in our position."

     The tiny knight might have seemed almost comical with her slight frown, her arms folded, matching her stubbornness to his. Knight and king might complement each other's strengths, but unfortunately, the other side of the coin was that they shared the same blind-spots. "Moreover, were our situations reversed, you would simply inform me that I was simply being obstinate."

     As for the subject of his father, she let it go; though she had always been entwined with magic since before she was even born, the ways of the magi and their various branches remained largely a mystery. It couldn't have been easy to have been the son of a fili, but his father was still there. To her, Sir Ector would always be her father while Uther remained like a distant ancestor. Still, she had a point; Aoife had been, from his descriptions and the dreams they shared, far too attentive to have merely let such a thing slip by without some observation....even if it had likely embarrassed the pale-haired youth.

     Arturia sighed. "That is not the point. The people need some occasional frivolity. They are practical, yes, just as we are. But it would be a mistake to think they do not wish for such things from time to time. To have a leader who not only does not demand more from them in order to live in decadence, but understands their needs and their struggles and is competent enough to have overseen a reconstruction so effective that they had lost not a one to the winter, that is cause enough for celebration. What homes could they have rebuilt without the careful eye of their appointed lord?"

     She appeared to let the matter drop, but Bedivere would know better; she was up to something, most likely disappearing into the village at a later time to poll the people themselves. That had seemed to floor not a few of them when she had first done so. Since when had nobles ever asked the people for their opinions and let them decide on matters?

     As for Gawain's participation, that was a given. While the Knight of the Sun had taken to the modern era in surprising ways, jousting was something he would probably still enjoy. Although....she might have to put her foot down if he wanted to joust from a motorcycle. It was an idea so bizarre that Gawain would surely want to make an attempt. "We shall...have to ensure that the rules restrict mounts to horses."

     Neither of them would necessarily trust their various Confederacy guests completely -- indeed, it seemed to have come as a relief to Yari that the knights treated her with some wariness, perhaps setting her mind at ease that they would be alert in the event her Emperor ordered their assassination -- but even enemies deserved a degree of compassion. And perhaps that compassion might change their minds; Arturia was willing to at least make an attempt. But even more that that, chivalry demanded it of them. One did not cast aside the Virtues when they became inconvenient.

     "I do not imagine the allies of anyone who violated hospitality would be especially forgiving, given how many use Dun Realtai as a haven themselves," she observed. "Still, you are quite right. It is also an opportunity to observe them. They have already been doing much the same."

     Her grip shifted slightly on the harp she cradled to her chest. "Even if a feast of this magnitude is not possible this season, there should be a celebration of some sort. The people have need of it. However, I believe you are right. I have never seen even the stores of Camelot so well-stocked. It is my own opinion that we shall be able to host such an event."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight seems content to let the matter go with a sigh through his nose, a sound of both exasperation and mild annoyance. Bedivere says nothing more on the matter, though. Like as not he'll formulate a strategy for another time; some ironclad excuse with which he can wriggle out of that obligation.

He'll worry about whatever she's up to later, because he most assuredly knows she's up to /something/. He knows her as well as he knows himself.

"Ah..." Bedivere sighs, a quiet but exasperated sound, at the enthusiasm of Gawain. "Yes. None of that foolishness he so loves. Horses only, or other steeds that may function similarly as to a horse. I want no one tearing up the turf with their modern machines and disrupting things in Dun Realtai. It will do him no harm to remember what it was to joust like the Round Table of old; surely he should remember that much."

His eyes hood as he walks, mulling over the problem of alliances. After a few moments all he can do is shrug. "That is all we can do, when it comes down to it. Watch them, and pray that they be not tempted to break Brehon Law... and be prepared to show them what it means to break that law, if they do. I will allow them passage through Dun Realtai, but at the same time, if they choose to spit on such hospitality, they will be made examples of."

"We will have a celebration. I must needs take inventory before we plan an event so large, though," he muses, reaching up and rubbing callused fingers along the side of his jaw. "It will take time. And I would do well to mind the weather, too; I do not know what autumn in this realm is like, or if it will reflect spring, as well. If the ground turns to marsh, there will be no point in needlessly endangering horses and men alike."

Ultimately he shrugs, shaking his head. "We will see what we will see. In the meantime, I should like to return home. It will be time for supper, soon." He glances over his shoulder to regard her as she cradles the harp a little closer, smiling faintly. "I take it your gift meets with approval, my lady...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     Indeed, she was up to something, though perhaps not as dire as he expected. The most Arturia planned to do was merely find a suitable gift, though her own stubbornness matched his own. It was only if the people needed a cause to celebrate, displayed a similar need to admire the pageantry of a noble birthday as they had in Britain that she would bring the hammer down. Leading the people meant more than simply providing material needs and overseeing land management. True, he had never sought lands of his own and in fact had turned down any offers to reward him so, but the alternative to appointing Bedivere as the lord would have been for her to assume a familiar role. And falling back into her patterns of sacrifice at the cost of herself was not something he would have agreed to.

     Though she loved her nephew dearly, Arturia understood quite well that certain boundaries needed to be set. That was to say nothing of his ability to find some bizarre loophole, a trait which had served the Round Table well in their battles but could be troublesome in other situations. "I think that he is attracted to novelty," the petite blonde observed. "He does things simply to see what it would be like, or the idea is somehow amusing to him. It lightens the mood, but...yes, if he wishes for something novel, it should be taken to the wastelands beyond the fields." It wasn't as if she had hosted a friendly duel with the space-faring (and male) version of her 'son' out there.

     His shrug was answered with one of her own; a slight tilt of her head to one side. "Thus far, our guests have minded their manners," she commented mildly. "It is others which concern me...the Confederacy, not unlike the Union, has members both honourable and without any such concept of it. I am less-inclined to trust them as a whole...but if any should cause a disruption, I see no reason to stay our hand in punishment. All must respect Dun Realtai's sovereignty." While she had become somewhat softer in her dealings, the cold steel of her kingly persona was one which would emerge when the situation called for it.

     The knight-king remained silent for a moment, mulling over the possibilities. The previous year, they had been scrambling to prepare for the true winter even as the supernatural one which followed the winter witch, and it had been difficult to discern the land's natural weather patterns. It hadn't rained, but the ground had nevertheless been muddy from the melting snow. "Contingency plans, then?" she asked. "At the very least, a gathering inside might work should the weather become foul. Or an alternate day to hold such an event, perhaps."

     His question -- and the faint accompanying smile -- put her in a bit of a bind. She couldn't exactly flail with the delicate instrument in her arms. She could, however, stammer. And did. "Y-yes, of course," Arturia managed. "It was...rather surprising. I never thought that...I never expected..."

     In other words, he had chosen well.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I think that he is," Bedivere agrees, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, novelty is not always a thing that serves well where known methods are more effective. He is attracted to novelty for novelty's sake; and that does not always work in his favour, just as abiding by tradition is not always called for." He sighs, shrugging one shoulder. "We will see, but I agree that certain measures must be made to cater to him."

The matter of truce and trust is let lie; they've said all that can really be said about it without repeating themselves further. The best they can do is to take matters as they come.

"Contingency plans." Bedivere looks up to where the light filters through the trees, considering. "A gathering in the great hall would suffice, or perhaps even the church; it would certainly be large enough. An alternate day would also serve."

To the matter of his gift, though, he only smiles to himself; the sort of self-satisfied smile any cat might make, if a cat could smile.

"Good," he murmurs. "I am glad, then, my lady. I am glad."

With that, he falls silent, content to fall back and walk by her side back to Dun Realtai. Supper beckons -- but for the moment, he'll be content to spend what time he can by her side, however long the path home takes them.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia sighed right along with him; she had learned how to handle her nephew in some circumstances, but the modern world had turned him into the proverbial 'kid in the candy store' where Gawain was presented with nearly endless opportunities to try new things. That was regardless of how nonsensical some of his ideas were, or how they might compromise his identity. Already, the Saber of Gold's identity was no longer anything resembling a secret in his version of Heaven's Feel. As it was, there was a chilling suspicion that she was overlooking something...

     With the matter of the truce and contingency plans settled as best they could be, the diminutive knight turned briefly to another matter. The Celts of the various kingdoms throughout the isles held similar customs -- if somewhat different in regional observances -- and there had been one occasion in particular which stood out, though known by different native names. In Britain, it had been called /Gwyl Awst/, though in later times it had become Lammas, the feast of St. Peter's Chains.

     "I regret that we were unable to organise something for Lughnasadh," she commented, their Master-Servant link allowing her to pronounce the name of the harvest festival without stumbling over it. "While it is true that all have been occupied with restoring homes and land, I had hoped to have such tasks completed before the beginning of the month."

     It was likewise true that he -- and Lucan, Griflet, and even Gawain for that matter -- had not observed the northern traditions of the festival since before their knighthood, it was nevertheless something she had hoped to honour them with, now that she was free from the obligations of court. "Next year, perhaps."

     The idea that she could indeed leave it for another year made her happier than she perhaps let on. It meant that, after all their tribulations and despair, they now had a home, a future. It was a blessing she had never asked for herself, never believed she had deserved. After her greatest failure, the idea that she would be granted a new life had seemed almost blasphemous.

     Idly, her thumb traced the knotwork delicately carved into the wood of the harp. Maybe she didn't deserve it, but the idea that she had not failed entirely, that she could still grant others happiness, swept away that lingering guilt.

     Arturia chuckled softly; he looked positively pleased with himself. "Indeed, I can think of no more fitting a gift."

     Perhaps the path back might have taken longer than it otherwise would have, perfectly content to be by his side once more. The year past could turn to many more, but she would never take that perfect gift for granted.