383/Father, Father and Son

Father, Father and Son
Date of Scene:	10 August 2014
Location:	Spring
Synopsis:	Psyber attempts to mend Saber and Mordred's relationship.
Thanks to:	Psyber for setting it up.
Cast of Characters:	12, 253, 346

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Psyber (253) has posed:
    Appointed meeting time, appointed meeting place.

    Rather out of the way and tucked in to one of the many brooks and creeks is a small cafe. Psyber has picked this as his meeting place for an event he honestly really didn't want to be partaking in. Not because he dislikes Saber and Mordred, or because he doesn't want to see their relationship mended, but purely because he's not Nathan Hall, and advanced politics are not his forte. And this, in particular, was a situation vastly over Psyber's head.

    He trusts Saber, at least, to have told her knights to stay behind. However, he doesn't fully trust the knights to actually listen. Men of honor are the least predictable of all. A scoundrel he can always trust to be a scoundrel, but a man with a sense of honor is one harder to predict, for you cannot know when they will decide their honor overrides their own agreement of non-involvement. Mordred is also a rogue element in Psyber's work here. He's sure Mordred won't pass on the chance for a face-to-face with her father, but he's not sure Mordred can be non-violent in this one.

    When you combine this with the fact that he has an appointment in 6 hours with yet another person who heavily depends on him for Crisis aversion and morality, Psyber looks incredibly stressed as he waits for the other two to arrive. Chain-smokingly stressed to be precise, as he hasn't stopped smoking since he sat down at the outdoor table to wait. Out of the 5 packs he usually carries on his person in a given day, Psyber has gone through two since he got here a little under an hour ago.

    But who wouldn't be stressed trying to bury centuries of grudge in just six hours? And to think that only fourty-eight hours ago, he originally just wanted to use this time to take Mordred to the arcade.

Saber (346) has posed:
     There were few times when Arturia had little to no idea what to expect, this being one of those times.

     She had given explicit orders for Gawain and Bedivere to stay behind and no she was not going to change her mind on that. The Knight of the Sun had been a little easier -- being Psyber's Servant certainly helped in that regard -- to convince, and it was no small irony that the usually-unflappable Marshal of the Realm was the one who had been much more difficult to persuade. Even now, she was still uncertain that she had, and it was only the reassurance that he could simply call her back using command seals if he absolutely positively sensed she was in danger that seemed to have finally gotten him to grudgingly relent. For that, she was grateful; she really did not want to have to Order him, not with the post traumatic stress disorder and nearly five years of hardly any sleep already setting him on edge. Under all that, even his stoic mask which had rivalled the King's couldn't hold up.

     Early that morning, the King of Knights had attended Mass, even receiving a blessing from the Holy Maid of Orleans herself at Jeanne's offer. She didn't anticipate a traditional battle unless there was some outside interference, but for this type of potential battle, the jade-eyed knight felt she would need it even more. Aside from that, she was touched by the consideration, even if Jeanne hadn't been a Heroic Spirit of immense holy power.

     Similarly, the previous evening she had taken to the time to make a batch of gyngerbrede -- the medieval variation similar to toffee -- and divided it in half, with one half similarly halved, each going to Jeanne and Bedivere respectively; the former as a way of thanks and welcome, the latter as perhaps an apology for being forced to remain behind. The larger half of her batch she now took with her to share; how well it would go over, she wasn't certain, but at least if things turned sour she would have something in the way of sweets. Yes, it was indeed a good thing she had learned the fundamentals of cooking.

     And today, Saber has chosen casual attire: a blue velvet camisole top trimmed in cream lace and ribbon under a black hooded jacket and a pleated skirt of blue and black plaid over opaque black leggings and low-heeled black leather ankle boots. As usual, flaxen hair is swept back into a braid-encircled bun bound, though today it is bound by a sheer blue handkerchief. Her only jewellery is a small crucifix on a silver chain around her neck and a stud of red jasper in a brass setting on her right earlobe. But in all, a rather feminine ensemble in the modern sense. It might have seemed odd that she had all the makings of expecting merely a casual get-together rather than mediation or even simply business.

Arturia found the appointed place easily enough, double-checking the directions on the piece of paper she had written them down on as she stopped in front of the caf�. This seemed to be the place, though perhaps the half-angel seated at a table smoking enough cigarettes to have killed a mortal several times over was probably a good indication.

     With a proper half-nod half bow, the petite knight hailed him. "Greetings, Psyber," she addressed her 'boss' at Heaven or Hell. She observed that Mordred was not present as of yet, but then, Arturia /was/ rather early. "I thank you for the invitation."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Mordred, on paper, has nothing against burrying the hatchet. In a weird fucked up way, it is her entire intention to do so by murdering her father again, if he will not listen. But many other solutions exist, and despite her violent, raging tendencies-- which can't be helped, she has a lot of pent-up anger against the world in general-- does consider some of them worthwhile.

    It is, after all, her wish for the Grail.

    She does not want her father dead or to take her place.
    She does not want power
    She does not want blood.
    She wants a shot at Caliburn.
    And in another world, another master might note that she seems so determined, so purely focused on proving her worth above all, that she might just have a shot at pulling it out of the stone, and then putting it back in, just to show her father she can do it.

    She has come to the meeting, as promised. Unarmed (for what it matters for a Servant, anyway), wearing the regal red outfit she wears under her armor normally, rather than the trashy clothes she settles on normally out of laziness. Accended by gold and silver lines, it is what one might truly expect a prince under Arthur to wear, matching her own dress, save for being pants and a long-sleeved shirt rather than a gown.

    "Oh, man. That's it? A small cafe? Not a buffet?"
    She grins, walking over, pulling a chair, flipping it backwards and then sitting on it, arms resting on the chair's back. "You sure don't know your target audience here. You expect us to starve like peasants while you give us a speech on how important family is?"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber nods his greeting to Saber as she arrives. And then once more towards Mordred, finishing off the cigarette he was smoking and gently snuffing it out in the ashtray on the table, "Order what you want from the cafe. It's on me, if you can both resolve this difference."

    His tone lacks his usual joking demeanor. It also sounds gravelly from the ton of cigarettes he smoked waiting for this meeting. He looks between the two of them, "Ground rules are easy. If I hear the phrase 'Camelot was all your fault' OR the phrase 'Camelot was all MY fault', I'm walking. I will pick up my cigarettes, leave a 50 on the table to spot the bill, and go home. We're not going to solve this throwing blame around the table. Everyone had a hand in Camelot, good or bad. There's enough blame to be spread, and I'm not going to let this afternoon turn into that." A play to open that was advised to him by Nathan Hall, no less, to keep this from stalemating.

    "Secondly, let's start simple. I want both of you to very simply say one thing you would like from the other. It should be a reasonable request, so Mordred no asking Saber to fall on your blade. Saber, no asking Mordred to leave the Confederacy. That will be where this starts. Both of you say one thing you want from the other. What you are here to accomplish with the other." Psyber makes this statement very clear. He's taken on, actually, an almost Nathan Hall-like level of disconnect from the situation. Granted he's a Nathan Hall that is 6'6, could benchpress a car, and is chain smoking. But the principle is the same.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Even Nathan couldn't have relied on pure physical ability when it came to two Servants of the Saber class. No, he would have had to rely on either ~diplomacy~ or...well, what Psyber was relying on at the moment. The setting of Ground Rules. That was probably for the best. And she wasn't going to lecture Mordred on back-talking the half-angel; Mordred was hardly going to listen and Psyber wanted her to shut up and listen, so she was going to do that. Gawain's Master could take care of himself. It was hardly as if he was a mortal with post traumatic stress disorder and sleep deprivation and he still had some family members left. Or was her Master. Or wore an earring that belonged to him in one ear.

     Without further ado, Arturia set the gingerbread-filled biscuit tin on the table, undoing the knot of the Hello Kitty print handkerchief -- she had been living in Japan up until recently, after all -- and removing the lid to reveal the confections cut into fairly crude star shapes. She really aught to pick up a cookie cutter sometime if she was going to attempt the gingerbread of her era again; hand-cutting the candy had been an absolute /pain/.

     "It is not a buffet, but nevertheless, should you want a dessert, it is here."

     She certainly wanted to argue the point about Camelot being her fault, even if that rarely came up in any setting, even of she continued to blame herself for it. Even Bedivere wasn't able to convince her otherwise, not completely. Still, she kept that protest to herself, not so much as even changing her expression -- not the cold mask of her rule but neither did it reveal that she wanted to object to that -- simply withdrawing the cartoon-print handkerchief.

     Strangely, the second demand was much harder. /Only one/? And on top of that, anything she could think of would tie into blaming herself for her failed rule and lack of strength in the first place.

     It took a while to think of something, but then again, the other Saber did mention the buffet. "Come to think of it...have you decided on a buffet? I promised that I would treat you, but every place which comes to mind would appear to have a...moratorium on those of our class."

     Not a request, just an observation. She's being good, really.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Sure, okay, let's set ground rules then."

    Mordred listens to Psyber's.
    She glances towards Arturia, exchanging, just for this once, a glance that is neither hostile nor angry. "All those in favor of just blaming my mother for being a huge bitch, hand up."

    She raises her hand idly.
    She is unsure if her father will concur though.

    The appearance of gingerbread has her distracted for a moment.

    "Oh man, food! Cookies!"
    She wonders if that's a trap or not. Did Arturia make those herself? That's pretty meaningful if she did. Still, she will show some patience. She'll nab one to nibble on, but won't raid the entire platter yet.

    "Where'd you get these? And no, I haven't. Finding a buffet worth its salt is a pain. Man, whatever. So one thing, huh... that's pretty hard. What with the conditions and all. Huff. Fine. You wanna make this serious..."

    Mordred clears her throat, and turns to face Saber fully.

    "Father. You said I didn't have what it takes to be king, and wouldn't even acknowledge me as your blood. After years of serving you, of being a shining and legendary knight, of seeking nothing but your recognition. Was it really that shameful that I'm a homunculus? Wasn't the fact I wouldn't live as long as any of you and the fact I wasn't even a real human enough punishment?"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber is immensely tempted to slap Mordred on the back of the hand, but manages to contain himself. Instead, he rubs the palms of his hands on the table, "Alright, we've both reached our starting points for this discussion." Saber may have veiled it, but Psyber can see through her obfuscated statement fairly easily when he opens with:

    "Mordred, Arturia may not have said it the best way, but I believe this is your father's roundabout way of asking you to spend less time antagonizing her and the Round Table, and instead requesting to make up for lost time with you as Father and Son. That is why she brought up the buffet that you two talked about," Psyber hypothesizes. Or at least he's pretty sure Saber's making a veiled fishing attempt to spent more time with Mordred.

    "And Arturia. Your son is very calmly asking you why you could never accept her for who she was," These pronouns are really starting to fuck with his head. He takes out another cigarette and puts it in his mouth, lighting it and then continuing, "I think this should show you that, despite the hostility, Mordred still wants to understand how to relate to you."

    "This is good, we can start a dialogue out of this," He sighs a bit, exhaling a plume of smoke, "Mordred, your father is bad at showing emotion. Is it possible that Saber felt it was safer to not show you favor over anyone else BECAUSE she was concerned about your well-being? That she was so distant BECAUSE she cared so much?"

    "And Saber, you're taking strides here to open up and invite Mordred back in. You maintain a lot of distance from the people around you, but maybe it's time you spoke to your child not as a knight, but as someone related to you."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Once more, Arturia couldn't disagree with her 'son'. "While...I would not use that particular word...I agree that Morgan was...not a pleasant person." A short pause.. "At all."

     What might surprise the both of them was that, somewhat timidly, the prim and proper King of Knights might have even raised her hand, however slightly.

     Likewise, another crack in the foundations of the universe: a brief flicker of embarrassment. "Are they agreeable? I...made them myself..."

     Thank the Lord God she isn't Gawain, or they would never have been edible.

     Well, shoot. Boss saw through her ruse. She hadn't been certain if, should Mordred saw through the attempt, she wouldn't have walked away. It still remained to be seen, but she did smile a little when they were less formal. "There had been previous Sabers, apparently, in spite of my assurances to the contrary..."

     Arturia did nothing to stifle her sigh before she continued. "I have devised a means to alleviate the burden...there is something named a 'pub crawl'? Perhaps it might work with restaurants..."

     Her knights were a bit of a sticky part. Gawain, as a Servant, might be more open to a 'forgive and forget' policy; he and Mordred had gotten along very well prior to Camlann. Bedivere, on the other hand, was still mortal, and still suffering from psychological trauma. "If I have one request, it is that you refrain from antagonising Sir Bedivere specifically. He is the sole survivor of our war, and he lost much more than home and king."

     Arturia was torn; they needed to hear everything from the fact that he lost his only family to that he had been in love with her for close to twenty years all the way to his newfound status as her Master and the post trauma nightmares. She couldn't help but touch the bloodstone in her ear absently as she thought on it, even if one or even both of them might have noticed it. "All that I can truly ask is for his succor...and there /are/ extenuating circumstances, it is a rather complex matter. I shall speak to you each in a less public venue, should you wish to know." Since out in the open was far too conspicuous.

     The serious business just didn't stop. On the one hand, Saber had not really wanted to think about the past. But on the other hand, Mordred really should hear her reasons, now that she no longer had to constantly look over her shoulder for all the nobles she had enraged with all her reforms.

     "It was never a question of that you were a homunculus, Mordred. It is true, you were an exemplary knight. And, were Caliburn never broken, I believe it would respond to those of the Pendragon line, and you are that."

     She paused for a long time, considering what she could say. She could fill the oceans with all the issues her kingdom had, but she settled for the one reason above all others. "You /were/ born from me, and that in itself is the problem. Sir Psyber...." Sorry Boss, it slipped out, "...has laid the rule that I cannot speak of it. But, perhaps I can speak of this much: the blame was not yours. It was never a question of your chivalry, or your worthiness...it was because you were born from an unworthy king."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Psyber... well, Mordred does not reply to it at all.

    But in a lot of those shots he takes he is at least mostly correct, where Mordred is concerned. She obviously cannot speak for her father-- or even, understand how she thinks, but it's not untrue, angry or not, Saber of Red yearns for the things she was never given more than she does for revenge. If only, a little bit.

    The mention of Bedivere first earns a shrug, but then a sigh. "I guess you're right. My grudge is with YOU, father, and most of your men are guilty of only one thing, and it's succumbing to the same admiration of you that I had." Some, even earlier than she did; after all, Mordred was a late arrival to the Round Table. She still spent quite a while under the king, but not as long as Gawain, Bedivere, Lancelot or even Kay.

    "I will leave him out of this-- but I am still a knight. I would like to spar with him, on his terms, sometime. The same as I would like to cross blades with Gawain and the others. If only for the pleasure."

    And then the ten tons brick.

    Mordred's expression seems to be filled with anger, suddenly.

    "YOU? Unworthy? Of all the kings I have met, heard of, talked to and read about, YOU are the single worthiest king I know of! Your failings, father, have nothing to do with your throne! If you asked me to again, I..."

    She grumps, and flops back down onto the chair.
    It's a miracle she didn't flip the damn table.

    "I would... I would sit at the Round Table again, if you asked me to. If you could be honest with me and treat me like your son, I could put a lot of this behind. Is that the sign of an unworthy king?! Would the traitorous prince of a kingdom pledge himself to the king again if the king were unworthy?"

    On the other hand...

    "I admit... it has been liberating not to act like a knight. Being able to say anything I want whenever I want, being able to be violent and bloodthirsty, to take my anger out on those who cross me... it's been a good way to dump the stress. And my loyalty is to my master, now. Admittedly sometimes I feel she might enjoy a less violent Servant more."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Falling quiet a bit, she munches on the half of cookie she still has left, averting her gaze. "They're good. I like, anyway. Psyber, try 'em."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "Okay, cool, we're making progress," Psyber says, snuffing out his cigarette into the ashtray, having smoked it down to the filter already. Of course, when he's offered a cookie, he does the reasonable option. He takes the one out of Mordred's hand (or tries to) and then takes a bite out of it before handing it back to her, "Yeah. It's pretty good." He agrees.

    He wants to give the two a long moment to consider what the other just said before he pitches in, "Regardless of your two's personal relationship, whatever that sits at right now Arturia, you cannot make excuses for Bedivere forever in this Multiverse. Because if he was here, we couldn't have had this talk. I like the guy, he seems nice, but he is unreliable and attempts to hide his irrational behavior in a chilly demeanor, but I can see right through it." Psyber adds, "And I'm tired of being caught in the middle of these arguments by virtue of knowing both sides."

    His own chastisement of Camelot aside, Psyber rubs his face, "But there you go. Mordred's grudge has basically never been about the throne. The throne was a symptom of the disease that destroyed Camelot, which was everyone apparently being unable to communicate with eachother. Now what can we do, going forward from here, to try to smooth this shit out so I don't have to cancel my prior plans in order to instead become Nathan Hall?"

    "King of Knights, Saber of Red. What do you both want from eachother? If you want to be father and son, you've got the basis of it right here. It's not gonna be easy, but you can make a start right now."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Unfortunately, here was when Arturia kicked into fussy mode. "Psyber, do not take my son's...I made certain there would be enough."

     Tapping her chin as if considering, Arturia agreed. "I think perhaps Sir Gawain would not be averse to the idea. Sir Bedivere, I fear, is still recovering, and...well. He has many other deeper injuries to heal from." And then she dropped another bomb. "And I, myself, should like to, as well."

     The look she had for Psyber was a weary one. "That is the point; he was /never/ like this...though there are...reasons. I have been asking him to quell his anger for my sake...in time, perhaps." She considered asking the half-angel a question, but ultimately decided it was best left for later.

     In the face of Mordred's anger, Arturia did nothing to conceal her pained expression. "It was all just a mask, Mordred. Beneath that I was weak, unable to save even a single person I cared for. Not Lancelot, Guinevere, Bedivere, Kay, Gawain, nor you...and in all that time I could not dare to even show favour to my brother, my cousin, my son, my heart-friends, nor the man I..." she stopped herself from completing that particular train of thought. "I could not save the people, much less the kingdom. In truth, I should never have drawn Caliburn."

     Arturia shook hear head. "No matter what I had done, I failed. My only dream was to lead Britain to a true utopia. It mattered not whether I was the one to do so or another...only that dream mattered. And I failed." There. She didn't /say/ Camelot's fall was her fault, not directly.

     "But...it does not matter, now. I have given up the wish I had sought the Holy Grail for. I have but one, now..." Which, in some twisted way, dovetailed into what Mordred had hinted at, and what Psyber had inadvertently set the stage for. "I..I can never see myself as anything but unworthy. However, if you wish to become a Knight of the Round Table once more, I would offer that to you. So long as you hold the virtues of chivalry in your heart, that is what it means to be a knight."

     The jade gaze went distant. "My wish...it is not one that the Holy Grail can grant. My wish...is to find my knights again, and to make amends. You have all sacrificed for my dream, though I could not reach it."

     Anger, well. She understood that fairly well. "I had given myself over to my anger completely only a handful of times. The first was when Caliburn broke...and perhaps that was my first sign that I was not strong enough to be the king. The others...you have met the King of Heroes in his more..." Her face twisted into a grimace, as if she hated even considering the idea. "...More honourable incarnation, as lewd as he was. But the Archer I encountered in the Fourth Holy Grail War was an uncivilised beast, the most disgusting and despicable person I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

     But she quelled her rising anger with a sigh. "Yet...I have always felt so hollow, so empty after raging at him, righteous though it may be."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "... I see."

    Mordred resists the urge to draw her blade and just straight up try to smack sense into Arturia. Oh, it's tempting. It would feel incredible right now. But it would be a breach of Psyber's terms-- and if she gave in to anger here, she may not be able to contain the Shajem of Rage. That is something she needs to bring up, anyway.

    Instead, she glares at Psyber.

    "It's not the same thing for Sir Bedivere as it is for us. If I understand right, the Battle of Camlann is still fresh for him. From his point of view, I destroyed Camelot and everything it stood for in a childish fit of rage mere months ago. For Father and I, we... have had some amount of time to think. I guess I couldn't say how much for sure, the Throne of Heroes is a weird place. But it's easy for us to say, this happened hundreds of years ago, whatever, we're done. For him, that wasn't hundreds of years ago."

    Defending Bedivere, now?
    Well, it's a step in trying to not be a huge flaming douche. Shouldn't they both be happy?

    "Father. Stuff it already! Are you blind? Is there a single one of your knights who blamed YOU for your failings? Not a god damn one, besides me and the others I silver-tongued into it. You were a fine KING. You know what your damn issue was? You were human like everyone else. And guess what, open a history book sometime. Humans do stupid shit all the time. Or, you know, homunculi, angels, everyone else too. So you fucked up. Boo hoo! Britain didn't fall. And apparently a bunch of the knights went and found the Grail. Could they have done that if you hadn't made them?"

    Granted, that's just one world's version. Mordred has no particular knowledge on what the Galahad, Bors and Percival of their world went on to do after Arthur died. Maybe they did not find the Grail. She wouldn't know. Seems unimportant.

    "I'm tired of this already. You want to make amends? Even to me? Then start acting like a king again and stop sulking like you're the worst thing to happen to Britain. I have no interest in a new Round Table if you can't even stand straight!"

    Mordred produces Clarent-- this might causes issues with the cafe's staff, or the bystanders, considering the size of the blade, but on the other hand she's not doing anything with it yet. The massive red and silver sword, beautiful and dazzling still, is pointed at Arturia.

    "Father. Within the limits of what's possible given my allegiance to my master and her allies-- MY allies-- I would sit at your table and I would follow the code well enough Sir Gawain would be jealous. But my condition is that you cease this pointless self-pity! Rise and be my king again! If you want me to behave, if you want me by your side, impress me again! Make me feel like a place at YOUR side is worth more than anything in this world again!"

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "I think I've served my purpose here well enough," Psyber says, placing his hands on the table and slowly standing up, brushing off the front of himself in a somewhat tired motion. He waves his hands a bit and then stretches out, cracking his back. The ash tray is picked up and dumped into a nearby wastebin before being dropped on the table again.

    On the one hand, he was still vaguely discontent that he didn't get to talk to Mordred about his own topic. On the other, he managed to resolve this, which was a productive endeavor, "You two can work out your own matters from here and forward without my aid, it seems, so long as you both remain civil."

    He doesn't respond to either statements about Bedivere, simply absorbing the feedback and filing it away. He does yawn in a tired manner, "I have other matters to attend to in the short future anyway, but don't let my departure interrupt your conversation."

Saber (346) has posed:
     She was mildly surprised that Mordred was helping to stick up for her beleaguered marshal. On the other hand, the Saber of Red /did/ say her entire issue had been with Arturia alone. Perhaps this was the best time to bring it up. Obliquely, however. And it was going to horrify her third Master that she would even reveal this much to the half-angel, much more so than...well. "The truth is, Sir Psyber..." it slipped out again, "The two of us...well..he is not simply my knight or my marshal." Make of that what you will...unless, of course, the canny proprietor of Heaven or Hell had already figured it out. Unbeknownst to the King of Knights, just about anyone else who had seen the two together certainly had.

     Once that was done, she was content to simply stand and acknowledge his departure. But not without a simple, yet meaningful farewell with a proper knightly bow. "Psyber. Thank you."

     To her credit, Arturia was acting in the exact same way as she was with everyone else who had tried to slap some sense into her from Bedivere right on up to the King of Conquerors himself. She was a little dense like that. "That was where I failed. A King needs to be more than human, but I..." She paused, gesturing helplessly. "I could not be."

     She was, however, considering, and Mordred could take some pride in that. Rider had slapped her around on that particular problem, insisting a king had to be larger than life but still human. But her wish had been too great for a human to achieve, and she knew it. As had Gilgamesh, who had enjoyed watching what he had considered her 'beautiful and tragic struggle'.

     "But perhaps..."

     Britain had fallen, and it seemed as if that had been merely a footnote between times of suffering. "The people no longer starve in the winter, do they?"

     It might have seemed like a non sequitur, the sudden obvious statement, yet one that would have carried certain meaning. Winters in their country could be harsh, and many starved even with proper stores. Without so much as speaking or even appearing to hint at it, the king had sent Bedivere on many a relief effort, yet there were still many who starved or died from exposure. Naturally, she had blamed herself for each death even if the dead was no more than a simple fisherman. They were still her people. And in the new era, the no longer suffered as they once had. This /was/ her utopia, and in many ways, she had realised that.

     The elder Servant was, however, taken by surprise by the sudden appearance of Clarent, even if she knew it had not been with killing intent. Not that it would have mattered; she was still bound by Brehon Law and could not act so long as hospitality was still in effect. Half of her wanted to argue; she wasn't worthy of that. She never /was/ worthy of it. But how could she make amends otherwise? When it doubt, brutal honestly seemed to be the only thing that appeared to work. "The only way I was able to even be a king was with that fa�ade, pretending to be inhuman. I cannot do that, not any more. My only strength lies in the code of chivalry, or knighthood, of saving those of the multiverse whom I can."

     Again, she shook her head, though the core of her old strength, the steel of her resolve, seemed to slowly return. "Camelot is gone, regardless of who is truly to blame. I can only walk forward."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    Psyber leaving is mostly met with an idle wave.
    Mordred can scream at him later.

    For now, Saber of Red's attention is on Arturia entirely.

    "We did not want an inhuman king! Who cares about an inhuman king?! We wanted YOU! We looked up to YOU! The King Arthur who pulled Caliburn out of the stone wasn't unworthy, or that damn sword wouldn't have budged an inch!"

    She errs a bit. "Well, Merlin might have made it budge just to spite you even if you weren't worthy, but that is completely besides the point. A god damn magical sword whose purview is PICKING KINGS told you you were a good king when you were still HUMAN. Don't you god damn get it?"

    Clarent disappears, and Mordred slams her fists on the table. "Your failures were trying not to be yourself! If you seriously mean all of what you just said, then THAT'S why Caliburn broke! You were a worthy king we all looked up to, and then you tried to mask your doubts by trying to be inhuman and perfect. No one wanted that!"

    Her voice dies down a bit.

    "No one wanted that. You were already fine for all of us. You didn't have to mask anything. You didn't have to lie and act cool. You already had us willing to fight and die for you. If you had just been honest to YOURSELF and hadn't tried being something you weren't, and instead just focused on being yourself..."

    Record scratch. She pauses.

    "Wait. WAIT. WAIT HOLD ON A MINUTE."

    "Are you saying I'm going to have to start calling Bedivere step-father?!" D: D: D:

Saber (346) has posed:
     Merlin would have made it budge an inch even if she had been rejected by Caliburn? Well, /that/ was certainly true, Arturia frowned thinking about it. The wizard was an irredeemably mischievous soul. To use the modern term, a troll. Perhaps even the King of Trolls. It certainly didn't help matters that now her Abstractum was a constant reminder of Emrys' personality.

     The thing is, Mordred was saying in her own way what Lancelot, Bedivere, Gawain, and perhaps even Iskander and Gilgamesh had been saying all along. Why was it so hard for her to believe them, or at least stop feeling like the whole thing was her fault?

     That was simple, she realised. Because she needed someone to blame, and she couldn't bring herself to blame anyone else. And beneath her mask, she was /weak/. Not simply a peasant girl playing at being a squire, but not strong enough to bear the burden of her kingdom and her dream. And Rider's words...well, when she had seen the Companions. "Rider had said that I saved my men, but I had never led them. At first, all I wanted was to save Britain, but after witnessing the army he led..."

     She sighed, wearily. "That was the first time I had ever truly doubted my path. And then, I simply wished to undo my rule, to leave Caliburn where it was and allow a king who could do what I could not to rule in my place."

     She frowned deeply. "Gilgamesh seemed to find that amusing for some reason."

     Another look of weariness. "I had not truly wanted to wear that mask, but the people would not have accepted a woman as a king. Likewise, they needed a confident, strong king, not a..." A deeper sigh this time, "A weak little girl playing at squire's games with ideals no human could have achieved. In truth, Mordred... this /is/ me. A weak woman trying to simply live in the chivalric code."

     And then the train of thought derails. "What? A-ah...." The bright-red of her complexion certainly seemed to suggest something was going on, not to mention some light flailing. "I-I simply meant that he is m-my Master now..."

     And this is what happens when someone is not as clear as she needed to be.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Oh! Oh. Oh, Christ, okay. Wow. That was worrying for a second there," Mordred says, buying wholly into Arturia's explanation. She is not exactly a people person, so the social cues go unnoticed. Probably since there is so much more to discuss.

    She sighs.

    "Look, I didn't meet these people you did, so I don't know what they said or why they said it, and frankly I don't care. You keep acting like we looked up to the god damn mask. We didn't. We all looked up to the person under the mask. And sure, not everyone knew the truth. Not everyone NEEDED to know the truth. But fuck them, if they can't deal with it. It's not your damn place to change who you are so people follow you. That shit ain't a king's job. The king does not change for his people, it's the people who follow the king for what he is. You say people needed a strong king. Yeah, they did. But you go ask Sir Gawain or Sir Bedivere right now, or even Sir Lancelot if you can dig him out of his hole, which they looked up to. The facade, or the little girl strong enough to try. And my money's on that second one."

    She finally sits back down, crossing her arms. She grabs a cookie first, and stuffs her face, but that's besides the point. Mouth full, she doesn't stop talking. "You're so god damn oblivious. It's almost insulting. I don't give a shit about the myth of the Once and Future King. I don't care about the fake strength you present. I was never in awe at what you were trying and faking being. I was in awe at what you WERE. Weak? Stop that bullshit. You pick up your sword right now and you can kick most of our asses. That ain't a facade. You WANT to do what's right. That ain't a facade. And you had the strength to try and be something you weren't all to make the world a better place. That sure as fuck ain't a facade."

    "But sure. Fine. Whatever. You want to do it your way? You want to tell me to my face everything I believed in was fake? I'll draw my sword and we can settle this here. We'll turn this into another Camlann, and we'll see which of us is standing atop the hill of swords and corpses when it's over. How does THAT make you feel? Like you're weak and worthless? Or like you would do everything in your power to stop me, knowing there's no reward but the fact you did the right thing?"

Saber (346) has posed:
     Whew, crisis averted. For the moment, anyway.

     For all of Mordred's potty mouth, Arturia didn't seem to take much notice, and not simply because of /what/ she was saying. She knew of a certain robot unicorn with a technicolour mane who, though a paladin and a guardian of hope, had a potty mouth, too.

     And admittedly, that did take her by surprise, and with her impassive mask long gone it showed. She had always thought of herself merely as the catalyst, that her knights had followed because of her dream, not because of her. And certainly, many had believed in that dream. But Bedivere had even told her that he would have never left the lands of the D�l Riata for any other king, Gawain and his brothers would have never left Orkney, Kay would have remained with their father... Mordred wasn't wrong. In truth, it awed her how they could have followed her, these Knights of the Round.

     "I simply...the only thing I had wanted was utopia. I thought it was the dream everyone followed," she admitted quietly. "My legend was never important to me. If the people of Britain were happy, then I would be. And if I could save my knights, I would have no cause for complaint."

     And the rest of Mordred's strangely and yet indirectly inspiring rant caught her completely off-guard. "You...weren't following the mask?"

     She had thought it had been so flawless, trued to protect everyone by shutting them out. And yet...they knew anyway? She chewed the inside of her lip, her mask useless even if she had made an effort to put it back on. That seemed to be happening a lot as of late. But she didn't want to break down again in front of Mordred and disappoint her further. The Saber of Red had hit the proverbial bulls-eye: she really was oblivious.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "No. Well, I mean. It depends on what mask we're talking about, yeah? The mask of your gender, sure, we followed that. That one's not really a big deal. Kings can't be girls, that's just how the code is. Well, how the world is. But the whole perfect king, above human mask? Come on. That's not what we cared about. It's YOU. It's what you actually DID. It's your pursuit not for a legend but for a future. THAT'S what we cared about!" Or, well, that's she SHE cared about. She can't speak for every other knight.

    "You keep thinking all we cared about is some mask you put on and you're gonna be miserable your entire... existence," she says, not using the word life for obvious reasons. "I don't want a dumb, lame fake mask as my father. I wanted YOU as my father. I wanted you as my father so much I would have betrayed my mother for you, unrelated to the fact she was kind of a huge cunt anyway. I wanted YOU, not some dumbass fake image of a perfect king. You didn't need to project that because you already WERE that. And that's... that's it, really. I wanted that so much, that when you denied me, and told me I wasn't even good enough to be king, much less your flesh and blood, the only thing I could think about was burning all of it so that no one else could have it. I think I hoped you might change your mind even if I knew that wouldn't be like you at all."

    She shrugs. Not worth mulling over.

    "So that's it, really. You really think a mask could gather so many knights and unify Britain? You really think people followed you just because you pulled a dumb sword from a stone and tried to act cool? People don't follow dumb things like that. Smart people, anyway. Smart people follow who they want to. So, they wanted to follow you. And some of 'em, even after their death, they come back, and they still want to follow you. So what more do you want? 'cuz if what you need is a slap, I'm not going to be so intimidated that you're the king that I won't be able to get up, reach over and do it."

Saber (346) has posed:
     "The mask...well. A part of that was to hide my gender, that could not be changed." Although it seemed that might very well have been something of an 'open secret', it was hard to tell at that point. "There were other reasons, as well...Camelot had been decadent in my father's time, and the nobility enriched themselves from royal taxes while a peasant was thrown in the stocks for stealing bread to feed his starving children. With a mask of an impartial king, it could not be said that the king was not fair, or only the nobles had his ear."

     This time, she did stifle her sigh. "I could have never appointed a foreign commoner as my marshal or accepted my family into the knighthood, otherwise...there were already rumours enough as it was. Still..."

     Well now, it was rather a big waste of time, wasn't it? She had already made the decision that she was no longer going to wear it again in front of her knights. That included Mordred.

     "Well...you are right," Arturia admitted with a slight smile. "I needed it, when I was king. But there is little use for it now...only in some situations."

     And then it finally occurred to her. It was such a simple thing, and yet possibly because of that so very easily overlooked. A bite of gingerbread and then finally, she dropped what might was well have been an incendiary bomb now for all of what the no-longer-present Psyber might have expected. "What would you have me do? What would you ask of me?"

    

     She paused, then reconsidered. "That is...other than the buffet. I am still working that problem out."

     Wow, looks like dad even picked up a sense of humour somewhere along the way.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    The political games, she would admit, are not her forte. Mordred does not know much of Camelot's history, or of Arturia's earlier struggles. She can guess, and then there's her words to go by, at least.

    "I guess it's true. There's no more Camelot to rule. You don't HAVE to be king anymore. Now you can be a knight, and fight alongside your knights. You don't have a kingdom, but you still have the ability to do right, huh? So. I don't know."

    The traitor shrugs.

    "What do YOU want to do? Sit around and sulk about what could have been? Or re-establish a foothold into the world from where you can spread not your legend or your birthright but your actions? Y'could do anything, really. And without Britain's stupid clans and political games in the picture, you can do it as yourself, the way you want, not the way it has to be for everything not to collapse under the structure's own weight."

    And perhaps, more importantly...

    "What about me? What do YOU want from me? You know, besides 'son, please do not burn my kingdom a second time'. No promises, if you start acting lame again."

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia folder her arms, tilting her head slightly, her gaze becoming somewhat distant for a moment. "In truth, I do not truly see myself as one, as Camelot is gone....the 'King of Knights' is merely a title." Not that she seemed to be having much luck convincing Gawain and Bedivere of that, not to mention quite a number of other people in the multiverse. She might have chuckled at this. "The idea of simply being a knight has horrified some, even when I had insisted upon it."

     A fair point, and she raised her eyebrows slightly. "Other than what I have wished for? In truth, I have been given many noble causes; to protect my Master, to help rebuild the village we have rescued, help with settling supernatural cases, perhaps even try to set an example for my allies. The worlds still have need of knights, it would seem."

     A thoughtful nibble on gingerbread. "I feel as if I am overlooking something, however..." Arturia shook her head. "Ah, but that is of no matter at the moment."

     Because she /really/ didn't want to deal with Arymes Prydein right now.

     Arturia hadn't had any expectations going into it, preferring to take a wait-and-see approach. What /did/ she want? That was a fairly simple thing, wasn't it? And starting simple was probably the best way to approach it.

     "For the moment, perhaps...to meet like this? Though I would prefer not to speak of the past...more recent things, I should think."

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "Yeah, well, what did I say? You might see yourself as shitty and weak, but that's not how people see you, because it's not true. Would I pursue the love and acceptance of a father not worth my time?" Mordred asks, finally regaining something akin to a grin, rather than a somber, semi-rageful expression.

    "Even amongst knights, one of them has to play leader more often than the others. On the other hand, with a new Round Table comes the possiblity of changing the rules, huh? Didn't you make the table round as a symbol of equality? Everyone sitting around it being no more or less important than the others? Shit, if it bothers you that much to be king, next time you have to rule, just set up some system where you take turns amidst the people sitting around the table. Good luck getting Gawain and Bedivere to roll with it without constantly calling you king, but hey."

    The request to speak of the future more than the past... she can understand it. She's not sure she'd call their grudge and issues settled already, but she'd have to admit, Arturia is willing to work with her. What would there be to gain not doing so right back?

    "Sure. Fine. The past is behind, then, except when it's hilarious to reminisce about that time one of the chefs yelled at Gawain. How are you going to explain this to the others though? They ain't gonna be happy to see me sit near them, if you ever get a new table."

    Though there's the issue of telling Elliana too.
    She's not sure how she'll take 'master, I think I'll try being more knightly and less violent for a change, how do you feel about this'. Hopefully she'll take it well.

Saber (346) has posed:
     Arturia may have cracked a smile. "Perhaps not."

     Yes, she had tried something like that once before; even just /hinting/ at the idea of being equals had broken Bedivere's brain. Not that this was a difficult thing to do, but there it was. And then, there was their new home. "Perhaps 'baby steps'...it was difficult enough to assign D�n Re�lta� to Bedivere, the idea of being in a role beyond even lord of a castle..."

     She shook her head. If at all possible, he was even more self-depreciating and humble than she was. "Still, the idea of that...yes, it was to create a symbol of equality. Though, thus far there is only you and I along with Sir Bedivere and Sir Gawain." There was Jeanne as well, but she would have to find out how the Holy Maid considered being officially recognised as a knight by the Round Table.

     At the mention of one of Gawain's disastrous kitchen experienced, the King of Knights groaned softly, dropping her head into her hands. "He is still trying to work his way into the kitchen...I am running out of excuses to keep him out..."

     as to the question of how the other two were going to take it, the Saber of Blue considered her earlier train of thought on Jeanne. The maid of Orleans could certainly play the redemption of Peter card if she wanted to. "I might have an idea. But that would depend upon another knight I am considering extending the knighthood to...if she should choose to accept."

     She sat back again, folding her arms. "That does raise the question of whether or not we will even do so...we have need of an Order, though...another Round Table? I am..uncertain."

     She'll still be grappling with her feelings of unworthiness for a while to come, sadly.

Mordred (12) has posed:
    "It was just an idea. You spend a few years defining your life around one table inside one castle and not having it anymore feels weird, doesn't it? Even for you it has to be something you miss. The others've been around it way longer than me, so for them it must be even worse."

    A shrug, as Mordred rises from her seat.

    "Anyway, what you tell your knights to do is none of my business. Bedivere's got all the good reasons to hate me. For you, I'll do an effort not to gravely injure him if he comes at me. Less worried about Gawain. The invincible Knight of the Sun... can't believe I never had a serious spar with him in sunlight to test myself."

    She grabs one more cookie, for the road. Granted, there must not be a lot left by now. "Either way, I said my piece. What I want out of you is for you to make me proud to be your son again. I don't want to feel like my father's a sulking, wimpering little girl with confidence issues. You're King Arthur, almost peerless in battle, someone who'll pursue what is right while single-handedly inspiring whole armies with just the sight of his blade. You didn't make any of that up, you went and did it. Start acting like it."

    Internally, she sighs. This was such a weird speech to be giving. No, she didn't really expect this out of this day. And she hasn't really entirely forgiven and forgotten. That'll take a bit more time. And factional ties will certainly make cooperation hard in some circumstances, but Arturia of all people should understand the need to be loyal to your master. Fortunately for Mordred there are no hard feelings between master and servant, it's a very nice little relationship. Twice the reason not to sever ties.

    "When you figure out what you want out of me and what you want to do next, let me know. Gonna be off for now."

    Unless stopped, she's going to dissipate into wisps of red prana, shifting to her incorporeal state to sulk off to god knows where.