473/A Weary Talk

A Weary Talk
Date of Scene:	22 August 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere attempts to rest and recover from the injuries he'd sustained in Azuma, but an unwelcome guest interrupts to gain more answers than she gives.
Cast of Characters:	85, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Welcome to Dun Realtai. This castle and village, surrounded by snowy plains, lies in the midst of winter in spite of what should be early autumn anywhere else. Although it isn't snowing, the air is still sharp and cold. The snow is starting to look patchy, too, where it has begun to melt -- but it won't all be gone by the time true winter arrives. It seems this unseasonable snow is but a lingering effect of the winter-witch's presence.

Today, the Lord of Dun Realtai has decided to take some air, mostly by finding a place to sit in the castle's uppermost courtyard, closest to the keep and therefore the path of least resistance once his king inevitably ushers him inside to rest. He's had enough of being indoors, though, and so he's found himself his favourite spot beneath the spreading branches of the courtyard's dormant oak tree.

He isn't wearing his armour this time, instead dressed as one would expect a commoner to -- roughspun clothing, scented of the Castile soap he hand-washes his garments with, and several layers of sweaters from a more modern age, possibly acquired by Arturia to cope with the cold weather. Over all that he wears his mantled cloak, wrapped around him. Perhaps curiously, to Gawain, he's left his hair entirely unbound today -- too sore and too tired to go through the effort of binding or braiding it in his usual fashion.

While he would have loved to do something more constructive, he doesn't particularly feel like worrying Arturia, and frankly he just doesn't feel up to it today. He still aches everywhere, keenly aware that several rather important bones were broken, and the bruising (for what isn't broken) is pretty breathtakingly painful if he moves the wrong way. One arm is in a cast, that in turn is in a sling, and he moves gingerly, with the caution of somebody who really doesn't want to move that much.

It seems he's found himself or been given a pipe chanter, which he plays somewhat half-heartedly, skirling a reedy tune that echoes through the courtyard.

It sounds a bit like this: http://youtu.be/aF3fW4Nox9U

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    "Lacking in any delicacy," a familiar voice remarks from above after Bedivere has been able to play undisturbed for some time, "but I suppose it has a rough appeal of some sort. Like the song of a goose."

    It's not obvious when Kagenashi arrived, but the nogitsune is now draping on one of the lower branches of the oak, sprawled on her front across the sturdy limb with ankles crossed, her right arm dangling as her fingers weave through an orb of fox fire, her left arm bent so that her hand can serve as a cushion for her cheek. She wears her black yukata, as usual in this castle, with her hair done in its standard bun and twin spade-tipped tails. Her silver gaze is kept forward, not even looking down at Bedivere as she critiques his choice of instrument.

    A certain weariness is in her form, like this tired sprawl is all she can really manage at the moment. Perhaps, considering the lidding of her eyes, it's just general drowsiness and relaxation; or possibly something more, with the curious quietness to her tone.

    "But...do not mind me," she continues, dismissively waving her right hand and sending that orb of fire swirling for a moment. "Play as you wish. It is your castle, after all."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The song had marched on just fine until the sound of that unfortunately-familiar voice. Once he hears it, Bedivere inadvertantly fouls one of the notes, and apparently decides he won't have any more satisfaction out of the chanter it today. Not in the present company.

Carefully and slowly, Bedivere cranes his neck to see up through the branches, squinting against the crisp autumn sky to spot the nogitsune draped on a low bough.

If she is weary, he is likewise exhausted; the slump of his spine against the trunk a far cry from his usual straight posture. He simply lies against the tree as though he has no strength left to him; as though even this simple outing had sapped him. Slowly and deliberately, he frowns.

"If you do not like the music taught me by the fili," he says pointedly, "there is nothing stopping you from going elsewhere." Apparently he's done, though, for he lays the chanter across his lap, grimacing as he settles against the oak's trunk. Maybe he should have quit while he was ahead and limped inside for a nap. At least that way he wouldn't need to listen to his unwelcome guest's hissing. "A chanter is but a stand-in for a full set of pipes, anyway. They are just a way for one to practise without the fuss. Would you prefer a flute? I'm certain one of those can be found."

Still, there's an edge to his retort. He's too tired and in too much pain not to snark at her... but on the other hand, he's also too tired to keep that animosity up. He huffs a sigh, wincing and clutching at his side at the sudden pain.

"...Gh. Your ally was skilled. I have not seen witchcraft of that like before. Cleverly played," he affords, grudgingly. He frowns, and she can probably feel the grumpy annoyance radiating off the marshal. "The guardian of the volcano. The one whose powers you took. What will become of her?"

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    "Ah, yes, of course. I will go visit the boistrous fool. Or, perhaps, your king, who seems even less willing to associate with me than you. Or I suppose I could visit the priest. I am sure she would love the company of a youkai." Kagenashi turns slightly where she sprawls, just enough for her to look down at Bedivere from her perch. "Yes, how many options I have spread out before me. I believe I will take the company of a questionable musician instead, all things considered."

    Her tone is even, but rather than mischievous prodding, it holds a faint hint of what could be bitterness instead, mixed with a subtle sigh of resignation. A flick of her hand dismisses the orb of fox fire licking around her fingers. "...as I said. Play if you wish. I will not remark on it any further."

    Her gaze shifts to her hand as if it has suddenly become fascinating enough to deserve all her attention. Slender fingers curl and stretch, slowly and methodically. "Medusa Gorgon is a powerful witch. More so, perhaps, than she lets on. She was able to match D in combat, who in turn strained Lord Dracula in their battle some time ago. In raw strength, she surpasses me, and I am certainly not surprised that she could overcome you. More so that you endured as much as you did." She pauses, thoughtfully staring down at her now-prone hand. "Perhaps now you can see what I meant about my allies not being quite so merciful as I was with you."

    The mention of Konohana draws a subtle frown across her features. It's some time before she responds; the silence is filled by a steady intake of breath, then a slow release from lightly-parted lips. When she speaks, she does so quietly, with the tone one might take when speaking of a passed relative. "...Konohana has been returned to the state we all started from. Little more than a fox, though at least now she can speak on her own. Likely she has been cared for, and her wounds healed, unless your allies decided not to assist her in that regard. In a hundred years, her star orb will grow back, and she will go through the growth we all face once again. Exactly what happened with Ikazuchi, and Tawara before her, and myself before then, and whoever I will face in the future."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal finds he can't argue with that description of the Knight of the Sun. Gawain is fiercely loyal, as are all of the knights under Arturia's command, but it's true that he's something of a fool in some ways. Still, his cheer can hardly be falted. The only time Bedivere had ever seen it falter was the Battle of Camlann.

To the matter of his king, or their resident saint, though, he offers no comment at all. He knows full well that Arturia would rather not associate with the nogitsune, and while he can't say that he knows Jeanne very well, her piousness seems to be her most defining trait. Even now she works with others across the courtyard, working to rebuild the tumbledown church. Violet eyes flick in that direction; regarding the skeletal mainframes, new wood bright against the grey stone of the walls.

"...Hm." He closes his eyes, though he's still listening, and seemingly on alert. Aside from his natural suspicion of her, that's just how he is. It's rare for him to stop observing, even if it may look like he isn't. "I take your point. Still, perhaps I have not practised in some time. It is not within my talent to make such a thing sound pleasing." His eyes open, looking out to the distant village, downhill. "I was to be a fili before I travelled to Camelot."

Why he's told her that, he couldn't say. His mind is a bit distant, body leaden; he's too tired to guard himself as carefully as he usually does. She is hardly of Camelot's xenophobic courts, and it is hardly an important detail.

It isn't like she would even know what that is. Perhaps the closest thing is a bard, but it seems the word doesn't translate such -- there are too many layers of meaning associated with it, so it must be something distinct.

"She is powerful," he murmurs in agreement, shifting against the trunk to relieve the bark digging into his shoulder. The movement brings with it a grunt of pain; and a weary sigh as he leans back again. "I cannot say I have ever been thrown about like a ragdoll before. It was an... interesting experience," he comments sourly. "And I do not expect mercy. When I rode to battle, my enemies, the Saxons, knew nothing of honour. Had they been able, they would have unhorsed me or isolated me and taken off my head."

He falls silent when her tone changes, as though sensing the shift in her mood. That seems to be a curious detail. Although he can't be certain as to whether or not her tone speaks truly, she seems almost regretful about what she had done to the guardian.

Curious.

"I do not know. I was unconscious when I was finally borne from the slopes of the mountain. Only later did I hear what had happened. I saw it, in fits and starts, but I thought I was dreaming." He bows his head, resting his chin over his chest. "Fire in the mountain, and a great bird of the sun whose wings darken the sky... I thought I was dreaming when I saw those things."

He falls silent, absorbing the description of what became of the guardian, and what would become of her.

For a moment he almost seems like he might not say anything, but manages a quiet, weary question.

"Why do you do it?"

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    Again Kagenashi's eyes flick toward the knight, a faint gleam of curiosity returning to them. "That word. "Fili."" No doubt her pronunciation is slightly off; her natural language is something close to Japanese, after all, and that word is not one native to her world. "I do not know what it means, but I assume it is some sort of musician, considering the context. Why else would you seem to keep an instrument with you so often? Hardly normal for a knight, I imagine."

    Whatever curiosity that brings is passing. Matters become directed to her again, a subject she has always dodged. Her gaze lifts to look out again, past the town to the stretching wilderness beyond. She sits in silence for some time, making one wonder if she intends to respond at all. The pensive look on her face, however, shows that she is clearly thinking: if not whether to respond, then how to respond.

    "...do you ask why the moon passes over the sun, shrouding the world in darkness when there should be light? Or why a great flame ignites in the forest, consuming it until there is nothing but ash and charcoal? Or why the waves lap at the cliffside, wearing it down until it crumbles into the ocean?"

    Kagenashi releases a slow, careful breath, letting her eyes drift closed. Another moment passes before her murmur comes again. "My theft of Konohana's power was unrelated to my broader purpose. I took from Konohana specifically because something has been taken from me. Something as precious as it is impossible to weigh or count, rarer than the most uncommon jewels and a thousand times more valuable. I doubt any human could truly understand its worth as I do."

    Again she ponders, mulling over words and thoughts. "How old are you, Bedivere?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Fili." The word is lilting when Bedivere pronounces it, carefully, for the nogitsune's benefit. For a moment, it's clear for a moment that he's not speaking his usual ancient mode of Welsh; tone too musical and lilting to be. He lets his eyes close, thinking back to those days, so long ago now. "The... you would call them bards, I think, of the place I come from. But they were much more than that. Keepers of lore, musicians, poets, arbiters, judges, magicians."

He leans back against the tree, grimacing at the jolt to his shoulder. "...Gh. I served the Round Table, but I was a foreigner in King Arthur's court. No, it was not normal, and I took pains to hide anything that marked me as foreign. My appearance aside, anyway. I could not hide that. I played, and I practised, but only when I could be certain no one would hear." His eyes drift to half-mast, and the faintest hint of a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "To be able to do that without hiding it is a welcome change."

He falls silent as she explains herself, although even to his mind, it isn't much of an explanation. The answer she gives him is inevitability, the inexorable nature of the elements themselves, but that still doesn't satisfy his curiosity. Perhaps he understands on some level that he'll have no better answer out of her, though, for he doesn't pry.

"Perhaps some humans might surprise you, nogitsune," he murmurs, letting his eyes close fully.

He cracks open his eye, though he hasn't the strength to look up at her at her unexpected question. It seems to give him pause. He had not thought about that for quite a long time, and he cannot well remember the last time anyone took note of his birthday. Only Lucan had known of it or made mention of it, and his brother has been dead for over five years.

The pale-haired knight sighs, quietly.

"I have not been asked that question for a very long time. Mm... I had almost forgotten. I will be... hm..." he murmurs quietly, taking a moment to calculate. "If memory serves, it will be my thirty-fourth year come the winter. Or is it thirty-fifth?" One hand rises to rub at his face. "I am... not certain of the time in the weald..." he murmurs, and his quiet tone suggests he's more murmuring to himself, as though he'd forgotten Kagenashi was there. Whatever the weald is, it must be something significant.

"I do not think of it often." Slowly, painfully, he cranes his head up to look up at the bough overhead; but from his angle, he can only see part of the fox-woman. "Why do you ask?"

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    "...a strange amount of responsibility to place on the shoulders of one group of people." Kagenashi mulls over the explanation briefly, eyes still shut in some attempt at peace. "They must be wise to hold such a station. It would seem you, too, would fulfill that requirement. Though others would call you foolish, it is clear you hold wisdom beyond that of most others." Even though her words could probably be taken as a compliment, her tone doesn't shift much. Even now, as her serene words are tinted here and there by murmurs of less calm thoughts, it's difficult to tell exactly what she means beyond the face value of her choice of words. "Yes. To do as one pleases without fear of secrecy is...remarkable."

    Slowly, her eyes open again, and just as slowly does she begin to push herself up from her weary sprawl across the branch. The deep wounds in her shoulders and waist have not fully recovered; bandages still wrap around her beneath her clothes, hiding injuries that would be even more dire for any normal person in her world. A faint, pained hiss slips through her teeth, and once she sits upright with her legs hanging over the edge of the branch, she gingerly presses a hand to her waist where Kirika's spear pierced and tore through her.

    She still regrets jumping into that frozen lake. Five times, no less.

    A tense breath is exhaled through her nose as she pushes that pain aside, straightening up from the brief hunch it had sent her into. It still lingers faintly in her voice when she speaks, a quiet strain that disturbs her usual calm. "I suppose you do not count the years as easily as my kind do. It was...a confirmation, shall we say, of my earlier statement. Thirty-five years is hardly a fleeting moment to my kind. I myself have seen over a thousand years pass. Can you even imagine living as you have for that long?"

    She takes a deep breath, then lets it out again as the lingering ache of her injuries fades away. Her hands settle on either side of her, gently grasping the bough she sits on to ensure she does not simply fall off. "There are very, very few nogitsune in the world. I believe I could count the number of them that have existed on one hand. They tend not to last for more than two, perhaps three hundred years. Why do you think so few have existed, when there are so many kitsune in my world, and when I have lived for so much longer than any other nogitsune?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The filí were considered the wise of Dál Riata." The silver-haired knight's voice is quiet, and he places a different emphasis on that lilting word this time, perhaps indicating the plural. In truth, he has to think back to those days. Dál Riata was a long time ago to him; a very long time, at least by the reckoning of a mortal lifespan. The years since that fog-shrouded kingdom were long, and not always kind to him. "My thanks, Lady, for your compliment."

He might not like her and he might not trust her as far as he could throw her, but he will be civil, and he will thank her for that. Even if her tone seems somewhat apathetic, a compliment is a compliment.

Relaxing against the oak's trunk, he lets his eyes drift closed again. "There were many who would have called me foolish, and did. It was better to let them believe that. I was not well-liked in Camelot for the position I held; the Marshal of the Realm held command over the king's army, and his authority is second only to the king's. But I did not earn that position because I knew the king, or because I sought favour. I earned that position because I possessed those qualities the king desired in her military leader. Wisdom, and a reluctance to bare fangs unless it were necessary."

"Mn." He gives a faint sigh, slumping against the trunk a bit, trying to ignore the dig of bark against his uninjured shoulder. "Perhaps Sir Gawain is a bit eager to seek glory on the field of battle, and bring that glory to the king, but I do not enjoy fighting. Yet I forced myself to master that, for I did not wish to prolong battle, when it came to bared steel and blows."

He's silent for a few moments, listening to her speak of years and the reckoning of time.

"No," he murmurs, "I do not." How could he? He has no frame of reference at all for such a long-lived creature. Perhaps the Servants might be better equipped to compare such a thing, but he is not a Servant. Even thirty-five years has felt like twice that length, though perhaps simply because the majority of those years had not treated him well. Or, perhaps his wounds weigh on him. He is tired, and he finds his thoughts trudging in cold, weary circles.

He looks up again, though it's not without his own soft hiss of pain, having to bend back a bit to see that high. "I would assume either you have killed them, to be the only one left, or you have simply outlived them, and the guardians have struck them down. I do not know." Bedivere straightens against the trunk, slumping, resting his chin over his chest as he lets his eyes close. "I have only visited your world briefly."

There's a moment's pause.

"Those trees are very pretty, if unforgiving," he adds, thoughtfully, voice a little drowsy. Apparently he's referring to the giant, skyward-reaching bamboo groves. "What are they called...?"

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    A very slight smile curves the corners of Kagenashi's mouth. Her head bows, casting her gaze down to her feet and the ground below. "I find it amusing how I can tell your thoughts by what you call me. Now it is 'Lady,' but in a worse time it will be 'creature' again, or perhaps it will strike somewhere in the middle and become 'nogitsune' when you are simply too weary to mantain your animosity and have no excuse for gratitude. Strange..."

    That brief smile fades again as he explains more of his life. Her eyes shift over to look at him, leaning against the sturdy trunk in brief rest. "I am not surprised. Your dedication to your king and kingdom has been clear since that excursion on the forested path. I do not wonder what you would do to fulfill a role assigned to you, particularly one of such importance. Even enduring such dislike, misfortune, and accepting that which you hate; it is admirable, and the cause you devote yourself to is fortunate indeed."

    The nogitsune pauses, considering her words briefly. "...you will take it as an insult, surely, but it is a not meant as one when I say that you and I are remarkably similar."

    His guess as to the fates of all other nogitsune actually draws out a wider smile from Kagenashi. She shakes her head slightly, smirking as if she were in on some great joke. "No, neither of those are true. Ostracization and the need to combat their kin to continue their actions ate away at them, draining their motivation until they simply gave in and returned to the side of the kitsune. Or they died from hearts and wills broken by years of solitude."

    She slips from the branch, slowly floating down to alight barefoot on the ground beside the tree. Light though her landing is, she still winces faintly; that calf hasn't quite healed from Saber's attack. When she next speaks again after straightening out her clothes, her tone is almost like normal, as if she were intent on leaving that earlier subject behind. "The bamboo, you mean? They are remarkable trees. We use them for building material, for everything from piping to construction of houses, for they are incredibly durable. So too is it used for medicine, to treat infections and the like, and also for food, either from the shoots or the stalks themselves. The larger trunks can even be used like cooking pots. Suzaku, the region you were in, prides itself on providing bamboo to the other regions."

    Her arms fold behind her back as she looks out at the village, considering everything still under construction. "Assuming you lack large supplies of quality timber, it can be excellent for a wide variety of things."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I am too tired to be properly insulted by your presence," Bedivere counters wearily. He doesn't bother opening his eyes or lifting his chin from his chest. Even Mordred could waltz right into the inner bailey, and he would be too tired and in too much pain to care. Slowly and stiffly, he lifts a hand and waves his chanter in dismissive gesture. "Talk to me in a few days, and perhaps I will call you something unpleasant then."

He listens in silence to the commendation from what should be his enemy; but if she expected him to argue with her drawing a parallel between them, she may be disappointed. He will suffer nearly any insult to him -- it is insulting his king that seems to draw the ire from him. If he does take her words as insult, he doesn't comment on them, but for the faint twist of his mouth. Maybe she'll see it from her vantage point; maybe she won't.

Instead, he just leans his head back against the tree, looking up to the autumn sky. Even if snow lies on the ground, and even if the seasons are still struggling to find equilibrium, that sky definitely belongs to an autumn afternoon -- clear as a bell, and crisp, so blue that it seems surreal.

Suddenly his view is obscured by a nogitsune. He watches as Kagenashi makes her descent, eyes dispassionate as she winces in pain. Bedivere himself looks haggard; slumped against the branch as though there were simply no more strength left to him, eyes half-closed and eyes only somewhat focused on her. He regards her blandly as she switches topics, but for a few seconds his mind files away those details.

So. It seems nogitsune do not enjoy solitude, to the point where it breaks their hearts and their will to live. Is that why she had come here?

"My duties demanded solitude. I was alone for twenty years," he states simply. "It is not a fate I would wish on anyone."

Bamboo, however, is a much more interesting topic. He had never seen trees of the like before, and has nothing he can compare them to. Nothing quite like it had ever grown in Albion. "There is plentiful stone, for a quarry lies some days' ride away, but bringing material in is slow-going. And no villager will raise an axe against the winter-witch's weald, for which I do not blame them. Timber is not in short supply, but it does halt other construction projects, and is needed in many structures."

"Yes, I noticed the density of its forests." Bedivere frowns, one eye closing as he indicates the sling over his broken arm. "I am intimately familiar with the quantity of bamboo growing in Suzaku," he grumbles, quietly. His annoyance passes, though, and he looks out to the village as well. "Perhaps I shall return to Suzaku when I am considerably less... broken."

Any other time, he might put on a brave face, but right now he just feels too terrible. He's too tired, and he's too physically broken, to summon up the strength to pretend he isn't in as much pain as he's in; and there's no point in acting or strutting about in front of Kagenashi. She is, like him, clever and observant. She would see right through the ruse.

Is this how Arturia felt, when he had seen through her own deceptions, or whenever he notices some embarrassing tell she would rather keep hidden? No, he decides. It's not. Arturia he trusts with his life, and he knows she feels the same about him. Kagenashi... perhaps he can hold a civil conversation with her, but not much more can be said about that. In truth, he wishes he had the energy to feign good health.

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    As if enforcing that change of topic, Kagenashi refuses to respond any further to his remarks on earlier matters. That appears to be her way, when it comes to questions about her. Anything direct is answered with evasions, riddles, and statements that seem to have little to do with the matter at hand, if they are answered at all. She reveals only what she chooses, and only how she chooses. Perhaps, though, even she can't remain entirely a mystery.

    She looks back as Bedivere mentions his earlier injuries. That annoyance draws out another faint smirk of amusement, though it fades soon once the matter of current injuries is brought up again. "Yes. Your injuries, I believe, are the first priority to handle. Perhaps you may send someone out in your stead, if you wish for it to be settled sooner. There are many villages and towns in Suzaku, and while they may be...wary of outsiders, particularly after Yatagarasu's release, you should be able to calm them enough to negotiate some sort of trade. It is not as if it is a resource they are lacking."

    The nogitsune looks out at the village again, a thoughtful air coming over her expression. "...I find it strange. These people have faced a devastating tragedy, and yet they have taken it upon themselves to repair the situation. Even then, they respect the forests of the witch, refusing to trespass upon her land for the materials they need. Have any of them called for the aid of guardians or spirits since this began, or has their initiative carried them through all on their own? Perhaps, I suppose, with some encouragement from their new Lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Gradually, both the knight's eyes drift closed, as he listens to the nogitsune's words on resources and trade. Of course it stands to reason that those people would be wary of anything different, after the release of Yatagarasu. When he had seen the sun-crow, he had thought himself hallucinating; some kind of fever-dream born of his wounds. Arturia had faced it down with courage, and she had told him of the battle later, so he knew he had not dreamt that terrible vision. If it were up to him, he'd be a bit wary after seeing something like that darken the sky, too.

Bedivere says nothing, on the subject of his injuries. He would sooner be out and about doing things more constructive than loafing around, but Arturia will have nothing of it, and even he has to grudgingly admit that he had been broken more soundly than he might like. His left arm is all but useless; everything else is in tremendous pain, which had not been helped by a bucket of icewater -- for a few seconds it had been like fire as the ice had spread over his shoulders, and when the cold had seeped into his broken bones, some small part of him had desperately wanted to pass out.

Fortunately he'd held himself together until Arturia had fussed at him and helped him back to his quarters; then he had passed out. Even today, though, he's stiff and in pain. He doesn't have the strength to work and he knows it. He simply blows out a sigh through his teeth, as though vaguely annoyed at the reminder that he isn't going to be accomplishing anything any time soon. Even if he did, his body would never hold up, this time.

He had almost been killed in the battle where Caliburn had been lost, and even the king's finest healers had shaken their heads and muttered grimly. He had surprised them all by surviving the night. Not only had he lived where others would have succumbed to such terrible pain and ruin, he had recovered and returned to his duties, throwing himself back into his grueling work.

These days, he finds it considerably harder to do that again. Maybe it's a measure of strength, the gap between his mortal self and the Elites he's been defeated by, or perhaps it's simply a mark of how unkind the years have been to him that he can no longer do that -- whichever the case, he is aware, painfully, that he cannot endure it as he once had.

The silver-haired knight shifts against the trunk, pushing himself upright with another quiet grunt of pain, the better to survey the village. It's still in various stages of reconstruction, and comparatively little of it is whole again. "I do not know. I am no magician, and spirits are beyond my ken, but I do not think so. So far as I am aware, their initiative has carried them through under their own power." He sniffs disdainfully at her mention of his title. "I have only supplied them with what they need, and guidance in the prioitisation of construction projects..."

He's also made sure that he's been somewhere visible, offering them the morale they need; treating them no differently than he had treated Camelot's refugees -- bringing food, and letting his presence act as silent support and the reassurance that they do not stand alone.

Sagging a little more against the oak's trunk, he glances up at Kagenashi, eyes half-lidded in his weariness. For a few moments he simply studies her, watching her as she watches the village.

"Why do you stay here?"

Kagenashi (85) has posed:
    That answer seems to bring an air of satisfaction to Kagenashi. She nods, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watches the villagers move to and fro in their work. "They appear to be a remarkably strong people, then. You should be proud of the work they have carried out in such time, even with your assistance. Perhaps they would benefit from you taking on a more permanent position to aid them, even after that magician has been brought to justice. Who knows what may come to them later, when peace appears to settle and there is nothing left to fear?"

    That question comes to her, and for a few more moments, she stands in silence, staring out at the village and its inhabitants. Eventually, she turns to face Bedivere, arms folding in front of her beneath the sleeves of her yukata as she stares down at him with her gaze of dulled silver. "Is today the day for repeating questions you have already asked in the past," she remarks, giving a faint, brief smile.

    "...you have a point, however. There seems to be little reason for me to stay here. If I wished to cause harm to your village or castle or those who lived in either, it would be more beneficial for me to not be held by your laws. I suppose I could try to spy on you and the conversations you all have, but I suspect anything worth listening to is kept to places where I would not be able to hear them if I felt so inclined. Bending any of you to my will is surely not worth the effort; you are stubborn, Arturia and Jeanne are impossible targets, and while Gawain seems unable to keep his eyes off me at times, I believe he is smart enough not to fall for my kind's usual methods, and he would at the very least refuse to go against either you or his king. I have protection here, certainly, but I could just as easily find that in the Citadel's housing. So...in the end, that question seems not to have any reasonable answer, does it?"

    She looks down at him for a long, lingering moment, eyes narrowed slightly in unreadable thought. Finally, she shrugs, and simply starts off past both him and the tree on the way to some other part of the castle. "You should rest. You have many things to think about, and you look far too exhausted to ponder more than a few of them."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"They are a tremendously strong people," Bedivere murmurs, half-lidded eyes lingering on the village downhill. Even now they carry on their construction work, though the sun hangs low in the sky. They'll soon be finished for the day. Arturia is down there, somewhere, helping them with more moderate tasks. He isn't the same fount of strength that Tohsaka Sakura had been for her, and she must pace herself carefully, so as not to tax him further. "I am honoured to guide them. I hope only that I do not disappoint them..."

Faded violet eyes lift, slowly, to meet those strange silver eyes. There are hollows beneath his own, and there's still a touch of gauntness to his features; his cheekbones are naturally high, but there's a sharpness to them that suggests he's still healing from whatever past ordeal he had suffered. Perhaps the weald he had mentioned, for him to have lost track of time so.

He simply watches her, gaze somewhat flat at her quip. Nor does he interrupt her, listening as she lays down things that are, for the most part, that which he already knows. Bedivere had been well accustomed to studying people, in Camelot's court; many a time his king had asked his advice on this noble or that, relying on his judgment of their character, born from his keen perceptions. The same is true, here -- it isn't necessarily what Kagenashi says that leads him to his answers, but how she says it. Such a thing can say much about a person, even if they choose to say little.

"You are correct," Bedivere observes wearily. "Any words worth hearing will not be spoken in your presence, for the only ones worth overhearing are the ones who have no trust in you. We will endure your presence, and I will continue to allow you the use of your guest quarters and meals, for Brehon Law demands it, but you can expect little more than that."

His eyes close as he rests his arm over his side, wincing a little at the jar to his aching ribs. His other arm wraps his mantled cloak more securely around himself. "Perhaps it does. Perhaps it does not. I always have much to think about," he murmurs. "And I am resting, although if you mean for me to retire to my quarters, I intend to do so soon. The sun is sinking low, and it will be cold, soon." Although he doesn't so much as open his eyes, he can hear her footsteps receding. Although part of him wants to throw a parting shot at her, he is too tired, and in too much pain; and such would also be unseemly. So, he settles for a more standard parting.

"Farewell, Lady. Until we meet again. And I am certain that we will."