952/Calm Before the Storm

Calm Before the Storm
Date of Scene:	10 November 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Still recovering after catching a cold in Dun Realtai's foul weather, Bedivere has a conversation with Arturia (and suffers through terrible cold medicine).
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Alas, Sir Bedivere, your outstanding fortitude was bound to run out sooner or later. No mortal can run patrols in the rain while fatigued and expect to dodge illness. Given the man's stubborn insistence on running patrols to see that Dún Reáltaí doesn't wash away in the rain, it's inevitable that he would've caught something.

Catch something he had. The poor man's been miserable for days, all because he didn't want to see these people rebuild their homes, only to lose them to winter flooding – no sane person would want to go out in the weather he's been out in, but patrol he has, out in the worst of the wind and weather. The gesture hasn't been lost on the townsfolk, either; grateful now more than ever for the lord and lady who seem so concerned for their well-being.

He's been laid up in bed for days, alternating between feverish and unconscious, coughing desperately when he's been awake. Arturia's subjected him to some kind of indescribably terrible formula to soothe the worst of it, but even that horrible witch's brew hasn't kept it all out. His fever had broken in the morning, at least, leaving the knight weak and trembling as he hasn't been since the battle that had lost Caliburn – unable to even stand without assistance, dizzy and unsteady on his feet.

Just as well he feels so weak, though; for the time being, it's keeping him in bed and out of trouble.

Now, with the sun creeping towards the far horizon, the knight is wrapped up in his fur-lined blankets, shivering as he tries not to think about how miserable he feels. A scrap of linen rag is nearby for coughing into, spotted thinly with blood here and there thanks to such a raw throat, and a cup of tea on the nightstand.

Bedivere seems to be absolutely miserable, and trying to bear it with as much dignity as he's able.

By the way his eyes are screwed shut, though, he'd really prefer to be unconscious right now.

"God preserve me," he mutters, voice thin and reedy, and wholly muffled from the blanket he's huddled into, curled up on his side. Knowing how tall and solid he is, it's hard to imagine that he could curl up into such a compact shape. "I do not remember—" The observation is punctuated by an ugly, wet cough; linen scrap held tight to his face. "—I do not remember the last time... I felt so poorly, my love. I'll not do that again soon."

...She may not need to lecture him too badly. However reluctantly, the moral of the story of 'don't go out in terrible weather' seems to have sunk in. Mostly.

Maybe.

Even Kepas seems to have come to keep his lord company, curled up on the floor. Never mind that the fey-hound seems to take up quite a lot of space – the creature, despite its puppyish looks, is the size of a draught horse – but he lays there quietly, as though in sympathy for how awful the knight feels. Occasionally, when looked at, his whip-thin tail starts thumping on the floor, but for the most part those yellow lights in his empty sockets are looking up at Arturia and Bedivere with the kind of puppyish adoration one would expect from a hound.

When the magical guardians of the land were being handed their dignity, Kepas was busy eating bugs.

Saber (346) has posed:
Since her arrival in the multiverse, Arturia Pendragon had finally learned the lesson so many had been trying to impart to her, the very flaw which had, in truth, brought down her kingdom. You cannot do everything yourself. It was never so much that she simply failed to understand as that she pointedly refused to. The king must always be lonely, the king must always take everything upon himself, the king must bear all the people's burdens through his own strength. That she had failed to had been a sign of her weakness; she was unable to become more that human without the need to trouble others.

Unfortunately, her marshal had yet to learn that particular lesson. She was to blame, really; Arturia had insisted upon strict adherence to the Eight Virtues of Chivalry, and Bedivere in particular was especially devoted to them. It was partly out of living up to the knightly ideal and being an authority figure the people could have confidence in, but mostly it was simply who he was. He could no more turn away someone in need any more than his king could. The patrols were a duty to their temporary charges, and he would not even consider delegating that responsibility to anyone else.

But that was the problem, a trait that Arturia had learned early on into her reign. Bedivere was still thinking as a knight, a mere soldier, rather than a lord who needed to appoint capable people for certain tasks. Whether it was because he felt such tasks were an undue burden on the people or it had simply never occurred for him to do anything differently than he always had, the result was the same. The violet-eyed knight had once again pushed himself too far, and now his body was paying the price for that.

After the marshal's initial collapse, the little blonde had stepped in as was her custom, delegating the responsibility of erosion monitoring to those who had volunteered to do so in their temporary lord's place. They had been more surprised that Bedivere had been doing that himself rather than calling for volunteers...or, as other lords would have, simply ordered them. Once that was done, someone appointed to deliver the reports to her, and proper rain gear distributed, Arturia took up her own station at her lord's side, to the surprise of no one.

What was, on the other hand, was the jade-eyed knight's strictness. Medicine administrations were punctual, as were meals of soup and some bread when the poor ill knight had felt up to it. There always seemed to be hot tea and honey. And there was the strict order to remain in bed. Yes, the patrolling was being taken care of. Then there was the absolutely vile syrup.

In all fairness, the Union physicians had prescribed the dark gold-brown stuff as the strongest cough suppressant on hand. But the taste was enough of a constant reminder that there would be consequences for not heeding her warning. "Ah. Well. Good," she commented with a smile that, while warm, the knight would remember. It was the same one she wore when she was angry or upset in some way. " I am gladdened to hear that you will refrain from such foolishness again."

She turned her head to regard the ice hound. "I had been prepared to command Kepas to keep you in these chambers if you had so much as moved to prepare a pot of tea."

No lecture...yet. But fear not, it was coming soon.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
While the marshal could be skilled in the art of proper delegation, he preferred to do work himself, particularly when it had to do with the well-being of the people. In most cases, he was the best candidate for the job anyway, and least likely to have ulterior motives in his work.

His strength only runs so far, though. Bedivere is mortal. His body isn't made to withstand such strain on its systems, and while the spirit is willing, the body will fail when it's put through such abuse. As she's chided him before, he's no longer nineteen years of age, and while Bedivere is technically still well in his prime, the hard years of Camelot were no kindness to him. He pushed himself too hard, far too often, and increasingly, he finds himself paying the price for that in the multiverse.

Bedivere rolls onto his back, draping an arm across his face. He sighs, very quietly, and somewhat muffled.

"My love, there is nothing I enjoy more than to see you smile," he murmurs, voice muffled, "but... please, not that one."

It's the kind of smile the fox gives before it bounds into the hen-yard.

"No, I will not do that again." His tone is weary. He's been put through the wringer, and it shows in his voice and his posture, as though he absolutely lacked strength. "But... don't order Kepas to do that. Knowing that creature, he'll take it to mean that you want him to sit on me." He removes his arm, eyeing the fey-hound dubiously, to which Kepas' tail can be heard thumping against the floor gleefully at having attention paid to him. "I should think I wouldn't survive the experience."

Kepas then proceeds to pick up his head and loll his jaws open in a doggy grin at Arturia, happy as can be at the prospect of work. How much he actually understands, though, well, that's debatable. He knows he's being talked about, though, that much is clear.

"In any case... no. I'll... establish a pool of volunteers for the duty." With some effort, he pushes himself to sit up, trying valiantly to ignore the wracking cough the effort makes; he's winded when he finally finds his voice again, pushing himself against the headboard to stay upright. "Have you any tea over there, if you please? I am cold," he mutters, yanking fur-lined blankets closer about himself, "so cold. I do not think I was this cold even after Caliburn was lost. Although I remember little of that. Your doing, I'm certain, now that I think back. I don't believe I've ever said it, my lady, but... thank you for that."

Saber (346) has posed:
That, too, was something Arturia was partially to blame for; her example had generally been doing things herself, only delegating that which she couldn't. As knights were the servants of the king and of the people, the king was a servant to the entirety of the kingdom. King Arthur led by example, but the problem was that this example oft-times meant taking on far too much. But though she well-understood, it was not going to spare the silver-haired knight from the future lecture. That, however, would wait until he was in better health.

And indeed, that lecture was on the horizon. For now, though, Arturia simply tended to the ill marshal.

It was an otherwise innocent smile, a normally pleasant thing. But the innocence itself was rather feigned, even as she secured the blankets around him. "Hmm?"

Just because he was sick didn't mean she wasn't going to put the fear of God in him.

Sea-green eyes flicked back to the elemental beast, regarding him thoughtfully. Bedivere had a point there; Kepas was a terrible watchdog. Not that she particularly minded, and she was sure he had skills other than castle mascot. Really...he was far too much like a puppy to consider him eerie. Then again, the Servant was used to elemental creatures even before Unification. "Kepas, do not sit on your lord. Guarding the door will do."

Not that he would probably understand, but perhaps he did. She couldn't say either way.

Whether or not Bedivere wanted help sitting up, he was getting it regardless when the petite blonde helped him upright. She didn't fuss, however; some tea would probably help with the cough. Even as he asked, she had already moved to pour him a cup and add honey. "That is good. There have been enough volunteers so that their shifts are not terribly long. It would seem the people understand how to share duties."

Oh yes, she liked these people very much. She was always drawn to independent, hard-working people as much as any properly chivalrous knight.

This time, her smile was gentle. "Aye, it was. There was little else I could do. I could not be by your side as I am now, and so my only recourse was to try to ease the pain."

Even now, it was a bitter memory, not only over the deaths of many of her people and the sundering of the Golden Sword, but her buried fear of losing him. "But there is no need to thank me for that. We would not have been victorious but for your sacrifice."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When looked at, the fey-hound lets his jaws hang open even further. His teeth are shaped like a greyhound's ought to be, but instead of white, they're colourless with a slightly blue cast to them, like ice. He seems to have no tongue to speak of; the only thing that issues from the black shadow of his maw are clouds of frost, which must be his breath. No fire-breathing dragon, is this; his heart burns not with the heat of a furnace, but the chill of winter.

His tail thumps, but it's hard to say by his slightly blank expression whether or not he really understands. Maybe he does – but those flat lights that serve as eyes are difficult to read, and his behaviour is so puppyish...

Maybe he'll surprise them all, someday. Maybe he won't. There's no telling how much intelligence actually lurks beneath the facade of this creature; the least among Dún Reáltaí's brute guardians. There's no yardstick to measure, either. He's the last among them, too.

On the other hand, he might be smarter than they give credit for. When Arturia says guarding the door will do, the creature picks himself up off the floor, walks a few paces over to the doorway itself, and hunkers right down in it, making it almost impossible for anyone to enter or leave through it.

And then he wags his tail, jaws lolling open in happy poochy style.

"Have there? Good." Bedivere's eyes fall to half-mast, and he seems genuinely relieved to hear that there are enough patrol volunteers that the shifts are short and not half as arduous as the ones he took on himself. "I have no wish to burden them any more than they have already suffered, but if they do this willingly..."

His eyes close for a few moments, almost as though he might have fallen asleep, but they open a moment later when she explains herself through the remainder of that old battle.

Having been uncomfortable, he had stripped off his tunic; the scars of Caliburn's loss are still evident even among the old scars. A broad and particularly pale stripe across his left shoulder tells of the axe-head that had buried itself into the joint, nearly taking his arm off, or at least crippling him; he had spent long weeks rehabilitating that arm after he had regained something of his strength. Even now, the mark remains, the texture dense enough to suggest the tissue is probably dead. Much of the scarring he shows is probably like that – he doesn't feel anything any more where he had been bitten by sword and axe, spear and arrow.

He sighs, but the sound seems content more than anything else. Head bowing forward, a spill of silvery hair momentarily hides his face while he marshalls his strength.

"Mn." It's a quiet sound he gives, mostly acknowledgement, in the back of his throat. The memory is bitter for him, too. So many had been lost. And he had come so close to losing what had mattered most to him. That he himself had nearly lost his life was inconsequential; much like his lady, he places little to no value on himself. "Still." Hesitantly, he reaches for her hand, though he seems to lack the strength to hold his own up. "I had never been able to thank you for it. It... feels good to be able to do so, now. To speak freely." He smiles, a little subdued.

Her last statement, though, seems to turn his expression to one of mild puzzlement. "Surely I did not influence that battle to such an extent. I was but one soldier among few others. Was it not a concerted effort that pushed the Saxons out?" It seems his recollection of that entire battle is a bit fuzzy; the rage must have robbed him of his wits, too, for as long as it had clouded his vision and turned the battlefield red for him. "Surely I did not play so much a part as that..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Pale eyebrows lifted in mild surprise when the ice-hound moved to the door. That certainly seemed to suggest some sort of intelligence, perhaps even sentience. On the other hand, the puppyish happiness from whatever attention they gave him suggested that he was still a 'dog' in ways...a dog made of pure winter, but still a dog. But who could really say?

"Good boy," Arturia praised simply. He seemed to like it when she did, whether sentient or otherwise. He appeared to enjoy 'fetch' in addition, though he was always reluctant to let go of the object in question.

"Indeed. I believe they had been stunned that you were taking that duty all on yourself. While I can certainly understand the need to lead by example, there is also the point of their pride. They have been the victims of a terrible event, but they are not helpless."

She wasn't lecturing him on this point, not really. Helplessness was all too common, and it took some time to adjust to the fact that there were people just as stubborn and prideful as the knights. Giving them the means to pick themselves up appeared to be best.

She wasn't about to let Bedivere completely off the hook, though. "And they have been issued rain gear from the Union," she added. No trudging out in just a cloak. The lord of the land having caught cold was more than enough.

The petite knight didn't so much as stare at his scars – she would have had more than a few herself had it not been for Caliburn and Avalon – as he tried to reach for her hand. She took it in both of hers, smiling faintly. "Aye, it is," she agreed. She no longer had to depend on others to watch over him, and she no longer had to hide her feelings. Whether she necessarily deserved this second chance or not, she was grateful.

Arturia made a soft 'hm' sound of agreement. "All had a part to play in that battle. Had a single man been missing, I have no doubt the Saxons would have routed us. Still..."

The battle had been going badly at that point. Some had won their skirmishes, but the Saxons had been pressing on, and Bedivere's own had nearly been defeated. That is, until the standard-bearer was cut down. "It was undeniable that you turned the tide of battle. The barbarians believed us soft from years under Roman rule. You proved them wrong."

So did she, for that matter. But the cost had been a great one, and it shamed her to remember the one time she had broken her own vows of chivalry.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When praised, the fey-hound's tail thumps madly against the stone floor. It's probably a good thing that it's stone. Every time it hits, it raises a little puff of powdered ice.

"I cannot help it." It's the closest thing to an apology as she'll have from him. He takes his duties seriously, and it takes conscious effort not to push himself so hard. It isn't that he has no faith in the people, but he takes the chivalric virtues with the utmost seriousness. Not putting two hundred percent into a given job is something he likely sees as a breach of those virtues. "But when I return to them, I will be certain to take the rain gear."

He curls his hand loosely when it's taken, fingers lacing with hers. Faded, violet eyes hood, slipping out of focus as he thinks back to those long-past days.

"I remember little of the battle," he murmurs after a few moments. "I remember arriving, and I remember taking my detachment to try to flank the Saxons. It was a trap, and we were instead surrounded. I remember my soldiers dying around me, and the Saxons closing in. I remember your standard-bearer was cut down before I could save him. But... I remember little after that. Not coherently." His eyes slide closed. "I cannot imagine how. There were stronger knights than I. Sir Lancelot; Sir Gawain..."

He can't deny the looks he'd received after that, though. From the peasantry, they had been awestruck, if slightly frightened; from the nobility, even more suspicious and hateful than usual.

"It explains the way they looked at me afterward." His fingers tighten over hers, but only slightly. "I only remember pieces. I remember rage, my love. Such rage, as I had never felt before. I was wroth, that they had killed so many; that they would dare raise steel against us so close to Camelot... and I remember fear," he murmurs quietly, fingers tightening around hers. "I thought I would lose you, that night. And that was what drove me. I cannot remember any of the men I fought through the rain. I do not even remember when I earned this." He tilts his head slightly, indicating the broad scar over his shoulder. "Or those." Another tilt of his head the other way, indicating the patchwork of white scars across his torso. "I only remember wanting to drive them out. To take them down. To unmake them for daring to threaten you," he says, softly.

Saber (346) has posed:
The lecture might be coming a little early. Or perhaps a mini-lecture, at least. In truth, Arturia wasn't angry at him – how could she be, when she was cut from the same proverbial cloth? – but worrying made her fuss. Even if, as her Master, he had an obligation not to kill himself, it hardly meant that she could help herself. That was to say nothing that, had the situations been reversed, she would be the one insisting that she was only doing her duty and he would be the one lecturing her. Only, the silver-haired knight would most likely be horrified after the fact that he had spoken to his king so.

But then, they were no longer merely faithful knight and king.

"I do not think they will take offence, now that they are accustomed to our adherence to the Virtues," Arturia mused out loud. "Nevertheless, though you mean no insult and I do not think they will find one, be more mindful of their position."

And here she stared straight into his eyes with the full force of the king she had been. "And your own. You understand now the foolishness of constant patrols in the rain in unsuitable attire. But there are other times when you will push yourself too far and pay a similar price."

In contrast to the memory lapse Bedivere suffered when it came to that battle, Arturia remembered it all too clearly. Rather than the bonfire of the rage of the Left Hand of the King, hers was that of a glacier. Every bit as destructive and deadly, it turned her just as much inhuman. But unlike the berserker rage, it was the likes of which the barbarians had never seen before, and for perhaps the first time, some among them knew true fear. It certainly did nothing to quiet the whispers that the king was not a human being, along with her lack of injuries thanks to Caliburn.

Only, the Golden Sword was soon taken from her through her own actions. It was the lack of control, her forsaking chivalry in that single moment when, consumed with that rage, ignored the plea for mercy and beheaded the Saxon chieftain. By their standards, it was something the barbarians themselves often did. They knew nothing of chivalry, and their sense of honour was only found in battle. It was not their way to begrudge their loss; they sought glory in battle and had found it even in defeat. But for a knight of Britain, it was an inexcusable breach.

Gently, the jade-eyed knight leaned up slightly, brushing her lips over his forehead. Had she seen him cut down, there was no telling what she would have done. "I remember my own battle all too clearly," she admitted, the first time she had ever really done so. "I could not hide my shame that day, not after Caliburn rejected me for my sin."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
No doubt the silver-haired knight knows there's a lecture to be had for him. It may not be today, or tomorrow, but there will be a lecture. He's as sure of that as he is of the sun's rise in the east. He'll deal with that with the same patience he had dealt with her fear and anger when he'd been wounded in the Caverns of Prophecy. Not a word had he raised in protest to her words. Then again, he'd sensed that worried anger, and the sharp, crackling edge of that fear.

But he is patient, when it comes to her; patient enough to weather her fear or her fussing. Perhaps he knows it's born of care, rather than any actual anger.

He sighs when she chides him on the foolishness of his actions. Looking back, he certainly could have prepared himself better for his patrols, but he had allowed himself to be blinded by his concern for the people; convinced that he needed to be out patrolling in the heaviest downpours.

"Yes, my lady." Yet for all that 'married couple' response, there is a sincerity to the words that suggests he takes it to heart this time. "I will prepare myself better, when next I take those patrols." He coughs, reaching for that scrap of linen that's become a handkerchief; grimacing when he finally calms down enough to breathe. The linen is spotted with blood when he sets it aside. Too much coughing, he decides. His insides must look like the fox shredded by the hunter's hounds. "Believe me. I have learnt my lesson."

His eyes slide half-closed when she leans forward, closing completely when he feels the touch of her lips to his forehead. Such a simple thing, yet he'll never lose his sense of wonder for it. When he opens his eyes again, he looks to her, something like sorrow lingering in his faint smile.

"So that was what I sensed in your eyes. I remember when I tried to apologise to you. I knew my actions would invite more suspicion, more contention among the nobility... but you looked at me with such pain. I suppose you thought you'd hidden it, but..." He sighs, eyes nearly closing again. Although he's looking and sounding better than he has for days, he still looks exhausted, fighting for every breath. "For years, I'd thought I'd imagined that. I could not imagine why. But..."

"It makes sense, now. But do not grieve for that." He squeezes her hand, lightly. "We all make our mistakes. That can hardly be held against you. Given what you needed to do, my love... one could ask no more of you. You sacrificed everything, and such a lapse in chivalry... well... it is a wonder that that was the only one. A lesser king would have lost their chivalry long before, and let it lapse long after, but you did not." Carefully, he raises her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of it. He has no more strength to hold it, though, and lets it go, arm dropping as he sags back. "Truly, you were... the finest king. I would have pledged... my service to no other."

He offers a smile, weak as it is. "Besides, I am certain... that I must have breached the virtues as well. How many of them begged for mercy, I wonder, as I cut them down... but I could no longer hear them. I could not see them. I could see only red... the flash of my sword... rain glancing off my blade."

"I do not know what I would have done if I had seen you cut down," he murmurs quietly, curling his hand loosely around hers. "The same as Camlann, I suppose. If I had survived the battle. Any one detail that would have played out differently, and I believe we would have been put to rout – or put to the sword." The Saxons weren't remembered as merciful; he has no doubt the scattered remnants of the Arthurian host would have been broken. "I am glad, even if the cost was Caliburn, and my near-death. For we survived."

"There is much to be said for survival," he murmurs, but the weariness in his voice isn't strictly from physical fatigue. "Although I did not believe that, at least not until we met again, here in the multiverse. I had cursed my fortune, while I was in the weald those long years. Why had I survived, and been the only one to? Why was I chosen to carry on, with no hope and no solace...? But I see, now. I understand. The Lord works in mysterious ways, truly, for He rewarded me beyond my wildest imaginings." His hand tightens around hers, faintly. "How could I have imagined this place? Or to even see you again, let alone to serve you; to stand at your side? To cast aside our masks? I do not think I could have even dreamt that."

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, a lecture loomed on the horizon. It was one thing to take duty seriously, to truly understand that chivalry was a way to live and not simply a way to behave, but quite another to recklessly endanger oneself. And the marshal kept making this mistake...but the part which bothered her the most was that he seemed completely unaware he was doing it. It was not the patrols in the middle of a downpour, or fighting off a familiar created from a Dead Apostle, or going off on his own to the Caverns. Once he had recovered, it would be a different reason for returning to the keep injured or ill. And there seemed no way to persuade him to be more cautious as a whole rather than just in one situation.

As keen-eyed and sharp-witted as he was, this was a particular recurring blind spot. Instead of making the same mistake over and over, he made new ones from the same cause.

The typical 'married couple' response would have ordinarily earned the previous terrifying smile, but her mini-lecture had apparently gotten through to him. His modesty was working against him when it came to adapting to his new role as a temporary lord. Not only that, but it chilled her to think that in some ways, he was falling into the patterns she had as a king. That she could not permit. "Moreover, you cannot take on all of their burdens by yourself," she replied with a hint of the haunted expression she wore when regret harried the edges of her mind.

As much as she had treated the terrible tasting 'witches brew' as a punishment, it was nevertheless a prescribed treatment, particularly for such violent coughing. "The medicine will likewise ensure you shall not forget that lesson," she observed, already measuring out the dose. Probably to the violet-eyed knight's building horror.

Arturia was no longer surprised now to learn that the Left Hand of the King had seen beyond her mask. She had honed that mask to perfection, fooling so many. Yet, he always seemed to be able to see behind it effortlessly, at least in part. Had she known, it would have made her paranoid, but she knew now that it was merely that Bedivere missed very little. "Mm. It was difficult to hide it. But to act otherwise would have brought ruin to the kingdom. I could not so much as express my regret and shame, not then."

It had been the source of lingering pain throughout her rule, a reminder that she must always live by chivalry and be careful to control her emotions. She could not be stirred to anger, nor could she afford to be seen as soft. Lancelot became the hand which bore the sword while Bedivere became the hand which bore the olive branch. They each had understood what they must do for the sake of Britain's stability. Caliburn's absence was a constant reminder of the price of that lesson, one which she had wished had not stained her with sin. Not as grievous as a different scar she bore, yet it remained a constant regret.

Yet, now...

It had only been after her reunion with Bedivere that she had finally started on the road to truly forgiving herself, if for no other reason than it grieved him when she failed to. "I held myself to a higher standard, " she admitted softly. "What I could tolerate in others I could not in myself. The king must be above that, lest utopia slip through my fingers. Or so I had believed."

At the touch of his lips on her hand, her cheeks coloured just slightly. Even now, such a simple gesture, denied her for all those long years, was one she would never take for granted. It always seemed to reduce her to blushing. "Perhaps," she admitted at last. "But in the eyes of the king, you have always been a paragon of the virtues."

Survive they had. No enemies from without had ever bested the forces of Britain, and King Arthur had been hailed as the Unconquerable King. It was only through internal treachery that Camelot fell. "Yes...we survived."

It was another reminder of just how deeply grateful she was that Bedivere had survived Camlann, though the cost to the gentle knight was great. Yet, for all that cost, to see him without their masks, to know that he had been granted an impossible miracle, a new sense of purpose, and happiness along with it, he had said in no uncertain terms he could not regret it. If for no other reason than to be at her side, serving her once again. It was humbling, to say the least.

"I do have some cause for gratitude to the Holy Grail for granting me a reprieve, long enough to find the multiverse. Perhaps it could grant impossible miracles, perhaps not. But what it could not grant, God and this multiverse have...though I did not realise it. I am...truly blessed beyond my worth."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Aaah, lecturing. It seems that fate has been reserved for him only in the multiverse. He wouldn't trade it for all the world, of course. Even to be the target of her withering frustration, however well-restrained, makes him more than a little uncomfortable. Not even because she's frustrated – but because he so hates to fail her in any way.

"Yes, my love." Bedivere has the good grace to look properly chastised, bowing his head slightly, silver hair spilling across his face. He grimaces, not quite coughing, although he can feel his chest tightening... but just the thought of that vile stuff is enough to make him want to cringe.

...It almost reminds him of Gawain's cooking, in a way.

He leans back, eyes hooding and gaze growing distant as he thinks back. "It must have been," he murmurs quietly, to her assertion that her pain had been hard to hide. "I cannot imagine having to. But you are right. It would have sundered Camelot. So much would have. It was such a delicate thing, so fragile..." He sighs, wincing; finally unable to suppress his coughing any more. A blind grab for his linen scrap, and it comes away spotted with blood once more. Nothing disastrous, but enough to suggest he's probably hiding a certain degree of his misery and pain.

As he always does. When had he ever made light of his injuries or his illnesses? If anything, he was accustomed to downplaying those things. He had all but had to hide them in Camelot. Even when he'd nearly been killed, he had sought to hide how much pain he was in – coughing up blood for two weeks after Caliburn was lost, but hiding his blood-stained handkerchief, coughing only when there weren't others to hear him. He hid his weakness from everyone; but especially from his king.

Now, it still seems strange to show his vulnerabilities. Strangest of all, though, is to be able to show his vulnerabilities before her.

He gives a ragged sigh once he finishes his own coughing, breathless. But the wince he gives when she praises his virtues, though; that's no result of pain, to go by the flush of his face as he drops his face; glad for once that he'd asked her to leave his hair be. It hides his expression, and it hides the scarlet of his cheekbones. He mumbles something in protest, but the words aren't clear. He also seems to be studiously ignoring her own flush – probably because he's trying to hide his own.

"I must be grateful to it, as well." Carefully, he takes her hand again, lacing his fingers with hers. "Did it not bring you to me again? I could not be more grateful for that. I could not have even imagined. After I... after I laid you to rest..." His smile is soft, and a little bittersweet. "It did not seem right that you would be left there, beneath the tree. I do not know where that boat came from, or from where it had been sent. The Tylwyth Teg, perhaps. But something compelled me to lay you in it, and to cast it from the shore... perhaps it was the Lady of the Lake who whispered to me, and I remember not her voice?"

He tightens his hand over hers, closing his eyes. "Even if it tore half of my heart out, even so... if I was to be there, if I was to survive Camlann... I am glad it was I who was given the honour of seeing to your last rites. I sang a prayer, though I must not have had a voice left, and though I must shamefully admit that I wept through it, and had to repeat it many times..."

"I am sorry," he murmurs. "I should not speak of such things. I waste our time speaking of what was." He squeezes her hand, slightly. "I thank you for looking after me, then. And I thank you now." Lifting violet eyes, he looks to her with that solemn expression, offering a faint smile, caught between apology and bittersweetness. He seems to be trying to steel himself for something, as though silently gathering his courage through his hesitant words. "In truth, I... cannot thank you enough. Arturia."

It seems so strange to call her by name, but at the same time – there's a strange enjoyment from it; as though revelling in the fact that he can. He smiles a little more broadly. "The Holy Grail... it can grant miracles, I think," he murmurs. "It brought you to me. I would seek no more from it, for it has already done the impossible."

Saber (346) has posed:
Disappointment was not something the violet-eyed knight needed to worry too much about. Frustration, certainly, but not disappointment. That he would chafe under the responsibility of being a lord had been a given; thinking of himself as anything other than a simple knight in her service was impossible. Shifting from that to being the guardian and caretaker of these lands – however temporary – was not an easy mindset to adapt to. Her lectures were always lessons, not simply scolding him for not taking proper care of himself. Arturia was confident that he was the best person for the task she had assigned him, even if he might doubt that.

And she didn't particularly enjoy making him suffer the medicine. The proof in that was the hot apple tea waiting for him to wash the strong, bitter taste with. In the end, any thought to it being simply a 'punishment' was underscored by the fact that she had managed to procure the tea flavoured with apples and cinnamon. The diminutive Servant really was not very skilled at being sadistic.

No, if she had really and truly sought to punish Bedivere, Gawain's cooking would have more than sufficed.

"It had always been a delicate balance," Arturia recalled, her eyes distant with memories, hooded and with the familiar hint of lingering regret. "I willingly endured it, but a single misstep would have brought ruin." Though, in the end, Camelot fell in spite of her efforts...and after a while, she started to believe because of them. Over every decision – the best one at the time with the knowledge and resources she possessed – she doubted in retrospect. Surely there had been a better way that she had somehow overlooked.

Perhaps it was unfair to pass that burden off to her marshal, regardless of the fact that she had always appointed other men in similar positions over the management of various lands. But this was nevertheless her responsibility. In Camelot, she had always burdened him greatly, and here she was doing the same thing all over again. "I am sorry...that I have made you to carry my burdens," she said quietly, her eyes trained down on her hands.

Her eyes lifted slightly at another round of coughing, frowning worriedly at the bloodied linen. That he had suffered far worse injuries even in the multiverse didn't matter. She had never been permitted to show that concern before, and she was not about to start hiding her worry now. The only way she would consider it was if doing so was for his benefit, but to do so now would have troubled him further.

Though still blushing faintly, Arturia frowned sightly, her brow wrinkling with the expression. "What I said is true," she protested, her own sense of modesty in turn fuelled by his. "I have no reason for empty praise." Her own hair was serving well enough to hide at least some of her face, having heated up a few degrees.

She did not remember those final moments; how could she? Arturia had made her contract with the Grail and, upon closing her eyes, found herself standing in Kiritsugu's summoning circle. Everything which had happened to her in her own time were things which had never happened to her personally. And after that...well, one never knew what happened to them after he died.

The jade-eyed knight still hated the thought of what her marshal had endured after that. Mourning a beloved king was one thing, but he had lost everything at that battle. Part of his soul had died there, he had told her as much, and it was only through the miracle of Unification that it was restored, at least in part. His family was still gone, the kingdom he had served was no more. But there was much to live for and many causes to throw oneself into.

Lifting her hand to his head, she stroked his hair with a light touch. "Aye, you are right...and I have done more than enough dwelling on the past." Enough to submit to the call of the Grail, in fact. "What matters now is that we have found each other again, here. We even have a true home, now."

She would never get used to that, either; hearing her name on his lips. It would not always make her blush as she was now, but she could not imagine her heart not skipping a beat as it did. And it would always make her smile with the same smile she now wore. "It is...what one does for the ones they love, is it not?"

It was rather strange to think that the wish she had never known she had would be granted even without so much as winning the artefact. It might have been a mere path to the Root, but the journey itself brought a reward beyond measure. "It is interesting to think," she mused with a faint smile, "That there are wishes that need not even be asked in order to be granted."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
That hot apple tea is certainly a balm in the wake of such miserable medicine. Although it isn't overly sweet, the tea has a pleasant flavour, enough to ease the memory of tht horrible, syrupy concoction. Bedivere knows that it's there and waiting for him as an incentive, too; he can smell it.

Still, even that vile stuff is preferable to Gawain's cooking. No matter how well-meaning the Knight of the Sun is, there's no denying that his skills in the kitchen are very nearly lethal. His cooking isn't a punishment as much as it is a murder weapon. Surely serving his cooking to a guest would constitute a breach of Brehon Law. If that guest happened to survive the ordeal, well, then they must have nerves of steel... and guts of iron.

"Such a fragile thing it had been," he murmurs, eyes half-focused as he lets them hood. They don't quite close, but it's clear that he isn't looking where his gaze rests. "And even then, I knew that it was delicate as the first spring bloom in the end of winter; as that butterfly I had found in the gardens. Truth be told, I had been uncomfortable when you had appointed me Marshal of the Realm. I knew my appointment would be no end of scandal and suspicion drawn onto you, for your choice."

He sags against the pillows he'd been using to sit up with, lying back with a ragged sigh that segues into another coughing fit. It must be painful, to go by how weak his voice sounds. No doubt he must have pulled something in his chest by now with so much violent coughing, and his throat must be red-raw, to go by the blood on the linen. He sets the scrap aside with a trembling hand, unsteadily seeking hers out once his hand is free.

"After all," he continues in a fainter tone, "they felt entitled to it. Why should such an important post be given to some unblooded foreigner from Dál Riata? Why would knights of better lineages and the old blood of Camelot be overlooked?" He grins, sourly. "Truly, I could have been spymaster as ably as Sir Lancelot, I think; they did not know that I heard much of what was spoken in secret. And I did not need disguises for such, either. It is astonishing what one can perceive if one simply knows how to listen, quietly."

"Please, do not grieve for burdens carried, my love. That is a foolish thing to grieve." Despite what might be a protest from anyone else, his words and voice are gentle, as gentle as he can coax his rasping-raw voice into being. "I chose to bear them willingly. Did I not swear and oath of service, to King and Camelot? Did you not touch my shoulders with Caliburn, the Golden Sword of Promised Victory? Aye, I chose to bear those willingly." He reaches for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, though his own fingers tremble in his weakness. "I'd have taken more if I could have."

"Ah, but things were well-balanced in Camelot. The burdens we carried, those too were a balance. We danced upon the knife's-edge, you and I." He sighs a ragged sigh, grimacing when he feels his chest tighten again, but manages to stave off the coughing fit – at least for a few minutes. "Perhaps those burdens might have killed us both, in time. Ah... to me, that seems worse than having laid you to rest, somehow. To have been unable to help you at all, in the midst of that viper's nest... heh..."

His faded, violet eyes drift nearly closed. "Indeed," he murmurs hoarsely. "We have found each other, and a true home, here. I could not be more grateful. Even to be able to rest, once I have taken ill like this... I could not afford that luxury in Camelot. After Caliburn was lost... I thought I was going to die, then, my lady. Not just from my wounds, although I suppose I am lucky to have survived that. But in the days after... I should not complain, but ah, Lord God, it was hard, some mornings. So hard. There was such pain, and I needed extra time, just to stand until the room stopped spinning... yet I could not rest; could not stop. I had to present strength and confidence to those who would scorn me. I could give them no reason to doubt your reign and your choices."

"Yes, I know now that those burdens I carried... those would have killed me, even if Camlann had not laid Camelot low. And I am paying the price of those burdens, now." He coughs wetly into the bloodied linen, grimacing as he finds his breath and sets the scrap aside. "I would not have taken so long to recover in Camelot, even if we factor in that I was hiding most of my pain or my weakness through sheer force of will. Yet now that I have no impetus to bristle and hide my weaknesses like a falcon mantling its wings and glaring, it seems I fall to pieces. Sometimes literally," he sighs, raggedly.

He looks down to where their hands lie joined, and can't help a small, wan smile. "Perhaps it is what you do for the one you love, aye. But I still owe you my thanks. And my apologies. I know you requested it of me, but it still feels so strange to use your... name. Without title. But it..." He flushes, just a little, gaze skittering away to some shadowed corner of the chamber. "It suits you. I think it a pretty name, m–Arturia." His face turns a little more scarlet.

"A-aye. It's interesting. I suppose the Lord God rewards the faithful, even if our service is but thankless hardship so others need not serve. I am grateful for that." He lies back with a sigh, grimacing in pain. "Ugh. I suppose I will take my medicine now, as well. Best not to put off the inevitable for too long, or I'll not want to take it... have that tea ready, please, my love."

He tries to sit up, but he can't quite manage to do it without her help. Indeed, he seems grateful for the effort; unable to summon the strength to do so himself, he waits for her to help him sit upright and help him with that terrible, terrible concoction.

Saber (346) has posed:
It was a little strange that for all his ability at brewing healing draughts and making medicines, Gawain was so terrible at cooking when it came to simple food. Or perhaps not so strange; the creation of medicine was a far different thing.she had little doubt that any brews the Knight of the Sun made would surely taste just as horrid as the modern stuff, in spite of its effectiveness.

His cooking, on the other hand, was forbidden within the walls of the village as an obvious violation of Brehon Law...at least, for mortal beings capable of being poisoned.

Arturia made a soft sound of acknowledgement; appointing the commoner knight of foreign blood had indeed stirred up considerable controversy..but then, there would have been grumbling regardless of who had been appointed to the position. Instead, it had helped in some ways to establish the king's impartiality that she had chosen an outsider independent of Camelot's court politics, a clear sign that the king could not be bought or threatened.

It had been a wise move indeed to disguise her gender; not long after her ascension, the nobles had seen the waif of a 'boy' as weak. How much more weak would a woman have been in their eyes? It had been difficult enough to assert her authority as it had been, and only by the grace of God and the support of the knights she had appointed to the Round Table that she was able to maintain it. At least, up until Mordred's rebellion.

"You were the best choice, regardless of that controversy," she replied confidently. "Your skills and calm were the reasons for your appointment, but there were other advantages. The nobles vying for the post could not complain of favouritism, nor of bribery. In truth, it helped assert my position..."

There was a hint of guilt as she continued, her eyes trained on her hands. "...Though I regret that I used you in such a way." While he had been more than willing to be used by the king in such a way, that hardly meant she liked doing it. He had been her shield, enduring all insult to secure her rule. Lancelot du Lac, too...but he had the benefit of rearing by the Lady of the Lake. Bedivere had possessed no such advantages, only his own strength and his wits to protect his gentle soul with. In spite of his background, he had none of the magic that the rumours whispered of.

The coughing fit draw a worried frown from the little blonde. "Do not push yourself too hard," she mildly reproved the silver-haired knight. Already, she had needed to revoke his radio after one such coughing fit, misjudging how much strength he really had when he needed to be resting. Of course, she was something of a hypocrite in that regard, forgoing the necessary rest necessary to conserve her mana. The excuse that "There is still much to do" was a common excuse for the both of them.

He was right with regards to burdens, but it was nevertheless something she struggled with still. She was willing to endure it all for the sake of others, especially for the gentle knight; the problem had been, in her mind, that she had not been strong enough. The idea of sharing those burdens remained a relatively new idea after a lifetime of taking up everything on herself. The King of Heroes had the right of it; it would have destroyed her eventually.

Jade eyes studied their interlaced fingers, noting his illness-weakened grasp. "I know," she replied quietly. "It did not seem fair to, regardless of my path of the king."

And it truly had been a viper's nest. Had she been more ruthless, perhaps she would have enjoyed playing the courtly intrigues, playing noble off against noble. But that had never been her way. Instead, she danced that sword's edge, but it would have been impossible without her marshal watching her back. "I never would have been able to, not without you at my side, " Arturia admitted quietly, still studying their hands. She would never have dared admit such a thing, even to herself, while she had ruled Britain.

She was never so grateful for the multiverse as she was now, free to tend to him while he no longer needed kill himself over hiding his weakness. How much longer would they have been able to go on, had the rebellion never happened? Arturia knew her own weakness, had eventually understood that she simply did not have the strength to carry her kingdom to that elusive paradise. But what pained her was that it would have ended Bedivere's life eventually. An illness such as this one would have been hidden for as long as he could have before he collapsed, possibly not to rise again.

In all fairness, she was just as bashful about having him call her by name as he was to do so. The only ones who had ever done so were Ector, Kay, and Merlin. It was as if he had become a part of that tiny world of family, yet for some reason, it felt...special. And as scarlet as he was at the moment, she matched him when he admitted he found it pretty. It was a plain name, she had always thought, suitable for a king but strange for a woman. "Th-thank you..." she managed, unable to say much else about it.

With great care, Arturia measured out the golden brown liquid and set it aside before pouring tea and adding honey and cautiously helping him to sit up. "I do apologise for this," she commented, having the grace to allow a genuinely repentant expression to cross her face before handing him the vile stuff.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Alchemy and cooking are resonably close disciplines. Both of them rely on chemistry at their core; the simple art of measures and ratios, and the proper preparation. For some reason, Gawain's potions and poultices are miraculous – yet his cooking is disastrous, at best. It's not lethal in and of itself, but the victim might wish they were actually dying. It'd mean relief at the end of the tunnel, right?

That's what he'd hoped, once upon a time. Three days and three nights he had been incapacitated, completely useless, and for once that had been an ailment he couldn't hide. He'd spent the first night curled up in a ball, and gritting his teeth so hard his jaw creaked so as not to whimper at the pain in his gut. At the time, it would have been impolite to refuse, and he had been caught between hammer and anvil, unable to refuse.

Fortunately, Bedivere is wise enough not to suffer that twice. Once was enough; no force on Heaven or earth could get him to eat his brother-knight's cooking again.

In spite of his regret, the decision to appoint him as the Marshal of the Realm had been the best possible outcome. It did reinforce the notion that this king would not be cowed by her own subjects; but it also established the kingdom's solid foundations of knights who saw their roles as a solemn duty, rather than an entitlement. Few of them had been more steel-true than Bedivere.

His eyes close, although he doesn't argue against her confident assertion. She's correct in that much, even if his sense of modesty makes him want to writhe where he lays in protest of his qualities. No, the nobility could hardly complain about a feminine king when he himself was often mistaken for a women, with his soft voice and gentle features. Yet he had not bothered correcting those who had misidentified him; he had known it was ultimately advantageous to the king.

When she shows her regret at having used him so, he only smiles, squeezing her hand gently. "I allowed myself to be used so," he murmurs, though his voice is hoarse and raw from his earlier coughing. He wheezes slightly, staving off another fit on sheer willpower alone. "If it allowed me to act as your shield, even if only in part, than I would have borne that gladly. I would have done anything to protect you, however I could. And if that was what was needed of me, then I am content with that. My own reputation never mattered to me." He lifts her hand to press his lips to the back of it; so light it could be imagined, before he releases her hand. He doesn't have the strength to hold it up.

Carefully, he lies back, grimacing a little as he tries not to cough. He can't hold it back forever, though, and finds himself reaching for the linen once more; the cloth, as before, comes away bloodied. He's going to be very glad when his throat isn't so raw any more.

His voice is faint and rasping when he finds it again.

"If I were pushing myself, I would be out in the saddle," he murmurs. On the bright side, he knows better than to do that, because it's very possible that she might strangle him personally; that much shows in his subdued but amused tone. "Fear not, my love. I will be careful."

"I do not think I could have held myself up as I did, following any other. You gave me strength, even then." He smiles faintly, though his voice is little more than a ragged whisper. Anything more than that and his throat feels red-raw; in too much pain to speak. "So I thank you... for that. It helped to bring me to this moment, here, with you..."

He falls silent, allowing her to blush and thank him for using her name. It seems such a simple thing, but it's so easy to grant her that to her – so little effort for him, just to see her smile.

Unfortunately, there's only so much postponing the inevitable, and he's run out of time. His chest won't let him skip the medication for much longer, and he watches with mounting apprehension as she fastidiously measures out the vile, syrupy stuff. On the other hand, she's doing all of the right things with that tea, too... apples, cinnamon, and honey. While he still feels self-conscious about consuming honey, he's not blind to its medicinal properties. It'll soothe his throat nicely, and if ever there's a time when he needs that, it's now.

He sighs shallowly, allowing her to help him sit up. Even though he's a little tense in light of having to take that medicine, she'll still feel how weak he is – how unsteady, without her help.

One has to wonder just how much he had hidden from her in Camelot. Rarely if ever had she seen him without his famous calm and stoicism. Only twice; when Gawain's cooking had incapacitated him, and when he had nearly died after Caliburn's loss. How many times had he feigned wellness, hiding his pain and his illness behind his stoic mask? What kind of toll had he taken on himself through those long years by doing that?

A steep one, by the look of him now; one he may well pay for the rest of his days.

He sighs, closing his eyes. Curiously, his mouth twists into a grin.

"Slàinte!" he rasps, using the traditional toast in clear irony. Well, yes, it's health. Cough syrup, specifically.

And then, in a truly impressive display of fortitude and determination, the knight attempts to down the measured dose of cough syrup.

His face turns several shades paler than it usually is, and for a few seconds it almost looks like he might not get it down – but he does, all but throwing himself back against the headboard when he does, hastily setting aside the glass with a choking, absolutely disgusted cry.

"Faugh! That–that's horrible...! Did Sir Gawain have a hand in preparing that?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Given that she was now a being a pure spirit, Arturia could probably endure Gawain's terrible cooking. Not that she would make the attempt without flying into a rare rage and try to throttle him; there were few things she detested more than badly-prepared meals. Their unpalatable condition was probably the same reason medicines tended to taste so terrible; the measurements of certain ingredients intended for healing without regard for how it tasted was the objective of the healing arts.

Fortunately, the flaxen-haired knight's attention to detail and concern for the taste of things had made her a passable cook, in no small part thanks to her previous Master. Sakura and Shirou remained considerably better at it, but at the very least Arturia could prepare a decent meal. She was even careful not to over-season her efforts; though she thoroughly enjoyed spices, her lieutenant disliked an overabundance of it, in spite of their wide availability in the modern era. At least he liked cinnamon; it made seasoning stews with cumin more acceptable...even if she had been forced to forgo those delightful jalapeño peppers.

Perhaps on the more selfish side, Arturia was grateful beyond words that Bedivere had become a knight against nearly all odds, able to rise above them so far that none could reasonably deny that he had been the best person for the appointment. His skill as a tactician was without peer, his organisational capabilities flawless. The king established early on that what mattered the most were results, as well as the absolute commitment to chivalry. But beyond that, he was a person she could trust and rely on absolutely. It had been a rare comfort to be able to trust in him as her marshal. She would never regret that decision, especially now.

Likewise, it was reassuring in spite of her lingering guilt that the silver-haired knight had committed himself to act as the shield of the king. She took his hand in both of hers, giving it a light squeeze as he lowered it. The lack of strength worried her, however temporary the condition was. It was a bad time to have fallen ill; the ability to practice drills would be significantly hindered by the weather. true, there were always the Union's training facilities, but it was always preferable to train on one's home turf, as it were.

Nevertheless, the petite swordswoman frowned slightly at his reassurance. "Be that as it may," she pointed out, "You are wearing your voice out. While it is true I very much enjoy our conversations, your throat is already raw to the point of bleeding."

The radio conversations certainly did not improve matters. Already, she'd had to confiscate his radio several times, his need to help others even with simple advice overriding his common sense. She was of half a mind to hide it until his condition improved.

"Shhhh," she gently reproved the violet-eyed knight, carefully brushing a few errant strands of hair from his face. "There is no need to thank me, especially not if it worsens your condition."

Her smile was subtle, but by her standards expressive. "But...I am grateful, nevertheless."

A morose thought crossed her mind: in Britain, such an illness in this season would have been a death sentence for many. Perhaps not Bedivere, but there were always deaths as the weather turned for the worse, no matter how well they had prepared. That is was little more than an inconvenience for many in the modern era was nothing short of a miracle to her. Effective medicines were easily obtained, and the previously precious honey necessary for antiseptic wound treatment was so readily available that it could be used as treatment for a raw throat.

Arturia found herself more grateful than ever at the ability to tend to him without the need to preserve her image as a king. She was finally able to be of some use to him as he was to her, particularly now while he was so vulnerable. All the years of being forced to hide behind a mask of strength and wellness, she found herself wondering how many times he might have been like this, concealing illnesses in whatever way he had been able. Not that such a thing was possible now, after the toll Camlann had taken on him and the cumulative years of enduring it all. Perhaps now it was catching up to him, and the jade-eyed knight was nearly sick with relief that she had been there to tend to him when it finally had.

The little king couldn't help but chuckle softly at the mildly sarcastic toast. As sympathetic as she was to his situation and as worried as she was over his health, she had to admit that the marshal possessed a delightful sense of humour. There had been hints of it even in Camelot, but now that h no longer needed to tread so lightly, Bedivere was much more open with it now. It was rather satisfying to behold the reactions of those who were deceived by his serious, stoic demeanour following some wry comment from him.

She wasted no time in carefully passing him the tea necessary to keep the medicine down without retching. In what had possibly been a fit of masochism, she had tried it herself for no other reason than perhaps to be able to be properly sympathetic. She almost wished she hadn't, at the time. The stuff was truly vile.

"It would not surprise me, if he had," she admitted with a sympathetic grimace. "It is most effective, but the taste of it is...I do not believe I have ever tasted anything so vile."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It wasn't necessarily that the silver-haired knight enjoyed bland food. He simply had an aversion towards heavy spices and hot flavours; preferring the more bland, modest tastes of what a peasant would prefer. It had been born first of modesty, but he had come to adopt those tastes as his own.

Where the king had demanded results, the marshal had delivered, beyond any and all expectation. At great cost to himself, no less... but he had done what no other could do. He could perform the duties of his office flawlessly, but more importnatly, he adhered to the chivalric virtues to a rare degree that few others of the court could match. So completely had he forged himself into a tool of the king that he lived the virtues as readily as breathing – took to them easily and well, initially; they resonated with him in a way that rarely seemed to for others.

Certainly they had been a bitter pill to swallow for the nobility, grown fat and complacent on their banditry and bullying. That had not earned Bedivere many favours among the nobility, and alienated him as much as his foreign origins or his common blood. Indeed, some could hardly seem to decide which of the three was worse.

Yet it had also made him the finest of knights for that duty.

"Faugh." It's somewhere between a snort and a cough, and something he seems desperate to keep from turning into a cough. Bedivere offers a crooked smile, faded violet eyes flicking up to the petite knight. He starts to cough, but waves it away with a clear effort of will. "Do not trouble yourself. I will live. I have suffered far worse than this."

Of course, he had also not been ill when the battle that lost Caliburn had taken its toll on him. Likely he would have perished if he had been fighting illness on top of injury. Given how well he hides things, it may have been one of the only times he wasn't ill or overtaxed, and it couldn't have been better-timed.

When she brushes his hair from his face, he lets his eyes close, sighing raggedly. In truth, it does hurt. His throat is red-raw, and even breathing is painful... but it's always been his way to bear his wounds in stoic silence.

He doesn't speak, possibly thanks to her urging, but he does smile again, a warm but slightly apologetic expression. It's no secret that he dislikes troubling her, and he's still getting used to the idea that it's alright for her to worry about him – that she does so of her own free will, and that he isn't inconveniencing her. He genuinely doesn't believe himself worth the trouble.

Reaching up to accept the tea, he takes a deep draught of it, though he at least remains mindful of the heat. It wouldn't do to burn his throat, or his mouth, either. It's a long moment, and another long drink later, before he answers her.

"Vile," he agrees, voice more of a ruined, hoarse whisper than anything else; one almost painful to hear. "Terrible."

He almost seems to want to say more, but only shakes his head mutely, contenting himself to sip at his tea. At least that helps that vile stuff go down; well-seasoned and somewhat sweet, but also soothing. He gives a grateful sigh after a moment, and it takes no special senses to understand he's likely feeling its effects.

It also doesn't take any preternatural senses to understand that he's tired. It's difficult to sleep with such a torn-up throat and difficulty breathing, and he's still worn out from the entire ordeal to date.

"Forgive me, my love. You are right. I should rest." His sentences are short and it takes obvious effort to speak the words. Pausing, he drinks the rest of the tea, rushing it a bit more than he might normally. "I am tired. And my throat hurts."

He hands her the cup, sagging back as one without strength. "Ah, thank you." Not just for the tea, but for everything, to go by the warmth in his voice. "You do me honour, my lady, to stay by my side. Truly, I am grateful. Will you stay with me a little longer? I am tired... I should... like to sleep, I think..."

Unsteadily, he reaches out for her hand, smiling that crooked half-smile. "Truly," he rasps, "I am blessed."

Those faded violet eyes gradually drift closed.

"Thank you... my love..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Generally, the tastes of the King of Knights tended toward the simple – her strong dislike of formal wear persisted even now – even when it came to cuisine. Though she had discovered a new-found fondness for the spices so easily obtained in the current era, a simple yet well-prepared meal was always preferable to an elaborate yet badly-prepared one. And a home-cooked meal was always best. Something bland, however, was out of the question; rice was always a Chinese style of dish or else prepared with saffron or some other combination of light spices. It was always strange to her that some consumed it with no seasoning whatsoever.

It was a pity that the British peasantry had never developed the skills of those in the French countryside, adding subtle flavourings such as rosemary, tarragon, and lavender. Though rich, Arturia found it to be agreeable to her palate, though she found herself favouring the spicier offerings of Italian, Mexican, Indian, and Chinese. And while she had needed to have then toned down for Bedivere's sake, she refused to suffer completely bland food ever again.

As flawless as the marshal's chivalry had been, it was a double-edged sword. As committed as he was to his duties large and small, that drive had taken considerable toll on his health, particularly when he had been forced to conceal it. Even now, he was far too dismissive, comparing his current illness to all the times he had been forced to suffer silently though perhaps even worse illnesses and injuries. Arturia frowned her opinion on that; she was not about to take that chance. As she had already reminded him on previous occasions, he could no longer simply hide it and carry on. The previous times had already ensured that he could no longer afford to do so.

"Those previous times pretending to be hale have caught up with you," she scolded mildly. "It is most fortunate that the Union found you when it did." Had he gone on much longer in his state, there would have been nothing left of him to heal. Even after that final battle against the Saxons, he had been young enough and strong enough to weather it...though not without some well-concealed help. Now, at least, she no longer had to hide it.

She understood, given the similarity of mindset, that the silver-haired knight didn't believe he was worth fussing over. Her reproving glance was all she needed to do to argue the point. Fortunately, that similarity of mind meant neither of them needed a voice to speak. Even if she had a point to prove, the little blonde refuse to risk further aggravating his hurting, raw throat to make it. You are no mere soldier, particularly not now as the lord of this land. You never have been, but even then you would nevertheless be worth the effort.

For many kingdoms and civilisations throughout history, theirs was a backwards mindset, placing the lowest-ranking at the top. What were pawns – common soldiers – to all others were the backbone of Britain, as were the peasants who supported them though the all-important production of food. The Left Hand of the King himself had tended to those among them in need though the unspoken agreement with his king, supporting them where she could not. And yet, the servant's attitude he held placed him at the bottom of their inverted hierarchy. In all likelihood, he would never completely accept her willing submission to that new role, so she was nevertheless grateful that his complaints were fewer in number now over that perceived lowering of her dignity.

Not that she had much left of it, now.

The jade-eyed knight awarded him a slight, wry smile. It was, in some ways, a price to pay for pushing himself to the point of illness, as effective as it was at suppressing particularly nasty coughs. No matter how much of it Bedivere endured, however, they would be right back to this point further into the season. He couldn't help himself, really. So the tea – a medicine unto itself with the inclusion of soothing honey – was in some ways an encouragement to heal quickly and, at the very least, hold off on illness-inducing activities for another month. Being constantly sick throughout the winter was not an encouragement for the people depending on him.

Arturia was awash with relief that he so easily submitted to the idea of resting; his stubbornness was matched only by that of his king. Taking the cup and saucer carefully, she set it aside on the low table beside the bed. His words were rewarded with a gentle smile which only the violet-eyed knight ever had the privilege of beholding. She took his hand gently as he reached for hers, giving it a light squeeze. "I am so very grateful that I am able. I could do little for you before, but now..."

She shook her head slightly. "But I shall not dwell on that any further." Releasing his hand, she stood from her chair beside the bed, and perhaps for a moment it might seem that she would leave. Only, the flaxen-haired knight instead merely circled the bed, slipping off her soft-soled shoes before climbing into it on the other side.

"In truth, I am tired, as well." A slight, wry smile touched her lips again. "And I have little doubt you would scold me in turn if I did not rest, as well."

She leaned up just long enough to brush her lips over his cheekbone. "You are welcome, my love."