999999/A Rock in the Weary Land

A Rock in the Weary Land
Date of Scene:	22 August 2014
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Saber and Sir Bedivere discuss life, duty, and a future free of the burdens of Camelot's contentious court.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Dawn had come silent over the keep, sunlight reflected through icy clouds and cold-crisp air as it crested the distant mountains. For a few short moments, the air had gleamed as though viewed through a frosted lens, the dawn both radiant and unspeakably cold. Sunrise had painted the thin haze of clouds a bright banner of colour, and now, shortly after dawn, it's finally begun to fade.

As with every other day, work began for the villagers as soon as there was enough light to work by. The sound of saws, hammers, and other tools has begun in earnest. In any other place, the morning would be full of birdsong – but little greenery remains to Dún Reáltaí, its trees dormant, its fields barren. They will return with the spring, but until then, the morning serenade is a cacophony of tools.

Against his better judgement, the lord of the keep had risen earlier than he might have liked, squinting blearily and trying not to cringe at the stiff, sore sensation of broken bones complaining that they were, in fact, still healing.

His creaky departure from his warm, comfortable bed was now about half an hour ago – enough time that he could still go back to it, though doubtless his departure had alerted his companion, even though he'd tried to be quiet and subtle about it. Quiet and subtle only worked so well, though, when every movement made him want to groan. Only a desperate need to walk off the stiffness from cramping muscles had driven him away; he would have been content to sleep the day away, in too much pain to do anything else, but sleep had eluded him once the sun crested the horizon.

He'd suffered through it for a little while, watching the changing light as it had cast golden light over Arturia, delicately sliding his fingers through her sleep-mussed hair; touch feather-light so as not to wake her. His shoulder had then abruptly decided that he shouldn't have moved that way, and then his other arm joined in the chorus, then a leg, and the vicious bruising more or less all across his torso had suddenly decided it didn't want to have pressure on it any more. Reluctantly, he had disentangled himself from Arturia, as slowly and carefully as he could, gently tucking her back into the blankets and furs.

At least he'd left his armour behind. It was a mess; too battered and dented to be worn, and with him too stiff and pained to endure the ordeal of putting it on. His mantled cloak is gone from its peg, though; that, at least, is useful in this climate. He's also taken the liberty of having the village's lone surviving seamstress add reinforcement and fur trim to it for warmth.

Now, with dawn just finishing its display over the horizon, it seems the marshal has somehow dragged himself down five flights of unforgiving stairs, and down to the restored great hall in the keep's first floor. The hearth is lit, likely by him. That's where he can be found, standing entirely too close to the open flame, sighing gratefully in the heat and warmth.

Without work to do, the silver-haired knight is a restless soul.

Thanks to the battle in Azuma, the marshal has been slow, stiff, and in tremendous pain since he'd been dragged first to the Union's facilities and then back home. His armour had been all but totaled; still usable, but severely damaged and dented... much like the marshal himself, really. Although he hadn't bled much, he'd sustained tremendous blunt trauma, including several broken bones, a broken shoulder, and more bruising than he even wants to think about. He's lucky his neck hadn't been broken, or his legs; or that he hadn't simply been killed outright by a blow to the head.

Much as with the rest of the castle, the great hall's construction is for the most part complete. Its stonework is mismatched – while the gaping holes in the roof have been restored, with the scent of new timber still strong, the majority of its masonry was salvageable. Now, the new stone stands out light against the darker old stone, worn smooth; giving it something of a piebald look. New long tables have been constructed and laid out, along with new benches. Most if not all of the peasants have flocked back to the village for the morning to continue their work; even the women pitching in and tackling the hard labour with as much gusto, if not more, than the men. The whole of the keep would appear to be empty but for the lord and his lady.

In spite of what should be a busy hall, there's no one here but Bedivere. He wears the peasant garb he usually favours, with its subtle scent of Castile soap. He also has his cloak draped over his shoulders, partly disguising the sling he has his right arm in and the splint the rest of his arm is bound by. His hair is unbound, though combed. With one arm out of commission, there's no hope of braiding it in its usual manner, or even binding it loosely in one of those etched brass cuffs.

This morning, the lord paces the great hall slowly, like a tiger in a cage, but the only cage he's bound by is his own broken body. It's a different kind of pain than the battle that had lost Caliburn; then, he had been carved up like a Christmas roast, and he had spent much of his recovery either unconscious or unfeeling. Now, he's acutely aware of every minor twinge and every little hurt. It's a deep and abiding pain, less sharp than the bite of a blade-wound, but just as debilitating when all taken together.

His mind is not on his injuries, though, but the responsibility that had been dumped into his lap; the people of the village, so busily working down the hill.

They're a resilient people, he reflects, watching the flickering fire. Somewhere along the line, perhaps with a quick trip into the castle's kitchen, he had filched an apple – just like the old days, and he crunches on it thoughtfully. Once things are rebuilt...

Although he moves stiffly, groaning quietly whenever his body protests louder than usual to its abuse, he turns, walking a slow circle just for the sake of moving. He crunches thoughtfully on his apple as he goes. Once things are rebuilt, he decides, I can rebuild the peoples' livelihood. Craftsmen won't be in short supply, but raw materials may be. There aren't any clay deposits that he's aware of, and no timber to speak of – not a single one of these people would dare take an axe to the winter-witch's weald, no matter how wild and tangled it is, nor would he ask them to. Ah, but what to do, for want of resources...?

He finds himself pacing again, slowly and painfully. The need to be moving, to be working, is almost a compulsion. It's almost as though he weren't even aware of his own pacing.

No; whatever resources this place has must come of farming, for there is plenty of arable land. Even desolate as it is now, it will green up, he considers, frowning into the fire as he comes to a halt in front of it. Cereal crops, wool, hides... livestock would do well here, with so much grazing land, and also horses. Cavalry would do well to defend them in this land, and a light cavalry with scouts would not be so prohibitively expensive to maintain; and afford both mobility and the ability to scout quickly...

Once in front of the fire, he pauses for a few moments to warm up, holding his hands out to the heat. The morning is chilly; autumn here carries a bite to the air like winter in any other place. Ah, but first, to get through the winter. Construction on the granaries should be finished, soon. Food can be stored that will last all the winter long, then, and with a few of those modern improvements my lady has produced, perhaps there will not even be any casualties... He finds himself smiling at that thought; almost grinning. The idea of it nearly makes him giddy.

He studies his apple for a moment before taking another bite, considering. Winter had always been a harsh season in Camelot, and no matter his charitable efforts, there were always those of the less fortunate who suffered. Even the poor can live through the snows, here. Ah, Lord God, what a wonder! To find myself in such an age... ah, but best not get ahead of myself just yet. Patience; there must first be food to store in those granaries.

Apparently, just relaxing and doing nothing isn't really in the marshal's vocabulary – but that really shouldn't be so surprising, to Arturia. At least he's behaving himself, for the most part; thinking and pacing and crunching on an apple instead of doing manual labour in the village below.

For now.

...The crunch of his apple in the silence seems preternaturally loud, once his thoughts still for a moment. He finds himself wincing, glancing over his shoulder slowly and stiffly, as though worried such a meagre sound would be enough to wake Arturia five storeys below the bedchamber.

Saber (346) has posed:
Fortunately for the lord's endeavours, the other occupant of the quarters slept more deeply than she otherwise would have. And with good reason: that person was not a mortal human but a Servant, a being of and wholly dependent upon magical energy. Though initially summoned to fight in the Holy Grail War, the Servant Saber was now closer to a familiar, if no less reliant on a Master to keep her anchored to the material world and a flow of magic energy to sustain her. That life-force of the world was what she now conserved through sleep, no longer able to be as active as she once was. The battle of days past had consumed a fair amount of that energy, and after a few hearty meals afterwards – off-world so as not to drain Dún Reáltaí's precious resources – the Servant slept more than she had not even a month prior.

There were definite disadvantages to transferring to a Master with significantly less magical capacity.

But the advantages outweighed those disadvantages; it was much easier for a Servant to fight alongside her Master, and Sakura was no longer as embroiled in the matters of the multiverse as she once was. Similarly, Master and Servant had been a deadly fighting team well before their contract, needing nothing more than eye contact and quick gestures to co-ordinate flawlessly on the battlefield. This new connection made it all the easier for Arturia to fight alongside Sir Bedivere once more.

And perhaps if they had done things as they always had, the battle would not have gone as poorly as it had. True, Suzaku had not been burned to a volcanic wasteland upon the release of the sun-crow imprisoned within the island's largest caldera, which had admittedly been the King of Knight's primary objective. However, the agents of the Union failed to contain the ancient creature, not to mention prevent the island's guardian from having her power stolen by the the metaphorical nogitsune thorn in her marshal's side.

What had been worse in Arturia's mind was that becoming separated had left Bedivere vulnerable to an attack courtesy of one witch of the Confederacy. From what she had learned of Medusa Gorgon, only a Servant of Archer's strength could face her alone; even Saber would have had considerable difficulty. That he had managed to survive the encounter was a testament to his legendary skill but of little comfort to his king. Now, on top of all his previous wounds, the violet-eyed knight had a number of broken bones and nasty bruises to deal with. Arturia hadn't even bothered to retrieve her bike, hauling the broken marshal to the Union's medical facilities on her own and only going back for the V-Max – and wolf down a few meals so as not to draw the necessary life-force from him that he would need to heal – after he'd been seen to. And once they returned to the safety of the keep, she had spent a good deal of her own time carefully regulating her own reserves.

The jade-eyed knight was vaguely aware of when Bedivere awoke, not so much as protesting when he left. As much as she might have wished he would stay and bed and not aggravate all the various wounds, it was probably just as well that he walked off some of his stiffness. It was going to hurt no matter what, and the rehabilitation now would not have been premature. That didn't mean she enjoyed him being in pain, however.

A little while after the knight's departure, however, she decided it would probably be a good idea for her to rise, as well. Dressing in thick, comfortable peasant clothes not entirely unlike Bedivere's, she tossed her blue fur-lined cloak over her shoulders – mismatched with her attire, but as a present from a dear friend, it had sentimental as well as practical value – and paused as she regarded the armour. She should definitely order him new plate...something lighter yet stronger. Many of their allies went into battle armoured as well; it wouldn't be too difficult to find something practical and suitably nondescript. And perhaps with some protection from magic. But for now, she decided that such considerations could wait for the time being.

She descended the stairs with barely a sound – and what little sound she made was masked by the noise of reconstruction – yet he would most likely sense her approach though their supernatural bond. Arturia did not so much as sigh, or even give any indication of being exasperated or frustrated with the marshal, not even so much as fussing lightly at him as he paced near the hearth. Through their more mundane but no less powerful bond, she would understand his need to be useful, to be doing something to improve the people's lives. She knew this because she was the exact same way. It was frustrating to rest – even when she imperiled her reserves of magic power – when there remained much work to be done.

But while she did not so much as fuss about his injuries, there were other matters to attend to. The little knight-king faltered just as she approached, blushing slightly as a rather improper impulse overtook her, closing her eyes for a moment as if to banish it behind her eyes. Really, just how much were the assumptions of the townsfolk influencing her unnecessarily? Instead, she made a soft inquiry. "Have you eaten breakfast yet?" No, an apple was not going to suffice.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Had he been uninjured, it's possible that the marshal may not have disturbed his companion – it was not unknown for Bedivere to move in almost eerie silence at times. Although Lancelot had relied on his ability to disguise himself, Bedivere had always been naturally quiet; unassuming and aware of the value of keeping his ears open. Many times he had caught wind of incriminating conversation simply through his ability to move quietly and listen.

Now, though, he would likely be surprised that she had not woken. Even trying to be quiet could only carry him so far; joints popped and complained, and everything ached as it had not since the battle in which Caliburn had been lost. Or, to a lesser degree, the Battle of Camlann, although he had not sustained injuries nearly as terrible.

Survival seems to be Bedivere's specialty. Where others would have been utterly devastated by their wounds, he has forced himself to endure – even against overwhelming odds, and in the face of terrible injury. He had very nearly been put down when Caliburn was lost; even the healers had muttered grimly and shaken their heads, and been much surprised when he had not only lived through the night, but returned to his duties as early as a week or so later.

Of course, he had been younger, then, and stronger; and then, he had not endured five years of neglect as he had in the tangle of the multiversal forests. If his fall after Caliburn had broken his body, Camlann had broken his spirit. Then, too, he had been a long time healing from his wounds sustained in the last battle, although that had been more a product of his loss of will. He had carried himself by rote, with no heart in anything he'd done, and he had healed much more slowly.

Now, his wounds are even more severe than that. He had not broken several bones, at the very least, nor been thrown about like a ragdoll.

Incidentally, Bedivere had never seen bamboo before... and he would have preferred a more tame introduction.

So consumed is the marshal by his thoughts that he scarcely notices Arturia's approach; even with the supernatural bond that they share. He's come back around to the hearth, eyes lidded as he stares at the flames, revelling for a moment in the warmth. With the peasants away and the keep only half-finished – many of the chambers on the second and third floors remain unfinished and uninhabitable, aside from the guest quarters – there's no reason for the hearth to be lit, and so he had had to do so himself. Needless to say, it had been cold when he'd come down.

For a few minutes it almost seems like he won't take note of her presence at all, at least until she speaks. He jumps a bit, nearly dropping his apple.

"Ah—" A quick motion with his uninjured hand catches it, snatching it neatly from midair. He regards her for a moment, as though still pulling himself out of his thoughts. Finally, he inclines his head, hair spilling momentarily over his shoulder on one side. It's as close to a bow as he can manage. "Good morning, my lady."

Some part of him still struggles with seeing her so... plain. His gestures indicate his show of respect for the king, but his words are less formal – in spite of that, he still struggles, consistently; torn between wanting to regard her as his friend and his companion, and torn between the proper respect due the King of Britain. He flushes slightly, looking away.

"I fear I am not much for cooking like this," he states, a little self-consciously; a dip of his chin indicates the sling over his arm. "Or doing much of anything, really." He sighs; the sound clearly frustrated, in spite of its softness. "I mislike this. I have not felt so useless since Caliburn was lost... at least I was fortunate enough to spend most of that unconscious."

He looks down at the apple in his hand, frowning slightly. "It sufficed in Camelot," he murmurs, but the protest sounds a bit lame even to his own ears. He knows that's not going to be satisfactory to her...

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's sleep was an odd thing. She slept lightly, waking at even the faintest noise in her immediate vicinity. Yet, her inhuman transient body sometimes seemed to reject an effort to awaken depending on how much of her magical energy she needed to conserve. The popping of joints was more than sufficient to rouse her, but the depleted pool of her energy kept her bound like a ward. Only when she had recovered just enough to rise, she did.

Perhaps she might regret that, later. The subtle pull of their link might strain, and if she sensed that she was beginning to draw too much or became too light-headed, she would have to stop and rest. It was frustrating being so limited, but the Servant had no preferable choice. In many ways, she was in a difficult and perhaps even potentially dangerous situation living in the keep. For all his many talents, Bedivere was not a good Master by the usual standards with weak and untrained magic and only barely able to sustain her link. In a more modern setting, she could simply make up the difference through a combination of consuming a lot of food and limiting her activity. But the shortage of supplies due to the unnatural winter meant that every last scrap of food would be necessary for the devastated townspeople, and the sheer amount of work to be done meant she would have little time to rest.

Beneath her cloak, Saber's hand tightened into a fist experimentally. She was still stronger than an average human being, but she was considerably weaker than she had been merely two fortnights ago. Nothing for it; she would have to go off-world and find enough to eat somehow. How she could really use something like the Dagda's cauldron about now...

Sea-green eyes critically studied various characteristics of the keep. The mismatched stone reminded her in some ways of Camelot, which had been built on the ruins of a fort of a Roman detachment. As the distant empire had withdrawn from their lands, they had left behind much that the native people salvaged and used for their own. The original timber had been replaced, but the valuable insulation had been a priority for the granary and the houses of the villagers. Eventually, the castle itself would be similarly insulated as it was slowly rebuilt, but only once the rest of the village had been restored. Lord and king had both been insistent upon taking care of the people first.

Fortunately for the Servant, a little cold was the least of her concerns.

Arturia was mildly surprised that Bedivere had not so much as noticed her presence until she said something. She could only assume he had been distracted, completely immersed in his thoughts. Doubtless, he was working, mulling over what materials would have to be ordered and what parts of the reconstruction remained, or perhaps even thinking ahead to the spring on how sustainability would be restored to the village. Farming and livestock, she imagined. For a moment, she even joined him in his musings; it would be necessary to send out scouts to explore the area to assess whether or not there were other resources – perhaps rivers for fishing or metal deposits for smithing – as well as any other villages nearby...perhaps if they were not hostile, they could establish trade...

That train of thought raised another question, a much more far-reaching one. Did this village exist within a kingdom, or was claimed by some distant lord or lady? The people themselves did not seem to have an answer for that, which suggested that this was not the case, but that hardly meant that someone did not think of the lands as within their jurisdiction.

Yet, these were more distant concerns. The more immediate matter was getting the people through the coming winter.

A light frown marred her girlish face at the bow; though perfectly proper in Camelot, somehow the gesture bothered her in a way she could not quite pinpoint. But in contrast to it, his address was much more comfortable, and the petite knight relaxed visibly. But she nevertheless felt a twinge of guilt over not being by his side to fight off the witch, regardless of how she had been in a position to ensure Yatagarasu hadn't done serious damage to Azuma.

"There is much more to be done than manual labour," she reminded him gently. "What is most needed now is the assessment of what needs to be done and planning for those needs...forming short- and long-term plans both for enduring the winter and beyond it." Actually, if there was anyone who was useless at the moment, it was the one-time king.

Indeed, the excuse was hardly satisfactory. Arturia sighed softly, pressing her lips together into a thin line. "My lord, you are no longer sixteen years of age," she scolded lightly. "It will require much more than that now to regain your strength."

Tapping her chin with her finger as she mulled over something, she was silent for a few moments before she made a quick decision. "I shall return shortly."

That done, she left, heading for the kitchens to prepare at least a suitable breakfast.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Both Master and Servant were similar in many ways. Much as his king, the marshal would awaken at the slightest disturbance, long accustomed to sleeping lightly from time spent on campaign. While the Saxons had not been a subtle host, they had nonetheless tried sneak attacks from time to time, and he had trained himself to wake at the slightest sense of something wrong. Now, those ingrained habits have begun to work against him – even the most vague complaint of his battered, bruised body has been hauling him out of sleep. Now, following the battle in Azuma, he's sure to wake through the night if he hasn't first dosed himself with painkillers... or Arturia insisting that he take them, more likely.

The knight has a certain distaste for them, though, no matter how much relief they might bring. He dislikes sleeping heavily, and they leave him uncomfortably foggy-headed in the morning. His body still isn't used to such things, for he had not even accepted wine to dull the pain of injury, let alone something stronger. The only time he ever had was after the loss of Caliburn, when he had not been conscious to protest the king's order to his healers.

It had been a small kindness, at the time. He would not have wanted to be conscious for the worst of that. Perhaps he had borne that pain without complaint, but even Bedivere has his limits.

Even so, a full night's rest with the aid of painkillers still leaves him tired. He has yet to catch up on five years of lost sleep, and with as much pain as he's in, even sleeping through the night isn't enough to feel rested. For the first time... well, ever, really, he's been resorting to sleeping late, sleeping through the day, and napping where he can. That in and of itself must be a sign of how weary and worn-down he's feeling. That witch had certainly done a number on him.

The patchwork nature of the keep is almost comforting, in its own way. The aesthetics are familiar, and the smell of fresh timber is always pleasant. It reminds him of Camelot, with its new stone built atop Roman foundations. In time the castle will certainly be brought up to the village's standards, but he had been adamant on that point – not until the village is complete and the granaries stocked for the coming winter. It was a low priority.

Even mortal, cold is not much a concern for him; certainly nothing Bedivere wouldn't endure for the sake of the people. A bit of discomfort means nothing in the face of their very survival. Whatever thoughtful village-folk had supplied so many blankets had done him a kindness – those thick furs and well-stitched blankets would suffice for the time being, and the hearth in his quarters do function. Camelot had borne no such modern insulation, and he had found no complaint with the cold and damp halls there, either.

"There is," Bedivere agrees, on the matter of work to be done. "I have been thinking on those things, though there is little to be done about it." He sighs, twitching his good shoulder to indicate the sling over his right arm. "I can no more write than wield a sword, at the moment. I suppose you never quite realise how much you use something until that utility is taken away from you. I could not even tie my hair up this morning," he sighs. "I suspect it will be a long several weeks while this heals..."

He's going to be climbing the walls by day five, no doubt.

He sighs again, a little more frustrated this time, ducking his head at her admonishment. "I was older than sixteen when I was brought down in battle," he counters, though his protest is more despairing than anything else. "I still did not have any such problems recovering from that... but you are right. I am still recovering from other things..." He looks to the fire again, regarding it dully. "How much will it require, though? It is true that I am not what I once was. Yet I should not be out of commission for so long. I suppose those long years in Camelot, and the years after... they must be catching up to me." He looks almost troubled for a moment; troubled and weary. "I had not thought I was in such poor condition..."

"Hm?" He glances up, blinking somewhat owlishly when she excuses herself to the kitchens. There are two, in the castle keep – one in the castle itself, on the first floor behind the great hall they now stand in, and one a separate building. The separate building is complete, and many of the villagers have been using it as a temporary base of operations, since it has facilities enough to prepare food for all of the workers. By contrast, the kitchen in the castle is stocked, but has gone relatively unused save by Dún Reáltaí's lord and lady. Its food stores are only enough for those two... if the lady had been mortal, anyway. It seems the villagers don't yet know of Arturia's voracious appetite.

Rather than wait for her to return, he trails slowly and stiffly after her, wincing every so often when something gets jostled.

"And anyway, I am the lord of this place. It is not proper for me to languish while these people rush to make fast their homes and livelihoods before the winter," he points out. "It is unbecoming..."

Even if it is necessary. He's in no condition to do any significant work, and even his arm is broken such that writing is difficult. Possible, perhaps, but uncomfortable; and he can't do it for any length of time. Only lately has he even brought himself to pick at the ledgers, reading them over. He looks down at the splint on his arm and the sling over that, frowning unhappily. "But you are right, my lady... no, I am no longer sixteen years of age."

Leaning against the doorframe on his uninjured side, he watches as she goes about preparing whatever it is she'd had in mind. "You need not cook for me," he protests a little feebly. He's a little hungry, but it's terribly improper for his own king to wait on him so. "Y-you are my king, not some castle scullion," he protests, even more feebly.

Propriety or no, he's fairly certain he knows what her answer to that will be.

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, the King of Knights had certainly been plying the beleaguered marshal with painkillers before he slept – gratefully, she was able to obtain powder form for dissolving in tea with honey – which just so happened to help somewhat with the nightmare troubles, as well. Admittedly, she had not been especially keen on using artificial means for such things, but she would rather that he heal rapidly than necessarily drawing it out when there was a perfectly good way to speed things up a little. Besides which, Bedivere was already at the start of 'cabin fever', forced to remain idle to allow his body to catch up to his busybody nature. She would be lucky indeed if she could even get five days of rest out of him. it was a race against the clock to see how much he could heal before he insisted on a full workload again.

Arturia was halfway tempted to make him stay at the medical wing until he healed fully, if for no other reason than to keep him from re-injuring himself. In essence, his willpower was went far beyond what his body was capable of. But that was something else she could understand simply because she was the same way. Her own body had failed long before her spirit did.

Even so, now that she no longer needed to hide herself behind her mask, she had eagerly took on the role of caring for him. In many ways, she was the only one who could, if for no other reason than one stern look from her was enough to make the stubborn knight yield. Fortunately, no one else seemed to think it strange or questionable. Nevertheless, the jade-eyed knight remained worried; there was still the matter of five years of sleep to catch up on, and that certainly slowed his recovery considerably.

At least the relative chill was not something that necessarily affected that, even if it probably made muscles stiffer than usual. Arturia stifled a sigh; she had to admit that she missed hot baths. It was quite nice that the townsfolk had most certainly embraced the idea of indoor plumbing, and perhaps once the village was completely restored...

While bathing itself was not by any means a luxury, she did very much enjoy having warm water for it. There had been a number of springs warmed by thermal vents throughout her kingdom, some over which the Roman occupiers had built elaborate bathhouses. Open to the commoners before and after the Romans had retreated back across the sea, the springs were typically only closed off for a short time when the king and queen needed to use them for readily apparent reasons. And while Arturia herself hardly minded the more simple method of (cold) streams, that would have likewise compromised her secret. It might be that there were hot springs somewhere within the vicinity which could be harnessed for village use. When they could finally spare the manpower, someone should be sent out to explore the terrain, information they would eventually need regardless. Roads had to be built, farmlands and pastures restored...

But she was getting ahead of herself once again. There were a great many tasks that remained, even now. All that work needed to be overseen – if for no other reason than to monitor what new supplies would be needed – and even the business of filling out ledgers was something the marshal was currently incapable of. No one thought any less of him, of course – certainly not the villagers who were instantly won over by his efficiency and humility – but for those such as the king and her knight, such inability was inexcusable to themselves. "So long as you keep it immobile, you should be able to use it soon," she tried to reassure him before she considered something. "Else...perhaps learn to write using the other hand? Sir Ector trained Sir Kay and I to use either hand, both when holding a sword or a pen."

It was difficult to say at that point how much time it would take for Bedivere to be truly fit for duty again, and Arturia was no physician. She did, however, understand that it was unrealistic to expect him to be fully recovered in a few days, especially given not just his age, but all that time spent wandering after their world had Unified. Though he was still essentially in his prime, wounds healed slower than they had when someone was younger, and that was after a number of terrible battles and five years without rest.

"It is not merely the wounds from this recent battle which you carry," she replied so softly that it would have been impossible for anyone else to hear. "Do not be so harsh with yourself...and do not push yourself too hard. Once these..." she waved her hand, gesturing as if to indicate something intangible. The green-eyed king couldn't quite bring herself to say nightmares, but he would understand what she meant. "...Once they have abated, it will become easier."

She truly believed that, if for no other reason that she would keep doing what she was doing until they were banished. Bedivere didn't deserve to be plagued by such a thing forever.

The food stores had gone largely untouched by the Servant, who regarded them as Bedivere's; it was much more difficult for the knight to move about as he was, and there was simply not enough to sustain Arturia. This morning, however, she would prepare something for the both of them, if for no other reason that he would insist she eat something. And there were times when the knight turned the tables on his king. She frowned as she heard him follow; she should have told him to stay put. But at least there was a table to seat himself in the castle's kitchen, and there she would order him to sit if he didn't pre-empt that order and seat himself. "You are not languishing, you are convalescing. There is a difference," she insisted. "None of these people expect you to hold a hammer at this moment. And I daresay they would protest should you try."

However, as unhappy as he clearly was about it, the marshal relented, which was satisfactory for the King of Knights.

"Nonsense," she insisted as she looked over what there was available. Eggs seemed to be there, and she was even able to find some milk in a box kept cold with a block of ice. Good. With his newfound fondness for cinnamon, she had made sure to secure some while she had been off-world. Flour had been a simple matter, as well. And she even found bread which was slightly stale. Perfect.

"This morning, I am merely carrying out my duties as someone who has been tasked by many others to look after you. And so, I shall."

After a moment, she tilted her head with a slight smile. "And besides which, there is the simple fact that I happen to enjoy cooking."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight disdains such medicine, mostly because he doesn't enjoy having his wits compromised, but he knows it's necessary. Maybe he suspects that she's dosed his tea over the past few nights, and maybe not. He's extremely perceptive; it's doubtful he wouldn't have drawn that parallel after feeling so foggy-headed in the mornings or sleeping in so late.

Forcing a stay at the medical wing would have ended poorly. He might have put up with it to heal, but there's no question that he would have been miserable; not only unable to do anything, but uneasy in a foreign environment. The modern world still makes him uncomfortable. Dún Reáltaí is more a home to him than Camelot ever was, so it makes sense that he would want to heal here.

"I never learned such a thing." Bedivere trails into the kitchen, gingerly seating himself at the lone table there. "I have it on good authority that my cousin Sir Griflet was an excellent cook, but I had never found out for myself. Sir Lucan knew him better than I did. I had not been as close to him as my brother had."

He looks down at his hands, studying the command seal over the back of the right thoughtfully. "We never learned to wield quill or sword in both hands, unfortunately. I would need to teach myself all over. At the time I could have learnt such a thing, I had far too much to take on already." It wasn't just the material he needed to learn, but the mastery of himself, too – the building of that mask, and the forging of himself into a very different person than the shy and awkward knight-aspirant.

Bedivere shrugs his good shoulder, reaching up to clear his hair from his face with his left. It's a bit bothersome unbound like that, but he's not about to ask her for something so trivial as to tie his hair back for him. It would be presumptuous of him to ask, for she is his king. He struggles still with the propriety of such a thing, wanting to be closer to her, but agonising over his strong sense of duty.

He wonders, sometimes, if he will ever reconcile the two.

For the moment, though, he's content to leave it down, too tired and too sore to reach back and take care of it himself. As much as cooking for him, such a simple request should be beneath her station.

Her soft observation is met with silence, but that isn't to say that he ignores her. Indeed, he meets her eyes when she speaks on the forbidden topic of his nightmares, and the look on his face is uncertain. He doesn't answer immediately, choosing his words carefully, and speaking slowly when he finally does.

"I suppose it is not." His own voice is low, as though reluctant to call attention to that unspoken fear, and his gaze drops to the table's surface. "Sometimes I feel... I feel like I must push on... as though... as though I were being chased, or fleeing, and I cannot stop, I cannot let it seize me..."

He smiles a little, though the expression is wan. "Ah, I am sorry, my lady. I doubt I am making much sense," he says softly. Slowly, those violet eyes drift closed. With those quiet words, he seems to let the matter go. As terrible as those nightmares are, they're not worth dwelling on during such a beautiful morning, and they're certainly not worth spoiling any time he spends with her.

Bedivere exhales softly. It's too weak for a sigh, cautious; reluctant to jostle his ribs too badly. When he opens his eyes, he lifts his eyes to watch her as she makes her preparations.

"One is the same as the other, to me," he points out on the matter of convalescing. "It is time wasted and work lost. Winter is coming. Perhaps they may protest their lord working under such condition, but we can ill afford to wait. There are yet repairs to be done, and supplies to be brought in, and autumn is the worst of times to rebuild Dún Reáltaí." He reaches up gingerly with his uninjured arm, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It is what it is. There is naught to do but to see it through to the end, and come what may..."

It's the very same attitude he held throughout her reign. It never mattered how large or small a task, for he would approach them the same way – one more thing to be done, and come Hell or high water, it would be done.

His good shoulder slumps just a little in resignation. Is he sulking? It almost looks like it. No doubt he wouldn't let anybody else see such a thing, but they're alone, and likely to stay alone for the day, unless they travel down to the village. He can afford to let those walls down a bit, propriety forgotten in the face of her well-intentioned fussing.

"T-tasked?" Bedivere looks almost helpless at that. And then, rather than argue, he simply lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, hanging his head. I am completely and utterly defeated.

He picks up his head when she speaks on cooking, though, regarding her thoughtfully. Come to think of it, the Tohsaka magi had both seemed to enjoy cooking, and knew their way around the kitchen quite well. Was that something she had learned from her former Master, or had she simply picked up on that skill out of necessity...?

"I would not have suspected that of you," he says simply, lifting a brow. It's hard to reconcile a simple task like cooking with the cold and proud king. He rolls his good shoulder in a faint shrug. "I can cook, but it is what you would call utilitarian. I imagine you might find it bland."

Spices and seasoning weren't usually available on the frontlines, so the extent of his repertoire tends to be 'boiled oats.' Any other time, he hardly had the opportunity or the need to cook for himself. He chuckles, quietly, though the sound seems almost embarrassed. "Actually, I am certain you would find it bland..."

Bedivere drums his fingers on the table, thoughtful for a moment – and then he smiles, that soft, shy, and awkward expression. He really does have trouble with accepting kindnesses paid to him, it seems, whether in deed or in word.

"Still... thank you, my lady. I look forward to it."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had been operating off the notion that he knew what she had been doing and had indeed been prescribed that medication. The staff of the medical wing were nobody's fools and noted Bedivere's clear unhappiness about having his wits compromised – not to mention his unhappiness in general – and had written up something only for the evenings to help him sleep in the evenings. She was not so dishonourable that she would drug him on the sly, and it was something of a last resort, at any rate. And it was more than a little clear to anyone that the knight needed the sleep. Badly.

In fact, the only reason the staff had let him go was because Saber had informed them that her marshal was every bit as anachronistic as he seemed at first glance. Even their more comfortable settings – specifically for high-stress patients – would have made him as nervous as an easily-spooked horse around a sheepdog. The petite knight was immensely grateful that the staff had planned for such things and that there were ways to keep him from re-injuring himself. She hated ordering him; it only reinforced their old strict working relationship, and sometimes it was difficult enough to get him to relax and stop thinking of her as the King Only.

That and his recollections only served to remind her just how little she had known about her knights, those who had every right to whatever rewards she could bestow on them. That there had been no realistic way to be closer to them mattered little; as the violet-eyed knight had pointed out not long ago, it would have been disastrous for Camelot if they had bridged their distance back then. It was something that she found herself wishing for.

Jade eyes flicked to him, guessing at what he had been thinking. Her reply was almost a distraction from them. "To be fair...Sir Ector had merely me and my brother to train, and it was different from the standard for squires. My father was one one of Uther's finest knights, his Right Hand, and possessed many unusual skills. All he could teach us was what he himself had learned. He trained us in things which knights typically have no need of, such as how to forage for food in the wilderness, how to mend a fishing net...we even learned how to escape from common methods of binding."

Now that she thought about it, Ector had been teaching the two of them self-reliance, how to survive were they ever separated from their units, or even captured by the enemy. It was certainly unusual....but Sir Ector had been a most unusual knight. In retrospect, Arturia could see the signs that perhaps the gruff old knight had been struggling to overcome his own issues with post-traumatic stress – apparently not unheard of when she had read the literature of her contemporaries – and had retired to his home in the country to convalesce. Though, he had never returned to service, content to raise his son and adopted daughter.

She paused as she gathered ingredients to regard him thoughtfully. Arturia had gotten the feeling that he regarded his unbound har rather like a nuisance. As much as the proper knight might be horrified by the suggestion, she could not very well leave it be. "After breakfast, I can braid your hair for you, if that is acceptable."

She stopped her work again to stand next to him, covering his uninjured hand with hers. Arturia understood very well what he was trying to say, and it did make sense. To have been the only survivor of that terrible battle which had claimed even her life was an undeserved punishment. Even then, the memories and nightmares continued to hound him. "Do not be. There is nothing to apologise for."

Lifting his hand, she silently brushed her lips over the back of it. "What I wish for this place, aside from the restoration, is that it will be a true place of rest. I believe...that is what it means to have a home."

Almost reluctantly, she released his hand to return to her current task of fishing out a large glass bowl and measuring out the dry ingredients. Even as she meticulously combined all the ingredients save the bread in the bowl, the petite knight lifted her head enough to give him a slight frown and a barely audible sigh. "Yes, there is a great deal of work to be done. But we must trust that the people of the village are able to rebuild their home," she said at last. "You cannot do it all even in perfect health, and I think they would be just as insulted as they would have been if we had used magic or technology to repair everything all at once with no effort. More than anything...I think that perhaps..."

And here was where she trod uncomfortably into her own failures as king. Yet, she no longer banished them from her mind with the expectation that everything would right itself once she had obtained the Holy Grail and left a different king in her place. Now, she looked to them as lessons, things to avoid. "...Perhaps the people wish for us to have faith in them and their strength. Perhaps they wish to show us what they are capable of."

That, she decided, might have been where she had gone so horribly wrong in Camelot. The king had been so cautious about revealing her true self that she could not bring herself to even trust many close to her, much less the people. And she feared that they would be unable to handle their travails on their own. Everyone was a life to be protected, not ones who wished to accomplish feats through their own strength.

The moment passed, however, and the King of Knights was treated to a rare and amusing sight. Bedivere was....he was actually sulking, wasn't he? Arturia had turn abruptly and bite her lip to keep from laughing. Yes, he was unhappy and yes, she didn't enjoy that part. But the contrast between hyper-competent marshal-turned-lord and the almost boyish young man was...endearing. Not to mention a little bit on the adorable side. Unfortunately, even as she put her best effort into sparing his feelings, she was probably nevertheless broadcasting that she thought he had the cutest sulk. It was not helping the situation by any means.

Ah, yes. The tasking. "Lady Amalthea did insist that I look after you, and that you submit to that looking after," she reminded him, smiling cheerfully. "As well as Sakura, Sir Faruja, Lady Jeanne, and every villager of Dún Reáltaí, besides. And what manner of proper lady would I be were I to neglect my duties?"

Indeed. Arturia was enjoying her new 'role' a little too much, it would seem.

"I learned the skill itself from Sakura...others have taught me, as well, but enjoyment was I believe I picked up from her." It had been a pleasant pastime for the Servant to assist her then-Master in the kitchen. Idly, she wondered how the violet-truism magus was doing now...

Admittedly, marches were not an ideal place for a decent meal. Sadly, that rule seemed to be a truism even in this otherwise miraculous era. "I regret to say that, for the soldiers on the battlefield, meals remain a sorry state of affairs. They are far more efficient, but..."

Had her complexion just paled? "I shall pray that you are never subjected to the 'food' which is prepared for the militaries of the current era."

But as difficult as it was for the former Marshal of Camelot to accept kindnesses, the fact that he was at least trying more than pleased his king. Besides, she did very much like that smile of his. It was reflected in a smile her own.

"You are most welcome, my lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If he had not been so heavily wounded, it was readily apparent that the silver-haired knight was in desperate need of sleep. While he certainly made an effort to fulfill his duties and do what needed to be done, there was no mistaking the weary mien about him, or the slow stiffness with which he moved recently. His lack of sleep had long since reached the point of affecting his ability to heal. Now, it was simply becoming more readily apparent.

Even the townsfolk had begun to take notice of this. In the few instances he had brought himself to walk down the hill for air and exercise, he had overheard conversations.

Have you seen milord today? He looks awful, he does. Shadows under his eyes. Ever seen him look off the horizon like that? Look, there, he's doing it now. Like he's waiting for something bad to happen. Poor thing's jumpier than a rabbit in a wolf's den.

You shouldn't speak of him so. He is our lord, after all.

Oh, aye, but there's something about him. He seems such a sweet man. 'Struth, I've never seen anyone try so hard for the commonfolk. We had a stroke of luck with that one, we did.

That may be so, but isn't he a knight?

Aye. Round Tale. Table? Something like that. Knight or no knight, though, I just hope he don't kill himself before the winter.

I wonder what he did before he came here... sounds important. —Hush, you, stop disrespecting our lord so!

Served a king, he did. I ain't disrespecting him; just pointing out facts.

Did he, now...? Ah, well, no harm in that, I suppose...

While he had turned a blind eye, the snippets of conversation had caused him to frown a bit, and when he had returned to the keep, to study himself in the mirror (another modern luxury that had become commonplace). Had he really looked so poorly? In truth, he hadn't been able to tell the difference. It had been so long since he had been in fit physical condition that he had forgotten what that had looked like.

Now, he's slowly beginning to recover, little by little. It will be a long road to recovery, but he's begun to take those first steps, and he's been feeling infinitely better even for such small changes.

In spite of the nightly painkillers, he hasn't brought the subject up, and has taken his dosed tea and honey without complaint. Perhaps he's appreciated the sedative qualities of the painkillers, and perhaps it, in conjunction with the simple comfort of having her close, has allowed him some measure of peaceful rest. That old nightmare hasn't bothered him often – once every few days, perhaps – and as a result he's slowly begun catching up on all the rest that had been denied him for those five years.

"Hm." Bedivere studies her when she explains her own training under Sir Ector, thoughtful. "I did not learn much of the things a knight must know, before I came to Albion. I had the partial training of a filidh, and that did not include swinging a sword about... we had our warriors, but they were not of the filídh. Had I become one, the most I would have wielded was a knife for my own protection. It would have been a useful skill, to wield blade and quill with either hand, but I simply did not have enough time to learn."

"There had been too much already that I was behind in, and had great need of catching up on; aside from that, I was still struggling with my martial training..." He smiles, that soft, shy smile, eyes distant as he thinks back to those long days and nights. "I was no warrior; you knew that, I think, even then... I had always struggled with what seemed to come so naturally to the other knight-aspirants. Even Lucan—Ceallach—had less trouble with it than I. He had always been the better swordsman, though eventually I grew to surpass him."

No doubt from relentless training, and absolutely brutal standards that would have reduced anyone else to tears of frustration. Bedivere had always been stubborn, though, and he refused to accept anything less than excellence in his own skills – he could not afford weakness; not if he was to reach his goal of serving Arturia.

There could have been no cracks in that armour.

"I did not learn such things, although I learned how to hunt, and how to clean game. I learned a bit of herbology, as well, though Sir Gawain knows much more than I do. Mostly, I learned what not to eat, if I did not want to die an agonising death," he adds, with a careful shrug of his good shoulder. "I learned how to mend a fishing-net, but that was a skill everyone in my village had need of. Some of my people were herders, but my village was near the coast. Everyone helped to gather the fish, for we depended on them all the year long. There could be no holes in the nets; no leaks in the boats."

The fingers of his left hand drum restlessly on the table. He's still not certain how he feels about that, thinking back to those days. It was so long ago, and even though he left willingly, some part of him will always be nostalgic for that grey sea and those fog-ridden coasts.

He start to smile a little, as though he were about to say something more, but the expression falters when she offers to braid his hair for him. "I—that—that is not necessary; you need not trouble yourself with such a task. It—it is fine as it is..." He can't help but think back to when she had, though, and for a moment, he's caught between his desire to be modest and his desire to accept her offer. His lips thin in a faint frown, fingers drumming restlessly again. Finally, he sighs, in what seems a conscious effort of will. "If... if you wish to. I... think I would like that, my lady."

His eyes widen just a bit when she returns to his side, laying her hand over his. He blinks down at it for a moment, almost troubled, sighing at her dismissal of his apology. Slowly, his shoulders seem to sag, as though in defeat, even as he feels the touch of her lips to his hand. "A place of rest..." He repeats the words almost as though he didn't fully understand them; or, as though he had not precisely thought of it that way.

"I would like that," Bedivere murmurs quietly, at last. "I... have... not had that in a very long time." Camelot was no home to him. He was a foreigner in a xenophobic court, and while no one would have been foolish or petty enough to make attempts on his life, that didn't mean that he wasn't unhappy in various other, smaller ways. He could not even speak his own native tongue, save when he was alone with his brother or cousin, and certain aspects of the culture were alien to him. He had never truly been rested there – he had maintained himself, and only his youth and his strength of will had sustained him.

The signs were subtle, but that strength and youth had begun to fail him even towards Camlann. Now, with the entire multiverse before him, it's clear that such methods cannot sustain him. Had he not begun to find comfort and rest, here, he would not have lasted for much longer. Perhaps he would not have given up – but his broken spirit meant that his failing body would have given out on him sooner or later.

Slowly, carefully, he twists his hand to close his fingers around hers; it's clear that he lets go only with reluctance when she slides her hand out of his. Even though he struggles with his view of her as his king and as his lady, he will never tire of such a simple gesture.

Bedivere looks over, watching as she goes about her preparations. He's taken quite a liking to cinnamon, and he inhales deeply of its pleasantly sharp, spicy aroma. "I only want to complete these preparations before the winter. If the state of this place when we first arrived is any indication, it will not be a kind one. If it requires sacrifice on my part, that is not something I haven't had to face before." In other words, he doesn't place his life or his effort as any more valuable than the lives of these peasants. "And as you say, falling back on such technology or witchcraft to repair things so trivially... it would have insulted them. As I would have been insulted, were I in their position."

He bows his head when she voices her opinion, eyes lidding as he regards the grain of the table's wood. "Perhaps. In that case, I will... have to trust them. They wish to prove themselves straight out of the proverbial fire, it seems. Perhaps they are nervous; perhaps they wish for a lord that leaves them be... well, then, I will trust them to do what must needs be done – but I will also stand ready, just in case that is not enough."

He's not sulking. Really. Frowning a little and regarding the grain of the table's wood, intermittently drumming his left hand's fingers in restless gesture... and being told to step back, no less, and stop working so hard, when he already feels useless? It's almost too much.

After a few seconds he falls silent, aware for a moment that she's watching him. Slowly, so slowly he almost doesn't notice it himself, the colour creeps into his face as he gradually notices she's watching him. He steadfastly refuses to look up, eyes practically boring a hole in the table. Which, in turn, probably makes it look like he's sulking even worse, especially with the way his face colours.

Slowly, Bedivere exhales; a long, reedy sigh of vague exasperation. There's no question that she seems to find it endearing. In some ways their vaunted non-verbal communication can really work against them...

"Hn." It's a sound of acknowledgement when she brings up Amalthea's pact, and he looks even more unhappy at that. She has the right of it, for he did agree to those terms, and a knight's word is nearly a sacred thing – his word, at any rate.

Bedivere sighs in defeat.

"Yes, my lady... you are right."

His tone isn't grudging, but it's pretty close.

He glances up, head tilting slightly to one side when she returns to the altogether much safer topic of cooking. "Mm. She did seem quite skilled with it, and more than happy to do so." More than once he had insisted she need not trouble herself on his account, but if anything, his self-conscious protests had only seemed to encourage the plum-haired magus. "Ah? Well, to be fair, my own soldiers were not fed the best. Enough to keep them marching and little more, I fear. We could ill afford to bring seasoning and spices with us, after all." He chuckles. "Besides which, it would have been unseemly for the Left Hand of the King to be spotted toiling in the kitchens. I fear the scullions may have chased me out, had I lingered for more than an apple..."

Those violet eyes settle on her, looking a little surprised when she pales. That bad, huh? "I shall make a point to avoid them, then, my lady." His good hand rises to rub at the back of his neck. How bad could it be? "I have eaten Sir Gawain's cooking," he ventures, cautiously. For three days and three nights he'd thought he was going to die, or at least wished he could. Can those rations be any worse?

His eyes linger on her when she answers his gratitude, and after a moment he finally manages that awkward, almost shy smile. He doesn't say anything, for there's no need to. His expression says it for him – gratitude, however awkwardly expressed, but not just for the cooking. She's done so much for him; so much more than he ever would have thought or expected, and he's not quite sure how to make that up to her. More than that, affection – he's grateful, but what makes it important is that she is the one offering such small kindnesses to him. That makes it worth any price, any discomfort; any cost to his dignity. Even the nightmares are somehow made more tolerable just for the simple fact that her presence soothes them.

Bedivere chuckles, closing his eyes for a moment.

"I cannot believe my fortune. I find myself wondering, sometimes, what I had done to earn such blessings... or," he adds, violet eyes opening and fixing on her, thoughtful, "whatever I have done to earn you." Again, that smile, slightly shy. "It just seems strange to me, that we had spent the most time in one another's company, in Camelot... yet we had known so little of one another; we had been so distant, even if by necessity."

Flushing a little, he looks away. "Ah, but that is why. You are my king... please," he murmurs, dropping his gaze to the table again, "forgive me my impropriety."

Saber (346) has posed:
Even before anyone had charged the King of Knights with overseeing the recovery of her marshal, she had taken it upon herself to do just that. While she understood his sense of pride – quite well, in fact, sharing it as she did – it had become abundantly clear over the past two months that he had been slowly working himself to death over nearly two decades. And five of which the silver-haired knight had been functioning on inertia alone. Inertia, and her memory.

Arturia suppressed a sigh at the thought. If she left him alone, she feared one day Bedivere would collapse and never rise again. He had already been headed that way after Camlann, and the diminutive king felt more than slightly responsible for his current state. Though she had tried not to fuss over him too much, she found herself doing so no matter how much she tried to reign in her worrying. A significant part of her nature was to fix and protect, especially that which she felt personally responsible for.

And, of course, there was the simple fact that her actions were not entirely out of her sense of guilt.

Still, the jade-eyed knight had to be careful, lest that fussing undermine the authority of the lord. Not that it seemed to be too much of an issue within the village itself – it was somewhat expected of her assumed status, after all – but nevertheless, it might make some assume that he was weaker than he actually was. Opponents who made that particular mistake typically met their ends at the end of a blade or spear-point, and nobles who had made it often ended up stripped of their positions through similar folly. But Arturia would prefer events not come to that. Now that she was in a support role, she had to approach situations far differently.

On the other hand, she was probably worrying over nothing. The people appeared to be simply happy that their new lord was one sympathetic to their plight and worked greatly for their benefit. Such things were to be expected of members of the Union, but quick relief efforts were generally the usual routine...not long-term sustainability. They had imported necessary supplies and materials, but for the most part the Unionites were simply overseeing the reconstruction. The projection of strength – as opposed to keeping the unruly in line as it had been in Camelot – was instead to buoy the spirits of the weary townsfolk.

But there was only so much strength lord and lady could project with dark circles under his eyes. Fortunately, Bedivere was recovering, albeit slowly.

Sea-green eyes became slightly unfocused as she thought back to her childhood on the estate of the knight she thought of as her real father. "Perhaps...techniques came naturally to me, I could understand how to wield a sword. However..."

Arturia smiled with a hint of wry humour. "Obviously, my body would never truly be up to par with that of a man. My only recourse was to use more than muscle and sinew." By which, of course, she meant magic. Specifically, the magic circuitry she used even as a Servant to channel the life-force within every existing thing, granting her strength and speed beyond ordinary human capacity. Though her abilities were exaggerated as a Heroic Spirit, the flaxen-haired knight had always called upon magic to wield her weaponry, from Rhongomynyad to Caliburn and Excalibur.

By contrast, the young man of the Dál Riata had little but sheer determination and willpower. There might have been a spark of power within the then-willowy frame, but the king had caught glances late at night of the knight-aspirant driving himself ever forward. At first, merely to progress equally with the other squires, and later to surpass them. Perhaps those with more natural talent might have been better-suited to his eventual position in the short-term, but Arturia at least possessed the wisdom to realise she needed that determination and perseverance more than natural talent or high birth.

"Perhaps what we learned was not necessary for a knight, much less a king. However, I do not believe that such efforts were wasted." If nothing else, Arturia had learned the value of Ingenuitas early on in life.

In truth, she had prepared for something of a back-and-forth not-quite argument regarding the task. She had prepared to relent a little, settling on at least binding his hair out of the way so that it wouldn't be too troublesome for him. She rather enjoyed the task, but she was willing to forgo it in the face of his discomfiture over the idea. Which was why her smile at his acceptance might have carried the faintest hint of shyness to it. "I am glad to do so, my lord."

It had not required any special insight on her part to have seen how difficult it had been for Bedivere, Lucan, and Griflet to give up their homes, families, and even entire culture to become her knights. In some ways that sacrifice had stung her with some guilt, but wallowing in it would have been a terrible insult to that sacrifice. But as much as she dearly wished otherwise, Camelot would never be a home for them...not with threat of war, courtly intrigues, and xenophobic nobility. As much as she had considered them her precious knights, to the rest of Britain, they were outsiders.

But it no longer had to be that way. It was true that king and knight were both outsiders to the land, the villagers had for the most part stopped regarding them with suspicion once they had defended the remnants from the corrupted ice hounds, and the remaining doubts had been quelled once they had begun reconstruction on the people's own terms. It had truly begun to feel like a home to her, and perhaps Bedivere had felt the same. There were subtle hints at the changes in him, and indeed, he would have been unable to heal in a different setting. Even the Tohsaka manor – secure and comfortable as it was – had not been the best of settings.

She considered that for a moment; perhaps in some ways, it had been too comfortable for a man who saw himself as no more than a simple commoner and servant to the king. Too alien, as well; modelled after European-styled houses of centuries past, it was nevertheless a style well after their era. Ironically, the more simple designs of Japan's more traditional homes might have suited him better...but it was no longer a concern. The keep was far more familiar to the two knights of a past Britain, and even with a number of inconveniences, it was nevertheless comfortable, owing to the efforts of the grateful townsfolk.

Yes, it could certainly become a place they named as their home...if it was not that already. Bedivere had already taken to naming himself as 'Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí' rather than 'Bedivere of Camelot.' A subtle nuance, but not one which had gone unnoticed.

Here was a small truth he was not going to like, one over which she had struggled with herself as king. It seemed to go against the very fibre of their being, not to mention several Virtues. "Sacrifice is one thing. However, you are the lord of this land now. Were you to collapse from overwork or some ailment, it would be poor for morale. The people look to you for guidance, and so you must take care not to overtax your health lest they become uncertain because of that. The absence of a leader is a very troubling thing for the people."

However, she was satisfied with his answer, nodding her approval slightly as she left slices of bread to soak in the egg and milk mixture to start the hearth fire. "And you are not useless. Stop that," she scolded mildly before returning to the table.

She let the subject of that pact drop, as well as pretended to ignore the flushing of his face. "I think, perhaps...for Sakura it is many different things. She is skilled at it, and so it is a way for her to feel useful to others. It is also expression, a way for her to convey feelings that she otherwise has difficulty expressing."

The smile she wore speaking of her former Master was fond, almost indulgent. It was clear that she cared deeply for the younger Tohsaka after all they had been through together, not merely as Master and Servant but as friends. Even if Sakura had an uncanny knack for unintentionally embarrassing her at times.

Arturia nearly dropped a measuring cup at the mention of her nephew's culinary disasters. This time, her complexion visibly paled. "Why in the Lord God's name..."

She shook her head, as if to clear it. "No, never mind. The rations are, at the very least, edible. Not pleasant, but....edible." If the poor marshal had survived Gawain's 'cooking', no military ration would be that bad.

At first, she blinked owlishly; the mix of that shy smile and his words caught her off-balance. That lasted only briefly, however, as an abrupt flush touched her now down-turned face. This time, it was the petite knight who found the grain of the tabletop suddenly so fascinating.

There was something of regret behind that abrupt shyness; that the distance had been absolutely necessary did nothing to ease that feeling. So much wasted time, so many missed opportunities...

The shift in mood caused her to look up at him again, puzzled at first until she realised that the familiar pattern had emerged. As close as they were, he would be able to detect her disappointment. That distance that they had maintained had been necessary then, but it no longer was now. Yet, the wall of a rank that she no longer truly held remained.

"Could I...may I simply be Arturia? For a little while, at least?" she mused as she fumbled with the measuring cup, her voice sounding slightly pained even to her own ears.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's true that willpower is among Bedivere's exemplary traits, but even willpower can only sustain a man for so long. Towards the end of the king's reign, the spirit had been willing, but the body had been well on its way to ruin. His time wandering the weald had only underscored that. Had he spent any more years lost like that, he may not have been capable of recovery.

Or willing, with such a shadow over his spirit.

Even in such a positive environment, he is slow to heal. It's clear that the silver-haired knight has a definite desire to reach for that rehabilitation, but Arturia had spoken truly when she'd pointed out that he was no longer sixteen years of age. Perhaps he is not old by any measure, but he has endured much, and it reflects in his physical condition.

Camelot may be gone – but there is still a need for knights of his caliber, as dedicated to the virtues as he is. He has reason to want for that healing and rest he had been unable to find. With the return of his king, and the closeness they now share that they had so long been denied, he has every reason to spare himself.

Of course, that doesn't mean he isn't stubborn as a mule, or that he doesn't turn a blind eye to his habit of working too hard.

Fortunately, even the villagers seem to be looking out for their new lord and lady. That the two had made such a point of the villagers' well-being had not gone unnoticed, and the people have made their gratitude clear. Realistically, as Union members, knight and king had had no reason to stay on longer than temporary relief efforts; that they have speaks volumes to the beleaguered people, and has done much to secure their loyalty. Dún Reáltaí had nothing left of it when they took control save desolate hills, part of the castle keep, and maybe four buildings of the village itself. Now, the village has begun to take shape, the keep is inhabitable again, and even has accommodations for guests.

It does take nagging to keep the local lord from working himself half to death. He takes his work seriously, and every time winter had descended upon Camelot, he had taken those casualties personally. If he has any chance to prevent them here, he will do it, and his own health is of no concern over the very lives of others.

Still... she has a point. He can't project strength and stability when he spends so much of his time on the brink of collapse. Thankfully, her observation seems true enough. Dún Reáltaí is the best kind of environment for him to heal and recover in, to rehabilitate himself. He will never be in quite the same condition he had been in Camelot, but he can win back much of the strength that had been lost to him.

"Oh, I had understood the business of swordplay, even then." Bedivere watches Arturia as she reflects on days past. "There was no mistaking the theory, and I understood what my instructors wished. But I was not built as Sir Kay, or Sir Lancelot, or even Sir Lucan. I had been weak from birth; a sickly child. It took much more effort for me to match them." He smiles, a little crooked, almost self-deprecating. "I did, eventually, for I had no choice. At least, I did not see that I had one. It took many long years of effort, though, and much work on my end as well. I would rise earlier than any of the other knight-aspirants, and I would practise late into the night. For the first year or so, I feared I would never match them... Sir Lucan once suggested to me that perhaps I had better return to Dál Riata, for I might never become a knight, it being so against my nature, and perhaps it would be easier to accept training as a filidh."

One wonders how that discussion might have ended. Bedivere chuckles, almost sheepishly.

"I am shamed to admit that I struck him for even suggesting it. I think it was the only time I had ever been truly angry at him. I had not been trying to, but I had almost broken his nose... he'd stared at me as though I'd just worked magic before his very eyes." The silver-haired knight smiles, looking down at the table surface. "I suppose he took my meaning. He never brought it up again. He must have told Sir Griflet of it, too, for he had looked at me most curiously the next day."

He thinks back, considering their respective abilities. "Sir Griflet had preferred flails and morningstars, but he was much stronger than my brother and I. Ceallach preferred the sword, as did I, for they were more easily come by, but I did not mind wielding polearms. Actually... I do not know that you have ever seen me wield one," he adds, cocking his head and regarding Arturia with muted curiosity. "Or to joust, either. I did not take my place in the lists; I had always taken my place instead at your left hand. I suppose I would not have been very good at it. Riding down a quintain is not the same as riding down a live opponent."

He shrugs, a faint rise-and-fall of his good shoulder. Leaning back in his chair, he regards her thoughtfully for a moment, violet eyes hooding. "Perhaps those skills you spoke of were better served in a hedge-knight, aye, but I do not believe they were wasted, either. Especially now. I imagine they must have been of some use to you, in the multiverse, if you have been here as long as I had been wandering..."

"I would not have minded learning such things, myself. I suppose I am free, now, to seek out training for those things I should have learned earlier in my youth... perhaps I will, when I am more healed." Even he knows better than to take on so much when he's not feeling so well; never mind that he knows she'll glare at him if he so much as insinuates that he wants to take on even more responsibilities. Perhaps it hasn't been so long that they've dropped their guard with one another, but he has some notion of how she'll react, all the same.

He allows himself a faint, sheepish smile when she confesses she's glad for the opportunity to braid his hair. His face colours a little. Improper as it may be, part of him is glad for her offer, in turn. It's strangely soothing to know that he can trust her with that simple task; the same ritual he had done for himself for over twenty years. It's more than just the simple act of braiding his hair that relaxes him, though – it's the trust. He trusts her with his life, and beyond, and he cannot honestly say the same for anyone else.

There had been secrets he had kept even from Lucan; one, in particular. Now, she is the only person he would dare tell his secrets to – for he trusts her with them, and that element will remain regardless of his being her knight, or her being his king.

Besides which, she knows the task itself, and proved that well. She must have studied him closely – the last time he had let her, she had braided his hair perfectly; precisely as he would have done.

He smiles a little, though the expression is bittersweet. Perhaps he senses her recollections of the three Dál Riata knights' ordeal. Yet, in some ways, it had not been much an ordeal for him. We made those sacrifices willingly, my love. It was no sacrifice for us. Such was not in vain, for my cousin had little left for him in Dál Riata, and my brother would have travelled any length to stay by my side – and I... I would have gone to any length to serve you. That smile broadens, just slightly, though it also seems shy. But you know that, now... Do not trouble yourself. We remembered where we came from, even as we served – Dál Riata would not be forgotten, not to us, and that is what was important.

This adopted castle has, in fact, seemed to prove ideal even for remembering his past. No more does he need to hide his origins, or be forced to put aside his very culture. He is free to do as he will, here. Some kind villager has even found or carved for him a pipe chanter, for while he has not the strength to handle his preferred Uilleann pipes, he can still play a chanter. From time to time, he's been known to play in the courtyard; propped up against the monstrous old oak beside the keep. He's taken a liking to that tree, and some of the servants closest to the castle have begun calling it "Bedivere's Oak."

He probably hasn't heard them, or he'd have expressed his consternation.

Even that is a way to heal, for him – to remember the musical traditions of the Dál Riata is liberating after two decades of silence. Slowly, he can piece that aspect of himself back together again, suppressed but not forgotten.

Perhaps he had indeed found the Tohsaka household too ostentatious, but there were a few conveniences that both knight and king had agreed to bring back to Dún Reáltaí, such as the modern insulation and indoor plumbing. Such had not been unheard of in Rome, but here, they could provide it even to the poorer villagers. It would also make life in an otherwise damp, drafty castle much more comfortable.

Even the lowliest peasant could enjoy a hot shower or bath on a cold morning, with water drawn from the large lake northeast of the hill, and plans for a system to collect more. If he's honest with himself, he's taken a liking to bathing with hot water. He had been content to suffer through icy rivers on campaign, but in his state now... frankly, he'd rather not add hypothermia and pneumonia to his list of ailments.

He sighs when she admonishes him on his abject lack of self-preservation against his duties, wilting in his seat a little. For a moment, he almost seems as though he might argue the point, sighing through his nose and looking uncomfortable, but the moment passes. Bedivere gives in, bowing his head.

"Very well..." The words are reluctant, somewhat grudging, but a definite start. It doesn't hurt that she's been drilling the notion into his head since they'd found one another again. In time he'll take that message to heart. "You are right. I just..."

Before he can imply he feels useless, she neatly cuts him off, scolding him lightly. He sighs in defeat and wordless acceptance, bowing his head. "Yes, my love."

Instead, he watches her reflect on Sakura, and the plum-haired magus' culinary skills. She had certainly seemed to enjoy cooking, taking pleasure in it in a way he had not seen her do with anything else. If she had been fond of her Servant, she had expressed it in those lovingly-prepared meals. Some of the dishes had been strange to his tastes, and it hadn't been enough to make him truly enjoy the blandness of that foreign grain – rice? – but even he had to admit that her skill was beyond question.

"If I had refused, at the time, it would have been a breach of hospitality. I had seen it, and I had been dubious, but I could not refuse honourably." Bedivere thinks back, although the topic is one he would sooner forget. For three days and three nights, he had been incapacitated. "I do not remember feeling such agony even after Caliburn's loss... I thought I was going to die," he admits, miserably.

The topic is one he lets go, though, watching as she reflects on missed opportunities. It was necessary, but that does not change that it had been a shameful waste, for no matter his adherence to knightly virtue, in his heart of hearts, he had always served her out of love. With her steady and patient encouragement, he's begun to look a bit past the role he had fulfilled for over twenty years.

He smiles, but the expression is bittersweet, faltering when she makes her quiet request. For a long moment, it almost seems as though he might not reply. he watches her in thoughtful silence as though considering his answer carefully.

Finally, he smiles, though that bittersweet trace remains. He would not wish to cause her any pain, and the perceptive marshal is keen enough to pick out that trace in her voice.

"For you, I would do anything." He inclines his head, silvery hair spilling to hide his face. When he straightens, he fixes her with those violet eyes, his fleeting smile somewhat shy. Ah, my love, I am sorry. Please be patient with me. It is difficult for me to put aside duty so easily... That smile widens, faintly, strengthening just a hair. "But... I wish for you to let me be simply... Bedivere. No—" he corrects himself, seized by a strange urge, "—Fionnlagh."

He speaks the name awkwardly, for like his language, he has not been called by his own name for a very long time. Yet at the same time, it feels somehow right.

His faint smile, shy as it is, seems to reflect that.

Saber (346) has posed:
It was that desire to heal which had relieved Arturia the most; after Camlann and beyond, she couldn't have faulted him for not caring whether or not he would recover, using himself in the service of others for as long as he could until he simply did not rise again. It was a taxing way of life even for adolescents or, in her case, those who possessed artefacts which staved off ageing. And while Bedivere was in peak shape as both chivalric virtue and necessity demanded and still young by their standards, it would have only been a matter of time before that hard life caught up to him permanently.

And she would be damned if she allowed her knights to suffer again, especially the Left Hand of the King after all the sacrifices he had made for the sake of her rule. And in more than one instance, for her personally. She was not sure how she would have endured without his steadfast loyalty and comforting presence. That is, comforting to her; to the enemies of Camelot, it was anything but. She could only hope she would do the same for him, now that the roles had been reversed somewhat.

From the beginning, king and knight had only acted out of chivalric virtue, toiling ceaselessly for the people yet expecting no gratitude in return, understanding that knighthood was oft-times a thankless position in Camelot. Theirs were never positions of privilege, but of servitude. To be a knight was to give oneself in service to the people, and the only promise of reward was that of virtue and the honour of serving.

Which was why it had been almost disconcerting for the king who had endured even in the face of rebellion to be answered not with grumbling, but with gratitude. The jade-eyed knight was especially happy that they had taken to their lord so – at last, a people who accepted him rather than treated him with suspicion simply on account of his foreign heritage! – even as she worried over his usual working himself half to death.

That being said, she most certainly understood his concerns over the rapidly-approaching winter. The season could be harsh, often culling young, old, weak, and infirm. That many outsiders came to Britain if for no other reason that the king ordered the most thorough preparations possible and took care of her people mattered little in the face of losing even one sickly child or elderly matron. All her people had value by virtue of being alive.

Nevertheless, Arturia would keep nagging him as long as she needed to. He wouldn't push a commoner to work as hard as he did, especially not one in a similar condition, even if that might be a loss of necessary labour. It was more than simply regarding them as equals; Bedivere appeared to think of them as higher up than himself. A proper knightly virtue, but it was working against him in dangerous ways at this point in time.

At least he had relented for the moment. His king was fairly certain she would have to bring up these points again at a later time, but for the time being perhaps she could worry a little less.

"Hm. That much I can understand...it was difficult for me to match Sir Kay. He was taller and stronger than I. I quickly learned to be faster and to dodge." It was only after she had claimed Caliburn and been given her armour that she could withstand the amount of physical punishment she was capable of enduring.

Pale eyebrows raised slightly at the rather unexpected twist in his storytelling. Bedivere was certainly not violent, aggressive, or even hot-tempered by nature; she could not recall witnessing him lose his temper off the battlefield. And even then, she had only caught glimpses of the terrifying berserker rage once. It had been more than simply a blow to his pride or an insult to his hard work. It would have meant giving up on his dream of serving her, and selfishly, she was thankful once more that he had not. With as similar as knight and king were, he would most likely know that.

It was more than a little apropos; the knight-aspirant who had struggled the most and was perhaps the least likely to be knighted rose to the position of the Left Hand of a King who struggled against reality itself, and became the knight she had depended on the most.

Arturia tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I do not believe I have, no." It was true: the marshal had taken his duties as absolute, refusing anything which would have compromised them or otherwise divided his attention. Even the military drills would have detracted from his service to her in his mind, she was certain. And she had hardly been in a position to tell him that he could relax a little, and the serious knight would have refused unless it had been a direct order.

"Perhaps in the late spring when the snows have melted...hm. But that would depend upon how the people feel about a tournament." It might be good for the fractured economy on the more practical side of things, not to mention break up some of the monotony on the morale side. She would have to look into it, though she was already into plotting mode.

There was a slight tilt of her head in what was Arturia's equivalent of a shrug. "It has proven itself useful in a number of ways...not in every situation, but it was certainly not been a waste of time and effort."

Bedivere was hardly mistaken in his apprehension that she would glare at him if he had so much as even suggested the more physical aspects of continued training. Only two months since they had been reunited in the multiverse and already he understood that his king was not about to tolerate abuse he had once put himself through. Fortunately, she had little need to remind him of their relatively new status as Master and Servant, a role he had continued to chafe under.

Aside from the issue of his convalescence, however, it was a good idea. "There are a great many resources for education in the multiverse," she mused, already thinking into the future. A school in the village would be a good idea; in their time, the Church was the centre of learning but the modest one in the village was scarce but a chapel. They would need to allot funds and materials for its expansion, but she was certain her appointed lord had already considered that.

Returning to the present, she finished her earlier thought. "There will be time, once the winter has set in."

That trust he had in her was returned in equal measure; in fact, it could be said that the pale-haired, violet-eyed knight of the Dál Riata had been the one she had trusted above all others. Gawain was her nephew, Lancelot and Guinevere her friends...but there had been only one person who had been by her side constantly, whom she would not have had a second thought entrusting with her life. As much as she had only presented her kingly mask to the Left Hand of the King, there were some things which only he had known. It was fitting that her walls had only come down completely for him.

It might have been that the only secret she had well and truly kept from him was one she had kept from herself; why it was she knew how to braid his hair so perfectly, the reason why it was that she had studied him so.

It had been the most troubling thing of all when Camelot had fallen...to Arturia, it seemed as if all that her knights had sacrificed had been in vain when she failed to save it. Her grasp fell short of utopia, and the dreams of those who supported her to achieve it went unanswered. That the names of every last one of the Knights of the Round Table had been inscribed upon Akasha, that even into the modern era they were remembered, was of little comfort. To the Once and Future King of Britain, these men were real, not ideals or characters in a poem. In some ways, a part of her would always carry the guilt of having failed to achieve their dream. But having given that up, all she could do now was honour their memory in rebuilding what was slowly becoming their home.

And for Bedivere, that meant reclaiming the heritage he had been forced to abandon to serve at her side. Already she had heard him at various points by the oak that the villagers had started to associate with their new lord, openly practising skills which, prior to, the knight had been forced to keep secret. And with him as her Master, she had been granted the ability to speak his native tongue – however unnecessary that might have been given the multiversal translation effect – so he no longer had need of worrying about his speech sounding 'strange'.

In many ways, it was the best of both worlds for the knights; a more comfortable, familiar setting but with a number of modern conveniences. Or perhaps less 'convenience' and more 'necessity'; hot water for bathing meant fewer coming down with illnesses at the worst possible season during which to be ill. Allergies would have to be tested for, but Union medical technicians could easily bring modern medicines to ensure that the populace lived through the winter. For all its flaws, the current era was still something Saber would continue to see as a miracle in comparison to the struggles of her own.

Arturia blinked owlishly for a fleeting second. Did he just give her what she had since learned was the standard 'married couple' response? It was at once embarrassing and yet amusing; even as she blushed at the realisation she could not help the need to stifle a laugh carefully with her hand. To say nothing of sympathy; she shared that same need to be useful, to do something to help the people as they raced against the oncoming seasons to ready their defences against it. But at this rate, who could really blame them for their assumptions? They had certainly fallen into those patterns.

"If you trust in me at all," she replied, her voice falling into a comfortable lilt well-familiar to him, "Then trust in me when I say that you are not useless. Think instead of this time as an investment. You are reserving your strength for when it shall well and truly be needed. If you are hale and hearty in the winter months, that will be cause for celebration in itself. Mark my words; the villagers will host a céilidh....or some such equivalent."

She sighed through her nose as she paused. "I think, perhaps...in some ways you are defeating yourself." What she said literally – translated but unnecessarily so – was Is í ding di féin a scoileann an dair: It is a wedge of itself that splits the oak.

Living with her Master in a land on the other side of the world had been at once comforting and yet strange. The Tohsakas had some habits which were more of a Western bent, but they were nevertheless at their centre women of Japan. There were likewise a number of things which were familiar to a Briton of the early Middle Ages – their bathing culture, among other things – but others were downright strange. As much as she had appreciated the violet-eyed magus's efforts, she was never going to be used to uncooked fish and plain white rice. But for the past five years, it had been a home; she might have needed to stay by Sakura's side out of necessity, but Saber had chosen to stay out of her sense of true friendship and loyalty.

Content not to dwell on the subject of Gawain's terrifying culinary skills, at least she was thankful that her marshal's constitution was not as delicate as some might believe. In fact, anyone who could withstand that agony was made of stern stuff. The pale-haired knight did, however, have her complete sympathy.

Perhaps she had been too impatient. When she realised that she could not save Britain without possibly harming those she can come to care for, she decided that she should somehow find the Knights of the Round Table and eventually make amends for her failures.It had been a simple matter to make amends with; the Knight of the Lake had been her friend for years, though the road to that reconciliation had been a painful one. But even more than that, the flaxen-haired knight had had five years to slowly emerge from her shell of armour, to change, grow, learn to trust and open up to others. Bedivere had not; only the five years of wandering a multiversal woodland with his past constantly hounding him.

But in spite of that, she reflected, he had come a long way in just the two months since they had been reunited on Njorun Station. Those walls had broken down, and though there had been fear and pain, she had managed to get through to him that she wanted him at her side, and to be by his. Somehow, and though the petite knight had taken the proverbial long road to reach that point, she had managed to make it known that his love was at long last returned.

But even after that, Arturia remained somewhat apprehensive and uncertain. Their roles had brought them both a great deal of pain, but at the same time, they were familiar and even somewhat comfortable. In fact, many times it had seemed to her that relying on her as his king had brought her knight some measure of comfort and stability in an alien multiverse which had made little sense to him. Even when a longed-for wish was granted, it was nevertheless a change and thus an uncertainty. And when he didn't answer for a while, she couldn't help but worry of she was undermining that sense of stability.

When he finally did speak, her smile was slightly bittersweet and, at the same time, apologetic. I will, my love...I am sorry. I did not wish to rush you.

Strangely, Arturia was not surprised when he invoked his original name. Yet hearing it warmed her in a curious way, as if they shared a secret unknown to any other soul.

Her smile contained a hint of shyness of her own, faint and yet somehow bright. "Then, here...let us simply be Arturia and Fionnlagh."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps if he had wandered for much longer, the knight may have had no care for his own well-being. If he had continued to wander he may well have lost all reason to live. In a sense, he had, and only inertia had carried him through the years since the Battle of Camlann. His service to others had been something of a crutch, for he'd had no regard for himself, allowing it to consume him until there was very little left to be salvaged. In a sense, it was neglect, but it was born of despair; he had no reason to keep from it, to pull him back and remind him to take the time to care for himself.

Bedivere had sacrificed much to serve the king, and to serve Arturia directly. There's no telling how far he might have gone, given the opportunity. If the Battle of Camlann had played out differently, there's no question that he would have sacrificed himself for her, and gladly so, had he the necessity or the opportunity to.

He took his oaths to serve in the utmost solemnity – whether Arturia, or the people.

Much as his king, the knight had been a little taken aback by such an open show of gratitude from the people of Dún Reáltaí. He had not expected either their gratitude or their evident well-wishing of him, and it had come as something of a surprise, although he's slowly learning to accept it with grace.

If anything, this show of support has only galvanised him into working all the harder for their sake – as though afraid of betraying that trust. Therein lies the rub, though. He can only work so hard. She herself has pointed out that he has lived a hard life and cannot function or recover as he once did.

He does indeed relent, eventually – but only for now.

Bedivere's stubbornness has for so many years been his strength. Here, it works against him, somewhat.

Slowly, he nods at her estimation of Kay's abilities. "He was taller even than I, and I have no doubt that he was stronger, even in my training... aye, that is the best way. To dodge, to never let the blow fall – that is what I do, for that is the only way I can stand evenly with the others... or against our onetime Saxon foes."

The Saxons had been fierce fighters, and some of them had even fought in the midst their own battle-rage. It was a time-honoured technique of theirs, to build themselves up to such a state before going into battle. For Bedivere, it was not so simple, and not something he could call upon at will – one condition only could trigger such a thing, and the Saxons had been unfortunate enough to see it. They had been astonished that this pale-haired knight had not only matched them in his ferocity, but surpassed them; an insane, unreasoning wrath that had led him to such feats.

Even his peasant-soldiers had been a little afraid of him after that. In awe, yes, but terrible awe – as much fear as reverence.

He smiles a little sheepishly when she arches her brows at his treatment of Lucan. He went too far. Bedivere ducks his head a little. To imply that I give up everything, that I was not strong enough to serve you... I could not suffer that insult. To give up on my love...

For even then, he had loved her, however distant they had needed to be from one another. His feelings had not been distant to him. They had been both a constant agony and a source of strength. For Lucan to so casually suggest that he put that aside, when he had been caught in the grip of that emotional maelstrom... it was not only thoughtless, however much Lucan couldn't have known, but it was also a terrible insult.

"We made good with one another the next morning," he says softly. "Once the pain of the blow faded. He never brought it up again. And we never argued again after that, Ceallach and I..."vWhen she mentions the possibility of a tournament, he seems to show visible interest, perking up a little. Even the misery of his wounds and his inability to work seems to fade somewhat. "A tourney? In Dún Reáltaí? The people would like that, I think. This world seems not dissimilar to that from which we hail..." He seems to consider for a moment. "I... suppose... you do not need me to stand guard. Perhaps I might enter in the lists? And a feast would do much for morale – but not for the knights and nobles. A feast for all."

Even commoners. Most lords would recoil at the idea of allowing commoners into their hall, those not servants, but to Bedivere, every one of them is precious. They are the very foundations of the estate, just as they had been the foundations of Camelot, and he considers himself no better than them. Lower, perhaps, for his humble nature and modesty seem to skirt the edges of self-derision at times – as though he genuinely believes himself unworthy of the luxury and good fortune he finds himself surrounded by. Perhaps that, too, may heal in time; another unseen scar of Camlann, perhaps, or simply the result of spending two decades driving himself into the ground.

"I shall ask them," he volunteers. "The next time I take a walk to the village, perhaps you might accompany me, my love? We can take their measure together... perhaps it might be a boost to morale. It would establish Dún Reáltaí as whole again; unbroken..." For any castle that had the excess of resources to plan a tourney was not one to be taken lightly, and so is the same with Dún Reáltaí; especially after so recently having nothing. He smiles, a little crooked. "If it is a help to morale..."

He tilts his head faintly at mention of schools. His own brows raise, nearly lost for a moment in the silvery blonde of the hair that hangs over his face. "Indeed there are," he agrees, his tone growing a little more spirited; it lilts as he finds himself lapsing into Gaelic in his excitement. "There is no need here to restrict education to the nobility." He places his good hand flat on the table, looking at her with eyes wide and wondrous. "Everyone can have a noble's education. Not just the nobility. And... and surely there must be some way to provide it for free. I am certain volunteers can be found. Multiversal. Perhaps even Union Elites, to volunteer if they should like to do charity-work... an expansion to the Church, mayhap..."

Trust Bedivere to become excited not over some chance to prove his arms in a test of skill, but the opportunity to provide something real and vital for the people entrusted in his care; something that will greatly improve their lives. Even so, some of that zeal fades a bit as Arturia returns them to the present, bowing his head. "Forgive me. Yes. We have enough to think of, just now... indeed, we must first endure the winter."

Oh, but then... such dreams he has for this place – dreams that Arturia shares. They are alike in many ways, and the way in which they can mirror one another's thoughts might seem eerie to anyone else. To the silver-haired knight, though, it's a comfort. His trust of her also stems from that; to know that no matter what problem or conundrum they might put their minds to, they do so together with a unity of purpose matched by few.

The violet-eyed knight almost starts to smile, but it falters as she blinks owlishly and then stifles a laugh with her hand.

He sighs, defeated. They are acting like the townfolks' expectations of a married couple, aren't they? Right down to their mock arguments over his overworking himself, and the assumption of sharing quarters... never mind that they were scarcely apart from one anothers' company. Bedivere reaches up to rub at the back of his neck with his left hand, awkward; in part because it's a gesture of sheepish nerves, and in part because he would really prefer to do so with his right hand. Small wonder the people had leapt to such conclusions...

His hand drops slowly as she slips into his own native tongue, staring at her for a moment as though transfixed, unable to help but marvel over how... special she makes his own native tongue sound. The words are certainly wise, though. Logically he can find no fault in her reasoning, even if his heart insists that he isn't doing enough. It's his turn to sigh when she throws that proverb.

"Aaah, my love..." He heaves a careful sigh, wincing slightly. She does have a valid point. "The oak is strong, but if it is not whole of purpose, the lightning will take it." If he allows himself to be distracted, and unwell, even some slight catalyst may be the beginning of his end. It seems he does know that, logically; however much he might act contrary to it. He does make some effort to restrain himself, but after spending so many years with no regard for his own well-being in the face of duty, it's difficult for him to do so. "I will see that this trunk does not grow any wedges," he adds, with a lopsided but affectionate half-smile. "You are right. I... am not sixteen, or even nineteen, years of age any more. I cannot hold up as I once did... I will try to spend this week resting."

He looks a little nervous at the mention of another céilidh, though. After that last one... well... he can worry about that later.

Slowly, that smile returns when she offers her own, matching his in its shyness – something he had once never thought to see from his confident and unflappable king; a side of her that he finds he really doesn't mind so much. Hopefully, as much as she doesn't mind the faults and flaws of the shy and awkward man he himself had hidden away from her.

"Mm." It's a sound of agreement, for the most part, though he maintains his own slightly awkward smile. It's alright. He can forgive her that easily enough. Though he didn't have five years to acclimate himself to such things, he's clearly making an effort, and he does seem to have come a long way in the two months since he'd joined the greater multiverse.

He'll have to remember to say a prayer for the nameless Union soldier who had led him from those woods. That individual could not have known what a great service they had done for Bedivere.

He almost seems to hesitate for a few seconds before responding, that faint smile broadening; though there's still a little awkwardness to it. "Alright, then... Arturia." Saying her name without any sort of customary title brings him to flush a little, as though uncertain. "It... it is so strange to call you such..." Without title; without acknowledging her as the Once and Future King. For so long he had regarded her that way, and now, to suddenly go forego the usual formalities... it feels so strange.

Saber (346) has posed:
In many ways, the Marshal of the Realm had buried himself in his work just as the king had, though for more reasons than the single-minded devotion to the people as she had once assumed. Not long after their reunion in the multiverse, those underlying reasons had been revealed to her, but they did nothing to change her regard; his dedication to the people remained beyond reproach. And it was clear that after Camlann, that service and those reasons had been a lifeline for him. On the other hand, his drive would have burned him out as quickly as a candle lit on both ends.

Being tasked with rebuilding and looking after Dun Realtai had been a godsend. The Tohsaka estate was comfortable, certainly, but there was little that Bedivere could do to make himself feel useful, no tasks he could employ himself in for the benefit of those in need. What charity work the knights employed themselves in alleviated that to a certain extent, but his recent wounds made it far more difficult. But everything had dovetailed almost perfectly when the winter witch had requested them to look after the people of the land. Arturia had sometimes wondered who was doing whom the true favour.

Even if she did have to occasionally chastise her knight to pace himself, his recovery seemed to be improving at a better rate.

The unexpected gratitude had been an unexpected boon, if something of a double-edged sword. While their support had worked wonders for the spirits of the weary knights, it likewise worried the two about inadvertently failing to live up to their expectations. It had been difficult enough for Arturia when she had been King of Britain, inwardly punishing herself for any loss of hope or failure of spirit. Yet, the people of Dún Reáltaí were generally as loathe to complain about their plight as their new lord and lady, their spirits strangely light even as the village raced against the seasons to rebuild. The only thing that seemed to dissuade Bedivere from overworking himself was the idea that it would worry them should he fall ill...and that she could match his own stubbornness.

She had caught those tell-tale glimpses during the three years of his training as a knight-aspirant; though he had gradually grown taller and stronger both naturally and through training, the young man of the Dál Riata remained somewhat at a disadvantage in terms of strength. But he was faster, more agile...even wearing heavy plate. And he learned to use those talents to his advantage, pressing ever forward until he had achieved his dream, and beyond it.

Arturia had only seen that change but once, in the final battle against the Saxons. Even then, what she had seen were merely glances, so focused was the king on her own battle. Instead, she had heard the mixed tales of awe and even some fear, carefully concealing her own surprise. The berserker rage was hardly unheard of among the Saxons, but she would never have suspected the icily-calm marshal of such an ability...though at the time, she had considered it more of a detriment with all the wounds he had endured from it.

Arturia could sympathise, though for different reasons. She smiled faintly; Lucan had simply been ignorant of his brother's deeper motivations and likely had no idea why the flippant suggestion had been so poorly received. It was fairly clear – given that Bedivere mourned him after Camlann – that they had been close and that the younger brother had not intended it out of spite, or because he had looked down on the struggling knight-aspirant. She could certainly not have said the same for many other the others who had openly mocked her path. It is rather painful, to have one's dreams dismissed so, she admitted.

Yet, she could understand what Bedivere must have been feeling at the time. It remained a little surprising, though at the time he had yet to form the familiar mask of stoicism. But even after that point, there had been the occasional lapses in unguarded moments of both kindness, melancholy, and, for the Saxons and rebels, overwhelming rage. Like his king, he had kept an otherwise tight rein on his emotions....but how difficult it must have been.

"I never noticed that the two of you had ever fought in such a way," she admitted. She had, as astute as she was, suspected the two were brothers or otherwise related, though they had always seemed so carefully distant at court.

Arturia all but grinned, both at his clear interest – clear to her, at least– at the idea of a tourney and an open feast. It was almost the familiar exuberance she had first seen in him as a squire and more than a little endearing. Moreover, his enthusiasm was contagious; indeed, knight and king were of one mind in such matters. And one of the wonders of the modern era was that an open feast was not a strange thing at all. There were no nobles to complain, no hierarchy they had to enforce.

"Aye, I see no reason not to," she quipped upon the question of entering the lists this time, the grin emerging at last. "And there is no one to criticise over a feast open to all regardless of station. Such things are the way of the current era."

The planning of the event and securing the necessary resources for it would doubtless demand a fair amount of time in the office pouring over ledgers, but if it was something that would be enjoyed by all, it would be worth it. However, her face flushed just slightly at the offer for them to walk together, even as she smiled with an undercurrent of shyness. "I should like to," Arturia admitted. Even if it was to find how well their ideas would be received, even if it helped with morale, she found that she simply wanted to. Given the assumptions about king and knight, it should not seem terribly strange or improper.

Her smile became a little wider; the jade-eyed knight could always rely on her marshal to embrace ideas of hers which would have seemed nothing more than wild daydreams during her reign. She had secretly harboured them, though she had continued to blame herself for failing to bring about the utopia she had dreamed of. But in this era, such things were no longer impossible, and at her side was someone who supported such undertakings as entirely as she did.

Arturia grinned broadly, shaking her head. "It is all right. It is true that our priority is to see the winter through, but...it does no harm to dream, if only for now. But when the winter ends, then we can see to it that our dreams become reality."

Indeed, it truly was a godsend to be tasked with guardianship of a place which had so easily become a home for a weary knight and king.

She stifled a chuckle at his defeated sigh; in some ways, they really only had themselves to blame. It is not such a terrible thing, she admitted. If it brings them hope, that assumption is no burden. In spite of the embarrassment over the situation, Arturia found that she had not minded it quite so much. She could much more easily look after him with the way things were, and she knew better than anyone how the image of a stable royal family – albeit in this case, simply a noble family – could inspire the people. Only, this time it was not built on lies. A misunderstanding, perhaps...but not lies. And it was, perhaps, a temporary arrangement.

Unaware that she had lapsed into the language of her Master, Arturia blinked owlishly at his regard. Had she said something strange? She certainly had drawn some unexpected reactions from time to time with the sharp contrast between how she had acted as the King of Britain and how she was now as the Servant Saber. To be fair, she had understood that she had thrown him well off-guard when they were reunited on Njorun Station, given how he had only known the aloof, distant king. It had made her question if she had overwhelmed the knight too much, if she should have been more cautious to put him more at ease...at least, until she learned of the nightmares of Camlann.

The sigh, however, seemed to suggest simply that what she had said had some effect, even as head and heart were fighting over it. Just because something was logical didn't mean that an irresistible sense of duty wouldn't protest. She supposed that this was not unlike another of her duties, her need to keep him from overworking himself to death. And perhaps when the time came when she was the one overworking, it would be the marshal's turn to fuss over her obstinacy. And, she supposed, the effort was all she could really ask for.

At least Arturia wouldn't be planning another céilidh in the foreseeable future.

That hidden side of him she'd found she didn't mind at all. Perhaps it was not quite the shock he might have imagined it to be; she had seen something of him before the mask was perfected, had stolen the occasional glimpse when the mask lowered out of the presence of others. It was her own lapse which must have shocked him utterly; for as long as they had known each other, she had always worn hers. Though perhaps, the pale-haired knight might have caught the occasional glance at the king at her chamber window, when the mask had, if not slipped, fallen somewhat as she gazed up at the stars.

And when he finally said her name...that in itself was more than she had dared hoped for, when she had first tried to persuade him to think of her as a friend. They had both been so awkward then, and he had seemed horrified at – in his mind – for daring to be so presumptuous, even when she had wished for it. She flushed a little, regardless that it was such a simple thing, yet smiled. It might have been improper given her station, or wrong of her to wish for it after keeping those who should have been so close to her at arm's length. That did nothing to stop her from wishing to be close to them, especially to the one who had suffered the most for her, who had given his heart to her...and to whom she had given hers in turn.

"Indeed...it is somewhat...strange. To call you by a name I have never known until recently. Yet...in some way, it is not so strange." She turned then, blushing at her own boldness as she distracted herself with her current task. Breakfast still had to be made.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The marshal had always been dedicated to Camelot's poorest. Not only did he feel himself a kindred spirit to them, he considered himself below their station, having come to Albion from distant shores. His humility had never led him astray, driving him to conduct himself with the highest honour, and to strive constantly to better their circumstances.

Respectable as it was, though, this tireless work didn't come without cost; a cost that would have been the end of him. He would have worked himself to death for their sakes, or for Arturia's. Both knight and king know that. Having found her again and having been made the master of Dún Reáltaí were the best possible outcome for Bedivere. Any other road would have led him to follow his king into death – if not by deliberate action, than by the damage done to body and spirit, and allowing himself to work himself into an early grave.

Despite that, his recovery has gone well. His wounds still trouble him, and he may dream of Camlann for many years yet, but he has slowly begun to mend. So long as she remains by his side, he will find peace. Dún Reáltaí's ability to heal him is an excellent start.

For now, the knight rests his left elbow on the table, reaching up and cupping his chin in that hand. The right he keeps folded at his side, confined by sling and splint, though the way he shifts slightly suggests that it's getting somewhat stiff and uncomfortable. He'd give just about anything to be able to straighten his arm.

Idly, he considers his energy levels. He'd woken up earlier than he might have liked this morning. The idea of sleeping for a few more hours after breakfast is an attractive notion.

Ceallach learned quickly. The violet-eyed knight's smile is a little shy, almost apologetic. I'd reacted without thought. I hadn't meant to hit him so hard, and he'd accepted my apology later, grudgingly... when I could speak to him again.

For the rest of that day, he hadn't been able to stomach even seeing Lucan's face. It had been a mortal insult to him, enough to break through even his legendary calm. True, he had still been building his mask in those days, but such disregard for his dream had made him absolutely furious; so much so that he had reacted without thinking – an extremely rare and dangerous oversight, for him and the eventual role he would come to fill.

"It was not an obvious argument. He suggested I'd best go home, I struck him, and we refused to speak for the rest of the day. We made peace the next morning." Bedivere's faint smile looks almost chagrined. "It was the first and only time we had fought so. He learned quickly not to question my dream. We had been close, for when I had decided to remain in Camelot, he had sworn to stay by my side, for he could not bear to leave me. Of course, he had different reasonings – the allure of knighthood, and the prestige of serving the Round Table. Not... not..." The silver-haired knight's smile turns shy. He ducks his head, flushing a little, but when he straightens that smile turns a little melancholy. "Even now, I miss him terribly. If I was your Left Hand, than he was mine. But he fought bravely, my love. So bravely. He... he acquitted himself with pride, and dignity, and conducted himself as a Knight of the Round Table should..."

He shakes his head, letting it go, some of the melancholy fading. Lucan's conduct surely must have led him to become a Heroic Spirit, and perhaps he might meet him again that way. Less likely things have happened – and Arturia is living proof of it. The thought of that even brings him to smile a little as he watches her.

When she suggests he could enter the tourney lists, he regards her thoughtfully. Slowly, his smile broadens into a grin to match her own. "Aye. With open attendance, even the poorest can attend, and at the very least have a good meal out of it. Think of that!" He slaps his open left palm onto the table, but it seems more an open gesture of exuberance than anything else. "Food enough to feed them all, and a place warm and dry for them to sleep, no matter what their situation. Ah, Lord God, what a wonder and a blessing this age is!"

It will be a lot of planning, but that's no setback to the marshal. It will definitely be something to look forward to in the spring, once the snows have melted.

Now, though, their primary concern is surviving the winter. Though the ice that shadows the keep is artificial, slowly melting into a proper autumn, the natural winter that comes is not likely to be mild. If autumn is any hint, it promises to be colder and more savage than the worst of Camelot's. Best save a tourney for when the grass is green again, for fighting in snow is a treacherous affair, dangerous to horses and men both.

Some of that exuberance gradually fades back into weariness. Five years of neglected sleep, compounded by injury, will take some time for him to catch up on.

"Dreaming is good," he agrees softly, "and sometimes necessary. Are dreams not a form of hope? They had sustained me through my service in Camelot. After I..." After he'd laid Arturia to rest, "they had nonetheless kept me from madness, somehow. And now... dreams aren't quite so far away, are they?" He looks to her with a smile, one of those warm smiles reserved strictly for her. "The chance to make those dreams reality is even better than the dreaming itself."

Once upon a time, he had dreamt of a place he could call home. Dál Riata had not been it. Camelot had not been it, either. The multiversal weald had been more of a hell he could not escape. Now, in Dún Reáltaí, he has finally found it – not just a place to return to, but his precious companion by his side; the woman he had so wholly given his heart to, twenty long years ago.

If the most impossible of dreams can come to pass, something like a tourney isn't so bad.

Folding his left arm so his wrist rests over the same shoulder, he rests his jaw against his arm, eyes hooding. Perhaps the assumption is no burden. His smile seems to turn a little resigned. It just feels improper. I—I would not be so presumptuous, my lady... Yet, even if the idea of playing along with the perception of a married couple is embarrassing to his sensibilities, the assumption itself is not an unwelcome one. He had always admired her, and he had always cared for her and loved her in his own way. To be so closely associated with her, even if only by common perception, isn't so bad. For them, I do not mind. And... perhaps I would not mind if...

But even he dares not finish that thought, ducking his head with a flush and an embarrassed cough.

Slowly, he tilts his head to one side as he watches her, silvery-blonde hair spilling over one shoulder. His expression fades from embarrassment to one of peace and contentment. Maybe his thoughts still linger on that misconception, or maybe he's just reflecting on how much of an unexpected home this place has become. Or perhaps he isn't thinking of anything at all, happy just to watch her do something as simple as prepare breakfast.

"If it is any consolation, my lady, no one had known that name save my brother and my cousin – Ceallach and Cathaoir. But I was Bedwyr, in Camelot. It was already too easy to be marked a foreigner, and that did me no favours. I did not wish to trouble your reign more than my appointment as marshal already had. I could not have served you as Fionnlagh..."

He's silent as she confesses that it's not so strange to call him by a name she had never known him as, and he smiles a little.

"I know." It's a quiet agreement, though his tone is warm. "It... does not feel proper, and it had always been somewhat awkward for me to call you 'King Arthur' when I had known your secret." His behaviour had never shown it, for he had guarded that secret as zealously as his own. "But... all the same... I find 'Arturia' a pretty name. If... I may be so bold," he adds, eyes closing. "It... it suits you."

The smell of breakfast makes for a wonderful distraction. He hadn't even realised how hungry he was, and the growl of his stomach makes for no ambiguity on the subject. His mouth crooks into a faint, almost sardonic half-smile. "Ah... I hadn't realised how hungry I was. That smells delicious."

That smile shifts, becoming that awkward, shy smile she seems to enjoy so much. It's one of those expressions that speak for him without words – for the moment he needs none while watching her work.

Forgive me my awkwardness, love. Perhaps in time I may be rid of it, but it is not so easily shed. I... have never been able to... do this before. Never truly lived. And never... no, he decides, eyes hooding as his gaze drops to the tabletop. I have certainly loved. There is no doubt about that. But I had never been able to show it before...

Saber (346) has posed:
It was the Eight Virtues of Chivalry which separated knights from mere warriors, and Generositas and Pietas in particular were expected rather than praised when a knight acted upon them. To understand the value of such virtues logically and even believe in them as ideals, but there were times when such virtues were more, when they were a part of one's personality itself. While some were a struggle, while others came so easily, simply being a part of a knight's nature. Ingenuitas was as much a part of her as it was her knight; both viewed themselves as servants of the people rather than their masters.

But that tireless service came with a price. As selfless as she was, that service had been slowly killing the King just as it was slowly killing her Left Hand...and her Right, her Queen, and many more of the Knights of the Round. One reason she could not blame her homunculus 'son' for dealing that fatal blow even as she fell; she was already dying. Caliburn as sundered and Avalon stolen...and with them whatever protection she had possessed against the ravages of her own ideals. Though she had despised Iskander's pity and Gilgamesh's unsavoury interest, deep within herself, she knew the other kings understood well what burdens she had accepted, that they would doubtless one day destroy her beneath their weight.

And still, the petite knight tried to bring them all upon herself without complaint, her only regret being that she was not strong enough to carry it indefinitely, or not without realising her dream before she broke. Yet, another folly she had made was blinding herself to the fact that no matter how many burdens she tried to lift from the shoulders of those loyal to her, they carried likewise heavy burdens of their own. Some even followed her path of bearing everything until their own bodies eventually gave in. If there was one mistake she would not repeat, it would be in setting a better example.

That was proving difficult. There was much to be done, and among those tasks was ensuring Bedivere did not continue down that path. But that was so ingrained in him, a part of his own personality as much as it was hers, and even persuading him through reason could not ease the need to do something. Arturia was fortunate indeed that she no longer needed to affect impartiality and an aloof demeanour; fussing over her knight had proven somewhat effective. And she was finally able to remain by his side, no longer needing to tend to the matters of the kingdom first. Dún Reáltaí had need of them even more than perhaps Britain had, yet demanded nothing of cut-throat politics or elaborate illusions. If there was ever a place which would permit a proper healing, it was where they had found themselves...even if the time it took for Bedivere to be able to so much as hold a quill was making him miserable.

That was to say nothing of how his exhaustion persisted after five years of little sleep. Arturia considered that, after breakfast, she might try to persuade him to return to bed, at least for a few more hours. She would need to remain by his side or at least nearby; there were always the ledgers to look over, she could at the very least finish some of that workload. There would always be some form of work which needed to be done, even when running a small fief.

Sometimes, being the king for an entire collection of passionate young men was not all that the legends made it out to be. Even the unflappable Bedivere could have his moments when properly roused...and apparently did. It might have been a little dangerous, given the position he would soon be tasked with not long after his knighting ceremony. But she could hardly fault him; he had been young, idealistic, and she knew all too well how angry it made her when her own dreams had been so casually brushed off. Perhaps it had hurt all the more when it had been someone close doing so.

When his smile turned shy, Arturia internally finished the sentence to herself, though perhaps he knew her well enough to understand what she thought. ...Not because he had fallen in love. Suddenly, it was her own face flushing at the thought. Though that fact had been revealed to her some time ago, she remained in awe, even a little timid at it. It was still something she could scarcely believe, and even then she only did because he had told her as much.

The moment passed quickly, however, thinking of Lucan. She would mourn him as she did all her knights, while he would as family. But in the multiverse, even the impossible seemed possible. One day, they would all meet again...she would find them, make amends, and somehow grant their wishes. "I will find them. That I promise you," she swore with her familiar steely resolve. Though that, like their dreams for Dún Reáltaí, was getting ahead of herself.

The only Servant who had seemed to actively enjoy the age he had been summoned to had been Rider; Archer outright despised it, and at the time, Saber was so intensely focused on winning Heaven's Feel that she hadn't truly appreciated it. It had only been after some time in the multiverse that she began to appreciate the advances made and what good they had done for the people. And only now was she truly able to improve their lives in a real way, more than simply in driving off enemies.

And just as importantly, such prospects gave the pale-haired knight something to look forward to, something to actively enjoy. It was one thing to be useful, to save the people, but to bring them something beyond survival, or even just some improvement of their lot...well, the lord of the land was not the only one eagerly anticipating the event. Once the snows had melted and the danger of frost passed, it would be an excellent way to celebrate the true end of winter before the spring planting work began.

She sobered at the pause, the unspoken remembrance of what his final duties to her and to Camelot. That she was here now did not erase the pain and grief he had been forced to endure then. All that remained were fragments of those dreams, and her wish to save her kingdom, her dream of utopia.

For as long as she could remember, Arturia had dreamed. Some had been within her grasp, but others remained impossible goals, things which she could only reach for with all her might. Many were never realised. But she could never stop reaching for utopia...even if she could not bring it to Britain. And some were not so impossible in this new age. "Ah. Indeed, it is," she agreed, smiling in turn.

Now, they had a true home, a place where the dreams which once lay beyond her grasp were finally within reach. Utopia might have been simply an ideal, but those things which she had prayed for and sought to bring about along the way were no longer impossible. It might have seemed such a small and insignificant place in comparison to Britain, yet the jade-eyed knight would never think that way. Not after all it had already given them. It was at once humbling and a great relief.

It was certainly a situation which was more than slightly embarrassing, to be sure. But they had fallen into the same patterns of Camelot: the Marshal of the Realm overseeing the general logistics at the side of the otherwise silent King giving the final word on the operation. Likewise, she had delegated the responsibility of lordship to her capable aide-de-camp in the absence of her castellan as was the standard procedure. And she had not openly fussed over the injured and fatigued knight, merely checking on him in their silent method of communication. But then...she had never indicated that she was a king. Moreover, she had not hidden her gender as she had previously. The realisation was more than slightly humiliating that she herself was mostly responsible for the misunderstanding.

Perhaps...it might be, Arturia admitted. Yet, I do not think it wrong...if you are to heal, I need to be at your side, so it cannot be shameful. And for their sake...

She tilted her head quizzically at the unfinished thought, a rare moment when even their nearly flawless method of silently speaking failed. Yet, she didn't inquire, having already reassured him to go at his own pace. The idea was to make him comfortable, after all, without the five years of multiversal socialisation.

The Servant shook her head, smiling faintly, swapping out finished toast from the skillet onto a plate and frying the next batch. "It is understandable...it was difficult for the three of you, to have come from so far away. I...suppose I could not have asked and risk compromising impartiality..." If anything, she regretted not being able to learn about her knights from a personal standpoint.

Though her back was turned to the hearth and her face was hidden, doubtless he would be able to catch the tell-tale faint tinge of red at her ears at the compliment. She might have even murmured something like gratitude, though it was more than likely drowned out with the sound of frying.

Now it was her turn to chuckle softly. It hadn't demanded much wisdom to know that he would be hungry. She certainly was, though with her need for magic energy, such a thing was a given. "There are occasions when I do know what I am doing," she teased subtly with a hint of self-depreciation. She smiled with a bit of shyness herself as she caught a glimpse of the endearing smile, a slight smear of flour on her cheek as she briefly wiped her free hand on her apron. "Fate taught this to me...I believe it is called 'French toast.'"

We both have a great deal of awkwardness to overcome...it would seem. After a moment, Arturia decided to speak out loud; her reflections might not be something Bedivere would have expected from her. "When I first found myself here in the multiverse, it had been not long after my Master used his remaining command seals to order me to turn Excalibur upon the Holy Grail."

It was strange, she reflected, how dispassionate she was able to be about the end of the Fourth War now. It almost felt as if those events had happened to someone else, she felt so distanced from them after five years. Perhaps there were some wounds that time indeed healed. "I was enraged, bitter, mistrustful...had the one I encountered then not been an honourable knight, I dare not consider what might have become of me." She would not have been able to help Bedivere at all then, and she knew it. It was almost as if my mask had become all that I truly was.

Her smile contained an entire range of emotions; the lingering traces of pain and regret, but also fondness and happiness her friends had brought her. She could never truly repay Agrias and Sakura for what they had done for the King of Knights. "One might say that this knight rescued me as much as I later rescued her...and Sakura as well. They, and many others, reminded me that I was not the mask I wore, in the five years I have lived here."

So...it is all right. It is not an easy nor simple thing, it will take time. But time is something we now have.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
No matter how respectable such virtues as Generositas, Ingenuitas, and Pietas were, they could only do so much when the knight following them pursued them to the exclusion of all else. Strong as he is, even Bedivere would have driven himself into death for the sake of those knightly virtues; for having nothing but those virtues left to him. They had always been part of his personality. After her death, they consumed him.

In the end, no matter how he looks at it, that service would have been the death of him. Not only that, but he would have allowed it to be. He had nothing left after Arturia had left him for Avalon's mist-shrouded shores. Serving others was merely a means to an end, in a way, and that end was his own end. Perhaps he could not take the knife to his own throat, but he could give until he had nothing left to give.

On some level, he knows this, now. He would have allowed that to come to pass, in the tangled wealds after Camlann, for he had no reason not to. If anything, he is grateful. He had not even known he had been staying that course. Not until she's pointed it out to him, or fussed over him more times than he can count in these past few months, has he realised just how damaging his desire to be useful had become.

Now, all he can feel is gratitude. She had seemingly come back from the dead, albeit as something slightly more than human. In so doing, she had also pulled him from the brink, in more ways than he can count... in more way than he can ever truly know.

The pale-haired knight rests his elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his hand as he regards her through hooded eyes. That shy and awkward smile gives way to thoughtful neutrality, as though he were reflecting on these things, and how very close to death he himself had come. Not just that, but how close he had wandered without even knowing it. He would have served until his broken body could rise no more.

He wonders again, briefly, what he had done to deserve such a second chance; what he had done to win back the life he had been so weary of and willing to give up. Without even realising it, he finds himself smiling that warm but weary smile again. It's a conflicted expression. It carries all the warmth and affection, and even awe, he can't help but feel every time he looks at her – but at the same time, that great weariness of five years past, pressing down on him and bowing head and shoulders; more strongly than any physical weight.

His regard lingers on her, even as she completes the thought he doesn't quite finish, and the motivations Lucan couldn't understand – or be told of.

Aye, but I could not tell him that. That smile twists until it's a little more lopsided, not quite sardonic, but almost there. I dared not risk even my own brother finding out. I've no doubt he suspected, in later years, but I would not confirm it for him, nor deny it. I could not endanger him so. Nor you, my love. I would have sooner returned to Dál Riata.

His gaze lingers on the king when she swears to find the other knights, those companions of his that he had missed so bitterly. He doesn't answer her oath for a long moment, and something in his expression seems almost troubled. Those faded, tired violet eyes almost seem to mist over at the thought of those knights he had cared so much for. His brother-knights had fought and bled and died beside him at Camlann, including his brother and cousin.

Bedivere looks down to the table, and for a few brief moments he seems unspeakably tired. His back is hunched; his shoulders bow down, head down and hair hiding his face.

"I would like that, my lady," he finally murmurs, softly. He stares dully at his own hands, the left turning over so he can regard the red of the command seal; intricate knotwork forming a simplified imitation of Excalibur. Perhaps they might have come back as Servants, somewhere. Perhaps then I can beg their forgiveness. I could not even bury them. But instead he says, very softly, "I would like that very much."

Remembering that he had failed even that last rite is like a twisted knife in his gut. He closes his eyes, sighing heavily.

Having her back at his side is a balm for his troubled spirit, but it cannot replace the others that had fallen on that terrible day. To be certain, though, it is a blessing – one he is loathe to disrespect.

"Thank you, my lady." He smiles gently, though she may not be able to see the expression, hidden behind his hair as he is. "Aye. I should like that, indeed. We... we will do that together."

Camelot this broken stronghold is not, but there is nonetheless a quality to Dún Reáltaí that the jewel of Albion could never possess. This quirky little fortress, with its winter-witch and its determined, hopeful people; its reconstruction and the puppyish ice-hound that seems to have attached itself to him... its oak tree, its tumbledown walls and church, its charming little village on the slope of the hill... he finds he wouldn't trade this for anything.

Dún Reáltaí is at once more insignificant than Camelot, but at the same time, it has something about it far more precious than the doomed kingdom he had served. There is a humbleness to it, and a modesty, and a simple joy all its own.

It is home.

He looks down again at that quizzical look from her, at the unfinished thought he couldn't quite bring himself to finish. There's no doubt she can see the red of his face even through that silvery-blonde hair, for it shows in the tips of his ears, even as he lets his gaze drop and turn anywhere that isn't looking at her.

That is not why they think you are at my side. He lets his gaze linger downward, regarding the edge of the sling at his right arm; plucking restlessly at a loose thread on its outer edge. They think us a lord and his wife, and... no, perhaps I cannot think it wrong, precisely, but...

Slowly, he lifts his gaze toward her general direction, though his face is burning and he dare not look her directly in the eyes. In fact, when he comes close to that, he drops his gaze to the table again, coughing in embarrassment. I was thinking... perhaps it might not be so bad if... it were not just a ruse... if...

His face is on fire, some distant, serene part of him decides. It must be, because no human should be made to endure heat like that. Bedivere takes several moments to stare at the table until the burning abates, and he doesn't look up until the sound of her voice prompts him to. Squinting, he reaches up and rubs at his jaw with his left hand, thoughtful; his mouth twists into a faint frown.

"Difficult?" He seems almost puzzled by the description. "Perhaps. But it did not feel so difficult. We had each other, though we dared not speak our tongue unless there were no others around to hear us. And we remembered our home. Perhaps I was made more alone when I was appointed your marshal... I could not speak to Ceallach as openly as I had before. And Griflet and I were not close... but it was not difficult to me." He shakes his head, letting his hand drop back to the table's surface. "At least, I never thought of it so. No. Difficult..."

Again, that shy smile shows itself, as he looks down to the table. "For me, it was worse to serve you, to be so close and so far away... I will not pretend that was not difficult." That smile brightens a little as he looks up to her. "But please, do not feel guilty, my lady. It was a choice I made. And I knew that choice was killing my spirit slowly... but I suppose even then... I would have preferred to be close to you, no matter what it had cost me, than to return to Dál Riata a failure." He stoically ignores the heat he feels settling over his cheekbones. "Even then, I had known what it meant. I knew I could never have your love. Or you mine. To be in your service had been the best I could hope for, and that was enough for me, then..."

"I would have answered any questions. But you are right. You could not have asked. We were already suspect – we knights of Dál Riata – there had been whispers even as I was appointed." He shakes his head, slowly. "I was not ignorant of them. I would not have endangered your reign any more than that with accusations of favouritism..."

"But now..." Those faded eyes hood, and he shows that warm smile again. "Now, though... you need only ask, my lady, and I will answer what questions I can. There are no nobles to whisper in the shadows, and no one to disapprove." That smile broadens a little, even though it takes on an almost sheepish quality. "I... daresay the villagers might be puzzled if we did not act close..."

His brows arch when she teases him, mouth twisting in a smile he seems to be trying to stifle, unsuccessfully. "Ah? I never said you couldn't find your way about the kitchen. Did I?" He almost seems worried for a moment, as though wondering if he had misspoken without even realising it. "You've more a gift for it than Sir Gawain. And certainly more skill than myself. I never learned more than basic skills."

"That smells delicious," he adds, with a grin. "Hm. I seem to recall something similar in Camelot, though it was perhaps prepared a little differently. A little egg goes a long way to disguise bread that's begun turning, and it wouldn't do to waste bread. Not when the harvests are such an inconstant thing, be it poor weather or raiding Saxons."

He looks down at the table, then, clearing his throat a little awkwardly at her unspoken observation.

There is certainly a great deal of awkwardness for them both to overcome. Truth be told, some part of him is surprised that he's dealt with the situation as gracefully as he has. Perhaps he's just too tired to put up much of a fuss or pretend to be distant. His heart had been broken too thoroughly, and he has no use for that strange form of pride.

Life is too short.

He listens in silence as she relates her tale regarding the conclusion of the Fourth War, and he doesn't interrupt her. He can certainly imagine what some part of her must have been feeling, for they are cut from the same cloth – rage, bitterness, mistrust; every single thing she had fought for had been betrayed, and with that witches' brew of negativity in her heart, she had been cast adrift into the multiverse.

"I shall say a prayer for this knight when I am at Mass again," he says slowly. "It is clear to me that you hold her in the highest of regard, and in a way, I surely must owe her a debt as well, for she has however indirectly returned you to me, safely." A smile threatens to flicker through his solemnity, but the expression is faint, almost bittersweet. "Perhaps not whole, for that may have been asking too much after..." The statement trails off, and seems almost regretful. He sighs faintly. "What irony, that it would have returned to you the weakest of your knights, in the poorest of condition. I cannot even sleep on my own..."

It must be a point in his favour, for in spite of the shame with which he seems to regard his own complicated issues, he doesn't call himself useless. He must be learning.

"Aye," he says quietly, almost a whisper. To what he agrees, he doesn't clarify; at least not verbally. We have time, here. No more wolves at the door or in our midst. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to her, smiling that warm smile; the one he saves only for her – all the gratitude and love he feels, still a little too shy to put to words.

Fortunately, they've always communicated better without words. "I am glad," he murmurs instead, through that smile. "And blessed."

That smile twists into more of a grin. "And I... am unspeakably hungry. Join me for breakfast, my love. And... perhaps we might rest some more, then. If... it would not be any trouble to you, that is..." His request is given in a tone almost apologetic. "I am so tired, still... I think I might be able to sleep for a little while longer... once I've eaten."

He will, however, wait until she's prepared her own portion. It would be rude to start eating without her, even if she'll likely insist he take the first share. And he is, if nothing else, bound to etiquette. His adherence to protocol is nearly to the point of self-sacrifice, whether he's aware of it or not.

"Most of all," he comments, voice a little distracted in his thoughts, "it seems you have rescued me. I had not quite thought of it that way, but... I do not know for how long I would have carried on. Until I had nothing left, I suppose." His gaze drops to the table again, voice soft and thoughtful. "Truly, I had nothing left. My home, my family, my love. Gone; up in smoke and flames."

"Isn't it strange, though...? I went from having nothing left to me, to being given everything..." He cocks his head to regard her almost curiously. The beginnings of that weary but warm smile touch his face again. "I've a home, for the first time... since I can remember. And I... we... have each other."

He shakes his head, as though incredulous; when he looks back to her, his expression is one of quiet awe.

"What more could I possibly want for...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Perhaps, for the King of Knights, her own chivalric ideals had been the death of her. The drive for perfection and her own insistence of her unworthiness had led to her rejection of Mordred, though Camelot was ill-fated long before the homunculus had even been born. The Virtues, while in themselves not hopeless to live by, had been taken to impossible heights in the knight-king. Her strictures had placed heavy demands on any who would serve her and Britain, but she was the most strict with herself. And in the end, they had consumed her in a brilliant flame.

After the end of the Grail War, all that remained was not even that much. She continued to follow the code, but in a much more reserved manner. Those who lived by a similar code were allies and those who did not were treated with caution at best; what point was there in bringing others to chivalry when her wish had been to undo history itself?

It was not until she had befriended the holy knight of Ivalice and the young magus of the Tohsaka line – and become the Servant of the latter – that her inner flame to bring chivalry to the people had been renewed. Not until she had let go of her wish did it become necessary to reach for a new goal, not until she had truly accepted her reality was she able to return to being a true knight. And by the time he had emerged, Arturia was finally in a position to actually help.

The jade-eyed knight had failed her kingdom, failed her knights...and when the opportunities to correct her mistakes, in whatever minor ways she could, she had seized them. She had hardly been in a position to do so five years ago, especially not tend to Bedivere in the ways he needed. In her single-minded obsession with the Holy Grail and saving Britain, she might have assumed that her only hope for truly saving him – sparing him all the pain he had endured – was to undo history and set things right. And that would have been a terrible mistake.

Or perhaps she would have realised her folly all that much sooner. It was true that she would not have been so open, not at first. But she had owed it to the Left Hand of the King to be honest about her rule and how she had failed the Knights of the Round in failing to obtain the dream they had reached for. She might have wept on his shoulder then, too. But in the end, Arturia doubted that she would have been able to make the same promises; her goal then had been too different.

The guilt over his five years of suffering as she had struggled in the multiverse lingered, as did the pervading sense of helplessness as Bedivere turned the warm yet weary smile on her. She was unable to save him from it, though turning back history would have likewise robbed him of his dreams, even the home they had now found. Her own returned smile was likewise conflicted; all she could do now was try to help him heal...and there was only so much she could do in spite of giving it her full effort.

Camelot had been a place of many secrets, and not merely those of the king. Her ideals, her chivalry, and her dreams had hardly been lies, but how much could have truly been built on foundations so veiled? Regardless of whether or not those secrets existed for the sake of the people, such things compromised Fides...or at least stretched it beyond what it should have been. Arturia frowned slightly; Bedivere should not have been made to bear that burden alone, though he had chosen to do so.

As it was, her pledge was the extent of her power, all she was capable of doing. The king remained vigilant, listening on the radio for any indication of the arrival of new Servants and of new Unifications which betrayed signs of a Grail War, but it was a frustrating business. Her new goal may have been much more easily accomplished than winning the Holy Grail and rewriting history, but the multiverse was vast.

The Servant frowned, troubled. She was limited in how to comfort him, aside from it being rather awkward in some ways; she herself was destined to be among the dead of that battle. It was not a complete resurrection, and those knights who had perished on the battlefield along with her were destined to be reunited within the Throne of Heroes. But that knowledge did little to ease the pain of their loss...and in many ways, even that paled in comparison to the suffering of Camlann's sole survivor.

I am certain they are, she replied silently. The petite king had not been so determined for a very long time. Or even, perhaps...with the way time seems to be a flexible thing in the multiverse, they yet live. And I will find them.

Setting aside her work just long enough to reach over the table, Arturia covered his left hand with hers. But there is no need to ask for forgiveness. You carried out all of your duties more than I could have ever asked. And I am certain the others would agree. Your brother would not wish for you to torture yourself so.

After a moment, she smiled finally; though she was unable to see the smile, she could hear it in his quiet voice. "Aye," she agreed. "We shall."

For the duration of the Fourth Heaven's Feel, a home was something she had hardly needed when temporary bases of operation would suffice for their objectives. Such was the way it had been when their world had Unified; Saber took up residence in a simple barracks at Njorun Station until she contracted with Sakura and moved to the Tohsaka manor to stay with her new Master. That was, perhaps, the closest thing Saber had had to a home since she had left Sir Ector's estate in the countryside. Yet, it remained alien in many ways, in a country far across time and distance, over a thousand years into the future on the other side of the world.

But though Dún Reáltaí lay well beyond even the domain of Earth, it was wholly familiar. More importantly, its quirks added to its charm, its undeniable warmth. Even Camelot had not felt so comfortable; the modesty and humbleness of the broken keep was more reflective of the spirit of the two knights who now found themselves in charge of it. Even its brokenness mirrored that shared spirit, that need of healing.

A true home, indeed.

Though she was not quite certain what it was that had caused such a reaction in him, Arturia could not help but flush in reaction to it. If something was that embarrassing, then it would no doubt embarrass her in turn. Well, yes... she considered cautiously. I had thought they saw that tending your wounds as a part of a lady's duties...

Not that she had any idea what a lady's proper duties were in the first place. And she continued to be half embarrassed, half puzzled when it seemed as if he tried to look at her but could not quite manage to do so...which soon became full embarrassment.

Not...just a ruse... It took a moment for that to completely register for a number of reasons. But once it had, his was not the only face which must have been on fire. She could not meet his eyes any more than he could hers, fumbling and nearly dropping a plate. Once it was safely on the table, she still could not quite lift her eyes from it. No...I do not think it would be so bad...if it were not...

Arturia was admittedly surprised that Bedivere hadn't considered giving up his culture or heritage as a difficult thing. To not be able to play music, or even so much as speak their native tongue or be addressed by their real names...she still considered such things sacrifices. Though perhaps, in comparison to even greater ones, such things would have seemed almost trivial.

Though he had reassured her not to feel guilty, a part of her couldn't help the slight knit of her brow; that service to her had been poisoning his spirit. Yet, she could not have afforded to turn him away. Perhaps it would have appeased the xenophobic, fearful nobles if she had, but her court had been a meritocracy; any who proved his worth could become a knight, and the violet-eyed aspirant had proven himself many times over. It would have made her espousal of the Virtues meaningless, otherwise. After that, he proved himself indispensable as the appointed Marshal of the Realm, his conduct impeccable. The king had no reason to send him back to the coast-lands of Dál Riata, even as eventually she was forced to bury a dangerous fear after the final battle against the Saxons.

However, everything had changed. Those burdens were gone, and the new ones were no trouble at all by comparison. It might very well have been that she was overcompensating with her concern, fussing at him when the old patterns of overworking emerged. The flaxen-haired knight had decided, however, that she would prefer to err on the side of caution. Without the constant eyes upon her, she had no need to hide her true feelings or withhold her favour. Or, in this case, painstakingly tend to a single knight.

"Truthfully, it is more of the sense of lost time," Arturia admitted ruefully. "How I could not compromise impartiality by showing favour. Yet...I cannot help but regret that I was unable to understand all of you..."

She chuckled softly at the sheepish smile. "Hm. I think...I shall ask when the moments arise."

A faint smirk alighted her face with a soft 'hmph'. "Yes, I know you did not. But it was not a necessary skill for a king, or even a squire...aside from only the most basic of preparation."

And Gawain was less than skilled with even that much. She shuddered slightly at the thought of the Knight of the Sun's 'cooking' once again, though the moment gratefully passed quickly. A gifted healer and herbalist though he was, but a decent cook he was not.

With a slight nod, she agreed with the recollection of something similar from their own time. "I believe there was, yes. Though in this era, there have been many welcome changes." Namely, cinnamon and sugar. "Perhaps it is no longer necessary to be quite so frugal, yet I would prefer to remain so." Even now, Arturia hated needless waste as much as she always had.

As involuntary as the awkwardness had been, Arturia had decided that she would not waste time hiding behind her mask before those she was close to...or those she should have been. Perhaps she should have been more reserved, at first, but just as he had been too broken to maintain the familiar distance, so too was she. They had reached their limit. And though some awkwardness remained at the change in their relationship, it was gradually improving.

A gentle, fond smile crossed her features then, albeit with an undercurrent of sorrow. "Her name is Agrias," she told him. "In some ways, she is as broken as we. I know not where she rides, now, but she is by her queen's side once more."

While she was glad that Bedivere was not mourning his supposed uselessness at the moment, he was still blaming himself for things which could not be helped, nor were any fault of his own. Cut from the same cloth, indeed. "It would not be realistic to expect you to return unscathed from Camlann, though your wounds are much different. And are you not my marshal? That aside, do you remember what Sakura had said, when she had passed her command seals to you?"

She flushed, looking away, her voice becoming so soft it was barely audible. "She did not speak untrue."

Still too shy to express those feelings out loud, but she could hardly fault him in any way, especially not when she herself was struggling with that same dilemma. "Aye," she agreed with the warm smile which belonged to him and him alone. "As am I, my love."

The pale-haired knight wasn't the only one who was unspeakably hungry; she was a Saber, to be sure. Arturia laughed softly, dividing up her completed work. "Good. It would hardly do to starve yourself."

There was a slight shake of her head and a light smile of relief. For all his unhappiness at being unable to contribute directly to the rebuilding of the village, she would much rather him catch up on much-needed sleep for the time being. Even if the townsfolk were not as patient and understanding as they had been – she had caught those concerned whispers over the subject of his health, as well – Arturia would have insisted on it. Or, at the very least, served that medicine tea. "It is no trouble. Truly, I am thankful that you wish to rest."

He wouldn't have to wait long for breakfast; she served them both with relative and somewhat practised ease after those occasions where she had been the one to handle breakfast in the Tohsaka household. Idly, she had wondered at the time if Rin thought she was going to burn the house down, and what she had thought of the strongest Servant of the Grail War managing decent french toast. Presently, the important thing was that he ate; and the baked apples over it certainly shouldn't do any harm. Initially, they had been something of a bribe to encourage him to return to bed after breakfast, though now it was simply a reward for doing so.

Sea-green eyes blinked in naked surprise at the idea that she had saved him. She, who had failed so miserably to save her own kingdom. Arturia had hardly thought of it that way, acting out of some measure of guilt but mostly out of loyalty and love. It had been more than simply owing him this much; she wanted almost desperately for Bedivere to have some measure of a happy life, to heal, to leave Camlann behind forever.

Her expression turned thoughtful as she considered that strange yet wonderful reversal of fortune. Much was still gone, and they would never entirely be freed from the pain of the past. Yet, to have gone from the blood-soaked hill to the Holy Grail War and the betrayal she had suffered to the depraved machinations and abuse of the Servant Archer to this very moment. Though their brothers-in-arms had been lost, she now had the resolve to seek them out once more out in the mysterious and oddly miraculous multiverse. She had dear friends. She had a true home. And the two of them had each other.

She smiled fondly at him, of a kind that only he would see. "I sought the Grail to grant a miracle." With a soft chuckle, she shook her head lightly in wonderment. "I failed...only to be granted many more. I could ask for nothing else."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Dreams and ideals are elusive things in a world of dreary fatalism, where man prefers to help himself before his fellows. A knight could work himself to death and never gain any ground against that apathy, for the hearts of men are weak. They are easily led to temptation and selfishness. Bedivere had witnessed this firsthand when the Battle of Camlann destroyed everything he had ever known or loved, and he had been helpless but to watch everything burn in that great ending-fire.

He'd been left with no choice but to pick up the pieces after that, but there was no mistaking that he had left that battlefield a broken man. All that had been left to him was his ability to serve others, yet he had taken no satisfaction or fulfillment from the knightly virtues he lived by. Slowly, over the course of those five years, it seemed he had felt less and less. The emptiness had begun to do its work, consuming him, and if she had not rescued him there would not have been very much left worth saving.

If he had lingered for much longer without direction, even that automated sense of duty would have failed him. He would have died of a broken heart, alone and in pain, as surely as the sun rises.

Not long before Arturia had found him again, he had wondered if he would ever remember how to smile, after suffering through the hell of Camlann and the nightmares that plagued him. Now, though... it seems he can scarcely stop smiling in her presence. Even their expressions are nuanced and subtle, as all their unspoken communication is, and he finds his own expression softening at the conflict in her smile. His own seems to be a gesture of silent reassurance.

Worry not, my love. Not for me. He watches her for a few long moments. His regard is gentle; something warm and tender in the way he studies her. Once again he finds himself silently resolving that he'll do anything for her sake, to protect that gentle smile of hers, and ease the melancholy from it. His own smile brightens a little. You have done all you can, have you not? All that remains now is to heal. It is a long and weary road, but so long as you are by my side, I will be strong enough to walk it. We will walk it together...

Those violet eyes linger, his gaze strangely earnest as he studies her. There is nothing we cannot do so long as we remain at one another's side. And every day, I thank the Lord God for that.

He takes in her intentions regarding his fallen brother-knights in silence, but there's no mistaking that he did catch her meaning. The level of communication they can maintain without words borders on eerie. They had always been close, no matter the distance they had pretended, but their bond had been one born of understanding. Their personalities were similar. Fortunately, that understanding has paved the way for even closer bonds; of intimacy, rather than duty. Here, in the multiverse and free of their masks, that closeness has had the chance to develop naturally.

As for letting that closeness develop... it's as effortless as breathing, to him. Even he can't help but feel a sense of wonder whenever he pauses to think on that.

Looking down a second or two after she takes his hand in hers, he blinks slowly, wearily, as though he weren't quite comprehending the sight. It's a gesture both comforting and familiar to them both by now, so perhaps he's just tired. Or perhaps he's mulling over his response.

I do not feel forgiven. The faint smile he shows is a little melancholy. I alone survived. Surely there must have been something more I could have done for them, something to save even one of them.

Ultimately, though, she's right. There's only so much he could have done in the midst of that hell. That he had survived at all is a miracle in and of itself.

He turns his hand over with the utmost care, folding it over hers and lifting it to brush his lips over the top of it. He holds it to his face once he's done that, bowing his head as though to lean into her touch.

Aye.

He closes his eyes for a moment, content to hold her hand to his face, silently reveling in the warmth of it. Only reluctantly does he release her to let her finish preparing breakfast, settling back in his chair as she does.

Just in time, too, as what he'd thought so shyly seems to register—

The silver-haired knight looks down to the table, unable to look at her. There's no doubt she can see the scarlet of his ears through his pale hair, even if his face is hidden by it. Yet he still understands her meaning. When he finally masters himself, he smiles shyly, so painfully shyly; but it's also a warm and hopeful expression. If anything, it almost seems relieved.

As he does, he must sense something of her surprise at his sacrifices. Bedivere shakes his head faintly.

"It was not difficult only because I had other, more painful things to endure," he murmurs. "If I had not struggled daily with the thing I had tried so hard to hide, then yes, it would have been hard. But I did not think of it. I was isolated by something much more dangerous than losing my culture and my people. I could not even tell my own brother why I had given it all up. I did not have a choice but to bear that secret in solitude, for it would have brought ruin to anyone I could have told it to. It would have been the end of your reign, and perhaps the end of my life, if my detractors had ever got hold of it." His smile is a little sad. "Worst of all, I could not tell you. It would not have been fair to burden you with that; you, who had borne so much pain already... yet I was content in my own way to serve you. It was the only way I could remain by your side. For I knew, even if I did nothing else – I could not bear to leave you."

He smiles, a little sadly. "I had to live with that for twenty years. And then to lay you to rest... no. To stop speaking Gaelic or to give up Uilleann pipes seemed such a small thing, such an insignificant thing. I was alone, but it was more than mere culture or language."

As he had done from the start, he had borne his pain in silence, burying that longing and sadness with such ruthlessness that no one had ever suspected; not even the one he had longed for. It had cost him, as he's now finding out, but at the time it had been his only option. He could not have shown that. For her reign, it would have been the beginning of the end.

Reaching back with his left hand, he settles his mantled cloak about him more securely, shivering a little. The hearth may be lit and the cookfire burning merrily, but the keep is still cold. Not everything in the keep is fully reconstructed, and the cold wind still manages to get in. His fatigue hasn't helped; it's made him weak, and more sensitive to the cold than he might be otherwise. At her rueful admission of time lost and regret, he only shakes his head.

"You did what needed to be done. There is no shame in that, my love. Even if you had asked me, then, I could not have answered. I would not allow myself or my reputation to cause you trouble..." His expression turns thoughtful as his gaze slides away from her. "And yet... I do not think I could have remained stoic, if you had come to me directly." He looks back to her with a slightly crooked smile. "Just as I cannot now, you see?"

He can maintain calm in the face of overwhelming insult, and let logic drive him even in the most panic-inducing situations – but a simple smile or compliment from her sends him into all manner of blushing and floundering. In her presence, he may as well have never spent several years building that mask, for all the good it does him. There's no point in even trying, but more importantly, he doesn't want to try. Once he'd endured the pain of having to isolate himself from the very person he had loved so fiercely, so distantly, he finds he has no taste for falling back into those old routines. He can't. Too long he had suffered that pain even as his love had spurred him on and lent him strength.

Then, after that, he had to endure the grief and agony of laying her to rest; of never seeing her looking at the stars with such melancholy, or never meeting her eyes as they'd pass while he was at his rounds. They had been small things, but those small things had nonetheless sustained him.

I do not think I could bear that pain again. His gaze drops away from her, distant and unfocused for a moment, and that old melancholy she had once seen in him creeps back in. The fingers of his left hand drum on the table in thoughtful gesture.

Slowly, he looks up as she speaks of that mysterious knight. Whoever it is, the knight must have done a tremendous service to Arturia, to be held in such high regard. His lips thin as she gives the knight's name, and he bows his head briefly in solemn gesture.

"Then I shall say a prayer at Mass for Dame Agrias, wherever she may be, for I can see that you hold her in the highest of regard, and the greatest of honours, and she has done you a great service." His eyes close briefly. "Any service done to you by her is a service done to me."

At Arturia's gentle chiding, he sighs through his nose, but for once he doesn't protest. Instead, his eyes close at that warm smile of hers, the expression warming him surely as the summer sun, and he can feel his own smile broaden. Something about seeing that expression on her face gives him the same sense of warmth and security; a thing he can't help but cherish.

It fades, though, and he shakes his head.

"I do not enjoy feeling so weak. I did not think I had let myself fall so far... I am shamed to have neglected Exercitium so. Aye, I will rest after we have eaten. I am too cold, and too weak, and in too much pain, to be of any use to anyone. I cannot even write. Better I sacrifice a few days to regain my strength than to wound myself further." Some part of him is a little resentful over that lost time, when time seems so critical a thing, but there's not much he can do about it. It had never taken him so long to heal in Camelot, but he had been younger, stronger; and his ability to shrug off injury and fatigue had nonetheless come at great cost. Pushing past the exhaustion and the pain had been killing him slowly, as much in body as in spirit. Now, at threshold, his body demands leniency from him – for he has no more of himself to give.

"It is a cold morning." He pushes at the toast on his plate with a fork, an idle gesture as he waits for her to return with her own food; he is loathe to eat before her, especially after she'd gone to the trouble of preparing it... and the marshal is canny enough to suspect that she probably did it for him, even if she's having some herself. "Aye. I should like to return to bed after this. I am weary, my love, so weary. It is shameful of me, but some part of me wishes I could sleep straight through the winter..."

He yawns, as though to illustrate his point. The idea of burying himself under all those furs and blankets after breakfast is an attractive one. Better still, he decides, is the idea of having Arturia close by while he does. Her mere presence is soothing. More than once he's woken in the night from nightmares of Camlann, only to be soothed by the jade-eyed knight. Patiently, she's weathered the storm of his anguish, slipping her fingers through his silvery hair until sleep takes him again. Being able to drift off to sleep in her arms is soothing in a way he never could have imagined. It's a gift and a luxury more precious than the most priceless treasure, more valuable to him than the finest silver and gold.

Once more he finds himself smiling that shy, awkward smile; the one she finds so endearing.

It is unknightly, but... I look forward to resting. I had dreaded it before, but... He stoically ignores the colour creeping into his cheekbones. I did not think it could be so comforting, just to sleep with you by my side... Or comfortable, but he doesn't quite finish that thought, smiling that awkward little smile and ducking his head.

When she finally settles at the table with him, he can't help but mirror her fond smile. He simply studies her for a few long moments; such contentment and warmth in his eyes that he doesn't even need to speak.

Ah, but the food's going to go cold, and he is hungry. He pauses just long enough to murmur a quiet prayer over the food, and then wastes no time in setting into it. Bedivere may be fastidious, but it seems he must have neglected his meals in the weald, too – when he has a meal before him, he eats like a starved wolfling. Arturia may have done a thorough job ensuring he catches up on his meals and his rest, but with so much to do around the keep, his meals are still a little irregular. He'd spent much of the previous day resting and drifting in and out of sleep... like as not he forgot a meal here or there.

It shows.

Once he's brought himself to stop for a moment, he breathes a sigh of pleasure. She may not be a five-star chef, but her cooking is enjoyable, especially to one whose tastes are so relatively simple as his.

He chuckles at her observation. "Mm. I did not even seek the grail," he murmurs, cocking a violet eye toward her. "Nor did I seek a miracle. Yet they found me. Everything I could want for has been answered, the Lord God be praised. I do not know what I did to earn it, but I would do it again, without hesitation."

He can't help but smile that warm, almost radiant smile.

"Ah, my love. I do not even know how to put to words how grateful I am. To have a place to return to, a home... to serve the people and to do so in accordance with the knightly virtues... and to have you by my side, in a way we never could have had in Camelot..." The knight shakes his head, slowly. "There are days I can scarcely believe my good fortune."

Having said that, he falls quiet, but mostly so he can finish his food. The combination of relatively simple ingredients is nonetheless almost irresistible to him – he's always loved apples, and he has a newfound love of cinnamon. What was once a rare and expensive commodity is now common and cheaply available, much like salt and sugar.

Truly, the modern age is astounding.

How someone can eat so quickly and yet still be as fastidious as a cat, however, is likely a question for the ages... though Arturia manages much the same thing, tearing through huge quantities of food without ever compromising her elegance. Her marshal, however, is wholly human. It's possible he'd gotten so used to working himself half to death that he simply doesn't recognise when he's half-starved any more. And for a very long time, he had been in a half-starved state.

"Delicious," he murmurs between bites, practically radiating pleasure. Though his enjoyment might seem reserved to most people, this is as close to such gleeful display as he'll come. "I did not expect the apples, and they pair so well with the cinnamon." He trails off, though, smiling a little sheepishly as he reaches up to clear his hair away from his face.

After his pleased outburst, Bedivere can't help but laugh softly. It's not the same as that wild and free laughter he'd shown after the céilidh, but it's no less joyful; if a little sheepish. "Ah, my lady, you are too good to me..."

Saber (346) has posed:
At the end of Camelot, dreams and ideals were all that remained. In spite of its tragic fall, the kingdom continued to inspire future generations – even those who did not necessarily share those ideals – as the people scattered to the four winds and told tales of a golden citadel of distant memory. Those who heard it sought the same dream, the ever-distant utopia...and for some, Camelot itself was the dream. Dreams and ideals turned to legend, and that ancient Britain lived on in the memories of the people.

For Arturia, that was not enough. Her kingdom was far from utopia, but it was nevertheless her duty to protect it even as she sought her dream. She had failed. But her ideals and her path was not wrong; Britain had needed a king with the strength necessary to lead it, strong enough to save the people she was sworn to protect. Strong enough to protect the Round Table and the knights sworn to it. But in the end, she had failed even that.

She learned, for perhaps the first time in her existence, what it meant to be truly alone. In Camelot, she had isolated herself for the sake of her rule, yet she had constant companions in the Round Table, though she was forbidden from showing them favour. Once the Grail War had concluded, those companions, those familiar faces, were gone. Only one of her knights had returned as a Servant, and King of Knights had ended his life with her own hands. She had placed all her hope and her faith in winning the Holy Grail, and with it gone, her bitterness and despair returned.

Little had she known that with Unification came her salvation. Camelot could not be saved, but she had the chance to save the people she was sworn to protect...including those knights wherever she found them. And little had she known she would be rewarded far beyond what she considered her worth, granted the very things she had sacrificed for Britain.

It seemed all she could do was stay by his side, her wish of saving Camelot and averting Camlann abandoned. She could not simply reassure herself that Bedivere would not endure that hell if only she could allow a more suitable king, as she had when she had ended Lancelot's tragic existence as a Berserker. At the end of Heaven's Feel, all she might have done was stay by his side, promising to undo their terrible history even as she focused all her energy into finding a way to grant that wish. But now, all her energy was focused into tending to the gentle knight and rebuilding the place which had become their home.

She suppressed a sigh at his reassurance, frustrated with herself. I cannot help it, she confessed; she was a chronic worrier by nature. Even if Bedivere had been reborn as a Servant just as she had, she would worry even then. Rather than a reflection of his perceived weakness, it was a statement of her regard for him, the marshal she had depended on for years and watched from afar.

She frowned slightly, furrowing her brow in uncertainty. She was supposed to be the one comforting him, yet once more since their reunion where she openly wept on his shoulder he bore the burden of her troubles. As long as we are together? Of course, she had felt that way, but wondered if she was even truly helping at times. The fussing had to have become frustrating, but if he had been worried that she might disappear, that fear was mutual. Overprotective, perhaps, but she could no longer go back to keeping herself so isolated. She had always believed the king must be lonely, yet she found an impossible strength in their bond...both the old and the new.

It had been almost dizzying, the speed at which that new bond had matured on its own. Without their masks or inner walls to hinder it, that bond had grown like a wildfire. It emboldened her, lifted her spirits, made her think her dreams were not quite so impossible.

Her thumb caressed his cheek lightly as he lifted her hand to his face, her smile bittersweet. I am certain they would feel as I do. That you simply survived, carried on with our ideals even at such a cost to yourself...that was more than we could have ever hoped for. That someone remembered us.

She shook her head slightly. No...I am happy that you yet lived. It was a terrible burden to bear, but yet...I was happy to know that you did.

It was with some reluctance that she returned to her preparations, but he did need to eat something. Besides with, perhaps he would like...

She barely caught a glimpse even of his crimson-tinged ears; she had deliberately turn away and downward, her hair likewise hiding her face, her own blush complimenting his quite nicely. In turn, Arturia was also relieved; in some ways, it already was more than a simple ruse.

Arturia frowned slightly, an involuntary reaction and not one she was even aware of. As much as their focus had been on preparing the village, she hoped that soon they could concentrate on the keep itself. While she was not too terribly bothered by the cold as a Servant, the same could not be said for him. It certainly wasn't helping to speed his recovery. That frown only deepened slightly at the thought of what she had been unable to do; necessary or not, it remained an unpleasant thought.

But he was right; if the present was anything to go by, it would have been impossible to maintain their necessary masks. Though there were times when those masks were needed even now, the jade-eyed knight could only keep it up for so long. But once they had some privacy, that mask crumbled away into nothing. And in Camelot, nothing ever seemed to be completely private, with the eyes and ears of various enemies everywhere. She had worried even when she had permitted it to slip in Guinevere's presence, or Lancelot's.

That melancholy which had only ever crept past her mask late into the night surfaced once more, a kind that never had even during the Holy Grail War, or in the five years since. She had isolated herself from all...even her only friend, even the only one who had truly understood her. For the king must always be lonely, according to her ideals. Or so she had believed, and perhaps in Camelot, it had truly been the only way. But no longer. You will never have to again.

Her smile was bittersweet, thinking of Agrias again; the holy knight would have liked Bedivere, she was certain. Though at the moment, those prayers were necessary. "She has a difficult journey ahead," Arturia confessed. "She is strong, but...like you, she was weary of spirit, last I laid eyes on her. Nevertheless, I pray she is doing well."

His frustration was something she understood completely, another similarity of their respective personalities. When there were injustices to battle and people to save, Saber was always dissatisfied when she could not lend the entirety of her strength to them. But while her marshal was forced to heed the human limits of his body, so too was she to heed the limits of her supernatural one. Her mere existence was taxing on her levels of magical energy, much more so to fight and use her abilities.

"So too, must I exercise caution, and not overexert myself," she observed, eyeing the red knotwork on the back of his hand. Once, she would not have thought twice about using herself up until she finally disappeared. Now, however, she could not leave him alone. Gawain would still be there, but Bedivere had sacrificed everything for her sake. She could not treat that lightly even were she so inclined, and even if she did not return his feelings.

In fact, she had prepared breakfast for the silver-haired knight specifically. She refused to use up more of the keep's reserves than what would have been necessary had she not requires so much to maintain her prana levels, and even then she treated them as emergency rations. That, and those times when eating together might encourage him to eat something. "Hm. So it would seem," she agreed; winter may not affect her in the same way, but the petite king could still feel it. "It is a good day to return to bed and rest...and there will be little to do through the winter."

She had sworn to him that he could draw whatever strength he needed to from her, though it had taken considerable convincing to reach the point where he submitted. Even now, the violet-eyed would protest from time to time even as he admitted he could no longer continue to shoulder everything as he had. There had been a wave of relief when he had finally allowed her in to accept what burdens she could. Comforting him when he awoke from the nightmares was no mere obligation, and even the vestiges of her guilt had been assuaged. It seemed almost blasphemous to linger on it when she seemed to be the only thing which could soothe his anguish. It was almost as if something had given her permission to finally let go of it.

His very presence was a balm for her weary soul. It seemed so wrong sometimes to be given that comfort as others had suffered, but hadn't he suffered for so long? That such simple things from her were a comfort seemed so insignificant, as if she should be sacrificing more to make it up to him. Yet, what comforted him the most, it appeared, was that which brought hers as well. Arturia couldn't help but blush considering it.

She bowed her head after setting her own plate down and seating herself across from Bedivere, and with a similar quiet prayer ate with the same practised elegance as always. Even in private, it was not a habit she could simply stop at will, not after two decades of presenting the image of the perfect, majestic king. It was too ingrained into her. And yet, she visibly relaxed, relieved that he'd regained an appetite. As much as he desperately needed sleep, he needed to eat just as much.

That Arturia could even have learned to cook at all was another miracle of the age. True, she and Kay had learned the same rudimentary skill to feed themselves out in the wilderness. But she had neglected even that skill; it would not have been very inspiring to have seen the king working away in the kitchens even to prepare a modest snack. And while the multiverse boasted a wide array of establishments, she had found that she preferred simpler, home-cooked fare, and that the least she could do for Sakura had been to learn how to help out.

That slowly-developed skill had paid off, most of all when it came to tending to her marshal. Undignified it may have been, yet she found she didn't care.

There had been great trials both knights had endured, over those five years. She had been made to endure Archer's various tortures, but he had been alone. He endured nightmares of Camlann, while hers were of her hand in the destruction of a universe. Each day, she wondered what she could have possibly done to earn such blessings.

For several minutes, there was nothing beyond the humble enjoyment of food. Arturia smiled to herself; adding apples had been a simple thing, but her reward was the violet-eyed knight's smile of pure enjoyment. And with his newfound love of cinnamon, well...with what had once been the New Year of the old calendar fast approaching and with it, All Saints' Day, there were new traditions that her marshal might quickly embrace. "Have you been introduced to caramel yet?" she wondered, the idea already forming.

Arturia chuckled softly with a lopsided smile at his praise. "In truth, it was intended to encourage you to rest further, after this...but consider it a reward for doing so."

To say nothing of allowing Amalthea's blessing to work. The healing might not be as quick as the both of them would have liked, but what would have taken weeks had happened in a matter of days. A small miracle, perhaps, but a miracle nonetheless.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The king had sacrificed not only her own happiness, but her personal ambition in service to Britain. Yet now, here, she has found what she had denied herself for so very long. No matter how unworthy she might think herself, it is what it is – and her faithful marshal, her first-and-last-knight, can no more distance himself than he can disobey her.

So too was it the same for Bedivere. He had sacrificed anything he might have had of personal happiness, but it was as much to serve Britain as it was to serve her. That had always seemed like a small price for him to pay, no matter how damaging it would eventually be to himself.

As she has herself observed, the knightly virtues are as much a core part of his personality as anything else. To serve the Round Table had allowed him to remain as close to her as he might have reasonably come. It was a means to an end as much as it was a genuine opportunity to serve.

Even so... to be granted the happiness that they had both only dreamed about, after so much time and so much suffering... even he can scarcely believe it. Yet it is no dream. He has borne enough injury to know this reality for himself, and it seems no degree of injury can dampen his spirits for too long. He would endure anything for this gift, this blessing; to be by her side once more, and to have her at his.

Perhaps more important still is that the walls between them have come crumbling down, and that in and of itself is more than he could ever have asked. He had once confessed that he had wanted only to see a true smile from the king he had sworn to serve – which was not necessarily an untruth, merely a part-truth. Instead, he had been given more than he ever could have bargained for... or expected.

His king is a chronic worrier, that much is true, particularly when it comes to the pale-haired knight. He merely shows that shy half-smile again to her frustration.

There is no shame in worrying, so long as you do not overindulge. It is what made you a fine king, no matter your opinions on that. It is why I followed you to Hell itself, and why we of the Round Table would never swear fealty to another king. The fate of those you claim responsibility for matters to you, a great deal. And it is why, if our situations were reversed, I would worry about you. On the contrary, her worrying is not a sign of weakness to him.

It's a sign of welcome concern, and perceptive as he is, he knows she doesn't consider him weak, no matter how much he might fret about it from time to time. In his heart of hearts, he knows she doesn't think of him as weak. He's survived things that should have put any other mortal man down, for good. His willpower is without compare.

Aye. So long as we are together, he confirms silently, that smile of his faint. It loses some of the shyness, growing a little more confident in this. They had always made for a formidable team on or off the battlefield, even when they had maintained their distance. Now, with such a close and unbreakable bond between them, it seems there's nothing they couldn't face together.

His eyes close at the touch of her thumb against his face. Someone needed to remember. He exhales softly, not quite a sigh. And if I was the only one left to do so, then so be it. It was not right that you would not even be remembered. Someone needed to carry those memories. That none of my brother-knights would be remembered... that was not right, either. I owed it to everything I once served, and everyone I once served alongside, to preserve those memories. That you would be remembered...

It was indeed a terrible burden for him to bear. He smiles, but the expression is a little unsteady; just a little uncertain. No burden would have been too great to bear, my love, if it meant that I would reach this day and stand by your side again. And free of the masks and walls that had once bound us – I could not ask for more. I could never ask for more...

The cold of the keep might not have bothered the marshal under normal circumstances, even though he himself is but a mortal. He had endured far worse in years past. Winters in Camelot could be fierce, driving snow and wind sapping the warmth from everything they touched. He had weathered even the frozen chill of the weald without complaint... though he had not been in any state to complain, then.

Now, though, in his weakened state, now that he has had some of that life restored to him, he is much more prone to noticing it. It saps his strength more readily than it ever had before. Much like his own reserves of strength, part of that may boil down to the chiding she'd given him not so long ago – he is no longer sixteen years of age, and he had spent too many years burning the proverbial candle at both ends. The centre cannot hold.

Those consequences would catch up to him eventually. He can only be grateful that they have waited until now. If he had broken down in the weald, he would have given up. If he had broken down when the Union had found him, but before Arturia had... it's likely he may have given up then, too. The only difference then was that he had a temporary roof over his head, but he had still been bereft of his will to live. Now, though... he has the opportunity, and indeed, the desire, to rest, recover, and heal under Arturia's watchful eye.

He finds he doesn't even mind her occasional nagging. Sometimes he needs that simple reminder not to push himself too hard – but this time, he works too hard not because he has no will to do anything else, but instead because he simply doesn't always notice when he approaches those limitations of his. For that reason, he doesn't mind her nagging in the least. She looks out for him, just as he looks out for her.

When she shows a little of that old melancholy, his smile brightens a little, as though in contrast to it. No, he'll never need to suffer that pain any more. Where Camelot was a nightmare of politics and caution, Dún Reáltaí has none. Indeed. Nor will you, my love. Never again.

This broken, humble little stronghold is home. Even having been here for so long, he's only still beginning to understand the depths of that term; only beginning to understand the happiness it brings him.

"Then I shall be certain to say a prayer for her," he murmurs, inclining his head in respectful gesture over the matter of that sister-knight. "If she has been such a help to you, then I owe her my thanks, and I wish her well. It would be a shame if anything happened to her."

He considers for a moment. "Indeed, if she is half the knight you say she is, I should have liked to have met her... though the idea of a woman-knight is a strange one to me. Camelot did not accept such things. At least, not openly, though I knew of a few knights whom I suspect may have been women disguising themselves. It was not my business to pry, nor would I have denied them the chance to serve, if that is how they thought it best to do so." His smile is a little sheepish. "Perhaps the church frowned on such things, but I suppose we of the Dál Riata were a little more open-minded about some matters..."

Those of that distant kingdom were, after all, foreigners; outsiders. Bedivere had always had a more open mind than the xenophobic elite of Camelot who held power in the courts. "So long as they could follow my orders and hold the line, I did not care. They conducted themselves with bravery and nobility."

As much as he might want to throw himself wholeheartedly into the repair effort, he knows how close he is to his limits. He also knows not to push too hard. Where once he might have, heedless of the cost to himself, he has every reason to hold back now. Not only does he have reason to spare himself for the sake of the peoples' morale, he must save some of his strength for Arturia. More than that, he does not want to disappoint her. He can no more do that than disobey a direct order from her.

"Indeed, my lady." He smiles an uncertain little smile, watching her even as she watches the intricate knotwork of his command seal. "Perhaps it is against our nature, both of us, but we must preserve ourselves. Aye. We will help one another in this, then, that we might not push ourselves too hard. The people depend upon us, and look to us, now. It would be a blow to their morale if they saw their lord and lady—" He ignores how the term causes the red to creep into his face again, "—in such dire straits. Together," he adds, almost shyly. "I... in truth, I have never had anyone to look after me so. It is..."

Bedivere quiets for a moment, as though he were trying to think of the appropriate words. He isn't quite sure how to describe it, for a few moments, and falls back on his hesitant and almost sardonic smile. "It is a little strange, I will admit that. But I find... that I do not mind, so much..."

Even if his own physical weakness frustrates him from time to time, he would rather have her nagging him to rest and eat than not. Life had been a terribly lonely ordeal for him, for so very long; no matter how much he might think of it as an inconvenience. Such is a most welcome change for him. To have someone care, let alone so openly – let alone it being her, of all people – he wouldn't trade it for the world.

Those faded violet eyes watch across the table as she colours a little, and perhaps he can sense some of what troubles her. It seems strange that the very thing that brings one of them comfort is the thing that brings comfort to the other, too – no matter how much they might not want to admit it. Improper and unknightly as it is, it is nonetheless such a simple thing; and, for him, such a comfort. He couldn't be more grateful for that, even if it had begun as a mere accident.

There is only so much he can offer her in the way of comfort, diminished as he is. His ability to shoulder burdens and press on in spite of his own condition has deteriorated, and so has his ability to don that familiar mask. That she seems to draw more comfort from him without it, and that his mere presence is enough to lend her some means of comfort, has proven time and again an overwhelming relief to him.

Thankfully, before he can think too hard on that, the food proves a welcome distraction. He's much like Arturia in his elegance, half-starved though he may be. Just as much as his dignity, he is fastidious, perhaps the most so of any of the Knights of the Round – almost cat-like in his disdain of dirt and unwholesomeness. Indeed, after many of the battles against the Saxon host, he could be found scrubbing almost obsessively in nearby rivers, no matter how icy cold they might have run.

Much like her, he seems to prefer the same type of home-cooked fare, too... though that may well be a product of Arturia preparing it as much as anything else.

Bedivere glances up from his food – very nearly finished, at that – just long enough to tilt his head at her in evident curiosity. "Caramel? I have heard the term, but no, I have not had occasion to try it." The pale-haired knight shakes his head. "It seems to be considered a delicacy of some sort, but I know little more than that."

As much as he wants to consider the mysteries of caramel, he can't help himself. The smell of what remains of his breakfast is almost more than he can bear, and he listens to her words as he picks through his breakfast – only to stop, flushing when she reveals that it had been meant as an encouragement all along, and now more something of a reward. At least he doesn't choke on it in indignation, though he does clear his throat a little awkwardly.

"Ah. W-well. Yes. I... I know I am not in much condition to do anything, today. I am weary. And my right arm is useless. I cannot even hold a quill." He shrugs his good shoulder, regarding Arturia unhappily. "What else would I even do but rest? Aye, perhaps I might have tried to work, otherwise, but even I cannot work through a broken arm." He shakes his head. "It hurts too much." Certainly he must be telling the truth, even to admit that much. Rare is it that he will show his vulnerabilities, even to her; even with their masks and walls dropped as they are. He had always been stoic, preferring to hide his vulnerabilities away, especially in front of his king... but although it takes effort to admit it, he doesn't seem to mind. "I will rest, instead."

"As you said," he adds, sighing in resignation, "a few days is a small sacrifice to make, if it means finishing our preparations in time for the first snows..."

His gaze drops to the table, and a faint smile flits across his face. "Perhaps it would not be so bad, to take a few days and rest... once the village is made ready for the winter, I can take more time to do the same. I am tired, my lady. I still have years of rest to catch up on. And I fear I will be of no use to anyone if I do not do that..."

Even he knows how close he comes to the limits of his body and mind, it seems. He must have some inkling of how near to those limits he had come in the days after Camlann, or perhaps even the days of Camelot.

"If you think there is something to be done today for the villagers, though," he murmurs, picking at the last of the crumbs on his plate, "please do not feel obligated to stay with me. If I must sacrifice a little sleep, I will do so gladly if it means more important matters are taken care of. I will still be resting, either way, so..."

He would naturally prefer that she remain with him, both to soothe those nightmares and for the simple comfort of it, but he wouldn't be so selfish as to ask her to stay. Not if she felt she could accomplish some work down the hill.

Truly, he was the best choice for Dún Reáltaí's lord, even if he might protest still. One would not find a man more concerned for the well-being of the people – even to his own detriment.

Saber (346) has posed:
Perhaps Arturia had not known precisely what she would sacrifice when she claimed Caliburn. Femininity seemed a trivial thing, as did marriage and a family of her own. But there were some things which she had known would be difficult and painful; she would leave the only home she had ever known to ascend the throne of Britain in the distant capital of Camelot, she would distance herself from the only family she had ever known, and she could not befriend the knights who were to serve her and her kingdom. Yet, she believed with all her being that it was what she must do to save her country, regardless of personal cost. For the king, to lead by example was not simply a goal, it was a necessity.

Whether she had any right to these things now or not, having given them up for the sake of the kingdom, mattered little; they had been given to her regardless of her personal worthiness. And now, she could not find it in her to give them up. Even simply having a few of her knights at her side once again had been more than she dared hope for, but the opportunity to set aside her mask before them had seemed only something she would forever long for. That they would only ever know the distant, inhuman king was, she had believed, a part of her past she would eternally regret.

It had certainly seemed like a dream, that the knight who had served as her Left Hand for nearly her entire reign had not been disappointed to find what lay behind her mask. But the depth of his true feelings had been something she had never expected, so well had he hidden them from all. Arturia had been completely caught off-guard, uncertain at first until she began to understand the depth of her own. To return to what they had been was now an impossibility.

'Weak' was not a term the knight-king would ever ascribe to the gentle yet tough marshal. She had not been aware of even half of what he had endured, but what she had known of was more that enough. Leaving his homelands and people for the harsh training of a knight-aspirant, serving in a subtly hostile court, nearly slain in battle against the Saxon hordes, building up a mask of stoicism to rival hers, enduring all manner of harsh conditions to act as her charitable side...none of these would have been possible had he truly been weak. Though not as overt as his commitment to Humanitas and Ingenuitas, Bedivere was equally a living example of Fortitudo.

Nevertheless, when she was no longer bound by duty to bury her feelings, Arturia often found herself fussing over those she cared for when she found them insufficiently looking after their own health. Sakura had earned the brunt of her nagging from time to time, though Bedivere was by far worse about it. Still, having to be constantly reminded had to be frustrating from time to time. As much as he had reassured her, she remained somewhat unsure about it.

The king must always be lonely, she had insisted to the two other Kings of the Fourth War, and sternly ordered herself whenever she found herself secretly longing for true companionship. Even as a Servant, she had maintained some distance; Irisviel had been a friend and someone she had cared about, though there had been secrets both women had hidden from each other. But nowhere had she needed to distance herself more than in Camelot, and from those closest to her. It had taken several years to move past that need; though it was no longer required of her, part of the petite knight believed that she had no right to after all this time.

And yet...he was right. Isolated from each other, king and marshal were nevertheless a fearsome fighting force on the battlefield and a political one in the court. Now, with the masks and inner walls crumbled away, were there any obstacles they could not overcome? Arturia was coming to believe that such obstacles didn't exist. Not against the two of them when now their hearts were so linked.

In many ways, Bedivere had been the very last knight Arturia would ever want cursed with bearing the burden of remembrance, to keep the record of all the Knights of the Round Table had done, or tried to do. It was a terrible burden to be forced to live with, to alone be the one to remember and recount to others wherever he found himself. And yet, she was glad that he had lived, had not been among those slain in the final battle. She would rather he be here as truly alive, rather than Servants as she, Lancelot, and Gawain had become.

In her mind, whatever reward she could possibly bestow on him was insignificant in the face of all his sacrifices. Especially the trivial things she had done for his sake; it was little trouble for her to prepare breakfast, or braid his hair, or make sure he drank the medicinal tea. Such small things demanded very little effort, or even consideration as far as she was concerned. Moreover, to the knight-king, it felt as if she was not doing nearly enough. Indeed, she had noticed how difficult it was for the violet-eyed knight in his weakened condition to keep warm, how the fatigue never seemed to leave him. Five years of little sleep was a great deal to catch up on, but oftentimes it seemed as if there had been no progress at all. Was she truly providing a tangible benefit?

On the other hand, he had been pushing himself hard for twenty years without interruption. That sort of life would wear even the strongest, most able-bodied man. It seemed that for all these years, the marshal had been running on nearly pure willpower alone. But even that was not an endless resource, though the violet-eyed knight didn't always notice. She feared that, if she left him alone, he would go right back to working himself to death. Arturia was not about to permit that.

It was a strange thing, to mourn her kingdom when she realised she couldn't save it without disastrous consequences. But what did she truly mourn? She had never achieved utopia, and Camelot was not a kind place to live. In spite of reforms, it was nevertheless plagued with all the darkness of a highly contentious court. There was still greed and corruption and mistrust and hatred in spite of all her efforts to purge them. The people still struggled, suffered, and died. It was not a completely wretched place to dwell – in many ways better than other kingdoms – but it was not a true home. Certainly, it was not a place she could ever dare allow her mask to slip.

Arturia had never wallowed in self-pity of all she had given up and the pain she endured, having done so willingly for the sake of her kingdom. But yet, now that she was unshackled from the burden of ruling Britain, she felt as if she could breathe for the first time. No...I never will, she thought, stunned.

It was an amazing revelation, one that she had never particularly considered until they had come to Dún Reáltaí. To have a real home, to be able to form true bonds with others.

"It was not so strange for a woman to become a knight in her world," the jade-eyed knight admitted. "She was from the same one as Sir Faruja...though there was some bitterness over their organisation for some time." The only ones who had a right to speak of it, she felt, were Agrias and Faruja. Moreover, she was unclear about the precise details; the holy knight spoke little of it, and Saber respected her privacy.

As for disappointing her, Bedivere need not have worried. She had told him nearly two months ago that he could never disappoint her, and it was as true today as it was then. As cross as she might have seemed with a simple frown – one expression of many which she had kept carefully hidden for the years of her reign – it was always one of worry, or at times a subtle frustration that he was not completely heeding her...orders? She had not particularly thought of them as orders when she told him to drink the medicinal tea or not to stay outside for too long.

His blush – over the terms the townspeople knew them by and the implications of them – was not lonely for very long. A mere second passed before her own joined it. "Ah...yes...as the king, I held similar considerations. As much as I would have continued to serve without respite, there was nevertheless the need to present the image of a king free from ailment. However, here it is a much more pleasant thing. Rather than simply hiding weakness, it is to give them hope."

Sea-green eyes blinked in mild surprise as the silver-haired knight confessed that her nagging hadn't bothered him quite so much. That someone – the king he had longed to be close to for twenty years, no less – cared enough to do so. And that she finally could do so. After the isolation of court, only to be followed by that of the aftermath of Camlann...from his perspective, it might have seemed like a dream come true.

Indeed, the food was a welcome distraction, lest her mind wander into quite improper territory. She chuckled softly at his curiosity; she hadn't expected him to have come across that particular concoction, though the name might have been tossed out over the radio at some point. As far as the King of Knights knew, Bedivere did not have a particular sweet tooth – apples and the occasional gingerbread notwithstanding – but who knew what new fondnesses were to be discovered in an age where exotic spices such as cinnamon were now commonplace?

"It is a rather simple thing of few ingredients. However...I think perhaps the only way for you to truly understand is to experience it for yourself." She maintained a slightly conspiratorial smile, hinting that a new favourite might possibly be in the offing. "Let us just say that what I have in mind involves apples and this 'caramel'."

And for his sake, she tried not to chuckle at his sudden indignation, which preceded her mild surprise at his admission. Just as his king did, the marshal preferred to obfuscate his ailments and pain for a number of reasons. But perhaps with the understanding of their deepened closeness came the realisation that there was very little they could hide from each other. At this point, it was best to simply be honest. And what followed was relief that he would rest, try to regain his strength and catch up on all the sleep he had been denied in the five years before he had been rescued from the multiversal weald.

"There is no shame in it," she told him gently but firmly. "Consider it a...sabbatical, of a sort. You have served Britain for twenty years...you will need that rest to continue our work here. And the people worry over you...by exemplifying the knightly virtues, they have come to accept your leadership, even be grateful for it."

She finished his thought mildly again, but in a way which brooked no argument. "..If I find something which need be done for the villagers, I shall address it," she told him. "I might be your king, and you my knight...but as far as the people know, you are the lord. It is I who am your subordinate in this situation. Perhaps later, we may reveal the truth, but only once the danger of winter has passed."

Bedivere was really not going to like that idea, but it was, after all, the truth. And if there was anyone she could be completely honest with, it was the knight of the Dál Riata.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
When Arturia had drawn the sword from the stone and anvil, Merlin had given a cryptic warning to her. To lead Britain, she would cease being human, and she would sacrifice a great many things. Perhaps she couldn't have known at the time what was meant by that. After all, she would be giving up things she had not known well, or never known, such as her femininity, or the opportunity of marriage. Those things had been distant to her; no nearer than the clouds in the sky.

Though he'd received no such warning, the same fate had awaited the most loyal of the king's knights. Bedivere had not expected to have any of those things. His motivations precluded a life of his own. Even if he had wanted marriage, or a family, or the simple companionship of his lady. Or, most of all, his personal happiness. To serve her meant to sacrifice those things. In the name of her service, he would give until he had nothing left of himself to give. There's no question that his service had been killing him, slowly, over the course of two decades. Driven by the desire for something he could never have, he had no recourse but to cast himself into his work. It had been both a coldness and a comfort. If that faithful service was the only way he could remain by her side, he had been determined to burn that candle until not even wick remained.

He had always considered it a passing small price to pay. The silver-haired knight could never regret his actions or his choices. Even so, part of him wishes he might have held something in reserve, now. His relentless service had been admirable, but it came at great physical and mental cost. He had been destroying himself under that burden.

Just as his king, Bedivere had allowed himself to be seen as inhuman. He had donned that same cold mask, once he had learned how to build it; once he had perfected it. In just a few scant ways, it had been even more perfect than Arturia's own.

With it, he had shielded himself – from himself.

Perhaps in some ways, the hushed opinion of the inhuman nature he shared with his king was true. There were many times he had simply shut off his emotions, functioning by rote. Was that all they had thought there had been to him? Arturia had never seen him laugh before the aftermath of the summer céilidh, and she had been in his presence more than anyone else. She had never even seen him smile. What must the people have thought about such a cold marshal, especially when that marshal served as the Left Hand of the King; a man even generals answered to?

Very little, Bedivere had come to suspect. Yet those sacrifices were needed. They were as necessary as Arturia's. If she was to realise her dream, she needed help and support. If he was to serve her, he needed to be willing to cast aside his ambitions and desires; indeed, his very self. Now, though, his eyes have been opened.

At the time it was the only path he could have chosen. The intricacies of Camelot's politics forbade the possibility of growing closer to his king, to the woman he had silently loved from afar for so very long. It had forbade him from even showing a smile in the courts, or laughing at Gawain's sometimes stupid jokes. He had needed to present the image of the unshakable marshal, whose ruthless dedication to duty brooked no questions and allowed for no debate among the more contentious of the nobility.

Yet... things are different, now. They are so very different that if asked, he never could have imagined, or even dreamed, of such an outcome.

Bedivere could no more go back to the way things were than he could fall upon his own sword. To put aside his mask, at least with her, remains a permanent decision. They are too close, now; that bond between them having sparked and grown like wildfire, hopelessly beyond the control of either. In spite of their silence and aloofness, they had always been close. True, it was a closeness born of understanding more than intimacy, but it had been a strong bond all the same.

What had startled him was how easily it grew into something more, and how quickly. In spite of his conflict between duty and desire, it felt as natural as breathing. How could he not regard it as a dream come true?

Perhaps he's suffered in the years since Camelot and the Battle of Camlann, but he would say that she does provide tangible benefit. He is broken, and he is weary, but he is significantly less broken and weary than if he were alone. More often than not he is able to sleep through the night, and sleep peacefully. It's something he never could have done without her. His expression, when he does drift into sleep there in her arms, is one of peace. The nightmares only plague him once every few days, it seems, instead of what had once felt like every time he'd closed his eyes.

To have such relief is more than he ever could have asked for, or even articulate. For so long he had dreaded sleep that he'd grown accustomed to functioning on sheer willpower, no matter how destructive it had been to his mind and body. Now that he no longer needs to, the sleeplessness he had put aside for so long hounds him through his waking hours. Yet he is recovering, however slowly; however gradual that process may be.

"Perhaps it was not something publicly acknowledged," he murmurs, "but there were a few women within the ranks of my soldiers." He smiles a faint and almost cryptic smile. "I do not think they were aware I knew of their true gender. Since they followed their orders as faithfully and bravely as any man, I saw no reason to reveal them, for it would have meant casting them out and shaming them. They had not done anything worthy of such shame. If they felt that was the only way they could serve their king, who was I, a foreigner, to take that from them?"

His expression sobers. "Still. It is a strange thing, to think of a world where such things are so freely permissible. Not because I disagree," he adds, almost hastily. "But because it would be good to see such a thing. To allow such a freedom. Truly, the women under my command fought as bravely as the men. Those I suspect were truly women, that is to say. And in some ways they were also more sensible." They did not always have the same lust for blood or glory as some of the noblemen's sons, or the noblemen themselves, and he rarely had to order them too closely. They had common sense, and they followed his orders right the first time.

"Perhaps," he sighs, to her observations on good health and morale. "I lack the strength I once did. I am weary, my love. I spent so many years refusing to allow myself to feel it that now I cannot do that any longer. Even if it were necessary, I do not think that I could. Not without suffering collapse or worse. I did not realise then how exhausting it was, to serve in that treacherous court. Not until we came here. Not until we had a taste of what it is to know peace." He prods at the crumbs on his empty plate, frowning thoughtfully. When he speaks again, his tone is one of subtle wonder. "I did not know what it was to let down my guard."

The food does provide a welcome distraction, though his is nearly gone but for a few crumbs. He had never really focused on such a thing before, considering the enjoyment of food more a luxury than anything else. Throughout her reign, his diet had been simple, and often bore the touch of need – whatever was available on hand, he ate, and on campaign his diet tended to suffer.

Here, with ingredients so readily available, he's had the opportunity to enjoy food for enjoyment's sake, especially that which she's prepared for him. He's even managed not to feel too guilty over it. The people of Dún Reáltaí aren't suffering as badly as the lowliest of Camelot's poor, though in part that may be because so few are left. Resources are easier to share when they aren't split so many ways.

Bedivere turns a bland look on Arturia at that cryptic explanation of caramel, arching a silvery-blonde brow in silent question. Seems like she's going to be coy about it, though, and he finds no more insight into the matter. He won't get any more information out of her. "Apples?" he murmurs. Anything that involves apples tends to have his interest, and his disappointment when no more explanation is forthcoming is almost tangible. "I suppose I must needs be patient, then, and look forward to it..."

Pushing his empty plate aside, he folds his left arm over the table, resting his head over it and regarding her thoughtfully. It's true that he would have buried his weaknesses before, but there's no point in it now. She can read him like an open book. By the same token, though, he can read her like an open book, as well. Honesty is the best policy. He can no longer force himself on like that. There's no doubt that she'd sense any efforts on his part to hide what ails him.

The silver-haired knight sighs and closes his eyes at her observation. A sabbatical? He hardly considers himself worthy of a rest, in spite of all that he's given over so many years. Much like Arturia, he's his own worst critic, and he always has been.

"I take your meaning, but..." That's probably the best she'll get out of him on that. For him to afford that much is a small miracle in and of itself. "I prefer to work until the tasks before me are accomplished, but if this is what's needed, I will not protest. I dislike to remain idle, but... I know my limits. And I... know that I draw near to them."

His eyes open slowly to half-mast, fixing on Arturia. He's content just to watch her for a moment, and going by the faint hint of a shy smile curling the corner of his mouth, he's simply watching her for the sake of watching her. Although they've been living together in the keep for some time, he still hasn't gotten used to being able to do that – to watch her, and study her more openly.

After a time he pushes himself to his feet, taking his dishes over to clean them. The kitchen boasts a more modern system of plumbing and sinks, now, with a combination of Roman ingenuity and modern conveniences to deliver water from the lake. It's a small and modest system but it gets the job done.

It's enough to wash a few dishes, anyway.

Once he's finished, Bedivere sets the dishes aside to dry. Folding his arms, he leans against the wall nearest him. His expression falls into that soft, almost shy half-smile as he regards her. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, nor does he even use their silent means of speaking – he just watches her again with that contented smile of his as she finishes her own breakfast. He'll wait patiently, though he looks weary as he leans against the wall.

No doubt he's waiting patiently for an opportunity to crawl back upstairs, though truth be told, he isn't looking forward to five unforgiving flights of stairs.

"Mm. I mislike leading them along so, but you are right." He shakes his head, reaching up to tug at the stud in his left ear, a now-familiar gesture of mild unease. "I agree. We must survive the winter before we can tell them of it. I do not know how they would take it." His frown deepens. "Perhaps it would not be so much a blow to their morale? We have done much for them, and after all, it isn't as though you and I are not close, even if they think we are, ah—" He coughs awkwardly, stoically ignoring the heat rising in his face, "—husband and wife. We have always been closer than others might think, I think. Even on the battlefield we had never needed words."

He bows his head, some of his hair spilling across his face, though he doesn't seem to mind. "I had always appreciated that bond, to not need to speak. One never knew when there were unfriendly ears about." His eyes raise again to her, and he smiles that soft, shy smile again. "Besides which, you are still my lady, for what that is worth, even if we are not... ah..." His resolve crumbles. He has his limits; and he can't quite bring himself to fill in that word. Not aloud, anyway.

Married, he implies instead, with that slightly helpless smile. After a few seconds he drops his gaze, coughing awkwardly. But I meant that, earlier. It would not be so bad, no matter how unknightly it is to even think... the closeness is not a lie, to them. Merely the manner of that closeness.

He'll wait long enough for her to be ready, once she's finished her own breakfast and seen to her dishes, before making his way up the stairs. He moves slowly, though, and with the stiffness of one still recovering from either injury, sleeplessness, or both. The cold and his own exhaustion are still obviously bothering him. Perhaps the cold, especially.

In fact, he has to stop at the third floor, leaning against the wall to catch his breath; hunched over himself, carrying his crippled right arm as carefully as he can, and looking somewhat annoyed about the entire affair. He knows he isn't in peak physical condition, but to be defeated by a few flights of stairs is just shameful. How shameful for you to have neglected Exercitium so, he chides himself silently. He had ascended such staircases regularly in Camelot's citadel, and it had never bothered him there... but unlike Camelot, he'll allow her to help him the rest of the way up, here – a freedom he never could have afforded, back then.

That freedom is one he's grateful for, and not just because he enjoys any excuse to have her close. He's fairly certain he needs that help just to survive to the fifth floor. Shameful, he chides himself once more, sighing a long and drawn-out sigh of vague annoyance.

By the time they reach the top, he looks flushed, and he's more than slightly winded.

"Ugh." The admission is a soft sound of disgust as he shrugs carefully out of his mantled cloak, hanging it on the peg near the door.

Crossing the room in a few long strides, he kicks off his boots even as he flips back the furs and blankets with one hand, easing himself down carefully – though not without a wince when his still-healing arm is jarred the wrong way. Even his unbound hair doesn't seem to be bothering him too much.

"I did not think my condition so poor, my lady, for even a few flights of stairs to tire me so." He takes a few moments to catch his breath, still nearly panting. He looks poor, but he does seem to recover somewhat now that he isn't climbing. It's gradual, though, and it takes several long seconds for the colour to fade from his complexion. "I am glad I did not insist on doing anything else with the day. I suppose that was proof enough that I am not in any fit state to," he admits, however grudging his tone may be. "And the weather looks to be miserable outside. It is too cold to work, or for me to be outside."

It's a good day not to be out of bed, but the idea of saying that, of being perceived as somehow lazy by Arturia, is horrifying to him. However untrue it is, he would never want to lend that kind of false impression.

Instead, the marshal lets his breath out in an unhappy sigh.

"Aah... I grow weary of feeling like an invalid, my lady. I will be glad of it when I have healed, and rested, and recovered some of my strength."

He looks to the ceiling, eyes half-closed. "I wonder, though; will I ever stop feeling so weary? I wish now that I had seen to myself better, even if I did not feel I had any reason to, in those days..." He refers both to his years in Camelot, and to the times after the Battle of Camlann. The first had been simple overwork, burning the candle at both ends; the second had been rampant and reckless self-neglect. There had been no reason for him to spare anything of himself, after that final battle.

His eyes slowly drift to slits of faded violet, not quite closed, as he continues staring at the bed's canopy overhead. She might get the impression he's not actually looking at it. "I am glad we are here. In Dún Reáltaí," he clarifies quietly. He smiles a weary smile, though he doesn't look to her directly. "Home. I—truly, I did not think I could feel so..." He seems to struggle for a moment, as though uncertain of how to frame what he really wants to say. For a moment he falls silent, frowning as he tries to find the right words. "So... at peace. I'm not certain that I have ever felt that before. Certainly not in Camelot. Not even in Dál Riata, I think."

Reaching up with his left hand, he brushes some of his loose hair away, snorting to clear a few errant strands away from his face. His arm drops, carefully, and he lets out a sigh.

"Dál Riata had been my home, growing up. It was familiar to me. But I had always felt something missing from it, some vague but vital thing. I had been restless, there. Whatever it was, I knew that thing I could not name was missing." Slowly, he opens his eyes, looking over to her. "I did not know it until I travelled to Camelot, and I saw you for the first time, in the market square. But..."

"Even then, that had only been part of it. A great part of it, to be certain, but that thing I'd felt was missing was not yet complete. But I could not have known it, then, because I did not know what it was."

He smiles, that warm smile that speaks for him; that puts plainly all the things he might like to say.

I had been missing you, my love. I had been missing you. I did not know it until I had known you, however distantly, and then lost you. But I did not truly know it until I had been given the opportunity to know you more truly. To see behind the masks we had forced ourselves to wear.

Slowly, he lets his eyes drift closed, though he doesn't seem close to sleeping just yet. No; he's simply content, for all that he might still be stiff and sore, trying to move as little as possible to avoid exacerbating those various hurts.

"And now that you are returned to me, I will never leave you again. I swear that to you with all that I am, what little it may be. We need never be alone again..." He sighs heavily, though it seems more a gesture of contentment than anything else. "I never knew what I had been sacrificing all those years. To know that you stand by my side, to know that I no longer need hide myself from you..." To know your love, he doesn't say, but the unspoken statement hangs as he trails into silence.

His eyes are closed, but there's no mistaking the faint glint of light from just beneath them; the track of a tear on each side, in spite of his smile.

"Ah, God preserve me, my love..."

It's not from despair, this time, or from pain – but love, and simple gratitude; so overwhelming he doesn't know how to express it.

Saber (346) has posed:
In some ways, Arturia's ignorance was deliberate; there was no point in dwelling on things she could never have. She had never particularly thought of them before, content with her life of Sir Ector's training alongside Kay and perhaps expecting one day to enter the knighthood. But the old knight had raised his children with a strong sense of duty and morality, so that when Merlin presented her with a way to save her people from that chaos, she did not so much as hesitate. If it lay within her power to change the fate of the people, she had never thought twice. When she was offered something to protect her people, she seized it with both hands. And when no opportunity presented itself, she created one. Such a life precluded her own happiness, or the various things which might have led to it.

And perhaps, she had considered, she had never been destined for such things. In all likelihood, she would have hidden her gender regardless in order to become a knight and serve the people. More than royalty, the path of a knight was truly in her blood, rather than the nobility of her birth. That revelation had been a tool, a way to save and protect the people. As it had been then, it would always be.

Had it not been for the healing magic of Caliburn and later Avalon, the young king would have worked herself to an even earlier death, a wasting away rather than dying for her kingdom in battle. But to serve was to live, and her life – she had always felt – was one destined for service no matter how thankless. Had not their Lord done the same? Had they not been called into service from the moment they received that precious salvation? As a king, it would be her task to protect the kingdom's people and to govern them with fair and just laws befitting a servant of those people. Setting aside her own emotions was a small price to pay.

That did not, however, mean that she did not possess them, nor empathise with her knights and subjects. Indeed, for all her could mask, she prioritised the needs of the people well before herself...if she even gave thought to her own feelings at all. More often than not, she discarded them in lieu of serving those of the peasants, merchants, fishermen, knights, and even the various nobility. It was more than a mere shock to her system that what she had once regarded as selfishness on her part was not quite as simple as that. Strange, she had thought, that people might have wanted her to be a little more selfish. It would have, in their minds, perhaps assured them that the king was human.

But then again, she never had been human since she claimed Caliburn. And that aloofness had in part been to hide the truth of her gender as much as for the sake of fair rule.

And then, there had been the brief time as a mere soldier in the Holy Grail War. Her mask had slipped in subtle ways; escorting Irisviel around Fuyuki City in proper chivalric fashion, expressing her respect of a fellow knight in Lancer, and her outrage over Caster's horrific depravity. Yet, her ultimate goal had meant becoming a tool, though she submitted to that role willingly for the sake of what Master and Servant hoped to achieve.

Nothing had prepared her for the multiverse and the ultimate corrosion of her layers of masks. And what was done could not be undone. A great many things both good and ill had lapped at the edges like the ocean against the three cliffs of Abertawe, wearing it away little by little until pebbles and sand remained. So too were her varied masks, barely little more than fragments she concealed herself behind when the circumstances called for such. But she could no longer live constantly behind them, becoming the empty vessel filled with dreams and ideals. it was somewhat ironic that as a Servant, Arturia was more human than she ever had been.

Perhaps that was one more reason why the bond between them had grown so quickly; with their natural synchronicity, it was only a matter of casting aside their masks to form and even deeper bond. And for Arturia, that meant finally accepting that she had human feelings of her own. A life of her own.

When it came to Bedivere's care, that humanity was what had enabled her to truly help him, when long ago, the inhumanity had been the only way to save the people. For one person, she had cast that aside and, in spite of her selfish wish she had done more that she could have ever done in Camelot. The life of one person may have been insignificant in the greater scheme of things, but who could have deserved to be saved more than the Left Hand of the king, who had suffered without a word of complaint?

"In truth, it would not have surprised me," the flaxen-haired knight replied. "The king herself was in that very position." She frowned thoughtfully. "Nevertheless, I did not know there were others who had done the same."

There was a slight tilt of her head, her equivalent of a shrug. "In the case of the holy knight, she is from a world similar to our own, yet wholly different. It would seem women in her knighthood was not uncommon."

Her eyes became unfocused as she smiled nostalgically. "And yet, she knew chivalry as well as any knight of the Round Table. Perhaps the virtues were not precisely the same, but what code she followed might as well have been."

The jade-eyed knight listened silently, finishing the last of her own breakfast with the same deceptive elegance she could no more put aside than change her patterns of thinking. Her own lonely journey had taken her along a different path before it finally converged with his once more; bitterness, rather than weariness, had marked her road. There had been regret over her failure, of the people she had failed to save, but there was a resentment there as well. She had buried it only for it to surface following her Master's betrayal. She remained committed to ending the threat of the King of Heroes for the sake of the many worlds of the multiverse, and to finding some other way to grant her wish if the Grail could not...yet that bitterness was all too often what broke through the mask. Bitterness...and anger, which she directed almost entirely at Gilgamesh. But had that been entirely because of the destruction and misery he left in his wake? Or was his existence merely something to impotently rage at?

Her life with Sakura, friendship with Agrias, and reconciliation with the Right Hand of the King had granted her some measure of peace, but it was not until Bedivere had returned to her and they had settled in Dún Reáltaí that she had truly known a lasting peace. And with it, the remaining vestiges of her bitterness, rage, and resentment. Some regret remained, but with the possibility of finding her knights once more and the potential formation of a new order, even that might fade with time.

There were a great many opportunities the King of Knights had discovered in the multiverse, many small things which many in the modern era took for granted but she considered to be guilty pleasures. She had always been careful when it came to food; bland and displeasing to her palate as it generally was, she nevertheless had always maintained a careful reserve as the king. She could hardly indulge herself while farmers struggled and starved, much less waste frivolously on expensive, exotic spices and salt necessary for meat preservation. Only now, such things were commonplace, and food not so difficult to obtain during the harsher months at all. Which was a great boon to the Servant, as she now depended on large quantities to maintain the magical energy necessary for her continued existence.

There were also some indulgences which, by their standards, seemed positively sinful in spite of being so commonplace. Such as the mysterious confectionery. "Worry not, you shall not be made to wait for very long," Arturia assured him. "I think that, perhaps in a fortnight, once the necessary construction is complete, the villagers shall no doubt wish for a celebration for the end of that work."

At least she was able to get that much out of him, thankfully. Indeed, she knew the frustration of being forced to stand by while there was work to be done. Yet, he was beginning to realise his limits...or rather, that ignoring them was no longer something he needed to do. The violet-eyed knight no longer needed to lose himself in his work, don his mask and content himself with serving her to the point of numbness. She needed him there and in good health, and he no longer needed to hide himself from the both of them.

It was her turn to blink owlishly when he studied her, a puzzled look crossing her face for a moment before she seemed taken with a sudden wave of embarrassment. Flushing, her eyes fell to her plate, picking at the last remaining fourth of toast before self-consciously finishing it off. It was a strange one, her reaction, and even Arturia wasn't entirely sure why.

Before she had the chance to protest, Bedivere was already washing his plate and utensils. He really shouldn't have moved his right arm any more than necessary, but he'd taken advantage of that opening to slip past her otherwise careful watch. That left her frowning at his back, already too late for scolding him for doing so.

Not much longer afterwards, however, she was occupied with her own cleaning tasks, both her plates and utensils as well as what was needed to prepare breakfast for them. He remained silent, not even 'speaking' in their silent way. But then, even that was strangely comfortable, she reflected. She had never been one to seek safety, preferring to act as a sword and shield to provide that to others, but to enjoy it now – to know what it was like to have that kind of refuge – was a balm for a heartache she had never even known she had.

"It is not so different from when I hid the truth of my sex from the people," the petite knight admitted. "Much of my own rule was shrouded in the utmost secrecy. Yet this..."

She flushed slightly with the following admission. "Well, yes. This...is not the lie that my rule was. Not precisely. Even if we are not..." Making a helpless gesture with a whisk as her face heated up several degrees, it was as if she was attempting to indicate that phrase, husband and wife. "But it is simply for the sake of stability and confidence...and I am certain they will understand, come the spring..."

The silent bond, the way king and marshal had hardly ever needed spoken words, something only possible between those of an intense similarity of personality and purpose. It was more than simply a convenience both on the battlefield and within a more subtly treacherous court. She had told Iskander that the king must be lonely, and yet...in a way, she never had truly been. She had had one friend, and there had been one person who had always understood her more deeply than either of them had realised. Now that she finally understood its depth, it was not such a mystery how quickly it had strengthened once the masks had dropped, after all.

It was hardly any wonder that the townsfolk had read that bond a certain way. And when the silver-haired knight could only imply the word, she quickly turned away even as he would be able to see the bright, betraying red of her ears as she fumbled with setting dishes aside to dry. No, it would not... she admitted, as improper as the thought might be.

As embarrassing as it may have once been for him to be assisted by his king, Arturia was not about to brook any argument helping him up the five flights of winding stairs. Particularly not with the cold tensing up already overtaxed muscles and a body weakened by repeated injuries. Yet she was patient, exceedingly so; and this was perhaps the first time in five years ascending such a tower, the day they had moved into the lord's quarters.

But at least now, she could make herself useful rather than simply leaving him in the care of the physicians rather than compromising impartiality in the face of the nobility.

"I think, perhaps, you had resumed your duties too quickly after you had been able to leave the weald," Arturia mused, frowning slightly, dismissing any perceptions of laziness. "The blame was not yours...however, you were not ready, not after being trapped there for as long as you were." In other words, he had pushed himself too hard too fast, attempting to return to some semblance of their routine in Camelot. The battles and injuries since then had only served to exacerbate the problem. No, laziness was certainly not a problem; in fact, she was more than a little relieved that he was finally starting to acknowledge that.

"It will not be permanent," the jade-eyed knight reassured him, slipping off her own boots and seating herself on the opposite side of the bed, tucking her legs up underneath her. "In Camelot, I would not be so certain. Here, however...."

She nodded, agreeing with his sentiment regarding their rather unexpected new home. "Aye. Much remains to be done, but even then...there is no where else, I think, where we would be at peace as we are now."

Even for her, the king who had given everything of herself for her people and her kingdom. She had no home so that others could build theirs. Yet now, she had discovered what it was like, what she had given up and what she had tried to provide for others. She was hardly worthy of such a reward.

But it was curious, how the violet-eyed knight had not even regarded Dál Riata as his true home. The place he had come from and lived up until his family had come to Britain, but not, in essence, a true home. Something had been missing. She wondered what it could have been, regarding him with a curious expression. To serve something greater, perhaps? She had certainly tried to provide some higher calling to those who would answer, those with true noble hearts regardless of their station. Her dream, the utopia she sought, would require knights who believed in it as well, for whom knighthood was no privilege, but a sacred duty. They would not serve the king, but the ones whom the king served: the people.

She was astonished to discover that this was not entirely the reason, either. Even before he 'spoke', the smile said everything necessary.

Arturia had never been entirely certain just what it had been that escaped her notice when she had ruled Britain. A great many things had remained hidden from her view even as she kept secrets of her own...some even from herself. But whatever vacuums had existed in her personal life were deliberately ignored, buried as distractions from her rule. Yet now, knowing his love, she could never again regard it as a simple distraction. Nor could she bury it again.

Slowly reaching over, she gently brushed strands of silver-blonde hair back from his face and the traces of light from beneath closed eyes. Aye, she implied, her smile one that only he would ever see. I had been missing you as well, my love. And I will not leave you again.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
As much like his king, the marshal had avoided dwelling on what he could never have. That included the very woman he served, though at times he couldn't help but imagine what it might have been like, if they had met under different circumstances. Most of the time, his thoughts drifted in that direction in the dark and quiet hours of the night, or when he made his night rounds on the battlements, watching the stars with his usual quiet melancholy.

And, much like his king, the silver-haired knight had not so much as hesitated at his sacrifices. They were insignificant to him. So long as he could stand by her side, and so long as she gave him the opportunity to uphold the knightly virtues – of that was as much a reason of his service as the more personal one – he was content.

Eventually those sacrifices would have killed him.

He would have been content with that, too.

Where his king had had Caliburn, and later Avalon, however, her trusted Left Hand had borne nothing but his own willpower. All things must end – and it seems like that willpower has finally begun to gutter, like a candle left in an open window. It had burned steadily for many years, but any candle will burn itself out if left lit for too long. He had begun to burn out, no matter how much satisfaction he might have taken in his service, or how content he had been to remain close to his king.

All those years of sacrifice are finally catching up, whether he likes it or not. His body is not superhuman, and he alone remains mortal. Never more had he been made aware of that fact than now, forced to endure the cost of his sacrifices and his work; laid low not by a lack of willpower, but by his body's simple inability to cope any longer.

He's only fortunate that she had come across him when she did. He had lost everything at Camlann, and even serving the Union would not have been a substitute for that. His work and his charitable service would have driven himself into his grave eventually. It may well have even been intentional, with nothing left to live for. Bedivere's will has always been strong; he never would have taken a knife to his own throat – but he would have literally worked himself to death, until he collapsed and couldn't rise again, like a horse ridden too hard.

Bedivere wouldn't even have regretted that; certainly not if his actions brought comfort, solace, or more practical help to the people he worked so hard to serve... but he never would have been happy. Indeed, he had not even smiled after Camlann. Not until he had come across Arturia again. He had almost forgotten how.

With Dún Reáltaí to look after, now, he can't imagine a time when he had smiled so much. Out in the open, he only shows those reserved half-smiles; but in the privacy of the castle keep, he's found himself more and more showing that warm, contented expression that only she can seem to draw from him.

Quite a change, from the stone-faced Marshal of the Realm. His mask had been so complete it had nearly rivaled hers – but he had been shielding himself from his own emotions, and at the time, he could ill afford any mistakes. Yet it seems that he's let that mask go so easily, now. It almost seems frightening how quickly it's crumbled away. It's a welcome change from working himself to the point of numbness.

Comfortable in not being on his feet any more, the knight stretches, though he's careful not to jostle his right arm. It's still bound in a sling, and he finds himself grateful for that coarse blue cloth. Without it, he's fairly certain he would have hurt himself again, however inadvertently. Keeping it bound is the best solution, for the time being.

He rests his left hand over his stomach, though after a second or two he raises it, regarding the knotwork over it thoughtfully. It's a strangely pretty thing, he can't help but think; reminiscent of familiar decoration, even as its angles and shapes define it as something else. It's somehow fitting, as though the seal knows of his Dál Riata heritage, and yet forms the sword so intrinsic to Arturia's rule...

He looks up, as though startled from his half-drowsing reverie, sighing.

"I could have held back. But it is difficult for me not to throw myself into work as I had in Camelot. I... had learned to live that way. I did not think anything of it." He smiles, a little ruefully. "It is more effort to me to stop and think, 'Perhaps I should rest, and save this work for another day,' than to simply do it. After all, I could not have shown weakness, back then. I suppose I am accustomed to thinking that way, still..." His smile broadens a little, though there's an awkward note to the expression. "To be honest, it feels strange not to have to think that way. I had done it for so long... and now, there is no court to frown upon me for who I am, or where I hail from; and if I am wounded, I can take the time to heal. I can even play pipes, or a harp, if I wish, and there is no one here who would mind. I am Bedivere of Dún Reáltaí... but I am also Bedivere of the Dál Riata."

He looks to her, violet eyes earnest, brow furrowed faintly, almost as though in puzzlement.

"And I can be that, here. It is just... so strange, to me... to not have to hide myself away. I had spent so many years building so many layers that sometimes it feels difficult to take them down." He shakes his head, looking up to the canopy overhead again, though his eyes drift closed at the touch of her hand to his face; the gentle brushing away of a tear.

He smiles, softly. "I am sorry, my lady. I must seem like such a weak and womanish man. It seems as though I weep at nearly anything, of late. Perhaps it is the fatigue..." Rather than let her pull her hand away, he takes it in his, regarding it in silence for a moment.

Although he had found out for himself that his king was a woman, he hadn't considered how delicate she really looked beneath that armour. Indeed, he'd never once seen her out of it, not until they had found one another in the multiverse. Perhaps it had done wonders to project the image of a confident and strong king, but he finds he appreciates the sight of her just as much without it.

That also suits her, to be just herself – to be simply Arturia, rather than King Arthur. He was drawn to serve the king, but he is drawn just as much to the woman behind the armour; much as she's drawn to the shy, awkward man behind the Marshal of the Realm.

He finds he still has her hand in his. Carefully, as though he were handling the same butterfly from that spring morning so long ago, he lifts it to his lips, pressing his lips to the top of it. Yet he doesn't release it, content just to hold it gently.

"It is good to rest, though. It is not that I had not wanted to. But I couldn't, then," he murmurs, voice already seeming to grow a little distant. "I could not have shown weakness. They would have torn me apart..."

The courts, no doubt, and the contentious nobility who thought the pale-haired foreigner a threat to Camelot's safety and security – there were plenty of those, although they had never been too loud about their dislike of the marshal. Few of them had been so bold, not with the Left Hand of the King. His very status in that position suggested the king would brook no argument, even if she showed no open favour. No; it had been a much more quiet and subtle battle against them. Bedivere had carried on as ever, presenting the image of strength and cold confidence that seemed to inspire some of the soldiers, and brooked no argument from them. Even when wounded, he pressed forward in his duties, never hesitating and never slowing down. To have done so would have given them some kind of ammunition to use against his sterling reputation, he's certain; many of those detractors were devious, and could have found something to hold against him.

Now, though, it's a luxury not to have to watch himself so closely. To not need to censor his every action and word, or to push himself beyond his capabilities, seems almost decadent to him after so many hard years. It's so foreign to him that he still finds himself slipping into those old patterns, and necessitating her constant chiding to mind his own health.

Bedivere smiles again, thumb absently caressing the hand of hers he's still holding.

"I will be more careful," he murmurs. "And I will rest. I want to be whole again. Unbowed. Unbroken. I have not been those things for a very long time... not for at least five years. Perhaps more. But... I want to be those things, again. For you, and for the people of Dún Reáltaí. If I must sacrifice a few days, or a fortnight, to be that... then I will do my best."

He raises her hand one last time, content with one last brush of his lips over the top of it – a gesture that seems so small, and yet holds so much meaning, to him. He's fairly certain he'll never tire of it, or the way his heart lurches whenever she calls him by that simple title. How could he?

So he smiles, and lets that expression say everything he wants to. No. We will remain so, and no force need part us again. We are where we belong, at one another's side. It is as it was in Camelot... but it is also so much more than that. His smile broadens, even as he lets himself sag a little. He's tired, still dreadfully tired, and it shows. I almost think myself dreaming, still, but this is so much more than a dream.

"I think... I will rest." he murmurs out loud, giving her hand a faint squeeze but not quite releasing it. He looks up to her, faded violet eyes hooded. "Will... you stay with me, my love? At least until I sleep...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
There had been occasions where the King of Britain had wondered what her life would have been like had she never drawn Caliburn from the stone and instead become a simple knight, pledging her allegiance to the one who would be king. How those she would have come to know the friends she had made, she couldn't say. Perhaps she would have met them some other way, but nothing was ever certain. Would the knights she had gathered to the Round Table have even found their way to Camelot; would Gawain have left Orkney to follow the rumours of the chivalrous king? Or, having found their way, remained; would Palamedes returned to distant Arabia, and his brothers never joined him? And would Bedivere have returned north to Dál Riata, his own brother and cousin remaining there? Or would they have come and stayed, and she could have become their true friends, rather than their ideal yet distant king?

And what would their life have been like, then? Would they have lived on past the tragedies cumulating on the bloody hill of Camlann? But then again, she would have had to hide the truth of her sex even as a knight, likewise distancing herself from those would would be her friends. No doubt Bedivere would have seen through the ruse, or at least expected it. But would they have been friends, or more than that? Would their bond have become as strong as it was?

She wasn't sure. It seemed such a selfish thing to have cherished some things of her past, the way she had been friends with Lancelot, or even watched Bedivere from afar with a certain amount of longing. It would have been different, she admitted, but perhaps not for the better. To have replaced herself would have come at a price far higher than she could have imagined. As difficult as his life had been, Arturia was even more reluctant to have changed her past and by extension that of the silver-haired knight. Had he not said he would gladly endure it if for no other reason that to reach this moment?

Yet that hardly meant that she could completely hold the guilt at bay. Even before Camlann, Bedivere would have worked himself into an early grave, and there was not a damned thing Arturia could have done about that. That was the only thing he could have done to be close to her, but she had depended on him far more than simply his actions as her charitable wing. For someone to have truly understand her, even obliquely, had been like a lantern in the darkness.

But now, she no longer had need for that infamous distance for the sake of impartiality. Not only would the people of the land frown upon it, but such doting was expected; for all they knew, she was not a king, but the lady of their lord. As embarrassing as it could be, she could take refuge in those expectations, holding back little of her inner nature. And just in time; she could easily see that the years were catching up to the marshal. it was one thing to be charitable, but quite another to burn oneself out to the extent he had. He had taken refuge in that work, bringing succor to the people where she could not, but at a high price to himself. And perhaps, by proxy, to his king who had secretly cared for him.

But now, she was free...free to indulge, show him the favour she had buried even from herself to protect her rule. Making breakfast for the two of them might have seemed such a trivial thing, but to Arturia, who could never dare to step outside her role as the ideal king, it might as well have been utopia. In some measure, it might well have been. And even more than that, she could see the true expressions from him that he had likewise longed to see from her. Now that they had found a true home, they were free to drop their masks and reveal those expressions to one another.

She seated herself on the bed next to him and frowned slightly, though in thought rather than worry or disapproval. "Perhaps...but I do not believe you would have allowed yourself to." Just as she had not, actually. It was yet one more similarity, one more facet which made their almost telepathic communication possible; what came naturally to the one was also what came naturally to the other. She knew Bedivere would not have been able to force himself to rest precisely because she would have been unable to force herself to.

It would take some adjusting for him, admittedly. But it appeared that the silver-haired knight was already on that path, as he marvelled over how he no longer had to hide things which might be perceived as weaknesses, or undermine her rule. There would be no whispers of his supposed dark sorcery to explain a keen mind and canny senses, nor hostile glances over a foreigner knight in the midst of her court.

With a shake of her head, Arturia gently disagreed. "No. You do not seem weak. It...is a natural thing, I think..."

And it was. She had never been free with her own emotions, never permitting anything past the mask of the king and even burying them within herself. She had allowed something of them to escape around Irisviel, then later Sakura and her other friends. But she had always been able to control them to a certain extent, like the release of a dam. But it had only been when those of her own past had reappeared that the dam finally broke, no longer able to withstand the years of pressure upon it. She had managed to piece it back together, but only until they were alone once more.

The flaxen-haired knight-king did not so much as pull away when he lifted her hand to his lips; the only reaction, in fact, was a slight flush of her face. Perhaps one day, such a gesture would not cause such a reaction, but for the moment, that persistent bashfulness persisted.

"Neither of us could," she admitted ruefully. "I am uncertain any of the others could, as well..."

Indeed, each of the knights of the Round Table carried his own burden, if not similar to those of the king or her marshal. Lancelot, she had found, struggled with his love for her queen. Palamedes and his brothers were as foreign to Albion itself as Bedivere and his kin were to Britain, with entirely alien pagan customs which they similarly cast aside for the sake of serving her. Tristan had, like Lancelot, fallen for a woman he could never have. How many others had been weighed down by such burdens that she was unaware of, keeping silent for fear of compromising her rule?

Even more than making amends, she wished they could find their way to the Fortress of the Stars – or she would find them out in the multiverse – and perhaps then they could likewise lay down their burdens and be free men once more, and pursue their own happiness.

But for now, her most cherished knight had been granted not only freedom, but the happiness he had denied himself for her sake. As it happened, that had been a blessing for her, as well, something she had denied herself and even now felt unworthy of. But though that feeling of unworthiness persisted, she would not turn it away. The thought of it seemed almost blasphemous, even if she had the strength to.

That gesture, so seemingly insignificant to others yet so full of meaning to the two of them – perhaps because even a gesture that small had been denied them – remained one that she was certain she would never take for granted. Though she might eventually grow out of that shyness, she would always remember how precious it truly was.

No, it is no dream. I never would have dared to dream of such things. That is how I know this is real.

Rather than answer him immediately, she settled down by his side, smiling up at him with the smile only he would ever see. "I think, perhaps...I will rest, as well."