999999/After the Ceilidh

After the Ceilidh
Date of Scene:	14 July 2014
Location:	Summer
Synopsis:	After Sir Bedivere and Saber flee the céilidh and its host of social awkwardness, they spend some time walking through the fields and discussing a few matters.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
For a little while, at least, the céilidh had been a wonderful occasion.

In the time it had taken Bedivere to prepare, he had been able to dress himself comfortably, wearing something not unlike what he might have worn in his native Dál Riata lands. Unlike so many knights who served under Arturia's banner, he was born a commoner, earning his accolades solely through merit.

Sir Bedivere did not own any land, and he did not bear any heraldry, having refused both. Although hardly an ascetic, alone among many of his brothers-in-arms, he preferred a simple life. The only real sign of prestige he had allowed himself to accept was his title of "Sir," for he would not have insulted Arturia by refusing it.

He did not have any use for the embellishments the more affluent guests had shown. Plain clothing in peasant colours were his preference, though he had rarely worn such things in Camelot, and never in sight of Arturia. His duties had rarely ended; his plate mail had come to be symbolic of his duty, much as the crown and armoured dress of the king.

This, though – this was comfortable to him, something light and simple, and it put him at ease. He had no pressing matters to tend to, for once, even though it had likely taken monumental convincing on Arturia's part. He would have offered no complaint, but some small part of him welcomes the relief from tireless duty. Although he has been with the Union some time, he had spent the past four years in wandering and in mourning, and even now he is still recovering from the ordeal. The subtle signs are still there. Shadows lay under his eyes, and although he has naturally sharp features, with high cheekbones, there is yet a trace of gauntness to them.

More precious to him than the ease of mind, though, is that he was free to spend time with Arturia. Having had quite enough of being sociable, he had gracefully bowed out of the evening's festivities, beckoning for Arturia to follow. He had set a brisk pace, his naturally brisk walk and long stride putting distance between himself and the céilidh.

Rather than take the road, though, the knight had struck out directly through the fields of summer wheat, already waist-high and gleaming silver in the light of the moon and stars. Here, the céilidh is out of sight entirely, and even the sounds are more of a suggestion on the horizon – an occasional skirling of the Uilleann pipes, and little more. The only lights here are the soft silver of the stars and moon, reflecting on the silvery-blonde of Bedivere's hair, and the honeyed, golden-blonde of Arturia's.

Bedivere does not stop until they come across an oak tree, striding right up to the great trunk and turning to lean on it, slumping against the rough bark with a contented sigh.

Distance seems to do him good. He's already calming down a bit as he looks up and back to the way they'd come. Already the stalks of wheat are straightening from where they'd bowed underfoot, erasing all trace of their passage.

Good. No one would follow them here. They need not suffer any further indignities.

When he finally looks over to Arturia, his face is calm again. The faintest hint of a shy smile even tugs at the corner of his mouth. Whatever her apprehension may be over whether or not he enjoyed himself, he doesn't seem to blame her for the evening's awkwardness.

"Well," he murmurs in that gentle voice of his, "that was interesting, was it not? A strange group, these allies of yours, and a few uninvited guests besides. Ah, I suppose I should have conducted myself with more dignity. Am I not your marshal? But I did not expect such a... lively... evening."

He bows his head, leaning against the tree more comfortably. "Ah, I am sorry. I do not mean to complain, nor seem ungrateful. You went to such trouble to arrange this céilidh..."

It's so strange, he considers, to see her so casual. Wearing a dress, hair braided in a manner the king never would have worn, he almost has trouble reconciling the cold and impassive king with this lovely young lady.

He pauses, clearing his throat as he looks away from her.

Lovely?

He's still not quite gotten over his embarrassment over such openness, and he still hesitates to allow himself to think of her as more than just his king. Even the relatively dim light of the moon can't quite hide the flush of scarlet as that adjective comes to mind.

Ah, bother.

Bedivere looks down, reaching up and running his fingers through his hair – even that's simple, drawn into a simple half-braided horsetail, instead of the two he usually favours. His eyes remain fixed downward; apparently he considers his boots much safer territory to stare at.

Saber (346) has posed:
It had not been, Arturia reflected, one of her better ideas.

She had been rather surprised that so many had shown up, though she was glad for it. The entire point had been to create a somewhat familiar setting for the once-Marshal of Camelot, so that perhaps he might come out of his shell at least a little. She had remembered how it had been for her when she had first arrived; her immediate concern had been stopping Gilgamesh's rampaging across the worlds in search of her, making the petite knight feel responsible for dealing with him. Once that was done, she would resume her own search for something which would grant her final wish. If not the Holy Grail, another way.

It had taken considerable time to bring the King of Knights out from within her own inner fortress, thanks to the efforts of Sakura and Fate, not to mention Agrias -- even if the Knight of Ivalice had had no such intent -- and others. Saber had never thought her own loneliness was an issue to be concerned with, so focused was she on her duty. After the destruction of the Grail and what she had considered Kiritsugu's betrayal, she had become cold and bitter...even learning the truth of the Grail had not done much to improve that. Only time and those who genuinely cared about her had helped her.

Bedivere's situation has not precisely the same, but she was determined not to let him go through that. A céilidh had seemed as if it would be just the thing -- there had been similar gatherings in their time, though called by different names -- even if their traditional roles at such gatherings had been grand authority and guard respectively. Neither of them had ever been able to participate. While Arturia thought that, as the organiser of the event, she might not be able to participate too much, at least the silver-haired knight would see they no longer had to be as reserved as they both had in the past. Even just planning the whole thing had been a little bit fun; such duties had always fallen to those she delegated for the event. She had even dressed the part, though that had not been entirely her intent, with Fate and Sakura finding probably an entire closet of clothes for her to choose from and had been quite insistent that her outfit would only come from this pile. Somewhat self-consciously, the little king had decided upon something which looked cute even if she was not entirely convinced she didn't look silly.

But if Bedivere enjoyed himself, that was what had mattered. Only, it had not gone as planned, at least, not where it had come to some of her other guests. Saber had been worried about violence, yet even the Confederates had behaved themselves marvelously in that regard. No, where things went wrong had been on another front entirely.

The petite blonde stifled a groan. The dance had turned into a comedy of errors, with more error than comedy. Arturia had lost her temper not once, but three times, provoked by what had distressed her beleaguered marshal. Embarrassment abounded, possibly even more than Sakura's unfortunate misunderstanding.

Yet, it had not been an entire disaster. She had been mortified after losing her temper and practically bulldozing her way into a dance at the prompting of Fate and even the nogistune who had apparently become the marshal's new nemesis, but poor Bedivere looked so distraught...how could she not try to come to his rescue? And yet, once the horror had worn off, it had been...fun. Arturia couldn't help herself and even added her light laugh to it, a laugh which had not been heard since Lancelot's dinner table game when she was more than simply amused. It was the same feeling here, something of amusement but mostly just happiness and contentment.

The moment passed all too quickly, and after further indignities, eventually the tall knight disappeared...only to reappear with the musicians. And, much to Arturia's great shock, playing along with them. Her feelings were mixed; she was astonished, especially since he was surprisingly good at it. But the other was the reminder that she knew nearly nothing about him personally. She had never been able to discover much of anything about even the knights who served her closely from the Round Table, too confined within her role as king and her deception about her gender. Though she could have done nothing, the realisation had nevertheless brought with it a small amount of guilt.

After the beleaguered violet-eyed knight had finally had enough assaults to his dignity -- or rather, prodding by the nogitsune -- he made his escape, hinting at her to follow him. Which, of course, she did. Making their way through the field, she tried not to make it obvious she was studying him. Other than her glance in the market square and the occasional glimpses of him in squire's training, this was perhaps the first time she had seen him out of armour, at least as an adult. It suited him, she thought idly, modest and yet rather dashing...at least, that was her train of thought before her face heated up at the impropriety of her thoughts. And his shy smile did nothing to help her blush or such thoughts.

But at the reminder of the evening's awkwardness, she groaned softly, dropping her face into her hands. Interesting was certainly a good way to describe it; she recalled there was a curse from the lands she had known as Cathay to that effect. She didn't dare look at him.

"It was...not one of my better ideas..." she muttered pitifully.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If Arturia had been surprised that so many people had shown up. So had the knight it had been planned for. It seemed Arturia had made many friends within the Union, well-liked by her allies, and even a few from the other side of the battle lines had decided to investigate. Things might have run a bit more smoothly if they hadn't, but it was what it was, and having put some distance between themselves and the gathering seems to be helping.

It had been a new experience, to actually participate in such an event. Arturia had always presided over ceremonies as the very visible symbol of authority, and he had always stood at her left hand, silently guarding. It was a strange thought to be there in anything other than an official capacity. Stranger still that Arturia would be anything more than a symbol of authority at such an event.

Although he had always been able to conduct himself with dignity and stoicism, it seemed that behaving in a capacity beyond his ordinary duties was... well, there's no other term but awkward. He alone among his brethren was uncomfortable in such social situations, very nearly as uncomfortable as Arturia herself. Give him a task to perform, or an enemy to be fought, and he performs his duties admirably. Give him a social situation, though, in which he's free to be himself – and he flounders. For all his unflinching attention to duty, for all that he's shaped himself into a formidable force to be reckoned with as the king's own hand, he's still just a shy, gentle-hearted, and slightly awkward young man under the armour of his station.

Still, it had been enjoyable, at least for the few short moments they'd been at the heart of the dance floor. He remembers her laugh, so light and unburdened, and it seemed she'd been enjoying herself so, even if that had ended in disaster.

Slipping away to the stage had also been fun, although he hadn't intended to be quite so visible. No; that was more of a nostalgia for him – such instruments had been common even in his native Dál Riata lands, and he had known well how to use them. Although opportunities to practise were few and far between in Camelot, he had always taken what few he could. That practise had served him well, and he had only fouled a note when he had lost his composure again.

If he notices that he's being studied, he has the good grace not to draw attention to it. More likely, in his haste to get away, he doesn't feel eyes upon him – a rarity, for one so observant.

Leaning against the trunk, he folds his arms, sighing as his gaze drops. He looks up at her quiet statement, though, blinking and tilting his head very slightly, as though in puzzlement.

"What?" But rather than agree with her, he chuckles and shakes his head. "No, my king, it was a fine idea. And had the Confederates not arrived, it would not have been so..."

He trails off, gesturing nebulously with one hand.

Such a disaster, but he's tactful enough not to say it.

Bedivere pushes off from the tree trunk, watching her.

"Walk with me?" he finally says; unassuming enough to be a question, but there is nonetheless a hint of shy suggestion in it – but he is not so presumptuous as to make it an order. It's simply a request, where once he wouldn't have even done that. "I... would like to speak with you."

This whole debacle has at least been a good excuse to be out on such a fine night. And a fine night it is, midsummer, with the moon and the stars lighting their way through tranquil fields of wheat. A light, warm breeze stirs the stalks every so often; the silver light of the moon shining off the feathery tops of the stalks.

He will, of course, wait for her. Although he had simply left the gathering, that was different. Here, with no such pressure, he is patient once more.

Maybe the light of the moon is dim enough to hide that faint flush. It's a simple enough thing, to just want to talk to somebody, but it's probably going to take him a while to get over speaking so frankly to his king...

Saber (346) has posed:
For her part, the King of Knights had simply assumed the numbers had been out of curiosity than anything that specifically had anything to do with her. She had been more than happy to see a few familiar faces, but that seemed to have evaporated into frustration, embarrassment, and a bad temper. Now that she had calmed down a little, it wasn't quite as bad as it had seemed while they were in the middle of it. Quite, at any rate.

Out of general view, Arturia didn't put her mask back up, not taking the trouble to conceal a deep, exhausted sigh. A few of those closest to her have seen her with that mask somewhat down; Fate seemed to take pleasure in making her flustered and blushing, insisting it was cute. No insistence to the contrary had dissuaded the Enforcer. Perhaps out of everyone, Sakura had seen Saber the most in her unguarded moments, and not simply because the younger Tohsaka was her Master. And now, after all the years of wishing for it, Bedivere would see such a sight; the girl behind the mask of the king.

A very frustrated girl, to be sure. Even when they behave themselves, they don't. If, on the off-chance she was foolish enough to attempt such an event again, it wouldn't be open invitation.

But she doubted she would, regardless. Bedivere had been so uncomfortable that she'd had almost constant pangs of guilt the entire time. Another sigh; she never should have cajoled him into it. he was so painfully shy and awkward, but it was partially because of those traits that Arturia had charged herself with introducing him to her friends and allies. They had both always insisted on doing things all on their own, and it had taken nearly four years for her to realise that, try as she might, that simply wasn't possible. A bit on the awkward side herself and far from a social butterfly, it had taken considerable effort to establish what she now had, deliberately seeking out honourable allies and trying to find ways to at least get along with those who were not particularly chivalrous.

Like her, the tall knight would need time to adjust, but Saber should at least do something. Standing idly by simply wasn't in her nature.

But perhaps when bothered her the most was the fact that she was made painfully aware that she didn't truly know him personally. That had made her morose even as she enjoyed the music. Where had he learned to play like that? His people hailed from the kingdom of the Dál Riata, but naturally, not everyone from the tall, pale-haired people would necessarily be trained as bards, poets, entertainers, record-keepers...not any more than every person of her own lands could sing. She certainly couldn't. In fact, his heritage had been all she had ever really learned. It would have been inappropriate to have asked for anything more than that, and yet, the guilt over never asking remained.

Though his words trailed off, she couldn't quite help but wax morose over it. "...disastrous," she finished for him with a defeated tone. She hadn't thought she had any particular expectations, but somehow she didn't feel they were satisfactorily met.

But perhaps fortune smiled down upon her. Bedivere's gentle request pulled her out of the gloom that threatened to settle over her, and she looked up suddenly, blinking in surprise. It threw her off balance long enough to make her forget about the day's frustrations or her melancholy over not even knowing a little bit about him. "..Ah? O-oh...of course..."

She was right back to staring at and fiddling with some lace trim on her dress, her cheeks colouring as she followed. To be fair, she was a little worried; what did he wish to talk about?

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Once it's clear that Arturia will follow, Bedivere starts walking, though his pace is a good deal more sedate than it had been to flee the céilidh. His path seems aimless, cutting straight through the wheat field. Maybe he enjoys the tickle of the feathery wheat, or maybe he stays to it to keep away from the roads and the people. Whatever the case, he seems content to be there, and she might notice the faintest hint of a smile curling the corner of his mouth – he's not focusing directly on her, so for a moment, it's simple, unguarded contentment.

After a little ways, though, he stops, glancing back, simply waiting there as Arturia catches up. It's not that he's outpacing her, but she's following him, as though she were expecting her knight to lead them somewhere. He's not certain why, but that doesn't sit well with him.

He waits, then, until she can walk at his side instead of following behind. He does so in silence. Although he studies her from the corner of one violet eye, gauging her pace, he'll keep adjusting his speed until she stays at his side.

Bedivere's origins were no secret, even in the courts of Camelot. The king wouldn't have even had to ask about it, for when he had been taken into her service, the rumours had already been flying. Some of the nobility were outright shocked that she'd taken a landless commoner into her service, let alone a foreigner. Filthy commoner, some of the more venomous had said. Give him a fortnight or two, he'll not last. Others were more generous. Well, perhaps he'll last, they had said. But he'll always be a commoner. Finally, there was no secret of where he came from. His appearance had made that blindingly obvious. Dál Riata, they'd said, sure as the sun, and mark me, he knows some Druidic witchery. Keep an eye on that one. Look at those violet eyes, that pale hair. It's not natural.

As always, Bedivere had endured these whispers with dignity and grace, nearly pretending they didn't exist. If he had any knowledge of his Druidic ancestors, or the strange things they were said to do, he never spoke of it or even hinted at it. He had never even hinted that he knew how to play the pipes, though it had been something he had kept up when he could. Had he displayed that kind of skill in a public venue, no doubt the rumour mill would have gone into conniptions.

"It was hardly a disaster, my king." Bedivere's response isn't quite unrestrained enough to be called cheerful, but there is an amused undertone to his words. As before, he controls the lilt in his voice that marks him of the Dál Riata; he speaks as carefully and eloquently as he ever did in the courts. "I would say it went well, but for the arrival of Lady Kagenashi, or Lady Songsteel. I can hardly fault Lady Songsteel, in any case. Did she not introduce herself as a bard? I suppose such a gathering would be irresistible to her. I simply did not expect such a... boisterous... personality."

"As for Lady Kagenashi... you could not have planned for that. I had not expected to see her, either." His tone darkens, slightly. "She is cunning, and I do not trust her. I met with her on the road, some time back, while delivering supplies to a remote village. She wished to fight with me, but I had no wish to bare steel." He rarely does – only an outright military campaign has ever seen him fight, though he is hardly a coward. Even insults to his face, and challenges of duels, had never loosed his nameless sword from its scabbard.

He sighs. "Although I... am shamed to admit that by the end of it, I wished to. She dared to compare her methods with yours. I... took exception. I fear I may have lost my temper with her." Bedivere shakes his head, faintly. To lose control of himself so, it must indeed be shameful for him. "I—I would suffer no insult to you. She did not wish to fight, by then, though, and I was in part spared such dishonour."

For a few seconds he seems thoughtful, thinning his lips, as though he were considering something terribly important. Or, perhaps terribly uncomfortable.

"Be wary of her," he finally says, slowly. "My loyalty to you... it is a thing of fascination to her. And she knows that I..." The way he places such emphasis on the word suggests that Kagenashi somehow drew out the loyal marshal's uncommon loyalty, and the reasons for that loyalty – though her cleverness must be impressive indeed if she managed to worm her way past Bedivere's defenses. He flushes scarlet and drops his head. "I do not know how she found out. But I trust her little and less, especially with holding such information."

"She has threatened to tell others of..." Bedivere swallows harshly. "I would not bring such dishonour upon you before your allies, milord. I—I am sorry."

But that wasn't really what he wanted to spend the evening on. Still, he'd wanted to pass on that warning.

He trudges on in silence for a few moments, and the despair that radiates from him is... not quite palpable, but it's pretty close. It seems he's failed her even in such a simple thing, something that should have been hidden, and kept secret.

After a few moments he sighs, as though to pull his head out of such gloomy reflection. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft it might be missed, over the gentle hiss of wind through the wheat, or the sound of their own footsteps.

"...May I ask you something, milord?"

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been such a small thing to her, to follow slightly behind; her summoning as a Servant and the subsequent years of being a true equal to everyone had worn down at least something of that old formality, if not completely. Saber still acted with a certain air of command, carrying herself with authority and practised grace. She had lived too long projecting that image almost ceaselessly to merely stop. But there were more minute details which had been allowed to slip. Servant's speed or not, she was still tiny compared to most people, particularly the knight beside her who towered over her. When she relaxed her own gait, naturally he would outpace her, if only a little.

She tried not to study him too closely for fear of making him uncomfortable -- and cause her more than a little mysterious embarrassment for herself -- but she was able to catch glimpses of the contented smile. Arturia felt her own wash over her; as awful as things had gotten, wasn't this the goal she had been reaching for, really? Even more than getting Bedivere more socialised, she had simply wanted him to enjoy himself, to not have to worry about all the duties and formality and keeping up the mask. To see him truly smile. Her motivations, apparently, had not been entirely pure.

With a little bit of effort, Saber began matching his pace, though it remained hardly a strain for her, even with her lack of height. It was readily apparent that he was deliberately slowing his for her, though she politely refrained from pointing that out. It was such a simple gesture, and despite what was otherwise her annoyance with being so bloody short, it was nevertheless thoughtful of him.

In many ways, Bedivere had been a point of pride within her court, living proof of the reality of chivalry's ideals. One needed not wealth, nor power...but strength of will and purity of heart. It had given hope to other commoners, she had hoped, to have witnessed not only a fellow commoner, but an outsider, attain knighthood. The king would judge others solely by their personal merit, and their merit alone; her marshal had shown that her chivalry was not merely pretty words.

The rumours had enraged her as much as anything could have, not for questioning her decision -- though there had certainly been more than enough of that -- but for doubting his abilities and resolve. There had been some which presumed that he had gained his position through some manner of spell-craft. How dare they? Anyone who would regard the chivalric code as absolutely and Bedivere did was beyond reproach. How dare they?

Even now, even just the distant memory still made her angry, and she was no longer forced to hide it. On the other hand, there was little point; in her time-line, such people had long since turned to dust, forgotten by history. They had reaped their reward, as far she she should concern herself. Still, it bothered her, regardless.

Arturia relented a little as the violet-eyed knight reassured her that it really had not been all that bad save for certain guests. The bard had embarrassed her without mercy but she supposed that she might be able to forgive those indignities. It had been Kagenashi whom had made the petite knight alternately uncomfortable and angry throughout the event. She frowned slightly, her eyes unfocused as he related what had happened to him on his mission. Folding her arms and tapping her index finger lightly on her upper arm, she deliberated over the scene with as much detachment as she could muster. "Yes...she had seemed to be rooting around for information, but I had thought it would have been from a more tactical standpoint..."

She brought her cool analysis to a halt, however, as Bedivere admitted the loss of his temper, though her expression still reflected her serious frame of mind. "Perhaps, but yet you still drew no blade upon her. That is what is important. Although...I fear that we will have to, at some point."

But that cool demeanour faded away when he elaborated further. "Your loyalty...that you..."

And then, she finally understood, in retrospect, why Kagenashi seemed to know precisely which buttons to push with her.

To her credit, she kept her calm and no colour drained from her face, though the widening of her eyes betrayed her shock. She already knew he would bear rumours and ill-speech directed at his own person with his usual quiet dignity. It was casting aspersions on her honour that he refused to tolerate. And like a mirror, she cared only for his, having endured so much already. "I...no. While I no longer need worry about my standing as a king, I..."

Arturia sighed. "It is troubling, how well she had discerned certain...truths. But, you are not at fault... please, do not blame yourself for that."

She was startled out of her almost battle-like mien by the earnest question, the mask dropping once again. "O-oh..ah..."

She gathered her wits quickly, however, allowing a slight smile of encouragement on her face, unfolding her arms. "Of course. You may ask anything you wish."

That openness might have made him somewhat uneasy, given that bedivere was still trying to adjust to the idea that his king chose only to wear her mask in serious circumstances, and briefly she debated that perhaps she should not have been quite as open so soon if it was going to make him this uncomfortable. On the other hand, it was something she would have been able to keep a secret for very long, and especially not with her wish being what it was. And that aside, she selfishly couldn't bring herself to regret being so close to him now.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although the fact that she trails slightly behind him is a minor detail, those are exactly the sorts of things that Bedivere has always paid particular mind to. Where others would miss such small details, he had always made a point to watch, to listen; to pick up the details and the cues that other eyes would no doubt miss. Such skills had always served him well, though perhaps it remains to be seen whether they are so vital here in the Multiverse.

Probably, if his limited exposure to it is any clue.

Perhaps the pale foreigner had indeed brought pride to the commonfolk, showing them an example of what could be done. Certainly, there had been something of an upsurgence in commoners who had sought to join the king's army. Some were foreigners from the same lands the marshal had hailed from, and they cited the quiet marshal as their inspiration. Unfortunately, most of them lacked the same dedication to the knightly virtues, or the razor-sharp drive to succeed that Bedivere had carefully honed.

They lacked the fire that he had sheltered so carefully in his heart – they could seek to follow, and they might even succeed, but they would never love Arturia as he did; in his own quiet, distant way. That alone would see him through any number of injustices and nightmarish campaigns, and endure any amount of backbiting in the courts.

For her, he would endure it all. He hadn't even seen it as a hardship... and now, walking by her side, dressed not in his typical knightly raiment but the simple colours of a commoner, it had all been worth it. Not that it hadn't been, in his own way, but he can feel a strange, almost hopeful sort of emotion light in his heart, which tells him he would do it ten times over, again, just for this moment.

Perhaps the Knights of the Round Table were loyal to Camelot, and certainly Bedivere had been, as much as any of his brother knights. But more than that, he had always been loyal to Arturia.

"No." His denial is soft, given in that same gentle way he treats everything. If anything, it seems even softer. His gaze drops away, as though in shame. "In the end, I did draw my blade. I—I did not wish to strike her down, not in earnest. Merely to make her stop. To lay her low, and to humiliate her. It shames me, to have relied on my sword so, but I could think to do nothing more. Please forgive me, milord. Such conduct was not worthy of a knight of your court..."

He does look up when she dismisses his worry over standing, though he doesn't look directly at her. For a moment he almost seems as though he might argue when she says he isn't at fault, but in the end, he relents, letting the matter go with a sigh.

That's right. He'd had a question for her.

Although she hadn't necessarily said in so many words that she wanted to know more of the knights who had served her, when he had come back to her and they had spoken in the Tohsaka household, Bedivere's perceptions are keen. He had perhaps sensed something of that, and – perhaps in his own way – he had wanted to tell her.

Few had ever asked after the Dál Riata. They were no more than a troublesome people who sometimes swept in when conflicts in their own lands forced them away, or perhaps seeking glory in the court of the king; but they were never afforded status, and often attracted much in the way of suspicion. Their bards, their fili, were mistrusted and muttered of as one might mutter of a witch. Although there had been no open persecution, the resentment was nonetheless thinly-veiled.

Perhaps, in some way, the gentle-hearted knight wants that story to be told, and those wrongs to be set right. It's not something he ever would have expressed, though – by the contrary, he would have kept such a thing as close to his own heart as he could, hidden completely beneath his mask. It only would have invited more trouble.

If she catches sight of him, walking slowly beside her, she might notice that he has that shy look about him again. It's almost as though his courage might desert him before he can even speak. For a long moment, it seems like he might actually change his mind; and then—

"What... do you know of my people, milord?" His voice is quiet, and the words are, this time, definitely shy; as though he'd had to convince himself to actually speak up. "The—the Dál Riata, that is..."

It seems a strange thing that he might be asking, for he had never once brought them up before; never once drawn attention to his origins, or his status as a foreigner in the king's court. Indeed, he had never even spoken his native Gaelic tongue – he had always taken pains to speak Welsh, and spoke it so clearly and so well that one would never know that he had spoken anything else.

Saber (346) has posed:
For all the years, the king had remained ignorant of the undercurrent beneath her marshal's true motivations, and thus had believe them to be a dedication to chivalry as intense and unwavering as her own. Of course, that had been and even now was beyond question. But even with the knowledge of precisely why he had been so devoted to her, that impressed her all the more. To be able to hide such a thing for her sake, to guard her reputation that jealously...it was humbling.

Whatever he might have wished for as a reward, she would have given it freely, had she been able to. She'd had no idea that she had done that very thing, upon meeting him again. Even now, she couldn't fully appreciate the breadth of it all. Wanting to reward him...not simply because he had long-since deserved it, but because that shy, contented smile was more than enough reward for her in turn. SHe had known first-hand how heavy their masks were.

Though she hardly thought her honour was worth it, it was clear to her that it meant the world to him. That was a gift she would not refuse; not only was it a grievous insult, but it would surely hurt him. And that was something she would always refuse, no matter the cost to her. But she was not about to let him continue to punish himself for the slip. Rather than arguing that he had hardly dishonoured himself, Saber thought perhaps a different tactic was called for.

"If it eases your mind, then I am unworthy of knighthood, myself," she admitted with a sigh. "I have lost my temper a great deal today, but even more so, against a Servant who is repulsive to me in every way imaginable." As placid as she generally tried to be, Saber couldn't keep her anger and disgust completely hidden. "I have rarely stayed my hand each time he has provoked me into a fight, and I have even destroyed one of the cups from his treasury out of anger."

Not very knightly of her at all, she reflected. But that was just how much she wanted to ease his mind: Saber was willing to even think of the King of Heroes just to make Bedivere feel better. Earlier, she would have revealed such a thing to free him from her service, but today, it was merely a point that if he had failed, she had already done so long ago.

Fortunately, there was a far more agreeable topic at hand. The question of what she knew of his people had surprised her on more than one level. It might have sounded to anyone else like a question out of the blue, but to her it was almost as if he had read her very thoughts.

"Not...a great deal, it shames me to admit," she confessed ruefully, tilting her head and peering cautiously at him. The bashfulness had returned, and for a moment Arturia wondered if he was ashamed to speak of anything about them. "They came from the island of Erin to Albion, if I am not mistaken? Aside from that, I know very little of the Gaels."

Of course, she wanted to know much more about them, but where could she even begin? There had been the odd diplomatic excursions, but neither kingdom had been particularly expansionist, and had ended up primarily fighting off the barbarian Saxons from across the opposite sea who decidedly were. They tended to respect each others' borders -- even if not in a completely trusting way, metaphorically eyeing the other for any hint at invasion -- and minded their own internal affairs. The king never had the opportunity to ask the odd travelling merchant or entertainer who had passed through Camelot of the Gaels and their ways.

"I...if you would not mind, I would...like to hear of them," she asked, fidgeting slightly, blushing. Surely that would not be terribly intrusive.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although Bedivere had adopted a mask similar to Arturia's, there were aspects of his that were infinitely more guarded. The deception ran deeper than any of his contemporaries had known, let alone the very object of his affections – for so many years, that secret had been his greatest inspiration, and his greatest shame; but not because he feared his own reputation. No, he wouldn't dare breathe a word of it, because it would ruin Arturia's honour, and he would not be responsible for such a disaster.

In spite of such an unattainable goal, and in spite of the pain it no doubt caused him, he had carried himself with the utmost of dignity and grace. He had never wanted a reward for himself, and in fact had politely rejected the few attempts she had made to give fair compensation for his service.

Bedivere's gaze flicks sidelong to regard Arturia when she explains herself away. His brow furrows, very slightly. It may be that he's trying to reconcile her with unworthiness, and inevitably coming up short on that calculation.

"Truly, this Servant must have been repulsive, to drive you to such lengths." Perhaps it wasn't knightly, but to him, having never seen the King of Heroes, the comparison is like to his relationship with Kagenashi. The very sight of the nogitsune drives him to anger; he, normally so calm in all other matters. "I feel the same, of her. But let us not speak of her. I do not to waste such a fine summer evening speaking of such a wicked creature."

He bows his head slightly, studying her as though from the corner of violet eyes, watching her as discreetly as he can when she answers his question – though she is also perceptive, and likely notices the way he tries not to be obvious about it.

"I would be pleased to speak of them." Bedivere slows to a halt, looking up to the stars that dot the summer sky. They are different stars, strange stars; but the sight is a calming one all the same. "That is true, my king; they came from the Isle of Erin to Albion. And our kingdoms were not much like Camelot. Perhaps we had little to do with your kingdom. I suppose part of that was mistrust, but also in minding our borders against the Saxons..."

He cranes his neck as he looks up to the strange stars, eyes wide to see even the darkest among them. His eyes eventually hood until it seems he isn't looking at the stars so much as simply basking in that soft light. Despite his height, especially relative to Arturia's, something about the light seems to take away all the harshness from him – this is not Sir Bedivere of the Round Table, but Bedwyr of the Dál Riata, the foreigner, a gentle-hearted foreigner.

"I have no doubt that you heard the whispers in court of the and their bards, the fili, the witches and the warlocks. Perhaps we had some. And perhaps we had some whose motivations were wicked... but it was not like they said, not at all. My father was one such. It was from him I learned to play, for our magic was music, and our music magic." He seems to chuckle at that turn of phrase. "Perhaps not really, but it always seemed as such to me. I have no doubt that many of the songs were older than my people."

"Our life was similar. There were farmers among us, and fishermen, and herdsmen in the hills. But our land was a harsh one – and a land of hills and mountains, and natural fences. My people made art, we made music, we told stories and we had our own courts and kingdoms. But they were... different, than Camelot. Our kings were part of old traditions. Old families. We minded our own business, for the most part, and I suppose that is why their kingdoms still stood. Boats were our livelihood; it was through the sea that we travelled." He pauses, looking over his shoulder at her, though not quite meeting her eyes. "It was by ship that I arrived, my father and I, gone to the court of Camelot, for we had heard rumours of the king and the sword from a travelling merchant. He had wanted to see. I went with him, for I had wanted to know more of the knights..."

So, that had been a motivation of his – at least until he had seen Arturia for the first time.

"My father had seen you as well, but he had returned home. I could not, as I... told you..." His face flushes; he looks away, and clears his throat somewhat nervously. "In any case, I suppose there is not much else to say. The people thought ill of my people. They did not understand them... our fili, our bards, were things they did not understand, and so they persecuted them."

His head shakes, slowly. "Perhaps Sir Gawain was fair-haired, but my hair is much lighter. I am taller. They knew I was not of any blood of Camelot; of the strange Dál Riata, from the north. But if they had heard I was the son of a fili, I do not believe you ever would have been able to take me into your service." Not without suffering political backlash, anyway. "But, my king," he says in that gentle voice of his, "you need not feel shamed for not knowing. I never spoke of them for a reason. There were enough discontented nobles at court, and I dared not give them any more reason to question your choices." His soft, half-smile is just a little self-deprecating. "Besides, it would not have been proper to speak of it..."

It is, perhaps, the most she has ever heard him say at once, at least about himself. As he slows to a halt, his head dips down, as though he were still embarrassed at speaking so openly. The corner of his mouth is twisted into that soft smile, though, the one she seems to treasure so much. "Ah, my king..." The admission is quiet; shy. "I am not used to speaking so much."

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's expression seemed to darken even further. "Indeed, he is. His concept of honour is tainted and twisted...I suppose Archer is honourable, in his own way. But he is a savage. A brute!" She spread her arms wide, as if to demonstrate just what sort of awful person Gilgamesh was. "And he thinks of the entire world as his own personal possession, and his insults..."

She caught herself; she was starting to rant and work herself up into a rage. This time, it was Arturia's turn to let the matter drop; she neither wanted to ruin the moment or continue thinking about Gilgamesh. That infuriating smirk was enough to stir her into battle frenzy...and his comment about how she reminded him of a virgin on a bed of roses as she agonised over Rider's lecture was something she refused to repeat out loud. Not to mention it would have sent Bedivere into a rage of his own...

...No. She would cease being angry about him immediately. She refused to waste precious time with her knight on such matters. Particularly when she was finally learning about his history, his people. It was hardly the time to waste with their enemies.

Indeed, she caught the sidelong glance, just as he had surely seen hers. She blushed lightly again, inwardly annoyed at herself for doing so, for her lack of self-control. But in the faint light of the twilight stars, that self-consciousness seemed to fall away as knight became commoner; though he would always be a knight -- his chivalric virtues were far too strong not to be -- Arturia saw for perhaps the first time the other half of him, the one he had hidden as a Knight of the Round Table.

fili...the class of bards, poets, musicians, entertainers, lorekeepers. They existed in her kingdom, as well, though by a different name. Merlin had been among them, and his ancient magic was the great open secret of her court. Even by merely being of the Dál Riata, such rumours regarding Bedivere were to be expected; even with his family background concealed, there were accusations that he used dark magics to subdue his foes. If he had been known as having been born to a fili family and even learned something of the trade, the reckoning would have been even worse.

That in itself pained her; it was in the past, certainly, but to hide the truth of one's family...it had been a great sacrifice to make. And yet another one that Arturia hardly felt worthy of, even if he had made it willingly. But she continued to listen with rapt attention to every nuance. Saber had cultivated something of a curiosity from her time in the multiverse, now able to explore and ask...learn where once she was confined to keeping an impartial distance and observing. Learning of other kingdoms and tribes and cultures had been beyond her reach. But more importantly, she wanted to know as much about Bedivere as he was willing to share.

It had certainly been true that she had caught a fleeting glimpse of him as her entourage passed; the awe-struck boy with silver hair and blue-grey eyes. But she smiled slightly picturing that boy in eager anticipation of seeing Britain's new king. That he had gotten a little more than he had expected had not quite dawned on her at the moment. The image of a young Bedivere, travelling from the Dál Riata kingdom was simply too...cute.

Oh dear. She had better not tell him of that. It would doubtless be horribly embarrassing.

With a slight frown, she admitted that he was right; it had not been possible to even so much as ask. And yet, she still felt guilt. Guilt for not truly understanding them....just as Rider had said. And yet, stealing a glance through her hair, catching the shy smile once more...for the moment, none of even that seemed to matter. "Forgive me, I had no wish to put you ill at ease," she apologised. "I...there are a great many things I never learned about...my knights."

A near-slip there, though certainly he had caught that much. Sometimes, she wondered if there was anything he did? But then, she had chosen him as her marshal for that reason if nothing else. Once again, the once flawlessly stoic King of Knights was back to blushing and staring the edge of lace as she fidgeted with it between her fingers.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Alone among his peers, Bedivere had been content with his status. He had never reached beyond his station or lived beyond his means. If not for the real reasons behind his service, he might never have left Dál Riata lands. He would have lived out his life a commoner, learning the trade of the fili, or fishing for his village.

He had been fated to serve a greater cause. There was much more waiting for him in Camelot, something far more precious than the satisfaction of a simple life.

Bedivere had always known the rumours. Even before he had become marshal, his skills of observation were astute. He knew of the accusations that his Dál Riata heritage came with unnatural gifts, but they had not. His brothers of the round Table had seen that, and so had his king. When he won military operations, it was through cunning and intelligence. His ability to observe was put to brilliant use as a tactician. However peaceable his personality, there were few among the Round Table to match his sheer knowledge of war.

And when he took to the field himself, he was merciless in supporting Arturia's reign.

It was rare for Bedivere to plan a battle and not take to the field himself, always making his stand among the peasant-soldiers. In one campaign, he had taken to the field as usual, in the midst of a torrential downpour, facing off against a Saxon force twice the size of his detachment. No other soldiers could be spared; they had been fighting other battles in distant lands, led by his brothers of the Round Table.

Bedivere's force had suffered a crushing defeat, though not through any fault of his own. Over half his soldiers had been slaughtered, to his despair, and when he saw his standard-bearer cut down and Arturia's flag torn and thrown to the mud, something in him had seemed to snap. All the deaths of his men had weighed on him, and then seeing the flag of the kingdom he so loved so casually discarded – it had been more than he could bear. Tactics had not won that battle. It had been sheer ferocity.

The gentle, quiet knight had lashed out among the enemy like a creature possessed, roaring, reaving through enemy lines with inhuman wrath. Bedivere had fallen into a berserker-like fury that had not only rallied his surviving peasants against the Saxons, but struck such fear into the Saxons that those who could get away from him were soundly routed.

In the end he had fallen to exhaustion and wounds. His awed peasant-soldiers had borne him back to the castle like a hero. They had spoken of his courage and tenacity, his devotion to Camelot in the face of its enemies, his ferocity against the Saxons, for weeks to come.

Of course, the petty nobility had believed in a different story – that he had used some kind of witchcraft, some kind of foul magic, to gain victory over an army large enough to crush his own. He had not denied the rumours, of course; Bedivere had never spoken out against things regarding his own reputation. After returning from the battle, he couldn't – it was perhaps the single worst battle he had participated in, and for a time, it almost seemed as though he wouldn't recover from the wounds he had willingly sustained.

When the king had come to see her marshal to see that he still lived, and for him to deliver his personal report on the matter, he had given her a simple look. It had perhaps been the one time he had ever come close to dropping his mask, even if he had not – it was, after all, only a simple look, unreadable by the standards of the other soldiers.

Arturia was perceptive, though. That look had seemed a plea for forgiveness, as though he knew that his mere involvement in such an unlikely victory would invite controversy. As though he were apologising for drawing such controversy to her by his own involvement in the unlikely battle.

But for that momentary stumble, he had treated the rumours with the same calm, willful blindness that he had always treated them.

That was just the kind of person he had always been; just the kind of quiet, uncomplaining devotion he had always shown to her. The same shows in his gentle smile, just slightly crooked, as she tries to apologise to him.

He shakes his head. "No, you... you have nothing to apologise for. I had never spoken of my homeland before. The Dál Riata were not proper to speak of in Camelot. I could not bear to draw suspicion on you..."

Still, when she nearly slips and reveals her motivation, he notices. No doubt she expects that. As marshal, and even before that, there had been precious little he had missed. Bedivere has tact enough not to draw attention to it, though.

His very perception had always been a survival skill. Now, he can no more turn it off than Arturia can put aside her regal bearing. Even when taken off her guard by something he's aid, even when she can't seem to compose herself, there is still an inherent nobility about her.

After a few moments, Bedivere turns to face her, taking a step closer.

What's he doing?

He offers that shy smile again, and there's no denying the faint colour that touches his face again. Reaching out somewhat hesitantly, he moves as though to take one of her hands in his – but he hesitates again. The colour on his face deepens before he manages to follow through, gently taking one of her hands in his, content just to hold it for a few moments.

"Walk with me, please... my lady," he adds. It seems to take some courage for him to use that title again, for he ducks his head, hair momentarily hiding his flush. "It is a good night for walking. The moon is bright, and it is a warm summer. I would sooner stay out for a time, if it please you. And if there is anything you wish to know about your knights—" He gives a soft breath of a laugh, gently acknowledging her near-slip, "—then I invite you to ask."

Silence falls for a few moments as he stands there with her hand in his, not quite resolved yet to walking. Only the soft chirp of the crickets breaks the silence. Occasionally, dark wings cast shadows over the fields, and the shriek of an owl high above follows them.

He simply stands there as the faint breeze tugs at his hair; rustles at his commoner's tunic. That faint, almost shy smile never quite leaves him, nor does he let go of her hand.

"After all, there is no better way to learn, is there? Ask what you will. It will not put me ill at ease. I... must learn to accept such questioning, should I not? We are no longer in the court, and I need no longer fear bringing dishonour on your reign, at—at least when we are alone."

The mere notion of that fills him with the most curious, light-headed sensation. To be alone in the presence of Arturia, and to be able to speak freely? He never would have dreamt it possible.

"I am in a mood to speak, and I—I welcome the opportunity to speak with you..."

Bedivere dips his head again, perhaps hoping the dim moonlight hides his self-conscious flush.

Saber (346) has posed:
Indeed, the modest living of Arturia's marshal matched the humble lifestyles of the monastic orders which dotted the countryside. Some had even wondered why -- given the sharpness of mind, the strength of his faith, compassion for the poor, and the humility of his conduct -- the fair-haired knight had not gone into the priesthood. On the rare occasion, the king had caught herself wondering the same thing, herself. She had been more than simply grateful for his service, but it had at times baffled her. There would always be a gentleness of spirit which had usually led one into the service of God...and his own path was not something he had so much as wavered on in all the time she had known him.

Many young boys, nobles and commoner alike, aspired to be knights, if for no other reason than how proud and splendid they looked passing by with her entourage. But such infatuation rarely lasted, and those who followed that dream would either abandon it eventually or learn -- and accept -- the difficult path of chivalry. That he was gentle of spirit became abundantly clear during his squire's training. But he had accepted all of it, bore it without complaint, and even excelled. But there were also fleeting glimpses of the internal training he took upon himself, learning how to build and maintain his own mask of ice. The gentle nature was still there, yet meticulously hidden by the time he was knighted and accepted into her order. That reticence had served knight and his king well.

Yet, in spite of that, though drawing his sword was always the very last of his options, his skill in warfare was incredible. Naturally, all her knights were without peer when it came to the arts of war, but not all of them were nearly so reluctant for battle. In his devotion, Sir Gawain had been eager to prove the greatness of King Arthur; to him, glory seemed to be the best way to attain that. He had always been one of the most passionate of her knights, but it was a passion that was sometimes troublesome. On the other hand, Sir Bedivere had never given her trouble at all...and yet, despite his reluctance, his tactics were unparallelled. Despite the grumblings of the court, many were forced to admit that the king had chosen well.

She remembered that battle against the Saxons clearly; it was the battle in which she had -- for the first and last time -- broken the code of chivalry, Caliburn breaking in her hands as she committed the act.

The tide of battle had turned, the Saxon forces crushed with the sudden ferocity of her marshal and the rallying of his troops, against all odds. The leader of those barbarian raiding hordes, however, had managed to live though it, injured though alive. Though such barbarians knew nothing of chivalric honour -- their 'honour' lay only in the shedding of blood and pillaging of treasure -- somehow this one had learned something of the ways of Albion. Before the bloodied King of Britain, the Saxon commander cast aside his own people's idea of honour and plead for that of the very people they had sought to conquer, begging for parley, for mercy.

Enraged over the wanton deaths of her people, the king refused, and coldly decapitated the Saxon chief on that very spot. Some might have said it was the impact of the neckplate as she severed head from body which caused it, but Arturia knew better; casting aside chivalry, even for a moment -- refusing to grant mercy -- had been what caused Caliburn to fracture and break in her hands. That battle had cost her much, both in lives and in her honour. Perhaps this had been the turning point for her, when her mask became all the more cold, the king all the more distant. How could she ever expect any of her people to follow the code of chivalry when she had so carelessly cast it aside in a moment of rage?

Hearing the praises of her marshal's bravery, Arturia almost could not face him, so great was her shame over her own unchivalrous action. Mercy was among the very first of the chivalric virtues, yet she had forgotten it in a moment of weakness. However, her duty drove her on; she needed that report, and the part of her she tried to ignore wanted to be reassured that he lived still. But she nearly turned away from that subtle look, the plea for forgiveness in the otherwise calm, violet eyes. The one who needed forgiveness had been her, not him. She shook her head slightly, keeping her icy mask in place but for the fleeting flicker in her own eyes. It revealed that there was something, and would certainly have noticed the lack of Caliburn at her hip. At that time, she could never have taken such refuge in him as she did now.

It took some effort to escape her memories. Arturia had always seemed to trap herself in the past, question every action and convince herself that there was some more preferable choice she had overlooked. But the soft, shy smile and hesitant touch immediately made her forget her internal beratement, and she found her face flushing once more. She stammered hopelessly, for a moment, at the form of address which continued to send her into flustered flurries of her own newfound shyness.

"A-ah...I..o-of course, my lord," her shy smile matching his. Only, that dropped into an open look of embarrassment -- accompanied by a bright-red complexion -- as he acknowledged her earlier slip. "C-can you not...just...just...pretend not to notice for once?" she protested ineffectually. His keen perceptions had served her well in the court and on the battlefield, but now it was working against her.

To be alone...to be able to cast aside the last part of her armour and simply be Arturia. She had never thought it possible, both as King of Britain and the Servant Saber. It almost felt as if she had no right to it, that the knight should have wholly taken the place of simple girl. Yet, surely it would do no harm to allow the girl out once in a while?

it was more difficult that she thought it would be, trying to find something to ask him, now that she could. Where to even begin? As Bedivere ducked his head with his own embarrassment, Arturia caught a light gleam in the faint light, reflecting off a gemstone of red. Suddenly, she thought of a good question. "Th-these..." she pointed to her earlobe, unable to quite bring herself to force the words out regarding the ornaments on his ears. "Can...can you tell me of them?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Perhaps, if he had not devoted his life and his service to Arturia, the marshal would have turned to the monastic orders. If the calling of the fili had not claimed him, such service could well have. For many of the courts, it may not have been a stretch to imagine the meticulous, patient marshal seated at a desk, fastidiously illuminating the page of a book.

But that was not for him. He was glad to help in their service, and to do charitable works for the poor, but that was ultimately not to be his fate.

Alone among his peers, Bedivere had always considered the sword the very last of his options. No other knights of Camelot were so reluctant to bare steel in the settlement of a dispute. Even in war, he always offered his enemies the opportunity to surrender, and the only exception had been the battle in which Caliburn was lost. That gentle nature showed through in ways he couldn't quite hide, at least in his extreme reluctance to draw his sword.

But when he did, he took pains that matters were settled quickly.

After the battle, he had still lived, though the monks attending him had been doubtful for the first few days. He had delivered his report calmly, though he had been struggling not to slip in and out of consciousness, as accurate with the details as he could be for the state he was in. That she had been bereft of Caliburn had not escaped his notice, though at the time he couldn't draw attention to it. That had also pained him – he had not been conscious to see her strike down the leader of the Saxons, but he could imagine that something had incurred her wrath; that Caliburn had been used for an unjust purpose.

Much like his liege, it takes him a few seconds – he isn't certain what had made him think of that battle, or that dark time after it, but it's as far away from tonight as something could be. It doesn't bear thinking about.

Though flushing himself, he can't help but smile a little at her own uncertainty. He can't help it – it touches him to see her so awkward, and so uncertain; amuses him in a way he never thought he could feel. His smile slips a little when she calls him by that title again, and for a fleeting instant he almost seems as though he might pull away in his embarrassment. His own face flushes again, scarlet even in the dim light of the moon.

"Ah..." He can't help a chuckle when she calls him on his perceptions, though. She is perhaps the only one who had ever suspected how keen he was. He had never let on that he had noticed quite so much. Even Gawain, whom he had perhaps been closest to among his brothers of the Round Table, had not thought to consider how perceptive the quiet marshal had been. True, Bedivere rarely spoke up, and spent much of his time observing, but few ever thought to wonder how much he saw.

That shy smile flickers across his face when she asks him to just pretend not to notice, and he bows his head, his expression broadening into something a little more amused. "Then I shall do my best, my lady."

Still, he watches her indirectly, and he takes note when she indicates his earrings. Rather than just a single ornament, he has one of those studs in each ear. Polished and round, they look like some kind of stone, the colour somewhere between a rich red-orange and the colour of blood. Bedivere seems taken off-guard by her question; he reaches up to touch one of them, as though he had forgotten they were there.

Carefully, he reaches up and removes one of them, deftly slipping the hook out of his ear. It's a delicate thing, a short curve of brass wire, ending in a short but wickedly sharp point. The initial piercing must have been quite a sting. He considers the earring in his palm, rolling it this way and that so it catches the light, held low enough that Arturia can have a good look at it.

"I'd almost forgotten about them." He seems thoughtful, regarding the ornament distantly, violet eyes hooded. No one else in the court had worn something quite like them. "A Dál Riata ornament, but I suppose that much was obvious... we call it bloodstone. They are made for the fili, sometimes. If I had not come to court, that is what I would have been, most likely... my mother carved them for me." He reaches up to his other ear, absently fingering the stud. "I wore them when I came to Camelot. No one would have known the significance, so I did not remove them..."

No one actually knew enough about the fili to know that they might have favoured such ornamentation, or he would have taken them off in a heartbeat, for Arturia's sake.

The hand that had been tugging at the stud still in his ear drops, and he considers the one in his other hand for a few long moments.

"The legend goes that the stone is the blood of a dragon." Again, that flicker of a shy smile; he knows well the regard for such beasts in his home of Camelot. "The dragon had battled the enemies of our people, and after that, it withdrew to the earth to sleep, and to heal its wounds. The fili prize these stones, for they are said to have power, and to lend protection to the ones who wear them."

Tilting his hand, he rolls the stud over his palm, considering it. His eyes seem distant, as though deep in thought.

After a moment, he carefully takes the hand of hers he'd been holding, turning her palm to press the stud into it, still warm; with equal care, he folds her fingers closed over it. His hand closes over hers, and he offers that faint, shy smile again. "I want you to have this, my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
Bedivere's humble nature meant that he would never truly understand just how indispensable he had been to Camelot, to the king. Arturia had been forced to acknowledge that the fact he was of the Dál Riata would cause no small amount of friction within the court, but she had carefully weighed the advantages and disadvantages and come to the only conclusion which would have benefitted the kingdom most. There truly was no other knight more suitable for the position. unwavering dedication to chivalry and to the crown, the sharpest of observation, the mind for tactics, and a reluctance to deal with issues using violence; it was as if he was born for this task alone.

The burdens she had placed upon him, nevertheless, had continued to trouble her. Though her knights existed for such a purpose, it had been as a constant thorn in her side. She hated even sending the overeager Gawain into situations where he might be killed, using him and all her knights as she would tools. It bothered her more than it ever should have; they had chosen to be extensions of the king's will, and meet their deaths if it came to that. Yet, in her eyes, that had made her unclean even as she hid her anguish behind her mask and ordered them calmly into battle.

Bedivere had never seen so much as a true expression from her. But somehow, he simply knew.

Her relief that he would pull through had been as carefully hidden as all her other emotions, banishing any sign of worry from her mien even as she had gone to see him recovering and received his report. Not even so much as the furrowing of eyebrows exposed the truth beneath. But while others had been fooled so completely, her impassive gaze had fallen on the one person who was not. In a sense, it was a relief; perhaps her buried concern would somehow reach him.

But now, in the multiverse, her feelings were laid bare. She had worried over him for the lack of sleep, threatening an order if he resisted. For this moment, however, she was frowning slightly yet blushing. For someone other than Arturia, such an expression might have been considered to be a pout. It was such a normal human reaction for anyone else, but for the King of Knights, that might have been her first time experiencing such an expression.

Even still, his amusement was quite the nice thing to behold, in spite of her protestations. besides, he wasn't patronising her, not really. Saber had suffered more than enough of that in the midst of the Holy Grail War. No, he was simply trying to accommodate her, she realised....even if it was embarrassing.

That embarrassment was forgotten quickly enough as she studied the tiny ornament of brass wire and opaque red stone. Equal attention was on his words as he spoke about the stone, who had given them to him, what they had meant to the Dál Riata and to the fili. She was glad, then, that he had at least some reminder, however small, of his people. She had been lonely enough among her own people; how much more difficult was it for him, to be surrounded by foreigners? Even such a small part must have been a comfort, and she smiled at the thought.

Perhaps frivolously, Saber idly wondered if there was any truth to that belief -- given what seemed to be the magical nature of their very land -- that the protector of the Pendragons had claimed the entire island of Albion as his protectorate. But if it had, it was long gone; there were no traces of the life-force of the universe within them which would have betrayed such an origin. No, there was no conventional magic within them, but another kind of magic entirely. A kind of a far more precious nature.

As he pressed the earring gently to the palm of her hand and with the same care closed her fingers over it, she found the blush returning to her face. Looking back up at him with a startled expression, she stammered hopelessly. "M-me? Th-this...I..."

It was not the usual unworthiness and humility Arturia had constantly felt in the past. it was by no means a grand gesture, but there was a certain feeling of ritual that made it seem more grand than anything she could imagine. A fragment of where Bedivere had come from, what he had sacrificed to serve her...the magnitude of it in many ways made her feel so very small. But the thought of refusing such an honour -- even out of humility -- never crossed her mind, it was given in such earnest with that equally-precious shy smile.

"M-my lord...you honour me so..."

Lifting up her other hand, she gently placed it over his, her voice almost a whisper. "Thank you. I shall treasure this, always."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite never seeing the true face of the king, her marshal had known so much more than she ever could have suspected – he knew such things that others might have cried witchcraft, had they known of his insights. Yet never had he used anything but simple observation, wise enough to keep his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open. That was simply his way.

He knew, too, of the king's silent agonies. He knew she paid a great price for the burdens she bore, and without ever having to say a word, he resolved to take some of those burdens on himself. His dedication to charitable works was admirable, and where some might have questioned the knight's motivations, he simply wanted to act as his liege's conscience, where she could not. To atone for the wrongs she was forced to commit; to draw attention away from the terrible atrocities that were sometimes necessary. Never once had he judged her for the things she had done. He had simply carried on, as he always had, and acted in her stead more truly than either of them had really considered.

There had never been much communication needed between them – they understood one another. More than any of the other Knights of the Round Table, the gentle, soft-spoken Bedivere knew his king. He knew how her mind worked just from simple, if careful, observation.

He looks on as she studies the brass and stone ornament, something soft and strange in his expression. His attention on her is rapt, as though he were somehow honoured to see her so absorbed in such a simple thing – truth be told, he had not particularly believed the tale of the dragon, having never seen it himself, but it did make quite a nice story. A favourite fallback, for many fili; heroic songs of the Dál Riata for the ages.

She would find no trace of life-force in the stone stud. It's just a simple stone, cut and polished in a sphere, like a drop of blood mounted to the brass wire. No; the magic in it is far different, as she readily observes.

It is a piece of home, for him – a home he had left behind long ago, in pursuit of a greater calling.

When she seems unable to express herself at the unexpected gift, he smiles, though some of that shyness seems to bleed out of the expression. No, there's just a simple contentment, there. For once, it seems her flustered startlement doesn't cause him to do the same. The expression is as gentle as his always are, but there's such a warmth there; such a contentment, that he couldn't put to words even if he tried.

He doesn't answer her incredulous stammering, and she seems to work her way through it soon enough.

Indeed, that smile broadens when she calls him by that title again, though he does flush a bit at it. It's still odd to hear that title associated with him, especially from her – he has never been lord of anything, as much by birth as by choice, but to hear her favour him with such a title seems to strike him deeply. Coming from her, it's so much more than a simple courtesy; every time he hears it, it seems to stir something curiously light and fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

Odd, that. Were he not focused on her, he might think on that more, but his attention is focused completely on the King of Knights. No king, tonight, but just a young woman – just as he is no knight; only a shy, awkward young man from the distant Dál Riata lands.

He looks on as she places her hand over his, and for a moment all he can do is stare. It had been one thing when she'd taken his hand in the Tohsaka household, with he still wearing his armour, even though she had not been wearing gauntlets. It's another entirely with the barriers fallen away. He can feel her hand, how delicate it is; how small compared to his. And it's warm, warmer than he would have expected.

There comes a faint breath of a laugh from him, undeniably nervous. Why does that realisation make his heart race? He's fairly certain she wouldn't refuse such a gift, and it isn't as though this is the first time he's seen her without her armour...

Bedivere lifts her hand again, exercising the same care he had shown to a butterfly on a cold spring morning – she might feel the tickle of his hair as he bows his head, once more brushing his lips to the top of her hand in that simple, gentle gesture. It is a simple enough expression of dedication between a lady and her admirer, and it was common enough in Camelot. But it means so much more to him, here, precisely because it was something that could never be, there.

As he'd done before, he stays bowed over her hand, merely holding it against one of his cheekbones. Silvery hair hides his face; eyes closed. He seems to be mustering his courage for something—

"Not so much as I treasure you, my lady."

Although the words are a whisper, Bedivere is inordinately proud of himself for saying it without stammering.

Saber (346) has posed:
There had been other rumours regarding the pale-haired knight, though he had not been the particular subject. Arturia had been praised as a just king...but also feared as an inhuman one. Her dishonourable act against the Saxon chieftain had, in some ways, helped establish her as king, but at the same time, such ruthlessness -- and the mask she wore -- likewise had made her feared almost as a monster. The incarnation of the dragon beneath the hills of their country. There were whispers within the court and even beyond the walls of Camelot, and some believed that the marshal's acts of charity had been the only way he could shame her into something less...inhuman. Others seemed to believe she had ordered him to do so, specifically for leverage. When it had become clear that these charitable missions were neither, the rumours abated. None had even begun to guess at an agreement that never needed to be spoken.

In some ways, that understanding carried over into the present. Though she no longer needed a mask as cold and distant, there were many times Saber preferred not to speak. More often than not, it was to observe something in particular; sizing up an opponent, studying a clue, trying to discern a person's motivations. On occasion, she merely held her tongue for lack of anything to say, or even deciding against lashing out at someone with a beratement. She was grateful to her allies in that they had generally seemed to accept her lapses into silence. Her Master's understanding was somewhat to be expected -- Kiritsugu notwithstanding -- through the supernatural link the two shared. Sakura had caught glimpses into Saber's inner heart; though it had taken some time to build up that trust, she now trusted the young magus with that burden.

She shared no such spiritual link with her knight, relying only on each other's powers of observation and discernment. As much as that might work against her now, much to her embarrassment. Still, that someone would simply see merely by studying her and be able to puzzle it out was, in certain ways, a relief. Moreover, she might never need to speak of them, necessarily. She could remain as silent as always and yet still be understood. And Arturia felt a genuine peace from that realisation that she did nothing to hide.

Whether the tale was true or not had not particularly mattered to Arturia; she had merely wanted to hear of such things, the significance of such ornamentation, how he had come upon them. The Dál Riata were of another kingdom, but perhaps the tribes of Albion were not so different. She had never had aspirations of uniting them all under her rule; aside from her wish to focus on the happiness of her own people, such campaigns had never ended well on their islands. From the grail she had learned that eventually Britain was united, but through subsequent invasions and tyranny through the ages. Even now, in the modern era, strife remained, albeit a more quiet sort.

The realisation would trouble her, from time to time. This night, however, promised only hope. That small piece of the homelands might as well have been a kingdom unto itself; Arturia could feel the love and the sacrifice that had defined so much of their lives, what they had given up for their ideals, their country, and one another. In this moment, she was free of regret.

She heard his light laugh then, though rather than stammering a demand to know what it was he was laughing at, Arturia found herself sharing that laugh. It was infectious, that laugh...that shy smile. No less magical than the red stone and brass she held in her hand. But her heart seemed to stop then as he lifted her hands to his lips, feeling the now-familiar light colour rise to her face. She stared, entranced; as the king, she could have never experienced such a scene for herself, a potential she had sacrificed for the good of her people. At the time, that had been among the least of her concerns, fortunate that ignorance was, if not bliss, a comfort. And then...

Her breath caught suddenly, heart in her throat. Even her very thoughts seemed to stop, drawn into the irresistible web spun by those simple words. Nimue herself could not have woven a more powerful enchantment, Arturia was certain. Whatever words she could have possibly used were stolen from her. But then, they had always spoken the loudest without words.

She, too, seemed to muster up her courage for something. Fortunately, his head was bowed low enough for her to be able to reach, if with some effort. Gathering her courage and with a small intake of breath, Arturia stood on the tips of her toes, leaning up to brush her lips over his forehead, her light breath feathering the silver-blonde hair.

A good victory over her nerves, all in all.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Even when he had first been knighted, there had always been an unspoken understanding between king and marshal. They had never needed to speak to one another to draw out the other's meaning. Such a bond showed itself most readily on the battlefield, where a simple shared glance was enough to offer direction, or explain their tactics to the other – many a disaster had been averted when they had fought, back to back, turning aside their enemies as deftly as turning aside a blade for their unspoken cooperation.

Now, though, that uncanny bond deserts him. In this moment, Bedivere has no idea what's going through her mind as she studies that earring, turning the stone and brass trinket over in her hand; or as she shares in his quiet laughter.

He does see the way her face flushes scarlet, though, when he indulges in that still-foreign gesture. When he hears her breath catch, he can almost imagine he hears the thundering of her heart over the crickets' song. Or is that his own?

Wait, what is she—

Bedivere bows his head slightly; when he feels the feather-light touch of her lips to his forehead, she might hear his own sharp intake of breath. He startles faintly, but he doesn't pull away. How could he? Arturia may well feel him tremble, though, all raw nerves once more – as though he'd been struck by lightning by that simple touch.

It feels as though he'd been struck by lightning.

For a few seconds, he can't think, can't move; he simply stays right where he is, unable to do much more than breathe. Even that's become curiously difficult. His mind, so sharp and reliable any other time, seems to have deserted him entirely. He remembers to breathe a few seconds later, though it catches in his throat.

It's such a simple thing; such a delicate thing, but it destroys his concentration more than anything else. He had been about to say something else, perhaps some other thing extolling her importance to him, but all thoughts of words have fled him. He tries to grasp at those scattering thoughts, but it's like trying to seize a fish out of a stream; quicksilver fragments just beyond his reach.

"My lady..." The words are a breath; he's still in a bit of shock, too much so to summon his voice. As though the sun had come out from behind a cloud, he smiles again.

This time, it's not quite so shy, more a smile of peace and contentment, one of those rare, genuinely pleased expressions that he so rarely shows – and always they seem to be in her presence, if not directly caused by her.

Maybe it was worth it for her, because he gives another of those light laughs – a little too spirited for a chuckle, though not substantial enough to be called loud. For him, though, maybe it is.

He releases her hand, but it's only so he can throw his arms around her. Still somewhat carefully, of course – but he isn't thinking when he straightens as he holds her close.

The end result is most likely that Arturia may well find herself lifted off the ground, even as her marshal laughs again; that gentle but infectious laugh, as though he had finally reached the end of a long, hard road after many years of travel.

In a way, that's true. He has – and at the end of the road, she was waiting for him.

"Ah... my lady." He buries his face into his hair as he holds her close, though eventually he remembers to set her on her feet; though still caught up in his arms. And he, still caught up in the moment, doesn't even think to be embarrassed, at least not yet. "Never would I have dared to dream this. You—you honour me, truly..."

Slowly, reality sets back in, and he flushes, though that little quirk of a smile doesn't desert him. "Ah—ah, please, forgive me..." He hadn't really meant to pick her up; it just... happened. Never before had he really drawn attention to the disparity in their height – as marshal, though, it's true that he might have allowed himself to loom from time to time, if only to put the fear of God into her enemies, or those who had spoken ill of her in the courts. Between his broad shoulders, his height, and his cold, unsmiling regard, most of the time, it had worked. He, however, is not the sort of person who would ever think to use his size or strength over another in any way. "I did not mean to... ah..." And now he ducks his head again, clearing his throat awkwardly.

So much for conquering his nerves.

Saber (346) has posed:
In truth, Arturia was more than a little surprised by her own boldness. She had always been so composed, conscious of the personal space of others as well as her own, and and tried not to make unnecessary intrusions. In fact, general closeness tended to make her uncomfortable, and it had taken some time to adjust to the more...flexible ideas of others. While not even half as distant as she had been as the King of Britain, she nevertheless conducted herself with a rigid dignity.

Only, that had been cast aside along with her mask, when she chose to be, at least for a little while, merely a girl.

She heard the intake of breath, felt the tremble...for a moment she worried that, in her boldness, she might have gone too far. But though she was certain he had been more than simply surprised, he did not pull away or even so much as move. It was a puzzle to her, something that eluded her...she hardly seemed to have been thinking clearly for much of the day and into the evening.

It might not have meant much to others, their forms of address they had begun using when only in the presence of each other. Many might have considered such forms to be highly formal, impersonal. Yet, for her, they carried with them meaning and an irresistible sort of magic, perhaps in part for what they symbolised. It had been a dream that she had not even known, to be seen as what she was this evening. Her many protestations over feminine clothing bespoke her deep-seated insecurity; she had lived as a man for so long, to simply become a woman should have been an impossibility. To be called a lady now, after all these years, stirred up emotions she had never even known were possible for someone who had buried her feelings for nearly an entire lifetime.

Certainly, she had been called "Lady Saber" before by allies, but they had been used to thinking of her as a female and merely used what was otherwise the proper address. But the way he said it carried far more than simply that acknowledgement. At this moment, she was not a king, or a woman pretending to be a man...those two words told her how he was seeing her as she was now. Which was why all he had to do to make her breath catch and her heart stop was address her with them.

And then, Bedivere laughed again. She had never imagined he ever could...at least, not within the confines of Camelot. Among the recent miracles which seemed to be happening more and more, that one was perhaps the most mystifying of all. He was finally free, just as she was, to be human again. When there were no battles to be fought, no missions to carry out, this is what he could be. That is what she had always wished for Camelot, and her own personal prayer specifically for him.

That she managed to not squeak inelegantly in surprise at finding herself not quite on the ground was nothing short of a miracle unto itself, even if the blush she was now wearing was an impressive scarlet. But even that faded, as even more astonishingly, her embarrassment. Perhaps in other circumstances and with anyone else it would have been intolerably undignified, but for now? Somehow, she found herself unable to particularly care about dignity. Instead, her arms found their way around him in turn, likewise laughing with not so much as a hint of sorrow or regret.

Even as she was set back down, her arms stayed where they were, with Arturia finding that she wanted to stay in that moment as long as she could. Though it might take some convincing that it was all right to get caught up in a moment of his own, as he was back to stammering. But what she did note, however, that there were no protestations about how unseemly it was for a knight to act towards his king. That realisation made her breath catch all over again, even as she smiled the warm smile that seemed to belong to him and him alone.

"Shhhh..." she whispered reassuringly. "Perhaps, my lord...might we stay like this, a while longer?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Much the same as his king, the marshal had never allowed others too near to him. Although part of him longed to be friendly, he would show his discomfort, and it was a reaction that he even let slip past his guard if he felt his personal space violated enough. Few were surprised, with such an aloof personality, and this carefully-cultivated isolation taught even his brothers of the Round Table not to stand too near him.

It wasn't that he disliked being close to people, though. Despite his aloof persona as the left hand of the king, he was quite approachable, and even lonely behind his mask. It was perhaps the hardest aspect of his transformation into the cold but dutiful marshal – to forge himself into something so similar to Arturia's own regal countenance meant that he had to isolate himself from everyone else.

That was a pain he endured willingly, for her sake.

Now, though... things are different, now. He is no longer the duty-bound marshal. He is no longer the cold, remote knight serving as the will of the king. He is, for just a little while, just the shy and awkward young man that had been hidden behind that armour.

In that regard, perhaps his laughter may be odd to her. Aside from guarding his reactions so carefully, that may explain why he's so hesitant to do so. He spent so long training himself not to react that the sound may well be odd even to his own ears. Perhaps it even makes him self-conscious.

Or perhaps it's been so long that he'd forgotten how.

Until now, that is.

He had never laughed in Camelot. The closest he had ever come was that quiet exhalation standing in for a soft chuckle – what might be a hearty laugh in the likes of Gawain, reduced to a mere breath in Bedivere.

The silver-haired knight certainly seems free, here under the stars, free of armour and duties. Free, for once, of that terrible grief that had hounded him for the past four years. Slowly, that haunted look had begun to fade in his time at the Tohsaka residence, but there were still vestiges of that sorrow. He had still seemed uncertain, as though he were worried that if he looked again, he would wake from this dream, and she would be gone.

Now, though – hearing that laughter of hers, that sound that seems to his ears so wild and free – those last doubts are swept away like foam before the tide.

That whispers of hers brings him to blink somewhat owlishly; that reassuring sound to soothe his poor awkward self-consciousness, and it seems to have some effect. He relaxes if only slightly; after a few seconds, he's aware of the arms that have likewise circled around him in turn – a realisation that brings that colour to his high cheekbones again.

Her words, too, give him pause. Whether from the request itself or hearing her speak my lord again, he's not certain. Just those two simple words seem to bring his breath to catch in his throat again; sets that fluttering sensation alight in his stomach. Part of him wants to examine that sensation more closely. It's not fear, though that emotion was not something he had experienced often, save when Arturia herself was in danger. On the other hand, there is definitely a kind of apprehension, there, yet... having her this close to him, he's absolutely certain he doesn't want it to end.

She asks him to stay, and it seems to take a few seconds for that to register; his mind had once again slipped a few gears over that title. Not once does he so much as loosen his arms around her, though, head bowing until he can bury his face in her hair; breath a rush of warmth over the top of her head. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding the breath.

"I would stay like this as long as you would want to. I... for you, my lady, I would do anything. And..." She can't see his face from such an angle, but she can probably imagine his shy half-smile. "I do not want this to end, either."

Something seems to bubble up from within; that same sensation of relief, of sheer joy – to have found her again, alive, and well. More than that, to be in such a situation with her; with no walls between them, no armour, no masks. They are simply themselves, in a way they've never been before, in a way he had begun to forget.

His arms tighten around her as he straightens again, easily lifting her in that close embrace – but this time, with that self-consciousness chased away, voice rising in that wild laughter of his own. He half-turns as he holds her, letting the wind ruffle through their hair, their clothes; snatching away that laughter of his.

And for just an instant, he's like someone else entirely. All of the burdens are lifted from him. All the grief and the weight of duty are dissolved, in that instant, by that whisper of hers. He himself seems caught up and carried by the joyous spirit of a warm summer evening; and the relief of having his greatest dream, his greatest wish, alive and well – and in his arms, no less.

"My lady!" The title is given with that laugh still in it, his voice bright and even joyful. Such open warmth is something that she may find altogether foreign, coming from him. "For you, I would do anything!" Again, he gives that contagious laugh. "If that is what you wish, then let us stay here for a time – anything at all, for you!"

Saber (346) has posed:
It was strange, even to her; keeping herself physically and emotionally distant for so long, only to have those walls crumble so completely. Now, she found herself unable to let him go, if for no other reason than to be so close to him, to feel his warmth, to hear the soft beating of his heart. For once, she took no notice of her surroundings; her world in that moment was in her arms. In some ways, it was a little frightening...like a deep, dark pool where the bottom couldn't be seen. Though, to her wonderment, she found she could swim, and it wasn't so frightening, after all. Not with the absolute trust she had in the source of that feeling.

To protect...and to be protected in turn. It felt so comforting, so safe there in his arms. The king had never allowed anyone to completely protect her; even the knights who would willingly die for her were sheltered by her. They might have acted as her physical shield, but she would protect their spirits. She had only realised now that such protection could be a shared thing, that the strength of that shield intensified when she was no longer carrying it alone. With the truth of her sex, that might have been an impossibility in Camelot...but that was no longer true, now.

Perhaps that bright, joyful voice was entirely unfamiliar, but not even for a fleeting moment did Arturia consider it strange. To hear him laugh like that, for him to be so happy...she would gladly make all hear sacrifices all over again merely to protect that. And when she heard it, the sound seemed to spur her to laughter of her own, quiet and yet -- for her -- unrestrained.

She found herself returning the shy half-smile she could hear in his voice as he admitted that he did not wish for it to end any more than she did. The address -- perhaps at this point it could be better called a term of endearment -- evoked the same shiver that seemed to pass through her ever since he had first overcome his awkwardness to call her his lady, and a sigh of pure contentedness escaped her lips. That sigh became laughter once again with his own, and she could hear in that light voice the happiness, the joy, that he had been granted which he had so very much deserved. And the pledge that for his lady, he would do anything.

That was what was most amazing of all, to be shown that she had been the one to grant that happiness. Not as a king, not as a Servant, but just a simple girl. Simply by casting aside her mask and tearing down her walls. That jubilant reply, so full of life, was forever engraved in her memory, a treasure more precious to her than any jewel.

How they stayed like that, she had not bothered to count the minutes, content to simply stay that way. When she finally did pull way, it was only enough to look up at him with an unrestrained smile which betrayed more than a simple fondness. Lifting her hand to lightly brush strands of silver hair from his eyes, she seemed to study the slowly-disappearing lines under them with some relief. Good...those were going away. The ( somewhat unfortunate) céilidh was supposed to have done that, but so long as that worry and sorrow was banished, she was glad enough. Compared to his unrestrained laughter, that smile without a trace of anguish, stripping her mask and destroying the fortress around her had been no sacrifice at all.

Her hand moved to the side of his face with the same light touch as before, brushing more silver-blond strands aside. "My lord..." she started, but that was the moment they had a rather unexpected visitor.

The tiny beetle alighted on her hand, its thorax glowing a soft yellowish green. The first time she had ever seen such a creature had been during her first summer with the Tohsaka sisters, when she had left her window open and happened to look out into the summer sky. Mildly alarmed, Arturia hunted down her Master, describing the phenomenon hurriedly, in the event the strange, flickering lights posed some kind of threat. They seemed vaguely similar to the glow-worms in Britain's countryside, but they had not floated silently like that, merely alighting in the branches of shrubs and trees. Sakura had tried to stifle her giggle, explaining that those lights were perfectly natural, and had even taken the fascinated knight out to see them up close.

She withdrew her hand with a soft laugh, holding it up patiently for the red-and-black beetle to climb to her finger before flying off again, glowing all the merry way. "And may you find happiness at the end of your journey, as well," she whispered to it as a lighthearted way of parting. It was an unabashedly girlish thing to do, yet somehow, she didn't feel embarrassed at all.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The Knights of the Round Table had been willing to lay their lives down for their king, to a man, but none of them had been so dedicated as Bedivere. None of them had wanted to protect their king quite so fiercely; though perhaps his motives had been a bit selfish – that he might, someday, see exactly the thing he can see today. That he might hear her laughing freely, though never would he have imagined that he would be the cause.

And never would he have imagined to hear that simple title, that simple term of endearment, made in his reference. It's such a simple thing – something so common to Camelot, even; the proper term for a landholding knight from a noble family. In that, he never would have expected to hear the term anyway. He had refused offers of land, however politely, and his family was never anything that could be considered noble.

Among the Dál Riata, it may have been the closest thing to nobility short of actual nobility; the son of a fili, and the eldest son in a long line of fili, which no doubt earned him some kind of respect. It was not true nobility, but the closest thing to it. In Camelot, though, it had only been a mark against him, or would have, had it become common knowledge. It could only have been a stain on his already-dubious reputation.

No; he had never expected to hear that title in reference to himself.

And he especially never would have expected to hear it from her.

Although there's a certain reluctance as she pulls away, he doesn't fight it, instead tilting his head to look down at her. The movement causes his hair to fall across his face, but she clears it away. That delicate touch seems to bring him to shiver; almost ducking his head away, almost flushing, but he forces himself to look at her. Even as she studies him, he seems to be studying her. She looks so different this way, so very different from the cold king he had unflinchingly served. She looks... happy.

Something seems to shift in those violet eyes, as though he were resolving something to himself, some promise that brings him to smile – I will protect that smile, that laughter, with everything I am.

That smile broadens a little when her hand lights against the side of his face; he reaches up as though to rest his hand over hers, but only rests it over her wrist—

Unlike his king, the silver-haired knight has never before seen a firefly. For once, though, he doesn't react suspiciously; perhaps Arturia's own ease must be transferring to him. No, he simply stares at it, watching that soft, flickering glow as though his attention were rapt. That smile never wavers, either. What a wondrous little creature, glowing softly, even as it takes a few faltering steps up her finger. It spreads its wings and it's soon gone, but Bedivere can't help that laugh of his own.

"Aye!" he calls, to the fleeting firefly, the smile audible in his voice. "May you find your own happy journey's end... as we have." His arms tighten around her at that, chuckling with a little more restraint, and she might feel the familiar weight as he rests his head over hers; cheek against her hair.

It seems so strange to know that the young woman in his arms, so free of cares and worry, is the very king he had served with such devotion. Not that he has any complaint; but it just seems so surreal. At the same time, that very sense of disconnect is what makes it so precious. This is new territory, still so rare to him – so very different from what he had once considered normal. Although his stomach flutters and his heart skips a few beats every time she calls him by that title, although he feels that curious twisting of joy and the desire to protect her every time he hears that laughter, he doesn't want it to end. He can't get enough of it.

Instead, he simply smiles, holding her close; content to feel her own heart. The soft sound of the crickets are enough that he can't hear it, but this close, without their customary armour, he can feel her heart as surely as hear it.

His head dips, until he's low enough that he can speak directly into her ear, rather than in her hair; his words are little more than a warm tickling of breath, stirring what few fine blonde strands have escaped her braids.

"My lady," he whispers quietly. That lilt creeps back into his voice, as though his words were so earnest, he simply doesn't think to hide it. Even that simple title is given with such warmth, where one would normally use a less formal term of endearment – but for them, the terms are anything but formal. Perhaps, too, she can hear the smile in his voice.

If he was going to say anything else, though, he stops short.

Around them, like a swirl of embers, a whole flurry of fireflies suddenly rise up into the air, their lights winking on and off across the field. Bedivere lets go of her, but only so he can look up and stare, jaw hanging open in an expression of pure wonder, at the magnificent display of lights. He turns a slow circle to follow them as they swarm, and again, she's rewarded with that soft laughter of his – quiet, in his wonderment at these strange, but beautiful, little creatures; as though he were hesitant to scare them off.

"Aí," he breathes, violet eyes wide. "By the Good Lord, I—I am so very blessed..."

Saber (346) has posed:
Their new-found terms of endearment reflected not merely the trappings of a past that Arturia shared with Bedivere, but the strictures they had been bound to. As the king, Saber could never have addressed a subordinate as such, addressing each by title, and never with a possessive to suggest familiarity. The king was the highest rank in the land, and to suggest an equality of rank would undermine that rule. As much as she had wished for an equality for all, there remained some necessity for protocol, if she was ever to bring about that dream.

It was so strange how one simple form of address could make her heart stop.

She noted the changes in him, as well, when she called him that. Her lord. So different from the knights in her retinue, of the nobility who owed their allegiance to the crown and the peasants who paid tribute to the same. It was not possible to own a life, no matter what some other Kings had said. Fealty was one thing, allegiances and oaths nevertheless did not mean a life belonged to the authority over it. On that point she had been quite insistent. But this was another matter entirely. One's heart was something which could be no more quantified than a life, and to own that was at once humbling and mystifying.

A small part of her was afraid he would pull away at the touch -- not out of reluctance but bashfulness, she now realised -- whether unintentional or not. It was difficult enough for her to overcome her own awkwardness regarding her personal space, and she'd had four years in a multiverse filled with people without such compunctions. On the other hand, he had been wandering in the woods of Camlann for that time, alone and mourning her. The thought nearly pulled her out of her current mood until she reminded herself that it was over, and that she was finally there for him. Perhaps even...that there was a place to come home to. For that was their home now, for good or ill.

Now, the scales had tipped overwhelmingly to the former. He had said he would do anything for her. She was finding that in turn, she would do anything for him. She would defend his happiness just as surely as he would defend hers.

When he didn't pull away, she smiled a little more. In truth, she had been compelled that moment to look at him, to truly try to see. The gauntness was still there, albeit starting to improve, and the lines under his eyes likewise had begun to fade. But even as she studied those things and made a critical assessment that his overall health was improving, a more selfish part of her simply wanted to see his eyes. She had never had the opportunity to really look at them the way she had wanted to. She blushed slightly, admitting that to herself with a hint of her own bashfulness. But she held her gaze until her momentary winged passenger.

...as we have. That realisation stunned her; they were happy. Truly happy. Arturia had never thought she had any right to be, and yet...she couldn't help but want to hold onto it. She did nothing at all to struggle against that embrace, leaning into it and slipping her arms around him again, breathing in the soft scent of his tunic. It was a rough material; the hemp so often used by the peasantry, smelling of what was probably Castile soap -- a once-luxury that took some convincing that it was widely-available and hardly a luxury -- and softened by what had most likely been rigorous hand-washing. Plain, simple...and so very him.

It hardly mattered that he spoke softly, hardly disturbing those stray strands. It was enough to send a sudden shudder through her utterly beyond her control, action and word -- to say nothing of the lilt -- incurring a devastating effect. She got herself under control quickly enough, but she could feel her face flushing once more. Yet, even that moment seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and she followed his gaze...

...And beheld a sight which could only be described as magic. That same precious magic which could never be harnessed by crude rituals, a wild and free kind of magic attained by the most ordinary hands. Green-gold lights beyond counting suddenly rose up, accompanied by gentle laughter. And she found another memory etched into her memory for all eternity; the expression of wonder, that gentle smile, the light and untroubled laughter.

Arturia smiled brightly, spreading her arms wide and her face turned upward, with a light laugh of her own. This is what it meant to truly live.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In spite of the familiarity, the same marshal that had faithfully served her for so many years within Camelot's walls, the young man here seems wholly different. The solemnity that had always shadowed him and weighed down those broad shoulders is gone, and the hint of sorrow that always seemed to linger in those violet eyes is likewise swept away. That shadowed, haunted quality he had first shown when she'd met with him again – it's all given way to the kind of happiness he only could have dreamt of.

Even then, he had never quite dared to dream it. She was his king; he had sworn an oath of service to her. That admiration, that attraction, had been a secret shame for him for so many years, but now – now it's a source of comfort, a source of joy.

He doesn't pull away even as she studies him; doesn't look away because of his own nerves. This time, he seems to be studying her, as well – those jade eyes, that light expression so different from anything he had ever been accustomed to. It lets her get a good look at him, too; without having to study him surreptitiously – no bashful duck of his head, no letting that silvery hair hide his face. His eyes are a soft blue-grey, and that touch of violet is visible in the reflection of the moon's light.

When she blushes, he can't help his own smile, though that familiar self-consciousness is also there. He can't help a touch of colour in his own face.

His head rests over her as she simply leans into him. It's not hard – she's short enough that it's comfortable to stand that way, though he seems mindful that it isn't uncomfortable for her. Similarly, he can smell the traces of whatever shampoo she had used; something light, which brings him to pause, inhaling deeply as though to commit it to memory. He had never known what she had smelled like before. Presumably, the same as any other knight of Camelot – blood, steel and oil, leather and sweat. But not this. This is so much different; so... feminine. Perhaps she may be self-conscious about it, but he finds himself drawn to that.

It's a side of her he had suspected before, but never actually seen. He was perceptive, and he had figured out the ruse right away. Yet there had been an unspoken agreement between the marshal and the king, with no words needed; he wonders, in fact, if she had ever suspected he'd known. Certainly he had not done anything to give it away, especially not in front of others.

For a brief instant he almost looks concerned when he feels her shudder, but that whirl of fireflies interrupts him from asking if he'd done something wrong.

Hundreds of them rise up and into the night sky, casting their green-gold light against the blue-white of the summer stars. His attention is drawn away from the fireflies, though, as he watches her turn her face up and laugh – his attention is on her, and just as she etches that memory of his wonder into her heart, he's etching that laugh, that expression of peace into his own.

Turning, he looks to the fireflies again, even as they rise up and away into the night sky, only to settle over the fields again. Every so often, one or two of them can be seen flickering among the stalks, rising up here or there like a stray ember.

Bedivere closes the distance again, and as before, he hesitates briefly before reaching out to take her hand. "Walk with me, my lady?" he murmurs, the soft statement clearly a request. Still, in spite of that, he's wearing a faint smile rather than an expression of uncertainty.

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been such a dramatic change, the transition from reserved yet loyal knight to the shy, awkward young man before her now. Had she not been quite so awkward herself, she might have reassured him that she was fond of this side of him, too. What he hid behind his own mask was still Bedivere, and more than simply her marshal and devoted knight. A friend..and something else. Something more.

It had been another of her regrets that she had never truly seen behind his -- just as he had never seen hers -- even as she had given what she had thought had been all of her heart to her kingdom. Had she? Looking back, Arturia was no longer so certain. She had withheld a tiny part of herself without even having known. But with the anguish peeled away and discarded, that part had been exposed to the light and, like a strong seedling, seemed to have grown into a tangled vine overnight. It was not the most poetic of metaphors, but it was so tangled and incomprehensible that she couldn't seem to even trace it to its roots.

But just seeing him with a smile made her pause, and one not shadowed with weariness or sorrow -- or a light laugh -- made her forget about trying to make sense of it completely. She could do nothing, in fact, other than simply gaze, mesmerised, or join in with her own; lately, it seemed she was doing both at once, along with a caught breath and a skipped beat of her heart. It had taken a good amount of willpower to gather her courage enough to touch his face and look into his eyes, slightly self-conscious that he could see hers, as well. But without the need to keep her distance, she could finally indulge that little wish, and she was not disappointed; his eyes were beautiful, as she had imagined they were, and as gentle as his soul. A soft colour, not harsh but not empty. No wonder the ladies of the court had been so taken with him.

Not that he had seemed to pay them any mind, and Arturia had always thought that was simply because of his dedication to king and duty. As much else as she had observed about him, that was his one secret that she had never discovered. Though, the truth of that might have been as much her wilful blindness as his ability to conceal it. She never would have imagined someone would love her even from behind that mask, particularly someone -- at least, to judge by the court ladies' reactions -- quite dashing. Even now, it filled her with wonder...not to mention stirred up yet more blushing simply thinking about it.

Yet, if she was honest with herself, she would not need the opinions of anyone else to have come to that conclusion. Lady Songsteel's relentless embarrassing of the little knight aside, she had been right. Gallant knight and gentle young man, both were side to him that were equally as alluring to her. And the looks he had been getting had started to...bother her. She was hardly afraid they would steal him away, but the feeling was simply...troublesome.

And a good thing it was, too, that he did not have the chance to ask, or the deeply-embarrassed little blonde would have began flailing and insisting it had been nothing...nothing at all.

There remained the odd straggler -- one of which she'd had to carefully rescue from the fringes of her braid -- of that flurry of soft light, but for the most part they had settled into the distance, flying slowly over the open fields. Arturia continued to watch them for a moment with a peaceful smile, before Bedivere had closed the gap again, taking her hand. It was a different smile now, and while she had grown fond of the shy one, she was growing fond of this one already. "Certainly, my lord," she replied with a small smile which was her version of a grin.

But with her other hand, she held up the bloodstone earring he had given her, studying it for a moment before lifting it to her own ear and pushing the sharp tip through her earlobe. She kept her face placid, with no hint of the pain in her expression, and channeled a small amount of her life-force around it to partially heal around the brass. There. Now she felt that she had given the gift a proper place.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Although this side of himself is something Arturia is fond of, it's a side of himself Bedivere isn't accustomed to showing. It's a side of himself that Camelot had never seen, as much out of necessity as through competence. His mask had been so complete that few if any knew what he was really like.

Some saw the dutiful marshal, the loyal left hand of the king. Others saw the aloof and distant foreigner, the only knight among his brothers who held no land and bore no arms of his own.

No one saw the shy young man hidden behind his armour and his mask. He did not allow them that chance any more than he allowed his king that chance. Perhaps he had assume that she did not want to see weakness out of her closest knights; and perhaps, in his admiration of her, he didn't want to reveal any vulnerabilities to her.

Serving her was, for a time, the only way he could express his devotion. It's natural that he had seen that as his only outlet; it also allowed him to put aside what he and the courts perceived as weakness, throwing his focus wholeheartedly into serving that which Arturia had created.

Tonight, stripped bare of his defenses, he's almost a different person – yet he's also the same, as well. There are still traces of the king's faithful marshal, loyal to the end, even when it seemed the rest of the Round Table had fractured around her. He alone had seen his king through, right to the fateful Battle of Camlann. And something of that loyalty shows even in the way he holds her hand, as though no force on heaven or earth could loosen his grip or dim his resolve to stand at her side.

Now, though... it's a different reason that he serves, though that loyalty is no less bright. A more honest reason, even though he had carried that secret for so long. It had hurt him to reveal it, but keeping it had hurt even more; not now, when she had indicated that it was alright, and that they weren't bound by the same rules in this place.

Some part of him is even glad that those shackles have fallen away. Life in Camelot had been rewarding, for him, but it had also been wearying. It took a tremendous amount of energy to keep up with the demands he had placed on himself, let alone the demands that society placed on him. Turning aside the curiosity of the ladies so taken with him had become something of a wearisome habit; turning aside the less benign attention of their brothers (and occasionally, their husbands) had been a more dangerous game. Then, there were simply those who felt more entitled to his rank and position, and who sought to use his status as commoner and foreigner as evidence against his worthiness – although those conversations rarely ended well for the accusers.

None of that had ever shown, though, and he had dealt with it all with the same dignity and grace that he had dealt with everything – but behind that aloof mask, he had been tired. And perhaps, even though he never would have admitted it, he had been hurting, a sympathetic pain, at seeing the things his king had put herself through.

Now, though... he can't help the way his eyes are drawn to her, helpless before that smile of hers, or the liveliness in those sea-green eyes. He can't seem to have enough of that soft laugh of hers, more precious to him than any gold or silver.

As they walk on through the wheat fields, the tops of the stalks a feather-light tickle against arms and legs, he can't help a smile of his own. It falters just slightly as he studies her, though not through any disappointment. It seems more curious, as though wondering what she might do with the bloodstone—

—and he can't help but flinch as she neatly pierces her own ear with it. True, he would bear such pain without wincing, too, but he can't help the reaction. Something in his gut twists at seeing her endure any kind of pain, no matter how small.

Still, to see her honour that gift, she might catch that fleeting, faint smile over his face.

"Ah, that was not necessary. I would have gladly set it on a chain for you to wear around your neck, my lady..." What's done is done, though, and he contents himself with staying at her side. His hand tightens around hers, however gently, and he finds himself looking up at the stars as they walk. Such a meandering path will eventually take them to the warpgate that should lead them back to the Tohsaka residence, but he doesn't mind the extra bit of walking.

Actually, he finds he prefers that. Any excuse to drag his feet here, to prolong this time spent with his ki—no, his lady, is most welcome.

The sigh he gives is not a melancholy sound, as so often they had been from him, but one of contentment; very nearly pleased. "I am glad for this time," he says quietly. "I will be happy to resume my duties come the morn, but..." Bedivere ducks his head slightly, flushing a little. "Aaah, I do not want to sound as though I were derelict in my duties. But this is... I... am glad for this time." His tone softens even further; thoughtful. "I am... happy, for this."

He risks a sidelong glance to Arturia, suddenly shy once more. So much for finding his resolve. "And I... hope that you are, as well... my lady." So long as there's no one to hear, he can't seem to help but use that title any more. If it stops even her heart, it certainly invites that fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach to use it – to know that he is welcome to use it, let alone that she would encourage such a thing. While he's used such a title often enough in Camelot, addressing the wives or sisters of nobility and knights alike, never had he used it with such sincerity; such warmth. It had at that time been a mere cold courtesy with no feeling meant behind it – but now...

He can't help but smile; breathing out in that soft laugh again.

"I had never thought to use such a title before. I do not know why I do now," he murmurs, a little awkward; to go by the red rising in his face or his his half-smile. "I suppose it must sound so... common... but it also seems to suit you. Unless there is something else you would prefer to be called," he adds, his awkward smile a little crooked in his self-consciousness.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia had been given close to four years before her own mask had started breaking down in earnest; it had taken time spent in the company of demure magi, lively Enforcers, equally-stoic knights from other worlds, gentlemen Assassins, and countless others to begin luring the Servant from her shell. Even then, she had really only began in earnest with Lancelot's reappearance; each had believed they needed to make amends, and in doing so Saber was finally able to begin to heal. While she had been grateful, she nevertheless wished for amends with all of her knights, but in particular the steadfast marshal who had been at her side through it all.

She had made far more than simple amends, far more than she ever would have dreamed. With the masks and internal walls gone -- at least, only in each other's presence -- she had been blessed with far beyond her modest wish. It had seemed as if the most fantastic of impossible dreams had surmounted the walls of reality itself. She had sacrificed her happiness, never expecting her own to be granted.

But even more than that, she had granted happiness to one whom she had longed for to be happy. Just as she had wished for Lancelot's, and Guinevere's, the knight wearing the same mask as the king had more than earned the right to cast it aside. And when he finally did, she was drawn to him all the more...more than she ever thought possible. More than anyone could have ever guessed, the king indeed had a heart. It was simply that she had given it to another, as if for safekeeping.

The petite knight almost laughed again at the thought that it was so very apropos that he had returned to her with a gift of his own. Through dark woods, across worlds, and against impossible odds. What could she have ever done to have been so blessed? In the end, however, it didn't matter. What did was how they were now, in this moment in time.

Nearly as perceptive as her marshal, she caught the wince. With a slight shake of her head, she lightly touched the earring with the tips of her fingers. "I wanted to do this. And you endured it as well, did you not, my lord?"

It was true; with that act, she was able to perhaps feel something of what it had been like for him, sharing that pain and hence a piece of his past. It was more than simply needing a proper place for it, or even demonstrating her regard for it. No, she considered the pain a part of that gift. Perhaps to demonstrate that, she edged closer, leaning into his arms slightly as they walked.

Arturia likewise hardly minded an extra bit of walking; in fact, she would be disappointed when they finally reached the warpgate. As pleasant as her home could be, returning almost seemed like waking from a pleasant dream, one that she did not want to wake from just yet. They did indeed have duties the next day, and their respective masks would be back on though most of it, setting an example to the Union of what knighthood and chivalry truly meant. Even just like that, her hand in his, walking side by side in the summer evening....with their masks set aside for the moment, it might as well have been the utopia she had been seeking.

She caught the shy smile in a glance of her own, returning it with a small measure of her own shyness. Even if perhaps some time into the future the term of endearment would not make her heart stop in quite the same way, she would never tire of it...nor would she tire of calling him by his. "Ah...I too, my lord...I am happy for this."

Nor, for that matter, would she tire of that light laguh.

Looking up at him, her face suddenly flushed at the question of another form of address, and it might have puzzled him that such an innocent question had drawn such a reaction. That is, until she gave her answer, staring down and fidgeting with a trim of lace. "A-ah...I...perhaps...m-might you...call me by...by my name?"

Flustered, she stammered out after a moment, "I-I realise that it is a bold request....and not knightly, but...perhaps...at least just once..."

So much for her composure.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Considering what must be the great shock of all this, Bedivere actually copes reasonably well. He hasn't had the four years and the help from friends and acquaintances; the four years he had were spent wandering the woods. Although he'd thought them the woods of Camlann, in reality, the world had Unified without his knowing. He had been lost in the Multiverse for four years, unknowing. It had only been a stroke of luck that the things he had come across were familiar.

In Camelot, even the faintest lowering of his walls, his mask, would never have been an option. The political intrigues and the precarious matter of his reputation made it impossible to let down his guard. More than that, even if he'd been granted leave to, he wasn't certain he could trust himself to. Now that the walls have come tumbling down, now that he knows what his own reaction is, he isn't certain he could have held his tongue – or more importantly, kept his heart in check.

Merely following Arturia and executing her will had been enough for him. He had loved her in his own way, from a distance; supporting her in every way he could but the ways he'd wanted to.

Now, though, with the time and the place different enough to permit them honesty between one another – true honesty, and not the silent acceptance and understanding of defenses and masks – he hadn't realised what kind of pain he had buried in his heart. Perhaps Arturia had seen the shadow that always seemed to attend him, the melancholy, but she had noticed. In some ways, her perceptions were sharper than his.

Seeing that genuine smile of hers, hearing that laugh; it pleases him in a way that almost hurts, not knowing the pieces that had been missing from him.

Knowing he's the cause, though – he's still not certain what to make of that.

"I did." Bedivere bows his head slightly, though those violet eyes still regard Arturia indirectly. "Truth be told, my lady, I scarcely remember. A prick, a bit of blood, and it was over. My mother made the cut, as soon as she had finished carving them... but I do not remember the pain. I remember the pride in her eyes." He allows himself the faintest hint of a smile, almost unsteady, shy again. "Yes. I would have been a fili, I think, if I had not come to Camelot..."

He ducks his head, hiding beneath silvery-blonde hair; hiding his sudden, self-conscious flush. "But I am glad I did." All the pain, all the heartache, the blood and death and the sundering of the kingdom itself, had been worth it. Was it selfish of him to think that? At the same time, how can he not think that? He would have endured it ten times over again, just to be by her side in this moment.

Perhaps those terms of endearment might not make their hearts stop in the future, not like they do now, but he can't imagine ever hearing those words from her lips and not trembling in awe. His hand tightens faintly over her own when she calls him by that again, and that hint of a smile broadens into something more substantial. It falters at her self-conscious embarrassment, though.

Fortunately, she explains herself before he can ask what he'd done wrong.

He flushes cleanly to the tips of his ears at even considering such impropriety. For a moment he can't even justify her request with a response, because his throat closes off; he can't remember how to speak.

Then, like a bucket of ice water to the face, something else occurs to him.

She did request. And any request from her is accepted by Bedivere with the same gravity that anyone else would accept an order.

Bedivere swallows, considering.

"Ah..."

He watches as she fiddles with a bit of lace from her dress, watches as she averts her eyes and tries to justify her own request. Something in that uncertainty touches him; he stops, dipping his own head and smiling again.

"I will call you whatever..." It takes clear effort for him to say it, and he almost falters; but for her he gamely makes the effort. He continues gamely on with that crooked, self-conscious half-smile. "I will call you whatever you wish, Arturia."

His hand tightens over hers, gently, though he doesn't quite look at her. He's not sure he can look her in the eye after that kind of unknightly address, even if she had asked for it – but at the same time, it gives him a strange kind of thrill to refer to her so... so plainly. He speaks her name, but his tone of voice alone distinguishes it – it's given with such consideration, such warmth, that she can likely imagine the honourifics that he tries so hard not to add.

"As I said to you, my lady... for you, anything. If... if that is what you want me to call you, then I will call you by your name." He falls silent, thoughtful for a moment. "If... if you wish, you may call me by mine. No 'Sir,'" he adds, hastily enough to betray his nervousness. "I was never nobility, anyway, not truly..."

Oddly, though, he had never given a surname in the court of King Arthur. Perhaps curiosity may motivate her to ask what that might be – something unique to his people, perhaps, or simply something he had never thought to mention. After all, the fili were well-regarded, even in the rare instances that they weren't nobility or royalty, though he can't imagine she would know that.

Self-conscious, he falls silent again, the song of the crickets and the occasional winking light of a firefly their only companions under the summer moon. Still, for all there may be an embarrassed edge to his expression, he's wearing that smile. It's so peaceful, if somewhat shy; almost as though he were still cautious even about letting himself feel happiness.

Or, perhaps he's still a little self-conscious where she's concerned. She's made it abundantly clear that she welcomes such, but of his brothers of the Round Table, he had always been quietly but unyielding in his views on decorum and chivalry.

It's no fault of her own, of course. He'll just need time to reconcile that. No doubt poor Bedivere is still trying to reconcile this happy young woman with his solemn king; or the tangled skein of emotion in his own heart with – love, he decides, with some wonderment. What else could it be? He's never been in love before, at least not that he's ever known, but what else can it be? He wants to see her happy; seeing her in any kind of pain, no matter how small, is like a knife wrenched in his gut. He wants to be near her, and since his reunion with her, he finds that some part of him is miserable when separated from her.

In light of his own realisation, he simply offers that shy smile, the one she seems to treasure so much.

Saber (346) has posed:
In many ways, Saber had been fortunate, though she certainly had not regarded herself as such at the time. With the Holy Grail destroyed -- at least, what she had been lead to believe -- she had lost hope, and thrown into the multiverse abruptly carrying that bitterness. Would she have been in the same position, had she not been effectively rescued by a fellow knight, albeit a rather strange one with an even stranger mount? Even with Gilgamesh hunting her for whatever terrible purpose he had in mind, being introduced to the idea of multiple universes by someone of a similar mindset had made her adjustment much more comfortable than it otherwise would have been. In all likelihood, she never would have joined the Union at all and hunted down the King of Heroes on her own -- more than simply a single battle -- had it not been for the chivalry of that knight.

Regardless, all that time she had been concealing herself behind her mask, seldom allowing even a mere glimpse beyond it. Part of that had been out of her personal war with the Servant Archer -- she had been grateful that the more recent one she had never fought had been content to pursue his own interests, only returning when his own Master was imperiled -- but predominantly out of a reluctance to allow anyone too close to her. She had agreed to a contract with the younger sister of the Tohsaka house out of necessity, even if it had been true that she had only agreed to that contract because she had found honour within the young woman. Much to her astonishment, her new Master had proved her earlier assessment even further by swearing fealty to Arturia. Though only ceremonial -- without a proper order the oath had not carried quite the same obligations -- her action of knighting Sakura had officially brought her into what Saber considered her inner circle.

Yet, she had never completely cast aside her mask, a part of her armour as much as the blue-etched silver plate she summoned for battle. She had always been conscious of her pain behind it -- the loss of Camelot through what she had always believed were her combined failures was too great -- but spent considerable willpower to bury it; such emotions would only distract her from what she needed to do. She had even run through Lancelot -- the Servant Berserker -- in pursuit of her atonement. She could not allow herself to realise that her second-in-command had never blamed her even once, implying that it was her own stubbornness which had been driving her to seek something she had no true need of.

You still battle for such a thing? Such a...difficult person...

Now, with the mask cast aside, Arturia could allow herself to understand, to accept it. She had deliberately blinded herself to certain observations; had she allowed herself to realise them, they would have made carrying out her duties all the more difficult, if not impossible. But even then, there were some which had made it past that stubbornness. She had always seen the quiet melancholy in her marshal, and his silence on the matter -- bearing all without so much as a sound of protest or complaint -- had ironically drawn even more of her attention to it. Perhaps it was because she had understood it all too well that made it impossible to ignore; different from that of the morose First Knight, torn between love and duty.

It had been a knife-sharp contrast to now, perhaps unsettling to some who had known them only as distant king and aloof knight, but to her, it would always be a miracle. She had been right, after all, when her new reality had been explained to her. If the Holy Grail cannot grant my wish, then perhaps the Multiverse can. It had, though perhaps not the one she had been stubbornly fixated on. It had granted the greater wish beyond it. More than undoing her legend, all she had ever truly wished for was the happiness of her people, particularly those who served her directly. And that, at least in great part, had come to pass. And not only had she not been an obstacle to that, she had been the cause. The realisation almost brought her to tears again.

But now was hardly the time for such things. She allowed herself a light chuckle at the end of his recollections, his musing that had he not come to Camelot, he would have most likely been counted among the fili of his people. "Ah...but it would seem there are those who would nevertheless count you among them, my lord," she replied, remembering Lady Songsteel's exuberant exclamation at the discovery of his musical abilities. With the embarrassment faded -- mostly -- in retrospect it had been a little bit amusing, that reaction.

The self-conscious reaction was, perhaps, to be expected. But his words produced that same reaction in her, flushing a little herself. "As am I..."

Arturia couldn't quite control her uncertainty over having asked such an inappropriate thing of him. Really, she had become far too bold, drunk on her happiness. She fidgeted again at his shocked reaction, staring intently at the lace as if trying to read it. But just as she had been about to apologise profusely and withdraw the request...

Her head jerked up, face blushing, as she stared wide-eyed for a brief moment before she smiled, closing her eyes. To call one by name might have seemed like such a trivial thing, but to hear him call her by her name...she doubted she would ever stop feeling that thrill, that her heart would ever stop quickening at the sound. She squeezed his hand gently, unable to clear the smile from her face even if she tried.

It did falter a little, however, as he betrayed his own self-depreciation in regards to having not been born into nobility. Taking his hand in both hers, she raised it to her lips, brushing them lightly over his slender fingers. "I disagree. Of all my knights, you represented nobility the truest of them all..."

She hesitated, but only for a moment."...Bedivere."

It was then that she resolved to do something about it. He had never accepted land, nor titles aside from Marshal of the Realm, nor heraldry. Personal arms no longer carried quite the same weight as it once did -- though she had been surprised to see that it had even survived at all, with even merchant organisations adopting modern heraldry of their own -- this oversight could finally be corrected now that she no longer had to maintain a coldly objective distance. Arturia did, however, keep her plotting to herself. He would notice, of course, but there were ways to skirt the issue. And he would find out soon enough, anyway. She wasn't really hiding it...much.

Instead, she answered his shy smile with a smile of her own, though with only a hint of shyness to it. While she remained ignorant of the realisation he had come to, she was slowly coming to a similar one on her part, albeit not quite yet. It was an entirely new experience, even after all this time. In some ways, she continued to blind herself, even if no longer intentionally. But, when she could finally see, somehow she knew there would be fireflies to greet her at the journey's end.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Gah—" It's a sound of vague shock, almost alarm, perhaps even amusing in its suddenness. "What—no, my lady, I am no fili. I was taught how to play the pipes, but I lack training. Playing the pipes does not a fili make." He waves his free hand in his earnestness, violet eyes a little bit round. "It would be improper to call me a fili. I left that path aside when I came to Camelot."

His earnestness in protesting that is probably adorable, in its own way, even if that's probably not the intended effect at all.

Still, he can't help but smile a crooked little smile at the sound of that title. There may be a time in which it loses its wonder, but he can't imagine it ever fading so. Just as with his simple title for her, every time she calls him by that impossible title, it feels as though he were struck by lightning.

The soft-spoken knight can't help a smile of his own as that smile of hers, that expression of pure pleasure. That right there – that's the thing that he had wanted to see from her, more than anything else. That weightless sense of enjoyment so free of guilt; so free of sorrow.

Once more he feels his heart stutter and skip a few beats as she takes his hand in hers, and for a moment, he can't even process what she's saying. It actually takes him several seconds to catch up, enough that she might think he doesn't intend to protest – he tries, but his tongue tangles over the words, and inwardly, he curses himself for such inarticulate clumsiness; he, who had so often been forced to tread the treacherous waters of Camelot's intrigues.

Why is it so hard for him to even speak around her?

No... it does no good to ask that. He already knows the answer, even if the greater part of him is somewhat afraid to face that truth. Even while she still has hold of his hand, he turns it, gently resting his palm over the side of her face.

Even after surrendering those defenses, it's still so surreal to see her so unguarded. He would never trade that, of course, but it's still difficult for him to reconcile this happy young woman with the cold, remote king he had served in such faith and vigilance. To see her without any of the weight on her shoulders, or that haunted guilt in her eyes – that guilt she had no doubt thought she'd hidden so well from her marshal.

There had been much each hadn't known about the other. They had studied one another more closely than either could guess – and there were more similarities between them than they could have ever known, hidden behind their respective walls, that even now he marvels over that. Perhaps he had wanted to live up to her for his own reasons, but he had not sought to emulate her in wearing his own mask. No; he had simply done that to hide the weaknesses and the vulnerabilities, both for his own protection, and for his own good.

He knows now it had been the right thing, no matter how heavy a burden it had seemed at times. Seeing her here, like this – he isn't certain he could have trusted himself not to dishonour either himself or Arturia, then; for even the merest implication of favouritism would have brought ruin to them both. Her reign would have been over before it had begun, and Britain would have been no more. The court would have turned on itself, and the Saxons would have crushed what remained of the kingdom.

Perhaps he overestimates his own importance in that scenario... but he has sense enough to know that no matter what, it would have ended poorly, had he not worn his own mask. Certainly it would have ended poorly for him, somehow.

Now, though...

The silver-haired knight abandons trying to find some kind of meaningful words. He turns to face her, gently disentangling his hand from hers, if only so he can wrap both arms around her – with that soft chuckle into her hair, gentle as before, as though she were wrought of spun glass.

"I had wanted only to see you happy." He rests his head over hers, ignoring that faint tickle from that stubborn lick of hair sticking up. Even that earns an amused little snort as he tries to clear it away. "To see you smile so – that is a gift more precious to me than any other, a gift beyond reckoning, my lady."

For a few moments, he's content just to see her smile, to hear her laugh. It fills him with a strange sense of peace, and also a strange determination – he knows in that moment, surrounded by fireflies and the warm summer breeze, the full moon hanging low in the sky, he'll do anything to preserve that happiness.

"But do not fool yourself, my lady. I was a commoner. I am a commoner still. Perhaps I may have been fili, but that is worse than a commoner in Camelot. And when you bade me return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, I refused your order." He dips his head, sighing into her hair. "And not once, but twice. I... I could not bring myself to discard the blade. I did not even care of the good that may yet have been done for Camelot by its cause. Discarding that blade... it meant admitting that you were well and truly gone. And I could not."

"I am content to remain common. It is what I have always been, and what I am. Perhaps that may have invited suspicion upon me – I am not ignorant of the rumours when you appointed a commoner, a foreigner, marshal of the realm and the left hand of the king." He chuckles into her ear, though his eyes are half-closed, fixed at some distant point on the wheat fields. "But I am content with that. Had I never come to Camelot, I would have been content to live my life as such. I strove to live the knightly virtues – but I am not perfect. I have never been perfect. And I am content with that."

He falls silent, eyes flicking open as another firefly rises up, only to tangle itself in the king's hair. Bedivere draws back, laughing that quiet laugh again. "Ah, my lady, it seems even the fireflies are drawn to how lovely you are, are they not? Please, do not move..." Carefully, he fishes the insect out of her hair, holding it down so they can both watch it. It makes its way to the end of his forefinger before taking off, winking green-gold as it spirals off. He smiles as he looks after it, though his eyes are eventually drawn back to the king – and that smile broadens, just a little.

Saber (346) has posed:
With a soft chuckle, Arturia shook her head. "I know merely what you have told me of them...I would not be so presumptuous as to feign knowledge."

If she had been shocked by anything, it had been the strange notion which had passed through her thoughts...how adorable he seemed in his adamant denial at what had been, in truth, merely a mild teasing. He almost seemed embarrassed by his talent and skill. A second glance at her reaction, however, stirred up a slight flush. That was hardly a proper way to think of a stalwart knight.

Then again, her admission was nearly as awkward. "N-nevertheless, it was...pleasant to listen to. I am most fortunate that I was given that opportunity."

Covering his hand with hers as he held it up to her face, she closed her eyes, leaning into it slightly. Before, his hand had been covered with a gauntlet, and while it had been a comforting gesture even then, that same gesture seemed completely different now. She could feel the warmth of his hand rather that the cool of leather. And the expression on her face was of the unguarded contentment that at once bemused and enchanted him.

The masks they had worn had been entirely necessary in Camelot, if for somewhat different reasons. Hers had served a number of purposes, but chief among them was to protect her impartial rule and -- perhaps even more importantly -- her secret. In many ways, his own mask had helped protect that secret, even if that had not been the primary intent. Though it had served her well in battle and tense situations which demanded calm, this had been simply a secondary benefit. It would have been impossible for her to rule at all without her mask. And it had been impossible for either king or knight to so much as allow them to slip, even if only in the presence of one another.

And in some ways, fulfilling their duties as knights, those masks remained necessary, though the reasons had changed. Only, in what had been for them an unimaginably distant future they had been abruptly thrust into, they could finally be cast aside for at least a little while.

She opened her eyes, studying him as he struggled with the words. She could empathise; she seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty with that herself, and it was frustrating. Especially given that she had always been reasonably eloquent in the past...yet somehow, words seemed to be failing her so often. Arturia considered asking until she was pulled into his arms again, a surprise but hardly an unwelcome one. It was so strange to reconcile the cautious, aloof knight with the shy, awkward young man who was slowly becoming more open to such gestures. Strange, yet wonderful to see with her own eyes.

Her arms tightened gently around him at those words; how many times had she prayed for his happiness, wishing he could cast away his own mask and truly smile? There, in her arms, he had found it. The humble part of her struggled with the idea that she had that power, yet her heart quickened hearing it, and somehow she knew that it was true. And she knew that if anyone else had spoken those words to her, she would not have believed them. it might have been his unwavering honesty, or her trust in him, but no...it was something more. The way he looked at her made her feel that more than even the words did.

With a sigh, she shook her head at his protest over her insistence that he was more than a commoner. She was beginning to sense a pattern, if completely oblivious to the fact that this modesty was one of their mutual blind spots. "There is nothing common about you," she replied. "It does not matter if you were of humble origins, or a foreigner. Many so-called nobles might boast of their family lines, or their lands and wealth, but I do not care about such things. True nobility is a matter of the heart."

Shifting so that she could lay her head on his shoulder, she continued. "It is not a matter of perfection. You have always exemplified those virtues, more than anyone. You truly keep them in your heart, and that alone is what matters to me."

And just like that, her composure crumbled again at a simple compliment. Her face turned an impressive shade of crimson as he rescued the trapped firefly and set it on its way, smiling back at her. Unfortunately, Arturia's thoughts were a little too jumbled at the time for it to register completely. "...Y-you think that I...?"

Not that she would ever be able to bring herself to actually say it. Once again, she was back to hopeless stammering.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere ducks his head at her praise. Though his hair hides his face, there's no mistaking the flush of crimson that reaches the tips of his ears. He mumbles something appreciative, or tries to, but the words are so vague they're nearly incoherent. His modesty runs deep. The soft-spoken knight had never taken praise gracefully. While he had been content to let his mask cover his reactions in Camelot, it's a far different matter, here.

Why does hearing it from her make such a difference? Hearing the peasant-soldiers he had stood with praising his skill had been one thing, and he had humbly accepted their words. But to hear her praise something as insignificant as his neglected skill with a simple music instrument – it drives all clear thought from his mind.

Had he never met Arturia, he might have enjoyed the art of the fili; the lightning-fast changes over a pipe chanter, and the almost trance-like level of skill involved in skirling out a tune older than his people. And maybe, just maybe, it would do no harm to foster those skills a bit more. No more does he need to practise them so surreptitiously.

"I—I am glad you enjoyed it, my lady. Perhaps I might... search for pipes of my own, if... if you would like to hear them again." The words are given so low and in such a mumble that they're almost indistinguishable. "I, ah, would not mind doing so – for you..."

That beleaguered embarrassment gives way to another expression of open wonder, though, as she holds his hand to her face. That expression is indeed enchanting, so much so that he can't tear his eyes away from it. He had dreamt of such a thing, once, but even the dream pales in comparison to the reality. Her mask had been so complete that even imagining such reaction was impossible. Dimly, he supposes that sense of wonder will never truly fade.

He listens to her explaining how uncommon he is, but he only sighs, as though not quite convinced. It's hard to say whether it's simple modesty, or whether he really has so little self-worth – though, certainly, he's always had faith in his abilities. He had to, as Marshal of the Realm. In some ways the kingdom would have been lost if he hadn't. Even accepting such blunt praise is difficult for him, though. The humble, soft-spoken knight is such a contrast to the brash, boisterous Gawain; although he and Lancelot were often quiet and thoughtful, there was an edge of quiet melancholy, whereas Lancelot just seemed... well, like a fundamentally unhappy man, from all that Bedivere had observed. But never had Bedivere himself ever been open to praise. Perhaps Gawain basked in such adoration or acknowledgement of his skill, but such attention had always made Bedivere uncomfortable. That had been to the point where it was one of the few things that could chip away that mask, even in Camelot – to draw too much attention to Bedivere's skills was one of the few things that could get him to squirm.

Now, it's a different sort of embarrassment. He's not certain he can explain this. At once he's still uncomfortable with such directness, but at the same time, it's strangely... desirable, coming from her. He wants to earn that praise, so long as she's the one to notice.

Bedivere clears his throat, so painfully awkward, but not quite willing to protest too much. She would only insist, and part of him... he finds part of himself doesn't really want to.

Fortunately it's her turn to protest. He has a few seconds of relief as she finds herself the one sputtering incoherently, and some of that heat fades from his face. She might hear him chuckle as he tightens his arms around her.

"Would I have said it if not?" He dips his head to address her ear, reaching up with one hand to clear some of her errant hair away, tucking it behind her ear with such care, as though he were handling the most delicate of spun gold. "You know me, my lady. I cannot bear to speak falsely..." His expression falls, serious again for a moment. "I lied to you twice in my life, and it cost me greatly. You bade me cast Excalibur into the water, that I might return it to Nimue, the Lady of the Lake. I could not bring myself to; it—it would have signified your end. Twice I returned to you in Camlann, unable to follow your order. I had told you that I had cast the sword away."

He chuckles, though there's a faint melancholy edge to the sound, though the cloud seems to lift soon enough. "That is the only time I have ever spoken falsely to you. I do not intend to begin now."

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights was hardly in the position to criticise, even if she had been so inclined. The two might share certain virtues -- almost to the point of being of one mind -- but the negative side to that is that, many times, they also shared weaknesses and blind spots. Arturia could see that praise tended to make him uncomfortable, most likely because he seemed to think of himself as unworthy...and yet, the times she had done the same for precisely that reason were beyond counting. For her, it had not merely been the chivalric virtue of modesty, not that she had even realised such a thing within herself. She did, however, notice it in him, even if she refrained from saying as much.

Her smile was a gentle one as she tilted her head slightly. At the very least, getting him to play more could be counted as a victory. Unpractised or not, it had been lovely, and he had seemed so happy when he was there...at least until there had been entirely too much attention on him. Perhaps at home, with only a few people to hear, he wouldn't be so prone to darting off like a startled hart. It was a little surprising just how skittish he actually was beneath the aloof mask. While it was rather endearing, that was a trait that was going to cause him some problems in the multiverse. Already they had one troublesome nogitsune poking around in part due to that.

"I would...very much like that, my lord," she replied with a note of shyness of her own. It seemed like a rather selfish thing, in truth. But she knew that she wanted to hear those pipes again, and to see him playing them.

And that sense of wonder for her was the feeling of an uncovered hand warm against her face. This had been -- since his knighthood --the first time she had ever seen him outside the armour of a Knight of the Round Table. That in itself bordered on surreal, but the touch made that more than just an image in her mind. She could never imagine it not filling her with that wonder, that gentle feeling that she had never known which could become almost like a craving. Already, even the mere thought of going back to the way things had been and to be without that light touch was a painful one.

Arturia could practically feel the discomfort over what she had thought was simple praise. All she had done was merely recognise that he had been perhaps the most virtuous knight of her retinue. She doubted that she could truly make him see that; it was one thing to recognise the virtues of another, but quite another when it was one's own virtues being recognised. Certainly, the appointment to Marshal of Camelot was a much-desired accolade, and her confidence in his skills and abilities could be read into that appointment. But it was done out of necessity, hardly the same as an open recognition.

But perhaps what troubled her somewhat was the implication of little self-worth. The virtues of modesty and humility were noble ones, but somehow, she didn't like the idea of his thinking that he was a lesser person than anyone. How could she convey how much she respected and even admired him, just as he had with her? Perhaps only time in the multiverse would demonstrate that, and she let the subject drop. at least, until she was the one faced with a rather different sort of praise, and one that she had certainly never associated with herself. Not when she had been presenting herself as a man for so many years. As much as Bedivere could never see himself as a noble, Arturia could never see herself as even so much as lovely.

What caused the gears in her head to come to a screeching halt, however, was his confident reaction. The shyness had seemed to evaporate, but neither was it the aloof mask of the Marshal of Camelot. The shiver was much more intense, the quickening of the heart more rapid, the catch of her breath sharper as he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, rather than a flustered stammer, spoke plainly. In fact, there might have even been a brief unsteadiness as her knees seemed to give out for a fleeting second. But she could hear the lingering sorrow in his voice as he remembered what she had asked of him and his one single instance of disobedience to her, and almost felt it as she would her own. She tried to speak, tried to think of some form of comfort to give, but the moment passed, and once again a renewed pledge to her stole her breath away.

In that moment, her protest simply faded away in that sudden confidence, even if her odd shyness did not quite abate, blushing more furiously than ever. As if to hide that, she buried her face in the fabric of his tunic, trying to murmur some kind of appreciation, not unlike he had tried to merely moments before.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There were many things shared between the two knights, even during the days of Camelot. They communicated best when they never needed to say a word, and the Saxons had learned this on the battlefield, much to their peril. If some within the courts thought it eerie, they were wise enough not to speak too loudly of it. Perhaps some even suspected that Bedivere was not human. It would have matched their king's inhuman behaviour.

Unlike so many of the knights who loyally served, there had always been a bond of duty and sacrifice between marshal and his king. There had been an understanding. Without ever needing to speak to one another, they had known what the other wanted at any given time. Whether it was commands in battle, or an implicit understanding of where the enemy needed to be struck, or even politics within the courts – don't anger this noble, or make this one feel welcome – they had always seemed to know.

Unfortunately, other things were certainly shared. Those weaknesses and those blind spots, so apparent from one to the other, never seemed to apply to the one who could see. So accustomed to them had they grown that they could no longer see those faults in themselves.

That skittishness, perhaps, was one of the surprising things about him. Bedivere had spent so much time building his mask of ice that for a time he had forgotten what he had truly been like. Perhaps the unfamiliarity of the Multiverse has brought this out of him; drawn emphasis to his uncertainty. After all, so many of these are not situations he had ever been trained to react to, either by others or by training himself. How could he expect some of the odd things that had happened; even the greatest of them all, that which had led him to this moment? No amount of preparation could have paved the way for that.

Bedivere alone among his brothers of the Round Table that she had met was human; without the nature of Servants or the Throne of Heroes, he alone was forced to adapt to things the old-fashioned way. And while his constitution and his mental acuity are impressive, even they can only carry him so far. There is only so much he can throw himself at before he has to step back and take time to assimilate all of this new, and sometimes disturbing, information.

"Ah..." Still, he bows his head at her admission, flushing again. "Then I shall see about finding a suitable set of my own. I... I think I should like to play, in that case," he adds, quietly. "I am no fili, but if you truly enjoy it... then it is no trouble to me to do, for you."

Certain aspects, though, would need time. Just as she can't see her own beauty, it will be some time before he thinks of himself as anything other than common. For so many years he had been both a commoner and a foreigner; the latter almost worse than the former, that he had quietly accepted this. To be of the Dál Riata was not necessarily dangerous, but it was an undesirable quality to Camelot's insular nobility. It had been easier to hide himself away, and later to hide beneath the armour of his station. Yet he had never forgotten his roots, with those bloodstone earrings, and the way he never so much as bore arms or accepted lands. Almost as though he felt he should be doing penance, in a court full of nobility; he alone, the outcast – as though it were something to be ashamed of, somehow.

He tilts his head, frowning slightly when she gives such a reaction to his quiet words. His hand drifts away from the side of her face, where he'd so carefully tucked her hair away. Like a cloud passing over a full moon, his hesitation seems to creep back in, as though he were realising now just what it was he'd done. Oh, dear. "Ah, my lady, I—I did not mean..." He regards her with some concern. "Are you hale?"

Oh, look, she's blushing again. A lot. Actually, so is he, but whatever reaction he'd had planned next is tossed to the wind as she buries her face into his tunic, trying to say something that he can't quite hear. Awkwardly, he settles his arms around her, looking confused and awkward.

Was it something he'd said?

"Please, my lady, do—do not be alarmed..." He sounds concerned, almost bewildered. His tone turns almost mournful. "Ah, my lady, I did not mean to—oh, God preserve me, I did not mean to be so forward—ah, please forgive me, that—that was not..."

The poor, awkward knight. He was alright up until the point at which he stopped to think about what he was doing, and now he's flushing scarlet clear to the tips of his ears again. His blush is so fierce it almost makes his earrings seem colourless by comparison.

Somewhat awkwardly, he pats her shoulder with one hand, though – in his horrified embarrassment – he wouldn't be surprised if she could feel the sheer heat of his furious blushing.

Ah, but that was a foolish thing to do, Bedivere...

Saber (346) has posed:
It had been, Arturia admitted, a great surprise to find just how shy and awkward Bedivere was from behind his mask, probably just as surprised as he had no doubt been to find the fragile girl behind hers. Naturally, he'd had to be strong to not only complete the training for squires, but to become a knight...and that was to say nothing of his appointment as her marshal. His strength was something that could not have come easily to him, learned through strict self-discipline, training, and raw determination. Even as a 'mere' commoner -- and in the multiverse, a 'mere' mortal -- it was a quiet strength upon which she had relied throughout so much of her reign. it seemed so at odds with the young man before her now, the one he created his mask to hide from the ravages of court and battlefield. Through it all, that shy young man survived, a testament to that strength.

And the fact that he hadn't gone mad from what could only have appeared to be the wildest of fever-dreams had been a testament to his mental acumen. He still struggled with even the simplest of modern machines -- ones Saber had largely been given the benefit of Grail knowledge of -- and had the tendency to cope with them by simply distrusting them as 'witchcraft'. But even then, Arturia wondered if she would have even done half-so well had she been in his position. Especially now, as he made efforts for her sake.

"Thank you," she replied with a small smile. "I shall look forward to hearing it, my lord."

Knighthood -- and hence a part of the nobility -- had been open to all during King Arthur's reign, and yet only one knight had distinguished himself by rising up from a commoner background. In many ways, in spite of the open opportunity, would-be knights of such a background faced many more hardships and obstacles than the nobility did. Many simply lacked the will to achieve that goal, others decided those obstacles were too high a price to pay. But he had persevered, and though he had every right to be proud of his achievements, he had simply continued to serve with quiet humility. Now, he seemed self-conscious over the idea.

Still, she was glad he had never forgotten his roots, acting as her unspoken will in acts of charity, bringing relief to the destitute and those lands ravaged by war, famine, or even illness. And she was glad that he had shared it with her, a piece of that past so small and yet so precious. To have cast that aside would have mean casting a part of himself aside, and that would have grieved her. Every part of him was precious to her. Even that part which had transformed from a skittish young hart into a fully-antlered stag defending his territory. Unfortunately, that metaphor served only to make her all the more embarrassed.

But she could hear his confusion in his stammering, the almost mournful tone, fretting over some perceived slight. She knew she had to somehow reassure him, to somehow tell him that the strange reaction was something wrong with her rather than him. It had hardly been his fault she had reacted so...so...

She wasn't entirely sure what that reaction had been, actually. the most disturbing part of it all was that this reaction might even have been said to have been enjoyable. She could not help but feel deeply ashamed of the impropriety. Yet even through that shame, the need to comfort him was ultimately more important than being horrified by her bizarre reactions. Improper or not, Arturia made a quick decision before she had the chance to change her mind.

Her hands released his tunic from their death-grip, allowing her to slip her arms around his neck, pulling him down at least a little closer to her level. "N-no...you did not do anything wrong...I am simply...behaving strangely."

She leaned her face up, brushing a lock of silvery hair away, whispering into his ear, her breath so faint that only a few strands of hair moved with it. "Please, I would...like to stay like this... a little while longer, my lord."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Though forging himself into such a coldly dutiful knight had been difficult, Bedivere had applied himself to the problem as he did so many other things – with patience, falling back on the keen mind that made him such a devastating tactician. Adapting to this strange new world is no different. He has need of taking it a little more slowly, though. Even the calmest of Arturia's knights must pace himself. Much and more of this place defies acceptance, let alone reason.

Beyond the strange situations when alone in one another's company, his calm still prevails. Perhaps he finds himself a little more lost at times, but this place hasn't yet driven him mad. That mask that had served him so ably in Camelot still serves here. He's made sure of it. A knight must be dignified, and his behaviour is an example to others, no matter how much he might argue his unworthiness.

He feels her release his tunic, and the sudden lack of resistance doesn't register until she pulls him down by way of arms around his neck. His attention is quickly wrenched away from whatever predicament it had been dwelling on, and right into another predicament. Arturia is suddenly very close, and while he might have ordinarily dealt with such a simple gesture as brushing his hair away, he finds it's in—

"Ghh—?" The sound is too strangled to be a proper question. At that breath in his ear, he can't help the reflexive shudder that wracks him, or the way his breath catches so sharply in his throat. Dimly, he has no doubt that she can feel how his heart thunders – the arms around his neck no doubt feel the pulse that matches. He stiffens in her grip as though tensing to flee, but—

"You—you are behaving strangely," he whispers hoarsely. Swallowing harshly around the sudden dryness in his throat, the marshal gamely tries to marshall his wits. His voice cracks. He ignores it. "But—but if you are behaving strangely, then so—so too am I, my lady. I... I feel... peculiar."

It's all he can do just to force the words out. He knows they sound strangled and uncertain. He feels strangled and uncertain. There's no sense in trying to hide how he trembles so, and so he resolves himself to stay right where he is, perhaps not trusting himself to move. Why does that soft voice at his ear turn his knees to water? And why does it seem that much more staggering when she uses that title in his ear?

"Of—of course." He releases an unsteady breath he hadn't quite realised he'd been holding. His eyes closed; he swallows again in an effort to compose himself, trying to sort out. Why is it so hard to reach that point of calm? It comes to him so easily, otherwise. Building those walls had become such a trivial exercise that he had never let them down, but now...

Bedivere draws in another breath, reaching up to circle his arms around her in turn. Whether it's a gesture of affection, or simply an effort to steady himself, it's hard to say. He manages a shaky smile, though, perhaps to allay any concerns of hers. "For you, my lady, anything." Slowly, he can find his centre again, but it's difficult.

It's extremely difficult. He can still feel her breath at his ear, and the sensation is decidedly... decidedly...

He isn't sure what it is, other than the fact that it paralyses him, and brings that fluttering sensation in his stomach roaring to the fore. Ordinarily he would recoil from such a feeling, so similar to fear, which he has tried so hard to shut out. Even though this turns his joints to water and stills his thoughts, though, he finds he doesn't want it to end.

Bedivere settles for pulling her close, burying his face in her hair. It is, he hopes, not too forward of him – because he has a sudden, desperate urge to hide his scarlet face, even though she'll know it by his ears.

"I am not... I am not yet ready to return. May we wait here for a time? I—I find I must sit for a few moments..." He straightens, though he lifts a hand as he releases her, trailing it along her jaw before sliding to the ground, cross-legged, staring at the earth for the span of several breaths. Then, once he seems to find some equilibrium, he just lets himself fall backward with a rustling thump, sighing a heavy sigh – though it does at least seem to be a sound of contentment.

The summer stars glimmering high overhead seem to be a source of peace for him, and after staring at them for several moments, he draws in a deep breath and lets it go evenly.

Still, what an odd reaction, to feel so hopelessly disoriented. Bedivere stares at the cold glimmer of the stars, distant and thoughtful for a moment. For all that, though, he finds he doesn't mind. Ordinarily, anything that would even hint at losing control of himself, of being unable to reach that place of strictest calm, would repulse him. He had always avoided taking alcohol for that reason, whether wine or smallbeer, or local ales; and when he did drink such, he drank in extreme moderation, not even enough to blunt his wits. This, though... this is different, he decides, letting his eyes half-close.

How can a simple statement of a title he'd never associated with himself before do that to him? Or a simple request, whispered into his ear?

"The stars are beautiful," he murmurs instead, pushing aside the tangled skein of his thoughts. Following them will do him no good; the path seems to be circular, always coming back to that question of how. "I had watched them from Camelot, sometimes. There are so many more, here, under strange skies... but it is beautiful."

His head turns, regarding Arturia thoughtfully.

"The light of the moon suits you," he says.

And then—and then his mind catches up with what he just said.

Bedivere groans and raises an arm to rest over his face. It doesn't help; she'll still be able to see that fierce scarlet colour, especially with his face under the bright moon.

Will he not stop embarrassing himself?

Saber (346) has posed:
It had perhaps been her boldest move yet, the sudden embrace, the request to stay. It hardly should have been surprising for Bedivere to react so strangely to the woman who had been the distant king for so many years, not while she was acting so oddly. Her behaviour had been one more piece of strangeness to cope with, and perhaps she would have proceeded more slowly if she had been in another frame of mind. It might have been better to do so, and yet, she could not bring herself to regret it. Having him so close now, thinking back to the distance they had been forced to maintain was almost unbearable.

Still, she really should control herself better, if not for her own sense of knightly propriety, than for her poor knight's state of mind. She could feel him stiffen and even hear his rapid heartbeat, cursing herself silently for her boldness. Her mask had been even more than a necessity than she had ever realised, if she was so unable to control herself with such simple things. A light touch would send her heart racing, a mild compliment would reduce her to stammering. But no, she reflected. Not simply anyone could cause such strange reactions in her.

But just as Arturia was about to release him and apologise for her impropriety...he agreed with her. He did not try to deny it or change the subject, or try to escape. He remained steadfast and honest, in spite of this most awkward of situations, in spite of his trembling and even admitting that he himself was acting peculiar. It was so very much like him. She sighed with a note of relief as he consented and returned her embrace; in spite of the awkwardness, she found herself again reluctant to release him just yet, and only in part due to his own unsteadiness. Being so close was a peculiar sort of comfort, one entirely alien to her.

She could feel the burning scarlet of his face, and with a gentle smile, lifted her hand to brush aside a few more errant strands of pale blonde hair. In the white light of the moon, it was even paler, as if spun from silver. She allowed them to drift away with some reluctance as he pulled away, but smiled a little at his request. She was not entirely certain she could keep standing for much longer, either. "I, too, am not yet ready to return..." she replied, sitting gratefully down beside him.

Yet another thought of impropriety surfaced; she was almost overwhelmed by the unbidden urge to rest her head on his shoulder. But, given her previous actions, remained conscious of Bedivere's personal space and refrained from intruding on it this time. Especially after he fell back, gazing up at the stars; moving closer then would have been even more of an intrusion. Curling her legs up under her, Arturia stifled a sigh and tilted her head up to gaze at the alien starscape. Though she could no more identify them than he could, it remained a wondrous sight. In more rural areas such as this one, they could be seen clearly, and she tended to prefer visiting such locations; there were places throughout the multiverse where stars could not be seen at all. The reasons varied; too much light from an urban landscape would drown out the faint light, or some manner of atmospheric barrier obfuscated them entirely. Seeing them now, she felt as if she could lose herself in them, yet her thoughts turned once again to the young man beside her.

In some ways, Bedivere remained a mystery. In the past, they had always read each other's intent and even surface thoughts so well, but in this moment, she could not read him at all. the thought pained her; for all of having become closer and even setting aside their masks, in some ways, he was even more distant now. Had she done something wrong?

She was glad for the distraction, murmuring appreciatively. "The skies are so clear...in the city, it is almost impossible to see them..."

Her train of thought came to an abrupt halt at the compliment, however. Once more, even such a mild compliment earned a deep blush as she stared at him for a moment before her face dropped to her hands in her lap. Arturia was probably always going to react that way, in some form or another. But just as he had bravely soldiered on through his embarrassment, the least she could do was the same. Rather than protest, this time -- even through blush and averted eyes -- she did her best to receive it.

"Th-thank you.." she replied in a voice so soft he might have to strain to hear it.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
If her mask had been more a necessity than she'd thought, then so too had his. Bedivere is calculating and intelligent, but even he never could have guessed that it would take so little to break through his mask. For something he had spent years building up, it comes down with surprising ease, and in some way that almost frightens him. Even then, though... somehow he knows that no one else would be able to affect him so. No, he decides; it's because it's her.

The silver-haired knight regards the stars thoughtfully, even as he hears the soft sound as she sits down beside him. He lets his eyes hood. It's with some mercy that he can feel his pulse and his thundering heart finally begin to slow, and he draws in a deep breath, letting it go in a measured sigh. The sound is nonetheless one of contentment. While it had certainly been enjoyable to stand so close to her – part of him still struggles with the entire concept of being so casual. True, she is precious to him, and perhaps he senses on some level that he is in turn precious to her, but the feeling is still new; still... foreign.

It's a comfort, though, and one he is loathe to turn away.

Though he's watching the stars, his eyes are hooded, as though his mind were somewhere else entirely.

Sometimes, the quiet marshal could have been seen out at night in Camelot, either looking up from the courtyard or the gardens, or pacing the battlements. He had spent some time out at night, enough to arouse suspicion from the grumbling nobility, though there had been nothing strange about his desire to see the stars. He had simply enjoyed looking at them.

Perhaps some secret part of him had wondered if Arturia ever did the same thing from her window; if she had ever looked at the same skies.

There, he had had knowledge of the constellations. Here, they are strange, if somehow brighter and more vibrant. Certainly there are more stars, as though all the night skies of all the worlds had been brought together. For a little while, he does seem to lose himself in those stars, breathing in and letting it go in another one of those heavy, if contented, sighs.

"Mm—?" His eyes flick sidelong toward where he can hear her voice, tilting head back to regard her from a somewhat upside-down angle. It's actually a bit undignified. He finds he doesn't care about that, smiling faintly, upside-down though the angle might be. "I remember the stars in Camelot. Even they did not seem so bright. And there were not so many..."

Neither does he miss that sudden blush, and this time he's quite certain it's the compliment he had just unwittingly given. Where does that courage keep coming from? And why does it keep deserting him?

"Ah... forgive me, my lady, I—I do not mean to be so forward... I do not know why—" The arm finds its way back over his face. Ugh. "You must think me a fool—"

Thank you, she says, so quietly he had almost missed the words.

Slowly, his arm moves from his face so he can peer at her. Rather than embarrassed, his expression is one of quiet if uncharacteristically solemn wonder. She's almost as bad about accepting praise as he is. He knows this; even though he may be willfully blind to recognising that pattern in himself, he can see it in her. Bedivere is perceptive, and always has been. So when she accepts it so easily...

For a few moments all he can do is look at her as though he's never seen her before – though part of that may be that he is seeing her in a way he's never seen her before. Although he's dimly aware that he's staring, he can't help but study her under the light of the moon, the way the silver seems to soften her features; casting her hair in a light so lovely he can't think of a proper description.

He just smiles that shy smile, and it says more for him than any words need to.

They'd always been good at communicating without needing to say a word, and this time – face flushing a bit at his direct regard of her – he's grateful for that. Something about the sight of her sitting in this field with him, illuminated by moon and stars, just strikes him in a way that robs him of words. It robs him of breath.

So he just smiles at her, with the warmth he can't seem to put into graceful words; the kind of smile he had never shown in Camelot. The smile that, in this great, strange world, seems to be reserved strictly for her.

Saber (346) has posed:
The distance gave Arturia some time to mull things over, to at least being to study that tangled vine which seemed to sprawl out from the pit of her stomach and into every limb. She was able to collect herself a little better now, piecing together the shards of what had been left of her dignity, even if she had no need for her mask just yet. With her head cleared, she could step back a little and consider what a more comfortable distance for the both of them might be. Both knights struggled with allowing others into their personal space for much the same reasons, and while in the modern era that might have been interpreted as cold or even rude, to king and knight, it was a respectful distance.

If nothing else, it was nice to look up at a clear night sky. In Camelot, she had rarely had the opportunity to truly do so, not out in the fields, or even on the battlements. She had almost been a prisoner in her own castle, even if that had been of her own doing. There was something of a fine line between barricading oneself within a fortress for protection and merely imprisoning oneself. But she did, frequently, look up at the stars from the window of her chambers on a cloudless night, the panel opened out as far as the hinges would allow. If there had been any time when she could have been said to drop her mask, it was in those moments, allowing her to forget, if only for a little while. The moon never cared if she betrayed the inner weakness which always plagued her.

In those moments, it had seemed as if the sky was littered with stars, yet even the skies of Britain at night were nothing compared to this brightness. There didn't seem to be so much as a dark spot in the sky. Arturia marvelled at them even as she became lost in memory again.

So he, too, had looked up at the skies. Somehow, she didn't find it very surprising. "No...and without so much as a cloud to hide them...Perhaps other realms can be seen from this one, even their skies..." she mused, almost to herself.

It seemed to take a moment of flustered stammering before it had registered for him that she had accepted the compliment with as much grace as she could muster. That hardly meant that it was any less embarrassing, and like so many times that night, found herself staring at and fidgeted with a bit of lace trim. It was a good choice of dress if for no other reason than that it provided some much-needed distraction. She had not thought she was bad at accepting compliments, per se, simply that she had never deserved them. it had never been a particular problem when she ruled Britain; obviously no one had ever complimented her on her supposed beauty. Yet, he had said such things so earnestly, she almost felt as if she was breaking the Laws of Hospitality by refusing.

But even with her face turned down, she couldn't keep herself from glancing sideways, even as embarrassed as she was. Only,he was looking at her so intently she felt herself start blushing and fidgeting all over again. Yet, there was the shy smile which made it impossible for her to tear her eyes away. Not so much as a word was even necessary.

Not only could she not look away in spite of the sudden flare of shyness, but perhaps what was the most strange of all was that Arturia found herself even returning it. Not a soul in Camelot had ever seen either of them like this; smiling gently, masks stripped away, with smiles only meant for the other.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"It seems strange to me that we should look up to these skies, and they are the same skies seen by different worlds. Yet it is true; and there are other worlds, and they are now all one. Ah, God preserve me! What a strange few weeks this has been," Bedivere sighs, shaking his head as he watches the night sky. "But I would not trade it for the world. I am glad to have quit those winter woods."

Perhaps it was not an issue of literal winter, but the melancholy that he viewed them with. For four years he had wandered those strange forests, and for four years he had been grieving as he did. He had tried to return to Camelot. Someone needed to bring word back that the king was dead. True, his duties had not died with Arturia, either. He was still Marshal of the Realm, and he had owed it to her to keep the kingdom running – for what token value was left in that, anyway.

At the same time, some part of him is glad he had not found it, and more glad still that he had found Arturia instead. Now, he can't be certain how he feels about returning to Camelot. Duty would dictate that he would remain there, if he should find it, for he is still Marshal of the Realm even now.

Yet duty also compels him to remain at Arturia's side. Perhaps he does not consider himself foremost among her knights, but he does consider himself personally responsible for her safety; and now that it's become clear just what each means to the other, it is more of an imperative than ever before. Perhaps it is not knightly to regard his king in such a way, but he finds himself torn between duty and torn between love.

Unbidden, he finds himself thinking of Lancelot's betrayal.

At the time he had regarded his brother-in-arms distantly for the betrayal that threatened to tear Camelot apart, even as he had felt sympathy for both he and Guinevere, knowing that the king's marriage was but a sham to secure Arturia's rule, and quiet the nobility that insisted that the king should take a wife. Yet the sham had threatened to fracture Camelot more than ever before as opinions differed on how to deal with the dishonoured knight, or the dishonoured queen.

This is, he thinks, how Lancelot must have felt – although he is more free than Lancelot ever was, and there is no kingdom to be held over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.

His thoughts seem troubled, for with his mask down, there is no doubt that Arturia can see that. The lines beneath his eyes threaten to make a reappearance even as he studies the night sky, but his gaze is distant. His mind has gone back to Camelot again, as it is so wont to do.

Even so... he finds it swept away in light of that smile of hers, so unguarded, the expression given with such honesty. Despite being one of the foremost knightly virtues, such honesty is a thing that he, hypocritically, had never once used within the castle walls. None had ever truly known his character, or the measure of his quiet observation; and certainly none had ever known his truest motivations for following Arturia so loyally.

Bedivere reaches up, resting the heels of his hands over his closed eyes. Thinking about what had once been his home does bring with it some measure of pain. While Camelot had certainly Unified in this strange patchwork world, it is still lost to him. He could travel for many hundreds of lifetimes and never find it; he had certainly spent four years in its pursuit.

It takes him several seconds more to realise that his thoughts are beginning to wander in tired circles.

Twisting onto his side, he climbs to his feet, brushing bits of wheat from his clothing; plucking a few errant stalks from his hair – though in such light, the only tell is the coarseness of the stalk against such fine hair. Sighing a deep sigh, somewhere between contentment and weariness, he offers Arturia his hand.

"I suppose we must return some time, however. Loathe as I am to leave this place—" And no doubt she knows that he means this wondrous moment in time more than the actual place, "—I am weary. We still have our duties, come the morn, and I would be remiss if I were to turn my back on them, and a poor knight beside."

He gives that shy smile again, though, one brow quirked just slightly. The expression is almost hopeful.

"Perhaps, though, my lady... we... might we walk these fields again, some time...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
"Ah...yes, indeed," Arturia replied a little mysteriously with a faint smile as she gazed at the heavens, though she did not specify specifically what she had agreed to. Perhaps all of it, but she did not say.

Camelot was gone. Truly gone; the Holy Grail had showed her as much. After her death, the kingdom crumbled, the people suffered greatly...and with time, Britain recovered. It had changed greatly, but it lived on. For that, she had been immeasurably grateful, but Camelot was nothing but ruins and memory. There was nothing to return to, there.

But she had accepted that. When she offered her prayer, she had intended to save it, spare it from the destruction her rule had ultimately caused. After the conclusion of Heaven's Feel and being thrown into the multiverse, she had sought other means. It was only living with and fighting alongside her new friends which had made her start to question her wish, Lancelot's plea for forgiveness which started her towards truly letting it go, and Bedivere's insistence that there had been no one else who could have become the king in her place that forced her to genuinely accept it.

Perhaps, in time, there would be another Camelot to save. For the moment, Saber was simply glad to be able to save anything at all. Work in the Union had given her another purpose, and she would do her best to live up to it.

There had been, however, one wish that remained after she had begun to bury her kingdom. Those who had been chosen for the Round Table, the ones who had shared in her dream...all save one had died for that dream, and one had became so torn between that dream and what he had sacrificed for it that he had betrayed the knighthood and eventually gone mad. Perhaps if she had led them, as Rider had said she never did, the Round Table would never have been broken. But, no...it had not been that she had not truly led them; she had done that very thing countless times into battle. He had, however, been correct about his other point: she had never let them in. Perhaps that had not really been possible, given her secret, but if she had known them, befriended them...

It remained a regret, but one she had realised she could do nothing about. Yet, she still wished to make amends, to openly praise their faithful service, and, in some way, properly lay them to rest. Surely they had all ascended to the Throne of Heroes; history remembered that faithful service, and she had already encountered Lancelot not once, but twice. Similarly, the obnoxious Saber in red who bizarrely shared her appearance had spoken of a Saber bearing Gawain's sword. They, it seemed, had wishes of their own. Whether they were ones she could grant or not remained to be seen, but there had been ones she had been able to. For that, she was thankful...and for more than one simple reason.

Though, perhaps not completely. A frown marred her brow as she studied the re-emerging lines of worry, doubtless thinking back to what had once been the home they protected. It would always remain a wound; even if it faded into a scar with time, it would always remain in some part. At least now, she need not hide her pain; even if she tried, he would know. In fact, she had no need to hide much of anything, not in the here and now. She had rarely told lies, and even then, they had been solely for the sake of her secret. But she was certainly guilty of omission of many truths over the years, even in the present. While Arturia remained a reserved person and would always be, letting the truth off its leash once in a while should not do any harm.

For the offered hand when he stood, Arturia involuntarily rewarded him with a light blush and a slight look of surprise before it faded into a shy smile as she accepted. Errant strands of wheat clung to her dress as well, and she gave her fellow knight a slight chagrined expression as she plucked them out of lace with her free hand. "Indeed..."

It was here that her smile became slightly lopsided. "And I imagine you were unable to obtain much sleep, a situation which demands remedy." In other words, he had better get a good night's sleep when they get back, or else.

Yet, her smile once more became gentle, almost shy after only a moment. There was no need to simply hope, understanding the meaning in whole. "Perhaps, my lord...I think we shall."