999999/The Coming of the North Wind

The Coming of the North Wind
Date of Scene:	10 March 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Saber attempts to calm Bedivere down from his terrible wrath after Saber's disastrous "date" with Lute.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Despite the coming of spring in so many other places, Dún Reáltaí remains mired in its harsh winter. A few weeks' time might see the snow melting, and the warmer temperature and sunlight of more temperate places, but right now it's still a far cry from weather appropriate to the vernal equinox.

The lord and lady had returned in such a rage the previous night that the servants had simply scattered without a word, driven by instinct to get away from that silent wrath. There was no telling which of them was more frightening – the lady with her dragon's eyes, or the tightly-reined fury of the lord.

The silver-haired knight had gone to chop wood, sharpen his sword, and engage in other hard physical work. It wasn't needed because of the nature of the work, but because it demanded his full attention. It kept him from doing anything he might regret later.

He had not slept.

Now, some time after Toph Beifong had come to visit and talk some sense into him, the knight sits before the fire in his blue steel hauberk. Balanced across his lap is the sword he's carried for over twenty years. Battered, scarred, and notched, the knight is patiently and almost obsessively sharpening the edge, honing it over and over again. There are only a handful of times where he has ever shown anger, and even fewer times where he's displayed rage on this level. Then, at least, warfare had been an outlet for it. He has no such option right now.

Even the servants are nervous, and they seem reluctant to address him. None of them ask him if there's anything he needs. It's just as well. He had reassured Toph that he would calm himself down, at least for the sake of his lady, but it's harder than he'd expected. He still grinds his teeth loudly enough to be heard across the room at the thought of Lute. His pulse can be seen at his throat. Worst of all, there's still something incredibly dangerous in those otherwise mild eyes; something unreasoning, just a hint of that insane rage barely beneath the surface; barely tethered by Bedivere's own control.

Yet for the time being, all he does is sharpen that old sword, patiently; obsessively.

Saber (346) has posed:
The last time she had been as enraged as she was, Arturia reflected, it had been directed at the King of Heroes for his deliberate insult to her honour, chivalric code, path of kingship with his disgusting 'proposal' of marriage to him, and the fact that he stood between her and the Holy Grail with his nonsense.

Compared to those indignities and the despair over having to fight and even kill Berserker – who had been revealed to be Sir Lancelot under the Madness Enhancement – the unintentional insult Lute had visited upon her had not been worth becoming terribly. She had simply been set to scold him, especially since there had been a communication error where the flaxen-haired knight had mistaken what was supposed to have been a date for a simple meeting. Had she known what the Pokémon trainer's intentions had been, she would have politely declined...particularly how things had ended up.

It had been a complete and utter disaster with every single party involved angry in some form or another. But by far, the one who had departed the scene in white-hot rage had been the one least likely of all. Sir Bedivere had always taken insults and threats to himself in stride...but he handled those to her poorly. When Lute made his move, it was past the point of no return.

Events escalated quickly when the violet-eyed knight assaulted Arturia's 'date' for the insult to her honour and invasion of personal space, something which apparently had meant little to Lute but was grounds for action for any member of the Round Table. Still, even as she attempted to ease Bedivere off and perhaps call the whole thing off, Lute made another move which in turn enraged her. Defending himself as Lute's wife claimed he was – and that was another thing which she personally found repugnant; he was already married! – might have been forgivable but for how he chose to counter. She would have been angry, as Bedivere was simply carrying out his duty to protect the king, but she would have been able to rein in that anger long enough to steer Bedivere away and excuse the two of them. But no, Lute's attack was utterly unforgivable, an insult to the pride of a man which was beneath even the barbarian Sea Wolves and their Viking brethren.

At that point, all she seemed to be able to see was red, and she scarcely remembered calling Excalibur to her hand and blasting the Pokémon researcher into a wall. Though the despair was absent, her eyes nevertheless flickered with the tell-tale hints of gold with vaguely slitted pupils of her draconic blood boiling.

After she thought about it, perhaps her singular rage at Gilgamesh was not, in fact, the previous time she had been livid enough to invoke the signs of her artificial dragon heritage. No, the potent mix of rage and despair necessary to bring it out had previously been during their battle against Odin, and even Arturia realised why. It had been following a magical attack which had rendered Bedivere unconscious, if temporarily so. Slowly, she was coming to realise that her distance as the king had been necessary, after all. When it came to her marshal, her mask had cracked so completely that she was no longer able to maintain her famous composure or to act rationally.

It was with this revelation that the jade-eyed knight forced herself to calm down; he was capable enough of a knight to redirect the blow in a manner which, while still painful, was not nearly as crippling as it would have been otherwise. There was no permanent damage, and though the insult was grave to the mind of a Roman Briton from the dawn of chivalry, it was not as serious as the attack from the Elder Primal. She would perhaps always carry that grudge against Lute, but that was what it was at this point.

Unfortunately, it was not so simple when it came to the Left Hand of the King. The Confederate had no way of knowing, but he had quite by accident hit the sole nerve which would cause him to fly into a berserker rage...or rather, Lute clumsily stomped all over it and only exacerbated the situation. And while they managed to depart without further hostilities, it was only by Harp's single exercising of good sense in retreating with her husband after a brief trading of insults.

That had certainly not been one of Arturia's more noble moments.

Yet, she was still left with the need to calm Bedivere down...if she even could. The various servants of the castle had kept a fearful distance when the both of them had returned, even if that anger was not directed at them and neither would have dared take it out on them. But that heretofore never-seen rage of the lord and lady was more than enough to put the fear of God into anyone beholding it. The Otherworldly hints in the eyes of the lady certainly had not helped matters.

Arturia had collapsed once she had reached their chambers, the sudden and violent release of mana in the form of the Bounded Field of the Wind King had consumed more of her power than it would have had she kept her wits about her. And it was a statement of just how enraged Bedivere was that he had not collapsed, as well. After some rest she was not feeling particularly better, but at least she had regained some of that necessary, wasted mana.

Rising and tossing on a thick sweater and a pair of jeans, the Servant made her way down the stairs, her hair dishevelled and unbound. Apparently, Bedivere had risen before she had...

...At least, that was what she thought before she caught sight of him at the hearth, bedecked in the blue steel hauberk, obsessively sharpening the only sword he had ever wielded. And he had not calmed at all.

Arturia stared, her mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Have you not slept at all?" she blurted out. He looked like death warmed over in his weariness, kept awake only by his simmering anger.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It was a proven point that Bedivere of the Round Table had carried himself through situations on sheer willpower alone. Many times he had endured injury and illness, sometimes horrifically so, while forcing his battered and weary body forward into the coming days. Against all odds he had survived even wounds that should have put another man down.

It seemed that willpower could drive him even when he wasn't directing it. As the Master of the pair, he should have noticed such wasteful use of mana. It should have brought him to the point of collapse. Yet he had hardly seemed to notice it at the time, and has not seemed to now.

The silver-haired knight sits in silence as he has for hours, the room silent except for the crackling hearth and the rhythmic scrape of his whetstone. Although it doesn't quell the rage that boils just beneath the surface, it does keep his mind focused away from the things that might set it off more violently. It keeps him focused on the song of steel and stone, on the spelling of Lute's doom; strangely, it keeps his mind away from Lute himself. It keeps his mind away from the grave indignity that had been done.

For once, in spite of their bond and his keen senses, he has not noticed Arturia's descent down the stairwell. He visibly starts when she questions him, nearly dropping the whetstone.

He does not have dragon's blood coursing in his veins. But there is something foreign and ugly in his eyes all the same, although it isn't directed at her. Never at her.

"No." There is a strange quality to his voice, too. In it is something just as foreign and ugly, marring its usual gentle tone. It sounds as rough as the whetstone he clutches; clipped and sharp as the blade across his lap. He doesn't look at her.

The rage threatens to come roaring back to the surface, but he takes a slow and deliberate breath, which shudders as he lets it go. Every ounce of his famous willpower and self-control is being channeled right now; it would be obvious even to someone who didn't know him as intimately as Arturia does.

"I—could not sleep." Silence falls, broken by a curious sound. The silver-haired knight is grinding his teeth, and only with effort does he stop to speak again. "I—I did not want to wake you."

His eyes flick down to the sword, keener now than it had ever been before. The old blade is scarred and notched, and with as much honing and sharpening as he's done to it over the years, it's a wonder it hasn't shattered.

That single off-handed glance is telling. He's been at his sharpening and honing for half the night.

"Go back to sleep, my lady," he murmurs, though his voice still carries that strange roughness. "I will be along shortly."

He tries to smile, reassuringly. The expression is a little ghastly.

Bedivere has never been, and will never be, a good liar.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia frowned deeply, the expression wrinkling her brow. She would never be truly angry at the pale-haired knight, but she could at times be annoyed with him, particularly during the times when he neglected his health. In the past, she had been forced to project an aloofness to maintain an impartiality that was, in the end, an illusion. She had favoured her knights – how could she not? – and Bedivere above all others.

The willpower and determination of the pale-haired knight had served him well...or at least, allowed him to survive where the more weak-willed would have fallen. But it was a double-edged sword, that determination, and he continued to push himself to the point of nearly breaking when he should step back. Fortunately, Arturia had caught him just in time before there was permanent damage, now able to nag him as much as necessary to tend to himself...or see to it herself when he was being especially stubborn. Such as now.

Justifiable and understandable as it was, there was the simple fact that he couldn't run on willpower – or, in this case, anger – indefinitely. Whether he noticed it or not, he would inevitably burn himself out, and she had made it her personal duty to ensure he didn't. The incessant, obsessive drawing of the whetstone across steel had perhaps frightened or even terrified others, but it had caused the lady of the keep her worried frown. It seemed as if he had been at that all night...which, of course, he had.

That frown deepened fractionally but noticeably when he started. If he had not noticed her approach of all people, Bedivere was more than simply out of sorts. And his reaction did nothing to refute that observation. His anger had not abated at all, though now it simmered below the surface, and even the servants continued to avoid him. While it was kind of them not to intrude on their personal space – as opposed to certain rude Pokémon trainers – it would eventually present a problem if it continued. Once this had blown over, they would have to reassure the people that their anger would never be cast in two directions; at the people of the village or each other. So long as one respected the couple and refrained from stirring up trouble for the village, one need not worry.

"Nothing would have awakened me," she reassured him. "I was foolish, and wasted great deal of my magical energy. It was inevitable that I would sleep deeply to regain it."

As furious as she had been, it dissolved once she had her priorities straight. He needed her attention more than the infuriating pair. Standing over him where he was seated – indeed, the only way she could, as when he stood on his feet the violet-eyed knight towered over her – she leaned over and brushed a light kiss on the top of his head. "Come..." It wasn't a command, but a request. "I shall prepare us breakfast."

Perhaps after that, she could persuade him to sleep. Arturia really didn't want to nag him into it.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight glances over, frowning almost imperceptibly. The whetstone gradually slows to a halt; when it stops, he sets it aside, carefully leaning his nameless sword against a nearby table. Sighing, he slumps over, elbows against his knees, just in time for her to press a kiss to his hair.

He sighs. The strength seems to rush out of him with that single breath. Not the rage, though; it only simmers down like a banked flame, ready to spring back into terrible life at a moment's notice. With that simple gesture, it seems more carefully controlled.

"My lady." His voice is quiet and uncharacteristically rough. He doesn't look up, addressing the flagstones underfoot. "Thank you, but no. I do not think that I can eat, just yet. I... no. Not with this..."

Not with the rage so close beneath the surface. His stomach is tight as a coiled spring; his veins hot, like his blood is molten iron. At least he's brought his breathing under control, slow and too regular. He takes another deliberately deep and calming breath before picking up his head and sitting up straighter.

For a long moment he only stares at her. There is a quiet turmoil in his eyes. He wants to be free of the rage, but only one thing will satisfy his honour. Or, it seems, the jealousy – for that's exactly what it is.

No one else touches her. No one. And for someone else to kiss her – unthinkable. The knight looks away, grinding his teeth one last time.

Looking back to her, he smiles, both forced and apologetic. One hand reaches out to her, resting at the side of her face. He stays that way for a moment,his smile gradually losing its forced quality.

His other arm moves to circle around her, pulling her to him, head resting over her shoulder. Sighing, he closes his eyes for a long moment. The knight of the Dál Riata is still tense, but also tired in the way he leans on her.

It's a long moment before he pulls away, only to rest his hand over her face again and lean forward, almost hesitantly pressing his lips to hers. The kiss is almost shy, but not quite – bold, perhaps, as he dares without mead.

Better that than rage, anyway, even if the rage still lurks.

Saber (346) has posed:
The rage was likely not going to completely reside, not until Bedivere felt that he had made Lute pay the proper price for the insult to her honour. After a decent if restless night's sleep – she had grown accustomed to sleeping with him by her side so much that she felt uneasy when he wasn't there – her own rage had quelled. Now, she simply carried her usual grudge, still resentful of Lute's dishonour of her marshal yet not particularly troubled enough to seek him out again. No, it was better for everyone involved to simply ignore what happened and move on. Forgetting the guilty party, especially so.

In fairness, her offer of breakfast had been more of a bribe than anything else, something to soothe his nerves with cinnamon and apples. Moreover, perhaps a meal would have encouraged him to sleep, which was her ultimate objective of the morning. But he did have a point; at the moment, it probably would have made him sick. At the very least, however, she could try to keep him from becoming dehydrated and exacerbating the problem. "Then some water, at least...that should not cause any queasiness, and I would imagine you need it."

It was, admittedly, strange to see such emotions in his eyes, the ever-stoic, calm marshal who could never be provoked into even subtle anger. At least, not over insults to his own person. Yet, there was something else, as well...an emotion she never would have thought to see in him before. The flaxen-haired knight was neither fearful nor repulsed, but nevertheless she could scarcely believe it. Though there was no rational reason for him to feel that way – she had promised herself to him as his lady and his alone – yet the heart was not a terribly rational thing. And, with a note of guilt, she realised that it made her oddly happy that he felt such a thing when it came to her.

Arturia nearly frowned; she was certainly not living up to her expectations of herself.

It was a relief, then, when he placed a hand on the side of her face, and she lifted her own to cover the chain-and-leather-clad hand before he pulled her to him, and her hand shifted to stroke his hair as he rested his head on her shoulder. While the undercurrent of rage and jealousy was still, there, at least he was calming down somewhat. Lute was not especially worth all that, she had thought to tell him, but it wasn't necessary. Deep down, she was sure that he knew, but not unlike those times when her own jealousy had gotten the better of her, it had not been something she could control merely by thinking rationally about it. Was the same true for him, as well?

The kiss was much better, as a matter of fact. That mead-fuelled boldness had been surprising, given his usually shy nature, yet hardly unwelcome. Of the two, she was the bolder one – she had to be, in order to claim her birthright and both rule and protect a nation – yet seemed to always fall short when it came to expressing what she wanted. There was a plethora of reasons for her own shyness, ranging from a reluctance to push her desires off on him or proceeding at a pace faster than was comfortable for him, to her own inferiority complexes. Yet, that didn't keep her from returning it with no hesitation. As upset as he doubtless was, at least it was much nicer to kiss someone she actually wanted to.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere had been among the most calm and level-headed knights of the Round Table, in direct contrast to the more passionate hearts, such as Gawain. Yet in spite of the whisperings of a jealous and mistrusting nobility, he was no less passionate or feeling than any other man of Albion. He simply controlled himself to much more exacting standards, allowing not so much as a hint of his true feelings to emerge.

Even in the midst of his battle-rage, when Caliburn was sundered and when Mordred raised her rebellion, it was easy to draw the parallel that he'd fought to preserve Camelot. Regardless of his true motives, that was the commonality that had kept his reputation from tarnishing past the point of the king's intervention – none could doubt his service to the realm; helped, perhaps, by the commoners' love of him.

Not until the multiverse, anyway.

Free of the constraints of politics and command, now, he is nonetheless awkward in showing his emotion. It's not because he doesn't trust Arturia enough to show his reactions to her, but perhaps because, for the first time in his life, he doesn't know how.

It's a long moment before he pulls away from the kiss, keeping his eyes closed for a moment, as though to calm himself further. When he finally does open his eyes, he regards her as he had before. His expression never quite changes, but some of that fire seems to bank. He's calming – but slowly, so slowly.

"I am sorry." His words are quiet, as he sinks back down, elbows over his knees. His voice still carries a hint of that strange roughness; perhaps from lack of sleep, and perhaps from the effort of turning aside that fearsome wrath. He rests his face in his hands, exhaling a single great breath of exhaustion, frustration, and perhaps even a little despair. "You should expect better of your marshal. Of your—of your lord. I have been behaving like a braying ass, and that wretch is hardly worth the trouble. But I will not renege on what was sworn." He stares straight down, at the flagstones underfoot; eyes cold and hard once more. "I will still kill him, worthless though his blood is to stain my blade, for I will not suffer what was—what was done."

He lifts his gaze, regarding her with uncertainty, as though he's not quite sure of what to say or how to say it.

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia understood completely the struggle Bedivere was currently engaged in. Not long after she had been summoned to the Holy Grail War, she had befriended Irisviel and permitted something of her expressions to surface. Yet, beyond those subtle expressions she had struggled with emotions ever since the War's end, and over the five years had needed to learn to loosen her tight rein over them. It had demanded considerable effort and persistence to no longer bury them as she had during her reign.

Only now, the jade-eyed knight was regretting it a little. She had always felt deeply, and it was only through sheer willpower that she learned to control her emotions by ruthlessly stifling them. But somehow, all those years of practice seemed to be for naught when it came to her marshal. Whether it was because her walls had slowly been eroding over half a decade or because she was now free to allow herself to feel for him, she could not say. However, whichever reason it was or some mixture of both, was ultimately irrelevant. The fact remained that her mask crumbled away to uselessness when it came to him.

In his presence alone, it was acceptable, but she was greatly concerned about the same happening in front of others. Before her friends, it was a mere embarrassment, not something she was especially concerned about. But enemies were another matter entirely. That lapse of her mask placed them both and their allies in danger, and that worry had plagued her ever since the welcoming céilidh when the King of Knights felt the unpleasant wave of jealousy for perhaps the first time in her existence. It was an ugly feeling, though one she was apparently helpless against...and more troublesome was the fact that her control seemed to fall to pieces.

"If you have behaved poorly, as have I," she replied. "You should expect better of your king...of your lady. And my lack of control compromises my effectiveness in combat, and as a Servant."

What might have been a surprise was that she did not try to talk him out of it. A knight's word was his bond, and oaths sworn in rage were nevertheless oaths. The problem was that Lute was a member of the Confederacy, and while death was not unheard of, the faction might use that as a casus belli...if not against the Union, then against Dún Reáltaí itself.

No matter how far they had come in terms of how they related to one another, there were occasions when knight and king fell back on their traditional roles as ruler and subordinate. The uncertainty in his expression and the clear plea for guidance were testaments to that reality.

I hold little regard for those two, she admitted silently. For the moment, she was thinking in her old patterns as a king. My worries are only for you, our home, and our allies. I have no wish for Dún Reáltaí to be caught in the middle of our personal feud.

Yet, the moment passed, and she shook her head, returning to her role as lady. Still, I am deeply touched that you seek to defend my honour even now, she admitted with a hint of a smile. To have someone so completely on my side is a comfort I cannot express.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Where the king had been given friendships in her own role as a Servant, and new bonds in the multiverse itself, her most faithful knight had been given no such recourse. Secluding himself from others was his survival strategy in Camelot. He had never been given any reason to do otherwise. Indeed, it had been imperative that he not allow himself to lower his guard; he may not have come to harm for it, but the kingdom's fragile political climate certainly would have. To see such compromise in its highest officers and its king would have torn it apart from within.

"You?" He lifts his gaze, brows furrowing in clear puzzlement. "You have not behaved poorly, my lady. Not that I have seen."

His account, of course, may be very slightly biased.

That she doesn't try to dissuade him from his oath doesn't escape his notice. Few things ever do. Although he doesn't call it out specifically, he does remain silent, gaze sliding back to the floor as he considers. What he'd said was true – that staining his blade with the blood of Lute is hardly doing it any favours, and ought to be beneath his notice. Yet he swore an oath, and he can hardly take that back. To him, a knight's word is as binding as written contracts would appear to be in the modern era. More, perhaps; there are grave consequences for breaking that word.

After a few moments he shakes his head. The motion seems almost one of despair.

"A fine mess I have landed myself in. Ah, my lady, I never would have expected myself to succumb to such..." Anger seems like too small a word for the fire that had been coursing through his veins; blinding him, both figuratively and perhaps even literally. "I had trained so long, and so carefully, to conceal my reactions." He shakes his head, along with a crooked half-smile that seems almost rueful. "I imagine my brother would have laughed to see me in such a state."

Payback, perhaps, for that blow he'd taken so many years ago. But the knight that would become known as Sir Lucan was not a vindictive man, no more so than his soft-spoken and staunchly loyal brother.

He sighs, reaching up to rub at his face, the motion suddenly weary. Neither do I. This is my home, for good or for ill, and I owe the responsibility of protection to these people. I would not have that undone because of one honourless wretch who might decide to take advantage of words spoken in anger.

He is not worth it. Any of it. Yet I cannot take back the words I spoke. And if I am honest with myself – shameful as it is – it would yet be satisfying to strike him down. He lifts his gaze to her, weary, but he offers a faint half-smile to match hers. A comfort you need not thank me for, my lady.

I am, and will ever be, your knight.

Saber (346) has posed:
The King of Knights would have certainly been sympathetic to his plight regardless of their bonds and the more recent shift in their relationship. In many ways, Bedivere was in the same position she was five years ago. Having spent the majority of her life concealing both her gender and her emotions behind her mask, in some ways she had become that mask. It was not such a simple thing as merely casting it aside; in some ways, Arturia had to relearn how to feel...and how to deal with them in ways other than burying or hiding them. She could see that very struggle again in him, and though he had already come far in the half-year since his rescue from the multiversal weald binding their world to it, there remained much that he struggled with.

Then again, it appeared that, in spite of how far she had come in those five years, there was still a great deal left for her to learn.

"I am afraid so," she admitted. "There is much more in the multiverse which is dissimilar to our time and our cultures than similar. We were fortunate to find this place," she punctuated her words with a slight wave of her hand, indicating their new home, "Where our ways are similar enough, or reasonably understood. Most, however, do not."

To less-trained eyes, the way in which the Saber pulled over a chair and seated herself beside him was the same regal grace of years of practise. But to his, so accustomed to that projection of the ideal king, she seated herself heavily, wearily. To them, much of the multiverse was the distant, inconceivable future. The Grail had only imparted enough knowledge to be useful within the context of the War, not having to deal with a society which had become far more complex. In some ways, it was almost insulting how the two were expected to acclimate with little trouble and thought of their present as an obsolete past. She found it especially bothersome that this unfair expectation was levelled on her marshal, who lacked even that Grail-imparted knowledge.

But complaining about reality was not something in her nature. That which she found to be unfair was something to be changed through direct effort, whether or not it was necessarily a good idea. "By these new standards, what I did was unacceptable."

In some ways, dealing with Gilgamesh had been easier; haughty and savage though he was, the King of Heroes was likewise archaic in his thinking. And at least he had not had bizarre ideas of what chivalry actually was.

The oath of a knight was indeed binding contracts, though fortunately there was a slight bit of 'wiggle room', as the modern idiom went. He had only sworn to kill Lute, not when. "I imagine that such an opportunity will present itself, eventually," the jade-eyed knight observed. "We are enemies, after all is said and done."

The same could even be said of a number of their guests, though they were by comparison people of some amount of honour. But if Kagenashi set her sights on a way to regain her lost powers which jeopardised their people or Yari was ordered by her Emperor to capture Dún Reáltaí, the inescapable truth was that they would be on the opposite side of the battlefield from the Round Table. "There will come a time when we shall likely face them in battle," she mused. "Though we draw our swords with reluctance, killing is a fact of war."

It might have seemed a cold way of speaking of it, but it was not only the reality as a king of their era, but likewise as a Servant. Though the summoned Heroic Spirits were technically already dead – with Saber being the sole exception – the rule of the Holy Grail War was kill or be killed. And at Camlann, many of those whose blood stained their blades had been former allies, even friends. But such things had cost Bedivere a little of his soul each time, and that was her sole concern. "Do what you must in battle, but do not seek him out. I think, perhaps, we should avoid the both of them as much as is possible."

Though, from what she had heard over the broadbands, some seemed to think he would be doing the multiverse a favour. Something about being the 'enemy of all women' if she recalled the phrase correctly.

But there had been more than enough regard given to the lecherous Pokémon researcher. Banishing such thoughts from her mind, Arturia smiled slightly, lifting her hand to rest on the side of his face.

Be that as it may, I remain ever grateful.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Such seems to be the case." Bedivere gives his observation with a certain distaste, gaze sliding away, to the crackling hearth. He looks somewhere between thoughtful and annoyed. "Our time is the distant past for so many of these worlds. They speak of us as though we were... myth, or legend, and our time long past. That may be so, but..."

"Surely there must be somewhere, out there in the multiverse, where worlds are of a similar time as our own, places that would be familiar to us. Other places, like Dún Reáltaí, where we are not spoken of like relics, or where our deeds are not placed on pedestals." For a moment he looks almost embarrassed; Lute forgotten as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "It seems I am remembered for my loyalty, yet the only thing that was accounted for was your final order to me, to return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake."

"It seems a strange thing to be remembered for, and an odd thing to be... celebrated." He gives the word with some disdain. "I was only fulfilling my duty. Something that could be said for any other of my actions in Camelot," he adds, with an almost dismissive wave of his hand. "I did not seek any especial regard. Why would I?"

To that end, the modern habit of being so open and free with one's emotions is a disorienting one. True, he had expected some measure of it; he had distanced himself more than any other knights in the court, as a matter of necessity. Yet he would not have expected such qualities to be so... widespread. They mean well, he knows, but sometimes the attention, and the attention paid to such things he had once dismissed out of hand, can be stifling.

Sometimes he prefers quiet and solitude to socialising with his Union allies and friends. Life itself, it seems, is a bout of culture shock beyond Dún Reáltaí's crumbling curtain walls. Leaning an elbow against a knee, the silver-haired knight rests his his chin in his cupped hand, sighing.

"Mmmn." It's as much as he'll admit for his own weariness, though his slumped posture, normally so straight and impeccable, is more than clue enough. He hasn't slept, and now that she's defused that terrible rage, all the strength seems to seep out of him. Although he's still somewhat ill at ease and vaguely annoyed, he's not liable to commit murder any time soon.

At least, as long as Lute doesn't cross his path.

New standards. Bedivere sighs, although the breath is almost a snort. Some might consider him hidebound, but he's proud of the sterling behaviour he had upheld in Camelot, and it would take tremendous effort for him to change – he is intelligent, and he does grasp things quickly, but there would need to be the right motivation for him to change.

"Of course. They are Confederates," he points out. "It is hardly a capital offense to swear, in all seriousness, to kill your enemies in time of war. I had done the same to countless Saxons who had insulted you and your kingdom, although I suppose that had been a far more immediate thing." They had been separated by distances measured in yards, not in worlds. "In any case, it was not appropriate to a civilian setting, and especially not under the banner of hospitality."

"I do not disagree that it would be better to avoid them." He shakes his head, some of his hair falling across his face. One hand rises to brush it aside; it only falls back into place, and with a certain degree of resignation, he ignores it. "I cannot promise to remain civil in their presence; not when he exercises such wanton disregard for actual chivalry. He misunderstands it, and practises his misunderstanding; but he has no desire to learn what it is actually about. It is simply a means to an end for him." What that end is, he doesn't say, but by the sourness of his expression he knows all too well what the general intent was. One doesn't have to think too hard on that. Bedivere sighs. "Best not spoken of, though."

He looks down and away again, only to stop short when she rests her hand at the side of his face. Eyes closing, he leans into her touch; in that simple gesture she can probably feel his exhaustion. There's a faint smile touching his features in spite of it, though.

"I know," he murmurs. "Even in Camelot, when you could not say, I knew you were grateful for an ally. I would say a friend, but..." He gestures, helplessly, even though he keeps his head where it is, reluctant to break away from her touch. "There was no way in Heaven or on earth that we could have risked allowing ourselves to be so close. Not then, and not with so much happening. It was all I could do to maintain the illusion of distance."

Only after a long moment does he finally pull away, straightening. "My lady." A slight gesture beckons to her; a slight twist of one gauntleted hand. "Come. At the very least, I should take this off, and rest. Will you come with me...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Though the Holy Grail had, through its mysterious means, imparted the knowledge of the legend her rule had become, she had seen it through a jaundiced lens. That she had been remembered as a man had not been especially surprising, as few had ever discovered her secret. But the romance it had become made it seem much more glamorous than it actually was. And while she had been pleased that chivalry was remembered and celebrated, the drawback of that was that so many were unclear as to what chivalry even was...as evidenced by the assumption it meant kissing the hands of random ladies with money rather than a system of strict, honourable personal conduct.

"There....are," Arturia replied after a moment, trying to recall the many worlds she had seen first-hand. "However, many are not of our own world, or are similar yet different in other ways. Sir Faruja's...and Dame Agrias's...Ivalice is not so different, and yet at the same time, it is."

But the comfort of their home, she realised, was not simply that the technology and culture were similar enough to their own, though that had certainly made it easier for the knights to settle in, as well as for the people to accept them after some amount of caution. No, what had made it easiest of all was the simple fact that, for all its similarities, the names of King Arthur and Sir Bedivere were unknown. They had learned that their new lord had once served a king, and that he was recovering from wounds of both body and spirit...yet, such things were mere murmured rumours. And as for his devotion to Arturia...well, that was easily enough explained away as the devotion of a knight for his lady. That she had been the very king he served had likely never crossed their minds.

She did, however, have to correct him on one thing. "That loyalty is worthy of recognition," she insisted, "Regardless of your reasons for it." The violet-eyed knight was even more disconcerted and even more than a little embarrassed about the legend which had risen up from his deeds, but she was nevertheless pleased that one of the things she had respected and cherished most about him was well-remembered. Perhaps some were now discovering the precise reason for that steadfast loyalty, but it in no way diminished it.

Yet, though they took pride in their knighthood, it was that knighthood which reinforced their natural modesty. Bedivere especially disliked being in the metaphorical spotlight, something Arturia had needed to be comfortable in as the king. His role had allowed him to fade into the background where he was most comfortable while the king had been elevated on the pedestal as the ideal king the people could have confidence in. There were times when she wondered if his appointment to lordship of the land had pushed him out of his comfort zone a little too much – she knew Merlin had most likely lectured him on the importance of presenting an aura of confidence to the people – as there were times when he had regarded her almost helplessly in what had been clear pleas for guidance. But he had the right mindset and motivation, as well as the necessary education and training to run a proper castle. He had always refused lands of his own – believing that such duties would interfere with those he had already sworn to her – but that was no longer a concern.

But she had been certain Bedivere would grow into his new role, and for the most part, he had. It was a continued source of pride for her that, for all his reputation for being uncompromising and hidebound, the marshal was in truth surprisingly adaptable. He'd had to be in his position. And even now, he'd surpassed even her uncompromising expectations, just as he always had. And yet, even with the duties of restoring and running a village and keep, it was a comfort to come home. There were no expectations of being more open with their emotions than was comfortable, and cultural expectations were those they were familiar and comfortable with. Venturing out into the multiverse – while exciting – could also be quite tiring. Arturia doubted that she would ever stop being thankful that they had discovered the isolated, rural village in need of their help. In many ways, it was the perfect respite for both knights.

"At the very least, there is little need to change our ways here," she mused. The only expectation the townspeople seemed to have was direction and coordination for rebuilding their homes and livelihood. And at the very least, she had not noticed anyone within the Union taking him to task for the threat. it might not have been the most appropriate of ways in the modern world, but thankfully, his anger had been understood. If, perhaps, frightening for many. As for hospitality...

"To be fair, he violated hospitality before that," she pointed out. "A lapse on all our parts, perhaps...but the law lasts only so long as both parties adhere to it. The blame was not yours."

It was a legalistic argument, she realised, and therefore Bedivere would realise that, as well. Still, technicalities had allowed her to adhere to chivalry as much as she was able to without giving away the secret of her gender, where she kept to the letter of the law, if not precisely the spirit.

The knight-king had doubted that Bedivere would argue the point on avoiding the pair; likely, if they never saw Lute and Harp again, neither of them would find cause to complain. It was just as well that she chose not to think on what his designs had been, given that she had been ignorant of the fact that he had regarded it as a 'date' rather than a simple friendly get-together. Since then, she had been annoyed by the discovery that it was impossible for Lute to think of anyone of the opposite gender in a merely friendly manner, that they were to a person a potential romantic interest or enemy. Many times, both at once. Arturia could not honestly understand that outlook; she had been friends with Lancelot for years, and she had never once seen the Knight of the Lake in a romantic light.

No, she had no inclination to speak of whatever Lute's intended endgame had been. Perhaps not as bad as Gilgamesh's, but not any more desirable.

With a soft 'hm', Arturia tilted her head slightly as her hand rested on the side of his face, regarding him thoughtfully. "I think that, given the circumstances, we were as close to being friends as was possible," she mused. "Not in the same respect as Lancelot and I, but our bond has always been unique." For all of their friendship, the two had talked past one another, especially when it came to the love he shared with her queen. His shame had been too great even as he couldn't help himself, but he had never been able to bring himself to talk to his friend directly about it. In the end, all he could do was wish for her anger and punishment...though fortunately that had been resolved. Yet, even now he hid part of his heart from her. By contrast, Bedivere had let down as many walls as he could and allowed her in, just as she had for him. Perhaps it could have been friendship...but it had become something much deeper than even camaraderie...and she would not change a thing about it.

When he finally pulled away, she hoped that her marshal would finally be able to get some proper rest; even now, he had five years of restlessness to overcome. In all likelihood, she would probably worry over him for the rest of their lives. But for now, she smiled as she rose. "My lord, you need not even ask."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
There were many aspects of the legend that even now struck the marshal as odd.

What many thought of as characters were real lives, people that he had served amongst and bled with, and ultimately who had died at his side in battle. Yet over the ages, others had made assumptions, reinvented them; ultimately turned them into caricatures that even Bedivere's keen mind could no longer recognise.

Events themselves were not spared such treatment. Many of the pivotal battles against the Saxons had been turned into fantastical jaunts through the Welsh countryside, such that even he could not always determine what battles they had originally been. On more than one occasion, he'd simply decided, after reading different accounts, that the events in question were fabricated whole cloth.

To a certain extent it was understandable; the bards of their times were often forced to subject their accounts to a certain degree of embellishment. Yet this stretched the limits of even that believability; enough so that the marshal had eventually given up his aimless perusal of different accounts, disgusted.

When she insists his loyalty is worth recognition he only manages a vague sound at the back of his throat. It could be agreement, or it could be protest. There's no telling which it is. By personality alone, though, it's most likely the latter. He has never been graceful at accepting praise of any kind.

"He violated common decency as much as hospitality," the knight growls, something low and angry sparking back to life in his voice. It soon fades, though. He's too weary to maintain that rage; it takes too much out of him. He sighs another one of those weary sighs. "And anyway, after a certain point, it becomes semantics. I will not stop adhering to Brehon Law just because he does not or cannot. If I threw it aside for no more reason than that, I would be no better than he, would I?"

Pulling himself to his feet, he lets the topic go with a huff of breath that's almost a sigh, but not quite. Without another word on that particular topic, he drags himself up the stairs, moving considerably more slowly than usual.

"Unique." He chuckles, the sound echoing up the staircase. "I suppose that is one word to describe it, hm? 'Unique.' Ah, that is not the word I would have used, but it will do. I suppose you are right, though. Even in Camelot, one could have described our bond as unique among the knights."

The silver-haired knight pauses once they reach the landing of the third floor, sagging against the wall to catch his breath. Although he casts a brief glance down the stairway from which they'd come, he only shakes his head. His eyes linger a moment on the halls and their patchwork of old stone and new stone, and he can't help but smile crookedly. It's comforting beyond measure to have a home to return to, and he's grown quite fond of these halls.

"We will have to address the servants later." He sighs as he gathers himself to make the rest of the journey, using a hand braced against the wall to steady his exhausted body. Aside from the pain of it, falling would mean having to climb the staircase all over again, and he's not sure he wants to think about that kind of exertion. "I think they may be a bit unsettled. Within reason, I suppose. They have never seen you or I..." He gestures, vaguely, with one hand. The servants had never seen either of them in a rage; never before had king or marshal been given cause to show such fury – at least, not before these people.

By the time they reach their quarters, it takes him only a few moments to strip off his armour, with her help. Once that's finished and the pieces have been neatly stowed over or near the armour-form, he makes the rounds between the tower's many windows, flicking the curtains closed. Sleep sounds wonderful now that his body no longer sustains itself on adrenaline and wrath. He seats himself on the side of the bed closest to the armour-form, shrugging out of the quilted gambeson worn beneath the hauberk, both for comfort and warmth. It's a simple cloth garment, but with a few embellishments from grateful villagers; fine enough to suit a lord, but not so arrogant as to appear kingly.

His right hand raises to rub at his left shoulder, thumb absently tracing the broad stripe of a scar left by a Saxon axe-head. He doesn't even seem aware of the motion, trying to knead the stiffness out of his muscles without even realising it; suffering now, perhaps, after nursing that terrible rage for the better part of the night.

When his hand drops, he rests his face in his hands with a sigh, along with a vague, indeterminate sound of exhaustion.

"Stay with me," he murmurs quietly, between his fingers. "Please."

Despite the lack of a questioning cadence, it isn't an order. He would never presume to order her, no matter how long it's been since Camelot's fall. It's a request, and almost an uncertain one, at that. It seems that even now he still fears overstepping such boundaries, though whether out of knightly service or simple consideration, of personal reverence, it's hard to say.

With his face covered by his hands and partly hidden by both the angle and the way his hair falls to hide it, the parts that usually frame his face, it's hard to say which it is for sure.

"I do not know yet what it is I might need, for I am not thirsty, and I cannot yet bear the thought of a meal. Tea, perhaps? I—I am not certain. But whatever it is, would you... would you remain by my side?" He looks up, with a faint smile, miserable-looking in its weariness and resignation. "Please."

Saber (346) has posed:
When it came to the subject of their legend, Arturia had learned that she was better off thinking of the various – and many times conflicting – versions of it as simply poetry rather than any attempt at an accurate accounting of their lives. Of Tennyson she was especially fond; in spite of his work being relatively modern, the poet had captured much of the spirit of their lives reasonably well, particularly the chivalric virtue of Pietas as well as Bedivere's steadfast loyalty and perhaps a little of his despair...though he could not have known the precise reason for it. In fact, there were times when the poems were frighteningly accurate. Had that noble have been a descendant of the filídh himself, mistaking the awen for mere poetic inspiration and hearing Merlin's prophecy as only the touch of a muse?

But even the Idylls, in many ways, were nevertheless fiction. For her part, the flaxen-haired knight was in a better position to distance herself from the myth created from her life, not only from the five years in the greater multiverse, but as a Servant. One needed to have some understanding of one's legendary stature to be able to fight effectively in the Grail War...even if a good part of those legends might not necessarily be accurate or even true.

Unfortunately, Bedivere's status as a mortal rather than a Servant meant being thrown into the modern era head-first without any sort of guide other than Arturia herself, in spite of his belief that she was dead. From what she had seen and what she understood of his nature, he was simply grateful to have any lifeline for his sanity at all. With an inaudible sigh, she shook her head, though a faint, slightly amused smile touched her face. You are as terrible at accepting praise as always, my love.

She could not really argue the point on Lute's violation of common decency, even had she wanted to. The pair were not so much open with affections as they simply had no understanding of personal barriers. Saber had thought at first that it was merely their culture, but upon discussing the events with others over the broadband, apparently his behaviour was inappropriate even in the modern era.

"Being knights does indeed demand that we hold ourselves to proper standards," she acknowledged with a nod. "I would be disappointed if you chose otherwise. However, there are times when it is necessary to prioritise, and your first duty as a knight is to the king."

Standing, she leaned over and brushed a kiss over his forehead. "And you have protected me and defended my honour well, my most faithful knight."

Was she simply attempting to soothe him? Possibly.

"I suppose that 'special' is as apt," Arturia replied with a slight tilt of her head, indicating her version of a shrug as she ascended the stairs. "Even Lancelot could not know my thoughts well enough to carry out orders I never spoke. Indeed, many wondered why it was that I rarely issued any direct commands to you."

The marshal need not have worried about falling back down the stairs; his king remained alert for any tell-tale signs that he might have lost his footing. As embarrassing as it might have been to be caught and held steady by such a deceptively tiny woman, her frame belied her Servant's strength. "Ah...yes, you are right," she admitted as she maintained that watchful eye. "No, I suppose they have not..."

It was at that moment a deep-seated worry finally surfaced, one that she had been suppressing throughout the winter. As much as everyone would be ecstatic to finally shake off the all-too-long season, there had been at least one reason to dread the coming of spring, one that had not dawned on her until now. "And...we should take that opportunity to...to be completely honest with them."

By which she meant tell them the truth about not actually being married. While they deserved to know the truth, at the same time she had gotten quite comfortable with their current arrangement.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, there was the task of helping the pale-haired knight out of his armour and stowing it away to busy herself with. At least, until said knight stripped off the gambeson and rubbed at his shoulder, shirtless. Had they truly gotten so comfortable that the only real deception was the matter of vows? Her false 'marriage' to Guinevere had been more of a ruse than this, where she had exchanged open vows. With that train of thought making her suddenly self-conscious, the petite blonde gathered up the soft tunic and leggings she wore to bed and retreated into the bath momentarily, changing into them from the sweater and jeans she had been wearing before re-emerging.

It was not as if she had never seen shirtless men before – or even him, for that matter – but that was not the most opportune time, given the problem she had just brought up. But all that inner turmoil and confusion seemed to melt away with a simple, soft plea, one she could never refuse even if she wanted to. Whatever his reasons were for his hesitancy, it made her happy that he would even ask. It continued to be a struggle for them both at times to move past their own personal spaces, fearful of intruding too far. For her, it was an invitation.

Her prior self-consciousness forgotten, she carefully brushed the strands of hair back from his face, leaned in and brushed her lips softly over his cheekbone. "I will stay for as long as you wish."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
To a certain extent, the silver-haired knight considered the various accounts of their time as poetry or myth. After all, nearly every account was put to paper well after their own time; long after the point which any one of them would have quietly turned to dust. How could they know, and how could they tell a complete tale without fanciful embellishment and artistic license?

Even so, it galled him on some level that their lives had been reduced to that – actors in the poetic plays of these writers. The majority of every account he had touched held little in the way of truth beyond the most basic facts. Even the place names were at times unfamiliar to him; at times it took a certain degree of guesswork to determine what their original Welsh names would have been.

"Fortunately, you need not be disappointed." Bedivere rubs absently at one scarred shoulder, considering her words on knighthood and standards. His words are truth; he could no more stop living by the chivalric virtues than he could turn his back on Arturia. "I do not think I could choose otherwise. It is all I have ever known, or even aspired to," he murmurs. She might notice him flushing a bit at her praise, though; there's no mistaking it against his pale skin – his face, his ears, and even his neck scarlet against old, faded scars. He mumbles something that might be thanks, but the words are vague.

And that leads to the reminder of things he had, up until now, completely forgotten about. The colour drains from him in that instant, and he clears his throat – but it's such a hopelessly awkward sound that there's no covering the fact that he'd forgotten, entirely, about their little "arrangement."

Thankfully, he's not even aware of deflecting the awkward situation. He'd simply wanted her close by, weary and out of sorts and not particularly wanting to be alone in such a mindset, and his eyes fall closed at the touch of her lips to one high cheekbone. He sighs, the sound so soft it might be missed but for the slump of his scarred shoulders. Slowly, he manages a faint half-smile. "Thank you, my lady."

Only when she pulls away does he straighten slightly, reaching over to hold one shoulder as he rolls it, frowning a bit at the stiffness and sighing again. "I suppose I will have to spend tomorrow in practise. I should not be this stiff," he murmurs, with some discontentment. "I have no desire to neglect Exercitium to the degree I once had again."

It would be nice spending the day casting aside his worries and sparring, particularly sparring with Arturia – she challenges him with her cunning and her strength, and he relishes a good challenge – but lordship means responsibility, and it also means facing things he wouldn't always rather face.

The silver-haired knight sighs.

"First, I suppose, we had best call the villagers to assemble in the town square, and set a few things straight for them," he murmurs. He seems to sink in upon himself, just a little, shoulders slumping. "I have no wish to deceive them. They deserve better, no matter how much of a discomfort it may be to us. You are right."

He smiles, a little ruefully, casting her a sidelong look. "What irony," he murmurs. "I had dreamt of such a thing in Camelot, even if I had not breathed a word of it to any soul. I had wondered what it would be like to have you by my side, to speak freely with you; to rely on your counsel as you relied upon mine. Yet now..." He flexes the fingers of his sword hand, eyes dropping to his callused, scarred hands. "It is... somewhat awkward," he murmurs simply, with another of those equally awkward little smiles. "I only hope that they take it as well as they have taken everything else to happen to them..."

Saber (346) has posed:
By contrast, the King of Knights had not been especially bothered by the lack of accuracy; in fact, she was strangely thankful for it. Her real-life rule had been – in her mind – a failure, and her true personality and shortcomings far from things to be celebrated. What had mattered was that chivalry was remembered and celebrated; her ideal was what mattered, and perhaps the only measure of success she'd had was that others after her sought the utopia she reached for or, at the very least, tried to follow the path of chivalry. With varying degrees of success, of course...but the point was that they tried.

Her own embarrassment was forgotten, watching him attempt to accept the praise in spite of his obvious discomfort. It was one of the few ways where pushing him out of his comfort zone did not inspire guilt, endearing though it was. She was grateful for his modesty – indeed, it was one of the sacred Virtues – yet she enjoyed finally being able to properly praise him after so many years of maintaining impartiality. While he felt he was merely performing his duties to the best of his ability, that was not such an easy thing to do, and she knew it.

Besides, he had teased her on other occasions when her own failure to gracefully accept praise enough that she felt no guilt whatsoever returning in kind. So terrible with praise, my love, Arturia inferred, shaking her head, though the faint smile betrayed her subtle amusement.

By that time her own awkwardness had faded to nothing, enough to note how much he insisted on rubbing at his shoulder. She sighed, shifting from her position on the bed to move behind him enough to apply her own hands to the stiff shoulder. Though gentle, her touch was nevertheless firm with the strength she was capable of, though she deliberately held it back. "There is no need to thank me," she replied mildly. "It is my duty to watch over you, even if I am not..."

The jade-eyed knight paused to gesture with one hand, leaving off the implication. "I am nevertheless your lady. There is no shame in relying upon one another, now."

The marshal was awarded a soft 'hm' in reply. "It is remedied easily enough," Arturia reassured him. Understanding his thought processes worked was simple enough for her, as she thought in many of the same ways. A day of their idea of 'relaxing' – taking cracks at each other with practise swords – would not only not do any harm, but it would in fact help to improve his health. The paperwork would not go anywhere, and the lord did need to be in peak health to maintain the keep properly. It was merely an additional bonus that the both of them enjoyed testing their strength and skills against each other.

Yet, there was the small detail about their need to reveal the truth to the village...

In truth, Arturia would be a little disappointed that the accidental deception would have to be corrected. She had never known such peace before she and Bedivere had come to Dún Reáltaí, not the way that this recovering village had given her. True, she had known some measure of it when she lived with Rin and Sakura, looking after her Master while acting as a bodyguard of sorts. But in Dún Reáltaí, she had been granted a life of her own...and one at the side of the knight she had secretly cherished above all others. Part of that life had been a glimpse of what she had sacrificed to accept the mantle of the King of Britain; perhaps it was an illusion, but it was a comfortable one, and she was admittedly reluctant to give it up.

However, in the end, king and knight would always do what was best for the people. That was too much a part of their natures to change, and indeed, one of the reasons for their strong bond, and their love.

That worry faded at the sight of that awkward smile, that same one which seemed to cast her worries to the winds. They wouldn't be losing anything, not truly. The truth of their relationship would not change, merely the perception of it. "The dream rarely matches the reality, does it not?" she quipped. But then, sometimes the dream pales in comparison.

With a half-contented-half-relieved sigh, Arturia loosened the clasps from the silvery-blonde braids, setting them aside and retrieving a brush. Fate had done the same to the petite Servant enough times for her to have figured out that having one's hair brushed was a rather pleasant feeling. "I think, perhaps, that your work in leading them will speak for itself," she reassured him. "And I believe that, given time, they will come to understand."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The path of chivalry was never an easy one, and in some ways, Bedivere had always chosen the most difficult of his options. Such a lifestyle and adhering to such tenets demanded sacrifice, though; while perhaps there were other paths he might have chosen, at the end of the day, he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he had done anything differently.

His actions tended to be the most damaging to himself, though, no matter how much it might have spared others around him. The arduous patrols, the long and seemingly endless string of battles against Saxons and brigands, the insistence that he personally deliver supplies to refugees or lead them to safe territory – all of it had combined, eventually, to drag him down; so much so that even now he still shows the effects, and still heals from them.

For a moment he almost doesn't seem aware of what she's doing; it's not until he feels her hand at his shoulder that he starts. In fact, he almost jumps out of his skin at the touch; as though he had been touched by an electric charge rather than Arturia's delicate hand. In fact, it might be obvious to her that he's exercising conscious effort not to tense any further; jaw muscles working as though he were trying to figure out what to say.

Despite the illusion they had maintained of a lord and his wife, there are plenty of ways in which the silver-haired knight is still shy, awkward, and even afraid to make such presumptions.

His head turns slightly to one side, just far enough to regard her from the corner of an eye from his peripheral vision. She might hear him exhale; a gentle, voiceless laugh. No more so than you are, my lady.

It takes conscious effort, but eventually he stops himself from tensing, or trembling; sitting quietly as she rubs the tension out of his shoulder. His skin is pale, pale enough to suggest that he has blood from among the more northerly Saxons and folk of Dál Riata themselves; something that had been a subtle point of contention among the courts.

The scarring is even paler, almost white against the pale colour of his skin; criss-crossing here and there. The marks tell a story of warfare, and come in all manner of shapes, sizes, and textures – the pucker of an arrowhead dug from his shoulder, here, or the broad stripe of the axe-head that had almost taken his left arm off when Caliburn was lost.

How many such blows he had borne in his life, he couldn't say; even he no longer remembers how many there are. He hadn't remembered how many he had taken in the midst of his battle-rage, where he had ceased registering pain, and taken such wounds as to threaten his life. Yet all of those marks, all of those terrible wounds, told a unifying story where it came to Bedivere – wounds sustained in the pursuit of chivalry, and in defending those who couldn't defend themselves.

He doesn't quite relax, but he does shift a little uncomfortably when she reinforces her duty to watch over him, even in light of the villagers' misunderstanding. He clears his throat; the sound awkward and forced.

"That may be so, but... I still need to do that." To thank her, that is, even if she considers it a task to be taken for granted. Gradually, perhaps without even realising he does it, he leans into her touch; when she hits a particularly stubborn knot of muscle, he gives a sound that might be a purr in anyone else. How many nights had he trudged back to his quarters in Camelot, just as stiff and sore, hurting and tired, and had to endure the bitter winter-chill knotting his muscles even further; to try and sleep through the dull ache of his own body rebelling against the trials he'd put it through? "Mmm. I... suppose there's not so much harm in it, though, if you are willing, my lady..."

She might see him give a half-smile at the title. Even now, it still gives him a sense of wonder that he can call her that; that he can see her without her battle-armour, or the impassive mask of the king.

How many of those dreary days and long nights had he wished to see a smile on her face?

"No shame," he agrees, chuckling faintly; she might feel it as well as hear it. His smile is almost apologetic. "I just find it... difficult... sometimes, after a lifetime of forced impartiality."

Dream? His gaze lifts, faintly, when she asks that particular question; again, he manages that quiet sound that's almost affirmative, but mostly a sound of pure enjoyment.

"Do they ever? But in this case, I don't think it could," he murmurs, letting himself slump a little. He must be relaxing; even the release of the bronze clasps binding his hair goes almost unnoticed. "Reality is better than the dream ever could have been. I never knew how limited those dreams were until Dún Reáltaí," he admits, voice low; almost shy. "I had never really allowed myself to dream; at least not freely..."

He sighs, contentedly, too weary and relaxed to worry about the fact that she's dealing with his hair. It's too much of an enjoyment to concern himself over, and besides, isn't she his lady, and he her lord? Surely that's not too much of an embarrassment. Well, maybe it would be if he were more alert, but he's finally beginning to wind down from his wrath-born insomnia.

"Mmmn." Bedivere gives another one of those sounds in the back of his throat, deeply contented; so much so that he has trouble finding words for a moment. There's no possible way he can put to words how much of a comfort it is to have her so close, and without their mutual masks, besides. Leaning somewhat into her touch, he struggles for a moment to follow her words. "I should hope." The topic is a sobering one, and reluctantly, he forces his mind into a little more alertness. "They're good people who've been given a bad run," he murmurs, "and with some luck and faith they'll know we only wish for their well-being."

Silence falls, although he hasn't quite fallen asleep; the contented sigh he gives is too deliberate to be subconscious.

"I never thought I would find myself saying this, my lady, but that feels..."

He is not, however, alert enough to think of the correct word for how nice it feels to have his hair tended to. Poor thing.

Saber (346) has posed:
From the very beginning, Arturia had demanded a great deal from her knights, and even more from herself. It was that uncompromising expectation that had driven a few knights to take up with the rebellious Mordred, but more than that, it had led to her belief that she had fallen short of her own demands for herself. Indeed, the person she had always been the hardest on was the King of Knights herself.

The King of Heroes had been quite correct; eventually, the weight of her ideals would have broken her, if not in body, then in spirit. And perhaps if she had lived beyond Camlann, if her kingdom had not fallen, she would have driven herself to death without so much as a battle. Avalon could heal any mortal wound, but she would have continued on even in its absence, until her tiny body could take no more.

But a Servant, by contrast, continue on indefinitely so long as there was a lifeline to the necessary mana to sustain him. Arturia would have continued to pursue the Holy Grail to undo her mistakes and save her kingdom until the end of time itself contracting with Master after Master until she had grasped the artefact in gauntleted hands. It was not until she had spent some time in the multiverse and seen for herself the proliferation of life which had risen from Camelot's ashes that she had realised the folly in her quest. Her kingdom was gone – in her recent past and in the multiverse's distant one – and there was nothing she could do for it now...nor for the Knights who had pledged their service to her as the king. That is, save one.

Perhaps some part of her felt it was necessary to repay the steadfast loyalty of the Left Hand of the King, but such thoughts had dissipated along with her previous wish. Now, her efforts were born out of need, something she was compelled to do rather than something driven by guilt or a sense of indebtedness. She hated the idea of him suffering. Which was why, in spite of her own shyness and the realisation that such an action would startle him, she did her best to ease muscles knotted from years of strain and the more recent rage. To his credit, he restrained the urge to bolt like a deer with hounds at its heels.

Not that she was going to entertain any argument; already into her mother hen mode, Arturia was going to tend to him whether he liked it or not. But she did like the fact that she wouldn't need to nag him about it, and it did wonders for her own peace of mind. She was worried about him enough as it was.

Nevertheless, his silent words to her earned a light poke at his ribs with what for all the world could have been called a sulk, albeit coloured with a slight flush. He certainly wasn't wrong. For the moment, it is you who need learn to accept compliment gracefully.

The scarring didn't go unnoticed, though few had survived all the countless battles completely unscathed. Those who did more often than not attributed their lack to supernatural means...such as otherworldly swords and scabbards. Doubtless, Arturia herself would be similarly scarred had it not been for the healing properties of Caliburn and later Avalon. Still, his contrasted starkly with the paleness of his skin, and her fingers lightly traced the one along his arm where a Saxon axe had nearly taken it off. It had only been rage which had blunted the pain at first, and later the wine she had ordered to keep him under for the time it took to begin to heal.

"In truth, it is no trouble at all." And it wasn't; even with their peculiar arrangement and their rather obvious affection, in some ways the two knights were as shy and awkward as ever. While he seemed to struggle against the feeling that he was committing some horrible infraction and being too presumptuous, Arturia for her part at times felt as if she was abusing her rank and likewise being too presumptuous. His overwhelming sense of propriety was a stark reminder of their difference in rank within Camelot, the rigid roles they had assumed. The modern era all around her seemed to try to reassure her that such displays of affection were not inappropriate, yet the guilt persisted.

In some ways, her tending was the only way she could get around that.

"I dared not dream for myself," she admitted, as much to herself as to him. "I could only have Britain in my heart, all else was distraction at best." Yet, unbeknownst to her or anyone else, her dreams for her own life had not been forgotten, but sacrificed for the dream of Britain's utopia. But even those forgotten fragments, had they been realised, would have paled in comparison to the reality, even with all its trials. "I thought that it was necessary to sacrifice my own happiness for the sake of the kingdom. I never realised that it was possible to seek happiness for others and yet also find happiness for oneself..."

It was not until they had come to Dún Reáltaí that she discovered personal happiness and working for the happiness of others were not mutually exclusive. The king did not have to be lonely. No, even with the difficulties – such as dealing with Gilgamesh, Lute, and Harp – a mere dream could not compare to the reality of truly having Bedivere at her side in ways which were impossible in Camelot.

Her fingers worked gently to untangle any snarls she encountered in the pale blond hair, combing it lightly with the brush afterwards. "I think that....for all my wishes for them, I did not trust the people of Britain enough. Perhaps that was truly where I went wrong; I failed to place faith in them. I think that, if we have faith in them as they have placed theirs in us, they will understand. If not immediately, then eventually."

The jade-eyed knight smiled softly, already able to sense that sleep was finally starting to creep up on him. Once she had completed her task, it would not prove so difficult to persuade him to rest now that the rage had abated. "Fate has done this for me on occasions," she explained. He wouldn't see it, but her face flushed with the admission. "Though it was...somewhat embarrassing at first, I found the experience to be rather...pleasant."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
The silver-haired knight laughs softly at the prod to his ribs, although neither of them have spoken a word on the unspoken subject. They had never needed words. Even in Camelot, they had always communicated as accurately and silently as the finest multiversal telepaths. One understood the other's meaning without ever needing to explain themselves. Many battles had been won by this shared understanding. It had become the subject of much superstition among the marshal's detractors... although never within earshot of the king, of course.

Their hearts are more alike than even they had understood; two hearts beating as one, and two minds in nearly frightening synchronicity. In those days, they had been kept apart only by duty and the driving need to place Camelot's people before themselves. Now, there are no such burdens weighing them down, and they can draw attention to their own understandings – laugh about them, even.

His head tilts slightly when she traces the path of the broad stripe of scarring on his shoulder, skin reflexively prickling under her touch; it's a strong enough sensation that he shudders under her hand as though he'd been touched by a glowing brand. In some ways he still isn't accustomed to being touched, or having anyone so close within his personal space. In the days of the kingdom, he had always positioned himself such that no one could be behind him, and he had never let anyone stand too close, save when he had stood or sat at the king's left side. That he even allows her to sit behind him is a mark of significant trust.

"It was necessary to sacrifice our own happiness," Bedivere corrects her, but gently. With her hand at his shoulder, she can likely feel his voice as much as hear it, reverberating in his chest. "Why, I do not know, but that is what the Good Lord bade us do. It is the path that had lain before us, and so that is the path that we took. Ah, my lady, there were times as such I wished that I might rip my heart from my own breast for the pain..." He turns his head forward again, eyes closing. "But in the end, it was all worth enduring. I would fain suffer those wounds again if it brought me here."

Slowly, his head bows forward, though not far enough that it should pull against her grasp. Although not quite nodding off, it's nonetheless clear that he's relaxing under her gentle touch. Examined more closely, the colour of his hair is surprisingly varied, with strands ranging from a light blonde to occasional strands of a smokier colour, lending depth; and the many pale strands more silver in hue. Even so, it's not the frost of age; merely a blonde so pale as to seem colourless.

"That is understandable." His answer is a murmur. "What else is there to do but trust in the people of Dún Reáltaí? After all, they have endured far worse than this..." His chest rises and falls in a sigh of pleasure, allowing himself to enjoy the attention now that he's begun to relax. Do not stop, please, the gesture seems to say. "They will endure."

He looks up, very faintly, when she explains herself in fiddling with his hair. It does seem a passing strange thing for her to turn to, but he finds that he can hardly complain. The sensation is oddly soothing, and the fact that she's the one paying him such attention is enough to give him pause in waving her off; he welcomes any attention from her, even if he might find himself embarrassed to accept it at times. How could he not?

Eventually, he lets his head ease forward again. "Mmn." His answer is less coherent than he might like. "I think I will sleep when you have finished, my lady. Would you... stay with me? I do not think I wish to be alone... but I am not ready to sleep, yet, I think." And she's not done braiding. "Ask of me something, my lady. Anything you wish that you might have been curious about." He chuckles softly; wryly. "I fear that speaking freely is still new to me, and I know not where to direct my words..."

Saber (346) has posed:
One of the miracles of this new life in the multiverse was that now, the two knights could laugh about their connection. It had been a comfort in Camelot even if they could never realise the true depth of it, and the whispers of dark magic regarding what was nothing more than a unity of personality and spirit had been a secret torment. That bond continued to be a source of strength for Arturia, though now there were no malicious rumours surrounding the marshal nor his unusual connection to the king, nor any need to obfuscate its existence. Now, even something of humour could be found in it, though there was also the newfound self-consciousness that accompanied the falling away of their masks.

The jade-eyed knight sighed, but her slight smile contained a wry, clearly amused note. What was it that you implied some time ago? That you would not tell anyone that I accepted a compliment? she lightly teased. Well, what is good for the goose is good for the gander.

In all likelihood, the two would probably continue to tease each over it indefinitely. Arturia certainly had no cause to complain; it was a good indication that perhaps he was beginning to place her on less of a metaphorical pedestal. The pale-haired knight remained somewhat skittish and apprehensive at times, but gradually Bedivere seemed less and less troubled over his king's shrugging off of the mantle of rulership...at least in his presence. Even, at times, submitting to tasks he might have once found beneath her dignity...

...Such as the one Arturia was currently engaged in. She hesitated briefly at the shock her mere touch incurred, wondering if she had accidentally caused some manner of pain. Yet, the moment passed quickly enough, and she resumed her tending to him. Though she did not so much as indicate it, the flaxen-haired knight was grateful; she hated feeling useless. Even more than that, however, was the obvious trust he had placed in her, allowing her into his fiercely-guarded personal space. While it had stemmed from necessity in Camelot, many of their shared habits were not so easily overcome.

Bedivere's correction earned a slight frown, echoing her own lingering. "That is what I had always believed, and yet

Rider's declaration regarding his Companions – as well as their manifestation as his Reality Marble – continued to plague her even after five years. Of course she had longed for that...indeed, who wouldn't? Few wished to be truly alone; even the insufferable Archer's descent into tyranny once more began with the loss of his own dear companion. It had been a necessary sacrifice for her to lead her country out of the grip of chaos, distancing herself from her people, even those who longed to be close to her or at least wished to see something of frail humanity in the king. Moreover, there was also the secret of her gender, making the sort of camaraderie she silently longed for impossible. But had it truly been the best way to rule? Arturia was not so certain, believing that a better king would have had no need to take such steps.

Clearly, the people had needed more than she could have given.

But she could not argue with his final point even had she wanted to. Arturia would always mourn the downfall of her kingdom. However, in the end, she had been given a new purpose and an a new land to look after, and a people with an independent spirit not unlike her own. All without the need to pretend to be distant. What mistakes she made need not be repeated.

She did not pause in her task even if the brushstrokes suggested that she was not necessarily seeing, lost in her thoughts. Yet, the gesture might seem almost as much of a comfort to her as it was to him, as if simply pleased that she was able to perform the task without spooking him. Even better was that he seemed to, in fact, enjoy it...which naturally was the entire purpose of something which would have otherwise been too embarrassing less than a year ago. It was progress.

"Of course," Arturia answered with a slight smile as she wove his hair in the familiar reverse plaits. That smile faded slightly as she seemed to become lost in thought again, pondering what she might ask him. An idle memory floated to the surface; once, she had caught a glimpse of him in the stables, helping with a particularly temperamental charge. Under his hands, the wilful blue roan eased, and no doubt further fuelled the rumours of witchcraft. Superstitious nonsense, of course; she had seen Sir Ector calm horses in a similar fashion. The petite blonde could only guess that there was some learned technique among the more skilled of horsemen.

"You were always able to calm even the most unruly of horses," she mused. "Was it a technique you learned in Dál Riata?"

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
In response to Arturia's quiet teasing, the silver-haired knight merely sighs through his nose. The sound is almost chagrined, along with the slight slump of his shoulders. Turnabout is certainly fair play, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. So it would seem, my lady.

There's no argument from him, and he makes no move to break away or interrupt her from her tending. She is perhaps the single person allowed into his personal space without question, although at times even he has to exercise conscious effort not to react to that.

He's always been a private person. Even before Camelot, within Dál Riata, he had fiercely guarded his own personal space. He had stood apart from his fellows and his friends, both literally and figuratively. Lucan was allowed in – but he was one of the few to be allowed, before Arturia; and even then, it was up to Bedivere's whims. There were days he did not speak to his brother, not out of any malice, but out of simple distance.

To allow her so close spoke clearly of his favour, even in spite of his conscious effort, and spoke of his willingness to allow her into that personal space.

"Hmn." It's a soft thoughtful sound from the back of the knight's throat. His eyes half-close as she considers what she has to say, but by the delay, he's taking a few moments to actually sort through the words themselves. Her effort are paying off – he's slowing down; his weariness gradually catching up to him. "Horses...?"

"I did not work with horses often, I will admit." He looks thoughtful, half-lidded eyes focused on the floor. "They were a rarity in my village; only a few were owned by the village headman, and they were used to help with hauling heavy loads. My father borrowed them to travel to Camelot with the caravan..."

His head tilts just slightly, enough to shift, but not enough to tug against Arturia's careful efforts at plaiting his silvery hair. "I learned how to... read them, as it were. I came to know their moods, and I did not prefer the way of working with them so many of the other knights used. I had always thought it was better to work with them than to break them. To break their spirit makes for a docile and obedient steed that does not have any personality or wit of its own, I had always felt. Better, I thought, to—to listen to them," he murmurs, as though mulling over his words, "—and learn to read their moods."

"I used such methods when you bade me to strengthen Camelot's cavalry, and I use them still, even riding the plow-horses of Dún Reáltaí. I have no doubt that the other knights of the Round Table would think me soft for it, but I do not prefer to force my will on the beasts. Do I really have the right to force my will upon another so? And what does it gain me? A horse trained thus is of no use, for he has no spirit. He can make no decisions for himself, and he will show no fire in battle. The finest steeds are those who can fight as ably as their masters, I have found, and I will not have one of those broken-spirited church-mice for a steed."

He rolls his scarred shoulder in a shrug, careless. "I had little choice, though, for many steeds were trained thus in Camelot. In those cases, I could only work with the animals as best I could."

There's a faint smile, shy; he shakes his head as subtly as he can without disturbing Arturia's work. "Aye, they should have thought me soft, if they could have known my reasonings. I preferred to train with the apple, and not with the whip. The horse would remember you, and he would come to consider you friend... that is how the headman worked with his horses, so I suppose that you could say that yes, I learned a technique in Dál Riata." The smile turns a little melancholy.

"My horses, hounds, and hawks were better friends to me than many of the men I knew in Camelot, I am sorry to say," he murmurs. "I valued their company, and I tried to listen to the things they had to tell me, in their own way."

Saber (346) has posed:
As much as she felt guilty pushing him out of his comfort zone, she had to admit that his reaction was rather cute. He almost looked like a wet puppy, defeated and forlorn. Chuckling softly, she leaned forward and brushed her lips softly against the nape of his neck where his hair was parted as a way of apology. Think of it as recognition for all your hard work.

Besides, he would have his own chance to return the favor soon enough. That was how things had seemed to play out for nearly a year. She nearly paused in her brushing with the realisation. Was it already a mere three months since she had found him at the Union headquarters, lost and alone?

In spite of some hesitation, Arturia had been unable to completely hold back. Her own distance, much as his, had been born out of necessity. Once she had claimed her birthright and ascended the throne, it became imperative that she maintain a careful distance for the sake of protecting her secret. The king could not publically allow even Ector nor Kay into her space, lest she compromise the image she had needed to project. And though Lancelot, Gawain, and Bedivere had discovered her secret soon enough, it was necessary to keep them at the same proverbial length.

However, it had become unnecessary after Unification. It had been an oversight to imagine that she would not encounter one of her knights in the Grail War, and Lancelot's presence had taken her by complete surprise. perhaps she should have been better prepared, though Arturia had assumed her people had relied on the king to right the wrongs she had intended to when she made her contract. Yet, she suddenly found her world had become infinitely larger in the moment between the destruction of the Grail and her return to Camlann. Being reunited with any of her knights seemed such an interminably small possibility that she had been resigned to never seeing them again.

It was only when she once more crossed paths with Lancelot – a Saber now from a far-off future War – that reunion and even closure was in truth a possibility. But she had gained much more than that when she happened to wander into Njorn Station for some idle training, a day like any other in the multiverse. That ordinary day had forever changed her path. And she had no cause to complain at all.

The flaxen-haired knight realised full-well what being permitted into his personal space meant. It was something she would – even should they fully adjust to it – never take for granted. In moments such as this, it was even more valuable, working as she was to relax him and ease him into the necessary sleep. Bedivere had already lost enough rest as it was. Though he would not see it, a slight smile alighted on her face; such gentleness of spirit might have caused others to underestimate his hidden strength, but she considered that strength in itself. He had sacrificed the hope for a peaceful life for himself to follow her dream of bringing peace to all of Britain, and while they would always be knights who placed themselves between the people and any threat, there was now something of that peace for them.

"Hmm. I must admit I am surprised...Sir Ector owned quite a few, and I learned to ride at a young age." Her hands did not slow as she finished one braid and began another, though her voice reflected her thoughts turning inward. "He had similar skill in...listening, I suppose it could be called. Reading their body language and other subtle ways. He said that they become fearful if a rider does not take the lead, that they needed to be able to trust in their master's ability to guide them, as with the hounds..."

She chuckled softly. "...Or perhaps he was preparing me to become a king rather than an expert horseman."

The jade-eyed knight let her voice fall away, considering something. "Ah, that reminds me. No doubt you have your own questions of my life prior to coming to Camelot. You may ask anything of me, my lord, and I shall answer."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Just as he'd done before, the knight startles under her touch as though he'd taken an electrical wire in hand. Bedivere glances over his shoulder, not quite glaring, although he's careful not to move enough to disrupt her careful efforts at pleating. In spite of his best efforts, it still manages to look like an upset wet puppy.

Distance had been their source of strength, but it had also been their source of pain – Arturia, longing for the companionship and camaraderie she could never have from her knights, and Bedivere, longing for a love that would have destroyed Britain. Yet he had hidden his motivations perfectly; so perfectly that even Arturia had not suspected anything amiss. It had come at great cost to him, as damaging as his relentless work and sacrifice, if not more. Now, though... now they have finally reached the end of that long road, free to walk their own path.

He seems to relax a little as that thought reaches him, eyes hooding. Free, now, to pursue whatever they wish – to watch over the people of Dún Reáltaí, but to let them shape their own destiny; free of the obligation to present a strong face. Just as well, too. He could only project that strength for so long. His service would have been the death of him, and sooner rather than later. For so many years he had been dying inside. At last he has the opportunity to heal.

Reuniting with anyone he had known had never been a possibility, to him, even upon learning what was possible in the multiverse. Never once had he considered himself worthy. Luck had certainly been on his side throughout his service in Camelot, having sustained wounds that should have killed a lesser man on more than one occasion, but that seemed to be the extent of it. Now, though, even he couldn't believe his incredible fortune – not just to be reunited with the king he had served so loyally, but to find in her a companion and confidant beyond his wildest imaginings.

"Did he, now? That is not surprising. Most knights kept a number of horses, and it does not surprise me that he endeavoured to teach you to ride, if you were to be a knight regardless of kingship." His voice is a murmur, tired but not quite far gone enough to lose track of his thoughts. "I learned to ride young, but that was because I found it easier to work with horses than with people. They are uncomplicated creatures, much as hounds and hawks... they ask no questions and expect little, yet they give back in their own ways."

He leans back, slightly enough so as not to interrupt her work. "They do become uncertain if they are not given appropriate guidance. Or they will become willful, and take advantage of an inexperienced rider." He chuckles. "I seem to recall having to rescue fellow knight-aspirants once or twice, for they did not give clear signals, and their horses sought to wander off with them."

"Perhaps he was. I do not know if he was privy to Master Merlin's plans." The statement is dismissive, almost languid; voice relaxed and eyes half-closed. "I do not know that anyone is privy to Master Merlin's plans but for Master Merlin himself."

That is, in large part, why he does not trust the wizard – or anyone who he viewed as a threat to Arturia. How could he trust their motives if he didn't know those motives? It was made even doubly worse by his private and untrusting nature.

"Questions? Mm." Bedivere falls silent for a long moment.

It almost seems as though he might have fallen asleep but for his slight frown of concentration, or his barely-open eyes, fixed unseeing on some far point of the wall. His breathing is somewhat more relaxed, although not yet deep enough to suggest sleep. When he does speak again, his voice is soft, but not from any fatigue – almost hesitant.

"Why me?" He doesn't immediately clarify, instead waiting for a breath or two. "Why did you choose me as your marsal? I was not immediately suited to the work, and I know that you observed the knight-aspirants personally. You knew such things did not come naturally to me, and you knew that I was also foreigner and stranger at court. You knew also that it would have reflected so poorly upon the king to choose a foreigner, a commoner, as myself." He tilts his head, faintly, fixing her with the corner of one mild violet eye. "What did you see in me that no one else did, my lady? Why were you drawn to me, among so many others, and so willing to take a chance on such an unknown...?"

The thoughtful way he says the last question, though, it almost seems as though he's asking not about the position, but her, personally; what drew her to such a shy, withdrawn, and altogether unsuitable knight such as him.

It probably doesn't take a genius to know he thinks so little of himself.

Saber (346) has posed:
Mindful of both his hair in her hands and general good taste, Arturia stifled a chuckle. Oh come now, it isn't so bad, she chided mildly. One becomes used to it, after a while. Not that she had ever become especially comfortable with nearly-universal recognition – at least, the masculine version of her name – but there was still a certain amount of pride for her status as leader of her people. As admittedly embarrassing as it occasionally had been, Arturia had learned to merely accept it in stride, with her now-famous stoicism.

Then again, her irritation over being slighted with regard to her royal status had more to do with personal treatment than any disregard for her rank. She despised being talked down to. Unlike Bedivere, however, the petite knight had not been forced to deal with such slights on a daily basis. Rider and Archer had put her in a foul enough mood; she could not even imagine the personal Hell her marshal had been made to endure. It made her appreciate the pale-haired knight and his steadfast loyalty all the more.

And now, she could finally bestow all the praise she had wished to for those fifteen years. Even as a knight-aspirant he had helped to inspire her, and the young king had felt the ache of being unable to openly admire his gradually-improving skills and his dedication. Oh, there were many young men who wished to become knights, but few who had so aptly displayed Fortitudo, much less so perfectly. His knighting ceremony was as much a triumph for her as it was for him; proof that her ideals could be realised. In many ways, he was her hope, living proof of all her ideals. She would never be able to convey to him how much he meant to her; as a symbol, as a marshal...and now, as a companion, confidant, and sweetheart.

The simple act of braiding his hair – a daily task of a proper lady – might was well have been an answered prayer. To be able to show her favour had been a hopeless dream...to begin to repay him by helping him heal was not something she even dared imagine. And for the people of this tiny, rural village to properly appreciate his efforts...well, Arturia would really have to find some way to express her gratitude. They had helped to heal him as much as she had.

Perhaps to his continued embarrassment and shock, he might feel the touch of her lips against the back of his head. Another indulgence on her part, but one she no longer felt pressured to restrain. Sakura was right, you know, she confessed, albeit silently. I had hoped to see you again, most of all.

It had only been when her former Master had voiced the thought that Arturia had considered it, so long had she hidden the truth from even herself that she had assumed that the foremost of her hopes had been to make amends with her marshal. Yet, she had never imagined her own selfish wish would be granted.

The jade-eyed knight chuckled in turn. "Kay had some trouble with an especially wilful one...with a red coat to match his temper. Not unlike my brother, really...temperamental and stubborn. Yet, my father knew how to handle the both of them, without so much as a word. He had a certain presence...not overbearing, but one which said he would not tolerate misbehaviour."

"He slew those who were in too much pain to be able to rehabilitate," she confessed, sobering as she continued to recall her years growing up on Ector's estate. "Yet, those who had simply become lame or whose injuries did not pain them, he took to his estate." Were Bedivere to look over his shoulder, he would likely note her smile was both wry and wistful. "He tried to hide much of his own gentleness, much as you did...he explained that 'putting down perfectly good steeds was an unforgivable waste,' but I learned better."

It might have been that Bedivere reminded her in some ways of her adopted father, the man who had been, as far as she was concerned, her true father. If anyone would have noticed that comparison, it would be the sharp-eyed marshal. "I think...perhaps, he wished to shield me from my destiny. Yet, even as he did, he prepared me for it. Uther may have been my blood father, but Ector shall always be my true father."

Likewise, the violet-eyed knight would probably note that she had never confessed such a thing to anyone. Though she had generally referred to the old knight in fond tones while her words for Uther carried distant ones, she had never outright admitted what he had been to the unknown princess. "He was always wary of Merlin, but he listened, and took his advice to heart. He permitted him to tutor me in ways that he could not...Ector was a knight without peer, but he was no filidh."

Finishing another braid, she shook her head, frowning slightly. "Merlin seems to delight in that fact," she commented sourly. Arturia trusted the wizard, but that hardly meant he didn't know precisely which buttons to push to annoy her. Oh, he claimed to have 'reasons', but she suspected those reasons were to entertain himself at her expense.

She had expected questions of a similar nature – what life was like on Ector's farm, and so on – and was somewhat unprepared for a rather earnest set in their place. It demanded a good deal of thought, and she fell silent for a while, even pausing in her task to consider her answer.

"Quite a number of things, in truth," she replied. "It might surprise you to learn this, but the very thing which made it so difficult as a knight-aspirant was what first caught my attention. You were not a natural, it is true...and I could see how much you struggled. But it was that struggle – and your perseverance – which made you uniquely suited to the Round Table."

He might have found it surprising; she had always been nearly as reticent as he, and now her words seemed to flow like poetry. "More than those with natural talent, I wanted knights who would persevere. You already knew what it was to struggle...and to overcome. I could not have asked for a finer display of Fortitudo. And yet, in spite of your accomplishments, you were never proud, exemplifying Ingenuitas."

Her voice became even more quiet, and would have been nearly impossible to hear for anyone else. "But perhaps beyond even these virtues, I could see that you were a man of peace. It was fine to seek glory, to wish for kingdom and king to be praised and exalted. Yet, you wished only for my happiness as a person, never seeking glory or honour for yourself. And drawing your sword was always the very last of options."

She exhaled through her nose in a suggestion of a chuckle. "Perhaps it would be best to say that the gentleness which had caused some to underestimate you was what I considered to be a strength."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
I am not accustomed to it. Bedivere's response is almost sulky, shoulders hunching momentarily. Not from anyone, and especially not from you. I do not mind, but old habits are difficult to break. And some habits, held for many years at the cost of his own health, are more difficult to break than others.

There's another slight twitch when she favours him with another kiss. He seems to shrink into himself, not quite muttering under his breath, but shifting uncomfortably. It isn't that he doesn't enjoy such attention, but even now it's still strange; still new. Surely I am unworthy of all of that...

"Mm? I am not surprised. Sir Kay was an excellent knight, but one prone to frustration when he felt he was overwhelmed, and it was often that he felt overwhelmed. I remember helping him with the knight-aspirants' applications, once..." Bedivere smiles, fondly. He had been called to assist Kay with a stack of applications, and he'd had a bit of fun in doing so, indirectly teasing Kay's gullibility and overt frustration. "I seem to recall he did not ask for my help again after that."

"I preferred a grey steed. She was a good horse; always tractable and obedient, and not one to take fright even in battle. I wonder sometimes what became of that horse, for I did not ride her into the hell of Camlann. I had not had the time to find her before that battle, and made do with a black stallion." His head tilts, very faintly, as though he were considering. "He was, at the very least, well-trained. He gave as good as he'd gotten, and he too survived the battle. Somehow."

Bedivere ultimately falls silent as she explains more about Ector's habits, particularly with the horses. For a long moment he's silent, but eventually he responds, voice quiet. "Curiously, I seem to recall doing much the same, save that I did not have my own estate. It is unfortunate I did not have the opportunity to speak at length with such a knight. We would have found much common ground, I think, so long as he did not know where I was originally from..." That had been a sticking point to many; Dál Riata was not at war with Camelot, but neither was it perceived warmly by the latter kingdom's people. Bedivere tilts his head, fixing her with the corner of an eye again. Much as you learned better with me, my lady...?

"I had given some of my steeds to the people, particularly those who had lost their plough-beasts to the sea-wolves, those whose injuries did not trouble them overmuch." He smiles, faintly. "Yet I could not have taken them into battle again, and asked so much of them. After all, the horses and hounds did not ask to be taken to war, did they...?" His head shakes, little more than a twitch. "Yet they bled and died for Camelot all the same."

For a moment he considers her words in silence, violet eyes hooding. "I do not think anyone was not wary of Master Merlin, my lady. He knew too much, and shared too little, and even though he did not lead you astray in his guidance, there were many others as well as I who could not place our faith in such a man without reservation. Perhaps had he but shared more with us, I would have been willing to trust in him, but he kept his motivations close to his heart; many of them, and far too close. Were he more human in his outlook I might have questioned whether he had something to hide by it. I watched him. I did not trust him then, and I do not trust him now."

Bedivere falls silent as she explains her motivations, and why she had chosen the most difficult road that could have been asked of him. Not that he regretted it – anything but that – but still, there had been days when he had wished to know something of her most secret motivations; days when he had wished dearly to know why. Although they could communicate without speaking and coordinate an entire battle without ever saying a word, he did not have the same view of himself that others did.

He has never taken praise well. She might see the slow flush creeping up his neck, or the way he shifts uncomfortably in his chair; so subtle, but so obvious to those who know each other so well. In response to such praise, he mumbles something unclear.

Certainly he had wanted glory for Camelot, as that would have reflected in its king, and brought glory to her in turn – but it was never for himself that he had fought and bled and sacrificed. It had always been for her, and only for her. His own pride and even his well-being had mattered not; so long as she had been alright, he had been content.

Gradually, he smiles, though the expression is faint.

I had only wanted your happiness. That is still as true now as it was then. He glances back, fixing her with the corner of an eye. "If I had not gone to Camelot, I do not think I ever would have been a warrior, let alone a knight. I would have been content to remain filidh, and to serve my own king in turn." His eyes turn forward, and he sighs. "I suppose many could see that, regardless of how hard I tried to hide it."

He falls silent, then, considering another question.

What to ask? There are many things they already know about one another; their strong bond leads them to a level of understanding that many lack. He has been able to learn through either direct observation or inference the things that she likes or dislikes, and often the reasonings why, as well. What, then, should he ask? What would be appropriate, and acceptable? What has he always been curious about, but could never bring himself to pry over?

The silver-haired knight makes a soft, thoughtful sound, as though perplexed at this openness. He's gotten better about it, but some days it's obvious that he's still struggling to learn how to behave in a way that isn't the dutiful Marshal of the Realm.

"I... do not know what to ask," he says at length, somewhat helplessly. His head tilts back just a little, mindful not to pull too hard. He thinks, long and hard, about any things which he might not have drawn a conclusion to, or learned through observation. Certainly there aren't many of those. "I had always been curious..."

"Queen Guinevere. I did not ever take her for one to sit back, and to stand idly by while you reigned. Yet I was not privy to your conversations with her. I would presume she was aware of your secret, and bore it as stoically and faithfully as any of those Knights of the Round who knew it as well. Were you close?" His tone is gentle, though, as though to say by its very gentleness that an answer is most certainly optional. He knows that Guinevere is somewhat of a painful subject.

She is to him, too; he had considered the queen fondly, a fellow gentle soul, and she had always seemed to enjoy his company in spite of his guarded nature. Bedivere smiles, faintly. "Certainly she did not seem to mind your choice of marshal, which surprised me. She seemed to idolise me, in the beginning, although I do not know why. I caught her at watching me, early on, when she had first been made queen. She stopped, though, some weeks in... I wonder why?"

After all, he couldn't know that Guinevere had seen the way that Arturia had watched him in turn – that the queen had very quickly gotten over her short-lived crush on the marshal, and come to the conclusion that her king had also been watching the knight of the Dál Riata, too, with feelings far deeper than a mere puppy-love crush.

Saber (346) has posed:
In fairness, Arturia had been given the benefit of five years worth of adjusting that her marshal did not. Though slightly on the awkward side for her, there was conversely a naturalness to it, almost a compulsion. Maintaining her distance with most people had always seemed proper...but for those she was close to, it was another matter. Kay had annoyed her when they were children by ruffling her hair, and it was not until they were forced to maintain a dignified distance that she found herself actually missing it. She had never realised just how much she had been holding back, especially where her newly-discovered feelings for him were concerned.

Yet, mindful of his position and sensing his hesitancy with all the uncomfortable twitching, she relented, frowning her concern as she drew away slightly. The last thing she wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. If you are unworthy, I am doubly so. Bedivere wasn't the only one with self-esteem issues.

She chuckled softly; that was a rather diplomatic way of referring to her brother. "Or, to put it another way, he complained a great deal." However, the second part of his response piqued her curiosity. "Oh? I had wondered why, especially given how efficient you were at the task. How you had managed to whittle down the applications to manageable levels was nothing short of incredible. I thought it odd that he did not ask for your help again."

The pace of her braiding slowed slightly as she slipped into her own memories. "I wonder what became of Llamrei and Hengroen, after Camlann..." The mare and stallion had been more than strong, fine mounts to the king; having been brought from Ector's estate, they were dear companions and reminders of a fond childhood. When it was possible, she would slip out into the stables to tend to them when she was certain she would not be spotted. Noticing the king tending to horses like a common stable-boy would have destroyed the royal image she was so careful to maintain.

The jade-eyed knight shook her head. "I think, perhaps, he might have known," she mused. "He had travelled a great deal in his service to the previous king...perhaps he had even been to Dál Riata. However, he rarely spoke of his service, keeping much to himself. At times, he seemed distant, haunted...I could never bring myself to ask."

In all likelihood, her foster father himself had suffered the same affliction as Bedivere: post-traumatic stress. He had served for many years prior to his retirement, and even then it would be years before Merlin would bring the newborn bastard princess to him. Given his unique skills and abilities, the old knight had likely seen more than many other knights. "I think...I regret that you were unable to. You would have found a great deal in common with Father. He also played the harp, as I recall..."

He might catch a glimpse of a slight smile. Indeed, I did.

He was answered with a soft 'hm' of agreement. "Though I know that you distrust the machine vehicles of this era, they cannot be hurt or killed. In truth, though I prefer living companions, a machine will not suffer should it be dealt a destructive blow." If anything might persuade him to adjust faster to the idea of self-powered mechanical vehicles, the fact that they were generally not living creatures would be it.

Arturia could hardly blame him for his mistrust of Merlin, even if his paranoia had been invaluable in Camelot. There were times the jade-eyed knight was not entirely certain she should trust him as much as she did, but the source of her trust was a multifaceted thing, both a source of comfort and resentment. Merlin had always been present in her life, engineering her very existence. There had been times when she bitterly wondered if, with all his deliberate weaving of her fate that he could have somehow worked those threads into making her properly able to support the weight of her ideals. And though she blamed Britain's eventual collapse entirely upon herself, surely the wizard could have foreseen such a thing.

But then, she more than anyone else knew he was not all-powerful and all-seeing. He made a good enough show of it to the point that Inga had first gushed over him, but he was, in many ways, just as flawed as they all were. And perhaps that was his entire point...or one of them, anyway. "I think his greatest problem is that he cannot seem to step out of his self-appointed role as a teacher," she admitted with some sourness. "He would likely garner much more trust if he could cease making everything about some lesson or other."

She sighed, forcing herself to dispel the lingering bitterness. In any case, you need not worry over his motivations; they are generally clear in spite of his grand show of being mysterious. He sees himself as an eternal teacher, and little else.

There were things which they could not have communicated silently; their way of wordless speaking depended upon their understanding of the other, the knowledge that came from a shared mindset. Should that understanding fail, should one have no insight into the thoughts of the other, that communication would break down. He could not have heard her, simply because she could not see himself the way she saw him...and vice versa. Their humility, their blindness to their virtues made that silent speech impossible.

The creeping blush was easy enough to spot even had she not known how he would react. His sense of unworthiness was possibly even worse than hers, his modesty a double-edged sword. It was never so much a virtue of his so much as a reflection of a self-depreciatory nature entirely like her own. And it made it nearly impossible to properly convey her feelings on the matter, even in plain words. I know, she implied. Even if I did not know your reason...and I prayed for your happiness, as well. Another braid done, only the last one remained. "Yet, only Lancelot and I could ever match your skill," she complemented once more, likely to result in another blush. "And yet, you always had the good sense and gentleness to stay your hand."

Arturia waited patiently as he deliberated over what to ask. There was little he would have been able to discern on his own, and so far it seemed that the only things he had been unable to puzzle out for himself were things which had been a secret from her in the first place. Yet, there had been at least one, and she was not especially surprised when the question turned to the other great mystery of her reign: her queen.

It was indeed a painful subject still, but not so different than when she had inquired about Sir Lucan. "Indeed, she was privy to my secret from the very beginning," she replied with a slight, saddened smile. "She was chosen precisely because of her discretion, and was informed even before she was brought to Camelot that the king was in truth a woman and that, should she agree to it, it would be a false marriage in order to maintain that facade. Yet, she was as eager to serve the kingdom as any knight, and this was the only way for her to truly do so."

She fell silent for a long moment, perhaps enough to make him wonder if she wished to speak no more about it before she continued. "She was as close a friend to me as Lancelot was, and I relied on her to be the more gentle face of the royalty....just as I relied on you to be the charitable arm of my rule."

There might have been the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. "Did she, now? I am afraid that I was never the most observant when it has come to a woman's heart..." That statement might have included her own. But her voice turned slightly melancholy once more. "I only learned when she had confessed to me of her true feelings towards Lancelot...naturally, I could hardly stand in their way. We were never a true royal couple, of course..."

Lancelot blamed himself, and likewise Guinevere blamed herself for the eventual rebellion, but how could Arturia blame either of them? It was a perfectly natural love, hardly the torrid, adulterous affair future legends made it out to be. It had been their political "marriage" which had been wrong.

Then, it occurred to her why she had possibly stopped her idolisation. "Perhaps...I had found myself watching you on your patrols from our window. I had never thought of why, never realised what I had buried within myself to remain true to my duties. Yet, each time I turned back to regard her, I could never read the expression on her face. I would inquire, ask if anything was wrong....but she never told me of her reasons. She merely assured me that it was nothing...she only spoke of that expression once she and Lancelot had realised their feelings for one another."

That memory, for Arturia, always seemed to perfectly encapsulate all her failure as a king. In the kingdom she had wished to create, such a tragedy would have never come to fruition.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I was being diplomatic," Bedivere states, with great dignity. There's no mistaking the half-smile in his tone, though. Kay was a restless and impatient soul, driven to seek glory despite his shortcomings as a knight. Maybe he felt pressured by the knights around him more suited to their roles. He relents, though, with a chuckle. "Yes, he spent much of his time complaining. I was not particularly tolerant of it; I suppose that would be why he did not seek out my help after that."

"Or," he adds, "he was unhappy at having been shown up by the foreigner. I do not know what his opinions regarding the marshal were. His thoughts were hidden from me, and I would not have asked him. It was not my place."

The pale-haired knight shrugs, letting the matter lie. His eyes half-close as her careful pleating slows, considering. He had known of the horses, and had even snuck a piece of apple here and there to the king's favourite steeds. Never when anyone could see, of course... but maybe the king had wondered why they'd always reacted favourably to her appointed marshal. Witchcraft, the nobility had whispered amongst themselves... but no, the solution had been far simpler than that – generosity with a favourite treat.

"Mayhap he did." Bedivere's tone turns thoughtful when her thoughts shift toward Sir Ector, her adoptive father. "He struck me as a canny sort. I think there was little that he missed, although perhaps he did not look for things quite as pointedly as I did, and do." In other words, he was a perceptive old knight, but not so much as Bedivere.

The silver-haired knight had learned to go from having good perceptions to seeming almost supernatural in his ability to spot things – but not really. It was just a manifestation of having so many years of paranoia behind him. He had always had keen senses, but the constant threats to the king from within and without forced him to always be vigilant.

These days, it's something he can hardly shut off, much to the king's occasional chagrin. He could no more dull his senses without wine than he could flap his arms and fly.

"So he had served Uther Pendragon. I had wondered." His head cants to one side, the movement so slight it's no more than a twitch. "A harper? A curious skill for a knight to have. Excepting present company," he adds, with a soft breath of a laugh. "I do not count. I am the son of a filidh, and so was my brother. He favoured the bodhrán, and though some might disparage it as a simple drum, it does take skill to play well. I have thought about teaching it to myself. For him," he adds, with a fond but melancholy smile. "A way of... remembering him, I suppose."

He doesn't move when she suggests machinery. "Perhaps," he concedes, dubiously. "I do not see myself wielding such things, though. I trust them no more than I trust Master Merlin's motives."

Speaking of Merlin, the knight lowers his eyes. "It is more arrogant than that, I think. He cannot stand the thought of being the loser, of being inferior in any way, to those whom with he speaks." Bedivere turns his head aside, far enough to tug at the final remaining braid. "If he learned something of humility, I suspect he would garner more trust, yes. But he seems incapable of learning such a thing. I suppose it happens, when one lives for so long, and has the sorts of things he has in his veins. He is not human. I know not his true parentage, but I am certain of that much. And that is why I will never trust him."

It's no secret that Bedivere is leery of the Fair Folk, or anything of an otherworldly nature, barring those few who've managed to earn his trust. The inability to relate to humanity on such an intimate level are marks against Merlin – he no longer thinks like humans do, and perhaps he never did. That's why he can never trust the wizard's motives. He will never see even the people he's grown fond of as anything more than pawns in the great cosmic game.

That is what worries me, his closed posture seems to answer.

The flush doesn't dispel, when she praises him and compares his skill to Lancelot. The Right Hand of the King was one of the more famous knights of the realm; swooned over by the courtly ladies, and emulated by the younger knights. They'd found in him the hero worthy of songs and tales. As though to make up for the negative reputation of the Left Hand, the Right Hand was the subject of much adoration in the kingdom. Bedivere had always been content to allow that, withdrawing and protecting from the shadows; shining only in times of war when he was ordered to lead the king's armies.

Even then, it was hardly a conscious decision – he had never acted for glory or gain, only to fulfill his duties, and certainly not with any care towards whether his actions were being watched and weighed or not.

He mumbles something that might be gratitude or protest at her praise, shifting uncomfortably again.

Thankfully, she moves on from that, sparing him the discomfort of having to accept such praise. He's bad enough at accepting praise, but accepting it from Arturia makes it even more keenly embarrassing for him.

Bedivere lowers his head slightly when she answers his questions about the queen.

"I see." His voice is soft, softer even than normal; a strange dichotomy, since his voice is also low – low enough that it can be felt reverberating in his chest, most of the time. "I am sorry to disturb those wounds. I suspected you were on friendly terms with her, in spite of the truth, but I could not have confirmed those suspicions for myself without risking revealing that secret. And it was not mine to reveal."

He sighs, eyes closing. "So she knew, then. I had caught her looking at me oddly, once or twice, after I knew she and Sir Lancelot had found their way to each other. I had always wondered why; what subtle detail had given myself away. I had always thought myself so careful – had needed to be, to avoid the eyes of others, so as not to bring ruin on your rule..."

"I am sorry." The silver-haired knight sighs and closes his eyes, shoulders slumping a little. "She really was a friend to you, more than I could have known. I had spoken with her on a few occasions, privately, and she had always regarded you highly, with great praise. She thought much of you."

His shoulders slump a little, head bowing as far as it can without actually pulling against the braid she works on. He's tiring, visibly. "Ah, I am sorry to bring up such a painful subject. Forgive me, my love; my mind wanders... I think I am tired."

He has to be, after the last twenty-four hours.

Saber (346) has posed:
At that, Arturia genuinely laughed, albeit softly, closer to a chuckle. "It was simply his way," she replied sagely. "He complained when we were children, as well. It is simply that he allowed everything to trouble him, and when he felt as if he was overwhelmed with his tasks or when things did not run as smoothly as he believed they should have, none were spared from his grumbling. I suppose that it was his way of asking for help without sacrificing his dignity. Or, at least, making his displeasure with the work of others known."

She shook her head slightly, a movement that he would no doubt sense, or at least predict based on his extensive knowledge of her habits. "No, it was not that which had bothered him. He is somewhat mistrustful, particularly toward outsiders." Here, he would not have to see her slightly wry smile to predict her expression. "Not entirely unlike other knights in my retinue. Moreover, now that I understand what it was that had caused him to glower so...yes, I can see he would do that from your little joke."

Not that she didn't find it very amusing, herself. Her only regret was not having seen it for herself. She had, after all, once related to Bedivere of her own pranks at her brother's expense.

That wry smile became a slight grin as he shrugged when she mused about her beloved horses. Oh, she had suspected that her marshal had sneaked in their favourite treats when no one could have seen him, their nudges quite clearly demands and searches when he had handled them. She had suppressed even the slightest raise of an eyebrow, but he would have read her thoughts clearly enough: Have you been spoiling them?

Her grin faded into a thoughtful expression that, in spite of being unable to see it from his position, would hear it in her voice, coloured with a strain of melancholy. Though she had been unable to completely understand growing up, she could see even then how his past haunted him. It was not until many years later that she could understand the truth of his condition, and not until she had found her way into the multiverse that she had learned the specific name for it. "There was much he did not wish to see. Perhaps being able to see certain things would have made him see that which he never wished to see again."

Then again, even in the throes of that post-traumatic stress, his keen perception was not something Bedivere could merely avert with some effort. She had seen that he possessed some natural ability as a knight-aspirant, soon promoting him to the position of Marshal not long after his knighting ceremony, but over the years it was honed to almost supernatural accuracy, at times detrimental to her personal sense of dignity. Regretfully, Arturia had merely assumed this to be a single-minded dedication to his duties rather than paranoia over protecting the king.

"He served the king for many years," she replied, once more referring to her birth father with aloofness in contrast to the familiar and warm tones when she spoke of Ector. "Some of his history I only learned from Merlin." Which, of course, meant there was not a great deal she learned from the wizard. "He possessed a great many skills which were perhaps not especially necessary for a typical knight, but Merlin had hinted to me that they were essential for his particular duties to the crown."

She smiled slightly with a similar note of melancholy. They both had family they had lost over the years, and even what might be considered a small token of remembrance was remembrance, nevertheless. However, she didn't push the issue of machines too far. In some ways, Bedivere could be as stubborn as the King of Knights was. Still, she couldn't help but make a quip at her tutor's expense. "I do not believe you shall have to worry about such a machine incurring the wrath of men regarding their daughters," she commented with a sardonic note.

She shook her head slightly, disagreeing. "I do not believe so; I believe it is that he already believes that he understands more than anyone he speaks to. Or that is what he wants us to believe. It is a form of hubris, but not entirely the same. And, I remain doubtful that he could learn to be any other way...perhaps he is too set in his ways, though whether that is due to his age or his dealings with the Fair Folk, I cannot say."

Yet, in spite of her ambivalence and frustration – though perhaps most of all his using her for amusement and smug attitude – the King of Knights nevertheless trusted the wizard. Though certainly not to the degree that she trusted Bedivere, but Merlin had, in his annoying way, watched over her, even before her birth. She did not expect her marshal to share that trust, given that the pale-haired knight was only interesting to Merlin due to his connection to her. Or perhaps his similarity in nature to her, as well.

He cares for us...in his own way, she insisted. A very annoying way, but she did not doubt that the wizard did truly care for them.

Arturia had found it odd that Lancelot had been remembered as he had; he was her friend, but he was also more mysterious and aloof than even Bedivere was. Both men were not of Britain, though for Lancelot the exotic air seemed to outweigh the mistrust. Perhaps it was because, in spite of being raised in the court of the Lady of the Lake, his martial ability was not seen as particularly magical, while Bedivere's more mundane talents – bizarrely – were. Or it might have been that the marshal's otherwise pacifistic nature was interpreted as a reluctance to battle the king's enemies or contribute to Britain's glory. But in spite of that, the violet-eyed knight – while not as well-known as the Knight of the Lake – was nevertheless celebrated for, above all, his loyalty and dedication. It was almost a slap to the face of all his detractors, and Arturia could not have been more proud.

"It is not so much a wound on my part," the jade-eyed knight admitted as she finished the last braid. Her guilt remained over the affair, the reason she could not bring herself to punish the Right Hand in spite of his wish to be punished. "I mourned for her, how she was never able to have a true marriage to the man she loved. She did her best and tried to serve me faithfully, but in the end, she could no longer endure it. I hold no blame for either her nor Lancelot...it was simply too great for them to bear. Nor should they have needed to."

She almost wished Guinevere had blamed her for that fate, just as Lancelot wished that his king had blamed and condemned him for his actions. In some ways, their love for one another was a cruelty, a laughably tragic irony that love was what ultimately led to Camelot's downfall.

In spite of the pain of the subject, however, it was a strange relief to finally speak about it, particularly to him. She would always feel some guilt, so ingrained into her nature it was, but there was a part of that weight that she no longer carried, merely by sharing it with him. Fastening the clasp in place, Arturia attempted to coax him to bed. "Then, you should rest, if you are able to."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"I suppose he must have resented having a foreigner come to his rescue, then." Bedivere's statement is thoughtful and quiet. That might have explained why Kay had never sought his help again; only desperation had initially driven him to do so. "Especially if he did not trust others so easily as you say."

Although he makes a thoughtful sound regarding Ector's condition, he offers no comment on it. It strikes perhaps a bit too unsettlingly close to home. Besides which, Bedivere himself had not known Ector well. The old knight had certainly been part of the king's trusted retinue within Camelot. He had not had occasion to speak with the man often, though, and certainly not about such personal matters. It would not have been right.

Regarding Merlin, though, the knight seems to have little and less to say. He's never trusted the king's advisor. Although Merlin had never led the king astray, neither has he ever been truly honest about his motivations, and that seems to be where the rift stems from – if the king's closest protector cannot know the reasons why the king's closest advisor does what he does, what trust could he have in Merlin?

But that's old ground, and ground he doesn't intend to retread over. He's too weary, and it's too much of a circular discussion. He can care for us all he likes. I still will not trust him until he chooses to be more forthcoming.

Bedivere offers no complaint or protest when she attempts to coax him towards rest, and he doesn't climb into bed so much as flop over, mumbling something that isn't quite clear. Loyal knight he may be, perhaps the most loyal of them all, but he's never known when to stop for the sake of his own well-being. His service had always come at the cost of his own health, and having burned the candle at both ends, now he has difficulty learning how to put that candle out.

Fortunately, he has her to help him.

"Yes, my love." Normally the answer is one of grudging or resigned agreement to an unwinnable argument, but this time the words are a simple acquiescence.

Apparently it's all the opinion he has the wherewithal left to voice. There's no further answer from the silver-haired knight. If she looks and listens closely, she'll find that he's already fallen asleep, his expression reflecting a peace he hasn't really had within the past twenty-four hours or so.

He'll recover from this, like he recovers from everything – at great personal cost, and slowly – but he'll recover.

He always does.

Saber (346) has posed:
"He resented anyone coming to his rescue," Arturia gently corrected him. Though they were unrelated by blood, she understood her brother well. Not to the same degree as Bedivere, but that was due to their similarity of personality. "Kay was always prideful, and while he was easily overwhelmed, it was something of a contradiction that he disliked admitting when he needed help. One might say his grumbling was a way to protect his pride."

It was still somewhat painful to talk about her adopted family, just as it was painful for him to speak of his brother, lost as Camlann. Yet at the same time, it was a relief to be able to reveal her true feelings, to share her memories with someone at long last. If the violet-eyed knight had longed to hear her innermost thoughts and share in her memories, to be a true confidante instead of simply her Left Hand, it was a wish that was finally granted.

She did, however, continue to speak about Sir Ector, at least for a little while longer. "I often wish that we could have been able to spend some time together as we once did before I claimed Caliburn," she admitted, at once fond and wistful. "He had always seemed, to me, to be at peace on his estate. He was haunted by a great deal, but raising us, I like to think we gave him some small measure of healing and perhaps even happiness."

On the other hand, she was not going to waste time defending Merlin, particularly because she could completely understand Bedivere's perspective. Had she not had the dubious benefit of the wizard being frequently present in her life, she would have been hard-pressed to have trusted him, as well. Moreover, everything she understood about magic and its invisible world was due to her mercurial tutor. He was endlessly frustrating, but she trusted him...though she was not about to insist on her marshal's trust, as well. It simply wasn't in his nature.

Though, something occurred to her. Perhaps he does not know, either, he would gather from her thoughts, containing a note of amusement. Likely, if there is something he does not know, he would obfuscate that fact.

But even if he wished to discuss it further – and it was abundantly clear that he had no such desire – Arturia would have insisted that it would wait until he had slept properly. Fortunately, he seemed inclined to agree. It almost surprised her, the ease with which she managed to coax him into resting, though at this point it was most likely that he would have been unable to resist even if he tried. Even what was typically a grudging acquiescence was simply an exhausted agreement. Not so much as a protest, and it hadn't even been necessary to nag him into it.

What was far less of a surprise was that the beleaguered knight was out like a drowned torch the metaphorical moment his head hit the pillow. While she had expected he was not going to be able to remain awake for much longer, the petite knight had not expected to be pulling the blankets up around him. Though spring had brought with it some warmth, the lord's chambers could nonetheless be rather chilly in the evenings and early morning, and she was not going to allow him to catch another cold. Only after tucking him in with care, Arturia took her place beside him, brushing aside a few strands of his hair and brushing her lips over his lightly before settling in.

"Sleep well, my love," she murmured softly before sleep in turn claimed her.