2249/Harp Lessons

Harp Lessons
Date of Scene:	15 May 2015
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	Bedivere instructs Saber in the ancient art of how to play a harp.
Cast of Characters:	346, 482

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Spring has come to Dún Reáltaí, bringing with it warm and sunny weather. The planting season has begun in earnest, and just in time to beat the spring rains, enough so that the seedlings have had a chance to take root and not be washed away by them.

Through the combined efforts of many invaluable allies and friends, Dún Reáltaí has come alive once more. Trees now dot the hills, and a carpet of wild barley, oats, wheatgrass, and other grasses as well as wildflowers stretch on as far as the eye can see. It's a beautiful sight from the top floor of the keep, where the lord's quarters are; a sunny, airy chamber ringed 'round with windows wrought of glass and propped open by wooden stilts.

Today, though, the windows are closed, and a gentle rain taps at those self-same windows. Bedivere is dressed down in commoners' clothing, perched on the corner of the bed with the old, carved harp over his knee, strumming at the strings softly; demonstrating, perhaps, some song or another older than the hills from whence he had originally come.

He seems at peace with the harp in hand – this is by far more natural to him than any blades, armour, or pageantry of knighthood; even if he had hidden it away for so many years.

Saber (346) has posed:
Once the winter had properly passed and life properly returned, the once barren and desolate land now reminded Arturia of the countryside of her childhood. It had been the sort of scene she had assumed she would never see again, not until she returned to her own time to relinquish her life; modern-day Japan had been a wholly unfamiliar setting even as she adjusted to it. But adjust was hardly the same thing as adapt, and the knight would never properly belong. Yet, that had been preferable to the alternative. There was nothing left of the Britain of her era.

Yet, something of what she had lost had been regained after the Knights of the Round Table had made Dún Reáltaí their new home. It was not Britain, but there were moments when it almost seemed as though the plains beyond the walls of the village were those of Camelot. Of course, it was not the land of her memories...she never would have dared drop her guard and truly relax as she could here.

And most definitely, she could not have dared to learn how to play music.

It hadbeen almost a whim, merely listening to the village children play on their whistles when it had occurred to her that perhaps learning how to play might bring a smile to the beleaguered lord's face. No longer needing to distance herself and feign objectivity, Arturia could at last dote on him...much to his embarrassment. However, learning to play an instrument would only be an embarrassment to her, what with her unpracticed fingers.

Today seemed a good day for practise, with the gentle rains rendering field work impossible. Having risen early and dressed in similar peasant's clothing with her hair loose around her shoulders, she returned to the chambers she shared with Bedivere, the jade-eyed knight retrieving her own practise harp with the intention of continued efforts where hopefully she wouldn't be heard. Sadly, that was not to be.

The expression on Arturia's face was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, having expected that Bedivere hadn't returned yet. "Oh...I had thought you were elsewhere."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's close to sunset, after having met with Toph in the fields, and the day's work has been done in the wake of an approaching spring storm. The light filtering in through the windows is dimming, although it hasn't quite dimmed enough to prompt him to get up and turn any lights on, or light torches.

"Ah? No." Bedivere slides an eye open, blinking somewhat owlishly. "I decided to retire for the evening; there is little else to be done."

His eyes flick over her, regarding the practise harp he'd had commisioned. It's a simple instrument, with far less complexity or strings than the one he carries. He manages half a smile. Settling his fingers over his own harp's strings, muting them, he inclines his head toward her as though to indicate her smaller practise harp. "Shall we practise together? I would not put you out of your practise, my lady."

Saber (346) has posed:
Inwardly, Arturia was more than slightly happy that the marshal had chosen to retire early...at least, what was early for him. There were some nights she had needed to scold him to sleep rather than pour over ledgers well after the work of the day had ended. While their completion was necessary, the pale-haired knight was still recovering from five years of poor rest...when he could sleep at all. But it would seem that today, such fussing was unnecessary.

I am relieved, the relaxing of her posture seemed to say.

She was, however, a little surprised at the gentle suggestion, a flush involuntarily overtaking her face. "Truly? I-I am...well, my skills remain rather lacking..."

In truth, the idea appealed to her a great deal. But the reality was that she was still a clumsy novice while he...well. Bedivere was descended from seer-poets. A mere beginning student and a master.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Those mild eyes flick sidelong when Arturia's shoulders sag in that meaningful way. He reads the posture as easily as if she'd spoken the words aloud. He knows her well, just as she knows him; mere posture is enough to speak volumes to one another.

You worry entirely too much, Bedivere's sigh seems to say, in response to that relaxation. Have I not lasted for this long? And with far fewer looking after my care, no less.

"Every aspirant must needs begin somewhere, do they not? I was no knight when I travelled to Camelot, yet one I became. And so shall you become a harpist yet." His words are cheery, in that quiet, understated way of his. "Come. Sit. And bring your harp." He pats the spot beside him, gesturing with his free hand to the harp.

"See here." Once she does, he reaches around to settle her with the instrument, long fingers guiding her where to hold hte instrument, and where to rest them. "If you hold it this way, you will reach better, and it will be more comfortable. What have you learned? Have you your scales?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's slight frown again spoke as clearly as words. Many times, she had no need to so much as say them out loud, so well they knew one another. I do not, she retorted. You cannot merely brush aside injuries and exhaustion as you once could. Perhaps because you did so often.

Indeed, they both understood that burning the proverbial candle at both ends would have killed him eventually. It was fortunate she had found him when she did...and, more importantly, no longer needed to hide her concern.

Self-consciously, the petite blonde seated herself next to him on the indicated spot once she had collected her simple harp. "Even still...poor music is quite different from simply learning how to hold a sword properly."

It remained strange, almost awkward to hold the instrument a certain way. The bards in the kingdoms to the north of Britain held them differently than those of their southern cousins, apparently. She had been using her left shoulder as they had, and it seemed odd to shift to her right. Then again, it had been odd at her left, too, still trying to get used to even holding one at all.

"I believe so," she replied, her fingers plucking each string in succession. Slower than a practiced hand, but not the complete novice she had been when she had first learned it.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere smiles a gentle, almost languid smile in response to that frown, as though daring her to keep such an unhappy expression on her face. Even so, the expression isn't mocking. I have done so many times in the past. More, perhaps, than you even knew, which was, I suppose, the entire point. And yet here I am, and here we are.

But do not worry yourself. Those days are long over. There's not much to be done about it. The silver-haired knight is as stubborn and willful as his liege and lady.

"Aye, but a harp is a fair sight less dangerous than swordplay and war... though I suppose that depends on whose hands the harp rests in. Kings and clan-chieftains of Dál Riata have gone to war over songs, and far less things, perhaps, that I think many southerners would understand." He seems a little self-conscious at having her seated so close by, but at least he has the harp and the music to keep him occupied.

His hands are careful as he guides her, though, deft and with unexpected surety. "I know it must seem strange, but you will find this more comfortable, after a time. It will also be easier by far for you to reach the strings swiftly, for in time you will need to do so at speed. You will not always be playing slow airs," he adds, with a faint chuckle.

He listens, casting a critical eye to the strings and her form as she sounds each one, one at a time, although better still than it had been the first time he'd seen her handle the instrument. After the last string's note fades, he gives his approval with a soft sound in the back of his throat.

"Good. Now, try again, but more quickly. Like so, my lady." He reaches around her, deftly plucking the scale from her own harp-strings around her fingers, a little faster than she had done, but not impossibly so. "Such scales are the fundaments of anything else you will do with such an instrument, or indeed, any instrument. They are... think of them as a squire's training, if you will."

Saber (346) has posed:
The jade-eyed knight did not interpret his smile as a dare so much as an attempt at reassurance. This was far from the first time this scene had played out, with Arturia worrying over him and Bedivere trying to reassure her that there was nothing to worry about. It always seemed to end at an impasse; she could no more stop worrying than he could stop feeing unworthy of it.

Yes, they are, she agreed, though perhaps not in the way he would necessarily like, folding her arms over her chest. Because I am going to ensure that you do not do such things again.

Arturia was hardly faring any better in self-consciousness, with him seated so close and guiding her hands on the strings. It made concentration more of a challenge than it otherwise would have been, but keeping focused on the instrument mitigated that somewhat. "Lacking danger though it may, poor playing is not a pleasant thing to endure," she replied glumly. How he managed to endure her playing given how sensitive he was to music remained a mystery.

She sighed, the sound not much louder than a faint breath. "When I attempt to play faster, I miss proper notes frequently..."

As if to prove her point, her index finger slipped and struck the string adjacent to the proper one. Arturia scowled in frustration. "...Like so."

Yet apparently, it was not too terrible. As dissatisfied as she was at her seeming lack of progress, there were fewer sour notes this time. She might have looked almost comical, treating scales with the same gravity as she did when she was training.

"Perhaps that is the problem," she sighed. "It is not unlike a sword constantly fumbling from my grasp."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"As you wish, my lady." Bedivere can't help a chuckle and a comment aloud in response to that indignant look of hers. "Worry not in regards to that. It is... difficult for me, sometimes, but I will not overdo."

His hands are suited to the harp, delicate and long-fingered, though strong and callused from two decades of swordplay. It's a subtle but undeniable dichotomy, but he's gentle as he guides her through where to hold the harp, how to pluck the strings most efficiently, and how not to tangle her own fingers together – a common beginner's mistake, no doubt, even with such a simple instrument.

"Mayhap it isn't, but in many a case, I would prefer listening to poor playing than bleeding out." He chuckles softly. This close, she can probably feel the sound as much as hear it, subtle though it is. He still smiles when she slips and misses a note, catching her hand in his and gently correcting her posture. "This way, not that way. You'll not strike awry so much if you remain close to the strings. Plucking a harp is not like a praying-mantis; you need not snap out from afar to touch the strings. Think of it as... hm. As though you were handling a skittish horse. Move your hands slowly, but surely, so as not to frighten it."

Not the best analogy, but maybe one she might understand. All of the knights were accomplished horsemen, and they took that lead from their own king.

"The key is to practise. Do it often, even if you may miss strings here and there. You'll teach yourself what it is to feel those movements; your hands and your wrists will remember," he murmurs, "just like swordplay."

"See?" Again, that satisfied smile. "It is not so hopeless, my lady. Already you are performing better."

Saber (346) has posed:
In spite of his chuckle, Arturia seemed properly content with his response. The recognition that he still overdid certain things was at least reassuring enough that he would not simply ignore the signs when his strength began to wane.

By contrast, her hands seem more suited to delicate needlework – an irony, as her needlework left something to be desired – than plucking harp strings, much less wielding a sword. Other than the callouses from a childhood of training under Sir Ector's tutelage, Arturia's hands seemed as if they could have belonged to a porcelain doll, small and delicate-looking. Yet for all their appearance, at times it seemed she was far too accustomed to tasks demanding strength rather than delicacy. Try as she might to gently pluck the strings, at times she wasted effort pulling at them too hard.

"Hm...your point is taken," she admitted. To say nothing of that she would rather he not bleed out, either. He could probably feel her sigh as a slight movement of her shoulderblades when she became frustrated. As well as he knew her, he would know that she disliked not being able to do something well, even from the start.

It might not have been the best analogy, but it worked; once she was no longer focused so much on how unsatisfactory her efforts were and handled the strings in the way he instructed, her playing improved. "I see," she murmured, her voice sounding astonished even to her own ears.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"There are a great many things you are skilled in, my lady, but no one performs every task perfectly the first time." Bedivere's voice is gentle in spite of his admonishment. "Even you, difficult as I know it must be. You are no longer the king. You need not fear setting an example to your knights any longer."

He seems to consider for a moment, before leaning over, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head – easy, for him, with his extra height. "Learn at your own pace. Do not force it, or you will take no joy of it. It is not something that can be forced."

A lesson he learned himself, perhaps, having such a similar temperament to her? It's possible that he'd had his own frustrations, and in a moment of lucidity, his father had given him the same advice. Or perhaps his mother had, sensing his frustration with what must have seemed insurmountable, impossible teachings to follow. Whatever the case is, though, he delivers that wisdom gently.

Leaning over her, he moves to position her hands once more; she may find herself swatting away his silvery hair as it spills over one shoulder. He tosses his head to try and displace it. "Harps are not so complex as they might look. It takes only knowing how best to play the strings; to work with them, rather than force them or work against them."

Withdrawing, he gathers up his own harp, plucking the strings deftly. It's a simple melody, but something in it mysterious; enigmatic. Something he'd learned from his father, perhaps? "Such takes only patience."

Saber (346) has posed:
Of course, he was right; it wasn't the first time Arturia had attempted to learn a new skill, and what ability she had in them had only come after several years of practise. But that didn't mean she had to find the idea particularly agreeable. Perhaps it was having needed to present a flawless image for all the years of her rule, or even something as simple as an inherent competitive nature, but whatever was the case, lagging behind others felt as if she was failing somehow.

From his position, Bedivere might not have been able to notice the slight flush of her cheeks at the kiss. However, he would be able to feel her relax, either from some sense of resignation or mollification. Either way, the gesture seemed to pacify her a little. "A lesson that you learned, or one which was taught to you?" she asked, curiosity mildly piqued.

She made no move to swat his hair away, as if she was not particularly bothered by it, though tilting her head slightly as he pulled away to render an unfamiliar melody. Though she didn't speak, the question in her eyes was there.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"A bit of both," Bedivere answers, over the soft singing of his own harp's strings. Speaking while he plucks at the strings doesn't seem to inconvenience him in the least. "Learning the pipes was frustrating, at first, but I soon learned to approach it with patience. It is the only way it can be approached."

He chuckles a little, soft enough that it's little more than a breath. "You need only have persistence and patience, my lady. It will come to you, as it came to me, and you need not forget your teachings for so many years as I had... we are free to practise such things openly."

"And for that I am grateful." With a final flourish he stops plucking out a song, leaning over her to check over her strings. "Ah, mind your strings, my love. You will have to keep minding them until it becomes second nature, like riding a horse or holding a sword."

Saber (346) has posed:
As frustrated as she had been earlier, Arturia would have sulked at the ease with which he could speak and play simultaneously. Her own halting, clumsy efforts demanded all of her concentration. It hardly mattered that she could execute flawless footwork even as she parried and struck on the battlefield, or guide a horse while doing the same. Harp strings were another matter entirely. She had to pause momentarily as she asked, "Did your mother or father reassure you that it would come in time with practise?"

She sighed again; persistence and patience, it seemed, were all she had. Both had been absolutely necessary in the fifteen years of her reign...and beyond that in the Holy Grail War and later in the multiverse. No, she was no longer a king and no longer needed to conceal every weakness and flaw. She might as well put those traits to use in some way other than holding a fragile kingdom together. But it had not been simple curiosity which had prodded her to ask the village children if she could borrow one of their whistles and make an attempt to learn how to play it.

That reason was one she now regarded out of the corner of her eye as she attempted to play even as she replied almost absently. "Hm, yes, it is a relief to no longer have need to...ah." Another missed string. At least this time it was merely a missed note rather than a wrong one.

Another sigh. Practice.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"My mother," Bedivere admits, reaching over to gently correct the way she holds the instrument. Something seems to shift in his expression, like a cloud passing over the sun. "My father taught me much of what he knew, but... aye, he had the awen, he did. I think, some days, he knew not whether he was in past, or present, or possibility. He would tell us strange things, though they would always become true, some way or another."

He regards the strings with a distant look, eyes half-lidded. "It was from he that I learned the art of the filidh. But it was from she that I learned much else. Wisdom, in various ways; small wisdoms, and great truths as well. He was distant, and preferred the company of his own thoughts. Ceallach had little better luck than I in speaking with him." The knight shrugs. "It was as it was."

"Practise," he chides, but with a faint half-smile. "But perhaps we should put up our harps, for now, and rest. The hour grows late, and with the late hour comes more mistakes. Such is best saved for when the sun is high and warm at our backs." He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her hair. "Perhaps tomorrow, then, we will practise more, and I will play a song or two for you, my love...?"

Saber (346) has posed:
Arturia's own eyes half-lidded as she listened, only slightly aware of the correction. It had not been difficult for her to adjust to what was their far future...at least, not at first. It was only after Unification when things became such a jumble that the world had suddenly became that much more confusing. However, she keenly understood when she was, except for the rare dream. But she could not imagine living where one was never sure if the moment he was experiencing was happening, had already happened, or had yet to happen. And it must have been equally difficult for one's family, never certain if a husband or father could even remember them.

Perhaps some of Merlin's more frustrating personality traits were his way of anchoring himself to when he was, and his annoying habit of keeping certain things from her was simply that he thought he had told her already. It still did not make the wizard any less annoying – or for Bedivere, more trustworthy – but there was that possibility.

Not that she especially wanted to think about her tutor and advisor when they were both supposed to be resting, and the sour note she accidentally struck when her mind wandered toward the mercurial wizard reminded her of that. Shaking her head slightly, Arturia deliberately put the subject – and Merlin with it – out of her mind. "He must have loved you, to have taught you the ways....even if he could not always know who you were," she mused.

She looked up at him as he suggested they stop for now. Did she truly seem weary? Her eyelids felt heavier, certainly, and her movements seemed more sluggish...perhaps she was more tired than she had thought. "Mm. I suppose you are right," she agreed, her eyes closing as he brushed his lips on the top of her head. She must be tired, if that incurred a soft sound of contentment in lieu of a blush. "A song...I think that I would like that..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"He did." Bedivere smiles, the expression fond in spite of the subject matter. "Most of the time he was aware of who I and my brother were. He simply had no desire to speak; not when his mind was pulled in so many different directions. Places and times; people, things that may or may not have yet come to pass. I cannot imagine what it must have been to live his life."

He looks over her, watching as she moves past her fouled note, but he makes no comment on it.

It takes him only a moment to carefully put aside his harp, and gently relieve her of her own harp, putting that up as well. Only once he's satisfied himself that they're well stowed and the lights snuffed does he return to the bed, pulling off his boots and mumbling under his breath as he crawls under the fur-lined blankets – although spring in Dún Reáltaí, the night is damp and cold.

"Good." The silver-haired knight smiles faintly at her agreement. "Then I shall play you a song, my love. And a song of my own composition, as well, for I believe I agreed to a wager, some time ago, to do that for you. It is nearly ready." His eyes fall to half-mast. "I think for now, though... I will..."

Violet eyes slide closed.

He never quite finishes his sentence, lulled by the warmth and the pattering of rain against the windows.

Saber (346) has posed:
"I am glad that your memories are fond ones," she replied, her hand leaving the harp strings to touch his hand lightly. "I cannot imagine what that life must have been like, and yet, I can understand at last a little of what he must have felt."

Silently, she was thankful that he made no comment on the fouled note. Partially out of noticing her mistake and partially because she would have to explain where her thoughts had turned. Thinking about Merlin would definitely sour his mood.

Once Bedivere had stowed away their instrument, snuffed the lights, and returned to bed, Arturia slipped off her own boots and set them aside before climbing under the blankets. She wasn't nearly as affected by cold or extremes of temperatures, but warmth was still more pleasant, even in the spring evening.

She didn't speak, but the soft sound she made was one he could easily interpret as a somewhat shy expression of contentment. She most definitely pleased with the idea of hearing a song he had written, though the circumstances were, upon reflection, something to be somewhat bashful about. It had been rather bold of her, hadn't it?

Fortunately for her shred of remaining dignity, Bedivere had already drifted off to sleep. With a soft chuckle and a faint blush, she leaned forward, brushing her lips over his. "Sleep well, my love..." she murmured before her own jade eyes closed, her mind drifting off into her own dreams.