View source for 999999/When the Snow Melts

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2014/08/10
|Location=Dun Realtai
|Synopsis=Bedivere and Arturia discuss the restoration of Dún Reáltaí, their role as masters of the castle and its lands, and other matters.
|Thanks=
|Cast of Characters=346, 482
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{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Although Dún Reáltaí is in the midst of what should be autumn, snow still lies on the ground, though patchy and slowly melting from its enchanted midwinter. Weak sunlight filters down as though to cast it in spotlight, reflecting off the rolling plains and the frozen fishing-lake, dazzling in its brilliance. Further off, the winter-witch's tangled weald seems to absorb the shadows, a dark and low thing on the distant horizon.<br /><br />After tremendous efforts on part of the Union, the villagers, and the lord and lady who had volunteered to spearhead the reconstruction efforts, both the stronghold and village of Dún Reáltaí have slowly begun to return to life.<br /><br />Much of the village itself still lies in ruins. The curtain walls that surround it are nearly gone, great holes opened up in the fortifications, and the rest run to rubble. Village structures are unrecognisable, and only the great bellows of the blacksmith, or the great stone of the mill, identify those for what they once were. The rest are collapsed piles of rotten timber and stone.<br /><br />Only the inn has been restored as of yet, a great hall of a building, two stories high, with room and board for the workers and villagers staying here. Its privacy leaves much to be desired, but for now it offers them a place to stay while working. It's no home, but it's a start.<br /><br />Efforts in the castle itself have also been ongoing, despite baffled protest from the lord. It seems the villagers are more than happy to have the protection of a proper lord again, to the point of showing their gratitude by putting effort into the keep, regardless of what his advice may be. Never mind that he seems so fair and just – something that is probably foreign to some of these people – or that he seems genuinely concerned for their well-being.<br /><br />Most of the work has been centred on the lord's quarters, that their lord might have a place to stay while overseeing the reconstruction efforts. It is his right, isn't it?<br /><br />Sir Bedivere of the Round Table's humble, modest, and slightly bewildered protests seem to have found no purchase in the people he's been elected to oversee.<br /><br />The lord's chamber has been restored, its holes patched and its masonry reinforced. In a show of gratitude, the villagers have even secretly pooled their resources, acquiring glass enough for its several windows – real glass, the kind that might have been familiar in Camelot, thick and slightly frosty in its impurities, but visible enough to show red evening light through its imprecise panes.<br /><br />Several servants' quarters had been restored in the floor below, as well as the stairwell lending access to the higher areas of the keep. The rest is covered in scaffolding, and some areas have been roped off until they can be made safe again.<br /><br />Evening light casts a square of red-gold on the floor, casting the entire room in a warm glow. There is even furniture, provided and made by the villagers, and its craftsmanship is suitable for royalty.<br /><br />A sleigh-frame bed of solid oak boards stands in the far end of the room, with post-frames and a canopy to shut out the light when so desired. The coverings are numerous and dense, up to the task of warding off the chill of even winter in this place; well-stitched furs and blankets both, and probably several more goose-down pillows than are strictly necessary. An armoire graces one side of the room, for storing clothing; below one of the windows stands a writing desk piled with parchment, an owl's-feather quill, and an inkwell.<br /><br />There is another addition to the desk, too, that the villagers had nothing to do with – a vase with a spray of Camelot's native flowers in it, featuring a prominent arrangement of lily-of-the-valley. The Lord of Dún Reáltaí had made a point of bringing in a fresh arrangement of those, while Arturia had been occupied by some other task.<br /><br />He'd been proud of himself over seizing that opportunity, though his side had complained bitterly at him for ascending so many stairs.<br /><br />It's in the doorway that Sir Bedivere now stands, wearing armour and mantled fur-trimmed cloak, leaning against the doorframe and breathing in the wholesome scent of the door's fresh oak planks. He holds in one hand a piece of vellum, finer than the cheaper parchment that waits on the writing desk. The vellum seems to be an architectural map of the castle, grounds, and village, with floor-by-floor diagrams for buildings taller than one storey. He's marked the lord's chamber off, perhaps to signify that it's finished.<br /><br />His attention is fixed firmly on the plans, and he seems thoughtful; his mien is tired, as it so often is when he thinks no one can see him, regardless of the rest Arturia has forced him to take here and there. Although he's in much better shape than he had been, thanks to her careful but insistent tending and Amalthea's supernatural help, it's obvious that he's still tired.<br /><br />It will be some time before he can even that debt. His efforts to hide his weariness work well enough during the day, but into the evening, he starts flagging a bit; starts having some trouble hiding the way the dullness sets into his eyes, or the slowing of his reflexes. It's a pattern Arturia has no doubt noticed.<br /><br />Right now, he's content to study his map, though he doesn't properly enter the quarters that have, ostensibly, been constructed to him.<br /><br />No. In his mind, these quarters are for Arturia. She is the king; he is but her knight, and it would not be right to claim this chamber for himself. He would be content to take one of the servant's quarters. He'd only come to confirm that the construction is indeed complete, and that the quarters are fully habitable.<br /><br />With half-closed eyes, his gaze turns down to the map in search of something suitable, exhaling through his nose wearily. What to do... as much as he wants to focus on his work, the fatigue is creeping up on him, and no amount of determined activity can seem to stave it off indefinitely.<br /><br />Sleep would be nice... but, he decides, with a flush of crimson, he would not dare ask Arturia to put aside what she's doing just because he's a little tired. More than that, he still struggles to come to  terms with that terribly embarrassing solution to his nightmares.<br /><br />What to do...<br /><br />Perhaps he could lock himself into one of the servants' quarters, and drink enough wine until he is entirely insensible. With the door locked, no one would disturb him, and he would not be sober enough to work the latch to leave. He wouldn't need to worry about saying or doing something untoward or unchivalrous to Arturia. Much as during his days in Camelot, he simply has no faith in his ability to behave in a respectable manner when inebriated. Especially so here, for the mask he had depended on is useless in her presence. Surely if he drank enough, perhaps it would ''force'' him to take some rest, and sleep for a time?<br /><br />He can't help but think back on those times in the Tohsaka household; where he had first overstepped his boundaries, and then eased into a cautious routine. For the first time in five years, he'd been permitted ''restful'' sleep, without being subconsciously dragged back to that blood-stained hill, or bolting awake after a short two or three hours. It had been strangely... ''enjoyable'', to hold and to be held; comforting, in a way he had never known or realised he'd been missing.<br /><br />Yet at the same time...<br /><br />One plate-gauntleted hand rises to rub at his face, the leather pad cool against his forehead. He exhales through his nose, the sound somehow weary and frustrated.<br /><br />He is a knight, and she is his king. It does not matter that he needs the rest; his needs are irrelevant, as they have always been. It does not matter that they had conquered their nerves long enough to enjoy that comfort and closeness. Such is not ''proper''.<br /><br />Yes, he decides, definitely one of the servants' quarters. He drops his hand and holds the vellum out, eyeing the diagram of rooms. Perhaps the one with the north window? It will be a bit cooler than the other rooms, and he wouldn't want to give that to one of the castle servants. These people have been through enough hardship. Having a room a little colder than usual is no trouble to him; he had spent five years catnapping in the cold.<br /><br />Some part of him is vaguely certain Arturia would argue the point, but he decides he'll simply... stick to his story, or something like that. He smooths out the corner of the vellum, squinting a little.<br /><br />His eyes drift to the writing desk and its arrangement of flowers, and he can't help a small half-smile. Even if it may not be proper – he'll still do these little things, and such a small gesture doesn't make him feel too uncomfortable. She seemed to enjoy the flowers he'd given to her before, in the Tohsaka household.<br /><br />The gesture seemed somehow... appropriate, to him. It had been worth it just for the smile on Arturia's face.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The meeting with Psyber and Mordred had gone better than expected.  Far better, actually.<br /><br />In truth, while the half-angel had probably been expecting a mediation, Arturia for all the world seemed to have treated it as a social gathering, much to possibly everyone's consternation. Her attire was fairly simple: a blue velvet camisole top trimmed in cream lace and ribbon under a black hooded jacket and a pleated skirt of blue and black plaid over opaque black leggings and low-heeled black leather ankle boots. As usual, flaxen hair is swept back into a braid-encircled bun bound, though today it is bound by a sheer blue handkerchief. Her only jewellery is a small crucifix beneath her camisole on a silver chain around her neck and a certain stud of red jasper in a brass setting on her right earlobe.<br /><br />Moreover, the night before she had made a large batch of the gingerbread of their era – the toffee-like candy – to take with her, dividing it into halves, and one half divided further in half. One of these halves had been given to Jeanne that morning after Mass, the other was left behind in the lord's quarters as something of an apology to a certain knight ordered to stay behind. The larger half was then stored in a tin, wrapped into a handkerchief adorned with a print of a well-known Japanese mascot, and taken with her to her meeting.<br /><br />She had hoped it might mollify Mordred. It did.<br /><br />But strangely, it had seemed that there was little need to. The Saber of Red seemed strangely neutral – even calm – about the whole thing, and once Psyber had set the ground rules, it was a surprisingly simple matter. Arturia had always assumed Mordred hated her over her rejection, while the homunculus had thought the king had seen her as unworthy. Perhaps that last part had been somewhat true, but only insofar as Arturia saw ''herself'' that way. <br /><br />The aftermath of that revelation to her 'son' had shocked the King of Knights. Mordred's 'pep talk' was...unorthodox, to say the least; half cheerleading and half application of  a verbal slap upside the head. It was quite possibly what Arturia needed to hear, the fact that the failures she thought she had were not in fact the ones she truly possessed. What had been even more surprising was the Saber of Red's pledge that she would rejoin the Round Table if offered and even try to become more knightly again, but on the condition that Arturia start getting over her inferiority complex.<br /><br />Easier said than done, however, and in spite of how well things had gone and the start of the reconciliation she had wished for, she could not help but feel somewhat depressed. How could she not blame herself for her kingdom's eventual ruin? She simply couldn't see it.<br /><br />But perhaps, she considered, a night of rest might help to clear her head and puzzle out where to go from this point. Upon returning to the keep, even the Servant felt a bit of the chill through clothing meant for the sort of climate she had just returned from, deciding that a change into heavier clothing should probably be first on her agenda. Or at least a heavier coat.<br /><br />Arturia had not been entirely certain how to handle the issue of the lord's quarters. No attempted objections seemed to have deterred the villagers from expressing their gratitude by repairing it, but she supposed that on a way, it made sense. The lord in question would need a place to rest and heal – something the king was quite insistent upon – if he was to properly oversee the reconstruction. As far as she was concerned, the chamber belonged to Sir Bedivere of the Round Table. Arguments aside, she would find a simpler room if need be, as was her way as the Servant Saber.<br /><br />Yet, there was also the issue of the silver-haired knight's nightmares following Camlann and the five years of wandering afterwards. In order to see to his proper healing, that had meant being by his side as he slept, in spite of how embarrassing the idea was. But it was the only way, and the little blonde had forced aside her misgivings to do what needed to be done. Though admittedly, it ''was'' rather pleasant...<br /><br />Saber shook her head firmly as if to shake off such thoughts of impropriety. No, this was strictly for his sake, enjoyable though it was. It was completely necessary, and therefore there was nothing improper nor untoward about it. So why did she still feel so guilty about it?<br /><br />With a deep sigh, she resigned herself to putting off that internal debate for the moment. Without realising where she was specifically headed, Arturia mulled over the possibilities as her feet led her to the lord's quarters. She needed to change, perhaps get something to eat...<br /><br />And blinked in surprise – somewhat tiredly, herself – at who was in the doorway at the moment.<br /><br />"Ah...my lord?"<br /><br />Because it was indeed her marshal, already plotting his way out of his predicament.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Those faded, violet eyes linger on the vellum map in hand. As far as the servants' quarters go, the options are somewhat limited. Only a few of them have been restored, and of those, several have been reserved as guest quarters for friends and allies... or in the case of the nogitsune, those enemies being kept at arm's length.<br /><br />Bedivere frowns at the map and sighs through his nose in disappointment. According to his calculations, only three of these rooms are available, and they are more or less reserved. Sir Gawain with or without his Master, Kagenashi, and Jeanne d'Arc and her Master... there will not be any left for his own use.<br /><br />He looks up to the room again, and then back down to the map, and he can feel his mind beginning to trudge in weary circles, trying to seek a way out of this predicament. Surely there must be somewhere – ah, the inn in the village. Perhaps there is a room amidst the long hall that he could request the use of? They would be pleased to give that to him, no doubt...<br /><br />"Gh—?!"<br /><br />The pale-haired knight spins on his heel and drops the vellum, fine leather floating gracefully to the floor as he blinks several times, still looking on edge at the sight of Arturia.<br /><br />He might be a bit more disturbed at whatever that is she's wearing, but he had seen her leave in it and she had assured him it was clothing suitable to this modern era. Even so, he can't help but think that she must be cold. The sun is slowly setting, and the wind is rising; and there is a hint of winter yet left in that wind. It carries a sharp bite to it.<br /><br />It's still a bit of a shock, though. Perhaps not as much of a shock as those yellow pajamas, but still somewhat of a shock. His mind is trying to reconcile his cold, stern king with this young woman, and he's... having some difficulty reconciling that.<br /><br />Somewhat hastily he kneels down to retrieve the vellum, grunting in mild pain as he does, rolling it up with a single efficient movement.<br /><br />"Ah. My lady. I—I did not think you would be back so soon."<br /><br />Even so, there's no mistaking the way he sags in obvious relief, sighing. He had not expected her to return unharmed. Was Mordred not a traitor and a liar, once she had revealed her true colours? He had respected her when she had spent her days pretending to be an upstanding knight, but once he had seen the rot that the gilding had covered... once he had marched to that blood-soaked hill... well, it will take a long time yet to regain his trust, if it can even be done.<br /><br />Bedivere manages a wan little smile.<br /><br />He looks weary; haggard.<br /><br />"Forgive me, I was reviewing the reconstruction of your quarters... the workmen assure me 'tis finished. You will be staying here, then; I am told your possessions have already been moved here, and all things set in order. I was simply considering what quarters to claim for myself. I am told there are a number downstairs, but I have put them aside for our guests..." He looks and sounds worried. "I believe I will take a room at the inn. Surely I do not think the villagers would mind hosting their, ah, lord." The title is given a bit sourly. He still doesn't like it, quite obviously. "Forgive me, I did not mean to loiter in your quarters... I—I will be going, then."<br /><br />He backs toward the door, very slowly.<br /><br />Yup.<br /><br />A room at the inn.<br /><br />Yeah, ''that's'' going to go over splendidly.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>In turn, Arturia was startled at having surprised the tall knight; she would have never been able to do that if he had been even moderately awake, especially given their new link. That he was fiercely fighting off sleep was readily apparent. The Servant frowned slightly, oblivious to the shock at the sight of her in modern attire. Or rather, the sight of her in much of anything beyond the armour she had worn constantly in court.<br /><br />To be fair, that had been the idea, at least where her 'son' had been concerned. Her intend had been to present as much informality as possible – at least, for the King of Knights – And interestingly, for her part Mordred had appeared in her red tunic and trousers without the armour, the closest to formal as the younger Saber could really get. It seemed that, even before things had started, they had been trying to meet each other half-way.<br /><br />Inwardly, she doubted she was ever going to convince her marshal of that; while it was his sworn duty to be properly paranoid for the sake of the king, his paranoia went far beyond simple duty. Scolding him for that was not an option for her, no matter what Psyber said. Unexpectedly, even Mordred had pointed out to the half-angel that Camlann was still fresh in his mind, that it was unrealistic to expect Bedivere to simply heal overnight from those wounds.<br /><br />For the moment, however, she had more short-term worries.<br /><br />"It was...somewhat tiring, but productive." Although informing him about her renewed invitation to the once-traitor to return to the Round Table would certainly be a matter to wait on. <br /><br />Before she had the chance to retrieve the vellum, Bedivere had already knelt painfully to retrieve it. Indeed, every action and even the very air around him projected an overwhelming exhaustion. Another frown; at this point, he was running on rapidly-depleting willpower, and while she doubted that he would argue the point if she told him to, for God's sake get some sleep, she had a feeling it was going to be a matter of ''where''.<br /><br />Sure enough, the jade-eyed knight was right. <br /><br />Her instincts were to lapse into scolding mode, but now was not the proper time for that. Not with how haggard he looked, even as he made his best effort to back out of the room literally and figuratively. Instead, she sighed deeply, with a weary sort of patience.<br /><br />"My lord, did the workers not inform you that they had restored these quarters for you? You are their lord now, and regardless of ''humanitas'', ''generositas'', and ''ingenuitas'', there is the practical matter that a lord needs a place to sleep. They have provided this to you out of their own sense of chivalry. Accept their gift to you."<br /><br />It wasn't an order, nor was she trying to scold him, but she did nevertheless try to appeal to his sense of duty.  "They did this for you, you know," she chided him gently but firmly. <br /><br />But then, another thought occurred to her. "A moment...did you say that they have already moved my belongings...?"<br /><br />Oh. Oh dear.<br /><br />That could only mean one thing. They already thought that knight and king were...<br /><br />Even as he tried to back out, even as utterly exhausted as he was, there was little possibility of the lord of Dún Reáltaí missing the sudden and furious bright flushing of the face of the King of Knights.<br /><br />"A-already....you say..." she stammered out hopelessly.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The silver-haired knight looks a bit dubious at her description of the matter, mouth twisting in a slight frown. That Mordred could be trusted at all with simple negotiation, without lapsing into violence, is almost more than he can believe. True, she had never acted against him directly. He has seen the results of her anger, though. That bright spark had started the flames that had burnt Camelot to the ground, destroying everything he had ever respected or loved.<br /><br />The other Servants have had eternity to consider this, but Bedivere has not.<br /><br />He cannot forgive so easily. Five years of nightmares and torment were his reward for serving his king; to bury the one he loved, and to carry on with a burden so great that he'd thought it might crush him. Indeed, there had been times he had hoped it would. Surely death would have been easier.<br /><br />His sense of duty was stronger than even his pain, though. It was for her that he had forced his weary body onward, picking up the pieces of his broken heart.<br /><br />He has not forgotten. He will never forget. Perhaps, someday, he can forgive – but that day is a long ways out, still. Camlann is still too fresh in his mind; still too eager to prey on him in the dark hours of the night.<br /><br />Even so, he stares for a moment when she chides him. He bows his head, shaking it slowly; pale hair falling in front of his face.<br /><br />"I... I cannot accept." His voice is quiet, and it seems the refusal truly does pain him. He is well aware that to refuse is an insult to the efforts of the very villagers who had worked so hard for his sake. "It would not be right. You are my king. To you should go the lord's chamber, even if you do not accept kingship over this realm. I cannot take it and reasonably expect you to settle for a lesser station. Such would be an insult to you."<br /><br />It's a bit frustrating to be caught between conflicting obligations like this. Even he can't seem to find a reasonable way out of this, and he had often been so clever in settling disputes or finding acceptable loopholes in matters of chivalry and knightly honour. Perhaps that, too, was a testament to his moral fiber – he might have found ways to get around many of the knightly virtues, but never had he himself shirked them.<br /><br />Right now he almost wishes he could.<br /><br />She calls for time to think, and the protest he was about to continue dies in his throat. He cocks his head faintly, squinting a little when she seems puzzled over something—<br /><br />''Clank.''<br /><br />Bedivere backs right into the doorframe, missing the open doorway entirely in his sudden puzzlement. What is she upset about? Surely...<br /><br />''Did the workers not inform you that they had restored these quarters for'' you?<br /><br />Oh.<br /><br />Oh, ''no''.<br /><br />Bedivere tries to say something, and winds up slowly sliding to the floor in his shock. The strength simply... ''leaves'' him.<br /><br />He lands flat on his rump with another clank of armour, staring up at her helplessly.<br /><br />"What... what did you say? I—I thought they did this for you. I—I told them that these were to be your quarters..."<br /><br />Even as she had told them they were to be ''his'' quarters.<br /><br />"...oh, no," he breathes. "They... they already...?"<br /><br />If they had moved things accordingly, which included his own belongings – for why would they have an armour-form for ''her'' armour, when it is made of magic? – then that means that ''both'' of their possessions are already here.<br /><br />And that means...<br /><br />The villagers hadn't necessarily received contradictory orders. It seems, rather, that they had made their own assumptions about what to ''do'' about those orders.<br /><br />...That means...<br /><br />Hands flat on the floor, vellum map forgotten, Bedivere stares up at Arturia in open horror.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>A hint of sadness flickered in the green eyes of the king, though she hoped that, in his exhaustion, Bedivere wouldn't notice the shift of emotion. She had honestly wanted to reconcile with Mordred for the years following the abandonment of her wish, a person she had been forced not to acknowledge due to what Arturia had felt was the curse of her blood. Being born from her had been the problem in itself, which Mordred had practically yelled at her was what made her worthy in the first place. She wanted a father to look up to, be proud of...but Saber wasn't certain she could give her that, yet.<br /><br />But on the other hand, there was her marshal and the hell he had endured for as long as she had been a Servant. She had told the proprietor of Heaven or Hell as much, that she could not simply order him to forgive her 'son', nor could she even so much as ask a thing of him. All she had requested was that he and Gawain hold their tongues over the radio. But she knew how the violet-eyed knight had suffered so, for her sake, even beyond her grave. More importantly, she knew ''why''. And her own commitment now went well beyond amends, beyond duty, beyond even her pact with a new Master.<br /><br />In fact, the latter was something of a point. He was not going to like being reminded, but it was now an undeniable fact. "Perhaps I am your king....but you are my Master," she reminded him, her hands planted on her hips. "Moreover, you are human...and wounded, besides. My magical energy is sufficient, and I am able to endure this cold far more readily than a mortal, and it is readily apparent that you have a greater need for them than I. It is no insult, it is the truth."<br /><br />Arturia doubted the appeal to practicality was going to go any farther than the appeal to duty and knightly virtue. Modesty was not simply an ideal for Bedivere; it was a core part of his entire personality. A personality she dearly loved and cherished, to be sure, but nevertheless it was working against her at the moment.<br /><br />With the matter of the Saber of Red set aside for the time being – at least until they've rested and she had time to debrief him on the meeting – Arturia tried to focus on the present. That horribly awkward, ''humiliating'' present.<br /><br />Perhaps it wasn't such a preferable thing to focus on, after all.<br /><br />The petite knight didn't dare look at him, dropping her face into her hands with a soft groan. She should have noticed, before: the armour-form, the fact that the bed was much larger than what was necessary for a single person, the fact that the room seemed to be tailored to house two people rather than one. To say nothing of the fact that she had not specifically told the villagers that she was a king, specifically, his; it hadn't seemed important at the time.<br /><br />In retrospect, it would have evaded the embarrassing mess king and knight now found themselves in.<br /><br />"What will they think if...at this moment...?" she muttered, trailing off. However, he might catch her unspoken words. ''They're going to think I threw you out if you went down to the village. How can we even begin to handle this?''<br /><br />Yes, she had wanted him to stay and get a proper night's sleep. But for God's sake, not like this!<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Perception was one of the chief qualities of the marshal chosen by the king. That he could recognise things even when half out of his mind in pain or in exhaustion was one of his most unusual qualities – the level of perception with which he focused on the world around him was uncommon. Some might have called it paranoia, although he felt no particular fear. Unfortunately, he couldn't simply shut it off.<br /><br />He is, thankfully, too tired to comment on it, and perhaps too unwilling to overturn the kettle of fish that it entails. He feels too tired and too poorly to waste time talking about the Traitor Knight.vBracing himself up against the doorframe with a plated sabaton dug into the floor, Bedivere visibly cringes at mention of that bond. It is not a pleasant subject for him, and for the hundredth time since those marks were transferred, he finds himself wondering how he ever allowed himself to be fooled into such a thing.<br /><br />It was, ultimately, his sense of chivalry that had won out.<br /><br />Accepting that contract freed Sakura from a life of dangerous attachment to a Servant, and the potentiality of entanglement in another War of the Holy Grail that would have entailed. It was the right and just thing to do, no matter how dear Sakura may be to Arturia. Now Sakura is free to live her life without that shadow over her; not as the Master of Saber, but as herself.<br /><br />Bedivere blows out a frustrated breath through his teeth, violet eyes darting to his left hand, though his gauntlet conceals the mark – more stylised than the other, an intricate trifold Gaelic knotwork that forms the image of a sword. It looks as though it could have come off any of the pillar-stones that dot the present-day countryside.<br /><br />His left hand tightens, fingers clawing against the stone for a moment before releasing.<br /><br />Ultimately, she's right. He cannot argue with her, especially using logic that is fundamentally flawed.<br /><br />The silver-haired knight bows his head, mouth twisted in an expression of displeasure and reluctant acquiesce.<br /><br />She's right.<br /><br />He sighs in bitter disappointment, and when he considers the room, he finds his own cheekbones colouring. What had possessed the villagers to bring ''both'' of their possessions into the room without permission? Why had they cheerfully assumed the worst?<br /><br />Very slowly, Bedivere reaches up and covers his face with his left hand, rubbing at it as though this whole situation might go away if he rubs hard enough. The leather-padded palm of his gauntlet is cool; grain worn smooth from years of use and careful maintenance.<br /><br />Unfortunately, she has a point. A very valid one. If either of them leave at this point, it's going to look very bad.<br /><br />"Putting aside the... issue," he murmurs, "for one of us to leave... would be a mortal blow to the morale of these people. They are not so different from the people of Albion, it seems, and to assume that one of us has left..." He sighs. "Already they are struggling. I would not deal such a blow to their morale. And... I do not have anywhere else to go. Nor do you. All available quarters are taken. I... I had been willing to take a room at the inn, but truly, to do that would be displacing someone..."<br /><br />He climbs to his feet, grimacing at the jar to his bruises and the still-healing wound in his side.<br /><br />Well, she's not going to let him go somewhere else at this point, and he has no need of his heavy armour any more. He sits down on the edge of the bed, carefully unbuckling one of his gauntlets – the left, baring the command seals on his hand when he carefully slips it off and sets it beside himself.<br /><br />Those faded violet eyes flick up to her, as though to gauge her reaction. He sighs, flushing even as he jerks his chin in the direction of the bed on his other side. ''Have a seat. You might as well be comfortable while we think about how to fix this.''<br /><br />He must be tired, to address their mutual horror in such a cavalier way.<br /><br />"I... do not know what to do." He sighs, flexing the fingers of his left hand, muttering something under his breath at the stiffness in them. It must be in Gaelic; his voice lilts, faintly, and the lines beneath his eyes seem especially deep when he bows his head – as though accentuated by the shadow. "This... this is not..."<br /><br />''This is not proper'', he wants to say, but he's at a loss. ''I am your knight, and you are my king, and it is improper to be sharing'' '''''quarters'''''.<br /><br />Bedivere unbuckles his right gauntlet with far more calmness than he actually feels, carefully slipping it off and flexing the fingers as he'd done with the other hand. It's set aside with the other, and once he's free of both, he drops his head into his hands.<br /><br />He wants to say something to articulate just how lost and hopeless he's feeling, but all he can do is sigh.<br /><br />"What... what do we do...?"<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Ultimately, the decision to form a new contract had been one born out of necessity; even aside from the facts that the Tohsaka family was under considerable scrutiny from London and that Bedivere insisted on continuing to act as the Left Hand of the King, Arturia would have been unable to adequately protect Sakura while overseeing and helping with the reconstruction efforts. And perhaps more importantly, it released her from the dangers of the Holy Grail War; though Arturia had relinquished her place in the battle, that was not to say that some foolish Master – Confederate or otherwise unaffiliated – would assume that her magical energy would fill ''his'' particular Holy Grail by default and pick a fight, something she didn't want to drag the magus back into. As obviously uncomfortable as it had made the marshal, it was really the most practical decision.<br /><br />That was not to say that there were not considerable drawbacks, as well. Saber was not as powerful as she had been, nor could she call upon a vast pool of magical energy from the powerful circuits of the violet-haired magus. Once more, she had to fall back on her standby of consuming large quantities of food to make up the difference. Before, she simply enjoyed eating, but now it was a vital necessity. And of course, there was the matter of Sir Bedivere's impressive discomfiture.<br /><br />His Servant didn't miss the eyes darting to his left hand, the constant reminder of his status. She put no effort into stifling her sigh; a change of perspective as unlikely to change his mind on the matter, given his rigid attitude towards their roles. It had been a boon in Camelot, but no so much in the present. ''It is nomenclature, nothing more,'' she insisted. ''True, those seals allow a Master to control a Servant, but the true function is simply to anchor my existence to the physical world. That is all.''<br /><br />At least, that was the function of a Master for a team which had abdicated the War, and Sakura was, at least in the older traditions, actually her vassal. ''I am no longer a mere tool, now. I have not been since I arrived in the multiverse.'' Perhaps one day she would relate all the events of the Fourth War. But, like Mordred, it was a subject best left for a later time.<br /><br />Bedivere was certainly not happy with the idea – that much was readily apparent – but she was relieved that he appeared to acquiesce to her reasoning. It was much easier  to think of things in terms of necessity, especially when it came to things which caused either one or the both of them discomfort or embarrassment. Especially since one of the quirks of being a Master involved a link in which he would be able to see Camelot through her eyes. That, more than anything, was perhaps more of a disadvantage than even a reduction in her power; he might see Camlann again though her.<br /><br /> Hopefully, she would be able to help if or when that time came.<br /><br />For the moment, she watched Bedivere struggle to his feet, restraining herself from helping in spite of her naturals strength; the knight was already mortified as it was. At least he was, as usual, on the same metaphorical page. Having been in a similar situation once before, it would have been seen as a bad omen for him to have sought shelter elsewhere after the assumptions had been made. Britain had needed a stable royal family – even one which could produce no heirs – at least for the sake of appearances. So too, it would seem that, even by accident, knight and king had provided at least a little of their former stability. The only problem, it seemed, was a question of propriety.<br /><br />It was a little strange, Arturia had to admit, that Bedivere seemed almost resigned to the fact that things were going to be embarrassing no matter what. With a heavy sigh, she seated herself on the indicated spot on the bed, pinching the bridge of her nose. <br /><br />''No, it is certainly not proper'', she thought, able to understand his speech even in the absence of a translation effect. Now, that lilt sounded much more natural to her ears. Only, she wasn't thinking in terms of the differences in their statuses. No, it was improper for a far more simple reason. And it hardly helped that one of their part-time residents was a Holy Saint. <br /><br />But then, she had married ''another woman'' for the sake of her kingdom. That had been far more unnatural, not even a mere matter of propriety. Arturia certainly had no wish to leave things as they were, but on the other hand, the people of the village seemed so overjoyed to have a proper lord and lady. Even if she was not playing the part of a king, for the sake of that stability and hope, she was more than willing to do so, even if it were at the expense of her dignity and her perceived rank. The difficult part would be convincing Bedivere to play along.<br /><br />"Perhaps..." she replied carefully after a very long moment of deliberation, "it is for the best that they think of us as..."  <br /><br />She gestured helplessly, not able to use spoken or unspoken words adequately. "They would appear to have need of some measure of stability, and perhaps this...that is. It may not be something bad, to allow them to believe it for at least a little while."<br /><br />How troublesome, to be right back into those familiar roles of nobility.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>In truth, the command seals had set up something of an impossible situation for the King of Knights. On one hand, she wanted to protect her marshal, and on the other she was bound to protect her Master, but she could not be in both places at once. Furthermore, Sakura's possession of the command seals would always carry the threat of involving herself in the War of the Holy Grail, even if only from unwitting Servants who did not realise Arturia's disassociation from and unwillingness to pursue the Grail.<br /><br />To refuse that offer would have been irresponsible, for freeing Sakura from the War of the Holy Grail meant that she could live some semblance of a normal life – or as close to it as the younger Tohsaka magus could come, anyway.<br /><br />Bedivere may have been made uncomfortable by the implications of such a bond, but he is not heartless, and in spite of his frigid mask in Camelot, he was not heartless then, either. In the end, it had taken an appeal to Sakura's safety to secure his cooperation, or something very nearly like it. Or, perhaps he had arrived at that conclusion independently, from what he knew of the whole affair.<br /><br />For the time being, the marshal merely rubs his face, as though if he rubbed hard enough, he might rub away the cares and worries that seem to have come with this multiverse he finds himself in. Even so... he wouldn't trade any of it for the world. To have Arturia back, to be able to serve at her side once more; to do so with a freedom he had never known in Camelot – he could never even think about trading such a thing.<br /><br />In spite of struggling to accept it, the marshal was indeed not happy with the arrangement, but even his clever mind could come up with no better solution. Indeed, some part of him might be proud of being able to serve and support Arturia in this manner – embarrassing as it was, that she depended on him now more than ever is still a very real fact.<br /><br />"I do not deny that I have nowhere else to go, now, but..." Bedivere pushes himself to his feet again, but only to take his gauntlets to the armour-form. He ties the buckled strap of each together, hanging it around the stump serving as the neck of the armour-form. With a bit of a twist and a sharp grimace from it, he unbuckles one of the heavy steel pauldrons, rolling his shoulder to shrug it off and catch it with the opposite hand. He lifts the steel, carefully fitting it to the armour-form, jostling it a few times to make sure it won't fall.<br /><br />The pale-haired knight eyes the armour-form speculatively. ''Either they've found something that was once mine, or they're very, very good at estimation. It fits perfectly.'' His eyes flit over to Arturia, expression a little wary.<br /><br />What other assumptions and estimations had they made?<br /><br />Part of him almost wants to argue about letting the townsfolk believe in a lie, but he can't bring himself to say that. It would be needlessly cruel. That in itself would also be a lie, for had he not sworn he would have no other lady but her? Even if they move forward slowly, it is together; even if they are not quite at the point the villagers may think they are...<br /><br />Perhaps someday they may be. Improper as the thought is, it warms him all the same; he finds himself smiling, hesitantly, at the thought. Even if he struggles with the propriety of just about everything right now... maybe someday, he can find a way to reconcile his knight's honour with that impossible dream.<br /><br />Maybe that dream isn't as impossible as he'd thought.<br /><br />He sighs, mismatched shoulders sagging in defeat.<br /><br />"You are right," he murmurs. "I... it would be selfish to refuse. I do not mind if it allows them some measure of peace. They have been through much, already, and they look to us for strength as they piece their lives back together again."<br /><br />He pauses, twisting to look at her over one shoulder.<br /><br />"And... ah... while I can normally see to this myself... I..." He looks away, flushing a little. "Would you mind help me with this, my lady?" One hand gestures at his armour. Most of the time he can do a bit of contortion to get in and out of the heavy plate, but his body is stiff and sore, and he'd rather not exacerbate it.<br /><br />''If I don't ask for your help, you're just going to fuss at me for being irresponsible'', his defeated look seems to say.<br /><br />"As to the people... very well. We will let them believe that, for now. They have need of that stability, and the Good Lord only knows how long it's been since they last had it." Those violet eyes glance to Arturia again, over his shoulder; a little resigned. "Aye?"

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>In a number of ways, Arturia had been reluctant to chance the bond she had; for five years, Sakura had been the only Master she would ever trust. Not only did their personalities mesh well and they worked together as a team excellently – a few turns with Fate critiquing hadn't hurt, either – but the two respected each other. Sakura treated Saber as a person and as a friend, and even the knowledge that she had owed some other Arturia a debt she could never repay did nothing to diminish that; the impromptu oath of fealty only served the already favourable opinion in the eyes of the King of Knights. In turn, Saber appreciated the girl's honesty and purity of spirit, something the younger of the Tohsakas might argue but her Servant would never have submitted to a contract if it was not true. Their bond was far more than simply a contract of convenience, even if they had formed it for the purpose of stopping the King of Heroes.<br /><br />But in the end, she had decided that releasing her Master from that bond was for the best. It was not as if the two could no longer be friends, nor would Saber hesitate to come to her aid if she so much as made a request. But she had always been hesitant to drag Sakura into danger even as the two had fought side by side; the battle with the Witch Charlotte had opened up a whole mess of other issues. It had been the first time Sakura had suggested transferring her command seals to another magus – her elder sister, specifically – though at the time the Servant refused. Sakura had needed her then, needed to know that Saber would not abandon her, even with the dark taint within her and the possibility of corrupting her Servant.  <br /><br />It had been a terrifying thing, in retrospect; when Sakura had reached an emotional breaking point witnessing her friends fall before her and loosened the eldritch powers unconsciously, the tainted magical energy was likewise transferred to Saber. The release of Excalibur, she vaguely remembered, had not been the blinding golden light it should have been, but a sickly inky red-black. And all she had been able to feel was the irresistible urge to ''destroy''. Once Sakura had calmed, however, that dark taint likewise evaporated, but left Master and Servant emotionally crushed for a time.<br /><br />She felt some guilt over it, even now. Even if she was not abandoning Sakura by any means, she had been willing to chance that corruption happening again to help her through the intensive training that they both submitted to in order to help the magus control such dark powers. Yet now, for different reasons, was she not doing that very thing, even as she wished only for Sakura to have as much of a 'normal' life as was possible for a trained magus? She would no longer have to watch over her shoulder for power-mad Masters or hidebound agents of the Clocktower. And yet, she still felt as if she had been betraying her, somehow.<br /><br />And Sakura herself had seemed halfway between crying and celebrating. That did nothing to help Arturia's inner conflict.<br /><br />Nevertheless, that was something of the past, now. For the moment, there were more present concerns. Such as the fact that, for all intents and purposes, the two knights had been thrust into an accidental arranged 'marriage' of convenience. Arturia rubbed her temples lightly; of all the things she had been expecting, she was fairly certain that such a bizarre thing was quite far down that list. <br /><br />However, her marshal relented, and she breathed a slight sigh of relief. She had been in a similar situation once before, where she had been persuaded to take a wife for the sake of image. But it was in every way a sham, an illusion...and she had deeply regretted dragging Guinevere – and by extension Lancelot – down with her. This, however, was quite different.<br /><br />There was no political pressure, only the desire to give the beleaguered people a hope which they had probably not had for quite some time. Arturia no longer needed to pretend to be a man, forcing a young girl to give up her own chance for happiness. And then, there was the matter of the man and woman in question, and it had not been an ''entirely'' false assumption, really.<br /><br />The jade-eyed knight was more than grateful for the sudden distraction, given where her thoughts had been leading. Her response of a smile was deceptively sweet, indicating that he was entirely correct on that matter. ''Indeed. And you did indicate as much, when Lady Amalthea was here.''<br /><br />She idly considered remarking to simply think of her as a squire if the thought was really so troublesome, but that would most likely send him into a flustered fit which would make her task that much more difficult. "As you wish, my lord."<br /><br />Her hands moved with a practised swiftness and efficiency as she helped him out of the cuirass. "Aye," she agreed. "Is it not a knight's duty to bring hope to the people? As difficult or awkward of a position it puts us in, at times."<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>The false pretense of an arranged marriage had not been at the top of Bedivere's list of expected problems. Even putting aside his 'partner,' this is beyond his expertise. He had patiently refused the right to display arms and the right to hold lands throughout Camelot, and only his sense of duty to these suffering people has prompted him to accept now. Of course, it's not that he doesn't know the business of running a fief – he knows it inside and out just as well as Sir Kay once did – but rather, how a lord should ''act''.<br /><br />While he had observed lords and ladies at court, he still has no idea what's expected of him. It was only for their comfort and stability that he would even consider agreeing to this foolishness – it's not the same as the arranged marriage that had existed between Arturia and Guinevere; there are no politics , and it is solely his sense of chivalry that spurs him on in this case.<br /><br />As for the other, he'd certainly had his suspicions – both about Guinevere's genuine friendship with the king, and her mutual affection for Sir Lancelot. He had not dared breathe a word to anyone, of course; like so many other things, it had been filed away as yet another secret he carried with him. Unlike most, he'd felt no attraction to the queen, treating her with cordial distance. The knowing smile she had sometimes given him had always unnerved him, and he had never quite understood why she had done it. How could he? She could not have known his secret motivations, nor had he spent so much time around her that she might suspect. At the same time, though, he had not been privy to the melancholy that had sometimes overcome Arturia, or the way Guinevere had caught the king watching him.<br /><br />This, though... this is different. There are no courts weighing them down; no intrigues or court politics to force them behind their masks. There is simply the desire to do good, and lend these beleaguered people some comfort in their fractured lives. Very few of them had survived, and those that did were broken. Only the promise of stability and hope carried them on. Many had lost loved ones or someone important to them to the ice-hounds, and not a single one could be found who hadn't.<br /><br />Bedivere could understand well their pain. Perhaps that was the primary reason he would do anything to ease them, no matter what it might cost his dignity. Dignity was nothing compared to that terrible battle, of suffering that hollow ache of having lost everything. For this, he was glad to give them what they needed – the image of a confident and capable lord and lady – and in truth, if he's honest with himself, perhaps he doesn't mind it as much as he might say.<br /><br />Some small and undignified part of him reflects that it's an excellent excuse to put aside the mask of the aloof marshal, at least when their Union allies are absent. That simply... ''being themselves'' would suffice; that their closeness is no illusion or ruse.<br /><br />That isn't so bad.<br /><br />Even so, he eyes Arturia warily when she gives that sweet smile. In some ways, she's a little scary when she feels the need to look out for others. She brooks no argument, and while the concern is touching, it still makes him a bit uncomfortable. For so long he'd conditioned himself to take care of himself, by himself, and it's awkward to have others worry about him – especially his king, who had never so much as shown such a thing.<br /><br />Duty compels him to place himself beneath her notice, even if it isn't duty that compels ''her''. He is her able left hand, her ready sword and shield, and not someone she should be wasting her time worrying about... or, heaven forbid, coddling.<br /><br />"Please," he pleads, but his protest is half-hearted. "Do not worry so about me. I have borne wounds more severe than these. When Caliburn was sundered, I had spent days bedridden, and the physicians had not even thought I would survive..."<br /><br />She would remember, no doubt, as he did. He had been borne in by no less than eight peasant-soldiers, straining and heaving against the heavy plate armour and chain hauberk he'd worn. One of them had borne his sword, chipped and nearly cracked for the beating it had taken in his mad assault. He had been little more than human wreckage when they'd gratefully dropped him onto a cot, bleeding from over a dozen wounds, some severe; bleeding from the nose and mouth, coughing wetly, and generally looking like something dragged off death's doorstep. The physicians had shaken their heads and muttered amongst themselves and solemnly proclaimed he would not last the night, though under Arturia's cold and imperious order, they did what they could in spite of their reluctance for a so-called lost cause.<br /><br />Bedivere had surprised them all – living up to his original name, fighting where others would have given up and given in.<br /><br />"I suppose I was fighting then, too," he murmurs, raising his arms to let her unbuckle the cuirass. One hand twists back as though to catch the backplate, but the gesture is most likely unnecessary. He simply watches her in silence as she goes about his task, moving where indicated to.<br /><br />Like the other Knights of the Round Table, his armour is more elabourate and heavy than strictly necessary, affording the very best of protection. Heavy partial plate over a chain-mail hauberk, with padded cloth beneath that, meant that he might even survive the direct strike of a crossbow bolt – if he were lucky. Now that they've found themselves in such a harsh climate, his armour's been augmented with fur lining and extra padding to the individual pieces, carefully and meticulously working into the design such that it looks as though it had always been that way.<br /><br />Superior protection or no, it's a chore to get on and off. Most of the Round Table had taken squires to assist them with that task, but Bedivere had never wanted that responsibility; not when he had devoted himself so to his king's protection. At least he'd never bothered with a helm, seeing it as a needless risk for the restriction on his visible range.<br /><br />The armour itself is excellently cared-for, a point of pride in his favour. In a roundabout sort of way, he considers it a gift from Arturia. Only the Knights of the Round Table favoured such a style, and so he had always taken meticulous care of it. Only the right side of the cuirass shows wear, where it had been staved in by the greatsword of Psalm, nearly breaking his ribs in the process. He's still been working dutifully to straighten out the damage, though, and it's looking much better than it had originally.<br /><br />Once she's helped him out of the cuirass, he waits for her to help him shrug out of the blue tunic and heavy chain shirt it conceals. He does so slowly and with evident pain, accepting her help the entire time. Having to raise his arms like that is painful, and the grimace he shows as he does attests to it. Once it's off, he carefully drapes it over the armour-from, metallic links slithering as they come to rest, bright and polished.<br /><br />Shifting, he stoops to unbuckle the sabatons next, frowning as he does, hair falling to hide his face. He will not let her see to those; that would be going too far, and he does not expect her to kneel at his feet like a squire – nor will he let her.<br /><br />"You seem quite familiar with my armour, my lady, for it being a style I have never seen you yourself wear. Unless you favoured something similar in the days before I came to court?" He cocks a violet eye up at her, though the odd angle might make his regard seem a bit silly-looking. "At least, I do not recall such a thing. Yours is somewhat different."<br /><br />The sabaton's latch pops with a metallic sound, and he slips off the armoured boot, following it with the other and leaving both beside the armour-form.<br /><br />She had never worn a chain hauberk, at least, not that he could remember. Her gauntlets are different, as well; her left hand is in the style of the "lobster-claw" gauntlet, with fingers joined and only the thumb free. Though it sacrifices dexterity, it does afford more protection than the standard style he favours.<br /><br />He straightens once that's done, stretching and wincing. Bereft of steel, it leaves him in a padded tunic not unlike the commoner's garb he favours, rough homespun and smelling of Castille soap. His leggings are much the same, though it seems he's taken to modern-day socks, if only because the climate of this area is insufferably cold.<br /><br />Wearily, he shuffles to the bed and sits on the edge, rubbing at his face. After a moment he lies back, properly this time, and without the discomfort of steel digging into his shoulders. The pale-haired knight heaves a sigh and closes his eyes.<br /><br />"I suppose so." His answer for her appeal to duty is quiet. "It is our duty to lend hope and strengthen resolve, as knights, no matter the cost to ourselves. Had we not done the same for the people of Camelot? I remember many times when I had delivered supplies personally to the border marches, in the wake of Saxon raiding. This, though... this is different. Although it does not mean I will not do it," he adds, hastily.<br /><br />Pulling himself back upright, he winces, eyeing the quarters. They're lavish by his standards, more lavish than he would ever have personally accepted. Even in Camelot he had taken humble quarters, and they had been so Spartan in style they had seemed almost unused.<br /><br />"It only means... ah, Lord God, I do not know what it means. So much has changed. I feel as though I can scarcely tell up from down, some days." He slumps a bit, wincing and baring his teeth again when it jogs the bruises on his side.<br /><br />Straightening, he lifts the edge of the padded tunic, frowning at the still-healing wound. It's not as ugly as it had been, but it's surrounded by bruising that is very much ugly. Also of note, perhaps, is the sheer level of ''scarring'' against his pale skin – most are faded and old, tokens of the battle that lost Caliburn, but others are still fresh, more of a faded pink than the white of the older scars. Reminders of Camlann, no doubt.<br /><br />He shrugs out of the tunic, setting it aside; as though momentarily forgetting that Arturia is still there. Prodding at one of the wounds, he frowns, wincing a bit but evidently finding the pain at an acceptable level. "Hn." It's a tired, displeased sound. "I do not think I would be so lucky, if I crossed blades with her again," he mutters, mostly to himself. "I should have been slain, I think, by such a blow... through the rib. Small wonder it has pained me so." He probes and prods at the scabbed-over wound, hissing a little at the bruises surrounding it. "I should be surprised if she had not broken my ribs." Still, it seems it ''is'' healing, however slowly, though he examines it gingerly, and it obviously still troubles him.<br /><br />Only then does he seem to notice that he's still not alone; Arturia is still there, and no doubt watching him. His face, he notices distantly, very abruptly feels uncomfortably hot.<br /><br />"Ah..." He blinks, looking up. "Ah, Lord God, forgive me, I—I forget myself."<br /><br />Fatigue wins over flusterment. After a moment he sighs, defeated.<br /><br />"But... I... suppose it was you who changed my bandages, after I'd been brought back." Bedivere seems to wilt a little more, bowing his head. "And I suppose... I suppose it was you who had brought me back, as well."<br /><br />The pale-haired knight sighs and drops his face into his waiting hands.<br /><br />So much for dignity.<br /><br />"Ah, forgive me, my lady... I—I did not mean..."<br /><br />Didn't mean what? He doesn't even seem to know. His mind is leading him in slow circles, warring with embarrassment, and the only equilibrium it can seem to find is a kind of weary, resigned shyness.<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>In spite of his lack of experience as a landholder, Arturia was certain that Bedivere had been the best person for the duties of restoring and governing the lands she had been entrusted with. It had not been that the others had simply not wanted the job, or had duties elsewhere. As Marshal of Camelot, he had working knowledge of logistics and management of personnel. While governing itself was somewhat out of his purview, his frequent unofficial missions of charity likewise gave him some insight into handling displaced people, where restoration of a village had been the first priority.<br /><br />As lost as the silver-haired knight might have felt – the hopeless glances occasionally levelled on her were a good indication – he was nevertheless handling it as well as she had anticipated. Any incompetence on his part would have meant the inn would not have been restored enough to serve as a temporary shelter, nor would there be the start of food supplies for the bitter winter that was to come.  Certainly, the gratitude of the people reflected that, even taking the time to restore the lord's quarters. The problem, she suspected, was of a different sort altogether.<br /><br />A simple 'be yourself' would not have sufficed, not for a man as humble as he was, and yet that was precisely what was needed at the moment. Perhaps other kings and nobles believed that the people existed for the whims of the king and lords – that they were treated well only because they were his property – but the King of Knights had refused to believe that. The Eight Virtues clearly placed knights at the service of the people, and as their king, that placed her as a servant to not only the people, but her knights as well. It was her chivalric duty to provide them with a clear chain of command they could fully rely on and a king whose confidence they could trust in. And by extension, the people were reassured and protected by the knights who followed the code of chivalry.<br /><br />"Do not worry so much about a 'proper' nobles' way of acting," she mused as a way of reassurance. "''Militia, Fortitudo, Fides, Generositas, Pietas, Humanitas, Ingenuitas, Exercitium.'' So long as the people see these virtues in a lord, then he will be a proper lord."<br /><br />On the other hand, she had always been on unstable ground when it came to the 'honesty' aspect. She hid that she was a woman, that she had ceased to be human the moment Caliburn accepted her, that her tutor – later advisor – was a questionable sort. That she had little choice but to obfuscate the complete truth was of little consolation. And now, she was letting the people believe something which was not entirely true. But if the complete truth would break their spirit, or even be some cause for worry, Arturia believed it was far better for them to believe the not-quite truth. At least, for the moment. It was not as if they believed in a lie, as the people of Britain had when it came to her 'marriage' to Guinevere.<br /><br />What was perhaps even better than the difference of situation when it came to the assumed 'marriage' was that she was no longer forced to be the cold, aloof king. Here were no courtly intrigues to navigate, no plays for power to control, no treaties to negotiate...only the will to survive and to rebuild. In spite of that struggle and the harsh conditions, in some ways Dún Reáltaí already felt more like a home that Camelot had in the years of her rule.<br /><br />Here, she no longer had to affect the mask of impartiality. She can show favour to her knights, and with the assumptions of the townspeople being what they were, some of that was expected. She was no longer a man, but a lady. Although, that part was some cause for concern; Arturia was entirely unsure as to how a proper lady was supposed to act. Even being in the constant presence of her queen had not helped; she was too focused on the governing of the kingdom. She could conduct herself with painstaking dignity as she always had, but it was rather different projecting the aura of a strong king than it was a gentle lady. <br /><br />In retrospect, perhaps she should have taken a little more time to study the women of the court.<br /><br />Arturia sighed softly. She had remembered it well, even if she had been trapped behind her iron-like mask and had been ignorant of why the thought of losing him had secretly terrified her so. She had refused to give up on him, perhaps even a little recklessly, but she had never regretted it. "I remember. I could do nothing for you then...I could not so much as reveal how I had truly felt..."<br /><br />"But no, I have no need to hide such things. What manner of king would I be to neglect my knights, hmm?" she chided him softly. One might even get the impression she ''enjoyed'' fussing over him.<br /><br />She didn't reply immediately to his reflection on fighting back then. She was more than happy that he had chosen to fight where weaker-willed men would have given up and expired. For all his gentleness of spirit, Bedivere possessed a spine of tempered steel. The petite blonde's response was simply a soft 'hm' of agreement as she unbuckled the cuirass, deftly catching the backplate in one hand. As heavy and bulky as it was, she had little trouble handling it; the advantage of being a Servant. <br /><br />But regardless of strength, she knew how it fastened and moved, and set it aside easily to help him with the tabard and hauberk, being as careful as possible not to aggravate his healing wounds any more than necessary. Silently, she was grateful he wasn't complaining or protesting; that would have made her task all the more difficult.<br /><br />Leaving him in the gambeson beneath the layers of fur, leather, and steel as he stooped to undo the latches on the sabatons, Arturia tilted her head slightly in what was her equivalent of a shrug, jade eyes slightly unfocused at the memories. "When I trained as a squire with my brother under the guidance of our father...long before I learned I was the bastard daughter of the king...one of our daily exercises was to put on our own armour, remove it, and put it on again multiple times until the movements became as instinct, and it was no longer wearying to do so."<br /><br />As difficult and wearying as such exercises surely must have been, the petite knight seemed almost flippant about it, as if such rigorous training was normal. Instead, she frowned slightly in thought regarding her own armour. "Truthfully, it is not the most practical of armour in its design," she admitted. "It was given to me upon my ascension by Merlin...I was told that it was fashioned by the Fair Folk, and affords more than merely physical protection."<br /><br />That would explain the strange shape and the odd blue markings on it, in addition to the fact that no malicious spell ever seemed to harm her. "Likewise," she continued, "It is much more lighter in weight than standard armour." <br /><br />Almost idly, she summoned her armour, returning to the appearance Bedivere was more familiar with. With a seemingly languid movement – though still faster than that of a normal person – she unfastened the gauntlet over her left hand. "Though it is formed from pure magical energy now, I believe the metal was not a metal of the mortal world. It feels very much the same as it had before I became a Servant."<br /><br />Arturia held it out to him to let him gauge the weight. As little as it felt for her, it would in all likelihood feel no heavier than the touch of a feather. It still compromised her speed to some degree, but normal armour would have been that much heavier. She dismissed her armour once more after a moment, though on a whim decided to dismiss merely the armour itself, remaining in her blue gold-trimmed dress and white petticoat. It might have been the first time he had ever seen her quite like that, without the fairy armour but in a dress far more suited to their time...and far more suited to a woman than a man.<br /><br />She remained quiet as he mused, making hardly a sound as she seated herself on the other edge of the bed. For a moment Arturia considered commenting, but decided that there wasn't truly anything to say other than what she already had. ''We must honour the code, bring succour to the people, act as examples of knighthood and of chivalry. Even if that means our situation is a little unorthodox, we must be adaptable to each situation and respond accordingly.''<br /><br />Curiously, the green-eyed knight observed the scarring both new and old. In truth, her own body would have boasted of an equal amount of them had she not possessed Caliburn and, later, Avalon. They had made her something other than human, the symbols of her reign, in some ways stronger but humanity was a frail thing. In the end, she had been just as human as everyone else.<br /><br />But she didn't dare speak of such things, lest it provoke more nightmares. Instead, she tilted her head and listened as he muttered over his wounds, reflecting on his fight with Magatha. After a moment, it was clear he had even forgotten she was there, and she had to carefully stifle her reaction to what such a thing entailed. It seemed as if the ever-cautious and painfully formal marshal was finally beginning to relax a little in her presence.<br /><br />It wasn't very long before he remembered the setting, however. "Aye, it was me who brought you back and tended to your bandages once you were released."<br /><br />She couldn't help herself, though. Oh it was certainly going to mortify the poor knight, but a little light teasing might persuade him not to stand on so much ceremony when it was merely the two of them. With a soft 'pft' of a chuckle, Arturia lifted her fist to her lips, closing her eyes in an amused light smile. "Ah, but I see that someone has settled into 'married life' quite easily..."<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Although the duties of running Camelot had been fulfilled admirably by Sir Kay, Bedivere had always possessed a keen mind for figures and anticipation of the use of supplies. When he moved an army, everything went smoothly, from the actual logistics to the logistics of supplying that army. He had always seemed to anticipate their needs before the soldiers under his command had voiced them. So too does he seem to show the same uncanny foresight in his handling of Dún Reáltaí. Scarcely do the villagers begin to understand the need for something, and he has already ordered it.<br /><br />In truth, he doesn't seem to understand what ''be yourself'' would mean. For over twenty years he had carefully built a mask around his true self, and it would appear he doesn't know how to let go of it, save in fits and starts. In his eyes, he exists to serve the people, rather than the backwards view so many of the nobility had taken toward the commonfolk. That still doesn't stop him from fretting somewhat, though; he has no idea how to behave in front of them, and no idea what they expect of a lord when he isn't handling matters of strict business – ordering supplies, or overseeing specific tasks. In that, at least, he's lost; and he is painfully well aware of that.<br /><br />Perhaps the gratitude of the people is the only reason why he hasn't lost hope in this task. They appreciate his efforts, as does Arturia, and that tells him he hasn't fouled things up beyond repair just yet.<br /><br />Although he would have preferred to pass such administration off to Sir Kay, the truth is that there was significant overlap in their duties – the only real difference is that one catered to soldiers, and one catered to civilians. Bedivere possesses all of the same skills, and the same keen mind for figures and tallies. There's no reason why he should feel so uncomfortable, at least in terms of the work.<br /><br />Truly, he's just nervous about holding the lives of these people in his proverbial palm. There was another reason he had never accepted lands, and it was that he had never felt himself up to the task of being responsible for them. Of course, that in and of itself was an indication that he was likely more than capable of it, but as with so many other things, he had simply never felt himself worthy of such a gesture of trust.<br /><br />It seems that hasn't changed much, here. Only necessity, and the necessity of not forcing such a burden on Arturia, has overridden it.<br /><br />When she tries to reassure him about not needing to behave like a noble, he makes a vague sound of consent, though it still sounds a little despairing. Eventually, he'll ease into that role, in time. Certainly he would do anything to protect this place if it were threatened. He simply needs time to ease into a role he had refused for over twenty years; refused because he had felt unworthy.<br /><br />Not having to don his mask for the courtly intrigues of Camelot is a great help. That he ''can'' attempt to be himself, whatever that may be, is a reassurance it seems he has yet to fully realise. It's just as well that he had never studied the lordlings at court, so full of hot air and such little consideration for their fellow man.<br /><br />"I... had thought I had seen something in your eyes, then." Bedivere tilts his head, regarding Arturia from the corner of his own. He seems dubious, as though he's uncertain whether he wants to share his observation, old as it may be. "Perhaps I was simply delirious. I do not well remember the time I spent after arriving at the citadel. I took no wine, I remember that, but I do not think I was conscious. In truth, I do not remember reporting the results of the battle to you... though I was told later that I had. No, I suppose you have no reason to hide your concern, here." He reaches up to rub at the side of his jaw, exhaling through his nose in what isn't quite a sigh. "Thank you. I... am sorry. I am not..."<br /><br />He gestures nebulously, as though trying to indicate what he's trying to articulate. For someone capable of such eloquence, he finds himself floundering in her presence more often than not. Why is that...?<br /><br />''I am not worthy of your concern, but thank you for it, all the same.'' He relies on his standard, when his words fail him, fixing a half-smile on her that seems somewhere between chagrined and apologetic. ''Perhaps I will learn to accept it in time.'' After all, it's not like her concern's going to go away.<br /><br />Those violet eyes flick sidelong to regard her as she remarks on her days training under Sir Ector and Sir Kay. He tilts his head slightly, not quite grinning. "I remember doing the same thing, though it was not the standard training of a knight. I had known that I would not want the services of a squire. So, I learned to do the same thing. It is second nature for me; even with such heavy armour. I thought it was too heavy, at first, when I was younger... I find that I feel vulnerable without my armour, now, when we visit other worlds."<br /><br />The difference is that no one told him to learn how to do that; he simply did it himself, although it earned the puzzled stares of what fellow knights had caught him at his practise – for he had not had such armour to practise with, as a knight-aspirant. He had practised with his heavy plate after he had been knighted.<br /><br />As Arturia calls her armour to bear, he stares, although not because the armour itself is unfamiliar. No, there's simply no disguising its otherworldly nature in its summoning. Some part of him finds that fascinating; he reaches out almost reverently to accept the gauntlet she offers him.<br /><br />His eyes drop to regard the bright alloy, frowning as he hefts it once or twice in hand. It's definitely light, light as a piece of ceremonial armour, though he has no doubt of its protective properties.<br /><br />"I would not have expected it to be so light," he comments, offering it back to her... and watching her for a few moments more when she simply dismisses the steel.<br /><br />No, he's never quite seen her in anything like that. As king, she had certainly worn such a thing beneath her armour, but she had been hidden in layers of protective armour; all hard angles and cold steel. He finds himself staring, and it's not until he realises that he's staring does he suddenly flush and look away.<br /><br />"That... suits you," he murmurs quietly, steadfastly refusing to meet her eyes.<br /><br />When she studies his scarring, he endures it quietly, and to his credit doesn't do anything more than flush at the attention, dropping his gaze to the floor. He rarely speaks of the scars; if anything, he seems almost self-conscious – although that's probably the specific result of having Arturia's attention fixed on him.<br /><br />He coughs, clearing his throat a little awkwardly when she confirms that she had brought him back and tended his wounds. He had suspected as much, mumbling something unclear under his breath. Likely confirmation, though he doesn't speak clearly enough to make out the words.<br /><br />Bedivere picks his head up, as though about to say something—<br /><br />—and then she says something that causes him to physically jump, possibly jostling Arturia in the process. He makes a sound that's... almost a squawk, flushing at that horribly incriminating statement.<br /><br />"Wh—" He tries to protest, but his voice cracks in his near-panic. "I—I would not dare presume, I—it's not like that, my lady! I..."<br /><br />In spite of his protest, though, he does have to be honest with himself. He had perhaps thought of such a thing, during his lonely years of service – what it would have been like, had she the freedom to have been a lady and not the king; what it would have been like if he ''had'' been free to act on the love he had kept secret for so many years.<br /><br />"Ah..." Score a point for Arturia. Bedivere sighs and seems to deflate a bit. He watches her from the corner of those violet eyes, closing them for a moment as he chuckles a little bleakly. "That would be improper. We are not, and it is only a bit of a ruse for the well-being of these people. But..."<br /><br />His eyes open, watching her. "I... had..." He hesitates, fidgeting with a bit of fur that sticks up against the grain on the blanket he sits on. "In Camelot, when I had time to myself around my duties, I would... imagine, sometimes, what it would have been like. If... if you had not been the king. If we had... met under different circumstances..."<br /><br />Bedivere makes a valiant attempt to ignore how red his face turns. "What it would have been like simply to stroll down the avenue by your side – to be able to laugh and speak with one another, as equals, rather than knight and king. Ah, please forgive me. This is so improper," he sighs, hanging his head. "But it is true. I had wondered, sometimes... of course, it had not mattered." He had still been trapped behind his mask, just as she had been trapped behind hers.<br /><br />"Now, though..." He smiles to himself, head still bowed; that shy, awkward smile she seems so endearing to her. "I am glad, to put aside that mask, even if... I do not always know what to do. More than that, I am glad to have you by my side, my lady."<br /><br />Almost hesitantly, he reaches out for her hand, as though he weren't really certain. His fingers lace with hers, tightening gently, lifting it to brush his lips over the top of her hand. "I am grateful," he murmurs. "To have such an impossible second chance... I would never have imagined. There are days I still must convince myself it is not a dream." Fortunately, the hole in his side did a pretty good job of convincing him of that. <br /><br />Lowering her hand but not releasing it, he leans into her, resting his head on her shoulder in affectionate, if slightly tired, gesture. "Mm. We are to play the part of lord and lady of this keep, but I... do not know what to do. I suppose I should have studied the people of Camelot's court more carefully. Ah, we are hopeless," he adds, with a bland chuckle.<br /><br />He falls silent, content in the silence; even the workmen down the hill have stopped their sawing and hammering, and only the breeze makes any sound, skirling among the broken spires and the keep's central tower. Slowly, his eyes drift closed, savouring that silence.<br /><br />Ever since Camlann, he had lost his taste for noise, and chaos; and preferred to seek out quiet places. After that hell, he had found it difficult to bear crowds, and even the modern cities that he has had occasion to visit have made him uncomfortable – something he has been able to bear, fortunately, because he'd been busy trying to look at everything. Now, though, it seems the keep is the perfect setting for him to begin to heal those wounds in. All is quiet, and here he can let go of his masks, in the quiet of these quarters.<br /><br />His other arm slips around her, holding her close and breathing in that sweet scent of her hair; rose, he thinks dimly, though he could be mistaken. It suits her, he decides.<br /><br />"I am glad," he murmurs into her shoulder, "that things have worked out the way they have. I... think that... I can grow to like this place. And to have you by my side, here..." He considers for a few moments, and though he doesn't move, his eyes turn to the thick glass of the window, where the first stars begin to show themselves in the darkening sky. "It... I do not know that it ''suits'' me, but I feel... peaceful, here."<br /><br />"I... think that..." He closes his eyes, pulling her close as his voice drops even further; a quiet, thoughtful murmur against her neck and shoulder. "I think I can finally begin to heal, here."<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>If there was a single thing that Arturia had absolute confidence in, it was her ability to find people most suited to a task and delegate the appropriate responsibilities to them. Her brother Kay – for to her, he was indeed her brother as far as she was concerned – was skilled at management of civilian needs and hence made the perfect chatelain, Bedivere with his additional skill at tactics was ideal for the position of marshal, and Lancelot with his skills in disguise and stealth made him the consummate spymaster. At her right hand sat the Knight of the Lake, whose proficiency with weapons was already legendary even in their own time; at her left was the mysterious Knight from the lands of the Dál Riata whose cool logic and calm demeanour ensured the efficient impartiality of her very rule.<br /><br />She would never regret those she had appointed to such vital positions, and she was hardly about to start now. She knew her marshal knew what he was doing, and on some level so did he. The problem was what image to project. It troubled her deeply; her entire rule had been based on such a thing in spite of her best intentions, and to present something false invited only disaster. Yet the image of a humble lord and a curiously strong lady seemed not to trouble them. If anything, the only false image the villagers had seemed to harbour was the precise relationship between that lord and lady.<br /><br />Ah well, she had decided. She found she didn't care a whit if they knew she was the king of their lord or not. What was that saying about achieving great things if one did not care who took the credit? Besides which, if all their praise was directed at Bedivere, well...<br /><br />As far as the King of Knights was concerned, he had earned it long ago. It was more than simply pleasant to see for herself how grateful they were, how often she was approached to convey their thanks to her lord. Now that she thought about it, she had ample opportunity to correct them on the matter, but she saw no need, observing the hope in their eyes. It was something she had prayed for each night in Camelot. <br /><br />While the poor knight might be made uncomfortable over such things, his king beamed with pride and agreed. <br /><br />For her part, Arturia had never felt so free, so able to do what she had always wanted. Speaking with the people directly, helping with even the most menial of tasks. It might have seemed odd for labourers to look sideways and see such a delicate-looking girl beside them...and lift the same timber beam as they had carrying it merrily along to a construction site with a smile on her face. Oh, the lady of the lands was certainly a strange one, but the work went far faster and she was always happy to listen to anything they had to say.<br /><br />Arturia sighed deeply; she was fairly sure this was not the proper way for a lady to act. It most assuredly was not the proper way for a king to act. Rubbing her chin lightly, she considered asking one of her allies to walk through the village and inquire what their expectations of a proper lady might be. Acting feminine was well out of her purview, and acting as a king was something she had no confidence in even if she thought it would be of any benefit.<br /><br />Considering the chain of command which existed in Camelot, assigning Bedivere to Dun Realtai was almost business as usual, excepting the presence of Kay. Though it had made him uncomfortable, she considered that, aside from him merely being the best person for the task, it would be good for him. He had never taken lands, and thought she had at first believed this was out of humility, she had learned her marshal struggled with the very same feelings of unworthiness as his king. And if she had learned anything at all in the last five years, it was that being pushed out of one's 'comfort zones' was not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in her case, it had lead to growth. Keeping a watchful eye, perhaps she could do the same for the knight she owed so much to.<br /><br />She considered something on the point of his appointed status as the lord of the land. "It is like Camelot, in some ways...yet, not completely. They are still rebuilding their world..."<br /><br />Arturia could not lead Britain to Utopia. But this was a land devastated by far more than Saxons. They were flexible at this point to be lead into the modern area which she considered as good as any distant Avalon. The idea made her reckless, infused with a wild hope. "At this moment, we could guide them with the Virtues, show them the way to the good of the current era with no masks, no deception..."<br /><br />The jade-eyed knight forced herself to stop, chewing her lower lip. No...what mattered in the present was getting them through tomorrow. Mayhap the people would be receptive in the springtime after the equivalent of Calan Mai when the dangers of winter had passed, but while the snow threatened, she was getting ahead of herself. "However...that should wait."<br /><br />At the memory and how he had seen through her mask so easily even then, Arturia paled slightly. It had not been as flawless as she had tried to forge it, yet...it would seem only the Marshal had noticed. No one had ever suspected either the true feelings of Bedivere nor of the King – not even the King herself – for it had never become a point of blackmail as it had when Lancelot and Guinevere had been discovered.  It had seemed that for two would-be sweethearts, it was a secret so deeply buried that none had so much as considered it.<br /><br />"It might have..." she coughed softly. "It might not have been...your imagination...looking back..."<br /><br />Arturia did nothing to stifle her sigh. ''If you are unworthy, so too am I.''<br /><br />It was nostalgic for her now, to look back at that gruelling training that had served her so well. Naturally, Sir Ector had known of her lineage and had taken pains to beat humility into the hidden  bastard princess. It was his tutelage she had to thank for her commitment to chivalry, only failing due to the conflict between justice for the people and mercy for an otherwise brutish, savage enemy. "Ah...well. My father had never so much as harboured an excuse from either my brother nor I," she said with a hint of pride. "If we had so much as appeared ready to complain, he would order us to carry buckets of water up the hill near our farmhouse for half the day."<br /><br />The marshal might note that she called Sir Ector her father with not even a moment's hesitation, while referring to King Uther haltingly, as if reciting distant, long-dead ancestry. And in contrast to the doubtless gruelling training, the jade eyes filled with familial fondness whenever she spoke of the old knight. For all intents and purposes, Sir Ector might as well have been her true father.<br /><br />With a nod before she dismissed her armour, the petite blonde agreed. "It was always that way," she admitted. "Magical energy merely reproduces our aspects...in the case of my armour, it was already magic in nature, forged of the smiths' fires in Tír na nÓg." What might surprise him was that she now spoke in what he would understand as flawless Gaelic, the tongue of his homeland.<br /><br />At first, she thought the stare was merely on account of the undeniable power of that magic, what bad been bestowed on her first by the faeries and then by the very world itself. As a new Master still unaccustomed to the peculiarities of the strange magic of their world, what she considered trivial was still probably new to him regardless of the pranks of a certain advisor of the court. It was not until he flushed and looked away that she finally began to understand. And the shy compliment on his part added a flush of her own.<br /><br />She had never been seen in public without that faerie armour – certainly never in the otherwise feminine dress – out of concern of having her secret exposed. Not without reason; she was quite obviously not a man, dressed as she was without it. And yet, was it truly something especially flattering? At least, she had never thought of her simple dress that way...yet a simple comment about how it suited her sent her into such a furious blush. Why?<br /><br />Arturia attempted gratitude, but sadly, it ended up as an embarrassed cough. The unspoken would have to do. ''Thank you.''<br /><br />If anything, her gaze seemed inward at the scars, thinking on what would have been her own, what her knights endured for her. The strange brand on her back notwithstanding, her own body remained unmarred, thanks to the Golden Sword of Destined Victory and the Everdistant Utopia. It reminded her of her own inhuman condition, even before she had become a Servant trapped between life and death. Yet, she could hardly call it a prison. Here, in her continuing dream, she had been granted far more than she could have ever hoped to achieve. And she had granted more happiness than she ever had during her life. No...it was more than just a dream. So much more. This was her reality.<br /><br />The sudden jostle startled her, but it really should not have. Bedivere was not accustomed to such teasing, after all...especially not from his once cold and distant king. But she had won that particular round, and perhaps the violet-eyed knight was beginning to understand their new reality, as she had.<br /><br />At the bleak chuckle, however, a flush rose to her face then. Perhaps it ''was'' improper, but she found that to let the mask drop and to simply be Arturia the lady, serving her lord on subtle ways – a role she never would have been permitted in Camelot – was more than just a curiosity, a passing fancy. It was something she found herself wanting to fulfil more often.<br /><br />Still blushing, she sighed. "Let me play the part...at least...at least here."<br /><br />Arturia didn't so much as speak when he spoke shyly about the impossible dreams he'd had, though she did find herself edging closer to him. Impossible dreams then...but not now. And it would seem that he realised that, too. She did not so much as move as he took her hand and raised it to his lips in an otherwise simple gesture that had meant everything to her. <br /><br />"It is...rather strange for me, as well," she admitted. "But it is not a path we must travel alone. I shall always be at your side from now on, my lord."<br /><br />As he leaned his head on her shoulder, she couldn't help but smile fondly, shifting to accommodate him and lean her head against his. Reaching up, she released the clasps binding his silvery-blonde hair, slipping her fingers thought it lightly. "Ah...that we are," she agreed with a soft chuckle, a lilt not unlike his colouring her voice to indicate she spoke in her Master's tongue. "'Tis a good thing indeed that it is only you and I who are witnesses to this, aye?"<br /><br />She shifted then, only enough to lie back and coax him down with her. Sleep called to them both. "Aye, my love," she agreed. "This is home."<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>Although she takes a narrow view of her own achievements, Arturia could rest assured that her ability to delegate wisely was one of the reasons why Camelot had not collapsed – her unerring knack for finding the best man for the job and assigning him to it, as well as her knack for inspiring them to do their very best, ensured that the kingdom's administrative affairs were run with uncanny skill.<br /><br />Even though he had never accepted praise for his long service and the sacrifices he had endured to serve Arturia, she can take pride in the hope and faith in the eyes of the villagers – silent praise that Bedivere could not dare refuse, even if he seems not to know how to accept a compliment on his abilities.<br /><br />Perhaps, on some level, he knows that being gently shoved into this position will be of help to him. If nothing else, it prevents him from idling; for much like Arturia, Bedivere is a man who does not cope well with too much spare time on his hands. Too much time leads to too much thinking, and there are many things he would prefer not to think about. Camlann, certainly, but his other failings through the years, and his inability to protect Arturia when it was critical – although not half so bad as his nightmares, such things still visit him in waking hours, at times.<br /><br />"It is, but the difference is that they will rebuild," Bedivere observes quietly. "I am sorry. I do not know that there was much left of Camelot. I had never found it, but the last I saw of it, the citadel had been in flames. I do not have much hope that there was enough to rebuild." He sighs quietly, closing his eyes. "Here, at least, it is a different story. For that, I am glad."<br /><br />He can't help a faint half-smile at her enthusiasm, that reserved, almost shy expression. Truly, he can't help but echo those sentiments. "I agree. Guide them with the Eight Virtues, and show them to the current era; teach them ways in which they can improve their lives even further – for there are many things I am glad for, that appear to be in the modern era." Something as simple as clean drinking water leaves him in awe. Even in his day, strong and enduring as he is, he had on occasion drunk bad water and suffered bitterly for it. Nothing strong enough to kill him, but certainly enough to underscore the dangers of drinking water in such an age. "Clean water, medicine for the wounded or the ill... truly, I am humbled by such ability to help those in need... but... you are right. They must survive the winter, first..."<br /><br />He blinks a bit when she comments on that the look he'd seen, that imagined hint of fear and sorrow after Caliburn's sundering; that it had not been just his imagination. He exhales, just a little, staring at her for a moment. When he finally smiles, the expression is shy again; almost hesitant. ''Let us be unworthy if we are, then, but at least we will be so together.''<br /><br />"I wish I had known Sir Ector. It sounds as though he was a good knight, and a good man." He smiles, a little sadly.<br /><br />"Mm. I did not go through such training by my father. Truly, I did not learn any martial skills until I became a knight-aspirant. I learned different things, in the kingdom of my father – language; music. Perhaps not magic, though some might say so." That reputation had followed him throughout his days in Camelot. Jealous nobles had been adamant that he knew some kind of witchcraft, and used it to win his battles. "I did not learn as much as I would have had I stayed, but it was enough. I learned the tongue of the northlands, and I learned music enough. Perhaps not what a ''filidh'' would learn, but enough to amuse myself."<br /><br />His eyes stray to the window, and he seems to turn thoughtful for a moment. "I wonder sometimes what had become of Dál Riata. What became of my family, after I had left. I do not recall any particular dealings with them... and I did not ever hear of my father's name again, afterward, or the king I would have served. But..." He shakes his head. "I suppose it does not matter. Dál Riata is gone, too..."<br /><br />Silence falls for a few moments, his gaze distant when he looks to the window. For a moment, his mind travels back to distant Dál Riata, to the sea-cliffs and green hills he was born in. "Mn." The sound is quiet; thoughtful. "I think I should like to find a set of pipes," he murmurs. "I do not need to hide that; not here. It would be..."<br /><br />''It would be a way to remember home. To do honour to Dál Riata.''<br /><br />He glances back as she describes her armour and the nature of its forging, lifting a brow in open curiosity. "Is it? I had wondered, for it is covered in sigils, and they had struck me as significant somehow. I had not dared ask, howev..." Bedivere trails off, frowning as though puzzled; he cocks his head, studying her with such scrutiny that it might even make her uncomfortable. He still understands her words, but...<br /><br />"You... you are speaking Gaelic, my lady," he breathes, eyes widening as he stares. He slips into it in his own shock, voice lilting, almost musical in its tone. "How... you... you said you did not learn the tongues of the north..."<br /><br />Realisation returns to him, but slowly, fatigue still dulling his wits. Servants were given to speaking in the tongue of their Master. He had learned Gaelic well before he had ever learned Welsh, and is he not her Master, now? Bedivere swallows, as though hesitating, before he allows himself a small smile – one of wonderment.<br /><br />"I had heard what others had said at court," he continues, still in Gaelic. He speaks more slowly and carefully than she does, but not because she wouldn't understand him. He has to remember the words. "That there was witchcraft and magic in the very tongue of Dál Riata... I had never believed such a thing. But... but to hear you speak it..." That smile stays right where it is. "I would almost believe there is magic and wonder in it, my lady, just to hear ''you'' speak it. It... suits you, too."<br /><br />His smile stays a little shy as she coughs her gratitude, unable to put it to words properly. He certainly wouldn't hold that against her. After all, he suffers from the same problem, every time she pays him the least bit of compliment. Bedivere had always had problems accepting such things, but accepting them from her only seems to drive him into fits of embarrassed sputtering.<br /><br />Violet eyes flick sidelong when she asks to let her play that part, that of his lady; the part she had never been allowed in Camelot. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet she might miss it if she weren't sitting beside him.<br /><br />"No. We are not alone." He smiles, though the expression falters as he feels her reach up to unclasp the cuffs binding his hair. He almost straightens, but evidently decides it isn't worth the effort. Those faded eyes hood as she runs her fingers through his hair, leaning into her touch a little. Where once he'd been embarrassed, he finds it relaxing; tension fading from his shoulders. He manages a small sound in the back of his throat, wordless but pleased.<br /><br />"A good thing indeed," he murmurs. "I could not even see your smile in Camelot, but I am so glad, and so blessed, to see it now."<br /><br />He can feel the exhaustion pulling at him; almost a physical weight, and he finds his will to stay awake fading. With her fingers threading through his hair, he can feel his eyes drooping. He doesn't let her pull him down, though, shaking his head and finally bringing himself to straighten, unbound hair spilling over one shoulder. "Not above these," he murmurs, wearily, patting the blankets. It's too cold in Dún Reáltaí not to sleep under several layers. "Too cold here..."<br /><br />Instead, he pulls himself upright, though not without a grimace, rubbing absently at his bruised side, shuffling over to crawl under the blankets and furs – ''luxurious'', he reflects, ''better than I had ever slept in before'' – before holding up one corner in drowsy invitation for her to join him. Perhaps the cold wouldn't bother her so, as a Servant; but by this point he's likely not thinking clearly, and like hell he's sleeping alone. He's still unspeakably exhausted, and he has no wish to go back to Camlann.<br /><br />"Home," he agrees wearily, with an equally weary smile. "I... I had forgotten what that was." He lies back, dimly regarding the canopy, eyes drifting nearly but not quite closed. "I should like to find out again."<br /><br />Violet eyes flick back to Arturia, simply watching her, with that contented little half-smile; the one that tells her without needing words the depths of his contentment and warmth. This ''is'' home, no matter how much of a broken land this may be. Things broken can be repaired, he reasons muzzily. Are not the walls of this very castle being repaired, and the broken buildings rebuilt? The broken lives of the villagers slowly pieced back together again, what pieces can be found? To him, what matters is Arturia – it is home because ''she'' is there, with him.<br /><br />"Aye, my love," he breathes, smiling that warm smile – weariness forgotten for a moment in favour of sheer peace and contentment. "Aye. You are right. This ''is'' home, isn't it...?"<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:346|Saber (346)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>By the standards of the current era, the progress of restoration was slow, possibly unnecessarily so given the technology which existed to have rebuilt the fortress and the entire village several times over. The townspeople were reduced to living out of the inn while their homes were slowly rebuilt; it would have been far easier to employ any number of machines or magic or even a combination thereof to have simply resurrected everything in a matter of hours or less. But that was hardly the way of such people. She knew how cultures in such places were; proud, rugged, self-reliant individuals who never took a way out simply because it was easier. It might have even been insulting to use one of the multiverse's relatively quick fixes. Not entirely unlike the new lord and lady of the land.<br /><br />Her marshal had something of an aversion to sufficiently advanced technology, and so perhaps it was not the moral dilemma it might have been for Arturia. As a Servant, Saber had no such compunctions, yet she understood how it would feel for someone to simply appear, invoke such 'witchcraft' to restore everything, and leave. It took something of the pride of rebuilding out of the affair, regardless of whether or not they would be sleeping in their own beds or the temporary ones of the inn. Even if it would have made their lives easier, it was something that would have taken the meaning out of their labour, even their suffering. <br /><br />It gave one pause, where even someone like Arturia considered that she might have done too much at times rather than allowing others to pick themselves up when their will was strong enough. Certainly, she had done that more than a few times when it came to the silver-haired knight, when her worry overrode her empathy for his sense of knightly pride. ''I...fuss too much, don't I?''<br /><br />Perhaps Iskander had had a point when he told her that she saved her people but had not led them. But this was different; she was not reaching for utopia, only helping a small village get back on its metaphorical feet. What was needed was efficiency and organisation, and the Knights of the Round Table certainly had that. They didn't need someone to bear every burden. While that might have otherwise made her feel guilty or useless, the gratitude on their faces and actions assured her otherwise.<br /><br />Jade eyes went distant again, slightly haunted when Arturia remembered Camelot, trying to discern the end of her legend as the Holy Grail would have recorded it. "There...was nothing. The people scattered...there remained nothing to rebuild."<br /><br />The memory would haunt them both for years to come, yet hope lived on where they were. Perhaps there had been little left but ruins, but the people returned rather than scattering to the multiverse. "Indeed. I was glad that the people chose to return and rebuild rather than abandon their home."<br /><br />While complex things which would have simply made life easier might not have necessarily been of any special benefit, advancements such as clean drinking water and modern insulation materials would go much further. If it saved lives and reduced sickness, such things could be easily introduced. And, of course, the chivalry which had placed those who ruled in the service of those whom they ruled. To rule was a service, not a privilege, and more than anything else, Bedivere's humility served as the backbone to this new order. and it seemed that the people had not been made uncertain with the humility of their new lord.<br /><br />''Together''... It still awed her; Arturia was almost unsure she could dare to believe that she was no longer alone, no longer had to bear her burdens on her own. Perhaps during the years of her reign she would have been horrified by the idea, to expose anyone else to the dangers she faced and the heavy burdens she bore. Yet, Bedivere had more than proved himself not only able but willing to shoulder them with her. While she had been unable to rely on him even more than she had in Camelot, things were indeed different now.<br /><br />Arturia nodded, smiling openly. "Aye, he was..." She sighed gently before she continued. "In truth, I do not think of Uther as my father. I inherited the kingdom from him, and I am of his blood..but he was never my father. My only family was Sir Ector and Sir Kay."<br /><br />The petite knight had often found herself wondering if he had ever regretted leaving his homeland and his family to serve as a Knight of the Round Table, giving up everything merely to serve her. He was joined by his brother not long thereafter, and the both of them endured living as outsiders in a foreign court. She had left her own home and the man she considered her father behind, though her brother served as one of her own knights. She had done so willingly, yet there were times when she missed the small farm on the outskirts of a long-forgotten village. <br /><br />She found herself smiling slightly, with a shy yet bittersweet hint to it. "Speaking for myself, I should like to hear you play, again."<br /><br />"I never understood the precise nature of the sigils, and as to be expected, Merlin refused to elaborate on their meaning..." But her frown thinking on how Merlin always enjoyed teasing her with knowledge yet only revealed snippets of it was interrupted when Bedivere realised that she had been speaking in the native language of her Master. She hadn't even realised it herself, in truth. "Ah..."<br /><br />But it seemed he realised their new link, how there was a new layer of communication they would be capable of, even if was not entirely necessary. Still, she had to admit it was rather nice...<br /><br />...And then flushed and ducked her head at the compliment. She was always bad at graciously accepting them, but there was something about that shy smile which devastated every single one of her defences and disarmed her utterly. She tried to thank him but for some reason the words refused to come out. Able to speak that language or not, it seemed the easiest was always the one without words. ''Thank you.''<br /><br />As if to set him at ease, her other hand reached up to the ribbon binding her own hair and tugging it out, releasing it from its braid. The fingers of her other hand remained entwined in his hair as she found herself admiring it again, releasing it when he moved to shift under the coverings over the bed. Yes, it was not like the modern Tohsaka estate, and the lord's chambers were the single rebuilt room in the keep. With a hint of shyness, she nevertheless did not so much as hesitate to join him. Withstanding the cold or not, it was still far more pleasant to be warm...not to mention next to him.<br /><br />Lifting her hand again in a languid movement, she brushed strands of silvery blonde from his face in a gesture which easily became a caress, smiling with a warmth that was reserved for him alone. One home was forever lost to them, but – like the villagers – they could rebuild. Perhaps that was why she had been so moved; they had need of someone to lead them, and the knights had need of a home. And it would be, if he could begin to heal here. It could become like Camelot...or, even more importantly to her, that small farm nestled in the hills of the countryside of Britain.<br /><br />"Aye," she agreed. "It is."<br> <br>

:'''{{#var:482|Sir Bedivere (482)}} has posed:'''<br><span></span>While the introduction of modern construction techniques and equipment might have facilitated repairs that much sooner, the people here have no less pride and dignity than the knights watching over them – to swoop in and effect such sweeping changes would be an insult; not only to their abilities, but to all that they had lost, as well. Aside from his chronic mistrust of more advanced technology, Bedivere is wise to that, and he would not make such a misstep in his leadership.<br /><br />No. He is aware enough to realise that rebuilding is also a form of healing, for them. It brings them together, and it unites all of them; more than that, it serves to build trust between the people and their new lord. After all, they have had no say in the matter, for it was Alaia who had requested that Bedivere look after the castle and its people.<br /><br />Mention of Sir Kay brings the knight's eyes to hood, distant. He manages a half-smile, but the expression is wan. "I remember when he had asked for my help in sorting out the knight-aspirants who had come to join the court, not long after you had knighted me to the Round Table. He had been so flustered... ah, but I should not speak of him so. Sir Kay was a good man, and a good knight. I am glad you had such a brother to look after you."<br /><br />Her awkward expression of gratitude earns a slightly broader smile; he reaches up, and... lightly ruffles her hair, just as she had done to him in the recent past. "You are welcome, my lady." Even if she can't say it, he still understands her – he had never needed that supernatural bond to take her hidden meaning, even when she had not intended to speak.<br /><br />Slowly, those violet eyes drift nearly closed as she joins him, violet nearly hidden by pale lashes. He murmurs something vague and contented as he wraps the blankets around them both, not quite resigned to forming a coherent thought. It seems the winter-witch's appearance had knocked the very seasons out of their tracks, and though winter is slowly succumbing to the autumn it ''should'' be, winter has not yet released this place from its grip – and it will not be long before real winter sets in. If the demonstration of the winter-witch's power is any indication, it will be a winter to rival Camelot's harshest.<br /><br />Even summer nights will likely be cool, here; dimly, he finds himself grateful toward whatever thoughtful peasant had heaped such an impressive number of blankets onto the bed for their new lord. Kind of them.<br /><br />He seems about to say something, but she reaches up to brush his hair from his face, and his drowsy thoughts scatter once more as he leans into her touch. Although he's not paying particular attention, that smile of hers is answered with one similar, if considerably more tired. Though he huddles close to her, he reaches up to thread his own fingers through her hair, brushing strands of soft gold from her face. Even now it seems so odd to see her like that – as Arturia, the young woman, rather than the cold and imperious king.<br /><br />Rather than answer what they both already know. This place ''is'' home, a luxury neither of them had ever really thought they would have. He merely smiles, holding her close and burying his face into the sweet scent of her hair. He has enough left in him to settle the blankets more securely around them both, though; the cold is still sharp, and there is no fire in the hearth. When he settles back down, he simply watches her through hooded eyes for a moment, with that warm half-smile. His eyes drift closed even as he speaks, voice a tired murmur.<br /><br />"Rest well... my love..."<br /><br />It won't be long before she can feel him relax, though he stays where he is, comfortably entwined – but if she doesn't let herself drift off right away, she might note that his expression remains peaceful. In fact, he still has a hint of a smile on his face, even in sleep.<br> <br>
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