Scene #1571: The Bard and the Wizard

Owner	Pose
Sir Bedivere	Dun Realtai, the Fortress of the Stars, seems as though it would be a place of eternal winter. The seasons seem tilted in favour of ice and snow, particularly in the long, sunless months. There are hints here and there, though, that the worst of the season has perhaps passed by. Spring is in the cards, although it isn't here just yet. That ice and snow will someday melt. Short as it is, the sun has been out for the day, shining bleak and cold in the sky. The sky was still clear when it sank below the horizon, in fact, and the stars -- which the old castle had been sarcastially named after, thanks to the holes in its roof -- are visible, glimmering in the vast dark. Tonight finds the lord of the castle in the cavernous great hall, sitting in front of the fire. His harp is in his lap, and he plucks absently at the strings, staring into the fire with his eyes half-open and unfocused. It's a somber melody, thoughtful and introspective, without quite being melancholy. He hums along from time to time, but he seems distracted; deep in thought. Most of the servants have been dismissed for the evening, and Arturia has been busy conducting some mysterious business or another in the kitchen, leaving her marshal to fend for himself. Fend he does, practising his ancient art, though it seems he's more thinking than practising or playing; eyes distant.
Merlin	Well. There is much to consider about this particular place after all. He once was imprisoned in the earth, and has gained a remarkably objective understanding of just what the earth is, and can do. Spend a few dozen centuries or whatever locked in a bottle, and even Gawain would become a true expert in glass. Now admittedly there are a number of bottles that Merlin would not mind being locked into, at least for a little while, but that is neither here nor there and he's certainly not going to tell Bedivere. He might choose some other punishment someday, and Merlin wouldn't want to hurt his chances. But the ruminations of the wizard about what precisely makes Dun Realtai so special have led him to an interesting discovery. Initially he had plumbed the magical depths of the land to find perhaps a leyline, or other magical nexus. It was, after all a surprisingly fertile land despite the cold, and there was a reason that Alaiya chose it as her own. There had to be a reason the kelpie was turning the outer grounds into its own private racetrack as well; what was it that was drawing them? The wizard hadn't managed to find the answer to that particular riddle just yet. But he had found something interesting, and it quite behooves him to bring it to Bedivere's attention. After all, it is the knightly thing to do, he supposes. And Merlin /did/ sigh and accept Bedivere as his liege lord, after the poor young man's unfortunate hissy fit. Perhaps it worked out for the best, but really, the Lord of Dun Realtai simply needs to get /laid./ There truly was no better cure for being stressed out, and it was a remedy that the deeply attractive wizard was loathe to forsake. Maybe he should just get a subscription to a magazine or three, when Arturia wasn't looking. But those plans get suddenly put aside when the sound of music in the great hall reaches his ears, and the wizard smiles. It doesn't take long for him to settle in across from Bedivere, actually enjoying the meandering music. In a surprising sign of cooperation, Merlin joins in in a way - a small, glowing glittershitting ball of light begins to slowly bob and weave in time with the music, as if a tiny pixy had become intoxicated with the tune. The dance is almost kind of cute, as the little magical sparkles fall from it and fade into the nonexistence from which it came.
Sir Bedivere	The strains of the harp are soft, but there is a steely quality to the strings that nonetheless demands one's attention. When they're being struck with deliberation and purpose, they can be louder than one might think. And in the hands of a skilled musician, the simple wood and string instrument can transport its listeners to another time and place. He would not call himself a master magician, musician, or filidh, but slowly, Bedivere -- Fionnlagh -- is recovering what he had lost. "Master Merlin." The notes never stop, and Bedivere's gaze never quite recovers its sharpness. Indeed, his voice has a distracted quality to it, half his attention still on the strings, though his eyes do flick up to follow the faerie lights. "Run out of entertainment for the evening already, have you?" There is a slight, almost musical lilt to his voice -- he isn't speaking the Welsh that Camelot's court had spoken, that he himself had always spoken in Merlin's presence, previously, but the ancient Gaelic tongue of his homeland. Bit by bit, he's transforming from the cold-hearted and stone-faced marshal that he had been in Camelot, and into the person that he perhaps might have been, if he had never caught sight of Arturia in that market square... "What can I do for you?" He glances over to Merlin, quirking a brow. He must be relaxed, or simply spending to day relaxing, perhaps at Arturia's behest. His hair is unbound, and he wears the clothing of a commoner, dressed more for warmth than anything else. Perhaps the sun showed its face, today, but there wasn't much warmth to be gained by it.
Merlin	Just as the music goes, the dancing sprite follows. The louder, determined plucks get a much stronger gyration from the glowing ball of light, while the softer caresses of the harp get an equally gentle swing to and fro. Merlin himself just sits and enjoys the tune, not completely enraptured but certainly not ignorant of the harp. "Lord Bedivere." Merlin inclines his head in respect, though is it for his continuing to play while talking or is it the honor due a noble? Maybe it's just that he's seen one of Gawain's motorcycle magazines on the table. Hi raises his gaze to the sprite, smiling a little bit. "There is always entertainment around us. You should know that well; your harp has been a comforting pastime for more than just yourself. All musicians know how to make their own entertainment and share it with others, and take pride in what they do well." So do wizards. They just tend to play people instead of harps. The wizard finally scrutinizes the man across from him, and his eyes widen slightly. Peasant clothes? Hair long and undone? Playing random music? Being carefree and even colloquial in a way? Great Boudicca's bronze bra, is Bedivere /high?/ F**king hippies. Alas, Merlin couldn't be that lucky. The immense relaxation from the one-time knight is simply what proper rest can give a person, but it's still a side of the Lord of Dun Realtai that Merlin is surprised to see. Pleased, as well. "I might ask for a moment of your time, my lord. I think I have found something interesting about the land." He leans back, letting the sprite continue its dance. "I have been seeking the whys of this village. Alaiya. The Tylwyth Teg. The multiverse's presence so close. What Harkaitz wanted." He sighs deeply, showing a slight irritation on his face. "I first suspected a leyline, but it is proving ludicrously elusive. There is so much magic, you see. It is like trying to find a lake in the fog. One is surrounded by so much water that it's quite difficult to search." Merlin finally leans forward slightly, meeting Bedivere's gaze. "But I have found something of interest, especially with your plans for the future of the land and the people here. All this, once, long ago was volcanic. Molten rock, so hot it runs like spun sugar, the incandescent blood deep from the beating heart of earth's dragon itself. It lies deep, far too deep to be a danger." Blue eyes narrow slightly. "But it might just be an opportunity. Your...'tanuki' friend, young Miss Stadler. I inspected her work upon the ramparts, reforming the natural defenses of the land. Quite ingenious, and quite skilled. And the topic of a greenhouse she brought up, I see you've begun stockpiling tools and materials." Merlin's fingers steeple as his hands meet before him. "I can extract one fine filament of that dragonsblood and draw it near. Not to the surface...but enough to warm the land. A hot spring, perhaps. Something to prevent the very earth itself from succumbing to the frost."
Sir Bedivere	"I may have a moment for you," Bedivere murmurs, "but only if you will cease your titles and affectations. Call me simply Bedivere or call me by my other name -- if you have knowledge of it." A test, perhaps, to see how much the wizard knows? "But so long as it is simply you and I holding conversation, I see no need for such titles. I am a knight before I am a lord, and I am merely a servant of the king before even I am a knight." Perhaps the knight is in a slightly altered state, but it's not because of any external factors. He's simply deep in thought, thinking back of things that are long past, perhaps. Occasionally he could be found in such a state in Camelot, considering problems or solutions, or perhaps his duty. Yet there, he had never allowed his vaunted alertness to dim... a detail that it seems Merlin has noticed. No, he's not high. He's just relaxed; something he had never been able to do in that ancient kingdom, too concerned with the fate of the king, and the potential of attack. "That is something I had wondered myself." His voice is still distracted, and he still plucks at harp-strings. It's an ancient instrument, and in both his native Dal Riata culture and that of Wales, the only instrument whose associated musicians were afforded real status -- high status, second only to poets and judges; advisors to kings. He rests his head against the sounding board of the harp, eyes falling half-closed. "Mmmm. I could not come to an answer, myself. I am not so skilled in such arts as you are. If there is a more ordinary explanation, I have not yet thought of it. I suppose it will be made clear to us in time; I have thought on it as much as I might." He straightens, shaking his head and running a hand absently over the worn carvings on the harp's sounding board. One pale brow arches at that offer, the violet-eyed knight frowning slightly. "A single filament? And you are certain that will not do any harm? I suppose I see no harm in it, myself... but I would not do such a thing without conferring with Lady Alaia. It is her land, even if I am its steward." He rubs his jaw, though, suddenly thoughtful as he leans forward. Some of that alertness returns to his gaze, and he flicks his eyes back to the wizard. "Actually, it was Lady Toph that saw to the hill's reinforcement. She used her, ah, 'earthbending' to convert the hill from mud to stone. It is a spire, now, and only the wrath of a dragon could bring it down." There's some pride in his words. "I am in her debt, truly." "However, Lady Stadler will be helping to regrow the land. I believe it may be fertile, but there is nothing left to grow right now -- it is a barren wasteland beneath the snow, but it is my hope that she, with her gift, can reseed these hills. Once that is seen to, we may set to the real work of this place: Restoring the livelihood of its people." Settling his arms over the harp, he eyes Merlin, considering. "Mm. I would not mind that, and it would benefit the villagers, as well, I think. But we must speak with Lady Alaia, first. I will arrange a meeting, if you like."
Merlin	"Merely a moment it is." Well, it's not like Merlin isn't constantly reminding him that he has a new job now, so maybe he can get one evening off. "Bedivere it is. You should know better about simply dispensing your other name, however." Does Merlin know? The Mona Lisa smile doesn't leave his lips. "I am sure that Loros can speak to you of the power of a True Name...or perhaps Arturia as well." There are reasons deeper than simple tactical advantage that she keeps the name Saber still. The music continues, and Merlin smiles. It's a wistful sort of tune, he thinks, and one that is certainly relaxing. "Indeed. Such mysteries may be fun, for a time, but the longer they remain unsolved the more irksome and dangerous they become. It is, perhaps, like knowing an enemy remains in the field, but not from where he may strike. Interesting at first, before the threat becomes too great." The wizard shakes his head. "This is something that your power would not yet let you understand fully. It would be like trying to find a single ember while gazing into a smith's forge," Merlin elaborates. Mostly, anyway, he doesn't want Bedivere to start snooping around with Sight until he was truly a master of it. Besides, it's the sort of thing that would put a damper on Merlin's professional reputation were some neophyte child to find it. Hmpf, so that must be how those astronomers felt when they were upstaged by an amateur. "Just one. A hair of the dragon's heart," he adds, mixing metaphors - or is he? "Pulled slowly through the great cracks in the earth, drawn towards the surface but kept dormant. Were something to go wrong, oh...perhaps an invasion of giants or something, then yes there would be a danger. But I think we'd both agree that such a thing has dangers all their own, and unlikely to happen anyway. I forsee no true issues." Bedivere's mention of consulting with the spirit of the lake gets a nod. "I would agree with that. It is good to keep the land and its inhabitants in mind - all of them," says the half-incubus, as a reminder that he too is one that Bedivere might call fae. "I should not believe Lady Alaia would mind too terribly; I daresay even she would be put out by the opportunity to keep her lake from freezing completely." The clarification is noted with a nod, and as the music dies the sprite finishes its dance and slowly fades away. "Lady Toph, then. I see. Her skill is..." He ponders. "Impressive. And quite different from the sorts of magics that I might use, yet it is interesting to see the results. Nonetheless, yes...Lady Stadler's plans will benefit from such a thing. I would appreciate this meeting, Bedivere." Hey, even Merlin can be polite! Are the stars in such alignment that they've formed a single bright point of light outside? "Now, if I might request, would you continue playing? After all, it would not due to leave her quite unplucked, I would think." Merlin gestures to the harp, which fortunately does not do anything so strange as grow boobs. "And it has been a while since I have enjoyed the presence of a troubador, even..." Smirk. "One so young." Yup, still prettier than Bedivere, Merlin thinks as he buffs his fingernails.
Sir Bedivere	Bedivere leans forward over the harp, long fingers dancing absently over strings lit by hearth-light. "And at the same time, that is a name I have not identified with for over twenty years. Surely it is removed from the man I am today, for that person ceased to exist when I travelled to Albion. But I do not use that name, not unless there is need to hide the fact that I am also Bedwyr." He grimaces, slightly. "It would appear that even my meagre actions are remembered." In other words, his reputation precedes him. There have already been plenty of situations where it's been safer not to use his birth name. It is, like so many other things, merely another item in his toolbox when it comes to tactics. "A general does not leave his troops to rest when there are enemies yet in the field," Bedivere replies, mildly. "Camelot's wars were not won by indulging in such amusement, and if it is war that threatens us, I would be ready and know our enemies. Such unknowns are troubling, not amusing, especially when our position hangs so delicately in the balance." Fingers dance over the harp strings, and silence falls for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the hearth-fire and Merlin's quiet words. "I will leave the investigation in your capable hands," he finally says. He himself lacks the experience or training to handle such delicacy. It also keeps Merlin amused, but most importantly, he does trust Merlin to handle serious matters like these with the proper amount of gravitas. Strings dance, or perhaps his fingers do, in the flickering firelight. The harp is set to singing softly as Bedivere considers. Evidently he finds no quarrel in drawing up a hair of the dragon's heart, so long as the land's guardian spirit has no quarrel with it, and so he offers no more comment on that. "I am four and thirty years, wizard," he comments mildly, fingers still dancing about the strings. "Just as our king. Though I suppose your view of such things is skewed. Very well. I will keep playing. It costs me nothing to do so while I speak." Silence falls again, broken only by the soft notes of the harp. The music is slow and thoughtful, almost melancholy; somehow reminiscent of grey shores and fog banks. "I am in a generous mood. You asked once about my days in Dal Riata," he offers, still soft, as though reluctant to drown out the harp strings. "If you still have questions about that, or anything else, then ask them to me and I will answer."
Merlin	"That may be so." As Bedivere plays, Merlin relaxes, letting his fingers fall to his lap. He listens to both the man's music and his beliefs, and sighs sadly. "Were that the case. Magic does not follow many rules, and makes many more entirely its own. A true name, one given at the first breath of existence, may yet hold power despite trying to shed it. There are legends..." Sigh. "There are legends of my kind who attempted to shed their birth names, to deny that sort of control to others. Some were successful. Others...I have been known as Merlin for centuries, and yet if someone spoke my truest name I would be in danger." He glances off to the wall, looking at an errant tapestry. "Did you know, in our old home? The people far across the channel, even far past the Viking lands, of the great eastern plains. They had no word for what we call the bear, because to use its true name was to invite its power and presence. They call it the Eater of Honey, and nothing else, or they are consumed." The wizard utters a whisper, silencing his voice for a moment so that only lips may be read. "Urkthr. The Destroyer." Merlin glances back to Bedivere, nodding as the music continues. "Achilles had his heel. Magic...has names. And names are power, no matter how old they are. Don't let down your guard, is all I will lecture you on." The fire crackles, and the wizard smiles. "I will report to you my findings soon. I believe the outcome will be positive to all, and it might be nice to deal with someone other than the Tylwyth Teg. They can be...curiously intractable, in some ways." Pots and kettles. "Though I suppose that also makes me uniquely qualified to be the one to approach them, would it not? Well. At least Lady Alaya is far more pleasant to speak with." Eyebrows raise in amusement. "Perhaps you are of such age, indeed. Then again, as you say, my perspective might be...a bit skewed. Were your young squire to declare his old age and maturity, I imagine you might feel as I." Miffed? Hardly, but it's fun to put on airs. "However, I gratefully accept your continued playing. I can see why the Lady Arturia is so fond of it." And then Bedivere whips it out. "Oh ho? Is this to be a confessional perhaps? Hmmm." He considers, long and wondering. The young man bears no Crest, but yet there is an innate bloodline running in his body of magic. Just like his squire, curiously. Merlin takes in the man's playing once more, noticing the sigils on his hand. "Tell me of your parents, then. I would like to know of their abilities in the arcane, especially. The burden you bear is one that would destroy many, were they not of magical lineages. It still continues to intrigue me."
Sir Bedivere	"I appreciate your concern," Bedivere states solemnly, even as his fingers continue to ply the harp's strings. His eyes close, briefly, proving he doesn't even need to see them. He's had plenty of time to practise since moving on from Camlann and Camelot. He offers a faint smile, eyes opening to regard Merlin for a brief instant. "But you need not worry so. When have I ever been known to let my guard down, in Camelot, or anywhere else? That is why I was chosen as marshal, Master Merlin; precisely because I did not let down my guard." It was an invaluable skill, both then and now, although it can be as much of a hindrance in Dun Realtai. "Lady Alaia was once human, and that is likely what comes to your mind. She is no longer so, of course, and I do not think she has been for a very long time. But she remembers what it was to be human, and I think that she tries to remember that, when dealing with the people she had left behind." He looks to the strings, watching firelight glance off them. "It makes negotiations easier. In truth, I was not expecting such positive relations, the first time we came to this place." "He is not my squire," Bedivere points out with one eye half-opening and the other remianing closed, "and he is no older than ten and seven years, surely. I have offered to him the option to become my squire, but he has not accepted, and I did not expect him to. It is quite a leap for someone of his era, I think." The unspoken part is that it's quite a leap for Bedivere, too, who had never before accepted a squire; too dedicated to Arturia's safett, and too unwilling to accept such a heavy weight hung from his heart. He would not have been able to forgive himself if his own squire were to suffer; and in Camelot, he could not have guaranteed a squire's safety -- either from the harsh realities of battle, or from the treacherous political waters of the court. He had never said so, but those had been his reasons -- perhaps Merlin had guessed at that, given how gentle the marshal's hidden soul has always been. "Confessional? No. I would seek out Lady Jeanne if that were the case," Bedivere answers, fixing Merlin with that half-open eye again. "My parents? Hm. Very well." "Aoife of the Laughing Eyes, my mother was called. Perhaps a trite sobriquet, but it was true; always she seemed to have a laugh behind her eyes and her words. She was a skilled weaver and crafter of stone, and it was she who crafted these." He indicates the stud in his left ear. "She was patient and kind, and it was she whom I learned from in everyday matters." He looks thoughtful for a moment, frowning at his harp. "I do not know that she knew the art of the filidh, personally, for she did not teach me. If she had any such talents, I did not know of them at the time, although I wonder now if she may have, and I did not observe the signs." Bedivere, missing something? That seems unlikely; even as a child, he had been uncommonly observant. "Séaghdha, my father was called, for he had eyes like a hawk's." The name, indeed, could be taken as 'hawk-like.' "I know he was a filidh. And I know that he was an incredibly talented one. He had the awen, but..." He lowers his eyes to the harp, thoughtful. "I do not think he knew the difference between what had been, and what was, and what would be. He was distant. He did not always know that my brother and I were about; sometimes he did not even notice his wife, I think." "I did not begrudge him that." Bedivere smiles, striking a graceful run on the harp's strings. "After all, the filídh are the advisors to kings, are they not? He brought honour to us, with the awen, and he was a fine musician, as well. It is from him that I learned that craft."
Sir Bedivere	He studies the strings, letting them fall silent for a few brief seconds. "I cannot tell you much of my parents' parents. I know little of them, for I left before I could learn more of them." He smiles, although the expression is a little weary; a little pained. "I... have some hope. Apparently Dál Riata is not lost to me, but it is as finding a needle in a field of haystacks. Even if it is found, that is if my parents yet live. And I..." His fingers hesitate over the strings. "I do not know that I can face them with my head held high."
Merlin	It is good that Bedivere appreciates Merlin's concern. The wizard is, in his own way, fond of his playthings and were someone to break them he'd have to start all over again. Et cetera, et cetera, at least it's what Merlin might suspect Bedivere's thought processes go toward. But the wizard doesn't do anything to bring up - or for that matter, counter - the thought, and just enjoys the music instead. No need to drive a lesson too far, lest it go right past the learner. "This is quite true. You could no more be surprised by someone than a falcon miss its prey. And you served as Marshal with distinction, just as you do now." Merlin smiles, letting the music fill the hall. The compliment is simple, and without barb for once; it's quite strange. Whatever peaceful mentality has settled over Bedivere has also done the same to the wizard. Not that he minds, of course. One pale eyebrow lifts in cuiosity. "No longer so...but she would remember, yes. I might well do the same...I know I did for some time, when I was imprisoned. A century is a very long time, Bedivere. Many of them is unthinkable. It is not good to be immortal..." His voice trails off wistfully, as he thinks about it - and eventually a small smile spreads across his face. "But perhaps it isn't so bad." Smirk. "And well...with all due respect, Sir Bedivere, at the time it was truly yourself, or extinction. Fortunately I see you managed to rise to the occasion, performing passably..." The disdain on his face is comically serious. "But I for one am glad she holds to her former life. There are others....that do not. For a number of means, and a number of ends." And the less said about that, the better. Merlin listens carefully. There was much among the filidh that had been enchanting, and Merlin had spent no small time "studying" them and their ways. A stoneworker, one of consummate skill, and an awen. If the stoneworker were one to create such fine jewelry, perhaps her skill came from more than simple practice. And in that case, the magically-well-endowed knight were the product of two bloodlines merging and forming something new. Aoife...Seaghdha... "The signs are not one someone would always notice. Especially one without awareness of them. Yes, I admit, there is magic that leaves its traces upon the land in great and glorious ways, but there are also the fine, little magics that would not be impossible to conceal even from me." He raises a hand. "An exceptional child may see something particular about a horse, perhaps, a twitch of one muscle or another. But it takes one trained to understand what it means - and, for a magician's way, to understand it is truly a thing of the arcane or just a minor coincidence." And most coincidences are simply the subtle magics, for no wizard takes chance upon what must be guaranteed. This is why noone ever plays strip-chess against Merlin, despite his not infrequent offers. The knight speaks of a desire deep in his heart, and his fears. Bedivere gave him the opportunity, and as a knight must hold to it. Merlin picks up the opportunity, makes his way to the end-zone, and spikes it like a football. "Why?"
Sir Bedivere	Such amicable moods are rare, for the marshal trusts few. He had never fully trusted the king's advisor, either, always certain that the wizard had acted in the interest of his own inscrutable goals. Amusement was never a satisfactory answer, and it was the only one he could ever guess. Still, he is tired, and he is not always up to the energy required for a verbal sparring match. Tonight, he's content to leave sleeping dragons lie. He even bows his head and accepts the praise graciously, eyes flickering closed for a moment. "But it was not for myself that I served, as it is not now. But I thank you, all the same." His eyes open, fingers flicking briefly across the harp's strings. The sudden smile he shows is thin. "It is not exactly something I can disable..." Well, in spite of Arturia's occasional pleading, anyway, when he notices something embarrassing, or makes her self-conscious studying her. "I am glad that she remembers." He looks down, fingers dancing across the strings, coaxing a soft, melancholy series of chords from it. "It is by her grace that we may remain here, and that my king and I have found something approaching a home." A soft smile; almost fond. "I confess I had hoped she would allow us to remain, when she assumed guardianship again. I am glad for that. Dun Realtai has grown on me, in spite of the cold." To the matter of signs, he considers in silence for a few moments, and the harp seems to play of its own accord as Merlin explains subtle hints and traces. Evidently he has nothing to say about that, though. It's well beyond his area of expertise. Merlin is the authority, and Loros, in such matters as these. He may be the authority in horses, indeed -- he had on occasion personally acquired King Arthur's splendid cavalry horses and bloodlines, once upon a time -- and comparing the two would be like asking Merlin to name the finest confirmational points of a cavalry charger. He cocks his head, strumming the harp strings again. The tune turns somewhat melancholy, violet eyes hooding; the lack of focus suggests that he's not seeing the hearth in front of them, or the harp settled in his lap. "Because I chose," he murmurs. "The night I left Dál Riata was the night I did not return. It was the last time I saw my mother. When my father and his entourage left Camelot to return home, that was the last time I saw him, or my father's brother. I left them, I turned my back on my path as a filidh, for something that could not even last." He smiles, faintly, but it seems a little sad. "I never even sent a message to them; never visited. I do not even know if they yet live." "And even then, when it was all over, I could not even return there. I left Camlann and must have joined the multiverse then. The woods became unfamiliar... I wandered for five years, wizard, and I wandered grieving. I could not retrace my steps now even if I returned to the place I roamed. I do not even know what I would be looking for, so finding my way back to that place... it is nearly impossible." He sighs, shaking his head. "But I chose. Perhaps it may not mean much to you, wizard; you are not fully human, and I do not think that you had family as we do. I turned my back on them, wizard. How can I return with my head held high when I chose a foreign place and a hostile people over my own home and blood?"
Merlin	Merlin is indeed always acting in the interests of his goals. Fortunately for those around him, their well-being tends to be one of his goals. Unfortunately for those around him, their well-being tends to be one of his more distant goals. Fortunately for Merlin, making your own amusement was quite easy. And he certainly will treasure the amusement of one entirely broomstick-shatteringly-relaxed Bedivere. Conversation drifts to Lady Alaiya, and Merlin can't help but smirk. "I imagine so. I understand, at the time you were rather...indisposed as far as a place to stay." How elegantly british a way to compress five years of wandering a war-torn wasteland, a national shambling zombie of what once remained of Camelot itself. "I suppose she bears some connection to the townspeople, more than a simple spirit of the land. She may well be family thereof; it certainly would explain her struggle in the face of near disaster." But it's speculation, at least for now. "I admit, it might still be a bit of a project, but it seems...worthwhile. Perhaps it's something you needed as well. Dun Realtai saved you. And Arturia. Just as you both saved it." A cryptic sort of statement, but one that's also a test - can Bedivere divine his meaning? Probably, if he's as smart as he's supposed to be. "But it /was/ for yourself," he finally says. "Why you served. Why you left your home. You did what you did for the oldest need of men." The half-incubus lets a slow, very deliciously wide smirk cross his face. "You said once before, the moment you saw her, you knew. You sought it...and, in the end," he adds with a wave in the direction of the room where the lion sleeps toniiight, "you followed the distant path of many men. Adventure, exploration, riches, and - in your case - love." He lets his smile expand wider, knowing he's got Bedivere right in position. Mated, one might say.
Sir Bedivere	Rather than argue the point, Bedivere just fixes a look on Merlin, one that's both weary and exasperated, although it isn't quite energetic enough to be properly annoyed. One could say that he was indisposed in that manner, yes. He had been looked after by the Union and given a place to stay, but it was no more than that; just a place to lay his head at night. Not until he had reunited with Arturia had he really found his desire to live again, or to allow himself to heal the damage done his spirit. "She does. She was once of their number, if I am to understand her story correctly." Bedivere strums the harp strings idly and looks to the hearth-fire with unfocused eyes. "A human, like the others. She pled with the Otherworld when she nearly met death away from her village, and in exchange for her mortality, she became its guardian." He strums the strings again, gently. "She has served thus ever since; from what she has implied, it has been a number of generations since. Any who have direct relation to her likely do not bear a strong resemblance at this point. Indeed, if she had children of her own. I am not certain, but it seemed to me that she may have been young when this happened... but one can never be certain, with the Tylwyth Teg." When the topic falls away, returning to things more uncomfortable, he looks away from both the fire and the wizard, not quite frowning. "Aye, and that is why it troubles me. It was for myself." He risks a brief glance at Merlin. "And do not make it sound so uncouth. I would never take advantage of my king. Search your heart, and mine; you know that much to be true. I am not of Albion but I am also not some savage sea-wolf from the coast." Perhaps he does have a touch of their blood in his veins, though, to go by that complexion. He looks away. "It was not so much that I sought it so much that I could not avoid it. I could not have returned to Dál Riata after that," he murmurs. "I would have been haunted by that vision of her for the rest of my life. It was test, as it has all been, up until now, though I do not know how I fared." Fingers dance over the strings, but the melody is disjointed; uneasy. "But I do not know that I can return to my homeland. I chose, Master Merlin. I /chose/, and for all I know, it could have turned on Camelot in the end. I could have chosen the enemy. It has been over twenty years, and I am not certain that I can return there with any pride."