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Sir Bedivere   Once upon a time, there was a brave king who created a Round Table, at which sat knights just as brave as the king. Where most nobles and knights had wielded their strength without a care to the people they used it against, these Knights of the Round Table had used their strength in defense of the defenseless, and to help those less fortunate than themselves. They fought with distinction and honour, and served as role models for what the ideal and height of human courage and dignity should be.

  They looked to their selfless king as an example of what knighthood should have been. Together, they all helped to uphold these codes of chivalry and honour, and they attempted to spread far and wide this message of chivalry from the citadel at Camelot.

  But the world was not ready for this ideal.

  By the end of the tale, the honourable knights had fallen to ruin, and so too had the kingdom that they had striven so hard to create. Britain was not ready to accept such selflessness in its ruling class; the nobility fought hard against the king's edicts at every turn. The last straw came when the Traitor Knight, Sir Mordred, instigated a rebellion. There were many all too ready to cast down the inhuman king who and these strange ideals.

  Many years ago, the ash settled over Camelot, and the world would not know such chivalry and honour again, gathered in one place.

  The multiverse, on the other hand, is a place of pure possibility.

  Although it could hardly be compared to time-lost Camelot, the territory of Dun Realtai has begun to develop quite a reputation for itself, namely as a safe place of haven, rest, and neutral ground; that its protectors and overseers are just, kind, and generous. It is, in essence, exactly the sort of thing that Camelot had wished it could be; that it had striven to be, for so many long and painful years.

  It's almost as though it were the dream shared by so many of those honourable knights; realised, at last, in part.

  To outward appearances, Dun Realtai is like any other mediaeval territory, with familiar architecture and lifestyle similar to many others. What crops are left are in harvest, and many have begun chopping wood to store for the winter's fuel. The sun is low on the horizon, and the roads are no longer busy with people going about their business -- indeed, a lone traveller would be immediately noticeable on the avenue.
Lancer of Silver     It's distant, the sound of steel. Of metal clanking and clinking. But it increases steadily in volume as the source of the persistent sound draws nearer. Said source may well be noticed visually before auditorily, given the absence of congregations upon the road. But even with other people around, it would be hard to miss a tall figure in knight's armor, wreathed in smoking shadows, and glaring red illumination shining from within. Crimson like madness made light, armor like a cage to contain it.

    The edges of the form are indistinct, blurred, location almost seeming to shift around wildly when the eye tries to affix upon it. The knight radiates the unmistakeable magical presence of a Servant. A strong one. And that knight stops along the road at one point to look upon the village around it, observing what has been wrought here, the homes, anyone who is not yet indoors, the piles of wood prepared for a complication of season that can be quite cruel to mortals...

    But the Servant is not a mortal. Not anymore. And that reminder of the difference between what was and what is pulls the knight forth from any nostalgic reminiscence, and sends the glowing red visor opening of its helmet facing forwards once more. The Servant continues to advance.

    Clank. Clank. Clank.

    The sound of the protectives of war accompany, precede, and follow. Just like the Servant's present, future, and past have likewise been filled with the echoes of humanity's darker aspects, no matter what noble ideal the instrument or bearer might have been forged to accomplish.
Saber      It is within the walls of this village and keep at once modern and ancient where several Servants have either made their home or long-term residence, each one a knight of some manner or other. It would be difficult for anyone with any sort of magic senses to feel the accumulated power in the place, perhaps drowning out the more subtle pull of the Fair Folk and leylines within the earth itself. For a magus of some skill, however, it would be impossible to ignore.

     But the reverse was likewise true; those Servants could easily sense the presence of another should he or she approach. There was no need for wards or other subtle magecraft which might almost upset the other magical denizens of the land who had been here first. The moment another Servant -- a powerful one, at that -- came into range, that presence was easily picked up by one such Heroic Spirit.

     The lady of the land herself. The Once and Future King of Britain.

     At the moment, Arturia Pendragon had been looking over a ledger tracking the seed stores for next year's plantings, seated in what was for her an indolent posture. Another would perhaps have seemed rigid and alert, but for one who had lived almost all her life projecting the image of a perfect king, she was entirely relaxed. Her casual attire of a think blue sweater and black cotton leggings -- her hair unbound and loose around her shoulders -- completed the relaxed air. An air that was dispelled once she sensed a Servant approach, straightening standing from her seat to move to the nearest window.

     "There is a Servant on his way here," she observed to her Master distractedly as her eyes scanned the landscape for their newest visitors.
Sir Bedivere   Once upon a time, the man who had served as the king's most trusted advisor and military leader had been a cold and unreachable man, as impassive and seemingly unfeeling as his king. He had been both above reproach, never responding to his detractors, but he had also been unapproachable and aloof to the very people he served.

  One would hardly recognise the Left Hand of the King, now. Dressed in the clothing of a commoner, the knight looks more like a commoner, wearing a hempen roughspun tunic and leggings, as well as old and well-worn boots. He'd been checking over his armour, the familiar plate worn by the Marshal of the Realm in Camelot; something his brother-knights would undoubtedly recognise, but his head snaps up as soon as his king and Servant makes her declaration.

  "A Servant?" He raises a brow, looking up from checking over a gauntlet.

  The old armour is much-battered, but slowly it's been mended back into serviceable condition; battered but still gleaming. At once he starts pulling on the pieces, donning the heavy plate armour with startling speed and surety. Some things are impossible to forget.

  "Then let us go to meet them." What he doesn't say is that unidentified Servants make him nervous. He doesn't trust unidentified Servants, because one of those unspoken fears of his is for Saber to be dragged into someone else's Grail War -- by proxy himself, of course, but his fear is more of losing her; not of being drawn into another wearisome battle.

  He frowns, flexing his fingers into his gauntlet. "We will make them welcome, but before we do," he murmurs, glancing to her, "I should like to see the mettle of them. I am uneasy hosting so many Servants in this place. Sooner or later one of them is bound to take their conflict with them."

  He pulls on his sword belt, the same scabbard and blade he had wielded in Camelot; the same battered, notched blade he had originally trained with, infamous for its lightness and length -- lighter and longer than most knights' swords, wielded as ably with one or two hands, instead of the heavier blades preferred by the likes of Gawain or his own brother, Lucan.

  Lips thinning, he finally throws his white cloak over his shoulders, the same that had marked him a high-statured servant of the king.

  "My lady," he murmurs, inclining his head to her. The gesture is unspoken: 'Shall we go?'

  He'll wait for her to be ready before nearly jogging down the stairs, one hand clamped against his sword to keep it from rattling in its scabbard. His walk is brisk as they make their way over the path, down the hill to where the black-armoured Servant ascends...

  ...although he doesn't know who that Servant is, that Servant might well recognise /him/ -- as though the silver-haired Left Hand of the King had stepped from memory itself.
Lancer of Silver     The black knight continues to advance towards the hill, until it takes note of others approaching. The sense of other Servants in the area was something he was already aware of. But one is coming forth to meet him. Well, so much for the better. Approaching openly receives a greeting in kind, without being seen as some spy or knave. Though that does not necessarily mean the greeting will be friendly, just open. The sight of at least one of the figures approaching causes the knight to stop where he is, the long black streamer-like strip arcing up from the ebon helmet moving minutely in whatever air currents there may be, or even with the wearer's own motion, as he tracks that person...

    Someone familiar to the Servant. A face that was never expected to be seen again.

    A black-gauntleted finger twitches off to the side. But no hostile action is being taken. Merely waiting... The one that the Servant can see does not appear to be a Servant... So that means the presence approaching is...

    The crimson visor turns to watch for it. Already suspecting. If HE is here, then...!
Saber      The King of Knights knew her marshal well...so well, in fact, that many times neither had the need to speak at all. She knew his mannerisms just as he knew hers, their understanding only increasing as the two had at last been free to cast their masks aside. Though they had been feared on the battlefield for their seemingly preternatural ability to synchronise their movement and attacks, it was only in Dun Realtai that this synchronicity had become almost telepathic. There was little they kept from each other, typically nothing more than mere oversights in their current schedules. She knew instinctively he would be worried over the presence of a new Servant.

     In turn, Saber rested a light hand on his arm once he had donned his white cloak, part of what had been his uniform as a Knight of the Round Table. When he spoke, she silently nodded in agreement, though even that silence might as well have been words. /I do not sense any ill intent, but we must be cautious./

     Though she lacked the paranoia of five years past, she was nevertheless wary when it came to the defence of their home. She left little to chance until she met with those who would be visitors either friendly or hostile.

     With one last light squeeze on Bedivere's arm, Saber descended the stairs and followed out through the doors of the keep...and stopped short at the sight of the knight in the familiar black armour. For a moment, confusion seemed to flicker across her features as Saber seemed frozen in place.

     Yet, the moment passed quickly, and before perhaps anyone had any time to react, the tiny knight-king broke into a run toward the knight. And likely to everyone's completeand utter confusion, the black-armoured knight would suddenly find those tiny arms around him and hugging him tightly with her equivalent of a grin on her face.

     "It has been too long! And so much has happened since your last visit, my friend..."
Sir Bedivere   Frowning, the silver-haired knight slows to a halt before the opposing Servant, canting his head ever so slightly to one side. Those sharp eyes, which had missed so little in Camelot, now seem baffled at the inability to recognise it. Something about that armour is so familiar, just on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite place it--

  In that instant, Arturia sprints past him, straight into the arms of the black knight.

  "My lady, /no/--!"

  There are several things wrong with this scenario.

  First, the Left Hand of the King had never referred to his king with such a casual title, so often saved for lords courting their favoured ladies; he had always referred to her simply as 'my king,' or 'my lord,' distancing himself verbally.

  Second, the King of Knights is rushing forward to embrace what ought to be a complete stranger.

  Third, Bedivere is now wearing an expression of horror, even as he stares at the concealed Knight of the Lake -- whom he clearly does not recognise -- and his king. His hand is clamped around the hilt of his sword, but he does not yet draw; a mannerism that might also be hauntingly familiar. Of all the king's kngihts, he had always been the very last to draw his sword, although he had been deadly once he had chosen to take that last step.

  For now, though, all he can do is stare in horror, paralysed, as though completely at a loss for what to do. He can't yet attack someone who has not yet shown aggression towards this place, yet he's horrified by Arturia's impulsiveness -- yet his loyalty and his protectiveness of her demand that he do /some/thing. All he can do is stand there, trembling slightly, armour clanking at the sound.

  Another first, perhaps, for the Knight of the Lake, to see an expression of naked fear on the Marshal of the Realm's face.
Lancer of Silver     The mysterious Servant, though not displaying his shock outwardly, was already feeling the impact of seeing Bedivere again. Seeing Arturia before him, even if not in the form of the King that he knew the face of so much more thoroughly, adds another layer of shock. And then further when she rushes forth and embraces the much taller, still-shrouded Servant. And this final nail in the proverbial coffin manifests as a creaking sound. The sound of the armor's metal bending and straining as though its wearer were fighting against it from within, straining against unseen bindings.

    The knight's whole body is trembling, metal-sheathed fingers twitching, jerking, spasming at his sides, like the legs of a steel spider. The red glow from within seems to increase in intensity for several moments as a rumbling sound of a voice comes forth.

    It is closer to the sound of Berserker than any Lancelot Saber once knew.

    But the freak-out that might have been expected from Berserker by Saber of five years prior ends there. The knight settles, regaining composure. If not uncontrollable rage that motivated that response, then what? Some other intense emotion?

    Suddenly, the shroud dissipates, the pitch-and-fury shading to the armor becoming less harsh. The red light within goes out as hands move smoothly up towards the Servant's helmet, and lift it upwards. Dark-purple hair spills forth, and the shocked, and yet somehow subdued and morose face of Lancelot is revealed.

    Uncertain how to respond to this strange behavior being exhibited, he settles for raising a hand and hesitantly placing it on Saber's shoulder. His gaze travels from the King he pledged to serve and betrayed, to Bedivere, taking in all the bizarre changes to THIS old companion as well. But his words are for both of them.

    "It has been far, far too long."

    After several moments, he attempts to separate himself from Saber, gently moving himself back (unless she remains clung onto him), in an attempt to gain the space to kneel. "I have much to beg forgiveness for, my King. Lord Marshal. And now I must add another to my tally, by forgoing making penance in order to ask a favor." His gaze is down, unable to meet the gaze of his King. "My Master wishes to speak with you."

    He does not explain beyond that. Perhaps he assumes that no matter what changes have taken place, that King and Marshal would understand the significance of this, with Saber herself a Servant.
Saber      Alas, in her joy at the Knight of the Lake's return, Arturia neglected to take into account that Bedivere would not have recognised him in what was to her familiar armour. It had puzzled her that he had reappeared as he had; as a Saber-class Servant of a Seventh War in a distant future which had strangely Unified before she had, Lancelot typically wore a suit similar to hers when travelling. Then again, he had mentioned a need to see his own Grail War through, even going so far as to disguise himself as Mordred when they reunited in the multiverse.

     That alone had been a shock, seeing him no longer under the Madness Enhancement and asking for reconciliation. The petite knight had simply assumed he had made his way back to her again in spite of the demands of his own quest. She had been too overjoyed to notice the small details she would have otherwise noticed.

     But her first indication something was wrong had been the trembling. Arturia had expected a soft laugh and perhaps some teasing like the last time they had sparred. The jade-eyed knight pulled away, frowning in confusion as the shroud dissipated and the knight removed his helmet, resting a hand on her shoulder. That confusion only deepened as he knelt before her as she scrutinised the Right Hand of the King before her. Her eyes flicked over him, studying those small details before her head turned back to Bedivere as if finally noticing his presence. "I...."

     She turned back to Lancelot then, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. Though she suspected she knew what the answer would be, she had to be certain. "Your Master...has Lady Catherine been victorious?"

     The sinking feeling in her gut was that Lancelot -- this Lancelot -- would be unfamiliar with that name. Lancelot's Master...though not this version of the Knight of the Lake.
Sir Bedivere   Before the silver-haired knight has the opportunity to draw his sword, the visitor removes his helm, baring features that are at once familiar and foreign. Familiar, because he had known the Right Hand of the King well, as well as two men so aloof with one another could; united in their devotion to the king, and their respect of one another's skills.

  The old sword dips until the point touches the dust, and Bedivere stares in haunted silence.

  When last he'd seen Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake had rescued Guinevere from her own execution. He had not been right, perhaps, even then; caught between the tidal forces of both duty and love. And how could Bedivere himself fault the man? He himself had been caught between those polestars, although he could not act on the latter, bound as he was to the former.

  Bedivere had been devoted to his king, hopelessly stricken with the woman he had secretly known her to be, but bound to keep both her secret and her reputation -- a secret that, to his knowledge, he had been but one of a few to be privy to.

  The tension seems to bleed out of him once it's clear who it is he stands before. Instead, the suspicion and the anxiety are replaced with pain, expression twisting into one of regret.

  "My brother; my Right Hand..." His voice is just as soft, almost but not quite effeminate, as it always was; just another detail straight out of memory. "It has been too long," he agrees, softly. "It has been far too long."

  The sword is decisively sheathed, hilt clicking into place at the cap of the scabbard. He glances back to Arturia, cautiously, before turning his pale, grey-violet eyes back to Lancelot, solemn.

  "Then you too are a Servant." Curiously, he doesn't seem to feel like a Servant, to the Lancer's senses -- but he takes a step forward nonetheless, and would seem informed about such matters. How? "Speak," he murmurs, watching Lancelot; not quite suspiciously, but warily, unable to completely quell his unease. "We are listening."
Lancer of Silver     Very minutely, the brow of the Knight of the Lake tightens in both confusion and some other tension. Perhaps he suspects he is being tested. The reaction from his King indicates his behavior is certainly not what she expected. Volunteering a false name to see if he would attempt deception by claiming to know this person... Yes, it very well could be a test. But would Arthur Pendragon engage in such a ploy, with her honor and forthrightness?

    She masqueraded as a man for a greater purpose. And Lancelot himself has engaged in deception for a noble cause. But somehow he would have expected Bedivere to be the one to test him, due to his vigilance and clever mind. He would have expected the King to be the one who passed judgment afterwards.

    The answer, regardless of if there is a test or not, is honest as it should be.

    "I do not recognize that name."

    Well, there it is then. The final evidence. This is a different man, and yet also the same. When bidden to speak by Bedivere, he continues on to say, "My Master has summoned me to take place in the 'Fifth Grail War', in Fuyuki City. I am permitted to answer any question necessary to allay suspicion, but she will not approach until I have informed her she is permitted to be here."

    Lancelot lifts his head somewhat, still not able to look Arturia in the face, but at least managing to find his eyes towards Bedivere, sword sheathed, waiting to hear what dire news has been brought to his doorstep. "She knows of my personal history, or a version of it, and has heard of Dun Realtai and its guardians: just; kind; and generous. It was thought best for me to request an audience on her behalf."

    He leaves unsaid the possibility that after what he had done, they might turn him away, or worse. He likely understood that when he accepted the quest he was given.
Saber      When Lancelot admitted that he did not recognise the name, Arturia smiled, yet it was a bittersweet expression. "I see," she replied after a moment. "Forgive my forthrightness, then..I did not intend to alarm you."

     She stepped back then, with what perhaps both men would recognise as some self-consciousness. Yet, though the tiny blonde appeared inwardly embarrassed, the familiar stoic mask she had worn throughout her reign nevertheless did not return. He was not the Knight of the Lake she had been reunited with several years ago, but he was still Lancelot. Perhaps they could reconcile again, just as they had with the shadows of the Fourth War receding...a War in which she had been forced to slay him by her own hand. His last words to her before his form dissipated had been at once sad and mildly chiding; /Such a troublesome person.../

     But there was no longer a need, not for her. How that would affect the Servant who was no longer a Berserker in his War, however, remained to be seen. His motivations had surely changed, but what was his current wish? Was his Grail similarly corrupted, and would he be forced to fight another of his fellow Knights, or even perhaps another version of Arturia herself? Though her mask had been cast aside, she buried all these worries as she returned to Bedivere's side.

     Perhaps that, more than anything, was the most obvious sign that things had changed.

     Sea-green eyes flick to Bedivere with the question remaining unspoken. As much as she seemed to grant hospitality to anyone who demonstrated enough honour, this situation was much more complicated. For her part, she would have extended that hospitality in a heartbeat, different version of Lancelot or no. He would always be her friend, regardless of what had happened. If anything, she should be begging his forgiveness all over again. Later, perhaps...but for now, the question of what to do remained. /This is your decision to make,/ she implied to Bedivere. After all, he had not had the same chance at reconciliation.
Sir Bedivere   Once upon a time, the Left Hand of the King would have remained in the shadows, adopting a subservient position at Arturia's left hand, slightly behind her. Now, he does not move as she retreats to stand at her side -- a most curious detail that would likely not escape Lancelot. Neither would he miss the red bloodstone studs Bedivere had always worn in his ears -- Bedivere only wears one of them, in his left ear; and Arturia wears one of them in her right. Even more curious.

  Details, details -- things that had never escaped Bedivere, but the Knight of the Lake was equally perceptive in his own way. The small things rarely escaped him, although Bedivere was perhaps more carefully focused on them.

  Few knew the depths of his perception; for where Lancelot looked for details and noticed them, Bedivere rarely if ever spoke of the things that he had often noticed. Finally, the silver-haired knight shifts his weight, a flick of his gauntleted hand settling his cloak more securely about his shoulders, aware for a moment of the night's chill.

  He looks distinctly uncomfortable with the burden of choice left upon his shoulders, and that too is an incongruous detail. Never had he accepted a duty with anything less than total confidence. Something twitches at the corner of his mouth.

  /I am uncertain./ The implication is clear to Arturia, although his discomfort is so keen that even Lancelot might well notice. /This is not the same./

  Somewhat hesitantly, he studies Lancelot for a long moment. It's the very same look that had befallen so many unfortunate nobles whose sincerity Bedivere had once doubted; the same look he had given Saxons before the moment in which they met over the battle lines -- the look of the silver-haired knight deciding, in an instant, whether the person before him is a threat or not; and if so, how most quickly and efficiently to /dispatch/ him. Yet there is discomfort, too, for this is not just a nameless and faceless man before him, but the very one who had served the king with as much dedication as he; who had borne as much pain as either king or marshal.

  Bedivere agonises in silence for a moment, brow furrowed.

  Finally he half-turns to regard Lancelot.

  "We were as brothers under the banner of King Arthur," he begins, softly. "For you I would have gladly fallen upon my sword, brother, and know that I did not bear you any remorse for the actions you had taken that had condemned Camelot. I do not know that I could have done otherwise if I had been in your position." He lowers his head, though his violet eyes remain on Lancelot, with a stillness and calm that perhaps he himself doesn't feel. "There is naught to be forgiven in my eyes, although what business have you with our king, that is your business and your business alone."
Sir Bedivere   "I will allow you and your Master an audience, for the sake of the service and the secrets and the pain that we had once shared; you the Right Hand of the King, and I the Left Hand." He holds up a hand to forestall any potential comment, and his voice hardens. "But know this."

  "I am bound by honour and sacred duty to defend the people of this land, and my vow of protections remains over my king. Should you present yourself a threat in any way to the people of this land or to our king, I will not hesitate to strike you down." Perhaps it's the softness of his voice that makes his plain-spoken threat so keen; or the absolute, unflinching conviction behind it. He will fight even his own brother-knight to defend what has become his home.

  The hand falls to his side again. "However, if you will abide by Brehon Law, than you have nothing to fear, and you and your Master are welcome in this place. Camelot it is not -- I do not know what roads or battles you have travelled or fought to reach this place, but you will be made welcome here, inasmuch as we are capable of offering, and you will be given opportunity to rest, you and your Master both."

  Bedivere regards Lancelot a moment longer, as though hesitating.

  He then does something that Lancelot has never seen him do, ever before.

  He smiles.

  The expression is faint, little more than a crooked half-smile, but it speaks volumes more than even his words.

  "It is good to see you again, brother."
Lancer of Silver     It was not alarm necessarily, so much as the unreality of what had occurred. But alarm may indeed be an adequate term for the shock that had been dealt to the knight. He almost dares to say, 'You have done nothing to require forgiveness.' But that's not true is it? Despite all he had done, despite blaming himself for the fall of the country, there's still that resentment for how King Arthur treated people, isn't there? The treatment he had obsessively attempted to discover a way of refuting, which led him to Guinevere to collaborate on how to convince people of the virtuous intentions of Arthur Pendragon, and then he'd found out the King's true identity from her, and then...

    Yes, there might be something he could forgive his King for, even if his own actions were worse in his estimation. But an embrace after a long time apart, from a person he had thought never to see again? No. That requires no forgiveness.

    The return to Bedivere's side, letting HIM handle this instead... The differences in appearance, conduct, and the interplay between these two, even if so much else is as he remembers it, is absolutely baffling. Totally bewildering. Differences he notes and will discern the nature of later, no doubt.

    But for now, he has no words to interrupt Bedivere with. He listens, fully and completely. The warning is as-expected, but the rest... The understanding even if not the approval... Is kinder than Lancelot could have hoped for. Definitely kinder than he feels he deserves. The unfamiliar smile is yet another crack in the knight's perception of reality. A less painful one.

    Lancelot looks Bedivere dead in the eye and says, "For what it is worth, you have my word. I am sworn to my Master's loyalty. But so too am I sworn to serve my King, to stand sentinel beside my Brother, and to defend Camelot -- even if the form of all have changed." The knight then rises from his knee, helmet still under his arm, and says, "With your leave, I shall retrieve my Master and return. She is not far distant. It would be unfitting for her protector to leave her unguarded for long."

    If permitted to depart, he turns and vanishes in a smoky blur. Dematerializing to more swiftly return to his Master.

    He still could not address his King directly about what torments him, as much as he wished to. Could not say what he wanted to under these circumstances. Hopefully sometime soon. But he must also serve his Master, and duty comes first.

    This time anyway.
Saber      Arturia was not surprised by Bedivere's discomfiture, something she had expected for a number of reasons. The modest knight -- perhaps what some might consider to be /too/ modest -- had never been comfortable in leadership positions, only accepting his position as the Left Hand of the King because of his trust in her own judgement. Likewise, he would have refused lordship of Dun Realtai had it not been for the fact that it would have fallen to her, and his reluctance to burden her further overcame the reluctance of accepting leadership. And yet for all his discomfiture, he had proven himself to be more than simply capable. In many ways, he was not unlike his king in what doubts plagued him in spite of his accomplishments and capability.

     The other reason was one on a more personal level. Though the marshal had no personal reason to distrust the violet-haired knight, he had ultimately chosen Guinevere's life over his allegiance to the king. The truly tragic part of the incident was that each of them blamed himself or herself; Guinevere blamed herself for her 'betrayal' of her friend, Lancelot blamed himself for the same, and Arturia blamed herself for coming between them. Had it not been for the absoluteness of the law, she would have been happy to have turned a blind eye to it all, and Gawain's brothers would not have had to die in the attempt to stop Lancelot from saving a woman's life.

     Bedivere had spoken to her before of a wish to reconcile, but with Lancelot there before them -- as a Servant in an ongoing Grail War -- it was not such a simple thing. Arturia believed that the pale-haired knight still wished for it, but she likewise knew that he would brook no threat to their home, even if it came from a fellow knight. And he would most definitely not tolerate any threat or even simple dishonour to her. In spite of acquiescing the ultimate decision to her Master, she knew what it would be.

     /No, it is not,/she admitted silently, her eyes closing. /But I know that you will make the best decision for Dun Realtai./ Arturia opened her eyes again, sea-green meeting blue-grey. /But it is no longer necessary to sacrifice your well-being for it./

     When Bedivere spoke at last, she remained silent, her expression calm and unwavering. But it was not until the usually stoic Left Hand of the King smiled that she mirrored that expression. "Indeed, it is," she added warmly before a slight note of regret crept into her voice as her expression shifted to one of chagrin. "But I fear that I must take my leave...there has been something of an emergency." Likely whatever ruckus had exploded on the radio over a certain icehound getting into something he wasn't supposed to.

     Yet, after a brief hesitation, she took one of Lancelot's gauntleted hands in her own. "Welcome home."

     Once she released his hand, Arturia turned and wordlessly took one of Bedivere's in her own in turn...yet there was something in that slight gesture to suggest that it contained an entirely different meaning. The glance she gave the pale-haired knight was likewise significant,one that only he would understand the meaning of. And with that, the King of Knights released his hand and made her way back into the keep, hopefully to end the mischief of that certain icehound.
Sir Bedivere   Bedivere remains stoic in the face of Lancelot's puzzlement, or the incongruous details he seems so accepting of. Never would he have behaved toward the king with such impunity, once upon a time. He would have remained out of sight, content to serve from the shadows.

  He lifts his chin to regard Lancelot eye to eye, before inclining his head formally; both acknowledging the request, and granting his brother-knight leave to go.

  Yet those mild eyes are grave as the Lancer-class Servant vanishes. He looks troubled even as Arturia takes his hand, looking to her almost reluctantly, before inclining his head and sighing through his nose. What is, is. He must think of Dun Realtai, now, regardless of how guardedly pleased he might be to see Lancelot again. He gives her hand a faint squeeze, armoured plates on his gauntlets clattering softly, before releasing her hand and letting her go.

  Shifting his weight, he reaches back to pull his cloak more tightly around himself, painfully aware of the night's chill. No Servant is he, to ignore wind and weather; he feels it as much as he had in Camelot, when he had conducted his patrols of the battlements by the light of an iron lantern, candle-flame flickering precariously in its iron cage.

  It's there that the Knight of the Lake will find him when Master and Servant return, the marshal huddled in his cloak, brooding in silence and waiting patiently.
Lancer of Silver     The squeeze of the hand was accepted, the squeeze of a different sort afforded to Bedivere noted, the permission to depart acted upon. Thoughts awhirl, heart simultaneously leaden and lightened, the Knight of the Lake keeps his outer countenance schooled. As much as he might want to smile back, some part of him still has trouble fully accepting this is happening. That reality could afford him a chance like this, rather than a fracture simulacrum within his own despair-ridden mind. But he will have much time to think about this later. Much time to find out... Just how much TIME has passed. And how Bedivere is here when he is not a Servant.

    'The Multiverse', yes, but for all he knows Bedivere and Saber are from the same time period somehow. One possibility comes to him as he flies forth as a ghost.

    That Bedivere has already been summoned as a Servant, concluded his Grail War, and been embodied as a mortal. Meaning that another War has already reached its conclusion successfully.

    Right now, it's just a theory.

    And not one he will suggest lightly. He already imposes upon his host enough with his existence, forgiveness or no. Prying into personal affairs such as that, or such as the change in King and Brother, does not seem fitting at this juncture.

    When Lancelot returns, helmet once more in place, though with that red glow dimmed almost to nothing through the joints and visor, in his arms is carried a young Japanese woman with pale, white-blonde hair and eyebrows. She is wearing a black and purple dress, and her eyes are closed as she rests in her Servant's gasp. One arm is up and around Lancelot's neck to help suppport herself, but the other rests in her lap. And on the back of that hand are the three Command Seals that mark her as a Master. Command Seals like three twisted blades radiating from a single point, but with their edges blunted.

    "We are here, Master." Lancelot intones in an ominous echo, enhanced by his helmet's design, as he comes across the unfortunate sight of Bedivere huddled in the cold, waiting for him. More displeasure heaped upon one undeserving, no matter how willing to suffer through it for the sake of king and kingdom.

    "Ah..." the quiet voice of the young woman says, turning her head this way and that and opening her eyes marginally. Squinting them and revealing only a hint of pale circles within them, with no true coloration. "...And is the man you spoke of nearby as well?"

    The knight says, "Indeed. The Marshal of Camelot stands before us, and has welcomed us as guests, as long as we abide by--"

    "A-ah! He's HERE?" the young magus hisses out in alarm. "You should have told me sooner! Ahem! Lord of Dun--Please put me down now."

    Lancelot does as requested, ensuring the little magus is standing on her own two feet. She takes the time to brush out wrinkles in her dress she can't even see, and then continues, "Lord of Dun Realtai! Marshal of Camelot! I am Gina Shinonome! It is an honor to meet you!" She curtsies while facing off to Bedivere's left somewhere.

    Lancelot does not feel it necessary to explain the issue his Master has with vision. But he does tap her on the shoulder to indicate what direction she should be facing.

    Face a bit reddened, she turns and curtsies again. Correctly this time.
Sir Bedivere   The marshal huddles into that mantled cloak as well as he can, a slight adjustment of a wrist pulling it as closely as he can about himself. Aside from a reflexive shiver, he gives no indication that the cold is discomforting. It does, though; more so than it ever had in Camelot, his tired and broken body not quite as good as it had been at warding off the chill.

  That cold wind promises eventual snow, some weeks off. Right now the stars are still clear, though, almost painfully clear against the vault of the night sky. He looks up to them, thoughtful, as he waits.

  It was for the stars that this stronghold was named, in a fit of sarcasm -- the building had been fallen into ruin when he and Saber had freed this place, and he had named it the Fortress of Stars as a commentary on the state of its dilapidated roof. Now, with the stronghold and town restored to life, the stars seem all the more beautiful for it, here--

  His eyes flick down to the path, catching a hint of movement. Turning, he waits as Master and Servant return to the inner bailey; the castle's close courtyard, presided over by the silver-haired knight and a massive, gnarled old oak tree. A stray breeze rustles its way through the clattering boughs, loosing a spray of red-gold leaves, whirling, onto the browning grass.

  Bedivere blinks, somewhat nonplussed, as the magus is set down and curtsies to--

  His eyes follow the direction Gina faces, which happens to be 'nowhere near his actual location.' He looks back to Lancelot, brows arching in evident puzzlement, although he seems to understand what the problem is.

  Patiently, he waits for Gina to face the correct direction, and returns her curtsy with a deep bow -- European style, with one arm tucked over his stomach, holding his cloak in place. Fortunately, if he feels any amusement at Lancelot's kindly correction, it doesn't show itself on his face; impassive as the mask that Lancelot would have remembered from Camelot... but there's something in his eyes that suggests it's not quite the same cold regard.

  "I am he," he confirms. "I am Sir Bedivere, formerly of the Round Table."

  "I ask only that you abide by Brehon Law so long as you remain here; the ancient laws of hospitality. I have no doubt that your Servant will remember them, if you should require further explanation." He tilts his head, beckoning with one gauntleted hand. "Come. Let us speak out of the wind and weather. The night grows cold." He takes a few steps up to the citadel, leaning forward against the door to open it. It swings open on oiled hinges, silent, and he holds the stout oak planks open for both Lancelot and Gina.

  Once they've gone inside -- the long hearth against the western wall is lit, and radiates warmth -- he'll lead them both to seats in front of the fire, and a gesture brings a servant with tea and some sort of scones, which are left discreetly for the guests.

  Bedivere does not seat himself, but turns, pacing before the hearth. He makes no move to remove his cloak or his armour, instead tilting his head slightly to regard both Master and Servant. "I am to understand you are still in the midst of your Grail War. There are dwelling here a number of Servants and those alike in their strength to Servants who will, if a conflict should arise, ensure that that conflict does not threaten the people of this place." He speaks more for the benefit of Gina Shinonome than for Lancelot. Stopping his pacing, he turns to face Gina, hands folding neatly behind his back. "I would have your word, then, that you will not drag that conflict here to Dun Realtai."
Lancer of Silver     Once they are all within, Gina doing a remarkable job of following the sound of Bedivere's voice and footsteps, even if some guidance is occasionally needed in avoiding obstacles, Lancelot removes his helmet once more and allows himself to enjoy some of the warmth of the fire. He was honestly more concerned for Bedivere and Gina out in the chill than himself. But that's just like Bedivere as well, putting others before himself. The difference is the cold is less of a discomfort for a Servant's constitution.

    Gina does her best to sit up straight and speak formally, but her hands fidget with her skirts as she listens and replies. She is a bit of a fan of the Knights of the Round Table, so this is something like getting to meet one of her heroes (with Lancelot being another). "Certainly, Sir Bedivere! I would be most happy to avoid bringing any trouble at all to your house! ...Castle? ...To Dun Realtai! Or that is what I would like to say, but... This is a bit embarrassing..." She rubs the back of her head lightly. "One of the reasons I came here was to seek allies in ensuring the other Masters do not obtain the Grail. I have a wish of my own, but nothing like what the others are probably after! If I have come to the wrong place... Well..." She hems and haws a bit.

    Finally, she just comes right out and says it! "...I give you my word that if this is neutral ground, where even rivals within a Grail War are forbidden to fight, I shall take no action to bring that conflict here. And if someone else comes here to cause trouble regardless, I am sure that Lancer will do his best to protect everyone!" She clenches her fists determinedly. "...Though I'd still kind of like to find some allies, so if you know of anyone interested, please let me know!"

    Lancelot may not have known what to expect when coming here, but an alliance of knights, Servants or otherwise, would have made a formidable team. He has already realized the nature of this place though. To be what they had wanted Camelot to be. A place that provides justice... But is also peaceful, safe, and neutral. Taking action to right wrongs when necessary, to defend the innocent and the defenseless, but not seeking war or conflict.

    He does not think they will find allies here. Or at least not for their Grail War. Perhaps, however... "Master, if you seek allies regardless, might I recommend inquiring about the Union? That is a force with ideals similar to ours, and to the Knights of the Round Table. They would expect aid in turn, no doubt, but--"

    Gina turns and points at Lancelot, nearly poking him in the eye. "That is an excellent idea! I should find out more about the Union!"

    Lancelot does not flinch from the finger like an inch from his face, and simply remains silent, allowing what follows to take place. It is not his place to tell his Master what to do. Though proposing solutions is certainly acceptable.
Sir Bedivere   "However, I should be pleased to point you in the direction of the Union. They will be capable of giving you the assistance that you require, young magus, although I cannot guarantee the character of the allies that you seek, or the methods in particular. There are a great many who belong to that grand order, and there are a great many methods and motives as well." Turning, he begins to pace in front of the hearth once more. "I am sorry that I can offer you naught, but I can do nothing that will put the people of this land, whom I have sworn an oath of protection over, into any undue danger."

  He glances over his shoulder, regarding Lancelot coolly, before looking back to Gina. "With the Lord God as my witness, I have no doubts that your Servant would strive to protect all that he felt fell within his purview of protection, and I feel that he would be capable of protecting a good many. Yet even Sir Lancelot is not invincible; indeed, there were none of us who were. I cannot accept the risk that he would not be capable of protecting all. One never knows the full measure of one's opponents in the War of the Holy Grail. Such is the nature of that terrible conflict."

  His eyes return to Lancelot more directly. He simply meets the Knight of the Lake's eyes, calm, giving the barest inclination of his head. Yes, the gesture seems to say; this place is what Camelot had striven to be, and could not achieve. The gesture also seems to say that the quiet marshal will do everything in his power to /keep/ it that way, no matter the cost to himself.

  This place is something he has never truly had in his life before -- a home. Small wonder he would give his life for it.

  "I will see that you are given information regarding the Union, and you may put that to what use you see fit. You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish, for I would not turn out my brother-knight into the cold. But know that we will not assist you in the matter of your conflict. We cannot, with our obligations to the people of Dun Realtai, who have endured much suffering already." Bedivere shakes his head... although his expression remains carefully neutral, there's a hint of amusement in his eyes as Gina jabs a finger an inch or two from the stoic Lancelot's face.

  Turning, a flick of his wrist settles his cloak about his shoulders. "There are guest quarters on the second floor; you may take any that are unoccupied. However, if you will pardon me, I must return to my work. It is late, and there are matters I must see to before I may retire." He turns slightly to regard both Gina and Lancelot, and allows himself that faint half-smile again. With that, he echoes the sentiment that Arturia had expressed.

  "Welcome home, brother."

  And with that, provided neither Master nor Servant move to stop him, the silver-haired knight will make his way to the far side of the chamber, ascending the stairs there.
Sir Bedivere   If he notices that the Master follows in his footsteps, tracking him by sound, the marshal gives no open acknowledgement. It's safe to say that he probably notices. Few things ever escaped his perception in Camelot, and it's doubtful that such a core part of him has changed... or he probably wouldn't be here at all.

  The citadel at Camelot was a place of safe haven, but it was not always welcoming to the pale-haired knight. In fact, his appointment had caused something of a moderate stir in the political waters, and few had forgotten that the king had appointed a common-born foreigner as her military leader and one of her most trusted advisors. No one could quite point to where exactly he had come from, as he spoke the courtly Welsh perfectly and articulately, but his complexion was too pale; his powers of perception and anticipation just too eerie for people to accept it. Often he had been suspected of witchcraft; allegations he neither accepted nor denied -- as though dismissing them as ridiculous by his very inaction against them.

  That quiet dignity and grace was to serve him for the rest of his days in the king's court, and it seems they serve him even now. Although he paces, he does so quietly, and sedately; the clank of his sabatons against the flagstones quiet for one so tall -- nearly as tall as the Knight of the Lake, although undoubtedly not as heavy or solid. Indeed, he likely never would have won a contest of pure strength against most of his brother-knights.

  It was Bedivere's cunning that had fought his battles for him, and won many an otherwise hopeless conflict for the Arthurian host.

  The knight gives an almost owlish blink, the gesture slow and deliberate, one eye blinking slightly before the other. Perhaps it's an apt comparison with the ghostly barn owls over the British countryside, with his pallor and his thoughtful, crafty nature. He contents himself to watch the Master of the pair for several very long moments, perhaps long enough to make the young woman nervous.

  Study and observation; those had been his hallmarks in Camelot. Lancelot would know he means no threat or harm by it, and that he's simply mulling things over, deciding upon an answer, and perhaps taking the measure of the mysterious young lady's character, as well.

  "You are in the midst of the War for the Holy Grail, or at least one of them, and such things are not sweeping claims that can be easily made." He speaks slowly when he finally does speak, turning with a sweep of his cloak to regard Gina directly. That she seems unable to see him doesn't appear to bother him in the least. She can still hear the sound of his voice, and that seems to be enough for him. "You cannot guarantee the safety of others here, or that your opponents will abide by your good intentions, or the intentions of those who oversee this place. Therefore, I would not be inclined to accept your word on this matter at all."

  He smiles, but thinly; the kind of winter-chill smile Lancelot would be more familiar with, from Camelot's courts. "Perhaps it was a bit of an unfair test of mine." The smile fades. "No. We will not assist you in your War. My king has left behind such conflicts, seeing them as meaningless, and I do not have any inclination to participate in such, either."
Lancer of Silver     "A-Ah!?" so giving her word is invalid!? She thought that being honorable was important...! She understands Bedivere's position, or at least thinks she does. Trust can not be distributed easily. It's why she came looking for allies here instead of among the other Masters. An alliance between Masters in a Grail War is not unheard of after all. But she could not trust them, because they would not see her as a powerful enough ally to bother with.

    Even so, she is somewhat down about how this played out, and Lancelot picks up on it. He has only been with his Master a relatively short time, compared to the years he has spent with Bedivere. But he knows by now what tends to bolster her mood.

    As Bedivere encourages them towards the Union (without making any promises about who will be found there nor what aid might be elicited), and offers them guest quarters, the Servant's eyes are upon his brother-in-arms. Being welcomed home... Even if not to THAT home... Makes his hands tremble as they did when encountering Saber outside. He clenches his hand to stifle it, and just murmurs back, "Words can not express my thanks." Then he focuses upon Gina.

    The short-sighted woman looks up, and asks, "Did I speak incorrectly?"

    Lancer shakes his head, even knowing she probably can't see it from this distance, and says, "Trust is something earned. Abide by the word you gave, and you may yet earn it. He spoke the truth. I can no more protect everyone here than Sir Bedivere could. We can not ensure the safety of this place as long as we are here."

    He notes Gina sniffing, and thinking her to be crying, he begins trying to think of how else to comfort her. This is not his forte. But then he realizes she is leaning over in one side of her chair... Towards the scones and tea. "...Ah. Yes, some refreshments were left here."

    One of the magus's hands is reaching towards the scones, while her other hangs onto her wrist as though physically restraining herself. "I really shouldn't! Sir Bedivere already doesn't trust me, if I take his food...!"

    Lancelot says, "They were left for us as guest--"

    Gina gratefully announces, "THEN I ACCEPT" while inelegantly stuffing her face with a scone in each hand.

    The Lancer sighs. But even he must smile a bit. Back among brothers, a chance to redeem himself before his king, and his Master is... Not the worst one could have. Now all he has to do is not fail his duty again.