@possidere @gudakesa
The days are getting warmer as May marches onward, yellow sun marching inexorably through wide blue sky, burning away any lingering wisps of cloud and moisture in the air. It's hot, nearly unbearably so, and the loose hairs escaping from their tight braids around the nape of Bedivere's neck stick to his skin, wet with sweat, as he makes his way through this sun-baked city to the beach.
He's self-conscious walking around without his prosthetic, the stump of his right arm hidden in the folds of his light jacket and tucked closely to his body. His other arm is curled around a well-packed cooler, blanket, and beach umbrella, and he's dressed in...well, he's dressed like a man going to the beach, in swim trunks and a t-shirt with light jacket over it. Therein lies the reasoning behind him leaving his arm behind: sand is incredibly hard to clean out of it, and he would rather avoid the problem entirely if possible.
It had been his idea, originally. He's never been to a warm beach like the one hidden, folded somewhere within the depths of this city; his experiences with beaches are few in general, having been raised mostly inland as a child, and then living at Camelot for the majority of his adulthood. There were battles of course--great affairs of horses churning the sand to a froth of goop and saltwater with the consistency of some type of glue, hooves kicking up spray and gore and the gray tide washing away to leave bloated corpses in its wake. But those were not beaches that you built sandcastles on, or waded into the water of.
He wants to have fun. He wants to enjoy himself in ways he was never quite able to in his lifetime--despite the evenings of raucous bonding between knights, and the ties of brotherhood that were made there...the fun had been but brief breaks in their duty to a position that would end their lives while they were still young, and they knew it, in their own bleak, heroic way.
But other than himself, of course, there is Archer, who, if Bedivere was allowed to have a personal opinion on the man, is in desperate need of fun himself. He's past counting the amount of times he's turned his head and found Archer with a vaguely chilling expression on his face, lost somewhere in thoughts that Bedivere has no desire to be privy to. There's something... concerning about him, that reminds Bedivere of himself, and of his own lingering obsessions of duty and loyalty. But he is not in any way Archer's confidant, nor does he desire to be so--they are not close friends, and would probably have never spoken if not for their mutual affection for their shared Master.
And there is the second reason for this outing: his Master, little more than a young boy--it's not right for him to be shouldering the responsibilities he does, on top of everything else that has been happening, including their abrupt shift to this city. Bedivere knows this from experience: Gudao will wear himself out if he doesn't get the breaks he needs--and it's his duty, as a caretaker, to give him them, isn't it?
But he's not a caretaker anymore, he must remind himself. He's just a servant. He's just a servant who is concerned about his friend, and his Master, who thinks that he, at least, can help assuage some of what ails them.
They're at the beach already when he arrives, and he smiles fondly at them, waving to Archer and calling out to his Master. He spreads a blanket over the beach and sticks the unwieldy beach umbrella into the loose-packed sand, setting down his cooler and removing his jacket.
"I brought some sandwiches and drinks," he says, and he admires how beautiful the day is at the beach. The sun remains high in the sky, casting a glare across the clear blue water, the horizon little more than a blur in the distance. Waves lap against the shore, gentle instead of choppy, and thin wisps of cloud finally brave their way against the sky, assisted by a gentle, cool breeze that cuts the humid heat and the beating wings of gulls, calling out their grievances against each other and strutting around the beach in tandem with the tide. The salt and seaweed tang of the air is cut only by the almost palpable heat that shimmers off the sand, a warning to anyone who walked barefoot too far away from the water.
This, then, is the beach that he's dreamed of laying on, baking in the heat of--but first thing's first: he turns to Gudao. "Have you put on any sunscreen yet?" he worries at his Master, pulling a tube out of his pocket. The boy is just as pale as he is, and he knows how easily people as fair-complexioned as them burn. "And you, Archer? It's important to take care of your skin."